"Just come down!"
"I can't!"
"You got up there, that means you can get down."
But he still insisted he couldn't. By then I could tell he was nervous, and that yelling at him wasn't gonna help, and that as the older brother I'd have to coax him down. I don't think Kyle was up higher than maybe ten feet---I took a swipe at one of his feet and it seemed close. If he could just slide off I'd catch him, but that just made him cling tighter.
"Aaron, I might crush you."
Of course I didn't care if he crushed me, in fact I figured he might, but at least he'd get down and we could go home even if I had to do it with a limp. The sun was going down and I didn't want mom getting mad, and I didn't want to leave him there either since it'd be dark by the time I could get anyone and come back. Kyle and I had been there lots, and even if I thought he could get down fine from the tree if he would just try, I didn't want him stuck there alone in the dark and scared. He was nine, I was eleven, and I could feel myself growing up while right then I thought Kyle was acting like a little kid. He was a lot smaller than me still. Two years when you're kids is huge. Now it's been a lot longer than two years---I guess like fifteen---since I've ever been back to that park.

My thinking was: he can get down, I just have to convince him, he just needs to stop being scared. I was almost twelve and I felt smart. I took a seat on the grass underneath him, put on a dumb smile, and said something like
"At least there's no chance you'll slip off that big fat branch."
He looked down at me. I said
"You look like one of those leopards,"
which Kyle and I had seen in a documentary that day, lounging in some tree on the Serengeti, looking impervious. Kyle had liked that. He loosened up, smirked, and let his limbs droop down with his belly comfortably suspended. He made some kind of cat noise. Then I laughed, or then he laughed, but either way we both laughed.
"What if you scoot back a bit?"
"I don't wanna break it."
"No way. That branch is fat."
I told him it hadn't moved even a bit when he climbed up, and I saw his face change before he wrapped his arms around and shook. It stayed almost perfectly still.
"Oh."
"Yeah, just scoot back. Then I'll show you where to put your feet."
I figured once he got back to the trunk he wouldn't even need me---there were so many branches it was easy, almost all the way between him and the ground. Kyle was smiling, I was smiling---feeling smart---and we'd both get home. I leaned on the trunk saying this or that branch looked good to step on while he kept on scooting back. He backed himself up to the trunk.
"Aaron?"
"I'm right here."
"I'm coming down."
Kyle was standing two hands on the trunk and his feet on the branch. He lifted one foot and went to put it down, then he slipped. I remember his shriek. He tumbled into one branch, then clear to the ground. I knew how he'd landed his neck was snapped. It was mom and dad who found us.

gn bump
gonna tackle "inventing the fork" next

a prompt:
>The person you're looking for isn't home

>Inventing the fork

The night I invented what is now known as the "fork," we had earlier felled a buffalo. Grug and I had taken our share, shorn it piecemeal to spit over the fire, and were down to about the last of it. While I, by then, was already quite full, leaning back against my preferred rock, I watched Grug by firelight continue to cleave bits of buffalo from buffalo bones by way of his hand axe, into each piece jabbing a pointed stick, then resting them next to the fire to cook. The tack-tack-tack and pause of this process, along with the crackling sound of the fire and my full belly, was about to put me to sleep, until I heard Grug make a rather frustrated cry
"Ack! Oo-oo!"
as a piece of buffalo slipped from his stick into the flames---only a morsel, but Grug insisted to have it back, stabbing at it but each time losing it while it blackened with heat and soot. In the brightest light of the fire I could see exactly the issue: Grug's pointed stick, polished and slick as it was, was almost too perfect to keep the meat around it---no matter how hard Grug stabbed. A brilliant idea flashed in my mind. I leapt up, dashed over to Grug, stole a handful of his sticks in my hand, and thrust---all at once!---their four ends into the meat, into which they stuck steadfast, and rescued the meat from the fire. I held the meat and my invention aloft, and Grug, dumbstruck, sat on his ass while his other bits of buffalo meat burned, and his great hairy lips hung open in marvel. This triumph brought the meat out almost perfect, it seemed to me, and with the bundle of sticks as the implement I brought it to my own lips to enjoy the bounty of my genius. Grug, however, did not seem to appreciate this, as I awoke some hours later with a lump on my head, and Grug by the dying fire rather perplexedly handling a gather of sticks, stabbing with them at what leaves or bugs he could still see, looking confused at each success or failure to result.

Once fully recovered, I improved my invention first with a bit of twine, later with some specialised whittling, and with that what you know as the "fork" came to be. While Grug perhaps deserves some credit as inspiration, you may understand why I shan't thank him so easily.

