Iron Author 3 - Round 2 Brackets Posted! [Archive] - Page 2

Amotis

2007-03-19, 04:53 PM

Amotis's Entry
Pic1:Jellyfish And Diver (http://williamsfamilyfl.com/diver_and_jellyfish.jpg)
Pic2:Sleeping Giant (http://williamsfamilyfl.com/sleepinggiant.jpg)
Wiki:Game (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Shinty)

'These are truly the last days...'
It made a noise like a train slowing to a stop, miles away. Its welded steel tongue touched upon Gaea’s curved neck, her sensual moans rising with the steady slowing thump of a circular tempo, mixing like red dirt that stained the skin. Then it started to change, slowly at first, but everyone could see it and no one would deny it. It rose up, it hovered, paused in the sterile dim air, and it shot forward. The noise charged like a beast, blind and burdened with truth, head down and the earth quickly leaving behind it. First, it shed its outer layer, the bass suddenly dropping from the sound. The collective gasp for air was there, the closed eyes as one plunges head first into the rise of the pitch; eyeballs looking up through closed lids, the signs were all there. Then the gray; the gray melted off. It fell to the ground like paint chipping from a plane, frozen with altitude and falling sudden and spread. The sound became pure and it rose up. No longer metallic, no long far away, it was near now. Sudden, as sudden as the sting of pain, it became here. It became now. A sole note, a graveyard trumpet soaked with wind and rain, a weeping violin straining the air that clung around it.

It was then when she joined in, slowly at first, entwining with the ground’s fingers with a jarring move, stirring up dust and knowingly sly smiles. I thought it was a dance. But then I heard her sing. But then I saw her move. My eyes and ears deceived me and I felt lost. I saw her blatantly before me, silver splashes wetting her skin, but I couldn’t decide. Was it song? Was it dance? Was it both? It couldn’t be. I saw her still when I felt her dancing. I heard her quiet when I heard song. It was like watching a far off cloud and feeling the cold touch of rain on your cheek, with the sun and the blue shining bright on your brow. Like staring into a crowded bar and finding grudging relief with your feet far and solidly in heaven. I touched her face with my hands deep in my pockets. Her eyes closed, her body moved, hand extended in silhouette, and I watched her voice. Her mouth opened and I felt the rhythm that runs through us all, I heard the dance. It was connected, I couldn’t find where one began and the other started. And there certainly was no end. I shook my head and I cursed under my breath. I lied to myself because my senses couldn’t.

Afraid and unsure, I stared quietly at my feet. Feeling the ticking tempos that beat solid in my wrist, trying to forget about the now, the her, and do something about the later. I sought the presence of self, the tingling knowledge of cold that pulls back the hairs on your neck, forcing your face up to the stars. Screaming at you, thrusting the moon down your gasping throat, trying to make you forget about that damn stubborn ground at your feet. But the earth fought back with a punch or two of its own and I specifically remember her scent. She smelt like the ocean. The deep ocean, dark with spades and dirt, finished with the awkward wayward brushstroke of white. She knew I couldn’t look at her. She knew I couldn’t stop the slow tint of blue that came over me, even as I clasped and winced and looked away.

I then became wet and started to drown. No longer in control of my body, I twisted and gasped for air and with the sting of cold oxygen entering warm empty lungs, I looked at her. Whether that was what saved me or what doomed me didn’t matter, because as she locked eyes with me I had forgotten already. White was everywhere. My vision tunneled, and finding the spotlight, she shone with a glory usually reserved for young smiling mothers and dead wise men. All I could do was float there, unchained by the responsibilities of gravity, I felt weightless and empty. My lungs took her in as a lifeline, pumping air into my body and letting me stay by her side. Like the void that is space and sea, she moved in and out of focus with each panted breath. A white dress, her virginity of innocence, the whips of cloth and hair, floating far and near, she moved like the motion of earth. The slow turn around, the tilt of her heart, the skew of sun that reveals and pierces translucence, I felt her spread. I saw her body. Where her mouth was, where her legs stood, where she started and where she ended. Her presence, however, smeared across the air between us. Like sheets of thin white extended from her dress, whisking about with a hidden strength, coming close and taking up space. Like a stare from a lover, real enough that you could feel them, the air shimmering with invisible tentacles reaching out. I felt the ethereal whispers of her, things like wet paper, like dusty dry handkerchiefs. Spread wide and open to all, I could see through her, and we watched like lions.

Suddenly, I heard the roar. I hadn’t noticed it before but it rose up like waking. The sound hit me far before the knowledge of it did, crawling and crescendoing, like falling asleep in front of the T.V. Suddenly I wasn’t alone and suddenly I was surrounded by a pride of men. With thrones and manes, and teeth and eyes, they stared forward and followed my gaze. Thirteen men on one side, thirteen on the other, they carried sticks in their hands. I couldn’t see their faces for it was dark, but I too remember the smell. They smelled of magnets. Dirt magnets, dark gray sanded magnets. The swirl of liquid tossed around and among them, their skin was hardened with life, and so, magnets they were. I could only pray to Luna that she and I could break the pull of Earth and dash free, but these men, they were too strong. Too large with their power and their tongues. And so I could not break free of their gravity, their molten cores, their smell.

I knew it would come to this. Man is a competitive animal. It is only natural that as I tried to ignore their roars and their eyes that they grew restless. To them it is only a game. To them it is only a score. Numbers on the board, goals or something like that. I let him kiss me him once on a football field, it was night, it was empty, and it was cold. But we pressed on, seeking heat and empty teenage comfort that lay in each other’s tongues. I remember touching his hair and looking up while laughing with his lies and his fingers. I remember the spotlights, and I remember that steel board that towered over the sky. I remember his distant laughing friends; I remember the home team was winning. I closed my eyes, passed on his, and went straight to his neck. Shame was my flag of victory that night. His was blood.

The men rose up, sticks in hand, and rapid breaths among them. And with the passion of men, descended upon her. She never noticed. Floating there, her eyes were closed and they never had been open. I tried to yell out to her but my voice died. I don’t know whether it died in my throat or on her empty ears that were clogged with silence, but she never ran. It was as though she was asleep. Their faces were dirty and ugly, gaunt with greed and smeared with sly smiles. They thought of winning, of the pride that comes with the win, it drove them forward with a blind passion. Man thinks of victory, of drive, of reason. Always those things, always the law of man; victory is salvation, victory saves you. Reinvent ideas, think them away, and continue, as long as you can raise a flag, as long as you can tally a point.

Anger was everywhere; I could practically smell the torches, the stupid hate, and the bleachers again. They drooled and cursed it. They knocked over chairs, scuffed the floors with their soles, and rushed toward her. They raised their sticks to strike, to plunge them deep into her and climb her and hang on. I felt her blood leak through my hands before they even touched. I felt her head against my breast; her body limp in arms that were no longer mine, empty like sacks of sand. I felt the future press hard against my heart and as their swears grew louder, their dark laughter closing around my feelings of horror and clenching my throat, I felt it all go quiet. I saw their sticks and fists freeze in place, her still closed eyes and the world turn inside out and I felt man disappear.

Nothing, for the longest time, just silence and blue. The scene had vanished and I remembered little. I sat there alone, four strings in my hands, and I pressed my fingers against them, strumming something thoughtfully and lazily. I remember my father once telling me a song. He told me I would learn how to sing it one day. One day it would just come and that I would just know it. He was a funny man. Not a very good father, he was too much of a friend, but a man nonetheless.

So I begin to sing and in the nothingness that surrounded me I could hear my words echo true.

I remember one day running from school,
starting class bells marking the rules,
I glanced at the world behind me.
Running from spirits that numbered in three,
and the ringing; it never would eat me.
‘Cause louder it got the more I ran free,
‘cause I ran too fast for the noise to be
a closing army of trumpets,
that chased me around that parking lot space,
and sank into the darkness.
So I took my friend’s hand and we ran to our cars,
shined with cheap grease and radio scars,
and we drove into the mountains.
The sea was so close and I found us a shell,
sparkled clean with berries and bells,
which I fashioned in to my mirror.
It talked to us as we drove fast,
windows whistling at our last pass,
it spoke to me and endless.

It was that night when we crashed our cars
into those rocks that shone like stars;
they were the ones who listened.
We were all asleep until that night,
a sneaking flight that sparked a light,
and wake we did upon it.
It was a sound that opened our eyes,
a noise that drowned out the buzzing flies;
it bestowed a waking upon us.

So remember parents, teachers, and friends,
if you ever try to doubt us,
to confine us to bodies so closed in by ends,
humans you address us,
we’ll fight it every second of the blistering way,
we were made to be inhuman.
To float in the sea and blindly stray,
we never were made for shelter.

The game of the race of the fame of the name,
it’s all is the looping soundtrack.
It repeats over and over again,
it awards us re-used plaques.
It keeps us tired and our eyes closed,
it keeps us within’ your limits,
but when you pause to tally the score,
we’ll stir and wake that morrow.

If try you mold us into shapes that decay,
casting glances that sway our ways,
you will always find to regret it.
For when you drag us on your beach,
color our skin with worn out bleach,
a ritual I call pagan,
it will sound that alarm for our new day,
the waking only begun.

Giants we’ll rise and beasts of heart,
champions of some black art,
from this sacred state of internal ,
ethereal beasts; a sky-born release,
we shall always wake eternal.

Brickwall

2007-03-19, 05:21 PM

Amotis

...
...
...
What
...
The
...
Hell.

Amotis, thank you. I will now never take drugs out of curiosity, because I have learned exactly what a drug trip must feel like. You conveyed it through you writing.

Oddly enough, through careful pickings and my immense insanity, I was able to pick out the prompts. You still qualify.

Let me be brief: I didn't get it. Normally I do not say this, but I happen to think of myself as a fairly intelligent person. Therefore, when I do not get something, even after a few lookovers, I regard it as difficult. Difficult is a very negative adjective for a...story is not the right word here. Whatever you call this.

Your story is the opposite of Logos7's in that while your syntax is readable, the very core of your story is horribly screwed up. I don't know any psychoanalysts, but I bet if I did, I would put them to work for weeks just looking at this thing.

And now for the analysis.

At the surface level, this story is so incomprehensible because all you have is pronouns, as far as central objects go. Do you know why your English teacher told you that every pronoun needed an antecedent? Because otherwise people think you're a lunatic.

Second, nothing is at all connected. There is no understandable flow of events. I could replace a few verbs with totally contradictory ones and the...thing would still work as well as it did before. Which it didn't.

I honestly think that if you had written this off as the dream of some emotionally depraved teenager or as an omen for a central figure in a larger story, I could handle it (kind of). As it is, though, I have the following to say.

This is a prose contest. What you have written is not prose. It is prose's "modern art", the kind that has no surface meaning through which to read the emotion, just the emotion convoluting through direct scattering of the medium. I have said before: I hate modern art. I would judge you the loser of this round.

I think you went too far with "creativity" and went to "insanity". While the line between them is actually an infinite horizontal plane that uncreative people cannot comprehend, I think you still managed to pass it.

By the way...do you hug your mother with the hands that typed out that first paragraph? If someone walked into the room and read over my shoulder while I was reading that part, I'd be shunned.

Logos7

2007-03-19, 05:46 PM

Hey VT sorry to hear you won't be submitting, I was hopping to face off against you in bracket 2, after i decimate what's his name.

As for Brickwall, Well no one's asking for a not judge to comment so if you don't want someone to question as to your competence as a critic, I'd stop posting. That said I think the biggest part of people's problem with your critic is the condescending and overly negative tone. After reading a few of your other critique's and mine again what you say is mostly true, but your presentation is in the ****ter.

If your here to **** on people's stories i must really ask you why, does it feed your ego. Is their nothing to say positive about them, or nothing so positive as to change your tone of criticism for at least one peice? Am i intruding in some Old Boy's Club where i must put up with your foibles and whimsy cause your part of the furniture as well? This isn't GITP Litarary American Idol so get over yourself MR. (Wannabe) Judgeship

or at the very least climb down from on high.

as for the stories, Those that i have read (The one with Giant Voodoo bear's and some of Amotis's ) I've enjoyed, I found the Voodoo Bear's a bit straining to my disbelief but their's a certain vindictive joy in watching reporters be shot out by bear's with lasers from the NYT or some such. As for Amotis's your gramer is fantastic but i do find it a bit bewildering, evocative but bewildering, Bricks Antecedent comment if not the rest of his triad may be deserved.

Lgoos

Vaynor

2007-03-19, 05:59 PM

I request that you pay more attention to goings-on before you go shooting off your mouth. It makes you look like an idiot when everyone else knows why I'm not a judge, and you are sorely mistaken about it. Just FYI. "Cheers".

Speaking of judging, I can't help but notice you posted comments for everyone but me. :smallfrown:

averagejoe

2007-03-19, 06:03 PM

@ Brickwall

Yeah, you bring up some good points. This really wasn't a particularly inspiring round, and I did get a little Andy Warhol (just a little). A lot of the problems you mention probably stem from the fact that I have the bad habit of thinking of these stories in terms of a much longer narrative, and then having to cut stuff when I realize I'm going over the word limit/running out of time. That's why, for example, I tend to indulge myself with those lengthy openers. Looking back, that's probably also why the ending in my second IA 1 entry (the ghost one) sucked so much.

Yeah... I'm not exactly sure what I was thinking at the end there either. I just wanted Stan Belinda to come off as really crazy and having some sort of evil plot that really wouldn't do anything. Even as I write this I'm thinking of several things I should have done to make that bit clearer/better. Ah well. I've actually never really been satisfied with any of my entries. A week just isn't enough.

@ Logos: Don't worry about it, just take the criticism. Ignore the negative bits and use it as an opportunity to improve yourself. Heck, I see it as a good thing that he's willing to critique everyone's stories for essentially no good reason, and fairly lengthy/detailed critiques at that.

Elvaris

2007-03-19, 06:18 PM

Well I'm pretty sure it's a thousand words or so.
Pic1:Colorful (http://williamsfamilyfl.com/peruchildren.jpg)
Pic2:Mud (http://williamsfamilyfl.com/mudslide.jpg)
Wiki:Colossal (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Colossal_Connection)
Giant Leaps
By Quentin Mitchell
Lima, Peru

Andre the Giant was found dead in his home in France in 1993, so naturally it was a surprise when pictures of him being airlifted out of a car turned up in 2007. Reporters have flocked to Lima, Peru to confirm the sightings of the former wrestling great. Remarkably, given the lengths he has gone to hide, he has been extremely gracious in granting interviews. I caught up with the gentle giant walking the streets of his new home.

-----

Q: So... Why fake your own death?

A: Well, towards the end of my wrestling career, sickness had reduced me to tag teams. I just wasn't capable of completing a whole match start to finish on my own. Wrestling, real or not, is still draining when you're not at full strength. So I made some deals, worked with a few guys and kept working.
Everything was going fine until I wound up paired with Haku in "the Colossal Connection". I don't know whose harebrained idea that was, but they sure didn't clear it with me. Have you seen that guy? An absolute animal. Spending time around him really made me question my will to live.
So here I was, health failing, and I just had no fight left in me to recover. I quit wrestling but that wasn't enough to pull me out of the depths. Even going back home to France wasn't doing it for me. I needed time alone to recover mentally and physically, and there just wasn't anywhere I could go without someone searching me out and intruding on my life. I needed a way to convince them to stop looking.

Q: How did you pull it off?

A: Well, by then I had a personal doctor and a reputation for keeping to myself, so it was just a matter of having some of the special effects guys I knew rigging up a "body" and my doctor took care of the rest. Then it was just a private plane flight to a quiet country and enough of the local currency to keep things quiet.

Q: But the body wound up lying in state for a week...

A: Yeah, that was not an ideal situation. I have no idea how they pulled that off.

Q: Well, why Peru?

A: Actually, I started in Argentina, but too many people recognized me over there. I bounced around South America a bit until I finally ended up here. Once I got here, though, I couldn't leave. Look around you. Everyone here has such joy in their lives. There's a beauty to everything they do. Just look at the colors in their outfits, the murals on the walls. Getting here, I felt like a weight had been lifted from my shoulders. My health improved within days, and best of all, nobody knew or cared who I was. I've been living here happily ever since.

(I spent a moment here fumbling with my camera to get a picture of two women he gestured toward during the previous speech. They were gracious enough to stay still and pose for the picture)http://williamsfamilyfl.com/peruchildren.jpg

Q: You're, umm, not what I expected...

A: What did you expect, exactly? "I's nah my faul' I'm da bigges' an' da stronges'. I don' even exercise"? It was pretty clear early in my career that people didn't want their giant to be an intellectual. The accent was natural at first, as English wasn't exactly my first language. Over time it became more of a character I was playing. I'm an actor after all. I was getting payed to play a role, whether in or out of the ring.

Q: As long as you mention that quote, some have pointed to your death as the reason there's no sequel to Princess Bride. Now that it's an option again, would you be interested?

A: Let me start by saying I loved everyone who worked on that movie, it was a wonderful time, and I'd be thrilled to see them again. That said, some movies were just meant to stand on their own, you know what I mean? The story ended, everyone lived happily ever after, please hit the snack bar on your way out. If it was a Princess Bride reunion, I'd think about it. But a sequel? Probably not.

Q: Fair enough. So... there are some conflicting reports as to how you were discovered down here, care to shed some light on the matter?

A: I was driving down a mountain road in a rainstorm when the next thing I knew, there was an awful cracking noise and the mountain road was less road and more mountain. A mudslide had swallowed all the cars on the road, and pinned all of our doors shut.

Q: That must have been one big car.

A: Do you hear me making short jokes here?

Q: Sorry.

A: Anyway, while some of the other people were able to climb out the windows of their cars, I wouldn't fit. Eventually they had to bring in a crew by helicopter to cut the roof off of my car and airlift me out. Turns out there was a press helicopter taking pictures of the rescue, and the next thing you know "he's alive" stories are popping up everywhere.

Q: That must be a little gratifying, at least. Knowing that that many people care about you?

A: It was printed in with the Britney Spears and Anna Nicole Smith updates. Not all attention is positive.

Q: So now that your secret is out, have you considered coming back home?

A: While there are a few things back north I wouldn't mind seeing again, I couldn't spend too much time away from here. I've found peace in my life, I have no desire to spend any real amount of time amid that kind of chaos. This IS home.

Q: Any regrets?

A: Obviously there are people I've hurt, people who cared about me, people who wanted to spend these last years with me. I'd love to be able to give them those years back. But then, with the way I was before I left, those years probably wouldn't have been very pleasant anyway. I just have to hope they understand that this is what I needed to do.

Q: Well, I know how much you value your privacy, thank you for taking the time to talk with me today.

Brickwall

2007-03-19, 06:27 PM

(Insert indignant rant here)

Golly gosh and gee whiz, I never knew that I was subconciously psychically forcing people to read my comments when they could have easily learned that I'm the biggest bastard on the boards (ooh, alliteration). I'll go get some lead lining for my room so I don't make people come to realize the faults of their writing so that they can become better writers.

Anyway, I deeply apologize to Vaynor, as I did not see his story at all. However, I am in a bad mood, and it's best if I don't critique when I'm in a bad mood.

I forgot to mention how sorry I am that so many drop out. I know how empty a victory feels when it's because of a forfeit.

It should be noted that I personally don't mind anything of mine getting insulted/criticized/whatever...I wish people would do it more often so I could improve in what little art I do by seeing what I should fix.

Vaynor

2007-03-19, 06:37 PM

Anyway, I deeply apologize to Vaynor, as I did not see his story at all. However, I am in a bad mood, and it's best if I don't critique when I'm in a bad mood.

S'ok. Seems no one else noticed it either... :smallfrown:

:smallwink:

Oh, and Elvaris, your story clocks in at 1067 words.

Amotis

2007-03-19, 07:01 PM

Would the other writers who have finished be so kinda to comment on my story too? I am seriously undecided whether I was happy with it or not. Thanks everyone who has already though.

@Brick

I liked your commentary. I'm not sure why, it was filled with the bad things of my story and you said I lost...and it's not because you're not a judge, because even if you were and you said the same thing I would still feel the same way. I think it's fitting? That I wanted someone to say what you said? No, that's not the word. Something like it though.

But yes, you hit on a few points that made me hesitate while writing it when questioning whether it was appropriate or fitting or not. I decided they were, I guess you didn't. I did what basically Quincunx described as the most risky of the categories and I tried for the fences. Not sure if I made it or if it went foul or whatever, or even if I am happy with my entry, but I certainly did something. Tried at the least.

I made connections, the kind you can see through, yeah, but I made them. The flow of events corresponds with the kinda core and feel of the story, I didn't try to make it a scene or a conversation or a man observing, I tried for something more.

And ah, yeah, I like sexual metaphors, they can be very strong and revealing. It would be better/worse if it wasn't for the pg-13 part but hey.

Brickwall

2007-03-19, 07:35 PM

@Brick
The flow of events corresponds with the kinda core and feel of the story, I didn't try to make it a scene or a conversation or a man observing, I tried for something more.

Which is...? That's kinda my point...a being of pure energy may be more advanced than a human by some perspective, but anyone can argue that they wouldn't have what we consider integral to sentient life simply because they don't have any biological structure whatsoever. The same goes with prose: while what you wrote certainly can't be called "not writing", it lacks elements that many consider integral to writing. And the same applies to "modern art". The parallels are unending...

Logos7

2007-03-19, 08:18 PM

if you didn't put your thing's out to be read why did you bother? You did bother so obviously you wanted to at the very least have your say on the net. Your saying you aren't responcible for you say (including the pending criticism of what you did say) because you hid it behind spoiler tags? Yes we who read your trap are ulttimately responcible for any insult incured.

I'm not disagreeing with the core of your critique, you obivouosly know your english it's the other 9/10's of what you wrote i find insulting, condesending, and useless.

Logs

Amotis

2007-03-19, 08:24 PM

Which is...? That's kinda my point...a being of pure energy may be more advanced than a human by some perspective, but anyone can argue that they wouldn't have what we consider integral to sentient life simply because they don't have any biological structure whatsoever. The same goes with prose: while what you wrote certainly can't be called "not writing", it lacks elements that many consider integral to writing. And the same applies to "modern art". The parallels are unending...

This all lies in your interpretation of writing. Which is severly limited in this "I hate modern art/modern art isn't art" mantra you keep repeating. Come on man, you can't call yourself an intellectual without knowing modern and post modern art/writers. You're just a historian then. I really suggest, in the most non-condesending way I can, that you broaden your horizons. Especially in writing. I can name at least 5 modern artists from each spectrum of art (some of them even overlapping) and can confidently state that each one is an artist of not only great caliber, but of creative modern pushing spirit. I can also name 20 modern artists I hate from each spectrum. Doesn't matter. Modern art is probably the most important era of art and thinking since the renn. period. Modern art is probably the broadest designation ever too, just like me saying I hate rock, or I hate classical music. You're really sounding just stubborn if you complete state that "you hate modern art." It means that either a) you're not looking b) you've looked and found what you don't like and dubbed then entire movement thus c)you've looked, found what you don't like, looked some more, found what you still don't like, and ignoring the very essance that is art. Creativity, pushing, experimentation, questioning. It's all there and you definently can't not call it art. I really don't care how this applies to my story, like I said, I enjoyed your comments, but when someone plainly states "I hate modern art" when they should know better, well that's when I put my foot down.

Fat Daddy

2007-03-19, 09:07 PM

Alright people, keep it civil in here. I want this contest to be a fun experience. Feel free to critique anyone's work but refrain from personal attacks and or name calling. I don't want it here and it is against playground policy.

I am not trying to 'vigilante mod'. I am trying to keep this little contest going in a positive direction. So remember what Kevin's (that's me) daddy used to tell him, "If you can't say something nice, shutup." :smallsmile:

As for the current disagreements, arguments, I would request that we all just drop it and focus on the stories so that we can have a good time and perhaps improve ourselves/help others improve as writers.

@Quincunx - After reviewing the rules, I see nothing against editing your post. That being said, please do not edit your post after the deadline (if necessary I will add that to the rules) and Judges, please do not judge a story until the deadline has elapsed to allow for any editing.

Thanks

Brickwall

2007-03-19, 09:12 PM

This all lies in your interpretation of writing. Which is severly limited in this "I hate modern art/modern art isn't art" mantra you keep repeating. Come on man, you can't call yourself an intellectual without knowing modern and post modern art/writers. You're just a historian then. I really suggest, in the most non-condesending way I can, that you broaden your horizons. Especially in writing. I can name at least 5 modern artists from each spectrum of art (some of them even overlapping) and can confidently state that each one is an artist of not only great caliber, but of creative modern pushing spirit. I can also name 20 modern artists I hate from each spectrum. Doesn't matter. Modern art is probably the most important era of art and thinking since the renn. period. Modern art is probably the broadest designation ever too, just like me saying I hate rock, or I hate classical music. You're really sounding just stubborn if you complete state that "you hate modern art." It means that either a) you're not looking b) you've looked and found what you don't like and dubbed then entire movement thus c)you've looked, found what you don't like, looked some more, found what you still don't like, and ignoring the very essance that is art. Creativity, pushing, experimentation, questioning. It's all there and you definently can't not call it art. I really don't care how this applies to my story, like I said, I enjoyed your comments, but when someone plainly states "I hate modern art" when they should know better, well that's when I put my foot down.

Do please note that I did not say, "modern art", I said, ""modern art"". Air quotes, or whatever you wish to call them. People who can't be bothered to put a salient point along with all their obfuscated meanings and indescribable feelings. Some modern art, such as the one painting of the repeating Coke bottles whose name escapes me, has some meaning or representation. However, if you would like to tell me the meaning in this "piece of art" (http://www.fractality.com/980126/modern_art.JPG), I would be, well, somewhat stunned to be honest.

I can honestly say that I hate the founding principle of art without representation. I don't know why. I'm not a psychologist, and I never intend to be.

Ravyn

2007-03-19, 09:19 PM

Clocking in at 1205 words, there's Source of Stress #2 out of the way... (stupid midterms!)

Why, I wonder, do we have a science fair?

It fills the gym with tables, but doesn’t get us out of PE. It uses more cardboard than anything but the Homecoming parade. It keeps us after school when everyone but the overachievers just wants to go home and relax. The teachers insist we do something, but half the class procrastinates and the other half goes overambitious, and everyone’s contribution is either clearly rushed or the kind of thing that makes the rest of the class green with envy—or just plain convinced that the creator is a hopeless showoff.

And yet this year was different. This year, it mattered.

It all came down to three people. Adrian Showala (otherwise known as Adrian the Showoff), Morgan Petze and Jack Ryzan. The latter two for giving us something different, the first for getting me to notice it.

You see, Morgan and Jack were once the mainstays of the rocketry club. The key word being once. Nobody’s quite sure what split them—we know that the known trigger was an issue of quality vs. quantity—but we’re all pretty sure something else was at play. Not that I was particularly worried about what, but it made an interesting question. Anyhow, end result of the tiff was that the rocketry club split into two groups, and they’ve been feuding ever since. The fair was supposed to be their big chance to figure out who was better, because clearly whoever was better would therefore be right. If they say so….

Either way, everything started happening during science class, when we were supposed to set up our projects. I’m one of the procrastinators, sad to say—I’d spent the half hour or so before school doing a last-minute job finishing up the sewing of a stuffed bat for my display.

So there I was, starting to set up my rushed excuse for a project, and I found myself looking at the spot next to me. I don’t know how Adrian managed to get out of her other class to start setup for the piece on tanneries, but clearly she’d needed it. Her backboard was up when I arrived, perfectly aligned, and she was working on the 3-D props. So there she was, carefully setting up a several-tiered display of… I’m pretty sure they were supposed to be vats, but she was approximating them with—well, they might have been muffin tins in a previous life. Or she’d used a pair of egg cartons as plaster molds. Or something. Either way, it involved a lot of six-segmented tub setups. Complete, it appeared, with acrylic paint, which she was pouring in oh-so-delicately. No wonder there was a “Do Not Touch” sign sticking out of her bag.

“Overkill much?” I asked as I prepared to set up, rummaging in my bag for clothespins.

She shrugged. “I was inspired this year.”

“Riiiiight….” Adrian and her “inspirations” had been famous among the teachers and infamous among the students here for years. Ever since that one time when the fifth graders were doing models of Greek temples and she showed up with polished tiles and those decorative mini columns they use on wedding cakes. To this day, nobody’s been entirely sure whether she annoys us with these things on purpose or just doesn’t understand that it’s no fun being shown up every year.

She slid the segments of the “vats” together, careful not to slosh the paint, then thought for a moment and pulled a picture from her bag. Looked at it carefully, then looked closely at my bat as I tried to hang it upside down across the top of my backboard, one strand of excess thread dangling off its wingtip and one of its little bead eyes (why didn’t I sew them on BEFORE I stuffed and sewed the main portion? Stupid!) missing.

“You wouldn’t happen to have any spare fabric, would you? Not much, just a wisp or two.”

“Huh?”

“Spare fabric. As in, little scraps you aren’t using.” She looked down at her picture again, then back at my project, which was now dangling by one foot and a wingtip and losing its other eye.

“Why?”

She brandished the picture in front of me. “Because it looks better, and I didn’t think of that part.”

Nobody’s ever heard that from Adrian before.

“Uh… sure.”

I passed her a couple of old bits of fabric, excess from what I’d used to cover the pipe-cleaner wing structure, and she dipped them into a couple of the tubs and hung them over the edges, then got back to rummaging into her bag.

“So, you rooting for anyone in the Big Bang?”

I shrugged. Having never had much to do with the rocketry crowd, I didn’t really worry about their politics.

But Adrian was eager to tell me. And goodness knows I needed something to entertain me while I wrestled with that exhibit. About the tiff. And the people involved. And the terms of the contest. Most of the terms went right over my head, but the upshot was that this was it, the big one, and it’d be worth watching.

Which explains why, half an hour after school, I was in a crowd watching two guys in brightly-colored shirts clenching model rockets and looking daggers at each other. If looks could set things alight, they wouldn’t need their launchpads. And I imagine I would’ve been impressed with their ability to insult each other if it hadn’t required a technical manual to be even remotely comprehensible.

