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Fat Daddy
2006-11-17, 03:46 AM
The Final round has begun

Finals

averagejoe vs. Ravyn vs. Elvaris
LINKS
Blood Pressure Sounds (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Korotkoff_sounds) and A West Wing Character (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Deborah_Fiderer)

These are some rather odd links but there they are. I posted early because I don't think I'll be able to get on the boards tonight. The due date remains the same however, Friday, January 19th @ midnight (between Friday and Saturday)

Good luck everyone!!

InaVegt
2006-11-17, 02:41 PM
I would be interested, something to flex the writing muscles would be appreceated.

Madmal
2006-11-17, 02:45 PM
Same too, 'though i don't think i could deliver it on time....

Joosbawx
2006-11-17, 03:36 PM
I would be interested in trying this as well.

ZombieRockStar
2006-11-17, 08:14 PM
Provided I have the time, I say "hellz yeah."

I also apologize for this instance of the words "hellz yeah."

EDIT: Does it have to be a story? Suppose someone wanted to write some poems based on the articles?

Fat Daddy
2006-11-17, 11:57 PM
Provided I have the time, I say "hellz yeah."

I also apologize for this instance of the words "hellz yeah."

EDIT: Does it have to be a story? Suppose someone wanted to write some poems based on the articles?
No. Any type of original written material would be allowed. Short Story, Poem etc.


Same too, 'though i don't think i could deliver it on time....
I went ahead and put you down as an entrant. Don't count yourself out of the timeframe...we don't even know what it is going to be yet. :smile:

TheSilverKnight
2006-11-18, 02:03 AM
I'm game count me in. My creative juices have been short lately so competing should give me some motive to make up some good stuff and then maybe I can get back to writing my story I dream of publishing one day.

N e who wehn the time comes PM me if I haven't apparen;ty acknowlaged that I have started.

Fat Daddy
2006-11-18, 02:23 AM
I will definitely PM you when the contest starts. It's going to take me just a little while to get everything in order. I will put you on the list! Welcome to the contest.

Bryn
2006-11-18, 02:41 PM
I'd be interested... :)

The Vorpal Tribble
2006-11-18, 03:13 PM
Sure, why not.

ZombieRockStar
2006-11-18, 03:59 PM
Heh...I started clicking the "random article button" and came up with this guy (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Simon_Bayliss). I checked out his site...I could totally write something about this guy. Although I suppose I'll have to use something different for the actual contest.

For judging, perhaps if we have each contestent vote for a piece not her/his own and use that, instead of having judges. I'm stuck for ideas on awards, though.

Sneak
2006-11-18, 04:16 PM
I think I might be interested.

How long is this story supposed to be, by the way?

EDIT: I'm also willing to draw awards, if you want.

Maxymiuk
2006-11-18, 04:48 PM
Count me in.

It's time to strike a blow against Writer's Block.

Brickwall
2006-11-18, 04:52 PM
I'd actually have material with which to work with? Yee-haw! Count me in!

Yuki Akuma
2006-11-18, 04:58 PM
...Eh, why not? I've been meaning to write something. Count me in.

Angela
2006-11-19, 05:33 AM
I'll give it a shot, but I'm working 6 days a week till Xmas so it may not be high quality/long/on time... But sure!!!

Yawielas
2006-11-19, 06:21 AM
I'd like to join as well, this sounds like good exercise:)

averagejoe
2006-11-19, 02:52 PM
I'd be up for it, though I might not have time, depending on how school goes these next few weeks.

Fat Daddy
2006-11-20, 12:30 AM
Wow. We have 14 entrants so far. I honestly didn't expect such a great response. I had better get busy and get this thing in order.


I think I might be interested.

How long is this story supposed to be, by the way?

EDIT: I'm also willing to draw awards, if you want.

I am thinking no more than 5000 words. I don't want to kill anyone's creativity but we have to take it a little easy on the judges if we want anyone to volunteer to judge next time. :smallsmile:

Sneak if you would draw the awards that would be GREAT. I sent you a PM about my idea for awards.

Moechi_Vill
2006-11-20, 03:31 AM
Sounds like my next course on Open University, UK. Count me in! :)

Okiez, time to get 'a writing since I'm at an internet coffee and have a little 500-word first-person thing I decided/have to write for the course ad I have no word-processor and this thingie needs a jump-start and is good and instead of going with my complex idea I'm going with the fish I observed with horror being gutted yesterday, mhmmmyes...

first draft

Little red
twisting
plastic bag,
something alive
asphyxiation
fresh seafood inside

Just in from the oceans,
the boatpeople bring,
all sorts of fishies
all sorts of thing

From the pier above
fascination unfolding
horror untold

half of them are
already dead a cruel
knife skinning the

fish alive, slowly painfully
then once he is
done he guts

it's neck, wresting the
meat open cold blooded
fish still alive

thwipping around more
slowly now for
a while while

the man does it
over and over
again death death

life slipping away

hmmmm.. need to rewrie this but Haiku is good for distilling something for redrafting

Tanon Sharpe
2006-11-20, 02:45 PM
*meekly raises hand*

Could I give this a go too?

Fat Daddy
2006-11-21, 12:30 AM
*meekly raises hand*

Could I give this a go too?
No need to be meek. Step up and be counted. :smallsmile: I'll gladly add you as a contestant.


Sounds like my next course on Open University, UK. Count me in! :)

Okiez, time to get 'a writing since I'm at an internet coffee and have a little 500-word first-person thing I decided/have to write for the course ad I have no word-processor and this thingie needs a jump-start and is good and instead of going with my complex idea I'm going with the fish I observed with horror being gutted yesterday, mhmmmyes...

first draft
-snip
hmmmm.. need to rewrie this but Haiku is good for distilling something for redrafting
Ummm...Moechi...I'll gladly add you as a contestant but...uh...the contest hasn't started yet .... just sayin'. :smallamused:

Ravyn
2006-11-21, 04:11 AM
Count me in, and please give me the heads-up when this starts. It sounds like a blast!

Fat Daddy
2006-11-21, 04:21 AM
Count me in, and please give me the heads-up when this starts. It sounds like a blast!
You got it. I am shooting for starting this up after the (US) holiday weekend. More details to follow.

Gengy
2006-11-21, 07:47 AM
Hmmmm... I'm interested, but I think I'll need to see some concrete rules and such before I can say yea or nay.

Other than that, it sounds like it could be fun.

Tormsskull
2006-11-21, 11:11 AM
Hmmmm... I'm interested, but I think I'll need to see some concrete rules and such before I can say yea or nay.

Other than that, it sounds like it could be fun.

I second this.

Elvaris
2006-11-21, 07:38 PM
I'll sign up, though my writing pace tends somewhere between glacial and tectonic.

Fat Daddy
2006-11-23, 03:56 AM
Hmmmm... I'm interested, but I think I'll need to see some concrete rules and such before I can say yea or nay.

Other than that, it sounds like it could be fun.

I second this.
Well, let's see if I can come up with some rules. Everyone (Gengy and Tormsskull in particular) these are how I envision the contest running. I have not set these rules in stone and am still open to suggestions but these are the current guidelines I see us going with.
1) The competition will be set up on a 'bracket' system with randomly drawn slots (similar to the NCAA basketball tournament)

2) I will post links to 2 random wikipedia articles for each bracket. I.e. Entrants 1 and 2 will write using same 2 articles, entrants 3,4 a different set of two articles etc.
NOTE: I will be using the 'random article' button to generate the articles I will be posting. I will re-generate an article if it is labeled as a 'stub' article. This will be done behind the curtain, as I will only post the valid articles.

3) Once I post the links. Entrants will have exactly 1 week to post their stories.

4) We are going to enact a 5000 word cap. Not trying to stifle anyone's creativity but we have quite a few contestants and I don't want to scare off the judges.

5) We currently have 3 judges(DArKandEViL, DarkLightDragon, and Dispozition) and 2 alternate judges(Death, your friend the Reaper and Fat Daddy; should alternates become necessary) to judge the entries and pick winners from each bracket.

6)I picture judging on the following criteria:
a)grammar and spelling
b)content / I.e. the story itself
c)use of articles, how well the articles are integrated/used in the story
NOTE that turning in a story after the deadline will cause a disqualification.

7) The winners advance to the next round and we repeat the process with new articles.

8) An overall winner is declared and the award(s) are given.

9) The Judges' decisions are final.

I plan on closing the registration early next week and starting the contest shortly after that.

So those are the rules/guidelines we are running with. I am open to suggestions for change/improvement until the time that I close the registration.

I hope that answers most questions.

Brickwall
2006-11-23, 07:18 PM
Well, these are fine with me. PM me my two articles once the rules are set in stone.

Joosbawx
2006-11-23, 11:53 PM
Rules seem fine to me. I'm looking forward to this.

The Vorpal Tribble
2006-11-24, 08:56 AM
I have reservations on the contest being based off a random wiki article... but we'll see how it goes.

Fat Daddy
2006-11-24, 09:20 PM
I have reservations on the contest being based off a random wiki article... but we'll see how it goes.
VP, I understand your reservations, I am curious to see how well it will work out as well. However, from the beginning, this was going to be based off random wiki articles...

Okay so this thread (http://www.giantitp.com/forums/showthread.php?t=27783)got me thinking. Is there any interest in a random writing contest where contestants would have a couple of days to write a short story based on a few random articles? I was thinking something similar to the "Ceramic DM" contest on the Enworld boards. Instead of pictures though it would be random articles on Wikipedia.

We'll see how it goes. Hopefully everyone will have a good time and we'll get some great stories to read.

King_of_GRiffins
2006-11-24, 10:47 PM
I think I'll submit my interest as well, but as everyone else has said, It'll be a slow process to write anything.

Gengy
2006-11-25, 01:39 AM
...I am uncertain as to wether I will write anything interesting based off a random wikipedia article, but I'll give it a shot. Go ahead an make me an entrant.

I do have one question, howsomever. How much of our writing is needed to be based on the article? For example, we could end up with a historical article on the lightbulb... How much of our piece need be on the actual facts based in the article, and how much can we make up? I can very easily make an entire story on ten armed creatues from outerspace who discover an earth style lightbulb, and wing it from there for 5000 words... but I'd never mention anything else in the article except the object of the aliens' facination is a common lightbulb.

I'm not sure I'm making the question clear enough, but I'll say it again: Since this is a creative writing contest, based upon random articles, how much of the article need we actually include in our writing?

DarkLightDragon
2006-11-25, 07:26 AM
I can very easily make an entire story on ten armed creatues from outerspace who discover an earth style lightbulb
That could actually turn out to be pretty interesting!

Tanon Sharpe
2006-11-25, 07:49 AM
Read the rules - sound fine to me.

Om
2006-11-27, 02:20 PM
I'm half interested in this. My crippling workload plus other writing commitments leaves me little time to spare. All the same I might try to do something with this. I'll wait until I see the wiki articles before waiting for inspiration to strike.

Amotis
2006-11-27, 02:35 PM
I'd sure like to give it a try. How close would the story have to be to the article? Like directly about it? Like if we got a person would s/he have to be the main character? Or if it was a place, the setting? Or can they allude, or take the general idea?

Cult_of_the_Raven
2006-11-27, 04:19 PM
OO! can i join too? can i can i can i?:tongue: :biggrin:

averagejoe
2006-11-27, 04:28 PM
Ooooo rigorous.

You don't really say anything about genre, or other such concerns. Is it just open, as far as that goes?

TheSilverKnight
2006-11-27, 08:06 PM
So when is it starting I want to know what the topic is to see if I will be able to write a fantasy narrative off of it.

Cult_of_the_Raven
2006-11-27, 08:13 PM
did you not read the thing? the topic is randomly generated!!! and it starts very shortly. i think he said tomorrow or the next day.

Caillach
2006-11-27, 08:27 PM
I would also like to join, so long as I am also able to drop out at any time. My life has been very chaotic for the last little while, and though I think I can commit now, things may look very different in a few weeks time.

Brickwall
2006-11-27, 08:40 PM
It's not like we can prevent you from dropping out, y'know...
I think we should have an official rule established for handling dropouts, though. Just in case there is contention.

Fat Daddy
2006-11-28, 01:15 AM
...I am uncertain as to wether I will write anything interesting based off a random wikipedia article, but I'll give it a shot. Go ahead an make me an entrant.

I do have one question, howsomever. How much of our writing is needed to be based on the article? For example, we could end up with a historical article on the lightbulb... How much of our piece need be on the actual facts based in the article, and how much can we make up? I can very easily make an entire story on ten armed creatues from outerspace who discover an earth style lightbulb, and wing it from there for 5000 words... but I'd never mention anything else in the article except the object of the aliens' facination is a common lightbulb.

I'm not sure I'm making the question clear enough, but I'll say it again: Since this is a creative writing contest, based upon random articles, how much of the article need we actually include in our writing?


I'd sure like to give it a try. How close would the story have to be to the article? Like directly about it? Like if we got a person would s/he have to be the main character? Or if it was a place, the setting? Or can they allude, or take the general idea?

I think that a certain amount of artistic license is necessary in a contest such as this. For instance if you got http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Margaret_A._Brewer as one of your threads, I don't see a problem with including Marines or even Space Marines :smallsmile: in your story. The more completely you can incorporate your article though, the more likely it is to impress the judges. :smallbiggrin: So I would say the 'general idea' is the guideline here.

SNIP ... I think we should have an official rule established for handling dropouts, though. Just in case there is contention.
I agree. I have thought about this and I think that a drop out will simply be seen as a disqualification. So if you are in a bracket against a drop-out, you will automatically advance to the next round (provided you post your story on time and are not also disqualified:smallwink: ).

Also, I edited the first post to show that registration will be closing in approximately 22 hours and 40 minutes!

I plan on posting the first round brackets along with their respective links Friday night (around midnight EST).

Dispozition
2006-11-28, 05:26 AM
Also, I edited the first post to show that registration will be closing in approximately 22 hours and 40 minutes!

I plan on posting the first round brackets along with their respective links Friday night (around midnight EST).

Gah...I'd better get cracking on those trophies then...*Trundles off to do his 'stuff'*

Tormsskull
2006-11-28, 01:50 PM
Ok, if I understand this correctly, we're going to be given 2 random articles, and then using the information contained in those two random articles we are writing ficitonal stories that incorporate the elements of the articles.

If I am understanding that correctly, sign me up.

The Vorpal Tribble
2006-11-28, 01:59 PM
Whaaa? I don't wanna wait till Friday :smallyuk:

Amotis
2006-11-28, 03:18 PM
We should make sure that all of the people who expressed interest are in it for sure.

Timberwolf
2006-11-28, 05:28 PM
Ok, sign me up although I may have so much uni work come at me (such is the lot of the trainee teacher:smallfrown: ) that I can get nothing done. Don't think it will but stuff can happen. How are we submitting these, do we just post 'em in a thread ?

Brickwall
2006-11-28, 06:16 PM
I am absolutely most definitely in. Put me on the chart, monkey-things!

Fat Daddy
2006-11-29, 12:02 AM
Registration is now CLOSED!

Any entrance requests after this post will not be placed into the contest.

Now to answer some questions/concerns.

Ok, if I understand this correctly, we're going to be given 2 random articles, and then using the information contained in those two random articles we are writing ficitonal stories that incorporate the elements of the articles.



If I am understanding that correctly, sign me up.
You understand it correctly and I have signed you up.

Whaaa? I don't wanna wait till Friday :smallyuk:
Rule 1: No Whining! You'll wait 'til Friday and like it! :biggrin:

We should make sure that all of the people who expressed interest are in it for sure.
I agree. I will PM all those who expressed interest before posting the brackets.

I am absolutely most definitely in. Put me on the chart, monkey-things!
That's monkey-BOY. CORPORAL monkey-boy to you! :smallbiggrin:

Stay tuned folks, the creative flurry will begin in a couple of days!

The Vorpal Tribble
2006-11-29, 03:16 PM
Rule 1: No Whining! You'll wait 'til Friday and like it!
http://my.photosleeve.com/TheVorpalTribble-albums/album01/aat.gif

Amotis
2006-11-29, 03:24 PM
Creative Flurry! From Dairy Queen!

Cult_of_the_Raven
2006-11-29, 04:50 PM
geez, i sure cant wait till friday.

Brickwall
2006-11-29, 10:29 PM
Question: if we get an article that is ambiguous (example: The Wounded is both a Dutch rock band and a Star Trek episode), what should we do with it?

Amotis
2006-11-29, 11:37 PM
I don't think a wiki page would give both. I also think in the chance it did you could choose either and the judge wouldn't really hold it against you but it would be awesome if you somehow did both.

Gengy
2006-11-29, 11:41 PM
I see it now: "Space. The final frontier... that we haven't rocked on!"

Amotis
2006-11-29, 11:49 PM
Man, I can see it now. Filled of lines where Picard addresses a member of the crew in a seemingly normal sentence until he ends it screaming ROCK OUT!!!

Ex.
"Lt. Forge set course to...ROCK OUT!!!"
"Commander Riker I need your opinion on how to...ROCK OUT!!!"

Dispozition
2006-11-29, 11:55 PM
As a judge, I as commanding that this strange event happens...I would laugh my ass off!

Amotis
2006-11-29, 11:57 PM
Haha. On a related note, genre's won't matter will it? I'm sure a judge will look at a comical piece the same as a dramatic one, no? Or yes?

Dispozition
2006-11-30, 12:02 AM
Well...I won't mind at all, just so long as it's readable. If half the story is in french, it probably won't go down so well...The same goes with appaling grammar, unless it's part of the story, like in 'Huckleberry Finn'.

Amotis
2006-11-30, 12:03 AM
Or "Her Eyes Were Watching God."
That was hard book to read. Not only cause of it's modern messages, but cause I had to constantly sound of what they were saying.

Dispozition
2006-11-30, 12:06 AM
Remind me never to read that book...I had enough trouble with Huck Finn...

The Vorpal Tribble
2006-11-30, 12:13 AM
Hey, I'd be willing to work numerous meanings for a subject into a single story. Challenging and plenty of chance of hilarity.

I swear though if I get the history of banking in America so help me...

Cult_of_the_Raven
2006-11-30, 08:21 AM
A lot of the articles you turn up on random search are pretty hard to incorporate. it shall be tough.

DarkLightDragon
2006-11-30, 09:26 AM
A lot of the articles you turn up on random search are pretty hard to incorporate. it shall be tough. That's the fun of it :smalltongue:

averagejoe
2006-11-30, 04:08 PM
Yeah, but no whining if you get "bottle caps" and the other guy gets "dungeons and dragons," or some similar matchup.

Actually the bottle caps one might be easier, simply because of the open-endedness of dungeons and dragons. Restrictions are good for the creative juices, after all.

Speaking of which, wil it irritate the judges too much if we use completely made up, but still sense-making words, like "open-endedness" or "sense making?"

edit: One more question that comes to mind: what kind of limits are we looking at as far as rating? You know, sex, violence, and all that fun stuff. I'm not planning on doing full on S&M eroticism or anything like that, and probably won't even push the limits, but they would still be nice to know.

Amotis
2006-11-30, 04:15 PM
edit: One more question that comes to mind: what kind of limits are we looking at as far as rating? You know, sex, violence, and all that fun stuff. I'm not planning on doing full on S&M eroticism or anything like that, and probably won't even push the limits, but they would still be nice to know.

My question too. Thinking NR-17 ish, no?

Talon_McScruffles
2006-11-30, 04:23 PM
I certainly would be interested. Heck, I've got nothing better to do.

Brickwall
2006-11-30, 05:44 PM
Sorry Scruffles, you're too late for signup.

Amotis
2006-11-30, 08:12 PM
And you're a kobold. We discriminate against Kobolds.

The Vorpal Tribble
2006-11-30, 08:18 PM
And you're a kobold. We discriminate against Kobolds.
Well, those not part of a fashion accessory that is.

Talon_McScruffles
2006-11-30, 08:25 PM
Ah, snit. I'll wait for the next one, then.

Madmal
2006-11-30, 09:39 PM
So we have to write something about two random topics that will be given to us tomorrow? sa-sweet, great way to un-square my mind from all this mechanical college work...

yeah, it may be a little hard, especially for me, since i have finals on Monday trough Thursday...oh, well, is nothing to die for...

Amotis
2006-11-30, 09:40 PM
Eh most of us do have finals around now too.
But alas, I will push on!

averagejoe
2006-11-30, 10:54 PM
My question too. Thinking NR-17 ish, no?

Not really, I just want to know if there are any definite limits. I'm actually fairly tame as far as that goes, but who knows, I may get "pornography" or something silly like that for my subject.

Brickwall
2006-11-30, 11:38 PM
Not really, I just want to know if there are any definite limits. I'm actually fairly tame as far as that goes, but who knows, I may get "pornography" or something silly like that for my subject.

I bet I could use that in a way that does not even push PG-13 to the limits. But, then again, I have been told that I am awesome.

By the voices in my head. But if they don't know me well, then who does?

Gengy
2006-12-01, 01:51 AM
I thought of this quesiton myself (ie, PG-13 to NC-17)... and the answer my brain came up with was:

This is still the giant in the playground forums. We still have to follow the ratings for that. So I'll be writing on the low end of PG-13, if that.

averagejoe
2006-12-01, 02:18 AM
Good point. I hadn't thought of that.

Dispozition
2006-12-01, 03:42 AM
Well...I think Gengy just asnwered the question, but I belive the other question was made up words, no?

I won't mind them if they make sense, but gibberish I'll mark down severly!
YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED!!

The Prince of Cats
2006-12-01, 05:35 AM
Typical... How did I miss this? Any plans to make a second one later on? A reserve-list?

Cult_of_the_Raven
2006-12-01, 08:32 AM
checking each board everyday is always a good idea.

Amotis
2006-12-01, 02:02 PM
Haha, no I think if this goes well I'll make it happen again if the original creator won't.
Anyway today is the day. I shall be off to work soon but when I return...

TheSilverKnight
2006-12-01, 07:28 PM
Gaa anxious need topic. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . ... ::head hits keyboard:: khbhdfj

Elvaris
2006-12-01, 08:59 PM
A suggestion for future contests: 16 entrants per flight. It will eliminate byes, and will allow not only multiple contests to be run at once, but for the early exits from one contest to enter the next, and not have to wait a month for the next to start (Given the bracket style and the week/round rate, it'll be mid January before we have a final winner in this contest, and roughly half of us will be done after the first week). As long as the starts are staggered properly, it won't even significantly affect the workload on judges as there should only be 4 stories left to judge in the first when the second group of 16 starts.

The Vorpal Tribble
2006-12-01, 10:18 PM
REGISTRATION IS CLOSED
CONTEST WILL START @ APPROXIMATELY 0000 (EST) 12/2/06 (FRIDAY NIGHT)Just noticed this... wouldn't December 2nd be saturday? Or does the quadruple zeroes mean midnight?

Dispozition
2006-12-01, 10:20 PM
But it's midnight, So techinally still friday...Although it's already saturday for me...Mainly due to timezones!!!

Fat Daddy
2006-12-01, 10:54 PM
Okay,
so am posting this a little bit early but the due date will remain one week from midnight that's 1200am EST on Friday December 8th (between Friday and Saturday :smallsmile: )
Before I post the brackets and links I want to address some questions that have come up in the thread.
1) Nothing too racy folks!! It has already been stated but I will restate it here, for the record. These are the GITP forums. If it's not acceptable for the forums, it's not an acceptable entry for the contest. Remember, Kids play this game!

2) I do plan on making this a recurring contest and will incorporate many of the suggestions I have received.

3) Enough already, post the brackets monkey-boy. (Note that entrants are those who posted interest before the deadline and responded to my PM before this post)


Inaugral Iron Author Round 1

Brickwall vs. averagejoe
An album (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Firm_%28album%29)and a city (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Loganville%2C_Wisconsin)

Amotis vs. Z-Axis
An album (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/With_a_Mustache)and an author (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dale_Wasserman)

Angela vs. Tanon Sharpe
A horse (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Darley_Arabian)and an activist (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mohammad-Ali_Ramin)

Moechi Vill vs. TheSilverKnight
Monopoly (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Monopoly_%28video_game%29)and film school (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/National_Film_and_Television_School)

Caillach vs. ZombieRockStar
A novel (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Underworld_%28DeLillo_novel%29)and an actress (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Emmanuelle_Chriqui)

Ravyn vs. Yuki Akuma
A theologian (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Greg_Laughery)and a bird (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Changeable_Hawk_Eagle)

Maxymiuk vs. Timberwolf
a CEO (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ron_Dennis)and a satellite anomaly (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Flyby_anomaly)

Yawielas vs. Gezina
A composer (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Henri_Dutilleux)and Japanese teachers (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Association_of_Teachers_of_Japanese)

Cult of the Raven vs. Elvaris
A comic book (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Just_a_Pilgrim)and Scottish football (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tennents%27_Sixes)

Vorpal Tribble vs. King of GRiffons
A church (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Metochion)and a glacier (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/M%C3%BDrdalsj%C3%B6kull)

Joosbawx vs. Gengy
An optical device (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Wave_plate)and a baseball player (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jack_Burdock)

So that's what we have for round 1. I think we have some very interesting possibilities here. I can't wait to read the stories.

Good luck and HAVE FUN!

Cult_of_the_Raven
2006-12-01, 11:14 PM
question, where do we post our entries?

The Vorpal Tribble
2006-12-01, 11:20 PM
Alright, I got a church, does this mean I can write anything having to do with a church, or tied into the specific one in the link?

Fat Daddy
2006-12-01, 11:22 PM
question, where do we post our entries?
EXCELLENT QUESTION Guess I should have addressed that already. :smallredface:
Please post them in this thread. And for the contestants, PLEASE DO NOT read any other entries until your story is completed. This will detract from your own creativity and may unduly influence your entry.

Alright, I got a church, does this mean I can write anything having to do with a church, or tied into the specific one in the link?
Yes. :smallbiggrin: Either way is fine, though I expect the judges will give higher marks for stories more closely related to the specific article.

DarkLightDragon
2006-12-01, 11:30 PM
-I know there's a limit on how long the story can be, but don't make it too short.

-Spelling and grammar mistakes do not impress.

-Good luck!

Cult_of_the_Raven
2006-12-01, 11:37 PM
would it be a good Idea to post in a spoiler tag?

Amotis
2006-12-02, 12:12 AM
Great both my topics annoy me...
But nevertheless I shall press on!

The Vorpal Tribble
2006-12-02, 12:14 AM
Heh, annoy you? I don't even understand what most of mine means...

Cult_of_the_Raven
2006-12-02, 12:20 AM
mine kinda suck too. i've already tried two ideas, but neither stuck for very long. in the morning i'll try somethin different.

Amotis
2006-12-02, 12:32 AM
They do!

My artist is "His protagonists are a bit like Wasserman himself: raffish rebels, fiercely independent fools—poets, madmen and misfits—societal outcasts who defy authority and “tilt at windmills”, reluctant heroes (sometimes anti-heroes), who are called upon to make some extraordinary sacrifice in order to protect or preserve their personal freedom or that of others."

Gah!! I hate this dude, he's so bloody stupid and yet thinks he's an artistic genuies....he needs to shut up.
And the album is from hipster full of themselves electronica group who claim God was a composer.
Gahhh!

Dispozition
2006-12-02, 12:47 AM
I'm unsure on how we're gonna judge. Do we all judge every single story, or do we each have a few brackets to judge by ourselves?

Gengy
2006-12-02, 02:21 AM
Hmmmmm... a scientific optical device... and a late 1800s baseball player.

Ideas begin to brew already. Pardon me while I laugh maniacally. Mwhahahahahahahahahahahahahaha!

...all right, now that that's out of the way, I can tell the truth. And the truth is... I won't be writing about out space aliens on this one... lol. At least... I don't THINK I will.

Fat Daddy
2006-12-02, 04:43 AM
I'm unsure on how we're gonna judge. Do we all judge every single story, or do we each have a few brackets to judge by ourselves?
All judges should judge every story. If there are any questions or problems judging, please PM me and I will contact the alternate judges or make a 'ruling' so we can press on and be consistent for the contestants.

would it be a good Idea to post in a spoiler tag?
Actually yes. I didn't post that as an idea because I was unsure how that would affect the formatting of the story. Judges, please don't mark down for minor formatting problems as it can be hard to get the word processor formatting to translate onto the forums.

Great both my topics annoy me...
But nevertheless I shall press on!

Heh, annoy you? I don't even understand what most of mine means...
mine kinda suck too. i've already tried two ideas, but neither stuck for very long. in the morning i'll try somethin different.

Amotis, Vorpal Tribble, Cult of the Raven, and all contestants,
I know! When I was posting the links, my thought train was something like this, "They're gonna hate me. They are going to lynch me. Man, none of them will ever talk to me again." :smallsmile: All I can say is that they should make for some very interesting stories... oh, and "don't shoot the messenger"!:smalleek: Yeah, I definitely don't want to forget to say, "don't shoot the messenger".

They do!

My artist is "His protagonists are a bit like Wasserman himself: raffish rebels, fiercely independent fools—poets, madmen and misfits—societal outcasts who defy authority and “tilt at windmills”, reluctant heroes (sometimes anti-heroes), who are called upon to make some extraordinary sacrifice in order to protect or preserve their personal freedom or that of others."

Gah!! I hate this dude, he's so bloody stupid and yet thinks he's an artistic genuies....he needs to shut up.
And the album is from hipster full of themselves electronica group who claim God was a composer.
Gahhh!
Look everyone, Amotis has already found the common thread tying his topics together... they both make him annoyed and naseous. That should be a fun story to read! :smallbiggrin:

Timberwolf
2006-12-02, 12:29 PM
Should have asked this earlier but does it have to be a story ? If I can really be bothered, could I do a poem ?

Cult_of_the_Raven
2006-12-02, 12:31 PM
yeah, I think someone said somewhere that we can do poems.

TheSilverKnight
2006-12-02, 02:27 PM
I think there may be a slight error with one of my topics you http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Monopoly_%28video_game%29 should we do the actual monopoly or just make one up off this short video game one.

Bryn
2006-12-02, 02:29 PM
Horrible Good luck to all contestants, and may I the best man/woman/tentacled monster/other win!

Hmm... well, neither of my topics particularly grab me, but I have an idea involving windmills and a moustache. Sort of.

Cult_of_the_Raven
2006-12-02, 03:06 PM
i've just finished something, but i'd like to know: is there a minimum word limit? I have only 631 words. is that enough?

TheSilverKnight
2006-12-02, 04:42 PM
I have reread the thread and don't see a minium but 5000 is the max. I'm not a judge but I don't think there could be a minium considdering poems are accepted and a poem can be like 3 lines

Timberwolf
2006-12-02, 07:25 PM
My word, I'm trying to do something, anything with this and I have the nasty feeling I'm going to fail. I mean, Ron Dennis or a microscopic speed increase in satellites, my twisted imagination is going to have fun with this. Fortunately I actually know who Ron Dennis is which can only be helpful but it's still going to be ..... interesting what I come up with.

ZombieRockStar
2006-12-02, 08:34 PM
Question: I'm thinking of getting all po-mo on this thing, so I'm thinking of a combination prose/poetry/drama piece...so would I be allowed to use a feature of the boards such as the spoilers-within-spoilers to perhaps seperate the prose from the poetry from the play and make it a more interactive experience with the reader?

Or, to make that simpler, can I use posting features as special effects to make it more "interesting?" (though I guess "interesting" depends on your point of view)

And on the whole po-mo thing, I promise that it won't be unreadable :smallwink:

Tormsskull
2006-12-02, 09:29 PM
Aw dang. Maybe I'll make it into the next contest. Good luck all, looking forward to reading some of your entries.

Fat Daddy
2006-12-02, 09:51 PM
Should have asked this earlier but does it have to be a story ? If I can really be bothered, could I do a poem ?
It does not have to be prose only. Any original written work is allowed. Be advised though that I do not know the literary background of the judges. I say this because, for example, I know nothing about poetry so would not be able to judge it well. That being said, write what you want and have fun!!


I think there may be a slight error with one of my topics you http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Monopoly_%28video_game%29 should we do the actual monopoly or just make one up off this short video game one.
Whichever you prefer. I have stated before that more completely you can incorporate your topic the more likely the judges are to look favorably on you. I would say that including Monopoly would be a plus but incorporating the video game one that your article references would gain you more marks.


i've just finished something, but i'd like to know: is there a minimum word limit? I have only 631 words. is that enough?
There is no minimum. However the more completely you can draw in your audience (the judges) the more likely you are to advance to the next round. You have a week. I would suggest taking your time and seeing what else comes to mind. However if you are satisfied then by all means, enter your story!! I can't wait to start reading them. :smallsmile:

Question: I'm thinking of getting all po-mo on this thing, so I'm thinking of a combination prose/poetry/drama piece...so would I be allowed to use a feature of the boards such as the spoilers-within-spoilers to perhaps seperate the prose from the poetry from the play and make it a more interactive experience with the reader?

Or, to make that simpler, can I use posting features as special effects to make it more "interesting?" (though I guess "interesting" depends on your point of view)

And on the whole po-mo thing, I promise that it won't be unreadable :smallwink:
Do what you would like, but please make sure it is readable. You could have a masterpiece but if the formatting is horrid then it will not be scored well.