>>25316166
I shoulda given the narrator some caveman-type dialogue rather than just making Grug like an idiot; meant to make a constrast that way. One line when he lunges towards the stick could have done it.

Sneed stared at the savage horde that lay ahead of him. A pack of thirty, no, forty, ravenous beasts slowly trudged toward him and his home. Sneed found it odd that they didn't fly. Rather, they walked, as though they enjoyed the suspension they created by doing so. Slowly, methodically, almost intentional. Sneed found himself placing far too much credit in such animals, but the gravity of the moment didn't help.
He had heard of them before. Chuck had barely gotten out of the last raid with his life, he remembered him say. There was no warning, no method to the madness, the ducks arrived and they wrought what Chuck figured was some sort of divine...thing. Sneed was never much of believing such, but in front of the pack, he was beginning to doubt.
Sneed clutched his shotgun. Whatever come will come he thinks as the first few begin to arrive within arms reach. Such is life in Sneed's Feed and Seed (formerly Chucks)

>>25316547
Missed opportunity for a deed/duck joke. Not even a "the deed is done" or "the deeds are done," nor a "formerly ducks" after he blasts them to pieces. Come on, man. I believe in you, but you have to apply yourself with some sincerity. Use your brain.

>>25316549
I wrote that on public transport in three minutes lol. Flash is flash

>>25316573
I didn't even finish reading the thing before I identified the possibility for duck/Chuck & deed/Sneed. No excuse.

>>25316582
>>25314871
Fine.
--
"...you ever think, like, this is all just some bullshit or something man?"
Rocky stopped to look at Dallas briefly, still holding a duck in his right hand by the neck. He chuckled a bit, hyucking a bit as he did so. He never really intended on sounding like Goofy, he often had to explain to his few friends as a child, it's just something that happened to him. He opened his mouth to respond, now carefully choosing the words and how they pushed out of his throat onto the tongue.
"What, the fact that we're gutting a bunch of dead ducks into our truck so we can eat 'em later? Or the fact that there's, like, thirddy' ducks next to this weird lil' cabin?"
Dallas tossed another pair of ducks, one in each hand.
"Uh...Both. Both, I guess."
One of them smacked onto the rear panel of the truck. It made a thopping wet sound before plopping down onto the pile of fowl. He turned to look at the cabin. It was old and slightly rotting, with most of the windows shattered. A large sign stood on the roof of the cabin facing the road, the text now mostly peeled off. Dallas tried to read it to his best effort, bless his heart. "S...SEED...something something...CHUCK. Huh, the fuck they doin' here then, tossing all 'dat?" Dallas snorted to himself, giggling a bit. Rocky hyucked a bit too as he was in the middle of emptying out the seventh duck. His knife was starting to get a bit gross by now, he thought, all red and...all gross and 'such. He didn't really have all the words in the head, as Rocky would explain it to you. He just...didn't get all 'em. Sure he knew things, he could tell you how to gut a duck, prep it, cut it up, season it reallll nice, and how to end up with some good old fashioned roast. But then you would say that ducks aren't used in roasts. And then Rocky would frown and say that you're just some city slick whose never had his kinda supper. And he'd be right, though it'd take some time for him to get there. Rocky realized he had been holding duck number nine in his hands for the past half minute, and Dallas was now looking at him.
"Stay with us Mickey!" Dallas said while uncontrollably giggling. Rocky smiled and tore open the stomach of the nineth duck before ripping out the not-so-tasty entrails. He tossed those parts in a bucket. Dallas said you could use them for "bait or like that compostin' thing with, uh, worms and such". Rocky made a note to look into that compostin' thing with, uh, worms and such.
Dallas walked over to Rocky, taking care not to lose a boot in the oddly thick mud around the cabin.
"Hey, er, whydya think there's so much duck here anyway?" Dallas pointed out, waving his good hand (the one with all the fingers) around the place. Rocky shrugged as he shanked duck 15. "Dunno. Just enjoy it man, life comes 'round once."

