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Stasis
The room was bathed in red light. Tubes ran across its walls, and in the middle a large metal cylinder hummed, reflecting the light with its metallic sheen. The air smelled of anesthetic, of stinging chemicals that cut one's brain, and it was the kind of cold that seeped up nostrils and forced people to hold their hands to their noses.
A whirring sound. A step. Two. A man entered, dressed in a plain shirt and khakis, and a push of frigid air escaped behind him. He strode forwards, past an open area, to a desk filled with meters and commands. It lit the bottom of his face a brighter red than the top, and he sat in a chair overlooking the chamber. The system awaited his command.
"Computer, report."
"Report for patient Rothwell, John T. No abnormalities detected. Progress: Thirty-five point two percent."
And he left.
The door opened, and the air rushed outside. A man - the same man as before - walked in, a beam of white thinning behind him into nothingness. He made his way to the same desk. With an exhale, the man sat. He gazed over the readings. Normal. Good.
"Computer, report."
"Report for patient Rothwell, John T. No abnormalities detected. Progress: Thirty-five point three percent."
This time, as he left, he looked back. The door opened, and for a moment he could see the true silver-grey of the machine, the black tubing on the white walls, the brown wooden floor, the blue on his sleeve -
And the doors closed, and he was left with his blue and the white of the stairs.
It was Saturday.
The door opened. He stepped in. And he paused, staring at the tubing, the computer, the machine itself.
He stepped forwards, and sat himself in the chair. He looked happier - or perhaps it was a trick of the red light.
"Computer, report."
"Report for patient Rothwell, John T. No abnormalities detected. Progress: Thirty-five point five percent."
"Computer, run full diagnostics scan."
"Running full diagnostics scan."
He stood. He walked over to the railing, and stepping carefully down the stairs, reached the great chrome contraption, and in the infernal light he set a light hand on its top. It was cold, and he imagined he felt a body.
"Hello." No response.
"How are you doing?" Nothing.
"You know, I miss you." Nada.
"I wish you were here." Nope.
"Everyone else misses you too."
"They had a funeral for you the other day."
"It was nice. They had flowers and gave speeches."
"Everyone said they love you. Well, I love you too."
"Don't worry. After all, no matter how we may be hurt, time will heal our wounds."
It was Sunday.
And something was terribly wrong.
He rushed in, the doors opened, the air blew back at him -
Everything was dark.
The column of light he could see showed an empty wall. He grabbed his phone from his pocket and turned on his flashlight.
The pipes had been ripped clean off, bits and pieces of the wall taken from when the mounts refused to give. The cylinder was dented and crumpled, blue fluid dripping out of a crack in its edge, and chunks of metal were missing from its smooth surface.
"Computer, report."
Silence.
"Computer, report."
"Computer, report!"
"Computer, -"
And he felt as if he had been cut up, and a piece had been taken from him. And in that moment, he knew that time could not replace his missing piece.
A whirring sound. A step. Two. A man entered, dressed in a plain shirt and khakis, and a push of frigid air escaped behind him. He strode forwards, past an open area, to a desk filled with meters and commands. It lit the bottom of his face a brighter red than the top, and he sat in a chair overlooking the chamber. The system awaited his command.
"Computer, report."
"Report for patient Rothwell, John T. No abnormalities detected. Progress: Thirty-five point two percent."
And he left.
The door opened, and the air rushed outside. A man - the same man as before - walked in, a beam of white thinning behind him into nothingness. He made his way to the same desk. With an exhale, the man sat. He gazed over the readings. Normal. Good.
"Computer, report."
"Report for patient Rothwell, John T. No abnormalities detected. Progress: Thirty-five point three percent."
This time, as he left, he looked back. The door opened, and for a moment he could see the true silver-grey of the machine, the black tubing on the white walls, the brown wooden floor, the blue on his sleeve -
And the doors closed, and he was left with his blue and the white of the stairs.
It was Saturday.
The door opened. He stepped in. And he paused, staring at the tubing, the computer, the machine itself.
He stepped forwards, and sat himself in the chair. He looked happier - or perhaps it was a trick of the red light.
"Computer, report."
"Report for patient Rothwell, John T. No abnormalities detected. Progress: Thirty-five point five percent."
"Computer, run full diagnostics scan."
"Running full diagnostics scan."
He stood. He walked over to the railing, and stepping carefully down the stairs, reached the great chrome contraption, and in the infernal light he set a light hand on its top. It was cold, and he imagined he felt a body.
