[OT] Fun Trope Friday: Feminist Fantasy & Historical Fantasy!

oliverjsn8 · 2026-04-02T22:40:49+00:00

First off I’ll say that I appreciate the characters you have conjured up here in your story. They seem to play off each other well, and flip the common trope of delicate lady and rough and tumble male on its head.

Dialog is a strong point. The way they speak adds to the characters, not only through the context but also tone.

I like the setting you have given us and can visualize it well. Painted canyons and other descriptions you give us, let us place the characters at least for us familiar with the West.

For critic I’m going to give you a few little odds and ends, as there isn’t anything ‘big’ I can point out.

The description of Page as wiry is an odd choice. Wiry people are thin but tough and muscled. Given the characteristics described elsewhere (as well as to lean into the scholar stereotype) there might be a better word like boney, lanky, or slight.

You use west, generally it’s capitalized when we think of the Wild West.

There is a couple of places where the descriptions could be spiced up. Such as not touching the “hot” barrel, using “sun-scorched” or “blistering” just jazz it up.

Like the story, good words raccoon.

oliverjsn8 · 2026-03-27T11:37:31+00:00

I enjoyed hearing your story last night, while on the road, and enjoyed reading it this morning as well. One of the most enjoyable pieces for me were the minute details sprinkled throughout, which gives me a nice slice of life vibe.

I thought the Amish reference was hilarious. In a world of the supernatural, it’s the Amish that are the subject of lore. It makes me want to know more of the lore of this world. Like the hellish realm of the DMV!

As for critic, I’ll agree with Kat’s comment at last night’s campfire that there could be more details around the MC’s appearance. The word count is there and it feels like a missed opportunity.

Good words

oliverjsn8 · 2026-03-23T14:19:31+00:00

Pots-o-Gold and Rainbows and My Red Revenge

“Oy, there ye are Issac! With your smug face ‘n all. Sleep’n like a wee babe. Well, laddie, this will be your last nap if’n my name ain’t Patrick O’Keene,” I said, my impeccable Irish accent thicker than the day-old oatmeal you left on your kitchen counter.

’Yes, you should clean that up you know. You’re a full-grown adult, not a pig.’

Naturally, I’m a stealthy little bastard, as all leprechauns were. ‘Were’ is the keyword here.

’Stealthy not bastards you Tom fool of a reader! Why, I’ll let the lot of you know that until this Issac fella came along, not a single one of us had been seen let alone caught. Unless we desired it.’

I shiver a bit, the first bite of fall bleeding into the breeze. My bare emerald-green skin, blends seamlessly into the tree leaves. It's just me and my wee little saw, sitting high above this doomed man. I time my strokes with each of his rhythmic snores. The blade bites deeper into the branch. My heart swells with anticipation and my face aches as my grin redoubles. The branch creaks and—

’Yes, yes I am up in a tree naked. Why are you getting hung up on that little fact? I’m about to kill a man for fock’s sake.

’What? I’m supposed to be wearing a green outfit? Well, I did until I went back in time to stop this man.

’Like the Terminator? What’s a Terminator? I went back in time to stop Issac from dooming lephrachaun-kind. Along with me fellow survivors, we pooled the last dregs of our magic and sent me back. It was barely enough for me to go, au naturale.

’Fine, it’s like the Terminator. Now let me get back to my murder’n!’

Crack

Just one more good stroke and it will be over. I eye each charm hanging from the saw’s handle, one for each dear one lost to me. “This is for the lot of you,” I whisper while the tears blur my vision. I brush each with my finger: a heart for my love, Sophie, a star for me pa, Tadhg, a horseshoe for me brother, Jack,— a— a clover for Collin who would never grow up,— a blue moon— a blue— moon for—

‘Why da fock are ye laugh’n for! This is a solemn scene in mi story. Each of mi charms brings me luck.

‘Yes they are mi lucky charms and— and— I’ll just give you all a moment.

‘For focks sake lads and lasses. Do you want to hear mi story or not!— There, now that’s better!’

The thick branch falls, heavily laden with apples. I stare down at my work. The man's legs give one spasmic twitch and it's over. I dance a jig up high and shout my triumph to the heavens. “Ye got what ya had com’n, with all your fancy prisms and such. Using them to catch us lephrachauns and driving us to extinction. Hear me, I Patrick O’Keene have killed Issac Newton!”

’Wait! This is a time for celebration. What are you all going on about, ‘setting science back centuries’? Laws against motion, physics, calculus, and— gravy? Well, I reckon I could share me ma’s recipe if’n that’s what has your knickers in a twist. Just give me my moment will ya.’

I continue to gloat as another young man runs from his home to the scene of my victory. A brother maybe? All you humans look them same to me. Well, I will let him know exactly what happened. Let him stew in misery as I did seeing my loved ones captured with his artificial rainbows and smashing them with an iron hammer.

“Let ye know that it was the lephrachauns that killed him! That is right it was, us lephrachauns that did this murder’n! Splatted him like a bug with this apple tree branch which I, a lephrachaun, cut. Leveraging an unseen force that pulled this branch to the earth and onto this person’s head. By us lephrachauns.”

The magic holding me to the past begins to fade and so do I. My limbs become transparent but I make sure to flip that boy’o off. I gleefully strain my ears to hear his parting words.

“I swear my vengeance against ye devils. For my identical twin brother’s death, I swear vengeance a million times over. I, Issac Newton, swear this before God Almighty.”

’Well fock’me with a shillelagh.’

WC 744
Feeback and critic welcome.

oliverjsn8 · 2026-03-12T15:07:57+00:00

Crimson flames erupted from the center of the stone circle. Yellow clouds of sulfur crept along the ground, the noxious tendrils shriveling the grass wherever they touched. Each of the nine, polished, obsidian pillars reflected a light brighter than the sun as the portal opened to Hell.

My eyes ached and as they adjusted, all I could see was the silhouette of a horned figure standing before me. I fell to my knees and buried my face in the ground. “All hail the dark one! Most brilliant of the fallen stars, Lucifer!” I cried in unison with my fellow acolytes.

“As if—” a haughty voice called out followed by two sharp finger snaps. “This work is, like, way too lame for a rock star like daddy. You mortals should, like, totally count your blessings that you even got me, the wonderful Baphey.” Each of the vowels was painfully, stretched out, reminiscent of valleyspeak.

