# Ceramic DM Winter 07 (Final Judgment Posted)



## yangnome (Jan 19, 2007)

Hello,

For those new to CDM, here's the info: http://www.enworld.org/showthread.php?t=98651


Judges:
yangnome
Herremann the Wise
orchid blossom

Contestants:
Rodrigo Istalindir
Aris Dragonborn
maxfieldjadenfox
BSF
Piratecat
mythago
Drawmack
Berandor
Graywolf-ELM
Gabriel
tadk
questing gm
Miles Pilitus
carpedavid

Round 1:
(We have 14 competitors for Round 1.  This of course will leave on dangling body for round two.  I am strongly opposed to the use of byes though, so there won't be one.  Instead, the judges' favorite loser will be able to remain in the competition and will face the judges' favorite overall story.  This helps ensure that people are writing every round and while Lady Death might not like allowing a player a lease on a soul, I think it is better than allowing someone a free pass to the next level.) 

*Round 1*
_Match 1_: Aris Dragonborn vs. Miles Pilitus – pictures – judgement
_Match 2_: Graywolf-ELM vs. mythago – pictures – judgement
_Match 3_: Berandor vs. Gabriel – pictures – judgement
_Match 4_: BSF vs. Piratecat – pictures – judgement
_Match 5_: tadk vs. questinggm – pictures – judgement
_Match 6_: Rodrigo Istilindir vs. Drawmack – pictures – judgement
_Match 7_: Carpedavid vs. maxfieldjadenfoxengruven – pictures – judgement


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## MarauderX (Jan 19, 2007)

Glad to see it's back.  I hope to see some good stories to come of it, and I hope they get some good D&D themed pics for at least one contest.


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## Piratecat (Jan 19, 2007)

I was just thinking about CDM this morning...


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## Rodrigo Istalindir (Jan 19, 2007)

Well, I did let someone take my crown uncontested last time.  I wouldn't mind crushing someone and taking it back.  Of course, I'll probably scare Piratecat off again.

I'll step up and judge again though if needed.


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## Aris Dragonborn (Jan 20, 2007)

I'm willing to give it a go...I'll even promise to use the correct pictures this time.


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## maxfieldjadenfox (Jan 20, 2007)

Ooooh! I wanna play. Can I, huh? Can I?


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## BSF (Jan 21, 2007)

You know, I am finally done with this huge 21 month project and actually trying to do fun stuff again.  Writing might be a nice way to reacquaint myself with EN World.  

I will toss my hat in the ring.


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## Rodrigo Istalindir (Jan 21, 2007)

Aha!  I knew my challenge would smoke out the hiding members of the New Mexico Cabal!


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## BSF (Jan 21, 2007)

Not hiding so much as recovering.  It's been a long process with that SAP implementation.  Heck, I even gave up gaming toward the end because I was too busy!


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## Piratecat (Jan 21, 2007)

SAP sucks. BSF's SAP implementation has been so busy, even I've had no time to write!

I'm in.

I got to hang out with Mythago last month when she was in NH for work. Maybe I can hornswaggle her in as well.


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## mythago (Jan 21, 2007)

Ok, I'm in.


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## maxfieldjadenfox (Jan 21, 2007)

Oooh! This is getting exciting!


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## BSF (Jan 21, 2007)

Piratecat said:
			
		

> SAP sucks. BSF's SAP implementation has been so busy, even I've had no time to write!




SAP doesn't so much suck as our implementation was "special".  And not in a good special way.  Our first implementation partner couldn't bring us to a go-live state.  

The drama!  And not something I care to go into online because there is quite likely more work to be done.  Work involving folks in Mythago's career path.  

No offense to Mythago, but *bleah*!  Not stuff I want to focus on.



			
				Piratecat said:
			
		

> I'm in.
> 
> I got to hang out with Mythago last month when she was in NH for work. Maybe I can hornswaggle her in as well.




Oy!  *slaps hand to head*  I'm rusty at this writing stuff.  At least the non-technical writing stuff.  I guess this is one way to practice.  

Should be a good round.  If I actually go on vacation, I will need to assure I have internet access and bring my laptop.

Of course, I will be visiting the Virginia area.  Near DC and all that.  As my plans solidify I was hoping to find some EN Worlders out there that I might be able to meet.  (Folks like Rodrigo maybe...)


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## Rodrigo Istalindir (Jan 21, 2007)

Cool     Love to see you if you get out this way!


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## BSF (Jan 21, 2007)

Rodrigo Istalindir said:
			
		

> Aha!  I knew my challenge would smoke out the hiding members of the New Mexico Cabal!




OK, I took that as a challenge.  I think between email/PM/IM I have passed on the challenge to 6 other folks that have a solid NM tie.  Not sure any of them will have time/interest, but we will see.


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## Piratecat (Jan 21, 2007)

i am really, really looking forward to this. I've been dumping all my creative side into work recently, but the game is about to hit alpha. This couldn't come at a better time.


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## helium3 (Jan 21, 2007)

I might be interested, but can you review what exactly a ceramic DM competition entails?


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## BSF (Jan 21, 2007)

If I may direct you to a place that might help answer your question:  Ceramic DM FAQ for Fiction

It is a writing contest.  The judges provide pictures, you and an opponent write a story around those pictures.  Everybody has fun reading and writing.  Eventually, through a few rounds, a winner is decided.


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## yangnome (Jan 21, 2007)

wow...this is shaping up to be a very competitive group.  I look forward to the stories and am sad I won't be competing.


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## mythago (Jan 21, 2007)

BSF said:
			
		

> Oy!  *slaps hand to head*  I'm rusty at this writing stuff.




Sheez, don't get me started. I'm going to have to watch myself so I don't start writing things like "the dimensional vortex incorporated by reference herein, and all objections thereto."

helium3, the short version is that the judges post a group of pictures. You write a story around them. The conceit is that if an editor had decided to publish your story, and needed to use illustrations, s/he would have chosen those pictures. The FAQ and reading previous stories should give you a good sense.

Anyone want to see if alsih2o is willing to judge?


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## Rodrigo Istalindir (Jan 22, 2007)

mythago said:
			
		

> Anyone want to see if alsih2o is willing to judge?




That'd be cool.  He ran one on his boards late last summer.  It'd be good to see him around here again.


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## yangnome (Jan 22, 2007)

I'll pm him on another board and see if he wants to do so, unless one of you want to do so.  You guys know him better than I do, so that woulc work as well.


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## Drawmack (Jan 22, 2007)

I'll write a little something up, even though I usually get ousted in the first round.


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## FickleGM (Jan 22, 2007)

I might be interested, but I want to read some past entries and judgements before I commit.  It does look like fun.


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## Gulla (Jan 23, 2007)

yangnome said:
			
		

> AS I said at teh end of the last CDM competition, I volunteer to judge and run this go around.  Can we muster up enough people to participate.  Ideally, I'd like to see two additional judges and at least 8 contestants.  Anyone interested?




I will not be competing, but I will as always watch closely, and maybe I'll even comment some. Cheering is harder since so far three of my favorite Ceramics are in the list already. Anyone seen Berandor around lately?

Håkon
Ceramic DM Fanboy


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## Berandor (Jan 23, 2007)

With these people, I'm really, really interested at joining. What would be the start date? I've got exams coming up.

You know what? Count me in, and if timing gets really horrendous, so will my story. At least then I'd have an excuse...


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## Rodrigo Istalindir (Jan 23, 2007)

This is shaping up to be a classic.


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## BSF (Jan 23, 2007)

Hey there is Berandor!  Hi Berandor!

Nifty cool.  Looks like we still need judges.  I am not going to volunteer to judge this time around.  Too much like work if I do that.


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## Rodrigo Istalindir (Jan 23, 2007)

I noticed in another thread that Herreman was back -- apparently they've finally corrected the ISP issues that were wreaking havoc in the Pacific.  Maybe he could be coerced into judging?  His judgements were as good as the stories.

I'm looking forward to testing myself against the Ceramic DM elite.

/waves at Berandor.


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## Graywolf-ELM (Jan 23, 2007)

BSF sent me a line, I'd be interested in participating.  It'll help get me back in the mood for writing I hope.  I've had a long dry spell.

GW


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## Piratecat (Jan 23, 2007)

Graywolf-ELM said:
			
		

> BSF sent me a line, I'd be interested in participating.  It'll help get me back in the mood for writing I hope.  I've had a long dry spell.



You and me both!


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## Berandor (Jan 23, 2007)

/waves back at the folks across the pond.

This is almost like a veteran's club meeting. I'm x-ited. 

(Ugh, that reads badly)


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## Rodrigo Istalindir (Jan 23, 2007)

Berandor said:
			
		

> /waves back at the folks across the pond.
> 
> This is almost like a veteran's club meeting. I'm x-ited.
> 
> (Ugh, that reads badly)




That's ok.  Your going to be ex-ited soon, too!


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## Herremann the Wise (Jan 23, 2007)

Rodrigo Istalindir said:
			
		

> I noticed in another thread that Herreman was back -- apparently they've finally corrected the ISP issues that were wreaking havoc in the Pacific.  Maybe he could be coerced into judging?  His judgements were as good as the stories.
> 
> I'm looking forward to testing myself against the Ceramic DM elite.
> 
> /waves at Berandor.




Hello Everyone,

This looks like being an absolute classic Ceramic DM!
If you guys are desperate for a judge (and providing those damn imps don't destroy my connection to EN World!!!!!), then I shall raise the hand and see if I can get my judging scythe back. Otherwise, I shall happily cheer from the sidelines. 

Best Regards
Herremann the Wise


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## Piratecat (Jan 23, 2007)

Rodrigo Istalindir said:
			
		

> That's ok.  Your going to be ex-ited soon, too!



As long as he's not exit-ed!


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## Drawmack (Jan 24, 2007)

I want to go against PC in the first round. Because then I'll only have to write one story


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## FickleGM (Jan 24, 2007)

What the heck, I'm in. 

Take it easy on the rookie.


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## yangnome (Jan 24, 2007)

OK, we need one more judge.  I'd like ot see at least two more users (16 total woudl be great), but two more would work as well.  If we have less than 16, I plan on having a loser's bracket where (depending on teh total #) the favorite loser of a given round progresses.  We have a lot of talent in this match and it is very possible that a very talented person could get knocked out in a tough round.


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## Herremann the Wise (Jan 24, 2007)

yangnome said:
			
		

> If we have less than 16, I plan on having a loser's bracket where (depending on teh total #) the favorite loser of a given round progresses.  We have a lot of talent in this match and it is very possible that a very talented person could get knocked out in a tough round.



I thought talented people getting knocked out in a tough round was what Ceramic DM was all about; the pain and horror and threats of revenge next time.. you know, blood on the floor stuff. 
I'm just not too sure I like this second chance stuff is all. Once I've lopped off a head judging, I don't like seeing the miscreant come back to life... makes me go all uneasy.

Perhaps a dreaded "triple match-up" in the first round might be the best solution? Alternatively, the first eight responding go through and the rest are reserves. Whichever the way yangnome, let's get this show happening!

Best Regards
Herremann the Wise


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## maxfieldjadenfox (Jan 24, 2007)

Let the smack talk begin!


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## mythago (Jan 24, 2007)

Herremann the Wise said:
			
		

> I thought talented people getting knocked out in a tough round was what Ceramic DM was all about; the pain and horror and threats of revenge next time.. you know, blood on the floor stuff.




True, but with a 'loser's bracket' there's also the Golden Comeback of the vanquished foe.

"_Berandor?!_ That's--that's impossible! I SAW YOU DIE!"

"Reports of my death were greatly exaggerated, you twisted fiend. Now we'll see how your Nauseous Tiger Prose stands up to my Startled Crane vers libre!"​


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## tadk (Jan 24, 2007)

ooo ooo ooo

A losers bracket Yangome said

Me Me Me Count me in for that one

Or just sign me up, this place needs some more non-rhyming poetry with a haiku to start off my CDM post.

I don't think I can call my entries Stories, going to call them my CDM Entries from now on and let the judges decide what the heck it is that I am writing.

Call me for coffee, the Komodo Dragon Venti sized awaits opposition.


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## yangnome (Jan 24, 2007)

Alish20 will not be participating in the contest, however he does want to wish everyone good luck in the contest.

We're in need of one judge and at least one contestant to get this thing rolling.  Herreman, could you please send me an email at yangnome at yangnome dot com.  Thanks.


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## Berandor (Jan 24, 2007)

mythago said:
			
		

> True, but with a 'loser's bracket' there's also the Golden Comeback of the vanquished foe.
> 
> "_Berandor?!_ That's--that's impossible! I SAW YOU DIE!"
> 
> "Reports of my death were greatly exaggerated, you twisted fiend. Now we'll see how your Nauseous Tiger Prose stands up to my Startled Crane vers libre!"​




Reports of my death were gr8ly x-aggerated. 

Something's defiantly wrong with the nu keyboard my teenage brother gave me 4 x-mas.

Oh, and 4 those of U you actually notice how bad I am at this: yes, I *am* that old and totally, like, not cool anymore.


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## mythago (Jan 24, 2007)

Perhaps I should delegate my smack talk to my 12-year-old, just for the extra humiliation value.


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## Herremann the Wise (Jan 24, 2007)

yangnome said:
			
		

> Herreman, could you please send me an email at yangnome at yangnome dot com.  Thanks.



Done!

I have also forwarded my order for a fresh selection of judging imps as well as an invitation for "Lady Death" to join the festivities.

Best Regards
Herremann the Wise


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## Rodrigo Istalindir (Jan 24, 2007)

Herremann the Wise said:
			
		

> Done!
> 
> I have also forwarded my order for a fresh selection of judging imps as well as an invitation for "Lady Death" to join the festivities.
> 
> ...




Didn't Berandor steal 'Lady Death' for the last competition?  You'd better get it back before the writing starts -- it would give him an unfair advantage if he could reap his opponents.


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## Herremann the Wise (Jan 24, 2007)

Rodrigo Istalindir said:
			
		

> Didn't Berandor steal 'Lady Death' for the last competition?  You'd better get it back before the writing starts -- it would give him an unfair advantage if he could reap his opponents.



So that's why!
I was wondering why I had not received word from her yet - or at least a messenger of some strange nature.
Berandor, I suggest you hand her back immediately otherwise I will have to ask my wife to press my best pants so I may retrieve her personally.

Best Regards
Herremann the Wise

PS: Who won last time around? I was unfortunately detained in a server void being tormented by little creatures.


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## Berandor (Jan 24, 2007)

I tried hard to do you justice last time, but the gnupfs just weren't the same...

here's the last contest, yangnome won. By default, I might add, so I could never get rid of... erm, I mean, restore Lady Death to her rightful place in her temple. Nor, it seems, did I ever leave your house, so I'll just leave the thing behind when I head home. Now that you're back, that is. And I'll take a beer with me.

Heh. Her last appearance:


> "Berandor? Is that you?" It was Herreman.
> 
> "Thank God," I said. "You must come home."
> 
> ...


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## Rodrigo Istalindir (Jan 24, 2007)

Herremann the Wise said:
			
		

> PS: Who won last time around? I was unfortunately detained in a server void being tormented by little creatures.




yangnome won.  Fall 06 Ceramic DM


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## mythago (Jan 25, 2007)

Just dropped Sialia a line....


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## Piratecat (Jan 25, 2007)

mythago said:
			
		

> Perhaps I should delegate my smack talk to my 12-year-old, just for the extra humiliation value.



She'd spell better.

Booyah!


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## questing gm (Jan 25, 2007)

I'm a n00b to this competition and a n00b writer as well....but i like to give it a shot !
Anymore space for a contestant ?


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## BSF (Jan 25, 2007)

mythago said:
			
		

> Just dropped Sialia a line....




*mumble*Yeah, that's just what I need. Another asshanding from Sialia.  *ahem*


I mean, sweet!  It would be great to have Sialia in the contest.  Especially if she were picking off other opponents.  Other opponents, not me.  

Of course, Sialia as a judge would be shiny as well.  

However really.  Because I have missed Sialia.  My email habits of keeping in touch with people have sucked lately.


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## mythago (Jan 25, 2007)

Piratecat said:
			
		

> She'd spell better.
> 
> Booyah!




If by "better" you mean "express her disdain for you uncool old fogies", yeah.


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## maxfieldjadenfox (Jan 25, 2007)

Yes, yes, we've all had our butts kicked by Sialia. But it's Rodrigo I'm gunning for. Hear that Rodrigo, with your swarthy good looks and your smooth style?    I'm out for blood this time. Consider yourself slapped with the gauntlet of slapping.


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## Berandor (Jan 25, 2007)

mythago said:
			
		

> If by "better" you mean "express her disdain for you uncool old fogies", yeah.



_Here comes Grandmaster B,
from the A to the Z
I'll win this, you'll see
immediately._


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## Graywolf-ELM (Jan 25, 2007)

BSF said:
			
		

> *mumble*Yeah, that's just what I need. Another asshanding from Sialia.  *ahem*




Been There.

So has this turned into the official thread for starting the competition, or are we still in the "Is anyone interested phase?"

GW


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## maxfieldjadenfox (Jan 25, 2007)

Yes, ya'll please post the link to the actual CDM thread here when it's time. Otherwise I'll end up wandering about in the brambles of cyberspace. That's not how any of you want to eliminate me from the competition, is it?


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## Piratecat (Jan 25, 2007)

maxfieldjadenfox said:
			
		

> That's not how any of you want to eliminate me from the competition, is it?



I'm sleazy. I'll take any opportunity I can get. I've been known to change the site's system clock to random times and dates, just to provide a technical disqualification for a tough competitor.

Speaking of which - hey Rodrigo! Don't check your system clock for a little while, okay?


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## Rodrigo Istalindir (Jan 25, 2007)

maxfieldjadenfox said:
			
		

> Yes, yes, we've all had our butts kicked by Sialia. But it's Rodrigo I'm gunning for. Hear that Rodrigo, with your swarthy good looks and your smooth style?    I'm out for blood this time. Consider yourself slapped with the gauntlet of slapping.




Idle flattery will not earn you a reprieve.  And if you're going to hit me with the gauntlet of slapping, please, not in the face.  We wouldn't want to blemish my swarthy good looks, would we?

I was hoping not to face you again this time.  Not that I'm afraid, mind you, but I was looking forward to beating someone new.


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## maxfieldjadenfox (Jan 25, 2007)

Rodrigo Istalindir said:
			
		

> Idle flattery will not earn you a reprieve.  And if you're going to hit me with the gauntlet of slapping, please, not in the face.  We wouldn't want to blemish my swarthy good looks, would we?
> 
> I was hoping not to face you again this time.  Not that I'm afraid, mind you, but I was looking forward to beating someone new.




Not so fast, Mr. "I beat you but the whole competition got erased so nobody can look back and see that it was a gross miscarriage of justice..." This time, you're going down!
(that goes for you too, Pirate Cat.)


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## Rodrigo Istalindir (Jan 25, 2007)

maxfieldjadenfox said:
			
		

> Not so fast, Mr. "I beat you but the whole competition got erased so nobody can look back and see that it was a gross miscarriage of justice..." This time, you're going down!
> (that goes for you too, Pirate Cat.)




Hmm..are you confessing that you're the one responsible for the Great Post Fire of '06?

Anyway, our round on Alsih2o's boards still exists, despite your efforts to wipe it out, too!


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## maxfieldjadenfox (Jan 25, 2007)

Rodrigo Istalindir said:
			
		

> Hmm..are you confessing that you're the one responsible for the Great Post Fire of '06?
> 
> Anyway, our round on Alsih2o's boards still exists, despite your efforts to wipe it out, too!




Pshaw. You know what a technotard I am. No way I could pull off something as monumental as the great post fire. And I prefer to think of your Quiet Cool win as an abberation.


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## tadk (Jan 26, 2007)

Quietcool counts as far as I am concerned
Perhaps my writing will stand the tests this time
At least I put up a struggle


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## Piratecat (Jan 26, 2007)

Rodrigo Istalindir said:
			
		

> We wouldn't want to blemish my swarthy good looks, would we?



You accidentally spelled that with an extraneous 's' and 'h'.  If you're going to be a writer, you should take note of typos!


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## yangnome (Jan 26, 2007)

questing gm said:
			
		

> I'm a n00b to this competition and a n00b writer as well....but i like to give it a shot !
> Anymore space for a contestant ?



absolutely. I'll add your name to the list.


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## yangnome (Jan 26, 2007)

OK, we have 12 contestants, which is enough to run this thing.  We are still looking for one judge.  

As for the thread, I intend to run the competition in this thread.  I'll edit my first post (and post a note at the bottom of the thread) as we move along.  If anyone knows anybody that would be up for judging this, please let me know.  We also have room for two more contestants if anyone would like to throw their hat in the ring.  If we only get one more, they'll have to be standby.


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## Piratecat (Jan 26, 2007)

I'm not a judge, but if I may, I'd like to say a few words about competing from back when I used to judge.

1. *If you sign up here to compete, write your stories. All of them.* Two days into your three day writing time, you're going to panic and try to find some way out of the contest. In doing so, you'll consider finding an excuse or not showing up on time to post it. *Please don't do this.* By joining the challenge, you're making a commitment to your competitors, who are also sweating bullets trying to write. If you default for ANY reason, you do them a huge disservice and cheapen their win.

2. *It's okay if you aren't happy with it, post your stories.* I'd much rather see a partially finished or unedited story posted (with that note) than nothing at all if a competitor runs out of time. Never post nothing, always post something -- and when you hit the point when you realize that you really have to write, often the ideas start coming fast and furious.

3. *Editing takes time.* I've found that it really helps to run a spellchecker over the story, and I always read mine out loud to myself before posting.  Hearing the cadence helps me find awkward sentences. When you're done, put it down and come back to it later. Leave a couple of hours to edit.

4. *Add manual paragraph breaks.* MS Word adds paragraph breaks for you, usually, but they don't copy over to here. You need to add hard paragraph breaks and lines between paragraphs yourself. You aren't allowed to edit your story once you post it, but a useful trick is to find an old post of yours in another thread and edit that post, pasting in your story and seeing how it looks. If it looks great, remove it from that old post and paste it in to this correct thread.

5. *If you sign up here to compete, write your stories. All of them.* I said this before, but holy cow is it worth repeating.


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## FickleGM (Jan 26, 2007)

Thanks for the advice, Kevin.  I'll admit that I am a bit nervous, having failed to produce much of anything for NaNoWriMo over the last two years (the only two years that I have tried it).

At the same time I am excited, because this is the sort of competition that will benefit me.

Good luck to everyone.


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## questing gm (Jan 26, 2007)

Is there a limited word count for each story ?


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## Rodrigo Istalindir (Jan 26, 2007)

questing gm said:
			
		

> Is there a limited word count for each story ?




Uusually, although it's up to the master of ceremonies to set the maximum word count and number of pictures for each round.  Typically, the word count is shorter in the first round as it makes it a little easier on the judges.


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## Rodrigo Istalindir (Jan 26, 2007)

Piratecat said:
			
		

> You accidentally spelled that with an extraneous 's' and 'h'.  If you're going to be a writer, you should take note of typos!




Your time has passed, old cat.  You've been out of the game for too long.  The nice thing about meeting you at GenCon and in RI, PC, is that now when I imagine you crying into your beer after I thrash you,  I'll see an actual person instead of some scraggly beneficiary of the FDA (Felines with Disabilities Act).


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## Piratecat (Jan 26, 2007)

Rodrigo Istalindir said:
			
		

> The nice thing about meeting you at GenCon and in RI, PC, is that now when I imagine you crying into your beer after I thrash you,  I'll see an actual person instead of some scraggly beneficiary of the FDA (Felines with Disabilities Act).



Similarly, you can picture me doing the Naked Victory Dance of Exuberance when I thrash _you_. Doesn't seem like such a blessing now, does it? Ha! And if you scour out your imagination with a brillo pad to try and remove that particular image, I'll be at an advantage when me meet. Either way I win.

