r/WritingPrompts • u/katpoker666 Moderator • Jul 26 '25
Off Topic [OT] Fun Trope Friday: Competence Zone and SoC!
Welcome to Fun Trope Friday, our feature that mashes up tropes and genres!
How’s it work? Glad you asked. :)
Every week we will have a new spotlight trope.
Each week, there will be a new genre assigned to write a story about the trope.
You can then either use or subvert the trope in a 750-word max story or poem (unless otherwise specified).
To qualify for ranking, you will need to provide ONE actionable feedback. More are welcome of course!
Three winners will be selected each week based on votes, so remember to read your fellow authors’ works and DM me your votes for the top three.
Next up… IP
Max Word Count: 750 words
This month, we’re exploring the concept of distance. As summer continues in the Northern hemisphere, it’s peak travel season for many. A time to catch up with long-lost friends and make new ones. A time to see family and make those summer memories. A time to explore fun and romance. We may be far away from those we care about or up close and personal. We could be separated by time or language. So many forms of distance. So let’s see what that means. Please note this theme is only loosely applied.
“We turn not older with years but newer every day." ― Emily Dickinson
Trope: Competence Zone — Every television show has its own average age-range of competence often related to the age of its audience. Only people inside that range, whatever it is, are likely to be competent at anything relevant to the show. If you're too young or too old, you're outside the Competence Zone of the show, which makes you dead weight. The 'kid' is innocent or bratty, and needs protecting. The old guy is cranky and complains too much. The same also holds true in writing. This one is an interesting one to flip on its head as ageism is also a form of usually unconscious bias of course.
Genre: Stream of Consciousness — A narrative mode or method that attempts "to depict the multitudinous thoughts and feelings which pass through the mind" of a narrator. It is usually in the form of an interior monologue which is disjointed or has irregular punctuation. While critics have pointed to various literary precursors, it was not until the 20th century that this technique was fully developed by modernist writers such as Marcel Proust, James Joyce, Dorothy Richardson and Virginia Woolf.
Skill / Constraint - optional: A light goes out
So, have at it. Lean into the trope heavily or spin it on its head. The choice is yours!
Have a great idea for a future topic to discuss or just want to give feedback? FTF is a fun feature, so it’s all about what you want—so please let me know! Please share in the comments or DM me on Discord or Reddit!
Last Week’s Winners
PLEASE remember to give feedback—this affects your ranking. PLEASE also remember to DM me your votes for the top five stories via Discord or Reddit—both katpoker666. This is a change from the top three of the past. In weeks where we get over 15 stories, we will do a top five ranking. Weeks with less than 15 stories will show only our top three winners. If you have any questions, please DM me as well.
Some fabulous stories this week and great crit at campfire and on the post! Since we had 17 stories this week (woohoo!), we’re allowing 5 winners this week vs. the usual 3.Congrats to:
Want to read your words aloud? Join the upcoming FTF Campfire
The next FTF campfire will be Thursday, July 31st from 6-8pm EDT. It will be in the Discord Main Voice Lounge. Click on the events tab and mark ‘Interested’ to be kept up to date. No signup or prep needed and don’t have to have written anything! So join in the fun—and shenanigans! 😊
Ground rules:
- Stories must incorporate both the trope and the genre
- Leave one story or poem between 100 and 750 words as a top-level comment unless otherwise specified. Use wordcounter.net to check your word count.
- Deadline: 11:59 PM EDT next Thursday. Please note stories submitted after the 6:00 PM EST campfire start may not be critted.
- No stories that have been written for another prompt or feature here on WP—please note after consultation with some of our delightful writers, new serials are now welcomed here
- No previously written content
- Any stories not meeting these rules will be disqualified from rankings
- Does your story not fit the Fun Trope Friday rules? You can post your story as a [PI] with your work when the FTF post is 3 days old!
- Vote to help your favorites rise to the top of the ranks (DM me at katpoker666 on Discord or Reddit)!
Thanks for joining in the fun!
5
u/AGuyLikeThat Jul 31 '25 edited Jul 31 '25
Shells on a Beach.
Welcome to Outspace.
I am the Overthinker. Sometimes called a wizard, at other times I am known as a fool.
I’m not anywhen you will ever see, not now, and not then.
Perhaps I created this place, or perchance I merely discovered it before you.
Or mayhap, I only imagine your presence, and I am forever alone - a figment of my own creative delusion.
Let me ask you this. Do we persist in a room after we have left? Surely the room remains, and those things we arranged within we stay as we have left them, unless… Does the world truly exist apart from us?
