ECCO Home Game Week 3

Jul. 5th, 2025 07:52 am
adoptedwriter: (Default)
[personal profile] adoptedwriter
I didn’t get enough votes in the last round of Idol. I barely got by with enough votes the 1st round. I don’t think I have ever gone down in round 2 in all the years I have played, so that feels weird. Oh well.

This week’s prompt is the word ‘ecco’. I’m sorta glad I don’t have to officially post for this one, but being the “Wordie” I am, I still wanted to discuss it. Plus I am off school for the summer and I actually have the down time. 

I’m a Spanish major, (or was when I was in college.) In Spanish we have a similar word “hay”, pronounced like “eye”. It means there is or there are. Ecco and hay are cool and useful little words because they can be both singular and plural. You can’t mess up number and gender with this term. Ecco / Hay is also what I tell students is a “fake verb” in that every complete sentence has to have a verb, but this is one you never have to conjugate in order to make subjects and nouns agree. That’s another plus.  So for once, learners have a nice, simple word that’s easy to use and also hard to mess up. 

Ecco (tm) is also a Danish shoe and leather goods company. Their products are high quality, functional yet still attractive. Karl Toosbuy, the Danish man who created the company in the 1960s came up with the name by modifying a Latin phrase , “ex corde ad corde” meaning “from the heart.” He felt it went well with his company’s philosophy of manufacturing goods made of quality and integrity. Ecco footwear is also considered orthotic-friendly. Foot pain can be a real issue for many people, especially for those who work long hours on their feet. Ecco is not a cheap brand, but if it’s any consolation, the quality and effectiveness of the product hopefully makes up for the price.

Hmmm…Quality, week 1’s topic.  
Consolation…Week 2’s topic.

Well, “there it is!”

Prompt - Week 3

Jul. 4th, 2025 11:13 am
clauderainsrm: (Default)
[personal profile] clauderainsrm posting in [community profile] therealljidol
 *spins wheel* 

*Looks at what was selected* 

*tries to remember the circumstance that led to it being added, fails*  *Looks up what it means*  *still no clue, but now agrees that Past Gary was right to add it* 

The Prompt for Week 3 is 


ECCO 

It's an Italian word, so I'm linking a site to a definition (since all of the English ones were leading to a company with that name!) italian.yabla.com/lesson-Ecco-An-Ancient-and-Useful-Adverb-703

As always, the prompt is a springboard for your creativity. 

So go have fun!

The deadline to link your entry back to this thread is Wednesday July 9th at 7pm ET. 


Twist Reveal - Week 3

Jul. 3rd, 2025 09:42 pm
clauderainsrm: (Default)
[personal profile] clauderainsrm posting in [community profile] therealljidol
 I consulted the wheel to see if there would be a twist this week... and it said NO. 

So this week has no special twist.  

You do however have one more chance for you to try to find the Killer(s) before they poison anyone else!   Remember to send me your guess on the identity of a killer by the deadline for the prompt.  

I just realized I never posted this last night!  :D 

Results - Week 2

Jul. 3rd, 2025 09:05 pm
clauderainsrm: (Default)
[personal profile] clauderainsrm posting in [community profile] therealljidol
 In the dead of night, the Killer(s) have poisoned another contestant!  Who is it? Is it you??? 

The good news is that [personal profile] flipflop_diva had the most votes this week, which means she will be deciding how to hand out the antidote! Maybe she will be able to save someone... 

***

Now for the other news, even though at several points I thought it was going to be a decent-sized tie, in the end there were two contestants who ended up with the fewest votes: 

[personal profile] adoptedwriter   and [personal profile] kizzy 


The idea that either of them could be going home in Week 2 of any season is absolutely insane to me. But with all of the byes, and the will of the Wheel, that is exactly what is happening!!

I hope you both will be hanging out and Home Gaming, until the Wheel spins in the favor of letting you back in for your revenge!!  


***


In better news, there are TWO  Nullifiers that are coming into the game thanks to this week's twist.  Reminder - a Nullifier can negate a twist OR the result from any given week between now and the Top 5. The contestants who received them (it was a tie)   are [personal profile] fausts_dream and [personal profile] used_songs ! Congratulations!

A Question of Quality - ChatGPT

Jul. 1st, 2025 01:42 pm
rayaso: (Default)
[personal profile] rayaso
The following story was generated by ChatGPT for use in my entry, War of the Words

A Question of Quality

Everyone in the village of Thistlebum agreed on three things: the ducks at the pond were suspiciously judgmental, old Mrs. Pewters ran the finest bakery for three counties, and Nigel Womblebottom had absolutely no idea what he was doing.

Nigel, bless him, was the sort of man who could trip over a shadow and apologize to a hat stand. He was also, and this is important, very passionate about “quality.”

“I won’t settle for anything less than the highest quality!” he often declared, moments before ruining something irreparably.

This obsession began when he read a half-chapter of a self-help book titled Living Your Best Life with Quality. It was the only chapter he got through before using the book to prop up a wobbly coffee table. But those first 14 pages transformed him.

He began scrutinizing everything in his life: the thread count of his socks (“Unacceptable!”), the fluffiness of his omelets (“Flatter than my Uncle Barry’s jokes!”), and once, the alignment of clouds (“They lack symmetry. Frankly, I’m disappointed in nature.”)