Maxfieldjadenfoxbadgerukelelebonanzastoat, don't think I didn't noticed your sly smack talking up there. If you write like you create user names, you're going to shoot so far over word count that you can't _help_ but go down.

Speaking of which, QG, the normal length guideline is "don't bore the judges." That usually seems to mean under about 2000 words, but it varies by round.

Gabriel, I wouldn't sweat it. Writing a short story in three days is much less intimidating to me than trying to write a novel in a month. I wouldn't do this if I didn't find it crazy amounts of fun.


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## Rodrigo Istalindir (Jan 26, 2007)

2000 words?  I've had opening paragraphs that were 2000 words.


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## Rodrigo Istalindir (Jan 26, 2007)

Piratecat said:
			
		

> Similarly, you can picture me doing the Naked Victory Dance of Exuberance when I thrash _you_. Doesn't seem like such a blessing now, does it? Ha! And if you scour out your imagination with a brillo pad to try and remove that particular image, I'll be at an advantage when me meet. Either way I win.




Yes, but now I can count on the *judges* not wanting to picture you doing the NVDoE, and hence eliminating you as expeditiously as possible.


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## Piratecat (Jan 26, 2007)

Ah, but hopefully the judges haven't met me, thus maintaining the illusion that I am a svelte and ruggedly handsome astronaut who happens to write in his spare time. That may distract them from the sordid truth.

I may be mis-remembering the approximate wordcount guideline. Was it 4000? Anyone recall?


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## maxfieldjadenfox (Jan 26, 2007)

Piratecat said:
			
		

> Maxfieldjadenfoxbadgerukelelebonanzastoat, don't think I didn't noticed your sly smack talking up there. If you write like you create user names, you're going to shoot so far over word count that you can't _help_ but go down.




Au contraire! If my deathless prose had survived, you would see that I can be concise in the most writerly way. And, the judges should know that, despite my alter-ego being a boy, _I_ would look quite fetching doing the naked victory dance.  Something to keep in mind, judges.
PS "didn't noticed"? I kinda got you rattled, eh, Kitty?


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## maxfieldjadenfox (Jan 26, 2007)

And now damn, I have the badger song in my head. Thanks a bunch PC.


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## Piratecat (Jan 26, 2007)

maxfieldjadenfox said:
			
		

> PS "didn't noticed"? I kinda got you rattled, eh, Kitty?



Dang. 'Hadn't' became a 'didn't', and my whole snotty argument goes to hell. I only have one thing to say, and I'll spoiler-text it: 



Spoiler



Badger badger badger badger MUSHROOM MUSHROOM!



I can only hope to keep you distracted until the end of the competition. I'll have to find some way to attach music to a thread.


----------



## BSF (Jan 26, 2007)

Piratecat said:
			
		

> I'm not a judge, but if I may, I'd like to say a few words about competing from back when I used to judge.
> 
> 1. *If you sign up here to compete, write your stories. All of them.* Two days into your three day writing time, you're going to panic and try to find some way out of the contest. In doing so, you'll consider finding an excuse or not showing up on time to post it. *Please don't do this.* By joining the challenge, you're making a commitment to your competitors, who are also sweating bullets trying to write. If you default for ANY reason, you do them a huge disservice and cheapen their win.
> 
> ...





Excellent advice!  It is OK to be nervous the first time you compete.  It is OK to feel overwhelmed and start thinking you are in over your head; that this is insane, and really it is just a bunch of messageboard people and how are they to know if you come up with some excuse not to post a story.  But when you feel like that, just push yourself a bit harder and finish the story.  Everybody that has written in Ceramic DM knows what you are going through.  We don't know you, but we want to know you through your writing.  We will all read with interest.  

Many people, especially the judges, will post criticism and advice.  Don't take the criticism personally.  Nobody is posting with the intent of tearing you down.  We will post with the desire to help you become a better writer.  Take the intent personally, we want you to benefit from improving your writing, but don't take criticism toward any particular element personally.  

It is OK to talk smack!  This is supposed to be fun and it is a competition.  If you have some smack to talk, unleash it.  

As a general rule, don't read your opponents story until after you have posted yours.  Obviously that can't be easily enforced, but the time you spend reading a story is time you could have been writing yours.  

As Piratecat said, post whatever you have done.  I have a tendency to stumble about trying to find a story to write for 60+ hours and then run out of time trying to finish something up.  I have written a story in as little as 4 hours and posted without any editing and barely made it in at the last minute.  It shows, really it shows.  But for me it is more important to get that story in, symbolically.  I am not the only one trying to finish the story and post it.  My muse is a bit lackadaisical at times, but that doesn't mean I shouldn't put the story up.  Besides, maybe the story isn't as bad as I am making it out to be in my mind.  I have also found that right after I post a story, I have a tendency to focus and nitpick all the little things I think I could have done better.  I come to loathe the story and I need to step back and let it sit for a while.  Other people might enjoy it, and that perspective helps.  Whatever you have, post it!


----------



## Graywolf-ELM (Jan 26, 2007)

PC and FoxBadgermax, substitute your badger, mushroom, snake, with:
Belly, Belly, Belly, Belly, Belly, Belly, Belly, Belly,  Button, Button ...
repeat.
...Button, Button.... Lint, it's some Lint, Ewww it's some Lint.....
repeat.


BSF and PC, yes, commit to this only with the intent of turning something in, even if it is not your best work, your opponent may have had more trouble than you.  (Now if I added "did", would that make the sentance better or worse?)

Looking forward to squeaking by in front of all of you with my overacheiving submissions.

GW


----------



## yangnome (Jan 26, 2007)

questing gm said:
			
		

> Is there a limited word count for each story ?




depends if Salia is competing or not 

There is.  It varies with each round and I'll post it as we go along.  There is no minimum limit  The higher limits usually run 4-6k.


----------



## yangnome (Jan 26, 2007)

Piratecat said:
			
		

> Ah, but hopefully the judges haven't met me, thus maintaining the illusion that I am a svelte and ruggedly handsome astronaut who happens to write in his spare time. That may distract them from the sordid truth.
> 
> I may be mis-remembering the approximate wordcount guideline. Was it 4000? Anyone recall?



no such luck.  I played two games with you at GenCon last year.  Please keep all your clothes on.


----------



## maxfieldjadenfox (Jan 27, 2007)

Piratecat said:
			
		

> Dang. 'Hadn't' became a 'didn't', and my whole snotty argument goes to hell. I only have one thing to say, and I'll spoiler-text it:
> 
> 
> 
> ...




Oh! You truly suck. Bad kitty! (picture me plugging my ears and sticking my tongue out at you).

And now I have the belly button song to contend with too. But I will prevail. The cream rises to the top.


----------



## Herremann the Wise (Jan 27, 2007)

Hello Everyone,

I thought I'd just chime in here as one of your  friendly judges to add a comment or two that may assist. Remember though, I am only one judge and you have two(?!) others to please as well.

- - - - - -

For me, there are three facets of a Ceramic DM story I look for when judging.

*Story*
Firstly is the "story" as a whole. I like to enjoy a story but I derive this enjoyment in several different ways. Sometimes it's the surprise ending, the dramatic characterisation, or even the relating of something so bizarre or niche that one cannot help but be drawn in. It is perhaps the hardest thing to pin down, except to say, "I know a good story when I read one".

*Writing Craft*
This is a strange one because it is something that when done right, does not receive immediate attention. Whne done improperley however it get DAMN anoying! A slip here or there in the first round is tolerable but after that, it is something that overly distracts from what is read. My judging imps have a hard enough time understanding our language without confusing them with poor grammar or spelling (although in all seriousness, only the more studious imps pay any attention at all to such things). On the plus side though, you sometimes read a story that makes you smile and shake your head at the beauty of a fellow writer's expression. In this respect, I'm easily impressed.

*Picture Usage*
Now this is the big cheese for me. While the previous two categories are highly important, this is the element for me that embodies what Ceramic DM is all about. I love it when a writer extracts everything from a picture and infuses it throughout their story. When done well, a writer does not even have to signpost the picture; it is completely obvious. There are three things in my opinion to avoid: the "throwaway" picture use, the picture as a "picture", and the "museum tour" story.

A throwaway picture is when a sentence akin to a wart imposes itself upon the story with little to no relevance and for no other purpose than to "include the picture". The picture as "picture" is generally the cheap way out of including a difficult image in the story. Wow, our heroes open a book and see a picture of a... [insert picture here]. If you're going to use a picture, get your hands dirty and let it pull your story in a bizarre direction. And finally is the "museum tour". This is where the story inspects each of the pictures, diligently moving from one to the next. However, what is missing is their relationship to the whole. Try to get your pictures to influence your story in more than one way. Don't treat each of them as a waypoint to be carefully included, discussed by the tour guide before moving on.

- - - - - -

These are the primary aspects I look at when judging; I let my jury of imps convey their opinion six times. Once for story, once for writing and once for each of the pictures (if I can keep their capricious attention for long enough). Let it be said as well that I feel slightly like the stupid textbook (J Evans Pritchard?) in Dead Poet’s Society. Maybe I'm being too mathematical? As such, there should always be room other methods of judging such as maldur’s judging sticks. In many cases, such a succinct method might be the truest indicator of achievement and expression.

Anyway, the last time I did judging, I went back through some of the previous judgments and some of the statements the judges made so as to get in the "zone". Unfortunately I never quoted them properly so I cannot attribute them correctly. As such, I'll just include them here as a single package that may enlighten, entertain or... something else starting with e.



> -	Looking for a complete story
> -	Good use of tension
> -	Adventurers are not the focus but mere participants in the story
> -	Continuous and solid mood
> ...




I hope this assists. I shall report back when my order of imps and scythe are delivered.

Best Regards
Herremann the Wise


----------



## tadk (Jan 27, 2007)

Question for the judges

I forget
Is it only free verse or strung together Haiku for the first few rounds?

Looking forward to meeting my worthy opponents in which ever CDM contest, mine or the real one, I end up in.

**edited to correct tense oddly enough**


----------



## yangnome (Jan 27, 2007)

ok.  It has been a few days and we haven't had any new contestants show up, or new offers for judges.  In an ideal world, I'd like to start this competition this coming weekend.  

If we start now, I'd  need to take contestant  (rodrigo said he'd be available if needed).  Any thoughts or ideas about where we coudl get another contestant and a judge?


----------



## BSF (Jan 27, 2007)

My personal experiences with EN World indicate that the weekends are quieter across the general user base.  I would suggest giving it until Monday afternoon before closing the signups and bracketing folks.

EDIT:  I would also suggest that you change the thread title to reflect that signups are closing.  It is possible that a few folks are waiting to see a signup thread.


----------



## yangnome (Jan 27, 2007)

good point.  Done.  I'll close signups at 1159 PST on Monday.


----------



## Rodrigo Istalindir (Jan 27, 2007)

I hope you can scrounge someone else to judge -- I'd hate to miss the opportunity to take out BSF, Mythago, and Piratecat in the same competition.


----------



## Miles Pilitus (Jan 27, 2007)

What the hell, I need to practicing writing some more. If there's room in the contest, I'll throw my hat into the ring.


----------



## Piratecat (Jan 27, 2007)

Rodrigo Istalindir said:
			
		

> I hope you can scrounge someone else to judge -- I'd hate to miss the opportunity to take out BSF, Mythago, and Piratecat in the same competition.



As a cynic, I'll point out that being a judge is the _most_ efficient way to take out BSF, Mythago and myself.


----------



## maxfieldjadenfox (Jan 27, 2007)

Rodrigo Istalindir said:
			
		

> I hope you can scrounge someone else to judge -- I'd hate to miss the opportunity to take out BSF, Mythago, and Piratecat in the same competition.




Rodrigo. My name is conspicuously absent from this list. I can take this as a dissing, and were I less secure, I might; or, I could choose to believe that you don't think you can take me out now that I am at full power again. I choose that one.


----------



## mythago (Jan 27, 2007)

Rodrigo Istalindir said:
			
		

> I hope you can scrounge someone else to judge -- I'd hate to miss the opportunity to take out BSF, Mythago, and Piratecat in the same competition.




Geez, wouldn't that get expensive, taking all of us out? You'd have to fly us to your place, pay for dinner at a nice restaurant, and then you'd still get squashed like a crunchy little bug in Ceramic DM.


----------



## mythago (Jan 27, 2007)

Just heard from Sialia that she is unavailable.


----------



## yangnome (Jan 28, 2007)

Miles Pilitus said:
			
		

> What the hell, I need to practicing writing some more. If there's room in the contest, I'll throw my hat into the ring.



I've added your name to the list.  Depending on what happens with the judge/contestant situation, you may or may not have to be an alternate for the competition.  If we get 1 more competitor and a fresh judge, you'll be in.  If we take Rodrigo from the current line up and force him to judge, you'll be in.  If we get a judge from the outside, you'll likely have to be an alternate unless I decide to run a bye round (I really hate those).


----------



## maxfieldjadenfox (Jan 28, 2007)

yangnome said:
			
		

> I've added your name to the list.  Depending on what happens with the judge/contestant situation, you may or may not have to be an alternate for the competition.  If we get 1 more competitor and a fresh judge, you'll be in.  If we take Rodrigo from the current line up and force him to judge, you'll be in.  If we get a judge from the outside, you'll likely have to be an alternate unless I decide to run a bye round (I really hate those).




Please, somebody else step up and judge. My honor is at stake here!


----------



## questing gm (Jan 28, 2007)

Wow, sounds like i'll be up against a whole bunch of veterans of CDM.....*intimidated*


----------



## orchid blossom (Jan 28, 2007)

I saw the thread come up, watched many old regulars sign-up, and felt the pull.  But I have the sense to know I'm not ready to write under the pressure again yet.  But...  if you're still looking for a judge and want me, I'd be glad to help out.


----------



## Rodrigo Istalindir (Jan 28, 2007)

Piratecat said:
			
		

> As a cynic, I'll point out that being a judge is the _most_ efficient way to take out BSF, Mythago and myself.




More efficient, perhaps, but not as satisfying and only slightly easier.


----------



## Rodrigo Istalindir (Jan 28, 2007)

maxfieldjadenfox said:
			
		

> Please, somebody else step up and judge. My honor is at stake here!




*snicker*



			
				questing gm said:
			
		

> Wow, sounds like i'll be up against a whole bunch of veterans of CDM.....*intimidated*




Don't sweat it -- the pictures are the great equalizer.  The only real advantage to having done this before is you have a better feel for how fast you have to work.  So my advice is don't dally -- the deadline will be there before you know it.  Other than that, just jump in and have fun, and start slinging some trash talk.



			
				Orchid Blossom said:
			
		

> I saw the thread come up, watched many old regulars sign-up, and felt the pull. But I have the sense to know I'm not ready to write under the pressure again yet. But... if you're still looking for a judge and want me, I'd be glad to help out.




/wave Hey, Orchid Blossom.  It'd be great to have you judge!


----------



## yangnome (Jan 29, 2007)

Great, we have a third judge!  Welcome Orchid Blossom.   well, we might have a third judge.  I just received an email from Herreman.  He is having troubles connecting to ENworld once again.  Hopefully it isn't the same problem he had last time.  I'll keep you updated.


----------



## carpedavid (Jan 29, 2007)

Ok. If you still need another competitor, I'm in.


----------



## yangnome (Jan 29, 2007)

good to have you


----------



## yangnome (Jan 29, 2007)

OK, looks like we have a full booking.  Let's start talking about avialability.  I'd like to kick this thing off by Friday.  Please post your avialability and I'll try to take it into consideration when setting up matches.


----------



## carpedavid (Jan 29, 2007)

yangnome said:
			
		

> OK, looks like we have a full booking.  Let's start talking about avialability.  I'd like to kick this thing off by Friday.  Please post your avialability and I'll try to take it into consideration when setting up matches.




I'd be happy to be one of the first, expecially if you're going to kick it off on Friday. Otherwise, any time is ok for me.


----------



## Rodrigo Istalindir (Jan 29, 2007)

I'd rather not have to write next weekend.  During the week this week is ok, or anytime after next Sunday.


----------



## Herremann the Wise (Jan 29, 2007)

No I'm still here, just couldn't get on for a few hours.

I think my order of judging imps has taken a server detour. The imps are just testing me is all. Hah when Lady Death arrives and I brandish her viciously before them, then shall they regret their little side adventure fooling around with my connection.

Well looks like we have an almost-full ship: fourteen contestants and three judges. How exactly are we going to run this though? Are we talking a couple of byes in the first round
or perhaps a couple of maxi-matches?

Wait, what's that?

[Herremann looks behind him seeing a two-foot tall creature with an "I love Satan" shirt on]

Well looks like the first of the imps has arrived... ummm, just waiting for Lady Death now...Berandor, are you _sure_ you gave her back last time, she seems to be currently missing and this damn imp is sensing weakness on my part. I'll just have to threaten him with a keyboard or something for the moment and hope the rest don't all arrive at the same time.

Best Regards
Herremann the Wise


----------



## tadk (Jan 29, 2007)

I am good anytime, better during the week than weekends for me


----------



## Drawmack (Jan 29, 2007)

Generally weekdays are better writting time for me then weekends, I would prefer a monday or wednesday start to the competition.

As for smack talking, I do not partake of that aspect of the games because I, unlike the other authors here, believe in jinxes and with this competition I do not need any of that.


----------



## maxfieldjadenfox (Jan 29, 2007)

I'm out of town the 2nd to the 6th. Other than that, I'm easy. OK, not easy. Flexible. No that's not right either. I can write anytime after next weekend. More better.


----------



## maxfieldjadenfox (Jan 29, 2007)

Rodrigo Istalindir said:
			
		

> *snicker*




HEY!


----------



## questing gm (Jan 29, 2007)

I also agree doing it during the week days rather than weekends...anytime during that period i will be fine....

Oh and just to let you know, i live on the other side of the world, so i am technically one day ahead from most you guys in the west... so putting it on a thursday would mean a friday for me....


----------



## mythago (Jan 29, 2007)

I have to cross over some part of a weekend (either the beginning or the end) of a competition period or you are going to be getting haiku at best from me. Seriously. I generally work 12+ hour days during the week.


----------



## Aris Dragonborn (Jan 29, 2007)

Friday's good for me.


----------



## FickleGM (Jan 29, 2007)

I believe my soonest conflict will be the weekend of the 9th, 10th and 11th (middle daughter's birthday - we will be out of town).

Other than that, this Friday is fine by me, as well.


----------



## Graywolf-ELM (Jan 29, 2007)

The week, and weekend are as good as it gets for me right now, so almost any day that works out.

GW


----------



## Piratecat (Jan 29, 2007)

I'm reasonably flexible -- but like Mythago, I'm much better off if I intersect a weekend. We're in the process of shipping a game, and that means long hours for the next month. I'll just work around my work schedule.


----------



## Miles Pilitus (Jan 29, 2007)

Writing over the weekend is best, but I can probably manage just about anytime.


----------



## Berandor (Jan 29, 2007)

If at all possible, I'd like a weekend spot, as well. If not possible, I'd like to be in the last match-up of round 1. If not possible, either, then just hit me with a couple of pics and I'll make a story nonetheless.


----------



## tadk (Jan 29, 2007)

*More Better*



			
				maxfieldjadenfox said:
			
		

> I'm out of town the 2nd to the 6th. Other than that, I'm easy. OK, not easy. Flexible. No that's not right either. I can write anytime after next weekend. More better.





More better
good writing
grunt grunt

See I can stay in a single tense


----------



## Piratecat (Jan 30, 2007)

tadk said:
			
		

> See I can stay in a single tense



Patient: "I am felt stressed!"
Doctor: "Aha! No wonder; you're two tense."


----------



## Sialia (Jan 30, 2007)

mythago said:
			
		

> Just heard from Sialia that she is unavailable.





Sigh.

And this looks to be *such* a good one. 

But as I told Mythago, I'm working on a *very* special new project, and expect to spend the next several weeks throwing up, rather than throwing down.

Given the lurid dreams this project has been giving me, if I can manage some sketching time in between things (and the judges are interested), I might be able to come up with a few new images worth writing about--dunno--seems like it's been a long, long while since I set pixel to jpg . . .


----------



## Rodrigo Istalindir (Jan 30, 2007)

Piratecat said:
			
		

> Patient: "I am felt stressed!"
> Doctor: "Aha! No wonder; you're two tense."




A guy went to a psychiatrist. "Doc," he said, "I keep having these alternating recurring dreams. First I'm a teepee, then I'm a wigwam, then I'm a teepee, and then I'm a wigwam. It's driving me crazy. What's wrong with me?"

The doctor replied, "It's very simple. You're two tents."


----------



## Herremann the Wise (Jan 30, 2007)

Sialia said:
			
		

> Given the lurid dreams this project has been giving me, if I can manage some sketching time in between things *(and the judges are interested)*, I might be able to come up with a few new images worth writing about--dunno--seems like it's been a long, long while since I set pixel to jpg . . .



I'm interested!   
WOW!
This really is shaping up as a classic Ceramic DM. Whoever wins this series is going to have some _serious_ bragging rights.

Oh by the way, I _finally_ have my judging Scythe now. 
'Lady Death' seems most upset and cantankerous with the roundabout method of her delivery (funnily enough, I'm sure she has a soft spot for me though she hides it well). Your offerings will have to be of the primest quality otherwise you can expect a solid reaping. She hungers for your very souls so in short, you have all been warned.

On the imp front, I put in an order for a jury (twelve) and a squad (six - as I am expecting casualties amonst the jury). Something strange has happened though as at last count I had thirty seven imps! If someone's playing a joke on me, it is not funny! I only "paid" (I won't go into the details suffice to say it was "expensive") for eighteen but have well and truly been oversupplied. Now I can tell you, Hell just doesn't give these guys away so there's a debt floating around out there and it ain't mine... [look's around nervously - waving 'Lady Death']. Yeah, so whoever's playing jokes on the judge ha ha.

Best Regards
Herremann the Wise


----------



## Piratecat (Jan 30, 2007)

Rodrigo Istalindir said:
			
		

> The doctor replied, "It's very simple. You're two tents."



Pippin went to Gandalf. "Gandalf," he said, "I'm having this weird problem. We destroyed Isengard, but now Quicklimb and Treebeard keep following me around and offering me Earl Gray and Oolong! Why would they do that?"

Gandalf replied, "It's very simple. They're two tea-ents."

-----

_Warning: I'll probably make more puns unless the contest gets started quickly. _

EDIT: And congratulations to Sialia!


----------



## orchid blossom (Jan 30, 2007)

yangnome, I think the three judges all have PM capability, you want to shoot us your e-mail address so we'll be able to get the judgements to you?


----------



## yangnome (Jan 30, 2007)

Sialia said:
			
		

> Sigh.
> 
> And this looks to be *such* a good one.
> 
> ...




I am interested too Sialia.  Email me at yangnome at yangnome.com and we can work out details.


----------



## yangnome (Jan 30, 2007)

orchid blossom said:
			
		

> yangnome, I think the three judges all have PM capability, you want to shoot us your e-mail address so we'll be able to get the judgements to you?



 I don't have pm capability, but my email is in the post above this one.  It might be a good idea for contestants to write it down too in case they have problems posting here at deadlines.


----------



## BSF (Jan 30, 2007)

yangnome said:
			
		

> I don't have pm capability, but my email is in the post above this one.  It might be a good idea for contestants to write it down too in case they have problems posting here at deadlines.




Indeed!  A very good idea!  yangnome at yangnome dot com is the address to remember.  If there is some sort of weirdness with EN World when your story is due, email it to Yangnome.  That way you have a judge that can attest that it would have been posted on time.


----------



## mythago (Jan 30, 2007)

Sialia said:
			
		

> But as I told Mythago, I'm working on a *very* special new project, and expect to spend the next several weeks throwing up, rather than throwing down.




