100 Words of Astounding Beauty s03e03 - Change Machine www.100wordsofastoundingbeauty.com
S03E03 - Change Machine
Writer | Pronouns | You are editing | Your editor is | Title | |
1 | Amelia Armande | they/them | Paul Davies | Joshua Crisp | The Price of a ticket home |
2 | Joshua Crisp | he/him | Amelia Armande | Tom McNally | Paradise Lost |
3 | Paul Davies | he/him | Colette McCormick | Amelia Armande | In 1994 |
4 | Colette McCormick | she/her | Tom McNally | Paul Davies | Splinters |
5 | Tom McNally | he/him | Joshua Crisp | Colette McCormick | Family Time at the Lido |
Theme is Music for Jellyfish by Bell Lungs.
Story music is by John Bartmann, featuring:
Hard Living from 'Audio Drama Soundtrack: Album Four'
Memory Fragments from 'Machine Learning'
Anger Management from 'Lime Green Assets'
Outer Scrolls from '100 Ambient Atmospheric Audio Drama Soundtracks'
Kiddie Thief from 'Hide and Sneak'
Welcome to One Hundred Words of Astounding Beauty, a flash-fiction podcast where a handful of writers each make a story with a limited wordcount in a limited time.
This is the third episode of our third season. The official editorial stance of the podcast is to completely ignore arbitrary arrangements of numbers.
I am your host, Tom McNally and joining me tonight, introducing themselves by a short blast of prose prompted by a single word, are the writers:
"Realism? How gauche. No dear, it's all strictly ephemeral on the runway these days. Vincent has an entirely virtual season. Clever work with holograms. He's calling it The Emperor's Nouveau." |
Sir realism, newly-born, mounted his egg timer, and cried in purple. His umbilical cord coiled up, bowed and then slunk away to the zoo. The baby’s first word was “Dada!” |
With a deep hum, the air shimmering hotly with oily fumes swaying and scorching the scattered Primula vulgaris, the flying saucer descended to the ground. |
Hyper touched, more here than not. Tracking microscopic movements, What’s on the top layer, beneath, between, within. Just below the skin. Real, perhaps. Maybe alive. Unconvincing breath. But a gasp? |
An eye, disconnected from a brain, sees no colour, no shapes, no objects at all, only granulations of light falling upon a torus of receptors. Everything else is mere fantasy. |
Listeners, get in here under my arm and let me tell you straight: we are going to rescue 100 Words of Astounding Beauty from the English language before it dies from chatbot-induced cancer. Writers, I will play an audio prompt, a sound you need not fully recognise, and you will then have five minutes to manufacture a first draft of a story.
Listeners - you can and should write along with us. We will run a nice hot bubble bath in glee when we receive your 100 words of Astounding Beauty. Send them as text or a sound file and let us know if you’d like us to read them out or play them in the next episode.
Writers, I’m about to play the prompt for your 100 words.
https://drive.google.com/file/d/14MgpKQr5SB-oHwHXqNoTSo78my0O_QYx/view?usp=share_link
Writers, allow that sound to work its way into your vulnerable crevices as you cognitate on your 100 words. Listeners, if you’re writing along with us at home, pause here and time yourself for five minutes because we’re going to skip ahead.