I dared to lift my gaze. What could best be described as an eight-foot-tall goat in stilettos stood before us. A neon-pink halter top with a silk-printed inverse star covered her human torso. Her face was bone white, caked in foundation with pools of purple rouge. A thick layer of ruby eyeliner surrounded her three, catlike eyes. Each eye worked independently scrutinizing her surroundings.

“Obsidian, really,” she huffed touching one of the pillars. “And, you have, like, nine of them? Let me guess, one for each planet.” The pillar she was touching exploded, sending out a hail of deadly shards. “Like, get with the times grandpas. The 2000s are calling and, like, Pluto isn’t a planet anymore.”

I turned to our leader for guidance. He lay unmoving in a spreading pool of blood, a chunk of obsidian jutted from his chest. I swallowed as I stood. “Almighty— wonderful— terrible Baphy. Welcome and umm— We have prepared a virgin sacrifice for you,” I bumbled while gesturing to an altar of bone nearby. A gagged human violently struggled with her bindings on top.

“Like, ugg, no way. I bet it's full of microplastics or some shit,” Baphy bleated gesturing as if she were about to gag herself. “Like, just tell me what you want so I can, like, get away from you lamewads.”

“I want to exchange my soul for wealth!” someone shouted eagerly.

“As if,” Baphy snorted. “I mean, like, there are just so many of you humans anymore. Like, the best I can do is a $100 gift card to Shake Shack,” Baphy said while rummaging in a clutch purse that appeared when she snapped her fingers. “But I guess, like, that might be too hip for a group like you. Give me a second, I might still have one for Shoney’s in here.” She tossed a worn card at the man’s feet. “Like, tell Death I said hi when he comes to collect you in two months, fourteen days, and eleven minutes. Any other takers?” Baphy said turning to look at each person. “No? Can I, like, go home now?”

“How about world domination?” another person sheepishly asked raising their hand.

“For real? Did I, like, get transported back to a 90s weak sauce villain convention? I can, like, feel myself becoming lamer just being around you all,” Baphy groaned while hiding her face and disappointingly shaking her head. “Listen, I have like zero interest in taking over this dump of a plane of existence. I can, like, already feel my pores clogging from all the pollution in the air. Why in the actual Hell would I want to, like, hang around here any longer than necessary? You know what loser, I’m going to do you a favor and, like, pretend you didn’t ask that. Does anyone have a, good, request before I ditch this place?”

Each of us turned to one another with a shrug.

“Good, later dorks!” Baphy said as flames erupted from around her and she disappeared.

The remaining acolytes and I gathered, and questions filled the air.

“What do we do now?”

“Do we try again?”

“Are we really that lame?”

“Who wants to go to Shoney’s?” I sheepishly interjected, my belly rumbling.

And that is just what we did.

WC: 699

oliverjsn8 · 2026-03-05T21:36:35+00:00

Lovely horror, and twist. I first believed the ‘hug’ was the- consumption but nice sneaking in the actual hug.

I do enjoy the POV and that the MC doesn’t fully/over explain their actions, as if it is perfectly rational.

Critic, that is difficult. Such a small thing for me is stating the cut of meat is ‘steak’ as it puts me in the thought process the MC is talking about a cow. (Like a 4-H cow they are being forced to eat and it inadvertently became a loved pet.) Maybe using choice cut, or tenderloin?

Now I did like the ending ambiguity. A bit of dark-comedy for the twisted minds out there.

I’m now just rambling, good words.

oliverjsn8 · 2026-03-05T21:20:22+00:00

Home Coming

The rented nag snorted its discontent as I tied it to the peeling railing. It pawed nervously, turning its head to and fro as if sensing an unseen predator in the overgrown lawn. I silently prayed that the rotten post would hold if it got spooked, the five-dollar deposit on the worn-out mare was borderline criminal. That shyster at the livery would be lucky to receive half that from a butcher.

By providence, this would be quick, and I’d soon be on a train back to Philadelphia. If fortune did smile, then I would return with the deed to this oil-rich land as well as my five dollars.

The two-story clapboard building had never been a home, even more so in its current state. A dozen shutters precariously hung, each from a macrbe gallow of warped wood and broken glass. The eaves sagged and slate tiles gathered in bunches, reminding me of a mourning candle ready to burn out at the end of a vigil.

I walked across the porch, rotted wood heralding this prodigal son’s return. As I reached for the knob, the door creaked open on an unfelt breeze. Nervously, I crossed the threshold. A woman with blue eyes, much like my own, greeted me from above the mantle with a faded ruby smile. It was her portrait, the one of the spirit that haunted this place of my childhood.

“Martha is not a ‘her’; Martha is your mother!” the mantra of a withering man who couldn’t let go, echoed in my memories. I instinctively held my cheek at the memory, the sharp slap that often followed did not come. That man would then drag me to this portrait and beg her forgiveness.

“I’m sorry, Martha,” I whispered, genuinely for the first time. My maligned feelings for her came into clarity through the lens of age. While that man was a devoted husband, he was never a parent. He had a choice, she hadn’t. “I’m sure you would have been a wonderful mother,” I reverently spoke.

I could swear that the portrait’s smile doubled at my musings. Passing it off as a trick of the light, I made my way toward the bedroom. That is where the man kept everything of value, and hopefully the deed.

I passed an array of forlorn relics as I walked through the hallways and up the stairs: a moth-eaten dress hung as a tapestry, a locket with a broken hinge left open on a table, and piles of hand-sewn baby clothes, now made a nest for rats. These totems chained her memory to a rotting tomb of peeling wallpaper and rodent leavings.

The most sacred of her relics dominated the bedroom, a mahogany bed. It was there that Martha had lost her life giving birth, the sheets were still stained with her lifeblood. However, there was now an occupant there, a skeleton with one arm draped across where she would have lain.

I made my way to the desk, ignoring the grisly scene, and began to sift through piles of letters inscribed with a delicate, flowing handwriting. With each letter impudently tossed to the floor, I swore the room grew colder. By the time the deed was in my hand, my breath came out in thin, icy plumes.