Angela
2006-12-03, 04:06 AM
Quick question - my articles are quite short and pathetic and hence quite hard to write anything about!! Are we allowed to use outside sources, or information that's not present in the articles but still relevant?

DarkLightDragon
2006-12-03, 09:56 AM
I think it should be that you could use some outside sources as long as the story/poem/whatever is based mostly on the article.

Bryn
2006-12-03, 10:21 AM
Since you're judged on how well you incorporated the article, I think you can use outside stuff - you'll just be marked down if its mainly from outside info. I think.

Fat Daddy
2006-12-03, 10:36 AM
Quick question - my articles are quite short and pathetic and hence quite hard to write anything about!! Are we allowed to use outside sources, or information that's not present in the articles but still relevant?
Most definitely. You can use any sources you would like and include anything you feel like including. The articles should be integral to your story somehow though. For example, think of a Star Trek episode. The main theme might be fighting the Klingons but a major story arc could be the engines failing and having to get them back on line. If you had an article on engines this would be a perfectly acceptable way to incorporate it. The engines aren't what the story is about but they are a major element in the story.
I hope that makes sense. If not, let me know and I will try and explain it again.:smallamused:

Om
2006-12-03, 11:43 AM
I'm sort've sorry that I bowed out now... I could feel inspiration stirring as I glanced through those article. Bah. Stupid workload :smallmad:

The Vorpal Tribble
2006-12-03, 12:09 PM
Grrrr... I can't believe this. I've already gone through three possible story ideas but once I start doing some research I find out its already been done. I think that in no possible way could these events have been previously meshed, but then find out the exact legend already exist.

Man but I wish I could have been born before everyone else stole my ideas.

Amotis
2006-12-03, 08:02 PM
Hmm nothings coming yet...but there is time.
Heh, I have school work to do but I'm thinking about this...

Brickwall
2006-12-04, 01:27 AM
Yay, I got a city! That makes things a ton easier.

Tanon Sharpe
2006-12-04, 02:58 AM
I think I'm about halfway through mine. I had one of those moments at 3am when I suddenly decided I might swap all the characters' names around... and maybe change the planned ending entirely... maybe the beginning too if it gets too long.

averagejoe
2006-12-04, 04:12 AM
Yay, I got a city! That makes things a ton easier.

Seriously. The album makes things difficult, though.

Best of luck to you, by the way. I'll see if I can't give you a run for your money.

Brickwall
2006-12-04, 06:14 AM
Seriously. The album makes things difficult, though.

Best of luck to you, by the way. I'll see if I can't give you a run for your money.

Well, I have it easy off, since I've got a ton of unused characters theat bounce around in my head and knock loose about two neurons a day. I can probably get 6 of them in this story, and they'll soon make room for 8 more, as well as staying there themselves.

I'm Going Slightly Mad. And it helps me make writings!

Om
2006-12-04, 11:09 AM
I think I'm about halfway through mine. I had one of those moments at 3am when I suddenly decided I might swap all the characters' names around... and maybe change the planned ending entirely... maybe the beginning too if it gets too long.I usually have several of those moments while writing. Usually I'll be slightly unhappy with a passage or two and end up rewriting half the piece :smallsmile:

The Vorpal Tribble
2006-12-05, 01:50 PM
Grrrr... figures, was reading the rules of the forums and a story involving real life religions is out.

*shakes his fist at the church*

I guess this must needs be a fantasy story then. At least that narrows down some things...

King_of_GRiffins
2006-12-05, 05:15 PM
Indeed it does Tribble, though I don't believe there are any independant Eastern Orthodox Churches in Iceland.... Funny, we can't touch religion, yet we get the monestary? This is going to take some thinking...

Thinking along, for the next round, could topics that are prohibited discussion-wise over here be excluded? It's hard to work things in that can't be used. For now, though, I'll go with what we've drawn.

Timberwolf
2006-12-05, 05:48 PM
I may not be able to get anything done. I'm on teaching practice until the end of the week and it's christmas so my class have got their christmas concert on Thursday night (I was hoping to get something done last night and tonight but lesson planning kinda took over, BORED !!) and they're part of the regional concert tomorrow night, neither of which I can miss. Are Haiku's acceptable because that's pretty much all I'll have time to do (I had a pretty good short story idea too partially written but I'm never going to finish that in time).

Amotis
2006-12-05, 11:36 PM
Guess I'm first no? Sorry had to finish early cause I don't know how finals will affect my time to do it. A bit rushed, but I laughed. Maybe it's just me and my weird sence of humor. Oh well, I hope someone will find it funny.

Amotis' Topics:
An Album (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/With_a_Mustache) and A playwriter (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dale_Wasserman)

My only notes to the judge is please read the articles carefully and take in what they mean. Also, I reference a lot of things in my essay so if you want the full effect you can do some research on that too.

Amotis' Entry:



The staccato clicking of nails grown too long pressing on a keyboard in a upbeat tempo gives stage to the murky scene of the room. An unremarkable looking man dressed in black dickies, white shirt, a blue vest, and a moustache sits at his computer, leaned forward in concentration and rapidly typing, his eyes plastered in a passionate open position as computer fans drone in the background as the man completes his book.


Author Notes
Much to my relinquished but expected astoundment, my relation to Karl Marx continues even to this day. I am aware I have not sparked a Neo-Modernist movement collage that has become a cornerstone in today’s intellectual collective being, but that is no matter to me, my words will penetrate the thick of humanity soon enough and I am patient and this work is just the beginning. Perhaps it is the way the father of the modern class and socialist reform spoke of social standings and factional environment that I am so easily able to translate this further into my already heightened stature and adapt this state of euphoria that allows such works to flow from my fingers. But, I am confident to declare, the religious aspect that Master Marx seemed to so easily and positively dismiss, have melded unto my eyes to form what I think is the very obvious answer, and I’m sure Marx would concur. As you will see in the preceding text I have created, I bring up a being, a deity, that has existed far beyond any philosopher dare claim prophesies. An ideal so solid and unearthly certain that it should seem obvious to you, as it was to me. Das Bardus, as I have come to designate It, is a God of false gods, of the seemingly pointless points of rambling individuals that create and claim extremities and deities left and right, as if they were naming flowers. But they are far removed from such ignorant claims. Like the boy who reads of atheism and to make a point, as all boys should, he invents a god in spite. In mocking. Yes, my friends, yes and indeed. God is a Llama, to mock those who sanctify animals. God is a composer, to mock those who think of their god as a true god and to glorify their own wisdom. God is a chicken to mock those who insist we consume chicken. Das Bardus, a god of satirical masterpieces, when the courage to stand up and hide views in sarcasm is embodied, to call out our ‘organized’ religion, to laugh in their faces, to say ‘look, we have beaten you because of what we think!’ Of course, like all good deities, and I have found one, Das Bardus needs priests. And like the madman in Nietzsche’s work and Wasserman in my own story that follows, the priests of Das Bardus are the individualistic, the free, and the perfect of the mentally insane. It is only in completely removing themselves from the norm of the derogative and destroying society that they become truly free and truly wise. I accept the retribution that I myself do not suffer from a mental illness, nor have I literally corresponded with one, but I believe that modern writers have given I adequate definition of the insane, enough to dub previous bodies of intelligence that claim otherwise to my views false. The weaklings and ramblers of society claim to see insanity as a disease, that it is the crevasse among families and the cause of many tears. Such is not the case, I say to you, that these ignorant beings should accept their son, daughter, or loved one as a priest of Das Bardus, an apostle of wisdom, a being so free, so perfect, that their view transcends reality.
So let us cast the ultimate savior, the man who climbs from city to city but not of his own doing, his mind not upon the phony material world, the pathetic rat race most of you participate in unwilling, but he is homeless, jobless, and the savior of the world. Perhaps he rides an ass and charges windmills, perhaps he is a great writer like Dan Brown, J.D. Salinger, or Anne Rice, perhaps-

"Jerrrremmmmyy!!!"

perhaps he is an-

"Jerrremmy!!"
"What Mom?!?! I’m writing! I told you not to bother me!!"

perhaps he is an artist, creat-


"Jerremmy!! You have work!!! Don’t be late!!"
"Mom! I’m an artist!! I can’t work for those capitalist bourgeoi-"
"Jerrremmy! Don’t be late!!!"

creating masterpieces in hi-

"Jerremmy!!!"
"Okay Mom! I’m going! Jeez!!"

-in his head while he greets customers at Wal Mart.

"Dammit...I’ll move to Switzerland one-day... I’m an artist!", Jeremy mumbles loudly to himself as he pins the large yellow happy face to his jacket and rises from the computer.
"Stupid mom..."

Fat Daddy
2006-12-06, 12:33 AM
Grrrr... figures, was reading the rules of the forums and a story involving real life religions is out.

*shakes his fist at the church*

I guess this must needs be a fantasy story then. At least that narrows down some things...

Indeed it does Tribble, though I don't believe there are any independant Eastern Orthodox Churches in Iceland.... Funny, we can't touch religion, yet we get the monestary? This is going to take some thinking...

Thinking along, for the next round, could topics that are prohibited discussion-wise over here be excluded? It's hard to work things in that can't be used. For now, though, I'll go with what we've drawn.

You know what? I didn't even think of that when I posted the links. I will make sure to keep that in mind when posting round 2. Apologies.

EDIT:Fat Daddy's (not a judge) comments on Amotis' story.
JUDGES: please don't read as I don't want my opinions to influence the results in any way.
Amotis, that was very clever. It made me laugh aloud. I was hoping for exactly this kind of entertainment when I began organizing this contest. I was a little worried as I began reading it as it seemed that it was very pretentious and over the top. Then I read the end and it all came crashing home! I love how you took on the aspect (or at least what I imagine to be the personality traits) of Wasserman and Neutomic Keyboard and then ended with your witty and scathing take on that sort of personality. At least, that is what I got out of the story. I would be interested to hear if my interpretation is what you intended.

purple gelatinous cube o' Doom
2006-12-06, 01:21 AM
has the contest started yet? If not, I'd like to get in on the fun.

Fat Daddy
2006-12-06, 01:31 AM
has the contest started yet? If not, I'd like to get in on the fun.
Yes it has. I have already posted the brackets and we are off and running. Fear not. Once this contest concludes I plan on organizing another. If the interest remains this high, I will try and do at least 1, possibly 2, per month.

Angela
2006-12-06, 08:16 AM
My entry!!!

It's a little shabby, as it's currently midnight, I've written it in about 20 minutes, and I've just returned from interstate. Also please be aware that due to the nature of my articles, there is a certain amount of political content, but I've tried not to overstate it.

Without further ado:


The evening news is on - another attack, another battle in the East, this time a group called the Nuclei of Sacrificers for Velayat, or somesuch. They and other groups like them have been around for years, but came to the fore when Israel joined the war on terror, capturing Bin Laden and demolishing his cells within months. Next Thursday will be the 20th anniversary of his capture, and the 20th anniversary of the beginning of the Third World War.

After 36 decades on this earth, I've yet to see a decade when someone wasn't at war with someone else. I've survived countless battles including two World Wars, and so far I've survived the Third, although that could change at any time; I've never before tested the limits of my mortality. The War has lasted for 20 long and cruel years, and shows no sign of ending. It is hardly the world that my mother imagined for me as a child - but then, I've been in the world an awfully long time.

The vidscreen keeps playing - it's crossed to a broadcast of Mohammad-Ali Ramin, one of the Eastern Warlords, or so they style themselves. The translator, in accented English, repeats Ramin's glorious plans for the forced relocation of the Israeli people. Heavy at heart, I pick the remote up off the table and switch off the vidscreen, blinking in the sudden darkness.

Much of my childhood was spent in darkness - the third son of a poor English family, we ate what we could grow in the small allotment we had. That was until the Year of our Lord 1706, when at the tender age of 11 I was hired as an esquire for the Darleys, to care for their horses. My mother was both laughing and crying, to think that one of her lads might have a chance to make something of himself.

By far the most magnificent horse was the Arabian, a beautiful stallion purchased by Mr Thomas for the races. If Mr Thomas had a name for the stallion I never knew it - he was always called the Darley Arabian. Around two years after I began working for the Darleys, the Arabian began limping, heavily favouring his right forefoot. Most of the family and other stewards were at a minor raceday (the Arabian, of course, only raced in the most prestigious events), so it fell to me to investigate.

Kneeling beside the horse, I gently prodded the crack between the shoe and the soft pad of the hoof. After a short while, I found a shining red gem, the size of my thumbnail, embedded in the shoe. Using my small pocket knife, I gingerly dug the ruby out of the hoof.

It never occured to me to wonder how the horse had come to have a ruby, nor did it occur to me to sell the jewel or give it away. That came later, when I realised that I was outliving all that I had cared for. The Arabian, Mr Thomas, my mother and brothers, all passed while I was in the prime of my life. I've tried giving it away since, but within days I'd see the gem, back on top of the mantle or on the table next to my favourite chair.

I can see it now, sitting next to the vidscreen on its stand - a deep red in the dark night, glittering with an inner fire of its own. For the first time, I realise how much I hate it; I've lingered too long, trapped in a world that feels nothing anymore except pain and bitter hatred. Deep in my heart, I want peace - not the peace between nations, but the peace within one's self, the knowledge that the end is here and it will soon be a memory.

I look over to the jewel and whisper, "I wish it were over", and watch the glittering flame slowly fade. Sitting in my favourite chair, I slowly fall asleep for the last time...

Bryn
2006-12-06, 01:41 PM
I probably could have been more concise and focussed, but here is my humble entry...
I'm afraid I've tended to the sesquipedalian at times, and it probably could be structured better. I'm sure any editor would have a fit. Nonetheless, here is my story.
The roar of music rang out over the auditorium, as on stage the actors gibbered and laughed, twitching spasmodically as they went about their roles. The performance was flawless – the musical drew the audience in, placed them right inside the asylum in which the musical was set. The music swelled, the singing too, and the playwright leant back in his chair, pressing his fingers together as the music washed over him.

Outside the theatre, a man twirled his moustache with one hand, leaning his other against the balcony railing. The music was dulled and muffled, and it was impossible to discern words or tunes, yet nonetheless the noise was sufficient to mask the sounds of his activities.

Turning, he looked at another man who emerged onto the balcony beside him. This man, too, sported a moustache – a large, bushy moustache which twirled about its ends, and glistened in the moonlight. In comparison, the first man's moustache was weak indeed – thin and reedy... yet, nonetheless, he was proud of it.

“Curling again, eh Finn?” asked the second man. “You'll never get it like mine! Nobody's moustache can match that of the great Terrance!”
Finn snorted in derision. “You call that thing great?” he asked, lowering his hand from his own specimen. “Why, that's not a moustache. That's an overgrown slug!”

Terrance didn't reply, instead turning to face the playhouse. “Well.” he announced, a bit louder than Finn might have liked. “No point standing about in the cold, not when there's all that gold waiting!” He laughed, and his somewhat expansive belly shook as he did so.

Finn looked down from the balcony. Below the playhouse, cars and buses were still leaving, disappearing into the darkened streets. Finn shook his head. “Not a chance. Every car in the city is in that square I tell you.”

Terrance watched for a moment, and agreed. “So, five minutes?” he said after a few moments. Finn nodded, and they waited for the cars to depart.

A few minutes later, they were ready. Dropping off the low balcony, they strolled casually across the square, reaching the building during a short lull in the music. A roar of laughter rang out from inside the building, and they took the opportunity to move up to a nearby window. After a quick glance around to ascertain they were not observed, the two men smashed the window – the tinkling of glass vanishing into the laughter – and they scrambled into a small storeroom.

Finn withdrew a small penlight from his pocket, and approached the door. The light shone off a myriad of cleaning products and items, mops and bottles stacked in neat rows. He tapped it, and was unsurprised to find it locked. Signalling to Terrance, he stepped aside and glanced out the window again.

The minutes ticked by, the clicking of Terrance's lockpicks occasionally audible as the noise of the performance rose and fell. His nervousness seemed palpable, the air pressing in as he waited for the other to finish with the door. Finally, it swung open. Finn approached, and muffled a curse as he knocked over a mop, sending a row of metal containers crashing to the ground. They froze.

Not a sound.

More carefully now, they emerged into the corridor and started making their way towards the stairwell, stretching off above them into the background. The sound from the auditorium could just be heard, and seemed to be likely to remain that way. Carefully, they padded up the stairs.

“Who goes there!” demanded a loud and angry voice from the shadows. They froze, thinking they'd been found. No. Just the play. Shaking his head, Finn advanced up the stairs.

They emerged onto a wide landing, and they noted with surprise that they had a clear view of the stage below. Two actors were engaged in some sort of struggle, and the audience roared with laughter. It was not clear to Terrance what was so remarkably humorous, but Finn seemed enthralled, his moustache shaking with silent laughter.

Nearby, a small black door stood near the end of a short corridor. Terrance approached, signalling for Finn to follow him, and pressed his ear against it. All was silent. He nodded at Finn, and turned the handle. Mercifully, it was unlocked, and they passed on through.

The room beyond was filled with costumes. Dummies, supporting the costumes, seemed ominous in the blackness. Closing the door behind him, Terrance moved on, Finn following hesitantly. They passed a large piece of castle, near an empty suit of armour engaged in silent battle with a large ballgown.

Finn pointed to a door, and Terrance nodded, amazed that he could have missed it. They advanced on through to another silent room, more costumes flashing before Finn's torch. Advancing slowly, they passed a montage of strange scenes – a smart suit with row after row of fake moustaches attached to its lapel, a bow and arrows next to a metal tin that smelled faintly of bananas. When Terrance wasn't looking, Finn appropriated one of the larger moustaches. Just for reference, of course.

A third door led out into a wide corridor, and the torch reflected on row after row of photographs hung on the wall. Behind them, the sounds of the play were barely audible at their loudest – they moved further and further away with every moment.

Moving closer to the photographs, Finn looked at the names, stroking his moustache as he went. They seemed to be of playwrights – each one was attributed to a certain play. One name, Dale Wasserman featured prominently more than once, and Finn decided to look it up later. It seemed this Dale had written the nights play.

They advanced further down the hall, reaching a row of windows that looked out onto the street below. The rooms were in a terrible state of repair – it seemed they hadn't been entered for decades. The windows themselves were cracked and broken, even missing panes of glass in places. Stones lay scattered on the floor – clearly many an errant schoolboy had enjoyed a bit of harmless destruction some time in the past.

The corridor ended with a bricked up door in the centre of a short wall. Terrance nodded. “Here.” he announced, his voice still only a whisper. They were far too close to their objective to risk being caught now.

Approaching the bricked-up door, Terrance withdrew a hammer and chisel from his pocket, and started tapping at the wall. Finn waited, twirling his moustache, and watching the cars outside. After a few minutes there was a sharp crack, and Terrance grunted. Finn turned to observe Terrance in a crouched position, holding a large quantity of bricks up by his shoulder. Shaking his head, Finn started removing the bricks, placing them on the floor. Ten minutes later, they were inside the room beyond.

A number of metal tubes glinted in the torchlight, and immediately they both started sorting through them, checking labels and withdrawing one from the box now and again. Rapidly, they filled their arms, and turned to leave the way they had come. At that moment, the door opened, spilling yellow light across the room.

“It's probably nothing, but I thought I heard... oh my.”

A security guard stood silhouetted in the light of the door, and the two thieves froze, their arms filled with the precious paintings that had been contained in the room.

“Stop! Thieves from the theatre! Come back!” Drawing a small truncheon, the guard launched himself after the thieves, who were off in moments, no longer caring about silence.

They crashed back down the corridor, barely outpacing the security guard who sprinted after them. The other guard, meanwhile, muttered something to himself, glanced around, and started helping himself to some of the paintings.

Finn reached the costume storeroom first, and dashed in past the suits of armour, false weapons, and other such paraphernalia, snatching a sword as he ran. Behind him, Terrance also entered the room, slamming the door and toppling props and dummies across the room as he made his way across to hamper their pursuit.

They soon emerged out over the stage again, and the lights from the auditorium illuminated them. Other security guards, having heard the commotion, were advancing up the steps. There was no way forward... unless...

A long metal rail jutted out across the stage, from which would hang a massive expanse of curtain when the theatre was not in use. It was going to be tricky, but if he was caught... Sword held high, Finn advanced out onto the railing.

The guards stopped, staring after him. Below, the audience were staring up in shock, play forgotten as they watched the drama high above the stage. Finn was a black shape, the lights dazzling behind him.

Up above, Finn struggled to see where he was going as he moved along the rail. The lights were blinding all about him, especially when one of the operators began pointing them at him as he advanced.

Finn reached the centre of the rail and turned, raising his plastic sword. Except... it wasn't plastic. This sword was metal, and it looked sharp. Why a dangerous weapon would happen to be in a trophy room, Finn didn't know – and nor did he care.

Along the rail came another guard, also – Finn was surprised to observe – holding a sword. Well, Finn thought grimly, if he wants a swordfight... Better hope that fencing will pay off!

The guard came closer, and Finn suddenly lunged, dancing back along the metal rail to dodge the guards clumsy sweep of his blade. Sword dancing in elaborate parries, Finn advanced forwards again, the light flashing off his shining blade in a myriad of colours. The stage technician, whoever he was, had started cycling coloured filters in the lights.

The swordfighters danced back and forth, exchanging blows, each trying to force the other of the rail to the stage far below. Quite sensibly, the actors had all taken cover offstage. The crowd, meanwhile, roared and laughed. Apparently they just thought it was part of the performance. How this fitted in, Finn had no idea.

Behind the guards, meanwhile, Terrance quickly made his way out with his stack of paintings. If Finn wanted a suicidal swordfight on a curtain rail, so be it, but he wouldn't be involved.

With a shout, the guard plummeted off the curtain rail to land on a bed far below, apparently part of the stage set up. The bed proceeded to bend and break under the weight, but the guard seemed to be alive. Two more were now advancing towards Finn, one using the light rail above, the other coming in the same way as the first guard to start the fight. These, too, had swords.

Finn knew he would stand little chance if the Guards reached him, and looked around for a way out. The lights flashed bright around him. Looking down, he noted another bed... if he could just aim himself correctly.

Finn dived, in a fashion that might just have won him the Olympics, to promptly miss all the beds and pass through a small stage trapdoor that had opened to bring in armed policemen. The cops made a satisfying crunch, cushioning the impact, and, sword in hand, Finn leapt up and started sprinting across the hall, the crowd not cheering quite so much as the violent maniac came closer.

Then, Finn was out, passing through a large, bright and red-carpeted foyer. A red carpet? Where had that come from? Glancing up, Finn noticed the banners - “Welcome to HRH Queen Elizabeth II!” draped in large letters across the balconies. A limousine was parked outside, and a woman in a white dress was walking stately down the carpet. Finn proceeded to dive out a window, landing in front of a rather surprised looking man in a black suit. A man, who, seeing an armed man jump out of a window near the queen, promptly withdrew a pistol and started firing.

Finn sprinted across the square, bullets ricocheting around him, his moustache waving in the wind. Somebody else, a little fat, and in an expensive suit was nearby, Finn shoved him aside as he went, only to recognise Terrance's moustache as he sprinted off. No time for that now, a dustbin awaited Finn and he made use of it, diving in and hoping the guards hadn't seen. Unfortunately, it was rather lighter than Finn had anticipated, and fell over to begin rolling down the gently sloping road, Finn inside. Finn quickly discovered that a sword is an uncomfortable item to roll on.

Reaching the bottom of the road, Finn made his exit from the barrel, diving into a nearby car. Terrance was running down the road behind, security guards in hot pursuit. Revving up the engine, Finn raced towards them, planning to grab Terrance and leave.

Unfortunately, he got the angle wrong, colliding with Terrance and then a nearby wall, ploughing through it to something that could only be described as music if one's eardrums are covered by several layers of cotton wool. Apparently, a band had been recording within: drums and guitars clattered across the street as the car went through and out the other side. The band apparently was wearing long black robes.
Mad decided Finn as he proceeded along street, Terrance groaning in front from multiple injuries. Were legs supposed to be able to bend that way? Finn thought not.

Eventually, they reached the end of the road, sirens blaring in the distance. Letting the car roll away, Finn leapt out, pulling Terrance along the cobbles as he went. A door was ahead, and Finn pushed it open, entering a large foyer. A hospital, apparently: white-coated nurses ran forward to grab Terrance. Finn collapsed to his knees. Terrance was heavy indeed.

The chase was not over yet though. Sirens approached, and Finn stumbled forward, into the hospital. He entered a room that seemed uncannily similar to that of the stage he'd just seen: doctors rushed around beds containing patients who clutched their heads, or laughed in odd ways. One of them muttered something about 'Cthulhu', another screamed about angles, tentacles, and other such oddities. The word 'Sanitarium' blared in large red letters at the end of the room.

Suddenly weary, Finn collapsed onto one of the beds, grabbing the false moustache from his pocket. He was rather disappointed to observe that it was a ginger moustache, nothing like his real one. He couldn't use it trick Terrance... but then.

Moments later, the black-suited security guards reached the room. Finn groaned inwardly, then was pleasantly surprised to see the doctors ushering the guards out. They shouldn't disturb the patients, these men needed sleep. The guards glanced around the room. One of them said something about black moustaches. After a few moments, they turned to go. Finn suppressed a grin beneath the ginger moustache. The crime was a success, the theatreside gallery was robbed.

Finn slept.


Edit: It's being proof-read, so an edited version will be up soon.
Edit: Slightly revised version is up.

Word count: 2501

Tanon Sharpe
2006-12-06, 03:29 PM
Mine's hopefully going up tomorrow morning US time. Hope y'all aren't averse to a little sci-fi.

Cult_of_the_Raven
2006-12-06, 08:34 PM
Here's my entry. short, but I hope sweet.



Sanddream

A dreamscape floats into view. What is it?
It pictures a desert, one that seems to span the world. It seems barren, lifeless.
A girl lifts her head from the sand – it looks like she fell asleep there – right in the middle of the desert. She looks around, confused.
“Where am I?” she shouts to the sand, but it does not answer. She looks around, noticing the sand, the barren waste of sand, not unlike that of the Sahara desert. She changes her question – “What is this place?” she now asks the landscape. This time it does give an answer. The sand shifts a little, revealing the skeleton of a great sea beast – the bones look new. “This must have been an ocean – not too long ago.” skeptical, she continues to search through the sands, walking from one glint of bone to the next. Eventually, she spies a form she recognizes. The mummified tentacle of a giant squid pokes up from the sand. “This is extremely strange,” she thinks, looking up from the dried, wrinkled skin.
And there! She spies a huge building not too far away from her. “That looks like as good a place as any to see what this all is.” She heads towards it, still glancing at the bits of whalebone scattered through the sands. As she comes closer to the building, she makes out its features. The first thing she notices is a sound. It is so loud that she feels it first rather than hears it. It is an intense roaring, like a train going by, or a huge dragon’s angry scream. Then she notices the structure itself. It reminds her greatly of the pictures she’s seen of the Roman coliseum. However, instead of being broken apart, it seems be intact, if plain.
When she makes it to the gates, she notices two guards standing around the door. “People!” she exclaims, having not seen any in this wasteland.
“Yeah, we’re people.” What did you think we were? Animals?” remarks the guard.
The girl responds, “No, It’s just that I seem to be lost in this desert. Where am I?”
“Well, you’re at the Colidrome, New Fox, South Atlantic. Does that answer your question?” he snickers, as if it was obvious.
“But world am I on?” she returns, confused.
The guard sputters “w-what world? Why, what other worlds are there? This is earth!”
“Earth? What do you mean? Then why are the seas dried up?”
“Because the sun dried them out! You didn’t know? Where have you been the last fifty years?”
“Okay, then. I’ll buy it. But what’s going on in there?” she asks.
The guard’s face closes up. “None of your business.”
The girl thinks for a moment. Then, quickly, she ducks and runs into the building. She turns her head and laughs at the bewildered guard as she runs. She follows the sound of the roar, turning through corridors and running up stairs. Eventually, she emerges into the stands area of the Colidrome.
There is a kind of game going on in the arena. A soccer game. Flags and flyers proclaim it to be the ‘Tennents’ Sixes’ sponsored by a number of companies. The players seem to be following a convoluted set of rules, though. It isn’t like the soccer she has been taught. But the weirdest thing is that the tournament is being held in the middle of this desert, with no kind of city around, and no way for the spectators to have gotten there.
She suddenly screams, “Wait a minute! This makes no sense! This can’t be real. This is – this is all a dream!”
With that the dreamscape disappears. Instead, a bedroom takes it’s place. The girl is sitting up in the bed, breathing hard.
“Man, that was one weird dream.” She states. “what was it all about?” of course, she’ll never know.
In another world, far, far away, a humble guard scratches his head. “Gosh, that was a funny girl. I wonder why she was dressed in 200 year old pajamas.”

TheSilverKnight
2006-12-06, 10:07 PM
I have had school work but hopefully I will do it tomorow and friday.

But I thought we had to do one on each topic not just one so could this be clarified quickly?

Amotis
2006-12-06, 11:05 PM
I have had school work but hopefully I will do it tomorow and friday.

But I thought we had to do one on each topic not just one so could this be clarified quickly?

Just one story. We have a choice between the two. Or you could include both.

Elvaris
2006-12-06, 11:23 PM
A story, such as it is:

A comic book (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Just_a_Pilgrim)and Scottish football (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tennents%27_Sixes).

“Begin recording...
It is December 5th, 2006 at 2:35 PM, this is Dr. Jack L. Lyman conducting my first interview with Richard Jennings to determine competency.


Bring him in...


Hello Richard. I'm Dr. Lyman and I'll be asking you some questions today.”
“Hi Doc. Where's Dr. Kane?”
“Dr. Kane is on vacation, Richard. I'll be taking over.”
“Boy, you guys sure have it good. The first three all went on vacation, too.”
“Well, it's a pretty demanding job. How are you doing today, Richard?”
“I'm pretty good, Doc. Is it okay if I call you Doc?”
“Whatever makes you comfortable.”
“In that case, let's go get an ale form the pub down the road.”
“Not that comfortable, Richard.”
“Sure thing, Doc.
“So, how long have you been in England?”
“Well, I landed in Scotland in '91, but I've been in England since '96”
“And this was after your time in the Marines?”
“Yeah, I got out in '89.”
“How long were you in?”
“Signed up in '83, so six years.”
"Just missed the first Gulf War, then? Lucky for you."
"A marine serves regardless of risk, Doc."
"Of course. So, Scotland in '91. Glasgow?"
"That's right. Thought I might meet a nice Scottish girl and settle down."
"Speaking of that, how did you meet Rachel O'Dunnaugh?"
"Rachel? That was at the Tennents' Sixes final in '92. She was there in this Celtic jersey and a little skirt that was completely covered by it."
"Big Celtic fan, then?"
"Oh, she loved Celtic. When they won the Sixes she went absolutely crazy."
"And you? A Celtic fan?"
"Nah, but I'm a Tennents fan. Don't get beer like that in the States."
"So she was happy and you were tipsy..."
"Oh no, Doc. I was rip-roaring drunk. I've never been tipsy in my life."
"Fair enough. So you left the match together?"
"Yeah, she was jumping around and hugging people at random, so when she hugged me I just didn't let go."
"And she didn't mind?"
"Well, I was pretty handsome at the time if I do say so myself."
"And from those humble beginnings you stayed together how long?"
"Three years. She died in '95."
"Ah, yes. How was it that she died?"
"A group of us were attacked by pirates. I was doing my best to fight them off, but they killed everyone else."
"Pirates? In the middle of Scotland?"
"That's what they called themselves. I figured that was normal."
"Must have been quite a few of them."
"Not enough of them. I took care of them good."
"So you were the only survivor?"
"Yeah, my training pulled me through."
"That must have been devastating for you."
"It's why I left Scotland. Too many memories."
"A sad tale. Well, thank you, Richard. This will have to do for an introduction, we'll talk again soon."
"Yeah, sure Doc. See you around."


"End Recording"

Dr. Lyman flipped through the reams of material on the case. The letter from the US Marine Corps denying any knowledge of a Richard Jennings. The passport which showed him arriving in Scotland in early 1995, well after the Tennents' Sixes had stopped being played. The obscure comic book with the character he seemed to have adopted as his own persona. The four sets of notes from previous psychiatrists alternately declaring him smart and devious to lost and delusional. The picture of Rachel O'Dunnaugh's broken body.
He shook his head, he hadn't expected to solve this in one short interview, but he was getting a sense of just how deep this particular rabbit hole went. And he wasn't sure he wanted to be the one to get sucked all the way down.

Brickwall
2006-12-07, 12:02 AM
The following was produced in exactly one hour. The following Wikipedia articles were used in the writing.

An album (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Firm_%28album%29), and a town (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Loganville%2C_Wisconsin).


Loganville wasn’t exactly the most exciting place in Wisconsin. In fact, it was probably the most boring place in Wisconsin, at least to an outsider. But the natives never thought of it as such. It did not even have 300 residents, so everyone knew each other. Anything that affected a single person affected everyone. It was like a big family.