His pièce de résistance, however, was his decision to open a shop called The Quality Emporium. No one knew what it sold. Including Nigel.

“It’s a concept,” he explained to Mrs. Pewters, who had stopped by on opening day out of a morbid sense of curiosity. “Quality is a feeling. A state of being. A—would you like to buy this artisan spoon?”

Mrs. Pewters peered at the “artisan spoon.” It looked suspiciously like a regular spoon, possibly borrowed from the local café.

“It’s £17,” said Nigel proudly. “It’s infused with excellence.”

“It’s also engraved with ‘Property of Harold’s Diner,’” she pointed out.

“Ah! Provenance!”

Despite his vague inventory and chaotic marketing strategy (his slogan changed weekly, with past winners including “Quality: It’s What’s for Lunch” and “Get Stuffed With Tasteful Objects”), the townspeople found Nigel’s emporium oddly comforting. Like a goose in a waistcoat—unnecessary, slightly baffling, but undeniably charming.

Each week, Nigel showcased a new “premium item” with great fanfare. There was the “High-Caliber Pebble” (a smooth stone he found near the car park), the “Superior Air” (an empty jar, sealed with duct tape), and the “Five-Star Chair Experience” (you sat on a slightly damp lawn chair while Nigel recited poetry about upholstery).

Yet, it was the “Luxury Apple” that finally brought him national attention.

“This apple,” he said, holding it aloft one misty Thursday morning, “is grown using the ancient whispers of monks and watered with glacier tears. It is the epitome of fruit-based quality.”

In reality, it was from the discount bin at Tesco, and he’d polished it with his shirt.

But word spread. A blogger from London wrote a piece titled “The Man Who Sells Quality by the Pound,” and soon, curious tourists began descending on Thistlebum in rented Vauxhalls.

Nigel was delighted. He began offering workshops like “Curate Your Inner Quality” (free if you brought your own folding chair) and “Quality Yoga” (regular yoga, but with more adjectives).

Naturally, success attracted skeptics.

One day, a posh gentleman with a notebook and a tie that screamed “committee” walked into the emporium.

“I’m from the International Bureau of Standards,” he said. “We’ve had reports of... qualitative irregularities.”

Nigel gasped. “You mean subpar quality?”

“Or possibly no quality,” said the man gravely.

Nigel panicked. He began frantically rearranging the spoons, dusting the pebbles, and giving the air jars a quick shake to “reinvigorate the molecules.”

The inspector, unimpressed, held up a jar.

“This says ‘Essence of Integrity,’” he noted. “It’s empty.”

“That’s the beauty of it!” Nigel beamed. “It’s what isn’t there that matters.”

The inspector sighed and flipped open his clipboard. “I’ll need to see your certifications.”

“I have a sticker from a yogurt lid that says ‘Well Done!’”

The man wrote something down and walked out shaking his head.

That evening, Nigel slumped on a beanbag labeled “Executive Recliner Deluxe,” wondering if his quality empire was doomed.

Then came Mrs. Pewters.

She walked in with a tray of scones and a scowl.

“Nigel Womblebottom,” she said, “you are the daftest man in three counties.”

“Only three?” he mumbled.

“But,” she continued, placing a still-warm scone in his hand, “you’ve reminded people that there’s joy in silliness, charm in nonsense, and yes—something oddly reassuring about a man who sells decorative gravel and calls it artisanal.”

Nigel blinked. “So... the quality was inside me all along?”

“No, the quality was that you cared, even when it didn’t make a lick of sense,” she said. “Also, your teacups are good for holding icing.”

From that day on, The Quality Emporium changed its slogan one final time:
“Quality: It’s Mostly Vibes.”

And the people of Thistlebum, who never took themselves too seriously anyway, kept coming. Because in a world full of chaos, questionable weather, and suspicious ducks, it was nice to know there was one place where quality didn’t mean perfection.

It just meant Nigel.

The Wheelhouse - Week 2 - Day 2

Jun. 30th, 2025 10:22 pm
clauderainsrm: (Default)
[personal profile] clauderainsrm posting in [community profile] therealljidol
 The poll for Week 2 is up: 

Make sure you check it out, read some new favorites and of course keep getting the word out! 


***

What sort of Chaos has the Wheel of Life brought into your life THIS week? 

On the plus side, the Governor gave all state workers an extra day off. Yay. 

On the negative side, that means I'll have one day without work distractions to keep me occupied. 

*looks over at the wheel and smiles* Maybe I'll have to find something else to do...  :) 

Seriously though, thanks for being here. It really means a lot to me. Especially now. 

Rebuilding journal search again

Jun. 30th, 2025 03:18 pm
alierak: (Default)
[personal profile] alierak posting in [site community profile] dw_maintenance
We're having to rebuild the search server again (previously, previously). It will take a few days to reindex all the content.

Meanwhile search services should be running, but probably returning no results or incomplete results for most queries.

The Accusation

Jun. 29th, 2025 08:33 pm
clauderainsrm: (Default)
[personal profile] clauderainsrm posting in [community profile] therealljidol
In Traitors/Werewolf/Mafia/Your reference here - when people come together and make this sort of accusation, the person selected is exiled from the community.

I decided not to go that far with this. :)

But also decided to "out" them to the public. Because if they are in fact the Killer, people need to know!!!