>>25316835
Dallas and Rocky sat there in silence for a bit after that, hyuckin and hucking and whatever else you're supposed to do when handling this much duck. A branch cracked a bit away, and Rocky turned his head to see a strange man. He had a newsboy cap, glasses a size too large, slightly fogged, and baggy trousers. He looked mad. Worse, he looked disappointed. He walked over to Dallas while wielding a thick yellow legal pad and pencil.
"What is all this?" He pointed at the ducks, at the two chucklefucks, at the truck, at the rotting sign of CHUCK. "This...there's no meaning here. What's the point of it? No rhyme, no reason, just some..." He gestured more frantically at Dallas and Rocky and Rocky and Dallas and the thirty gutted duck corpses in that order. "It's ridiculous. When you write, when you craft a story, you put thought to pad and word to reader and to mind. That has to matter. You need to get them to come out of it with something. Not just meaningless bullshit. This isn't fucking Family Guy."
Dallas and Rocky sat on that thought for a bit. Dallas picked at his nose. Rocky looked down and cleared his throat, putting on his best statesman voice. "H'well...why is that? Why can't ya just write to write?" The man looked almost tired, but sat down alongside the two.
"Well, why create anything that isn't all...you?" the man started, adjusting his glasses a bit. "I mean, you obviously got something going on there" the man continued, again waving vaguely towards Rocky's head. Rocky blinked. Dallas suddenly stopped picking his nose and faced the man.
"Sometimes 'ya just make whatcha like makin. Don't gotta make a banquet for breakfast evry' mornin ya know." Dallas said, slightly giggling by the end. The man looked at him for sometime before standing up, looking visibly more tired than before. He adjusted his glasses again, and went off back into the woodline.
Dallas and Rocky sat around again, the ducks by now all loaded into the truck. Dallas leaned back and tried to make himself comfortable against the rotting lumber of the cabin wall, lowering his DUCK DYNASTY hat to cover his eyes from the sunset.
"Heh...don't cook a banquet for breakfast evry' mornin...y'know Rocky I oughta get me a publisher!"
Rocky started throwing rocks at a beer can a few meters away, missing each time.
"Not till ya pay me back for that pabst earlier, ya fuckin leech" Rocky hollered back, hyucking as he said it.

>>25314871
Original OP here. I'm glad someone wanted to take up the mantle. I'll return the favor by taking a prompt (other than one of my own, of course).

>>25314871
>Troubleshooting a MINOTAUR milking machine

>>25315137
>The person you're looking for isn't home

"She's out."
"Out where?"
"With her friends at the mall, I think. They'll be back in a few hours or so."
She won't. First it's the mall, then it's a friend's house, and before I know it, it's a sleepover. She'll show up the next morning, fake-apologizing, and expecting me to do both halves of the work.
"Mrs. Edgewater, this project is due tomorrow. I've been trying to reach her all week, but we haven't gotten together once."
"I'll call her and tell her you're here," she says as she heads inside for a phone. Not enough.
"It's worth half our grade."
"Alright, I understand," she turns out of view, leaving me at the front door. No, you don't.
"Nevermind, I'll just do it myself."
Her head pops out, painted with relief. "You sure? It's only fair she does her part."
"Yeah, so I'm not gonna put her name on the project."
The relief is immediately stripped away by a layer of offense. By the time she gets on the phone, I can only hear her new attitude.
"Adelaide Edgewater, you need to come home right now and work on your science project with Doyle...no, I don't care how much you spent on it, you are leaving the salon, getting Lucy to drive you home, and you are going to do your work...then I'm not paying for it...Okay. Love you, bye." The phone is hung up on the wall. She returns to the front door and steps aside. "Come on in, she'll be here in about twenty minutes. Can I get you something to drink?"
"Uhm, anything would be nice."
"Have some lemonade."
It's a really nice home. I didn't think I could get Adelaide to do anything, especially not for me. I still doubt she'll actually do any work, though.

>>25314876
:(((
>>25316166
>:]
>>25316547
>>25316835
>>25316871
:V

>The longest four minutes of your life

They said I wouldn't have to do it, that's what the said clear as day, clear as you stand here in front of me right now.
"you won't have to do it", is what they said, and yet here I was doing it. Doing the thing I said I'd never do. Doing something I swore I'd never do. The deed.
The deed started over a thousand years ago, during the reign of baron von wittgarten, some descendant of the last president of the united states. It was a way to protect what was left of civilisation by way of comitting a great sacrifice that would benefit the ones that remained after the power went.
It entailed going to Mt. Milatart in the south west, and raising a flag in the name of the patron saint who saved us from the fall. There was a lot of other things to. Things you had to do once you'd planted that flag and had to enter the cave but you were'nt told those until you were entrusted to the deed. The deed was a secret, after all.
When I volunteered, I was told I wouldn't have to do it. The deed, that is. They said I could plant the flag and make my way on back down the mountain. But when I tried they stopped me half way down, just as I passed the cave entrance.
There was a lot of them there. No point resisting. They could have thrown me down the rest of way and I didn't much fancy having my brains painting the side of that there mountain, so I complied.
They took me into the cave and that's when they told me about the deed, what the deed was and how it started. The ancient right, and why it must be committed. It didn't make sense to me, and I must have blacked out half way through because I was so fucken' terrified of the shit they were saying, but when i came to they were still going on about it something fierce.
The deed is the longest four minutes of your fucken' life. It's the longest four minutes because you don't want to be there. You'd rather be anywhere else, but you have to do it. You have to do it because we've got this fucked up will in us, the will to live, and it tricks us into doing the most heinous and detestable acts, just so we can carry on living, so don't you dare ever tell me you wouldn't do the deed. Some people may even be able to justify it to themselves. I bet over the years, at some point, one motherfucker must have justified what he did after he did it. After he did the deed. I just finished the deed, and it was the longest four minutes of my life.

