Iron Author Contest (This is the Creative Writing Contest)

[Ravyn]

It's been way too long since I last watched, so my characterizations might be a little off, but I hope I at least got the unifying metaphor thing down.

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The Pulse of the Press

“Now, where is he?” Deborah Fiderer stalked down the halls of the West Wing of the White House. Leo was being elusive again. Of all the days. There’s the Paulson bill to worry about, C.J.’s got a conference in an hour… here's hoping that goes well. She seemed off her stride earlier.
President Bartlet was out to lunch. Leo was nowhere to be seen. There was a new batch of aides who seemed to have gone missing, and she needed to find Leo because nobody else seemed to be doing anything about it. C.J. was off getting ready for her conference, Donna and Josh were…. Was the entire staff avoiding her, or was this just absolutely rotten luck? Why now? Especially with C.J. a bit unsettled...

She continued her rounds. One time to the far end, one time back. And the second time through, she noticed a door cracked, and a few people’s backs inside, and heard the tail end of a sentence in what was quite distinctively Leo’s voice. Without knocking, she pushed the door the rest of the way open. “Leo. Don’t you know we—”
There he was, leaning on a media cart, the TV paused in the middle of what looked like an old conference recording. On the other side of a small group of youngish people she barely recognized. Oh. That explains him being gone. And the aides.
“They followed Donna in, and she wanted to know if we could keep them.” Leo cracked a smile. “Given the circumstances, I thought I’d get them used to the Korotkoff sounds of press releases.”
Deborah raised an eyebrow.
“Just watch.” He smiled and pressed play on the tape as Deborah settled herself into the last empty chair. An old conference, it looked like. Early last term. It didn’t have the usual feel to it. The reporters weren’t exactly a live bunch. She could feel it go downhill.
“Which part’s missing?” Leo asked the aides.
The towhead in the second row raised his hand. “The thumping and muting.”
Deborah rolled her eyes. “Can I borrow you a sec, Leo?”
He nodded to the towhead. “Exactly.” Clicked on the video again, let it start running, stepped outside, waited for Deborah to join him. “At least that one’s a long one. What do you need?”
“Korotkoff sounds?”
“Haven’t you ever taken the blood pressure of the media before?”
“Leo, if this is a joke….”
Leo smiled. “No. Old trick my predecessor taught me. You see…”

It made sense, in an odd sort of way. She was less surprised than she could be. Anything that could possibly happen, she thought, someone in here can find an analogy for. Admittedly, she’d been responsible for a few. Murmurs between the systolic and diastolic… snap out of it, Debbie. Why did it have to make sense?
She returned to her office, saw a note on the desk. Last-minute details. Talk to C.J. before the conference. Couldn’t sit down for more than a minute, could she?
At least C.J. was easy to find. Logical. You’d know there was trouble if you couldn’t find the person the newsies were going to want to talk to fifteen minutes before showtime. “C.J.?”
The press secretary was going over her lines, and took a moment to notice her. “And we have to remember, the press is the lifeblood of the… oh, hi. Can you tell me who wrote this?”
Deborah took it and looked it over. “Not another blood metaphor. I swear, the circulation on these things….”
C.J. raised an eyebrow, though it wasn’t quite clear whether she was responding to the sentiment or the pun.
Deborah started ticking them off on her fingers. “Well, yesterday everyone was talking about that proposed freeway as being a new artery. Then there was the line about the aides being a transfusion of new blood. And speaking of the aides, Leo going on to them about the Korotkoff sounds of a good conference. And now this. Either someone’s been hanging around the lobbyists too long, or…”
“You’re thinking we have vampires? At least that would get everyone’s attention. I can see it now: ‘I’m sorry, ladies and gentleman, but from now on nobody is allowed to eat garlic within five hours of a conference.’”
“They’d probably be thankful. Except maybe the back row. What did you need?”
C.J. looked down at the notes, then back at Deborah. “Mostly for you to find out who chose this metaphor. But also to go tell Leo that once we’re done here and the president gets back we need to meet and put our heads together on the Paulson bill. Josh and Donna already know.”
“Do I look like an… oh, wait, all the aides are with Leo now. All right, I got it. Good luck out there.” Deborah turned and walked away.