Instead of worrying about it, I concentrated on piecing together what was going on. It wasn’t particularly difficult to figure out which group was which, fortunately. They had banners. Big, shiny ones that had probably taken even longer to put together than the rockets themselves. On the left, with the rocket in front of what appeared to be a water tower—that was clearly the crowd that called themselves Cuxhaven. Adrian had told me it was whimsy on the part of team leader Morgan: apparently this is what happens when a group leader combines a weakness for German historical trivia with a need to seem more inventive than he really is. I found it a bit silly, but then again, given that his was the “intellectual” side of the split—yeah, right—I suppose it was inevitable. And then there was the group whose banner depicted a dolphin and a cow jumping from the sea in glorious unison. Improbability Drive, they called themselves. I guess if the shoe fits…

Either way, they fed us. And launched a lot of rockets. And made the air smell of smoke and black powder.

Somewhere during the proceedings, I decided maybe this wasn’t such a bad thing. It wasn’t the gosh-wow of the rockets, though I’ll admit they were rather impressive. It definitely wasn’t the rivals reconciling their differences in a brilliant display of the good of human nature—those two didn’t even get halfway through before they started bickering about people cheating.

But whatever it was, I think I liked it. Maybe I’ll do something serious next year. Adrian mentioned something about doing a group demonstration of the fine art of exploding soap bubbles…

Amotis

2007-03-19, 09:33 PM

Do please note that I did not say, "modern art", I said, ""modern art"". Air quotes, or whatever you wish to call them. People who can't be bothered to put a salient point along with all their obfuscated meanings and indescribable feelings. Some modern art, such as the one painting of the repeating Coke bottles whose name escapes me, has some meaning or representation. However, if you would like to tell me the meaning in this "piece of art" (http://www.fractality.com/980126/modern_art.JPG), I would be, well, somewhat stunned to be honest.

I can honestly say that I hate the founding principle of art without representation. I don't know why. I'm not a psychologist, and I never intend to be.

Sometimes you didn't quote it and I didn't know if that was what you meant as you did just plainly say I hate modern art without the quotes and I assumed the continued quoting was in spite and just you mocking it as an art. But I think the statement still stands that what you're talking about is just another way of questioning and experimenting. I'm not calling my entry experimental or whatever, nor am I even calling it modern, but the way you're addressing it needs to be shown that modern art questions those ideals and creates different approaches and styles and things that just plainly walk the line of art.

averagejoe

2007-03-19, 10:14 PM

@ Amotis

My review of your story. Hopefully it makes sense.

Also, I'm pretty sure that you and Brick both mean postmodern, not modern. Maybe not though.

I've been watching you and Brick's back and fourth with some interest, so I decided to take a gander at the story. (Is that the correct way to use that? No matter, you know what I mean.)

I should start by saying that, while I remain skeptical of the entire postmodern movement, there are quite a few authors that I like, and the literature tends to be much better than the visual art, at any rate. However, I am somewhat prejudiced against what I have come to call the "she" narrative (I dunno if there's an actual name for it). That is, any narrative which spends the greater part of its time glorifying some girl. Even so, I'll try not to let that get in the way.

It seems to me that you're making a mistake that a lot of beginning post-modernests make (and a lot of aspiring poets, actually). You're kind of stringing together a lot of stuff that could potentially sound neat, but has little substance. Many of the things you're trying to say through your story tend to seem much too obvious (e.g.

My lungs took her in as a lifeline, pumping air into my body and letting me stay by her side.

The narrator was saved by his love for this girl. Besides being overly sentimental for my tastes, it is fairly obvious, and doesn't offer the reader much.)

Other times it's fairly incomprehensible, as seen below.

A white dress, her virginity of innocence, the whips of cloth and hair, floating far and near, she moved like the motion of earth.

A white dress already means virginity/innocence, and saying it makes it is a bit redundant. Besides too much descriptor, though, stuff like, "floating far and near," and "moved like the motion of the Earth," are things that sound kind of obscure and poetical, but really don't seem like they mean anything once one stops to think about them. It honestly sounds like something I would write when I had nothing to really say, but wanted to make it sound mysterious and meaningful.

Really, though, the worst thing you can do in a work like this is stuff like this,

I knew it would come to this. Man is a competitive animal. It is only natural that as I tried to ignore their roars and their eyes that they grew restless. To them it is only a game. To them it is only a score. Numbers on the board, goals or something like that.

Now, to me this sounds like you're commenting on male homosociality in society (If you're not familiar with that term then google it. There are actually a few good articles/blogs out there on it.) Now, it is a big mistake to make such an overt political/social message in a work like this. In a postmodern work any "message" (for lack of a better word) which takes place in the work should be an unsure thing. In the end, the reader should be unsure that there even was a message, unsure that it meant anything at all. And let me tell you, there is nothing more irritating than a narrative that reads like a postmodern work but studies like a modern work. I cannot stress this enough. Writing a good postmodern work is rather like being God (as Futurama tells it): when you're doing things right, people aren't sure that you're doing anything at all.

Now, maybe I interpreted these things wrong. However, it really makes no difference. Writing is sort of like the positivist approach to philosophy: if something is percieved to be real, then it doesn't matter if it's real or not, it is considered to be real for all intents and purposes.

So much for content and analysis.

The other mistake you're making is also similar to a common mistake that poets make (and, in fact, you made this mistake in your poem as well.) You fit your content in there but with too little time on meter/rhythem/rhyme/flow. In terms of your poem, too many of the lines were out of whack, and too many of the rhymes seemed forced. In terms of your work, it really didn't read nicely. You're already asking people to take a big leap when you write something so crazy-wierd and unorthodox, and you should make a bit more of an effort to make it read nicely. For example,

So I took my friend’s hand and we ran to our cars,
shined with cheap grease and radio scars,

Now, perhaps it's just my own lack of knowledge, but I don't even know what a radio scar is. And, even if it isn't something you just made up, it's so obscure that the rhyme still seems forced. The beat isn't as off as it could be, but these lines want to sync up more. Basically it just feels sloppy, as most of your poem does. For a (hopefully more obvious) example, take my rework of the first few lines of "Stopping by the Woods on a Snowy Evening," by Robert Frost (for lack of any better inspiration. I'm really bad at poetry on the fly):

I know the person whose woods these are
but he left his house, probably by car
So see me here, he probably will not
I doubt I will get caught

Now, this is a rather extreme example, but I hope you can see what I mean. (Actually, conveying meaning is the thing I'm most worried about with this review. I'm not sure I'm being altogether clear for any of it.) It's the same with your prose:

I thought it was a dance. But then I heard her sing. But then I saw her move. My eyes and ears deceived me and I felt lost. I saw her blatantly before me, silver splashes wetting her skin, but I couldn’t decide. Was it song? Was it dance? Was it both? It couldn’t be.

Now, it's more difficult with prose, because there are less clear guidelines to follow, but for me this passage (and pretty much the whole paragraph) were especially indicative of this problem. However, stuff like this tends to read really bad. I know part of the problem is too many stops, which is fine in, say, a research paper but a no-no in fiction, and probably too much repitition. Perhaps (and I really hate doing this, but I don't know how else to explain it,) something more like this: "It could have been a dance or a song, a song or a dacne. Singing or moving, moving or singing, my senses defiant, unhelpful, forcing me through wrong turns. She was before me, blatant, her skin glistening with silvery wetness. Still, I couldn't see whether it was dance or song, song or dance. I wondered if it could be both, and answered, 'impossible!'" Again, I really hate to hijack someone's work, but this is something that reads much more naturally and ties together better. With a work like this, which has no clear plot, you need something else to tie your words together. There are many techniques to do this, and I employed only a handful, but there you are. Such a thing is vital; it cannot simply be freeform. (Even freeform poetry isn't as free as one might think. You still need something tying everything together.)

Whew, almost done. Alright, I think I've covered the big ones. However, I believe in some positive with the negative, for reasons constructive both to literature and morale. I liked, for example, the repetative Earth/moon imagery. This is an example of something that can help unify your work as a whole, and you used it more-or-less well.

This is an example of a good passage (not perfect, perhaps, but I liked it):

Numbers on the board, goals or something like that. I let him kiss me him once on a football field, it was night, it was empty, and it was cold. But we pressed on, seeking heat and empty teenage comfort that lay in each other’s tongues. I remember touching his hair and looking up while laughing with his lies and his fingers. I remember the spotlights, and I remember that steel board that towered over the sky. I remember his distant laughing friends; I remember the home team was winning. I closed my eyes, passed on his, and went straight to his neck. Shame was my flag of victory that night. His was blood.

Now, I know I chastised you before about what came immediately before this; even so, there are things I like about this bit. For one, I like that it was "teenage comfort," because this is thematically fairly teenage as a whole. Sorry, but you have to still be pretty young to be glorifying your mate in such a way. Well, maybe not have to, but that tendancy is certainly there. I like the "his was blood" line. There's kind of a lot there; it extends the predator comparison, and the football one, but it also suggests a loss of virginity, and ties back to his "keeping score." That alone tells a whole story.

Mattaeu

2007-03-19, 10:50 PM

Once again, without speell or grammAr cheque: (boy are you guys going to hate me)

I checked with java word count and got 1190 and 1140 for word counts.
Given the two hours spent, I quite enjoy it, but then again, I know what the hell I'm alluding to. :smalltongue:

Jason

Clashing Rocks

Byrd sent out the pigeon boats, halting the Bear several miles into the Strait of Magellan. The fog was thicker than the season should allow, as his Spanish guide quickly notified him. But Marcus, a short Argentinean, relentlessly struck his eyes out towards the cold. There was very little shoreline left to spot, and he knew he was beginning to drift closer to the far channel. Hollers began to weakly return to the ship, giving him confirmation.

"Come more to port Captain. We must not miss the second channel."

Richard Byrd calmly threw the wheel. This was the third time he has come this route, and he understood the guide's cautions. The smoldering fog was itching the Bear's sides, teasing the Captain's hopes; supersticions still held footing with the majority of his crew, and misplaced weather strains an adventurer's optimism. Perhaps the storm was coming.

The fog did not clear for two days, but, however graciously, decided to fade before their arrival beyond Chile. Marcus, above deck, came up to the bow for a morning survey. The south tip was close, the port hopefully still waiting for their arrival. But he smelt something different on the wind bounding in from the ocean, and a small copper taste formed on the sides of his tongues. Rain began falling steady, and before he ran past the first mast, the wind came in howling. They were too close to the south shore, as they were not anticipating arriving in port through the wall of the eye of the storm.

Calls from the helm to each of the masts came muted, punched out. The rain and slosh seemed intent to creep up all the mens boots, but the shattering of noise from the closing shore ensured their distractions. Through the clashing sound of lightning and thunder, the surge against the cliffside became more apparent. The Bear sent out a roar of wood and nail against the waves, beating it's ice-breaking chest against the current and tide; her stern caught a dangerous shock, but held.

Colchis

Plowing

The approach to the tail of Antarctica was far more lengthy than the entire mission so far. Ice was the danger and reason for the trip, but the Bear of Oakland did not care to distinguish. But scaled and waiting, the frozen dragon's tail came closer and nearer. Ross Ice Shelf was their projected base camp, just around the tip they could now see.

Again the Bear crashed against the ice, each time with a different screech of planks and steel. She could handle this challenge, but she was also very old, things were starting to slip her control. The Captain would call for better strength and pulling winds, but she was losing the will of the winds. Her figurehead was choking with ice, and prophesied with her silence.

Teeth

Little America was sticking it out against the freezing winds, waiting for the return of the scientists. Inside, Marcus was cleaning the gear room, anticipating walker's water to overwhelm the drain in the room. His black hands switched quickly around boxes and drawers, rechecking and securing small items against any wind swept through the door. but he was really avoiding the molding food, and thinning clothes of the camp; Little America was failing in the cold dark south, and the scientists left to wander outside for the same reason as Marcus.

Dragon

Marcus went with the scientists now, keeping warmer with the effort than the chores at base camp. They ascended several ridges, but mainly kept to lower heights, trying to dig deep into the past. For all the oppurtunities of this trip, the one most frightening was this very frozen desert on which he stood. The thing ached and swayed at times, breathing fear deep into his chest. But more he moved, the more he carved into the snow with his shoes, Marcus felt a deeper calm starting at his hands.

This morning the team started up a ridge, anxious to revisit the darker side. It had snowed several times, and with their care, they had avoided much of the continents dangers. But a slight jolt, and Byrd collapsed on the precipice of the avalanche, snow sucking his boots beneath and down the hillside. Marcus didn't launch to his rescue first, taking precaution to let the Byrd's men attempt, but their failure to act threw both men into the path of fate.

----------------------------------

Medea is Gone

"There is a Mr. Byrd on the phone for you."

The name jolted him like before. He feet stung with improper coldness, even here, where Marcus had run to, away from that very man's expedition. A quiet and quick Arizona wind picked up the dust from his sandals as he answered the phone.

Byrd was collecting souls to take back down, this time on an American funded expedition. The goals the same, but years had passed and Marcus felt confused at the Admiral's invitation. Byrd now resided in Hawaii, and in the midst of the United States annexation talks, he was lively and rich on the laborers work of the cane fields. Marcus turned from the window.

"I never even thought to save you."

"I know. But that's almost the reason I wanted you to come out here. Don't you love the warmth? Can't you just feel the sweat out there, it's almost as if I could bear this type of life."

Marcus sat down in Byrd's den, just trying to understand this aging man.

"I can't. Bear this anymore. I'm going to die, and I want to know that I'm right," Byrd was sagging into his own chair, "if you had done anything, we would have thought nothing of it. I know I would have sent you back to base camp. I know I was that type of man," he paused again, "and when you got off the boat back in Argentina, I knew that was the reason why."

Marcus looked across the small table, and smiled, "That is why." He squinted against the square patches of sun through the window, pushing some papers on the table aside. Byrd's Expedition Medal smiled at him, tarnished behind grinning teeth.

Hell

The volcano of an island, an admirable idea, spat up flames and heat, coaxing Marcus back down the road to Byrd's house, along with a red-white sign. It was afternoon, and everyone had evacuated. Marcus stared at the maw through the window, red and black, yellowing and cooling. He stopped, and turned right down the road.

----------------------------------

Fleece

The Bear of Oakland disappeared from his young thoughts, feet filled with dirt. He left the boat and men, walking curiously into the Argentinean port. And as he stepped, free again in this place, his home, the call of the season was soft in the wind. The village beyond town was shearing, and as his feet came level with his head, on the soft white, green encompassed world, Marcus could feel the sun gilding the fleece: golden, and real beneath.

Amotis

2007-03-19, 10:59 PM

@averagejoe:
Wow. I was going through it and shaking my leg and going "but it ties in! here and here and here! It's not just poetic ramblings! it's not like that!" but then I got to this.

Now, maybe I interpreted these things wrong. However, it really makes no difference. Writing is sort of like the positivist approach to philosophy: if something is percieved to be real, then it doesn't matter if it's real or not, it is considered to be real for all intents and purposes.Wow...it's..true. You're right. And thus probably finding the biggest pit fall of my entry, no? It just...yeah you could of just said that and I would of still been nodding. You're right. You're right you're right you're right.

So now I don't feel right correcting you now. Showing you were you misinterpreted and where my metaphors connected. I mean, you saw how I reacted when Phoekun said no to author notes. Trusting my work is something I'm not comfortable with and you've point out exactly why.

I'm not saying that my entry is great and you missed everything. No, not at all, you hit most of the flaws right on the head. I just, yeah, you got it right. If my entry fails and loses because I failed to make it...readable? Clear? Real? You know what I'm trying to say. Well if it fails that way then yeah, it deserves too.

The only thing I want to point out as a misinterpretation/not really something you missed but I wanted to add was that it wasn't really a poem. It was a song I sat down with my uke and made. It sounded really good and flowing (since I went music then lyrics) and the melody made it sound okay, but I guess it didn't translate to paper well. Heh, but again, it goes back to that all-too-true quote you said. If it fails to do what it was made to do, then it is it's fault not the readers.

Oh, and I'm glad your favorite part was mine too. I am actually happy with that part and am surprised Brickwall didn't blush at that too. But thanks for the words and I certainly will allude to that quote for writing. No more learning from Elliot's Wasteland...heh.

averagejoe

2007-03-19, 11:27 PM

@ Amotis

The above is also why it's important to get a good range of opinons for something as freakin' weird as this. Also, I should say that I have a bad habit of seeing something, thinking, "hey, I should say this about this," but then forgetting what I saw when I read through the rest of it. As such the examples I gave weren't necessarily the best examples of what I was talking about. I actually might return to this one; I have a feeling I'd have some different things to say upon a fresh read.

Also, keep in mind that there isn't a lot of difference between poem and song except for the medium in which they're presented. It's really impossible to tell unless you have a chorus or something (and even some poems have choruses.) That makes it a bit better, however, because singing a song lets you mess with the beat and pronunciation a bit more by elongating/shortening beats/sounds. This also means that if one doesn't know the melody it comes off really wierd.

This was an ambitious peice, and I garuntee that Wasteland took more than a week to write. However, the "flow" problem I mentioned helps fix to some extend the other problems, because if it sounds (er, reads) well then the reader is encouraged to go over it more, and maybe see things he/she missed.

PhoeKun

2007-03-19, 11:43 PM

...Ah, crap. I've got to start judging now, don't I?

edit: although I must say, the casualty rate this round seems kind of high. And even though it means less work for me, I'm still saddened by this.

Nevrmore

2007-03-20, 01:04 AM

Even though my competitor posted, I still feel crappy knowing that I joined in the IA that had all the dropouts :smallfrown:

Logos7

2007-03-20, 08:08 AM

For the little comments of great art vs moder n art and such, i used to think that way alot too to came across a little niel bohrs quote

"...The opposite of a trivial truth is false; the opposite of a great truth is also true. "

So what is the opposite of great art me bucko's, is it modern art, post modern art, advertising etc. If you got a good answer for this you really ought to let the art community know , they've been trying to define ( And by that i mean exclude) lots of thingns since the 20th centurary and mostly failing.

philosophy has been trying longer and mostly failing too althought thats not quite so in vogue anymore.

and two more quotes before i go

"No, no, you're not thinking; you're just being logical."

"Einstein, stop telling God what to do!"

and just tin case you don't no wat i meen, and dun you look at me and say watcha meen i dun know what you meen welll is it.

Niels (Henrik David) Bohr 1885-1962 - Danish Quantim Mechanic

averagejoe

2007-03-20, 10:46 AM

Rrrrr... I suppose Trog never posted...

King_of_GRiffins

2007-03-20, 11:09 AM

Due to circumstances beyond my control (like some tripping over a wire or something over at atnt at closing time) from 7pm on, I was not able to connect to the internet. For the one time I would suppose I will ever have something done on time, fate decided to conspire against me. I don't suppose with all the drop outs I could win the bracket twelve hours late?

Here it is anyway, my story, full of spelling errors and plot holes coming in at 2,279 words.
Sofia Bailey sat stirring her coffee as her friend continued to yarn on about the time she acted with Gloria Swanson. Her peculiar sack lunches, her horrible personality, and just how darn fascinating she was. Yvonne Hughes barely mentioned a bit of herself in this, though if only she was so humble as to not let the rest of the diner in on their conversation.

Not to say it was small or anything such as that. Though modest in all respects, measurements included, there was more than enough room for the standard number of patrons. Indeed, it was more of the case that Hughes simply had a very large, vociferous mouth, and, to Sofia’s observation, she simply would not shut it. It was aggravating to listen to her and try to enjoy a good lunch.

There may have been a good reason why Hughes was in silent films for only a year.

Tactfully as she could, Sofia excused herself to leave to the bathroom and never return. “Oh, could you bring a newspaper from out front to the table on your way back?” Yvonne requests, oblivious to Sofia’s intent. She immediately becomes so engrossed in her plate of scrambled eggs that she fails to notice Sofia pass by the window. It is not until an open newspaper is placed in front of her that she returns entirely to awareness outside of breakfast.

“Just look at this.” Said Sofia excitedly after taking a seat across from Yvonne. Curious as to what she was being shown, she picked up the paper and began to read from the local events. “Local actress found in goof. At ten thirty yesterday, Yvonne Hughes, noted for her performances as a dancer in the Ziegfeld Follies and a brief period in film, was stopped on Eleventh Street for driving twelve miles with the pump from a local filling station still in her tank. She commented that upon leaving, she must have driven off before the attendant had a chance to remove it. She immediately returned to the station afterward so that the pump could be restored.”

Yvonne Hughes stared at the paper for a moment before setting it to the side. In an odd instance of reality, she did not speak. With Yvonne furrowing her brow in thought, Sofia took the chance to speak up. “I’ll say it sounds exactly like the sort of air-headed thing you’d go on and do, but I didn’t even think you had a car.”

“I don’t,” said Yvonne, still at a slight loss for words. “Who do you think would go around and pretend to be me?”

“I don’t know, but whoever they are, they’re doing a good job of it.” Said Sofia, ushering a waiter over to order a cup of coffee. After a minute of silence and an extra cup of coffee, the slight shock had subsided.

“So, where was I about Gloria Swanson?” Said Yvonne, eager to continue reminiscing. Sofia set her empty cup down and looked curiously over to her friend.

“Don’t know who you’ve been talking to; I just walked in.”

-=-=-=-=-

Yvonne felt as if she had been momentarily dragged into an absurd children’s story. The fact that Sofia went on to inform her of a dinner she did not quite remember agreeing to attend to did not much change that feeling. Though she was slightly accustomed to the occasional obligatory appearance, it was seldom that she herself would be the one to set them.

After switching into a bright red dress later that evening and obtaining a white carnation, she hailed a taxi and contemplated the events on the ride to the theater were the dinner would take place. There was certainly an odd series of events taking place, but as of yet, there was not much way to make any sense of them. The only solution, it seemed, would be to set the thought aside and enjoy a nice performance and a free dinner.

-=-=-=-=-

Perhaps, in her mind, it was a bit early to make such an assumption as to the quality of the show. While the performance itself had its features, the actors themselves were as lifeless as stones. No feeling or emotion ran across their faces, ruining what could have been a rather exciting piece of work. Fortunately, there was still the prospect of dinner and finding one with whom she could chat with that that might end up being a bit more interesting than the actors’ dead-pan performance.

The lobby had been cleared out during the performance and made ready for the patrons. As all of the men and women began to enter the lobby and descend into the idle gossip which so often occurs at such events, Yvonne chose and descended upon a victim of her own to which she could iterate the story she had worked on telling that morning. “Good evening, I’m Yvonne Hughes. Perhaps do you know who organized all this?”

As soon as the question left her mouth, and not a moment before, did she actually stop to think about who the benefactor of the event could be, or why she was there in the first place save being told she should. The man in the black jacket to whom she addressed took the time she did to think to respond. “That would be me.” He said impassively, “I am Noah Hyde. Is there a particular question you have to ask?”

“Now that I think about, I believe there is. What is this event for? It’s been on my mind all evening that this isn’t simply party.”

“Quite right,” he replied, barely changing his tone, “I intend to make an announcement this evening. An announcement which I believe will change quite a few many things.”

“This doesn’t have anything to do with communism, does it?”

“Only in that it too shall be among the things affected by change. Imagine, if you would, a world were there is no conflict, because there is nothing conflicting about the people on it. Everyone is in unbiased agreement with each other, agreement on what is truly best. Wouldn’t that be a marvel, communism included? If the whole cold war stopped tomorrow?”

“I can’t argue against that, but I imagine that would get quite boring, Mr. Hyde. My company wouldn’t be half as interesting if they did not insist on arguing that I give them a turn to speak.” She says, half jokingly.

“Debate can still live when everyone takes a step back, and after taking in all the facts come to the same, truthful conclusion.”

“What conclusion would that be?”

To this, he begins to show a bit of excitement and a slow smile. “That, Miss Hughes, would be that I should simply show you rather than babbling on about it.”

-=-=-=-=-

Mr. Hyde gracefully took Yvonne’s hand, and began to guide her to the back of the theater. Even so far away from the guest, their noise could be heard as a low murmur through the thick walls. Yvonne began to question the wisdom of heading to an isolated spot with a stranger, and removed her hand from Mr. Hyde’s. “I think it might be best to wait until you reveal it to everyone.”

“Nonsense, Miss Hughes. It’s right through this door.” He said, unlocking a door far behind the stage. Stepping aside, he gestures for her to enter. Tentatively, she complies and steps through the doorway.

Hughes gives a short “Oh my!” as the lights come on. Deep, red pots covered almost the entire room in a neat, ordered grid. Inside each pot, however, was neither soil nor plants, but a small, faceless child. Yvonne frustrates herself to find a meaning for this, but finds none. Being so unable to make sense of things, she turns around to Hyde and jokes, “So, this is where you grew the actors then?”

“Indeed.” He says in the now accustomed monotone. The response caught Yvonne off guard. “In fact, they were grown just this morning, to fully illustrate the point. In less than a day, they became the actors who touched them, fully memorized the lines, and put on a show in perfect timing.”

“But, how?” Said Yvonne, unsure if she should be very frightened or curious.

“Touch one of them, and you’ll see.”

“What will happen?”

“You’ll see.”

Curiosity overwhelmed any sense of fear at that point as she reached out towards one of the pots. Her sense of caution comes back to her just a moment before touching one, and she withdrew her hand. The proximity to her was enough, however, for the faceless babe she had reached out to turn its empty face towards her. She stepped back now, her fear and shock setting back in, and asked, “What are they?”

“We, Miss Hughes, are from another world; came down in little pods, if you would. I thought the reaction to the irony of putting them in pots would provide some interest in analyzing later on.” Mr. Hyde paused and gave some reflection to this before adding, “Not only that, it was also a good place to keep them out of harms way.”

“But what are you? I still don’t get it; what are you doing, and what happens if I touch one of those ‘pods’?”

“I’m sorry, I’ve had a habit of wandering off topic like that.” He said while giving a sort of bow, “I’m sorry I can’t really say more about who we are. ‘Not from here’ is about all that makes sense to say at this point. Who we were is gone now, lost within the small fragments of dust that inhabit the vacuum between the rocks and clouds and stars. All we are is what is before you.

“What we are doing is quite simple. We want to start anew, and you and other humans are perfect host to join with. While we can mimic you with a touch or a fragment and walk around barely noticed, but we would lack that certain element that is essentially your kind. If we join, we can become like you, and you like us, and both ascend to become a higher being.”

All this time, Hughes had been inching slowly towards the door. As Hyde finished, she stopped in fear. What he said— No, the way sounded was remarkably similar to thing she had heard ten or so years ago; the kind of way things were said by those over-seas who had started the second war, and it had paralyzed her. Her movements became less hidden as she started moving again. “I’m sorry, but this, all of this, just sounds completely insane.”

“Please, Miss Hughes,” He pleaded.

“No! I’m getting out of here.” She forced herself to say coherently, her heart starting to beat audibly in her ear. She pushed past Mr. Hyde and ran out the door, but stopped upon bumping into her look alike. She stepped back, almost to the doorway, to look upon her own face. As she looked, she saw it stare back with a flat, emotionless expression. The longer she gazed, the more she became it aware that it was not at all like hers, but still bore all the resemblance to it. The look alike held out its hand, its expression as stolid as at first.

“Please, let us join.”

Without a word or scream, Hughes ran away in silent fear. Not only was that man insane by some measure of her own, but everything he said had said stood before her to say hello. All she could do was run and hope to find someone to help her sort out what was going on.

As she turned the corner into the passage towards the lobby, a familiar sight stepped out from a room on the side. It was Sofia, of all people; a welcome relief to Yvonne as she slowed down to catch her breath and explain what had happened. She began to walk up to her friend, but stopped as two more figures stepped out from the same room: Twins; identical look alikes of one of the actors from the play.

Yvonne, not able to stand the thought of her friend now, turned back and ran back to the corner and out the back exit. A moment later there was a short scream and a thud, and everyone in the back rushed to see what had happened. A sorry sight greeted them at the heightened back door. At the bottom of the short steps, with her head against the dumpster and her right leg in an awkward position lay the body of Yvonne Hughes.

Mr. Hyde was the first down the stairs, almost falling into the same accident as Miss Hughes as he did, and determined for sure she was dead. “I’m sorry,” he said, unsure if he was addressing the ones behind him or the body, “This isn’t at all the reaction I expected.”

“Indeed,” said the actor from behind, “But I’m glad the result will not be duplicated a hundred times now. We should try a different approach.”

“I have to say, I’m quite surprised myself at this,” Remarked the twin of the actor, “But what are we going to do with her body? It’d be bad for your lot to be connected with a death upon coming to light.”

“We’re not going to make the announcement now, not when others could still respond like this. As for the body, we’ll have her clone stage the death, maybe even call on the one out in Hamlet to help out, and then replace the body. They should both be good at acting, shouldn’t they?”

Trog

2007-03-20, 02:42 PM

Rrrrr... I suppose Trog never posted...

Exerpt here from the first post on the deadline:

That's midnight between Monday March 19th and Tuesday March 20th.

I took this to mean I was to turn it in sometime between Midnight on the 19th and Midnight on the 20th. Don't post two dates if you want to give a deadline. Mine will be done and posted tonight. Whether or not I am late. Trust me - it isn't like I worked on this until Friday anyway so I'm not filtching any extra time. If that puts me out of the running so be it. But I state again... if there is ONE deadline there ought to be only one damn date posted.

My story will be up tonight in or out. Damn it I'm pissed off at that. :smallfurious:

Brickwall

2007-03-20, 04:39 PM

"...The opposite of a trivial truth is false; the opposite of a great truth is also true. "

So what is the opposite of great art me bucko's, is it modern art, post modern art, advertising etc. If you got a good answer for this you really ought to let the art community know , they've been trying to define ( And by that i mean exclude) lots of thingns since the 20th centurary and mostly failing.

I do believe that someone once said that art was not for revealing truth, that's what science was for. I can't remember who. Either way, art is not truth. Art is art. The comparison is a fallacy.