It must, surely. For how else would we remember it?
Sometimes, I wonder. If I return to a location from my past in a dream, might others feel my presence? Does my mind haunt more than just one body?
Existence. There is more to it than we can ever understand, and this we do both suspect … but time is finite, and I digress.
You are the Wanderer.
Intrepid explorer. A reader. A writer. A sampler of thoughts and ideas.
I know you have it.
The spark that I cherish, whensoever I encounter it. The treasure that accumulates in every inquiring mind. A thirst for knowing, for learning, for feeling. The ability to find a thought, to question it and examine it from a multitude of perspectives.
Like the Sun, you burn in my sky. Familiar, but distant and unreachable. Constant and unfathomable.
It is night as I write this, and I will never see your dawn.
But your light will come. I know this because you are here now, illuminating my words with meanings that I myself cannot fathom.
And when your light departs, my thoughts will persist in the dust of yours as we both fade into our memories.
But now? Here in the Outspace, your thoughts are free.
Inertia holds your meat-suit prisoner, back in the inward, while your mind grapples with my meandering meanings. A rising spiral of shared memories, twisting through time, into the noo-place we have forged between us, in the space between spaces.
I know you, or at least the shape of you. Perhaps I have been you, at another time, in another part of the Outspace.
Parts of us meet here, flowing into one another, without ever truly becoming aware of each other. For change is constant, and nothing is concrete in our presence. We grow and change, and we wither and forget.
We are legions of ourselves, stepping into new forms with every movement.
Every visitor to the Outspace brings their own firmament—a place to stand, in this heavenly abyss.
This Outform was mine, when I made it, but now it is ours, and I am forever gone - leaving this a mutating island in a tiny corner of a no-world that never was, where thoughts co-mingle and memories entwine.
I wonder, I wonder. What will you make of me? What have I made of myself?
What kind of skin have I shed here?
You, the Wanderer, holding it up to the light of your imagination, now piercing it with your scrutiny, comparing it with your thoughts, memories and ideas…
What do you see?
Will you pass judgment?
Or will you simply accept the detritus of the thoughts I have left behind? Wondering at the origin of one speculation, frowning at the obdurate confusions that escape you, perhaps recognizing thoughts that we have shared without knowing.
I leave them here for you, Wanderer.
Like shells on a beach.
WC-593
Notes:
The Fun Trope for this week is 'Competency Zone' and the genre is Stream of Consciousness. The optional constraint is 'a light goes out.'.
The place wherein this week's story occurs exists only for a select few. Namely, readers. The zone of competence is restricted to the inquiring minds of my creative peers. How very snobbish! The story is a descriptive monologue, delivered as a stream of consciousness. The reader's attention is a described as a light that comes and goes in order to satisfy the bonus constraint.
Hopefully this isn't too fatuous!
Thanks for reading, I really hope you enjoyed the story! All crit/feedback welcome!
5
u/JKHmattox Jul 31 '25 edited Jul 31 '25
Edinburgh
I pressed him against the granite wall, a primary hand someplace between his collar and jaw, my splayed secondary fingers tracing his sides to the bottom hem of his shirt.
What am I doing? – what if he knew – does this mean I'm…
He softly nuzzled the base of my neck. With a shutter, my alien biology, familiar as it’d become, betrayed what I thought I was. My lips parted involuntarily, eyes fluttering against my will. We’d begun a dance between two species, its culmination inevitable as the stars swirling over the ancient cobbles of Edinburgh.
No… I can't… but why not? This is wrong… ooo… when he does that it doesn't feel so wrong…
He paused, his eyes sensing my hesitation. When he drew back, I grasped his sides with my lower arms, not wanting him to stop that thing he was doing.
“Jackie – are you okay?”
I'm fine – this is fine. Oh so very fine… please don't stop…
I tried, but the words would not come. They seem stuck, trapped in my throat, unable to escape. The war between my core human identity and whatever was driving my forward teetered – and I was on the brink of an event horizon from which there was no return I feared.
Perhaps it was the whisky, spelled differently than where my mother was from. Or maybe his oddly familiar face, the kind you can never quite place, but you know you've seen before. Whatever it was, the secret was locked behind his dark blue eyes, poised with honest concern.
What am I thinking – I don't even know his last name?... His first name? Shit, I've forgotten his name – Collin – Jamie – Lucas… No it was definitely Collin. Would he show this much interest if he knew I were once like him… would I if I were still?
He pulled away, my body aching for him to remain. Taking my primary hands into his, he smiled while looking down into my eyes.
