Iron Author Contest (This is the Creative Writing Contest)

[averagejoe]

Yay, I got a city! That makes things a ton easier.

Seriously. The album makes things difficult, though.

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

[Brickwall]

Seriously. The album makes things difficult, though.

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

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

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

[Om]

I think I'm about halfway through mine. I had one of those moments at 3am when I suddenly decided I might swap all the characters' names around... and maybe change the planned ending entirely... maybe the beginning too if it gets too long.

I usually have several of those moments while writing. Usually I'll be slightly unhappy with a passage or two and end up rewriting half the piece

[The Vorpal Tribble]

Grrrr... figures, was reading the rules of the forums and a story involving real life religions is out.

*shakes his fist at the church*

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

[King_of_GRiffins]

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

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

[Timberwolf]

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

[Amotis]

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

Amotis' Topics:
An Album and A playwriter

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

Amotis' Entry:

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


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

"Jerrrremmmmyy!!!"

perhaps he is an-

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

perhaps he is an artist, creat-


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

creating masterpieces in hi-

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

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

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

[Fat Daddy]

Grrrr... figures, was reading the rules of the forums and a story involving real life religions is out.

*shakes his fist at the church*

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

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

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

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

EDIT:Fat Daddy's (not a judge) comments on Amotis' story.
JUDGES: please don't read as I don't want my opinions to influence the results in any way.

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Amotis, that was very clever. It made me laugh aloud. I was hoping for exactly this kind of entertainment when I began organizing this contest. I was a little worried as I began reading it as it seemed that it was very pretentious and over the top. Then I read the end and it all came crashing home! I love how you took on the aspect (or at least what I imagine to be the personality traits) of Wasserman and Neutomic Keyboard and then ended with your witty and scathing take on that sort of personality. At least, that is what I got out of the story. I would be interested to hear if my interpretation is what you intended.

[purple gelatinous cube o' Doom]

has the contest started yet? If not, I'd like to get in on the fun.

[Fat Daddy]

has the contest started yet? If not, I'd like to get in on the fun.

Yes it has. I have already posted the brackets and we are off and running. Fear not. Once this contest concludes I plan on organizing another. If the interest remains this high, I will try and do at least 1, possibly 2, per month.

[Angela]

My entry!!!

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

Without further ado:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Bryn]

I probably could have been more concise and focussed, but here is my humble entry...
I'm afraid I've tended to the sesquipedalian at times, and it probably could be structured better. I'm sure any editor would have a fit. Nonetheless, here is my story.

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The roar of music rang out over the auditorium, as on stage the actors gibbered and laughed, twitching spasmodically as they went about their roles. The performance was flawless – the musical drew the audience in, placed them right inside the asylum in which the musical was set. The music swelled, the singing too, and the playwright leant back in his chair, pressing his fingers together as the music washed over him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Not a sound.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Finn slept.

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

Word count: 2501

[Tanon Sharpe]

Mine's hopefully going up tomorrow morning US time. Hope y'all aren't averse to a little sci-fi.

[Cult_of_the_Raven]

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

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Sanddream

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

[TheSilverKnight]

I have had school work but hopefully I will do it tomorow and friday.

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

[Amotis]

I have had school work but hopefully I will do it tomorow and friday.

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

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

[Elvaris]

A story, such as it is:

A comic book and Scottish football.

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


Bring him in...


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


"End Recording"

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

[Brickwall]

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

An album, and a town.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Vaynor]

Darn, I guess I missed it. Will there be a number two? If so, count me in.

[Caillach]

Caillach vs. ZombieRockStar
A novel and an actress

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Judy?” She raised her eyebrows.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh.”

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

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

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

“What?”

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

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

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

“We’re attacking a School?!”

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

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

“That is up to you.”

“What?”

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

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

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

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

Word count:1597

[Fat Daddy]

I have had school work but hopefully I will do it tomorow and friday.

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

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

I had intended for it to be one story incorporating both articles. Apparently I failed to make that clear so 1 story incorporating either or both articles is acceptable.

