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The outside temperature has dropped. You can feel it in the air as you have to put on your housecoat to fetch the newspaper outside. But as you open the door, you realise something is off, and you can’t really put your finger on it. Your garden seems in order, aside from the one thousand and one yellow daffodils dancing in front of you. Taking a look at the sky, you see the Sun in its usual place, quickly spinning around the Moon.
The daffodils bring you back to Earth as you hear them chanting.
“It’s right, it’s off! It’s right, it’s off,” they keep repeating. What is right and what is off? Certainly not you.
Anyway, your morning routine must go on, and you bend down to grab what you came for in the first place. But instead of the newspaper, your hand grabs something metallic. A screw. Scratching your head, you try to remember where this screw should go. Every screw is designed to fit a hole, but this one is holeless.
You go back inside and sit at your table, pondering what you’re gonna do with your find. You can’t dig a new hole in one of your pieces of furniture, that wouldn’t make any sense. Should you put it in the small bowl next to the front door? But if you start doing this, then you’ll do it with everything else, and a bowl won’t be enough to contain every lost screw. How many of them are they, by the way? Is this one the exception? Or will it become the norm, sooner than later?
A whistle breaks your train of thought. The kettle is boiling now, but you don’t go fetch it. Instead, you gaze at the cast iron pot, watching the lid slowly rising until the water finally breaks free, a wave of hot water washing you away in an infernal whirlpool. The only thing you can hear is the daffodils’ song, but as your body is abused, your mind finally grasps the meaning of this song.
“It’s the Writeoff! It’s the Writeoff!”
You don’t know where this tidal wave will leave you, but as you stuff your hands in your pockets, you sadly realise that, alongside your screw loose, you’re one card short of a full deck. No patience to shorten your exile.
Find the song that has inspired this and win my eternal gratitude.
The daffodils bring you back to Earth as you hear them chanting.
“It’s right, it’s off! It’s right, it’s off,” they keep repeating. What is right and what is off? Certainly not you.
Anyway, your morning routine must go on, and you bend down to grab what you came for in the first place. But instead of the newspaper, your hand grabs something metallic. A screw. Scratching your head, you try to remember where this screw should go. Every screw is designed to fit a hole, but this one is holeless.
You go back inside and sit at your table, pondering what you’re gonna do with your find. You can’t dig a new hole in one of your pieces of furniture, that wouldn’t make any sense. Should you put it in the small bowl next to the front door? But if you start doing this, then you’ll do it with everything else, and a bowl won’t be enough to contain every lost screw. How many of them are they, by the way? Is this one the exception? Or will it become the norm, sooner than later?
A whistle breaks your train of thought. The kettle is boiling now, but you don’t go fetch it. Instead, you gaze at the cast iron pot, watching the lid slowly rising until the water finally breaks free, a wave of hot water washing you away in an infernal whirlpool. The only thing you can hear is the daffodils’ song, but as your body is abused, your mind finally grasps the meaning of this song.
“It’s the Writeoff! It’s the Writeoff!”
You don’t know where this tidal wave will leave you, but as you stuff your hands in your pockets, you sadly realise that, alongside your screw loose, you’re one card short of a full deck. No patience to shorten your exile.
Find the song that has inspired this and win my eternal gratitude.
Corner office. Best view of the Hudson. A position aspired to by hundreds in the corporation, and Randolph would have scrapped it all for a parka and a cheery fire. The oak desk would be a good start, as well as the several thousand dollars worth of custom furniture. Unfortunately, the no smoking policy in the agency had made him quit carrying a convenient fire lighter, the policy on electrical equipment prohibited space heaters, and personal decorations on windows (such as just foaming them all shut) were strict no-nos. If he had left the door to his office closed, the combined leaks between the massive windows and the radiation loss would have dropped the temperature to sub-zero in hours, leaving Maintenance to find a frozen corpse still bent over his reports the next day.
"Good morning, Mister Johnson!" His secretary fairly danced into the office, dressed in little more than she usually wore, with the addition of a cheerful red felt hat advertising 'Merry Chris-Moose' in cheerful letters, with a cheerful jingling bell on the top. "Isn't this season just wonderful! All the caroling and the sledding and ice skating! A group of us are going out in to the plaza to have a snowball fight over the lunch hour, and drink hot cocoa afterwards. Did you want to come along?"