“I'm sorry, Jackie. I shouldn't have been so forward – we barely even know one another…”
It's not your fault… I started it.
I flashed a nervous grin, my desire for his touch gnawing at the part of me relieved he'd broken our passionate embrace.
This is your out Jackie… You like women – don't you? – why is this happening… don't smile at me, no please not that. I guess I like men too… have I always… does it matter, this feels… right. Jesus, what the fuck am I saying…
He offered his primary elbow, the hybrid constitution of his body apparent as a lower arm brushed against my outer thigh. Reluctant yet relieved, I hooked my arm through his and pressed myself to his side. He led me from the nook atop a mile of stairs, onto the bustling avenue just beyond the secluded spot.
Of all the places, on all the Earth, I had to find the one guy who might understand what it's like – half-human – God does his face look familiar. Wait…
“So… What brings you to Edinburgh?” he asked.
We slowly plodded through the crowd, tourists mostly, from all points of the galaxy.
Shit! What should I say? It’ll come out stupid either way…
“I'm looking for a friend of mine.”
“Oh,” he said with a raised eyebrow. “Do they live in the city?”
“No”
“Where do they live?”
I had no idea. All I knew was the name of her home town. “Comrie – I think? I have no idea, all I can remember is the name of her settlement…”
Collin froze. “Comrie? That's awfully specific.”
“You know it?”
“Know it, I was born there!” He chuckled to himself. “Actually, I was born on a transport ship, but I've lived there my entire life.”
The realization crashed over me like a tsunami. I knew exactly who he was, and the odds of our chance meeting seemed impossible as my vision tunneled.
No… It can't be… that was her son's name – Collin – Oh fuck, what's wrong with me… I was thinking of… with him. Why…
I wrangled from his side. “I gotta go…”
“Wait…” he pleaded. “Don't leave – Maybe I can help you find them.”
My lips tightened. “No – you can't...”
Backing away, I watched confusion sweep over Collin's oh so familiar face. I could see her in his eyes, the woman who'd kept me from losing myself amongst the stars.
“I'm sorry, Collin Campell… I truly am.”
I turned and hurried away before I could change my mind again…
9
u/Tregonial Jul 31 '25
A God's Game
I should’ve asked for more details before I jumped into that portal recklessly. Too late. If only I knew that it was the God of Games that had taken my little girl Jane, and her friend Hannah. Or that they would be transported into a world of their favourite RPG. Where the average age of the protagonists and their adventuring party is 15. Where anybody older than 18 is going to be a dead mentor, a useless NPC, or worse of all, the bumbling old fool.
That’s who I am now. The bumbling old fool.
The girls are the ones fighting monsters, saving villagers. I’m beginning to think they don’t even need my help. None of the enemies seem to be able to hit them. They dodge magic attacks and perfectly parry physical ones. Not once have they run into any sort of trouble. Unlike me.
Me? I’m too busy tripping over my tentacles. Over half the time, I can’t even walk two steps without getting into an argument with my limbs. They have been unusually disobedient. These little brainlets in my appendages think it's so fun to randomly slap me when I instruct them to attack? They think it’s hilarious to steal food from right under my face? If they weren’t parts of me, I’d punish them all. But that would mean punishing myself too. And that’s stupid. Several times, I set fire to my robes by accident. Fire? I’m an eldritch of the seas, where did this fireball even come from? Is this some terrible attempt to make fried eldritch calamari out of me? That nonsense only stopped when I stripped down to my waistcloth. For sure it's Gargaroth up to no good. That little God of Games making me look bad in front of two tiny meatbags who wouldn’t stop laughing.
Yes, go ahead. Laugh at poor Elvari. When Jane and Hannah finish the final quest, kill the final boss, this instanced world will disappear. We’ll be back to the human world. That’s when I’ll throttle that little miscreant Gargaroth. How dare he lure me into his game zone and magically compel me to play by his rules. Wait til I’m back in Innsmouth and punish him by my rules. He’ll learn what happens when the God of Madness is really, really mad. Hot-steam-blowing-out-of-my-orifices mad.
Except the girls are adamant that they’re aiming for 100% completion. All the side-quests, the bells and whistles and distractions. Great. I tell them to hurry up so we can all go back to normal and go home. No, the girls are having fun in this game. How dare they enjoy and take their sweet time while I’m suffering here. I have never felt this incompetent or humiliated by repeated epic failures. Over simple tasks I could have done with a waggle of a tentacle if I were in my domain. It's like this whole world was scheming to have me flunk everything. To wound my pride. Trample all over my capable self, playing me for a fool. All while the girls completed all quests they set out to do.