Logos7

2007-03-20, 07:04 PM

PhoeKun

2007-03-20, 07:09 PM

Are you sure you want to do that? It seems a somewhat extreme reaction, and we've lost so many writers already...

edit: on another topic, I will have my judgments up tomorrow. I want to wait a little longer for the dust to settle from all these various goings-on, and allow for some potentially contest altering decisions to be made before I take the time to judge...

Fat Daddy

2007-03-20, 08:10 PM

I have spoken with averagejoe via PM and he agrees that since Trog's deadline confusion was my fault, his entry should be counted.

Judges,

Please include Trog's entry and do not mark him down for the deadline as the confusion was a direct result of my posting 2 dates.

Thanks

Fat Daddy

2007-03-20, 08:39 PM

Sorry for the double post but this is important as it may directly affect the contest.

I have just been informed that my wife's grandmother has inoperable pancreatic cancer. The Doc's don't give her long and their exact words were, "it's going to be quick and painful".

I'll keep the contest going as I can, but if there is a delay in the bracket postings, you now know why.

Brickwall

2007-03-20, 08:45 PM

You know Bricky, I try to contribute something, some understanding , some alternative view, and well if that's fallacious i thank god every day for rhetoric

I would like to officially withdraw my piece from judging, I forfet. Sorry but Brick brings out too much of the jackass in me to make this thread worthwhile continueing in.

Logos

And you still get debate.

Anyway, since I can apparently bully people into leaving, I will try to tone it down. I want to prolong your suffering.

Oh, and apparently some people think I find "Bricky" offensive? I actually like it quite a lot (unlike the diminutive of my real name). Not that I don't prefer my full name, but as far as nicknames go, it's pretty nice.

PS: MEEP! Okay, Faddy, I'll lay off the organ-related jokes for a while...I don't hate you that much.

Amotis

2007-03-20, 08:45 PM

Wow, my late uncle was just in hospice for the exact same thing. My condolences Fat Daddy and I'm pretty sure most of us here will be patient as you go through that.

Fat Daddy

2007-03-20, 09:09 PM

Thanks Amotis. I'm sorry to hear about your Uncle. No-one should have to suffer through anything like that. Anytime a doctor says, "it's going to be painful" I cringe 'cause it usually hurts like hell when they say, "This won't hurt a bit."

@Brick,

Please do tone it down. I believe I asked you to do that a while ago. I would prefer if you didn't single-handedly destroy this little contest I've put so much effort into.

*waits for the nearly obligatory vasectomy joke*

Brickwall

2007-03-20, 09:11 PM

Dude, you destroyed your ability to birth anything. You're lucky that the others have been sustaining this for you. I'll try not to destroy it.

Well, there goes that promise.

PhoeKun

2007-03-20, 09:15 PM

*reads*

All right, so Trog's story will count, King of Griffin's... *mumbles a non-committal placeholder*, and I am thankful I had to the good sense not to judge anything yet.

Sorry to hear about... well, everything, Fat Daddy.

Fat Daddy

2007-03-20, 09:15 PM

Dude, you destroyed your ability to birth anything. You're lucky that the others have been sustaining this for you. I'll try not to destroy it.

Well, there goes that promise.

I don't know what they teach you in that school of yours Brick, but just so you know, men don't birth anything anyway. Women do all the actual birthing. You see what happens is... nevermind you'll figure it out. :smallcool:

averagejoe

2007-03-20, 09:16 PM

Ouch, geez. I haven't had to deal with a dying family member for something like eight years now, but it's never very easy.

And, seriously, to everyone out there, it's best if you don't listen to Brick. He's just kind of saying whatever comes to mind. Like a little yappy dog, but less intelligent, and with the ability to form words.

Amotis

2007-03-20, 09:19 PM

And he pees on your couches.

NO! NO! OUTSIDE!

King_of_GRiffins

2007-03-20, 09:20 PM

King of Griffin's... *mumbles a non-committal placeholder*

Wow, that makes me feel so much (better/worse) now that it's been firmly decided that I (will/will not) have my story counted on in the bracket and (will/will not) be moving on to the next round.

Amotis

2007-03-20, 09:21 PM

Good/bad for you King/Queen of Griffins/Red Pandas.

PhoeKun

2007-03-20, 09:23 PM

...

...

...

...

... Red Pandas?

Fat Daddy

2007-03-20, 09:24 PM

King_of_GRiffins

2007-03-20, 09:26 PM

@FD- Yes! Thank you! See that fate? I win. Me. Nyanya nya nya~.

@Amotis- I wasn't aware Red panda's were the opposite of Griffins. I always assumed it would be something reptilian...

averagejoe

2007-03-20, 09:28 PM

...

...

...

...

... Red Pandas?

AKA, the awsomest things ever. Seriously. Look them up. Seriously. DO IT! :smallfurious:

PhoeKun

2007-03-20, 09:41 PM

Yes, yes, the fire fox. I know. Is the angry smiley really necessary?

Vaynor

2007-03-20, 09:55 PM

@Amotis- I wasn't aware Red panda's were the opposite of Griffins. I always assumed it would be something reptilian...

No, because some reptiles can fly, red pandas, can not.

averagejoe

2007-03-20, 10:02 PM

Yes, yes, the fire fox. I know. Is the angry smiley really necessary?

By definition, there's no such thing as an angry smiley. :smalltongue:

But, to answer your question, yes. Yes it was.

Amotis

2007-03-20, 10:05 PM

No, because some reptiles can fly, red pandas, can not.

So reptiles can turn into flies and flies are also known as red pandas, but at the same time, can not? Huh?

Vaynor

2007-03-20, 11:09 PM

So reptiles can turn into flies and flies are also known as red pandas, but at the same time, can not? Huh?

I'm confused...

Trog

2007-03-20, 11:09 PM

Underdog

Fritz climbed up as high as he could into the old oak tree in the back corner of his new house both to get as far away as possible from his father and to see if he could see the site of his own doom. Over the roof of the house behind theirs and across a large field a small mound of dirt like a shallow grave, hastily covered, marked the spot upon which he was destined to pitch the losing game of the series. The irony of living in a house once owned by the Belinda family was not lost on the 12 year old. The family’s claim to fame was Stan Belinda, a pitcher, just like Fritz, who played for the Pirates and lost game seven and the National League championship series back in 1992. Almost to the day when Fritz himself was born.
Adjusting his Pirates cap on his head to block out the sun, Fritz gripped the rough bark of the tree tightly as the wind picked up and rocked him to and fro on his crow’s nest perch. Dad would be calling for him soon. He had been threatening drilling him on pitching warm-ups for the first of the three game series tomorrow. A particularly strong blast of wind whipped through the trees startling Fritz out of his funk and forced him to hold on for his life that he branch lurched alarmingly.
Just then something caught his eye. It was a ball - an old baseball by the look of it - wedged in the crook of the neighboring branch. Excited by the prospect of finding a baseball that might have once belonged to anyone in the Major Leagues, much less a pitcher whose former house he was now living out of cardboard boxes in, Fritz gripped the branch with one hand and leaned out to grasp at the ball. Fifty feet below the ground swayed sickeningly and the creaking noise of the branch he held did nothing to slow his pounding heartbeat. He could feel his hand begin to slip with sweat off the rough bark, biting into his pitching hand. With one last desperate grab his fingers managed to dance tantalizingly over the weathered leather. It teetered for a moment then went bouncing downward off the branches below and into the neighbor’s yard beyond the high privacy fence that separated it from their property.
Fritz cursed and began his slow descent, hanging and dropping the last 10 feet. He hit the ground trotting and made his way past the garage to the front yard and then to the curb where he could finally make his way around the unclimbable fence. On the lookout for the German shepherd that lived here, Fritz lifted the latch and entered the backyard cautiously. Dad never had kind words to say about Mr. Monohan whose house and backyard this was. Fritz took a few steps into the yard and peered around for his ball on the neatly manicured lawn when he was startled by the loud sound of the gate closing and latching behind him.
He turned quickly only to find to his relief that it was only Mr. Monohan and not his dog. Fritz smiled and managed “Hey Mr. Monohan have you seen,” before he was grabbed roughly by the shoulder and shoved back into the privacy fence. The man’s face hovered inches from his own and Fritz noticed with some discomfort that one of the man’s eyes remained immobile and seemed to stare fixedly ahead, unblinking.
“You that brat from next door what just moved in are ya?”
Fritz mouth moved but no sound came out. His eyes darted around and spotted the large dark dog on the back porch. He managed a weak nod.
“Then you must be the one that threw this,” He held up the ball in a meaty clenched fist, “into my yard. Zat right?
“I-it fell when I tried to grab it. I didn’t mean to.”
“This ball and I have a history. See that black spot?” He turned the ball and sure enough a faded black patch, roughly circular could be seen.
“This is the ball that little Stanley threw at me and did - “
“Stan Belinda?”
“Quiet, boy! Don’t you interrupt your elders!.” His face grew even more menacing if possible. Then he did a thing that would live in Fritz dreams for years to come. He thrust a finger up his nose, too far, and the fixed eye came popping out of its socket with a sickening sound. The man waggled a finger in the empty socket.
“He did this to me. Pitched a 85 mile per hour fast ball at my temple. Popped my eye right out as I was mowing. Broke two bones in my skull too. So if I ever se this ball or any like it in my yard again you can bet your ass you’re gonna have to answer to me for it.” He removed the finger from up his nose and Fritz stared in horrified curiosity at the dark fleshy socket. Mr. Monahan leered like a scurvy inflicted captain.
“Are we clear, lad?”
Fritz nodded and the man released him and raised back up to his towering full height. His massive had slapped the ball into his own tiny one and opened the gate to the driveway beyond. Fritz ran home and into his room like he was trying to steal home plate.

***

“You’re pitching like your sister, sport. Come on throw me the fast, hard one now this time. I wanna feel some heat on that ball.”
Fritz fired on to his dad again, his arm felt like it was on fire he had been doing this so long. It had gotten dark enough to be difficult to see his dad crouched down on the other side of the yard. He reached up and caught the pitch, which went wild.
“Dad, when can we eat? I’m starving.”
“In a minute. Just a few more pitches.”
“You said that like fifty pitches ago. My arm hurts.”
“Ah suck it up. It’s not that bad.”
“It feels hot again like it did that one time.”
“Remember what I said to you about that?” His dad fired the ball back so hard that it stung Fritz’ hand when he caught it.
“Pain is for losers.”
“Damn right. Now just three more and we’ll go in and get a bite to eat.”
Groaning, Fritz pitched three last pitches into the darkness and wondered if this was what it took to get to the major leagues. And wondering why, whenever he looked down at the old ball in his hand that the spot stared back at him like some unblinking pupil on a tremendous eye.

***

To grab Chad Banning’s face and pound it with his cleats would have suited Fritz just fine if doing so wouldn’t get him booted out of the league for good. The sixth grader really knew how to push Fritz’s buttons. On top of being on the opposing team Chad was smug. And one of those chatterbox kids that kept calling out to you while you were up to bat. Which he was definitely doing now from a crouch on first base.
“Just one more to go guys one more. Look at him. This kid’s an easy out. He can’t hit. Look at those girly arms of his”
“Strike one”
Fritz had let the first pitch zip right by him without swinging, distracted by Chad’s jeers.
“Come on Fritz,” his dad called out “You can do it buddy just a base hit and we can stretch this out one more inning. You can drive in the tying run sport.”
Fritz swung at a breaking ball low and outside for strike two.
“K boy, he’s nothing’ but a K-boy. Easy out. He’d swing at anything now. Wouldn’t ya you wuss?”
Fritz’s ears burned hot with anger and when the next pitch came he took it and hard. Line drive to first base. For a small satisfying moment he felt sure it would strike Banning right in the face but at the last minute his glove snapped up and caught the ball just as Fritz had tossed the bat aside and had begun his run. Chad tapped the base and the game was over.
The two teams lined up and did the hand shake thing as was customary And Chad Banning smiled his cleat lacking smug smile and snorted derisively at him when Fritz extended his hand to shake. Chad passed right on by and shook the next kids hand.
The ride home with dad… or Coach Reinhard as he had to call him while at practice or at games… was filled with many examples on what Fritz might have done differently, how much harder he was gonna have to work if he really wanted to win, how much better his dad had done when he was his age, etc. Fritz liked it better when his dad was his dad on the way home instead of “Coach Reinhard.” Lately dad never stopped being coach. Ever since the divorce he caused between his parents sent him and his dad here. To the new house. To the finals. To the ball in his room that watched him unblinking as he collapsed into bed and fell into a troubled, restless sleep.
The next game was in two days.

***

Fritz went into the back yard and began his pitching drills just after breakfast. His dad wanted him to work on his accuracy. His speed was enough to send many a batter down swinging at the air behind the pitch but he wasn’t sending it where he should all the time. Fritz tossed the whole duffle-bag full of balls at the pitching net keeping track in his head of the count of strikes versus balls. And beyond that a general accuracy tally of how many hit the precise mark he was aiming for. No better than yesterday. Worse, in fact.
He picked up the spotted ball out of the lawn and tried once again. Concentrating this time on the spot he wanted to hit and when he threw the ball it hit the mark dead on. The next few not so much. Struck by a sudden superstition he picked up the spotted ball again and pitched it again. Again it hit it’s mark. Pleased with himself he continued to retrieve the same ball over and over. His dad came out to check on his progress and Fritz told him in a rush about finding the ball in the tree in the backyard. And that it had belonged to Stan Belinda way back when. His dad examined the ball closely.
“Well it definitely is old, I’ll give you that. But we can’t be sure it belonged to Stan Belinda, Fritz.”
“Well I pitch really good with it though dad. 98 percent!”
His dad eyed him curiously. “98? Are you sure?
“Yeah! I can throw that good with this one. I just did it. Wanna see?”
“Not just now sport we need to go and get some groceries and an oil change. Come on. You can show me tonight.”
Excited more by the gleam in his dad’s eye than the percent score itself Fritz clambered into the truck.

***

The next game came quickly and was over, like all good games, too soon. They had won, largely due to some spectacular home runs hit by his teammates. His pitching had been atrocious. He gave up far too many hits that game and he could feel the weight of his father’s icy stare the entire way back home. More pitching drills were to be his punishment for his poor performance.
In the shower at home he stood for a long time under the water, staring at the reflection of himself in the dark blue tile border. In one place it had been scratched and Fritz thought it looked oddly like hair on his reflection. Girl’s hair. The taunting voice of Chad Banning ran through his head. “Look at those girly arms of his.” Dejected, Fritz dried off and headed downstairs.
Figuring he might as well get it over with Fritz stood in the back yard angry even though he had won today. Angry at what or who he couldn’t say really. Chad Banning got on his nerves again today with his catcalls. Fritz stewed for a while thinking about his stupid bucktoothed smirk.
Just then a squirrel came bounding slowly through the long grass looking for stray birdseed and the like. In a fit of impulse Fritz imagined that the bucktoothed squirrel was Banning. The teeth were nearly a perfect match. He wound up and pitched the ball angrily at the squirrel intending to scare it. Instead the ball struck true and the squirrel topped over in a most unsquirrel-like way. It didn’t move. Fritz dashed across the yard to stand over the small rodent. It’s head had been crushed. It’s little black eye stared at him for a moment as it moved its limbs in a panicked, twitchy fashion and then when quite still, red and clear liquid leaking out of it’s head in various places. It’s chest stopped moving altogether. He had killed it. The black spot on the ball was where it had made impact, left a trail of red blood running outwards from the spot making it look very much like a bloodshot eye.
Grabbing the dead squirrel by its tail and whipping the carcass into the bushes he felt a strange sense of empowerment. It thrilled him and frightened him at the same time. It was then Fritz decided that if his team was going to win at all it would have to be with that ball. He shuddered and dropped it on the ground and thought he should sleep on that sort of decision. That ball was not to be messed with in his mind.
Up in the second story window his dad watched as his son tossed the carcass into the bushes and sipped contemplatively on his coffee humming “take me out to the ball game” under his breath.

***

The final game of the season had a huge turnout. Parents and relative and neighbors of all the team members showed up to cheer their little athletes on. Plus many others. A camera crew from channel 5 was covering the event and Fritz sat on the bench and watched as kids would pass slowly in front of the camera over and over again, trying to get on TV that night. But Fritz wasn’t thinking about TV. He was only thinking about the next inning when he was on the bench. Or, if he was up to bat, about trying not to notice Chad Banning’s cat calls from first base. The hit two singles his first two times at bat and popped out on the third time.
They were ahead now by one run. It was the bottom of the ninth inning with two men on, two outs and just one more out standing between Fritz and the Championship. “On the plate, Chad Banning,” said the announcer and Fritz could feel his stomach twist. The smirking jerk was pinch hitting for another boy. His coach had the same smug look as Banning. Nervous, Fritz looked at his dad in what he imagined was a desperate plea for help. And for once it worked. His dad, the coach, called time out and approached the mound.
“How are you doing out here, sport?
“Dad I’m never gonna be able to strike out Chad. He’s too good.”
“Don’t talk that way!” he hissed under his breath. “We’re this close to the championship and you are not giving up on me now do I make myself clear?”
“Yes sir.”
“Good. Now here.”
With more slight of hand than he would have given his dad credit for he switched balls. Fritz could only see it from his vantage point right in front of him. In his hand now he held and old worn-looking baseball. With a large black spot on it.
“How did you?…”
“I saw you using it last night. I know how good your aim is when you use this, Fritz.” Rarely did he call him by his name. Fritz looked up from the ball and locked gazes with his coach. “You do what you need to do, son.”
Then he jogged back and the game started again. Everything felt surreal to Fritz. He stood for a moment with everyone watching him anxiously and then slowly he took his stance. Chad took a couple of warm up swings and crowded the plate waiting to hit the ball out of the park. Fritz wound back and threw as had as he could.
Everything seemed to slow down.
The ball sailed smoothly through the air, the black spot strobing as it rotated over and over. Chad swung and managed to tick it. The ball hit his bat with a loud popping noise and ricocheted straight up into his face. Fritz watched as a spurt of blood and vitreous humor splattered Joey, the catcher as the ball cracked through skin and muscle and bone, shattering the boys nose and destroying the tender orb that was his right eye. There was a slow sucking noise of hundreds of mouths drawing in a horrified breath. Then suddenly time resumed its normal pace and Chad’s screams of pain drove nails into his ears.
There was a frenzy of activity and the boy was rushed off in a crowd of people. Everyone was talking at once. Chad’s wails mixed with the sirens of the ambulances which arrived rapidly.
With a slow, surreal cadence the game resumed, the boy whom Chad had pinch hit for took Chad’s walk on first loading the bases. The next boy up to bat was terrified at the first pitch and cringed when it was thrown. Two pitches later it was all over. They had won the championship. Fritz was handed the game winning ball by the catcher and was hoisted up on his teammates shoulders as celebration ensued. Albeit somewhat more subdued than in championships past.
“Good job sport!”
“Th-thanks coach.”
“You can call me dad, Fritz. The season’s over. Man that trophy is gonna look good in the living room what do you think? Huh?”
“Yeah. Yeah I guess it will.”
“You bet it will.” His dad started hauling the gear to the car. Halfway across the lot he turned and smiled and held out his glove. Fritz gauged the distance and tossed him the ball, glad to be rid of it.

***

The sun was bright and school would be starting again soon. Fritz sat on the swing set and looked at the black spotted ball in his hands, turning it over and over. His mom had put the trophy in the living room. His dad liked it there. He had moved back almost immediately after the game. Him and his dad. His sister called to him.
“Fritz! Mom says come in now. It’s getting cold and it’s your turn today.”
“Okay. I’ll be right there.”
Fritz heard the screen door slam and he sighed and with one last glance at it, threw the ball as hard as he could into swamps behind the house. He didn’t see where it landed but an audible plop told him it was done.
He thrust his hands into his pockets he went back inside to eat. Grabbing a spoon he scooted close to the wheelchair.
“Now be careful dear. Mind his neck. The doctor said your father has to remain immobile as possible. It’s broken.”
“I know mom. I was there when he got hit in the parking lot remember.”
Somberly Fritz scooped up the mash and began his daily penance.

The End

Quincunx

2007-03-21, 09:30 AM

I went to bed with one story left to judge, and woke up to three. Thanks so much. :P No, I do appreciate people that turn in stories instead of vanishing. Also, bye-rounds, you earned your wins.

I appreciate those people who have put titles or prompt links in front of their stories. While I didn't count that as part of judging, it was easier to walk through the minefield of spoiler-criticism when the entries were so nicely labeled.

Trog (pg. 11) vs. averagejoe (pg. 9)

Trog:

Composition: Good
Prompts: Excellent
Techniques: Excellent

I am reading your story at a disadvantage; I had already seen the prompts while writing what would have been averagejoe's bye round. . .

. . .yet there was no chance of my misidentifying the gesture of that prompt (ew!)--vivid description. The entire story is vivid (and what reference am I missing with "K boy"?). Mr. Monohan's accent fluctuates, and he probably would have been just as effective without one. Please, in the next round, web-format with a blank line between paragraphs--if it weren't for the starred interludes, the text would be a nearly unreadable block.

"slight" --> sleight

averagejoe:

Composition: Average
Prompts: Excellent
Techniques: Good

I read this piece a few times before judging it. In the end, I had a heap of adjectives and stock phrases (especially from the introduction and conclusion) in one pile, and the understanding of how the people fit into the story in another. An ex-cop and a. . .current cop? . . .and a magician and/or alien and/or psychopath? Your descriptions of objects and symbols were clear, so much so that I misidentified your prompts (well-hidden!)--why not the clarity about the people?

"weather" --> whether, Carmen --> "Cameron".

VERDICT

Trog

A person with weird, inexplicable powers dominated one story; an object with weird, inexplicable powers featured in the other. I thought the ordinary people reacting to the weird object gave more contrast and believability to the paranormal theme.

Amotis (pg. 9) vs. Tormsskull (pg. 5)

Amotis:

Composition: Good
Prompts: Average
Techniques: Bad

I couldn't glean much from the story, so I focused on the lyrics and wrung out references to faeries, then went back to the paragraphs. From "Suddenly, I heard the roar. . ." onwards, I can now extract some meaning, since the abstract voice describes there a mundane event; in contrast, that's the prompt which doesn't fit seamlessly into the dream-world story. I don't even know what advice to give you, since the language doesn't shift much between the paragraphs and the lyrics. Perhaps the discipline of meter and internal rhyme acted like the mundane prompt and gave your reader (me) something familiar to latch onto.

Tormsskull:

Composition: Good
Prompts: Average
Techniques: Average

This reads like three vignettes, each dealing with one of the prompts, strung awkwardly together into one story. The best of these vignettes is the scene with Edward at his conference table; the smattering of extra details and slightly longer paragraphs give it a polish which makes the event more plausible.

It's a small and irrelevant detail, but if you'd included the shindy stick as well as the aggression, I'd have been able to recognize hurling from the text. The game's armed rugby, if you ask me.

VERDICT

Tormsskull

Amotis' lyrics were superior to both stories, the middle ground between formless exposition and bare-bones outline. In the end, though, this is a prose competition, and Tormsskull's prose formed a more complete story.

Deckmaster (pg. 8) vs. Vaynor (pg. 7)

Deckmaster:

Composition: Good
Prompts: Good
Techniques: Average

Am I missing some Star Wars references here? Men in Black? Something? I get a whiff of parody but can't pin it down. Maybe it's the ludicrous coincedences--sentient toilets bent on galactic conquest, the geek-fanboy immediately identifying his obsession, the names (think you, or I, missed a third joke possibility with naming Lance). I like the bit of foreshadowing about two-arms not grasping Quadripodian technology, leading into the final sentence, even if the story in between those points veered close to cliche.

Vaynor:

Composition: Good
Prompts: Excellent
Techniques: Good

Horror or humor? I can't decide. The insinuation of alien thought, substituting "descender" for elevator or lift, and the quadriped quality written about as something normal, were skillful. Your action sequence sentences are slightly out of order: descriptions grabbed from various angles without following the eye's natural movement, descriptions mashed into the middle of actions, short and fragmentary sentences breaking the flow of the action. Your dialogue is fine in this story.

VERDICT

Vaynor

This was an interesting bracket with two approaches to a similar, humorous science-fiction storyline. Both stories were solidly constructed and careful to keep on the outside edge of plausibility. Vaynor's story included all three prompts to a greater degree, and that was the narrow edge that gave him the win.

Dispozition (pg. 0) vs. King of Griffons (pg. 10)

BYE ROUND - King of Griffons advances.

Composition: Bad
Prompts: Excellent
Techniques: Good

Lurching back and forth between past and present tense, capitalizing after quotation marks, "-ly" adverb overuse: all of these spoiled the flow of the story more than they should have. I was drawn in by the tale and by how well two of the prompts fitted into the setting, and the grammar mistakes were speed bumps. This story also does not leave questions unanswered--it's self-contained and complete.

Nevrmore (pg. 5) vs. C. C. Benjamin (pg. 8)

Nevrmore:

Composition: Average
Prompts: Excellent
Techniques: Good

The present tense sounds odd; it's supposed to bring the reader closer to the action and modernize the story, but the long sentences still keep the action at a distance, and that conflict puts the entire story out of focus. The 'in your face' effect worked well, though, in playing up the prompts instead of trying to hide them. When you wrote Russ in with necromantic gibberish, you missed an opportunity for his co-host to wonder what kind of modern weirdo would say something like that.

C. C. Benjamin:

Composition: Excellent
Prompts: Average
Techniques: Excellent

On the first reading, I saw two prompts, but didn't question why they were there; they were fitted perfectly into the tale. I did lower your prompt-usage score, though, since you used the sub-title of the Wikipedia entry and very little of the actual information in it; it would not have been difficult to scatter names from the article in place of the fantasy names you did use. I would have preferred to not have quite so many quotation marks peppering the paragraphs, but you were correct in not trying to fluff out the descriptions just to vary their length--fluff would be too obvious.

VERDICT

C. C. Benjamin

This was a bracket of contrasts, with one author making his influences obvious and the other choosing to obscure the prompts. In my eyes, the story that concealed the prompts used more skill to integrate them into the story.

Elvaris (pg. 9) vs. Vorpal Tribble (pg. 0)

BYE ROUND - Elvaris advances.

Composition: Excellent
Prompts: Good
Techniques: Excellent

A script! A pleasant surprise, although I fear it might have disqualified you in a regular round; the rules ask for prose.

The rambling of some of Andre's replies is slightly awkward in a way I can't pin down. "I don't know whose harebrained idea that was, but they sure didn't clear it with me," sounds fine; "So here I was, health failing. . ." doesn't. I picked out two of the prompts for breaking the flow of the story, but you concealed that well--placing one in a natural break in the script, and using the background of the other so its mention was not a complete surprise.

Ravyn (pg. 10) vs. DarkLightDragon (pg. 0)

BYE ROUND - Ravyn advances.

Composition: Excellent
Prompts: Amazing
Techniques: Good

How many times did you manage to insinuate the prompts into a story which, by its setting, ought to have been foreign to all of them? Five? Six? Only one of them was jarring enough for me to pick out before looking at the prompts myself (the Cuxhaven banner), and if I'd read the prompts beforehand, I would have accepted that as just another part of the tale.

Logos (pg. 5) vs. Mattaeu (pg. 10)

Logos:

Composition: Bad
Prompts: Excellent
Techniques: Excellent

I love the colors in this story especially; the contrasts between the photos didn't strike my eyes until you worked them into the story. Even while leaning heavily on the themes of colors and hell and courage, the details were vivid and plausible. "Jamal knew that if he did anything but go he would go back to them. . ." is a bit confusing--what are "them", the fears of the last sentence? the signs? the workers who had said no to this job? You know your own grammar, even if I can never understand its internal logic, but what are "falliness" and "stone - head - idly"?

Mattaeu:

Composition: Excellent
Prompts: Good
Techniques: Amazing

I have had trouble finding anything to question about the story flow, but finally got confused in the middle of Medea is Gone; the shift between Arizona and Hawaii is unclear, especially in the paragraph that they share. It might have been better to shift the description of Byrd's Hawaiian setting down to the next section. Also, if the Bear of Oakland is the boat, please distinguish it in print; I think italics are the normal way. Two prompts are perfectly integrated, but one picture is only alluded to in the text of the story; I weighed that against including it as the myth/allegory, and considered it present, but lowered that score a bit.

VERDICT

Mattaeu

I looked forward to this bracket, knowing you both as writers of the unusual, and I was not disappointed. You both had the high points of invisible prompt inclusion, metaphors, and engaging storylines. The allegory extended over his entire story gave Mattaeu the win.

Tormsskull

2007-03-21, 12:46 PM

@ Quincunx

Tormsskull:

Composition: Good
Prompts: Average
Techniques: Average

This reads like three vignettes, each dealing with one of the prompts, strung awkwardly together into one story. The best of these vignettes is the scene with Edward at his conference table; the smattering of extra details and slightly longer paragraphs give it a polish which makes the event more plausible.

It's a small and irrelevant detail, but if you'd included the shindy stick as well as the aggression, I'd have been able to recognize hurling from the text. The game's armed rugby, if you ask me.

So to improve it sounds like I could lengthen the story, add more detail, and work on the transition between scenes & inclusion of prompts.

Thanks for the suggestions. :smallsmile:

InaVegt

2007-03-21, 12:51 PM

I won't have much time to judge the stories before the weekend, though I'll most likely pull out my entire saturday for it. If Fat Daddy deems this a problem he should feel free to let someone take over my judging position.

Vaynor

2007-03-21, 02:52 PM

Swoot! I won at least one judges approval. That's a start.

@ Quincunx

That was my idea, half horror half humor. It was abviously humorous, how could I not with an evil toilet as a prompt?

And yah, I'm not great at action sequences, so I made that one as short as possible.

Trog

2007-03-21, 03:01 PM

@ Quincunx

Thank you for your kind words. I'll have to review the accent, I never even got a chance to reread this I was so rushed. So it feels rough to me yet.