Randolph contemplated murder.
"Good morning, Mister Johnson!" His secretary fairly danced into the office, dressed in little more than she usually wore, with the addition of a cheerful red felt hat advertising 'Merry Chris-Moose' in cheerful letters, with a cheerful jingling bell on the top. "Isn't this season just wonderful! All the caroling and the sledding and ice skating! A group of us are going out in to the plaza to have a snowball fight over the lunch hour, and drink hot cocoa afterwards. Did you want to come along?"
Randolph contemplated murder.
Rudolph contemplated murder.
The initial restructuring of ClausCorp had been nearly tolerable. Sure, the forced relocation from The Workshop into the unheated barn had been a shock — communicated with clinical detachment that rivaled the Pole in its coldness — but The Workshop was obviously less hazardous now that the overflowing piles of toys were stored in the reindeers' old offices, and it was hard to argue with an immediate 62 percent reduction in elf injuries.
But then they'd started to charge rent on the barn stalls. "A cost-covering move," Polar Resources had explained, citing a failure to meet profit targets due to a 26% drop in Western bloc belief. But rumors had come through the herd of ClausCorp posting record shareholder profits in Q3, and The Missus drove in to work one day in a new Maserati rocket sled.
And then when all of the other reindeer had started to talk in low whispers over their reindeer games, with some union pamphlets being hoofed around the table, suddenly the next day they were all gone, and a brand-new herd wandering around the pole in their place. The only sign of the "Employee of the Week" board, littered with names like Whitehoof and Pronky and Bighorn and Mittens, was a slight discoloration of the wallpaper where it had once hung. And while some of the new bucks — like Dasher and Prancer — were nice enough, Cupid's transparent advances were bordering on sexual harassment (not to mention that Rudolph had been sort of sweet on Lutja).
It was when Rudolph trudged back in from flight practice — he was used to being the leader, but trying to herd eight rank newbies was a stress he didn't need — that the last straw finally landed. He opened the door to his stall to find six shivering elves huddled under thin blankets.
They'd made a fire with the wood of his bedframe.
"The lease you signed provides an ongoing non-exclusive license to occupy the space," Polar Resources had said, one suited arm sliding a page full of fine print across the table toward him. "But the stall and its contents remain exclusive property of ClausCorp, and you'll note in subsection 3 of 'Property Delegations' that the company reserves the right to put the space to, quote, 'any other such uses as are deemed necessary to day-to-day business operations.'"
"Let it go," Comet suggested as Rudolph fumed over a bucket of cardboard-tasting hay that night. "It's a privilege just to work for the big guy. You have no idea how good this is going to look on our resumes when we apply for paying jobs later on."
The initial restructuring of ClausCorp had been nearly tolerable. Sure, the forced relocation from The Workshop into the unheated barn had been a shock — communicated with clinical detachment that rivaled the Pole in its coldness — but The Workshop was obviously less hazardous now that the overflowing piles of toys were stored in the reindeers' old offices, and it was hard to argue with an immediate 62 percent reduction in elf injuries.
But then they'd started to charge rent on the barn stalls. "A cost-covering move," Polar Resources had explained, citing a failure to meet profit targets due to a 26% drop in Western bloc belief. But rumors had come through the herd of ClausCorp posting record shareholder profits in Q3, and The Missus drove in to work one day in a new Maserati rocket sled.
And then when all of the other reindeer had started to talk in low whispers over their reindeer games, with some union pamphlets being hoofed around the table, suddenly the next day they were all gone, and a brand-new herd wandering around the pole in their place. The only sign of the "Employee of the Week" board, littered with names like Whitehoof and Pronky and Bighorn and Mittens, was a slight discoloration of the wallpaper where it had once hung. And while some of the new bucks — like Dasher and Prancer — were nice enough, Cupid's transparent advances were bordering on sexual harassment (not to mention that Rudolph had been sort of sweet on Lutja).
It was when Rudolph trudged back in from flight practice — he was used to being the leader, but trying to herd eight rank newbies was a stress he didn't need — that the last straw finally landed. He opened the door to his stall to find six shivering elves huddled under thin blankets.