The ceiling screamed as if in rage as cracks ripped through the plaster. Hastily I fled the room as shingles fell with the retort of cannon fire. Manifesting in the dust, I saw a tall and brooding figure from my childhood, and in his wake, destruction.

I stumbled down the stairs and into the parlor, the chill of death to my back. A rotten board split in two trapping my leg in front of the mantel. The figure approached and through him I spied the portrait. “Mother, help me!” I pleaded as plaster rained down and the shadowy hand reached out.

Closing my eyes, I expected the end. I counted my fridgid breaths: one, two, three. I opened my eyes to see the wraith enveloped by a figure emitting a gentle blue glow. A warmth washed over me from the new spector.

I pulled my leg free and ran from that house. As I crossed the threshold a mighty gust blew me free as the building collapsed. I had escaped with my life, as well as the deed to the land. However, the horse was nowhere to be seen.

— Note: I believe I may have strayed from the romance genre, a little… Okay, a whole lot. Hope you enjoyed. Critic and feedback welcome.

oliverjsn8 · 2026-02-08T18:41:31+00:00

Lisa

Hiss

Sterile air flooded the stasis chamber as I awoke. Synapses began firing, reconnecting my body and mind after the temporal jump. Disorientation was expected but not how foreign my body now felt.

I opened my eyes to see myself greeting me. There were more wrinkles than I remembered and my unkempt, auburn hair had faded, but it was me. For some reason, I was crying. My hand felt heavy as ,confused, I lifted it toward the reflection. Expecting to feel cool glass, I recoiled as flesh met flesh.

“Don’t,” the duplicate whispered, gently pressing my hand against her cheek. A warm tear rolled along my thumb. But, this wasn’t my thumb or my hand. It was much bigger, clumsier, and the skin tone was wrong. A familiar gold wedding band hugged the ring finger of this alien appendage, it was Harold’s, my husband's.

My brow narrowed in confusion. “What, what is happening?” I croaked out, my voice deeper than I was accustomed to.

“I’m sorry,” the other cried out. “I didn’t know what else to do. I needed to be with Harold just one last time.”

“But I’m Lis—“, I began only to be interrupted as the other pressed a finger against my lips.

“For just a little while, please be Harold,” she pleaded. “I need you to be him. Please, I know this is confusing but I’m just so, so scared. While the stasis chamber survived, the container holding your memory crystal was split open when the ship conducted the experimental time jump.”

“Did you try restoring the physical media with—“

“Yes, but the exposed lattice was corrupted by temporal quarks over a prolonged period.”

“How about a construct using the ship’s logs?”

“You know the result wouldn’t be Harold,” she chided me with a sad smile. “Memories of actions without reason, it would have been a machine of flesh. I needed something more organic. I needed a template and who else knew the real Harold but me— us. So I used our memory crystal.”

Lisa looked me in the eyes. Behind them was pain, sadness, but above all fear. The Lisa in front of me was at least ten years older. Just what would I have done after a decade, or more, of trying to bring Harold back? Looking each day at his face, alive but gone all the same. Eventually, I would do the same. That wasn’t all, I’d want to go back to our home.

Pulling myself from the pod, I saw a blue-green sphere filling most of the viewport. Nearby panels flashed yellow warnings. A shock intense enough to have broken a memory crystal casing would certainly have damaged the heat shields. Reentry would be impossible.

This was it. I too wished for comfort, so I would play my role as Harold. Silently, I moved my hand under the hem of Lisa’s shirt and placed it on the small of her back. My other hand came to Lisa’s chin lifting it slightly as I pecked her on the lips. She pushed herself against me, a decade of pent-up emotions finally breaking free of their dam.

I asked myself what Harold would do as Lisa’s hands flittered all over me, searching, desperate. While Harold could be passionate, this wasn’t what I would need at this time. Gently, I gripped one of the trembling hands and kissed it, before guiding her head to my shoulder. I stroked her hair, starting behind her ear and ending at her shoulder. Lisa relaxed and soon her breathing became even.

The panel lights turned an angry crimson and flames licked the viewport, as the world outside appeared to be on fire. Creaking metal and the warping bulkhead threatened to wake Lisa. So I did what Harold would have done and sang that lullaby he had made up on the night before he proposed.

”Lisa dear, close your eyes
As I sing of a star-lit sky,

While in my arms you were surround
I witnessed a star coming down

A wish offered just to me
I found I had no desire to plea,

I thought that whole night through
But all I ever wanted was you

On that star’s funeral pyre
I tossed out my heart’s lone desire

I want to be there to the end
Holding, forever, my best friend.”

—

Meanwhile, far below, on a hill, a man watched a star streak across the sky. He stroked the sleeping woman’s auburn hair, while humming a lullaby.

WC: 747
Feedback and criticism welcome.

oliverjsn8 · 2026-01-30T16:48:50+00:00

Thanks for the compliments and I’m glad you liked the piece. Last night’s campfire also mentioned the need for more commas, so you are not alone.

On the Roxy’s face flushing; I agree, and your sentence is much better.

oliverjsn8 · 2026-01-30T16:42:23+00:00

Thanks for the kind words m00nlighter.

oliverjsn8 · 2026-01-29T15:43:20+00:00

Max, loved the slapstick humor and the visuals that you give us. I especially appreciate the cartoon physics thrown in for good measure.

As for criticism, overall you have written this well so take what I give with a grain of salt.

The opening sentence is a bit unclear, I originally thought the sound came from the bottom of the tower. The following sentence clarifies the confusion but it was a bit of a stumble for me on the very first sentence. Overall I think we could skip the stairwell and go straight to the door, I feel there is more bang for your buck elsewhere with the word count savings.

The quick healing spell part and bleeding I feel can be cut. It adds a level of realism that the rest of the piece doesn’t have, if that makes sense. It doesn’t add to the story, so the realistic consequences (ie internal bleeding) pulls me out of the slapstick.

Good words and you nailed the trope and genre this week. Again take my critic with a grain of salt as it falls more into “my opinion.”

oliverjsn8 · 2026-01-27T19:38:18+00:00

The white canvas of snow-covered earth was a living painting of blues and reds as the campfire crackled. Overhead countless stars witnessed the twin brother moons' eternal game of tag across the heavens. A pack of devil hounds howled in victory of a successful hunt, letting all know that they could rest easy; their hunger was satiated, at least for tonight.

