Though his SQUIRREL's shot down, IDB gives TQR its due.

Thanks so much for the consideration guys, I truly appreciate it. I'm really impressed by your site and maybe I will work something up down the road and send it in. Again, thank you for the constructive feedback-amazingly rare in this world. I wish others would follow suit.

Disappointed but not deterred, Isaac Boone Davis

Though late, Dep's rejections are a slice of cap/vet heaven

Bonjour, Monsier Khambatta:

It is with both elation and apology that today I send my note.

You see, mon ami, last week after I read your bouyant piece, Flashing Police Lights Missing, and decided thereafter that it deserved at least a swing at those bulbous egotists in The Terminal, I did neglect to advise you of your cap's fate. And now, before you have heard the good news, already they have delivered the not-so-good. Life can be like an unwashed can of dogfood sometimes.

Such inaction on my part [in not immediately advising of your cap's fate] would be, je pense, nearly unforgivable in some circumstances. I have done my penance, however, in previous lifetimes and so...I offer you not the assurance of my resignation but only my humble apology, hoping this will all soon enough be forgotten. You are, I have no doubt, already working on some other intriguing piece of work that we here at TQR may have the interesting task of reviewing at some time in the dimly lit future.

Thank you for your interest in our sullied little rag, TQR. We do hope to hear from you again.

Bon chance, and may your sails always catch the wind!

LaFloor buries it top corner, ELEPHANT WALK is namoore

This Chris guy has one sick, twisted sense of humor, one that he is able to elevate while at the same time exploring some of the dirtiest scenes I've read for a long time.

It's carnal, irreverent, and filled with bathroom humor. Literally. Yet at the same time these scenes are heightened by language and pacing, by a pornographer character who claims metaphysical cred. This story was one strange juxtaposition of narrative form and content. The lofty, high-minded ideals were dragged through excrement, the excrement was put on a pedestal and celebrated. It was a ride, and, for the most part, a very entertaining one at that.

My difficulty, however, is the same as Otto's. It went on a touch too long. It meandered through debauchery instead of delving into character, and though the stakes were raised with every new scene, I found myself not so much captivated by what was going to happen, but hoping it would soon end. Indeed, it was like a bad drug trip, which is exactly what a lot of this story was meant to be, I suppose.

I say no.

THE BEST DAMN REJECTS IN THE E-ZONE, case in point

Bonjour to you, and good sailing, Monsieur McDermott:

Merci beaucoup for your recent submission, The Big Bank Job, for consideration here at TQR. We appreciate your interest and acknowledge your efforts.

Monsieur, while your clever protag is not uninteresting in this tale of brotherly love and learning, the piece cannot go further here, je pense.

Who are these men and one woman....Chris and Johnny and Vince and Guido and Mark and Terry and Jennifer and Fastard and Flash Jack, hmmmm? They are, I fear shadows of the characters you, as their creator, intend them to be. It's true that this cap is relatively short but we, the readers, gasp in expectation, cry out to you our yearning for backstory. Feed them, mon cher, and they will grow larger and more robust.

Further, I cannot emphasize enough that you must take care, before pressing 'send' on a submission...oui, EVEN in the direction of a publishing house situate in the final half streets before the deluge such as we within these dank rooms of TQR find ourselves...that you mean what you mean, in the best way possible. No missed words. No room for inconsistency. A man on the wagon does not finish his beer, par example. Read, put away,then re-examine again.

You have a line-up, Monsieur. You have names, places, situations. Go wrestle them down until they dance the dance you command from them.

The Big Bank Job is not yet ready for the cruel bastards of the Terminal. You must trust me in this judgment.

We shall hear from you again.

Bon chance!

Terminali Lalo Telling ... doing work!

from: Lalo, 6:00 AM (2 hours ago)

to: isaacboonedavis

Dear Isaac,

By now, you will have learned that "If You was a Squirrel" has advanced to the second round of capital discrimination at TQR, a.k.a. The Terminal. I am fortunate to be one of the readers there, and am looking forward to reviewing your work.

However, I can't open it. Call me old-fashioned, but I cannot justify installing another web browser (Apple Safari) on my PC in order to do so.

Could you please email a copy of the original docx file directly to me? I will take care of distributing it to the other Terminalii.

Thank you in advance, Lalo Telling

the Terminal

TQR: Total Quality Reading

Jesus portholes THE MORNING SHIFT & prepares for battle

[Jesus, head lowered, puffs on the Java. The cigar is nearly spent. Looks to be a fire hazard, that oily-smoke ash burning amidst all that every-which-way facial hair. Jesus combs his fingers through his hair and lifts his head. He tosses the HAMR to the desktop. From deep inside his filthy robe he pulls out the last cap] Believe it, Mr. Rorschalk. This cap has been examined and its been weighed and hands have been wrung and decisions have been made. Amazing, I know. See, my secret is being here but being not here, if you can follow that. The act of being elsewhere. Gets things done, wouldn't you say? Things like examinations, eh? Though little time has passed here, plenty of tiring, eye-squinting work has been accomplished over and under and inside the Otherhere.