Leo hadn’t moved; when she showed up to give him the message, he was in the middle of a barrage of aide questions. He beckoned Deborah in, and she sat down and let them finish. After all, they didn’t need to meet until after the conference; there was time.
When the last question died down, and after she’d delivered the message, he looked at his watch, then smiled, saying “All right. Last thing for today: let’s use the principle on a live one.” A few button-pushes later, the TV crackled to life, just in time to catch the beginning of C.J.’s conference. “Can you hear them?”
It was silly. Then again, what was politics if you couldn’t laugh at it? And it did make sense. Debbie remained as silent as the aides, though for a different reason. They had the pressure of needing to catch these things; she was just listening to see if Leo’s crazy analogy was anywhere near spot on. Snap, murmur, thumping and muting, silence. On the screen, C.J. took the podium…
And there they were. The sounds of a healthy press conference. The snap of the notes onto C.J.’s podium. The murmurs from the crowd when she finished her opening comments and opened it for questions: “C.J.!” “C.J.!” “C.J.!” The thumping as they sat back down in their seats when she chose someone, the muting as the question was answered. Rinse, repeat. And finally, the silence as the pressure from the various newsies dropped below the pressure on C.J. to get the information out, and the conference ended.
And the pressure in the room dropped. For now. Someone shut the TV off, and the aides filed out to the next point of their orientation, leaving only Deborah and Leo in the room. It had fit. She half-smiled. Korotkoff had probably never even dreamed of this.

[Fat Daddy]

Where's averagejoe? He's cutting it close for the final round.

[averagejoe]

Here he is, at 3000-ish words. I hope y'all like sci fi, because that's what this is.

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Osira was not a desert planet. The very notion that a life-sustaining planet might consist of only one environment is laughable at best, a throwback from the days when fictional heros would travel in their rocket ships to planets filled with spider-people or bird-people in order to shut down their various death rays and doomsday devices. Even a single desert does not have so simplistic an environment or landscape, and even the most skilled terraformers from Spirago’s most prestigious schools couldn’t hope to reproduce such an environment on a planetary level, even given sufficient funds and desire. One might, however, make the argument that such things are meaningless in the face of practicality. After all, the human brain cannot really grasp the size and scope of a whole planet, or even the size and scope of a single desert. When such distances are incomprehensible to the mind then the difference between terrestrial and planetary travel is just a matter of the time and energies involved; that is, the only real difference between taking someone who has lived in a desert all their lives to a forest on their own planet, and in taking them to a forest on a different planet, is that one requires something so simple as a car or horse, while the other requires a starship drawing from enormous power reserves. Either forest would be equally alien to the desert-dweller, one would just take hundreds more years. So, to reiterate, Osira was not a desert planet; it contained vast, blue oceans; snow-capped mountain peaks; white, barren tundra; and dank, moist swamps. To Ilra, however, Osira did seem very much like a desert planet; for all practical purposes it was.

The vast Osiran desert was said to swallow up anyone who entered. This was an exaggeration, but only a slight one. If a person wasn’t killed by the desert, which had sandstorms the likes of which could bury most vehicles with little trouble, then you were probably stuck in the town of Ota-ka with little prospect of escape. Only the destitute, the desperate, and the criminal even attempted to go there, and what precious few transports dared to travel the desert wastes charged high prices for transportation, which most people couldn’t afford. The best hope that most had to get out of Ota-ka was for a naive young spacer looking for adventure to land in their port and take a lucky young maiden, "away from all this." They did have a spaceport, which was the only thing to put Ota-ka on the map; it was mostly the cargo ships that docked, however, to trade for the few precious materials that could be mined out of Ota-ka. Of course, all the mineral wealth served to do was make more powerful the crime bosses and politicians who chose to rule in the hell that was the Osiran desert instead of spend their wealth to serve in the relative heaven of anywhere else.