Of course, big families often have their troubles. Bad things make the whole family come crashing down. Outsiders are held in high suspicion, especially strange one. With that information, imagine the effect that a bad event caused by a mysterious stranger might have on this small Wisconsin town. Do you have the basic image? Good, because it will definitely help to have a framework from which to view the actions of the townspeople in the following story.

On a hazy summer afternoon, it was hot enough to keep everyone inside. Temperatures ranged from the high eighties to the nineties. Nobody noticed the distant, black hatted figure walking along the road toward Loganville. A couple people looked out their windows to see an unfamiliar person, but they stayed inside. The stranger didn’t attract any real notice until he walked to a particularly large house and knocked on the door. An old man answered to door.

“Hello? Who are you?”
“I am Regnarts Livé. I am new in town, and I need a place to stay. Would your house happen to have a guestroom?” The old man at the door grimaced.
“That’s a strange name. You Canadian or somethin’?”
“Nothing of the sort,” the stranger smiled charmingly. “I can’t stay out in the rain, though, and it will certainly rain tonight. May I stay until the rain lets up?”
“All right, all right.” The old man stepped aside, for he was indeed wise enough to know that a bad storm was brewing. He showed Regnarts to the guestroom, a small room with little more than a bed. Regnarts thanked him, and sat on the bed. The old man (who was called Jerry by most people) turned around and went back to his easy chair to listen to his new compilation CD from Atlantic Records. The Firm it was called. It had some of Jerry’s favorite artists on it. He listened to it that entire day. The evening came, and Jerry’s wife called him to dinner. He went upstairs to fetch his guest, and he opened the guestroom door to find a fully furnished room. “What in blazes is goin’ on here?!” he yelled aloud.
“Why, nothing. I’ve been resting since I got here. Why do you ask?” Jerry stammered for a response, but found none. He decided that his old age was playing tricks on his eyes. He and Regnarts sat down for a chicken dinner, and Regnarts even offered to lead them in prayer. Jerry had no reason to be suspicious of this strange, kind outsider, but his gut told him not to trust Regnarts.

As days went by, the storm refused to let up. However, Regnarts traveled between houses under cover of his umbrella to meet everyone, and he paid them various mysterious kindnesses. Rooms were mysteriously cleaned after he left, broken things left, and lost things found. Sense would tell anybody that this was the best thing to ever happen to the town, but everyone was suspicious of the man named Regnarts. Eventually, the townspeople confronted him at his guest room at Jerry’s house.

“What are you tryin’ to pull on us?” said the leader of the angry mob, the only one not holding a menacing object of some sort. Regnarts just smiled his usual kind, innocent smile.
“I’m not pulling anything, Tom,” he said, for that was the man’s name. “I just want to wait until the storm lets up. I get sick easily, so I try to stay out of the rain.”
Tom glared. “You just stay in this here room ‘till we figure what to do with you. There’s somthin’ about you ain’t right.” The mob left, locking and bolting the door from the outside. Everyone left home feeling better, but still uneasy.

The next morning, the rain let up. Everything was soaked, but there were few roof leaks to fix and no basements to drain. Jerry went up to Regnarts’s room to deliver breakfast, and when he reached the door, he heard music playing. It was Midnight Moonlight, his favorite song from The Firm. He opened the door with a rush, and he found a dark room. He flicked on the light, and all he saw was the bed, unkempt as it was the day Regnarts came, and letters written in a sickening reddish brown on the wall. They were all caps, and they were written backwards. Jerry wasn’t exactly a genius, so he didn’t know what they were.

Jerry ran outside to tell everyone of the mysterious escape, but before he could get words out, a mob was at his door. On the forefront were men he knew were just blessed with newborns. They looked angry.

“You best get that Regnarts down here. He’s got some answerin’ to do,” the leader of the mob said.
“I’m sorry,” Jerry stammered, “but when I went up to his room this morning, he was gone!”
The mob leader looked around. “Let me go up to his room. I can maybe find some clues.” And so he went up to the room, and spied the writing on the wall. “Well, that there’s his name written in funny backwards letters. Why didn’t you tell me about that?” Jerry shook his head. “I bet that’s the blood of m’son. Because when I came to my son’s cradle this morning, his little head was cracked open over a mixing bowl caked with blood.” Jerry looked shocked. As the man continued his inspection of the room, when he looked next to the door, he saw a mirror. He asked Jerry, “was this here before?” Jerry silently shook his head. “I thought not,” said the mob leader.

Jerry and the man both stared at the mirror. For in the mirror, they were given a sight that they before were not privy to. There, on the wall behind them, in all capitals, was written the word, “EVIL STRANGER.”

A law was made in Loganville that no strangers were to be allowed in during the rain, and any suspicious persons must be immediately reported to the police. Thus, people have stopped visiting Loganville. The day after the community meeting, Jerry was walking around his house, and he saw a big puddle, left over from the storm. Floating in the puddle was a black hat. As Jerry looked up, he saw a window that was never there before, where it would connect to the guestroom.

Vaynor
2006-12-07, 12:42 AM
Darn, I guess I missed it. Will there be a number two? If so, count me in.

Caillach
2006-12-07, 01:06 AM
Caillach vs. ZombieRockStar
A novel (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Underworld_%28DeLillo_novel%29)and an actress (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Emmanuelle_Chriqui)



Okay. My entry. It may not be a winner, But I finished. Wooh! I incorporated the articles a little differently, some of it's kinda subtle (keep an eye on numbers), I hope that's okay.
Anywho here it is:

Theodore’s eyes darted this way and that as he crept along the big empty alleyway. He stopped, ducking behind a garbage can to check his position. He took a small crumpled piece of paper out of his inside jacket pocket. It said: “101-977st The white house, Sunflowers in front. Ask for Jodi.“

He carefully folded up the paper and placed it with great ceremony back inside his pocket next to his copy of the Novel DeLillo’s “Underworld”. He was on the right street he just had to find the house. He peered around the Garbage cans to ensure he was not being followed. He was not, same as the last ten times he had checked, but, Theodore reasoned, it would not hurt to be careful. He wasn’t going on some petty little errand, after all. He wasn’t going to get his car fixed, or going to a baseball game, or buying beer, or any of the other things the good citizens of The New America did. And this was because Theodore was not a good citizen. He was a rebel, a troublemaker, a radical. (He proudly adjusted his glasses under his balaclava) He was up to no good, and at the moment he was on his way to Mss. Kreant’s Book Club.

They had contacted him last Tuesday when he was seen reading his black market copy of “War and Peace” in a dark corner of the park at around 12 am. Theodore had always found this to be the best place and time to read his blacklist books. He never saw anybody else around, there were no cameras around to catch him, and it was a well-known fact that the Patriot Police hated fresh air almost as much as they hated “non- American Propagandist media.”

However on that particular night someone did come along to his little hiding spot. He hadn’t noticed them at first; He was so wrapped up in his book. It was only when a little movement below his book caught his eye and he looked down to find two shiny pairs of shoes that he realized two men were standing in front of him. He looked up slowly, terror beginning to creep through every cell of his being. He knew what happened to people caught carrying “non-American” books. One of the men, Stern tall and dressed in black looked down at Theodore’s book.

“And, what’s this.” It wasn’t a question. It was a challenge.

Theodore had hardly heard the last words. He was booking it down the park path before they formed in the mans mouth. He had to, of course, leave the book behind. “War and Peace” is not a sprinting volume.

He hid a good distance away in a dense bush for what felt like hours, willing himself to give up on the book and just go home. He couldn’t do it. He couldn’t just leave all those words spilled all over the ground.

And so, when he had judged it safe, he came out of his hiding spot and went to see if they had left his book, or if it had been taken to burn. They had left it. Theodore could hardly believe his luck. He picked up his book and turned to run home, when something fell out of the book. It was a piece of paper filled with instructions and yet another book: "Underworld." It was on the Approved list of American Novels. It had baseball in it.
Theodore read the note and was most surprised to Find he had been “Cordially invited to Mss. Kreant’s Book Club.”

Theodore was shocked. He had heard of them only once before, at the drop off spot where he got his books. He had since worked very hard to learn their story.

They had started soon after the Censor went up. Things had gone all wrong. Somehow everyone had become terrified of all things foreign, as if they were some kind of disease. They were afraid of these outside idea’s from far off places that had also gone all wrong, or gone right in “the wrong way.” They were afraid of loosening themselves, their identity, and their New American life, in this tide of change. And so a Censor was put up. Movies, music, art, theatre, literature, anything that was not a product of “The New American Mind” was banned. Books were burned by the millions. Theodore had seen it done, watched The Patriot Police laugh as the books caught fire then turn away to watch a baseball game on a little portable TV.

But not everybody stood and watched the wasted words fall to the ground in ash, or ignore the flames and watch baseball instead. Mss. Kreant was one of them. It wasn’t her real name of course. No one knew her real name anymore. They said she used to be an actress before the Censor was put into place. A non-American non-Christian actress. They said she had watched her films burn along with her religion, and that the fire that reflected in her eye became burned into her soul. She had started the club, and had since become public enemy/underground hero number one. And Theodore had just been invited to her Book Club. He was so excited he could hardly breath. He pulled his puffer out of his pocket and took a few breaths. And continued on to the white house at the end of the block.

He knocked four times in a little pattern. It hadn’t been in the instructions but Theodore figured, given to top secrecy of the organization, secret knocks were a must. A woman opened the door. It was her. Theodore knew it. Her long dark hair, her tan skin, her eyes. My god her eyes. Beautifully soft, terrifyingly intense. This was Mss. Kreant. Theodore was no expert when it came to women but to him she had to be at the top of the list in the of the hundred he had ever met, seen, or heard tell of. Theodore just stood and stared. She looked at him. Everything seemed to move in slow motion, like some sort of bad movie. She broke the silence first.

“Bit warm out for a Balaclava, don’t you think?” She looked at her watch. It was 12:15 in the afternoon. “A little early too.”

“Erm” Theodore panicked. This wasn’t at all how he imagined things going. She should have asked him for a password, or, or, asked him about some kind of mocking bird singing in the night, or something. He hastily pulled of the Balaclava. “I’m, uh, I’m uh…looking for, I mean, is Judy home?”

“Judy?” She raised her eyebrows.

“Jodi! Jodi! Don’tclosethedoor! Is Jodi home?”

“That’s better” She pulled him inside, dragged him into the living room and shoved him into a chair.

There were five other people in the house. Theodore recognized the stern looking man he met in the park. Theodore gave a little wave. The man just stared at him. Theodore shifted uncomfortably in his chair. A small TV was also in the room. Some ridiculous beach soap opera was spewing teen angst at them threw the screen.

“Have you got your book?” Mss.Kreant asked.

“What? Oh, Yes! Yes.” He pulled “Underworld” out of his pocket.

“Great. Have a tiny sandwich. I hear that’s standard book club procedure.” She practically shoved it into his mouth, “Now what’s your name?”

“Ferodore,” It was all he could manage through the layers of baloney.

“Not anymore,” She said with a gleeful smile, “From now on you go by Nick Shay.”

“Why?” Theodore asked before he could stop himself.

“Because it’s wonderfully symbolic and lovely and ironic.”

“Oh.”

“This book, and it's words are to become your guide, your soul. You do nothing without consulting the highlighted text first. They will be your instructions. When meeting any other member in public do not talk of our missions, discuss only the book. This way we will remain underground, and undercover. Got it? Good. let's practice. Open up to your marked page, and read your underlined section” He did as he was told.

“ ‘The tags were designed to help rescue workers identify children who were lost, missing, injured, maimed, mutilated, unconscious or dead in the hours following the onset of atomic war. . . . Now that they had the tags, their names inscribed on wispy tin, the drill was not a remote exercise but was all about them, and so was atomic war.’ ” He read.

“Great” She said. “Now you know our latest mission.”

“What?”

She stayed silent letting him think it out. And all of a sudden he understood.

“We’re going to start a Nuclear War!?!”

“Well,” she looked a little abashed “we don’t have any actual Atomic Bombs. Just a small home made explosive, but it is a start!” she added proudly and then for dramatic emphasis “They burned our children, so we’ll burn theirs!”

“We’re attacking a School?!”

“Don’t be absurd. I was being metaphoric. We,” she announced, as only an actress can, “Are blowing up The New American press building.”

“Oh. Okay.” Theodore didn’t really know what to say. “How are we going to do that?” he asked lamely.

“That is up to you.”

“What?”

“I said that it’s up to you. You have to get us in and out. It’s your first mission.”

Theodore started panicking. “But, but…I’ve never, I mean, I don’t know where to start? I’ve never engaged in…in building exploding activities before.”

“No better way to learn than on the job.” She said. She gave him a calculating stare. “You’re in my entourage now Nick Shay. You’ll come up with a way.” She stared at him a little while more. “Go home and get some sleep Nick Shay. We have lots of waste to clean up tomorrow.”

And so the formerly Theodore now Nick Shay went home to contemplate the imminent destruction of everything he hated in life. It was not as much fun as he had thought it would be.

Word count:1597

Fat Daddy
2006-12-07, 01:08 AM
I have had school work but hopefully I will do it tomorow and friday.

But I thought we had to do one on each topic not just one so could this be clarified quickly?

Just one story. We have a choice between the two. Or you could include both.
I had intended for it to be one story incorporating both articles. Apparently I failed to make that clear so 1 story incorporating either or both articles is acceptable.

My entry!!!

It's a little shabby, as it's currently midnight, I've written it in about 20 minutes, and I've just returned from interstate. Also please be aware that due to the nature of my articles, there is a certain amount of political content, but I've tried not to overstate it.

Without further ado:


The evening news is on - another attack, another battle in the East, this time a group called the Nuclei of Sacrificers for Velayat, or somesuch. They and other groups like them have been around for years, but came to the fore when Israel joined the war on terror, capturing Bin Laden and demolishing his cells within months. Next Thursday will be the 20th anniversary of his capture, and the 20th anniversary of the beginning of the Third World War.

After 36 decades on this earth, I've yet to see a decade when someone wasn't at war with someone else. I've survived countless battles including two World Wars, and so far I've survived the Third, although that could change at any time; I've never before tested the limits of my mortality. The War has lasted for 20 long and cruel years, and shows no sign of ending. It is hardly the world that my mother imagined for me as a child - but then, I've been in the world an awfully long time.

The vidscreen keeps playing - it's crossed to a broadcast of Mohammad-Ali Ramin, one of the Eastern Warlords, or so they style themselves. The translator, in accented English, repeats Ramin's glorious plans for the forced relocation of the Israeli people. Heavy at heart, I pick the remote up off the table and switch off the vidscreen, blinking in the sudden darkness.

Much of my childhood was spent in darkness - the third son of a poor English family, we ate what we could grow in the small allotment we had. That was until the Year of our Lord 1706, when at the tender age of 11 I was hired as an esquire for the Darleys, to care for their horses. My mother was both laughing and crying, to think that one of her lads might have a chance to make something of himself.

By far the most magnificent horse was the Arabian, a beautiful stallion purchased by Mr Thomas for the races. If Mr Thomas had a name for the stallion I never knew it - he was always called the Darley Arabian. Around two years after I began working for the Darleys, the Arabian began limping, heavily favouring his right forefoot. Most of the family and other stewards were at a minor raceday (the Arabian, of course, only raced in the most prestigious events), so it fell to me to investigate.

Kneeling beside the horse, I gently prodded the crack between the shoe and the soft pad of the hoof. After a short while, I found a shining red gem, the size of my thumbnail, embedded in the shoe. Using my small pocket knife, I gingerly dug the ruby out of the hoof.

It never occured to me to wonder how the horse had come to have a ruby, nor did it occur to me to sell the jewel or give it away. That came later, when I realised that I was outliving all that I had cared for. The Arabian, Mr Thomas, my mother and brothers, all passed while I was in the prime of my life. I've tried giving it away since, but within days I'd see the gem, back on top of the mantle or on the table next to my favourite chair.

I can see it now, sitting next to the vidscreen on its stand - a deep red in the dark night, glittering with an inner fire of its own. For the first time, I realise how much I hate it; I've lingered too long, trapped in a world that feels nothing anymore except pain and bitter hatred. Deep in my heart, I want peace - not the peace between nations, but the peace within one's self, the knowledge that the end is here and it will soon be a memory.

I look over to the jewel and whisper, "I wish it were over", and watch the glittering flame slowly fade. Sitting in my favourite chair, I slowly fall asleep for the last time...

Fat Daddy's comments on Angela's storyNice job on incorporating both articles into the story and making them integral peripheral elements. I would have liked to see more of Al-Ramin but due to his political nature I understand why that wasn't done. I take the blame for that as I should have vetoed such obviously political figures. Ah well live and learn. I liked the use of Darley's Arabian as a pleasant memory (which are apparently few and far between for out protagonist). The story itself has a bittersweet ending with our hero getting what is desired but dying (since that is the wish). I would have liked to learn a little more about the protagonist as I found it very hard to relate to her. I also would have liked a bit more explanation about the ruby. Overall though, an entertaining story. Well done.

I probably could have been more concise and focussed, but here is my humble entry...
I'm afraid I've tended to the sesquipedalian at times, and it probably could be structured better. I'm sure any editor would have a fit. Nonetheless, here is my story.
The roar of music rang out over the auditorium, as on stage the actors gibbered and laughed, twitching spasmodically as they went about their roles. The performance was flawless – the musical drew the audience in, placed them right inside the asylum in which the musical was set. The music swelled, the singing too, and the playwright leant back in his chair, pressing his fingers together as the music washed over him.

Outside the theatre, a man twirled his moustache with one hand, leaning his other against the balcony railing. The music was dulled and muffled, and it was impossible to discern words or tunes, yet nonetheless the noise was sufficient to mask the sounds of his activities.

Turning, he looked at another man who emerged onto the balcony beside him. This man, too, sported a moustache – a large, bushy moustache which twirled about its ends, and glistened in the moonlight. In comparison, the first man's moustache was weak indeed – thin and reedy... yet, nonetheless, he was proud of it.

“Curling again, eh Finn?” asked the second man. “You'll never get it like mine! Nobody's moustache can match that of the great Terrance!”
Finn snorted in derision. “You call that thing great?” he asked, lowering his hand from his own specimen. “Why, that's not a moustache. That's an overgrown slug!”

Terrance didn't reply, instead turning to face the playhouse. “Well.” he announced, a bit louder than Finn might have liked. “No point standing about in the cold, not when there's all that gold waiting!” He laughed, and his somewhat expansive belly shook as he did so.

Finn looked down from the balcony. Below the playhouse, cars and buses were still leaving, disappearing into the darkened streets. Finn shook his head. “Not a chance. Every car in the city is in that square I tell you.”

Terrance watched for a moment, and agreed. “So, five minutes?” he said after a few moments. Finn nodded, and they waited for the cars to depart.

A few minutes later, they were ready. Dropping off the low balcony, they strolled casually across the square, reaching the building during a short lull in the music. A roar of laughter rang out from inside the building, and they took the opportunity to move up to a nearby window. After a quick glance around to ascertain they were not observed, the two men smashed the window – the tinkling of glass vanishing into the laughter – and they scrambled into a small storeroom.

Finn withdrew a small penlight from his pocket, and approached the door. The light shone off a myriad of cleaning products and items, mops and bottles stacked in neat rows. He tapped it, and was unsurprised to find it locked. Signalling to Terrance, he stepped aside and glanced out the window again.

The minutes ticked by, the clicking of Terrance's lockpicks occasionally audible as the noise of the performance rose and fell. His nervousness seemed palpable, the air pressing in as he waited for the other to finish with the door. Finally, it swung open. Finn approached, and muffled a curse as he knocked over a mop, sending a row of metal containers crashing to the ground. They froze.

Not a sound.

More carefully now, they emerged into the corridor and started making their way towards the stairwell, stretching off above them into the background. The sound from the auditorium could just be heard, and seemed to be likely to remain that way. Carefully, they padded up the stairs.

“Who goes there!” demanded a loud and angry voice from the shadows. They froze, thinking they'd been found. No. Just the play. Shaking his head, Finn advanced up the stairs.

They emerged onto a wide landing, and they noted with surprise that they had a clear view of the stage below. Two actors were engaged in some sort of struggle, and the audience roared with laughter. It was not clear to Terrance what was so remarkably humorous, but Finn seemed enthralled, his moustache shaking with silent laughter.

Nearby, a small black door stood near the end of a short corridor. Terrance approached, signalling for Finn to follow him, and pressed his ear against it. All was silent. He nodded at Finn, and turned the handle. Mercifully, it was unlocked, and they passed on through.

The room beyond was filled with costumes. Dummies, supporting the costumes, seemed ominous in the blackness. Closing the door behind him, Terrance moved on, Finn following hesitantly. They passed a large piece of castle, near an empty suit of armour engaged in silent battle with a large ballgown.

Finn pointed to a door, and Terrance nodded, amazed that he could have missed it. They advanced on through to another silent room, more costumes flashing before Finn's torch. Advancing slowly, they passed a montage of strange scenes – a smart suit with row after row of fake moustaches attached to its lapel, a bow and arrows next to a metal tin that smelled faintly of bananas. When Terrance wasn't looking, Finn appropriated one of the larger moustaches. Just for reference, of course.

A third door led out into a wide corridor, and the torch reflected on row after row of photographs hung on the wall. Behind them, the sounds of the play were barely audible at their loudest – they moved further and further away with every moment.

Moving closer to the photographs, Finn looked at the names, stroking his moustache as he went. They seemed to be of playwrights – each one was attributed to a certain play. One name, Dale Wasserman featured prominently more than once, and Finn decided to look it up later. It seemed this Dale had written the nights play.

They advanced further down the hall, reaching a row of windows that looked out onto the street below. The rooms were in a terrible state of repair – it seemed they hadn't been entered for decades. The windows themselves were cracked and broken, even missing panes of glass in places. Stones lay scattered on the floor – clearly many an errant schoolboy had enjoyed a bit of harmless destruction some time in the past.

The corridor ended with a bricked up door in the centre of a short wall. Terrance nodded. “Here.” he announced, his voice still only a whisper. They were far too close to their objective to risk being caught now.

Approaching the bricked-up door, Terrance withdrew a hammer and chisel from his pocket, and started tapping at the wall. Finn waited, twirling his moustache, and watching the cars outside. After a few minutes there was a sharp crack, and Terrance grunted. Finn turned to observe Terrance in a crouched position, holding a large quantity of bricks up by his shoulder. Shaking his head, Finn started removing the bricks, placing them on the floor. Ten minutes later, they were inside the room beyond.

A number of metal tubes glinted in the torchlight, and immediately they both started sorting through them, checking labels and withdrawing one from the box now and again. Rapidly, they filled their arms, and turned to leave the way they had come. At that moment, the door opened, spilling yellow light across the room.

“It's probably nothing, but I thought I heard... oh my.”

A security guard stood silhouetted in the light of the door, and the two thieves froze, their arms filled with the precious paintings that had been contained in the room.

“Stop! Thieves from the theatre! Come back!” Drawing a small truncheon, the guard launched himself after the thieves, who were off in moments, no longer caring about silence.

They crashed back down the corridor, barely outpacing the security guard who sprinted after them. The other guard, meanwhile, muttered something to himself, glanced around, and started helping himself to some of the paintings.

Finn reached the costume storeroom first, and dashed in past the suits of armour, false weapons, and other such paraphernalia, snatching a sword as he ran. Behind him, Terrance also entered the room, slamming the door and toppling props and dummies across the room as he made his way across to hamper their pursuit.

They soon emerged out over the stage again, and the lights from the auditorium illuminated them. Other security guards, having heard the commotion, were advancing up the steps. There was no way forward... unless...

A long metal rail jutted out across the stage, from which would hang a massive expanse of curtain when the theatre was not in use. It was going to be tricky, but if he was caught... Sword held high, Finn advanced out onto the railing.

The guards stopped, staring after him. Below, the audience were staring up in shock, play forgotten as they watched the drama high above the stage. Finn was a black shape, the lights dazzling behind him.

Up above, Finn struggled to see where he was going as he moved along the rail. The lights were blinding all about him, especially when one of the operators began pointing them at him as he advanced.

Finn reached the centre of the rail and turned, raising his plastic sword. Except... it wasn't plastic. This sword was metal, and it looked sharp. Why a dangerous weapon would happen to be in a trophy room, Finn didn't know – and nor did he care.

Along the rail came another guard, also – Finn was surprised to observe – holding a sword. Well, Finn thought grimly, if he wants a swordfight... Better hope that fencing will pay off!

The guard came closer, and Finn suddenly lunged, dancing back along the metal rail to dodge the guards clumsy sweep of his blade. Sword dancing in elaborate parries, Finn advanced forwards again, the light flashing off his shining blade in a myriad of colours. The stage technician, whoever he was, had started cycling coloured filters in the lights.

The swordfighters danced back and forth, exchanging blows, each trying to force the other of the rail to the stage far below. Quite sensibly, the actors had all taken cover offstage. The crowd, meanwhile, roared and laughed. Apparently they just thought it was part of the performance. How this fitted in, Finn had no idea.

Behind the guards, meanwhile, Terrance quickly made his way out with his stack of paintings. If Finn wanted a suicidal swordfight on a curtain rail, so be it, but he wouldn't be involved.

With a shout, the guard plummeted off the curtain rail to land on a bed far below, apparently part of the stage set up. The bed proceeded to bend and break under the weight, but the guard seemed to be alive. Two more were now advancing towards Finn, one using the light rail above, the other coming in the same way as the first guard to start the fight. These, too, had swords.

Finn knew he would stand little chance if the Guards reached him, and looked around for a way out. The lights flashed bright around him. Looking down, he noted another bed... if he could just aim himself correctly.

Finn dived, in a fashion that might just have won him the Olympics, to promptly miss all the beds and pass through a small stage trapdoor that had opened to bring in armed policemen. The cops made a satisfying crunch, cushioning the impact, and, sword in hand, Finn leapt up and started sprinting across the hall, the crowd not cheering quite so much as the violent maniac came closer.

Then, Finn was out, passing through a large, bright and red-carpeted foyer. A red carpet? Where had that come from? Glancing up, Finn noticed the banners - “Welcome to HRH Queen Elizabeth II!” draped in large letters across the balconies. A limousine was parked outside, and a woman in a white dress was walking stately down the carpet. Finn proceeded to dive out a window, landing in front of a rather surprised looking man in a black suit. A man, who, seeing an armed man jump out of a window near the queen, promptly withdrew a pistol and started firing.

Finn sprinted across the square, bullets ricocheting around him, his moustache waving in the wind. Somebody else, a little fat, and in an expensive suit was nearby, Finn shoved him aside as he went, only to recognise Terrance's moustache as he sprinted off. No time for that now, a dustbin awaited Finn and he made use of it, diving in and hoping the guards hadn't seen. Unfortunately, it was rather lighter than Finn had anticipated, and fell over to begin rolling down the gently sloping road, Finn inside. Finn quickly discovered that a sword is an uncomfortable item to roll on.

Reaching the bottom of the road, Finn made his exit from the barrel, diving into a nearby car. Terrance was running down the road behind, security guards in hot pursuit. Revving up the engine, Finn raced towards them, planning to grab Terrance and leave.

Unfortunately, he got the angle wrong, colliding with Terrance and then a nearby wall, ploughing through it to something that could only be described as music if one's eardrums are covered by several layers of cotton wool. Apparently, a band had been recording within: drums and guitars clattered across the street as the car went through and out the other side. The band apparently was wearing long black robes.
Mad decided Finn as he proceeded along street, Terrance groaning in front from multiple injuries. Were legs supposed to be able to bend that way? Finn thought not.

Eventually, they reached the end of the road, sirens blaring in the distance. Letting the car roll away, Finn leapt out, pulling Terrance along the cobbles as he went. A door was ahead, and Finn pushed it open, entering a large foyer. A hospital, apparently: white-coated nurses ran forward to grab Terrance. Finn collapsed to his knees. Terrance was heavy indeed.

The chase was not over yet though. Sirens approached, and Finn stumbled forward, into the hospital. He entered a room that seemed uncannily similar to that of the stage he'd just seen: doctors rushed around beds containing patients who clutched their heads, or laughed in odd ways. One of them muttered something about 'Cthulhu', another screamed about angles, tentacles, and other such oddities. The word 'Sanitarium' blared in large red letters at the end of the room.

Suddenly weary, Finn collapsed onto one of the beds, grabbing the false moustache from his pocket. He was rather disappointed to observe that it was a ginger moustache, nothing like his real one. He couldn't use it trick Terrance... but then.

Moments later, the black-suited security guards reached the room. Finn groaned inwardly, then was pleasantly surprised to see the doctors ushering the guards out. They shouldn't disturb the patients, these men needed sleep. The guards glanced around the room. One of them said something about black moustaches. After a few moments, they turned to go. Finn suppressed a grin beneath the ginger moustache. The crime was a success, the theatreside gallery was robbed.

Finn slept.


Edit: It's being proof-read, so an edited version will be up soon.
Edit: Slightly revised version is up.

Word count: 2501
Fat Daddy's comments on Z-Axis' story IA IA CTHULU FTAGHN! First off, thank you for using the word sesquipedalian. I can now truthfully claim that this contest has taught me something (I had to look it up). I also discovered that I have hippopotomonstrosesquippedaliophobia. So thanks for that! :biggrin: Interesting story. I was entertained. I thought that the story, while action packed, was paced rather awkwardly. It seemed like nothing was happening or happening too easily and then suddenly, non-stop go-go-go. It just didn't feel quite right to me. That being said, I liked the mockery of the 'mustaches'. I could just see him self-consciously curling his mustache in 'mustache envy'. Very creative way to include the album (or at least the album title) in the story. I found the inclusion of Wasserman to be forced and could really have been left out. There were some great lines in that story and I must say, I chuckled and even laughed in places. I also liked the many surreal elements in the story. They foreshadowed the ending without really giving anything away. That being said I loved the Lovecraftian ending. By having one of the lunatics mention Cthulu it threw the whole story into doubt. Did any of it really happen or was it all a delusion in the Cthulu induced madness of Finn's mind. It is left up to the reader to decide. Nicely done.

Here's my entry. short, but I hope sweet.



Sanddream

A dreamscape floats into view. What is it?
It pictures a desert, one that seems to span the world. It seems barren, lifeless.
A girl lifts her head from the sand – it looks like she fell asleep there – right in the middle of the desert. She looks around, confused.
“Where am I?” she shouts to the sand, but it does not answer. She looks around, noticing the sand, the barren waste of sand, not unlike that of the Sahara desert. She changes her question – “What is this place?” she now asks the landscape. This time it does give an answer. The sand shifts a little, revealing the skeleton of a great sea beast – the bones look new. “This must have been an ocean – not too long ago.” skeptical, she continues to search through the sands, walking from one glint of bone to the next. Eventually, she spies a form she recognizes. The mummified tentacle of a giant squid pokes up from the sand. “This is extremely strange,” she thinks, looking up from the dried, wrinkled skin.
And there! She spies a huge building not too far away from her. “That looks like as good a place as any to see what this all is.” She heads towards it, still glancing at the bits of whalebone scattered through the sands. As she comes closer to the building, she makes out its features. The first thing she notices is a sound. It is so loud that she feels it first rather than hears it. It is an intense roaring, like a train going by, or a huge dragon’s angry scream. Then she notices the structure itself. It reminds her greatly of the pictures she’s seen of the Roman coliseum. However, instead of being broken apart, it seems be intact, if plain.
When she makes it to the gates, she notices two guards standing around the door. “People!” she exclaims, having not seen any in this wasteland.
“Yeah, we’re people.” What did you think we were? Animals?” remarks the guard.
The girl responds, “No, It’s just that I seem to be lost in this desert. Where am I?”
“Well, you’re at the Colidrome, New Fox, South Atlantic. Does that answer your question?” he snickers, as if it was obvious.
“But world am I on?” she returns, confused.
The guard sputters “w-what world? Why, what other worlds are there? This is earth!”
“Earth? What do you mean? Then why are the seas dried up?”
“Because the sun dried them out! You didn’t know? Where have you been the last fifty years?”
“Okay, then. I’ll buy it. But what’s going on in there?” she asks.
The guard’s face closes up. “None of your business.”
The girl thinks for a moment. Then, quickly, she ducks and runs into the building. She turns her head and laughs at the bewildered guard as she runs. She follows the sound of the roar, turning through corridors and running up stairs. Eventually, she emerges into the stands area of the Colidrome.
There is a kind of game going on in the arena. A soccer game. Flags and flyers proclaim it to be the ‘Tennents’ Sixes’ sponsored by a number of companies. The players seem to be following a convoluted set of rules, though. It isn’t like the soccer she has been taught. But the weirdest thing is that the tournament is being held in the middle of this desert, with no kind of city around, and no way for the spectators to have gotten there.
She suddenly screams, “Wait a minute! This makes no sense! This can’t be real. This is – this is all a dream!”
With that the dreamscape disappears. Instead, a bedroom takes it’s place. The girl is sitting up in the bed, breathing hard.
“Man, that was one weird dream.” She states. “what was it all about?” of course, she’ll never know.
In another world, far, far away, a humble guard scratches his head. “Gosh, that was a funny girl. I wonder why she was dressed in 200 year old pajamas.”