They'd made a fire with the wood of his bedframe.
"The lease you signed provides an ongoing non-exclusive license to occupy the space," Polar Resources had said, one suited arm sliding a page full of fine print across the table toward him. "But the stall and its contents remain exclusive property of ClausCorp, and you'll note in subsection 3 of 'Property Delegations' that the company reserves the right to put the space to, quote, 'any other such uses as are deemed necessary to day-to-day business operations.'"
"Let it go," Comet suggested as Rudolph fumed over a bucket of cardboard-tasting hay that night. "It's a privilege just to work for the big guy. You have no idea how good this is going to look on our resumes when we apply for paying jobs later on."
"You have no idea how good this is going to look on our resumes when we apply for paying jobs later on," said Dulcie, cocking her head against the seatbelt in the driver's side of the car.
"That doesn't make logical sense," said Dumont. "No body wants to hire you for pay if you've worked for free. Resumes are all about showing a steady progression up the ladder." He fussed with the belt across his lap, making sure it was snapped securely in place.
Dulcie twisted her head back and forth in a negative motion. "You worry too much, Dumont. Any body ever tell you that?"
"At least one body today," joked Dumont. "Seriously, Dulcie, this job is going to kill us both. There won't be anything left of us to work with, and the only money we make is from these silly public service announcements we videota—"
(((SLAM)))
Several of the stress meters on Dulcie and Dumont popped to red, and Dulcie's head was now on the dashboard facing Dumont.
"Laugh it up," said Dulcie's head, rolling her unrealistic-looking eyes. "At least we're celebrities this way, huh? They even named a band after us!"
"I guess we can always sign autographs," acquiesced Dumont as the back of the Pinto caught on fire.
"I hope this isn't racist, but I'm glad I'm not going to be the one with a black face," said Dulcie.
"That doesn't make logical sense," said Dumont. "No body wants to hire you for pay if you've worked for free. Resumes are all about showing a steady progression up the ladder." He fussed with the belt across his lap, making sure it was snapped securely in place.
Dulcie twisted her head back and forth in a negative motion. "You worry too much, Dumont. Any body ever tell you that?"
"At least one body today," joked Dumont. "Seriously, Dulcie, this job is going to kill us both. There won't be anything left of us to work with, and the only money we make is from these silly public service announcements we videota—"
(((SLAM)))
Several of the stress meters on Dulcie and Dumont popped to red, and Dulcie's head was now on the dashboard facing Dumont.
"Laugh it up," said Dulcie's head, rolling her unrealistic-looking eyes. "At least we're celebrities this way, huh? They even named a band after us!"
"I guess we can always sign autographs," acquiesced Dumont as the back of the Pinto caught on fire.
"I hope this isn't racist, but I'm glad I'm not going to be the one with a black face," said Dulcie.
>>Trick_Question
I can only hope that some of my uphooves are from people who applaud what I left for the next act to follow me with. :trollestia:
I can only hope that some of my uphooves are from people who applaud what I left for the next act to follow me with. :trollestia:
“I'm glad I'm not going to be the one with a black face,” Chaz said as he tinkered with the the rusty elevator controls.
“That’s racist,” Claire muttered as she rubbed her arms. “Will you hurry it up? I’m freezing my balls off, here.”
“I’ll keep you warm,” Joe said with a grin, arms spread wide.
“Fuck off, Joe,” Claire replied.
Chaz ignored them. “I mean, seriously, you ever done a coal run before? When you get back topside, you might as well dance off singing ‘Mammy’.”
“Jesus christ, Chaz.” Claire kicked at him with her steel-toed boots. Chaz levitated above her wild sweep and continued working, unperturbed.
“I’m just impressed he’s pulling a meme from the 2020s.” Joe took a languid pull from the hookah attachment on his backpack, and the frigid, stagnant air of the abandoned mine shaft filled with the scent of saffron.
Claire furrowed her brow. “I thought that dumb bit came from the 1920s.”
Joe shook his head, undercut dreadlocks swaying in the harsh glare of the ancient arc lights. “Nah, the South rose again in 2020, remember? All manner of bullshit coming out of the woodwork around then.” Another pull from the hookah, this time filling the air with notes of cinnamon. “That’s where that old saying comes from, ‘hindsight is 2020’. All that backwards crap setting us back a century or so.”