[He stomps over to the Porthole, swings it open. Wind pushes through the mess of hair covering his head]

Sorry to say that Royal Shirée's The Morning Shift has met an ill fate.

[He tosses the cap out into the deluge]

It's been Portholed, folks.

[Jesus stands there. He plants his fists on his waist, looks around, puffing on the last of the Java, sweet oily smoke rising and wrapping around his head]

Pretty much does it for me this quarter. Except for the wee bit of business concerning...

[He drops into a boxing stance, bobbing side to side, balanced on the toes of the combat boots, fists raised to block any wayward jabs, the black glint of the sunglasses trained on Rorschalk]

...the laying on of hands.

Doomey surfaces to send Ricky Ginsburg the good news

Hello Ricky,

Happy to report that your cap touched the monkey. I know this is the second time around for Iceland Comes To Florida, but I've lost all records prior to, um, yesterday, and for the life of me I can't remember if I Terminaled your cap last time. Me thinks I did, yo ho. But, regardless, I like the changes you've made (I'm guessing you've made changes, the cap reads smooth, bro, though it may have read smooth before, hah) and I've hopes in my soul that this piece goes upward. Congrats and good luck. Vetting starts in a week or so.

Keep it unreal,

Boligard Doomey the Floor www.tqrstories.com

Dep lets Ms. Mims down easy w/sum gnarly feedback

Bonjour, Ms Mims:

Thank you for your recent submission, It Takes Two, for consideration in this place at the end of the road that we call TQR.

The story is well-written. You have a good base for story and character, Ms. Mims.

But it is not yet ready, I think.

What, you must ask in the quiet hours of reflection, is unique about this relationship, this unfolding, this almost-dried-up relationship between the once famously popular cheerleader/homecoming queen and the fabulously fit football star?

You know, of course, that this story has been told before. But that is not a crime. Everything has been told before...it is in the telling that a writer must illuminate something yet undiscovered or at least appearing to be unique, to create something new within what may be very familiar territory. There's the challenge..

Do not discard your cap but re-visit it, if you will, after a time. Perhaps, for example, it is too easy for the protag and her beau, Dexter, to return to victory and rainbowland so easily. Six months from near ruin to svelte and fit again? ..we must think upon this, Ms. Mims.

You will find it, as you are a writer who cares about your characters. At the moment, It Takes Two is not TQR material but that doesn't mean it could not become same. In its present form, it may also suit a more conventional, feel-good publication.

You know from reading here probably that we are slightly off centre of that.

Merci, and all the best to you!

Jesus fishes out another keeper from the sea of slushilee

[Jesus looks over at Ms. DePlancher]

Yes, yes, dear DePlancher. Why do these VCs insist on not trying. This is the point where Boligard would throw a fit, eh? He'd curse and shout and ask the VC to pull his or her head out of someplace dank and dark. Hah.

[Jesus taps some ash into the ridiculously huge ashtray]

I've a good one here.

[He pokes at the cap laid out on the desktop]

Isaac Boone Davis's If You Was A Squirrel.

[Jesus sucks on the wet tip of the Java, and he shoves the combat glasses up into the mess of hair on his head]

Now this fellow can write. I mean, seriously, I wonder at the thought patterns of VCs who toss poop into the salad crisper, if you catch my meaning. But this guy, Isaac, can write. The idea's a good one, and by golly he can write, so...

[Jesus jumps to his feet and stomps over to the tube. He traces the cross and the lid pops open and what with the whooshing and the stuffing and the rising, blah, blah, blah. Jesus backs away from the tube, oily smoke like a snake's ass]

Isaac rises.

SURVIVING THE K'RAHL doesn't survive dep scalpel

[DeP watches Jesus and Theo, Healer and Injured, while holding her cup close to her lips. She takes a tentative sip then sticks out her tongue and frowns.]

Bitter stuff! ...but good. Mmmm. Here, pour a little of that amber in the almost-cappuccino. I need practice, it's a little um, dark. Okay, I've had a thorough look at this Surviving the K'Rahl, this theatrical dystopia of Monsieur T. Lloyd's. There's some decent stuff stuck in places, a few scenes of interest, weird alien, albeit acceptable, character names suggesting faraway galaxies and future harmonic existences that conjure up imagery that, although kinda fuzzy, I caught glimpses of during my read for certain. Oui, Mr. T. can wield a pen and draw up some fine pathways.

What is it called, though, when a VC submits a cap without thoroughly grooming it? Motley Capping? Uncoifed Wrapping?Je ne sais pas quoi.

A brief lesson:

What is wrong with the following sentences?

- Their we sat, eating our curds and whey. - There dog was always running in circles. - They're couch is hard as a frozen dinosaur foot.

If you do not know, then you cannot pass go. So sorry.