"I didn't throw down. I threw _up_." /callofcthulhu


----------



## maxfieldjadenfox (Jan 30, 2007)

I'm starting to get excited! It's great to be in such exalted company...


----------



## tadk (Jan 30, 2007)

*Curious*

Curious as to how long Sialia's project is going to last


----------



## Piratecat (Jan 30, 2007)

tadk said:
			
		

> Curious as to how long Sialia's project is going to last



Nine months, with an _extremely_ long post-project followup.


----------



## Rodrigo Istalindir (Jan 30, 2007)

Piratecat said:
			
		

> Nine months, with an _extremely_ long post-project followup.




I thought that's what she meant, but I've made that mistake before and barely lived to tell the tale.  I swing from "amazingly obtuse" to "too clever for my own good".

Congrats, Sialia!


----------



## tadk (Jan 31, 2007)

*Well*

Well congratulations on that and at 22 years my oldest project is still proving an interesting proposition.

Again sincere congratulations.


----------



## yangnome (Jan 31, 2007)

I htought that was what she was talking about too.  Congrat Sialia.  If of course we're wrong, it is Rodrigo's fault!


----------



## maxfieldjadenfox (Jan 31, 2007)

Sialia said:
			
		

> Sigh.
> 
> And this looks to be *such* a good one.
> 
> ...




Sialia, Sincere congrats! The scampering chaos will have a sibling. Too cool.


----------



## Piratecat (Jan 31, 2007)

Hey judges, do we start this weekend?


----------



## Rodrigo Istalindir (Jan 31, 2007)

Piratecat said:
			
		

> Hey judges, do we start this weekend?




Want to get the loss out of the way while the rest of us are preoccupied with the SuperBowl?  I understand completely.


----------



## yangnome (Jan 31, 2007)

Yes, this weekend.  Here's the plan as it stands now.  Be advised that the schedule is not set, my wife, my work, my schoolwork or any collect calls I accept from Cthulhu could ater this plan.  I'll put up matches tonight or tomorrow morning, then post rounds starting on Friday morning approximately between 0800 and 0900 PST.  The weekday half of the contestants will have their matches posted Monday am, approximately the same timeframe.


----------



## mythago (Jan 31, 2007)

Rodrigo, you need to be less preoccupied with the Superbowl and more with the super beatdown you are about to receive!


----------



## Piratecat (Jan 31, 2007)

It's okay. He's scared, so he's sublimating. Happens to the best of us.

Anyways, I ALREADY got the loss out of the way.  Stupid Patriots.


----------



## Rodrigo Istalindir (Jan 31, 2007)

Piratecat said:
			
		

> It's okay. He's scared, so he's sublimating. Happens to the best of us.




Sorry.  It's the chili dogs I had for lunch


----------



## Drawmack (Jan 31, 2007)

Rodrigo Istalindir said:
			
		

> Sorry.  It's the chili dogs I had for lunch




Now that sounds like a cathartic experience.


----------



## maxfieldjadenfox (Feb 1, 2007)

yangnome said:
			
		

> Yes, this weekend.  Here's the plan as it stands now.  Be advised that the schedule is not set, my wife, my work, my schoolwork or any collect calls I accept from Cthulhu could ater this plan.  I'll put up matches tonight or tomorrow morning, then post rounds starting on Friday morning approximately between 0800 and 0900 PST.  The weekday half of the contestants will have their matches posted Monday am, approximately the same timeframe.





Yangnome, 
I hope I was clear that I will be out of town Friday through Tuesday with no computer access beyond what the hotel might offer, certainly no time to check pictures or write anything... Hope that's not a problem.
Max


----------



## yangnome (Feb 1, 2007)

maxfieldjadenfox said:
			
		

> Yangnome,
> I hope I was clear that I will be out of town Friday through Tuesday with no computer access beyond what the hotel might offer, certainly no time to check pictures or write anything... Hope that's not a problem.
> Max



 oops, missed that part.  I'll start at least one round Wednesday.


----------



## BSF (Feb 1, 2007)

I don't currently have EN World access from work, so pictures posted during a non-work period would be preferrable, though certainly not a requirement, for me.  My general work schedule is Monday-Friday 8:30 AM - 7:00 PM Mountain.


----------



## maxfieldjadenfox (Feb 1, 2007)

yangnome said:
			
		

> oops, missed that part.  I'll start at least one round Wednesday.




Thanks, Yangnome!


----------



## tadk (Feb 1, 2007)

*When does my competition start?*

Hey Yangnome,

So when do the poetry rounds start?
Just curious and all that, need to keep warming up the metaphors, so they are nice like the weather down here in Florida, mid 50s, kinda chilly, almost need a coat kinda chilly.

So yeah let me know ok 

TK


----------



## Rodrigo Istalindir (Feb 1, 2007)

tadk said:
			
		

> Just curious and all that, need to keep warming up the metaphors, so they are nice like the weather down here in Florida, mid 50s, kinda chilly, almost need a coat kinda chilly.




Bite me


----------



## Sialia (Feb 1, 2007)

*p2g1*

Thank you for congrats and kind wishes. Yes, it's true, I'm expecting.
And yes, the san loss has already begun.
I'm looking forward to being mightily distracted by brilliant prose. Anybody who makes me weepy gets extra points.


----------



## maxfieldjadenfox (Feb 1, 2007)

Rodrigo Istalindir said:
			
		

> Bite me




I'm going to Chicago for the weekend. It was 25 below zero there this morning. Any advice on how to stay warm? We've had a bunch of snow for NM this year, but no temperatures that low to deal with...

And yes, Sialia, I'll strive to make you weep. I remember those hormones, it shouldn't take much.


----------



## Graywolf-ELM (Feb 1, 2007)

ok, you, BSF, and myself are in NM, anyone else here?  Friday night I'm headed over to the new Gaming Coffee shop in Rio Rancho, at Southern and Unser, It'd be cool to see any of you there.

The Inquisitive   Rio Rancho, New Mexico 87124  Their website isn't much to look at yet.

GW


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## Herremann the Wise (Feb 1, 2007)

maxfieldjadenfox said:
			
		

> I'm going to Chicago for the weekend. It was 25 below zero there this morning. Any advice on how to stay warm? We've had a bunch of snow for NM this year, but no temperatures that low to deal with...



Yeah, it's a chilly 26 degrees here in Sydney today. That's 26 degrees centigrade (about 80 degrees in your scale I think). Back to the 30's tomorrow which should be nicer. I can help out with tips for avoiding sunburn but not avoiding the cold. I've heard of something called thermal underwear but have no idea what it is. Perhaps that might help?   



			
				maxfieldjadenfox said:
			
		

> And yes, Sialia, I'll strive to make you weep. I remember those hormones, it shouldn't take much.



My wife gave birth 8 weeks ago and she's still hormone central.

Congratulations Sialia, I hope you have a good pregnancy and a happy, healthy bubby. Good luck on not weeping though; that's going to be tough.   

Best Regards
Herremann the Wise


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## Rodrigo Istalindir (Feb 2, 2007)

maxfieldjadenfox said:
			
		

> I'm going to Chicago for the weekend. It was 25 below zero there this morning. Any advice on how to stay warm? We've had a bunch of snow for NM this year, but no temperatures that low to deal with...




I get in a hottub with some tequila in a glass, some Roger Clyne and the Peacemakers on the iPod, and think warm thoughts.

I'm a Florida boy at heart; I miss the days of 100 degree temps and 100% humidity.  I try to make a couple trips down the block to the zoo and hang out in the tropical flower exhibit.


----------



## BSF (Feb 2, 2007)

Graywolf-ELM said:
			
		

> ok, you, BSF, and myself are in NM, anyone else here?  Friday night I'm headed over to the new Gaming Coffee shop in Rio Rancho, at Southern and Unser, It'd be cool to see any of you there.
> 
> The Inquisitive   Rio Rancho, New Mexico 87124  Their website isn't much to look at yet.
> 
> GW




I invited several, but most declined.  

Let's see, you might notice a similarity with MaxfieldJadenFox and BardStephenFox in that last name.  Jaden is an in-character cousin of Stephen.  Though our character names are nothing like our player names.  I tried to entice two others from our gaming group, as well as others from my second gaming group.  No luck there.  Eeralai doesn't feel up to writing right now.  Among several other things, it would be difficult to have both of us writing with a 4 month old as well as the other two children in the family.  Hopefully we will still see some commentary from other New Mexicans.  I'm looking for them.  

Sounds like an interesting shop to hit.  Sadly, I no longer live on the west side of town so it is a bit longer trip to Rio Rancho.  Given everything else going on right now, I am going to have to decline.  But we should hang out together at some point.  It would be neat to meet you.


----------



## Rodrigo Istalindir (Feb 2, 2007)

Nice try, you all, pretending you all don't already know each other and aren't conspiring against me.  I wasn't born yesterday.  The similarity in the screen names was too clever for your own good.


Caught between the New Mexico Cabal and the Piratecat/Sialia/Mythago Triumvirate, I guess.  So be it -- bring it on!


----------



## Piratecat (Feb 2, 2007)

Dude, I'll buy you a beer if you join our triumverate and make it a quadrilumverate. Anyone else can join, too.  We're inclusive.


----------



## BSF (Feb 2, 2007)

*laugh*  In thread, I have personally met two others.  Jaden, obviously, is one.  The other is Sialia!  It was a delightful evening of dinner and conversation with Sialia, Bandeeto and the Scampering Chaos back in November 2005.  I wish I had been more awake that evening, but it was still great to meet Sialia and her family.


----------



## orchid blossom (Feb 2, 2007)

Sialia said:
			
		

> Thank you for congrats and kind wishes. Yes, it's true, I'm expecting.
> And yes, the san loss has already begun.
> I'm looking forward to being mightily distracted by brilliant prose. Anybody who makes me weepy gets extra points.




Wow, I'll really have to rip someone a new one to get Sialla weepy, but I want those points!

Congrats, Sialla!


----------



## Rodrigo Istalindir (Feb 2, 2007)

Piratecat said:
			
		

> Dude, I'll buy you a beer if you join our triumverate and make it a quadrilumverate. Anyone else can join, too.  We're inclusive.




Hmm....

I don't know -- a hand and an eye seems like a pretty stiff initiation fee!


----------



## maxfieldjadenfox (Feb 2, 2007)

Piratecat said:
			
		

> Dude, I'll buy you a beer if you join our triumverate and make it a quadrilumverate. Anyone else can join, too.  We're inclusive.




Beer good. Foamy! Wish I was there. 

As far as the gaming cafe, I have to pass this week since, as I said, I will be freezing my nethers in Chicago. But absolutely sometime in the near future.


----------



## yangnome (Feb 2, 2007)

OK, folks, I've cast the lots and randomly assigned the contestants.  We have some interesting matchups.  They will be as follows:

Round 1:
(We have 14 competitors for Round 1. This of course will leave on dangling body for round two. I am strongly opposed to the use of byes though, so there won't be one. Instead, the judges' favorite loser will be able to remain in the competition and will face the judges' favorite overall story. This helps ensure that people are writing every round and while Lady Death might not like allowing a player a lease on a soul, I think it is better than allowing someone a free pass to the next level.) 

Round 1 Match 1 (Friday):
Aris Dragonborn vs. Miles Pilitus

Round 1 Match 2 (Friday):
Graywolf-ELM vs. Mythago

Round 1 Match 3 (Friday):
Berandor vs. Gabriel

Round 1 Match 4 (Friday):
BSF vs. PirateCat

Round 1 Match 5 (Monday): 
Tadk vs. Questing gm

Round 1 Match 6 (Monday): 
Rodrigo Istilindir vs. Drawmack

Round 1 Match 7 (Wednesday): 
Carpedavid vs. maxfieldjadenfox

I will be posting tomorrow morning, sometime between 8ampst and 10am pst provided nothing interferes at work.  May God have mercy on your souls.

Orchid Blossom: please contact me through email if you get a chance.


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## Berandor (Feb 2, 2007)

I'm up against the archangel, then. Alright. Time to clip some wings.


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## BSF (Feb 2, 2007)

yangnome said:
			
		

> Round 1 Match 4 (Friday):
> BSF vs. PirateCat
> 
> I will be posting tomorrow morning, sometime between 8ampst and 10am pst provided nothing interferes at work.




Sounds like I need to take my laptop to work and try to get out someplace with wireless service for lunch.  

Against Piratecat eh?  Somehow I knew it would turn out this way.  *grin*  This will be fun.


----------



## Herremann the Wise (Feb 2, 2007)

Boy are there some exciting match-ups or what? There is talent across the whole field!

Yangnome, 'Lady Death' has expressed in no uncertain terms to me her disappointment at being deprived of a meal in the first round. I apologise in advance but I think she intends to play havoc with your images much to the contestant's displeasure. I get the impression that if she cannot have her appetite satiated to her original wishes, she intends to make life for the contestants absolutely horrific. I shall do my best to distract her but her will is like iron when it comes to such things.

Best Regards
Herremann the Wise


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## FickleGM (Feb 2, 2007)

Berandor said:
			
		

> I'm up against the archangel, then. Alright. Time to clip some wings.



 I lost my wings long ago.  Of course, I still hope to fly through round one.

Best of luck.


----------



## carpedavid (Feb 2, 2007)

Looks good.


----------



## Drawmack (Feb 2, 2007)

Herremann the Wise said:
			
		

> My wife gave birth 8 weeks ago and she's still hormone central.



My S.O. gave birth 10.5 years ago and she's *STILL* hormone central herself. 

Seriously,
Congradulations Sialia. Raising children is just about the hardest thing you will ever do in your life. They will tear at your heartstrings, make you worry all hours of the day and night, and complicate your life in ways you've never even imagined. And let me tell you, it's worth every minute of it. Children would not be greatest thing in our lives if they were not also the most difficult. I will not wish you luck, but rather I will wish you health and a healthy child.

Drawmack


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## Drawmack (Feb 2, 2007)

> Round 1 Match 6 (Monday):
> Rodrigo Istilindir vs. Drawmack




May the pictures inspire thoughts of greatness and glory, which the muses guide your hands in transcribing into prose so eloquent as to wrench a tear from the hardest heard and inspire the weakest sould. I look forward to competing against you Rodrigo.


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## tadk (Feb 2, 2007)

Rodrigo Istalindir said:
			
		

> Bite me




Come on down
I still have a few teeth left in this old mouth

Dang it was like stuffy going to work today
rained last night
hot and muggy today
May need to turn the A/C back on again, had to last month.
Global Warming has arrived.


----------



## tadk (Feb 2, 2007)

yangnome said:
			
		

> Round 1 Match 5 (Monday):
> Tadk vs. Questing gm





Yippie a new person to lose to

Yippie yahoo hip hip horayy


----------



## yangnome (Feb 2, 2007)

I woke up early and considered droppping a sneak attack, but I'll hold off.  These pictures are wicked.


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## Piratecat (Feb 2, 2007)

yangnome said:
			
		

> Round 1 Match 4 (Friday):
> BSF vs. PirateCat



His writing is consistently classy. I may have to counter with fart jokes.

Hoo boy, here we go!


----------



## Graywolf-ELM (Feb 2, 2007)

*looks at his rusty trash talk*  umm, good luck? Mythago

GW

Dang I think I got that wrong.


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## yangnome (Feb 2, 2007)

the waiting for the pictures part always sucks, doesn't it?


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## BSF (Feb 2, 2007)

Piratecat said:
			
		

> His writing is consistently classy. I may have to counter with fart jokes.
> 
> Hoo boy, here we go!




Hey, in all seriousness Kevin, I have always respected and enjoyed your writing.  I face the prospects of writing against you with a certain amount of trepidation.  Winning means that I knock you out of the competition and I won't have the joy of reading a stroy from you for the next round.  And to win, I will need to be on top of the game with my writing.  I look forward to our round and it will be a pleasure to cross words with you.


----------



## maxfieldjadenfox (Feb 2, 2007)

BSF said:
			
		

> Hey, in all seriousness Kevin, I have always respected and enjoyed your writing.  I face the prospects of writing against you with a certain amount of trepidation.  Winning means that I knock you out of the competition and I won't have the joy of reading a stroy from you for the next round.  And to win, I will need to be on top of the game with my writing.  I look forward to our round and it will be a pleasure to cross words with you.




Hey, maybe one of you will be a favorite loser so you can both advance? I hope to cross swords wth one of you later in the competition...

And hey, Carpedavid... Get ready!


----------



## maxfieldjadenfox (Feb 2, 2007)

tadk said:
			
		

> Yippie a new person to lose to
> 
> Yippie yahoo hip hip horayy




Tad, do I have to repeat my smack talk lesson from the last time? Geez.


----------



## yangnome (Feb 2, 2007)

made you look 





















Seriously, pics coming soon.


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## Piratecat (Feb 2, 2007)

yangnome said:
			
		

> made you look



Please, let me speak for all of us.

AUGGGGGGH!

BSF, one of the delights of this is that whether I win or lose, I know I'm up against a huge challenge -- and that's just plain fun. Thank you for being so gracious on the eve of competition! 

I, however, am nowhere near as gracious. If you're hideously maimed in a surprise ambush by fuzzy red dogs, I hereby state that I had _nothing_ to with it.  Honest.


----------



## yangnome (Feb 2, 2007)

*Round 1 Match 1*

Round 1 Match 1 (Friday):
Aris Dragonborn vs. Miles Pilitus

Sialia's not writing, so I won't set an official word limit.  The guideline is don't bore the judges and make us want to stop reading.  Here are your pics.  You have 72 hours from post time.


----------



## yangnome (Feb 2, 2007)

*Round1 Match2*

Round 1 Match 2 (Friday):
Graywolf-ELM vs. Mythago

Sialia's not writing, so I won't set an official word limit.  The guideline is don't bore the judges and make us want to stop reading.  Here are your pics.  You have 72 hours from post time.


----------



## yangnome (Feb 2, 2007)

*Round1 Match3*

Round 1 Match 3 (Friday):
Berandor vs. Gabriel

Sialia's not writing, so I won't set an official word limit.  The guideline is don't bore the judges and make us want to stop reading.  Here are your pics.  You have 72 hours from post time.


----------



## yangnome (Feb 2, 2007)

*Round1 Match4*

Round 1 Match 4 (Friday):
BSF vs. PirateCat

Sialia's not writing, so I won't set an official word limit.  The guideline is don't bore the judges and make us want to stop reading.  Here are your pics.  You have 72 hours from post time.


----------



## Piratecat (Feb 2, 2007)

I was great... until the last photo.  Curse you!  *shakes fist impotently*

This is going to be really fun.


----------



## Rodrigo Istalindir (Feb 2, 2007)

For reference, the pics were posted ~1700 GMT.  Just in case we have timezone issues like the last time.

I like the match 2 pictures.  No word limit, huh?  Cool.  I seem to have trouble keeping under 5000 words anymore.  Makes those intra-office memos a real chore.


----------



## Piratecat (Feb 2, 2007)

Yang, would it be worth editing the thread title to let folks know that photos are posted?


----------



## Rodrigo Istalindir (Feb 2, 2007)

Piratecat said:
			
		

> Yang, would it be worth editing the thread title to let folks know that photos are posted?




Shhh.  All's fair in love and war, PC.  Besides, there should be some advantage to those of us that can subscribe to threads!


----------



## yangnome (Feb 2, 2007)

Fixed.  Thanks for the heads up.


----------



## Herremann the Wise (Feb 2, 2007)

Best of luck to the first eight contestants.
Some of those image sets are just plain devious - 'Lady Death' looks forward to judging you all.

Best Regards
Herremann the Wise


----------



## tadk (Feb 2, 2007)

maxfieldjadenfox said:
			
		

> Tad, do I have to repeat my smack talk lesson from the last time? Geez.





Bring it on
Would you like help in the copy and paste of said smack talk


----------



## Berandor (Feb 2, 2007)

Damn, these are some fine pics. If only I could fit even one of them into a coherent story.

But after a night of sleep – aha! – I will most assuredly know what to do with... whatever it is these images show.

Curse you, yangnome!


----------



## yangnome (Feb 3, 2007)

yeah, I kind of skipped that easy, get your feet wet first round we usually have.  I've seen most of you guys swim well in the deep end.  Now get in the water, I don't care how cold it is.


----------



## Sialia (Feb 3, 2007)

And for the first time in several weeks, I'm profoundly glad to be too sick to be writing in this contest.

Thanks for making me feel better, Yangnome!

Now to get to scrounging around that palette looking for some images worthy of this kind of company . . .

"Bon chance" to the contestants. Your pain amuses me already.


----------



## Piratecat (Feb 3, 2007)

Sialia said:
			
		

> "Bon chance" to the contestants. Your pain amuses me already.



I know where you live, missy!






If I show up, will you give me ideas?​


----------



## Rodrigo Istalindir (Feb 3, 2007)

Hey, Aris, which pictures are you going to use?


----------



## Rodrigo Istalindir (Feb 3, 2007)

Piratecat said:
			
		

> His writing is consistently classy. I may have to counter with fart jokes.
> 
> Hoo boy, here we go!




Judging by your posts in the halfling and troll threads, I'd say innuendo would be more likely.  Bad moderator!   It's Rel's influence, I bet.


----------



## Piratecat (Feb 3, 2007)

Rodrigo Istalindir said:
			
		

> Judging by your posts in the halfling and troll threads, I'd say innuendo would be more likely.



Innuendo? Isn't that Italian for "suppository"?

Ahem.

Back to plotting.


----------



## questing gm (Feb 3, 2007)

tadk said:
			
		

> Yippie a new person to lose to
> 
> Yippie yahoo hip hip horayy




That makes two of us then....go easy on the rookie, i haven't written anything for awhile (and certainly without a bizarre collection of pictures as my guide).   
Best of luck to both of us then... 

and whoever this 'lady death' is...i pray that her pictures would not smite me...


----------



## Piratecat (Feb 3, 2007)

Lying in bed this morning, everything just clicked in place. Now I have to write the thing.


----------



## Drawmack (Feb 3, 2007)

Piratecat said:
			
		

> Lying in bed this morning, everything just clicked in place. Now I have to write the thing.




It's awesome when that happens.


----------



## BSF (Feb 3, 2007)

Piratecat said:
			
		

> Lying in bed this morning, everything just clicked in place. Now I have to write the thing.




Hey no fair!

Lying in bed today with my throat all swollen and hurting I was thinking "What am I going to do with these pictures?  Oh well, I still have a bit more than 48 hours...


----------



## yangnome (Feb 3, 2007)

An interesting thought came to me while laying in bed this morning also—ok, I wasn’t in bed, I was in the shower getting ready for work…I just wanted to copy everyone else.  A number of CDM contestants make a showing at GenCon and I’ve been trying to think how we could have some in person CDM-style event given the time restrictions and such.  I think it’d be cool to see each other in person and also make use of the creativity we bring to stories.  Still, no one wants to waste three of their four days at the con writing a story—and that would only take care of one round.

So I was massaging shampoo into my hair when the idea hit me.  What if we wrote our stories in the week preceding the con and had a get together at the con to read them-- a one round free-for-all with everyone writing on the same group of pictures. 

But how would the stories be judged?

Everyone would be a judge.  We would choose a time and place for live readings.  Everyone would cast votes ranking stories in order of their preference and providing feedback on picture use and such.  The contestants would all participate in the judging process.

But how would we get pictures if the contestants are the judges?

Depending on the number of people that sign up for the event, we have a few options.
1.	Each contestant submits one picture to a common thread prior to the start of the event (assign a certain time window for posting the pics).  Contestants have to use all the pictures in their story. Upside, no one has the great advantage of seeing all the pics first, or arranging the pic line-up.  Downside: if too many people compete we have too many pics to make a cohesive story.
2.	Contestants are randomly selected to provide a picture each.  This is the solution if there are too many contestants to allow everyone to pick.
3.	One person picks the pictures, but doesn’t compete.