Chaz snorted. “You’re, like, seven different flavors of wrong, Joe.” With a snap-crackle-pop of arcing electricity, the elevator shuddered to life, and the doors screeched open. He gestured with his non-mechanical arm. “All aboard.”
The other two shot a dubious look between them. “Remind me why you’re not coming with us, again?” Claire asked.
“Because if the elevator shits the bed, someone needs to be up here to get it back up and running.” When nobody moved, Chaz added, “Lest we all die.”
“C’mon, Claire.” Joe adjusted his backpack and stepped into the rickety metal cage. “The big man has a quota. Those stockings aren’t gonna fill themselves.”
Claire sighed. “Sure. It’s not like anyone’s still burning this stuff.”
“That’s racist,” Claire muttered as she rubbed her arms. “Will you hurry it up? I’m freezing my balls off, here.”
“I’ll keep you warm,” Joe said with a grin, arms spread wide.
“Fuck off, Joe,” Claire replied.
Chaz ignored them. “I mean, seriously, you ever done a coal run before? When you get back topside, you might as well dance off singing ‘Mammy’.”
“Jesus christ, Chaz.” Claire kicked at him with her steel-toed boots. Chaz levitated above her wild sweep and continued working, unperturbed.
“I’m just impressed he’s pulling a meme from the 2020s.” Joe took a languid pull from the hookah attachment on his backpack, and the frigid, stagnant air of the abandoned mine shaft filled with the scent of saffron.
Claire furrowed her brow. “I thought that dumb bit came from the 1920s.”
Joe shook his head, undercut dreadlocks swaying in the harsh glare of the ancient arc lights. “Nah, the South rose again in 2020, remember? All manner of bullshit coming out of the woodwork around then.” Another pull from the hookah, this time filling the air with notes of cinnamon. “That’s where that old saying comes from, ‘hindsight is 2020’. All that backwards crap setting us back a century or so.”
Chaz snorted. “You’re, like, seven different flavors of wrong, Joe.” With a snap-crackle-pop of arcing electricity, the elevator shuddered to life, and the doors screeched open. He gestured with his non-mechanical arm. “All aboard.”
The other two shot a dubious look between them. “Remind me why you’re not coming with us, again?” Claire asked.
“Because if the elevator shits the bed, someone needs to be up here to get it back up and running.” When nobody moved, Chaz added, “Lest we all die.”
“C’mon, Claire.” Joe adjusted his backpack and stepped into the rickety metal cage. “The big man has a quota. Those stockings aren’t gonna fill themselves.”
Claire sighed. “Sure. It’s not like anyone’s still burning this stuff.”
We Are Experiencing Technical Difficulties; The Natural Path of Human Evolution Results in Amphibian Mating. Implications of Apotheosis? There’s a Little Devil Inside All of Us. Laetrile? Thank Goodness for Small Favors.
Everyone Knows What We’ve Lost–A Copious Amount of Alcohol, Lightning in a Jar. Sic Transit, Bro! Eat, Sleep, Rave, Repeat.
Winter Sucks When I Die. And Then, Things Got Worse; No Shroud, No Soul, No Service! Oh It’s Always About You, Isn’t It? Extrinsic Motivation.
Chapter Two: Unstoppable Sudden Genre Change! The Way of the Future Prompt. Random Pretentious-Sounding Phrase, Innuendo, Special Crossover Event! A Painful Choice!
Seventeen Steps Over the Edge, Among the Clouds, Against the Wind, Voyage Into the Unknown. Rushing Towards the Past Once Upon a Time, Nights Filled With Longer Hours–
Bring the Hammer Down. Dead Men Tell No Tales.
Everyone Knows What We’ve Lost–A Copious Amount of Alcohol, Lightning in a Jar. Sic Transit, Bro! Eat, Sleep, Rave, Repeat.
Winter Sucks When I Die. And Then, Things Got Worse; No Shroud, No Soul, No Service! Oh It’s Always About You, Isn’t It? Extrinsic Motivation.