>>25316835
>>25316871
Much improved as an anti-joke.

>>25316930
Not much of a story, more like a paragraph out of something else. No tension or catharsis or surprise. You could easily shift the focus from the daughter to the mother and Doyle, and it almost happens at
>The relief is immediately stripped away by a layer of offense
(weird phrasing)
which would have been interesting as a turning point, and could open it up to some nuance since the kid and mother are already set up to have a more interesting interaction than with the girl. You almost get the tension of her trying to get the kid to stay, but it doesn't evolve.

>>25317360
Is this really just about a shadowy cabal who forces dudes to jack off for them in a cave?

"O battaglion toscano, il più bello sei tu, di tutta la Repubblica - la meglio gioventù!"

Pietro marched in line alongside the rest, paying mind to his boots out of all things. The ground changes as they move further and further north, though the song remains the same, he thought to himself. They had sung it so often he could recite the whole thing asleep. He sung along, obviously, because what else are you to do by this point. The choir of men in the company ranged from far too young to far too old, Pietro noted. The median in between had gone by now, and it was reflected in the quality of the song. The younger men mouthed something vaguely resembling the lyrics, not because of a lack of commitment, far from it, but because they had just joined the militia as it passed by their crumbling villages, mere fragments of what they had been even a few years ago. Churches with gaping holes, farms left untended, a stench of silence clouding what ought to be a community. Pietro figured they just hadn't learned the lyrics yet. They would, in due time, or they wouldn't.

"A noi la morte non ci fa paura: ci si fidanza e ci si fa l'amor, se poi ci avvince e ci porta al cimitero - s'accende un cero e non se ne parla più!"

You frankly couldn't even call it marching anymore. Most men had their heads tilted to the floor by now, metal pots and canteens rustling in their packs next to their dated rifles, slung over the shoulder. A year ago you would have been scolded and beaten if you were to march with your weapon so carelessly tucked away. The older men still had their uniforms, now ridden with irish pennants and stains. The younger ones, late at night when the marching and songs had stopped, would turn to them and ask for stories. They'd try to hide their childishness, framing it as asking for advice, or for guidance, but they always came across as too eager, as too willing for what the reality allowed. The older men, now bearded, would stare and rustle their hair, saying that they ought to turn in for the night. Their eyes told all that had to be said.

"Vogliam morire tutti crocefissi, per riscattare un'ora di viltà, se ci restasse di vita un sol minuto noi lo vivremo per un'eternità!"

The younger ones had an energy that would either burn themselves or their home around it. Pietro figured both would come. Eventually.

>>25317737
Okay,
>The War™
and not much more than a vignette, or more like an introduction to something else. There isn't really any narrative or emotional structure. Same issues as >>25316930 where it sets up potentially novel interactions but doesn't do anything with them. War is hell, the new guys don't get it, and sometimes they sing songs. Okay. Veterans with beards look sad. Okay okay okay.

>>25318099
Fair enough, it's hard writing something ambitious in under 3000 characters, but I think it gains a stronger structure if you know the song and its context

>>25318133
I think the essential thing is that a work be self-contained, especially for something this short. Relying on a reference hollows things out. Obviously you can't avoid them, but I generally think they ought to be minimised, and that if they're useful to a work it should be to complement or extend what's already there.
>I think it gains a stronger structure if you know the song and its context
What's the context and how do you think it changes the structure? I have a hard time imagining how the reference to the song could have any impact on the structure at all. Recontextualises, sure, and I can imagine rare cases where that can be used for a strong effect, but I can already see you've got a defeated army and a ravaged countryside. Is there more to it that really changes that situation or makes it more interesting in itself?

>it's hard writing something ambitious in under 3000 characters
You should try to approach it as a challenge. Write with a goal and try to accomplish it economically, since it's an exercise in playing with what's essential. If you have a series of things you need to have happen, then you can plan out your use of space to accomplish it.

You have interesting elements in your piece: a disparate group of people with disparate experiences and motivations that are forced into superficial comradery, all armed and impoverished, all wandering. There's an obvious possibility for conflict, and it and its outcome are your chance to say something about the circumstances. But nothing comes of it. You make an ornament around the song instead of actually writing a story. You could easily pare back the description and set things up within a single paragraph and still have more than two-thirds of the character limit left to make something happen and provide a conclusion.