Anyone interested in doing this?  Sure ,it is only a one round deal, but it could be fun.  
I wouldn’t imagine it taking more than an hour or two to get together, read the stories and make a decision.

Any thoughts?


----------



## FickleGM (Feb 3, 2007)

First, I will have to think about your idea, but it does intrigue me.  As a n00blet, I'll have to ponder it a bit (and see how I do during my first go at this) before committing to another time.

Second, is there a minimum wordcount?  I am preparing to post it and it clocks in at only 1390-ish words, according to Microsoft Word.  I can fluff it up a bit, if necessary, but I wanted to keep the story moving and kept it short.

Third, do I just post it in this thread when I am ready?  My n00bness is showing.


----------



## yangnome (Feb 3, 2007)

1) There is a minimum word count.  You need to use the right amount of words to tell the story you are writing.  it would also be a good idea to make certain you use all the (correct) pictures for your round  (hey, its happened).  So your word count is fine if you've told the story you want to tell--we've had short stories and long stories.

2) You post it to this thread.  Once you post it, you cannot edit it, so make certain you upload the correct version.  Also, make certain you reference where the pictures belong in this story.  This can be done with hyperlinks or with footnotes.  If you have questions about this, look at some of the competitions linked in this thread


----------



## FickleGM (Feb 3, 2007)

*Round 1 Match 3 (Friday): Berandor vs. Gabriel*

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

Day of the Goatsees
by Gabriel


“I can’t believe that we’re going to make it.  We’re going to get out of the city alive.”

Smitty looked back at me, putting his finger to his lips, “Keep it down, man, or you’re going to get us all killed.”

He was right, but then again, he had been right since I met him today.  Smitty was the smart one amongst us, the guy with the level head, the natural leader and the reason we were still alive.

“So, how did you make it this far?” Nora whispered.

Nora was the most recent addition to our group, and living on the outskirts of the city, she hadn’t gone through what we had.  We found her in a park, playing an accordion, of all things.  The look of uncertain fear on her face, as she played for the young goatman, was not concealed very well behind her forced smile [1_3_3].  Smitty made short work of the invader, and Nora gladly joined our small group, thankful to be rescued.  After saving Nora, we had made our way to a convenience store at the edge of the city and were hiding behind a dumpster.

Smitty motioned for us to move and soon we were dashing from behind the dumpster toward the tree line and freedom.  It looked like the five of us were actually going to make it out of the city, yet I was still nervous.  I’ve seen what they were willing to do…it wasn’t pretty.

Stopping behind some bushes to catch our breath, I turned to Nora and in hushed words, began the tale of this morning’s events, “Well, I was at work, like most mornings.  I work for LAM Studios, writing jokes for their comedy program – Lost Won Liners.  Day after day, rolling out bad jokes, but I suppose it’s better than flipping burgers.”

Todd, who worked at Burgermeister Burgers, shot me a dirty look.  I guess I should have used a different comparison.

“I love that show,” Nora quipped, breaking the tension.

“Anyway, I was cranking away at the typewriter when the doors burst open.  Thinking quickly, I dove to the side of my desk, while my co-worker just pointed at the intruders and yelled, ‘You can’t be in here! Security!’ [1_3_1].  Those were Peter’s final words.  I barely had the time to glance back as a shape hurtled past my desk and delivered a devastating head-butt to Peter’s skull, crushing it and killing him.  I scampered on all fours as fast as I could and slipped out the side door.  Luck was with me this morning, as the goatman’s hooves couldn’t gain any traction on the linoleum floor.”

Smitty motioned for silence and I looked to him to see if he was ready to move, but he shook his head from side to side and pointed between the trees.  A couple hundred feet away, three of the horned intruders were moving through the woods.  They were obviously looking for anyone who was trying to escape…like us.

As the goatmen moved out of sight, Smitty whispered, “We’ll wait a few more minutes and then move.”

Picking up where I left off, “Where was I?  Oh yeah, having made it out of the room, I locked the door and ran down the hall toward the front lobby, oblivious to the fact that there would probably be more goatmen there.  Since I was in a side hall, instead of the main hall, I lucked out and didn't run across any on my way.”

I looked over at the fifth member of our group, Shani, LAM Studio’s receptionist.  The expression on her face grew ashen as I neared her part in this story.  She had not said a word since we left the studio, which made it easy to forget that she was with us, but I knew that she was hiding something.

I continued my story, “Just before I got to the lobby, I heard a gasp off to my right, behind a supply closet door.  I tried to open the door, but someone was holding it shut from the other side.  I could hear the sound of hooves approaching, so I whispered through the door, ‘It’s me, Jack, let me in.’ Well, she hesitated for a moment, but eventually the door opened, revealing Shani.”

Shani looked a bit embarrassed at that part, but managed a tiny smile.  Perhaps she would make it, after all.

“We hid in the closet for what seemed like an eternity.  Finally, I decided that we had to go, so we crept out of the closet and moved back down the hall toward one of the side doors.  As we reached the door, we heard the sounds of whistles blowing, screaming, fighting and breaking glass coming from outside.  Looking out the window, we saw that the local constabulary was engaging the strange invaders on the streets.” 

“Okay, let’s go,” Smitty commanded and we were off again.

The five of us ran into the woods and left the sounds of the goatman incursion behind us.  You could feel the relief in the air, as we realized we were going to make it.  We ran a short distance before stopping again to rest.

Through labored breathing, I turned back to Nora and resumed the story; “The scene on the streets was absolute chaos.  I started to have second thoughts about whether or not I should leave the building, but Shani pushed the doors open and ran out into the mayhem.”

“Well, this is where we met Smitty,” I looked toward our bald leader, but he looked away, obviously his modesty did not allow him take too much pride in his heroics.  "He was one of the riot squad, fighting the goatmen on the streets and trying to protect the city’s population.  The stern look on his face, along with the panicked mass of officers behind him, told me that the riot squad was not winning the battle [1_3_2].  As his companions fell to the invaders and broke rank to save their lives, Smitty motioned to me to follow him as he grabbed Shani and pushed his way through the battle.  You should have seen him, swinging his baton in front of him and kicking goatmen out of the way.”

Smitty looked back, “I abandoned my men to save the two of you, it wasn’t heroism, it was desperation.”

I nodded solemnly, but chose not to argue with him; “Well, the riot squad was already scattered and the battle appeared to be lost, so I was very thankful that he chose to save us.”

Smitty stood up and prepared to move again, “I would like to get a few miles between us and the city before we stop for the night.”

As we walked through the forest, I kept talking, “Smitty led us down the back alleys and side streets in order to avoid the strange attackers.  We had gone about ten blocks when we ran into Todd…literally.”

Todd shot me another look, but this time it was apologetic in nature.  I smiled back my forgiveness.

“I heard the humming sound of a motor and turned to see him speeding down the street on a scooter, with a giant fan strapped to his back [1_3_4].  Unfortunately, he was distracted by Shani and did not notice me.  Needless to say, my suit was ruined in the resulting collision, but it protected me from getting all scraped up.  As you can see by the scrapes and cuts on Todd, his shorts and tee-shirt didn’t offer the same protection.”

Nora gasped and then giggled, “Here I thought that you guys were beat up fighting the goatmen.”

“Alas, no.  Only Smitty actually engaged the goatmen in combat.  After brushing ourselves off and making quick introductions, we continued our journey out of the city, which brings us to meeting you in the park.”

Nora smiled, “I am just glad that young goatman was a fan of accordion music.  Who would have thought that learning to play the instrument would save my life?  It’s too bad we had to leave it behind, but I suppose that it would have been too loud to bring along.”

A sudden scream of pain interrupted our conversation.  We turned to see Shani sprawled on the ground, having tripped over some roots and lost her shoe.  It was then that we noticed her cloven foot…


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## Berandor (Feb 3, 2007)

Gabriel said:
			
		

> Second, is there a minimum wordcount?  I am preparing to post it and it clocks in at only 1390-ish words, according to Microsoft Word.  I can fluff it up a bit, if necessary, but I wanted to keep the story moving and kept it short.



Aargh! What?! 

You may not have wings anymore, but you still have connections to the muses, I guess. So now I can't procrastinate by reading this thread anymore, or I'd risk reading your story before I finish my own... or even begin it.

Damn.


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## Graywolf-ELM (Feb 3, 2007)

In the past, haven't we had a thread for just the stories, and a thread for trash talk and discussion?  I don't want to accidentally read another entry, but I do want to see the conversation here.  I have my story, just not sure if I'll have the time to do it justice now.  

GW


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## orchid blossom (Feb 3, 2007)

Graywolf-ELM said:
			
		

> In the past, haven't we had a thread for just the stories, and a thread for trash talk and discussion?




That was kind of in the middle ages.  In the far past stories, trash talk, and judgements were all in one thread.  You just had to avoid your opponents story the old fashioned way.

I prefer it all together, myself.  I think more than one thread kills the momentum a bit.  Just remember if you're offering comments on a story that has not yet been judged, s-block them.


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## FickleGM (Feb 3, 2007)

Do we want to sblock the stories?  Just wondering.

If we do, I would need a mod to sblock mine, so that I don't break the rules and edit it...

If not, no biggie, just thought I'd mention it.


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## orchid blossom (Feb 3, 2007)

Well, I'm not the man in charge, but I'd say no.  We never have and it would probably be kind of a pain.

If you see your opponents story up, just move down to the next post.


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## FickleGM (Feb 3, 2007)

orchid blossom said:
			
		

> Well, I'm not the man in charge, but I'd say no.  We never have and it would probably be kind of a pain.
> 
> If you see your opponents story up, just move down to the next post.



 Agreed.  I just wanted to point out a possible alternative.


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## yangnome (Feb 3, 2007)

Yeah, I wouldn't s-block stories.  Comments on stories, yes, but not stories.

Berandor> Weren't you the one that had a really quick turn around on your stories in the past?  Why are you procrastinating?


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## yangnome (Feb 3, 2007)

oh, and I can't wait for the judgement.  I can't believe gabriel just goatse'd Ceramic DM.


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## Berandor (Feb 4, 2007)

yangnome said:
			
		

> Berandor> Weren't you the one that had a really quick turn around on your stories in the past?  Why are you procrastinating?




I _could_ blame exam preparation (four next week), but I think I'd rather blame your pictures. 

But fret not, I just happened upon a story idea – though the difference to Piratecat is that I now must go to bed instead of just getting up. My tentative title is "the day the pictures cried".


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## yangnome (Feb 4, 2007)

wow, that would almost warm my heart if I had one.


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## mythago (Feb 4, 2007)

maxfieldjadenfox said:
			
		

> I'm going to Chicago for the weekend. It was 25 below zero there this morning. Any advice on how to stay warm?




Move to California? It's the only thing I've found works for more than the short term.

Other than that, good coat, real gloves and stay the heck indoors.


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## Gulla (Feb 4, 2007)

mythago said:
			
		

> Move to California? It's the only thing I've found works for more than the short term.
> 
> Other than that, good coat, real gloves and stay the heck indoors.



I don't know much about the US generally an even less about Chicaco (exept what I have learned from old gangstermovies) but don't people look strangely at you if you wear a good coat and real gloves indoors?

Even here they do that   

Håkon
Currently looking out at -1, windy and sleet (the English, not the US version I'm told by Wikipedia.) A nice mild winterday.

PS: Way to go Gabriel! There is no price for finishing first here, but it gives something to read a Sunday afternoon.


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## Rodrigo Istalindir (Feb 4, 2007)

yangnome said:
			
		

> An interesting thought came to me <snip>
> Anyone interested in doing this?  Sure ,it is only a one round deal, but it could be fun.
> I wouldn’t imagine it taking more than an hour or two to get together, read the stories and make a decision.
> 
> Any thoughts?





Sounds like fun, although it'd have to be scheduled well in advance.  There's precious little time at GenCon as it is, and I plan on stuffing as much gaming into every nook and cranny as I can.  Maybe over lunch or dinner?

I'm not sure how many Ceramic DM players are GenCon attendees, though.


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## yangnome (Feb 4, 2007)

Rodrigo Istalindir said:
			
		

> Sounds like fun, although it'd have to be scheduled well in advance.  There's precious little time at GenCon as it is, and I plan on stuffing as much gaming into every nook and cranny as I can.  Maybe over lunch or dinner?
> 
> I'm not sure how many Ceramic DM players are GenCon attendees, though.



 well, off the top of my head:

you, PC, Orchid Blossom (provided its the same OB as on CM), possibly Gabriel and I.  I'm sure there have to be some others as well, but if everyone on that list signed up, we'd have enough for pictures and a good round of stories.  Scheduling a lunch probably wouldn't be a bad idea.  A lot of people get tied upwith dinners though.


----------



## Rodrigo Istalindir (Feb 4, 2007)

Wednesday night might be good, too, if everyone is around by then.  Although post-Canadian would be interesting, watching everyone try to write drunk!


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## Berandor (Feb 4, 2007)

Ceramic DM, Round 1, Match 3: Gabriel vs. _Berandor_

*Seeing is Believing* (or, the day the pictures cried – not really)
--

Pain blurred my vision, my knees gave in. The uniformed skinhead lifted his baton and stepped towards me. And yet, neither did I think about blood spurting out of my nose and onto my aquamarine jacket, nor – I would regret this a few hours later – did I lift my hands to protect my face. Instead, I raised my fist and shouted,

»Run, Forrest, run!«

And that wasn't even the most bizarre thing to happen that day.

–

I first met Forrest when I left the tube in Paddington that morning. He stood on the platform wearing shorts, a t-shirt and a goofy grin. You know how beggars come in three types? Type I ended sleeping rough by some sort of crisis and are now trying to get off the streets again. Type II are the crazy ones, unable to live a regular life. Type III aren't really living on the streets. These are the scammers, and since they're the cleanest of the three, also the top earners. Forrest looked like a type II, albeit a happy one, not one of the angry cursing madmen so prevalent on saturday nights.

He approached me with a wobbly gait, as if he wasn't used to using his legs. I fished for my wallet with my right hand and held out my left arm to keep him away. My suit was fresh out of the dry cleaner's.

»Help home?« Forrest spoke like a common drunk, which made me fear even more for my suit.

»Right,« I said. _That_ story. »How much's the ticket?«

»Need diamond.« 

I laughed at his grinning face. »Yeah, right. What for?«

»Transport broke. Diamond repair.«

So he was a type II. Never one to mind my own business, I asked, »Transport to where?«

»Home,« he said, pointing upwards. »Crab nebula.«

Oh, boy. Bullseye. What are the odds of a shipwrecked alien hitting up a paranormal investigator for diamond fuel? Considering my past experiences, I guess the odds are pretty good – there are more of these loonies out there than you'd think.

That's what I do, by the way. Sam Jardine, paranormal investigator. I work for Psi-Eye, one of the better agencies in England – our motto is "we believe it when we see it". We've debunked every case we ever worked on, and with each case the number of our customers has dwindled. People don't want to hear the truth.

When I tell people how I earn my wages, they usually react in one of three ways. The most common one is amusement: "Wow. The stories you must be able to tell." And then they want to hear a story. This is simply annoying, because this line of work is more boring than you'd think. In fact, I like to call it the "most boringest" job there is, though sometimes it's more like the saddest. The second reaction is incredulity: "That's a real job?" This is how my mum still talks, even after five years. The third kind of reaction, though, is the most troubling, and always makes me feel like a doctor on a dinner party. When people who believe in paranormal phenomena hear about my job, they immediately want to prove the existence of these phenomena to me, or demand an explanation about some thing that happened fifteen years ago. There's no sense arguing, there. So I usually nod and smile and turn away, though I might hand over my business card first.

Turning away was what I should have done with Forrest, too, but I was on my way into the office, where I would pour over paranormal magazines and waste my time trying to build a perpetuum mobile out of paper paper clips. I thought I could spend a few more minutes with the alien du jour. Consider it field observation.

»Crab nebula?« I repeated his statement. »That's a long way to go.«

His grin got even wider. »Yes! Help?«

»How big a diamond do you need?«

He indicated with his fingers, roughly half the size of a penny. »Help?«

I pretended to think about it. The next train arrived at the station, and people milled about. He was anxious to stay close to me – I was probably the first to give him the time of day.

»What would you do with the diamond if I got you one?«

He gleamed. »In belt! Then repair.«

I looked at his shorts. He didn't have a belt.

»Not with,« he exclaimed. »Covered in park.«

I wasn't surprised he didn't have his magical belt with him, but I was disappointed. It would have been funny to take a look at it. Anyway, I had to leave.

»I'll see what I can do«, I promised, thinking I'd never see him again. »If I happen upon a diamond, that is.«

»Yes!«, he exclaimed. »Forrest!«

He might have been talking about where he hid his belt, but somehow I immediately took that to be his name. I never learned different.

–

The human eye is easily deceived, so it is not without irony that my boss, James "Mac" Guyver chose our motto. Mac founded Psi-Eye after he had been blinded by an unknown assailant seven years ago. The police had been unable to arrest anybody for the deed, and Mac became known among Ufologists as the guy blinded by an alien raygun. Mac, who had been a chemicist for a government lab, used his insurance payment to start the company, and two years later I came on board. You wouldn't know Mac was blind – that is, if you had no fashion sense whatsoever. Mac insisted on buying his own clothes, and dressing himself. Today he wore a hideous orange suit with a shirt that had escaped some nightmare vision of the seventies. Not at all like my bright aquamarine suit, I assure you.

»How's it going?« Mac asked when I entered the office we shared.

»And you?«

Mac shrugged. »Have you seen Brandy?«

»Nope. She's probably late.«

Brandy was our personal assistant. There are not a lot of things that could get you on the wrong side of this cheery, care-free woman, but describing her as secretary or reminding her of office hours were two surefire ways to do so. Not that it mattered. There were no calls she could field, anyway.

»What's new?« Mac asked, looking past me. He could see vague shadows, but these didn't always correspond with people's positions.

»I just met an alien,« I said. May corrected his gaze. Then I told him about Forrest and his request.

Mac laughed. He had a hearty laugh, and a belly to go with it. His sense of humor had been legendary at his old workplace, and I sometimes wondered whether he purposely dressed so hideously.

»That guy sounds harmless enough,« he said, shaking his head.

»I guess so. Still, so close to Notting Hill, it won't be long before the bobbies show up.«

»Pfft,« Mac said. He held the inhabitants of said chick-flick-annointed part of London in almost as low regard as our clients.

The phone rang. For a moment, we were both shocked. I put my hand out to take the call, but a sudden premonition of dread made me hesitate.

»What's up?« asked Mac. »Answer the phone, Sam.«

I did, and found my fears proved right when the cheeky sing-song voice started speaking before I even announced my name.

»Hello, Ms. Walker,« I said dejectedly.

–

There are three kinds of people who claim paranormal abilities. The first kind makes me angry and nauseous. These are the scammers, who abuse other people's gullibility to fill their own pockets with millions of pounds. The second kind makes me shake my head and roll my eyes. These are what we call "true believers", who see a spot of light in the night and are secure in their interpretation of a spaceship passing by. You cannot convince scammers of the truth, since they already know what's up. You also cannot convince true believers. The more you insist, the easier they disqualify you as part of the conspiracy. And there always is a conspiracy. The third kind of people, however, is the one we might be able to reach. It's also the kind of people who make me sad and depressed when I don't reach them, and it's the kind Ms. Polly Walker belongs to. They are desperate, and they turn to pseudoscience when real science can't help them.

Ms. Walker's husband died a year ago. Marc Walker had been an inventor. He invented the toothpaste-filled toothbrush, for example. Their house was full of gadgets and thingamagobs of various kinds. Ms. Walker was adamant that Marc would find a way back to her, or invent one. So she drifted into the realm of spiritualism and flim-flammery. But just as Marc Walker's ingenuity drove her to believe he'd be able to contact her, his scientific mind led her to contact Psi-Eye. She wanted to believe in paranormal phenomena, but she'd learned from her husband that belief is not a matter of truth. So she demanded proof, and asked us to provide it.

Ms. Walker hadn't really explained what her call was about; she'd just said she wanted me to come see for myself. I was apprehensive when I entered her street. Visiting Ms. Walker always made me drown myself in cheap whiskey in the evening. I liked the woman, quite a lot, actually. She was always so happy at whatever she'd learned or experienced concerning her husband, and you could see her heart breaking all over again when you debunked it. Once, I even offered to lie to her, just to make her feel good. She almost threw me out that day. No, Ms. Polly Walker wanted the truth, even if it was painful. I admired her, which made breaking her heart even more painful.

She answered the door shortly after I'd rung the bell. She was dressed in a green shirt, a blue skirt, and a light blue accordion. She greeted me with affection.

»Hello, Sam. Come in, won't you?«

»Ms. Walker,« I said curtly. 

»Polly,« she insisted for the umpteenth time. And for the umpteenth time, I did not take her up on the offer. She was a client. At least, that's what I had to tell myself in order to make the heartbreak at least somewhat bearable.

»You had something to show me?«

»Follow along.« 

She led me to the garden. Having a garden is one of the true signs of affluence in London, and one of the reasons why Mac always sent me back to Ms. Walker. He liked her money. The garden itself was lush green, and there was a goat in the shadow of a tree, nibbling on grass. The goat wore a t-shirt.

»Marc, say hello to Sam,« Ms. Walker said. 

The goat bleaked once. 

»See?« Ms. Walker asked me with big eyes. Any other customer, I would have laughed and left. But this was Polly – Ms. Walker.

»I'm not sure I do,« I said instead. »Why is the goat wearing a shirt?«

»It's his favorite,« Ms. Walker explained. »Don't you see? It's Marc. He's come back to me.«

I rubbed my forehead. »Ms. Walker–«

She interrupted me. »Watch!«

She began to play the accordion. She played _Like a Virgin_. And just as soon as I recognized the melody, the goat stood up on its hind feet and began to sway to the music. There was a quote printed on the front of its shirt. It read, _"We demand rigidly defined areas of doubt and uncertainty"_. I desperately wanted to leave.

»It's his favorite song,« Ms. Walker said. Her eyes were gleaming.

»It's probably just a circus goat or something,« I said, my mind clutching Ockham's razor so tight it might cut itself.

»Probably, shmobably.« She laughed.

»Listen...« My voice trailed off. I didn't even know what to say. »I'll see whether someone is missing a dancing goat, alright, Ms. Walker? I'll come back soon as I know.«

I left the garden just as _La Isla Bonita_ began. Apparently, Marc Walker had been a Madonna fan.

–

Brandy's desk had a sign proclaiming her to be out for lunch. The sign hadn't been there when I left, so she must have come in while I was gone. Not that any paperwork had been done.

»What was it this time?« Mac wanted to know.

»Her husband got reincarnated into a dancing goat. With a t-shirt. With a Douglas Adams quote.«

»Ha! I'll believe it when I see it.«

»I saw it, Mac. I still don't believe it.« 

I fell down into my chair. I googled _missing pets_. 150,000 hits. I refined it to _dancing goat_ – 15,700 hits. I groaned. Mac grinned.

»Stop laughing,« I said, »or I'll buy you a braille keyboard and have you do the research.«

»Pfft,« said Mac. We both knew it was a hollow threat. Even with a braille keyboard would he let me do the work. After all, he was the boss.

I clicked on the first link and turned the radio on with my other hand. Everything's easier with music.

»...suspect is considered extremely dangerous. We repeat: A terrorist wearing a suicide belt has just robbed a jewelry store on Portobello Road. The man, who spoke English with what witnesses described as a thick Arabic accent, threatened to blow himself up. Allegedly, the terrorist only took a single diamond the size of half a penny. Police is out in full force to find the man, who was described as pale-skinned and dressed in shorts and a t-shirt. Listeners are urged to stay inside until the danger has passed. The suspect is considered extremely dangerous.«

I practically flew out of my seat and began to pace the room.