As as to the formatting... yeah. I tried to get it to indent but apparently that is not possible on the boards even if you add spaces in front of the paragraphs. I spent like 15 minutes trying to sort that out and never did. I'll be sure to add an extra line in the future. The irony is that I had formatted it that way originally and thought I would make it better by indenting instead. Live and learn.

Quincunx

2007-03-21, 03:45 PM

Out of spoilers since this is relevant to everyone:

This bulletin board has many fine features. Indenting the first line of a paragraph is not among them. There is an "indent one step" button on the reply window, but that shunts the entire highlighted block, not just the first line. On my home board, which uses the same software as this one, the poets have discussed (http://www.themightypen.net/index.php?showtopic=12977) how to indent their poems properly.

Deckmaster

2007-03-21, 03:51 PM

Quincunx

You are certainly entitled to your opinion. Maybe I'm biased, but I found Vaynor's story hard to follow. I couldn't get any grounding; I didn't know where or when this was taking place. This made it suffer greatly, in my opinion. Although he did feature the prompts more prominently. As for my story, it was meant to be a kind of Flash Gordon/Princess of Mars parody. You know, 30s serial stuff. Which is why it ends on a cliffhanger.

Ravyn

2007-03-21, 08:17 PM

Quincunx

...it worked? Rock on!

I'm glad you enjoyed it; this one went through more rewrites than any I've ever done. Now if I'd just remembered enough about model rocketry to actually use the crazy tie-in properly...

PhoeKun

2007-03-21, 08:57 PM

I would like to thank Quincunx for giving me the page numbers of each individual story. Your sacrifice has made my job easiern. Hopefully, everyone will get that last joke. Which is not so much a joke as an application of code, but whatever.

On with the judgements! As a note to everyone, I've decided to judge your stories in classroom style... and I have very informal classes. I will probably joke around a lot during the judging process, but don't take that to mean I'm not taking my job seriously. All of your stories are receiving my full attention and expertise, for whatever that is worth.

Trog vs Averagejoe

Trog
This is one of the more difficult stories for me to comment on. There weren't any glaring errors or mistakes, nor was there anything that I would say hurt your story. On the other hand, there wasn't much that really jumped out and wowed me. You've got a smooth writing style, and you made adequate use of the prompts (but you missed out on some easy brownie points by not focusing on Belinda's '95 season. :smallwink:). You did a great job getting into Fritz's head and drawing him out for the reader. But the ending, if you'll pardon the expression, came out of left field. I mean, I know it's a supernatural baseball and all, but... ouch. Why would he throw it that hard? Or is the ball so malicious it hunts out weak spots on the human body, and speed doesn't matter? I'm not sure I really "get" what happened, and in the end you left me with a real shoulder shrugging 'meh' feeling that was unworthy of the rest of the story.

On the whole, you did a good job. It was an enjoyable read with a slightly less enjoyable end.

Averagejoe
Well... that's definitely one way of looking at Stan Belinda. Haha... wow. What? Oh right, I'm judging. I should try to sound more professional. This is an extremely well written story. Your use of the prompts is nothing short of brilliant. This is the kind of story I would love to talk about the technical aspects of, but there aren't any mistakes to latch onto (except for one brief moment where Steven turned into Stan, unless I misread something, but that's superficial), and there really aren't any intricate literary techniques at work here. It's a basic narrative, complete with ego maniacal, baseball playing wizard. It's a basic, solid core, and that core is so well crafted that the lack of fancy tricks or twists isn't really an issue. The only real complaints I have is an occasional poor choice with pronouns - there were a few too many sentences that started with 'Steve' when 'He' would have sufficed. And, more importantly, you never bothered to offer descriptions of your characters. While it didn't affect the story in any meaningful way, it would have been nice to have an idea of what the characters looked like in your head.

Beyond that, I'm struggling to find much I don't like about this. Solid work. Solid, solid work.

Verdict
Averagejoe. I don't mind saying this was a tough decision. You both wrote very good stories, but in the end, averagejoe's story just has a certain... je ne sais quois that Trog's lacks. A certain... pomme de terre, a certain cul de sac. A certain... oh, right. Judge. Sorry.

Amotis vs Tormmskull
Amotis
I don't know if it was your intention or not, but I tried reading this aloud and... wow. It worked a thousand times better than it did when I read it silently. It ebbed and flowed like the tides, and I found myself reading faster in some places, getting angry, and in others, I'd slow down and feel a distinct sense of melancholy. It's an emotive, evocative piece, in an experimental style I really wish more people in this contest would try. There are more methods of story writing than simple narratives, after all. But all is not sunshine and roses. The piece really isn't all that hard to follow, and I had no troubles keeping up with it, but the story itself got lost in its own imagery at times. Similes that are like similes that are like similes that are like metaphors. It's clunky, and several of the images don't work. I also get the sense that you wrote quickly and never took the time to go back over it at a slower pace. Several typos, along with some iffy word choices and sentence structures, injure the overall quality of the work.

It's raw, I would say. You've written something that could be truly great, but it could really use another week in the oven. In the future, I would recommend writing in a more conservative, narrative style unless you can truly devote the week to writing. More so than other styles, this type of thing needs many drafts to work. But all things considered, well done.

Tormmskull
You've taken three very disparate prompts, and molded them into a cohesive story, and a fairly good one at that. I in particular liked the 'faux fantasy' feel of it all, how it looked like you were going to invoke the faerie right up until the end, when you pulled that rug out from under the reader by making it all just the machinations of a slighted son. Very good twist. You've got a good, clean writing style that lacks for typos (and I see you found the edit button. Always our friend, that fellow), and the formatting was easy on the eyes. The story was very fast paced, too - unlike some of the others, I think I managed to blow through this one in about a minute's time. It was very easy to digest. The only thing that's dragging you down here is the character's dialog. Who says 'Surely you jest' in this day and age? Or when Devlin talked about his 'field of vision' instead of his 'sight'. It just doesn't sound believable. The other issue I had was your ending, which felt one step too busy. Devlin wanted to kill his father - that was a twist. April was in on it - that was a twist. April tried (jokingly?) to kill Devlin - another twist. Devlin... kills April? Now it's like something out of M. Night Shamylan (I'm sure I misspelled that, but I dislike the man so *shrug*).

Anyway, well done on the overall. It was an entertaining read.

Verdict
Amotis. This was tough. Oh dear gods, was this tough. Tormmskull had a much cleaner story, but he took less risks, and Amotis' effort just evoked so much more passion. Why couldn't you two have been in 'bye' brackets?

Deckmaster vs Vaynor

Deckmaster
I'm not quite sure what to make of this. The character names and general story concept are so absurd as to insist that this is a humor story, but the dialog and the plot itself argue for a more serious piece. In the end, I'm not quite sure it's either. Which is fine, there's no need for a story to be concretely defined in any one way, and it can certainly straddle multiple genres (especially with four legs. Ha ha! I'm so funny... *sigh*), but this one kind of felt lacking in every category it tried to stand in. Admittedly, you were in a bit of a tight spot what with learning the contest had started about a day before it was over, but you had enough time that you didn't have to rush quite as much as you did. Two hours from conception to completion is mind numbingly fast - the story would have benefited enormously from a few more hours of brainstorming, I think.

Which is not to say this is a terrible story. It's just too simplistic, and could have stood to be a little longer.

Vaynor
This is a story with potential. Your use of the four-legged gymnast prompt was excellent - by making her an oddity in a completely different sense than looking at the picture would immediately suggest (that is to say, pointing out that her 4th leg is too close to the other three rather than caring that she has 4 legs in the first place) is creativity at its finest. It honestly wouldn't have been all that clever if you had just brushed aside the fact that she had four legs, but to say, "Look at her, isn't she weird? That 4th leg is all out of place!" is simply brilliant. I wish the other prompts could have received this kind of attention, but I suppose inspiration will strike where it wants to, ne? The major problem with this story is that it takes too much for granted. What is YM? Why are there magicians in this technology-based world, and why do they seem to fill the role of doctor when you have high-tech med-packs? You have to be careful not to overload the reader, but too little information is as bad as too much. I liked the way your ending is open for interpretation as to whether the smiling constellation is a good thing or a bad thing. Except that... uh, is Andria utterly bereft of human emotion? Check Gerard's pulse... nope, he's dead. *smile* "Thank goodness it's all over..." Yeesh, what a cold-hearted bitch.

I don't really have anything to add for the overall comments. "It's good, but..." is probably the best way to describe my feelings here.

Verdict
Vaynor. His story was a more complete effort than Deckmaster's.

Dispozition vs King of Griffons
Dispozition
You didn't submit a story. I knew that, but I refuse to break from my spoiler formula for something so trivial as a dropout. so deal with it. :smalltongue:

King of Griffons
Well, first of all, congratulations on finally entering an Iron Author contest that did not immediately pit you against Vorpal Tribble. That seemed kind of unfair to me. But I suppose that has nothing to do with the story at hand, so let's move on. Right... dimwitted actresses from the silent movie era, little pod people, and a blonde moment. Really fits the music I have playing right now, I have to say. This is a good, creative story with creative prompt use. But... oh gods, man, the tense changes! You kept switching back and forth between the past and present tenses throughout the entire story, and every time you did it, I felt like I was being slapped across the face with an angry salmon. It was... unpleasant. I highly recommend proof reading your next story for that phenomenon specifically - it's going to hurt you if you're not careful.

Seriously, you've got such good story-telling skills, and write such organic conversations. If you can just keep a better handle on how you're writing, you'll kill in this competition.

Verdict
King of Griffons. Duh. His entry was world's apart from Dispozition's... likely by virtue of its existence. *shrug*

Nevrmore vs C C Benjamin
Nvermore
I want to like this. I really do. The concept is brilliant - evil cultists from the New York Times hatching a fiendish plot to eliminate another New York media source? It's fantastic. It might have been better if it had turned out to be the Boston Globe or some such, but I guess they don't have as vested an interest in New York television as the Times. But your story fails to live up to the brilliance of its concept, if you'll excuse my bluntness. Your characters are bland and interchangeable. You wrote in the present tense for reasons I cannot fathom. I can't see any artistic reason at all from deviating from the more comfortable past tense, and your subconscious seemed to agree with you on several occasions, when it switched tenses on you. Furthermore, your plot got out of hand quickly: it felt too much like 'How to Kill a Mockingbird' and other such absurdities. Flaming, laser shooting, giant bears... I'm sorry, I'm just not feeling it. And the inclusion of the Ursa Major prompt was completely unnecessary, and very forced. The only reason Ursa [Pyro] Major made it into your story was because the narrator forced the name down the throat he went on to explain was too scared to think it up. It didn't fit, and wasn't funny enough to justify cramming into the story the way you did.

Like I said, I really wanted to like this story. You just made too many stylistic mistakes for that to happen.

C C Benjamin
It took me a bit to find the use of the NY1 prompt. I was pretty close to disqualifying you for not using it... and then I opened my eyes. Your mention of "readers" and "writers" (not to mention the separation of the two), the need for events to be reported, and The Call... yep, you used the prompt, all right. And let me just say that calling the phenomenon The Call was among the greatest decisions I've seen made in this competition. I only wish it was more obviously tied to the actual news station. Oh well. Excellent, non-standard prompt use. Way to think outside of the box. You set the scene for this fairly well, and each of the reactions felt real. Confusion at the constant scene changes melted away to recognition quickly enough, and they seemed very appropriate once it was revealed what was happening. A nitpick, though: there are no female satyrs. No, don't give me that "it's my world, and there can be female satyrs if I say there are". There is no such thing as a female satyr, just like there are no male nymphs. This is as close to fact as mythology gets. But in the end, that's superficial. What crippled the story was the way it ended with a giant, neon "To Be Continued" sign. It felt like you wrote Chapter 1 of a bigger story, instead of giving me any sense of conclusion at the end.

Very creative, good story. But unfinished.

Verdict
C C Benjamin. Both stories had issues, but Carl's were less of a problem, all things considered.

Elvaris vs Vorpal Tribble
Elvaris
Well... that was certainly not what I expected in this competition. Excellent! I have no idea what Andre was actually like, but you certainly made him feel real. I honestly would not have expected a news interview to work in this situation, but you did a great job pulling off the right feel. The inclusion of the picture in the story was a nice touch, and while it might have hurt you any other time, here it just worked. That said, this seems to be the kind of thing that works once, and then feels gimmicky afterwards. I'd caution against using this sort of trick again, and ask that you apologize to the other authors for stealing their chance at doing this. :smallbiggrin: All right, I'm kidding. It's just difficult to comment on an interview.

You definitely used your creative juices on this one. Nice job.

Vorpal Tribble
While I'm disappointed to see you couldn't write a story for this, VT, I certainly understand. Maybe life will be kinder in the future...

Verdict
Elvaris. I am already out of "I got one submission" jokes. Pathetic.

Ravyn vs DarkLightDragon
Ravyn
What a very lively narrator. I liked the dry wit contained throughout this story, and even though nothing really... uh, happened, it was still an enjoyable read. Further proving my unspoken point that narrative action is not completely necessary for a story to be good. So, thanks for that. You've got a bright and vibrant writing style that I've admired since the start of the first competition, back when I just read these things. It's nice to see you haven't dulled over that time (although why would you? You're constantly in practice...). My only real gripe about this story is your prompt use. The rocket theme was fine, and the vats made me smile (or at least, the way you commented on them), but the cow and dolphin felt like a copout to avoid Quincunx's "no fantasy" announcement. I was really looking forward to seeing how that particular prompt was going to be used, and to have it simply be a poster was disappointing.

But this alone does not a story destroy, nor would it matter if it did. You're through to the next round, you are. Here, have a bit of Satsuma orange.

DarkLightDragon
You were busy. I get it. ...Oh, come on, PhoeKun! Are you really completely tapped for commentary already?

Verdict
Ravyn. Once again, writing a story proves to better than not writing one. I'll have to write that down somewhere.

Logos7 vs Mattaeu
Logos7
I had great difficulty understanding this story. At all. I had to read it through something like 5 times before I got the gist of it, and that could rightly be perceived as a problem. Now, I've read your non-spoilered views on the subject over the course of the past week or so, but let me tell you that comprehension is massively important to the success of a story. If nobody understands what you're saying, it doesn't matter how brilliant your point is. Now, once you get past the Labyrinthine spelling and grammar, you have at the core an introspective piece about a man confronting his fears in the center of the earth. Tantamount to hell, I suppose. What I like is that it doesn't matter whether Jamal's hell is metaphorical or literal, because it's real enough to kill him, and that's all that matters. That said, I'm not really sure why you felt the need to drill underground in Antarctica in this story. There's no real reason offered, and it kind of breaks down my believability of the story.

It's difficult to say how much of my impression of this story is colored by the presentation. I'd like to think I'm above such things, but this really was a frustrating experience.

Mattaeu
I wish I had a better word to describe this, but I don't: neat. It's kind of a cheap sounding word, isn't it? But we're not here to talk about that, so back to the story. You're use of the prompts was adequate, though not spectacular. What made the story neat was the execution. The way the flow of the story shifts constantly, like an ice floe. The breaks, with their titles and subtitles, and a kind of surreal quality to the story that I had initially taken issue with, but it somehow seemed appropriate after reading Marcus' final conversation with Byrd. I'm not sure if that makes sense or not, but there you have it. This story doesn't really move the way one might expect it to, and comes off a bit confusing to the casual reader as a result. This can be either a blessing or a curse (or in some rare cases, both).

I'm going to be thinking about this story for a long time after this judgment is over and done with. I can't think of a better litmus test for good writing than that.

Verdict
Mattaeu. I'm not even sure Logos' story is still part of this competition, but Mattaeu's was the more enjoyable read on the whole.

averagejoe

2007-03-21, 09:39 PM

@ Quincunx & Phoekun

Looking back my biggest error was choosing names that were so similar (steve/stan). I also shouldn't have picked "Cameron" because I kept trying to put "Carmen," and apperantly I didn't fix all of them.

This one was actually fairly experimental for me, which was risky, but I'll stand by the decision. One or the largest problems with the short story is that one has such a limited space to tell it. (Which is made even worse when they are sci fi/fantasy, but I won't get into that as it's irrelevant to the now.) I was basically trying to see if I could tell a story by cutting out all the unimportant bits. It was ment to imply a much bigger picture, leaving it to the reader to fill in the blanks. Maybe leaving out the physical descriptions was over the top, maybe not. I'd have to consider it a bit more. My actual biggest mistake was how I put the ending together; I meant for it to be fairly ambiguous as to whether Stan Belinda was crazy or actually posed a threat to the world was large (not that the two were mutually exclusive, but you know what I mean.) I actually should have done that part over before submitting. Ah, well, hindsight and all that. Thanks for the comments.

Fat Daddy

2007-03-21, 09:45 PM

@ Gezina- No problem! We give the authors a week to write 1 story, it's only fair to give the judges a week to judge ALL the stories. :smallsmile:

Thanks to everyone who submitted a story. I am enjoying reading them. Due to various crises in my RL I don't think I'll be able to post my unofficial reviews this round. My apologies to anyone who was hoping for them :smallamused: .

I have a question for everyone. How do you like the 3 prompt format? Better or worse than the old 2 prompt format? Or more to the point, would you like to continue on with three prompts per bracket or revert to 2?

Thanks for your feedback.

Nevrmore

2007-03-21, 09:48 PM

Brickwall

2007-03-21, 09:50 PM

Announcement:
Because I feel like it, after I do all the round 1 comments, I will not be commenting any more. I have no idea what I plan to do for IA4.

Just so you winners know.

PhoeKun

2007-03-21, 10:11 PM

"Ursa [Pyro] Major made it into your story was because the narrator forced the name down the throat he went on to explain was too scared to think it up. It didn't fit, and wasn't funny enough to justify cramming into the story the way you did."

RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAWWWWRR

I DID NOT INCLUDE ANY EXTRA PROMPTS IT WAS A COINCIDENCE

Was it? Oh. But to be honest, it doesn't change much. The comment still felt like you were forcing something into the story that didn't belong there. But looking at that comment... wow. What incomprehensible gibberish. You must think me a fool. No matter.

The secret spoiler fanclub lives again!

Vaynor

2007-03-21, 10:21 PM

Vaynor
This is a story with potential. Your use of the four-legged gymnast prompt was excellent - by making her an oddity in a completely different sense than looking at the picture would immediately suggest (that is to say, pointing out that her 4th leg is too close to the other three rather than caring that she has 4 legs in the first place) is creativity at its finest. It honestly wouldn't have been all that clever if you had just brushed aside the fact that she had four legs, but to say, "Look at her, isn't she weird? That 4th leg is all out of place!" is simply brilliant. I wish the other prompts could have received this kind of attention, but I suppose inspiration will strike where it wants to, ne? The major problem with this story is that it takes too much for granted. What is YM? Why are there magicians in this technology-based world, and why do they seem to fill the role of doctor when you have high-tech med-packs? You have to be careful not to overload the reader, but too little information is as bad as too much. I liked the way your ending is open for interpretation as to whether the smiling constellation is a good thing or a bad thing. Except that... uh, is Andria utterly bereft of human emotion? Check Gerard's pulse... nope, he's dead. *smile* "Thank goodness it's all over..." Yeesh, what a cold-hearted bitch.

I don't really have anything to add for the overall comments. "It's good, but..." is probably the best way to describe my feelings here.

The point of YM was that is was close enough to BC or AD that it seemed normal, but was slightly off. So you could tell what it meant but it was still different. Same thing with magicians, I was trying to show by context what it was but that the world was different.

Also, I'm not great with showing too much emotion.

Oh and FD, I like three prompts better.

Quincunx

2007-03-22, 07:28 AM

PhoeKun re: Amotis

. . .Very intriguing observation. Writing is, to me, distinct from speech; I tried reading it aloud and found myself as tone-deaf as ever. Does reading the story aloud impose the same sort of discipline upon the images that the lyrics do?

Trog

2007-03-22, 08:19 AM

@PhoeKun

Thanks for your feedback. The ball would have indeed sought out the weak spots. I can see where you might have felt that it was unclear because we do not "see" the event. I was trying to go for more of the surprise twist end of the "Outer Limits" variety.

An alternate ending could be, I suppose, that after winning the game his dad still does not approve him and Fritz's reaction is anger. And he stands there holding the ball. And end it there and leave it for the reader to decide if Fritz wants to throw it at his dad or not.

Or have him willfully throw it and end it there. Not certain.

My idea was that the ball has a mind of it's own and that if given the chance it will try to kill. Especially if there is intention to harm. Fritz threw the ball at the squirrel because he was upset at his dad for not praising him for winning. Even if he did poorly. They advanced but he got punished. I didn't have him understand his feeling because hell he's a kid and those things can be difficult to work through. I also was hoping to have that be a bit of foreshadowing. Perhaps it needed to be more heavy handed.

Tormsskull

2007-03-22, 10:03 AM

@ PhoeKun

Tormmskull
You've taken three very disparate prompts, and molded them into a cohesive story, and a fairly good one at that. I in particular liked the 'faux fantasy' feel of it all, how it looked like you were going to invoke the faerie right up until the end, when you pulled that rug out from under the reader by making it all just the machinations of a slighted son. Very good twist. You've got a good, clean writing style that lacks for typos (and I see you found the edit button. Always our friend, that fellow), and the formatting was easy on the eyes. The story was very fast paced, too - unlike some of the others, I think I managed to blow through this one in about a minute's time. It was very easy to digest. The only thing that's dragging you down here is the character's dialog. Who says 'Surely you jest' in this day and age? Or when Devlin talked about his 'field of vision' instead of his 'sight'. It just doesn't sound believable. The other issue I had was your ending, which felt one step too busy. Devlin wanted to kill his father - that was a twist. April was in on it - that was a twist. April tried (jokingly?) to kill Devlin - another twist. Devlin... kills April? Now it's like something out of M. Night Shamylan (I'm sure I misspelled that, but I dislike the man so *shrug*).

Anyway, well done on the overall. It was an entertaining read.

Woah. I'm being compared to M. Night? You're going to seriously over inflate my ego. Anyhow, thanks very much for your critique. I agree with you on the wording, and I almost changed the 'field of vision' part, but I wanted Devlin to sound like an intellectual, so I thought it fit. As far as the twists at the end, I wanted the reader to experience SHOCK, SHOCK, SHOCK. Then curiosity, then once last SHOCK, followed by a smug wondering. I don't know if I succeeded at that or not but I enjoyed writing it that way.

Also, I aimed to make it easy on the eyes and flow smoothly, and by your comments I succeeded at that, which I am thankful for.

Thanks again!

Mattaeu

2007-03-23, 12:55 PM

@Quincunx
Which picture was the alluded-only? I felt, rereading, that both required a knowledge of what the picture was: I do not say the stop sign coaxes him back to Byrd and the new Expedition, nor could you only take Marcus' soft-white, green encompassed world as solely a blanket wrapped bundle of fleece.

To be honest, this was a rush type job, but about 5 day research job. The damn stop sign with lava was the only thing I was having trouble placing, but if you check everything, with the exception of the protagonist Marcus, they are rooted in specificity/accuracy. But I do not disagree with your appraisal.

It was so much fun! :smalltongue: Thank you for the vote.

@Phoekun
Writing it, I wanted the interactions with the characters to be more important than the setting; thus, the broken story fragments, just little snapshots of where they are. The reader doesn't need extra danger in the ice field, longer fights against the storm, or even a grossly dissected reason for why Marcus did not even try to help Byrd.

I gave a barebone sketch of human life; I end with Marcus after the first expedition, laying back in freedom and on his acquired golden fleece, but the reader knows his future lies somewhere in the states, where segregation and racism are very real and life is far from golden.

Thank you for the vote.

Vaynor

2007-03-25, 12:17 AM

Come on judges, get... judging. Yah. I wanna see if I won.

ravenkith

2007-03-26, 02:06 PM

I am terribly sorry about this, but my internet at home went down over the weekend, and I don't have the time to judge you guys at work. The repairman's supposed to come out tuesday.

I suggest that fat daddy be the tiebreaker judge instead. No telling if it'll get fixed on tuesday or not :(

PhoeKun

2007-03-26, 02:20 PM

Ah, bleh. Sorry to hear about that.

Of course, in addition to your problems, we're also waiting on two other judges who seem to have vanished off the face of the Arts and Crafts section.

My most heartfelt apologies to all contestants: I know from experience how harrowing it can be waiting on stuff like this. Your patience is appreciated...

C.C.Benjamin

2007-03-26, 02:26 PM

Not a problem, although I am checking daily. :)

Fat Daddy

2007-03-26, 05:38 PM

I wholeheartedly agree with Phoekun's comments. Thank you for your patience. I should some time later tonight and I will see what I can conjure up by way of judgments...

Amotis

2007-03-26, 08:57 PM

Cuuuuuurssseeeedddd.....

But really, I hope this doesn't die. Even if I probably won't make it to the next round I wouldn't like this to stop.

If I do lose this round I'll lend a hand in judging if we continue to have problems with that. I'm not as nearly as qualified as the other judges but...erm...I like reading.

averagejoe

2007-03-27, 12:56 AM

^That's pretty much all the qualification you need. You read some pretty good stuff too, so you probably have a better idea of what makes a good story than most people.

Yeah, back in my day, you took pride in your judging. Kids these days...

Fat Daddy

2007-03-27, 07:00 PM

If I'm not mistaken, Quin and Phoe are the only 2 judges to have actually done their job. As it is Tuesday, I will step in and say that if the other judges don't post anything before I do, then the results of Quin, Phoe and myself will be the binding results and I will get to work on the next bracket.

*Rolls up sleeves, cleans glasses and cracks knuckles.*

P.S.
For anyone interested, we (we being my wife's extended family) are in the process of determining the best and most painful way to beat down several doctors for an incorrect diagnosis of terminal cancer. The bride's grandmother isn't out of the woods but she now has a fighting chance. Keep her in your prayers/thoughts (whichever one works for your personal philosophy).

Thanks

Vaynor

2007-03-27, 07:04 PM

PhoeKun

2007-03-27, 07:28 PM

As there is three judges, does that mean I won? Yay!

Actually, it depends on whether or not any of the other judges manage to post judgments before Fat Daddy does. Which is exceedingly unlikely at this point, but still a possibility.

At any rate, I would like to request that you stop announcing the judge's decisions out in the open before anything has been finalized. It defeats the entire purpose of posting the judgments in spoilers in the first place.

@Fat Daddy: Malpractice suits are your friends, assuming you really want the guys responsible for a misdiagnosis to pay. Regardless of the choice you make, I'll lend a couple of spare brain cells to your predicament.

Fat Daddy

2007-03-27, 07:37 PM

@ Vaynor - I don't know, I haven't read the other judges results in case I had to step in...as I'm doing now. Don't jump the gun and give anything away for me now.:smallannoyed:

4 stories judged. I need a short break.... stay tuned.

Trog vs. averagejoe
Pic1:Face (http://williamsfamilyfl.com/tileface.jpg)
Pic2:Pick (http://williamsfamilyfl.com/nosepick.jpg)
Wiki:Pitcher (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Stan_Belinda)

averagejoeLet's talk first about something very near and dear to me, the prompts. Very interesting take on Stan. I can actually follow where the blame for the Pirates failure coupled with disease and drugs could have led him to a state megalomaniacal madness. (the fact that I followed what I perceive to be your thought process frightens me). A very creative incorporation of the prompt that was seamless and well executed. I'll be honest with you, the use of the Pick seemed very contrived to me. It was a creative spin, which I definitely didn't see coming but it has a bit of a blow to my suspension of disbelief with the story. You more than made up for it with your use of the Face prompt. How many times did you end up using it? I count at least 3. All creative, all flawlessly incorporated. Outstanding.

As for the story itself, it was very well written. There were only a few mistakes wording choices that felt a little off to me. For instance
A young girl stared down a stretch of road, empty except for the car receding in the distance. I would have thought A young girl stared down a stretch of road, empty except for a the car receding into the distance. would have worked a little better. There was nothing though, that really detracted from the story.

I thought the story was paced very well and you set up an anticipatory feel that had me eager to keep reading and discover what was going on. You wrapped this story up without going into every little detail, which I liked. I felt that we would have been given those details (such as Stan's plan, what the 'magic circle' was for etc.) had Steve allowed Stan to give the monologue his ego obviously wanted to give. The fact that the details were left out due to an 'in story' event just felt very right to me.

All in all a great to excellent use of the prompts even though one felt rather contrived. A well written, fun to read story with no major flaws.

Trog
As is my modus operandi, I'll begin with the prompts. I really liked the use of Stan as a 'legacy character' as it were. Not really including him in the story yet having him set much of the tone was excellent. The use of Pick was also excellent. I found myself disliking, yet empathizing with curmudgeony Mr. Monohan. It was also great forshadowing for the climax. Really excellent incorporation. Now we come to the problem. I couldn't see where you included Face. I read the story 3 times and the only place I think it might be is when Fritz's dad is watching him through the upstairs window as he disposes of the squirrel carcass. I can't really comment on this prompt other than to say it was either not included or included too subtly for me to catch.

The story itself had some technical issues. There were quite a few mis-spelled or incorrect words (due to ommitted letters had instead of hand for example). Also, "Green Lizard needs punctuation badly". <- that's just me trying (and failing) to be funny. There were numerous sentences that either needed to be broken into two (or more) sentences or needed some commas at the very least. You already PM'd me about your formatting issues with the paragraphs so that didn't bother me too much. The mis-spellings coupled with the rambling sentences really detracted from the story for me.