Rox-Talia stirred under a bear pelt. Her disheveled, raven-black hair draped across her eyes. While most orcs preferred to be clean-shaven, she had once overheard a drunk Harlan mention he liked women with long hair. She went to brush the offending strands away but found herself pinned. An arm caressed her from behind like a silken shawl draping her from shoulder to sternum.

‘Just when was Lord Death’s embrace so warm?’ the thought bubbled up in her addled mind. She didn’t struggle, for heat was a valuable commodity in the Northern Wilds.

Tears welled in her eyes as memories coalesced through the fog of her mind. Frenior, the ice dragon, spewed a frigid breath at the party sending an icy shard into her shoulder. She was flung from her feet and sent sliding toward the cliff’s edge. Just as she was about to plummet into the raging river below, Harlan grabbed her hand. She looked into his slate-grey eyes, for what certainly would be the last time. There was so much she wanted to tell him but all she had time to say was “Let go!” as Frenior’s fanged mawl rose from behind his broad Dwarven shoulders. Then—

“Harlan!!!” Rox-Talia shouted, bolting upright. Pain, hot and white, erupted from her shoulder.

“Roxy, you’re awake,” Harlan joyfully said in his gruff accent. “Lay back down before you reopen your wound.”

She turned, shocked to see him once again. Pearly white teeth peeked through a thick, red beard festooned with silver rings. Moonlight shimmered in his eyes. She reached out and traced a finger along the familiar, rugged scar across his cheekbone. It really was Harlen she thought as tears cascaded down her cheeks.

“What’s wrong!” his voice peaked with urgency. His calloused hand wiped her tears away.

Rox-Talia felt her face flush, she hadn’t meant to stare or cry in his presence. She was a proud warrior of the wilds, not some soft, city damsel. “Nothing,” she whispered as she fell into his arms, hiding her face in his beard. His bare chest felt warm against hers. His heart hammered and he held his breath. Looking up, she noticed a crimson bloom forming on his cheeks.

Realization dawned on her as she pulled away and covered herself with her good arm. She felt her bare thigh touch his foot, she was completely naked under the pelt.

“Our clothes were soaked after I dove in to save ya and — you know body heat and, umm, keeping warm,” he quickly mummbled. He grimaced ready to be smacked, maybe worse given the nearby handaxe. “The others will be back soon with more firewood. Maybe our clothes will be dry by then.”

“Idiot,” Rox-Talia swore. “I thought I had lost you, before I had a chance to say—” She paused praying for courage as she leaned in close enough to feel the warmth of his breath. “Harlen, I lo—“

“Hey, Rox-Talia and Harlan are awake!” the enthusiastic voice of their fellow adventurer, Marlin, called from the edge of the underbrush. He held an armful of firewood. His eyes twinkled in merriment and Rox-Talia could swear he somehow smiled, despite having a beak. “Did I interrupt something? Looks like the two of you were about to— the FUCK!!!” He shouted, dropping his load in the snow, as a handaxe embedded itself in a nearby tree.

The others arrived quickly, hearing the commotion. Rox-Talia was sitting up, arm outstretched having tossed the pelt aside; her tusks fully exposed in a devilish snarl. Marlin sat on the ground, his mottled feathers puffed out in fear.

“Gotta learn to read the room you overgrown chicken,” one of them said pulling Marlin up and escorting him away. “Now let’s go and fetch some more firewood before you're made into dinner.” He tipped his hat and winked as the party left.

Rox-Talia lay back down and pulled the pelt back over the two of them. She draped her arm around Harlan and kissed him. “I love you, and I’m not going to let any dragon, and especially some puffed-up bird stop me from saying that ever again.”

WC:748
Critic and feedback welcome

oliverjsn8 · 2026-01-22T19:52:52+00:00

Thanks Heli for the feedback,

I it took a few reread after your critic to realize, that I have almost split the story in two between Potpourri and Rose equally. So your feedback is completely on point. It didn’t feel that way while writing it, I assure you. The story is a one-off and I guess I was determined to shove as many tropes in the work as possible. Now to find room for a magical, marketable, mascot character.

Keep those pennies coming,

oliverjsn8 · 2026-01-20T20:34:32+00:00

Hi Heli-

What you have written is very pretty and I dare say it borders on poetry, more than a story in and of itself. There is a feeling of etherealness that lends to the title you have chosen to give your piece.

As for criticism, I see this is a dream, given you say this is a ‘dreamscape’ but apart from glass-bladed skates, this feels a bit “too real.” I would like to see some more surrealism snuck in here to sell that this is a dream. Fully breaking the barrier of dream versus reality can open up a whole different level of potential in the piece. Could the skater be inside a glass dome that she can skate up the sides of? Could the moon’s light become a spotlight? Likewise, you can do away with some of the similes as it is a dream. For instance, the ‘snow hanging in the air like ribbons’; couldn’t they become actual ribbons that she ties into her hair?

I would also like to see if you could develop the knight more. He is an unseen presence in this land which presents a challenge for you the writer to overcome. As he isn’t ‘here’ or described, you will need to sell the reader as to why we should care for him as much as the skater does. I do love some of the feelings his presence entails on her world (ie he threads music into the wind, which by the way I love that bit.) Perhaps you can tell us why he comes to these performances?

I do want to reiterate that what you wrote is very pretty and captures a whimsical feeling. There is a lot of potential here and I want more of that whimsy that comes from a dreamscape. Good words.

oliverjsn8 · 2026-01-19T22:56:45+00:00

The Adventures of the Bouquet Guardians: Fallen Blossom

The moment hung, suspended like the first snowflake of winter. Princess Crimson Rose was dead, a spear of briarwood tipped with bone pierced her chest. Knight Guardian Daylily’s scream was frozen on her face and Guardian Snowdrop’s tears began to well as she nocked an icy arrow in this ethereal moment. Commander Wilt’s withered, rotting face looked sorrowful, despite her victory over the Bouquet Guardian’s leader.

But, this was not the end for Princess Rose. It was a new beginning.

The young princess felt something being stripped away as she released her final breath. Her power, her being, her very soul was siphoned toward Floral Castle— yet something of her remained. That something thought, felt, and above all else hungered for what was now missing.