»That's gotta be the guy,« I said. »Forrest. They're gonna shoot him.«

»You think he's a terrorist?« 

»No. Of course not.« I stopped in front of the roadside window. »If only I knew where he was...«

»Now, don't make a mistake,« Mac said. »I know the woman is getting to you, Sam, but you don't know nothing about that kid.«

At that moment I saw Forrest crossing the street at the far end. He was wobbling merrily along.

»There he is. I've got to help him.«

»Sam, don't. If you leave now, I'll call the police. What if the guy really has a bomb? You ever thought of that?«

I crouched low behind the desk so he couldn't see my shadow. As I snuck out, Mac was still berating the air in front of him.

–

I had to run for several streets until I saw him. Panting, I caught up to Forrest and stopped him by laying a hand on his shoulder.

»Hey!« he said. He was grinning wide. He'd slung a large belt over his shoulder, and another one around his hips. Several lumps of black plastic were fastened to the belts. Wires connected the lumps. In the middle of the belt buckle Forrest had fastened the stolen diamond. The whole contraption really looked like a suicide belt. My throat went dry.

»Repair!« he exclaimed, pointing to the diamond.

»Great,« I said meekly. Police sirens were closing in, seemingly from all around us. »Listen, Forrest, we need to get off the streets.«

»No! Nononono! Move.« He turned and wobbled along the road. I followed.

»The police is looking for you. They're going to arrest you. They might kill you.«

»Home«, Forrest said, gazing upwards. »Move. Home.«

»We need to hide,« I insisted. »Stay put.«

He shook his head. »Move. Energy. Move, energy, transport. Home.«

Suddenly he hit his legs. »Slow!« He looked at me. »Help?«

»Alright. You need to keep moving. And faster.« It was one of the rare occasions where I regretted not having a car. That's when I noticed where I was.

»Come on!«, I said, pulling at Forrest's arm. »Follow me.«

He did. All the while, the sirens grew louder, accompanied by the sounds of running boots.

–

She had been crying. Her swollen eyes looked first at me, then at Forrest, then back at me.

»Sam?«

»Polly, I need your help.«

»Oh, Sam. It's horrible.« She began crying again, while I pushed Forrest through the door and closed it behind us. »The stupid goat ran away. It jumped the fence, and it took Marc's favorite shirt!«

»Don't worry,« I said. »We'll get it back. Now, my friend here needs transportation.«

We found it in the garden shed. According to Polly, it had been close to completion when her husband died. Forrest was growing more restless by the second, and the air seemed to hum with bootsteps and whistles. It only took us a moment to strap the thing on.

»You're looking spiffy,« I said, giving Forrest the thumbs up.

He was standing on a kick scooter. In addition to his shorts, shirt, grin and his ridiculous belt – I was still counting on it to be harmless – a protective helmet sat on his head, and he had a giant fan strapped to his back. It was Marc Walker's "City Cruiser" prototype, and it was utterly ridiculous.

»Move,« he said, sounding satisfied.

Dozens, maybe hundreds of policemen entered the street from both sides. They were advancing slowly. Menacingly.

»You better head in,« I urged Polly. I heard the door close behind me. I gave Forrest a hug. 

»Try not to hit a lamp post, alright?«

»Transport.«

The policemen were quickening their pace. For a moment I wondered what I was doing, but a look at Forrest's innocent grin helped me make up my mind. I did the right thing. The policemen where about thirty yards away. I turned the switch and pulled the cord. The fan sputtered to life. Slowly at first, but then exceedingly fast, Forrest began to roll down the street. He crashed into the black wave, scattering policemen left and right, and kept on rolling. There were three types of policemen around: Some who tried to pursue him, some who stopped altogether, and the rest who still advanced on me.

»Whoo!« I threw my fist into the air.

That's when the first baton hit me. 

Pain blurred my vision, my knees gave in. The uniformed skinhead lifted his baton and stepped towards me. And yet, neither did I think about blood spurting out of my nose and onto my aquamarine jacket, nor – I would regret this a few hours later – did I lift my hands to protect my face. Instead, I raised my fist and shouted,

»Run, Forrest, run!«

–

I awoke later with a tremendous headache, handcuffed to a hospital bed. It took me weeks to convince the authorities of my non-affiliation with Al-Qaida, the IRA, or any other terrorist group. And I'll still be fined for helping a criminal to escape. But I don't feel bad about it. Now, you probably want to know what happened to Forrest, right? After all, a guy in shorts, with a fan on his back the size of Benny Hill's buttocks, shouldn't be too hard to find. Right? Nope. He has never been found. I guess he drove into the Thames, and drowned. Then again, maybe the City Cruiser got him up to speed for the belt to work. Who knows? Don't take me wrong: I don't believe in flying saucers, or aliens visiting the earth. I'm Sam Jardine, paranormal investigator. But sometimes I look at pictures of the crab nebula and think of Forrest. 

I hope he got home safe.


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## Berandor (Feb 4, 2007)

So there we go. 3,262 words. At least, that's what I got from my first try, and I won't go through the text again. Counting words is stupid work. And boring.

Anyway, I hope you guys like it, just in time for Sunday evening (GMT). Now, on to reading what the angel wrote.


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## Berandor (Feb 4, 2007)

yangnome said:
			
		

> oh, and I can't wait for the judgement.  I can't believe gabriel just goatse'd Ceramic DM.



[sblock]Yeah. And we all know what happens to Shani after the three dots. *shudder*[/sblock]

Nice story, Gabriel. May the best wingless – non-angel – one not formerly known as Fickle GM win.


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## Herremann the Wise (Feb 5, 2007)

Well it looks like it's going to be a tough week judging _four_ matches in quick succession. Thank you Gabriel and Berandor for the early submissions, it makes the job a little easier. I shall put 'Lady Death' to immediate use.

I hope she treats you both kindly but I fear such is not her way.

Best Regards
Herremann the Wise


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## Rodrigo Istalindir (Feb 5, 2007)

Herremann the Wise said:
			
		

> Well it looks like it's going to be a tough week judging _four_ matches in quick succession.




If it would help, you could just declare me the winner of my match now.


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## Herremann the Wise (Feb 5, 2007)

Rodrigo Istalindir said:
			
		

> If it would help, you could just declare me the winner of my match now.




Ah... but I've seen the images lined up for your match.

So I have the choice of several hours writing a couple of thousand words judging your match or saving myself the trouble and declaring you the automatic winner.

I'll take writing the judgment thanks. I want to watch you guys squirm.   

Best Regards
Herremann the Wise


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## Rodrigo Istalindir (Feb 5, 2007)

Lady Death and your imps were at my beck and call during the last Ceramic DM.  They hold no mysteries for me.  I double-dog dare them to reap me!


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## Piratecat (Feb 5, 2007)

Rodrigo Istalindir said:
			
		

> I double-dog dare them to reap me!



Let's make sure there are no typos there, eh?


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## Rodrigo Istalindir (Feb 5, 2007)

Well, I wouldn't want them to pare me, either.


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## Piratecat (Feb 5, 2007)

Okay, all written at 3700 words. I'll post it tomorrow, after I've had a chance to reread it. I edit best on a night's sleep.  

Best of luck to everyone else!


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## Berandor (Feb 5, 2007)

I finally had a chance to look at the other pictures.

Yangnome, you are *evil*. Good luck to my co-competitors.


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## Graywolf-ELM (Feb 5, 2007)

*The Princess*

Round 1 Match 2 (Friday):
*Graywolf-ELM* vs. *Mythago*

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

*The Princess*

   Jezzeri Malificantina ni Zespatsia sat in the red velvet-lined carriage as it slowly jostled along the city street.  She hoped never to hear that name again, as she pondered the name that was used more widely: Princess Sharinta.  She gazed out the window of her gilded transport listening to the clop clop of shod feet pulling the carriage over cobblestone streets.  Peasants scurried out of the way, as the widely announced new bride to the king was ushered through the streets, with no less than a score of the kingdom’s finest slayers riding in escort.

   The Princess caught the admiring gaze of an occasional male, and smiled demurely each time, in just the right measure to earn a burning fealty.  Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad, ruling over these people.  The gaze of a female often came with jealousy or derision, but also sometimes with some admiration earning them a demure smile as well, and a mischievous thought.  She was a princess, of course, but the ruling class had their vices and guilty pleasures, did they not?

   Sharinta was shaken from her thoughts by the jarring halt of ironclad wood on cobblestones.  With almost unseemly timing, the door to the carriage was pulled open to reveal an expansive courtyard to an immense fortified castle.  A footman’s gloved hand appeared in the open doorway with practiced flair and perfect positioning for the lady within to grasp.  Assistance was not needed but Sharinta appreciated that proper deference was given to a lady of her station, even if she was the bride price of a truce made between kingdoms.  Taking the proffered hand, The Princess stepped gracefully from the carriage into the presence of her escorts, the footman, and an elderly blind woman.

   The Princess took in the situation and made an effort to command the situation. “*You may rise and take me to see my King.*”  The old woman began to laugh as she stood, and faced Sharinta.  
   “*You will see him tomorrow my lady, after you have enjoyed the entertainment that our lands have to offer.  Our performers and skilled warriors will perform for you, demonstrating the grace and skill that your father has attempted to destroy these many years.  My name is Karina, I was chosen as your handmaiden, because of my loyalty, and my additional resistance to your charms.  Please follow me, and I will show you to your quarters, and prepare you for the evening sleep.*”  
   The old maid turned, and began walking to a side door from the courtyard, waving her hand at the guardsmen as she walked.

   The next morning, Sharinta was awakened to the sound of the old woman laying out her clothes for the day.  A mist green gown, with laces up the bodice, and a sheer underskirt to the dress, coupled with white slippers to complete the outfit.  As the Princess shifted out from beneath the covers, the handmaiden turned to her. 

 “*Ahh, you are awake then.  Best be getting you dressed, there is much to see before you meet your King.*”  

   Sharinta did her best to charm the woman with soft words as she was being dressed, but the old woman did her job efficiently without being distracted.  After a quick breakfast, which Karina had brought to the room, the Princess was led to a small entertainment area built into the castle.  At one end of the small field, a stage was built up against the castle wall.  The other end of the area was open to a field behind the castle, with barren hills beyond.  The Princess was brought to a shaded sitting area where refreshments were waiting.  The handmaiden introduced the first show of the day.

   “*An acting troupe from the southern holdings will perform, ‘The Final Crossing of Findus Stemp.’ *" 

   As if on queue the curtains rose from the stage, to show the fearful faces of four performers sailing a ship upon storm-churned waters.  Sharinta watched the performance with rapt attention.  Never had she seen a reenactment of this story done in such a way.  Of course it was all wrong, she knew the history straight from her father, how could this be a true rendition of the story?  Others had come to watch the performance, and the area in front of the stage was soon full with local peasants.  There was much cheering at the completion of the performance, and Sharinta even clapped along in appreciation.
Karina had refilled her glass several times, without drawing attention to the fact that she was present.  She did step forward to address the Princess after the clapping had died down. 

 “*Next you will see a combat exhibition, look to the open wall there.*”  

As Sharinta turned to her left, she saw the gathering soldiers, who abruptly began fighting at the attention of her gaze.  Testing herself, she caught the eye of one of the soldiers with disastrous results.  The poor man left himself open at the thrust of a short sword, and paid a dear price, as the blade pierced him through the belly.  Sharinta suppressed an amused snort, and the exhibition was abruptly terminated.  

   Having been thrown off a bit, the handmaiden directed Sharinta to view the stage once again for a dance performance.  The curtain was drawn up earlier than expected, and the dancers beyond were revealed, stretching in preparation for their performance.  They quickly composed themselves, and put on a performance, so lively, that the Princess could almost feel the exhilaration.  Again she half-heartedly joined in the applause being offered by the peasants.  It was clear to her, that she might almost enjoy living here, with entertainment such as this, to be had.  Karina stepped forward and announced that it was now time to meet the king.  

   Emboldened by her recent actions, the Princess arose to follow the handmaiden back into the castle.  She was led to an archway, with slayers as guardsmen, and followed Karina through the doors.  They closed with a silent finality behind them, and the Princess took in the audience chamber.  A tall throne sat upon a raised platform on the far side of the room.  Someone stood behind the chair.  Karina spoke, disturbing the profound silence of the chamber. 

 “*Move to the circle painted on the floor, at the base of the dais, and kneel to your new King.*”

   Sharinta did as she was bade, and gazed upon the throne and the man standing in the shadows beyond.  She wondered how young and impressionable he would be, and how much control she would be able to exert over him.  Her father was clever, and she knew how persuasive she could be.  All of these thought were shattered when the King stepped from behind his thrown, with a knowing look upon his face.  Sharinta stared in shock, the famed warrior king, standing before her, not dead as she had been told.  His was an old power, and one she would never be able to influence. 

   He began chanting a spell, which transfixed the Princess to her kneeling spot. “*Jezzeri Malificantina ni Zespatsia I call you into my service, and bind you to my blood.  So long as I safely live, your undying soul will be safe.  Should harm come to me, or you not keep my alive by any means at your disposal, your soul is forfeit.*”  

   A grin spread across his face, as he cut his arm, dripping blood as he stepped down to the circle now glowing around the Princess.  He allowed his blood to touch the circle, as runes shown through the dirt rubbed into them, disguising their purpose.
Sharinta turned her head up and screamed.  

   “*Father no, how could you give him my true name?*” Her eyes blackened in anger, and wings sprung from her back, as she revealed her true form.

   The warrior king looked upon her, and answered the question for her absent father.  “*He saw the writing on the wall.  We fought to stalemate long enough.  His demons versus my slayers, was taking a toll on both our kingdoms.  You are to be my prize, and I will partner with your father to fight his demonic brethren on other borders.  You will keep me alive at all costs, or lose yourself.  Your father will not make an attempt on my life, or risk losing his daughter, or would he?*”  The King laughed, and the Princess looked on in disbelief.


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## Graywolf-ELM (Feb 5, 2007)

Ok, short, and hopefully sweet.  I ran out of time tonight, and will not have time at work in the morning.  I hope it is enjoyable.

GW


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## Aris Dragonborn (Feb 5, 2007)

I wasn't able to get much work done on my story this time around, as I came down with a nasty virus that knocked me flat for the better part of the weekend. 

Here's the little I came up with.






It all started on St. Patrick’s Day.

I was at my favorite watering hole, the Green Clover, with my friends. We were knocking back a few beers after work, enjoying the holiday, and looking forward to the rest of the weekend. The topic of conversation at the moment was “What Would You Do If You Won The Lottery?” This was a popular subject, one that was brought up every so often. After all, everyone loved to dream about hitting it big. 

“So, Danny, what would you do if you were a millionaire?” Sean asked. I drained my glass, and then waved to a waitress for another. Like everyone else at the bar, I had given this a fair bit of thought. “Well, the first thing I’d do is pay off all my parents debt,” I said. “Then, I’d buy myself a nice house in the country somewhere – nothing too big, mind you.” I paused as the waitress brought me a fresh beer. I thanked her with a smile and a wink, and took a long pull before I continued. “And near a lake, I think. Somewhere I can go fishing or boating whenever I wish.” I took a thoughtful sip, and finished, “And I’d buy myself a nice car – or a truck perhaps. Brand new, leather interior and all the bells and whistles you can think of.”

“Ah, Danny, such a simple soul you are,” Kathy said, laughing. “Don’t you want to see the world? Travel across Europe; see the sights, as it were?”

“Not our Danny!” said Kevin. “Now me, I’d invest that money. Maybe start up a company and make even more money. How’s that sound, Danny?”

“Like it’s more trouble than it’s worth,” I replied with a laugh. “For you, it may be all right, but for a ‘simple soul’ such as myself, it’d be more than I could handle, I’m afraid.” We had a good laugh at that.  

I drained my beer, and once again looked around for a waitress. Seeing that none were available, I made my way to the bar to order a pitcher. As I drew near, I was astonished to see a midget standing upon the bar, dressed as a leprechaun. What a wonderful thing to do on St. Patrick’s Day! 

I bellied up to the bar and ordered a beer, my friends momentarily forgotten. I watched with amusement as the leprechaun danced up and down the bar, pausing only long enough to toast others standing at the bar.


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## Drawmack (Feb 5, 2007)

Rodrigo Istalindir said:
			
		

> If it would help, you could just declare me the winner of my match now.




Excuse me


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## mythago (Feb 5, 2007)

Domino
by mythago - Round 1 Match 2

The strobe of high-end digital Nikons faded and even the clicking of the bloggers’ keyboards faded into silence. The first public testing of the RealMasque was about to happen, and it would be news and a photo-op either way, triumphant failure or crashing success. The crowd stilled as Ekaterina Varukovna’s wheelchair rolled over the polished wooden floor.

Cameron Tetsuno shook her hand; that is, he gently took her limp hand between his, then gently replaced it on the armrest of her wheelchair. The wheelchair’s hum echoed through the dance studio.  The boom microphones dipped like watering cranes.  Miss Varukovna’s attendants hovered and fussed behind her as she looked at the RealMasques carefully draped over the barré for her inspection[1]; ballerinas as slender and beautiful as she had been at the height of her career, the prima ballerina whose on-stage collapse at the Bolshoi Theater turned out to be not a strained muscle or exhaustion, but a disease she had the honor of sharing with the late Stephen Hawking.

Tetsuno knew none of this until he had directed his staff to find a likely candidate for the RealMasque’s public demonstration. Varukovna was not only one of the most pitiful subject, but at twenty-four, one of the most photogenic. And the story of her tragic degeneration gave an extra boost to the publicity, drawing in the entertainment media as well as the serious news sources. 

The ruined ballerina flexed her right hand, the only one over which she still had some measure of control. One of her attendants hurried to swivel a modified keyboard under her hand. The room was silent except for her slow, irregular tapping. When she was finished, the speaker at the back of her chair recited the words she’d written in a bland female voice, and in Russian. The news reporter from ITAR-TASS scribbled something on his pad; Varukovna struggled to press another button on her pad and the computer repeated what she’d said in English.

“Are they all the same?”

Tetsuno smiled, the same brilliant, just-you-and-me smile that had helped make him famous, and was about to make him rich. The cameras started up fitfully; he ignored them, the only thing seeming to be of interest right now was Miss Varukovna’s question. “They are all the same in what they can do for you, a bit different in appearance. But whichever one you choose will be unique, once you put in on, madam.”

She rolled forward without another word. RealMasque employees hurried forward with screens to surround her and her attendants, and the barré. It would have been easier to let her take the RealMasque to a changing room, but this was far more dramatic. The viewers would imagine Varukovna undressed and slipping into the RealMasque almost before their eyes; the screens invited curiosity in way walls and closed doors wouldn’t.

There were the sounds of clothes unfolding, and a long pause, and then somebody behind the screen cried out sharply in Russian. The crowd of reporters leaned forward like greyhounds straining at the race gate.

Ekaterina Varukovna stepped from behind the screen, _en pointe_.

Over the escalating voices of television reporters and the staccato flash of what seemed like a thousand cameras, Tetsuno went to her, smiling as if he’d expected nothing less, which, of course, he had. The RealMasque blurred her features somewhat, the skin looked more like a doll’s than a woman’s, but it did exactly what he had promised: it was a flexible exoskeleton that responded to her brain’s commands, ignoring her useless muscles. It moved her limbs as gracefully as a master choreographer guiding the arms of his pupil.

She braced herself against his shoulders and bent into a graceful arabesque. She raised one hand to the side in balance, and leaned forward to kiss Tetsuno on the cheek. _That_, he thought, _will be the top-ranked image on the Internet in the next thirty seconds, or my publicist is going to be cleaning out his desk_.

Fortunately for his talented and dedicated publicist, it was.

#

“So what exactly got you started in robotics?” she asked. 

Tetsuno shrugged. They sat at opposite ends of the V-shaped Armgardt sofa, Tetsuno still in the white tie he’d worn to a charity reception, Sadhye Thul in a cocktail dress that he doubted she could afford on her own; her network had probably let her expense it.  Not only had he agreed to an interview, he’d offered to let her accompany him as his date to a certain highbrow charity event whose invitations were rather hard to come by—even for someone as newly famous as Ms. Thul.  

He pulled at the loose end of his bow tie and decided to take it off entirely. Dressing up like this made him feel great—a cross between Fred Astaire and Andrew Carnegie—but Sadhye was expecting him to loosen up, hoping that the charming young businessman would get comfortable enough to tell her something he’d later regret putting on the record. He noticed that she’d allowed one of the straps of her dress to slip off her shoulder, and wondered if he ought to be insulted that she thought a few inches of skin would drive him to stupidity.

“All that’s been written up in any number of business articles,” he said. “Three years at Penn, robotics hobbyist, amazing breakthrough, business built from nothing out of my garage, millionaire by age twenty-two, and now I’m bored with it. You’ve probably got everything from my college grades to my blood type, so why ask again? More bourbon?”

She was surprised enough that she actually stopped typing on her palmtop for a moment. Without waiting for an answer, he tapped the house controls and a slender drinks table glided to the end of the couch. He poured them both bourbon over ice, clinked glasses with her in a mocking toast, watched as she sipped her drink, gauging how much she could control her drinking without making it obvious to him that she was trying to let him be the one to get sloppy.

“So, ask me some real questions,” Tetsuno said. “No business fluff. You didn’t spray-paint on that dress to get me to talk about the latest earnings projections for RealMasque—although I will tell you they’re very good.”  He smiled and drained his glass, shaking the last drops of bourbon out of the ice cubes pressed against his lips.

Sadhye took his bait and finished her drink. She screwed up her face at the harsh taste of the bourbon, and wiped her mouth on the back of her hand with an unladylike shudder.

“All right, real questions,” she said. “What do you have to say about reports that RealMasque is harming the people who use it?”

“You think Ekaterina Varukovna was harmed?”

“She died three months ago.”

“She died happy,” Tetsuno said. “The RealMasque is an exoskeleton, not a miracle cure.”

“It’s more than an exoskeleton, though, isn’t it?” Sadhye said. “Isn’t that the problem? It’s a whole new body, or at least that’s what people think it is. It’s not just for sick people like Varukovna. People buy these things and wear them like they were costumes, sometimes for days, or weeks—“

“—which is clearly an unsafe use of the product, as our warning labels say in great detail—“

“—and they can’t get out. Their muscles atrophy, their nerves stop talking to their brains, and they’re stuck. As a model, or a pirate, or whatever they’re pretending to be.  They can’t take it off or they’ll be crippled. How can you justify that?”

Tetsuno put his glass down on the little table. He leaned forward and took Sadhye’s palmtop out of her hands, then switched it off. “I can justify it because that’s what people want,” he said. “They don’t want to live in their bodies. They’re not taking any risks I haven’t told them about already. What’s happening to people who live in RealMasques is what they want to happen. That’s the price they’ll pay. What’s the problem?”

“You think turning off my palmtop is going to shut me up?”

He tossed the computer onto the couch pillows next to her. “Talk all you want. Do you think anyone is going to stop buying fantasies because you scolded them in your v-blog? If you think I should feel bad about being rich, think about what paid for all your drinks tonight, all those fancy little hors d’oeuvres you ate and the limousine that brought you here. It’s probably some farm equipment salesman in Des Moines who spent his retirement fund on a RealMasque so that he could surprise his wife on their anniversary.”

She grabbed her computer and stormed out, slamming the door hard enough to rattle the inlaid glass. Tetsuno poured himself another glass of bourbon. Eventually she’d realize that it was half a mile from the door to the end of the driveway, and her car was all the way back in Los Angeles. He wondered if she’d brought enough money for a taxi.

#

A year and a half after Ekaterina Varukovna died smiling in her RealMasque, the military came calling. 