"Hello." No response.
"How are you doing?" Nothing.
"You know, I miss you." Nada.
"I wish you were here." Nope.
"Everyone else misses you too."
"They had a funeral for you the other day."
"It was nice. They had flowers and gave speeches."
"Everyone said they love you. Well, I love you too."
"Don't worry. After all, no matter how we may be hurt, time will heal our wounds."
It was Sunday.
And something was terribly wrong.
He rushed in, the doors opened, the air blew back at him -
Everything was dark.
The column of light he could see showed an empty wall. He grabbed his phone from his pocket and turned on his flashlight.
The pipes had been ripped clean off, bits and pieces of the wall taken from when the mounts refused to give. The cylinder was dented and crumpled, blue fluid dripping out of a crack in its edge, and chunks of metal were missing from its smooth surface.
"Computer, report."
Silence.
"Computer, report."
"Computer, report!"
"Computer, -"
And he felt as if he had been cut up, and a piece had been taken from him. And in that moment, he knew that time could not replace his missing piece.
Finishing off the first 24 hours with one more story from my slate that currently has no reviews.
I think the ending could use a bit of work. Obviously something went wrong and something terrible happened, but I can't quite figure out what. My first thought was that this John Rothwell guy had some Hulk-like thing going on, and this system to contain/cure him failed and he broke out. But upon closer reading, it looks more like a malfunction led to some sort of explosion. Well, the dented and crumpled cylinder suggests more of an implosion, but chunks of metal missing seems more explosion-like. I suppose the pipes being torn off of the wall could go either way. Maybe I'm just not thinking of this correctly, but I think that clearing up your imagery here could help.
The prompt drop also seemed a bit forced, though I think the variation of it in your last line seemed more forced, but that could just me.
My other problem with this story is that it's actually pretty empty. The first half of the story doesn't really seem to do much besides set the scene and our expectations for how things go here, but I don't think that much would have been lost if those first two scenes had been cut, merged with the third, or better yet, somehow expanded to tell us more about the characters and what's happening here.
On the whole, it's not bad, but it's not quite there, either. You've got the bare bones of your story, now give it some meat.
I think the ending could use a bit of work. Obviously something went wrong and something terrible happened, but I can't quite figure out what. My first thought was that this John Rothwell guy had some Hulk-like thing going on, and this system to contain/cure him failed and he broke out. But upon closer reading, it looks more like a malfunction led to some sort of explosion. Well, the dented and crumpled cylinder suggests more of an implosion, but chunks of metal missing seems more explosion-like. I suppose the pipes being torn off of the wall could go either way. Maybe I'm just not thinking of this correctly, but I think that clearing up your imagery here could help.
The prompt drop also seemed a bit forced, though I think the variation of it in your last line seemed more forced, but that could just me.
My other problem with this story is that it's actually pretty empty. The first half of the story doesn't really seem to do much besides set the scene and our expectations for how things go here, but I don't think that much would have been lost if those first two scenes had been cut, merged with the third, or better yet, somehow expanded to tell us more about the characters and what's happening here.
On the whole, it's not bad, but it's not quite there, either. You've got the bare bones of your story, now give it some meat.
The style is interesting. The major thing I must criticize though is that the narrative perspective is not consistent. You use a rare one that is sometimes referred to as cinematic, since it's like viewing the scene from a camera angle without the knowledge of what goes on in the main character's head (as would be the case in, for example, the all-popular third person limited). That is established in the beginning when you introduce the view on the room - disconnected from the character, who is described as "a man" who enters, without even mentioning a name. You even at one point say "He looked happier - or perhaps it was a trick of the red light," which you could not do in limited since you would know what he felt. However, there are a few instances in which you do jump out of the cinematic and do include his thoughts.
You can omit the "Normal. Good" without taking anything from the story - you already show that this is normal, so you don't have to additionally tell it.
I agree with The_Letter_J on the first half, to an extend. I think that stretching it out a little is justified since it illustrates the long time that the protagonist waits for John to heal, but the first two scenes are too similar. You could rather use a few tells, like,
I understand that the repetition in the beginning of the first three scenes is deliberate, but it's a bit overdone.
I like the dialogue bit in the middle, it really brings across the desperation of the unnamed main character.
As for the ending, I don't think that it's bad that the details are not clear. After all, in cinematic view, the narrative only observes, and I think that's one of the strengths of this story. The part I really don't like though is the last paragraph.