My impression is you have some notion of what's important about this defeated Italian army or whatever, but instead of trying to write a fiction that serves your idea you've just described a defeated Italian army and hoped the reader would come to your same conclusion (which probably took a lot more than 2362 characters to form). What is the essential part of what you want to convey? What does it take to express it?

>>25317533
Hey, buddy, it's called "Flash Fiction Redux," not "Flash Armchair Critique Redux." It's supposed to get people writing, not make them miserable that their first instincts aren't original masterpieces. How about you get out the back seat and take the wheel, or at the very least suggest a prompt? Otherwise, make your way to /wg/ >>25311756

>Being stuck up a tree

Its blacked-out, preying-mantis eyes stared up at me. It didn't blink, or even look capable of blinking. That the tiny body could support such a bulbous head was insane. And the little slit mouth gave nothing away, no emotion. The bug-eyed fuck just stood there at the base of the oak tree, calmly watching me tangle myself in the leafy branches.

“Jamie!” I shouted, not knowing how far I’d run or if he’d be able to hear me. Zero reaction from the gray. Jesus, why the hell did I let my brother talk me into coming out here? Real fun Memorial Day weekend, prick, getting routed by E-motherfuckin’-T while trying to take a leak.

I had to do something besides yell for help, but it was trees, trees everywhere. Maybe jump one to the next until I was out of the woods? No, this wasn’t Mario fucking 64. All I’d do is fall and break my neck.

I scoped the alien again. Scrawny, little-girl arms. Pot belly. Stubby legs. Four-and-a-half feet, tops. It couldn’t have weighed more than eighty pounds, even with that Brainjak-tier cranium.

I could take him, couldn’t I? If I dropped on him and went to town . . . . Fuck, I didn’t know. Weren’t aliens supposed to be psychic or some shit? And he could’ve had a weapon, despite being totally nude. So many unknowns and risks, but I was out of options.

Then a shout, “Mark!” ripped through the forest.

“Jamie!” I shouted back, a mix of fear and relief clenching my guts. I wanted his help, but didn’t want this goggle-eyed monster to get him. “Be careful!” I added.

“Mark!” was all he said, the exact same way again.

Could he not hear me? “Jamie?!”

“Mark!”

What the hell? He was definitely getting closer—”Mark!”—but was still screaming my name as though he hadn’t caught my response.

And the gray was still fixed on me.

“Ja—” I started, but stopped as some undergrowth shook. Shaggy, dishwater-blond hair emerged.

“Jamie.”

“Mark!” he belted yet again, at the same pitch and with the same inflection. Something was wrong. His face looked different. Then, the bloody, sheared-off stump of his neck broke through the brushline.

“Oh, God, no,” I whimpered, and hugged the oak for dear life. My legs went and my ass dropped hard on the tree branch. Stuffed up into Jamie’s neck was the arm of another gray alien, his head on its hand like a goddamn sock puppet.

This second one stopped and stared up at me, same as the first. His lifeless eyes inert, Jamie’s jaw flared open and still another identical call of my name issued from his dead mouth, as mechanical as a foghorn.

Before the puke could pour out of me, I was bathed in a bright, blue light, and a galeforce wind whipped through the tree, shaking me like a flea.

I looked up, blinded by glory. A strange calm enveloped me. I was weightless. Free. Warm, as though a child again, lifted in my mother’s arms.

The trees parted to grant me passage, as I was plucked out of the world.

>>25318190
This is good feedback and I think you're right in a lot of it, but you overreach in a few places. You're conflating the realist school of writing with any kind of universal truth regarding what writing ought to be. There are countless works that rely on references and prior knowledge that absolutely need them to enhance what the writing is. It's why people here recommend starting with the Greeks (as cliche as it is now): the prior knowledge completely recontextualizes the current reading and allows you to synthesize new things about it.
The context is that this is a song of the RSI, in English known as the Italian Social Republic, the rump fascist state that lost the Italian civil war inside of WW2, itself a very intentionally forgotten story and one that Italians prefer to not bring up for the most part.
The song itself strikes a direct irony: it talks about redemption and the romanticization of death in a point of the war caused by the fascists where the reality directly contrasts with the lyrics of the song. The song itself is the knowledge needed to help contrast it with the writing itself. So yes, knowing the song is arguably the most important part of the writing. Would most people know that? No, and it's partly my own fault that it's not well explained. But not all fiction is for everyone, not all fiction is realist and domestic.
You see a disparate group of people but fail to see the reasons why they are still in that group at this point of the war. How does the song, contradictory as it is, help keep the group intact and keep them going? How does the idea wrestle with the reality of losing a war? The identity is in a war itself with reality and that is the struggle the writing focuses on.
My impression is you have some notion of what makes good writing and what makes something half baked, and you have a good understanding of that. But experimental fiction needs to take risks like this for the eventual synthesis to have teeth, even if it results in something not made for everyone.