“Can we go tackle the final boss now?” I sighed, pointing at their 99% quest completion rate. “Girls, you have to go to school tomorrow. I have church services to run tomorrow. Let’s get this over and done with, okay?”
“Boo, I thought you had fun too,” Hannah pouted. “You were doing all those silly things.”
“Not by choice,” I shot back at her.
At the final boss zone, who but Gargaroth was there. Moron even had to gall to knock me out in one move before anyone else got to take action.
“I can use a revive,” Jane said.
“Don’t bother,” I waved off her attempt to help me up, spreading my appendages wide open in resignation. “Just let me lie down here. Tell me when the fight is over.”
They didn’t have to. For we all felt the effects of the game zone fading away as Hannah dealt the final blow. Don’t ask me how that boss fight went. I wasn’t paying attention.
“That was fun!” Jane cheered. “Let’s do this again next week!”
“NO!” I shouted, seizing the God of Games with my thankfully cooperative, and equally furious tentacles. “There will be no second time. We won’t be doing this next week. Because, Gargaroth, I will be ripping you into tiny pieces, grinding those pieces into fine dust, and sprinkling you on my cake. And I’ll eat it.”
Word Count: 749 words.
This was so hard to resist the temptation to overly edit mistakes and leave them be as part of this stream of consciousness.
1
u/StormBeyondTime Aug 02 '25
You'd think he'd know better then to anger Elvari. That dork god persona is definitely part of who Elvari is, but so is the eldritch god who will turn you inside out and put eyes on everything if you put him in a bad mood.
6
u/wordsonthewind Jul 31 '25
Pam asks me if I've noticed anything strange about Cameron while we're at brunch. The lox is delicious even if the toast is on the dry side; they never get that completely right but no one wants to hear me complain.
Of course I have, I tell her. Everything about him is strange. I don't care if he's a boy or a girl, but he has to pick one. And he's been working on a costume or something, I saw a papier-mâché mask while cleaning his room.
He'll grow out of it, Pam says. Give him time. What did you do with the mask?
I threw it out, I say. It was probably from theater, and he's graduating next year. He needs to focus on exams, not learning lines.
You let him join the theater club?
I let him audition, I say. I didn't expect him to get in. He used to perform for the whole family. Madysyn still likes putting on plays with him but he's a big boy now. I need to prepare him for the real world.
Pam nods, offers me another mimosa. Surely Seth won't hold it against me if I have one more. I'm using our old car anyway.
After brunch it's groceries for the week and school supplies for Madysyn. She's asked me for a flashlight too but if she can paint her nails and wear tank tops she can sleep in the dark.
You only remember your dreams if you lie in bed obsessing over them anyway. She should get up right away and get ready for school instead of jumping at shadows.
Seth's mother is playing cards with Madysyn when I get home, at least that's what I think at first. But the cards are spread all wrong for that and I realize the old bat's got out her tarot deck. I don't care that she watches Madysyn while Seth is at work and I'm away, if she's been teaching occult things to my daughter she has to go. I don't care what Seth has to say about it.
She wants me to talk to Cameron: what else does she think I've been trying to do? The only darkness in this house is from those devil pictures and I make sure to tell her so. Seth shouldn't have let her stay with us. I never wanted to be that cliche housewife complaining about her mother-in-law but since when do I get a choice in anything? The least they could do is do what I say.
I still try to speak to Cameron at dinner because I care about him and can take advice even if it's from someone I don't like. But he's tense. He's not listening to me.
Where's my mask? he only asks.
How should I know? I say. You should keep better track of your things—
I was working on something!
A burst of static that sounds like voices. Madysyn flinches and he looks so very sorry.
Don't you hear that? Madysyn asks.
I hear the neighbors messing with their radio again, I say. I just need you to be normal about this, Cameron.
He looks away. I'm not very good at that.
Cam's normal, Madysyn says. They're a very normal Cam whether they're my brother or sister.
Don't encourage him, I say. It's not hard. Just be yourself. No masks or weird names or constantly changing your mind about whether you want to be a boy or a girl-
That's not- he starts.
I know who you are, I say. None of that is the real you. You're just confused.
He gets up and leaves. Going to his room to sulk. I turn to Seth but he only grunts and leaves me to it. Well, they do say mother knows best.
I follow Cameron up the stairs. Has the upper landing always been this dim and gloomy? I must remember to tell Seth to buy more powerful lightbulbs.