Chapter Two: Unstoppable Sudden Genre Change! The Way of the Future Prompt. Random Pretentious-Sounding Phrase, Innuendo, Special Crossover Event! A Painful Choice!
Seventeen Steps Over the Edge, Among the Clouds, Against the Wind, Voyage Into the Unknown. Rushing Towards the Past Once Upon a Time, Nights Filled With Longer Hours–
Bring the Hammer Down. Dead Men Tell No Tales.
>>Icenrose
"Sure, it's not like anyone's still burning this stuff."
Sid couldn't help but smile as the little girl beamed in happiness, picking up some of the long-cooled charcoal and running back to her friends. The group of kids giggled as they drew patterns across the rocks scattered around the dry and grassy plain, some of them wrestling and smearing the char across each-others backs. A disgruntled sigh brought his attention back around the fire, where the elders still sat.
"You cannot simply avoid this forever, Sid," the eldest warned, "the stars did not choose you to be a caretaker. You must let them go."
Sid wilted, stealing once last glance at the children at play before returning his gaze to their village. Very few fires were left burning, as the sun had disappeared over the horizon some time ago, leaving only a fading soft glow to light the sky. The huts still bustled with activity though, and Sid's eyes were drawn particularly to the fires of the cooking hut. Normally, the warm glow of the cooking fires and the delicious smells of smoked meat would make him overjoyed, but now the lights seemed cold and foreboding, the smoke rising from the chimneys twisting to form chains that slowly reached for him.
"Everyone has their purpose among us," another elder explained, "it is how we have survived where our rivals have fallen. You should be proud to support and feed your people."
"I am proud to help my people, elder," Sid paused, his mind screaming at him to stop there, to simply accept his fate, "but..."
Sid let his eyes wander to the children. Only a few moons ago he was among them, leading them on new adventures against fantastical foes, encouraging them against dragons and spirits, carrying the tired on his own back as they made their way home, a smile on every face. He felt an ache in his chest as he imagined life without them. A life where no loud voices called out their new discoveries so that he would come over and tell them how good at exploring they were. A life where little hands didn't pull at his shirt and stuff flowers into his hair. A life where tears weren't stopped by his gentle words, where fights didn't return to friendships by his intervention.
To him, it was no life at all.
"... what if the stars were wrong?" Sid vaguely felt himself asking.
The silence that followed was so absolute, it seemed as if the wind itself had stopped to let the gravity of his heresy sink in. Sid's eyes met those of the eldest, and he shrunk back immediately from the righteous fury held within. Every suggestion of disobedience fled under that gaze, and under the snarling words spoken as if by an angered god.
"They are never wrong."
"Sure, it's not like anyone's still burning this stuff."
Sid couldn't help but smile as the little girl beamed in happiness, picking up some of the long-cooled charcoal and running back to her friends. The group of kids giggled as they drew patterns across the rocks scattered around the dry and grassy plain, some of them wrestling and smearing the char across each-others backs. A disgruntled sigh brought his attention back around the fire, where the elders still sat.
"You cannot simply avoid this forever, Sid," the eldest warned, "the stars did not choose you to be a caretaker. You must let them go."
Sid wilted, stealing once last glance at the children at play before returning his gaze to their village. Very few fires were left burning, as the sun had disappeared over the horizon some time ago, leaving only a fading soft glow to light the sky. The huts still bustled with activity though, and Sid's eyes were drawn particularly to the fires of the cooking hut. Normally, the warm glow of the cooking fires and the delicious smells of smoked meat would make him overjoyed, but now the lights seemed cold and foreboding, the smoke rising from the chimneys twisting to form chains that slowly reached for him.
"Everyone has their purpose among us," another elder explained, "it is how we have survived where our rivals have fallen. You should be proud to support and feed your people."
"I am proud to help my people, elder," Sid paused, his mind screaming at him to stop there, to simply accept his fate, "but..."
Sid let his eyes wander to the children. Only a few moons ago he was among them, leading them on new adventures against fantastical foes, encouraging them against dragons and spirits, carrying the tired on his own back as they made their way home, a smile on every face. He felt an ache in his chest as he imagined life without them. A life where no loud voices called out their new discoveries so that he would come over and tell them how good at exploring they were. A life where little hands didn't pull at his shirt and stuff flowers into his hair. A life where tears weren't stopped by his gentle words, where fights didn't return to friendships by his intervention.