Now a different kind of technical issue. Let's talk baseball for a moment. First, it would be incredibly rare for a pitcher to pitch several games in a row (even if they are a day or two apart) unless he was a relief pitcher. Also, at that age (Fritz is 12 I believe) every league I have heard of has a 'pitch count' rule. Meaning that a pitcher can only pitch X number of pitches, then can't pitch again for a couple of games or days (determined by the league but usually 2 games or 3 days whichever is longer). And if Fritz's dad was any kind of coach, he wouldn't have been putting his pitcher through those rigorous drills and then expected him to pitch the next day. Fritz's dad is a jerk though, so we'll let that one slide. :smallsmile: Finally, the eye-popping climax. When this happened:
With a slow, surreal cadence the game resumed, the boy whom Chad had pinch hit for took Chad’s walk on first loading the bases. I had to go back and re-read the paragraph several times to see what I missed. When the ball hit Chad's bat, it became a foul tip, regardless of the ball subsequently striking Chad. It was not an automatic walk. This just annoyed me a bit because it forced me to re-read several times to find what I had missed.

OK - enough of that, let's talk about the content itself. I thought the psychological aspects of this story were incredibly well written without being overdone. I especially liked the way his father affected Fritz's outlook and motivations. The squirrel story was incredibly powerful and spoke to me of how his father's obsessions were tainting young Fritz. Very well done.

The pacing was rather well done too. It drew me along in it's wake and left me wondering. I must admit that the first time through, I didn't like the ending. The second time I read it however, my animated light bulb clicked on, and I really GOT IT. The fact that you left me wondering if Fritz hit his dad with the ball in the parking lot after the game really brought the story to an enjoyable conclusion once I realized what you had done. Very subtle and well written.

Overall a nice story about the father-son relationship. There were some grammatical errors the broke the flow of the story and some baseball inconsistencies that annoyed me. The prompt use was about 66% excellent and 33% missing (or too subtle for me). Overall a rather enjoyable story.
And the winner is...
Two good stories which both made good use of 2 of the prompts. In the end, while I really enjoyed the father-son relationship aspect of Trog's story, the technical issues really bogged it down for me and gave the edge to aj. I have to go with averagejoe.

Amotis vs. Tormsskull
Pic1:Jellyfish (http://williamsfamilyfl.com/diver_and_jellyfish.jpg)
Pic2:Sleeping (http://williamsfamilyfl.com/sleepinggiant.jpg)
Wiki:Game (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Shinty)

Amotis Hmmm....well...yeah... okay here I go. After about the 5th or 6th read, I think I kind of got it. However, I do believe that I am just trying to make sense out of this by imposing my own need for a logical sequence of events onto it.

Amazing imagery. Very convoluted and utterly confusing but some were nonetheless rather beautiful. Some didn't make sense to me, but that can be said about the majority of your story.

The prompt use was very subtle but I managed to find them. I can't comment on their inclusion other than to say they were included.

I don't think of myself as an average person. I like to think that mentally, I am a 'cut above'. However, between this story and ZombieRockStar's entry in IA1 I may have to re-visit that self image.

End result - beautiful imagery but utterly incomprehensible to me.

Tormsskull Okay, I have to say this and get it out of the way, Edward was a prick who deserved what he got. Parents like that are a large part of what's wrong with this country! You may have noticed but I get all fired up about parents (even fictional ones) who don't 'parent' well. Anyway on to the story.

Prompts - The shinty game was very nice. It flowed smoothly with the story and gave a great highlight to what a jerk Edward was. (I know, the bad father thing again, I'll move on). The pictures were each included well in their own right however, I found the vehicle used to include them to be rather contrived. The whole mystical ceremony to ultimate power thing felt very forced to me, especially in the context of this story. Edward was a bastard but he didn't seem that gullible to me. It simply felt out of character.

The pace of the story was good and made for an easy read. There were no major flaws that jumped out at me. The content was ok, but as I said, one of the major plot vehicles felt very contrived and really diminished the story for me.

I liked the ending. Devlin becoming the same BBEG that he reviled his father for being was a nice irony.

Overall, decent use of the prompts though a little forced. A fun, if unbelievable story with a good twisted ending.
And the winner is...Even with it's inability to grant me a 'suspension of disbelief' Tormskull's story was at least comprehensible to me. Amotis, you went out on a limb, but I fear that when I tried to follow you, the branch snapped and sent us both tumbling. :smallsmile: Judgment for Tormsskull.

ravenkith

2007-03-27, 07:41 PM

Yo, Fat Daddy, hold up, I am working on the last story now.

Trog vs. Average Joe

Trog:

Initial Impression:
A nice little story with fable-like elements that, despite heavy use of clichés, works quite well in this instance.
Prompts & Content:
You incorporated all of the prompts, but your inclusion of the article felt a little shallow. Style & Mechanics:
There are some obvious style errors, a few spelling mistakes here and there, overall not bad on the mechanical front. The real problem is your dialogue – it feels a little stilted in places, and sometimes doesn’t seem to fit with the characters you have established. Something else to look out for: sudden endings. Your story seems to come up real short, abruptly careening to a halt. Jumping around in time in large increments is confusing and jarring to the reader, and not conducive to a good experience.

Overall Score: 7/10
Average Joe:

Initial Impression: A solid story from beginning to end, with plenty of action and tension to keep things interesting.
Prompts & Content: A decent job of incorporating the prompts here, although your interpretation of the one image (the blue tile) is a little strange. I liked that Stan was a central character, and his motivations tied quite well into the back story.
Style & Mechanics:
Exploiting the ‘monologue’, some nice descriptive language, and a strong beginning that left us wondering why, all helped hook the reader into the story and keep him reading. Well constructed, with few errors. Your ending jumped quite a bit forward in time, Hollywood movie fashion. Resist this temptation.
Overall Score: 8.5/10
Verdict:
Average Joe takes this round, due to a solidly constructed story, with slightly better use of the prompts.

Amotis vs. Tormskull

Amotis:

Initial Impression: Guh. Confusing and deeply poetic. Had to go back for a second read, trying to figure out the meaning behind the words.
Prompts & Content:
Well, assuming your description of the white translucent thing is the jellyfish, you did ok with the prompt usage, although the article was practically brushed over, and the personification of the earth from the sleeping giant photo is kind of stretching. I have to say that you aren’t being very kind to your readers here, being very vague, and lacking in concreteness. This could lead to a distant relationship between the reader and your work.
Style & Mechanics:
Very good use of evocative imagery, and metaphor, if I’m reading the story right. I suspect this is about a girl who gets raped in a stadium parking lot, and fights back (shame and blood), suffering a traumatic out-of body experience, in which she hallucinates various things, her mind snaps, and she winds up in a mental institution playing a four-stringed instrument and singing to herself.

Of course, I could be utterly wrong, having interpreted the story in a completely wrong manner.

While using metaphors is a good thing, the over-reliance upon them can be detrimental to the approachability of the story as a whole.

Also, run on sentences = bad, unless you wee intentionally doing it to leave the reader breathless.
Overall Score: 7.5/10
Tormskull:
Initial Impression: Interesting. Establishes the characters of the son and the father quite well, but then leaves the assistant as nothing but a shadow.
Prompts & Content: Good inclusion of the prompts, although, from the game itself as a means of demonstrating the relationship between the father and the son, to the location being present in the story itself.
Style & Mechanics:
Very good. One thing to note: your characters and dialogue seem to be without passion, never once do you refer to their feelings, or the outward display of them, except for with April, who, as I’ve said, is a poorly developed shadow-what are her motivations? Where did she come from? How did Devlin get her to whack his dad?
Overall Score: 8/10
Verdict:
Tormskull. Which saddens me. I think Amotis has a great deal of potential as a writer, if she can work within the rules and make her stuff more appealing to the masses. No offense Tormskull, you created a technically apt piece, with an interesting story, but Amotis has a savoire faire that I’d liked to have seen more of.

Deckmaster vs. Vaynor

Deckmaster:

Initial Impression: Okay. Adequate. Average. Middle of the road. Enh.
Prompts & Content: Yeah, you slap a coat of paint on it, but really the pictures and the article are just window dressing here. Although, I do like that you gave the Quaddies a move only they could do. The names were a nice attempt at being funny, ‘fourlegs’ and ‘arse-leg-bone’, But they weren’t really central to your story.
Style & Mechanics: Techncally apt, but dull. Try spicing things up with some more evocative language, but not too much (read Amotis’ story, for example).
Overall Score: 7/10
Vaynor:

Initial Impression: Weird. I’m pretty sure your story takes place with a race of aliens (References to different chronological systems, the fact that four legs is not unusual on her world), but the dipper, as an asterism, would only be visible from earth, not to mention the constellation ursa major. The appliances are alien invasion devices?
Prompts & Content: Well, you touched all three bases, although your inclusion of the article was shallow at best. You should try to be more vivid in your descriptions. The moment of realizing that the toilet was eating her ass could have been much more interesting than it was.
Style & Mechanics:
Not bad. But you should really separate out your characters thoughts from her actions. You also need to work on your dialogue. It doesn’t flow very well, like two people speaking to one another should.
Overall Score: 6.5/10
Verdict:
With no glaring stylistic or mechanical errors, Deckmaster edges the win here.

Dispozition vs. King Of Griffons

Dispozition:
Oops. Looks like Dis missed the boat.
King Of Griffons:

Initial Impression: Riveting Creepy. Well-executed.
Prompts & Content: Good use of the prompts. I liked the suspense/horror/sci-fi feel of the piece.
Style & Mechanics: Other than the glaring faults of spelling and grammar that you mentioned, nothing much to complain about, other than the sudden introduction of the date. You may have wanted to play that out in a conversation, as opposed to jumping over it. Not keen on having the death occur off-stage, but it’s an old convention.
Overall Score: 9/10

Verdict:
By default, King of Griffons.

Nevrmore vs. C.C.Benjamin

Nevrmore:

Initial Impression: Ah, a soylent green reference. Can’t get enough of those. Bears killing everyone? Raiding a tv station? Damn, those are some messed up bears. Rivals? Oh, ok, it sorta makes sense now.
Prompts & Content: Alright. I’ve got to say, you did make good use of the prompts here, even if some of them were sort of nonsensical (bears from a swamp? Aren’t they primarily forest-dwellers?). I really liked how you took the names of your characters from the article, but they were all mostly bit players, and the characters you did keep around didn’t have a whole lot of development. Extremely absurd, especially as anchored to real life as this piece had to be, and with you bringing in magic (and whack magic at that).
Style & Mechanics:
I liked the twist ending. You need to work a little on spelling and grammar, but you’ve got most of the basics down pat. Your dialogue was not stilted, most of the time, and felt very lifelike, and you gave your characters emotions, which helped lend the story more impact.
Overall Score: 8/10
C.C.Benjamin:

Initial Impression: Incomplete! No ending!
Prompts & Content: Good use of the prompts, and I must say, some great imagery, very evocative language. With a little padding, perhaps more details on thoughts and feelings here and there, this could be areally good start to a much longer story.
Style & Mechanics:
If you count the revelation of nature’s army as a climax, you’ve got a middle, but no end, here, which is unfortunate. Technically very apt, and your dialogue was good.
Overall Score: 7.5/10
Verdict:
Nevrmore edges CCBenjamin. I’d like to have seen them both progress, but someone has to be eliminated, and in my mind, Carl didn’t turn in a full story.

Elvaris vs. Vorpal Tribble

Elvaris:

Initial Impression: Sweet, Princess Bride quotes. Bonus points for Elvaris.
Prompts & Content: I love it. A very different take on the whole ‘story writing’ thing, but it’s all fictional, so it’s all good. I also like that you worked in his deteriorating health and the tag team from the prompts. Good usage of all the prompts here.
Style & Mechanics:
Well executed, but in such a different style to any of the other stories, it throws me a little to have to judge it. Obviously there are some grammar issues, but that comes as a function of the choice you made for style. Great dialogue, very fluid and open.
Overall Score: 9/10
Vorpal Tribble:
Mmm. I guess Elvaris’ investment in that electric razor as a terror weapon paid off.
Verdict:
Elvaris, by default.

Ravyn vs. Darklight Dragon

Ravyn:

Initial Impression: Oh. That’s the story?
Prompts & Content: Weak, very weak on the prompts. The Rocketry was great, the science project not so bad, but the cowphin just didn’t see a lot of use. Hard to use, I know, but it was in and out so quick you would have missed it. Otherwise, the story was adequate: it didn’t blow me away, but it was a story with a beginning, a middle, and an end.
Style & Mechanics: Good work here. Decent dialogue. Could maybe use a little more character development.
Overall Score: 7/10

Darklight Dragon:
Dragon? Where?
Verdict:
In a battle between ravens and dragons, ravens win. By default, because they actually exist, while dragons, as a rule, don’t.

Logos vs. Matteau

Logos:

Withdrawn!

Matteau:

Initial Impression: O…kay. Too much jumping around for my tastes.
Prompts & Content: Well, I believe you have used the prompts, and you didn’t have a whole lot to work with regarding the article, but altogether, your prompt usage was weak. I’d make sure to address this in your next story for the competition.
Style & Mechanics:
As indicated in my initial response, the way you jumped around was jarring and difficult to deal with as a reader. You’ll have to fix that heading into the next round. Technically competent.
Overall Score: 5/10

Verdict:
Matteau by default.

Deckmaster

2007-03-27, 07:57 PM

ravenkith

Woo! You liked mine slightly better than the other one! Alright!

Fat Daddy

2007-03-27, 09:24 PM

Okay Ravenkith. You have the floor. I'll continue to post my reviews but will not post any more judgments as Ravenkith makes the third judge.

averagejoe, amotis, tormskull and trog, please disregard my 'and the winner is' spoilers as Ravenkith supercedes me.

Trog

2007-03-27, 09:30 PM

*Bows deeply to his opponent and leaves the field of battle.*
Thank you judges for your feedback.

Vaynor

2007-03-27, 09:42 PM

Actually, it depends on whether or not any of the other judges manage to post judgments before Fat Daddy does. Which is exceedingly unlikely at this point, but still a possibility.

At any rate, I would like to request that you stop announcing the judge's decisions out in the open before anything has been finalized. It defeats the entire purpose of posting the judgments in spoilers in the first place.

Crap, completely sorry. I got excited. :smallwink:

Vaynor:

Initial Impression: Weird. I’m pretty sure your story takes place with a race of aliens (References to different chronological systems, the fact that four legs is not unusual on her world), but the dipper, as an asterism, would only be visible from earth, not to mention the constellation ursa major. The appliances are alien invasion devices?
Prompts & Content: Well, you touched all three bases, although your inclusion of the article was shallow at best. You should try to be more vivid in your descriptions. The moment of realizing that the toilet was eating her ass could have been much more interesting than it was.
Style & Mechanics:
Not bad. But you should really separate out your characters thoughts from her actions. You also need to work on your dialogue. It doesn’t flow very well, like two people speaking to one another should.
Overall Score: 6.5/10

Thanks for the comments. Yes, it is a race of aliens. I made them very similar to humans, with glaring differences. The constellation isn't really Ursa Major, per se. Just a constellation shaped like a ladle. THe reason it was there was to show there was much more to the appliance being alive thing, a grander scheme. Appliances are normal appliances.

I tried a little harder on dialogue than last time, and by summing up the rest of the judges remarks compared to last time, it seems I did a little better. Not that you care, just nice to know I'm improving. Oh, and ouch, lost by half a point.

averagejoe

2007-03-28, 04:23 AM

Thank you, Raven and Faddy, for your comments. They were helpful and well-recieved. In response to my use of the "pick" prompt... well, I wanted to do something that seemed somewhat physically possible, at least to some degree. I guess I could have had him picking his own nose in, like, a dream or something, but I already did that with the face prompt, and that would be kinda lame anyways.

Fat Daddy

2007-03-28, 07:27 PM

I have edited the first post to indicate the round 1 winners (congratulations to averagejoe, Tormsskull, Vaynor, King_of_Griffons, Elvaris, Ravyn, Matteau & C.C. Benjamin).

I have posted the round 2 brackets and links there as well.

Round 2 deadline is 12:01 am EST (GMT-5) Thursday, April 5th 2007

Have fun!

King_of_GRiffins

2007-03-28, 08:40 PM

Excellent, back to writing. I'm a bit disappointed there aren't any picture prompts this round. The pictures provide for me an open source of creativity and inspiration that a simple article doesn't always convey. Still, I did a good one using only articles the first time (grammar disincluded), and shouldn't have a problem. My only concern is how to take two geographically separate areas and put them into one story. I don't like globe-trotting, even if its just to the next province.

Fat Daddy

2007-03-28, 08:54 PM

KoG - I understand that everyone seems to prefer the pictures. That is actually why I did all WIKI articles this round, to challenge you talented writers.

Remember, this contest, the prompts change from round to round. So I can guarantee that next round will NOT be all WIKI :smallsmile: articles.

Elvaris

2007-03-28, 09:17 PM

Actually, I much prefer the Wiki articles. A picture is one frozen moment, a frame in a film you have to work around. The articles allow so much more leeway in incorporating them. It just takes a little extra research sometimes...

King_of_GRiffins

2007-03-28, 09:44 PM

Not that either form of prompt doesn't have its own merits, as I do enjoy researching, but the two do work much better together than separately.

Fat Daddy

2007-03-28, 09:49 PM

@ Elvaris - I find your perspective interesting in that it differs so significantly from my own. In all the various writing contests I have entered, I find that pictures are much more open to my personal interpretation. While I agree that they are one frozen moment, you are completely free to create the pre and post events. I find that more difficult with defined articles (such as the WIKI's we use here). Pesonally, I find that images are more open to be defined by my personal outlook and experience.

My 2 cents. :smallamused:

Elvaris

2007-03-28, 10:26 PM

@Fat Daddy - I'm so visual in how I create stories, it's barely writing. I see what's going on and hope to string together enough words to convey what's in my head. Imposing someone else's picture into that process is jarring. I'd probably make a much better director than a writer, except then I'd have to deal with actors...

Vaynor

2007-03-28, 10:28 PM

Eek, these are pretty hard prompts. Hopefully I can come up with something...

Amotis

2007-03-28, 10:54 PM

Question: Even though I lost, which makes me sad because I never seem to get a chance to go to round two in any iron author, if I wrote a story alongside the contestants would the judges judge it? I rarely, actually never, write, at least not creatively in this sort of way, and I lack the motivation just to do it just because and in a vacuum. If the judges were to add their comments and address it's quality that would be enough motivation for me.

If the answer is yes, Imma do a random one.

[roll0]

Edito - hmm the receiver (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Santonio_Holmes), RCAHMS (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Royal_Commission_on_the_Ancient_and_Historical_Mon uments_of_Scotland), & blizzard (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Blizzard_North) one. Okay.

averagejoe

2007-03-28, 11:05 PM

It's okay Amotis, you're just underapreciated in your own time. The world isn't ready for you yet. :smalltongue: (Well, except Phoekun, I guess.)

Amotis

2007-03-28, 11:11 PM

Stravinsky's Rite Of Spring triggered riots in it's time.

Hehe, nah, it probably wasn't that. I suppose if I was a more talented writer I would of won. I have ideas, I just don't have the experience/talent to put it down on paper. At least not in a decent enough form.

But I'm asking for practice. That's all.

PhoeKun

2007-03-28, 11:23 PM

You just need to remember that I'm about the only one who speaks Amotis. Try writing in English next time... :smallwink:

Write another story, and I'll critique it. You won't win anything, but I'll critique it.

averagejoe

2007-03-28, 11:27 PM

Yeah, what the heck, I'll probably write something about it as well, if I'm not swamped by midterms.

Vaynor

2007-03-28, 11:39 PM

I will say whether I like it or not, if that helps. :smallwink:

Nevrmore

2007-03-28, 11:48 PM

My heart, rip it in twain!

Ah well, better luck next time.

Tormsskull

2007-03-29, 06:56 AM

I suppose if I was a more talented writer I would of won.

That's not entirely true. Writing talent is very subjective. Sometimes you will write what you think is great and then other people will look at it and say "This is crap."

Now, the fact that I was your opponent, your comment kind of intrigues me. I am not sure if you are making a general statement or trying to imply something, but I take criticisim very well so if you were weighing my writing (not even sure you read it) feel free to say whatever you like.

Anyhow, if you do submit something I'd be willing to give you a judgment on it, if that is worth anything to you.

As a side note, my next opponent is Ravyn? Ravyn has an excellent writing style so I am sure this is going to be a very difficult round for me to survive.

ravenkith

2007-03-29, 08:52 AM

I'd like to point out that I really liked the vividly descriptive prose of Amotis, and was forced to rule against her primarily because of her abandonment of traditional form (as others have said, this is, after all, and english writing contest
...and English has rules.)

Deckmaster

2007-03-29, 12:50 PM

Oh, well. See you all in IA4!

Oh, and Vaynor? You better win. I'd feel better about being beat by the winner.

averagejoe

2007-03-29, 01:22 PM

That's not entirely true. Writing talent is very subjective. Sometimes you will write what you think is great and then other people will look at it and say "This is crap."

This is true. For example, Torm kept choosing the wrong contestant in IA2, because he erroniously thought the other one to be better. :smalltongue:

I'd like to point out that I really liked the vividly descriptive prose of Amotis, and was forced to rule against her primarily because of her abandonment of traditional form (as others have said, this is, after all, and english writing contest
...and English has rules.)

Not that I'm trying to overturn your judgement (I haven't read the other guy's story, so I have no opinion,) but she didn't really break any english rules. One could argue that she broke the contest rules, but the prose itself was fine, if a bit unorthodox. The rules for prose have always been fairly loose.

Vaynor

2007-03-29, 02:54 PM

Oh, well. See you all in IA4!

Oh, and Vaynor? You better win. I'd feel better about being beat by the winner.
Don't worry, I won't. :smallwink:

C.C.Benjamin

2007-03-29, 04:18 PM

I'd just like to thank the judges for their positive comments and excellent criticisms.

For this round, I'm feeling a little more sci-fi...:smallcool:

ravenkith

2007-03-29, 04:30 PM

Not that I'm trying to overturn your judgement (I haven't read the other guy's story, so I have no opinion,) but she didn't really break any english rules. One could argue that she broke the contest rules, but the prose itself was fine, if a bit unorthodox. The rules for prose have always been fairly loose.

I'd like to respond to this, with a bit of clarification. It may help those who have made it into the next round, anyway.

Storytelling, in the english language, has it's own rules.

Anything not poetry and not factual can be described as prose.

It takes more than putting phrases together to make a story.

At the very least, it helps if you communicate clearly, and relate a series of events that are tied together in some way.

It helps if you have a defined location for the action to take place in: for the characters to call their stage.

It helps if you have major characters, that the action follows, and supporting ones, who pass in and out of the readers attention.

It helps if you develop those characters by giving them motivations & emotions along with physical descriptions.

It also helps if one of them is a protagonist, and that there is some kind of conflict in the story (not necessarily a literal one).

In addition, oftentimes a character is an antagonist, although, strictly speaking, an antagonist is not always necessary.

There should be A beginning, a middle and an end to the story.

There should be a building of events to a heightened state of tension (or a climax), and then a resolution to that tension, an aftermath or epilogue if you will.

Also, it helps if you pick a particular point of view (1st person, 3rd person, etc.) and stick to it.

These are the rules....I suppose guidelines is a better term, that I speak of when referring to Amotis' piece.

I wasn't sure of the sequence of events, although I think it was a rape and beating, and subsequent hospitilization. I wasn't sure of the stage, although it seemed to be a parking lot near a soccer field. I wasn't sure of the characters involved, although I think there was a girl, a boy, the spirit of the earth, as embodied by a giant jellyfish hallucination thing, and the boy's friends.

My interpretation of the writing (after the second or third try) doesn't make it so: I could simply be reading into the words, imposing my own meaning.

The criteria she most failed in was communicating clearly. Character development came in a close second.

I didn't want to get too specific, for fear of offending.

Certainly, there are styles of writing that ask the reader to interpret the words of the author: poetry and stream of consciousness. For my money, This is closer to stream of consciousness than anything else, but it is not quite a story, because of it's lack of clarity.

A story is a clear sequence of events that follow one another, something I'm not sure Amotis' piece actually possesses, due to me having to impose my own interpretation on the words in question.

I hope this clears up any confusion as to how and why I rendered the decision that I did.

averagejoe

2007-03-29, 05:02 PM

Ah, thought you meant something completely different. Makes sense, although guidelines might be a better word than rules, because, if carefully done, one could leave one or two of those elements out and still get a story in the way you mean it.

PhoeKun

2007-03-29, 05:16 PM

You know, it's interesting the way the English language works.

Even though ravenkith and I disagreed on the overall decision for Amotis' story, we share the belief that the story's weakness was a lack of control over itself (by which I mean, the story imposes no meaning of its own over and above the reader's, leaving that reader to fend for himself in a sea of metaphors).

Now, ravenkith goes on to say this makes the effort something less than a story. I disagree. So many different interpretations as to what the 'rules of engagement' are, so many different ways to try to impose order on an arbitrary system...

Fascinating, isn't it? This contest dances on the edge of that question itself? Just what is an acceptable framework for submission? Can stream of consciousness writing find acceptance? If I submitted a narrative poem of the appropriate length, would it be rejected for not being strictly prose, despite being more "story" than stream of consciousness? Should an imitation newspaper interview count?

Marvelous. It's a contest, the sole aim of which is to have fun writing. Yet even here we may dare to try to define art. You have to love it...

averagejoe

2007-03-29, 06:20 PM

Psh, you try to define art, I know how to define art. Art is whatever I point to and say, "That's art." :smalltongue:

ravenkith

2007-03-30, 09:50 AM

Heh.

I'm just trying to explain how I came to the decision I did.

I've taken a lot of classes on the subject, (composition & literature was my focus for my English degree) and, to be honest, the rules/guidelines/whatever are pretty loose.

It's just, if a story follows the guidelines closely, and another doesn't...

Meh. It's all very subjective, as any judgement will be, being based in the opinions of flawed individuals.

Tormsskull

2007-04-04, 09:30 AM

This quietness concerns me. I have my submission almost done, how's everyone else doing?

averagejoe

2007-04-04, 09:41 AM

I should have it done in time.

You know what would have been fantastic? If I could have done this over break. Like, if it had started monday. *evil eyes judges*

Tormsskull

2007-04-04, 02:54 PM

Ok, here's mine:

receiver (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Santonio_Holmes), RCAHMS (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Royal_Commission_on_the_Ancient_and_Historical_Mon uments_of_Scotland), & blizzard (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Blizzard_North)

“Dude, that’s crap. This guy just totally screwed me!” Jerome took a hit off of his cigarette as he glanced over at his buddy Matt who was also staring at a computer screen.

“What do ya mean?” Matt asked, making only the briefest of glances towards Jerome.

“This guy told me to drop my item on one side of the wall, and he was going to drop his on the other side of the wall. Then we were supposed to both move towards the other person’s item to finish the trade. But this punk has a speed hack and he moves way faster than me. He ran all the way to my item, picked it up, and then ran back to his item and picked it up before I could get to it.”

Matt laughed a bit. “That’s because Diablo sucks. You need to get with the times and upgrade to World of Warcraft like I did.” As he spoke, Matt’s scantily clad night elf jumped around on his computer screen.

“I am not paying fifteen dollars a month to play a game dude, that’s just crazy.” Jerome finished his smoke and then dropped it into the Pepsi can that served as an impromptu ashtray. “’sides, I don’t think my computer could even run that game.”

“Oh, I totally forgot to tell you. Did you hear about Santonio?” Matt pushed the ‘-‘ key on his keyboard, dropping his night elf into shadowmeld. He then turned his attention totally towards Jerome.

“No. What’d he do this time?”

“The NFL suspended him for getting into a fight at a strip club. Apparently he broke a bottle over some guy’s head, messed him up real bad and sent him into the hospital.”

“For real? That dude’s crazy. What’d his girlfriend say? I bet she was pissed.”

“Pissed? Pissed doesn’t even begin to describe it, man. When I called his house to talk to him about it Lashae answered and started chewing my head off. I was like ‘I didn’t have anything to do with this, just let me talk to Santonio’ but she just kept talkin’ and talkin’.”

Jerome nodded, having experienced similar situations with Santonio’s girlfriend. “That chick is crazy.”

“Totally.”

“We hanging out with ‘em today?”

Matt nodded. “Yeah, he said he needs to get out of his house or he is going to blow his brains out.”

Jerome laughed as he stood from his chair. “Women, man. I tell you, no matter how rich or successful you are, you still go through the same drama as everyone else.”

Matt’s face broke out in a bit of a grin. “You got that right. Let’s head for the library. Lashae will never find him there.”

Jerome nodded.

The library was surprisingly busy. Kids ran down the isles between bookcases without a care, often bumping into one another or the cases themselves and then giggling. One of the librarians was out on the floor trying to police the children, but it did little good.

“Did he reply to your text yet?” Matt dodged out of the way of one of the children, nearly colliding with Jerome at his side.

“Yeah. He said he’d probably beat us here.” As he finished speaking Jerome noticed their friend sitting in the back next to another guy. “There he is.”

As the two walked up towards the table, Santonio leapt from his chair. “What’s up fellas? I gotta give you mad props dog, this was definitely a good spot to meet. If there’s one place she won’t look for me it is gotta be here. Or maybe church.” Santonio chuckled and then dropped down into his seat. “Oh yeah, this is Bruce Oliver, a guy I met a while back at OU.” Santonio motioned to the white guy sitting next to him.

“How’s it going Bruce?” Jerome extended his hand and shook Bruce’s, and then Matt did the same.

“I’m doing pretty well. How about yourself?” Bruce had a bit of an accent, but Jerome couldn’t have said what type it was.

Jerome nodded. “I’m cool. This has been kind of a boring summer though, to be honest. Not much going on. Well, except for some of us in the NFL.”

“I do not even want to talk about the NFL because if we do, I’m just going to get all upset again. Let’s talk about something else.” Looking at Matt, Santonio continued. “You still going out with that hot chick Shauna? That girl was fine.”

Matt shook his head. “Naw, she was crazy. She wanted me to move in with her after like 3 weeks of dating. I stayed over there one night just to test the waters and I wouldn’t ever go back.”

“Got to see what she looked like without her makeup? Yeah, that’s a rough day after for any guy.” Santonio nudged Bruce at his side as he spoke.

“No, not that. She had this dumb cat that pissed all over and then puked every time it ate. It was so irritating I just wanted to kick that stupid thing.”