My entry!!!

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

Without further ado:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fat Daddy's comments on Angela's story

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

I probably could have been more concise and focussed, but here is my humble entry...
I'm afraid I've tended to the sesquipedalian at times, and it probably could be structured better. I'm sure any editor would have a fit. Nonetheless, here is my story.

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The roar of music rang out over the auditorium, as on stage the actors gibbered and laughed, twitching spasmodically as they went about their roles. The performance was flawless – the musical drew the audience in, placed them right inside the asylum in which the musical was set. The music swelled, the singing too, and the playwright leant back in his chair, pressing his fingers together as the music washed over him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Not a sound.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Finn slept.

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

Word count: 2501

Fat Daddy's comments on Z-Axis' story

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

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

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Sanddream

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

Fat Daddy's comments on Cult_of_the_Raven's story Sanddreams

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

A story, such as it is:

A comic book and Scottish football.

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


Bring him in...


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


"End Recording"

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

Fat Daddy's comments on Elvaris' story.

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

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

An album, and a town.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fat Daddy's comments on Brickwall's story

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This story felt similar to Needful Things by Stephen King to me. Which may or may not be a bad thing depending on if you like King's work (which I believe you do based on the ending message). :smiley: I liked the surrealism and was glad to see a horror story among the entries. The story was paced well and flowed nicely. I didn't really care about any of the characters though and would have liked to see more character development. That being said, I did enjoy the antagonist. The super polite, helpful and yet totally evil and demonic villain is my second favorite type (my favorite is the villain who has FUN being evil). Having him write his message in the blood of the newborns differentiated it enough from REDRUM (The Shining) that it didn't feel overused. Plus, that is just horrific. The main detractor for me was that the use of the album The Firm felt a little forced and extraneous. Overall, an entertaining read.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Judy?” She raised her eyebrows.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh.”

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

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

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

“What?”

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

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

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

“We’re attacking a School?!”

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

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

“That is up to you.”

“What?”

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

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

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

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

Word count:1597

Fat Daddy's comments on Caillach's story.

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

[Death, your friend the Reaper]

Death's comments.

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I'm glad I am the reserve judge

Looking good people!

V Always here to help

[Fat Daddy]

Yay! Once again Death, your friend the Reaper saves the day. I couldn't finish posting all my comments because I hit the 50000 character limit and didn't want to double post. But since Death has posted, I can finish.

More on Caillach's story

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Okay, what I had left out was that Caillach has the character's take on the names of literary characters and in Bradbury's Farenheit 451 the characters take on the names of books that they have memorized to prevent them from being destroyed. As in, "Hi, I'm Underworld by DeLillo. If you'd like, I could recite myself to you sometime." I really liked that as a tribute to Bradbury, if indeed that is what you intended Caillach. I would be interested to know if I read that correctly or not.

I would also like to say a big THANK YOU to all the contestants that have posted so far. I have really been entertained by the quality stories (which is what I was hoping for when I started putting out feelers about this little contest we have here). And for those contestants who have not yet posted...SLACKERS! Get ta' postin'! You have less than 20 hours left. Plus my wife will be going into labor any time now and I'd like to get the first round all read before that happens!

I'd also like to say that I agree with Death. Only I am glad that

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I am a backup backup backup judge...yeah there are two backups before I would actually have to judge. I don't envy our judges as it would be really difficult to pick a winner from these stories.

[Cult_of_the_Raven]

wow! Good comments!
I feel special!

[Death, your friend the Reaper]

wow! Good comments!
I feel special!

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

[The Vorpal Tribble]

20 Hours? How about 40? You said Friday at midnight, heading into saturday. It's only thursday morning.

[Bryn]

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

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

[Yawielas]

I'll post mine as soon as I find out how to post it in spoiler tag.

[The Vorpal Tribble]

I'll post mine as soon as I find out how to post it in spoiler tag.

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Replace {}'s with []'s

[Yawielas]

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

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Harmony

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

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