Fat Daddy's comments on Cult_of_the_Raven's story SanddreamsGreat job on incorporating both articles! It was very creative and allowed for the suspension of disbelief. It didn't feel forced at all. I liked setting the story in the Comic's world and making the Football game (or the collidrome at least) the focus of the journey. Very nice. I was almost disappointed in the story when 'she woke up'. I have always hated the 'it was all a dream' thing. It always feels like a cop out. You saved it for me though with the last 2 lines. The parallel world/dimension thing is always entertaining. I enjoyed the story. Also, you were the first to actually name your story! Have a cookie (my 2 year old and I actually made some chocolate-peanut butter no-bake cookies today and one's got your name all over it).

A story, such as it is:

A comic book (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Just_a_Pilgrim)and Scottish football (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tennents%27_Sixes).

“Begin recording...
It is December 5th, 2006 at 2:35 PM, this is Dr. Jack L. Lyman conducting my first interview with Richard Jennings to determine competency.


Bring him in...


Hello Richard. I'm Dr. Lyman and I'll be asking you some questions today.”
“Hi Doc. Where's Dr. Kane?”
“Dr. Kane is on vacation, Richard. I'll be taking over.”
“Boy, you guys sure have it good. The first three all went on vacation, too.”
“Well, it's a pretty demanding job. How are you doing today, Richard?”
“I'm pretty good, Doc. Is it okay if I call you Doc?”
“Whatever makes you comfortable.”
“In that case, let's go get an ale form the pub down the road.”
“Not that comfortable, Richard.”
“Sure thing, Doc.
“So, how long have you been in England?”
“Well, I landed in Scotland in '91, but I've been in England since '96”
“And this was after your time in the Marines?”
“Yeah, I got out in '89.”
“How long were you in?”
“Signed up in '83, so six years.”
"Just missed the first Gulf War, then? Lucky for you."
"A marine serves regardless of risk, Doc."
"Of course. So, Scotland in '91. Glasgow?"
"That's right. Thought I might meet a nice Scottish girl and settle down."
"Speaking of that, how did you meet Rachel O'Dunnaugh?"
"Rachel? That was at the Tennents' Sixes final in '92. She was there in this Celtic jersey and a little skirt that was completely covered by it."
"Big Celtic fan, then?"
"Oh, she loved Celtic. When they won the Sixes she went absolutely crazy."
"And you? A Celtic fan?"
"Nah, but I'm a Tennents fan. Don't get beer like that in the States."
"So she was happy and you were tipsy..."
"Oh no, Doc. I was rip-roaring drunk. I've never been tipsy in my life."
"Fair enough. So you left the match together?"
"Yeah, she was jumping around and hugging people at random, so when she hugged me I just didn't let go."
"And she didn't mind?"
"Well, I was pretty handsome at the time if I do say so myself."
"And from those humble beginnings you stayed together how long?"
"Three years. She died in '95."
"Ah, yes. How was it that she died?"
"A group of us were attacked by pirates. I was doing my best to fight them off, but they killed everyone else."
"Pirates? In the middle of Scotland?"
"That's what they called themselves. I figured that was normal."
"Must have been quite a few of them."
"Not enough of them. I took care of them good."
"So you were the only survivor?"
"Yeah, my training pulled me through."
"That must have been devastating for you."
"It's why I left Scotland. Too many memories."
"A sad tale. Well, thank you, Richard. This will have to do for an introduction, we'll talk again soon."
"Yeah, sure Doc. See you around."


"End Recording"

Dr. Lyman flipped through the reams of material on the case. The letter from the US Marine Corps denying any knowledge of a Richard Jennings. The passport which showed him arriving in Scotland in early 1995, well after the Tennents' Sixes had stopped being played. The obscure comic book with the character he seemed to have adopted as his own persona. The four sets of notes from previous psychiatrists alternately declaring him smart and devious to lost and delusional. The picture of Rachel O'Dunnaugh's broken body.
He shook his head, he hadn't expected to solve this in one short interview, but he was getting a sense of just how deep this particular rabbit hole went. And he wasn't sure he wanted to be the one to get sucked all the way down.

Fat Daddy's comments on Elvaris' story.Good job incorporating both articles! You blended them very smoothly and it flowed together nicely. I was skeptical as I began reading the story as I have often seen the 'psychiatric therapist' schtick used as a crutch but you took it and ran with it. I enjoyed the story. That being said, I was happy to see some very 'Marine-like' quotes. My favorite being, "Oh no, Doc. I was rip-roaring drunk. I've never been tipsy in my life." As a Marine (but not a cannibal), I can attest to that! I would, however have liked to see it expanded a bit. Rather than the therapist telling us that his delusion is based on the comic book, I would have preferred Richard's story to show us that he thought he was in the post coronal expansion world and let us figure out that was how the comic was incorporated. We might have been able to do so based on his descriptions of being a Marine but if you had included something about the desert wasteland or cannibalism, we definitely could have. I just like to figure it out rather than being told. All in all though I enjoyed the story, I am just getting worried about all these stories with insanity and surreal dreamscapes. Is it the authors commenting on the host of the contest? I wonder...

The following was produced in exactly one hour. The following Wikipedia articles were used in the writing.

An album (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Firm_%28album%29), and a town (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Loganville%2C_Wisconsin).


Loganville wasn’t exactly the most exciting place in Wisconsin. In fact, it was probably the most boring place in Wisconsin, at least to an outsider. But the natives never thought of it as such. It did not even have 300 residents, so everyone knew each other. Anything that affected a single person affected everyone. It was like a big family.

Of course, big families often have their troubles. Bad things make the whole family come crashing down. Outsiders are held in high suspicion, especially strange one. With that information, imagine the effect that a bad event caused by a mysterious stranger might have on this small Wisconsin town. Do you have the basic image? Good, because it will definitely help to have a framework from which to view the actions of the townspeople in the following story.

On a hazy summer afternoon, it was hot enough to keep everyone inside. Temperatures ranged from the high eighties to the nineties. Nobody noticed the distant, black hatted figure walking along the road toward Loganville. A couple people looked out their windows to see an unfamiliar person, but they stayed inside. The stranger didn’t attract any real notice until he walked to a particularly large house and knocked on the door. An old man answered to door.

“Hello? Who are you?”
“I am Regnarts Livé. I am new in town, and I need a place to stay. Would your house happen to have a guestroom?” The old man at the door grimaced.
“That’s a strange name. You Canadian or somethin’?”
“Nothing of the sort,” the stranger smiled charmingly. “I can’t stay out in the rain, though, and it will certainly rain tonight. May I stay until the rain lets up?”
“All right, all right.” The old man stepped aside, for he was indeed wise enough to know that a bad storm was brewing. He showed Regnarts to the guestroom, a small room with little more than a bed. Regnarts thanked him, and sat on the bed. The old man (who was called Jerry by most people) turned around and went back to his easy chair to listen to his new compilation CD from Atlantic Records. The Firm it was called. It had some of Jerry’s favorite artists on it. He listened to it that entire day. The evening came, and Jerry’s wife called him to dinner. He went upstairs to fetch his guest, and he opened the guestroom door to find a fully furnished room. “What in blazes is goin’ on here?!” he yelled aloud.
“Why, nothing. I’ve been resting since I got here. Why do you ask?” Jerry stammered for a response, but found none. He decided that his old age was playing tricks on his eyes. He and Regnarts sat down for a chicken dinner, and Regnarts even offered to lead them in prayer. Jerry had no reason to be suspicious of this strange, kind outsider, but his gut told him not to trust Regnarts.

As days went by, the storm refused to let up. However, Regnarts traveled between houses under cover of his umbrella to meet everyone, and he paid them various mysterious kindnesses. Rooms were mysteriously cleaned after he left, broken things left, and lost things found. Sense would tell anybody that this was the best thing to ever happen to the town, but everyone was suspicious of the man named Regnarts. Eventually, the townspeople confronted him at his guest room at Jerry’s house.

“What are you tryin’ to pull on us?” said the leader of the angry mob, the only one not holding a menacing object of some sort. Regnarts just smiled his usual kind, innocent smile.
“I’m not pulling anything, Tom,” he said, for that was the man’s name. “I just want to wait until the storm lets up. I get sick easily, so I try to stay out of the rain.”
Tom glared. “You just stay in this here room ‘till we figure what to do with you. There’s somthin’ about you ain’t right.” The mob left, locking and bolting the door from the outside. Everyone left home feeling better, but still uneasy.

The next morning, the rain let up. Everything was soaked, but there were few roof leaks to fix and no basements to drain. Jerry went up to Regnarts’s room to deliver breakfast, and when he reached the door, he heard music playing. It was Midnight Moonlight, his favorite song from The Firm. He opened the door with a rush, and he found a dark room. He flicked on the light, and all he saw was the bed, unkempt as it was the day Regnarts came, and letters written in a sickening reddish brown on the wall. They were all caps, and they were written backwards. Jerry wasn’t exactly a genius, so he didn’t know what they were.

Jerry ran outside to tell everyone of the mysterious escape, but before he could get words out, a mob was at his door. On the forefront were men he knew were just blessed with newborns. They looked angry.

“You best get that Regnarts down here. He’s got some answerin’ to do,” the leader of the mob said.
“I’m sorry,” Jerry stammered, “but when I went up to his room this morning, he was gone!”
The mob leader looked around. “Let me go up to his room. I can maybe find some clues.” And so he went up to the room, and spied the writing on the wall. “Well, that there’s his name written in funny backwards letters. Why didn’t you tell me about that?” Jerry shook his head. “I bet that’s the blood of m’son. Because when I came to my son’s cradle this morning, his little head was cracked open over a mixing bowl caked with blood.” Jerry looked shocked. As the man continued his inspection of the room, when he looked next to the door, he saw a mirror. He asked Jerry, “was this here before?” Jerry silently shook his head. “I thought not,” said the mob leader.

Jerry and the man both stared at the mirror. For in the mirror, they were given a sight that they before were not privy to. There, on the wall behind them, in all capitals, was written the word, “EVIL STRANGER.”

A law was made in Loganville that no strangers were to be allowed in during the rain, and any suspicious persons must be immediately reported to the police. Thus, people have stopped visiting Loganville. The day after the community meeting, Jerry was walking around his house, and he saw a big puddle, left over from the storm. Floating in the puddle was a black hat. As Jerry looked up, he saw a window that was never there before, where it would connect to the guestroom.
Fat Daddy's comments on Brickwall's storyThis story felt similar to Needful Things by Stephen King to me. Which may or may not be a bad thing depending on if you like King's work (which I believe you do based on the ending message). :smiley: I liked the surrealism and was glad to see a horror story among the entries. The story was paced well and flowed nicely. I didn't really care about any of the characters though and would have liked to see more character development. That being said, I did enjoy the antagonist. The super polite, helpful and yet totally evil and demonic villain is my second favorite type (my favorite is the villain who has FUN being evil). Having him write his message in the blood of the newborns differentiated it enough from REDRUM (The Shining) that it didn't feel overused. Plus, that is just horrific. The main detractor for me was that the use of the album The Firm felt a little forced and extraneous. Overall, an entertaining read.

Okay. My entry. It may not be a winner, But I finished. Wooh! I incorporated the articles a little differently, some of it's kinda subtle (keep an eye on numbers), I hope that's okay.
Anywho here it is:

Theodore’s eyes darted this way and that as he crept along the big empty alleyway. He stopped, ducking behind a garbage can to check his position. He took a small crumpled piece of paper out of his inside jacket pocket. It said: “101-977st The white house, Sunflowers in front. Ask for Jodi.“

He carefully folded up the paper and placed it with great ceremony back inside his pocket next to his copy of the Novel DeLillo’s “Underworld”. He was on the right street he just had to find the house. He peered around the Garbage cans to ensure he was not being followed. He was not, same as the last ten times he had checked, but, Theodore reasoned, it would not hurt to be careful. He wasn’t going on some petty little errand, after all. He wasn’t going to get his car fixed, or going to a baseball game, or buying beer, or any of the other things the good citizens of The New America did. And this was because Theodore was not a good citizen. He was a rebel, a troublemaker, a radical. (He proudly adjusted his glasses under his balaclava) He was up to no good, and at the moment he was on his way to Mss. Kreant’s Book Club.

They had contacted him last Tuesday when he was seen reading his black market copy of “War and Peace” in a dark corner of the park at around 12 am. Theodore had always found this to be the best place and time to read his blacklist books. He never saw anybody else around, there were no cameras around to catch him, and it was a well-known fact that the Patriot Police hated fresh air almost as much as they hated “non- American Propagandist media.”

However on that particular night someone did come along to his little hiding spot. He hadn’t noticed them at first; He was so wrapped up in his book. It was only when a little movement below his book caught his eye and he looked down to find two shiny pairs of shoes that he realized two men were standing in front of him. He looked up slowly, terror beginning to creep through every cell of his being. He knew what happened to people caught carrying “non-American” books. One of the men, Stern tall and dressed in black looked down at Theodore’s book.

“And, what’s this.” It wasn’t a question. It was a challenge.

Theodore had hardly heard the last words. He was booking it down the park path before they formed in the mans mouth. He had to, of course, leave the book behind. “War and Peace” is not a sprinting volume.

He hid a good distance away in a dense bush for what felt like hours, willing himself to give up on the book and just go home. He couldn’t do it. He couldn’t just leave all those words spilled all over the ground.

And so, when he had judged it safe, he came out of his hiding spot and went to see if they had left his book, or if it had been taken to burn. They had left it. Theodore could hardly believe his luck. He picked up his book and turned to run home, when something fell out of the book. It was a piece of paper filled with instructions and yet another book Theodore read the note and was most surprised to Find he had been “Cordially invited to Mss. Kreant’s Book Club.”

Theodore was shocked. He had heard of them only once before, at the drop off spot where he got his books. He had since worked very hard to learn their story.

They had started soon after the Censor went up. Things had gone all wrong. Somehow everyone had become terrified of all things foreign, as if they were some kind of disease. They were afraid of these outside idea’s from far off places that had also gone all wrong, or gone right in “the wrong way.” They were afraid of loosening themselves, their identity, and their New American life, in this tide of change. And so a Censor was put up. Movies, music, art, theatre, literature, anything that was not a product of “The New American Mind” was banned. Books were burned by the millions. Theodore had seen it done, watched The Patriot Police laugh as the books caught fire then turn away to watch a baseball game on a little portable TV.

But not everybody stood and watched the wasted words fall to the ground in ash, or ignore the flames and watch baseball instead. Mss. Kreant was one of them. It wasn’t her real name of course. No one knew her real name anymore. They said she used to be an actress before the Censor was put into place. A non-American non-Christian actress. They said she had watched her films burn along with her religion, and that the fire that reflected in her eye became burned into her soul. She had started the club, and had since become public enemy/underground hero number one. And Theodore had just been invited to her Book Club. He was so excited he could hardly breath. He pulled his puffer out of his pocket and took a few breaths. And continued on to the white house at the end of the block.

He knocked four times in a little pattern. It hadn’t been in the instructions but Theodore figured, given to top secrecy of the organization, secret knocks were a must. A woman opened the door. It was her. Theodore knew it. Her long dark hair, her tan skin, her eyes. My god her eyes. Beautifully soft, terrifyingly intense. This was Mss. Kreant. Theodore was no expert when it came to women but to him she had to be at the top of the list in the of the hundred he had ever met, seen, or heard tell of. Theodore just stood and stared. She looked at him. Everything seemed to move in slow motion, like some sort of bad movie. She broke the silence first.

“Bit warm out for a Balaclava, don’t you think?” She looked at her watch. It was 12:15 in the afternoon. “A little early too.”

“Erm” Theodore panicked. This wasn’t at all how he imagined things going. She should have asked him for a password, or, or, asked him about some kind of mocking bird singing in the night, or something. He hastily pulled of the Balaclava. “I’m, uh, I’m uh…looking for, I mean, is Judy home?”

“Judy?” She raised her eyebrows.

“Jodi! Jodi! Don’tclosethedoor! Is Jodi home?”

“That’s better” She pulled him inside, dragged him into the living room and shoved him into a chair.

There were five other people in the house. Theodore recognized the stern looking man he met in the park. Theodore gave a little wave. The man just stared at him. Theodore shifted uncomfortably in his chair. A small TV was also in the room. Some ridiculous beach soap opera was spewing teen angst at them threw the screen.

“Have you got your book?” Mss.Kreant asked.

“What? Oh, Yes! Yes.” He pulled “Underworld” out of his pocket.

“Great. Have a tiny sandwich. I hear that’s standard book club procedure.” She practically shoved it into his mouth, “Now what’s your name?”

“Ferodore,” It was all he could manage through the layers of baloney.

“Not anymore,” She said with a gleeful smile, “From now on you go by Nick Shay.”

“Why?” Theodore asked before he could stop himself.

“Because it’s wonderfully symbolic and lovely and ironic.”

“Oh.”

“Now open up to your marked page, and read your underlined section” He did as he was told.

“ ‘The tags were designed to help rescue workers identify children who were lost, missing, injured, maimed, mutilated, unconscious or dead in the hours following the onset of atomic war. . . . Now that they had the tags, their names inscribed on wispy tin, the drill was not a remote exercise but was all about them, and so was atomic war.’ ” He read.

“Great” She said. “Now you know our latest mission.”

“What?”

She stayed silent letting him think it out. And all of a sudden he understood.

“We’re going to start a Nuclear War!?!”

“Well,” she looked a little abashed “we don’t have any actual Atomic Bombs. Just a small home made explosive, but it is a start!” she added proudly and then for dramatic emphasis “They burned our children, so we’ll burn theirs!”

“We’re attacking a School?!”

“Don’t be absurd. I was being metaphoric. We,” she announced, as only an actress can, “Are blowing up The New American press building.”

“Oh. Okay.” Theodore didn’t really know what to say. “How are we going to do that?” he asked lamely.

“That is up to you.”

“What?”

“I said that it’s up to you. You have to get us in and out. It’s your first mission.”

Theodore started panicking. “But, but…I’ve never, I mean, I don’t know where to start? I’ve never engaged in…in building exploding activities before.”

“No better way to learn than on the job.” She said. “You’re in my entourage now Nick Shay. You’ll come up with a way.” She stared at him a little while more. “Go home and get some sleep Nick Shay. We have lots of waste to clean up tomorrow.”

And so the formerly Theodore now Nick Shay went home to contemplate the imminent destruction of everything he hated in life. It was not as much fun as he had thought it would be.

Word count:1597
Fat Daddy's comments on Caillach's story.This felt inspired by Bradbury's Farenheit 451 to me. Am I correct? I enjoyed the story. You did a good job of incorporating your articles. I especially liked, "Some ridiculous beach soap opera was spewing teen angst at them threw the screen." Referencing Ms. Chriqui's appearances on the OC made me laugh out loud. I also got a chuckle out of, "We're attacking a school?". I could just hear Theodore's voice rising an octave or 3 with fear and apprehension there. I almost forgot to mention that I liked the tribute to Bradbury (if indeed it was) by assuming the names of the literary characters. (for those who don't know, in Farenheit 451 they assumed the names of the literary works themselves which they had memorized so they couldn't be destroyed.) Anyway, I thoroughly enjoyed reading this story. Great job.

Death, your friend the Reaper
2006-12-07, 04:02 AM
Death's comments.

I'm glad I am the reserve judge

Looking good people!

V Always here to help :smallwink:

Fat Daddy
2006-12-07, 04:12 AM
Yay! Once again Death, your friend the Reaper saves the day. I couldn't finish posting all my comments because I hit the 50000 character limit and didn't want to double post. But since Death has posted, I can finish.:smallsmile:

More on Caillach's story Okay, what I had left out was that Caillach has the character's take on the names of literary characters and in Bradbury's Farenheit 451 the characters take on the names of books that they have memorized to prevent them from being destroyed. As in, "Hi, I'm Underworld by DeLillo. If you'd like, I could recite myself to you sometime." I really liked that as a tribute to Bradbury, if indeed that is what you intended Caillach. I would be interested to know if I read that correctly or not.
I would also like to say a big THANK YOU to all the contestants that have posted so far. I have really been entertained by the quality stories (which is what I was hoping for when I started putting out feelers about this little contest we have here). And for those contestants who have not yet posted...SLACKERS! Get ta' postin'! :smalltongue: You have less than 20 hours left. Plus my wife will be going into labor any time now and I'd like to get the first round all read before that happens! :smallsmile:

I'd also like to say that I agree with Death. Only I am glad that I am a backup backup backup judge...yeah there are two backups before I would actually have to judge. I don't envy our judges as it would be really difficult to pick a winner from these stories.

Cult_of_the_Raven
2006-12-07, 08:11 AM
wow! Good comments!
I feel special!

Death, your friend the Reaper
2006-12-07, 08:58 AM
wow! Good comments!
I feel special!

Oh, he is the nice one, wait till we get the one we hired to make snide remarks to come on.

The Vorpal Tribble
2006-12-07, 10:58 AM
20 Hours? How about 40? You said Friday at midnight, heading into saturday. It's only thursday morning.

Bryn
2006-12-07, 11:00 AM
Thanks for the comments, I agree that the reference to the guy from the article was a bit forced, and I wrote it in a kind of make-it-up-as-you-go-along way, so that would be why it lacks structure.

There are no rules against reading other peoples' stories are there? If there are, I've just broken them.

Yawielas
2006-12-07, 11:10 AM
I'll post mine as soon as I find out how to post it in spoiler tag.

The Vorpal Tribble
2006-12-07, 11:43 AM
I'll post mine as soon as I find out how to post it in spoiler tag.
{spoiler}Text{/spoiler}

Replace {}'s with []'s

Yawielas
2006-12-07, 12:23 PM
Thanks, Vorpal Tribble :) Here's my entry. I found the topics rather difficult though, and unfortunately wrote the story before I knew we could choose just one of the articles. It might have been better if I've focused on just one of them:) But anyways, here goes. Topics were a composer http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Henri_Dutilleux and Japanese teachers http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Association_of_Teachers_of_Japanese

Harmony

Stephen had noticed her the moment he sat his foot inside the bar. Apparently so had a dozen other guys. The vision was standing behind the counter, mixing drinks and dodging come-ons from the men sitting at the bar. The female bartender moved with a ballerina’s grace between her customers, her long blonde hair gathered professionally at the nape of her neck with a silver clasp. As one of her would-be suitors had to give up his barstool to answer nature’s call, Stephen saw his chance and took his seat by the counter. “Could I have a Bud, please? I’m shipping out to Japan tomorrow.” He winked at her, leaning his elbows on the bar. The bartender turned to him, curious. “Are you a soldier? But we’re not at war with Japan…Do we even have a base there anymore?” Stephen smiled. “No, nothing like that. I’m a student. Going there to study Japanese language and culture, on an ATJ scholarhip.” “ATJ?” The girl raised an eyebrow as she handed him his beer. “What’s that?” He glanced down the bar, picking up the hostile glances from the other men fighting for her attention. “The Association of Teachers of Japanese. They “help broaden and deepen knowledge and appreciation of Japan and its culture”, he quoted. “I’m Stephen, by the way.” She smiled. “That’s really cool, I guess. Going abroad to study…I’m Harmony.” He grinned. “It’s nice to meet you. And I’m not going to make some cheesy comment about being able to tell your name from the moment I walked in. It suits you though. I can tell, I’m a musician.” Harmony took another order while listening, then returned to Stephen. “What do you play?” By now some of the men at the bar had given up and turned their interest elsewhere, but a few of them still eyed him with content. He had dealt the sissy card as far as they were concerned. Culture, music and language…Not exactly macho material in their book. Harmony was smiling at him though, and for a moment he completely forgot what she had asked. Oh, yes. “I play the cello. Right now I’m practising Dutilleux’s cello concerto, Tout un Monde Lointain” Several of his competitors snorted with laughter at that. He followed up. “I just love harmonies…” He smirked a little, and she gave a wry grin. “Really…” “Yeah, I mean, it’s everywhere. Not just in music, but in language, in peace of mind, in physical health and in interaction between people as well. I guess I’m a true follower of The Way of Harmony of the Spirit.” Certain that the college boy had blown his chances now, a burly guy next to him interrupted. “Hey, sugar, is the nancy boy boring you to tears yet? I know how to show you a good time.” Laughter erupted around them.

[FONT=Times New Roman]Stephen sighed. It always came to this. His slender frame and half long blonde curls didn’t help his tough guy image either. Harmony gave him a sympathetic look, though, and was about to say something when a rough hand landed on Stephen’s shoulder. “That’s my stool, you loser, now scram!” The guy who went to the toilet, of course…Stephen turned slowly to look up at him. Tall, broad shouldered, mean and a little drunk. Perfect. “Actually, this seat was unoccupied when I took it, and as I didn’t see a sign anywhere with a name on it, or a half full glass in front of me, I assumed it was vacant.” He turned back to Harmony. “See how I worked in that “half full” thing there? I’m basically an optimist,” he grinned. “I said get outta my seat, moron!!” The big guy was getting impatient. Grabbing Stephen’s shirt he pulled him up. “Let go of him!” Harmony reached over the counter to break them up. No luck, though. “Don’t worry, this’ll only take a second,” the tall guy grinned. “Actually…this is where the Harmony of the Spirit comes into play. And remember the cello concerto I told you about? The Tout un Monde Lointain?” Stephen replied with a small smile. “What kind of pacifist drivel is that?” the burly man taunted. Stephen shook his head. “It’s all coming together, in harmony. You see, most of the concert is introspective and meditative, kinda like me at times, I guess...But then it has occasional outbursts of violence and a frantic build-up to the ambiguous, suspended finale…” He took hold of the hand gripping the front of his shirt, and with his free hand suddenly shoved the guy’s elbow joint over his head, took a deep step in behind his opponent and turned around, bringing Big Guy towards the floor in an arc by the hold of his elbow, then knelt down to lock his arm. “You see, I’ve always liked languages. This for example, is called a Dai-Irimi-Tenkan. I can show you more if you’d like, the Japanese have a rich culture in this area. Take for instance The Way of Harmony of the Spirit. Ai-ki-do….Look it up, “moron”…” Stephen, stood up, brushing off his pants. The other guys had backed off. He turned to Harmony again. “So….Wanna go to my place and listen to some music? I’ll show you my cello…”

The_Librarian
2006-12-07, 12:44 PM
Here's my entry about a horse (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Darley_Arabian) and an activist (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mohammad-Ali_Ramin)


Aneesa pulled back the curtain a little way to stare out across the fields. Even here, miles out from the city, the sky was a fiery orange from the streetlamps, speckled with the flitting white specs of the headlights of hovercars dancing through the skies like fireflies. From this far out, it could almost be described as beautiful. Aneesa shook her head sadly and let the curtain fall back over the window again. Her daughter, Nudhar, was asleep on the sofa, still dressed in the golden trousers and tunic that Aneesa had patiently put together for a party Nudhar had never gone to. It would be a shame to waken her after it had taken so long for her to stop crying. Nudhar was a quiet, reserved girl of fourteen years. She rarely spoke, seemed to have few friends, and spent most of her time with the family’s horses.

Normally, the horses would bring a smile to Nudhar’s face, but a virus had been sweeping across India, killing the equine population. This afternoon, she had been meant to attend the birthday party of a girl from a stead just a couple of miles away, but after Black Rocket had been put to sleep by the vet, there had been no question of her going. He was the fifth of their eight horses to have been put down, and Nudhar’s favourite. The other horses were already showing symptoms of the virus. Nudhar was heartbroken. Aneesa had done her best to comfort her, but she felt abandoned out here, so far from the city. Her husband, Maahir, left home before the sun rose in the morning and did not return until long after Aneesa and Nudhar were asleep.

Aneesa was determined to wait up for Maahir tonight. At first, she had wanted him to hold Nudhar, to do his part in helping the girl recover from her grief. Then she had grown angry, and stayed awake so she could argue with him, tell him that he should have spent more time here at the farm, as though it was somehow his fault the horses had died. Now she stayed up out of concern. Maahir had never been this late home before.
_______________________________________

Far away from the Ramin family stead, Maahir Ramin woke with a start as his computer beeped in protest. He had fallen asleep at his desk, and his head had hit the space bar. Fifty or so pages of blankness began trailing out from where he had been writing a report for the management.

We do not have infinite funding for you, Ramin! they had told him. We can’t afford to spend money on something which isn’t commercially viable.

Maahir looked at his report in dismay. He had typed solidly for three hours before falling asleep, but only a single half-sentence remained which had not been deleted in a fit of perfection:

I urge the shareholders to continue funding Project Mansour because

Because it was a major step forward in the realm of cybernetics.
Because it would be good publicity for the company.
Because it would make Nudhar smile.

Maahir smiled faintly at this final thought. He knew, as well as his wife did, how hard it was to communicate with Nudhar sometimes but this… this could help her so much. He groaned and rubbed his temples with his hands. It would not satisfy the management, however. He looked down at his sketches and blueprints, brushing aside scaled down prototypes of sensors and hydraulics. To the untrained eye, it could have been little more than a television set or a refrigerator, but to him, it was his finest work, as beautiful as a Monet and infinitely more useful.

Maahir had inherited little from his ancestor, Mohammad-Ali Ramin, save for his skills in Mechanical Engineering and a belief in human rights. He wondered what Mohammad-Ali would think of him now, working for a company which made weapons alongside toys, medical equipment and torture devices. Anything could be made and sold from here. He certainly hoped the man would approve of his latest project – there was a beautiful innocence to it, something that he had gained from his daughter more than an activist over two hundred years dead. He frowned at an error in a diagram, and made a quick note of it in pencil before realising how late the hour was. Cursing to himself, he got to his feet, leaving his desk an utter mess, and hurried out of the office.

The corridor should have been empty. Everyone else had long since gone home, and the cleaning bots didn’t start patrolling until 3am, he was sure. In any case, it didn’t matter what state the corridor should have been in because all Maahir could process before he fell unconscious was why on earth someone had put a metal wall outside his office, and how much it hurt his head as he collided with it.
__________________________________

Mr Ramin, please wake up.

Maahir moaned as a cleaning bot nudge him gently but persistently. He frowned – since when had cleaning bots ever spoken.

Mr Ramin, you really shouldn’t be on the floor. The cleaning robot is getting quite agitated.

What was worse, whatever was speaking was using an emotionless, electronic version of his own voice. Maahir opened his eyes. A long, chrome nose was peering down at him. It was a small masterpiece in sculpture, the equine lines beautiful and flawless. Its head turned to one side and the blue LEDs of one eye peered at him.

“My god… Mansour!”

Yes, Mr Ramin?

“You shouldn’t be up here! You might be seen!” Maahir looked around hurriedly, but the building was still deserted. Even so, competition in the company was so fierce that he could not rule out his rivals using their own mechanical expertise to spy on him. Competition between the engineers had reached feverish levels – it was not unheard of for them to spy on each other, or even for fights to break out in the hallways, so precious was the company funding. “Explain yourself!”

Your assistant neglected to turn me off, Mr Ramin.

Maahir cursed again and got unsteadily to his feet. Mansour moved his head in such a lifelike fashion that for a few moments, Maahir could not believe he had created such a beautiful machine. The horse gleamed in the office lighting, sparkling from it chrome plating and its eyes a soothing blue glow. He was, as Maahir had hoped, graceful and gentle, but strong.

Nudhar would love him.

“You should have waited in the laboratory. I would have checked on you before I left.”

Past behavioural patterns indicate that you normally leave the building at 2100 hours, Mr Ramin. I extrapolated from this information that you had forgotten about me.

It could learn… If this wasn’t enough to convince management that this project was worth funding, then nothing would. Maahir grinned with delight.

“Mansour, I would like to run a few tests, if I may. Will you accompany me to the laboratory?”

That would not be wise, Mr Ramin. Maahir frowned.

“I know what I am doing. After all, I built you. No more objections. You will follow me to the laboratory.” Maahir began to walk swiftly along the corridor while the troubled cleaning bot headed in the opposite direction, humming contentedly to itself. Mansour followed his creator, his demeanour, his glowing eyes, everything neutral. For a moment, Maahir paused.

Is everything all right, Mr Ramin?

“You do not have to keep saying my name!” Maahir snapped, leaning against the doorway leading to the elevator lobby. His assistant, Edi, more than Maahir himself, was a mechanic of the tiniest details. She had spent weeks researching horses even after Maahir had finalised the plans for Mansour. Books upon books on the finest racing horses had been stacked neatly and alphabetically on her desk and she had made a scarily in-depth study on Darley Arabian, a single stallion from whom most racing horses were descended. In sculpting the mould for Mansour’s casing, she had studiously copied from a painting of the horse to match it for every line, every muscle. In fact, Edi had been most disappointed that Mansour was going to be finished in chrome, as she had been quite certain she could get it look quite lifelike.

“Mansour and Darley are so alike! But Mansour will not just be the founding example of cybernetic horses – he is the prototype for all future cybernetics!” His assistant had been most enthusiastic about the project. At times, it had taken her enthusiasm to keep Maahir going.

Noted.

Maahir blinked for a moment.

“Oh, ah, yes… good.” He called for the lift and waited impatiently for it to arrive, tapping his foot. As the doors slid open, he looked at the space beyond sceptically. With a certain amount of care, Maahir pressed his back against the wall of the lift and breathed in as Mansour reversed inside and then turned his head to the side to allow the doors to close. Maahir found himself staring at an emotionless blue eye.