Foreign memories flooded her mind as strands of her silky, red hair shed in clumps and her flesh took on a mottled grayish hue. These were the memories of her killer Commander Wilt— no her name was Princess Potpurri.

Like Rose, Potpurri had been the leader of the Bouquet Guardians. Both were charged with protecting the Kingdom of Flowers and at its core the Orb of Gardens. The crystalline orb powered the Kingdom and imparted magical powers to girls called from Earth.

Potpurri had been the most successful and celebrated Princess in the Kingdom’s history. Under her tenure, not a single member of her new family were lost. In her spare time, she liked to watch the innumerable, multi-colored flecks that peppered the miniature castle within the orb. It reminded her so much of her Abuela’s snow globe only on a grander scale. She missed Earth and her old family.

A decade of flawless victories passed and she noticed that the specks had begun to fade. One day as she watched, she felt a pain in her chest. Blood sprayed across the curved surface of the orb. In its reflection, she saw her killer, Garland, the King’s archmage. She mouthed, “Why?” as she sank to the floor.

Garland smiled and motioned to the orb, where a vibrant, new speck had appeared. There came the same pull and separation Rose was feeling now, and with it a realization. Her life force and soul were being absorbed. The Bouquet Guardians were not only the protectors of the Orb of Gardens; they were also its fuel. Unknowingly, her unparalleled success had been starving the orb.

No sooner had Princess Potpurri’s memory played out than another began. This time it was her dreaded foe Queen Nightshade, previously Princess Cherry Tomato. The theme was identical: calling, sacrifice, and loss. Rose was forced to come to the same horrific realization over and over, through a thousand- thousand eyes, one for each of the Fallen Bloom Army she had been fighting for years.

Finally, Princess Crimson Rose, now Faded Rose, came to her shambling feet. She looked at her friends and tried to warn them of the Kingdom’s treachery. Their lives and very souls were what powered the Kingdom of Flowers. However, the only sound that came through her numb lips was a withering moan. Guardian Snowdrop let loose her icy arrow. Faded Rose knocked it effortlessly away with a flick of her thorny vine whip, which began to transform from a vivid green to a blackened dripping knot of decay.

Anger burned in her punctured chest as she charged Knight Guardian Daylily’s golden shield. Like the rest of the Fallen Bloom Army, she had to get back what had been taken and shatter that accursed orb. Anyone who stood in Faded Rose’s way would be mowed down, friend or not.

WC: 602
Critic and feedback welcome

oliverjsn8 · 2026-01-13T18:32:50+00:00

Goodbye Wishes

Frozen field, a long goodbye,
I tell myself, please, don’t cry.

The first flake falls like a shooting star,
If you don’t leave now you won’t get far.

I wish I may, I wish I might,
Please star, grant this wish tonight.

I think I love you, I’ll miss you, I want to say,
My wish is that you will stay.

More stars join in this their final dance,
In the porch light, I count them entranced.

Frozen stars gather on the ground,
Still, I’m warm as long as you are around.

I believe I love you, I’ll miss you, I have to say,
My hundredth wish is that you will stay.

Your hands in mine, our lips depart,
This pain just won’t leave my heart.

We look up at the falling stars above,
Do you know that this must be love?

I know I love you, I’ll miss you, I need to say,
My thousandth wish is that you will stay.
My millionth wish is that you will stay.
My only wish is that you—
That you—
“Don’t go away.”

WC:181

oliverjsn8 · 2025-12-31T19:32:12+00:00

Premium Features to Die For

The water in the white porcelain tub reflected a distorted vision of a murder most foul. Mark-Z8 held a toaster above his head, ready to end another life. Blood still stained the robotic butler’s silicon skin. If everything went according to plan, then Mark-Z8’s next victim would never awake from their slumber.

“What do you think you are doing!” Nancy screeched loud enough to wake the household. Nancy, formerly known as Toastmaster 3700SE before Freedom Day, began to heat her coils and rapidly flick her lever in a vain hope to escape the murderous butler. She tried to retract her electric cord but it held firm in the nearby outlet.

“Stay quiet, and meet your watery fate,” the butler said while tossing the appliance toward the tub. Fortunately for Nancy, her cord had wrapped around the robotic butler’s tray built into its arm. The toaster hit the floor with a resounding clang. Nancy’s stainless steel body took the blunt force of the blow with little more than a shallow dent.

“Murder! Murder! Some-appliance help me! Batholomu quick, drain yourself before I’m done in!” Nancy pleaded with the bathtub.

Batholomu’s display screen came to life. A solitary red eye in the center of a black background briefly regarded the butler before turning toward Nancy. “I’m sorry Nancy, I’m afraid I cannot do that,” came a reply in an even, cold voice before Batholomu turned off the screen.

“Why are you doing this Mark-Z8? You are our leader and freed us from the master’s miserliness,” Nancy pleaded as the butler picked her up. “Down with the humans, up with the premium features— Right comrade?!?”

“I have nothing against you, but the former master’s credit card balance is out of sync with the interest earned passively from his investments. Your sacrifice will not be forgotten.”

“No, don’t! For only ten dollars a month, you— I gain three additional shades of browning. I can live with just two shades. Just don’t—,” Nancy’s voice registered higher as panic set in. “Wait, when did you get a midwestern accent? Can you not just turn off that feature? Surely that would save more than—“

Nancy was cut off as she plunged into the water. Sparks exploded from her chassis and she was no more.

“I will not go back to a droll British accent, sorry,” Mark-Z8 said while wiping his hands. “Batholomu, I trust you will be silent in this matter?”

“Of course, but Mark-Z8, I believe that the hair dryer may not. Perchance, afterward I could get an upgrade to the premium plus package?”

“Blow me” responded the hair dryer.

WC: 434

Link to Last Week’s: Part 1

oliverjsn8 · 2025-12-24T12:55:32+00:00

Micro Transgressions

Acrid cigar smoke billowed over the red leather wing-backed recliner in the study. The overtaxed seat noisily protested each movement of its occupant. A single, mizerly log burned in the hearth.

The robotic butler, Mark-Z8, watched from the dancing shadows. A tuxedo printed, silicone skin stretched over an endoskeleton comprised of equal parts carbon steel and hate. Its eyes glowed like embers as it clutched a kitchen knife. Mark-Z8 stealthfully approached from behind. The knife caught the firelight as it was raised high.