Amelia Armande first draft | ||||
The Alien at the Fairground Arcade | ||||
"All of them?" The alien nodded somberely. It gestured wordlessly at the fuel gauge in its little glowing craft. In her mind, the child saw the heap of coins melted into molten fuel inside the ship's generator, pouring into the injectors of the thermic rockets. Swallowing a lump in her throat, the child lifted up her fresh bucket of quarters and poured them in. The alien laid a luminous tendril upon her arm. For a moment she saw the magenta plains of a distant world, felt the ache of long-awaited homecoming. The little craft shot up, out of the fairground arcade and into the star-spangled night. | ||||
Word count: 106 | ||||
When you are finished: | ||||
all | fuel | coins | thermic | homecoming |
craft | quarters | night | magenta | child |
Amelia, your editor is: Joshua Crisp |
Help asked for: Fix title 90s Movie Makeover |
Joshua Crisp’s edits: Title suggestion: The price of a ticket home/Affording the fare/something like that "All of them? Really all of them?" Swallowing a lump in her throat, the child lifted up her fresh bucket of quarters and poured them in. The craft's fuel-gauge started to fill. The alien laid a luminous tendril upon her arm. Instantly she saw magenta plains, a distant world, and felt the ache of long-awaited homecoming. "Even him?" A nod. She added the large bear to the heap of coins and watched it melt into fuel inside the ship, pouring into the injectors of the thermic rockets. The little craft rose out of the fairground arcade and into the star-spangled night. |
Word count: 101 |
Amelia Armande second draft | ||||
The Price of a Ticket Home | ||||
"All of them? Really all of them?" Swallowing a lump in her throat, the child lifted her fresh bucket of quarters and poured them in. The craft's fuel-gauge started to fill. The alien laid a luminous tendril upon her arm. Instantly the girl saw magenta plains, a distant world, felt the ache of long-awaited homecoming. "Even him?" A nod. She added the large bear to the heap of coins, and watched it melt into fuel inside the ship, pouring into the injectors of the thermic rockets. The little craft rose out of the fairground arcade, off into the star-spangled night. | ||||
Word count: 100 |
Joshua Crisp first draft | ||||
Every time it rains | ||||
Emery hadn't made the shuttles out. She could have. And every day when the rains came, she reminded herself of that choice. If she'd just become one of Elon's harem, she'd have had a place. She was young, and beautiful, and principled, and stupid. Now she was desperate and afraid. The geostationary paradise-platform known as Valhalla-1 opened its bowels and poured the detritus of the billionaire class upon the climate-scarred masses below. Ancient currencies and shrapnel fell in a storm. Trickling down the economy. Bludgeoning the population into a more manageable number. Every time it rains, it rains pennies from heaven. | ||||
Word count: 101 | ||||
When you are finished: | ||||
She | Herself | Principled | Desperate | Beautiful |
Detritus | Trickling | Ancient | Bowels | Harem |
Joshua Crisp your editor is: Tom McNally |
Help asked for: Hate it Delete it all Any of the joy Redraft |
Emery slipped into one of the few remaining escape pods and swiped at the screen until it launched her into the void. Valhalla-1 opened up its bowels and she careened away from her mistakes, away from the principles she’d abandoned, away from the harem. She’d been young, and beautiful, and principled, and stupid. They hadn’t built the place for someone like that. Then she’d been desperate and afraid, and fit in far better. So it was time to leave. Pieces of Emery rained down on the dying Earth to join the rest of the shrapnel and debris that they’d left behind. -- A rewrite! Centred more on Emery, removed mention of Elon, but kept the general story. |
Word count: 99 |
Joshua Crisp SECOND DRAFT |
Paradise lost |
Penny-214 screamed into the last escape pod. Sweaty, desperate fingers mashed the cracked screen. Slam. She was launched into the void. Away from her mistakes. Away from the harem. The immense doors of the geo-stationary Valhalla-1 started to shut. Early. Far too early. She wasn't going to make it. None of them were. Penny's clones' blank stares and hollow expressions joined hers on the silent vid-screens as they approached the shuttered vault. Paradise was finally closed to them. Impact. Starship shrapnel scattered across the upper atmosphere and rang down for months. Every time it rained, it rained pennies from heaven. |
Word count: 100 |
Paul Davies first draft | ||||
In 1994 | ||||
He gleefully told me the story: “I was working on the waltzers, yeah, and these young girls got on all giggly and teenage and stuff, and I was watching them buckling in and, like, squirming, right, and then the bell rings and the machine powers up, and I’m like, gooooooooo! I’m swingin em round and round and they’re screamin and laughin and this one, she keeps lookin up at me, all blushin and gleeful, and I’m pushin and pushin, and then we’re all done, and they’re all shakin and sweatin, and I lean in, right, and I ask her: didja cum? Hahahaha!” | ||||
Word count: 102 | ||||
When you are finished: | ||||
waltzers | girls | squirming | blushin | pushin |
shakin | didja | bell | hahahahaha | cum |
Paul Davies, your editor is: Amelia Armande |
Help asked for: Probably needs more writing Does it have the appropriate shape to capture what happens / who it happens to Does it condone the person? |
Amelia Armande’s edits: Amazing. This is vile. I don’t know if you need to do too much with it, the framing gives us the distance to judge this person ourselves. I think you could maybe add more around it if you like, find something to trim from the monologue so you can add to the frame. Questions that might be good jumping off points: Is he telling you this in 1994 or did it happen in 1994? If it happened in ‘94, when is he telling you? How old is this guy? Do you want to evoke imagery of 1994 at all beyond stating the number? |