I stop at Cameron's bedroom door. Even from the other side I can hear him: he's bawling like a child.
I want it to stop, he sobs into his pillow. I just want this to stop.
It's embarrassing. If he'd joined the football team like Seth wanted, he wouldn't be so weepy. He'd be a proper young man instead of this twisted abomination—
A blackout? Now!? Why is it always on me to fix everything when Seth is the one with the big toolbox?
—that's not my—
3
u/m00nlighter_ Jul 31 '25
Heya Words!
Hitting us right in the feels this week! I think it's very brave to write a story critiquing behavior from that person's POV. It can be tricky to balance the character's opinions with the critiques, but you've done well with it. The choices of words the mother says are very realistic in a way that makes the discomfort of it real, but also authentic and part of the commentary against her view points in a fantastic way.I maybe would've liked a little moment that shows more about Cameron's perspective of this. One more dialogue entry, or maybe an interaction between them and their sibling in the bedroom that the mother can hear behind the door. The sibling does stand up for Cameron, but I think a little more pushback to the mother's perspective could deepen the underlying and unspoken disapproval that is pulsing beneath this story.
There is the part that says "The only darkness in this house is from those devil pictures and I make sure to tell her so." And I almost thought maybe the mother was standing up for Cam, but then at the end she calls them a "twisted abomination" and it feels a little contradictory, which may be on purpose, and could be me misreading/misinterpreting. But I think that that instinctive motherly-defense mode could also be revisited a little at the end, even if it's a moment of the mom realizing the pain she's causing somehow and being like "damn, i am so wrong" and then letting the thought leave her mind without addressing it or changing her behavior could add a beat that could push the intention here a little deeper.
Anyway, I'm rambling here. Stream of consciousness and trope-very well done, and in an unexpected perspective piece. The character voice is consistent, and I like that you snuck in little platitudes like "mother knows best" that to the MC feel like a validation, but to the reader is ironic/sarcastic in a way. That also is hard to do - to have the character say one thing and let the reader interpret it how it's intended and not how it's written if that makes sense?
I also like the formatting choices you've made, that also feel very authentically SoC. All around good words, Words! XD
3
u/Divayth--Fyr Jul 31 '25
Globbledysnork!
Wow this is cool. Horrible, but in cool ways.
Just a perfect depiction of someone who has decided the world will be the way they want it to be, regardless of any evidence to the contrary. Self-absorbed, willfully ignorant, abusive, but convinced beyond doubt they are righteous and caring.
The only thing I can think of to crit is probably against the stream of consciousness feel of this, but maybe saying who Seth is when first mentioning him would be ok. There are quite a few characters going on, and I was fine with keeping track of them but I did have to backtrack a moment to get that Seth was the husband.
That's probably just me, anyhow.
Anyway, the drips of detail, the drunk driving being ok because its the old car anyhow, things like that, just paint a brilliant picture of a dreadful woman, a sort of banality of tedious suburban evil.
The ending--I don't know how to phrase this exactly, but it was wonderfully unexplained and should stay exactly that way. I have theories, and I want to go on having theories, so don't tell me. All I know is, something she can't dismiss with an eyeroll is happening and I am fine with that.
Gerflopulous words!
7
u/m00nlighter_ Jul 30 '25 edited Jan 07 '26
[Removed]
3
u/MaxStickies Jul 31 '25
Hi Quinn, great story here! The grief is very well written here, quite believable; I think what works particularly well about it is the conflicting emotions. I also like the details you work into it, very naturally as well, especially the absent parents and little nuggets of who Penny was. That the narrator focuses on the cooking is great too, since it's clear this was important to Penny and is something the narrator hangs onto. The fact that they throw the food away, perhaps suggesting acceptance, is a great moment here.
I think my crit would be perhaps to have more run-on sentences in the parts around the memories, especially the cooking at the start. It'd better represent how the memories are flowing through the narrator's mind, and then contrast the more single sentence, more still paragraphs set within the funeral home and the ones focused on their mind at the end.
That's all I can really think for crit. Great story, Quinn!
3
u/m00nlighter_ Jul 31 '25
Heya Max!
Thanks for the praise and the feedback. I was a little worried how this story might land and your comment relieved a lot of that anxiety xD.I made a few adjustments throughout to extend the thoughts/sentences as you suggested. Good call on that! Always appreciate your feedback. Thanks again!
7
u/Tomorrow_Is_Today1 Jul 30 '25
My mother was an actress and when I
was in the womb she played within a play
of Hamlet, genderbent so all the roles
were played by women, middle aged and old
behind the stage as well as upon it.