Luckily for the people, Otaka was built over a wealthy underground river, which carried more than enough water for the town to run a surplus most years. For this Ilra was most grateful. After all, without a surplus of water, getting plastered out of her mind could be fatal; or, rather, more surely fatal than usual. She didn’t even remember leaving the bar that evening, much less passing out. As she awoke from her stupor she hoped in some vague, far off way that she hadn’t been robbed. Then, slowly, her mind began to grasp the fact that she was being shaken. Her eyes shot open, and Ilra immediately regretted it as the light pierced her eyes and seared through her brain. She groaned and tried to push herself to a sitting position. She sat there for a moment trying to shut out the sounds that she was gradually becoming aware of. She felt a cup being placed in her hands. Ilra’s confused mind assumed it was more liquor, so she drank it greedily, almost downing it in one gulp. She immediately regretted this when she realized the taste was that of very strong coffee. She coughed and sputtered but she had already ingested half the cup. She felt someone thump her on the back as her body tried to reject the liquid.

"Come on. You’re getting behind on your work. You can’t do this every night."

"Shuddup," Ilra slurred irritably, "Who in Debo-ra’s name are you to tell me how to live?"

"Your sister."

The final wheels in Ilra’s head clicked into place. "Sahra?"

"Who did you think it was? Lady Ovid?"

Ilra allowed herself to be pushed and pulled back to her garage by her younger, yet much more responsible, sister. Ilra had nearly eleven years on the girl, but Sahra seemed to be the one holding their family of two together. Though only twelve, Sahra took care of the ledgers, customers, and Ilra. All Ilra did was fix things. That was their business, fixing machines. Ilra was a brilliant mechanic and a smart girl, when she wasn’t reeling drunk.

When the sisters got back to the garage, Ilra pretended to work for about five minutes. Then, Sahra left and Ilra was free to simply put her head down on her workbench and slept. There she stayed for about another fifteen minutes, resting peacefully, until Sahra came crashing into the room. Ilra ignored her sister for a few seconds, assuming that Sahra was shouting at her to get her work done. Then, Ilra absorbed her younger sister’s words. "There’s someone in the desert. A foreigner." Ilra’s eyes shot open and she sprung into action. "Stay here," she shouted to Sahra as she donned a loose, khaki robe which protected her face and body from the sun. Ota-ka had been designed with cloths stretched between many of the buildings, so even outside one was relatively free of the sun, but out in the open desert one had to take precautions.

The desert was bright, too bright even for those without a hangover. The sand dragged at Ilra’s footsteps as she tried to hurry toward the distant figure. It was very loose, and walking over it made Ilra feel like she was taking baby steps. A soft, hot wind pulled at Ilra’s clothes. When she finally reached the man, she was panting and thirsty. Even so, she offered him water from her canteen before she quenched her own thirst. The man was nearly passed out, so Ilra had to prop him up and dribble the water over his lips. She couldn’t see his eyes, for they were covered by big, heavy, tinted goggles, but she supposed his eyes must have come open because he moved a bit and gave her a grateful smile.

The going back was slow, but the man seemed to have found renewed strength from the drought. He was well covered, wearing black, which seemed odd to Ilra because it would have been at least a bit more comfortable if he had worn a lighter color. She couldn’t see any of his features, because of the goggles and the strange hood he wore on his head, almost down to his eyes. He carried with him only an empty canteen and a black stick or pole of some kind, the purpose of which Ilra couldn’t decipher. He said nothing on the journey back, presumably to save his strength.

As soon as they got back in the relative cool of Ilra’s garage, the man collapsed into the nearest chair he could find. Sahra was waiting with another container of water, and the man drank deeply, letting the liquid spill down the sides of his face. Once he was done he sat back and said, "Ah! Sweet life, I never thought I’d see you again." He lowered his hood and pulled off his goggles. Then he began to undo the clasps on his rather bulky clothes. "M’lady, even if you throw me on the streets upon the next moment, I will be your eternal servant. I swear upon my honor, not even the honey-spiced wines of the famed lords of Kresha tasted so sweet as this." He pulled off his cloak and jacket, exposing his bare arms and a sleeveless garment made of a light material worn over his chest. It was still black, like the rest of his clothes.