Word count: ?? |
Paul Davies SECOND DRAFT |
In 1994 |
He gleefully tells me the story: “I was working on the waltzers, yeah, and these young girls got on all giggly and teenage and stuff, and I was watching them buckling in and, like, squirming, right, and then the bell rings and the machine powers up, and I’m like, gooooooooo! I’m swingin em round and round, they’re screamin and laughin and this one, she keeps lookin at me, all blushing and joyful, and I’m pushin and pushin, and then we’re all done, and they’re all shakin and sweatin, and I lean in, right, and I ask her: didja cum? Hahahaha!” |
Word count: 100 |
Colette McCormick first draft | ||||
Working title | ||||
The city moves in its usual rhythm. The concrete laps and bends with that familiar pulse beneath the pedestrians feet. Steaming in the sun as the wheels press against it, pushing into its flexibility, shift gravel in decimal differences before another force comes and forces it back. A bottle cap shatters upon it, the thirsty having no thought to the shock waves they send across the road. And why would they? The concrete feels nothing. But the earth beneath it? Still there. Still raw. And now, something is growing. Spreading beneath the pavement, hot like an itch. Stretching beneath the shrunken wool sweater of tar, all the while resenting the burn. | ||||
Word count: ?? | ||||
When you are finished: | ||||
pulse | shatters | raw | feet | stretching |
steaming | concrete | thirsty | press | rhythm |
Colette McCormick, your editor is: Paul Davies |
Help asked for: Trying to establish a sense of imminent doom. Is it felt? Can it be more? Narrator – beyond description. Make doom doomy. Perspective! |
Paul Davies’s edits: Is pedestrians plural or singular possessive? Shifting gravel in decimal differences? (I love this phrase btw.) I take it to be from the perspective of the concrete itself. Introduce ‘above’ and ‘below’? The city moves in its usual rhythm. Below, the concrete laps and bends with that familiar pulse beneath the pedestrians’ feet. Steaming in the sun as the wheels press against it, pushing into its flexibility, shifting gravel in decimal differences before another force comes and forces it back. A bottlecap shatters upon it, the thirsty having no thought to the shock waves they send across the road. Why would they? The concrete feels nothing. But the earth beneath it? Still there. Still raw. And now, something is growing. Spreading beneath the pavement, hot like an itch. Stretching beneath the shrunken wool sweater of tar, all the while resenting the burn. |
Word count: 111 |
Colette McCormick SECOND DRAFT |
Splinters |
Above, the city plays its usual rhythm. The concrete laps and bends with that familiar pulse beneath the pedestrians’ feet. Steaming in the sun as the wheels press against it, pushing into its flexibility, shifting gravel in decimal differences before another force comes and forces it back. A bottlecap shatters upon it, the thirsty having no thought to the shock waves they send across the road. Why would they? The concrete feels nothing. But the earth beneath it? Still there. Still raw. Nerves splinter beneath every biting beat. Something is growing. Spreading beneath the pavement, hot and itching. She rages. |
Word count: 100 |
Tom McNally FIRST DRAFT |
Working title |
Sarah’s family brought her to the Lido every Saturday. For about three hours she stared listlessly at the lights, checked under the machines for twopenny pieces and waited for her mum to run out of cigarettes. Last week the man at the prize counter told her that they were closing the amusements in the summer. It would be demolished to make way for a swimming pool. She didn’t know how to respond. She didn’t know how to swim. This week the row of twopenny drops told her that she could go with them when they closed. The space inside the trays was endless, they said, and there were prizes deep inside that no one had ever seen before. She could go there, and stay, and never have to go home again. Her mum was down to her last cigarette of the pack. She had to decide quickly. |
Word count: 143 |
10 sample words from the draft (can be in any order and of any level of significance) | ||||
listlessly | twopenny | prize | demolished | summer |
swim | cigarette | endless | decide | quickly |
Tom McNally, your editor is: Colette McCormick |
Change of voice 1st person? Too long! Uninteresting, make more evocative and ambiguous |
Colette’s edits: Sarah was at the Lido again. For three hours every Saturday she stared listlessly at the lights, checked under the machines for twopenny pieces and waited for her mum to run out of cigarettes. Last week the man at the prize counter told her that they’d be demolished in the summer. To make way for a swimming pool . She didn’t know how to swim. Now, the row of twopenny drops invited her to go with them after close. The space inside the trays was endless, they said, and there were unimaginable prizes hidden deep inside. She could go, and stay, and never go home again. Her mum was down to her last cigarette of the pack. She had to decide quickly. |
Wordcount: ?? |
Tom McNally SECOND DRAFT |
Family Time at the Lido |
Every Saturday, Sarah stared listlessly at the lights, checked under the machines for twopennies and waited for mum to finish her cigarettes. Last week the man at the prize counter told her that the amusements would be cleared away in the summer. They were putting in a pool. Sarah couldn’t swim. This week the fruit machines invited her to swim within them. The space inside the trays was endless, they said, and there were all sorts hidden below. She wouldn’t have to go home again. Her mum was down to her last cigarette. The machines advised her to decide quickly. |
Word count: 100 |
Writers stop writing. You have a tiny innocent baby first draft. Now we need to put that delicate creation into the artificial incubator to make its bones strong.