“Hey, I know what we can talk about. Did you guys see that football game last Saturday?” Jerome purposely didn’t look at Santonio at all. He heard the NFL player groan as he continued. “Who was it that played again? I think it was Florida and…..Now who was that other team?”

Matt caught on to the gag, adding in his own part. “Oh, I remember that game you’re talking about. That other team, they were incredibly favored to win. Their quarterback was supposed to be the next great thing. Who was that team again?”

Even Bruce decided to join in. He breathed in, squinted his eyes, and then faked a sneeze while saying “Buckeyes”.

Santonio made a “pshh” sound as he grimaced. “That game was totally lame. You see how it started off? Ohio State runs the kick back for a touchdown, everyone’s all pumped up, and then they fall apart.”

All the guys were laughing at their combined joke, but Santonio kept a straight face. Jerome decided it was probably a good idea to change the subject. “So tell us a bit about you Bruce. What are you into?”

Bruce stammered a bit. “Well, I’m on my computer a bit, I like to travel and such, not really anything exciting.”

Santonio picked up a book from the ground and dropped it unto the table. The title flashed before Jerome’s eyes, Historical Monuments of Scotland. Jerome first eyed the receiver and then looked towards Bruce. “Are you Scotish or something?”

Bruce grimaced. “Yeah. I like to research a bit about my home country. There really is a lot of interesting stuff tucked away in tomes such as these.”

Matt picked the book up and began leafing through a few of its pages. “What’s that?” He said, pointing to a picture.

Bruce righted the book so he could see what exactly Matt was looking at. “Oh, that’s Alnwick Castle. It’s the home of the Duke and Duchess of Northumberland.”

Jerome glanced over to the book as well. “That castle looks kind of familiar. I’ve never been to Scotland though so I am sure I haven’t seen it.”

“Actually”, Bruce started, “It was used in one of the Harry Potter movies, did you ever see any of those?”

Jerome nodded. “What about that one?” He said, pointing to the other picture on the opposite page.

Bruced glanced at the book once again. “That’s Dirleton Castle and Garden. It holds a Guinness record for the longest herbaceous border in the-”

“The longest what?” Matt interrupted.

“Herbaceous border. It’s like a row of flowers arranged closely together. In the States they are usually called perennial borders.” Bruce beamed as he answered the question.

“How the heck do you know all this stuff man?” Jerome asked as he pushed the book slightly away from himself. It was Santonio who spoke up.

“Get this. This boy here is a new member of the Royal Commission on the Ancient and Historical Monuments of Scotland.” Santonio eyed Bruce as he said each of the words in the title to make sure he got it right. “He’s going to get paid to travel to all of these old buildings in Scotland and do research.”

“That’s pretty cool man.” Jerome said, glancing about the library once again. “Oh ****, duck Santonio.”

“What are you talking about fool?” Santonio turned around to see what Jerome was looking at.

The woman approached at top speed, barely giving Santonio a chance to sigh before she spoke. “You stupid ass. You really didn’t think I’d find you?” Lashae sent a dirty look to everyone at the table as Santonio stood, reassuring his girlfriend that he wasn’t doing anything wrong. She proceeded to drag him out of library. On his way out he turned and shrugged towards the guys.

After the three guys stopped laughing, Jerome even had to wipe away a tear from laughing so hard, they sat there looking at one another. Jerome was the first to break the little group’s silence.

“So you said you spend some time on the computer? Ever heard of Diablo?” Jerome looked towards Bruce with curiosity, ignoring the groan from Matt’s lips.

“Oh totally. I love Diablo. Just this morning I speed hacked his dude out of an awesome item. You see, you tell them to drop their item on one side of the wall, and then you…”

EDIT: V I'm glad to see you posted. I only hope the other participants get their works in under the deadline.

Ravyn

2007-04-04, 08:19 PM

And mine--no byes for you, Torm!

Connections

We met on a Sunday, sometime in early January. Perfect opposites, the two of us—Genevra was a senior and a history major, in the band and various social activities; everyone knew her, she seemed to know everyone. A world-changer. And me? Sophomore, biology major, all-around geek whose social life mainly involves typing at the computer and tossing a few dice onto the table, can’t even remember the names of half the people in my chemistry class.

It was unexpected, that meeting. I’d just gotten back from a day off-campus doing fieldwork, and I was supposed to be meeting with my boyfriend Devon. Told him when I was going to get back—after all, I’d known to the minute—and he said he wanted to see me. So I dropped my backpack. Hurried downstairs to his room. Got ready—as had happened the last few times I’d been off on fieldwork like this—to burst in with an “I missed you!”

Apparently he’d forgotten the time, because the first thing I heard on the other side were music, and voices mumbling indistinct words.

Nayarin. Why was she here now? This was my time. He’d promised. How could he bring her in?

The words of love—gone. Any sense of subtlety—gone a heartbeat later, along with any sort of hesitation. I was not happy, and I was most definitely ready to tell him. So I kicked open the door and stepped in, fury incarnate, looking straight to the bed where I knew he’d be. “How could you? You promised!”

It took him a moment to register the sound of the door opening, since he’d been so engrossed. But then he looked up. “You’re back now?” His eyes were wide, his headphones down around his ears, and there, situated on his lap, was the cause of all this suffering, innocently humming away without a care in the world:

His computer, still displaying the characteristic bright colors and running side-text of a raid in progress, his hunter Nayarin standing dead-center amid the hubbub.

“You promised,” I told him. I had to wonder if maybe he’d take me more seriously if my eyes were glowing.

“But… the guys just had one thing to do, it’s not going to take too long, I thought you were getting in at nine…”

That’s the last time I give him my flight information in 24-hour time, I thought.

What I saw before me was a hopeless cause. “Forget it,” I hissed. “I’m going to go eat. Call me when you’re done.” And I turned on my heel and swept out.

Half an hour and nothing particularly interesting to eat later, I found myself in dorm’s lounge, draped over one of the couches and drumming my fingers on the arm. I couldn’t go back to my room—my roommate was asleep, which meant the lights were off. I had to wonder why she was so underslept, but eh. And of course, Devon was still busy. What part of 7 pm did the man not understand?

The lounge was silent except for the grinding of teeth. Which, oddly enough, didn’t seem just to be coming from me. Genevra was sitting on the arm of one of the other couches, her binder balanced in the crook of her arm, writing something or other—something she was constantly and fervently writing, erasing, writing, erasing. Blonde hair atumble around her shoulders, eyes of blue ice, and wearing what had to be the most interesting shirt I think I’d ever seen. It was navy blue, featuring a castle and an acronym I could stylized castle and an acronym: RCAHMS. The letters below I couldn’t quite read—and still can’t; the shirt was old enough and well-worn enough to make them illegible.

From the anger in her eyes, and, a moment later, from the fact that she threw down the binder with a muffled curse and began pacing, I could tell that she needed a distraction. That was great; so did I. And she was wearing a perfectly good conversational piece.

“What’s that on your shirt?” I asked when the pacing came closest to me.

“Hm?” She was definitely in a bad mood; it took her a moment to figure out where I was. But once she did, the change was instantaneous—that perpetually smiling public face took over. “Oh, hi, Carys.”

Like I said, she remembers everyone’s names. I was actually rather surprised—I certainly didn’t know hers.

She, of course, picked that up almost immediately. “We talked during the decorating event. When you were asking about music. …don’t worry if you don’t remember. I’m Genevra.”

“Pleased to meet you.” I smiled and offered her my hand. “So about that shirt…?”

She looked down. “Oh, this? Royal Commission on the Archaeological and Historical Monuments of Scotland. My Aunt Sheba works for them; she’s arranging so I can intern with them when I travel there to take a year off before starting grad school.”

“That. Is. So. Cool.” There wasn’t much else I could say.

She grinned over at me. “So what about you? What’s yours mean?”

I’ll admit, I had to look down to remember what I was wearing. One of my favorite geek-shirts, that one—green, the full range of commonly rolled dice. “Choose your weapon.” I’d embroidered a circle around the eight; I’m rather fond of those. Anyway, I chuckled. “It’s a hobby thing. I game.” Geek boldly, they say…

So we started talking. The fact that we were practically from different worlds—utterly immaterial. She had such nifty stories about prior experiences with archaeology and her hopes for her time looking at old Scottish architecture that I was amazed—and even more amazed when she seemed to find my own stories about crazy things people I’d known had done interesting. Even when I slipped into old game stories. Apparently there’s something universal about audacity.

I forget which of us finally broached the question of what brought people like us into a place like this, but it eventually came up; she acquired a rather resigned look and tone and explained, “Rick’s off with his sports-buddies gushing over Santonio again.”

“Who?”

“That’s about what I asked.” She sighed. “Some new hotshot football player. I hate Sundays during season—can’t get two words out of him outside of a commercial break.”

“Knooooow the feeling,” I agreed, flumphing down on the couch.

“You too?” She laughed.

“Oh, yeah.” I sighed. “I suppose it says something about what a couple of geeks Devon and I are that the other woman’s either a figment of his imagination and the collective images of a crowd of MMO geeks or a software company.”

“At least the character’s still female!” Genevra retorted in a mock-aggrieved tone. “What’s this Holmes guy got that I haven’t?”

“At least he’s just one person,” I tossed back with a grin. “I’ve got an entire company to compete with!”

She laughed back, then slipped her voice down half an octave. “Oh, Blizzard!”

That, of course, led to a continued gripefest and sharing of reminiscences. Once we were done laughing, anyway. We really opened up that day. It was almost unsettling at one point, when I ended up giving her my best attempt at relationship advice; let’s face it, it’s not something I could see myself doing. And I never thought I’d see the day when someone that popular and that busy would be asking questions about my tabletop war stories as if she were actually—gasp!—interested.

The best part was that our respective boyfriends came into the lounge looking for us at almost exactly the same time. The looks on their faces as they walked in to see us practically collapsed on the couches, laughing our heads off over the images of cross-contamination between our boyfriends’ social circles was utterly, utterly priceless. At least both of them had the grace to be amused and not upset.

And now? For the rest of the year, she’s going to be at least as much a fixture of my social life as Devon, and next year whenever we're both on the 'Net she'll be telling me all about her work. After all, we’ve got to do something while the boys are off being obsessed with our rivals. Nowadays, they’re almost as jealous of our hangout time as we were of theirs, not that there’s much they can do to counter it.

…unless, of course, someone comes up with a football MMO. Then we’re both doomed.

Fat Daddy

2007-04-04, 09:16 PM

Ravyn - I HAVE THAT EXACT SHIRT!! (sans embroidery) I have to go dig up a picture of me wearing it... bye the way, I prefer the d4 it is a wonderful caltrop when my daughter leaves it out and I go tromping through the house at 3 am. :smallamused:

averagejoe

2007-04-04, 09:19 PM

And this is three. I hope 'ol CC hurries up.

On another note, I found out that if you double space between paragraphs it will copy to the forum into the correct format.

They called it the Black Monday, the day when the United States economy came crashing down, and the rest of the world’s with it. The world’s infrastructure came crashing down around five years later. The nations collapsed, and the day of the city-state returned, dredged up from days long forgotten. The great cities of the world became havens, places relatively safe, with some sort of order imposed. Somehow, amongst all the travel, people had gotten things to work, as they always seem to, even if no one was quite sure how things worked. It was a precarious balance, to be sure, like a marble balanced at the edge of a sidewalk, just waiting for the odd vibration or gust of wind to send it tumbling into the gutter, rolling into the sewers below.

Even if civilization went tumbling down into the dark sewers of the ages, there would be those who would adapt, those who would carry on to make even more humans. Even some odd five decades after the Black Monday (no one is quite sure of dates anymore), people were making new adaptations to better fit this new world.

* * * * *

"Status everyone. Blade Runner?"

"Set to go."

"Tron?"

"I’m good here."

"Shogun?"

"I’m ready."

"Mad Max?"

"I was born ready."

"Yeah, right, and maybe someday you’ll actually do something to back up all that talk. How about you, Mouse?"

The young girl called mouse simply smiled and gave a thumbs up.

"Alright," said their leader, the one called Buckaroo, as he stared down the long slope of the hill, "Let’s do this."

Buckaroo’s heart pounded, as it always did when he stared down the slopes of the streets of what had once been San Fransisco, lost in that excellent moment just before takeoff, where he would envision his flight and imagine how it would feel. He took a deep breath and let himself go, pushing off with his foot and quickly planting it on his skateboard; his team did likewise. The six of them flew down the slope, racing past pedestrians and vendors, vehicles and tall, tall buildings, leaping over what used to be the tracks for the old tram system, but were now merely a perilous trap for Buckaroo and his companions. They wove skillfully around all obstacles, and sometimes they seemed to quite literally fly.

Then, as if on signal (though no signal was given), the six of them turned sharply onto one of the flat streets crossing their path. There was a bazaar of sorts, the sort that was strewn all over the city. Buckaroo and his friends descended on the open air market like jays, letting the speed they had built up carry them past vendors, stalls, buyers and traders, taking whatever they could grab. Buckaroo found himself flying toward a man carrying a dead chicken, growing close almost before he could react. Buckaroo didn’t have time to think; he simply reached out, and suddenly the dead bird was in his hand, and he was already gone. He kept going, all the way to the cross-street, stopping right before it sloped. Tron, Mouse, and Shogun had already gone over the edge, but Blade Runner and Mad Max had each been slowed down. They pumped hard on their skateboards, faster than the runners even though their momentum was lost, but they were going to be mobbed. Buckaroo, quick as anything, pulled one of his smooth, polished rocks out of his pocket and hurled it at one of their assailants. His aim true, the rock struck the back of one of the men’s heads, knocking him cold and halting many of the others. Max and Runner flew past Buckaroo, whooping and taunting their would-be captors, and then it was Buckaroo’s turn to go flying down the incline. He felt his heart flying down the slope with him, and suddenly he couldn’t help himself. A laugh burst out of him, as it had his companions, and they went tearing down the hill, now with little worry for their own safety. Buckaroo soared, his body, heart and mind, feeling that taste of freedom that he always felt on these sorts of runs.

* * * * *

The loose collection of companions called themselves the Blockbusters, after the building that they called their home. At least, that’s what Buckaroo said the building was; he and Mad Max were the only ones who knew how to read, though Buckaroo was teaching Tron, Shogun, Wargames, and Bluejay a little. They felt it was a good name, one that fit what they did. They even began to use it in their speech. One might say, "Man, you busted that block," in reference to the way one of them might grind off a concrete object or pull a maneuver on a street particularly riddled with potholes or other worse-than-usual obstacles. Most even took their names from the tomes in their, the volumes of knowledge whose secrets were accessible only by the ancients before them.

The Blockbusters was mostly composed of orphans, or other children who were otherwise abandoned, or had to escape their home life. Gangs of lost children had become frighteningly common on the streets of San Francisco, some with families, others without. The Blockbusters wasn’t one of the more notorious or frightening gangs out there, and they liked it that way. They saw quickness, speed, and anonymity as their strengths. Those, and the leadership of Buckaroo.

* * * * *

The crew stopped to rest at an abandoned building; many buildings were abandoned these days, too dangerous to live in, even for the desperates, but used as temporary shelters for those who needed them. As Mad Max liked to say, with the wry smile of his, "The way uphill is always much harder."

Buckaroo came rolling in last, stopping abruptly and kicking up his board. "Alright," he said, "What have we got?"

"I pinched a bag of fruit off some old prude, didn’t even see me coming, clean as that," Tron said, a smirk on her round face. She had her hair clipped short, because it tended to stick out at all angles, even at the best of times. It still did short, but it got in the way less. A pair of goggles sat atop her head. Her clothes were like the clothes of the entire gang; anything they could find, which they typically had to patch up anyways. Buckaroo didn’t know the ages of any of his crew, and suspected that they didn’t know themselves, but he suspected that Tron was about sixteen.

Mouse held up her take; the youngest of them (or at least the youngest-seeming), Mouse too had a pair of goggles atop her head. Her hair, however, was kept long and in five braids, pulled back to reveal a shy smile and sad eyes. She held up a loaf of hard bread; not the good stuff, but no one would complain. She had also snatched an apple.

Mad Max had a smirk on his face; he sat back nonchalantly, as if he hadn’t come zipping in half a minute earlier. His sunglasses were tied with a string and hung around his neck. His blonde hair was kept very short, and he nearly always had a smirk or sly smile on his face. He wore two watches on his right wrist, one plastic, one metal, but each had long since stopped working. He also wore a dirty-white headband, and a purple boa wrapped around his neck like a scarf. He often scavenged for such treasures; he said they gave him style. "You wouldn’t believe the haul that I got, cap," he said, still smirking "Almost got caught, but it was well worth it. Besides, almost isn’t good enough to catch Mad Max." He held out his prize, a bag of sweet rolls. Food so good was a rarity to the Blockbusters, and Buckaroo’s mouth watered just looking at them.
"Yeah, uh, I had to help Maxie here," said Blade Runner, a skinny, slightly diminutive, youth. He kept his hair in dreadlocks and his sunglasses on his face most of the time; many often wondered how he could see.

The rather large, muscled, Shogun kept his head shaved and wore a black bandanna around his neck. A pair of goggles sat atop his head. "I managed to grab this," he said simply, holding out another loaf of bread.

Buckaroo nodded, putting his own goggles atop his head, and putting his chicken with everything else. He was fairly average looking; he kept his hair short, and the scant beard on his face was the only bit of facial hair among the boys in the group. He wore two black wristbands, each with spikes in them, one on each arm. He had found them in the trash once, and thought that they were cool, and could possibly help in a fight. Three of the spikes were missing from the left one, and one from the right, but to Buckaroo they were still perfectly serviceable. "This was a good day," he said, "Pack it up, we gotta get back.

Mad Max smirked his familiar smirk. "It’s always harder going uphill, isn’t it."

* * * * *

It was a hard climb back up, especially since they had to watch out for anyone who might recognize them or steal from them. Still, groups were usually safe, and Buckaroo would almost always carry the food himself.

"So," Blade Runner was saying as they went, "This fella, right, he says to me, ‘Hey, man, get off my face,’ and I was thinking to myself, ‘Who does this bloke think he is?’ so I just sit back, all cool like, you know, and I go, ‘I’ll be on your face if I want to be on your face, fool. In fact, you better get off MY face before I make your face rearrange.’ And I can see he’s trying to act cool, like I wasn’t getting to him, but I could see him go all white, and he just kind of shuts up and mosies away."

"Yeah, right, Blade," Mad Max said, his familiar smirk on his face, "I’ll bet you just about made him pee himself. What with your imposing stature, and all. Although it might have just been your smell what drove him away."

Mouse made that weird guttural sound which Buckaroo understood as laughter. A smile crept onto his own face; not because he found Max to be particularly funny, but he enjoyed listening to them talk to one another.

Despite the laughter and taunts erupting around him, Blade Runner kept his cool. "Yeah, and they’d be scared of you, with that purple snake thing around your neck."

Mad Max suddenly corrected his posture, walking with his torso erect and his head high. "This is what a proper bigwig wears, I’ll have you know. I wouldn’t expect some urbanite to appreciate such a refined taste as mine."

"Hey Max," Tron said, "If you’re such a bigwig, what are you doing with a shoddy gang of urbanites like us?"

"Don’t you know?" Shogun said, putting a massive arm around Mad Max’s shoulders, "He’s too good for all that. Maxie here knows where the real action is."

"Indubitably," Mad Max said, a cocky smile on his face.

Buckaroo let out a small chuckle at the sheer silliness of the idea. Suddenly the smile left his face, and he looked off toward the distance. "Motors," he hissed, "I can hear motors." Quick, as if on signal, the six companions moved off the road and into an alley.

"Sharks," Shogun hissed, "Or worse."

"Alright," Buckaroo said, wasting no time and shoving the bag of food into Shogun’s hand, "You, Blade, and Mouse sit tight and keep from sight. I’ll take Max and Tron, and we’ll lead them away. Make your way back, and we’ll meet you there once we shake them."

"Aye, boss," Shogun said, taking the bag and going immediately to cover.

Buckaroo hustled out of the alley, moving to a flat area, Tron and Mad Max right behind him. They stood their skateboards on the brink, right before the sharp incline. "Alright," Buckaroo said, "when they’re in sight. Max..." He turned to the side to see Mouse had come, sticking faithfully to Mad Max’s side. "Mouse, what are you..."

"Too late for the lecture, boss," Mad Max said, putting his sunglasses over his eyes, turning his head uphill, "They’re on us."

Buckaroo turned his head quickly, and saw the glint of red traveling swiftly in their direction. He put his goggles over his own eyes. "They see us, go, go, go."

The quartet launched themselves down the slope, once more traveling down, down, down, Tron taking the lead, followed by Max and Mouse. Buckaroo waited a split second before going himself. He could hear the motors behind them. He turned back to see the small red cars traveling toward him, their speed terrifying.

* * * * *

They called themselves the Sharks, after the cars they drove. Only one, their leader, had an authentic sharknose, valuable even before the Black Monday. The others, skilled drivers and mechanics, built theirs to look like their leader’s. The zippy little cars were agile but powerful, efficient, which was important with gas resources so low, and, with the right driver, deadly. They were mercenaries after a fashion, and were the closest thing San Francisco had to a police force. Of course, as all who are held accountable to no one, the Sharks served themselves much more often than the community. Even the dumbest of them, however, recognised that if thieves were allowed to run rampant then what little order there was would eventually dissolve, and their own power would be gone.

* * * * *

The lead Sharknose was almost on Buckaroo. He could feel the wind from the air intake; wind was something he had become very sensitive to over the years, as even a slight shift could be the difference between gliding over the pavement and scraping on the pavement. He reacted quickly, turning sharply through the gaps made by a long since derelict house. The car squealed, at once stopping and turning, the driver realizing too late that even a car as small as a Sharknose would have some trouble fitting through the small gap. The others blew past him, toward Tron, Max, and Mouse, but the trio scattered as Buckaroo did, using their agility and size to their advantage. Buckaroo continued down a parallel street, but two cars suddenly turned up it ahead of him. He raced toward the two cars, his eyes steady and unblinking behind his goggles. He wove back and forth, managing to dodge the lead car when it went left instead of going right, then executed a grind off the nose of the other car, letting himself slide off and just past the reach of the driver. He wavered as he landed, almost thrown off balance, but Buckaroo knew what he was doing.

One grabs Mouse, but Mad Max comes out of nowhere and, with a swift strike to the forearm, breaks the man’s grip. Three try to blockade the street, but Buckaroo and Tron vault off debris, up and over the low cars. They come from behind and Mad Max, with a grin and a taunt, turns so sharply that they have no room to turn and no time to react. And all of a sudden they are out of room.
"Ground, coming up fast," Buckaroo shouted to his companions.
Almost in unison they turned sharply, keeping the water on their right. This was a dangerous place to be; there was little cover, and only one road lead down. Buckaroo chanced a glance back and saw the Sharks regrouping behind them; it wouldn’t be long before those red cars caught up. The only sensible thing to do now was get off the roads and travel back in the secret spaces.

As he signaled the others, Buckaroo frowned. This was why he didn’t want Mouse along; she couldn’t keep up as well as he knew Tron and Max could. Even so, he had them dismount and fix their boards to their backs. They practiced more than just moving downhill; they could scramble up fences like nothing, climb piping, balance, leap, tumble, and otherwise scramble through the inaccessible heights and back ways of the city. It was almost maddening, not knowing if the pursuit was keeping up, but Buckaroo knew there was no choice but to forge ahead.

* * * * *

"That’s it," Tron said, "They have us blocked off." The four companions were hunkered down, on the lookout for the Sharks. They were circling closer, and it was just a matter of time before Buckaroo and company were found out. Buckaroo put his head on his chin. This wasn’t good. At best, he could probably let himself be caught, and maybe then the others... Mouse gave Buckaroo a tap on the shoulder. Buckaroo turned toward the girl, and she pointed across the street. Following her gaze, Buckaroo saw the old tunnel, the one with the word BART over it. He stood. "Mouse is right. Let’s go."

Max and Tron looked and saw the station as well. "What?" said Mad Max, "Through the tunnels? You’ve been in the sun too long, boss. We need to escape, not die."

"It’s our best chance," Tron said in a hushed tone, "unless you’re too scared." Her words were chiding, but her tone was one of fear.

"It is our best chance," Buckaroo said, "And besides, it should be alright if we stick together. They don’t like to be given trouble." He didn’t want to show it, but Buckaroo’s heart was pounding as they descended into the tunnel. Not pounding like before they started a skate run; it was nothing like that. There was no thrill, no freedom, only a great darkness that held only his fears.

The four companions walked through the derelict tunnels; Buckaroo took the lead, Tron came after, and last came Mad Max with Mouse clutched tightly to his arm. There was little light to travel by, so they stuck to one wall. There was no way to tell how much time had passed. They were used to telling time by the sun, but there was no sun in this place.
There was one part they came to, where the sun streamed in through a hole in the concrete. There they saw a large black thing. They may have passed many in the dark without knowing it (for the raised concrete steps stood above the rocky ground with the strange metal tracks.) The four of them looked in wonder at the lost artifact from a time long gone.

"Wow," said Mad Max, "Why would anyone build a house down here?"
"It’s not a house," Tron said matter-of-factly, "It’s a car. Look here, there are wheels. It’s turned onto its side though. I wonder how people made anything this big move. The wheels don’t even look big enough to support it."

"Maybe they didn’t," Max said wryly, "Maybe that’s why it didn’t work. The olden people sure were stupid."

"I think they were wonderful," Tron said, "I bet they would have known how to fix it. They could probably move twenty people at a time with this. If we had one, we would never have to scrounge again, we could just wander around the land, seeing all sorts of places."

"What could we possibly see that isn’t here?" Max said, an incredulous look on his face, "Dumb girls."

Buckaroo felt something tugging at his arm. It was Mouse. She looked up at him, and he looked into her eyes. "You’re right," he said. Then, to the bickering Tron and Mad Max he said, "Let’s go."

They traveled once more through the tunnel, once more blind. They didn’t know how much time passed, but it was enough so that they began to grow more brave. Mad Max even started up his usual candor once more. "Yeah, Mouse," he was saying, "I don’t know why you were worried. There’s nothing down hear what could tangle with Mad Max and not be sorry."

Tron snorted, "Sorry that they had to touch you."

"You see, Mouse, some women just aren’t as appreciative of a manly man like me. They want one of them sissy boys that they can boss around."

"Max," Buckaroo hissed, "shuddup." They heard it when they quieted down; hoots and cackles echoing through the tunnel. Tron breathed in sharply, and Mad Max said simply, "Oh." Buckaroo went cold, but he knew that they had no choice.
They saw the light around the bend first; the deep red light that didn’t really seem to light up the tunnels very well, and soon everything looked red. There was a platform carved into the wall, and beyond it stairs; in between, however, was a howling, hooting, mob, men and women who didn’t seem like people, but more like animals. They wore their hair in strange fashions, stuck up everywhere, and all colors. They wore black, black with white skulls or silver studs and spikes; leather and high boots were prominent. They seemed wholly bent on destruction, smashing things with metal rods, shoving each other, stealing from each other, and fighting. There was peace at the center, though; the one who was obviously the leader, the alpha, sat on a ratty couch, a woman under each arm. He had a cigarette in his mouth, and he seemed to be the only one aware of the companions. He stared at them with the easy, steady gaze of a predator who has nothing to fear.
"Who crosses here?" He shouted out all of a sudden, and slowly the clamor around him began to die down; heads turned toward Buckaroo and company.

"I cross here," Buckaroo said, climbing onto the platform and trying to keep the quiver out of his voice, "Buckaroo of the Blockbusters.

"Not the Blockbusters? THE Blockbusters," the man said, an easy smile on his face. Then he thought for a minute, "Nope, never heard of you." He let out an ugly laugh, and laughter erupted all around them. Mouse moved closer to Mad Max, and Max and Tron moved closer to each other. Still chuckling, the man said, "And what is your business here, B of the B?"

"We want to cross," Buckaroo said. He was a little more sure of himself now, though he never forgot that dangerous glint in the man’s eye. The hairs on the back of his neck were still up. "We were getting punked by some Sharks, and we came here when the streets got too hot."

"Mmmm," said the man, a sly grin on his face, "and what will you give me? One of your women maybe," he made a kiss at Tron, who just stared back defiantly. The man laughed. "I kid, I kid. But I will need something to trade. Say, those are pretty spiffy boards."

"No," Buckaroo said flatly, "We need them for our survival."

"And what stops me from taking them."

"We’re tougher than we look." Buckaroo and the leader of the strange gang stared each other down, neither speaking for a long time.

"You know, BB," the man said finally, "I like the cut of your jib. Alright, you can pass for cheap, a one time deal. I’ll take those spiffy wristbands of yours."

"Done," Buckaroo said, letting out a breath he hadn’t been aware he had been holding.

"What about me, boss," one of the crowd said, "I want that poofy thing that guy has."

"Hand it over Max," Buckaroo said. He hurried the others up the stairs before they changed their minds. The one who had gotten Max’s boa had already forgotten them; he was waving his arms and dancing around with it, to the hoots of the others.

"Hey, BB." Buckaroo turned to see the leader staring at him again, "If you come down here again, I will kill you." Buckaroo’s heart leapt into his throat, but he forced himself to just nod, then ascended the stair himself.

* * * * *

The sun was setting on the surface, but all were glad to see the light. The hike back was short and uneventful; they heard no engines and encountered no gangs. Even so, the stars were long out before they got back to the Blockbuster building, the place they called home.

Shogun and Blade Runner were at the door to greet them, along with Bluejay and the Terminator. There was shouts of joy, laughter, relief; Buckaroo felt safe for the first time that day. "What about you," he said to Shogun, noticing suddenly that the big youth had a black eye.

"Well," he said, "me and Blade waited, just like you said, and we tried to keep out of the way, but then we got jumped by this other gang and we ran but they took the food."

Buckaroo nodded, then went to one wall and sat with his back to it, sighing; there was little furniture, and it was mostly reserved for the younger ones. Buckaroo felt tired all of a sudden; he just wanted to close his eyes and sleep for the rest of time. "Hey, boss," Max said, "You alright."