Sahra stared at the man wide-eyed. Ilra kept forgetting how childlike her sister could still be. "Where are you from? I’ve never heard anyone talk like that," Sahra told him.

The man laughed. "And I would like to know where you desert folk learned your strange speech. The harshness of your dialect matches the harshness of the desert, little sandling."

"What’s that?" Sahra demanded, pointing at the man’s stick.
"A symbol of my order, as well as a tool that finds its uses, even in this age." He grasped his stick in two places and pulled it apart. A sort of long knife came out of it. Ilra could see that the stick was just a sort of illusion, and that part of it was like a knife sheath, only cunningly disguised to be continuous with the hilt.

"Won’t a knife that long give you difficulty?" Sahra asked.

"It’s not a knife," Ilra said, "It’s a very old weapon, called a sahward."

The man looked at Ilra with curious eyes. "Yes, that’s right. It’s properly called a sword, although your desert tongue seems to twist everything to barks." He addressed Sahra, letting her examine, but not touch, the slightly curved single-edge blade, "It is not for shaving or cutting leeks, little sandling, but for cleaving men, as your beamers do today. This is much more beautiful weapon, if less useful, though perhaps I am just a sentimentalist." The man sheathed his sword and said, "Now, you have already done me a great kindness, but I must beg one more off of you, as unworthy as I am. I require seeing the leaders of this settlement. This is Ota-ka, is it not?"

Ilra nodded. She didn’t precisely mistrust the man, but she didn’t like that he used such flowery speech. He had a smoothness and grace about him that set him apart from the desert folk, as did his eyes, colored a very pale, electric blue. "There is a festival tonight at the Ovid temple. You can meet them there."

The man nodded, content with the offer. "Very well. Oh, but I’ve forgot manners. I am called Lieutenant Stanley Brellas by my people. How are you called?"

* * * * *

The Ovid temple was a great underground structure in the center of Ota-ka, and where most of the town’s important meetings took place. Stanley asked Ilra why it was called that, and what it was a temple to, and Ilra told him, "Long ago, before anyone else can remember, the first priests of Ota-ka found an old data disk, the old kind that used a sort of primitive set up with a laser to read them. The data was badly damaged, but they were able to decipher a small amount of the data. It contained information about the life and deeds of a personage who was very important to the ancients, called Debo-ra Fider, angel of the west and servant to the Ovid temple, contained in the home of the White Lord. The data disks informed us that she was the bookkeeper and messenger of the gods. It is said that even the White Lord himself feared the sting of her words! Now she watches over us, and guides our village with her wisdom."

"You must have her full attention, then," Stanley answered, "For in all my travels I have never heard of such a god. Do not think me a poor guest, however, for I will treat her with all the proper courtesies."

"Debo-ra doesn’t demand much from us. She can’t. We work most of our lives."

The festival soon got underway. There were lanterns strung up in the temple, and the great statue of Debo-ra in the middle of the temple was dotted with lights. First there was a sort of feast (though not a feast by the measure of many places). People sat and ate and laughed and talked together. Stanley made light conversation with Sahra, and Ilra said little; the elder sister was lost in thought, and she merely stared into nowhere.

After the food was finished some musicians began to play and people started to dance. Ilra leaned close to Stanley in order to be heard. "Now is the best time to talk to our mayor. Come with me. Stanley trailed behind Ilra, weaving her way through the crowds of people until she reached the dais at what was obviously the head of the temple. There sat a handful of people, all wearing fine clothes-at least by the standards of the rest of the town-and all sitting apart from the rest of the crowd.

"Ah, hello Ilra. Everything is good, I trust," one man said jovially, "And this must be the stranger I’ve heard about. I’m impressed. Not many survive the journey through the desert. I am called Hamra, and I’m the political leader of this place."

Stanley bowed, "Your graces are very much appreciated, sir, and your welcome honors me. I am Lieutenant Stanley Brellas, of the Sirian navy. Well met, sir."

Hamra motioned for Ilra and her companion to sit. "So, what brings you to these parts, Lieutenant?"