>>25318209
I see your point, and what you were going for makes more sense now that you've explained it. I did read the machine-translated version of the lyrics as I went along, so that wasn't lost on me. Knowing the history around it still doesn't change its structural role in the piece however, especially since what you're using it to highlight is still pretty generic: wars aren't fought by those that start them, and regardless people are banded together based on ideals that are only tenuously connected to reality. You need to at least have an emotional structure to emphasise that.

Even if I was wrong in trying to apply a literal "something happens" structure to your story, I've still got the same issue with it: it's one single line downwards with only small blips from the song. You don't need a literal something to happen for for there to be "something that happens." There's no emotional trajectory to the piece. Consider even if you'd simply bunched the lines of the song together where the last one is: the drear of before would be disrupted by the out-of-place glory of the song, then the final line brings you back down again to reality to make the contrast starker and show the violent possibility for those ideals even after the war has ended. It'd be a form of false triumph structurally. All the mentions of song before that then also build up some degree of intrigue because its character is uncertain. As it is now it's low-contrast and unemphasised because you switch back and forth.

Yeah, I know that reference is vital to some works, but that relationship doesn't mean that a piece can completely eschew structure and still be worthwhile. I can imagine a work that takes this to the extreme by being completely transformed by knowledge of the reference, where that's the mechanical intent of the piece, but that's the extreme of the "complement" I'd described before.

>>25318198
I wrote two of the stories in the thread and provided a prompt that got used. "Flash fiction" means "very short fiction," not "fiction written quickly" nor "fiction written without thought."

>>25318371
I actually think putting the song all at the end would make it worse. The back and forth allows the contradictions to be more apparent than a blob at the end. But you are right that the interiority is lacking. For the piece to shine I needed to do more with it inside the characters minds

Also wait if you wrote two stories and I wrote two(ish) then this is just basically just three people in a thread kek

>>25318371
Then I appreciate the contribution. However, you're still presenting your critiques more as objective fact rather than the personal opinions they are. Maybe frontload it with an "I think" and keep it more chipper?

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>>25318439
>this is just basically just three people in a thread kek
That's how it goes. Gotta keep things bumped for anyone to pile on, and three our four is way better than none, so I'm happy.

About the song, think of it like pic related for what I mean by emotional structure. Doing it at the end gives it more contrast on both sides even if you haven't been able to use repetition to establish a pattern. Instead your emphasis comes via contrast. I think the final line, especially
>energy that would either burn themselves or their home around it
brings the piece to your point: the source of cohesion for the group is itself an evil thing and will give rise to (more) calamity. But putting it behind a more extreme false triumph is going to sell it better. I was pretty skeptical of the piece before you explained your idea, but now I think you could pull it off well at least most of the way with what's there.

Think of how all the references to song allow the idea to build up a bit more before you reveal it, making a void you fill in. Maybe something emphasising a little more that they're rallying behind the ideal of the song is important, because I guess what I felt was missing in my first read was their goal, and there are lots of generic goals to assume soldiers are marching towards. But in your case it's this ideal they're marching towards, and the calamity it'll bring about even if they don't realise it. Putting the song at the end also metaphorically places it as their goal and the point the piece was approaching. Placing it there is a way to "explain" it's importance.

As for interiority and the rallying, this could be given to the bearded veterans, so that it's clear they still hold to the ideal of the song even if they feel personal shame and exhaustion from what they've done in the name of it. Right now the tone of the veterans and Pietro is too drab for it to seem like they have any conviction, making the song seem hollow (its ideals are hollow, but you can still believe it); it's not just a marching song (which is how it seemed to me initially), but a unifying ideal, even for those who have been abased by it.

I've definitely come around to your story.