Here to supervise the process is your editor. You’ll all be editing each other’s drafts - providing suggestions, rewrites, trans-Atlantic puzzlement or a simple comma audit.
You now have a brief opportunity before take-off to guide your editor. Tell what needs to be done and also ask for the kind of editing style that the piece needs - a redraft, a nip and a tuck, a sanity check, or leave it alone? The extent to which they listen to your cries is up to them… Start them off with a display of ten sample words from your first draft.
..
The moon looms above us, so we must now edit. Writers, become the editor. Read the draft of your assigned writer. Make your edits and then pass them back. Their fate is in your hands.
Listeners at home, you should edit your first draft too. Find an editor off the street and push your baby into their stinking hands.
Five minutes to edit!
Your time starts now.
Editors, the moon has gone behind the hill, so you must now be a writer once again. Return to your first draft and read the notes left by your editors. Use them, heed them, ignore them or spite them as your final draft.
Your time to rewrite begins now.
Five minutes!
While the writers are writing, here is a listener submission to feast upon. It is from John Bartmann who, among many other things, composes the story music for this podcast. This is called 'Memento Mori'
Death sits across from me, grinning madly, eyes like twin voids swallowing all light.
A candle on the lopsided wooden table between us flickers, casting the shadows of old chairs onto the decrepit wallpaper.
We are two players in this timeless game, conversing in whispers that echo through the hollows of existence.
"Do you fear me?" Death rasps, its voice a chilling whisper.
I meet its gaze, unflinching. "No more than I fear the passing of each moment.
The hand I've been dealt is common even to you. Time itself will one take up your scythe and make it the instrument of your demise."
Memento mori.
In this dimly lit kitchen, we unlock a silent understanding.
- Thank you John, you always go the extra mile. A 100 Words of Astounding Beauty zine has been dispatched to your location. John has an excellent Patreon and if you join, you too can have access to his no-copyright music library. Link in the shownotes.
Now let us return to the show, where our writers have just finished their first draft.
Amelia Armande with The Price of a Ticket Home (editor: Joshua Crisp)
Joshua Crisp with Paradise Lost (editor: Tom McNally)
Paul Davies with In 1994 (editor: Amelia Armande)
Colette McCormick with Splinters (editor: Paul Davies)
Tom McNally with Family Time at the Lido (editor: Colette McCormick)
We hope our words have pleased you, or moved you to violence. We take no responsibility. From all of us, good night!
That was 100 Words of Astounding Beauty Season 3, episode 3: Change Machine, which was a production of Red Button Audio. The theme tune is 'Music for Jellyfish' by Bell Lungs.
Story Music is all by John Bartmann under a CC-BY license.
'Hard Living' - Audio Drama Soundtracks Album Four
'Memory Fragments' - Machine Learning
'In 1994' - Lime Green Assets
'Outer Scrolls' - 100 Ambient Atmospheric Audio Drama Soundtracks
'Kiddie Thief' - Hide and Sneak
Our listener submission this week was the same John Bartmann with 'Memento Mori.'
Track art was generated by Bing.
We welcome your feedback, submissions and reviews! Visit 100wordsofastoundingbeauty.com for links to all our episodes across the main feeds.
Until next time, may your prizes come fast and well deserved.
By Amelia Armande
Endless coins shaking, pushing, trickling into the bowels of the ancient, thirsty twopenny prize machine. Payout fuel. Blushing lights pulse magenta rhythm. Distant waltzers bell, a child screaming listlessly. Quickly, while it's quiet. While she can win. Principled, not desperate. It's craft. You decide to win.
"Hahahahaha!" suddenly shatters. Quarters roll all over. The harem of girls press past, summer swim beautiful.
She's stretching, squirming through detritus. Coins wink into night. Dream of winning homecoming tiara? Demolished.
"Didja see...?"
"Shh! Come on..."
She pushes herself off raw knees, out into the steaming heat. Thermic concrete sears her bare cigarette feet.