"Well, sir, that’s what I want to speak to you about, and I will be frank about it. I would like to request asylum here. I am on the run from the colonial government, and hope to find shelter here."

Hamra studied Stanley with a careful eye. "Well, we don’t have any dwellings
free. However, I may be able to pull some strings and get you a spot with the indentured servants up in the mining camps."

Ilra said nothing, but her eyes widened. She knew of the place, and it was practically slave work. Stanley would be broken by the mines. "Wait," she said, before Stanley had a chance to speak, "I... He can live with me and Sahra. The house has seemed empty since our parents died, and I could use the extra hands around the garage."

Hamra’s gaze never wavered, but he didn’t speak for awhile. Finally, he said, "Is this satisfactory, Brellas?" Stanley nodded, then Hamra said, "Very well then. The blessings of Fider be upon both of you."

Stanley and Ilra rose and moved off from the dias. Stanley said to her, "Please, would you do me the honor of a dance?"

"You know the steps?" Ilra said, surprised.

"More or less. I’ve been watching the dancers since they started." He lead her down to the floor and they stared to dance the slow, almost lazy, dance of the Ota-kans. "That was a brave thing you did," Stanley said as they danced, "I don’t think I’ll ever be able to fully repay you."

"It was nothing. I wasn’t lying about needing help. I need to take care of Sahra, but she ends up taking care of me most of the time." They turned slowly about the room to the beat of the music, step-step-step-step-rest, step-step-step-step-rest.

"This is a very unique style," Stanley commented, "I don’t think I’ve heard music quite like this. Was it developed here?"

Ilra shook her head. "No, but close. It became very popular here, anyways. I don’t remember who first brought it, but the music is very nontraditional. It isn’t based on the mathematical scales, as most music is. Actually, what it most resembles is certain forms of more traditional music, which was modeled around the human heartbeat."

"Oh?"

"Well, you see, it has to do with blood pressure. I don’t know the full of it myself, but when you check for blood pressure you listen for four sounds, and then the fifth sound is silence."

Stanley grinned. "Clever. Because, after all, silence is just as important to music as sound. You are more intelligent than you seem, Ilra. I think I shall enjoy living with you."

* * * * *

The seasons passed, and they grew easier with Stanley around. He took on many of the responsibilities that Ilra couldn’t, taking the burden off the sisters. Ilra even saw Sahra begin to laugh and play again. The oppressive desert began to seem somehow less.

Ilra was out to market the day she heard that the ship arrived. While such a thing was not uncommon, no one had ever seen a ship quite like the one that had landed. It was no bulky freighter, but a sleek, powerful military ship; it contained one man.

Many people were curious, but Ilra went the other way, to tell Stanley about it. She found him on a high outlook in one of the public buildings; it was shaded, to provide comfort, and had a view into the desert. The view actually was quite beautiful, and made the savage, deadly place seem almost desirable. Ilra had never stopped to consider it, and she found it strange that she should notice such a thing now.

"Stanley," she said. The lieutenant stood staring out into the expanse, and didn’t turn his head. "Stanley, another ship arrived."

"I know," he said simply.

"Is it..." Ilra couldn’t bring herself to say the words. Stanley straightened and turned.

"I have to go now. I appreciate everything you have done, and wish it could be another way, but it cannot be avoided. Not without putting all of us in danger." He began to walk out.

"Will I ever see you again?"

Stanley turned. "Remember, sweetling," he said, "the sound of silence is just as important as sound in music. Your life will have silence for awhile, but that will give meaning to the music yet to come." He began walking again, "May Debo-ra smile upon you. And tell Sahra goodbye for me."

It was unusual for Ilra and her sister to share any sort of a tender moment together. They loved one another, but they rarely felt affection. Even so, they sat silently together, holding one another as they saw the ship rise out of the desert and speed out of the atmosphere.

Edit: Oh, and, just to be sure, am I judging the next round? I assume so, because I'm one of, like, three people who volunteered, I just want to be sure.

[Fat Daddy]

Here he is, at 3000-ish words. I hope y'all like sci fi, because that's what this is.