To him, it was no life at all.
"... what if the stars were wrong?" Sid vaguely felt himself asking.
The silence that followed was so absolute, it seemed as if the wind itself had stopped to let the gravity of his heresy sink in. Sid's eyes met those of the eldest, and he shrunk back immediately from the righteous fury held within. Every suggestion of disobedience fled under that gaze, and under the snarling words spoken as if by an angered god.
"They are never wrong."
So of course I get a Search & Rescue callout on Writeoff weekend, after two months of silence, as I'm walking home from the market to start writing on the idea I've been gnawing on all day. >.<
Crossing my fingers I can submit a less ambitious version of it regardless. Good luck to all.
EDIT: Subject was found before I got on-site so it's time to put the rest of the evening toward writing ...
Crossing my fingers I can submit a less ambitious version of it regardless. Good luck to all.
EDIT: Subject was found before I got on-site so it's time to put the rest of the evening toward writing ...
I had an idea. It was a pretty neat idea too, I think. And, as usual when I have an idea I really like, I couldn't write a single sentence of it.
I'm not even going to rush a last-ditch crack comedy this time, I'm just going to go to sleep and hope for better inspiration in the next round. :ajsleepy:
I'm not even going to rush a last-ditch crack comedy this time, I'm just going to go to sleep and hope for better inspiration in the next round. :ajsleepy:
I had a decent idea, but it came with a nasty cold. It's not looking good for the home team.
What's that? Baby is gonna wake up at 6:30 and then I have to go to work?
I can't hear you over story being done and submitted.
I can't hear you over story being done and submitted.
>>Xepher
> two minutes to spare
Pfft, scrub tier. I typed in the story title and mashed Submit with negative four minutes on the clock.
(It lets you edit for a few minutes past the official deadline as a hedge against internet problems or whatnot. So, ahem, we're just gonna blame internet problems. :V)
> two minutes to spare
Pfft, scrub tier. I typed in the story title and mashed Submit with negative four minutes on the clock.
(It lets you edit for a few minutes past the official deadline as a hedge against internet problems or whatnot. So, ahem, we're just gonna blame internet problems. :V)
>>horizon
Heheh, no, I know there's a grace period, which is fine if you're most of the way through editing, but when you haven't even read your own story yet, five extra minutes is only enough to annoy yourself with your mistakes, rather than actually correct anything significant. That I came to within two minutes of the deadline actually writing all the words I felt were needed is close enough to "perfect timing" for me. :-)
Heheh, no, I know there's a grace period, which is fine if you're most of the way through editing, but when you haven't even read your own story yet, five extra minutes is only enough to annoy yourself with your mistakes, rather than actually correct anything significant. That I came to within two minutes of the deadline actually writing all the words I felt were needed is close enough to "perfect timing" for me. :-)
I made it halfway to a story based on a novel I wanted to write when I was in my late 20's (might still write it someday), but wasn't feeling it. Too much shoehorn over the prompt.
Stories I did not write this round, mostly due all the ideas hitting me on Sunday and me wasting time:
- A cyberpunk-influenced story about a hacker who makes friends with a self-aware spam-bot when they both end up in a pinch. This is the one I put the most thought into, mostly because I thought the character would be hilarious ("No, seriously, I'm a Nigerian Prince!") but couldn't come up with anything resembling a workable plot.
- A student in a wizard school invents the Leyden jar and ends up being drawn into a shadowy cabal of rebel scientists.
- An urban fantasy about a shaman going up against a hurricane.
- A wistful piece about catching fireflies as a child. (The is the one I got closest to writing, since it actually had a cohesive theme, but eventually discarded; both due to starting too late, and deciding I wasn't up for doing bittersweet in a way I could be happy with.)
In other news, I got the plastic versions of 'physical writeoff medals' I designed and modeled for fun. (In no way officially endorsed or sponsored by RogerDoger Inc. :P) I'd very much like to print these in steel and give them away as prizes for a round, but that'll probably have to wait a bit, since the cost would likely be about 70$, and I won't start my new job until January.