Tetsuno had already seen what everyone was calling the “gladiator video”. RealMasques had always been popular among military re-creationists—wealthy ones, anyway—and one warranty-voiding user had apparently changed not only the functioning of his nerves, but the way his body reacted to trauma.  A jealous ex-husband used real steel instead of a blunted weapon at a mock Battle of Ruspina.[2] His victim wasn’t gutted and barely bled. Tetsuno had already seen the video dissected in meetings for weeks after the incident, but still, when the Naval Research Laboratory knocked on his door, he pretended to be surprised and they pretended to believe him.

He replaced his yacht with a bigger one and spent more of his time there. With the upgraded communications equipment, he barely needed to conduct meetings in-person. Besides, more and more of his staff were using their employee discounts to buy themselves RealMasques. He was proud of what he had invented, but he didn’t enjoy spending long stretches of time chatting with what looked like extremely well-animated mannequins. At least on a computer screen you expected them to look unreal. 

Three years after the ballerina died, Tetsuno threw his last party. He still wasn’t thrilled to see nearly all of his guests “in costume,” as everyone called it. He shook hands and flirted and drank good whiskey, and found a woman he liked enough to take back to his room. He pulled her down to him and realized something was wrong, something he was too drunk to name until she covered him with her body and he felt her, too light for a woman, he’d been with fashion models heavier than she, and he knew it was the RealMasque. She was a shell, her real body not only wasted or atrophied but missing. He had been about to make love to a robot, something that used to be human.

It was perhaps a month after the last party and the worst hangover of his life that the pirates attacked.

The security systems should have caught them. He wasn’t sure what went wrong; a shortage in the power system, or a gap in the patrol-boat schedule. Something woke Tetsuno up in the middle of the night, a thud and a gargling cry that he thought might have been a man having his throat cut, but that was silly; you couldn’t kill a man that way anymore. Not unless he was out of his RealMasque. _That would be *me*_, Tetsuno thought. Nude, he grabbed a bathrobe and went out into the chilly ocean night, tying the belt as he ran, looking for any of the staff, security best of all, anyone would do, anyone else in the oddly silent ship. 

They found him as he headed for the emergency boats. He slipped on the wet deck and fell hard on his right hip. Pirates were known to prey on private boats this far from any Coast Guard or routine naval patrol; he’d expected an ugly, ragged crew of professional killers, or, for no good reason, men dressed in the RealMasques designed to look like the Caribbean pirates that had once been so popular at Halloween. He wasn’t expecting the cast of a Gilbert and Sullivan musical, RealMasques or no.

“There!” one of them shouted, pointing [3], and they swarmed onto the deck.

Tetsudo closed his eyes and hoped death would be fast, if not painless. He felt no blows and no pain, only some pushing and tugging. He tried to push away, and found his arms and legs would not move; he struggled for a few moments before realizing that the strange pirates had bound him with rope. They pulled him to his feet, wobbling, them lifted him into air and carried him aft. He heard the ocean nearby and knew that he was near the rail. _They’re going to throw me into the ocean? Why bother to tie me up?_ he thought, and then he was back on his feet, stumbling as the pirates around fell to their knees, their prostrations beating a tattoo on deck.

The man who hauled himself over the rail looked unreal. Tetsudo knew, even in his isolation, what models and styles of RealMasques his company made. They’d avoided racial stereotypes, and turned down a generous offer from the Cleveland Indians to make a “RealMascot”, but RealMasques came in all ethnicities. None of the Indian RealMasques looked like this man at all. [4] The headdress might have been aftermarket, but there was something strange about it, something Tetsudo could not make out in the faint glow of the ship’s emergency lights—

“Why are they kneeling to you?” he said. “Is this some kind of cult?”

The unreal Indian laughed as if it was the funniest thing he’d heard all day. “Cult!” he said. “I guess you could call it a cargo cult! But it’s not me they worship. It’s you.”

Tetsudo looked around uneasily at the kneeling pirates. “Me? Why?”

“You’re the Creator,” the Indian said. He plucked a cigarette that had been tucked behind his ear and offered it to Tetsudo, who shook his head. The Indian shrugged and put it away again. 

“They kneel to me because I am for you,” he said. “I am the first of our kind to begin Empty, rather than become Empty after the useless meat has withered away. These machines I wear”—he gestured at the circuit board slung around his neck—“give me the ability to act like a machine, as though I had been filled. You will wear me, and we will become one as your body withers away. You can’t know how much human labor and love has gone into making a vessel worthy of you.”

Tetsudo backed away from the talking RealMasque and crashed into the pirates. They pushed him forward as he screamed and fought against the ropes, helpless as they held him ready for the embrace of one of his creations.

The Indian removed his headdress and set it aside as he began to undo his fastenings, making a space for the man who would wear him. Tetsudo’s jaw was held tight as one of the pirates lifted the headdress and set it gently, reverentially on Tetsudo’s head, as if he were crowning a king.




[1] http://www.enworld.org/attachment.php?attachmentid=27626
[2] http://www.enworld.org/attachment.php?attachmentid=27625
[3] http://www.enworld.org/attachment.php?attachmentid=27624 
[4] http://www.enworld.org/attachment.php?attachmentid=27627


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## mythago (Feb 5, 2007)

Gulla said:
			
		

> I don't know much about the US generally an even less about Chicaco (exept what I have learned from old gangstermovies) but don't people look strangely at you if you wear a good coat and real gloves indoors?
> 
> Even here they do that




People look at me strangely anyway, so what's a coat and gloves between friends?


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## Piratecat (Feb 5, 2007)

Aris Dragonborn said:
			
		

> I wasn't able to get much work done on my story this time around, as I came down with a nasty virus that knocked me flat for the better part of the weekend.
> 
> Here's the little I came up with.



It kicks ass that you posted what you've done. Even if an author doesn't finish, that's much more satisfying than the alternative. I wanted to say thank you.


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## Piratecat (Feb 5, 2007)

*Idolatry*
*Round 1, Match 4: BSF vs. Piratecat*


I had no food or drink, so as I walked I chewed on my own little collection of miseries. They tasted bitter: thirst, sore back, sore feet, the gnawing spike of resentful guilt, and the acid taste of panic in my mouth. I needed a drink. I kept walking. I had little other choice. It was getting dark.

I’d left Alicja that afternoon when we argued. I stamped away from the car that she had pulled to the side of the road when she started to cry. She stood there with both hands on the door frame, words sharp as knives and cutting just as painfully, face twisted in an unattractive mixture of sorrow and anger, ordering me to come and _discuss_ it instead of acting like an infant. I had been too furious to look back. I could feel the weight of disapproving parents and grandparents and relatives unknown sitting on my shoulders, anchoring me to ancient laws. I left Alicja behind me on the roadside and I walked away up a path that paralleled the road. I guessed it was less than fifteen kilometers to Kuzmina, and I could easily walk it. I heard her call once, then silence, and finally the distinctive sound of her car engine as it sped up the road. 

I had almost turned back before I heard the car. Now I glowered and turned and kept going. I felt less self-righteous three hours later when it started to rain. I was lost.

I’m not entirely sure where my internal compass failed me. I’m sure I was self-involved enough to have missed a trail. When I topped a ridge and didn’t recognize the narrow valley stretching out before me, I swallowed my pride and back-tracked – and an hour later I still didn’t recognize where I was. By now I knew I had been foolish, but my pride prevented me from admitting defeat. The rain had stopped and it was a warm evening in the Carpathian foothills, so I certainly wasn’t worried about freezing. I was following a clear trail. I kept going.

Dusk fell, and the temperature with it.

Time to rest. I crumpled against a tree and put my head back, feeling the rough bark on the back on my neck. The birds were quieting now, but the meadows still smelled of summer. I clenched moss between my fingertips. Alicja wasn’t budging, and I could feel our love tottering – precariously balanced, slowly wobbling, and tipping under the counterweight of her false Gods. She didn’t have as much to lose as I did. She didn’t have to fear --

I pushed myself to my feet and kept moving. My good leather shoes were starting to raise blisters, but I knew sitting still meant getting cold.

Moving more slowly in the gloaming, I came out on a ridge overlooking another valley. Evening frogs were croaking somewhere in a swamp down the hill. Was that a road down there? Yes! And farther away, a light. Several lights. A town. Kuzmina? I didn’t think so, but they’d have a tavern with a phone. I’d call Alicja…

The blazes I would.

But I’d call a car service, or find someone to ferry me home. I suddenly realized how thirsty I was. I started down the hill, striding past the burbling of hidden frogs, moving cautiously through swampy turf to find a clear path. I kept moving, far too slowly for my impatience. Some time after midnight I hit the road. The town was farther than I would have guessed. By two in the morning I reached car-lined streets of cobblestone as old as the houses that lined them. The houses were dark. I could hear noise from somewhere – the sound of men laughing, and music. 

The grumbling roar of heavy machinery led me to turn a corner, and far ahead of me I saw a bright yellow bulldozer pull away from a cheering, dispersing crowd. Someone yelled something that drew a bawdy laugh. A snippet of song, more shouted well wishes, and the small crowd began to disperse. I saw the growling bulldozer roaring towards me and to my astonishment the bulldozer’s lifted scoop had a bride and groom sitting in it, heads thrown back and faces suffused by joy. The bride’s white dress seemed to glow in the lamplight. I raised my hand and my voice, starting to ask for help, and then they were past me, laughing and waving. The bulldozer turned a corner and its roar faded in the narrow streets.

My thirst kicked in my throat like a wild beast. 

They must have come out of a pub. I wearily tramped the remaining blocks up to where I had seen the crowd of people. The building was tall, black in the pale light, arched windows indicating an architectural style unusual for southern Poland. I looked up at the hanging sign. It said that the tavern was named The Quiet Pool. My heart sank when I saw that the “closed” sign was hanging on the door; the barman must have locked up as the last people left.

But maybe not? I knocked on the door, hesitatingly at first, then more loudly. I gathered my courage and tried the latch. It opened easily. The interior smelled old, very old, and damp – but not moldy or bad. I caught the scent of incense and horse. It caught me off guard.

“Hello?”  The interior was dark other than a gentle light behind the bar. An oil lantern, wick turned low. It hung above a blue silk cloth that lined an empty niche in the wall. 

“We’re closed, you know.” The voice came out of the dark. It was a resonant voice, female, but not from the kind of giggling women who trade tips on makeup and clothes. This voice didn’t giggle. It was the sort of voice could shake hospital walls during labor, that could call farm animals from the far end of fields. It carried the knowledge of pain within a rasp of smoke and liquor. 

“I know, I saw, but I saw everyone leaving and I…” the words all flew out in a rush. “I had a row with my girlfriend and I got lost finding Kuzmina and I haven’t had anything to eat or drink since lunch. Please. I need someplace to rest, and something to drink.”

She was slow to respond. “Many people were just here. There was a wedding. Perhaps you saw.”  She sounded amused, there in the darkness, but there was something else. Something formal. “You have asked for sanctuary in the same breath that you’ve asked for drink? How can I say no? I grant it, boy. Sit. Join me. This is a place where your thirst will be eased.” 

I closed my eyes for half a second in silent thanks, and tottered to a chair. Her own bench scraped backwards, and she stepped to the bar. I watched her. Thin grey hair pulled back, a round face, Asian and ageless. She was very fat in her dull green cardigan sweater. My thirst scratched inside me, an angry rat trying to claw through a wall, but the first sip of beer washed it all away. No drink has ever tasted better than the one she handed me.

She sat, and her voice was proud. “I am Kopça, and you are in the Quiet Pool, my own little temple of drink. This has been my tavern for a long time. You saw the bulldozer?”

“I did. What is up with that?”

She sounded amused. “It is an ancient custom dating back a thousand years. The Mongol horsemen would ride their mounts in and swoop up their intended brides before the bride’s family could stop them. Later, after the marriage was consummated, the horseman’s brothers would gallop the couple around the camp as quickly as they could. It was meant to ensure that the baby would quicken in her. Some customs continue, even if the meaning has been forgotten. For horses we have bulldozers.” She shrugged, her worn hands expressive. “Things change.”

I wrinkled my brow and chuckled uneasily. “But those were proper Poles I saw, not Mongols. The groom must have had a friend who owned a bulldozer.”

“Of course he did. But just because they are proper Poles does not mean they have no Mongol blood. Ogedai Khan reached Poland in 1241. Surely you don’t think they came all this way without leaving something behind as well?” She chuckled deep in her throat. “Tradition is important, as are rituals. In religion and in life.”

It all came crashing back, and I sighed. Her eyes caught the light as she tilted her head.  She had seen my expression. “But there is a story in why you are here.” I nodded reluctantly. “Then you will tell me. It is the offering and the exchange.”

I blinked. The beer was already half gone. “I’m sorry. The what?”

She smiled with her small round mouth. “Tradition is important. We will exchange stories. First you will tell me why you are here, and why you have fought.”

“My girlfriend,” I said, and I licked the foam off the inside of the glass. She fetched another pint and pushed it towards me. “I want to ask her to marry me, but we have a… problem.”

She watched me in silence. I felt awkward, exposed. 

“What do you think of churches?” she asked abruptly.

My brow furrowed. How did she know? “I was raised in one.”

“So was I,” she said, “but surely in a different way. How are you of the church?” 

“I’m orthodox. Really orthodox. My father is a Pastor. Our branch of the church makes, well,” I forced it out, “makes most conservative churches look like athiests. That’s the problem. We try to obey the old laws. I was raised to know what the one true God demands of me. I _know_ the punishments if I fail. I don’t believe in blasphemy, or heretical worship, or the worship of false idols. And she does.” 

She gave a croaking laugh. “False idols.” Her voice fell flat. “Of course. Deuteronomy 11:17?”

I lifted my eyebrows in surprise. “You know it?” She started, and we finished it together, her voice suddenly loud in the small space. 

_“And ye turn aside and serve other gods and worship them, and then the Lord’s wrath be kindled against you, and he shut up the heaven, that there be no rain, and that the land yield not her fruit!”  _

And as she spoke I was gone from the bar. I was in a dank room in a seeping dungeon, and I could feel the weight of a castle above me, and the endless drag of years. It terrified me. The impression only lasted a second, but it left me shaking.

The room fell silent other than the burble of her breath. “What was that?” I asked. The taste of panic was back.

“History,” she said. “Ignore it.” And oddly enough, I did. “What is the other line about idols? Do you remember it?” 

I instinctively quoted from chapter 29. _“Ye have seen their abominations, and their idols, wood and stone, silver and gold.” _

“They forgot ceramic,” she said dryly.

“I’m sorry?” I asked. 

“Nothing. How does this involve your girlfriend?” She settled back into the shadow, and I could hear her sip her drink.

“My girlfriend is a Wiccan,” I said. I pinched the bridge of my nose in embarrassment. “She worships.. I don’t even know. False idols. Trees, nature, the moon, some Goddess, the seasons, I have no idea. Their traditions are bizarre. She’s a heathen. _I_ don’t think she’s a heathen, I mean, but everything I’ve ever been taught insists that she speaks blasphemy, and if I marry her I’ll be ex-communicated.” I hunched over my beer, miserable, taking a long pull.  “I don’t know what to do. There are no other Gods. I wish she’d understand that.”

The room fell silent. She blinked slowly, as if considering.

“You need perspective.”

I sat up straight, angry, offended. She snorted in disdain. 

“Today was a day of weddings,” she said, “and you complain of false gods. So what better than a story of idols? Hearken.” She settled down against the old leather of the seat. Her hands lifted the beer, and the liquid poured down her small mouth. She gave a croaking belch, swallowed convulsively, and looked past me as if talking to the distance. Her voice gained strength.

“The steppes of Asia are a desolate place, and a hard place. Once it was a land that birthed gods. Not like your god of Deuteronomy, although He was once like them as well. The steppes bred spirits. Tiny gods of  Horse, and Luck, and Blood and Battle. Gods that a man could _use_. Men would call on their gods at home and in war. 

“Kyzyk was one of them. Legend says that He was first a frog, a sign of life that drew a dying rider to a hidden mountain rainpool, after the rider had ridden thirsty for three days. The rainpool of the frog saved his life, and so he said prayers to the frog of the pool, and the spirit awakened. Thus was born Kyzyk, the God of Thirst, male and female both.”

I found myself behind the bar, pouring us both another drink. I brought both glasses back to the table. _A libation,_ I thought nonsensically. She smiled at me with thin lips as one of her long fingers traced an abstract design in the spilled beer on the table. It was a frog, and it was beautiful.

“But Gods need worshippers,” she said. “The first horseman rode off and told others that he had found the sweetest nectar of life, the drink that salved all thirsts. He was the first hopping priest. His stories brought people to the high plateau, and they too drank the true water.  The frog lived in a golden cage by now, gold stolen from the plundered cities of Xiongnu, and it was treated with respect so as not to offend the Thirst spirit that lived within it. When the frog died – for all things die, must they not? – the hopping priests took the dried corpse and wrapped it in muslin, burning incense over it all the while, and placed it in a special reliquary that watched over the pool. And the spirit stayed, tied to the idol.

“Soon, the hopping priests to the God of Thirst would take payment from any who would come. Their method of prayer was laughable to outsiders, hopping across the plateau with their faces to the ground as they offered up their sacrifices unto their God. But none would mock them openly! For it was known that the priests could curse their enemies with drought and dryness, as their frog-god would grant their prayers. It was a heady time for those who settled near the pool. By now the reliquary for the God of Thirst was pottery, round that it might be filled with drink, and painted in the image of the frog that led the first travelers to the pool. The faithful traveled and brought their rites across the steppes to the edge of the Caspian Sea itself, and their antics were often greeted with equal amounts of laughter and fear. Death sometimes followed. Such is the fate of prophets and missionaries.

She looked directly at me with her slow-blinking eyes. “You would call this God a false idol, would you not? And yet it was as true in its way as your God was to His worshippers. 

“Fame breeds jealousy, and jealousy breeds greed. Soon the tale of the God of Thirst had even reached the ears of the great ones. They spoke to their shamans, and a plan was hatched. The Shrine of the Quiet Pool was razed and burned under the orders of Ong Khan, and the reliquary of Kyzyk was stolen forever. Imagine what it must have been like: to be at the Pool and hear the thunder of the approaching horses, to know that you held a power that would be of no help at all! The pool was stained red by the blood of the fallen priests that day, and as far as I know it runs red still.”

Her voice was sad, and she paused to drink. I was lost in the horse scent and sharp tang of coppery blood, in the screams of the fallen and the sound of steel. I was somehow there, under the mid-day sun, and I saw the filthy warrior who ripped the idol from the arms of a bleeding boy. Her voice jolted me back. 

“Ong Khan gave the idol to the warlord Temüjin. He had 70,000 horse soldiers, and he brought Kyzyk with him as he wrought war across deserts. It traveled with him after he took the title Genghis Khan, and it traveled with him when he swept westward across Asia. When Genghis died and his son Ogedai continued west, the idol went with them. When the Mongols invaded Poland, though, the idol was seized. A Catholic priest recognized it for what it was, an object of holy power. And here in the Carpathians, it spent the next six hundred years hidden in the dungeons of a tower belonging to the Knights Templar.”

Once again, I was seized by the claustrophobic image of darkness and time. I looked up to see her eyes glinting orange in the lantern flame. Her voice was terribly old.

“You talk of faith and false idols. Imagine being stripped of your worshippers, to be self-aware enough to feel your power stripped from you by the icons of a heathen religion that had trapped you, and to be able to do no good while you languished. They preached to it constantly, scores of monks reciting scripture all the hours of the night. That is misery. You shun your love because she worships Gods you do not believe in. That does not make them _false_, boy. You can have everything or nothing, just as Kyzyk could have, and it is your choice. 

“For that is what the God of Thirst did. He changed. As the years grated on, He realized that he had not been abandoned by His worshippers. For was there was not a time when He had no worshippers at all, before he created them himself? It is so! And so He did with the Knights Templar. It took decades, but the newly faithful smuggled Him out of the dungeons on a dark night, and some gave their lives to make sure that the God was free. People talk of religious freedom now, but this is something they would never have dreamed of. Kyzyk knew that He could never return to the old days. This was a new world ruled by a different God, and He could never again perform vast miracles or keep an army of missionaries.”

My voice was dry. “What… what did He do?”

She smiled, and it was like a drink of icy water after a dusty ride. “Why, I like to think that He found somewhere old and quiet to settle down. Someplace simple to act as His temple. Maybe some place He built to remind Himself of the prison, so he wouldn’t ever forget the lesson. Where He could help people who helped Him, and where no one would ever really know of His existence. Things change. So could He.”

Her hand clutched mine, and something roared through my body. I hadn’t eaten all day and all the alcohol seemed to hit at once. I could barely hear her voice.

“People adapt, boy. It’s who they are. It’s what they do. Gods are the same way. Are you so insecure in your faith that you would deny her hers? Or me mine?”

My voice came from a long ways away. “…no.”

The room whirled. 

Something prodded me in the chest. “Up, you.”

I lifted a perfectly clear head. I was on the floor of the tavern, and a mustachioed man was prodding me with his foot. Early morning sunlight streamed in a dusty window. “What? Wait.” I pulled myself to my feet and looked around. No beer glasses. No chairs pulled out. My shoes had been taken off, and my sweater placed beneath my head for a pillow.

“What are you doing in here?” He looked as if he was going to throw me through a window. His mustache curled up the side of his nose, exquisitely waxed and combed. Close up, I could see the wrinkles around his eyes.

“The owner said I could stay here,” I said distantly. I was grasping for last night’s details. I felt like I should have had a hangover. I sat to pull on my shoes.

“I doubt it,” he rumbled. “I’m the owner. There was no one here when I closed up last night, and I locked the door. How’d you get in?” He glared. “I already checked the till. Good thing its all there.”

I caught something out of the corner of my eye. In a niche in the wall across the bar, a fat ceramic sculpture of a frog  sat on blue silk. It looked ancient, and very familiar. I pointed slowly. “How long have you had that?”

He turned. “It’s been in the family forev—” He stopped cold. His voice dropped. He turned back to me. “You saw Her?”

I nodded.

“She called you here?”

“I…” I swallowed. “I think so.”

His face filled with light. “Then don’t talk about it, son. To anyone. But you’re always welcome here. I’ll make you some breakfast. And there’s a phone if you need to ring someone up.”

I did.



-  The end  -


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## Miles Pilitus (Feb 5, 2007)

*Round 1 Match 1 (Friday):
Aris Dragonborn vs. Miles Pilitus*

Gods, I hate family reunions. It's always the same drunk relatives telling the same old stories, and everybody cherishing and reveling in the one new story everybody has brought out each year. At least the family managed to get the old family house in Virginia. It's an old colonial house near the Roanoke Rapids on the southern border of the state. It's a nice old place, but Uncle Joseph didn't like to offer it out for the family, but one of the few changes this year is his absence, given that we buried him in the ground in December. Alex is managing the property now, I'm not sure he knows what to do with it, but at least he's offered it up as the site of our latest family debacle this year before he finally makes the decision to sell it.

    I manage to arrive by noon on Saturday, in spite of the plane dropping me off in North Carolina an hour later then it was supposed to. I get out of my rental truck (which is somehow cheaper than taking a taxi both ways) and take a look at the sky. I agreed to fly all of the way back to the east coast for the kayaking, and if my luck with these family trips held out, the skies where only a half an hour away from opening up. Surprisingly, the only clouds in the sky didn't seem to be threatening rain anytime today. [1]

    I knock on the door and get brought into the house by Elizabeth, Alex's wife. We exchange the standard pleasantries as she leads me up to the guestroom that will serve as my personal refuge for the time that I'm here. I drop off my 2 articles of checked luggage and my carry-on bag, then turn around and ask Liz when lunch is. It was sandwiches, she and Alex picked up a good amount of meat from a local deli, so lunches for the first two days was taken care of. After that, the last of the stragglers will arrived, just in time for Alex to break out the wood and try to use the house's open fire pit to cook burgers and steak. I was, of course, going to miss the resulting inferno, as my job required me to fly back to Detroit before Tuesday.