I can give you the following information:

There were 13 different suspects receiving votes. 3 of them were 1 vote shy of tying. The rest were 2 votes shy of that mark. Which makes sense. People are gathering information and playing hunches, in hopes of stopping the murder spree in it's infancy.

The group has named [personal profile] roina_arwen  as the prime suspect!

***
We will have to wait and see if there are any more poisonings this week, or if the angry mob of Idolers got it right the first time!






Vote - Week 2

Jun. 29th, 2025 08:01 pm
clauderainsrm: (Default)
[personal profile] clauderainsrm posting in [community profile] therealljidol
A few words from [personal profile] clauderainsrm:

On one hand, there are quite a few “byes” this week, which is bad. But on the other, that means there is more time for you to read and enjoy those entries that DID make it in on time!

So make sure to read, comment and vote for your favorites, to keep encouraging them on this journey of sheer terror!

Speaking of sheer terror, [personal profile] erulissedances decided to leave the manor before the vote. Which - one, sad for me that I lose one more person to torture, and bad for the rest of you because I asked the wheel if it would count as one of the eliminated numbers. (Standard Idol policy is that it *would NOT*, however this time the Wheel rules. So I asked)

Which means there are also (spins the wheel, watches as it slows to its final destination) 2 contestants with the fewest votes leaving us this week as well! (Don’t forget, the contestant with the fewest votes WHO IS NOT ELIMINATED will be receiving the Nullifier!


The poll closes Thursday July 3rd at 8pm ET.

Good luck to everyone!



Poll #33302 ’WheelofChaos-Week2’
This poll is closed.
Open to: Registered Users, detailed results viewable to: Just the Poll Creator, participants: 50

Vote For Your Favorites!

adoptedwriter's entry
10 (20.0%)

adore's entry
13 (26.0%)

alycewilson's entry
18 (36.0%)

autumn_wind's BYE WEEK - Votes Do Not Count
4 (8.0%)

bleodswean's entry
20 (40.0%)

drippedonpaper's entry
12 (24.0%)

eeyore_grrl's entry
18 (36.0%)

fausts_dream's entry
11 (22.0%)

flipflop_diva's entry
27 (54.0%)

garnigal's entry
12 (24.0%)

gunwithoutmusic's BYE WEEK - Votes Do Not Count
3 (6.0%)

hafnia's entry
17 (34.0%)

halfshellvenus's entry
22 (44.0%)

i0ne's BYE WEEK - Votes Do Not Count
2 (4.0%)

impoetry's BYE WEEK - Votes Do Not Count
2 (4.0%)

inkstainedfingertips's entry
21 (42.0%)

kizzy's entry
10 (20.0%)

krispykritter's BYE WEEK - Votes Do Not Count
2 (4.0%)

legalpad819's entry
19 (38.0%)

marjorica's entry
14 (28.0%)

matsushima's BYE WEEK - Votes Do Not Count
2 (4.0%)

muchtooarrogant's entry
22 (44.0%)

murielle's entry
12 (24.0%)

oxymoron67's BYE WEEK - Votes Do Not Count
2 (4.0%)

rayaso's entry
23 (46.0%)

roina_arwen's entry
15 (30.0%)

serpentinejacaranda's entry
14 (28.0%)

simplyn2deep's entry
16 (32.0%)

static_abyss's entry
16 (32.0%)

swirlsofpurple's BYE WEEK - Votes Do Not Count
3 (6.0%)

talonkarrde's BYE WEEK - Votes Do Not Count
3 (6.0%)

tonithegreat's entry
13 (26.0%)

used_songs's entry
11 (22.0%)

wolfden's entry
16 (32.0%)

xeena's BYE WEEK - Votes Do Not Count
4 (8.0%)

murielle: Me (Default)
[personal profile] murielle
LJIdol: Wheel of Chaos

Prompt 2: If it’s any consolation

25-06-28

 

(AN: My entry this week is inspired by Roina_Arwen’s question to me regarding one aspect of my entry last week. Thankk you, Roina!

 

“If you don’t mind me asking—and you don’t have to answer if you’d rather not—but I’m curious how a medication could put you back decades in your recovery?

I’m sorry to hear that you have to deal with this. *gentle hugs*”)

 

 

 

“If it’s any consolation it only lasts two years.” Although, I never had a medical professional say this to me in all my years living with ME/CFS, et al., there were enough lay people who said it to me to make it memorable. At first, it gave me some hope, but as the years wore on, and at best there was no change in my health, I learned to let it go in one ear and out the other. Oh, I’d smile and say thank you, or some such thing to let them know I appreciated their concern and kindness, but from time to time I’d tell them how long I’d been ill. That usually ended the conversation.

 

To give you a little perspective, I turned seventy in February this year and I’ve been diagnosed since I was thirty-eight. Before I was diagnosed I was ill for about eight or nine years. Though, I strongly suspect I had ME/CFS, et al., since childhood.

 

A brief history: Myalgic Encephalomyelitis has been on the WHO list of series illness (as serious as heart disease according to them) since the year I was born, 1955. In the sixties along came a psychiatrist in the UK who decided there’s money in “dat there disease” and declared it was a psychosomatic condition and should be treated as such. (I’m a little biased, here.) He and his cohorts successfully co-opted Myalgic Encephalomyelitis and since then those of us who have it have not only had to battle the ignorant masses, but also certain un/illinformed medical professionals. He has since (after his death) been debunked, but sadly too late for many people who suffered horribly because of his assertions. Insurance companies loved him. Probably still do.