What has happened to Edi? He stared into the eye defiantly, refusing to be afraid of his own creation. Mansour had not said Edi had forgotten to switch him off, only that she had neglected to do so.

Mansour stared back.

The lift chimed as they reached the basement, but Mansour did not seem inclined to move.

“Mansour, please exit the lift. I can’t move until you do.”

My assessment of your planned destination has not changed. This is unwise.

“Oh? So it’s the destination you don’t approve of?” Maahir asked, chuckling. “Is the laboratory not clean enough? Have you taken a dislike to the décor?” Mansour lacked a response to this, and remained silent. Maahir sighed and patted Mansour’s side. “Come now, horse. Whatever do you have to be afraid of?” This was utter foolishness. That the horse could learn was one thing, but for it to have developed emotions as well was lunacy. Mansour obediently walked out of the lift, hooves clacking loudly against the concrete floor.

Maahir stepped out of the lift behind his creation and froze. The laboratory was a mess – almost everything glass had been shattered, monitor screens smashed, bookcases overturned and the books shredded. Edi lay propped up against a partition wall, with spreading blooms of blood blossoming across her clothes. Her lifeless eyes stared towards the lift – had her last thoughts been of escape? Maahir forced himself to walk further into the laboratory – the computers had been smashed open and their hard disks ripped out, leaving torn cables trailing out of the cases. Everything… everything had been destroyed.

“You,” Maahir hissed, rounding on Mansour. “You did this!”

No, Mr Ramin. I did not. To hear it respond in his own voice pushed Maahir’s grief and rage to boiling point. He ran to his desk to find the small pistol he usually kept there… but it was gone.

A moment later, someone else discharged it several times into Maahir. Mansour watched emotionlessly as a rival engineer looked up at him and sneered.

“What’re you lookin’ at horsey? Go home!” It was the instruction Mansour had been waiting for.
____________________________

It was four in the morning when Nudhar awoke. Aneesa was asleep in a chair, and not even the gentle thudding noise against the door was waking her. She quietly found her head scarf and wrapped it around herself. The garment still felt odd, but it had filled her with pride the day Maahir had bought it for her. It marked her out as a woman in her faith now.

Certain she was properly attired, she opened the door and gasped.

You are… golden? You are Nudhar Ramin. I am home.

Amotis
2006-12-07, 12:49 PM
Thanks for the comments, I agree that the reference to the guy from the article was a bit forced, and I wrote it in a kind of make-it-up-as-you-go-along way, so that would be why it lacks structure.

There are no rules against reading other peoples' stories are there? If there are, I've just broken them.

Just that it would most likely mess with your own. But seeing as you're done it shoud be fine. :smallbiggrin:

ZombieRockStar
2006-12-07, 07:17 PM
*steps meekly forward*

Here's my 100% non-sensical, multi-genre (prose, poetry and play) entry about a novel (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Underworld_%28DeLillo_novel%29) and an actress. (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Emmanuelle_Chriqui) I was exercising my weird muscles here, so it's kind of meant to be read in the acid-trip fashion in which it was written. (Not really:smallbiggrin:)

The spoilers within spoilers is for purely functional reasons, otherwise it's hard to see what's dialogue and what isn't. Sorry for the extra work.



The 37th Hottest Woman in the World


Characters

Emmanuelle Chriqui (Emma)
Nick Shay (Mr. Book)
Frank Sinatra
The Band
Comedian Lenny Bruce




The Play/Poem/Story/Poem/Play/Story/Play/Poem/Story


Emma on stage, doing nothing.

She is nothing of not the epitome of
Superfluidity—the purest change.

And now she’ll change.

Those clothes don’t look good on her.
At least, not at this time of the afternoon.
She’ll spend the rest of this afternoon
In quiet contemplation, asking herself
Whether her membrane is too soft.

(chorus)Emmanuelle! Emmanuelle!
She gives us light.
She gives us Hell.

One half of a pair,
She lives in the air.
She changes her hair.
She isn’t there.

It was a beautiful day when Emmanuelle Chriqui was voted by no less a stellar authority than Maxim magazine as the 37th woman on its annual “Hot 100,” thus christening her as the 37th hottest woman in the world. She celebrated by contemplating her own hotness in relation to Kant’s philosophy of aesthetics and other principles of self-image, including Plato’s theory that she was merely a representation of an even more beautiful abstract form, and if her earthly form was so beautiful: think of how much more beautiful her true form is.

Emma
I am the 37th hottest woman in the world. Thus, my soul must be the 37th hottest soul in heaven, and even more hotter than my hot soul on Earth.

The paradox that next year she would occupy a different spot on the list while the identities of the women on the list didn’t change and neither did their appearance never struck her.

A book, however, did strike her.

A book is thrown, striking Emma in the head.

Emma
Ow!
Book (offstage)
Sorry!

She picks up the book to examine the cover. She then opens it, turns it upside down, and shakes it, as if there might be something between the pages there to shake loose.

She shook, but there was nothing there.

Sorry, dear.
Nothing there.
Not a hair.
Sorry, dear.

Emma
Hey…there’s nothing here.

She throws the book off to the side. It strikes Book in the head as he walks onstage.

Book
Ow!
Emma
Sorry.
Book
What was that for?
Emma
I didn’t like it.
Book
You didn’t even read it.
Emma
No, I mean I didn’t like it.

The book was an anathema to her. A rejection of everything she was: a television and movie actress. The concept of the book defied her existence, that all you needed to be entertained was a few pieces of paper. The cost of production of the book was likely less than her fee for single guest appearance.

Oh Book! Oh book!
Why be so like a book!
Why not more like a magazine?
Or a trampoline?

Wait…that doesn’t make much sense.

Why do things always have to make sense to you?
They don’t to her.
She absorbs everything,
Never asking if it makes sense.
Emulate her.
The emulation of Emmanuelle.

(chorus)Emmanuelle! Emmanuelle!
She gives us light.
She gives us Hell.

Emma
And so, I’m going to tear it up.

Book moves to stop her.

Book
No! That’s my book!

She becomes aggressive.

Emma
I’m going to tear it up! I’m going to tear it up! I’m going to tear it up!
Book
No! No!

With a might push, he flings her back and runs to fetch the book.

Book
I won’t allow you to tear this book up! It’s mine.
Emma
Alright then, book-head. Book-man. Mr. Book. Read your book. But I don’t like it.
Book
Maybe it doesn’t like you. Maybe I don’t like you.
Emma
*Gasps* You don’t even know who I am. How can you say you don’t like the 37th hottest woman in the word?
Book
You are the 37th hottest woman in the world? (Emma nods) You are Emmanuelle Chriqui, 37th hottest woman in the world? (Emma nods again) You are the Emmanuelle Chriqui?
Emma
*Nods again, looks pleased at Book’s worship* Please, call me Emma, Mr. Book.
Book
*Looks stupefied* Emma…
Emma
*Nods* Mmm-hmm.
Book
Emma…
Emma
Yes, that’s right…
Book
Emma…
Emma
Yes, that’s right…
Book
Emma…
Emma
Yes, that’s right…
Book
Emma…
Emma
Yes, that’s right…
Book
Emma…
Emma
Okay, that’s enough.
Book
Emma…
Emma
Okay, that’s enough.
Book
Emma…
Emma
Okay, that’s enough.
Book
Emma…

She hits him.

Book
Ow.
Emma
Payback for throwing the book at me.

Bookish lessons heard by fools
Taken by cautionary tools
Dropped into warm watery pools
As if they were rods of Plutonium.

The book is a lesson
But it can only be absorbed
By the digestive system.
Books are not for reading.
They are for eating.

(chorus) Eat the book. Eat the book.
Turn it into waste.
Eat the book. Eat the book.
Paper, ink and paste.

His name was Nick Shay. He was a waste management executive from New York, who liked to spend his spare time reading. At the moment, he was buried in Don Delillo’s novel Underworld, that sad tale of fractured identity in postmodern America, where identity is constructed through entertainment. Sadly, he was not a particularly active reader and was instead thinking about baseball and his favourite Frank Sinatra tune, even as he read about baseball and Frank Sinatra, missing their key importance to the story.

Frank Sinatra enters, with microphone and sings for the audience.

Sinatra
God only knows,
The way she moves.
She’s like a silhouette on wheels
And everything she steals
Turns from gold
Into a cold
And empty heel.

Emmanuelle! Emmanuelle!
She gives me light. She gives me Hell.
Emmanuelle! Emmanuelle!
She’s got forty diamond rings
She’s willing to sell.
Only God can say
How she moves that way.

Emmanuelle, she’s like fire
In the cold winter sky.
Got a burning desire
Only she can…SATISFY!

Emmanuelle! Emmanuelle!
She takes my light. She takes my Hell.
Only God can say
How she moves that way.
Emmanuelle, Emmanuelle…

(Operatic) EMMANUELLE!!!

He exits. The stage goes black.

Nick was not what one would call a particularly scholarly person. The subtleties of trash management often did not require advanced critical thinking, so the metaphor of trash as . He did notice one of the characters bore his name, and also happened to be a waste manager. He thought it was a funny coincidence. Maybe, he felt, he should write to Don Delillo about this funny occurrence.

Nick Shay was an avid watcher of television. He had seen Emmanuelle Chriqui before when she had appeared as Jodie on The O.C., one of his favourite programs. He had admired her from the start; her beauty and her shape were beyond comparison to everyone but the 36 women above her. But he had not dared imagine that he would meet her. It was a moment of pure excitement for him. A moment when suddenly his own life seemed insignificant compared to the person he was in front of. He did not consider he character, or her acting, or her voice, for those were merely supplementary to her beauty. For it was her beauty that was important. Her aesthetics, to put it in a philosophical perspective. For beauty must be admired, or else it is nothing, and if nothing is beautiful, then there is nothing to live for.

The stage lights up again. Emma has changed her outfit. The old one has been tossed on the floor like garbage. Book is reading his book.

Emma
Mr. Book?
Book
Hmm?
Emma
Have you ever been in love?
Book
I think I used to love someone. I love my book, at any rate.
Emma
No, I don’t mean did you love…I mean: have you been in love?
Book
Aren’t those the same thing?
Emma
No…what I mean is…have you been in actual love…as in…making it…
Book
You mean…
Emma
Have you ever made love?
Book
No, I don’t think I have. Why do you ask?
Emma
Oh, I was just thinking…

The imagination of the common man is a powerful thing. This had, of course, been Nich Shay’s fantasy since he first saw Emmanuelle Chriqui on the television, or even, he dimly recalls, in the movie Detroit Rock City as an extremely minor character. The fact that it had been his fantasy with every beautiful woman he saw was irrelevant, for it was with this woman that it was to be fulfilled.

He naturally thought it completely ordinary. She was a celebrity. The instant hook-up was perfected to an art with her kind.

Emma and Book kiss. A punk-rock Band comes on and starts playing while they kiss.

Lead Singer
Oh, have you read the news today?
Have you read the news today?
She’s got a brand now boy
And they’re full of joy.
Have you read the news today?

Who knows when they’ll break up?
I give them two or three weeks.
She’s so strong and he’s so meek.
It’s so sweet I might just throw up!

Have you read the news today?
Have you read the news today?
She’s expecting a kid.
Heaven knows what they did.
Have you read the news today?

Just flip the page over
To read the rumours of his gay life.
Is their relationship over?
Who knows about all the back-stage strife?

Have you read the news today?
Have you read the news today?
There’s a new hurricane,
And they ran out of names.
Have you read the news today?

There’s only seven left alive.
Looks like they won’t have food or lights.
God knows how they’ll survive
Those cold and windy nights.

Oh, have you read the news today?

They finish the song and then smash their instruments as much as possible. They exit, leaving behind their ruined instruments.

The stage lights go out again. When they come back on, Emma has changer her outfit again. The old one is left with the first on the stage floor. Book is reading again.

Emma
That was nice.
Book
*Murmurs agreement*
Emma
Why must you read?
Book
Hmm?
Emma
You’re always reading.
Book
Meh.
Emma
“Meh?” What does “meh” mean?
Book
*Shrugs* Meh.
Emma
*Pause* *sigh* Meh.

She takes out a newspaper and reads, casually tossing off each section into the air as she reads.

Miami — The missile situation took another drastic turn when the Kremlin delivered its ultimatum today to Washington. White House officials say that the president will not be frightened into assent, inching the world closer to nuclear war.

Lenny Bruce runs onstage in a 1950s housewife outfit, waving a duster in the air.

Bruce
We’re all gonna die! We’re all gonna die! We’re all gonna die! We’re all gonna die! We’re all gonna die! We’re all gonna die! We’re all gonna die! We’re all gonna die! We’re all gonna die! We’re all gonna die! We’re all gonna die! We’re all gonna die! We’re all gonna die! We’re all gonna die! We’re all gonna die! We’re all gonna die! We’re all gonna die! We’re all gonna die! We’re all gonna die! We’re all gonna die!

While running back and forth, he trips on the broken drum kit left by the Band, and falls forward, smacking his head on one of the drums, dying instantly.

Requiem aeturnum, donna eis, Dominie. Requiescat in pace, Lenny Bruce.

Emma throws the newspaper down in anger.

Emma
That’s it! I’ve had it with you and your book!
Book
*Looking up* Hmm?

She tears the book out of his hands.

Emma
You’re always wombating reading! It makes me sick! *Tears a page from the book* Sick! Sick, sick, sick! *Tears another page*
Book
Meh.

He walks off. She continues to tear up the book.

Emma
Sick! Sick! Sick! Sick! Sick! Sick!

She repeats this line until she eventually begins eating the pages she tears up. Fade to black.

Tear it up.
Eat the book.
Eat it up.
Turn it into waste.
Eat it.
Eat the book.
Eat it.
Eat it.
I don’t know why you’re such a fussy young man.
Just eat it.
Eat it.
Eat the book.
Eat it.



END




Word count: only 2000, but since half of it is a play, it takes up the space of at least twice that.

Ravyn
2006-12-07, 08:15 PM
Here we go: bird and theologian, though due to the (lack of) length and breadth of the latter's Wikipedia article and the whole not mentioning religion thing, it's mostly bird. Enjoy!


The forest was wreathed in mist, the air practically aglow in the dawn. A breath of wind brought the whispers of leaves and the scent of jasmine to the tallest tree’s lone occupant, ruffling her crest. There was something more today. Something different, out at the forest’s edge. Voices and rustles and, occasionally, something that resonated. Something new.
It was enough to wake her up, not enough to interest her… but she was hungry, and it was a good time to fly. The bird removed her head fully from under her wing and looked out toward the forest’s edge. Sunlight shone off brown feathers as she spread her wings, hopped once towards the end of her branch, and then took flight, diving into the mist, weaving through the glowing maze of sun and fog and shadow.

It was a good day to play. The mist was melting away, and the sun was bright. Already, half of the gamelan had been set up. Two of the performers were maneuvering the slenthem into position, another placing the tabi on their respective instruments. All the action, however, was lost on its youngest member as she strode from just within the forest with a handful of colorful blossoms.
Today is the first time. Today…
She smoothed her blue sarong out of the way and knelt by the gong. As promised, the water was already ready, sitting still in the glass bowl. Silently, with an air of intense concentration, she slipped the flowers in, letting them float there. Today will be perfect.
“It’s the instruments that matter, not the flowers!” one of the others called. The girl straightened, nodded. Looked to the wooden stand, the hook and dragon that held her instrument. Stepped over to it and picked it and the bow up, then sat down and bent over it, one hand on the neck and one on the bow.

Far above and a ways away, the hawk-eagle veered as the sound changed, the ringing trading off with—it was hard to tell what. Perhaps there was some creature there she had not yet seen, calling out. It was sort of a wail, sort of a keen, and completely alien. This bore closer looking into; she pumped her wings a few times to regain altitude, banked sharply to the west and glided toward the source of the sound.

“Stupid bow,” the girl muttered under her breath, letting her rebab lean against her as she glared at the strings. The tone just wouldn’t come right. Of all the days… At least it was tuned. Just in time; setup was complete, and people were beginning to arrive. Her family would be somewhere in that crowd, sitting down on the grass to listen. Today will be perfect, she reminded herself. I’ve worked hard enough…

Humans. Gathering at the edge of the forest. Some sitting and waiting, some setting up things that shone in the early morning light. But what had made that call? It perplexed the bird. The ringing was from the shinies, that much was clear. She landed on a nearby tree and watched. Perhaps… there it was! The female, holding the stick, twined around the strange—what was it? A branch balanced on the ground, sticking through some sort of—whatever it was, it had tight skin and shiny streaks. The humans silenced. Waiting for something? This was interesting.

It was time. The girl took a deep breath and drew her bow across the strings. Ji, lu, ro, nem, ji, ro, lu… she thought, her fingers flicking over the notes as she did so. Ji, ji, lu, ro… ji, ma—

That was it! That was the creature! The hawk-eagle took flight again and called to it.

Was that me? But it couldn’t be; the note from the rebab was coming clear. So what screeched? The girl looked up just in time to see the eagle fly above, nearly dropping her bow, but barely managing to continue to play. It’s beautiful…

She had gotten something’s attention… the bird circled once, twice.

For the girl below, having this sort of creature in the audience her first time performing was unbelievable. A deep moment. Would Laughery have something to say about this? she wondered offhandly. Strike that, concentrate…
The tune wandered into the ngelik… and the bird was still circling above. Distracting the audience, but did that matter?

The hawk-eagle, meanwhile, continued to fly and listen. The… whatever it was… was slowing down. What was it trying to do? She landed. Stretched her wings. It was pausing. It was waiting. What for? She called out, again, as something rang below, then took off and flew away.

Called during the gong, left during the… whaaaaaa… The girl set down her rebab, spent a moment watching the hawk-eagle fly back the way it had came, and then, remembering her purpose, sat down behind the slenthem and picked up her tabi. She’d had the most spectacular bird she’d ever seen in her audience. Her tone was back. And what was left of the concert would most assuredly be perfect.

Cult_of_the_Raven
2006-12-07, 08:23 PM
I wish I'd got bird and theologician. I could do a lot with those.

The Vorpal Tribble
2006-12-07, 09:44 PM
Wait a sec... are we supposed to be involving BOTH wiki articles? :smalleek:

(this isn't a problem as a church and a glacier would fit in oddly well with what I'm writing)

Amotis
2006-12-07, 09:45 PM
Wait a sec... are we supposed to be involving BOTH wiki articles? :smalleek:

I thought only one and I told that one dude only one. But Fat Daddy said otherwise but that he said it wasn't clear. In the end, yes one is okay.

Brickwall
2006-12-07, 09:51 PM
I thought only one and I told that one dude only one. But Fat Daddy said otherwise but that he said it wasn't clear. In the end, yes one is okay.

It is?! Man, then I could have avoided stuttering my story with that album one! I'm unhappy.

Cult_of_the_Raven
2006-12-07, 10:06 PM
it was originally meant to be two. but concessions were made once the contest got underway. that's the way I understand it at least.

Amotis
2006-12-08, 01:15 AM
Yes there was confusion and so only one can be used.

King_of_GRiffins
2006-12-08, 01:24 AM
At 1475 words, a story including an Icelandic Glacier and an Eastern Orthodox Church. Last minute here, so I didn't get to put them more as brief settings.

Inside the old church building, twelve men sat irregularly among the pews. They wore drenched, solid grey uniforms, emblazoned with no emblem, crest or signature of any kind. Some held whispered conversations, others took guard or simply sat in thought, but they all bore the look of exhaustion.

Two particularly chatty uniformed men sat at the corner farthest the altar, talking almost loud enough for the others to hear.

“Have you seen the new kid?”

“The blond or the one with the mask?”

“The masked one,” he says, pointing over to two others, both looking towards the altar in silence. “, I heard the captain say he’s one of the last supers our sides got.” The second soldier turns to face the other, his face making clear his suspicion. “You’re joking, right? All the way up here? Must be something going on up here after all if they sent another one over.”

“Yah, I heard the captain talking about that too,”

“You really need to stop spying so much. He might shoot you next time.”



After not too long, the companies’ uniforms are dry, and they all appear to settle in around the small parish. A door can be heard opening up, and from the left of the alter streams a cone of light, lighting up the dimness of the main room. A tall man in the same uniform as the others walks out in the light from the side room. He stops and turns back towards the door, “Once again, thank you for your hospitality, Bishop.”

Stepping out of the brightness, his features become a bit more apparent. The man is old, far older than anyone else in a uniform should be. His head was bald, and on his shoulder, written in black marker was the word ‘Colonel’, with ‘Captain’ marked out directly above it.

He walks over to the altar, and standing behind it addresses in a deep, loud and rasping voice. “We’re heading out again. We just got a real operation over the radio, so get in the AV’s,” He snaps his head over to the door immediately, burning his eyes into soldier sitting there, “Yes, the old ones.”



Outside, the weather was rather temperate, if wet after the rain. The scene was not what one would think of when hearing the words ‘Iceland’, but today, after the constant abuse given to the atmosphere in recent and past times, Iceland was on a one way course to tropical. The area clashed against their choice of uniforms, almost advertising themselves to the eyes of others.

Fortunately, there wasn’t another soul in sight.

The ‘AV’s’ similarly stood out, but more in the fashion that Godzilla stands out among skyscrapers than that of a bad choice of camouflage. In the empty lot, the oblong beast towered above the men’s heads, its grey blending with small bits of brown rust. One could almost call it a tank, if one set cannon on top.

The men file in silently, and the vehicle roars into motion and sets out north-bound. The silence pervades the enclosed space as they sit on the benches along the side. The Captain rises from the secondary seat beside the driver, and grabs a bar running along the top. Again, he addresses the group in a deep, serious, and monotonous tone.

“Here’s the brief: We’re heading up to Mýrdalsjökull to raid the lab inside the glacier. They’re setting up a device to blow the volcano, and short to say, we’re not going to let them. This place might be ready for a rain forest, but that doesn’t mean the rest to the world is. If they get it to blow enough smoke, temperatures will drop again, and some places, like ours, can’t handle that.”

“We’re running low on batteries for the shockers, so we’re switching guns again. There are nerve darts under your seat. The blue ones will kill the yellows ones will paralyze. If they miss, they break and the liquid evaporates and gets them if they inhale. If you can’t get a clear shot, shoot low or far and you’ll get them. Just don’t miss at close range.”

Everyone who looked up to listen looked back down, and the same silence as before returned. The Captain steps back and taps the driver on the shoulder, and motions to the blond haired recruit. The Captain takes the drivers seat, and the blonde scrambles forward to take the other. The continous, overriding sound of the vehicle in motions seems to vanish as the two take the seats up front, though the silence from the back seeps into the front as well.

The Captain seems to relax after taking the wheel, and begins to speak casually to his choice of co-pilot. “So, what are your thoughts? You and Superman back there have barely said a word. Not as if no one else is talking, though.”

The blonde staring out the window barely moves at the question, stuck in his own mind. Slowly, however, he replies. “I’m just wondering how long this war has been going on.”

Knowingly, the Captain states “One hundred-eighty-two years, two months, and seventeen days, with no end in sight. If you’re lucky, you might just live to see the end of it.”

The blonde stays completely motionless, moving only his lips, yet voicing nothing. For a minute, there is silence again. “Now I wonder; what could have started something like this? Whose appetite is so sanguine as to let it continue?”

“I’m not sure anyone knows that anymore. At some point in the fighting, I think both sides gave up trying to argue and reason and simply settled for the others complete destruction. Both sides were too stubborn to compromise, and too stupid to move on, and now we’re ensured almost permanent jobs on the tropical frontier.”

The Captain sounds almost happy as he explains it. The Blonde, seemingly satisfied with questioning, settles to continue peering out the window as the terrain fly’s by.



The iron gate fitted to the ice to protect the entry into the glacier complex splits apart as the AV crashes through, colliding with a wall twenty meters in. The soldiers burst out of the back, shooting down the two guards protecting the doorway. They encounter no resistance as they sweep the facility of its occupants. Darts with blue and yellow marks stick out of the bodies of a dozen scientist and staff, all lying nearly, or completely lifeless on the floor.

The enter the laboratory, and six darts fly from the doorway and into three of the four scientist. The Captain aims his weapon towards the last, and is pushed aside by the masked soldier. He waves the others down as he watches the masked one approach the scientist menacingly.

“Let him have this. Supers always put on good, bloody shows.” He says to the others, lowering his weapon to watch.

The scientist retreats as the super approaches, hands empty. He picks up random lab equipment and frantically throws them as the fear in his eyes increases. Everything launched at the super, however, is batted down swiftly, and he continues at a steady, deliberate pace.

“Please, don’t do this!” The scientist screams, “I have a family, a kid! I have to support them with this!” His back hits the corner of the room and his terror peaks. He continues to beg, attempting to scramble farther back in the hopes the wall would move an each further. “”Please, don’t kill me! I’m sorry for working with them, I’ll work for you now! Please, don’t kill me, I’m sorry!”

The masked super is barely a meter away, the scientist cringing against the wall. Slowly, he draws his hand from his side, and places it in-between them, palm open. From beneath his mask, a voice, soft, nearly childish, can be heard, “We’re sorry.”

The scientist opens his eyes form behind his arms, and surprised, sees the outstretched hand. “We’re sorry, for the war. We shouldn’t have.” Across the room, the soldiers are equally startled. “We’ll forgive.”

Skeptical, the scientist reaches his hand out, only for it to be grabbed swiftly. He cringes again, but observing nothing to happen, looks up again, confusion still painted on his face. “Uh..”
“Will you forgive us as well?”

The scientist soon comes to perfect clarity with what’s being said, and begins to shake the masked ones hand. An expression of joy overtakes his features. “That’s all I need to hear. Yes, you are!”

Before another word is said, a dart hits the wall beside the scientist shoulder, and breaks out into a blue gas. Within seconds, both the scientist and the masked one are on the ground, about to die. The Captain, weapon ready, stands over the two.

“I happen to like my job; can’t let fools like you go and ruin it.”

DarkLightDragon
2006-12-08, 05:11 AM
Fat Daddy, are we supposed to judge these yet? I haven't but I don't want to leave it too late to read so many sure-to-be-interesting stories.

Fat Daddy
2006-12-08, 08:35 AM
Wait a sec... are we supposed to be involving BOTH wiki articles? :smalleek:

(this isn't a problem as a church and a glacier would fit in oddly well with what I'm writing)

I had originally intended for both articles to be used in the story. That was supposed to be the challenge, incorporating 2 unrelated topics into a single cohesive story. However, I (apparently) failed to make that clear and therefore for THIS round the writers can use only one if they so desire (though both is still preferred).


Fat Daddy, are we supposed to judge these yet? I haven't but I don't want to leave it too late to read so many sure-to-be-interesting stories.

You can start reading and writing your judgements at any time. Please DO NOT post your judgments until after the deadline has passed though.

Now I have been posting comments all along just because I know how much work goes into writing for this type of thing and thought the authors would appreciate some (unofficial) feedback. I am not an active judge at this time (plus we have 2 reserve judges who would also have to opt out before I would actually be an active judge) so I didn't feel that it would be a problem for me to post my comments. Speaking of which I will post comments for anyone I haven't yet commented on either tonight or tomorrow. Right now I am actually supposed to be working so I had better get going. Also, authors, please feel free to comment on each other's work if you so desire.

Tanon Sharpe
2006-12-08, 08:41 AM
Here's my entry about a horse (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Darley_Arabian) and an activist (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mohammad-Ali_Ramin)

Sorry, I posted this late last night under my alt account, but it is me.

Fat Daddy
2006-12-08, 08:56 AM
Sorry, I posted this late last night under my alt account, but it is me.
I was wondering who that was.:smallamused: Thanks for the clarification!

Gengy
2006-12-08, 05:12 PM
...damn school. I've got a peice mostly written... but I won't be able to finish it tonight. I STILL want to finish it, and when I do, I'll post it... but I guess I'm out of the running.

Maxymiuk
2006-12-08, 07:58 PM
Unfortunately, I have to bow out of the contest, on account of fickle muses who not so much failed me, as provided me with ideas on every topic except for the one I was supposed to write on.

Timberwolf, good luck with your next opponent.

The Vorpal Tribble
2006-12-08, 08:08 PM
Unfortunately, I have to bow out of the contest, on account of fickle muses who not so much failed me, as provided me with ideas on every topic except for the one I was supposed to write on.

Timberwolf, good luck with your next opponent.
*guffaws*

Same here. I'm about halfway through with a rather uninspired one I'm afraid, but I'm too stubborn to go without at least putting something on here ;)

However, I now probably have a good several dozen other ideas for future stories.

TheSilverKnight
2006-12-08, 08:52 PM
Ok heres my entry about Monopoly (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Monopoly_%28video_game%29)and film school (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/National_Film_and_Television_School)
1,523 words enjoy.



An Addict or a Champion



“How the hell do you manage to do this every time?” Sal asked, “There could be ten of us playing but somehow you managed to get every single property on the board you literally monopolized Monopoly.”

“Huh what did you say? I was counting my money.” Simon said without lifting his head.

Sal groaned and started picking up all the pieces and putting them away before Simon asked to play again.

“Do you honestly have to practice? I mean come on I have never seen you lose and the competition you are going to tomorrow is just a bunch of new competition players and a few pros what do you have to fear?” Sal asked frustrated, “You also interrupted my thinking making me play I have to come up with an idea for my film project the NFTS doesn’t just accept people willy nilly they think I am good and I have to prove it if I wanna keep my scholarship.” Sal angrily ranted.

“You know that was like three sentences crammed into one? How are you ever going to manage to write scripts I you can’t even speak right?” Simon said again not looking away from his pile of monopoly money, “Six million five hundred twenty-seven dollars. That was a bad game; I usually have more money than that after a one-on-one game.”


* * * *

Simon’s portable Monopoly game constantly beeped. Simon was so concerned with his professional Monopoly career (he played other board games professionally but only in the Monopoly off season) that he had the portable game installed into the steering wheel of the car.

“Ahhh watch out would you stop playing that infernal game and pay attention to the road, my blind grandmother drives better than you. That’s like the tenth time you almost crashed into something.” Sal said holding on to the dash board for his very life, “Also with your crazing driving and the incisive beeping of that game I still can’t think of an idea for my film.”

Beep beep beep bloop beep

Sal covered his ears and squeezed this eyes shut to block out the beeping. But even in the black abyss staring at the back of his eyelids he could hear it. Beep beep beep.

“I’ve got it!” Sal suddenly shouted accidentally punching the roof of the car while raising his hand in triumph.

“You’ve got what?” Simon asked absorbed in his game and still not looking at the road.

“An idea, for my film I mean. Ok, here it is a documentary about addiction. What do you think?” Sal blurted out these sentences in an excited hurried slur.

Simon laughed actually looking up at the road for a moment.

“Where are you going to find an addict who will let you follow them around and film them?”

“Right here in this car.” Sal said with a devious smile on his face.

“What!?” Simon slammed on the brakes (there just happened to be a stop sign or else he normally would have just ran past it), “I ma not an addict! I don’t do any drugs or drink or or watch obsessive amounts of adult films.” Simon shouted confused and angry.

“You’re addicted to Monopoly.” Sal replied in a contradicting voice.

Simon thought for a moment making an hmmmmm sound. “Well what do you know your right? Go ahead then film away I’m not ashamed of my addiction it makes me thousands of dollars a month.” Simon said content with him self as he floored the gas pedal and continued his game.

Sal quickly pulled his camera off of its belt strap and began recording Simon. Simon always had his camera on his belt or in his pack when it wasn’t glued to his hand filming anything for no reason at all.


* * * *

An hour passed in the car before it came to a screeching halt in a parking space at the convention center. A huge banner hanging at the entrance to the center read ‘Monopoly Professional Open Tournament’. Simon made an excited squealing noise and jumped out of the car and ran toward the entrance. Sal quickly got up to follow.

“This is great!” Sal said in excited joy as he chased after Simon, “I am so getting an A for this.”

Inside the convention center it was hard for Sal to follow Simon as he weaved in and out of the surprisingly huge amount of people (Surprising to Sal at least). It wasn’t hard for Sal to find examples of Simon’s addiction. One such moment he watched Simon sit and roll dice made of different materials with fancy patterns on them for an hour straight looking for a perfect set. But while Sal was filming another moment of addict gold as he was now referring to it a voice came over the intercom ‘All participants in the contest please report to the game floor’. Simon quickly grabbed the dice he deemed the best purchased them and raced off toward the game floor.

Simon sat on the sides and filmed Simon’s games trying to think what he would do with this footage. Some music began to play as somebody won a game at a table and Sal had a great idea.

“MONTAGE!” Sal stood up and shouted out loud as people gave him looks and shuffled away from him.

Simon turned from his game and looked at Sal. “Montage?”

“Montage.”

“Montage?”

“Montage.”

“Montage?”

“Yes!”

“Well then.” Simon said tuning back to his game apologizing to his opponent.



* * * *

Hours past and Sal ran out of tape just as the tournament finished. Simon won no surprises there. He made a big spectacle in front of the crowd but when they got out to the car he went back to being quiet and started playing the portable as soon as he got in the car.