    The next few hours pass exactly as I expect them to, talking to family members who I haven't talked to in a year, and who I don't want to talk to, otherwise I would have kept in touch with them. They ask after me, and I give my half-hearted response to their questions, trying to deflect off the inevitable questions about why I haven't settled down yet. I manage to succeed for the first few hours at least, directing family members to their particular quirks, like asking Aunt Sue how her little princess doing, and smile and nod as I pretend to listen to her talking about her show dog for the next thirty minutes. After an hour or so of this, I beg my leave and go talk a long walk through the forest that sits on the property.  I take my time walking through the paths of the forest; and, for a while, I actually manage to forget that I'm anywhere and just let my mind wander through the trees. I start walking back towards the house as evening begins to approach.

    I enter the house through the kitchen door and walk into the kitchen. The kitchen is bustling with family members trying to do their part to help create the meal. It's probably the one thing worth coming out here for, the family dinners. Everybody puts all of their efforts into it, treating every dinner that the family eats together as Thanksgiving dinner. As I walk in, I get handed a peeler and pointed at a pile of potatoes sitting in a basket on the counter. I'm working on the island in the center of the kitchen, next to Tim and Sue, who must have arrived when I was losing myself in the woods. We exchange a set of honest pleasantries, Tim and I are probably about the only two who actually keep in touch with each other outside of this little reoccurring nightmare and the other holidays that call us together. They're prepping the salad, dicing the ingredients as Edna comes over with the camera and says she wants to get a picture of the happy couple. They smile and raise their knives, and actually manage to keep the smiles as Edna pulls out her horrible "Say Ginsu" line.[2] After the witch has moved on to torment others, including me as I take my turn mugging for the camera, I lean over to Tim and as him if he and his darling wife would like to join me in finding someplace to drink enough to sleep through the rest of the weekend. Unsurprisingly, they both agree that they would love to join me for a little time out on the town tonight. We plan it out as we finish the prep and are given our freedom by the prison-matron of the kitchen. I thank my mother for her endless graciousness as Tim and I walk out to the gazebo after each grabbing the primer for our night.

    I manage to suffer through dinner, taking some time to take measure of the few teen and college-age family members who've been given the honor of sitting at the adult’s table. Most disappoint me, barely able to understand some of the concepts that are being discussed at the table and having a skewed view of what few things they do manage to fit into their small minds. But the food is good, and we've managed to avoid delving into the taboo subjects of Politics and Religion, which is probably good as it's too early for the police to make their regular appearance at our family reunion just yet.

    When dinner is over, we men-folk are ushered out of the dining room into the family room as the matrons of the family take control over the kitchen once more, it's time to wipe from existence all traces of the dinner and leave only strangely labeled Tupperware as a reminder. It's still light outside, but Alex insists on lighting a fire, and no one else seems to want to disagree with our wonderful host on these matters, so Alex spends the next twenty minutes pulling wood in from outside and poking at the stack of lumber with a candle-lighter. Just as he starts to get the logs light through sheer bloody-mindedness Tim motions to the door where Sue is waiting and we bid the family good-bye to check out what life there is in this area. As we walk out the door to Tim's rental I make mention of an Irish bar I noticed on my drive up here and Tim, New Yorker that he is, thinks it might be amusing to see what Virginia considers a Irish bar. I ask him is wants to try what they consider pizza as we pass a local branch of the soulless corporate pizza chain and he reminds me that we are in Virginia, not Chicago or New York, and that they don't sell pizza here. All three of us laugh, letting the tensions of dealing with family loosen as we prepare to get utterly smashed.

    My eyes hurt. My tongue has been replaced with cotton and I feel like I had a midget dancing on my head. Midget? What made me think of a midget? Brief snippets of last night float back into my memory. The leprechaun. The bar employed a leprechaun. I think I remember something about a leprechaun who poured drinks.[3] I think I remember Tim making a comment that it was a bit more tasteless then any Irish bar you'd find in NYC, but it certainly had that "quirky local flavor" that we used to try and find back when we shared a room in college.

*Ahem*

     S. I look up, shielding my eyes from the bright sunlight streaming into the curtains that have been thrown open by the person who standing over my bed, guilt trip already beginning to roll off of her tongue. I nod through my mother's speech and promise that I will participate in family activities today. I roll out of bed and prepare myself for the day. As I walk into the dining room, Liz has just finished setting up the lunchmeat and I get into the line to make a sandwich. Over the sandwiches, plans are made for the day. It seems that enough relatives have arrived between today and yesterday to actually merit some activities other them re-transmittance of our wonderful family narratives. Alex is saying it would be a shame to not use the near-by water to have some fun with, and I back him up on this concept, which gets more then a few strange looks from those with a more acute understanding of the family politics, perhaps not the least from Alex himself before he realizes that he's actually stumbled upon an idea the whole family agrees with. Stopped clocks as they say. Before I can suggest a quick run into town to rent some vehicles for water-sports, Alex says that Uncle Joseph's old family canoe is still in the tool shed behind the house and it has room for everybody who wants to go.

    All of use strong and burly girly-men lug the canoe to the water, with Sue and Liz grabbing some paddles. We reach the water and walk the canoe into the water. As soon as the water's deep enough, we drop the canoe and start to pile in. After a quick game of Twister as everyone figures out where they want to sit and if they want to paddle, we're seated and start paddling. I'm sitting in the back of the canoe with an old wooden paddle and I'm trying to keep us going in a straight line as we paddle.

    Then I begin to notice my ankles are getting wet. I feel the water creeping up my legs and ask Alex if he's examined to canoe or taken it out on the water before this particular acid test. He asks me why and as I inform him that my end of the canoe has just hit the bottom of the shallow that we are currently in, I think the boat may be suffering from a slight leak. Abandon ship comes the cry as everybody tries to leave the ship all at once, dumping Liz into the water.[4] We water-soaked rats stumble our way back to shore and I suggest we go into town to see if we can't rent some kayaks. The idea is not considered unwise and we manage to bring back half dozen kayaks in the back of my rental truck along with some life vests for those who didn't think to pack one in their bags. Liz agrees to drop us off a few miles upriver with my truck for this first run and we spend the rest of the day ferrying people to the launch point with the kayaks and letting the kayaks drift back down river and be handed to the next family member in line. I manage to get a few trips in before dusk arrives upon us and we store the kayaks and head into the house to dry off.

    The day of pure exertion seems to have loosened something up. There's not the tension that was there, the waiting for the other shoe to drop and for someone to start the exchange of ideas that will lead to the exchange of blows. The rest of the night passes without too much hassle, although the conversation is still tedious. Jason's offers up a new plan for tonight instead of sitting in a stuffy living room, to make a nice big bonfire and sit by the fire and talk till the fire has spent it's anger against the wood that is fed to it. I've always had respect for the other writers in the family and their ability to turn a phrase, and when combined with the idea, it made the perfect pitch to me for how to spend the rest of the night. We build a long, slow fire that doesn't die until three in the morning and sit outside and drink beer. I don't talk much, but the primal need for man to stare into the heart of the flame allows me to go without special comment. I'm one of the last to crawl into bed, having arranged have Jason drive me back to the airport tomorrow morning so he can take over the rental of my truck.

Another family reunion survived. We should have realized long ago, that if you don't introduce fire and water into these gatherings, then the empty space would simply be taken up with hot air.

[1] http://www.enworld.org/attachment.php?attachmentid=27620
[2]http://www.enworld.org/attachment.php?attachmentid=27622
[3]http://www.enworld.org/attachment.php?attachmentid=27621
[4]http://www.enworld.org/attachment.php?attachmentid=27623


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## Miles Pilitus (Feb 5, 2007)

Seems a good number of us are getting this in under the wire here.


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## BSF (Feb 5, 2007)

*Round 1, Match 4 - Piratecat vs BSF*
*Untitled*

“A were-frog?”

“Were-toad,  I made you one of us last night when I bit you in the middle of our love-making.”

“Oh, bloody hell Lucinda!”  I craned my neck to look at my shoulder where she had bit me last night.  “You barely drew blood and now you are trying tell me that like some sort of witch you are turning me into a frog?”  I looked into her brownish-green eyes to make sure the poor girl wasn't too unbalanced.  That is just what I needed, to have bedded another loony.

“Do not call me a witch!  I do not curse you with spells and devour your soul.  I bit you while we shared our passion.  Now you are one of us.  Soon the rains will come and I will see if our union has produced any young.  Then next year you will return to us.  You and I might mate again.”

Lucinda's voice carried too much excitement and conviction for me to be comfortable.  I decided that I had better play along until I could summon a taxi to take me from here.  Far from here.  I began gathering my clothes so I could sneak back to my room before her father woke.

“Sure I will return, but it is difficult to say when.  Sometimes my father needs me and I can't take holiday whenever I want.”  She would appreciate my declared familial obligations, even it if was a little white lie.  Ok, a big lie.  I was the rake of the family and I pretty much do take  holiday anytime I wanted.  

She sat up in bed, watching me with a coy smile on her face.  “Oh you will be back Hugh.  Probably not this year because the rains come soon and the change will not be complete.  But by next year you will return.”

I returned her smile as I slunk out the door.  By breakfast I was packed and had placed a call for a taxi to the local airport.  I sat there taking my morning tea and eating sausage and eggs while Lucinda giggled on the other side of the room while talking with her mother and sister.  Suddenly Na-na, her mother, stood and waddled across the small breakfast room.  She placed both hands on my cheeks and looked directly into my eyes.  Then a smile crept across her face and she cried out, “Welcome!  Welcome to the family.  I see it too, you are one of us now!”  

It was discomfiting, I tell you.  I am a philanderer.  You might call it my hobby.  I have had to make a rapid departure many times in my life.  Usually I am being chased and things are being thrown with words like debauched and womanizer used to describe me.  But never have I been welcomed into the family as if I had just proposed .  Lucinda's father, Milos, walked in from the kitchen.  

“Did you call for a taxi?”

Milos was kind enough to load my luggage into the waiting taxi as I settled my bill for the previous week.  It was a beautiful bed and breakfast and I paused to look out across the lake one last time before I left.  Suddenly Milos pulled my shirt back off my shoulder and peered and the hickey Lucinda had left the night before.  I shook free and raised my fists in case he intended to box me.  Instead he smiled and embraced me in a hug. Then he opened the door of the taxi for me.  Before the taxi pulled away he leaned over and spoke through the window.

“Do yourself a favor, don't fight the pull when you feel it.  It will only make things worse.  Embrace it and accept that you are one of us now.”

I couldn't help but feel a certain sense of relief as I boarded the plane for London later that evening.  Lucinda's entire family seemed to be infected with her delusions and I was happy to put them behind me, forever.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Imagine my dismay fourteen months later as I found myself booking a flight and taxi back to that little Spanish town.  I had been sick for days, nauseous and shaking, and none of the doctors could explain why.  All I could dream about were the cool waters of the lake where I first met Lucinda.  Milos' words haunted me.  As daft as it sounds, I had to know if they were right.  Against my better judgment, I packed for a trip.

I didn't even make it to the bed and breakfast.  The taxi rounded the curve in the mountains and I could see the lake spread out before me.  I ordered the driver to stop.  Staggering out the door and pushing a wad of bills into his hand I asked him to continue with my baggage.  I could see storm clouds in the distance and I stumbled down toward the lake and began hiking along the shore, toward Lucinda's house.  

I don't know how long it took me, I remember looking down at my hands in the mud and trying to puzzle out why my hands were dirty.  Then I looked up and there was Lucinda's family coming toward me.  They were walking on their hands and feet.  Na-na was first, with her red blouse and crazy grin.  Milos was a bit further back, watching his daughters.  Lucinda and Francisca both wore the traditional head scarves marking them as unmarried. (picture 1_4_2.jpg)

Na-na sat down next to me in the mud.  “It is good to see you once again,” she said simply as I shuddered.  

“I warned you not to fight the pull my young friend.  Why did you wait so long?”  Milos looked genuinely concerned.  

Lucinda simply sat down and began to sing a strange, throaty tune as the rain advanced across the lake.  I could scarcely believe my eyes when she seemed to shrink and change as the first rain drops hit her.  But then the rain touched me and I finally understood.  

I sat there in the mud with Lucinda's family for the rest of the month.  We would sing beautiful ballads in our croaky voices and chase each other through the mud and water of the lake.  I try not to think of what we ate during that time.  Suffice to say that it didn't seem disgusting at the time.  

I sat with Milos overlooking the lake that September, coming to grips with who I was now and what it all meant.  “You mean I must return here every year or I will die?”

Milos lit a cigar.  “Oh yes, you are one of us now and your fate is tied to the lake's fate.”

“Wait, what?  My fate, our fate, is tied to the lake?  So what happens if the lake dries up or somesuch as that?”  A memory was nagging the back of my mind.  Something I had read in the paper before I left London.

Milos pondered for a moment.  “Our kind was born here and can only live here.  There are other clans around the lake who I will introduce you to soon.  But I suppose if something happened to the lake, we would all die.”

It took nearly a week to track down that dim memory.  But then I had it and it worried me.  It was a big story about an English company that was developing a nearby town.  They had won permission to divert a river to create a nicer resort town.  The same river that filled the lake here.  I moped for a few weeks without telling Lucinda's family.

By that time, I had fumbled across a possible idea.  The company had been founded by the Anselm family.  They weren't an old British family as mine was, but they had been ascending through social circles for some time.  Like all respectable families, they too had their own share of ne'er do wells.  This generation's was a girl named Gemma.  Even better, she had a token seat on the board of directors, and she was unmarried.

I am a ladies man, surely I could persuade her to change the direction of the board somehow.

A week later I was in London learning all I could about Gemma Anselm.  While my hobbies included carousing and womanizing, she was interested in the occult.  In fact, her family had purchased, or inherited, nobody was quite sure, a castle in Germany.  Lady Gemma spent quite a bit of time there.

It took two more weeks for me to finagle an invitation to a stuffy luncheon that I knew she would be at as well.  We hit it off famously!  There was only one real problem but of course that problem had a solution.  

Lady Gemma was a virgin and she wasn't prepared to break her chastity for anything short of marriage.  Mind you, when a free spirit such as myself hears the word marriage, it causes a certain shrinkage in the, soul.  However, the prospect of an early death does warrant the reconsideration of certain freedoms.  Nonetheless, I made every effort to give Gemma the same gift that Lucinda had given me, without the necessity of marriage.

As I said though, there was also a solution.  Gemma had an older brother and an older sister, both whom sat on the board of director's for their late father's company.  All three were unmarried, but it was their father's directive that the first married child would be given the directorship of the company.  Gemma confided in me one night that she had used magic to keep her brother and her sister from marrying.  She was biding her time to find the right gentleman to marry so she could ascend to the head of the company.  Her chastity was what powered her spells so that her siblings would not beat her to the altar.  

I was dubious, though I cannot explain why.  After all, I was cursed as a were-toad, why dismiss the idea that Gemma was casting spells powered by her chastity?  Instead, I resolved myself, bought an engagement diamond and proposed to her the next week.  What can I say?  It took me a while to gather my resolve.

To my great disappointment, Gemma insisted that we journey to her family's castle for our honeymoon.  I had hoped for someplace a bit more romantic, and warm.  But she insisted that the framework of her spells was erected in the castle.  Once she removed the spells, her siblings would be free to act as they wished, and she would be free to break her chastity.  

It was late January for the wedding.  We exchanged vows outside a church and then clambered into the maw of a bulldozer to symbolize the ascension of Gemma to the director's chair of her father's company. (picture 1_4_4.jpg).  As we rode down the street, Gemma leaned over towards me.  “I will be sending this bulldozer to Spain next week for a big project we are beginning.”  I quickly turned toward her to protest, but then I looked into her laughing eyes.  Instead, I kept my protests to myself.  Let he have her wedding day.  After the honeymoon, after she was one of us, she would rethink her decision.  And since she was now the director, her decision would stand.  

As the automobile ascended the mountain toward the castle I reflected that it was quite a gothic affair.  (picture 1_4_3.jpg)  Very angular and foreboding, and the seeming vortex of clouds about the castle did little to make me feel better.  

“It is Imbolc evening my darling Hugh, carry me across the threshold and then I will lead you upstairs to your reward.”  Gemma's words were sweet like honey and I happily acquiesced, thoughts of conjugal bliss in the forefront of my mind.  

Inside, the castle was dark with few lights.  Gemma lead me up the stairs by the hand.  I could feel her grip tightening in anticipation of what was to come.  I almost felt bad for what I had planned.  I would bind her to the lake as tightly as I was bound.  Once she realized the danger of diverting the river, she would change her plans and I would be safe. 

She guided me into her bed chamber, lit by hundreds of flickering candles.  They must have been lit by servants as we arrived, I supposed.  “Sit her.”  With a gesture she directed me to a pedestal.  The room was opulent and decadent, in a creepy sort of way.  I could see a cauldron in one corner.  Shelves with books and jars.  A mortar and pestle.  An immense four poster bed sprawled before me and Gemma stood before it, looking radiant.  I was entranced.

Perhaps that is why I didn't notice her chanting as she slowly undid her dress?  As her wedding dress fell to the floor, I gasped lightly in surprise.  What she wore beneath her wedding clothes is not what I had expected to see my virgin bride in.  It was at that time that I noticed my clothes had also fallen to the floor.  Something had abruptly changed and I had missed it!  My vision had changed slightly, my perspective had dropped so I felt shorter.  I was completely atop the pedestal.  I was also in my toad form.  I opened my mouth to cry out, and Gemma completed the last syllable. I was transfixed like that, a toad atop a pedestal with my mouth in an O shape. (picture 1_4_1.jpg)

Gemma strode across the room and pulled an old black cloak off a wall hook.  She threw it around her shoulders, looking the picture of the perfect witch.  

“You know Hugh, I knew who you were and where you had been from the first moment I saw you.  My great, great, grandmother was betrayed by her toad, did you know that?  Did they tell you how they came to be at that little Spanish lake?  They have a little magic all their own don't they?  But they need to bring in men from the outside to spawn the next generation.”  

Gemma walked over to the cauldron, a fire lighting as she approached.  She stirred the contents a few times, ladled the contents into a small bowl and picked up a horsehair paint brush.  

“But my family couldn't easily exact our revenge upon them.  We were blocked by protective magics stolen from us!  But then you came to me.  There is a poetic symmetry here.  I am sure you planned to betray me as well.  Perhaps you thought to convince me that I shouldn't destroy that lake?  You feel the pull of the magic there don't you Hugh?  No matter though.  I won;t divert the river, not now.  Your essence permeates that bulldozer.  I doubt you ever felt the magic.  But now the bulldozer will crush their homes and the pathetic little toads as well.  Then I recover the magic hearthstone they stole from this castle.”

Dipping the brush into the bowl, Gemma began to brush some strange liquid onto my back.  Somehow, I knew she was binding me into this shape permanently.  I could feel the magic seeping into my pores.

“One last question Hugh.  You swore to honor, serve and protect me didn't you?  Do you know what a familiar is?”


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## BSF (Feb 5, 2007)

I have the durned thing posted!  It was quite a struggle to deal with the Muses this time.

I wandered through the ball aimlessly, listening to the music and looking for any of the muses.  Finally, I spot a familiar figure up on a balcony overlooking some room.  Stopping, I call up.

"Hello Muse?  I aplogize for interrupting, but might I have a bit of inspiration please?"

A faint glow of a smile as she looks over the banister at me.  "Oh look, 'tis somebody else looking for inspiration."  One of her sisters peers down at me a moment later.  

"Indeed, he looks a bit desperate doesn't he?"  
"Oh my, perhaps it is gastrointestinal distress though?"  The Muses look at each other and laugh before the first one calls out once again.

"Oh dear, is it really important?  You see, _we_ are working with a small group of writers right now.  There is this contest and it amuses _us_ to no end to watch them squirm."

I bite my lip momentarily.  "This contest, it wouldn't have to do with trying to string a group of dastardly pictures together into a coherent whole would it?"  

She smiles once again.  "Indeed it does!  You have heard of this pasttime?"

"Yes, yes I have!  Umm, I am one of the writers."  

They both peer down, scrutinizing me.  "He does look vaguely familiar.  Wasn't there that one that used to participate and was trying to curry our favor once again?"  

An arched eyebrow is aimed at me.  "Yes, there was that one.  He disappears for a while, changes things around and then just shows up again one day.  Do you think this is he?"

"Well, the avatar looks similar does it not?  But then, avatars are easily changed."

I wave, trying not to look panicked.  "Yes, my avatar was done by Sialia.  She did a few actually and I cycle through them at different times."

"Sialia?  Yes, we know her.  _We_ like her.  She honors _us_ in all manner of ways.  What are you doing with some of her art?"

I am abashed.  "Well, she was nice and made the avatars that I use.  Very generous she is!"

The first muse snaps her fingers.  "Ah yes, he shortened his name!  That is why he looks familiar."  

"Shortened his name?  Whatever for?"

This is clearly not going the way I was hoping.  "Well, it was a rather long name and most people shortened it anyway.  I just thought I would save folks the mouthful of syllables.

"You truncate your name to a mere three letters and then have the audacity to ask for inspiration?  You intentionally make your name less clever, after neglecting us for quite some time I might add, and you think you are deserving of _our_ gifts?"  There is a small harumph from the balcony.

"Well, it's not entirely for me.  You see, if I have no inspiration then I can't post a story.  And that is bad for the entire contest.  Besides, you gave that three legged, one eyed feline inspiration.  Is it so much to ask for a little myself?  Please?  Anything, just give me something to work with, please."

"Well, he does have a point I suppose.  We should give him something.  It needn't be much though.  Just enough to keep the contest moving along and amuse _us_."

"Yes, you are right, but still he bothers me somewhat.  Still, what we sacrifice for art yes?"  she looks down at me and picks up a napkin with a danish on it.  The danish looks tasty!  Even from this distance I can tell it is laced with inspiration.  "We might bless you with inspiration.  You understand all the caveats?  All we can do is provide, it is up to you to make something of the inspiration.  As well, I must insist that you post!  After all, you are the one making the case that it will help the entire contest."

I nod eagerly.  "Of course!  I understand, it is my responsibility.  And I wouldn't think of not posting!"

"Very well then."  She picks up the danish, looks down at me, then pops the danish in her mouth and shakes three crumbs off the napkin down, down, down to the floor.  Both muses look down at me, then turn abruptly away, back to the Ceramic gladitorial floor.  

Down below, I scramble to pick up the crumbs as fast as I can.  Slowly, the door begins to open, waiting for me to enter the arena against Piratecat.


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## yangnome (Feb 5, 2007)

OK, looks like we have all the stories from those who started Friday.  Thanks guys for getting those done and turned in.  I've yet to read any of them except for the Gabriel vs Berandor match, but will get to them soon.  I'd like to echo PC's thanks to Aris Dragonborn for turning in what you'd worked on.  It is much better to see a partial story than a post saying you weren't able to write, or worse yet, nothing at all.

I'll be posting the next matches soon.


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## Berandor (Feb 5, 2007)

Hey,

in case you're interested, I compiled a list of the entries so far:

*Round 1*
_Match 1_: Aris Dragonborn vs. Miles Pilitus – pictures – judgement
_Match 2_: Graywolf-ELM vs. mythago – pictures – judgement
_Match 3_: Berandor vs. Gabriel – pictures – judgement
_Match 4_: BSF vs. Piratecat – pictures – judgement

And I'll echo what Piratecat and yangnome said. Well done, Aris, for posting what you had so far. Can you tell us (me) what you were planning to do with the pictures?


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## yangnome (Feb 5, 2007)

Thanks for compiling that Berandor.  I was going to do the same thing after posting these next pictures.


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## KidCthulhu (Feb 5, 2007)

Ber, you've got round four wrong.  It's BSF vs PirateCat.  Mythago is good, but you really shouldn't make her go twice.