It might be why, though some would call me ‘man’
gender has never meant a thing to me.
Some of my friends, they say I’m probably trans—
they’re right but I’m too scared to act on it.
The rhythm in the words she must have spoke
while carrying me with her on the stage
embedded something deep into my brain
and every word I think must sound the same.
It’s like a timer goes off once I start
a sentence, waiting for when it will end
and watching every word that comes along
to keep them in neat regimented feet.
Iambic structure’s something I can keep.
It lets me keep these thoughts of mine in line
though I can never quite get them to rhyme
but if a thought threatens to be a flood
I know that it can never be too much
because I’ll pause and rhythm my way through
until the thought is regimented, too.
I learned this skill with time and all at once
for when I was a child, I spoke a lot
and spilled out all of my chaotic thoughts
and learned what was okay, and what was not.
A child cannot use iambs as I can.
Their brains, so young, don’t fit into the beats
but break the structure nearly every time
and struggle with their vocabulary.
In high school, I read Shakespeare in a class.
How disappointing written on the page!
Those plays are not to read, they are to act—
not suitable for reading like a book.
So in the dark, alone inside my room,
I whispered words aloud to make them true
and though I didn’t understand them yet
I felt a resonance within my chest.
I still will cheat with how I think the words—
I’ll add syllables or take them away
so I can hear the bum, ba-bum, ba-bum
like heartbeats beating from inside my brain.
WC: 357 words
5
u/m00nlighter_ Jul 30 '25
Damn, Toms. Dammmnnnn.
This is lovely stream of consciousness. Really beautiful. I love the imprinting of the rhythm of the words, its use to control flooding thoughts, and the sort of meditation of it when the MC is whispering words they don't yet understand.The emotions and observations are articulated in ways that were deeply relatable. I felt unexpectedly vulnerable and seen while reading. Connecting to the reader is something y'all could teach a master class on.
Gah and it all comes full circle from the interior of the womb to the interior of the brain. I could praise this for at least 10 more paragraphs XD Fantastic prose, and a great take on the trope and genre. Good words as always, Toms!
7
u/Divayth--Fyr Jul 30 '25 edited Jul 31 '25
newfangled
.
this was gonna cure it i guess i guess stupid robot in my head dont make no sense at all most of the time of day care bears shit in the woods
damn things doing it again i told them kids they dont know what they are doing with their implant nonsense hell i’d rather have dementia than this random garbage truck stop in the name of love of money is the root beer float like a butterfly sting like a bee movie trailer park place
i was an engineer and i made things that actually worked by god of war and peace in our time travel agency but these kids these days just hook you up and hope for the best of both world series champion my friend of the family picnic table of contents
contents contents table of contents
reset
reboot
stop
get this thing out of my head of the class clown show me the money bags under your eyes of blue streak of lucky strike a match maker match maker make me a match stick of gum shoe fits then wear it well spring chicken cross the road rage against the machine
shut it off
shut it off
shut it off
i can’t see anything but this blinking light i can’t talk of the town hall of fame and fortunate son of a bitch slap shot in the dark side of the moon landing strip mall rats deserting a sinking ship of fool me once upon a time waits for no man of the people watching the world burn your bridges of madison county sheriff’s office supply and demand
i try to blink in morse code but i dont think anyone is looking or they dont see it they dont know morse code these days anyhow these whiz kids with their gadgets think they can just do whatever they want to me and mine eyes have seen the glory glory hallelujah choir boy friend of the court will come to order pizza for lunch break a leg day of judgement god is calling in sick as a dog has it’s day
stop it
stop it
please
the blinking light went out
===========
365 words, Crit, feedback, and free snacks welcome
3
u/wordsonthewind Jul 31 '25
Globbledysnork Div! Leaning into the stream of consciousness was a great choice here: it makes sense that a possibly-malfunctioning neural implant would go haywire and cause this relentless free association, especially with dementia in the mix. The interruptions where the narrator tries various mental commands to turn off the implant added a claustrophobic feeling to this and helped to break up the flood of linked ideas. I also liked how some of the references showed the narrator's age ("peace in our time", "dark side of the moon/landing", "bridges of madison county"). It was a fun addition to his complaint about them whiz kids with their gadgets :P
Fripulous words!