“Drive fast home now go we must!” Sal said fast reviewing footage from the tournament excited, “I have to start cutting and editing this footage and I have to insert my dialog that I forgot to do while I was filming.”

“Was that first sentencing even English? Also how do you forget to speaking commentary dialog during a documentary.” Simon said uninterested playing his game.

It was a long drive from the convention center to Sal’s flat but he was excited so it went by fast.

“See you later.” Simon said as Sal rushed out of the car.



* * * *

Sal stayed up all that night cutting the footage and making his montage of the game footage. He actually managed to finish the whole documentary including his dialog before morning. At first light he saved his work and wrote it to a DVD and passed out on his desk the computer mouse still in his hand.

At about ten in the mourning there was a knock at the door. Sal stirred awake and shuffled over to the door.

“Who is it?”

There was no answer accept a beeping. Sal unlocked the door and shuffled off toward the kitchen and started making some tea. Simon opened the door and walked in.

“Up all night weren’t you?”

Sal replied with a groan and came out of the kitchen with a cup of tea and sat down on the couch in front of the television.

“You finish it?”

At this question Sal jumped up and ran to his computer and grabbed the DVD from the computers open disk tray. “Yes, I did what of it?”

“How do you manage to sort through six hours of footage and turn it into a documentary in ten?”

“Because I am the man!”

“Right, when is it due anyway?”

Sal looked at the clock. “In twenty minuets.” Sal said, “Hurry take me to class.”

“You have a car why can’t you drive yourself?”

“Because you are the only person who seems to be able to get away with driving like a maniac.”

“True, let’s go”

With in fifteen minuets they had driven to the NFTS campus.

“Thanks man. Hey, could you come pick me up in like three hours I just have to watch my film with the Prof and get it graded. I’ll get us dinner or something after.” Sal said as he climbed out of the car and ran off to class.

“Sure.” Simon yelled at Sal as he ran off.



* * * *

A few hours past and Simon drove back to the NFTS campus and found Sal sitting on the curb hunched over. Sal got in the car and sat there silent.

“So how did you score?”

“I got a C” Sal said depressed

“Why what didn’t the Prof Like?”

“One word, montage.”

“What! How can you not like a montage? What song did you use?”

“’You’re the Best’ by Joe Esposito why?”

Simon broke out laughing. “You used the song from ‘Karate Kid’ no wonder you got a C. Any way you promised dinner I’m hungry lets go.”

“Yah well you’re an addict.”

Simon didn’t answer he just started playing his game.

Beep beep beep.

NOTE: I coun't get the indents to appear so I uses enters hope nobody minds.

Also can't wait to see my opponents entry.

-TheSK-

The Vorpal Tribble
2006-12-08, 11:50 PM
Talk about racing the clock...

_/ _/ _/ _/ _/ _/ _/ _/ _/ _/

The Northman

A thin layer of frost glittered blindingly with the reflected rays of the sun, piercing as shards of crystal in the clear arctic sky. Huge, browned men in layers of furs that glistened with oil pushed and pulled the oars of their wide knorr tirelessly through the icy sea. The single large sail in the center of the ship lie flat and untouched by any winds, as it had for the last week. Three of the men and an older boy did not row, peering over the side into a cloud of tiny shrimp darting around the bow. Occasionally one of the krill would dart off from the main group and disappear for a time. One of these men abruptly lifted his head and pointed out to sea. The boy dashed off to the keel and redirected the course of the ship. A shadow of a single resting beluga just beneath the surface came into view some time later and all fetched their harpoons. The boy took a large, weighted net from a corner and squatted patiently by the boat side. At a gesture from one of the men, he tossed out the net with a practiced motion over its form and quickly bent to tie the attached rope to a hook. Inexperienced, he assumed the whale would be in deep sleep, and was startled to see it swiftly dart forward within its entanglement. As he was pulled over the side one of the whalers hurled his barbed spear into the side of the beluga. It thrashed about wildly and dived deep, dragging the boy deeper and deeper within the frigid waters. Moments later he slashed through the rope with his knife but as he swam for the far surface he felt his muscles slowing as the cold invaded his body. With the blackening sight of oxygen deprivation he forced himself to calm, slipping into the trance of prayer meditation. As his lungs screamed for air and all feeling faded, he prayed with desperate pleading, "Please aid me..."

-=-=-=-=-

"Magistrate, magistrate!" a voice called, knocking at the door. A thin man of barely middle age looked up from the scrolls upon which he had been writing and scowled. He continued in his work at his leisure for perhaps a minute more before slowly approaching the door.

"I assume you have reason for disturbing me in my duty to the holy scribes?" he questioned grimly to the short robed figure, which below the cowl showed a visage hardly more than a child.

"Yes magistrate, I believe so." the messenger replied. "There is a small company of men seeking admittance. Those at the dock"

Walking to a window the magistrate peered outwards. From his vantage point two stories up he saw upon the cobbles before the church was at least two dozen men. All seemed to be wearing furs and leathers of some kind, and all towered head and shoulders above the holy guards that blocked their admittance.

The magistrate's eyes narrowed. "Barbarian heathens!" he cried.

"But they sport no weapons..."

"It matters not. When last our shores were invaded I saw the blasphemers tear with even their teeth." the magistrate responded as he swept down the stairs to the lower levels. A number of priests were gathered on the terrace.

"Have them seized!" he commanded to a guard waiting anxiously.

"Your holiness, Ragnheidur, they have a boy with him. Badly injured. They are not as the invaders. Their eyes are soft and they do not wear the markings or scars."

Ragnheidur paused and cast a jaundiced look in the newcomers direction. After the old magistrate had been killed in the battle that last year only the circumstances had allowed his position. His reputation as a warrior and pious soul were a combination that was just what was needed. It would do much for him if he were to show compassion even for these filthy pagans from across the sea.

"Very well, but only the boy and two others may enter. The others shall sit upon the grass. If they are hungered give them soup." he said, his expression resigned.

The gates were opened and words exchanged. The leather-clad men forged forth and the guards shouted. The men responded in a tongue unknown to the guards and continued on. They halted however when blades were drawn and they were surrounded by a circle of swords.

One man stepped forward however until the point of the sword pierced slightly his clothing. In his arms was a giant of a child, but obviously youthful if not already surpassing five feet in height. His body was gaunt and his skin wrinkled while his leather robes hung loosely.

"Meg sønnen , ville du ikke del for seg?" the man said, his voice calm and gentle, though with a hint of buried anger.

"Move not one step further, barbarian." the guard commanded.

"Meg sønnen..." the man said, holding out a questing hand.

"I said back!" the guard said and lifted his sword when the magistrate's voice rose behind him.

"Let this man pass."

"Yes holiness." the guard replied as he stepped quickly to the side.

"Åge!" the giant man called, and one of the figures came forth, his hair streaked with white and his elderly face deep with lines. Despite this the magistrate was sure he could lift any of his men and hurl him over the gates.

The elderly fellow bowed his head to Ragnheidur and held out an enormous hand as leathery as his attire. Revulsion filled the magistrate but he grasped the hand quickly, pulling it away somewhat more swiftly than was polite, but the fingers caught it in an unbreakable grip. He felt a strange surge of something travel up his spine and a strange feeling of giddiness thrill through.

~I am Åge. My grandson, he has long slept after falling into the waters. A storm has kept us from returning to our lands and sent us here. He needs bed and food. My people saw this as a holy place. Will you grant him succor?~ the magistrate sensed was being said, though he was only vaguely aware that the sounds in their barbarous tongue was the same as before.

"Y...yes. We will provide for him. Hrafn! Find Jonas, we have a child for his care."

~Our thanks. May the one most high watch over you.~ the elderly man said, and released him. At once his feet seemed to replant themselves upon the ground.

Ragnheidur blinked several times and tried hard to recall what had just occurred.

As he tried to recount to himself what he had just experienced the two leather-clad men and the boy were shown inside. Along a hallway and up a ramp they arrived at a set of double doors leading within the hospice.

The man carrying the boy set him down upon a bed and stood up straight. Åge knelt down beside him and beckoned to the magistrate. Ragnheidur approached warily and the old man gripped his wrist.

~Please, have them bring food, he has slept very long.~ the old man's voice spoke, again seeming more to be felt than heard.

"It will be brought, but first he will be looked over."

~No, he will be fine. But hungered, oh so hungered.~

A man of truly advanced age then walked within. He did not walk with the limp or sliding stumble of one approaching the ranks of a centenarian, but rather one walking atop eggshells. One foot was lifted and brought down with considerable care and then the next. He approached the bed and looked the boy over and licked the back of his hand which was put before the boy's mouth. He pressed a hand against the thin chest and his yellowed eyes narrowed. He then straightened up as much as he was able and shook his head.

"He has departed to the next world..." the considerable elder informed them and bowed his head before beginning the arduous journey to the southern reaches of the room some ten feet away.

~No, no, this is foolishness, please, nourishment must be brought!~

The magistrate wrenched his hand away from the northman.

"I have already done more than wisdom encouraged. I will not give feast to a corpse of a barbarian!" he hissed.

Son and grandfather exchanged confused glances.

"Jeg ikke oppfatte, hvis du ville atter ta meg hånd..." the older man began.

"Speak no more to me in that tongue. Speak to me as before!" the magistrate commanded.

The old man reached back out to make contact.

The magistrate stepped back quickly, "Keep to yourself, barbarian."

The younger of the two men abruptly stood and tapped quickly the throat of his son and pinched the flesh between thumb and forefinger.

"Stige og riste du selv, stige nå og ta inn pust!" he whispered into the child's ear.

-=-=-=-=-=-

Mickle felt a jolt as his bodily functions slowly began to wake from the self-induced coma. Vague feeling and an awareness of self slowly came to him, along with the rush of memories of his life. His body came under his control and he opened eyes that saw naught but shadows that quickly took on the color and shape of his father.

-=-=-=-=-=-

The magistrate and others were walking out the door when they heard a sudden, shuddering intake of breath. The boy coughed hoarsely and tried to sit up though his father slowly pushed him back down. The man's expression of relief unreadable to any but the grandfather.

"Devilry, WITCHCRAFT!" Ragnheidur roared. "When I heard that voice in my head I should have known! Guards!"

The northmen didn't understand the words being spoken, but it wasn't a difficult task to get the gist of the situation. Mickle was scooped up by his grandfather and the two men looked about alertly, but still with the unflappable calmness that seemed to be the mark of their people.

The younger man glanced to his senior and nodded. Towards a window they began to run and the younger leaped, a jump that carried him through, wrenching the frame from the stone. The grandfather followed after through the cleared space. From two stories they fell, and though neither man could have weighed less than several hundred pounds, the shock was taken with only the bending down to one knee.

They both ran around the side of the church and down to the gates where their people waited. The northmen turned to look and all stepped to put themselves between the intercepting guards and the two men and boy.

-=-=-=-=-=-

They were to be pursued for several months, fleeing the city and deep within the wilderness of the island. They might have succeeded in going back to the docks by fighting, but many lives were sure to be lost, and none of the northmen could conceive of slaughtering merely to return home.

They eventually found themselves in an inhospitable place of great rivers and steep rocks. Near the volcano Katla in these frigid wastes they eventually eluded their pursuers, who in the end tired of the chase. They were trapped however, and knew that if they were to appear in any of the towns they would be instantly noticed, for few of the population stood well over six feet in height and none could quite match the girth of these mountainous men. With stone and nearby timber they constructed a longhouse where when they were not spending their time merely trying to survive they sat and prayed.

For the next eight years of his life Mickle was trained in the discipline of his people, in the meditative prayer that opened their minds to their god and to their inner selves that combined had allowed them abilities unknown to other mortal folk. Any possible fear of the rumbling, unstable land he may have had were conquered by his continuing trips out with his father. Once he was older he made many trips himself, studying the stars and exploring the coastline. His insatiable curiosity also took him to traveling for months through the mountain ranges that stretched out of sight. While out he would fast for many days, devoting himself to pure contemplation and prayer, seeking God's will for the future. The others saw within Mickle a well of fathomless depth to draw from. He was nearing his sixteenth year while on one of his many excursions that he heard a great thunder that rattled the very earth coming from the direction of his home. He spent the rest of the day traveling as swiftly as he could to find that the volcano had erupted violently. The house and the only family and friends he had ever known lie buried under a small, stone-filled lake of melted ice water and mud. The self control that had been taught him cracked ever so slightly and his body shook with wracking, silent sobs.

He took to wandering the land all his waking hours, living the life of a roaming hermit. Only his faith was able to console him, and it dawned on him eventually that no matter how far he walked, he could not move far enough to escape the pain of his loss. On one of his many hikes he had found within a nearby mountain the entrance to large cavern. Here he returned and with great dedication widened it. The insides as well he cleared and cut with chisels. From the fat of the animals he hunted he fashioned many a candle to light the interior.

Above the entrance was carved, 'For Your Glory.'

Unknown to him as he labored, a civil war had erupted across the island. Shortly many refugees began to pass through, desperation taking them where they would before have never considered. They were amazed to find the tiny church nestled within the glacial valley of Mýrdalsjökull. Here they were aided and given shelter and food by this strange giant amongst men. Many of those that came through with wounds or disease left whole of body. It was said that this hermit would take the pain of others upon himself, no matter how dire the disease or horrible the contusion. Within the course of the day however he would heal, the injuries fading away at a viewable rate.

As word spread, many made the pilgrimage to seek his healing and might spend months wandering in search of the cavern. It was several years later that a blind man, aided only by a staff stumbled in.

"Hello? Hello?" he called.

Mickle stood up from his bed of furs in a hidden section of the cave system. He squinted against the dim light come from outside and spotted the stooped man at the entrance. His eyes were cloudy with blindness and black lines were etched permanently into his face.

"How long have you been without sight?" he questioned, leading the man to a seat.

"Some number of years. I was caught within a burning building and the smoke took my eyes." the man replied.

"Then the smoke I will take away again."

"I am not certain that I am worthy. Perhaps it was a punishment from the lord, and I would agree that I have done much to deserve it. Tell me holy healer, should one such as me be blessed by your touch?"

"Why would you not?" Mickle inquired.

-=-=-=-=-=-=-

"...and that is the whole of it." the man finished some time later as they sat around a table, sharing a simple meal.

Mickle's face was an ocean of turbulent emotion but he sighed and a faint smile came to his lips, one filled with unexpected relief.

"My friend, you are forgiven." the giant man said at last.

"Then the lord, he has spoken to you?"

"In so many ways. However, it is not He who has spoken of His forgiveness."

"I do not understand holy one."

"I forgive you Ragnheidur."

averagejoe
2006-12-09, 01:57 AM
A little over two thousand words. Enjoy.

Mystery surrounds me, and I wonder where I'm going
There's a cloud above me and it seems to hide the way

Paul Rodgers’ voice came sharply through the headphones, the beats and rhythm of the song bridging the divide to Kit’s ears. She swayed ever so slightly to the sounds, not wanting to call attention to herself, but wanting to get into the groove. The store’s florescent lighting cast an eerie glow over everything, and the sterile white walls were almost sickening to even look at. Even the station that let you sample CD’s looked pretty revolting, with none of the sleek style of store bought players. Kit’s eyes were closed, however, and her ears were covered by headphones. She knew that here, with her eyes closed and her mind focused on the songs, that she could almost forget it all, forget the oppressions and discomforts of life.

I'm going straight ahead, 'cos it's the only way I know
I wanna leave the past, and leave just for today

In fact, it sometimes seemed to Kit that her entire being was focused on forgetting life. It was not, after all, considered to be ether proper or attractive for young ladies to wear their hear short and spiked. The blue didn’t help things either. And don’t even get started on her fashion choices.

Now then tell me baby, do you need my love?
Tell me baby, are you thinking of me?
Tell me baby, what it is you need?
What kind of satisfaction guaranteed?

Really, it wasn’t so bad these days. Socially deviant behavior had been growing steadily, well, normal, and Kit wasn’t sure if she should be pleased or saddened by this. Even so, people had expected her to grow out of it, but she didn’t. Now, here she was, a weirdo college dropout living with her parents who would still rather screw around with her friends than get a job.

Sitting in the gutter with my head wrapped in my hands
I've been drinking all night, and I just can't stand the pain

"What’s that you’re listening to?" A voice brought Kit from the depths of her thoughts and back to reality. She opened her eyes to meet the sharp, intelligent eyes of her friend, Stephen. Most people thought of him as the smart guy who was a little off. Kit thought of him as the only other person crazy enough to act as childish as she did. She pressed pause and lowered the headphones.

"The Firm. It’s pretty good. You want a turn?"

Stephen snorted. "Please. Zeppelin was cool, but Page never did anything good after that. Firm reeks."

"Yeah, well you can go check out your, ‘Gnarly McDepressing," or whatever it is you listen to these days." Kit put the headphones back on and pressed play.

It took an awful lot of trouble just to make me understand
Now it's clear to me, but will it ever be the same?

Kit stopped swaying for a moment as a look of puzzlement crept over her face. She slowly put her hands to the headphones, now concentrating on the music intensely. There was something... A thought she couldn’t quite grasp. Just out of reach of her consciousness, floating there, like a lost wrench on a space station.

Now then tell me baby, do you need my love?
Tell me baby, are you thinking of me?
Tell me baby, what it is you need?
What kind of satisfaction guaranteed?

A memory floated up from the dank depths of Kit’s unconsciousness, floating up but not quite breaching the surface. She couldn’t quite place it, or even visualize it. She knew it was there, though, and a powerful feeling of deja vu swept over her.

Head upon the highway, just as fast as I could go
I rode through the night, and halfway through the day
I had no direction I didn't even want to know where I was going
The only thing I knew, was that I had to get away

Kit slowly lowered the headphones, staring out into space, trying to grasp that tenuous thread of memory. She must have looked like she had gone into a trance, or something, because Stephen came up to her and asked, "Hey, are you alright?"

The memories disappeared as suddenly as they had came, and Kit snapped out of her trance. "What? Oh, yeah. I’m fine. Yeah..." Kit trailed off, now examining the album cover. "Stephen, do you have any money on you?"

"Yeah, I have a few bucks. But why..."

"You need to buy me this."
"What? Look, if you want a new album I’ll spot you the money, but that’s just terrible. I can’t let you have that in good conscience."

"Stephen, this is really important, and I don’t have time to listen to your musical elitism. Please, I’ll explain later, I just need to have this album."

Stephen sighed and reached into his pocket for some money. He had his convictions, but knew when to act serious. He handed over the money without saying anything more.

Kit tore the CD case open as soon as she made it out of the store and hustled to Stephen’s car. "I need to use your car’s CD player," she said hurriedly.

"What? Aw, don’t make me listen to them too."

The half-realized memory flashed through Kit’s mind. Kit tried to grasp it once more, but it slipped through, forgotten. "Stephen, really, this is important." Stephen rolled his eyes and got in the car, turning on the electrical systems. Kit popped the CD in immediately and sat there, staring at the CD display and listening to the CD intently. She sat in silence through the first song. Then through the second.

"What..." Stephen began, but Kit cut him off with a "shhh" and a dirty look. She listened to the third, fourth, and fifth songs as Stephen paced around outside. "Look," he said finally, "this is going to run me out of batteries, if it hasn’t already. We’ll go back to my place and you can listen to it there." Kit nodded and ejected the CD. Stephen ignited the car and set off.

"What’s with you anyways," Stephen asked when they were on the road, driving out of the city and into the outlying suburbs, "What’s so important about this?"

Kit said nothing for a few minutes. Then she said softly, almost in whisper, "I don’t know." She spoke up, "I just get this feeling when I hear the songs. Like a memory, from long ago, that I can’t quite remember. Does that make sense?"

Stephen nodded and said nothing else for the rest of the drive. They both lived about half an hour out of the city, but there was nothing really to do out there, so they often drove in together. Kit watched the scenery go by; it was familiar, but it also seemed to Kit that she was seeing it for the first time.
The day wore on. Kit popped the CD into Stephen’s player almost as she reached the apartment, and sat still until well into the evening. Stephen went out grocery shopping and came back to find Kit asleep in her chair and the CD still playing on repeat. He covered her with his blanket and went to bed himself, troubled by the day’s events and worried about his friend. He stared at his ceiling for a long time before his eyes finally grew heavy and he drifted off to sleep.

The next day Kit was in a frenzy. She tore through Stephen’s books, looking through everything she could get her hands on. She looked through everything she could find, looking for something, anything familiar. She went through fiction, anthologies, biographies, literary journals, everything. Finally, she settled on a page in an atlas, turned to the state of Wisconsin. "There," she told Stephen, "I have to go there."
"Good luck with that," Stephen snorted, not looking forward to cleaning up his apartment after she had pulled every book off the shelf.

"Please, Stephen," Kit was nearly in a panic, "There’s something to this, just below the surface. It’s like an alarm in my brain, but I can’t tell what the alarm is for." She began to pace, lashing out with her arms to emphasize her words. "I’m telling you, this is important. I need to find out what’s eating at my brain so badly."

Stephen looked around and weighed his options. He thought about the hassle, and the cost, of driving to Wisconsin. Then he looked at the desperation in his friend’s eyes and gave in.

"Alright. Let’s go."

The drive there was quiet, except for the album Kit would play every once in awhile, to try to reawaken those memories. They ate and slept when the drive became too exhausting, then hit the road early the next day. Stephen tried to make conversation a couple of times, but Kit said next to nothing. As she watched the road it was if there was some grand transformation in the highway ahead of her. She neared her destination, and it seemed more and more familiar to her. Soon she started directing Stephen, telling him where to get off, which roads to take. She had never been outside of New York in her life, but there was an urgent familiarity to the roads, as if someone had laid out a golden path for her to follow. Finally, they came to a sign, and Kit knew she had reached the end of her destination: Welcome to Loganville.

Kit nearly ran through the streets of Loganville, ignoring the looks she got from people about her appearance, ignoring the shouts of, "freak," aimed at Stephen and herself. "This place is total hicksville. Lets get out of here, yeah?" Stephen whispered, but there was an urgent speed in Kit’s gait. Left. Right. Left. Left. Right. Kit stopped in front of a house, like most of the other houses, but somehow it seemed to stand out. It drew Kit. She trembled as she went up to the house, not sure whether to feel scared, exhilarated, or stupid, but the house seemed to call out to her, and it was too late to come back. As she reached out to knock on the door, Kit realized she had no idea what she’d say. Still, she had to know.

The door opened, and Kit half expected to see aliens, or men with shotguns, or something. She was wholly unprepared for what did open the door: the most familiar stranger Kit had ever met.

The woman who opened the door froze the minute she laid eyes on Kit; her face went white and her mouth was frozen into an "O." Kit was sure she had never seen this woman in her life; this much she knew. At least, that’s what her head told her. She had a feeling, though, that said that she was intimately familiar with this woman; that she loved this woman. Kit tried to subdue the feeling; there was no rational reason to think that she knew this woman. Even so...

Finally, after half a minute of staring at one another, the woman spoke. Her voice was nearly a whisper, as if she didn’t dare to hope that what she was seeing was real. "Katherine? Is that you?" Kit’s eyes widened; the woman knew her name. "You’ve come home," the woman said, on the verge of tears, and threw her arms around Kit. Suddenly, it all came back to her, the memories hitting her like a tempest wind.

Thoughts came into her head, and it seemed as if Kit’s world was split asunder, into two warring factions. There was all of a sudden these new memories, that Kit knew didn’t belong to her life, but seemed more real than any of the memories she had. This house, the woman, the town; she had grown up here. She didn’t live in New York with her parents; she lived alone, but thought it was her parents for some reason. Did she really live here, in Loganville, Wisconsin? Which of her memories were real? Were any memories real?

The world seemed to spin, and darkness drew around Kit. "Kit!" "Oh, God, what’s wrong?" "Call for help!" The words blurred together, indistinct. Kit’s eyes closed, and her last thought was to wonder if this conversation was even real.

* * * * *

The first thing Kit was aware of was the noise of an engine and the jostling of a dirt road, a jostling so oddly familiar to one who had grown up driving over asphalt. She forced her eyes open, and the world was blurry at first, but gradually it came into focus. There was a man standing over her. A doctor, or something, from the look of him. He seemed to be preparing a needle for injection. Kit realized that she was inside an ambulance.

The medical officer looked over to her. "Oh, you’re awake. No, don’t try to move yet. Just relax. That was quite an ordeal you went through." The medical officer picked up her wrist and felt her pulse. "I can imagine that you have a lot of questions running through your mind. Our subjects usually do, when they figure it out."

"Wha... What?" Kit managed to stammer, "What do you mean? What’s happening to me."

"You," the medical officer said, then stopped to think, "well, it’s so hard to begin. It’s always like this. You’d think they’d have make a pamphlet by now." He stopped to laugh, and then continued, "You see, your brain’s been, shall we say, broken into. Luckily, we were onto your attacker, and were keeping tabs on you. Abducting you would have seemed suspicious, so we waited until you have an episode. Sure, we could grab you off the street, but less questions are asked this way."

"My memories." Kit’s voice was very weak and slow, but the medical officer seemed to have patience.

"Fake. It’s likely that your memories of Wisconsin are fake too. They often create several false lives, to better cover their tracks if the subject happens to remember their old lives. It’s like the false memories are in layers, and you need to break through each layer to get to the next one. Such a thing can happen spontaneously, and is usually triggered by something that the subject had a strong emotional attachment to in their ‘real’ remembered life. But, enough of that for now. It’s time for you to rest. You will be put into recovery, and more of your questions will be answered. I should tell you now, though, that your memories may never be recovered."

Kit lay back, taking in all this information, suddenly doubting the reality of her life. She thought of the road behind her, and suddenly wasn’t sure if any of it was real. She thought of the road ahead. Perhaps she would find answers there.

Fat Daddy
2006-12-09, 05:51 AM
Well it looks like Vorpal Tribble made the deadline with 10 whole minutes to spare. Unfortunately, and I hate to be the bearer of bad news, averagejoe posted 1 hour 57 minutes past the deadline.

Judges, start your engines. Once all the judgements are in, I will post official brackets for the next round along with links and I will re-post the rules/guidelines with clarifications. Thanks everyone! I hope you all are having as much fun with this as I am.

Bryn
2006-12-09, 07:01 AM
Did Amotis post a story? I don't think so, but I hope I don't win by default... Just because.

Fat Daddy
2006-12-09, 10:25 AM
Did Amotis post a story? I don't think so, but I hope I don't win by default... Just because.
Post #127 on page 5. Amotis was actually the first one to post an entry.

Bryn
2006-12-09, 10:45 AM
Don't know how I missed that. Thanks though.

Well, there goes any possible chance of me winning...:smalltongue:

Amotis, good luck in the next competition!

King_of_GRiffins
2006-12-09, 12:47 PM
Well, there goes any possible chance of me winning...:smalltongue:

My thoughts exactly. If I do lose, at least I lost to VT :smallbiggrin:

Well, pre-cheers for the winners, I hope the next contest begins earlier than Feb.

DarkLightDragon
2006-12-09, 12:53 PM
My thoughts exactly. If I do lose, at least I lost to VT :smallbiggrin:

Well, pre-cheers for the winners, I hope the next contest begins earlier than Feb. That would be nice. I'm having trouble deciding wether I want to enter the next one or stay a judge though!

averagejoe
2006-12-09, 01:25 PM
Well it looks like Vorpal Tribble made the deadline with 10 whole minutes to spare. Unfortunately, and I hate to be the bearer of bad news, averagejoe posted 1 hour 57 minutes past the deadline.


Oh, shoot. I forgot about the whole eastern time thing. I thought I was a good hour before the deadline. Blah. Ah, well, there's always next time.

Yawielas
2006-12-09, 07:15 PM
I haven't read all of the entries yet, but I must say I'm deeply impressed by the writing talents of the other participants. Very nice work, people:)

Timberwolf
2006-12-09, 08:22 PM
Sorry guys, RL hit me massively hard last week. This is (1,20am, thawing my hands out after driving the last 3 hours) the first uninterrupted 5 mins I've had to myself since monday. Bah, life sucks sometimes, better luck next time I hope.

DarkLightDragon
2006-12-10, 01:34 AM
Since I have nothing else to do right now, I'll begin the judging.

The Vorpal Tribble
2006-12-10, 02:06 AM
Since I have nothing else to do right now, I'll begin the judging.
Thats what I like in a judge. Enthusiasm!

DarkLightDragon
2006-12-10, 03:20 AM
Brackets will be posted as they are judged. The others are coming.

***

Amotis vs Z-Axis


Amotis


Amotis’ Entry by Amotis

Comments:

The story has an interesting introduction, and I like that you described the man so we can get an image of him and a feel for what he is doing.

As for the part in italics, it was a bit hard to read in a large block. However, I managed to read all of it, and the part about priests for the god of false gods was amusing.

The only thing that really annoyed me was the fact that it was in a large block and not paragraphs. When things are hard to read, I usually lose interest. In the end, I only read on because I had to judge this. I suggest that you use paragraphs next time, to make things easier on the eyes, which will in turn be likely to improve your marks. I understand that you seem to be trying to get an essay-like effect, but unfortunately my eyes didn’t quite appreciate it.

The conversation between Jeremy and Mum was pretty good. I didn’t laugh, but it was good because, being a teen, I find it easy to relate to that in my life (Dinner’s ready! Can you do this, please? Did you hear me? You were supposed to do that ages ago!). I especially liked the use of multiple letters when the mother says Jeremy’s name.

The articles seem to fit well. I like how you integrated them into the story.


Z-Axis


Story by Z-Axis

Comments:

Great story. I was hooked and wanted to read more! I’d have to say that this is one of the best robbery stories I’ve read. There was at least one typo, though, so you should proof read a bit more for a better score. This is a very interesting and easy to read story and the articles were integrated very well.


Verdict

Verdict: Z-Axis wins


***

Angela vs Tanon Sharpe


Angela


Story by Angela

Comments:

I wouldn’t call the story shabby. I actually liked reading it. What made the story interesting was that it was told from thoughts and in a first-person perspective. There’s only one thing wrong:


After 36 decades on this earth

36 decades=360 years… That’s impossible. I know you (hopefully) meant years, but you would do well to proof-read for little errors like that. All in all, this is a nice story in which the articles were brought together almost perfectly.


Tanon Sharpe


Story by Tanon Sharpe

Comments:

This is a good story which I liked reading, but the end confused me a bit. Different fonts for different characters made things interesting. The italics were used effectively as well. Although the articles were brought together in an unusual way, I must say that it definitely added to the story.


Verdict


Verdict: Tanon Sharpe wins



***

Calliach vs ZombieRockStar


Calliach


Story by Calliach

Comments:

I liked the plot of the story. Character meets someone then gets forced into undercover work. Similar to the Alex Rider series, but Alex is a good spy, although (very) reluctant. The dialogue is also interesting. However, there are a few typos and I’m a bit disappointed with the involvement of the articles. I had to read them again after the story to pick them up, and even then I found it hard to understand. The story itself is okay, though, but I’d like to see a better reference for next time.


ZombieRockStar


The 37th Hottest Woman in the World by ZombieRockStar

Comments:

This was interesting. I liked it. The dialogue was amusing and the song lyrics were good. Article references were also good and fitted well with the story.


Verdict


Verdict: ZombieRockStar wins



***

Cult of the Raven vs Elvaris


Cult of the Raven


Sanddream by Cult of the Raven

Comments:

That was a good story. I like the dream/other world ideas you put into it. The articles were referenced nicely and made things more weird and dream-like.


Elvaris


Story by Elvaris

Comments:

It’s interesting how this story is set as a conversation between two people and tells of a story of the past. I liked reading it and was interested by the “recording”, the dialogue and the non-dialogue at the end. Both articles were brought together in a way that made the story seem real. This is a good piece of work.


Verdict


Verdict: Elvaris wins

Bryn
2006-12-10, 04:43 AM
Brackets will be posted as they are judged. The others are coming.

Amotis vs Z-Axis


Amotis


Amotis’ Entry by Amotis

Comments:

The story has an interesting introduction, and I like that you described the man so we can get an image of him and a feel for what he is doing.

As for the part in italics, it was a bit hard to read in a large block. However, I managed to read all of it, and the part about priests for the god of false gods was amusing.

The only thing that really annoyed me was the fact that it was in a large block and not paragraphs. When things are hard to read, I usually lose interest. In the end, I only read on because I had to judge this. I suggest that you use paragraphs next time, to make things easier on the eyes, which will in turn be likely to improve your marks. I understand that you seem to be trying to get an essay-like effect, but unfortunately my eyes didn’t quite appreciate it.

The conversation between Jeremy and Mum was pretty good. I didn’t laugh, but it was good because, being a teen, I find it easy to relate to that in my life (Dinner’s ready! Can you do this, please? Did you hear me? You were supposed to do that ages ago!). I especially liked the use of multiple letters when the mother says Jeremy’s name.

The articles seem to fit well. I like how you integrated them into the story.


Z-Axis


Story by Z-Axis

Comments:

Great story. I was hooked and wanted to read more! I’d have to say that this is one of the best robbery stories I’ve read. There was at least one typo, though, so you should proof read a bit more for a better score. This is a very interesting and easy to read story and the articles were integrated very well.