"Yeah," Buckaroo responded, "Yeah, I’m alright. Everything will be alright. We’ll just try again tomorrow."

Brickwall

2007-04-04, 09:22 PM

Ravyn - by the way, I prefer the d4 it is a wonderful caltrop when my daughter leaves it out and I go tromping through the house at 3 am. :smallamused:

Oh, so I'm not the only one! Well, 'cept of course that I don't have a daughter...it tends to be my fault or the cats' fault.

Fat Daddy

2007-04-04, 09:46 PM

^ I can't think of a gamer it hasn't happened to at least once. :smallsmile:

PhoeKun

2007-04-04, 09:50 PM

On another note, I found out that if you double space between paragraphs it will copy to the forum into the correct format.

I've been telling people that since the second round of the last competition...

Amotis

2007-04-04, 09:52 PM

I'm sorry...were you saying something PhoeKun? I know you posted but-...ohh man, we have cupcakes!

PhoeKun

2007-04-04, 09:54 PM

*sigh*

Yes, we have cupcakes. Their flavored with the souls of tortured children.

...And chocolate frosting.

Amotis

2007-04-04, 09:59 PM

I gave up tortured children for lent...

...

*sadly puts back cupcake on platter*

Elvaris

2007-04-04, 10:07 PM

Well, it's probably an editor's nightmare, but it's over 1000 (1655) words, and it's ahead of the deadline.

township (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/East_Bradford_Township%2C_Pennsylvania), comet (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/16P/Brooks), & S3 (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/S3_Graphics)
"Hey Jack, what's happening?"
"Oh, hi Steve. What are you up to?"
"Well, I've been thinking..."
"I have nightmares that start like this."
"Oh come on, when have I ever done you wrong?"

Jack took a long hard look at his old friend. "There was the student film, the ski run incident, your wedding, let alone your bachelor party, Mardi Gras '89..."
"Hey, that one wasn't my fault. She told me those were guaranteed not to break."
"Yeah well, my arms weren't. I can still feel changes in the weather."
"There. See? Saves you all that time watching the Weather Channel. So that doesn't even count."
"Of course. That whole 'silver lining to everything' ethic of yours. So what's the big idea this time?"

Steve's ever-present smile got even wider. "I'm thinking of starting a company."
"Why?"
"Well, Brooks 2 is going to be at perihelion this time next year, so I want to be ready."
"Brooks 2? Peri-what? Are you feeling okay Steve?"
"Perihelion is the point in an object's orbit when it is closest to the sun, and Brooks 2 is a comet that was discovered in..."
"Okay, okay... Why the sudden interest in astronomy?"
"I've always been interested in astronomy."
"You were interested in Jenny Burton. If she'd have been an art major, you'd have taken sculpture."
"Now that's not fair. Although wasn't that the class with the nude models?"
"Figure drawing, and none of the models looked like Jenny Burton. So what does a comet have to do with starting a company?"
"Well, I've worked it out. All the best things in my life have happened at roughly seven year intervals. And Brooks 2 is in perihelion about every seven years."
"Lovely. So it's not actually astronomy, it's astrology."
"Look, the last time this happened was 2001 when I sold all the SONICblue stock and retired. Before that was '94 when I was hired by S3 in the first place. '87 was college graduation and marrying Zoe. It even goes back to 1967 when I was born."
"So we're ignoring the divorce and the securities fraud arrest now?"
"We were married 17 years. That can hardly be counted as a negative. And I was acquitted. Even I have to admit it looked suspicious when the stock took a nosedive after I sold, but everything worked out fine."
"Wait... That's only 20 years. Shouldn't it be '66?"
"That's the trick. It's actually only six years and change, so every so often it jumps a year. That's why it's more than just an 'every seven years' thing."
"Steve. Seriously. Do you have any idea how ridiculous you sound? You've retired at 34. You OWN a condo in New York City. You have women falling all over you. Why take such a huge risk as starting a new company?"
"Because it'll work, Jack. I know it. The time is right."
"Alright. You win. What kind of company will you be starting?"
"I don't know yet. I figure it'll hit me sometime in the next year. You have any ideas?""

Jack closed his eyes and shook his head. "That's some business plan. 'I'll figure something out before the comet comes.' Worst part is, knowing you, you'll make it work. Well, my lunch is about up. Good seeing you again Steve."
"You'll call if you think of something, right?"
"You bet."

--

Steve Raymond watched as his old college roommate Jack Wilson left the bar. He knew how Jack would respond to his theories, but he just couldn't resist seeing the looks on his solid, if unimaginative, friend's face. And he had to admit. Jack had been mostly right in his assessment. Life was good for Steve Raymond. He was rich, good looking, and responsibility free. Everything he had hoped for in his youth.

He was, however, bored.

Retiring young had sounded like a great idea at the time. No job to be late for, no boss to answer to, plenty of time to catch up on hobbies. Steve discovered quickly that there was a reason they were hobbies, they couldn't hold his attention for any length of time. He had a pile of first chapters for novels that weren't going anywhere, a library full of books he hadn't finished reading, and even half of a chain mail shirt that sounded like a good idea at the time.

What he missed was seeing people. Getting together with coworkers and solving problems, accomplishing something, as a group. He missed social interaction on a deeper level than "Hey baby, come here often." And if getting it back cost him every penny he had, it was worth it. Now it was just a matter of filling in the details and being open to opportunities.

--

"Hey baby, come here often?"

Steve looked up from the drink he had been nursing to see a vision of beauty regarding him. The buxom blond looked like she had just stepped off a runway, with model looks and expensive (and revealing) clothes. Not exactly the opportunity he was pining for, but he certainly wasn't going to miss it.

"Nah, this isn't really my type of place. Just meeting a friend for lunch."
"Well, I'll leave you to your friend then."
"No, no. I've already met with him. Hopefully, I'm in the process of meeting another friend right now."
"Oh, I can be much more than that. IF this isn't your type of place, why don't we go for a ride? Find something more comfortable?"
"That sounds lovely, will you drive or shall I?"
"Oh I'll drive. I like being in control."

"Hey Romeo! You gonna pay your bill?" came a shout from behind them as they were on their way out of the bar. Steve apologized to his new mystery woman, apologized to the bartender as he fished for the right bills to cover what had only been two drinks, and sheepishly slunk back to his laughing paramour. Not exactly starting on the best footing.

She led him to a garage a block from the bar, took him down into the basement, led him to a sporty little coupe with an electric blue paint job and tinted windows. She put her arms around him then, leaned towards his waiting lips, and stuck the taser into his back.

--

Steve woke up to find himself on the floor of a car, gagged, bound hand and foot, and with a splitting headache. He could tell the car was moving, but he couldn't lift his head enough to see out the window. All he could make out in the car was a vague image of the front seats, and what appeared to be a blond wig on the floor in front of him.

While he had no idea how long he had been out, he was surprised at how little time passed before the little car pulled off the highway, and came to a stop. The driver got out of the car, pulled the seat forward, and reached toward him with the taser in hand. He managed to stay conscious this time, but felt it hit him again and again, dropping him back into blackness.

-----

Bound hand and foot again, this time in a chair, his headache had worsened with the latest series of shocks. He managed to force his eyes open enough to see his temptress sitting in a chair opposite his, staring at him.

“Where am I?” he croaked.
“And why would I tell you that?”
“Where... “ as he managed a feeble shake of his head.
“Alright. What difference does it make? You're in East Bradford Township, Pennsylvania where your nearest neighbor is a quarter mile away. So when you're actually capable of yelling, nobody will be able to hear you.”
“Why?”
“Why? Why? You still don't recognize me, do you? Why Steve, we worked together for years at S3. I was the engineer you always called the 'chubby chica'. Every day you'd come in, say hello to your 'chubby chica' and go off to waste time in front of a computer. We all put up with you, because you were supposed to be the great white hope who'd deliver us into 3D graphics, but you didn't, did you? You goofed off, you wasted time and money, and your failure threatened all of our jobs.
And then what, Steve? You left, the company recovered, we all made it through the tough times without you. Right up to the point when the stock price took an unexpected nose dive. Not weeks later, who do we see on trial for insider trading but our dear old friend Steve Raymond. We may have all watched our savings go up in smoke, but at least we'd see you in jail, right?”

She threw a punch at the helpless man, connecting solidly with his jaw.

“Of course not. You somehow slithered away from the law, living like a millionaire while the rest of us had to work even harder just to get back everything we'd lost. Well, you're going to pay, and I'm going to enjoy every second of it.”

She hit him again across the jaw. He thought he felt it break.

“That's for ruining our jobs, Steve.”

Again. It was definitely broken now.

“That's for escaping with your stocks intact.”

Again.

“And that's for calling me chubby you son of a bitch.”

He slumped in his chair, exhausted from the agonies of the day.

“You've had enough for a while. Feel free to look out the window, it's the closest thing to freedom you'll ever see,” she laughed as she climbed up what were apparently basement stairs.

He did look up at the window then, straining to look into what was now the night sky. He looked for a familiar smudge, looked for his comet, his Brooks 2. He hoped it was as lucky as he thought.

He was going to need all the luck he could get.

Fat Daddy

2007-04-04, 11:38 PM

Was my deadline confusing again? Do fully half the contestants not realize the deadline was a little more than half an hour ago?

Ravyn

2007-04-04, 11:41 PM

So do I, also sans embroidery. (I prefer a d10, anyway. Get much more use out of the things.) It was a graduation present from my younger sister's best friend. Haven't had much trouble with die-stepping--with me it's just likelier that the die finds an excuse to bail at the most inconvenient moment. Once ran an online game down in my college's cafeteria, dropped one of my dice (which are all minis), and couldn't find it until midnight when it went by in front of a custodian's broom.

*Reaches toward a cupcake, thinks about it, and then declines* Sorry. I've already eaten too many souls this week.

....wow, we got way spoiled by having the duedate always on Fridays, didn't we? This is.... wow. What do we do now?

PhoeKun

2007-04-04, 11:49 PM

Was my deadline confusing again? Do fully half the contestants not realize the deadline was a little more than half an hour ago?

Looking at it, I can't see how it would be confusing. While I never had trouble following your intent before, the wording this time was even clearer than it's been in rounds past.

So many DQs... I'm sad now. :smallfrown:

@Ravyn: it's ok to take a cupcake, really. There isn't an entire soul among the batch. All the flavor, none of the fat. It's a new recipe...

averagejoe

2007-04-04, 11:56 PM

Was my deadline confusing again? Do fully half the contestants not realize the deadline was a little more than half an hour ago?

I never have. (Except for that time zone thing, but that's different.) I just, you know, read them instead of skimming them. At worst this round they may have thought it was at noon 01, so I dunno. I say you just put, like, three different versions of the same date.

Ravyn

2007-04-04, 11:58 PM

*takes a cupcake and nibbles on it distractedly*

I don't know whether to be annoyed or grateful that the one complete bracket in this week's group is mine. On the one hand, it'd be nice going through; on the other, two bye rounds in a row would've been so bad for my dignity...

Mattaeu

2007-04-05, 12:23 AM

Yeah, *fidgets with glasses* sorry about that deadline.

I am 13 days away from leaving to Brazil for two years; it is ever so slightly more important, :smalltongue:.

Though I wished I had bailed sooner, having a reason to write is never a bad thing for me.

Apologies, and such. :smallredface:

Tormsskull

2007-04-05, 05:51 AM

Was my deadline confusing again?

I didn't find it confusing.

So many DQs... I'm sad now. :smallfrown:

Agreed.

I don't know whether to be annoyed or grateful that the one complete bracket in this week's group is mine.

Yeah, I was really hoping you were going to post because I think it would stink to advance by default.

King_of_GRiffins

2007-04-05, 07:45 AM

Sorry, but it was a bad week for much of anything for me. Once I had time, it was too late. On the other hand, It wouldn't be much of a victory for me to have once again won because nobody was there.

Quincunx

2007-04-05, 08:05 AM

. . .At this rate, I judge in favor of bye rounds for all, and let's see if we can't get a full competition next time.

*yoinks a cupcake, leaves homemade truffles*

Vaynor

2007-04-05, 09:03 AM

It's over!? What!!? Doesn't it say Thursday!? I'm so confused...

Darn, even if I am right, I thought it was PM, not AM and was aiming for that. At the best I have 2 hours and I haven't started yet. I'm sick so I was planning on having the whole day...

EDIT:
DEADLINE is 12:01 am EST (GMT-5) Thursday, April 5th 2007.

Well, me being in California, that looks like I still have two hours... may be wrong though. Maybe everyone else had a daylight savings time where you set your clock forward a day and forgot to tell me?

Tormsskull

2007-04-05, 09:16 AM

Well, me being in California, that looks like I still have two hours... may be wrong though. Maybe everyone else had a daylight savings time where you set your clock forward a day and forgot to tell me?

*ponder*

Time works like this:

Wednesday 11:58 PM
Wednesday 11:59 PM
Thursday 12:00 AM
Thursday 12:01 AM

So a deadline of "
DEADLINE is 12:01 am EST (GMT-5) Thursday, April 5th 2007."

Would mean that your submission is due 1 minute after it became Thursday. In addition, regardless of your timezone, the deadline was clearly stated in EST (and the GMT was even given).

Now, all that aside, I understand that time can be confusing, but there is no clear-cut way of saying, without a possibility of confusion, when the deadline is. That's why it is incredibly important to read the Deadline, make sure you understand it, and if you don't, ask a question.

Can you think of any clearer way that FD could list the deadline that would make it easier? The only thing I can think of is some kind of an automated countdown thing that could be put into the OP. I'm not sure how easy one would be to obtain or whatever, but that might dispel most confusion regarding the deadline.

Vaynor

2007-04-05, 09:18 AM

Oh. Woops. I can't think today...

Well, I'm still going to submit a story, whether it's counted or not. I feel bad not submitting one.

EDIT: Also, listing different time zones would help. If I had seen "DEADLINE is 9:01 pm PST (GMT-8) Wednesday, April 4th 2007," I wouldn't have had a problem. Whatever though...

averagejoe

2007-04-05, 09:43 AM

. . .At this rate, I judge in favor of bye rounds for all, and let's see if we can't get a full competition next time.

*yoinks a cupcake, leaves homemade truffles*

Hey, hey, hey. That's only funny when we do it to Brickwall.

Well, me being in California, that looks like I still have two hours... may be wrong though. Maybe everyone else had a daylight savings time where you set your clock forward a day and forgot to tell me?

Ugh, not another one. These Californians, with their long hair, and the weed, and all that slacking off. They're all like, "gnarly, dude!" Californians, what with their inability to tell time. :smallannoyed:

Vaynor

2007-04-05, 09:47 AM

Ugh, not another one. These Californians, with their long hair, and the weed, and all that slacking off. They're all like, "gnarly, dude!" Californians, what with their inability to tell time. :smallannoyed:

I'll have you know my hair isn't that long, I don't smoke, and I've never said "gnarly, dude" unless it was a joke, or something. However, I am lazy, and apparently cannot tell time. :smallwink: So, 2/5 correct. :smallsmile:

averagejoe

2007-04-05, 09:56 AM

I'll have you know my hair isn't that long, I don't smoke, and I've never said "gnarly, dude" unless it was a joke, or something. However, I am lazy, and apparently cannot tell time. :smallwink: So, 2/5 correct. :smallsmile:

Actually, I'm Californian myself, so I can say with confidence that you're wrong, seeing as I'm an expert on being a Californian. :smallbiggrin:

Vaynor

2007-04-05, 10:03 AM

Actually, I'm Californian myself, so I can say with confidence that you're wrong, seeing as I'm an expert on being a Californian. :smallbiggrin:

Damn. I guess I'm wrong then. :smallwink:

C.C.Benjamin

2007-04-05, 11:52 AM

Foolishly, I only read "thursday the fifth" from the post, so I am clearly too late as well.

Later tonight I will submit my entry, and if it is not counted then hopefully people will just be able to enjoy it regardless.

averagejoe

2007-04-05, 01:37 PM

Lucky for you, I'm pretty nice about that sort of thing, and would probably agree to it.

Brickwall

2007-04-05, 01:46 PM

Lucky for you, I'm pretty nice about that sort of thing, and would probably agree to it.

One would certainly hope, *ahem*.

Ravyn

2007-04-05, 02:08 PM

Yeah, I was really hoping you were going to post because I think it would stink to advance by default.

It does. 's happened to me twice now, I think. No honor in it.

*picks up a truffle and nibbles* I think due dates tended to work better when explicitly phrased as "The midnight between [weekday] and [weekday] EST." ...so do we know how we're going to handle this, or are we making it up as we go along?

PhoeKun

2007-04-05, 02:16 PM

We appear to be making it up as we go along.

And I, for one, am torn. I really don't think it's unreasonable to expect people to understand the deadline as it is written (Ravyn might have a point about the old format, but that got complaints last round. Who knows?).

I don't want to see all but three contestants DQ'd in round 2. I really don't. But... what's the point of having rules if we don't enforce them?

...jeez.

Vaynor

2007-04-05, 02:38 PM

ravenkith

2007-04-05, 02:46 PM

I strongly suggest postponing the deadline to the midnight between thursday, April 5th, and friday, April 6th, EST.

This will give anyone who was reasonably confused about the deadline a little more time to finish their stories, and falls into line with the slight postponements allowed in the first round.

Just a suggestion.

To all of you who haven't yet submitted: finish your stories and get them in before midnight tonight, EST, on the off chance that fat daddy goes for my idea.

Alternatively, all those who bothered to post advance?

C.C.Benjamin

2007-04-05, 03:19 PM

A personal emergency has arisen, and I actually have to leave the house for what is probably going to be the rest of the night.

This means I won't be able to get my story posted until tomorrow morning. If it's alright to do so then, that would be fantastic. I hate to impose this on you all, and wouldn't if I wasn't excited by the story I have going on. I would really like to complete it for the competition, but circumstances beyond my control mean I can't tonight.

If this isn't acceptable, let me know. :smallsmile:

Cheers

Carl

Fat Daddy

2007-04-05, 08:54 PM

At this point I agree with Quincunx. My inclination is to have the 4 who posted by the deadline advance to round 3. Judges, please PM me with your opinion on a deadline extension for Vaynor and CC Benjamin or just advance the 4 who posted by the deadline.

Contestants, please post your stories ASAP and I will get a ruling on this once I confer with the judges.

I honestly don't know how else to post the deadlines so as to avoid this problem. I've tried several different ways and it seems to confuse someone no matter what I do. Suggestions?

Elvaris

2007-04-05, 08:59 PM

A 24 hour warning? If people are watching the thread...

averagejoe

2007-04-05, 09:00 PM

Put it down in caps, and bold (so people take notice), and in several ways. Something like,

PLEASE READ CAREFULLY. ALL WHO DO NOT POST BY THE FOLLOWING DEADLINE WILL BE DISQUALIFIED:

Midnight wednesday [date] IN OTHER WORDS the midnight between wednesday night and thrusday night, OR, IN OTHER WORDS before 12:01 thursday morning, [date]

PLEASE NOTE THAT ALL ABOVE DATES REPRESENT THE SAME DATE AND TIME. PLEASE ASK IF THERE IS ANY CONFUSION.

Vaynor

2007-04-05, 10:26 PM

Don't know if it matters, but here's my story. I thought Impact was a good font for the title. :smallwink:

The Landing

Will grunted as he shaved the ice off of his windshield. He hated the cold, especially when he had an hour’s drive with no heater. As an employee of S3 Graphics, he couldn’t afford to fix it for a while now; he was just “that guy” who repaired the machines. Even then it would almost be spring.

”I hate this place,” he thought to himself. The engine sputtered as he flicked the key. He turned it again. And again. Angrily, he turned it with all of his might, almost breaking the key, and the engine made a feeble noise, and then started up.

”I hate this place,” he thought as he started to drive.

- - - - -

His chair was cold. His desk was cold. His computer was cold. He was cold.

”I don’t belong here, I’m an astronomy major!” he groaned to himself. ”At least I have the comet to look forward to tonight.”

Will had discovered a comet seven years ago, and that night was when it would appear for the second time since it’s discovery. He finally had something to look forward to.

The day went quickly, boring as usual. Will was a quiet person, and usually didn’t talk at all during business hours. He was always in his own little world.

Two hours before it was time to head home, he received a note for a last-minute meeting. The meeting room, usually full, surprisingly had only thirty or fifty people in it.

They were being laid off. VIA Technologies had just taken over their division, and they were no longer needed. Everyone was given their final paycheck and told to leave as soon as possible. At least Will had more time to see the comet tonight. ”Finally, a way out of this hellhole,” he thought happily. The hour drive back to his home in East Bradford seemed shorter than usual, as if his car had suddenly dropped a million pounds.

After getting home he immediately took out his telescope and packed it into his backpack. The hike to the top of the hill would take him about an hour, and he only had a half hour more than that before the comet appeared. Packing some last minute items, his notebook and the camera add-on to his telescope, he headed out the door.

The hill was behind his house, and it blocked the sun out in the morning. Many a time he had blamed it for the early morning freeze. However, it was rather nice for watching the stars, and the comets of course. The top of the hill loomed before him and it was getting dark. ”I better hurry,” he thought.

Will reached the top and sat down, exhausted from the journey. He didn’t exactly exercise often. As he set up the telescope, he began to see a glimmer in the far-east corner of the sky. He hurriedly finished setting up his scope and attached it to the tripod. The comet was coming closer, it moved slower than most comets, and he could see it more clearly now. He carefully recorded its movements in the notebook.

”That’s strange,” he thought, ”it’s moving downwards.”

The comet continued to drop to a now worrying height. Suddenly it dropped down and started falling. ”The comet is going to collide!” he thought as it exploded in a shower of sparks behind the hill, on the other side of where his house was. He gasped and ran down the hill, his telescope would not be useful here. The huge comet had burned a huge scar into the hillside, and the whole area was still smoldering. He crept down to the comet itself, shielding his face from the heat. It was overwhelming, but he had to get a closer look. He had discovered it after all.

The whole thing was ridden with holes and it was almost like lava it was so hot. The thing was almost as big as a house, and some of the holes could fit his, a rather small trailer. He watched it cool, silently. Will was amazed at its beauty. It took hours to cool, but it was worth every minute.

He got a strange notion, ”What’s inside? No one has ever seen the inside of a comet this big, let alone one I discovered.” The excitement raised his heartbeat dramatically, and he took a few deep breaths to calm himself. The comet was cool enough now.

The inside of the holes had strange lines on them, almost parallel. He ventured on. It got hotter deeper in, but not hot enough to burn, just uncomfortable. He reached the middle. It was hollow. Suddenly his vision went dark and he fell to the floor of the comet.

- - - - -

He woke up an hour later, judging by the moons position. He was an astronomer after all, finally good for something. The comet was gone. The burn mark was gone. In fact, everything was gone. Not gone, technically, but definitely nowhere near him. He walked around the powdery surface he was standing on, it was all white and dusty.

“Seems I’m in a crater,” he said, always logical with situations like this, not that he had ever encountered something like this. The climb was hard, as the powder was soft. He slipped a lot, but eventually made it up. Will almost fell over with shock.

“I’m on the moon,” he exclaimed, astonished. The ‘moon’ he had seen earlier had been the earth, on a particularly cloudy day. “I thought it looked rather blue for a moon.”

“How am I breathing!?” he gasped, horrified. “Maybe the gods are being nice to a poor old astronomer. Hopefully this dream will last, it’s wonderful.”

- - - - -

The small man turned back to his comrades and nodded smugly, “I told you I can make a man’s dream come true with a deadly explosion due to a flying projectile!” he smiled.

“Stop being so smug Jeb, it’s not that hard, watch me ruin this guy’s life…”

- - - - -

Will smiled, and laid down on his bed. “What a nice dream that was, I hope I’ll have it again…”

Hope ya like it.

C.C.Benjamin

2007-04-06, 08:57 AM

Pilgrimage

Three days into the desert, the water skin was nearly empty. Each step he took under the relentless blaze of the sun was a step deeper into Hell, and in the distance was a line of craggy, flat-topped mountains that never seemed to draw closer.
He looked out across the white expanse, shading his eyes loosely, and saw movement out in the shimmering sands. A shadow moved far out in the distance, a tiny blur on the horizon.
He dropped his hand to the hilt of a knife – a metal knife – stuck in his belt, and staggered on.

***

The figure turned out to be a man of utterly indeterminate age. He had heavy weather lines that ran from the corners of his eyes along the jutting points of his cheekbones. He was painfully thin, and slightly stooped. A small golden brooch, tied to the top of his walking stick with a leather thong, drew Dariun’s attention for a moment, along with two green-purple feathers hung on either side of it. Set in the middle of the brooch was a tiger-eye gem, but it had no value above the aesthetic.
All of these things were secondary to the man’s physique. He was shorter than Dariun, and much lighter in build. He wore only a loincloth and had absolutely no body hair. The only hair Dariun could see was a shock of dreadlocks that splayed out from the top of his head and hung down to his waist in uneven fountains.
Stranger still were the flagellant scars that striped his brown skin white. They covered his sides and, Dariun was certain, his back. The scars were well healed and clearly very old.
At least a dozen water skins, and several other sacks hanging from the assortment on his back, burdened the old man.
They stood a few feet apart, under the blistering sun.
Dariun waited for the old man to speak, to gauge his reaction. Dariun was tall and broad. His nose was crooked from a dozen of breakages and a single jagged scar clipped diagonally through his eyebrow. Dariun looked mean, and he knew it.
The old man said nothing.
“Fair greetings.” Dariun said, raising his right hand placidly.
“And to you.” The old man replied, and raised his left hand in response. “I am Socorro.”
“Dariun.” Dariun said with a nod.
Socorro nodded in return, squinting from under his mass of dreadlocks. More silence. Dariun looked casually in the direction Socorro was walking, and then back at the old man.
“There is nothing out there, you know.”
A smile briefly graced Socorro’s sun-chapped lips.
“You have been?”
“No,” Dariun replied, “it’s just what everyone says.”
Socorro nodded. “I am on a pilgrimage.”
“To where?”
The old man stared, the corners of his lips curling. He glanced up into the sky, then back to Dariun.
“I don’t know, exactly. I do know that I’m on the right track.”
Dariun took a moment to consider this.
“How?” he eventually asked.
“I just know.” Socorro replied, and he held Dariun’s gaze evenly. The old man’s eyes revealed nothing. The heat made it difficult to think, and the hunger and thirst compounded the issue. Dariun’s head throbbed.
“Water?” Socorro asked.
Dariun just closed his eyes and smiled, and the old man handed him a water skin. Reservedly, Dariun drank.
“Finish it.” Socorro said. Dariun upended the skin and guzzled. Water did not spill down either side of his chin, unheeded. He lowered the skin as Socorro passed him a small sack. It clinked. Dariun opened it up to find a dozen brown pebblefruit, small, hard and edible. He took one and began to chew vigorously.
“Where are you going?” Socorro asked.
Dariun had no response to this, so he gave none. He carried on chewing the tough desert fruit, popping another one into his mouth. The old man’s slight smile graced the corners of his mouth again, briefly.
“The nearest town is a dozen days journey, and I think my destination is half that. I could use help carrying this food and water. Why not come with me?”
Dariun was silent, except for the steady crunch as he ate. Eventually he swallowed.
“Why are you on your pilgrimage?” He asked, creasing his brow.
“Black Monday.”
Dariun shrugged. The words had no meaning to him.
“Living in the shadow of glories past.”
Again, Dariun said nothing.
“Do you have any metal?”
“Yes.” Dariun answered hesitantly. “A knife.”
“Let me see it.” Socorro said, holding his hand out. Dariun’s eyebrows rose and he nearly smiled. Socorro watched him, waiting.
“Alright.” Dariun said, drawing the knife and handing it over, hilt first.
The old man turned the weapon over in his hands, examining it closely. He scoured it intensely, running his fingertips over the faded wooden grip.
“Here! Look!” he exclaimed, thrusting the knife flat at Dariun, and pointed to a faint scrawl carved into the blade. Dariun looked at them, and quizzically raised one eyebrow.
“They are nothing but sigils.”
“No, they are more than that,” Socorro enthused, pointing with a calloused fingertip. “They represent numbers. This sigil is equivalent to one, this one nine, this one six and this one three. The number is one thousand, nine-hundred and sixty-three.”
“Even if they are numbers, what significance does it have?”
“I think this number is a Date. A Date before Black Monday.”
Dariun shrugged and Socorro’s face-creasing little smile returned.
“You carry a relic of Black Monday and you do not even know it.”
“Is your talisman a relic?” Dariun asked, pointing to the tiger-eye brooch hanging from Socorro’s staff.
Socorro nodded. “Yes, I believe so. The number on my relic is one thousand, nine-hundred and forty-seven.”
A carrion bird screeched far off in the distance as Dariun mulled this over. He tied the bag of pebblefruit and tucked it into a pocket on his trousers.
“What does it mean?” He finally asked.
“I don’t know.”