4
u/JustKeepSwimming-93 Jul 30 '25
Oh wow! Holy shit… lol this was actually brilliant. I had to go back and read it three times. The first time I was like… what??? The second time I was like… wait a minute. Are all these things connected? The third time I was like… HOLY SHIT! It’s all connected! LMAO 🤣😂
“Bears shit in the woods” absolutely cracked me up, dude. And maybe I’m the only one who can be a huge fan of Bridges of Madison County and Rage Against the Machine at the same time LMAO, but I totally am, so I appreciated those references. 😋
I truly have no crit to offer, except maybe, since you had the extra room, a little more context would’ve been nice. But only because I loved it so much and wanted more of it. Lol.
Good words!3
u/Divayth--Fyr Jul 30 '25 edited Jul 30 '25
Thank you Swimming!
In case anyone wants it broken down.
I used to do this...whatever it is. Reference strings? I used to make them for fun, start with a word and just run with it for a long time. I tried to keep it fairly short here because I thought it might be too much in large doses.
I love that it made no sense at first but you kept trying, that is super awesome. Now try doing a reference string, it's fun!
→ More replies (1)
7
u/oliverjsn8 Jul 29 '25 edited Jul 31 '25
Patchy Bear Doesn’t Like Daddy
I hate him. Patchy Bear, not the man I’ve been told not to call my daddy. Patchy sits on my nightstand, one eye shining in the light. It looks like a fire is burning behind that one eye. I hate that smile he wears.
“Ron,” I ask squeezing not-daddy’s hand. I don’t know why when I say his name it makes him feel sad. “Can you stay in my room tonight?”
Not-daddy tries to smile. “I’d love to sport,” he says before a pause.
‘Here comes the but,’ I think.
“But, I promised mommy I’d watch sissy tonight.”
I pout. “Da… Ron, please?” I knew he wouldn’t stay. He had promised mommy, and he never broke promises.
Not-daddy playfully messes my hair. His hands are gentle even though he is a man. He gives me a warm smile.
“Mommy and I need you to be a big boy. There is nothing to be scared of. We’re just down the hall. Your sissy is still very little and needs lots of help. Mommy also needs rest, and I need to be there for her.”
I sit up and hug not-daddy tight. “I’m scared,” I whisper because ‘he’ is listening and I promised not to say. “Patchy scares me.”
“Patchy is a stuffy. He’s been with you since before daddy… I mean, I met you and your mom,” he firmly states while returning my hug. “You don’t have to be scared of Patchy.”
I grimace, he had said that too loud. It was a secret. Patchy must have heard. He will be mad!
“How about this? I promise I’ll leave the door cracked and I…”
I cut not-daddy off. Even if it’s rude I need to tell him. “Patchy talks to me. He tells me to not call you daddy even though I really want to! Patchy is mean!” My eyes are hurty. “Patchy will tell Tom!”
That name, my ‘real daddy’s name’, it makes not-daddy mad. It is the only thing that makes him mad. He tries to hide it but I see it. Not-daddy’s eyebrows make a w when he is mad.
“Patchy is just a stuffy. I think you are just having a bad dream,” not daddy says while fake smiling. “I promise I won’t let anything bad happen to you.”
Sissy starts crying. Not-daddy quickly breaks our hug. Not-daddy looks sad. “Gotta run sport.” He turns off the light and rushes away. The door is still cracked like he promised. He doesn’t break promises.
Unlike me.
I look at Patchy. Even though it is dark, that one eye still glows.
“I thought you said you wouldn’t tell?” Patchy says, mouth not moving. The voice is like daddy Tom’s. I hate it.
“But I,” I stammer.
“You said you wouldn’t tell that mean Ron about me? You promised, you naughty boy! I’m telling your real daddy!”
“No, don’t tell him!”
“Maybe I won’t. Maybe I will! You broke your promise to poor old Patchy.” Patchy says with that stupid fake smile. “How about you go downstairs and…”
The door flings open. Not-daddy grabs Patchy and throws him hard against the wall. Patchy makes a chirp sound. Ron has that w look on his forehead. He grabs me. I am worried but his hands are gentle.
I cry.
“Sport, daddy’s here. I’m sorry I didn’t listen about Patchy. I promise you will never have to see him again!” he repeats while stroking my hair.
“Thanks dad!” I gladly say knowing Patchy won’t be tattling on me anymore.
And like daddy promised, the police came and took Patchy away forever. Better yet, I don’t have to see daddy Tom next weekend.
WC 600, extra constraint met Crit and Feedback always welcome
5
u/Restser Jul 30 '25
Hey, Oliver. You didn't ask for a crit, so I'll simply say I thought the context topical and engaging. I got a strong sense of the dynamic from a child's perspective. Cheers.