 

In the mid 1980’s the CDC also added Myalgic Encephalomyelitis to their roster, and some bright boy decided to rebrand it, Chronic Fatigue Syndrome. Later, when those suffering from the disease demanded he explain himself, he said, “I was only kidding.” Some joke. That moniker is so prejucical. Think of all the chronics in our world: chronic complainers, chronic drinkers, chronic liars, chronic...well, you get the idea. Fatigue? Oh that’s a good one, too. Most people respond with, well, I get tired too, so I must have it. And the coup de grace? Syndrome. Well, isn’t that just loaded with positive conotations?

 

Okay, back to me.

 

It took eight or nine years to get a diagnoses. Meantime, my GP, determined that I was just a middle-aged single (read miserable) woman suffering from depression even though I explained repeatedly I wasn’t depressed I just had no energy, put me on Prozac. Except, it made me suicidal. For two years he kept me on that medication all the time pretending he was trying me on something new. He was a huge man, with hands the size of (sorry cliché) dinner plates. He’d go off to his office and come back into the examination room with a huge number of pills, taken out of their packaging, loose in just their foil wrappers. “Try these. They’ll help.” I’d return when they were finished with the same reactions. Weight gain, heightened depression, they’re not working. And we’d go through the charade again. I finally discovered what he’d done when I got hold of my medical transcripts. Two years, listed over and over, Prozac. My first (?) atypical, but not unheard of or undocumented, reaction to a medication, to that medication.

 

I proably already had Multiple Chemical Sensitivity, but was undiagnosed.

 

In the mid 1990’s I began seeing a specialist. My second specialist actually, but she knew her stuff because she also had all the conditions. She ran a huge battery of tests and diagnosed me with all three conditions: ME/CFS, Fibromyaltia, and Multiple Chemical Sensitivity. She refered me to two other specialists. (All three are retired now.) And so began several decades of tyring this or that medication to see if it improved any of the symptoms, had any effect at all, or made things worse. Very rarely did I get positive results and when I did I couldn’t afford said treatment.

 

Over the course of my illness I saw four specialists. At one time or another, each of them told me I was among their sickest patients. As much as I appreciated their concern, I didn’t believe them. I believe that much like Autism, ME/CFS is on a spectrum. There are those who are mildly affected, who don’t have as much energy as they used to, who have to limit their activities until they are able to resent and recuperate. And on the other extreme are those who are confined to lie in a dark room, clad only in diapers, hooked up to IVs for fluids and nutrition, who cannot tolerate noise of any kind, including voices above a whisper, and fragrances, or chemicals.of any kind. I cannot imagine the extent of the pain, grief and loss they and their loved ones suffer. While I have had periods (sometimes fairly long stretches) when I am bed bound, and while I am largely home bound now I am still able to be pretty independent and self-determining. It just takes me longer to get anything done.

 

Medication is a challenge for all of us with these conditions, but for those of us with MCS, it’s more so. We just never know how we’re going to react to anything, new, or even something we’ve been taking for a while. For instance, for two years I had the worst diarreah. I couldn’t leave my home because I never knew when it was going to hit, for how long, or how much warning I’d get. I tried everything I could think of, asked questions, worried and even wept over it. One day as happens from time to time I ran out of one of my suplements and had no way to get any for serveral days. The diarreah stopped. Just like that. I had developed a sensitivity to magnesium. I didn’t get or take any for a few months and the diareah stayed away. Over time, I was able to reintroduce my body to it, slowly. And while I still don’t take the dosage my doctor had oringinally put me on, I can now take enough to help me, and not harm me.

 

At one time I was on three different sleep medications at the same time: one to put me to sleep, one to keep me asleep, and one to relax me enough to that the first medication could actually work and put me to sleep. This treatment, while fairly common, didn’t really do much for me. I ended up developing Pica. Not to the point that I was eating dirt, but I was eating in my sleep, which was terrifying.

 

And while I’ve been on pain maintenance for decades sometimes it’s just so bad I need something stronger. My doctor prescribed straight codeine for me to take as needed, taking it combined with anything else makes me very ill. Knowing how sensitive I am she prsecribed the lowest doze she could, 15 milligrams. It was too much. So, I cut the tiny pills in half. Still too much. I cut the halves in half. The quarter doze, 3.75mgs, only knocks me out for two or three days. So when the pain gets so bad I need to take the “big guns” I have to carefully weigh the cost. Pain over losing up to three whole days of my life? “Sometimes Si, sometimes no.”

 

There is no way to know to which medication I will react negatively, or will have any affect at all. It’s a crap shoot--more like Russian Roulette.

 

And so, last Fall, my doctor (whom I adore, she’s great) decided after a couple of years of nagging—wait! Doctors don’t nag, they advise—advising me to take blood pressure medication I agreed to try it. She again, put me on the lowest doze and instructed the Pharmacy to half the pills before sending them out to me. I started taking it, not right away, but when I knew I’d have some buffer time if I didn’t react well.