***

“So tell me, where were you going?”
Dariun, now carrying half of the water skins and food sacks, glanced at Socorro as they walked. Sweat stood out on his brow for moments before the sun mercilessly stripped it away. Even though the day was drawing to night, it was still hot. Dariun thought of a bolthole he had near a tent village at the edge of the desert.
“I don’t know.”
Socorro did not reply for some time. He kept trudging on, looking down at the ground.
“You are a fugitive?” he eventually said.
“Yes,” Dariun replied, and vivid images of violence and blood flashed through his mind, “cattle rustling.”
They traveled for another hour before Dariun spoke, and another day drew to and end.
“Let me ask you a question.”
“Okay.”
“Where are you from?”
This time, Socorro glanced at Dariun.
“Why do you ask?”
“You talk strangely and you know strange things. How did you know about the sigils on my knife?”
“I come from a village a long way away.” Socorro replied, gazing off into the distance.
“What was it called?”
“Weyrin.”
Dariun gave a derisive bark of a laugh.
“Weyrin is a ghost town.”
“I know.”
Thoughtfully, Dariun looked up to the sky, and examined the stars.
“Still, I would know how you knew about the sigils.”
“In my village, my father was a learned man. He had ancient tomes of knowledge, written by scholars of a thousand seasons past. They said many things about the demons of the world that lived only to harm, and about Black Monday. Whoever had written these tomes had found a parchment on which existed a language none knew. The greatest sages spent lifetimes piecing together a translation for it, and it is from their efforts I learned to understand the sigils.”
Dariun nodded as the old man spoke, listening carefully.
“Tell me more of Black Monday. I do not understand.”
“Do you ever dream you are someone else?” Socorro asked, unexpectedly.
“No.” Dariun answered. “I wish to know about Black Monday, old man.”
Socorro slowed and then stopped. He sat on a rock and winced as he rubbed his thighs.
“I have told you all I know.”
Dariun stopped, although he could have gone on longer, and searched his memory for a moment.
“‘Living in the shadow of glories past’?” he asked, turning to face the old man.
“Yes. Also, we are being followed.” Socorro remarked as he flipped his dreadlocks back from his face.

***

The moon was full and distant, and it bathed the desert in violet hues. Dariun used a few precious drops of water to wash his hands as he arrived back to where Socorro had stayed. The old man was laying out on the ground with his head propped on a rock. Dariun could not see how it could have been comfortable.
“I found out who was following us.” He said, to no reply. “It was bounty hunters, but they turned back. I guess they ran out of water.”
Socorro twitched slightly. As he drew closer, Dariun could make out the old man’s eyeballs swiveling madly under his eyelids. Flushed with concern, Dariun sprung forward, grabbing him by the shoulders and shaking him to wake him.
“Socorro!” he bellowed, and Socorro’s eyes sprung open.
He clawed at Dariun and stared manically at him through a haze of incomprehension.
“We must follow the sun to Black Monday!” he hissed, gritting his teeth and spitting the words into Dariun’s face.

***

“Tell me what you know of Black Monday.” Dariun requested the next morning. After breakfast, they were down to half their supplies. Dariun hoisted his load onto his back, disturbed at how light it was getting, and faced Socorro.
“I did.”
“No, you didn’t.” Dariun shot back quickly, and Socorro’s hairless brow rose slightly.
They stood staring at each other in a silent battle of wills.
“Alright,” Socorro relented, “I will tell you what I know of Black Monday. A long time ago, I found a relic of Black Monday. The literal translation is ‘living in the shadow of glories past’, as I have told you. I believe that long ago, life was not as you see it now.”
Socorro gestured to the desert around him.
“The planet was thriving with people, and they created fabulous things, relics, of metal.”
“Like your talisman and my knife?” Dariun asked.
“Yes. I believe they had so much metal, entire buildings were made of it. Then Black Monday happened, and it all ended in some way. And that is all I know.”
“So, you do not really know what Black Monday is, you just know it was a disastrous event?”
“Yes. It means many things.” Socorro confirmed.
Dariun nodded, and thought about this.
“So, explain the fit you had last night,” he said.
“Explain the bounty hunters.” Socorro replied without missing a beat.
Dariun paused.
“I killed them.”
Silence.
“I know.” Socorro replied.
“Then you know I am telling the truth.”
Socorro nodded.
“So explain the fit.” Dariun demanded. An unreasonable edge crept into his voice, and Socorro frowned.
“It was not a fit, it was a vision.”
“Ah, a holy man on a pilgrimage to find God. I understand now.” Dariun lied, and smiled.
“If you like.” Socorro continued, “last night I was struck by a vision. I have had only three previously, in my entire life.”
“Visions of what?” Dariun said.
“I don’t know. Of great cities of light and size, buildings that stretch up and blot out the sky. Of multitudes of people, sometimes.”
Dariun smiled.
“The world before Black Monday?”
“Possibly.” Socorro nodded. “That is what I have come to believe.”
“Is there a purpose to these visions?”
“I think so,” Socorro replied, creasing his brow. “In each one, I have felt the tension. I think there were millions of people.”
“A million people? Do I understand the number correctly; a thousand thousand?" Dariun said, unable to comprehend the amount. “How could a land feed that many mouths?”
“I don’t know. I think the events I see happen as they happened then.”
“What was the vision last night about?”
Socorro started walking in silence. Dariun caught up with him.
“Tell me.”
“I am not sure I fully understand it myself. There was a sea of people standing between two great…shiny buildings, and they were all shouting and protesting something. All I really recall is a flood of emotion from them…a…kind of tension; everyone knew something was going to happen. No, that’s not true…likely to happen. They were all scared.”
“Of Black Monday.” Dariun stated quietly.
“Perhaps, although I have not heard it mentioned in a vision.”
They walked in silence for the rest of the day. Dariun thought about what he had learned and concluded that Socorro was not a man of God.
“Why are these visions leading you out into the desert?” Dariun asked as they ate that evening.
“After I left my village, I did not know where to go. I spent years wandering between shantytowns, scratching out an existence. One day, while walking through the desert, I had my first vision. Just a brief flicker of a man dressed in fine black clothing, talking to another. The room was made of metal, but not like your knife. This metal was sleek and grey, with a dull luster. They sat at a table and just passed a piece of parchment between each other. One wrote on it, and then the other did. They both agreed that they were agreed, and that was it.”
“What do you think it signified?”
“I think it was about two men who decided the fate of nations.”
Dariun looked at the bag of pebblefruit as he thought. He ate sparingly.
“So why the desert?”
Socorro sighed. “I spent more seasons, preaching mostly, until I once again had a vision in the desert. I had a map of where I was, and knew where I’d had the last one. I didn’t think anything of it though. The next one was of a great shock; I saw many intense images of people shocked to the core, as if witnessing a massacre. It was heart-stopping and when I awoke, I wanted to run.”
The old man was staring into the dirt between them now, his eyes un-focusing slightly.
“The third one happened twenty seasons later. I was just entering the wastes to travel back to Weyrin, when it hit me. I was walking alone, and woke up with a coyote in my face.”
Socorro laughed, but Dariun said nothing.
“Anyway, in this vision I saw a great congress of men, of all types, but they were men, making a decision of great import. I do not know what exactly, because I am unfamiliar with the word.”
“What word?” Dariun asked hoarsely.
“‘Atomic’.”
Dariun shook his head.
“Anyway,” Socorro continued, “I checked on a map where I was, and where the other two had been, and it made a perfectly straight line.”
“I see. And you carried on walking in that line to see if you would have another vision?”
“Yes. And I did.” Socorro said.

***

Two days passed, and they reached the edge of the desert. It ascended up into flat, craggy foothills, with a great mountain in the distance. The wind whipped up against the hills, scouring the rocks with sand.
Darius walked ahead, and saw it first. It jutted out of the sand in the peripheral of his vision.
When they reached it, Socorro fell to his knees in the sand.
“Proof! It is proof of Black Monday!” he shrieked.
His hands trembled as he reached out and pointed at a legend inscribed on the side of the demon.
Dariun stared at it. It appeared to be a roughly oval metal tube, half-buried in the sand. Two giant nostrils disappeared down from the tip of what seemed to be a nose, and two broken horns protruded from each side.
“What is it, Socorro?” he asked.
“I don’t know. This legend here,” Socorro hunkered down and pointed to a rusted plate on the side of the nose, under a broken horn, “says ‘Fer ar’.”
“What does that mean?”
“I’m not sure. This is so old…look how the metal has rotted so. I think this was the demon Ferras Aryie.”
Socorro reached out with a fingertip and touched the corroded metal demon. He cried out and fell back, fully in the grip of a seizure. He bucked and kicked into the air, making guttural noises of battle. The metal demon protruding from the sand disintegrated into motes and the wind tore it away. After a few seconds, only a black skeleton remained.
Dariun knelt over the old man, and steadied him, holding his down by his shoulders, and Socorro seemed to come back. His eyes focused on Dariun’s face, and his jaw trembled as he whispered to him.
“Ferras Aryie! It was slain here…by a great man. He fought the demon, and he killed it, but was mortally wounded. He died before reaching the final guardian of Black Monday.”
“The final guardian?” Dariun said, standing up.
“I dare not say her name.” Socorro whispered. Dariun stared down at him through narrowed eyes.
“I think you are very careful with the truth, old man.”

***

“You need to find a way to control your visions.” Dariun said. They sat on rocks opposite each other, deep in the foothills. They sheltered in a wide natural bowl in the side of a cliff, and rationed the last of the dried meat between them.
Socorro matched his stare, and said nothing.
They ate, and Socorro lay down to sleep. “I will try.” He said, before turning away from Dariun.
Once Dariun was convinced Socorro was asleep, he contemplated how much of what the old man was telling him was the truth. Often, Socorro seemed to pre-empt Dariun’s question before he had a chance go give it. The visions also perplexed him, as was the vision after touching the corpse of Ferras Aryie.
Dariun suspected Socorro could read minds.
Dariun knew he could not think about this while the old man was awake, and so decided to plan a test for the next day. Something he could do automatically, so he would not need to think about it in advance, and so denying the old man a chance to read his thoughts. He slept.
The next morning they ate a small breakfast in silence. After eating, Socorro excused himself and walked towards a shaded rock face to perform his daily business.
Dariun watched him go, making sure the old man was facing away from him, and thought hard. He thought of the two bandits, savagely trying to kill him in the darkness, alone in the desert. He focused on the fear, and panic, trying to alert Socorro mentally.
The old man continued toward the cover, and Dariun smiled.

***

Dariun looked down from the top of the range of flat-topped mountains, at another stretch of desert. He cursed.
“Do you see that big mountain?” Socorro asked, pointing.
Dariun nodded.
“That is where we need to go.”
Dariun looked at the peak in the distance.
“You are sure, old man?”
“Yes. I believe there will be food and water there too.”
“Good.” Dariun grunted.
Socorro looked at him and opened his mouth to say more, when Dariun spotted a bird flying far off past the old man’s head. Reflexively, he screamed in his mind that they were under attack.
Socorro’s eyes flared and he whirled around, brandishing his staff before him. Dariun smiled slyly.
“Something wrong?”
Socorro turned slowly. “No…I thought I heard something.”
Dariun started climbing down the mountain.

***

Socorro had two more visions as they crossed the desert toward the great mountain. When the first one came over him, Dariun screamed at him to gain control. Socorro had managed to open his eyes. During the second vision, the old man managed to stay upright.
“I-I see it!” He said, wavering on his feet, eyes closed.
“You see what?” Dariun demanded.
“This is it! The Vault of Gods, the last bastion of Black Monday!”
Socorro looked haggard. Dariun cocked his head.
“Tell me, are you really from Weyrin?”
“Yes.”
“Everyone there died. How are you the only survivor?”
Socorro looked toward the great mountain, then at the ground. His dreadlocks fell down around his face.
“I killed them all.”
“How?”
“Psionics.”
Dariun thought about this, and Socorro listened.
“Yes,” Socorro said, “I killed them with my mind.”
“Tell me what happened.” Dariun said, kindly.
“No. We have too far to go yet. And I fear that Black Monday’s last guardian does not sleep.”
“Who is the last guardian?”
Socorro looked up at him, and fear crossed his features.
“Black Maria. The last and greatest demon of Black Monday. If she wakes, we will die.”
Dariun nodded, and carried on walking toward the Vault of Gods.

***

The entrance to the Vault of Gods was a huge black tunnel, ringed by a crumbling arch of stone blocks. From deep within the darkness, metal rails extended out and into the desert.
“Do not touch them!” Socorro hissed as Dariun investigated the tracks. “They are unholy; to touch them is to wake the demon!”
Dariun stared at him, one hand outstretched.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
Dariun sighed. “Then we will have to negotiate the entrance to the Vault carefully.”
The tracks were spread nearly the width of the tunnel, and Dariun could not see how they would manage the journey without waking Black Maria.
“I will walk in front. If we just judge the distance between each link on Black Maria’s path then we can manage it in the dark.” Socorro said.
They entered the tunnel, Socorro first, and carefully walked along the tracks of the last guardian of Black Monday.

***

They had not gone far into the darkness, when a low, rumbling sound came echoing down to them. Dariun froze in fear. He was certain he had not touched the forbidden track.
“Did you touch it?” He screamed at Socorro.
The old man did not reply.
“Socorro!” Dariun bellowed.
The rumbling increased in pitch, and a hellish siren wailed further down along the tunnel.
“Damn you old man!” Dariun yelled, and groped forward for Socorro.
The old man lay across the track. Dariun felt down and realized he was fitting again.
“No, you old bastard!” he yelled at him. “Now is not the time!”
A baleful cyclopean eye opened in the distance. It was a mere speck of light against the darkness. Dariun looked up into it, and his knees began to tremble.
Black Maria awoke, and saw him.
Dariun grabbed Socorro by the arms and hauled him over his shoulder. The old man’s walking stick and talisman lay on the track as Dariun turned and started running towards the bright glow of the desert. The old man was not heavy, and he ran fast.
The rumble of Black Maria grew louder.
Metal shrieked against metal as the ancient beast began to move. The ground shook and the noise deafened.
Dariun panicked and ran faster.
His heart pounded in his chest and he nearly lost control of his legs when the terrifying white light streaming from Black Maria’s single evil eye started to catch up to him.
Dariun dared not risk a look over his shoulder, but he could hear the demon hammering down its ancient track, the noise from its progress boomed.
He approached the brightness of the desert as the malevolent glare of Black Maria filled his vision and her demented shrieks filled his ears.
He threw Socorro aside and dived as he burst out into the light.
Black Maria clipped him.
Dariun rolled as the demon smashed into his right shoulder. He tumbled into the sand with a cry of pain, and instinctively rolled on his back.
Black Maria thundered past, and he gazed in awe at the sleek black monster, as it roared out into the light. Its long body rushed past his face, blowing his hair wildly around his head. It was massive. Dariun gawped, and cradled his right arm to his chest.
As abruptly as it had begun, Black Maria’s tail left the tunnel and the demon raced into the desert.
Silence returned.

***

Socorro used Dariun’s shirt to make a sling for his broken arm, and explained while he worked.
“Black Monday, one thousand, nine-hundred and eighty-seven, was the Date on which it all began.”
“What all began?”
“The fall of the world. It started small, little things building up to a war, a world war. A war in which a million million people would die.”
Dariun gritted his teeth as Socorro tied the sling around his shoulder.
“So why have we come here?”
“This is where it all ended.” Socorro replied. “Or when the end began, at least.”
They walked to the entrance of the tunnel again. Dariun glanced behind them, but there appeared to be no sign of Black Maria returning.
They entered the Vault of Gods unopposed.

***

They traveled through miles of darkness. They followed Black Maria’s tracks until they reached a vast chamber. Thick layers of dust covered everything.
They felt their way slowly through the umbra and found a door. It was metal. Dariun was amazed. He had felt enough metal beneath his left hand to make himself the wealthiest man he had ever met.
“Are there any more guardians?” He whispered to Socorro.
“No, Black Maria was the last. You did very well to save us. I believe we are the only ones to have passed her.”
Socorro opened the door and weak grey light shone out.
Inside was a small corridor, made of the same grey metal Socorro had seen in his visions. Glass squares mounted high in the walls gave off light still, with strange white and grey lines humming up and down across them. Dariun looked at them confused, and went to brush dust off a panel beneath it.
“Touch nothing!” Socorro hissed as Dariun held out an inquisitive hand. “This place holds the weapons of the ancients! They have the power to destroy planets. Touch nothing!”
Dariun let his hand drop, and his brow creased in thought.
“Would they still work after the war of Black Monday?”
“Men did not destroy us, God did.”
Dariun blinked Socorro in the dull light, trying to fathom this.
Socorro’s voice became a whisper. “We only seemed capable of conflict. Nations warred with each other, and the world became a boiling pot of anger and frustration. And everyone had access to weapons of terrible power.”
“You saw this in your last vision?” Dariun asked.
“I am seeing it as we walk.”

***

Miles of corridors later, the pair entered a room full of flashing panels and buzzing screens. Socorro gasped as they walked into the small room, grasping out at thin air with his hands and staring into space.
“What is it, old man?” Dariun asked, standing behind Socorro.
“This is it…God decided to scorch the earth of humankind and start again. The men here…they would be the destroyers of worlds. They decided to unleash a weapon so terrible that generations that came afterward would suffer. Atomic.”
Dariun watched him, and the old man continued talking.
“God saw what we were doing and plunged his hand into the sun, scooping up flame and fire and sent it hurtling toward us. The men here were unable to destroy, because God did it first.
“The wave of sunfire ripped across the planet, making it barren. The weapons of the ancients are still here…waiting to be used.” Socorro said, and his voice took on a sinister tone. “Waiting for me.”
The old man had become crazy. Ever since they entered the Vault of Gods what he talked was non-sense, and now Dariun was convinced he was dangerous.
“How did you kill your village, old man?” He said, ominously.
“When I was a young man, I was arguing with my parents.” Socorro said, still not turning to look at Dariun. “I don’t even recall the subject, but I was so angry! I wanted to show them just how angry I was, and I lashed out with my mind. They fell to the floor, and I screamed.”
As Socorro talked, Dariun drew his knife and took a silent step forward.
“I was scared,” the old man continued, “and the villagers rushed in. They called me a witch and dragged me into the center of town, to the stocks. They strung me up and lashed me over and over. I begged them to stop. Not because I wanted an end to the pain, but because I could feel it building. I told them to run, to get out, save themselves before it happened, but they just jeered and called me a murderer. I felt the energy explode in a nova. I destroyed their minds. I saw it physically tear through their heads, and they fell in a crescent around me. And I hung there, bleeding and crying.”
Socorro’s head bowed, and he fell silent.
Dariun raised the dagger to strike and the old man still did not turn.
“I killed everyone I knew. Everyone I loved, so do not think for an instant I would regret killing you.”
Dariun froze, mid-strike, and Socorro turned.
Socorro ploughed into Dariun’s mind, taking control of his body and riveting him in place. Dariun panicked, trying to flee.
“I heard every thought you had, you know. Right from the start.”
Socorro gazed at Dariun impassively. Dariun’s eyes bulged down at him.
“I knew you were a murderer, and I knew you figured me out. I knew you were scared of me and I knew you planned to kill me once we got here. I knew you would try to stab me in the back for the riches contained here.”
Dariun’s mind raced as he tried to push against the greater force of Socorro’s will.
“What I don’t know, is why you saved me from Black Maria.”
Dariun, still frozen, had no choice but to consider this. He did so, honestly.
Socorro watched him silently.
“I don’t believe you. You have never before cared about another’s wellbeing.” Socorro stated, flatly, and destroyed Dariun’s mind.

Fat Daddy

2007-04-06, 06:00 PM

Okay folks. This has been a difficult decision for me, hence the delay.

This is what is going to happen: Anyone who posted by 11:59pm Thursday night will be included in this round (Basically a 24 hour extension) and judged in their brackets accordingly.

I realize that this excludes CC Benjamin but I had to draw the line somewhere.

Furthermore, CC Benjamin (and all other contestants), there will be no 'ban' from the next Iron Author should you choose to compete again. I am actually going to drop that rule from the list. If people drop out, they can compete in the next one. I decided this because at the rate we are getting disqualifications there would be no one left to compete.

Judges, please post your critiques and judgments within 1 week.

Thanks

Vaynor

2007-04-07, 12:27 AM

Woot! Thanks!

Seems like half the contestants forgot about it completely. :smalltongue:

ravenkith

2007-04-09, 01:23 PM

Matteau Vs. King Of Griffons
Double disqualification, unless I miss something.

Average Joe Vs. CCBenjamin:
Average Joe:

Initial Impression: Wow. Just wow. Great story.
Prompts & Content: Nice use of 2 of the three prompts: the Ferrari was there, as was the reference to ‘black Monday’ & the stock market. The black maria reference was a little weak. An inventive use of modern language and nice subtleties.
Style & Mechanics: An excellent job here. Lifelike dialogue backed up by solid, descriptive writing.

Summary: 9/10 Way to bring your ‘A’ game dude. Shame you had no one to bring it against.

Vaynor Vs. Elvaris:

Vaynor:

Initial Impression: ???
Prompts & Content: Uh…2 out of 3 ain’t bad, especially when they are part of the story. I felt you could have done a little more with the VIA thing. No mention of Pennsylvania, other then the place being very cold. The ending was very WTF.
Style & Mechanics: Good, a couple of errors, but nothing to lose your mind over.
6.0/10

Elvaris:

Initial Impression: Huh. Took a little detour there into ‘chubby chica’ crazy land.
Prompts & Content: Ok, we’ve got the comet, the graphics card manufacturer, and the township. All are pretty shallow, however, in that they could easily have been replaced by any other location/company/recurring phenomena.
Style & Mechanics: Some grammatical errors. Punctuation. On the whole not bad. Kind of threw me for a loop: you looked like you were going one direction and then pulled a 180.
6.5/10

Summary:

Despite both authors taking sudden turns off into WTF land, I’ve got to say this was the most interesting of the conflicts going on this round. Please don’t abuse your readers by suddenly going in a completely different direction with no warning and next to no explanation, either, in the future boys, as this is what makes people put books down. When your reader is going WTF???, he is not reading your story, he’s trying to figure out the rules of your little corner of the universe…and this is usually a Bad Thing. The story must draw people in and keep them reading – anything making people stop and think because they’re sense of order is instinctively rejecting it is not achieving that objective.

El edges the win because he used all three prompts, no matter how shallow they were.

Go read average joe’s story….there’s your benchmark.

Ravyn Vs. Tormskull:

Ravyn:

Initial Impression: Good stuff.
Prompts & Content: All three present and accounted for, if a little skimpy on the detail. A nice piece about how, despite the differences, all people are the same, with their own trials and tribulations.
Style & Mechanics: Good work. Very few errors. Your dialogue flowed quite well, and felt like real people. The characters could have used a little more development.
9/10

Tormskull:

Initial Impression: Ahhhhhhhhhhh. J
Prompts & Content: Good use of all three prompts. Out of all the participants, you wove the prompts into your story the best. An interesting tale of how people are just people, no matter how big they get, and how all actions have consequences (we don’t see the butt whoopin, but we can assume…)
Style & Mechanics: Good job. A couple of errors, but not bad at all. Dialogue flowed very well.
9.5/10

Summary:

Both very good stories, here. If I could, I’d like to see you both go forward, but I felt that Tormskull had a slightly better use of his prompts than Ravyn, so he edges her out.

averagejoe

2007-04-09, 01:30 PM

@ Ravenkith

Thank you for your comments. Yeah, I originally had something better for Black Maria, but that would have set me over 5000 words. It is indeed too bad I didn't have competition. This is one where I knew it was deeper than what I could do justice to in the alloted space, so it was fun to write for that reason. Might be a setting I'll go back to before the contest is out...

It also evolved kind of uniquely. When I started out they had normal names, but Max (who was always supposed to be a bit of a character) was called Crazy something-or-other (I don't quite remember), and I noticed I had nicknamed one of the others Firefly, so why not name everyone else after old sci fi's? I had to cut Firefly, because it wouldn't have existed, but I realized that the rest were rather fitting in the setting, just because it was so similar to what seemed to be popular in seventies/eighties era film. So, of course, I had to put in the obligitory crazy punk/biker/black leather guys who are in every eighties movie.

Vaynor

2007-04-09, 02:49 PM

@ Ravenkith

Strange, I'm pretty sure he lived in Bradford, Pennsylvania. :smallwink:

I guess that is a pretty shallow use, but what else was I supposed to do with it?

EDIT:
The hour drive back to his home in East Bradford seemed shorter than usual, as if his car had suddenly dropped a million pounds.

Oh, and VIA wasn't a prompt, S3 Graphics was.

Oh, and the "WTF Land" as you call it was intentional, but didn't seem that hard to figure out to me.

C.C.Benjamin

2007-04-10, 08:54 AM

Summary: 9/10 Way to bring your ‘A’ game dude. Shame you had no one to bring it against.

In the words of Leroy Jenkins: "It's not my fault!" :smallsmile:

Mattaeu

2007-04-10, 10:55 AM

^:Hmmm, here I thought it was: "At least I have chicken..."
:smalltongue:

PhoeKun

2007-04-11, 07:51 PM

I apologize for not having my decisions in yet - I've been in kind of a bad mindset to be judging stories. I'll try to have something up tonight.

Tormsskull

2007-04-13, 09:00 AM

So today is the deadline for the judgments. I hope all of the judges are aware & find the time.

Assuming so, good luck everyone.

PhoeKun

2007-04-13, 09:02 AM

I am making time this afternoon. If I do not post judgments, shoot me.

With a weasel gun. I'm that serious.

averagejoe

2007-04-13, 10:34 AM

:smalleek: Not a weasel gun!

PhoeKun

2007-04-13, 03:00 PM

Yes. A weasel gun.

Averagejoe vs CCBenjamin:

Averagejoe is the only one competing in this bracket, so I see no need to break up the spoiler.

I'm always impressed by the way you use prompts. They're obvious enough that I know when you're making a reference to them, but subtle enough to give you full control of the story. The prompts wind up worked into the story, rather than having a story worked around them. It's one of your biggest strengths in this competition - I can see why you kept harping on my own unimaginative prompt use back in IA2. :smalltongue:

The story itself is interesting, with that post-apocalyptic sci-fi feel without really being sci-fi. The dialog is believable and life-like, and helps to move the story along nicely. The Alpha in the tunnels I liked in particular - he had a flair about him that caught my attention.

There are really only two things in this story I can find fault with. The first is a transition from past to present tense about 2/3 of the way through the story that lasts for one paragraph. I can't tell why you switched tenses right there - it doesn't seem to add anything. The second problem is that a great many of the details in your story feel like they've been done before. Your characters more than make up for this, I feel, but it would have been nice to see a setting as vibrant and enjoyable as they were.

Overall, well done. You won in a bye round, but it was still a victory well earned.

Vaynor vs Elvaris

Vaynor
This feels incredibly rushed. You just sort of glossed over the prompts, dropping names and calling it a day. And Will's comet has nothing to do with 16P/Brooks, except for the fact that it was a comet.

A comet, I notice, that is traveling many times faster than the speed of light, and is somehow still classified a comet despite not being made of ice. Those sorts of details sucked me right out of the story, but nothing more so than Will's reaction to being laid off. I have no idea how old he is, but as a student of astronomy that clearly lacks a doctorate, he currently has no future in his field of study, and now no job, no income, and no real reason to hope. Suddenly, he's happier than he's ever been. I know jobs can suck, but getting laid off still doesn't feel good.

The thing of it is, the story has potential. A simple change in Will's character, a more realistic reaction to the loss of his job would have improved it immensely. He might have gone home to look at his comet as a means of escapism, and it would really be a godsend to wake up on the moon, instead of that detail coming out of left field and then melting away to nothing in an instant.

This was by no means your best effort. It's a shame you didn't have time earlier in the week to work on this and polish it a bit more.

Elvaris
The greatest thing about this competition is seeing how a contestant will react to the different prompts laid out before him. It's like seeing a completely different author each time. I would not have predicted this out of you - and I'm pretty pleased by what I see.

The characters are well thought out and distinct from one another. You didn't spell out who was speaking, and you didn't have to; it was obvious by what was said. Steve is believable, and likable. Even if I envy his problems, I could still feel a connection with the character.

There weren't any mechanical errors that popped out at me, so well done on that. The only thing I can really find fault with is the ending, which feels kind of... off. The nameless engineer lady just sort of... appears... and she's indescribably pissed for no real reason. Rather, she seems far more upset than the situation warrants, and Bradford seems to be her location of choice only because it was a prompt. You kind of left me hanging there in the end, which spoiled the taste of an otherwise very palatable story.

Verdict
Elvaris. He had the more complete story, I felt, and his was more enjoyable to read.

Ravyn vs Tormmskull

Ravyn
This is the second story about social interaction you've done in 1st person for this competition - I'm both impressed that you could pull it off twice, and disappointed that you didn't try something different. I suppose you're just trying to avoid fantasy, but I'd prefer to see you branch out a little farther.

There's very little I can say that I didn't say last round. You used the prompts adequately enough, and saved yourself on the Royal Commission on yadda yadda yadda when you made it part of the conversation and not just a T-shirt logo. I was upset until Genevra and Carys (interesting names, by the way) started actually speaking about it. Although even with that, 2 out of 3 prompts felt like they were only mentioned in passing.

There's not much plot to speak of, but there doesn't really have to be, and the narration feels very human. The twist that made this story, so far as I'm concerned, was what Carys saw when she walked in on Devon. The build-up was perfect, and leads a reader to expect him to be cheating on her... and he is. But in a way only a gamer could pull off. Shame on him for not knowing the 24 hour clock! That had me chuckling for some time.

Overall, a good, carbon-based story (read: organic) with a "meh" usage of the prompts.

Tormmskull
Well, you won some points with me, and you lost some points with me, almost all of them being on The Ohio State University front. No, I don't go there. I hate OSU. But that's what they're called, and seeing OU kind of made me break away from the story. I'm trying not to hold personal things like that against you, but that also means I can't give you bonuses for making fun of the Buckeyes' BCS bowl embarrassment. Ah well... c'est la vie.

I admit to being... confused... by the characters in this story. How do they know Santonio Holmes? Why are they friends? I guess these are little things most people would take for granted, but I couldn't help asking them. And, when the questions were left unanswered, I wasn't particularly happy. It could have been a story about people talking about Santonio Holmes, and it wouldn't be that big a deal. But they were talking to him, and not much else...

Stories like this with lots of dialog but no action can work. But in this case, I feel the story fell a little flat. A bunch of guys got together to talk about guy stuff, and I wasn't given a reason why I should bother listening to them. The last line made me smirk, though.

Overall, it was a technically well executed story, but it fell short on content.

Verdict
Ravyn. This wasn't easy - you both wrote very similar stories. But in the end, the characters in Ravyn's story were more likable than the ones in Tormmskull's.

Can I just say I am immensely jealous of all the authors who can think of titles for their stories? I suck at titles.