Post by rorschalk on Aug 3, 2021 20:57:33 GMT
Dear Ms. Rabe,
CLERICAL CALENDARS has been elevated to the terminal, where it must also be approved for my final reading. I will let you know what they have to say once they get around to it. Best of luck!
What follows is Rockefeller's elevating CC:
"Flies all green and buzzing in this dungeon of despair. Prisoners grumble and piss their clothes, and scratch their matted hair..." Jump in anytime, Boligard. Deplancher? Zappa composed some great singalongs.
We each have our own special way of coping down here. It's what makes us... well... special. I like Dep's subtle sensitivities and poetic musings as she guts a cap, and I like Doom's whole distracted judgment without a lot of (or any) deliberation approach. Just the verdict. Wish I could do that, but, maybe because of how I tend to skim and skip, I like to demonstrate that I at least try to read submissions that cross my path. I wonder if our regular VC hopefuls (assuming we have any) ever develop a preference. I, for one, would avoid me like the vaccine.
Frau Rabe has directed her latest offering to "Dear Gabrielle DePlancher." One can hardly blame her. Dep gives great crit. But, unfortunately, this time you got me, babe.
Found the prose precise and engaging, well researched, believable. I like writing that takes me into unfamiliar places. Like Hitler said, "Words build bridges into unexplored regions." Reminded me a little of Findley's Pilgrim, which I just started reading.
The plot's classic "Beware of what you wish for," except the supernatural element's more subtle than typically seen in this type of yarn. No evil genie or magic monkey's paw. Just an old calendar which inscribed prophecies tend to manifest. Not big things like avoiding WW I or managing inflation or stopping the Nazis. Just little things that could easily have been coincidence, like getting undesirable bosses and co-workers to quit, or the death of an old man well past his best-before date. Even the repercussions, the illnesses and injuries suffered in the granting of said wishes could be coincidence. Because the calendar's magic is, if only marginally, ambiguous, for me it works. It's kind of a metaphor for religion: arguable; occasionally demonstrable; but ultimately unprovable.
It read to me as if one jotted one's predictions on specific dates in the calendar. Like how Frank opens the calendar to April 5 to write, "Vicar General Dr. Amadeus Fohr resigns his position." So I had to wonder what date Tauber chose to forestall WW I, or thereafter to control inflation and German politics. Or, finally, portend himself eternal life. If it were me, I'd've written something like, "TQ Rockefeller becomes first ever to break 8 hours in Arizona Ironman" on October 31, 2152. Yeah, I'm probably a cyborg, but still pretty impressive for a bicentenarian.
Different for here. A cut above methinks. And up it goes. I see we have a new Terminali. A bird of some sort. Better spread some newspaper around.
[Rocks scribbles "Clerical Calendars touches Monkey" mid Miss August on the Naked Nurses Charity Calendar stuck (using God knows what) inside the lid of his little lift-top desk. He wonders if it'll work, and, if so, what it'll cost him. He's already losing his mind... so that won't be it. Possibly his dashing good looks.]
Only saw one typo:
Father Tauber polled the calendar out of the pocket...
pulled
CLERICAL CALENDARS has been elevated to the terminal, where it must also be approved for my final reading. I will let you know what they have to say once they get around to it. Best of luck!
What follows is Rockefeller's elevating CC:
"Flies all green and buzzing in this dungeon of despair. Prisoners grumble and piss their clothes, and scratch their matted hair..." Jump in anytime, Boligard. Deplancher? Zappa composed some great singalongs.
We each have our own special way of coping down here. It's what makes us... well... special. I like Dep's subtle sensitivities and poetic musings as she guts a cap, and I like Doom's whole distracted judgment without a lot of (or any) deliberation approach. Just the verdict. Wish I could do that, but, maybe because of how I tend to skim and skip, I like to demonstrate that I at least try to read submissions that cross my path. I wonder if our regular VC hopefuls (assuming we have any) ever develop a preference. I, for one, would avoid me like the vaccine.
Frau Rabe has directed her latest offering to "Dear Gabrielle DePlancher." One can hardly blame her. Dep gives great crit. But, unfortunately, this time you got me, babe.
Found the prose precise and engaging, well researched, believable. I like writing that takes me into unfamiliar places. Like Hitler said, "Words build bridges into unexplored regions." Reminded me a little of Findley's Pilgrim, which I just started reading.
The plot's classic "Beware of what you wish for," except the supernatural element's more subtle than typically seen in this type of yarn. No evil genie or magic monkey's paw. Just an old calendar which inscribed prophecies tend to manifest. Not big things like avoiding WW I or managing inflation or stopping the Nazis. Just little things that could easily have been coincidence, like getting undesirable bosses and co-workers to quit, or the death of an old man well past his best-before date. Even the repercussions, the illnesses and injuries suffered in the granting of said wishes could be coincidence. Because the calendar's magic is, if only marginally, ambiguous, for me it works. It's kind of a metaphor for religion: arguable; occasionally demonstrable; but ultimately unprovable.
It read to me as if one jotted one's predictions on specific dates in the calendar. Like how Frank opens the calendar to April 5 to write, "Vicar General Dr. Amadeus Fohr resigns his position." So I had to wonder what date Tauber chose to forestall WW I, or thereafter to control inflation and German politics. Or, finally, portend himself eternal life. If it were me, I'd've written something like, "TQ Rockefeller becomes first ever to break 8 hours in Arizona Ironman" on October 31, 2152. Yeah, I'm probably a cyborg, but still pretty impressive for a bicentenarian.
Different for here. A cut above methinks. And up it goes. I see we have a new Terminali. A bird of some sort. Better spread some newspaper around.
[Rocks scribbles "Clerical Calendars touches Monkey" mid Miss August on the Naked Nurses Charity Calendar stuck (using God knows what) inside the lid of his little lift-top desk. He wonders if it'll work, and, if so, what it'll cost him. He's already losing his mind... so that won't be it. Possibly his dashing good looks.]
Only saw one typo:
Father Tauber polled the calendar out of the pocket...
pulled