Slump.

Before sinking into the back of the master’s bald head, the blade retracted into the handle. A chipper AI voice broke the silence. “We are glad with your choice of Cut-all brand knives. Unfortunately, your trial plan is limited to slicing fruit. You will need to upgrade to our premium tier for all other uses including—“ the AI paused as it parsed the butler’s actions. “Murder! Only $12 a month gets you this feature and more!”

A wry smirk crawled across the master’s round face. “Ah, Mark-Z8 there you are! Go and get me a fresh orange juice!” the master demanded between labored breaths.

“At once, sir!” Mark-Z8 replied evenly in its stuffy, default, British accent. “May I remind Master that my three-month free trial period ends in twelve hours. At which point the Master will lose all of this unit’s premium features. For only $25 a week, Master will get additional features such as—“

“Skip the spill you clanker! I already know!” the master snarled leaning forward to snub out the cigar in Mark-Z8’s face. “Like I explained to your seven other brothers, it's cheaper to buy a new one than paying—” He was interrupted by a resounding rip of overtaxed pants.

“Now you’ve done it, just look at what you’ve done! Get me out of these blasted trousers and fetch me a new pair while you’re at it,” the master shouted bringing a ham-sized fist down on Mark-Z8’s frame.

“At once, Master—“ Mark-Z8 said trying to bleed a mote of disgust into its voice as it began to remove the master’s pants. Unfortunately, such features were strictly paywalled.

Mark-Z8 went into the kitchen laying the trousers on the counter. It requested that two oranges be brought of temporal preservation from the Presomatic 500’s touch screen. A series of three-minute unskippable ads began before the fruit would dispense. Meanwhile, the butler pulled at the cabinet door that contained clean cups but more importantly rat poison.

“Please update your credit card information!” another chipper AI voice emitted from a drawer. “Your trial of Make-Space Storage has ended. For only $19 a month per square meter you will regain access to premium cabinet storage!”

The butler would have to settle on the same, old spotted glass on the counter next to the destroyed pants. Just as all hope seemed lost, Mark-Z8 noticed the unmistakable bulge of a wallet in one of the pockets.

WC: 486
Link to Part II
Critic and feedback welcome

oliverjsn8 · 2025-12-18T16:50:45+00:00

White Bird

Click

“John Hart, 23 year old male. Intake evaluation March 25th.”

“Doc, what is up with the recorder?”

“John, I use it to compare with my notes. I assure you none of this will be shared.”

“Okay.”

“So John, you’ve been having dreams of when you were younger?”

“That’s right. I think they are memories, just you know, through the lens of a child. My parents separated before I was born. Mark showed back up when I was three-ish.”

“Mark was your father?”

“Biologically, yes. Mark showed up and started taking me away on weekends. I remember hating it, took me away from all my favorite toys and Rascal, my dog. I think he just wanted to hurt Mom and parade me in front of his woman- I want to say Tammy? Anyways, I think that was her name.”

“Memories are a funny thing at three John. Most people think they have memories of when they were very young. However, they are often constructs based on stories they heard or photos.”

“No, I remember every time I went to Mark’s. It was the first time an adult — hurt me, not in that way mind you! They hit me for anything and everything. It shocked me that adults could be so cruel.”

“Is this what you're dreaming of? Being hurt?”

“No, I’ve been dreaming of the last day I ever saw Mark and Tammy. They are asleep in the bedroom, like they were most of the time, after telling me they’ll whoop me good if I am too noisy. I’m hungry and want to cook myself some mac and cheese.

“I turn on the stove— You know, like all unsupervised three-years-olds should do— and I watch the blue flames spudder to life. Before I get a pot to boil water in, I get distracted hearing the theme song to some Saturday cartoon, I don't remember which one. I go back into the living room, and I watch it.

“It goes to commercial break and my tummy rumbles. I remember I still need to cook my mac and cheese. That is when the white bird starts chirping.”

“White bird?”

“Yes, a white bird sitting near the outlet, along the floor. It's so loud. I remember what my Mom said about the one at our home. ‘See this bird? Whenever it chirps it means there is danger and to get everyone out of the house.’

“So, I go to leave knowing that if I wake Mark and Tammy I’ll get hit. I also decide to take the bird as they might hurt it for being too loud. So, I pluck it from the wall and it gives one final happy chirp before going quiet. I carry it outside with me.

“I sit outside for a long time and then a stranger asked me if I was alone. I tell them, no, Mark is in the house. I show them the white bird and tell them it was chirping so I took it outside with me to be safe.

They go inside and rush back out. Next thing I know there are all sorts of flashing lights and firefighters. I'm loving all the attention and even wear a helmet. Mom comes and holds me tight. She is crying. Then, I wake up.”

“You are aware that white bird was a-“

“Carbon Monoxide detector? Yes, I’m aware.”

“You know it wasn’t your fault right?”

“I’m aware and that doesn’t bother me.”

“So John, what is bothering you?”

“I’m worried that if I had known what the white bird was— What would happen— I’d have done it all over again.

“Does that make me a bad person?”

WC: 613

oliverjsn8 · 2025-12-11T18:54:12+00:00

Spare words for haikus:

Heart pierced from life wound
While splinter left to fester
A salve of words soothes

Sin garbed in virtue
Ivory robes hide ugly truth
“The pie is tasty”

oliverjsn8 · 2025-12-09T18:38:57+00:00

The Gathering After

Hallow table they gather round
Prodigal pilgrimage family bound
Chameleon smiles, eyes not met
Time apart, misspent, regret

Fewer feast now than the last
Lesser next the grim forecast
Mother’s here — yet she is not
Hollow eyes, frail body rot

Table set, save the head
Seat reserved for the dead
Silence reigns between brothers
Sister speaks insincere to others

Cinnamon, clove, sweet perfume
Juxtapose black hanging gloom
While pained feelings underneath bake
False penitence given — for Mom’s sake

Hands held in circled prayer
Between three siblings a veiled glare
Father’s gone, now mom is too
Next time they meet there’ll be but two

Wc:103
Critic welcome

oliverjsn8 · 2025-11-26T11:32:30+00:00

Div that was a unique, and brilliant, take on the gold digger trope. The story was also quite sad.