Verdict

Verdict: Z-Axis wins


:smallconfused:

:smallsmile:

:smallbiggrin::smallbiggrin::smallbiggrin:
:smallbiggrin::smallbiggrin::smallbiggrin:

That's how I felt after reading the verdict. Thanks! :smallbiggrin:

Also, where was the typo you found? I won't be able to change the entry now, but I will be able to change the file in case I want to show it anywhere else.

DarkLightDragon
2006-12-10, 07:29 AM
-snip- Also, where was the typo you found? I won't be able to change the entry now, but I will be able to change the file in case I want to show it anywhere else. I have no real desire to read the stories again right now, but I might look for it later.

I generated two random articles myself just for fun. I got an anime character and James Campbell. BOOM! Instant idea! If only I had those articles in a contest :smallsmile:

Amotis
2006-12-10, 02:56 PM
Aww okay. Good Job Z-Axis. I had to mess with you on yesterdays math test too. : )
I shall return when the next contest is run! Look to the west!

Bryn
2006-12-10, 03:25 PM
If the other judges disagree, you might still win.

Dispozition
2006-12-10, 06:42 PM
First two pairs of my judging are done.

Amotis vs Z-Axis
Amotis
The introduction to the character at the start was possibly unneeded, but it ties in well with the story. Now, me being somewhat young, therefore somewhat naïve, I didn’t quite follow the main part of the story at first. However, when it started talking about Das Bardus it seemed to flow somewhat better. The ending of the story is rather witty, and I laughed a little.
All in all, a rather solid piece.


Z-Axis
I found this story much easier to read than Amotis’, but that’s more than likely because of my preference in genres. I think that you used the name Finn, when you could have used he, a little to much. The ending was rather abrupt compared to the rest of the story, but still a good way to end the sequence.
All up, it was well put together and a good piece.


Verdict
Well…This wasn’t too hard a decision, but neither was it easy. Both stories are good in their own right, however, I think Z-Axis is the winner.

Angela vs Tanon Sharpe
Angela
This is a good story. It incorporates the articles well, and it’s interesting. I like the idea of a ruby grating eternal life, and that it was found in the shoe of a horse. I can’t really point out many bad things about the story, however the ending is somewhat lacking. It could have had a little more body to it.
A well put together story and very intresting.


Tanon Sharpe
Well…Rather interesting, in a good way as well. This is a very good story, and the ideas behind it are excellent. The introduction was very well done, and the description of the skyline was superb. A more detailed description of Mansour would have been nice because I’m still not totally sure whether you intended him to be a horse or a humanoid.
I can gladly say this story was excellent.


Verdict
This was extremely hard to judge. Both entries are brilliant and incorporate the topics very well. However, Tanon’s story had more depth and was slightly better put together. So, Tanon Sharpe is the winner.

More coming at a later date...

Fat Daddy
2006-12-10, 11:58 PM
I'm going to post the judgement tallies and advancement on the first post so you can check there to see the vote summaries.

Brickwall
2006-12-11, 12:04 AM
I don't suppose that AJ and I are being judged at all? Because I'd hate to win against a better author. It feels so dirty.

Incedentally, I am unhappy that all the good authors are being advanced. That means I'll have to compete with them! And it'll get harder as I move up!
Wait...
Let me rephrase that so I don't sound like a total dimwit.

Fat Daddy
2006-12-11, 12:42 AM
Incedentally, I am unhappy that all the good authors are being advanced. That means I'll have to compete with them! And it'll get harder as I move up!
Wait...
Let me rephrase that so I don't sound like a total dimwit.

Too late!! :smallsmile:

Also, let me continue with my comments.
Comments on Yawielas' story:
Very good job on incorporating both articles. I thought it was handled very smoothly. I never would have guessed that a composer and a teacher's association could be used to write a story about picking up a girl!

I enjoyed the...well not so much character development as the revealing of Stephen's character to the reader. I liked the character and the story itself was a very amusing read. The fact that I liked the character says alot as I don't like/relate to the 'sensitive tough guy' normally.

There were some awkward phrasings that detracted from the story and one of them was the very FIRST line! "Stephen noticed her as soon as he sat his foot inside the bar." I think something like 'stepped foot inside the bar' or 'stepped into the barroom' would not have felt so awkward (just my not so humble opinion). There were a few other phrasings that felt awkward as well.

All in all an enjoyable read. I found myself chuckling on several occasions. Plus, "I'll show you my Cello", that just sounds dirty! :smallsmile:
Comments on Tanon_Sharpe's story
I thought you did an excellent job incorporating your articles. The use of horse was an inspired way to get it to fit into your 'sci-fi' story. I was particularly impressed with how you incorporated the political activist without talking about politics. (again my apologies to those who got political or religious articles that is my fault). Nicely handled.
I thought the majority of the character development was handled nicely. I actually cared that Maahir died. I was worried about poor little Nudhar losing her 'pets' and her daddy. That being said, I don't think that Mansour was developed/explained adequately. I would have liked a little background on it's personality. I.e. Why did it identify the Ramin household with 'home' and how did a project on cybernetics develop an AI? I just think this should have been explained/explored a little more.
I did like the foreshadowing as well. The comment about fist-fights breaking out between engineers and the extreme competitiveness for funding. Then his wondering why his assistant didn't shut Mansour off. These led me know (or suspect) that foul play was afoot before the shot was fired. Nicely done!
I enjoyed reading this story although I must admit that I still several questions about the nature of Mansour.
Comments on ZombieRockStar's storyHmmmm....well....where to begin? I enjoyed your entry. The mix of mediums was an interesting change of pace and it allowed you to showcase several of your talents. I liked the songs/poems and really thought they were the strength of your piece. You also incorporated the articles well.
That being said, I can't really offer an analysis of your entry. Mainly because I didn't understand it. I know that in that surrealistic adventure is a message/commentary but I am just not intelligent enough to get it. I think it is about the shallowness, waste and lack of meaning of modern society but I just can't get my head wrapped around it.
I liked your entry because it made me do a lot of thinking and researching to try and ferret out your message. I just wish I was of a mindset that I could have understood it better.
Comments on Raven's story
Good job incorporating your articles. You did a great job on the bird and Laughery was a difficult one to use given the posting venue. (I'm not going to apologize again though, I will 'filter' the articles better for round 2).
I really liked the imagery in your story. It generated a real sense of pristine nature and untamed wild things. You did a really good job on giving a sense of wonder to the interaction between 'civilized humanity' and 'untamed nature'. I liked the implication that with a little respect for one another they can co-exist in harmony...or maybe I am just reading too much into it. :smallsmile:
I thought the character development decent. You developed the bird's character in a very natural and even fashion. I enjoyed watching its curiosity take it to interact with the concert. 'The girl' who was the main human character in the story was not developed as well. She didn't even have a name and this annoyed me a bit. We did get some insight into her with some of the thought processes that were shared but she just didn't 'come alive' in my opinion.
Anyway, I enjoyed this story. As I mentioned, I really liked the imagery you used.
Comments on King of GRiffons' story
I am going to start out a little different with this one and get into what I didn't like before sharing what I did like. King, nothing kills a good story for me like randomly switching tenses. Your switching between present and past tense without any seeming rhyme or reason really made this story difficult to read. It totally destroyed the 'flow' of the story for me.
Okay, that's out of the way, on with the goodness.
I thought you did a good job incorporating your articles. I liked the soldiers taking refuge in the abandoned church. It may be a little cliche' but I prefer to think of it as a 'timeless classic'. It has always been a favorite image of mine. The 'lab in the glacier' was nice as well. A good use of the articles as location settings.
The body of the story was well written and read like a classic 'war movie' with a few little 'sci-fi' and 'superhero' extras thrown in. I really enjoyed the twisted ending of your little cynical post apocalyptic tale. Also, bravo to you for including a 'super' and never once revealing his powers. That was very nicely done and something I did not expect.
I liked this story even the grammar problems interfered with my enjoyment of reading it.
comments on TheSilverKnight's story
This is an ecclectic little story. I'll be honest, at first I thought your incorporation of the two articles was forced. But (if you'll excuse the football analogy) you took what appeared to be a fumble and just ran with it. I have to say, nice job on incorporating both your articles.
Both your characters were likeable if a little odd. Actually maybe that oddness is why I liked them. I could totally relate with Simon. Albeit, not so much with Monopoly, rather RPG's and Cons are my schtick but you know what I mean. Sal was a very funny character as well.
The main detractor for me was grammar. There were several sentences that should have either been broken into multiple sentences or at least had some commas inserted. For instance, "I mean come on I have never seen you lose and the competition you are going to tomorrow is just a bunch of new competition players and a few pros what do you have to fear?" In my opinion this is a runon sentence and is difficult to read. I would have preferred something like, "I mean come on! I have never seen you lose and the competition you are going to tomorrow is just a bunch of new competition players and a few pros. What do you have to fear?" I am not the 'grammar king' by any stretch but run-ons are hard for me to follow. (On a side note, I never understood why Melville is considered a great author. Anyone who has a sentence that goes for 3 pages is a hack if you ask me :smallsmile:)
I liked the Karate Kid ending. That made me laugh. As did the Montage. Montage? Montage. scene. Overall, an enjoyable if offbeat story.
Comments on Vorpal Tribble's story
Wow! That was great story. The character development was great. I liked how the time-reference changed from minute by minute to months passing as necessary. The imagery was amazing as were the characteristics of even the 'bit players'. The old man 'walking as if on eggshells' really stood out to me. Your turns of phrase were great, "begin the arduous journey to the southern end of the room 10' feet away", "From two stories they fell, and though neither man could have weighed less than several hundred pounds, the shock was taken with only the bending down to one knee." These and many others.
I really liked how you had your character 'build' the church rather than using an existing structure. That was a nice twist on incorporating the articles.
I did know that the magistrate would come to him for healing once the refugees started coming through. That was a little predictable but didn't detract from the story at all.
I loved this story. Excellent job! And if you'll excuse the horrible pun..."I can say that based on this story, there is no trouble with tribbles." sorry, I had to...

Comments on averagejoe's story
Very nice story! Great incorporation of the articles! They were both integral to the story and flowed very nicely. One of the best uses of articles I've seen in the contest so far!
Excellent job on the character development. Kit had a real personality and was easy to identify with. You did a masterful job making the story suspenseful. I can't say enough about your ability to impart a sense of urgency to the reader. I wanted to get to the bottom of the memories as quickly as Kit did.
I really enjoyed this story. The urgency, suspense, character development and descriptions were all very solid. Also, I liked that you didn't identify who 'they' were. I was a little worried that it was going to end up being a trifle cliche' with the 'aliens planted false memories to cover their abduction thing'. By leaving it open, I think it not only made for a better ending but matched the lost, suspenseful mood of the story.
Excellent job.
Okay, I think I have commented on all the stories. Thank you to all the entrants as I am having a great time with this contest and have thoroughly enjoyed everyone's stories!!
And for the record, my wife is annoyed with all of you. To quote her(well paraphrase really), "What is it about those Giant boards? You never get so involved on any of the other boards you go to. Now, can you get off the computer and come help me?" :smallsmile: My answer is simply this: It's the people. The folks here in the playground are a great bunch. :smallbiggrin:

Brickwall
2006-12-11, 12:46 AM
Anyways, to be official, I would like AJ's entry to count. If he wins, it saves my right brain some effort. If I win, I get to continue on. It's a win-win situation, really, and I'd like to see some evaluation of my abilities.

Fat Daddy
2006-12-11, 01:24 AM
Anyways, to be official, I would like AJ's entry to count. If he wins, it saves my right brain some effort. If I win, I get to continue on. It's a win-win situation, really, and I'd like to see some evaluation of my abilities.
I have no problem with this. averagejoe got confused about timezones. This happens. I would like to also say to Brickwall that I appreciate your sense of sportsmanship and competition! A cookie for you (I have a nice dark and white chocolate chip one for you from my daughter's pre-school fundraiser!).
Judges: please count averagejoe's entry and post judgments for Brickwall and averagejoe. Thank you.

Dispozition
2006-12-11, 02:43 AM
Well...Expect me to do the next two judgings tomorrow, or maybe three if I have time...

Angela
2006-12-11, 03:04 AM
DarkLightDragon ->



36 decades=360 years… That’s impossible.


That isn't a typo :smalleek: The point of the story was that the narrator had lived for an exceedingly long time (early 1700's ("Darley Arabian") until some time in our not-too-distant future ("Mohammad-Ali Ramin")). 36 decades is about right...


Having said that - Tanon!!! Good luck in the next stage :smallsmile: I really enjoyed your story...

Yawielas
2006-12-11, 03:31 AM
Thank you very much for your comment, Fat Daddy! I'll work on my phrasing wether I win or not. I must blame my not-being-English-nor American-nor any other nationality with english as their first language, I guess;)

Fat Daddy
2006-12-11, 03:57 AM
Thank you very much for your comment, Fat Daddy! I'll work on my phrasing wether I win or not. I must blame my not-being-English-nor American-nor any other nationality with english as their first language, I guess;)
*Looks left under Yawielas' avatar*
Norway...huh. Well all I can say is that your English is much better than my Norwegian (either Bokmal or Nynorsk, I can't speak or read either of them). :smallsmile:
I am not the typical monolingual American though. I can speak German...well I can kind of speak German... a little. :smallamused:
Also check the first post, you are advancing. Gezina did not post a story so you win your bracket by default.

DarkLightDragon
2006-12-11, 08:00 AM
DarkLightDragon ->





That isn't a typo :smalleek: The point of the story was that the narrator had lived for an exceedingly long time (early 1700's ("Darley Arabian") until some time in our not-too-distant future ("Mohammad-Ali Ramin")). 36 decades is about right...


Having said that - Tanon!!! Good luck in the next stage :smallsmile: I really enjoyed your story... I sort-of understand...

Anyway, I was unable to juidge more entries today because I was unable to connect to the internet for most of it. Hopefully I can get the rest of them done soon.

ZombieRockStar
2006-12-11, 02:00 PM
Comments on ZombieRockStar's storyHmmmm....well....where to begin? I enjoyed your entry. The mix of mediums was an interesting change of pace and it allowed you to showcase several of your talents. I liked the songs/poems and really thought they were the strength of your piece. You also incorporated the articles well.
That being said, I can't really offer an analysis of your entry. Mainly because I didn't understand it. I know that in that surrealistic adventure is a message/commentary but I am just not intelligent enough to get it. I think it is about the shallowness, waste and lack of meaning of modern society but I just can't get my head wrapped around it.
I liked your entry because it made me do a lot of thinking and researching to try and ferret out your message. I just wish I was of a mindset that I could have understood it better.


Author's are notoriously poor interpreters of their own work, so don't take this as scripture, but let me try to sum up what I was thinking...The point of it is that there is no point. You say it yourself: lack of meaning in modern society. If you look at the Wikipedia entry for Underworld, it says that the novel was about fractured identity in postmodern America, so I tried to copy that over. And, to quote my own words: "Why do these things always have to make sense to you?" You could probably find all sorts of symbolic support for this that I likely wasn't thinking about when writing. (Damn you, Roland Barthes!!!)

Occam's Razor usually applies to literature as well as science. The Simplest explanation is usually the best one.

Very glad you liked it.:smallsmile:

Fat Daddy
2006-12-11, 02:53 PM
Author's are notoriously poor interpreters of their own work, so don't take this as scripture, but let me try to sum up what I was thinking...The point of it is that there is no point. You say it yourself: lack of meaning in modern society. If you look at the Wikipedia entry for Underworld, it says that the novel was about fractured identity in postmodern America, so I tried to copy that over. And, to quote my own words: "Why do these things always have to make sense to you?" You could probably find all sorts of symbolic support for this that I likely wasn't thinking about when writing. (Damn you, Roland Barthes!!!)

Occam's Razor usually applies to literature as well as science. The Simplest explanation is usually the best one.

Very glad you liked it.:smallsmile:
So what you are saying is that I WAS smart enough to understand it...I was just not smart enough to understand that I understood it... :smallamused: With Underworld I researched enough to know that it was about fractured identity in postmodern America, I guess I just didn't take it as literally as you did in your entry. :smallwink: But now that you have explained it somewhat I can see that your entry had both literal and symbolic examples of our modern society's lack of a cohesive identity.
I hope you are happy. See what you people are doing to me? Marines don't talk like that. We're all, "Thog smash" and "Gimme a beer" I'm ruined! Ruined you hear!?
*Leaves to get a beer and a couple aspirin and maybe beat up a sensitive intellectual type...then remembers Yawielas' story and hangs his head in quiet desperation*

TheSilverKnight
2006-12-11, 03:00 PM
comments on TheSilverKnight's story
This is an ecclectic little story. I'll be honest, at first I thought your incorporation of the two articles was forced. But (if you'll excuse the football analogy) you took what appeared to be a fumble and just ran with it. I have to say, nice job on incorporating both your articles.
Both your characters were likeable if a little odd. Actually maybe that oddness is why I liked them. I could totally relate with Simon. Albeit, not so much with Monopoly, rather RPG's and Cons are my schtick but you know what I mean. Sal was a very funny character as well.
The main detractor for me was grammar. There were several sentences that should have either been broken into multiple sentences or at least had some commas inserted. For instance, "I mean come on I have never seen you lose and the competition you are going to tomorrow is just a bunch of new competition players and a few pros what do you have to fear?" In my opinion this is a runon sentence and is difficult to read. I would have preferred something like, "I mean come on! I have never seen you lose and the competition you are going to tomorrow is just a bunch of new competition players and a few pros. What do you have to fear?" I am not the 'grammar king' by any stretch but run-ons are hard for me to follow. (On a side note, I never understood why Melville is considered a great author. Anyone who has a sentence that goes for 3 pages is a hack if you ask me :smallsmile:)
I liked the Karate Kid ending. That made me laugh. As did the Montage. Montage? Montage. scene. Overall, an enjoyable if offbeat story.

Thank You very much for your nice words. Yes I am aware of my run on problem. But it isn't as bad as it used to be. 2 or so years ago I had never used a comma and I recived the comment "HOLY RUN ON SENTENCE BATMAN!" more than once.

I'll work that out for round two. In one or two of those cases I couldn't think how to brake it up, with out getting rid of what I wanted to say. So I left it.

Edit: Also thought I would mention I showed it to a friend. His response was "Oh my God I love this story. Can I copy it and add it to my google pages?". I honestly didn't think it was that good. I did know however that it would cause some good laughs especially to people into that type of obvious humor that defies the norm. As a result of the posative views from you and my friend a am going to put it on my deviantart which I wasn't going to do. Just thought you would like to know.

Here (http://www.deviantart.com/deviation/44549203/) is a link to it on deviantart. I have corrected all the errors in this version. If you are a member of DA I would appreciate your comments.

-TheSK-

Ravyn
2006-12-11, 05:45 PM
Comments on Raven's story
Good job incorporating your articles. You did a great job on the bird and Laughery was a difficult one to use given the posting venue. (I'm not going to apologize again though, I will 'filter' the articles better for round 2).
I really liked the imagery in your story. It generated a real sense of pristine nature and untamed wild things. You did a really good job on giving a sense of wonder to the interaction between 'civilized humanity' and 'untamed nature'. I liked the implication that with a little respect for one another they can co-exist in harmony...or maybe I am just reading too much into it. :smallsmile:
I thought the character development decent. You developed the bird's character in a very natural and even fashion. I enjoyed watching its curiosity take it to interact with the concert. 'The girl' who was the main human character in the story was not developed as well. She didn't even have a name and this annoyed me a bit. We did get some insight into her with some of the thought processes that were shared but she just didn't 'come alive' in my opinion.
Anyway, I enjoyed this story. As I mentioned, I really liked the imagery you used.


That's because the effect I was going for wasn't connecting with the character but the experience. It's a slice of time sort of thing... though the particulars are a gamelan performer and a hawk-eagle, the feel of it could happen to anyone, anywhere. (Something like it happened to me, but in my case it was pennywhistling up a blossoming cherry tree on a windy day. Not near as dramatic, though pretty in its own right.) She could be anyone--that's why she doesn't have a name, a face, or much of anything descriptive besides a rebab and a blue sarong.

Speaking of which, half the fun was my thought process when I first looked at the article. Bird from the region from which my favorite mode of performance comes from: What an opening!


Honored that you enjoyed it, though. (Not bad for someone who was expecting a PM, saw the brackets three days late, and turned the story in a day early due to timeshift issues, huh?)

King_of_GRiffins
2006-12-11, 06:16 PM
Comments on King of GRiffons' story
I am going to start out a little different with this one and get into what I didn't like before sharing what I did like. King, nothing kills a good story for me like randomly switching tenses. Your switching between present and past tense without any seeming rhyme or reason really made this story difficult to read. It totally destroyed the 'flow' of the story for me.
Okay, that's out of the way, on with the goodness.
I thought you did a good job incorporating your articles. I liked the soldiers taking refuge in the abandoned church. It may be a little cliche' but I prefer to think of it as a 'timeless classic'. It has always been a favorite image of mine. The 'lab in the glacier' was nice as well. A good use of the articles as location settings.
The body of the story was well written and read like a classic 'war movie' with a few little 'sci-fi' and 'superhero' extras thrown in. I really enjoyed the twisted ending of your little cynical post apocalyptic tale. Also, bravo to you for including a 'super' and never once revealing his powers. That was very nicely done and something I did not expect.
I liked this story even if the grammar problems interfered with my enjoyment of reading it.

I agree. I was in spaz-mode and rushing. If I took the time to edit it some, the tense would be a bit more stable. Apologies to all who have to bear through that.
That out of the way, I wish I could have incorporated the two a bit more. Putting a bit more reflection and scene setting at the church would have been perfect, rather than bumping it all to a forced conversation in a cramped vehicle. If I did, though, I probally wouldn't be able to put it on these boards.. I would have also liked to contrast the glacier and the lab, just to get a better feel for it.
Anyway, glad you liked it, suffering and all.

averagejoe
2006-12-11, 07:20 PM
Anyways, to be official, I would like AJ's entry to count. If he wins, it saves my right brain some effort. If I win, I get to continue on. It's a win-win situation, really, and I'd like to see some evaluation of my abilities.

Wow, thanks for that. I feel pretty much the same way you do about being eliminated, in that it wouldn't be a terrible thing, but I'm still very greatful for a second chance, and touched that you would say something. I really don't want to cheat on the deadline, as I realize it was completely my fault, but if no one has a problem with it then I'll go ahead and stay in. I just have to remember that the deadline's 9:00 over here.

Brickwall
2006-12-11, 07:23 PM
By the way, if anyone makes a single comment about averagejoe's name when referencing how I fared in the competition to him, I will find your address, travel to your home, and personally kick your ass. Unless you live in Switzerland. If you live in Switzerland, I will call a contact there to kick your ass. No, I won't tell you any more details. It's supposed to be a secret.

averagejoe
2006-12-11, 07:33 PM
Good point. I never really thought of that when I picked this name. :smallwink:


Comments on averagejoe's story
Very nice story! Great incorporation of the articles! They were both integral to the story and flowed very nicely. One of the best uses of articles I've seen in the contest so far!
Excellent job on the character development. Kit had a real personality and was easy to identify with. You did a masterful job making the story suspenseful. I can't say enough about your ability to impart a sense of urgency to the reader. I wanted to get to the bottom of the memories as quickly as Kit did.
I really enjoyed this story. The urgency, suspense, character development and descriptions were all very solid. Also, I liked that you didn't identify who 'they' were. I was a little worried that it was going to end up being a trifle cliche' with the 'aliens planted false memories to cover their abduction thing'. By leaving it open, I think it not only made for a better ending but matched the lost, suspenseful mood of the story.
Excellent job.


That's good to hear, because it's pretty much exactly what I was going for. I actually did almost make her a robot, or something, but I did decide in the end that it would be a bit cliche. As it is, I'm not completely sure what happened. I'm glad to know that I made the right choice.

Dispozition
2006-12-12, 10:16 PM
Well...I lied when I said I'd do the yesterday...I couldn't get on.

Cult of the Raven vs. Elvaris

Cult of the Raven
Rather a good story. The articles are incorporated into the story well, and it leaves the mind wondering. It seemed short, only 600-ish words, compared to some of the 2,000 ones so far, and that detracts a little from the story, but it’s still rather intriguing.
My only concern was length, other than that, very well written.


Elvaris
I like the way that you’ve written this story, as an interview, and the way that it’s ended. Again, length seemed to be an issue, but as both stories were about the same length, no marks lost. The articles are incorporated well, and the story has a good air about it.
This story was a little short, in my opinion, but none-the-less, very good.


Verdict
Well, both stories were a little short for my liking, but because of a lack of a lower word limit, that can’t be taken into marking to harshly. It was a little difficult to judge, but in the end, Elvaris came out the winner, well done.

Brickwall vs. Averagejoe

Brickwall
Okay. This story is a little strange, but very good. I’m surprised that it only took you an hour to complete, it seemed much more complex than that. While a little confusing, the idea of the stranger was rather good, and the way he fitted into the story worked very well.
All up, slightly confusing, but a good read.


Averagejoe
First off…There is nothing average about this story (Sorry….I had too). I think this could be the best story that I’ve judged so far. If this were a full novel, I would be hard pushed to put it down. A few concerns though, the story takes a little while to get into. Although this isn’t bad, it can be annoying, and the ending was a little abrupt, if you’d have drawn it out a little bit more, it would have been better.
Aside from the ending, very little wrong with this story, well done.


Verdict
Although it’s probably already clear, Averagejoe is the winner. His story was, in my opinion, better put together, and more detailed. Good work to brickwall though, you did very well as well.

TheSilverKinght (I know it's not necessary)
I really shouldn’t be doing this, but it seems unfair if only some people are judged, and not everyone.
This story is fairly good. It has a good structure and the articles fit in nicely. I didn’t quite catch the karate kid reference, because I haven’t seen the movie. The rest of the story was good though. Well done.


Caillach vs. ZombieRockStar

Caillach
A good story right there, I especially like the part with explosions. The idea that America has become a closed in country is very intriguing. An underground book club is a good way to incorporate the articles into the story and keep the mind thinking.
A very good story, with a lot of thinking involved.


ZombieRockStar
Well…Firstly…What in the world…
Now, with that out of the way, the story was actually quite good, just don’t do it again. It was somewhat confusing, but I like the inclusion of the bands and the poems throughout. I’m not totally sure what everything was doing in the end, you could improve on that quite a bit.


Verdict
Well…With the completely different styles of writing, judging this was a mess…Both stories are very good, and both have distinguishing features. I have to say ZombieRockStar is the winner though.

Good work to everyone I've judged so far. I look foward to seeing the winners in the next round.

Expect the last few entries to be judged soon-ish.

Brickwall
2006-12-12, 10:27 PM
Well, now to wait for the other judge. I have a feeling that I'll just be reading these stories from now on, but I am encouraged that the next round will be comprised of the better half of the writers.

Bryn
2006-12-13, 12:22 PM
Amotis () vs. Z-Axis(http://williamsfamilyfl.com/DarkLightDragon.gifhttp://williamsfamilyfl.com/Disposition.gif)
Z-Axis Advances

I believe the phrase is... squee?

To tell the truth, I can't believe I won. Amotis: great story. Good luck in the next competition!

TheSilverKnight
2006-12-13, 03:17 PM
TheSilverKinght (I know it's not necessary)
I really shouldn’t be doing this, but it seems unfair if only some people are judged, and not everyone.
This story is fairly good. It has a good structure and the articles fit in nicely. I didn’t quite catch the karate kid reference, because I haven’t seen the movie. The rest of the story was good though. Well done.


Thanks any way I was hoping that I would get judged even though I advance by default. And since you don't get the refrence just imagine any cheezzy 80's movie with a montage and replace Song, Artist, and movie title accordingly and it becomes instant humor.

Amotis
2006-12-13, 10:09 PM
Aw okay, I shall bow out now. Not really, I'll be reading the next rounds too. So if you need another back up judge just call me, I'll be reading them anyway.

Yawielas
2006-12-14, 04:54 AM
Will the next contest start before or after Christmas?

Fat Daddy
2006-12-14, 06:54 AM
Will the next contest start before or after Christmas?
Most likely after Christmas. I plan on doing at least 1 contest per month, two if I can swing it.

Dispozition
2006-12-15, 05:01 AM
Ok! This is the last update, although it will be edited often.

Vorpal Tribble vs. King of Griffons
Vorpal Tribble
This story is one of the better ones that I’ve read. It has a good plot and isn’t slow. The intro and the ending are the best parts of the story in my opinion, but the middle is also rather interesting. There’s something not quite right about the story, but I can’t tell what it is, sorry.
All up, great story, but lacking a little something.


King of Griffons
Well, that’s good. The ending was surprising, but profound. The starting was a little confusing, but the rest of it came out loud and clear. The idea of ‘supermen’ are is kind of strange, and I don’t quite understand how they’re so super, if they’re killed as easily and a normal human, but aside form that, nothing really wrong with it.
All in all, awesome story that I enjoyed a lot, great work.


Verdict
I don't know, this one is really hard to judge. Both stories are as good as each other. I'm not sure if I want to decide which one is better...Although I suppose I have too, so I'll say that King of Griffons wins. I liked his story better than Vorpal Tribble's one.

Unnaposed entries coming in a few days.

Fat Daddy
2006-12-15, 01:32 PM
Okay folks. Thank you to Dispozition for completing his judgments. I have PM'd the other two judges and asked for them to submit their judgments as well. If we don't hear from them by Saturday Evening, I will contact the reserve judges and get this round all judged so we can start round 2.
Thanks to everyone involved for helping to get this off the ground.

DarkLightDragon
2006-12-15, 08:28 PM
I promise that I'll judge more after I come home from a family Christmas get-together that I'm going to soon!

EDIT: It's very tempting for me to play WoW right now, but I promised I'd judge the remaining stories, so here I go.

EDIT 2: Two more entries up on page 7. Hopefully I'll remember to judge the rest after dinner. Mmmm, pizza!

EDIT 3: Dang, I forgot to judge the two (i think) remaining pairs. Hopefully tomorrow before my younger brother's birthday LAN starts. Which is not likely, because I love to sleep in. But I'll see what I can do.

Fat Daddy
2006-12-16, 09:21 AM
DarkandEvil has stated an inability to perform judging duties at this time. I have contacted Death, your friend the Reaper to step in and help us out. If I don't hear back by this evening, I will step in and post my own judgments for those who don't yet have advancement determined.

EDIT: Okay so your friend and mine, The Reaper has agreed to help get this round judged. I apologize to the contestents for the delay in getting the judgments posted. I claim 'newborn baby girl' as my excuse for falling behind. Please bear with me as I adjust to my new (crazy) schedule.
Thanks.

TheSilverKnight
2006-12-18, 03:02 PM
WOOT the OotS Gods have smiled apon me and stolen my MONTAGE! Idea 391 Eye of the Tiger, Baby (http://www.giantitp.com/comics/oots0391.html)

And congrats on the kid Fat Daddy whats her name?

Edit: I am sure Rich hasn't even read my story but when I saw the comic I was like "Thats all me and you know it!!1!two"

Death, your friend the Reaper
2006-12-18, 05:53 PM
Ah, this is where they hide. I shall post after work in 10 or so hours. Sorry for the delay. Which one am I judging by the by (is eating breakfast as we speak)

TheSilverKnight
2006-12-18, 09:11 PM
Ah, this is where they hide. I shall post after work in 10 or so hours. Sorry for the delay. Which one am I judging by the by (is eating breakfast as we speak)

Look on page 1 two of the brackets say judgement pending underthem those would be the ones.

I wonder what happens if you vote for the opposite story tho then it would require a 3rd opinion.

Death, your friend the Reaper
2006-12-19, 10:15 AM
Brickwalls
Well, that one gave the grim reaper shivers....

I was a little lost at the end, but beside that it built up suspense awfully well. The kind of shock factor of killing an innocent baby worries me that that was the type of thing you would put into your story...

All in all a rather horrifying story with good use of the two things you where given.
On Average Joe's
This was a rather mysterious and intriguing story, are aliens the real reason we are getting more and more wierdo's on the street, but I digress. The utilization of the story and the lyrics where also a good narrative technique. I am unsure what the attackers were done, but very good use of diction all up.
The Verdict
I got to together three very highly intellectual(validity of this statement not important) individuals and came up with the conclusion (yeah, how lazy), not surprisingly the girl who tried to con me Saw III was about family reunions and puzzles, and great fun voted for Brickwalls, while the other two not as horror inclined voted for the phsycological thriller.

AverageJoes is the first placer.

((Now see one of the other judges write a paragraph in the comment section to show me up))

I had a nightmare trying to just find the entries...


Vorpal Tribble
A wonderfully written piece of work, the amount of detail is amazing, and it makes me wonder if you actually had anything else to do, I hear the country side is lovely this time of year...

All in all good use of both articles in a novel like short story.
King of Griffens
Great story. The morals and the themes are prominent through out, and the reactions sadly believable.

Good sense of direction, didn't fully understand the super, but the story excels in condemning war.
The Verdict
Very difficult, and my panel of judges wonder if The Vorpal Tribble is actually *insert name of famous writer, who I know I should know, but I forgot his name....* reincarnate.