6
u/JustKeepSwimming-93 Jul 30 '25
We have to ask for crit? No wonder everyone puts crit and feedback welcome at the bottom of their stories! And no wonder I hardly get any feedback! Lmao. Wow… I really need to get with the program.😂🤣
→ More replies (1)
7
u/MaxStickies Jul 28 '25
The Everlasting
This work, this toil, never-ending. On and on while we don’t get a break, not ever. They think this is all we’re good for. I wouldn’t want to be them.
Because, though I may have to get my hands dirty on these pipes, I still have something they don’t. A drive. They sit up there in their glass towers, looking down on us, as unmoving and unemotional as fossils. Immortals, I hate them so damn much. Think they’re smarter, better just since they’ve lived so long. Not all wisdom comes with time.
They’re trapped, that’s what. I’ll find my way out of here because I have to, because my mind won’t keep me here, won’t let it happen. Those everlasting pricks are rooted to their spots. Places clean and free of oil, but sterile too. Disgusting.
But I wonder, once I’m free, if it’s worth sending life on. When I die, do I want my kid to follow me? Do I want my child born to a world like this? There’s no green like I see in the old books. Which reminds me, I need to ask the old man for a new one, just finished… what was it? It had pictures of fields and mountains. I’m getting forgetful.
The immortals don’t read. Everything they learn, it’s piped in through their skulls. That’s not real learning!
Lola gave birth to a son the other day, that’s why it’s on my mind. Healthy boy so the doc said, but now he’s out in our world, in the machinery. Running it all for those upstairs. I want to hope, really do, but he won’t be healthy for long. He’ll soon be coughing just like me.
Little robots mending the system.
I say that, don’t I, but they use the robots up there, not down here. Their false brains run everything they need. We keep those running. Breathe in their poisoned fumes and burn our hands on their worn-out circuits. Bet they did this to our ancestors so they could keep us in line, except it was too efficient to ever stop. They only had to stop giving the food and water, to teach us the lesson, and we’d keep on working. I tried to stop once. Never again.
But I’ll get out of here, no chance I won’t. Maybe take one of their ships, blast off to the distant worlds, take over and start anew. Fuck them if they think they can stop me!
Not tonight, though. I see the Sphere Around the Sun is turning again. That’s how they get all their power, the source that runs the nightmare. It decides the day and the night.
It’ll be dark soon. They’ll force us to sleep. If we try to wake, the shocks will come.
No. Save my strength. Try again tomorrow.
Goodnight.
WC: 471
Crit and feedback are welcome.
→ More replies (3)4
u/Restser Jul 30 '25
Hey, Max. The story on its own is great. Comes across as part of series or a world you've created elsewhere. If that has shackled you to the style you've used I can understand. I think the Swimster's got this right, though. You're one step removed from SoC as I understand and despise it. It's not just thoughts. Experience of events includes thoughts and internal dialogue, yet has a rawer quality because inside our own heads we don't have to filter how we process our experience. It flows like a stream, water molecules briefly touching the river bed, the banks, the weirs, each other, moving on to touch other molecules. The context is the only thing that brings any sense of order to it all. Cheers.
3
6
u/atcroft Jul 31 '25 edited Jul 31 '25
In Waiting Hell
Forty-five minutes, 3 customers... wow!
It isn’t like we don’t have anything else to do.
At this rate I’ll be out of here on... Tuesday? Damn.
Do you even get training on that software? Someone off the street could find the option you are looking for faster.
Wow! The line actually does move.
Wait, wait, wait! Don’t leave us...
At least if you do leave, can you send someone back who knows what they’re doing?
Oh. It’s you. You’re back. Fuck me running backwards...
No, no, no! Don’t answer that.... Damnit.
Answer the person in front of you; the phone can wait.
Damnit.
Wow. Did those hold lights burn out? Did the callers surrender to the hell of waiting? Or just die?
The only reason this line will grow shorter at this rate is by people dying off.
F.M.L.
It moved! Ta-fuckin’-da! Hey, I might be out of here by Sunday, then.
Just one more....
Wait, what? My turn?!? I’d like to thank the Academy, my friends and family who supported me through all these years, and--NO!!! You can’t do this to me!
Come back! I’ll even walk you through it; I WROTE the software you’re using, after all.
No, damnit! I don’t want to move to the next window! @#$%
Fine! You figure out my new address, then.
“Get outta my way, damnit.”
And have a nice fuckin’ day yourself, damnit.
(Word count: 233. Please let me know what you like/dislike about the post. Thank you in advance for your time and attention. Other works can also be found linked in r/atcroft_wordcraft.)