Yay!! joe made it in time!!

Edit: Oh, and, just to be sure, am I judging the next round? I assume so, because I'm one of, like, three people who volunteered, I just want to be sure.

Crap! I knew I forgot something. Yes you are a judge for Iron Author 2. I better PM all the judges since I posted the brackets.

EDIT: ATTENTION IRON AUTHOR 1 JUDGES: For the final round rather than just declaring a winner, I will actually need 1st, 2nd and 3rd place judgments. Sorry for the extra work but our talented artists have created trophies for 3 places. Thank you.

[Fat Daddy]

Hate to double post but...

Judges, where are you? I didn't get any responses to my PM so I thought I would bump the thread to try and get your attention. I have trophies yearning to be given good homes with deserving authors. They are just sittin' here, all sad and lonely, waiting for the judgments to come in...

[DarkLightDragon]

I felt impatient while I was judging because there are other things I want to do. I hope the comments don't seem too rushed.

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ELVARIS

It was okay. I liked how easily the characters seemed to interact with each other. And the references were brought in pretty well.

RAVYN

To me, the story seemed to suddenly switch from doing one thing to another. Maybe I'm interpeting something differently, but this confused me. There references were okay though, and this is an okay story. I found the vampire joke amusing.

AVERAGEJOE

Bringing references like these into a sci-fi story must've been difficult. But it was interesting.The ending was okay as well.

***

THIRD PLACE:

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Ravyn

SECOND PLACE (cue drumroll):

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Elvaris

FIRST PLACE:

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Averagejoe

Congratulations to whoever ends up winning!

[Brickwall]

WOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!

Glad to hear that my threats worked! I motivated him to victory! No, no, I need not your trophies nor your accolades. The knowledge of my rightdoing is good enough.

[averagejoe]

WOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!

Glad to hear that my threats worked! I motivated him to victory! No, no, I need not your trophies nor your accolades. The knowledge of my rightdoing is good enough.

Erm, yeah, couldn't have done it without you. Hopefully the other judge agrees. Then I can sleep safe knowing that Brickwall won't kill me for not winning.

It would be even worse than just dying too. He'd probably drop a ton of bricks on me, or something, thinking it's really clever. Then he'd say something like, "That was a pretty AVERAGE way to die." Then I'd be double dead, because of the awful, awful jokes involved.

[DarkLightDragon]

I wasn't paying attention to any threats...

...What are we talking about?

[averagejoe]

I wasn't paying attention to any threats...

...What are we talking about?

Oh, awhile back Brick told me something about killing me, or something, if I didn't progress, because I'm the one who beat him in the first round. There was something like two threads spent on the topic.

Edit: No, wait, I just looked and acutally Brick just said I would have him to "answer to" if I lost. That's actually much less scary. I must have built it up in my head.

[Brickwall]

Edit: No, wait, I just looked and acutally Brick just said I would have him to "answer to" if I lost. That's actually much less scary. I must have built it up in my head.

And that's the mark of a good Intimidation skill.

[Fat Daddy]

Thanks for getting your judgment in DLD. Dispozition tells me that though he has not been well, he will try and get judgments posted within the next day. I am still trying to contact DarkandEVil.

[Dispozition]

Yeah...Read them all, liked them all...Hard to judge...

Well...Suppose I should get the comments out of the way first.

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Elvaris
This was a good story. I like the real life feel to the story, it's something that a lot of people could relate to. The ending was rather amusing and didn't feel like anything more had to be said. The inclusion of the articles was fine. Some of the spacing in-between paragraphs was strange, using a double enter just for a line of dialogue isn't the way I would do it, but I suppose it works.
All up, a good story, with a nice real life feel to it.

Ravyn
Now, having never seen the West Wing, nor knowing how the U.S parliment works left me a little confused after this story. You mention characters who I don't know from just reading the article, C.J. being the most predominant. I was lost after the first few sentances. Aside from me not knowing anything about the show, the articles were included into the story the best out of the three entries and the ending was rather fitting.
Apart from leaving me very confused, this was a great story.