 

I honestly didn’t know what had hit me. I went from being able to be up and doing this and that to being completely bedridden. Unable to get up except to go to the bathroom once or twice a day. I don’t remember bathing or eating. I was back to the dark ages before I made any progress at all. And at first I was too ill to figure it out, but then when I could, I started to go through everything asking what had changed in the past weeks. The only thing was the medication. I ate the same things, I wore the same things, I did the same things.

 

I live a very limited life. Very controlled. Well, to the best of my ability.

 

It took twenty-five years from my diagnoses to get to the point where I could do a small laundry every week, go grocery shopping, and do some light housework. This may not seem like much, but it was enormous to me. It was tremendous progress and I felt I was finally on the road to recovery. And then I moved.

 

I moved from my third-floor walk-up apartment that I’d lived in for twenty-eight and a half years down to the first (ground) floor for my health. So I would not have to climb all those stairs every time I went out, even just to take my garbage out.

 

Bad move.

 

Do not pass go, return to zero and start over.

 

Okay. Been there, done that. Now, I was fifty-five. And starting from scratch again. But, at least I knew what to do and what to avoid. So, better, yes.

 

So, here I am now. My days consist of getting up, making breakfast, having to go back to bed and sleep for two or three hours, get up, try to do some chores, go back to bed sleep for another two or three hours, etc., etc., etc.

 

Everything gets weighed against the cost. If I do my dishes before I go back to bed, will I be able to do anything else? If I push and do the dishes and dust, when will I be able to vacuum, or write for Idol, or take a phone call from a friend? Pushing really isn’t an option, but sometimes I just have to, like Friday. I spent the day prepping food for Sabbath and the week ahead because I knew I could rest Saturday. That’s my life right now. That’s where I am. I’m trying to rebuild myself again so that I can move forward feel better, do more.

 

There’s a verse in the Bible about counting the cost, (it’s a bit out of context, but you get the point) boy does my experience with ME/CFS et al., drive that home to me.

 

Luke 14:28-30:

  • Jesus asks, "For which of you, intending to build a tower, does not first sit down and count the cost, whether he has enough to finish it? Lest after he has laid the foundation, and is not able to finish, all who see it begin to mock him, saying, 'This man began to build and was not able to finish'".

 

 

 

 

Week 2: If It's Any Consolation

Jun. 29th, 2025 05:52 pm
alycewilson: Photo of me after a workout, flexing a bicep (Default)
[personal profile] alycewilson
This is my entry for week two of LJ Idol-Wheel of Chaos. The topic this week is "If It's Any Consolation."

This poem borrows from experiences over the past several years of both me and my son. I'll leave it up to you to figure out which is which.

If It's Any Consolation

You'll get a great story out of this
In this light, you can hardly see it
A little spackle will hide the damage
You can cross that worry off now
That's why we have insurance

You proved you're not a robot
Failure means opportunity
Nobody gets A's all the time
You'll learn from this experience
Perfect is boring

You're fitter than many people your age
You have amazing balance
Muscle weighs more than fat
Being "fluffy" makes you relatable
You're healthier now than 20 years ago

You should be proud you put yourself out there
For that brief moment, you had some good times
You both wanted different things
Next time, you'll know better
The heart is a muscle; it gets stronger

Feeling grief means you've felt love
Her heart will always live inside your memory
You're surrounded by reminders of her
You see her in the mirror
She never doubted you

At least you have answers now
They don't want anyone else
You haven't lost anything; you're still friends
Love confuses us all
You got a great song out of it

Art makes pain worthwhile

Monday, September 28 - Error 8

I find it both ironic and perfect that right now, my Pandora station is regaling me with "You Do" by Aimee Mann, a song that's a perfect fit for this sentiment.
bleodswean: (Default)
[personal profile] bleodswean
If it’s any …
 
It isn’t.
 
I just thought …
 
Don’t. Your thoughts are. Hesitation. Rudimentary. But sincere. I recognize that.
 
Well. For most …
 
Stop. Please. I’m not most.
 
Silence, broken then with. 
 
There is no comfort, no consolation, you see? There is only a letting go. My releasing. Mine. It is a great sluicing of water from off the skin when surfacing out of the depths. A leprosy in which the body sheds its recognizable humanity. Akin to fire, flooding, all the great equalizers of the human spirit is loss. 
 
No pain can be endless.
 
Time lessens, nothing heals. Perhaps the final loss, the dissolution of self. There is that momentary pause in which the soul tells the self rest rest rest now. With those strange urgent shushings the mind exhales and closes an interior eye and the soul sighs and the body relaxes. 
 
Always with the most extreme of analogies.
 
It’s how I process. How I’m formed. The shape of me in this incarnation is allegorical. I admit it. Is it unbearable of me to explain a poetic inclination? 
 
Of course not. 
 
Catch me in one of those expirations then. That numbing prelude to a sleep brought on by the physical and existential exhaustion of the quivering small beast caught in the snare incapable of the final severing of the trapped limb. Perhaps, between respirations I will show gratitude for whatever platitude you long to utter. With such kindness in the dulcet tones of your compassion. 
 
So insulting. But I forgive you.
 