More prompts:

>An annoying noise

>A home visit by the FBI

>Living without a body part

>That one special parade

>A begrudging kiss

>A horrible miscalculation

>Getting left behind

>The best place to fall asleep

>The worst place to fall asleep

Another prompt:

>Nope, it's too heavy

>The longest four minutes of your life

My boy Lakutis had been telling me this place was different, they didn't really care about the age of the patrons, as long as you looked old enough to be there. I was hoping they were stricter with their performers. I didn't want to be part of some chris hansen shit, have the feds up in my face with a camera when I had my dick out getting freaky like I was in some diddy lair type place.
"Nah, this strip joint is different brah, they got pleasures you ain't never thought you wanted. Stripping is like one part of it, I think," Lakutis said.
"Look, as I don't want anything illegal- I mean under 18 and animals- and any other gross shit like that," I said, looking both ways like even talking about not wanting this shit felt like a twenty five to life sentence.
"Brah, just relax and enjoy it. It took me more than two years to get an invite. Don't fuck this up for me. I don't want them thinking I brought some rube. killing the vibes and shit. if you see something you don't like just walk the fuck out. Ain't no one intchea finna shoot you"
I wasn't sold and wanted to go home, but the way lakutis told the story had me thinking it was too good to pass. A carnival of lusts. pleasures for those who seek the limits of carnal experience. I was a horny 17 year old, of course I wasn't going to pass up on the opportunity.
We walked in just after 1am. it was a tent, set up in the desert, pretty big but everything seemed sparse. loads of other cars parked around the area but each patron was given different times to stagger them in, no one wanted to be seen going in, a lot of the reg plates had been covered up too- privacy and all that.
"name and invite" a cold voice called from the dark once we passed the threshold. Lakutis held it up and a hand came from somewhere and took it. we spoke our names and a moment passed. "come right through" The voice came again, except this time it was warmer and quite sensual like a woman's. We still couldn't see where it came from, but a light ushered us forward to one of the many rooms that's were set up in the tent.
We sat down on two simple fold out metal chairs, and there were tables to either side of with lube and tissue paper but before I could protest and what seemed like some jerkbud gooner thing the woman's voice came from somewhere again.
"Welcome to the pleasure dome, where all your secret and inner most pleasures will be brought to the stage in front of you for your enjoyment." she started. At this point my boner popped. "You will each get to enjoy 2 minutes of your most sacred lusts but we advise you that this experience is brought you with two conditions, first: you must both sit through each others experience. second: if you get up to leave before the four minutes is up, the person you came with will forfeit their life"

>>25319102
Part 2

We both looked at each other. Did she mean they were going to kill one of us for not staying the full four minutes?
"That's straight cap bro- but just to be safe, don't get up- okay?" Lakutis said. Suddenly the idea of this thing being hosted in a desert made sense.
a four minute timer came on, and then two men walked out onto the mini stage set up infront of us. When I looked over at him, Lakutis pants were already down- then they started fucking and he was jacking off like a mad man possessed.
"Bro wtf, you gay?"
"yeah brah, shieet, didn't want you to find out like this but fuck it. Don't get up. don't wanna be shot with my dick out like this".
I wanted to vomit. how could I fall for this shit. my boy had brought me to some gay ass show in the middle of the desert. probably gay swingers and glory holes all up in this shit. As they fucked I became more nauseous and wanted to leave. but at the same time I didn't want to risk lakutis getting shot- not because I cared about this lying gay fuck but because I didn't want to be associated in any way with his murder. The only place gayer than this was prison where i'd for sure get fucked up the ass.
After and eternity the two minutes ended, and lakutis looked over at me in shame after finishing himself off.
"Bruh, I know it's fucked but that was really what I needed. been pretending to be straight for so long, im actually glad you was able to see the real me, fuck it. if you hate me that's fine- but thanks for sitting through that."
Strangely I appreciated his appreciation but rolled my eyes at him.
"whatever man"
"anyway, now it's your turn. I bet you're into big tit babes and shit right? maybe your ass ass guy like me, except you like women's asses..."
A pit fell in my stomach. Wait. What the fuck were they going to show for me?
A old woman walked onto the stage. Her flabby granny tits already out, hanging over her bulbous stomach. her make up garish, and her teeth yellow from years of stains.
"bro, wtf?" lakutis said.
Oh god, oh god oh god. how did they know.
I slowly took down my pants and took the opportunity to jerk off for perhaps the last time in my life. This truly was the longest four minutes of my life.

have a bump guys

>>25319105
I wish I could get my four minutes of reading this back. What the fuck dude :(

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>>25319147

Its a story with a setup and delivery, withtwo funny twists (gay lord is the worst thing, oh wait no, it's the main character who was judging everyone)

>>25319285
Yeah but it made me throw up in my mouth a little. Like I'm not complaining about anything but the subject matter

>>25319285
Why post this gross zio shit

>>25319102
>>25319105
Honestly not a bad premise, but I only read the first few lines and the second part. If you trimmed it down to a single post and removed the majority of your dialogue it could be decent. Any time you think of writing dialogue, consider just describing what's said instead.

There also need to be some higher stakes for the first guy, not just he whips out his dick and tells his bro he's gay. Since there's no tension for him, it undercuts the tension for the narrator.