Average Joe
Well, this story was just great. I love how you used Deborah Fiderer as a god. The fact that a dvd could be considered a sacred relic was also rather amusing and the blood pressure article was incorporated well. The beginning of the story was maybe a little too long winded, but it was a rather nice bit of text. The ending was a bit lacking, but had a nice sentimental feeling too it. The main body of the story, however, was very, very good.
Over all, one of the best stories I've seen in this competition.

Now, for the placings!

Thrid Place

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Ravyn

Second Place

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Elvaris

First Place

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Averagejoe

Good work to all the contestants. You provided me with a fair bit of entertainment over the last few weeks.

[Fat Daddy]

Thanks to all our contestants and judges. And now....[drumroll] it is time for the awards ceremony.

Taking 3rd place in the first ever Iron Author Contest... Ravyn! [applause]

Taking 2nd place in the first ever Iron Author Contest... Elvaris [more applause]

And in a surprise come back (you owe brickwall bigtime for allowing your story after the deadline in the first round, with your silly, 'oh you meant Eastern standard time?) our winner and a judge in Iron Author 2... averagejoe! [standing ovation]

Please check your inboxes as the playground's very own Sneak has created 1st, 2nd, and 3rd place trophies for you!

Also, though this wasn't announced I have special award to give out. The creater of my avatar(s) our very own Ceika has created a special trophy, "Fat Daddy's Choice" for my favorite story of the competition. I thought a lot about this and then re-read all the stories and thought some more. In the end, The Northman by The Vorpal Tribble really stuck in my head. So...VT check your inbox for the Fat Daddy's Choice Trophy.

And lastly our contest's very own Dispozition is hard at work creating a special award for all our contestants who entered a story. It's a special trophy for having competed in the inaugral Iron Author. Check you in-boxes in a few days for that one.

Congratulations and more importantly, Thank You! I have really enjoyed running this contest and hope all of you had a great time too.

[averagejoe]

And in a surprise come back (you owe brickwall bigtime for allowing your story after the deadline in the first round, with your silly, 'oh you meant Eastern standard time?) our winner and a judge in Iron Author 2... averagejoe! [standing ovation]

Hey, give me a break. People from California are stupid. Don't you ever watch TV? As if I didn't have enough problems, being from California and all.

...

Thanks Brick. And thanks everyone else for restraining themselves from making "average" comments.

I should also say, Ravyn and Elvaris, after reading stuff you had submitted to previous rounds, I went into the last round biting my nails. I may have won this time, but I could certainly see myself losing to either of you, were conditions different.

I would also like to compliment Dispozition on the trophy. The concept was fairly simple (because, you know, it's basically a stick figure) but his expression and pose made me laugh nonetheless.

[Fat Daddy]

I would also like to compliment Dispozition on the trophy. The concept was fairly simple (because, you know, it's basically a stick figure) but his expression and pose made me laugh nonetheless.

Actually, thank Sneak. He made the 1st, 2nd and 3rd place trophies. Dis is working on a special trophy for all the contests inaugral entrants at my request. I am looking forward to giving that one out as well.

[averagejoe]

Well, good job to Sneak as well, then, and thank you.

[Elvaris]

Congratulations Joe! You did a fabulous job in all the rounds. You weren't the only one biting nails going into the finals.
A big thank you goes to Fat Daddy for starting this whole mess, and keeping it moving along. It's been a lot of fun, with a number of fantastic stories told along the way.
And kudos to Ravyn... whom I may see again soon in IA 2...
*mumble* *mumble* sandwich *mumble*
Thanks to everyone involved, authors, judges, prize artists, all. Thankyaverymuch.

[Ravyn]

All I can say is well done to everyone. Particularly my fellow finalists; congrats, both of you.

(And I never want to see another pop culture article again. I swear, if familiarity with a show backfires that badly, I'd hate to see what happens when I hit one of the innumerable shows, movies or what-have-you I've never touched.)

[Om]

I just want to say that even though I was unable to take part in this contest I throughly enjoyed reading the entries.

[Bryn]

Well done to those who won! It was certainly an enjoyable competition!