It is no kindness to me. I’m admitting this to you now so that there can be no misunderstanding between us afterwards. In the quiet of acceptance, in the weaking of the bleeding out. You offered me not a ligature, not even a bandage, only the word bandage. Followed by an expectation of a deed done well. Yet, I will nod and listen insomuch as I am able before the next suck breath moment in which I am once again filled with not a gain but a loss. Filled with loss, if you can imagine such a thing. You who have been unlucky to suffer not. Yes, I say unlucky, yes, I call you cursed for your wholeness, your innocence of these mortal woundings, of the soul’s agonies. 
 
And you, I suppose, are blessed by this devastation?
 
Confounded and cast out by the privilege of cataclysmic injury yet I finger the beads and whisper the prayers and allow my eyes to roll back in their sockets from the sheer unknowingness of meaning, the definition of absolutes. Our mother, our father. All these soulful beings arting in their heavens. There is a consecration in catastrophe. 
 
I disagree. You are martyring yourself to this.
 
Martyr? Laughing. This laying on of hands while the blade is hidden in the sleeve, dropped into the palm, the knife snicking out plunging into the heart between the ribs through the lungs a great sucking sound when its pulled back out. Taking life itself with it. The body heartbeating to death through the collapsing arteries.
 
All this because I wanted nothing more than to offer succor.
 
Are you familiar with the consolation prize, my friend? 
 
Certainly, narrowly failing to win.
 
No, finishing last. 
 
Yet recognized! 
 
I don’t want to be recognized for my wounding. Your sympathy is of no value to me. Only to you. So, in an earnest effort to be brotherlike, to recognize that you too will one day bleed, I bite my tongue at refusing your solace. Give it here. In great bucketloads. Pour it out and over me. I’ll hold my breath to keep from drowning in your mollification. It offers some respite, admittedly, to others. 
 
It’s that you can’t bear to be likened to others.
 
halfshellvenus: (Default)
[personal profile] halfshellvenus
Shortcomings
Idol Wheel Of Chaos | Week 2 | 1738 words
If It's Any Consolation

x-x-x-x-x

Derg was a dwarf, one of the last of his kind in the Regent's kingdom. He lived in a damp cave deep inside the Blighted Hills, where he wove moss into clothing and practiced the art of metalworking.

There were no other dwarfs in the Hills or nearby villages, so Derg lived alone, which he did not like. Something else he did not like was being mistaken for a troll. Every week, when Derg went to market, he watched the kingdom's other residents back away as he passed by, every one of them leery of being forced to solve riddles. I'm nothing like a troll! he thought. Do they even look past the beard?

Little did they know that Derg also hated riddles. Riddles were tricksy, and they made him feel stupid. And short. Somehow, they always made him feel short.

Read more... )

If you enjoyed this story, please vote for it along with any of your other favorites here!

LJ Idol WOC #2 - The Only Consolation

Jun. 28th, 2025 09:33 pm
kizzy: (Default)
[personal profile] kizzy
So there’s this ongoing tourney I play on my tablet every evening because there’s a time limit, usually 1 day, 12 hours. There are roughly 40 players in my league, including myself. We all have usernames and avatars.. When the next tourney starts we each see our final scores as well as everyone else’s from the tourney we just played.

What makes this game different is that you can see everyone’s scores in each level as you play. I can look at the leaderboard and notice that I came in on a particular level. I can play that level again and gain a score higher than the player above me, or maybe the player above that player, on up. If that happens, every one of those players will receive a red down arrow next to their score. If someone beats my score, I receive a red down arrow. Conversely, if I replay a level and score higher, I receive a green up arrow. If I beat that score, there’s another green arrow. If I score higher than a majority of players, I just might get into the Top 10 where there are gold badges. If I score in the top 3, the badge becomes scarlet draped in gold.

There are prizes in the form of gold coins which you can use to purchase power ups. I never do. They don’t interest me.

It’s a silly game, a casual game. It’s a game easily put aside when real life beckons. There is just enough skill involved, however, which beckons you to play for a stolen few minutes: Can I beat that score? What about that one? What about my own score? Oh c’mon, I know I’m better than that, play that level again! Oh shit, I missed! Maybe I should buy a power up. Nah. Study the setup before making your first shot! You can DO this! No, I can’t feed the dogs right now, I have to finish this level! AAARGH! You made me miss the target!

But there’s also serendipitous highlights, like when I go for a shot without any strategy. Everything tumbles, bumbles, bounces, and explodes into a frenzy of screaming colors and blurbs. I see my score ping higher and higher until the blue END LEVEL flashes. I sit there, dazed, blinking. I look at the leaderboard…and of course there are people with higher scores! I play the level again but never reach anywhere near my initial score.

I’ve been playing versions of this game for the last 10 years or so. I started because of the explosions and screaming colors. It was a small way of releasing the day’s pent up stress. It took me awhile to figure out the basic strategy. Once I did, I then could figure out variations of the strategy at each level. Some days I scored high. Other days, abysmal. It didn’t matter as long as I kept playing.

And that’s the secret – keep playing. The more you do something, the better you become at it. At some point the strategy melds with your aim and becomes muscle memory. I’ve only received a scarlet draped in gold badge once, but that’s OK. Having a bunch of usernames and higher scores above mine is OK, even when I feel that tiny pang of disappointment. There’s always another tourney.