First of all, it is again gratuitous and breaking the cinematic perspective. And then, the prompt drop, as The_Letter_J has already pointed out, is forced. I would just straight-out cut the paragraph and end on "Computer, -" as the emotional impact on the protagonist is more than clear from the situation.
He gazed over the readings. Normal. Good.
You can omit the "Normal. Good" without taking anything from the story - you already show that this is normal, so you don't have to additionally tell it.
It was cold, and he imagined he felt a body.Also completely gratuitous.
I agree with The_Letter_J on the first half, to an extend. I think that stretching it out a little is justified since it illustrates the long time that the protagonist waits for John to heal, but the first two scenes are too similar. You could rather use a few tells, like,
"Computer, report." He always said that.Or you could bend the time through the narrative, like,
The man came back every day. "Report for patient Rothwell, John T," The computer would report. "No abnormalities detected. Progress: Thirty-five point three percent."
Then the next day, "Progress: Thirty-five point four percent."
"Progress: Thirty-five point five percent."
"Progress: Thirty-five point six percent."
I understand that the repetition in the beginning of the first three scenes is deliberate, but it's a bit overdone.
I like the dialogue bit in the middle, it really brings across the desperation of the unnamed main character.
As for the ending, I don't think that it's bad that the details are not clear. After all, in cinematic view, the narrative only observes, and I think that's one of the strengths of this story. The part I really don't like though is the last paragraph.
And he felt as if he had been cut up, and a piece had been taken from him. And in that moment, he knew that time could not replace his missing piece.
First of all, it is again gratuitous and breaking the cinematic perspective. And then, the prompt drop, as The_Letter_J has already pointed out, is forced. I would just straight-out cut the paragraph and end on "Computer, -" as the emotional impact on the protagonist is more than clear from the situation.
I hate to sound like a broken record, but I'm not sure of what's going on here >.>
Agreed with >>Leo on the cinematic POV changing to limited.
As far as I can tell, John T. Rothwell was recovering or something (or dead), and then either he was stolen or he escaped. But other than that, I don't know what to make of it. I don't feel bad for the guy monitoring the machine because he doesn't have all that much of a character as I see it. The only character he really has comes from the conversation he has with John, which is sort of general anyway.
It's not really clear to me what the machine's doing, either. It's got some good visual description, but I don't really know what it does, other than tracking progress of... something. And it doesn't make sense to me how or why John escaped, or John was taken? If he was only at thirty-five-ish percent, I wouldn't imagine he could escape by himself... Then again, I don't know what John escaping means, in the context of the story, other than "something was terribly wrong" and the khakis man felt like a piece of himself was missing.
-1/8 point for nearly straight-up dropping the prompt.
Overall, I don't know what was going on, so I have no strong feelings one way or the other on this one. This story sort of just happened, for me, and not much more.
Agreed with >>Leo on the cinematic POV changing to limited.
As far as I can tell, John T. Rothwell was recovering or something (or dead), and then either he was stolen or he escaped. But other than that, I don't know what to make of it. I don't feel bad for the guy monitoring the machine because he doesn't have all that much of a character as I see it. The only character he really has comes from the conversation he has with John, which is sort of general anyway.
It's not really clear to me what the machine's doing, either. It's got some good visual description, but I don't really know what it does, other than tracking progress of... something. And it doesn't make sense to me how or why John escaped, or John was taken? If he was only at thirty-five-ish percent, I wouldn't imagine he could escape by himself... Then again, I don't know what John escaping means, in the context of the story, other than "something was terribly wrong" and the khakis man felt like a piece of himself was missing.
-1/8 point for nearly straight-up dropping the prompt.
Overall, I don't know what was going on, so I have no strong feelings one way or the other on this one. This story sort of just happened, for me, and not much more.
It started out strong, with good descriptions and an intriguing opening. After that, though, it reads somewhat repetitive, which is particularly painful when you have this limited word count.
As others have pointed out, the standout issue is how much is left unresolved / unexplained, particularly what happened to the machine. (I'm presuming it's some sort of healing device)
This premise could make an interesting story, if it were fleshed out, but right now it feels like part of an introduction.
As others have pointed out, the standout issue is how much is left unresolved / unexplained, particularly what happened to the machine. (I'm presuming it's some sort of healing device)
This premise could make an interesting story, if it were fleshed out, but right now it feels like part of an introduction.