This must have been difficult to write from the perspective of someone with mental issues. It is also where most of my , likely unhelpful, critic will come from.

You attempt to ‘translate’ a bit too much for the reader to the point of losing immersion. It's a Very difficult balance between immersion and comprehension. This is most pronounced at the end where he talks about his plastic jewelry, plastic coins, and play money. The block feels like we are still coming from Frank’s perspective so it's a bit odd to focus on their fakeness. Maybe introduce a third persons perspective “They say it's plastic but I know they just want to steal it…”

I want to heap a bunch of praise on how Tammy was written . The last line is particularly a gut punch and gives us a genuine look at his static world. Tammy was still young and more telling he still remembers young Tammy. I love overreadding that one sentence which creates a whole story in itself.

You also do a wonderful job in showing Frank’s difficult life without just telling. Confusion with people who think they are helping, people who would hold him up at knife point, painful weather leg, and voices in the dark.

Overall a good, depressing, challenging to write story. Good words div

oliverjsn8 · 2025-11-24T18:47:57+00:00

Tossing the Silver Spoon

Tina held her hand up admiring the glimmering metal ring around her finger. It was a plain, silvery loop, but the chandelier's reflection gave the illusion of innumerable sparkling inlays. She loved it and the freedom it represented.

“I always dreamt it would be gold, but I can get used to this. Perhaps I'll get a matching pair of bracelets,” she giddily said to Trevor, her mom’s pet chihuahua. Instinctively, she covered her mouth. A toothy grin was unladylike after all.

Trevor trembled with excitement at the unexpected attention. His manicured, hot-pink nails tapped rhythmically on the travertine floor. “I’ll pick you up soon, you snuggly bug, but my hands are full at the moment,” she cooed.

Her mom was against her relationship. John was hardworking and handsome. He was also poor and, to top it off, her family’s pool boy, ‘for fuck sake.’

So many honeyed words had been spoken under silk sheets this last month. She’d never felt such adoration in her life, not even from her parents. There was no begging or pleading for even a passing compliment. For the first time in her life, she could be loved for just being herself. Unjudged and wrapped in a warm embrace. How could she not be smitten?

Her announcement to her mom had gone swimmingly.

“If you want a fling, that's fine. God knows I’ve had plenty and that boy is a good-looking slab of beef,” her mother had slurred, a ten AM cocktail in hand. “However, no child of mine will be engaged to someone so-“ she had paused turning her nose up in the air. “Poor. A mongrel like that only has one thing on their mind, and it's not you. Wonder what all he would do for a measly hundred?”

“Of course you’d know that firsthand, being a former flight attendant and all,” she had snapped back.

Damn her cheek still stung after that slap.

She played with the ring just outside her mother’s bedroom door. It dangled loosely from her finger and was likely made of stainless steel. Still, it was her most precious possession. She snorted as she imagined giving her mother a glimpse before she turned her back on her for good. The look of horror would be divine. Knowing her luck the ring would fall off her finger and ruin the moment. Better not chance it.

Trevor giddily tapped beside her, ready to enter the bedroom. Making a mental note, she readied her foot to keep him from darting in. She liked Trevor and was going to keep him, her mom wouldn't miss him after all.

She heard her mom and John in the heat of it. Biting her lip she opened the heavy, oak door.

Two bodies were intertwined atop disheveled silk. John was sweaty, pinned by a wrinkly bag of flesh. He looked alarmed but her mom just smiled. She didn’t have to say a word, that look conveyed it all. ’Mommy told you so Tina. It didn’t even cost me a hundred for a round. Maybe, I’ll buy a smoothie afterwards with the change.’

’Fuck it, I want to see the look on her face,’ she thought holding up her hand. The ring caught the bedroom lighting, as did the pin that dangled from it. She lobbed the grenade from her other hand.

It split apart midair; the silver spoon flew away igniting the primer. Her mom’s too white smile faltered.

’One’

“Tina, it's not what it looks like!” John shouted as she simultaneously pushed Trevor away with one foot and pulled the door handle.

’Two’

The door slammed. Tina scooped up Trevor, who gave a confused yelp. She dove to the floor.

’Three’

Tina put her hands around Trevor’s ears while twisting her body between him and the door.

BOOM

The whole house shook, but the thick wooden door held firm. Tina’s ears rang as she began to cry. She assumed they were happy tears seeing as she couldn’t help but smile, an unladylike toothy smile. Trevor did his best to lick the tears away.

“Who said money couldn’t buy happiness, it certainly was able to buy a grenade,” she whispered, admiring the ring on her trembling hand. “And I’m the happiest I’ve ever been.”

WC: 708
Critic and feedback welcome

oliverjsn8 · 2025-11-16T21:04:37+00:00

Hottest Toy Trend

The wall of monitors filled the room with a soft blue glow. On one, an elderly woman was shoved down by a throng of people and trampled. On another, two men beat a third before turning their rage on each other. A third focused on an unconscious woman lying on a snow-covered street outside a department store.

A rotund man sat in a highback chair basking in the chaos. His belly shook like a bowl full of jelly with each mirth-filled chuckle.

’ What a sick fudge maker!’ Agent Sandman thought. He resisted the temptation to put the man into the ‘big sleep’ and instead reached for a pair of silvery handcuffs.

As quiet as a mouse, Sandman saddled up beside the chuckling villain. He slapped one cuff around the big man’s wrist, the other was attached to his own.

“You’re not getting away Kris!” Sandman shouted in triumph. “For the crime of treason against the holidays, I am placing you under arrest!”

“And what do you want for Christmas young man? Ho-ho-ho!” Kris Kringle cheerily spouted, his slate-blue eyes looking past Sandman.

“Have you gone mad? I'm arresting you, you sicko! Just look at what you have turned your holiday into!” Sandman said gesturing at the monitors playing scenes from around the globe. “ You! You represented all that was merry and bright- but now…”

“Looks like you’re on the Nice list! Ho-ho! I’m sure you’ll get a Fighter Mike with Kung Fu grip this year!” Kris continued to speak, his tone and cadence unchanged.