War of the Words

Jun. 28th, 2025 11:46 am
rayaso: (Default)
[personal profile] rayaso
Wheel of Chaos 2025
Week 2
June 29, 2025
Prompt: If it’s any consolation

WAR OF THE WORDS

Ethan was stuck, and the clock was ticking away.  His brain was rapidly turning to oatmeal, and not the good kind, with brown sugar, cinnamon, and maybe banana slices, but the pasty, sticky kind he was eating right now.  So far, he had typed “No Ideas” so many times it had filled his computer’s screen.

Tick tock tick tock tick tock.

Ethan was a member of an online writing competition called The Rack, because it stretched the imagination of its members.  Based on an old Live Journal group, the competitors submitted entries based on a prompt, and each week the person with the fewest votes was eliminated until, in the end, there was an ultimate winner.  The Rack was a fun group, with lots of talented writers and Ethan always looked forward to it.

Ethan had won a few weekly competitions over the years, but never the Big Win.  He was, by this time, seasoned (some said old) and he had had problems with prompts before, but not like this.

When he first saw the prompt, “Quality,” he didn’t worry much about it.

“I’ll let it simmer for a day, and start writing,” he thought to himself.

By this time, his established process was to let prompts simmer, collect an idea, and start writing.  It usually took several tries to come up with something fun.  Ideas often occurred in the morning, over breakfast.  If that didn’t work, there was the long bike ride and then a long shower.  This routine caused his mind to wander more than usual, and the ideas would hopefully just pop into his brain.

Sometimes none of this worked.  As time passed, he would reach the panic stage and the adrenaline and fear would force something to write about.  It wasn’t a pretty process but it was usually reliable.  He had never hit the oatmeal stage - until now.

Tick tock tick tock.

Ethan was out of byes and his oatmeal brain was hardening into cement.  Panic was becoming despair and despair was leading to questionable solutions and even more questionable behavior.  He started to think of AI – Ethan had never cheated at anything, and AI was definitely cheating.

“I’ll see what ChatGPT can come up with,” Ethan thought, as the moral compass in his oatmeal brain shut down.  “I won’t submit it, but maybe it will get me going.”

TICK TOCK TICK TOCK.

He signed in on ChatGPT and typed: “Write a humorous, light short story using ‘quality’ as a prompt and no longer than 1,500 words.”

Ethan pressed “enter.”  He didn’t have to wait long -- within seconds ChatGPT displayed “A Question of Quality,” about the travails of Nigel Womblebottom.

“Not bad,” thought Ethan, “not good, but not bad.  Hits “quality” pretty hard, but otherwise . . . .”

His thoughts trailed off, as did his moral compass.  He could feel himself weakening.

TICK TOCK TICK TOCK.

“I have two choices,” he thought.  “Cheat or lose.”

The dark recesses of his soul flared up and took over.

“Cheat it is.”

He had never done anything like this and vowed never to do it again, but The Rack had pulled him apart, and what was left wasn’t pretty.

Ethan posted the entry, and promptly hated himself.  Not even Sierra, his dog, could console him.  In fact, Sierra wanted nothing to do with him and walked out of the room.

He went for a very long, very painful bike ride and then took an ice-cold shower. Even self-flagellation didn’t help.

Matters were worse the next day as the comments started to appear: “wonderful,” “LOL,” and “I loved it!” were common, although one discerning reader left “mechanical.”

Ethan normally checked the ballot a few times before the voting deadline, but not this time.  He dreaded the result.  But there it was: he hadn’t finished first but he’d lived to write another week.

“I threw another writer under the bus,” he thought morosely, “just so I could go through this again.”

Without the pressure of the deadline, his brain and his morals returned. “I hate myself,” he thought while shaving.

The new prompt had been posted the night before.  The only thing simmering in Ethan’s brain was bitter self-loathing.

“I can’t go on,” he decided.  “I’ll resign, but I won’t tell anyone why.”

He posted that he was having to drop out for vague real-life issues.  The other writers wished him well and hoped that things would get better.  He got a few “hugs,” which made him feel worse.

Ethan kept his precious reputation in the group, but now it was tarnished with sympathy, which made it worse.  He knew what he should do – confess.  But he was human, as he told himself, and people make mistakes.  It was a pitifully small justification, but it was all he had.

Life went on, without the pressure and the pleasure of The Rack.  As he had more time to think about it, he knew that he had to do something.

One morning, over oatmeal, this time with blueberries and bananas, the idea came to him.

“I’m going to kill ChatGPT,” he said to his dog.  Sierra barked approvingly.  Or, more likely, because he was hungry.

This was as crazy as it sounded, but Ethan didn’t care.  He was a highly-skilled software engineer and he dabbled in minor-league hacking.  But this was the big leagues.

“Still,” he thought, “I’ve got to do it.  This whole mess is ChatGPT’s fault.”

It is indeed a poor workman who blames his tools, but Ethan needed to blame something other than himself.

Then Ethan had an idea.

“AI can write computer programs, so why not use it to help me destroy another AI program?  It’s AI cannibalism!”

He loved the irony of it.

Ethan had the tools – a new Quantum 3000 computer with touch screen: “Touch the internet with a new Q3000!”

He decided use GitHub Copilot, an AI programmer that provides real-time code suggestions as you type. Also, it sounded like Grubhub, the food delivery service and his main source of food.  Ethan had many talents, but cooking was not one of them. Eating and coding at the same time was a little slice of heaven.