As such, unless my priest find anything out Vorpal Tribble is the winner.

TheSilverKnight
2006-12-19, 01:12 PM
^^
Coolness there is a tie that means there needs to be yet more voting. Gaa now round 2 will take longer to start.

Brickwall
2006-12-19, 04:20 PM
Well, it seems I'm out, but I'd like the last judge to do comments anyway. Your compliments on my first ever attempt at quality horror make me feel fuzzy inside.

That said, I will be watching this contest carefully. Good luck to you all!

Fat Daddy
2006-12-20, 02:28 PM
A big thanks to everyone's friend, the Reaper for stepping in and filling the judgment gap. I am going to step in and break the tie between Vorpal Tribble and King_of_GRiffons. So here it goes...I have already posted comments on both of these excellent stories so I will not repost them here.
Basically, I really liked both of these stories. They incorporated the articles well and were both very engaging to the reader. In the end though, King_of_Griffon's switching between tenses really detracted from the story for me and gave Vorpal Tribble the edge. Vorpal Tribble wins.
I will try and post the new brackets tonight. It may be rather late as I have next to no time with a toddler and a newborn right now. I'm lovin' every minute of it though. :smallbiggrin: Stay tuned.

Fat Daddy
2006-12-20, 03:01 PM
Sorry for the double post but everyone fell asleep and I find myself with a small window of time. Due to withdrawals and whatnot, we are going to do round 2 and 3 in brackets of 3 contestants.

ROUND 2
Z-Axis vs. Tanon Sharpe vs. averagejoe
Links
deadly phenomenon of Pern (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Thread_%28Pern%29) and a spice (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Savory_%28herb%29)

TheSilverKnight vs. ZombieRockStar vs. Ravyn
Links
a submarine (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/USS_Sea_Poacher_%28SS-406%29) and an Iowa county (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Buena_Vista_County%2C_Iowa)

Yawielas vs. Elvaris vs. Vorpal Tribble
Links
a boxer (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gerald_McClellan) and a Mississippi town (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sherman%2C_Mississippi)
Good luck to everyone. I am putting in a few day extension due to the Christmas holiday. Entries for this round will be due Midnight December 30th (between Saturday and Sunday)
I hope everyone has a very merry Christmas!!

Amotis
2006-12-20, 03:02 PM
Good luck all. If you need another judge just let me know. I know a lot of people are out for the holidays.

The Vorpal Tribble
2006-12-20, 03:24 PM
Yawielas vs. Elvaris vs. Vorpal Tribble
Links
a boxer (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gerald_McClellan) and a Mississippi town (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sherman%2C_Mississippi)
I think I speak for all three of us when I say, "Those stink." :smallyuk:

Amotis
2006-12-20, 03:25 PM
Mmm 548 people...

TheSilverKnight
2006-12-20, 03:47 PM
Odd topic but I think this will be easy for me because I just happen to be studying the topic of WWII in WWII class(go figure) it will just have to be a diffrent genera that I am used to writing.

Bryn
2006-12-20, 04:03 PM
Ooo... Dragon Riders of Pern. And a random herb :smallannoyed:. Those, to say the least, are somewhat hard to combine.

Not to mention that its ages since I read the Pern books, so my memories are kind of hazy... if they exist at all. I can't exactly re-read them.

I'll have to see what I can think of.

Finally, good luck to all contestants, and may the best fungus win!

ZombieRockStar
2006-12-20, 04:09 PM
Shouldn't be too hard to combine my two. The question is: how to do it in an interesting fashion. (Without confusing the hell out of the judges again :smallbiggrin:)

Brickwall
2006-12-20, 04:48 PM
The only thing worse than the album I was stuck with is that boxer. Good luck, VT and others!

averagejoe
2006-12-20, 07:12 PM
ROUND 2
Z-Axis vs. Tanon Sharpe vs. averagejoe
Links
deadly phenomenon of Pern (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Thread_%28Pern%29) and a spice (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Savory_%28herb%29)

Okay, that's just silly. I haven't even heard of those books. And, an HERB!!! I mean, what the heck.

Brickwall
2006-12-20, 07:29 PM
Herbs are easy. And if the guy who beat me gets 3rd place, he will have me to answer to!

averagejoe
2006-12-21, 12:29 AM
:smalleek:

Yessir.

Not saying I can't do it. I'm just grumblin' a bit.

Tanon Sharpe
2006-12-21, 02:46 AM
Have fun, Z-Axis and averagejoe. I'm really sorry but a combination of now starting to work full time and then the fact that Christmas and New Year are kinda coming up soon mean that I won't be able to write anything before January, so I'm ducking out.

DarkLightDragon
2006-12-22, 01:25 AM
((The first bracket's awesome! I actually have an idea for that! And that's before reading the articles!

Sorry with my laziness on the last lot of entries. I should get all of them judged this time!))

The Vorpal Tribble
2006-12-22, 12:44 PM
Heh, Thread and an herb? I'd give my front teeth for those. I have no idea if I'll be able to get done in time. Christmas and rather poor subject material don't mix well :smallwink:

Yawielas
2006-12-22, 06:29 PM
Actually, the boxer and the Mississippi town are much better than my previous brackets, with the japanese teachers and french composer:) I'm half finished with my story, so I hope to submit it in time.

Fat Daddy
2006-12-23, 09:01 PM
Heh, Thread and an herb? I'd give my front teeth for those. I have no idea if I'll be able to get done in time. Christmas and rather poor subject material don't mix well :smallwink:
Well I did alot a few extra days due to the Christmas Holiday. If you all don't think it is enough, let me know and I will extend it out a few more days. I wasn't sure how much time would be sufficient without drawing it out too long.

Ravyn
2006-12-26, 03:22 PM
An extension is not necessary but would be greatly appreciated--holiday season, misbehaving internet, I'm sure you get the idea.

Yawielas
2006-12-27, 10:26 AM
A story about a boxer and a Mississippi town. Word count 1223.

The G-Man


Gerald smiled. He felt good. He’d already dropped the world Super-Middleweight champion out of the ring twice. This would be his first win in the new weight class. He dodged a blow from Benn, and followed up with two quick jabs against the champion’s torso. Round ten. Normally his opponents wouldn’t get past the third round, but as expected, Nigel Benn was not going down so easy. The two boxers danced around the ring to the cheer of the crowd, and Gerald could hear Emanuel shout something from the corner. His focus was all on his opponent, though, looking for an opening in his defence, looking for an opportunity to land his fabled knock out. Moving in, his muscles tensed in preparations for that final blow. Emanuel shouted again. Then the world exploded in sparks of light.

He was standing in a street. A street in a small town, it seemed. The sun was shining, and the air was hot and humid. Still wearing his boxer shorts and gloves, Gerald looked around, more than a little confused. “Where the heck am I?” –“Sherman, Mississippi”, a voice replied from behind, and he spun around, fists ready. The man standing before him was clad in a white toga, with a red shoulder drape, and had a golden wreath around his head. His skin was a Mediterranean tan, and a prominent nose dominated his stern face. “I’m number one,” he said. “But you might know me as Gaius Julius Caesar. The greatest military strategist that ever lived.” – “Number one? Caesar?” Gerald replied, still confused. “Yes, let me show you,” the Roman said, gesturing towards a large structure suddenly appearing up the street.

The huge building was made of stone, and had tall roman columns lining the wall. “The Circus Maximus. Walk with me, my friend.” The long dead dictator put his arm around Gerald’s shoulder and started walking towards the circus. The boxer shook his head. “This isn’t right. There’s no roman buildings of this size in Mississippi, not that I’ve heard of. I thought you said we’re in Sherman, Mississippi, but here you are, and that building….” – “I’ll explain it to you. Sherman is what you want it to be. This is where we go, after we die. All the great fighters of the world. There are other places like this, of course, scattered across the world. Here in Sherman we’ve got a population of 548. 549 with you.” Suddenly they were sitting on a bench inside the circus, watching a fight between a gladiator and a lion. The gladiator stepped back as the lion’s claws shredded his shield, but with a quick twist he pierced the animal’s throat with his gladius and was rewarded with a warm spray of blood. Grinning he turned to the two spectators, shouting:“ I’m number two! My name is Spartacus! Follow me!” The gladiator ran out of the arena, and Gerald suddenly found himself on a dry, stony field outside the town. No, not outside. Inside of town. The ground was shaking and the air was filled with a thundering sound. Out of nowhere an army of riders appeared, galloping past him. The men on the horses were dressed in leather and fur, and sported long thin moustaches and black hair. The most imposing figure of them all pulled his reins, making his stallion rear up in front of the boxing champion. “I am number three! Djenghis Khan! Feel my might!” The Mongolian war chief spurred his horse on and vanished in a cloud of dust. This is insane…I’m going insane… Gerald rubbed his eyes. What’s happening to me? “FREEEEEDOOOOOOOOM!!!” The sudden shout startled him, and he took his hands from his eyes, only to see a blue painted, long haired white man in a kilt, wielding a two handed sword running across the grass towards him. “I am number four! William Wallace! What did you shout before you died, newcomer?! This is the ultimate freedom!” The boxer stumbled backwards, away from the Scotsman with the big sword.

A man reached down to give him a hand up. “Let me help you there. Welcome to Sherman. I’m number five. Sir Gawain by name. Some call me the Perfect Knight.” He smiled. The man was dressed in medieval armour and had a gold cross around his neck. “You will get used to it, do not worry.” Gerald stood. “This is just….too much, you know?” He looked around. The grassy field was now the courtyard of a castle. The gates opened to let a lone rider into the….fort? The man was wearing a red and blue uniform, and had his right hand tucked into his vest. He gave a salute, addressing Gerald in a heavy French accent. “Bonjour, I am number six. One of the greatest generals that ever lived, Napoléon Bonaparte. How do you like our little village? Tres charmante, n’est pas?” – “Uh, sure…” Gerald replied. “But what happens now?” – “We are not done yet,” the short Frenchman said. “Hah, he’s right about that!” It was a new voice, young and with an attitude. The boxer turned to see a young man, little more than a boy, really, in front of him. He was dressed in a dirty white shirt, dark pants and a leather coat, and had two revolvers holstered at his sides. “Look at you! Pugilist!” The boy laughed. “I’m number seven. One of my many names. The most famous is probably Billy the Kid, the fastest gun in the west!” He laughed again, sounding on the verge of insanity. “That’s it, I’m outta here…” Gerald started heading back to town. It was still changing, constantly flickering with every whim of it’s inhabitants.

“Crazy, isn’t it…” A man in an old air force uniform was walking next to him. “Number 8. Donald Wise is the name. Top B-17 bombardier during World War II. Flew mostly out of Italy. Never expected to end up here, though.” Gerald blinked, and the man was gone. In stead a familiar figure was gliding down the street towards him. An Asian looking man in black training pants and a bare chest. Gerald could almost see his name in shining letters. Bruce Lee. The martial artist bowed to him. “The ring is a dangerous place. I am number nine. I’m looking forward to your company, mister McClellan.” He gestured towards a boxing ring in the middle of the square. “Go on…Take the floor. This is your arena.” The boxer looked from mister Lee to the ring, then climbed the stairs and through the ropes. Inside the ring waited one of the greatest heavyweights of all time. “Rocky Marciano,” Gerald breathed. The champion smiled. “Yes. That’s me. Are you ready now?” – “Ready for what?” – “Number ten…” – “What’s comes after number ten?” The only undefeated heavyweight champion shook his head. “After ten, you either get up or stay down…What’s it gonna be, champ?” The ring was suddenly surrounded by people. Gerald could recognize some of the faces he’d already seen, and they were all watching him, expectantly. All watching and counting down. Get up or stay down. The faces became blurred. The whole town of Sherman, Mississippi started spinning out of focus. The voices followed him into the darkness. “He’s fading!” – “He’s waking up! He’s lost to us now.” –“Too bad….the kid had potential.”

Ravyn
2006-12-27, 02:29 PM
Meh, forget yesterday's post; I hit a spurt of inspiration this morning. Here we go: 978 words on a submarine and an Iowa county.


Crack!
Jordan Greene was out of bed before he’d realized what was going on, rolling to the floor and—for a total of five seconds—groping around near the foot of a bed for a weapon that wasn’t there. Then reality sank in. Yes, there was a rush of water and a rumbling, a perpetual plinking and a constant roar of wind, and he’d definitely heard the sound of breaking wood, but there weren’t the usual shouts and shots he’d hear at the same time on the Poacher. The room was as dark as he’d remembered—as dark as he’d liked it—even with something flashing on and off at the edge of his vision, but he could still see curtains—he’d never seen curtains on the sub he’d called home. The bed was too wide, the…
This wasn’t the Sea Poacher. This was a little place just outside of Alta. He was home.
I really need to quit doing this, he thought, pushing himself unsteadily to his feet, wincing at the pain in his leg, and flicking a shock of silver hair out of his eyes. Sixty years and I’m still jumping at shadows. No wonder I’m Kip’s favorite case study. Dang gutter isn’t helping. Sounds too much like back then. But if I’m not using it…
The dreams hadn’t helped. Black water and the echo of boots on metal. Shots fired and boats breaking. And that explosion…
I am not back on the boat. I am not back on the boat. I am NOT back on the boat. I am NOT back on the blasted BOAT!
But the memories wouldn’t fade. Even with the time he’d had between them and it. The leg he’d nearly lost when the gun blew had long since healed, but on cold winter pre-mornings like this it still ached. And those boats… the whole uncertainty…
It has been sixty YEARS. What is in the past cannot be changed. I am NOT on the blasted BOAT!
But if that was the case, what had woken him up? He stumbled to the window, pushed outside the curtains.
It was a little after dawn, but you could scarcely tell from how dark the sky was—a near-uniform gunmetal, broken only by silhouettes of trees and the storm itself. Thunder rumbled nearly overhead, lightning illuminated the sky on and off, and the howling wind and the gurgling rush of water in the gutter seemed to be outdoing each other. Between the flashes he checked out the usual suspects for breaking wood. Wasn’t the backyard shed this time. Wasn’t either of the two big trees.
It worth checking out? Jordan was surprised he even had to ask himself. If it woke him up like this, it was always worth checking out. He didn’t think of himself as superstitious in the normal sense, but in this case—well, his ghosts were a stubborn lot, whether they existed or not, so it was best to make sure the cause was something real. Just to make sure he wasn’t going to start hearing…
He shook his head as if that would clear his mind, tossed on a ratty blue bathrobe, stepped into his slippers, and padded his way to the front door. At least the old times had done him good, he reflected. The leg aside, he was still pretty healthy for a man pushing 85. And even asleep, he’d remembered how to kick out of bed without taking half the sheets with him.
Small victories, he thought wryly as he reached the door, bracing himself against the cold. Small victories. They worth it? Kip had asked that question a lot. Pushing for a yes every time, of course, because that was Kip, and Kip was an optimist. And being paid to keep Jordan from losing his grip. He was old and tired, lonely and haunted. People didn’t come and talk much; his sister had moved to California long ago, and only called on holidays, usually forgetting the time difference at that. The kids who’d come after school every week, clamoring for war stories, had long since grown up. He still hadn’t quite figured out his computer, and what was there to look at, anyway?
Beyond the door, the air was cold. The rain was pelting down, so hard it was a wonder he was able to see. And hail. Far, far too much hail. An awful storm even by his standards.
I hope I don’t have to go out in tha—dang it! The good news was, he didn’t. What had broken was clearly visible. The bad news: That old cedar tree in front of the house had finally given up the ghost. Across his driveway at that.
Silver lining, Jordan, silver lining. Kip had drilled that into him the first year or two after he’d gotten back. Find the plus side to everything. He’d rather appreciated it, in retrospect; irritating though it was, it was a routine, and routines were good to cling to. And it’d kept him from losing his mind long ago. This time… well, nothing else had been hit. The old bucket of bolts should still be working. If he could get word to town, he could probably get one of those kids to come around, move the tree, help pick up the sticks. Probably cost him—seemed like every time he needed his yard cleared after a storm, whoever he found had raised prices again—but that was what the pension was for. For now, what would happen would happen. Maybe later he’d call Kip and see if he could get something arranged.
But right now, it was a day no sane person would want to be walking the roads of Buena Vista County, the old leg was reminding him of the storm, and all Jordan wanted was to go back to bed.

TheSilverKnight
2006-12-28, 06:34 PM
I might need an extension I am not sure. I will be back home sometime tomorrow but when I do get home I will have my new tablet so I might play with that before I get around to writing anything so we will see. I got ideas just not in the mood to write now even tho I have my new comp here with me I am just bored, sick and uninspired here at my grandmas house.

The Vorpal Tribble
2006-12-28, 11:01 PM
It'll be close if I do enter one. Main family vehicle suddenly went bad with one of its key computer components that so rarely needs replaced that the service folks say they only hear of maybe one or two other instances a year of this occurring.

As such, we were unable to go to family christmas get together, so the family came to use and will be staying likely until the new years. This equals lots of busy stuff going on ;)

averagejoe
2006-12-29, 10:35 PM
Here it is, 3350 words.

The moors of Avalon, while not containing the magic and history of the island for which they were named, nonetheless held many mysteries and adventures, especially for an inquisitive young mind. They held a wild romance of the sort which is always associated with such places; wild, grassy hills tumbled up and down the windswept valley, the flowing waves of grass interrupted here and there by crags of rock sticking up from the ground, and the sky always seemed to hold promise of rain or storm, especially in the winter months when it was ever dark upon the moors of Avalon. The snow from the mountains to the north never reached the settlements on the moors, but the sea, far, far to the west, always conjured up a biting wind for those harsh winter months, causing houses to rattle and the long grass to bow as if in supplication.

Such a wind whipped at Lily, causing her dress to flutter out to one side as she stood at the peak of one of the hills. One hand held her straw hat firmly to her head, and eager, bright eyes sought the landscape, taking in the sights of the wild, romantic country. Staring out at the mountains to the north was something Lily never tired of; the mountains always seemed so old to Lily, like the titans from the lands of old. Lily liked to imagine that they had wearied of the old counties and come here, now sitting in quiet silence and contemplating great things. She told this to her various companions, but Susan didn’t like such stories and Adam had said that they were just rocks that had dug their way up from the ground. Adam was always saying things like that. Lily always wondered that the wildness of the moors never seemed to grab hold of her friend; Susan, at least, always seemed frightened and awed by the strange feeling that held Lily at such rapt attention, but Adam didn’t seem to feel one way of the other. Even now he sat with Susan, both of them crouched on the lee side of one of the many rocks that jutted out of the moors. Lily looked at the pair; Adam said something to her, but the wind was too loud and Lily couldn’t hear. She went to the stone and crouched down with her two friends. The relief of the stone was instant and gratifying. The ancient rock buffered the children against the howling wind, sheltering them against its bite.

“What did you say?” Lily asked Adam.

“I said,” her companion stated with a familiar, mischievous grin, “that you shouldn’t stand out in the wind like that. The ghosts from the ocean ride on the west wind, and they’re always looking for little girls to take back to their homes and drink their blood.”

“Oh, stop,” Susan wailed, “Lily, make him stop. He’s been like this since we got here.”

“But it’s true,” Adam insisted, “It’s the ghosts of the dead soldiers who sailed out from Ithaca to battle with the kingdom of Troy, which had tamed the giant horses of Valhalla. Their captain, Ulysses, shot a great seabird, which the gods had sent as a sign of good luck, so he and his crew were cursed and turned into animals and fed to the savage tribe of Cyclops, giants with only one eye. Now they need the blood of young girls to feed to Cerberus, the dark lord of the dead, so they can find peace.” Susan shrieked and buried her face in her hands, which only made Adam’s grin widen, “They especially like young girls with brown hair and pigtails, who scream and cry all the time.”

Lily sighed and rolled her eyes at her friend. “It’s okay, Sue, he doesn’t know what he’s talking about. Everyone knows that Ulysses was killed by Achilles at the gates of Troy, and then his son married his wife, and then tore out his own eyes.”

“How horrible!” Sue cried, and Adam laughed some more.

“Sue,” Lily said calmly, “there are no such things as
ghosts. Adam’s just trying to frighten you.”

Adam giggled wildly, “You say that Lily, but just wait until the ghosts come to get you.” Lily swung a punch at her friend who fell over backward and into the wind, where his hat blew off from his head and was carried off down the moor. As Adam went chasing after his hat, Sue and Lily laughed and went to their homes arm in arm.

* * * * *

That evening, Lily peeked out the window of her house as the wind rattled the windows. It was dark outside, too dark to see anything. It was a new moon, and a layer of clouds covered the stars. The only light were a few candles, and the old oil lamp her father used to see outside. Lily thought of Adam’s ghost story and shivered. Somehow it seemed more plausible here, in the darkness of night. It was ridiculous, of course. Ghosts weren’t real. Still, on nights like this it seemed like anything was possible. She shivered and pulled her blanket further over her head, trying not to imagine what was lurking out there, unseen, in the darkness. Here, at her father’s house, there wasn’t even the light of town to keep her company; her father’s house was far from the town, a lone cottage at the far end of the settlement.

There was a loud noise, and Lily jumped with a shrill, “Eek!” She turned and saw that it was just her father returning home. The tall man wore a concerned expression when he went to his daughter. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

Lily looked at her feet. “It’s nothing. It’s just… well, Adam was telling some ghost stories today. I mean, I know ghosts aren‘t real, but still…”

Her father smiled with relief, secure in the knowledge that his daughter was simply frightened and not in any real danger. He took her up in his arms and said, “Well, we’ll have to do something about those ghosts. Luckily, I know just the thing.” He took her to their wooden table and sat her down. The man rooted through his cupboards for a few minutes, finally stopping when he found what he was looking for. He took a small wooden box from one of the top shelves and took it to the table, sitting across form his daughter. The candlelight illuminated her face, and the rest of the room seemed to be lost in darkness. “My grandmother, your great grandmother,” Lily’s father began, “was a soothsayer for the village long before I was born. She died when I was very young, but she left some things behind to help us out.” He opened the box and a pleasant smell wafted out. He showed his daughter what was inside and said, “This herb doesn’t grow anywhere on Avalon. My grandmother’s great grandmother brought it with her from the old lands when she came here. This is all that was left of her original stash, and try as I might I cannot grow it here. I’ll give some of this to you, though.” He handed a sprig to his daughter; it was still fresh and green, kept so by the airtight container and whatever sorceries his sires knew. The sprig had a small white flower on the end, which Lily smelled. “It was called satureja by my grandmother’s people, but before that it was called something else: savory, because it was used to prepare food long before its more useful properties were discovered. Now we know that it keeps out evil things, because they can’t stand the smell or taste of it. If you keep this with you than no ghosts or monsters can get you, no matter what.”

Lily looked at the herb with a contemplative look on her face. Satureja, she though to herself, and smiled.

* * * * *

When the morning came, the whole affair seemed a bit silly. Even so, Lily kept the satureja sprig with her wherever she went, keeping safe her father’s precious gift. Lily wasn’t scared by Adam’s stories, not really, but it was still a comfort to know that her father’s protection was always with her. She always kept it in a metal box which had belonged to her mother, locking in the scent even after it became dry and crumbly. She would take it out and take in its fragrance on the long winter nights when her father was away, the smell bringing her comfort in the dark of their cottage.

It was on one such night that Lily was startled by a loud wail outside just as she was settling into bed. She sat frozen in fear, thinking the ghosts had come upon her. The wail came again, and Lily’s breath caught in her chest. She knew she should go see what it was; it was probably a traveler caught on the moor. It may have jut been an animal. Lily had to go see what it was, but she couldn’t move. Finally, she made herself stand up. She clutched her box of satureja to her chest and walked cautiously to the door. She was still in her nightgown, for she knew that she had already wasted a good deal of time, but she did tie her hair back and string up her boots. With a shawl wrapped around her shoulders, her box in one hand and the oil lamp in the other, Lily opened the door and braved the dark night.

The lamp was little help in the darkness of the evening. The east wind whipped around her, causing the protected light to flicker, and her hair and shawl to whip around. Her light seemed to be swallowed up by the sheer volume of darkness, and Lily struggled to see where she was going. Lily searched around, looking where she thought the wail had come from. She searched for many minutes, and was about to give up, when the wail came again. She turned to search for the source of the wail, but saw nothing. It came again, this time from a different direction, and Lily’s heart leapt into her throat. The whirled around, searching for the source of the noise. She stumbled, and her boot caught on a rock sticking from the ground. She fell forward and collapsed, loosing both her box and her light.

Lily lay still, not even daring to look up. Her breathing came out in short, ragged breaths as she tried to slow her breathing so it would not be heard, even though her heart was racing and her body wanted to take quick breaths. She collected herself, and went to search the ground on her hands and knees. Finally, by a stroke of luck, she found her box, still mercifully shut with the satureja inside. She clutched the box and curled up on the ground, letting the wind whip around her. She was cold and uncomfortable, but she was afraid to move around in the darkness. Lily tried to be strong, but it was difficult to keep the tears back. Just when the flow of tears seemed inevitable, Lily heard a soft, comforting voice. “Why do you rest here, child? Are you lost.” Lily opened her eyes and let out a shriek that split the dark night.

They gathered around Lily, their luminescent, incorporeal forms barely visible even on such a dark night. Lily’s eyes were saucer plates as she stared out at the throng that had appeared so silently. The wind was whipping down the moor with a renewed sharpness, but these insubstantial beings seemed unaffected by it. They all had cruel faces, as far as she could tell; their faces were as shadowy as the rest of them, but they all seemed to be grinning and laughing. Lily soon realized that they were laughing at her.

“Come with us, little girl,” one jeered, “we’ll take you home.”

“Is the young miss afraid of the dark?”

“Lost, lost, lost. Chill of the moor and bite of the frost.”

White faced and teary eyed, Lily couldn’t seem to think or move as the spirits danced around her. The only thing that burned in her mind was that one word: ghost. Lily clutched tighter at the box and whispered, “Wha… what do you want.”

“What do we want, dear?”

"We want the blood of young girls.”

“It is ever so yummy, and we are ever so hungry.”

“Young girls like sweets, cakes, and bread. We prefer your toes and head!”

The taunting voices erupted in a peal of laughter. Lily began to find her voice; the spirits, it seemed, could only taunt and jeer. “You can’t hurt me,” she said, “I have the satureja.” She brandished her box like a talisman, and the spirits reeled back. They spoke, but this time it was not cruel laughter that rose up from the throng, but anger and fear.

“Foolish little girl, to be so defiant.”

“You think us powerless?”

“You may have your little plant, but we can hurt you, don’t think we can’t.”

“Does your friend Susan have the plant?”

“Does your father?”

“We shall take their blood!”

“We shall bleed the village dry!”

“You will be safe, but we will haunt you forever!”

Strength surged into Lily’s legs at the threats to her friends and family. She leapt up and ran toward the house. She knew she had to take the plant and give it to everyone. Stumbling in the darkness, Lily tried to outrun the taunting voices behind her. Her legs began to tire, and she almost fell twice, but she kept going. The voices seemed everywhere, and she caught a glimpse of a horrid, ghostly face everywhere she turned. Lily ran and ran. It seemed like forever, and it seemed like no time at all. Suddenly, Lily’s feet lost the ground and she let out a shriek as she sank into what seemed like solid ground. In a flash Lily realized that she must have gotten turned around in the darkness. She had overshot the swamp and ran into the marshlands that lay to the south and west. No one ever went there, for they were treacherous. Lily struggled to stay afloat, but she felt herself slowly sinking. She thrashed around, trying to find purchase. Finally her hand caught on a clump of land, and she hauled, trying to drag herself out of the water. She pulled and pulled, climbing onto the solid bank. She climbed out and lay down, half frozen and too tired to be afraid of the night. She reached for her box, and froze when it wasn’t there. She searched herself and the land around her, but to no avail. The precious herb had sunk into the swamp. Chattering, cruel voices arrived on the wind, and Lily screamed and screamed.

* * * * *

The daylight came, but it brought no comfort to Lily. It was too late for that. There was a gray haze over everything, boxing the land in with its oppressive presence. Head and legs in pain, she stood from where she had fallen the previous night, back near her house. She saw the shattered remains of her oil lamp lying nearby, and her box lay near it. Lily picked up the box, cradling it to her chest. She felt relief wash over her, a security that the sun hadn’t brought. Then, and ominous feeling swept over her, and she looked inside it. The satureja was gone. A pain split her skull and she shrieked. The pain overwhelmed her, and she felt herself pass out on the ground.

There was a dampness over Lily when she came to again. It was as she remembered it; she was on the bank of the marshes, wet and weary, with little idea of what had passed that night. She heard voices around her that she could not yet see.

“What is to be done with her?”

“Has she been taken by them?”

"Can we trust her?”

“Best to kill her just to be safe.”

“We can’t do that-she may be an innocent.”

At first Lily thought it was the specters, but the voices were too substantial for that. She managed to open her eyes, and through her bleary vision she saw solid shapes. Gasps and cries of “She awakes,” came from all around. Lily’s vision slowly cleared, and she saw a huddled mass of adults from the nearby village; her father was not among them.

“Lily,” one of them said gently, “Lily, can you understand me?”

Lily spoke in a voice that surprised her, “You fools shall be long buried before I acknowledge your right to speak to me, maggot.” Lily’s eyes went wide and she clapped her hand over her mouth. She had meant to say, “Of course I can understand you,” but it had come out funny.

The crowd gasped, and they chattered among themselves. The man said carefully, “Now, Lilly, this is no time for games. Why don’t you…”

Lily hadn’t meant to say anything, but her voice came out with a booming resonance that belied her sore, dry throat, “Only a fool like you would think this is a game. We’ll see how much of a game this is once I’ve taken your children.” The crowd gasped again, and Lily felt the momentary hope wane as they whispered words like “devil,” and “possessed.” She inched away from the crowd, which was slowly turning on her.
She was young, but she somehow understood what the beginnings of a mob looked like.

Without warning, just as the mob was beginning to turn violent, something yanked Lilly from behind. She felt herself go flying through the air, over the moor and past the village. She didn’t scream this time; her throat was ragged to scream, and she was too tired to even be frightened. She found that now she only wanted to sleep.

A circle of stones sat on the ground, and Lily knew this was her destination. This was far away from the village, farther than anyone she knew had gone. She landed softly in the middle of the stone circle and felt a nausea overtake her. She opened her mouth to vomit, but nothing came out. Even so, she felt something leave her. It was quite indescribable, but she knew that whatever had made her say those things was gone. Lily looked around as she caught her breath. It was a peaceful place she was in, a quiet meadow with the sun just peaking the horizon, much different from the fierce, windswept moor on which she had lived her whole life. Then Lily heard a sound. At first she thought it was a sort of bird, but realized it was much too rhythmic for that. Her eyes widened in realization as she figured out that the sound was metal clanking against metal. She realized the danger she was in and, forcing her tired legs up from the ground, she ran for the edge of the circle of stones. Each step felt like agony, but there was something inside of her desperately saying that she needed to get outside the stone circle.

I made it, thought Lily as she reached the stones. Just then a fierce figure appeared in the gap she sought. It was a tall man, dressed head to foot in battered, rusty armor. He had a grim, pale face and eye sockets that held nothing. Lily fell backwards from the fierce being, crawling on her elbows to get away from it. Then she looked around, and saw that other such figures closing in from all around. No two were the same, but they all wore similar armor, and all wore the same grim face. None of them had eyes. They said nothing as they marched inward; their faces may as well have been stone. Lily struggled to find a way out, but there was nothing. She opened her mouth to shout, beg, scream, anything, but nothing came out. The figures marched steadily inward.

Brickwall
2006-12-29, 10:43 PM
Hmm...well, I can understand not including the Pern thing. Still, I think your ending is lacking. She gets away, but then gets attacked by men in armor?! OMFGWTFLOL?!??!1 If I were writing it, she'd have been executed. Then again, I lost the contest, so I wouldn't recommend listening to me.

Also, the flagrant bastardization of the Odyssey grates on my nerves. Even if it's intentional.

averagejoe
2006-12-30, 02:18 AM
Hmm...well, I can understand not including the Pern thing. Still, I think your ending is lacking. She gets away, but then gets attacked by men in armor?! OMFGWTFLOL?!??!1 If I were writing it, she'd have been executed. Then again, I lost the contest, so I wouldn't recommend listening to me.

Actually, you're exactly right. In general I've been having trouble with my endings, and not just in this contest. On both of my stories I haven't been entierly satisfied with how I ended things, but have never had any idea what else to do. Plus, I've always been a bit too much of a fan of those endings that leave a lot to one's imagination, which I know aren't everyone's cup of tea. Or coffee, I guess, if you're American.

Cult_of_the_Raven
2006-12-30, 09:00 AM
a thing I learned that is really powerful with endings, is try to tie your title ( the first thing a reader sees ) in with your ending.(the last thing a reader sees) take the last thing your character does, and try to make a title out of that.
it will make any ending a lot stronger. won't fix it completely, but it will make it stronger.

Brickwall
2006-12-30, 11:46 AM
Yeah, people remember beginnings and endings better than anything. That also helps with poetry when organising your lines. If you don't have a title, your ending should relate to your beginning strongly.

Ironically enough, beginnings and endings are the hardest parts. Just work at it, joe.