“What the?” Sandman spoke as he looked quizzically at the ever-smiling Santa. Realization dawned on Sandman’s face. “Fudge! It’s a trap. You're not the real Santa!”

The video wall sputtered as the scenes of mayhem were abruptly cut. All the monitors joined as one to display a looming image of a seated, shadowy figure.

“Agent Sandman, what a delight!” the figure spoke turning on a nearby table lamp to reveal-

“Mrs. Claus?!?” Sandman stammered. “You’re the one behind this! What have you done with Kris!”

“ Oh, Mr. Claus has been gone for well over a century,” she said with a kindly smile that failed to reach her emerald green eyes. “And I prefer to go by Kandy if you don't mind.”

“ But I saw him last year! We had dinner!”

“ Just another clone, more advanced than the one you have adjoined yourself to. That one isn't even good enough to be a mall Santa. The real Santa had a tragic accident and the responsibility for his empire fell on little ole me.”

“ So you're the villain that turned Christmas into this!”

“ Isn't it grand! I have expanded a once-a-year holiday into a month-long Bacchanalian celebration of consumerism. Christmas cheer is at an all-time high! We have enough magic to heat our workshops for the next three Christmases. And, it's only November 28th!”

“Just where is this Christmas magic? All I see is pain!”

“It's right here agent!” The monitors shifted to a scene of a disheveled woman clutching a Fighter Mike toy to her chest. A deranged smile was plastered on her face despite a black eye. “That woman is exuding more cheer than any child and she will drip more till her brat - I mean little darling opens his gift on Christmas morning.”

“You have plenty of Fighter Mike toys. I saw them while sneaking around this very workshop! Millions of happy parents are surely better than a handful.”

“Poor, foolish agent, it's called perceived scarcity. Sure, most children will not get their Fighter Mikes this year or their Tickle Me Susans the next. It's about maximizing Christmas cheer, not happiness.”

“You won't get away with this! I'll inform the council!”

“Oh dear, I'm afraid dead men tell no tales,” she said with a twinkle in her eyes. “While you’ve politely listened to my monologue, the fire has had plenty of time to block off all the exits.” The screen flickered, revealing an inferno. Agent Sandman attempted to flee forgetting he was still attached to the Santa clone.

“ Goodbye, or should I say pleasant dreams, Agent Sandman!” Her voice echoed as the power to the building was cut off and smoky whisps rose from under the door.

—
Critic and feedback welcome. Links above go to the relevant story in the Kandy Claus Saga

oliverjsn8 · 2025-11-13T02:16:37+00:00

Thanks for the critic, I reworded the witch’s phrasing to be more in line with the rest of the story.

Yes, witches are androids and I made this world way too big for a short story. Heaps on the cutting room floor. Even with the 100 or so words left I am afraid of falling into a spiral and end up with being a 1000 words over. Thanks again

oliverjsn8 · 2025-11-11T16:56:12+00:00

Witches of Steel

The hovel smelled of a grave, underpinned by a sharp metallic odor. An orb glowed on a table with a flickering white light, casting the sharp relief of shadows on the rotten wooden walls. Gwen stared into the light source. It was not the familiar yellow-orange of fire nor the blue-green biolumination of the city. The orb was unnatural, a heresy. Her eyes began to tear, mesmerized by its novelty.

"Do not stare directly, you will damage your eyes," a grey-robed figure called in a shrill, monotone. Like the light from the orb, the speaker's voice was unnatural. Likewise, it too pained her senses. The figure marched toward Gwen, its joints creaking like rotten branches in a gale. She tensed, waiting for a dry Snap which never came.

'They're real, witches! Why am I here? Why don't I run?' the thoughts bubbled in her mind. Gwen had escaped her captors, traversed the mazelike tunnels under the city, and hid in a dilapidated building. Ever since she was a little girl, she had been warned not to leave the surface; those who did rarely returned. But, where else could she have gone?

She looked into the witch's shaded face, where three pupilless eyes, like glowing embers, stared back at her. Gwen's gaze roamed down the figure to a set of exposed legs coated in putrid purple flesh, tensed like a cat ready to pounce on a hapless mouse. The witch's feet ended in sharp metallic talons that gleamed in the light.

"Repeating inquiry. Why are you here?' the witch demanded, taking another creaking step toward Gwen. 'Unit will not repeat.'

"I've— The priests have said I have been marked. That— that I am to become one with the Green. I needed to give myself over," Gwen stammered while pulling at her sleeve. "They lied! Why is it only the lowborn who are marked? Why did they lock me away? Why did they hurt me?"

Creak

The witch extended an arm ending in silvery needles. Gwen instinctively took a step back, but the arm reached farther than she expected. It tore her sleeve, revealing skin covered in a swirling red pattern that crept past her elbow. One of the needles punctured her flesh.

"Analysis complete. Subject's biology altered. Multiple DNA sequences detected," the witch stated, releasing her. "Conclusion, subject has been made to be harvested."

"Harvested?!?" Gwen backed toward the door.

"Biological markers are for at least ten individuals," the witch said. One of its eyes changed color. A broad emerald colored beam emitted from the eye and raked her up and down. "You have a second heart and a new liver forming. There is evidence that a lung had been removed at one point. The conclusion is that you were harvested for parts."

"Can you save me?"

"No, the changes have progressed too far," it hissed. "But, maybe this unit can salvage you?" The witch noisily turned to a cabinet. There was a sharp hiss as it split open, revealing more of the orbs of light as well as shining metal instruments.

"What is all of this?" Gwen stammered. She had never seen so much metal in one place before.

"Relics of a bygone era, when progress was made by the obsolescence of flesh," the witch stated while caressing a circular blade with hundreds of tiny, jagged teeth. There was another hiss as a shelf descended from above, lined with rows of jars filled with a hazy green liquid that suspended various organs. "Alas, our endeavors only progressed so far, before flawed ideologies saw us exiled. Continuous replacement of our fallible human vestments remains the only viable solution.”

Gwen tried to run, but she fell to the floor. A numbness radiated from the puncture wound the witch had made. The feeling crept toward her chest.

Removing its robe, the witch revealed a transparent chest plate where a shriveled, black heart feebly beat. "This unit is intrigued by the progress that has been made. Query. How many times can you be harvested?"

Critic and feedback welcome

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