Here are crappy phone pictures:
First Place, Sun and Fountain Pen.
Second Place, Moon and Quill Pen.
Third Place, Stars and Inkwell (double-sided)
And if anyone wants to print their own, here are .DAE files:
File Downloads
They're designed to work with Shapeways services and materials, and I've tested them in plastic. They feel pretty good, although the third-place is a bit flimsier than I'd like, and the ring on the first-place is much thinner than I'm comfortable with; I may go back and refactor them, since I'd like them to be strong enough for a keychain, even in plastic. They cost about 4$ each in 'strong and flexible'. The design tools say they should work in steel, but yeah. That's about five times as expensive.
For personal use only, please don't sell them. I may set up a storefront on Shapeways someday if I feel sufficiently energetic.I can also supply blender files and image resources if anyone's interested.
- A cyberpunk-influenced story about a hacker who makes friends with a self-aware spam-bot when they both end up in a pinch. This is the one I put the most thought into, mostly because I thought the character would be hilarious ("No, seriously, I'm a Nigerian Prince!") but couldn't come up with anything resembling a workable plot.
- A student in a wizard school invents the Leyden jar and ends up being drawn into a shadowy cabal of rebel scientists.
- An urban fantasy about a shaman going up against a hurricane.
- A wistful piece about catching fireflies as a child. (The is the one I got closest to writing, since it actually had a cohesive theme, but eventually discarded; both due to starting too late, and deciding I wasn't up for doing bittersweet in a way I could be happy with.)
In other news, I got the plastic versions of 'physical writeoff medals' I designed and modeled for fun. (In no way officially endorsed or sponsored by RogerDoger Inc. :P) I'd very much like to print these in steel and give them away as prizes for a round, but that'll probably have to wait a bit, since the cost would likely be about 70$, and I won't start my new job until January.
Here are crappy phone pictures:
First Place, Sun and Fountain Pen.
Second Place, Moon and Quill Pen.
Third Place, Stars and Inkwell (double-sided)
And if anyone wants to print their own, here are .DAE files:
File Downloads
They're designed to work with Shapeways services and materials, and I've tested them in plastic. They feel pretty good, although the third-place is a bit flimsier than I'd like, and the ring on the first-place is much thinner than I'm comfortable with; I may go back and refactor them, since I'd like them to be strong enough for a keychain, even in plastic. They cost about 4$ each in 'strong and flexible'. The design tools say they should work in steel, but yeah. That's about five times as expensive.
For personal use only, please don't sell them. I may set up a storefront on Shapeways someday if I feel sufficiently energetic.I can also supply blender files and image resources if anyone's interested.
>>Not_A_Hat
Hatman, those are awesome! The ideas yes, but also the awards!
inb4 CiG and horizon 3D print like 5 dozen of 'em. -_-
:-p
Hatman, those are awesome! The ideas yes, but also the awards!
inb4 CiG and horizon 3D print like 5 dozen of 'em. -_-
:-p
I have reviewed all the finalists. In total, this has amount to 8,129 words. I am very tired. I will not be doing this again. I would like to encourage more people to come forward next time and submit reviews on stories, as it is mostly the same three people giving feedback, and that shit takes a lot of work. I'm usually not one of those people—I just stepped up because nobody else was giving feedback, and god I do not know how they do this shit every round.
>>Fenton
I don't know if anyone cares about the answer, but since the round is almost over, the inspiration was I'm Going Slightly Mad-by Queen.
I don't know if anyone cares about the answer, but since the round is almost over, the inspiration was I'm Going Slightly Mad-by Queen.
>>Cassius
I am usually among the people reviewing stories, but this round happened not in a good time for me (I didn't have time to submit anything). Moreover, I feel lately like I don't know what I'm talking about when it comes down to offer inputs on a story. Which is probably true.
So yeah, come to review, people, or else, my reviews will be the only thing you'll have. And you don't want that, I'm sure.
I am usually among the people reviewing stories, but this round happened not in a good time for me (I didn't have time to submit anything). Moreover, I feel lately like I don't know what I'm talking about when it comes down to offer inputs on a story. Which is probably true.
So yeah, come to review, people, or else, my reviews will be the only thing you'll have. And you don't want that, I'm sure.