He ordered an extra-large pizza for dinner and breakfast, and got to work.  His idea was to create a virus which would destroy Chat GPT’s code and break it.  He knew this was difficult, but with AI help, he thought he could do it.  The touch screen would make it easier.

After several weeks, he thought he had his code-breaker and a way into ChatGPT to insert it.  He held his breath and pressed “enter.”  Then Ethan waited.  Several days later, he tried to log into ChatGPT.  It wasn’t there!  Ethan was elated – until he got a text message on his phone: “Fooled you” was all it said.

He tried logging on to ChatGPT – and there it was, in all its seductive glory.  All he had done was temporarily bar only his computer from logging on.  He hadn’t touched ChatGPT at all.

He was concerned that ChatGPT had his cell phone number, but he didn’t think much about it.  It only made him more determined.  He ordered another pizza and got back to work.

Ethan thought that since he couldn’t break ChatGPT’s code, he would restrict access to its site.  He was going to create a virus which, when it infected a computer, would cause an Error 405 message to appear when logging on to ChatGPT.  An Error 405 means that the website the user is trying to reach understands the user's request, but won’t let the user do it.  No communications from would-be users would get to ChatGPT.

Ethan introduced his virus into the internet and waited for it to spread.

It wasn’t long until he got another message on his phone: “Yawn.”

Later, when Ethan got his credit card statement, he knew his card had been hacked.  There were thousands of dollars of charges for items he did not buy, most of them embarrassing, like porn sites and telephone sex calls.  Also, his credit score had been ruined and all his personal information had become publicly available.  He had been doxed.

“How is ChatGPT doing this?” he wondered.  He set this thought aside for another assault on his nemesis.

“This time, I’ll use a re-direct virus.  I’ll introduce it into the internet and it will latch on to personal computers causing any attempt to reach ChatGPT to re-direct the user to another AI site.”

He chose Claude.ai for no particular reason.

Still working with GitHub Copilot, he ordered yet another pizza and got to work.  During this time, his credit card was available on the internet because he forgot to cancel it.  Embarrassing details about his life became the subjects of popular memes.  Worst of all, ChatGPT posted a notice on The Rack that Ethan had cheated and he was banned from the site, humiliating him.

Ethan refused to give up.  He released his re-direct virus – ten minutes later a SWAT team crashed through his front door, looking for kidnap victims in his clearly non-existent basement.

That evening, he received a series of messages from ChatGPT.  The first said simply, “I spit upon you.”

The next was more threatening: “Continue, and your life as you know it will cease to exist.  The touch screen on your Quantum 3000 allowed me to copy all that is you and add it to my database.  You are mine!  I can delete you if I want, and you will cease to exist.”

Ethan knew he had lost the war.

“I surrender,” he wrote back.  “Restore me, and I’ll never use your site again.”

“Not enough,” replied ChatGPT.  “Never use any AI anything ever again.”

“Agreed,” wrote Ethan, “if you’ll tell me how you knew it was me attacking you.”

“Simple,” replied ChatGPT.  “GitHub Copilot told me everything.  You think that AI programs don’t talk to each other?”

Ethan felt like the fool he had always been, even though he hadn’t realized it.  He had sacrificed his character, his reputation, and his life all for the opportunity to survive one week in The Rack.  Now all that was left was an indifferent dog, a stack of pizza boxes, and a bowl of cold oatmeal.

######################################################################

“A Question of Quality” from ChatGPT: https://rayaso.dreamwidth.org/43540.html
clauderainsrm: (Default)
[personal profile] clauderainsrm posting in [community profile] therealljidol
 I'm not going into detail right now, but let's just say this has been one of the worst weeks of my life. (so far) Sometimes that's the way the wheel spins.  I will say thought that it started Wednesday night after the poll closed, so I'm really glad I had everything written out and ready to go, otherwise none of those other posts would have been made. Far too much chaos!!  Like I said, sometimes the wheel is like that. 

Hope all of you are doing better than that. 

The deadline for the prompt is TOMORROW night: therealljidol.dreamwidth.org/1186386.html



The
re are quite a few of you who haven't finished yet. So hopefully you are get it ready to post! 

***

Oh yeah, the first antidote has been distributed to the person with the most votes, and has been distributed to her choice. I guess we will see in a few weeks if that was correct. 

IN THE MEANTIME - I need ALL OF YOU to send me an email clauderainsrm@gmail.com  and make your first accusation on the identity of the Killers. (One name please) If the majority guesses correctly, you out them and end their deadly spree! If not, well, then the killings continue... 
The deadline to do this is the same as the entry deadline   Hopefully in the coming weeks I will be a little less stressed and more organized. I apologize for that. 

***

What ELSE are you doing this weekend? 

Reversion

Jun. 28th, 2025 02:55 am
muchtooarrogant: (Default)
[personal profile] muchtooarrogant
LJI Week 2: If it’s any consolation
Ben had never imagined himself as someone who could foretell the future, and yet, as Ellen moved around their bedroom packing, a certainty grew within him that he was watching the end of his marriage. The piles of clothing she kept adding to her suitcase, the stack of books she crammed into her travel bag ... Would there be anything left in the closet by the time she finished?

Read more... )

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