While I'll chime in and say it's a bit too unclear what precisely happened in the ending for my tastes (aside from "something bad"), I'd like to take a moment to talk about your monologue in the third section.
There are two points I'd like to make here. First, the language you use in the few dialogue tags is a bit too informal for the rest of the piece. "Nada" and "nope" fly in the face of the sterile, clinical, almost militaristic styling of both the setting and the prose. Second, there is absolutely no reason to separate every sentence your protagonist says into its own separate line. With no tags after "nope", you create the impression that he's trading lines with somebody, when that's clearly not the case. Even if you did tag every line with its own snippet of characterization, it still doesn't make sense to spread it out so thinly over so many lines.
I think you missed an opportunity to more fully explore the protagonist as a character within that monologue. If you revisit this piece, I would suggest condensing those lines into paragraph form, and sprinkle more hints as to who the protagonist is and what his relationship is to John.
There are two points I'd like to make here. First, the language you use in the few dialogue tags is a bit too informal for the rest of the piece. "Nada" and "nope" fly in the face of the sterile, clinical, almost militaristic styling of both the setting and the prose. Second, there is absolutely no reason to separate every sentence your protagonist says into its own separate line. With no tags after "nope", you create the impression that he's trading lines with somebody, when that's clearly not the case. Even if you did tag every line with its own snippet of characterization, it still doesn't make sense to spread it out so thinly over so many lines.
I think you missed an opportunity to more fully explore the protagonist as a character within that monologue. If you revisit this piece, I would suggest condensing those lines into paragraph form, and sprinkle more hints as to who the protagonist is and what his relationship is to John.
After exiting this story, I am left with the feeling that this is a piece that's less about the pernicious and thorny realities of real life, and is instead meant to be read more as some sort of parable. What the lesson is supposed to be, though, I could not say. Time doesn't heal all wounds? Time has the possibility to heal all wounds, but life will intervene and render it all for naught? Something else? This uncertainty of purpose heavily blunts whatever impact the finale was supposed to impart.
The nameless protagonist came across as lacking much in the way of either agency or personality. The only real deviation from his robotic vigil over Mr. Rothwell is the one-sided conversation that takes place about 3/4's of the way through. While it provides the story with the closest thing it has to an emotional core, it was not enough to sway me into much appreciating the protagonist's plight. There needed to be something else there. Something more overtly emotional, more revealing about the relationship that exists between the protagonist and Rothwell (and, possibly, the rest of Rothwell's absent family).
Adding, for the fourth time, that the text of the prompt really ought to be excised from the piece. While the sentiment can be there (and is not particularly out-of-place), it needs to be in a more subtle form than what is currently here.
I will say that I quite enjoyed the opening description of the room in which Mr. Rothwell is maintained. Very tidy work there. It made envisioning this place easy to do, as well as doing a good job in juxtaposing its cold and technological nature with the attempts made by the protagonist to forge some tenuous, warm connection with his loved one.
Thank you, author, for writing this.
The nameless protagonist came across as lacking much in the way of either agency or personality. The only real deviation from his robotic vigil over Mr. Rothwell is the one-sided conversation that takes place about 3/4's of the way through. While it provides the story with the closest thing it has to an emotional core, it was not enough to sway me into much appreciating the protagonist's plight. There needed to be something else there. Something more overtly emotional, more revealing about the relationship that exists between the protagonist and Rothwell (and, possibly, the rest of Rothwell's absent family).
Adding, for the fourth time, that the text of the prompt really ought to be excised from the piece. While the sentiment can be there (and is not particularly out-of-place), it needs to be in a more subtle form than what is currently here.
I will say that I quite enjoyed the opening description of the room in which Mr. Rothwell is maintained. Very tidy work there. It made envisioning this place easy to do, as well as doing a good job in juxtaposing its cold and technological nature with the attempts made by the protagonist to forge some tenuous, warm connection with his loved one.
Thank you, author, for writing this.
Voilà.
I was supposed to review this story before the deadline, but:
1. I haven't the time to read it and write something meaningful;
2. I hope this one will make it to the finals so I can review it seriously AFTER the deadline.
And Quill, let me blow you a raspberry. I am the last one to post before the deadline, how dare you? :P
I was supposed to review this story before the deadline, but:
1. I haven't the time to read it and write something meaningful;
2. I hope this one will make it to the finals so I can review it seriously AFTER the deadline.
And Quill, let me blow you a raspberry. I am the last one to post before the deadline, how dare you? :P