I also looked back and saw you more or less spelled out the premise in the first part. You could be more subtle: just state the rules, then demonstrate the effect on a few others in the crowd first. People shifting uncomfortably until one or two people let loose. And each act being 2 minutes seems weirdly short, though obviously I get what you were going for, to telegraph the ending. But if you say they're 4 minutes and make the gay bro's scene very uncomfortable (and without having spoiled the concept yet), then you still maintain some surprise when the granny comes out; the reader will have thought that the friend's 4 minutes were the longest and be hit with some surprise.

bump
>You need to move

>nope, thats too heavy
There stands in my dungeon, my pathetic feif, a cold slab of iron. Yea, a table planed flat and sure. Not a ding a gouge a tarnish. Its surface scoured, dried, well oiled. Upon this tables sins and indulgences are drawn to being. Crystals are coaxed, arcane magmas ooze, some are stretched and deformed with mine own hands.
The table is not fixed to the ground. Defacto immovable yes, but no bolt or true fastener. it has withstood all pathetic challenges to its majestic inertia. A careless hip has oft tested its might, putting barely covered bone to cold iron right angle with decent impulse, but to no avail.
What came over me today that I turned to the slab in seriousness? That I squared up, stretched, bent my knees, put my back into it, and lifted? What kind of madness tests tendons in such obvious, knowingly fruitless tests? But how could i not? what if it were hollow and just beyond my initial feeble testings. To test the pinnings of our world, is it the holiest of pursuits or the most heretical?

>>25314871

>The longest four minutes of your life

Fluids pounding, face flushed, Turnus swung with his might at the foe. The sword whipped with the weight of something more than him, smashing into a Trojan with the sickening sound of crushed metal and ribs filling the air between the chaos. Not yet. Not this way, Turnus reminded himself, the words slurring together into a thick sludge inside his head. The waves of the enemy surrounded him with an ebb and flow, like a pack of hyenas thrilled with the hunt. Turnus snarled. Pathetic. He began to heave his sword upwards towards the next man, who merely stared up at the warrior king. Good. A more appropriate response for when in the presence of a king. Turnus' vision began to swirl and mix between the grey and red in front of him. He took one step forward, then another, then a full charge towards the wall of armor that lay in front of him. The Trojans, brave as they were, instinctively back-stepped at the sight, though that would do little to protect them, thought Turnus with a grin. His veins bulged out at every limb, and he found himself ripping through breath like a bull. Where is he, the coward. Pandarus. Turnus slams with his weight into a group of Trojans, crushing them under his step. What mockery to trap a king away from his men. He stomped up the cobbled steps of the camp, whipping his sword as though it were a mace. More fell, some diving, some without even realizing the moment. Enough. Turnus felt a sudden burning pain in his back. He rears his gaze, a single Trojan, panting, blue, slicked with sweat, staring at Turnus with his spear wedged in an opening between the armor. A pause, brief and slight, as the two men, the King and the man, exchange a gaze. Turnus hollers, his face turning up into the roaring sun, cackling with delight. GOOD, he says, AT LEAST ONE PHRYGIAN CAN TRY. Turnus grunts as he rips the stick back out to the horror of the Trojan, swatting the spear back at the man as he turns back to continue the hunt. PANDARUS, he thinks, the brief and sharp thought flashing into his mind amidst the carnage. He finds his breath growing sharper. He turns the corner, smashing his sword into another pack of runaways. There. He stares at the man Pandarus, who returns the glare with a convincing one of his own. Turnus' teeth grit together into a smile. The cornered lion has found his opponent. Pandarus takes the first step forward, clutching his spear with a death grip. Turnus tackles him, now screaming in rage. WHAT COWARDICE, WHAT WEAKNESS. HOW CAN ONE DARE TO SEAL ME WITHIN THESE WALLS. Pandarus spits at the beast, winding back the spear with the rest of his strength. COME. LET HIM TRY. The spear releases from his hand. It soars. A hand steps in to intervene. It misses, burying itself into a nearby gatepost. JUNO. BLESS YOU. Turnus returns his gaze at Pandarus, eyes bulging. Pandarus pleads. Turnus winds back the slab of metal, aiming for the top of the temple. CRACK. BRING ME MORE.

>>25319691


This is unironically great advice, and thank you so much I wasn't expecting it.
I agree with you on the last point about the 4 minute surprise- it came to me after I wrote the story, but definitely makes more sense.
I'll read up a bit more on how to create tension too. I was definitely waffling a bit at the beginning. it was all straight off the dome and posted but if i'd revised it, a lot of the beginning would have been cut to get straight into the meat and bones of it.

thanks again dude, little posts like yours mean a lot to the people who post on these threads.