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wk28
Oct 22, 2021 4:41:30 GMT
Post by johnVC on Oct 22, 2021 4:41:30 GMT
[escaped from the writer's asylum, or that particularly old and stuffy desk where upon his 1920s Royale w/cheese typewriter is set upon, johnVC finds his way down the primrose path, past the wrought iron sign ARBEIT MACHT FREI and down the spiral staircase made by a demonic angel and into the catacombs plus disco dance hall that comprises the extent of the floor]
Hello! Hello? Is that you Carol? God, I've been pining for to come see my gal something awful these many years.
[The fierce persistence of his enthusiasm doubles when he sees the Boligard smoking a splif near the real, though somewhat mythical, wooden wardrobe's door]
Doomey! Is it you? Hot damn! It's not just some fucking cartoon world made up by the fingers of failed artists and gloomy raconteurs! Wow! Can I have your autograph Mr. Doomey?
[Rockefeller skulks in the shadows, sporting his denim shorty shorts, a bruised ego and a pair of inflammatory balls]
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wk28
Oct 26, 2021 17:33:36 GMT
Post by rockefeller on Oct 26, 2021 17:33:36 GMT
I believe it was on the first day of my second summer with the Hutterites at their large rural commune in North Dakota called Forest River that we bulldozed the main floor of the 5-storey chicken barn in order to address a rat infestation. On one side stood we, the community, gloved and shod and armed with boards (some with nails in them) and shovels, while from the other, once bulldozing had begun, came waves of rats our way. Rats upon rats upon rats, a great gray tide. For at least an hour we stomped and struck. Nests were gouged from the foundation by hand. Years later in a university psych course I watched a video of an experiment (in aid of what, I cannot imagine) of rats drowning after 4 days of treading water. I'm told the Amish like to douse them with gasoline and set them alight that their hellish screams might deter their fellows from taking up residence in their barns.
Happily, and as said in the cover letter, there are no rats in this Rats in the Root Cellar novelette. Rats are only the pretext used to lure some goodly elves and fairies into a dungeon, wherein ensues a great and prolonged battle with their demented "human" would-be captors. For me, it was the prose, the voice and vernacular that carried me. And even after it became clear what the story was about, whom I was to root for (and against) the style so overwhelmed my attentions that I found I didn't care about much else. Too many proper nouns for my taste... or just my ability to keep track. So caught up was I in the language that the plot became superfluous. The big fight scene perhaps dragged on too long, especially given it was decided by some magic, sleep-inducing petal-powder that could have been employed at the start.
Usually when I'm on the fence like this, it's out the Porthole. But here I wonder if my limitations and interests as a reader don't play too large a role. It really is a fun, if somewhat challenging, piece. At best, if there is some objective measure of quality, then it probably passes. At worst, I'm curious as to what my cloven and finny upstairs brethren will make of it.
Moo!
Glub!
You are summoned.
PS Who is this JohnVC interloper that toadies to my colleagues while making sport of my ballsack and demeanor? We are always in search of new voices. Tread carefully.
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wk28
Oct 27, 2021 19:08:48 GMT
Post by rockefeller on Oct 27, 2021 19:08:48 GMT
Last night I read another short chapter of some NY Times bestselling novel, whose author or title I cannot remember now, and fell asleep. This morning I decided my least favorite reading is written by capable writers who aren't trying very hard. Because of how easily their thoughts translate into narrative, they pour onto the page (or screen) as from a great cornucopia of ideas, with little or no filtration, planning or supervision. This, anyway, is how Stillman's Hot Games struck me. While it contained more than enough cool, dystopian, futuristic ideas for three stories, it read like a dull, not un-depressing, lucid dream, one from which I was eager to awake. Plot-wise, it's okay. Some middle-aged investor rummages through generations of hoarded "junk" in search of an eighty-dollar coin set that will tip his net worth up over a million dollars in order to entice a mate on some dating site. The AI dolls and games are cool. High-tech meds that address mediocrity and intelligence could spawn another story. The whole relationship milieu of this era, yet another. The author seems not to understand how the markets fluctuate. Any brokerage account with nearly a million in equities is going to evaluate up or down a lot more than eighty dollars every click. Also, given we have the biotech to turn people into tiny animals, I'm guessing it's set well in the future, by which time eighty (even a million) dollars probably won't buy a donut and a cup of coffee. Didn't really get the ending... unless the ladies he's attracted have somehow retroactively become mice.
In my estimation, a hastily composed work by a competent and imaginative (and possibly stoned) wordsmith.
So, no. Portholesville.
In the event this VC wishes to revise and resubmit elsewhere, a couple minor niggles:
while the days too aged themselves into weeks.
When "too" is used synonymously with also (vs. as an adjective), commas typically are employed. E.g., "the days, too, aged..."
subsequent panels showed them taking another pill everyday
As one word, "everyday" is an adjective meaning run of the mill. Should be, "every day." But don't feel bad. Zehrs produced zillions of huge in-store signs advertising "everyday low pricing."
With more research, better pacing, tighter world building and more era-specific detail, this cap could be pretty great. Like Doom would say, "Keep it real." (Or is it "unreal?")
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