Also, having one character stand and orate is much less interesting than actually inviting the reader along for a brisk walk with periodic bouts of jogging through the rugged terrain of Action and Interaction. Exposition is for essays and old profs standing at the podium while smelling like too-dry cigars and drunk liquor.

[DeP sets her cup down, gathers up the heavy pages of Surviving the K'Rahl all decorated with stars and headshots of tough-looking mini-people. She ties it up with some silver ribbon hanging out from a drawer, then strides with purpose to the porthole where the cap is released to its destiny somewhere beyond.]

Their, their. Almost the weak end when you can rest a wile.

Yes, Mr. Wilson. There is an editing clause!

[Once it'd become clear that Jesus had pulled down Rorschalk's undergarment along with the pants by mistake, and once Rorschalk had shakily, due no doubt to the loss of blood, pulled said ungarment back into place, Jesus had dove into the task at hand. He'd sewn the ripped thigh back together. And now he knots the last knot. From some secret stash inside his filthy robes, he pulls out a somewhat clean cloth. He looks around the Floor]

Hmff.

[He climbs over the rough terrain to the cherrywood, and he rumages around in the bottom drawer. He comes up with the big bottle of Sailor Jerry's rum. He rushed back to Rorschalk and splashes some rum on the cloth. He goes about cleaning the area around the thigh-gash, wiping away the blood pudding, nasty job]

So, Mr. Rorschalk. I've managed to examine another cap. I know it seems a stretch, what with all this black knight stuff and the pulling and jabbing of the needle, but I've done it, and I must tell you that I'm a bit on the fence with this one. It's a cap called Venis Kiss, sent in by a fellow named Mather Wilson. I like the idea behind the prose, however the crafting leaves one miffed and awed. And not in a good way. Some examples, sir. Mathew types, The fingers of his left hand were in his mouth on which he merrily chewed. Now would bring us to believe that this fellow chewed on his mouth? And another example, or a few: Back bone? Out come? These should be one word not two. And so the reader stumbles, I mean, I'm not being unfair saying the reader stumbles here, am I, Mr. Rorschalk? More examples: "Every ones in stasis, you idiot."...Once a century, Venus, the Earths sister, entered it's closest distance to the planet...Man made? Man-made!...Grand children? Grandchildren!...Anderson built it during the Blitz and his son in the belief of inevitable nuclear out come in the sixties had extended it. Mathew, comas. Come on..."This things heavy,"...But she there was fear inside her. Huh?...With his optic nerve severed, Venus was a singer with no microphone and being poor. Henry could only afford a seat in the most back row. She had shook them with no look. She had hurt her back moving the wardrobe and the interior of the shelter left much to the imagination but though her hand hurt she was happy. Venus was waning but still here and everything was fine. These last two lines? Ok, Mathew. What are you? Six? I am confused. Was there proffreading going on here?

[Jesus stands. He tosses the dirty rag to the floorboards. From inside his robes he pulls out the cap in question. He walks toward the Porthole]

Due to the lack of editing, and just plain laziness, this cap is going to the four winds.

[He tosses Mathew Wilson's Venus Kiss out into the deluge]

Amidst the violent lance play, Jesus terminals Miller

[Jesus pulls needle and thread from some secret pocket inside his filthy robes. He sets the golden-skinned FN HAMR on the desktop and he rises, shoving the combat glasses firm against his red-rimmed eyes, shielding out this nasty scene and its stabbing rays of fantastic ridiculousness. He's shaking his head as he climbs over the debre toward Rorschalk] This is one messed up circus you're ringleading here, Mr. Rorschalk. One might ask, how do you sleep at night, eh? [Jesus feels about his person. He reaches into his robes and pulls out Chris Miller's cap. He hikes over to the tube, passes his hand over the lid, tracing the form of a cross, and the lid magically snaps open and a great whooooooosh begins to moan from the mouth of the tube. Jesus jams the cap up the tube, and he takes effortful steps toward Rorschalk]

Oh, and as an aside, I'm happy to say that Chris Miller's Elephant Walk has been Terminaled.

[He pops the wad of thread into his mouth. The needle he holds is rather thick and long. He reaches into his mouth and tweezers the tip of the thread and pulls its slick length from his lubricating maw. He threads the fat needle with the moistened 40-weight thread and advances on Rorschalk]

Don't worry, Mr. Rorschalk. I know what I'm doing.

[He grabs hold of Rorschalks pant waist and tugs its fasteners free, and with one swift motion he pulls the blue-haired, snaggle-toothed boss man's pants down to his ankles. Rorschalk, during all this, has given no protest, but has rather stood there dumbly, awestruck by Jesus's focus and authority. Now Jesus crouches before Rorschalk, needle and thread in hand, and an awkward silence ensues. After a few moments, Jesus stands and backs away]

Um. Yeah, um. I'd really rather stitch you up after you kind of, well, you know, salt your slug, Mr. Rorschalk. Maybe you should consider underwear, sir. I mean, you know, for hygiene's sake.