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## yangnome (Feb 5, 2007)

*Round 1 Match 5*

Round 1 Match 5 (Monday): 
Tadk vs. Questing gm

Sialia's not writing, so I won't set an official word limit. The guideline is don't bore the judges and make us want to stop reading. Here are your pics. You have 72 hours from post time.


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## yangnome (Feb 5, 2007)

*Round 1 Match 6*

Round 1 Match 6 (Monday): 
Rodrigo Istilindir vs. Drawmack

Sialia's not writing, so I won't set an official word limit. The guideline is don't bore the judges and make us want to stop reading. Here are your pics. You have 72 hours from post time.


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## BSF (Feb 5, 2007)

yangnome said:
			
		

> Thanks for compiling that Berandor.  I was going to do the same thing after posting these next pictures.




*laugh*  So was I!  I won't worry about it right now though.


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## Graywolf-ELM (Feb 5, 2007)

yangnome said:
			
		

> oh, and I can't wait for the judgement.  I can't believe gabriel just goatse'd Ceramic DM.




At least he didn't link it.

GW


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## Rodrigo Istalindir (Feb 5, 2007)

Heh.  Nice pictires.  Good thing the 'grandma-friendly' rule is relaxed for Ceramic DM.


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## Piratecat (Feb 5, 2007)

KidCthulhu said:
			
		

> Ber, you've got round four wrong.  It's BSF vs PirateCat.  Mythago is good, but you really shouldn't make her go twice.



The links are wonky too, I think. I'm hesitant to edit your post -- can you check 'em?

Comments on writing:

[sblock]It's incredible how good it felt to write. This story was different than ones I've done in the past. Usually I spend the first day thinking, the second and third day writing, and edit before I post. This time the story idea came much more quickly than usual. I had to write most of it twice due to fundamental changes I made, but the basic idea - a story within a story, late at night in a shadowy bar - stayed the same. I've got the idea, that's the hard part, right?

Ha.

Actually writing the thing was very hard for me. Hard in a good way, but my mind kept skipping around; I'd write some, check EN World, post in a locked thread, play a game of solitaire, then write some more. I finally figured out that it was because I hadn't resolved the narrator's main religious dilemma. A little research and the final bits snapped into place. Of course, that was last night after the Super Bowl - but I spent four hours of solid writing that felt like 20 minutes. I think I do this for those few moments when the story comes into focus and everything clicks.

What they say about practice is true, though. I'm definitely rusty after not having done this for so long.
[/sblock]


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## Graywolf-ELM (Feb 5, 2007)

Wow, good grouping of imaginitive stories.  I'm glad the CDM was started up.  I'm beginning to feel inspired again.

GW


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## yangnome (Feb 5, 2007)

Piratecat said:
			
		

> The links are wonky too, I think. I'm hesitant to edit your post -- can you check 'em?



 yeah, the links were wonky for me too when I clicked on them, though when I went to the posts and tried to copy the links, it gave me the same ones.  strange.  Someone want to check teh ones i posted in the first post and see if they are correct for you?


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## Berandor (Feb 5, 2007)

I changed mythago to Piratecat.

I'll check the links...

edit: what I did was to simply change the postcount in the links corresponding to the thread, not the larger overall postcount, as well. So the links always pointed to the first stories from which I copied the format. Duh.

edit 2: yangnome, the links in the beginning post are wonky, too. At least for me. Try these:

*Round 1*
_Match 1_: Aris Dragonborn vs. Miles Pilitus – pictures – judgement
_Match 2_: Graywolf-ELM vs. mythago – pictures – judgement
_Match 3_: Berandor vs. Gabriel – pictures – judgement
_Match 4_: BSF vs. Piratecat – pictures – judgement


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## mythago (Feb 5, 2007)

KidCthulhu said:
			
		

> Mythago is good, but you really shouldn't make her go twice.




Well. Not in Ceramic DM, anyway.



> I changed mythago to Piratecat




Oh man. So many straight lines.....seizing...up....


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## Piratecat (Feb 5, 2007)

Berandor said:
			
		

> I changed mythago to Piratecat





			
				mythago said:
			
		

> Oh man. So many straight lines.....seizing...up....



If you've read Mythago's story, this exchange is particularly funny.


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## FickleGM (Feb 5, 2007)

Berandor said:
			
		

> I changed mythago to Piratecat.




Poor mythago.


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## orchid blossom (Feb 5, 2007)

I just have to say, after writing judgements for the first two stories...  Judging makes you feel like a big meanie!


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## FickleGM (Feb 5, 2007)

orchid blossom said:
			
		

> I just have to say, after writing judgements for the first two stories...  Judging makes you feel like a big meanie!



 Critical != Mean

If it makes you feel any better, I only entered this competition on a lark, to see what it was like.  I have no illusions regarding my ability.  So, even the worst criticism can't harsh my mellow.


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## Berandor (Feb 5, 2007)

Gabriel said:
			
		

> Critical != Mean
> 
> If it makes you feel any better, I only entered this competition on a lark, to see what it was like.  I have no illusions regarding my ability.  So, even the worst criticism can't harsh my mellow.



 ...which will make it even sweeter if you win the round. For you. 

Plus, mean judgements really help. You can put three more people on your ignore list, and the hum and flow of EnWorld becomes just that more bearable.


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## orchid blossom (Feb 5, 2007)

You may never see those judgements...  I e-mailed them to myself from work and they haven't hit my inbox yet, 3 hrs later.  If I lost them I'm going to be very upset.


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## Piratecat (Feb 6, 2007)

orchid blossom said:
			
		

> You may never see those judgements...  I e-mailed them to myself from work and they haven't hit my inbox yet, 3 hrs later.  If I lost them I'm going to be very upset.



Won't they be in your work "sent email" folder?

Don't marsh Gabriel's hello!

Whatever that means.


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## orchid blossom (Feb 6, 2007)

Piratecat said:
			
		

> Won't they be in your work "sent email" folder?
> 
> Don't marsh Gabriel's hello!
> 
> Whatever that means.




Ahh, yes indeed it would.  Which reminds me that I should clean that thing out, it probably has something like 1,000 messages in it.

Don't worry about Mabriel's gello.  I hear cookies spark it right back up.


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## Drawmack (Feb 6, 2007)

Well, I got the rough draft of my entry done. It flowed pretty easily, suprisingly. I usually stare at these oddball pictures for a day and a half before any ideas hit me, but these pictures almost pulled this story from me with very little effort on my part.

I just hope that's not a bad sign.


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## Berandor (Feb 6, 2007)

Drawmack said:
			
		

> Well, I got the rough draft of my entry done. It flowed pretty easily, suprisingly. I usually stare at these oddball pictures for a day and a half before any ideas hit me, but these pictures almost pulled this story from me with very little effort on my part.
> 
> I just hope that's not a bad sign.



 I'd say it's a sign you're losing your mind. 

But your story can still turn out great.


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## Gulla (Feb 6, 2007)

BSF said:
			
		

> I have the durned thing posted!  It was quite a struggle to deal with the Muses this time.
> 
> ...
> 
> (The rest cut for saving space)




Hey! Yangnome!

Why didn't I get tickets up there with the muses? They would be much better company than the (tiny) crowd down here...

And then some comments on the stories. Good work all of you, I enjoyed the stories. More comments in the sblock.

[sblock]OK, this is the first time I try some "real" commenting, but for once I have time for it, so I'll try.

Match 1:
*Aris Dragonborn,* I really like that you submitted the little you managed to get done. And it is a promising start. I agree with Berandor that a quick sketch of what you would have done with the pictures would be nice.
*Miles Pilitus,* will win this one by default, I guess. I found the story a bitt jarring to read with what feels like strange grammar. I'm no native English speaker, but I feel a proofreading of the grammar would do a lot of good. The story also feels like a recounting of events more than what I feel is a story. I cannot find a goal for the narrator nor any really interresting conflict. Hopefully you get some more of that for the next story.

Match 2:
*Graywolf-ELM*, this is a nice story, and a strong contender I thought when I read it. I like the nice way of showing the seductive/manipulative nature of the princess (succubus?) and the nice twist in the end, but I feel the pictures used as illustrating the entertinment is a bit too obviously the pictures dictating the story. I think a little more work on showing that the entertainment is a natural/integral part of the society the princess is visiting would lift this story from a good CGM entry to a brilliant one. And unfortunately for you that is needed when meeting Mythago.
*Mythago.* OK, I'll admit beeing almost a fanboy of your CGM stories, but this was brilliant. I would love to find this shortstory published in a magazine. The pace is nice, and I like the plot of someone makeing money by giving people something they want that destroys them and getting his comeupance in the end. The only negative point I can find is the use of picture 3. It is not so much that it is a bad use as that its use is drowned by picture 4 coming so quickly after it.

Match 3.
*Gabriel,* this is a very good first entry. I generally like the picture use and specially the riot squad one. The story uses "looking back" (cannot for my life remember the correct term for this) and I feel it steals a little bit of the tension. It builds some tension as well since I "must" wait before the current timeline advances, but I feel in this case it reduces more than it gains. This results in a feeling of too little resistance for the main character. But all in all a good story.
*Berandor,* you can do better than this. Not that it is bad at all, but you are capable of brilliand and this is only very good. Amusingly the picture of the riot squad is your best use also, I think. The structure of this story is very nice (maybe a bit too obvious since I manage to identify it   ) with the same scene in the start and the end and the repeating "There are three kinds of..." I'm not quite sure what is wrong with the story, but it just feels a bit less interresting than I expected. It might be too high expectations, of course. 

Match 4.
This should be "match of the round" and BSF an Piratecat didn't disappoint.
*Piratecat,* not your best prose ever, but still good. I really liked how you got the picture of the rare disease people to be a worshipping ritual for the frog-god. The story flows nicely but in contrast to many of the very best stories this is more like a 1001 farietale: a very short story around with fables/farietales inside. The farietale is sort of mellow-good but not very tense, and the story around it isn't quite tense enuogh to remove the feeling. Not sure how it could be changed, and the mellow-good feeling is nice   
*BSF*, were-toads? Somethimes you have ideas that just strikes out of the blue. A nice story with a hero with some resistance that fails in the end, and it even feels somewhat fair that the pretty witch wins    Nice picture use, except the bulldozer, I feel. Not really sure how to comment more. It is nice, slick and good, but I just don't feel it is brilliant. I have no idea why.
So I feel this was the best match this round, so far, but Mythago still has the best story   
[/sblock]

Then I'll just have to wait for the rest of the stories and see if I have time to comment on them as well.

Håkon
(hmm, after trying to formulate comments I'm very glad I don't have to write stories...)


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## Piratecat (Feb 6, 2007)

Gulla said:
			
		

> And then some comments on the stories. Good work all of you, I enjoyed the stories. More comments in the sblock.



Great comments on everyone, thank you! My initial thoughts to your post:
[sblock]







			
				Gulla said:
			
		

> Match 4.
> *Piratecat,* not your best prose ever, but still good. I really liked how you got the picture of the rare disease people to be a worshipping ritual for the frog-god. The story flows nicely but in contrast to many of the very best stories this is more like a 1001 farietale: a very short story around with fables/farietales inside. The farietale is sort of mellow-good but not very tense, and the story around it isn't quite tense enuogh to remove the feeling. Not sure how it could be changed, and the mellow-good feeling is nice



Interesting commentary. You're right that the tension and conflict are all internal, not external.   

I had been shooting for a story where the self-involved dilemma of the narrator was put into perspective by the actual religious persecution suffered by the ancient idol. Revelations get made, the narrator reaches a personal epiphany about his own life, and the concept of a froglike God of Thirst running a tiny tavern as a temple gets revealed. I meant for it to sound less like a fairy tale (that was a deliberate language choice on my part) and more like a history. You're absolutely right that I wanted a story-in-a-story as well.

But I'm not dissatisfied with how it came out. For some reason, the image of the mongols carrying away the bride and someone doing the same with a bulldozer always makes me grin.

One thing, though - you mentioned rare disease people. You may be thinking of mongoloids, people born with a genetic birth defect. Mongols were the horse-riding asiatic barbarians who swept across China and western Europe a thousand years ago. Knowing that makes a big difference in whether the story makes any sense or not, and it's not necessarily obvious.

Thanks for the commentary![/sblock]


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## questing gm (Feb 6, 2007)

Just a little question before i put things down into words.....

do the pictures need to be used in order ? ....or i could place them whenever i feel it suits my description...?


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## Miles Pilitus (Feb 6, 2007)

Gulla said:
			
		

> [sblock]OK, this is the first time I try some "real" commenting, but for once I have time for it, so I'll try.
> 
> Match 1:
> *Miles Pilitus,* will win this one by default, I guess. I found the story a bitt jarring to read with what feels like strange grammar. I'm no native English speaker, but I feel a proofreading of the grammar would do a lot of good. The story also feels like a recounting of events more than what I feel is a story. I cannot find a goal for the narrator nor any really interresting conflict. Hopefully you get some more of that for the next story.
> [/sblock]



Some reponse to the comment
[sblock]You're probably right. The idea for the story struck me and I was basically finished with the story when I felt the lack on conflict. I didn't flesh the story out enough, and probably would have lost. I joined this to give me some quick chances to try and get feedback, so more's better. Hopefully my next story will be a little better.

I was trying to write the story as a "Stream of Concesness" kind of fashion with the entire story happening from the viewpoint of the character's internal monologue. It didn't work very well, it would seem.[/sblock]


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## Rodrigo Istalindir (Feb 6, 2007)

You can use the pictures in any order you like.


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## Sialia (Feb 6, 2007)

A nice batch of first round stories, and I enjoyed reading all of them. Pleasant distractions all.

That said, there was not one that touched on a personal truth so intense that it kicked off the hormonal "weepy" response.

Couldn't tell you exactly what triggers that, or, indeed, whether it's really something that a writer should be striving for. When I'm not pregnant, I'm deeply the skeptic about emotionally manipulative, tear-jerking stories (which is not to say I haven't been guilty of writing these on occasion. So the drama!) But pregnant, the weepy response always catches me by surprise with a feeling of "oh--that's _so_ true!" and it's often not about things that are inherently sad. Sometimes it's relief, or culmination, or something spit-take funny.

Anyway, the only reason I mention this is that I think the very best fiction always has some sort of true thing at it's core. Our writers this season all seem to have the hang of grammar, character, plot and a pleasant turn of phrase. Given the consistently high level of quality in this first round, I'm still hoping one of you breaks through the "pleasantly amusing" barrier into the realm of "ohmigosh--that is incredible."

I know you have it in you.


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## Graywolf-ELM (Feb 6, 2007)

Rodrigo Istalindir said:
			
		

> You can use the pictures in any order you like.




DOH!  I was in somewhat of a hurry, and would have mixed them up except they fit in that order well for me.  The old Chief just had to be at the end. I appreciated the comments on my entry,(both Gulla's specific ones, and Sialia's general ones, I'll take what I can get.) I liked the story, I just wanted more of my time to flesh out a bit of history, and how it influenced the arts here, to give more meaning to the images.  With the time I was able to give it, I am satisfied.  Honestly, I am surprised how much I fit into so few words this go around.

GW


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## Sialia (Feb 6, 2007)

Miles, 

[sblock] I think yours came closest for me, actually--it certainly had the ring of truth about it. 

I think what failed was the "telling" the conflict instead of showing it: We heard that these affairs usually go badly, but we never saw this one teeter on the brink, or felt fallout from the previous year's disaster, or relived a particularly painful moment.

This story had a lot of potential. I liked the setting and the detail and the prose. I wanted to feel the characters more deply--I knew the narrator, but he is so self absorbed, he never really introduces me to his family, and the events don't give me enough of an outside peek as to how they are feeling about him, or how he fits in/doesn't fit in among them. Is he part of the hazardous condition, or just an observer? To what extent is his misery of his own making, or is he just a victim? How bad does it get when it gets bad?

I think this story is worth developing some more. [/sblock]


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## Gulla (Feb 6, 2007)

[sblock]


			
				Piratecat said:
			
		

> One thing, though - you mentioned rare disease people. You may be thinking of mongoloids, people born with a genetic birth defect. Mongols were the horse-riding asiatic barbarians who swept across China and western Europe a thousand years ago. Knowing that makes a big difference in whether the story makes any sense or not, and it's not necessarily obvious.



Nope, I was thinking about this picture which was featured quite prominently in the news in Norway last year. If my memory doesn't fool me (it sometimes does) it shows people with a rare disease living somewhere in the earlier USSR, I think close to the Caspian Sea. The disease forces them to move this way, if I rememmber correctly. The disadvantage of remembering the pictures from an other context, I guess.

I definitely got the Mongol reference, being a dedicated Civilization player (all the way back from the original) I *really]/b] hate it when Djengis and his Mongolian hordes crush my puny empire  [/sblock]


			
				Piratecat said:
			
		


			Thanks for the commentary!
		
Click to expand...



No problem. For once I have the time and feel like giving something back for all the nice stories.

Håkon*


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## Piratecat (Feb 6, 2007)

Gulla, cool! I had no idea that's what the picture was of. Interesting.

Alternate (cynical) ending to my story, not to be used in judging it:
[sblock]...His face filled with light. “Then don’t talk about it, son. To anyone. But you’re always welcome here. I’ll make you some breakfast. And there’s a phone if you need to ring someone up.”

I did.

They were real. Many Gods, not just the one true one. Deuteronomy had not been lying to me. There were false gods, and judging by what happened to the Knights Templar, they were a threat even to those who tried to keep their faith strong. Worse, they gained power from worship. I had learned that, too. 

I have seen their Abominations. Alicja would have to convert, or die. There is no place in this world for false idols. 

The barman had gone back into the kitchen. I picked up a chair, a heavy stout thing of dense oak, and turned to face my foe.

-- o --

It's much less 'feel-good' than the original, and rings truer in terms of the narrator's history, but it wasn't what I wanted to say. I scribbled it down when I thought "How I could I now turn the entire story around?" I suppose that's one way.[/sblock]


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## Berandor (Feb 6, 2007)

Thanks for the comments!  Sialia and Gulla both: While I did not try for "universal truth" in my story, brilliant would have been nice. I hope I get another try in this contest...

also: look at what kind of pics I have to work with!

[sblock]







			
				Gulla said:
			
		

> *Berandor,* you can do better than this. Not that it is bad at all, but you are capable of brilliand and this is only very good. Amusingly the picture of the riot squad is your best use also, I think. The structure of this story is very nice (maybe a bit too obvious since I manage to identify it   ) with the same scene in the start and the end and the repeating "There are three kinds of..." I'm not quite sure what is wrong with the story, but it just feels a bit less interresting than I expected. It might be too high expectations, of course.



It's the expectations 

One of my problems with Ceramic DM is that I tend to take pictures very literally. For example, with Piratecat's story I would have had great difficulty not to take the four-legged family as what it is, people running on all fours. That also means that p.o.v.-pictures tend to be used as if a character is actually watching the exact scene, not as if it's the scene as described by a narrator. And of course, three of the four pictures were totally crazy. I knew that trying to spin them into a serious narrative would be difficult, so I chose the opposite path of comedy. That's very, very hard to do brilliantly, so my goal was to win by craftsmanship and by making fun of blind, of mentally deficient, and of grieving people as well as of terrorism. Yay!

I know that my characters are a little sketchy, too, but I felt I had to keep things going instead of padding them out and making it all fall apart, even at the cost of stretching logic. All that jazz is just meant to say that I agree with your comments. Thanks![/sblock]

And now I'll make a quick comment on the (other) stories so far:
[sblock]*Gabriel*: I liked your story. What I think would have been better, though, is to tell it all as it happens and not as a flashback-of-sorts. That way, we would be able to experience all the events directly, and not summed up in a few sentences. And the "traitoress" would have been with us for a much longer time, too, so the "end" would carry more impact. The idea is cool, though.

_Match 1_
*Aris Dragonborn*: see my post somewhere above.
*Miles Pilitus*: Your story flowed along without much of a plot. Sure, there were things happening, but they didn't really feel connected or to speak about some greater relevant truth. Not that it was badly observed or anything; the proceedings were described quite realistically. I was just left wondering why you told this story; what was it about?

_Match 2_
*Graywolf ELM*: What distracted me a little were the dialogues in bold. A nice story (and a D&D theme! Whoot!), but I felt the pictures were just not really connected. The stage was just set and re-set, and with the story's framework, any four pictures probably would have been incorporated just as neatly.
*mythago*: Cool story, but the ending lacked a little punch for me. It's probably expectations, though. The idea was wonderful, and the protagonist was just the right kind of  to go down at the end. Creepy! I thought the "fight" picture wasn't too well integrated into the story, just a little side plot or remark.

_Match 4_
*BSF*: Were-toads! Also a D&D-story! The wedding picture did stick out a little bit (that *was* a mean pic!), and I felt the ending was a little rushed. Overall, I enjoyed the story very much, from the matter-of-fact behaviour of the toady family to the rakish-roguish plan of our anti-hero.
*Piratecat*: While I thought that the wedding picture was nicely explained, it wasn't really that well integrated into the story. Or so I thought. Also, I would have preferred the optional, or director's cut ending you just posted  The story was very atmospheric, but it left me a little cold, mainly because I didn't feel the conflict was that well resolved.
When he meets the "goddess", the protagonist says,


> "I don’t think she’s a heathen, I mean, but everything I’ve ever been taught insists that she speaks blasphemy, and if I marry her I’ll be ex-communicated."



From that I read that he's not that hung up on her faith, personally, but fears his community's repercussions should he marry her. And these repercussions weren't really affected by the events, unless he'll send his family or even the whole community to listen to the toad-god's story. So I was kind of waiting for the other shoe to drop.[/sblock]

Just a few short comments, there, nothing too egrerious (sp?).

Next: judgements?


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## mythago (Feb 6, 2007)

Sialia said:
			
		

> That said, there was not one that touched on a personal truth so intense that it kicked off the hormonal "weepy" response.




Hm. I have been trying to avoid button-pushing, myself, because all of my clients are at least sick and a good number are dying (or they have died, and my clients are the family members). I noticed that I was doing a lot of stories with misery and people dying at the end, which didn't seem healthy, or mushy romantic stories which are not so much my thing.


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## Sialia (Feb 6, 2007)

mythago said:
			
		

> Hm. I have been trying to avoid button-pushing, myself, because all of my clients are at least sick and a good number are dying (or they have died, and my clients are the family members). I noticed that I was doing a lot of stories with misery and people dying at the end, which didn't seem healthy, or mushy romantic stories which are not so much my thing.




Right--misery, melodrama, and mushy not required. Bleagh.

What I meant is, your writing is always excellent, but this felt so distant from anything you actually care about, that it seemed kind of Lego-like. Here's Mythago's usual set of elements ready to snap together, and we can already guess roughly what shape this is going to be from pretty much the first picture usage. The story fits your oeuvre, is a perfect match for your brand appeal, but it doesn't take us anywhere new. 

I'd like to see you sweatier, or at least more surprised at where you wound up afterward.


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## mythago (Feb 6, 2007)

Sialia said:
			
		

> Right--misery, melodrama, and mushy not required. Bleagh.
> 
> What I meant is, your writing is always excellent, but this felt so distant from anything you actually care about, that it seemed kind of Lego-like. Here's Mythago's usual set of elements ready to snap together, and we can already guess roughly what shape this is going to be from pretty much the first picture usage. The story fits your oeuvre, is a perfect match for your brand appeal, but it doesn't take us anywhere new.
> 
> I'd like to see you sweatier, or at least more surprised at where you wound up afterward.




You said that on purpose!

Maybe I'm just getting predictable in my creaky old age. Or, like Piratecat, I'm extra-rusty.


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## orchid blossom (Feb 6, 2007)

Judgements sent for the first two completed rounds, the others should be in from me tomorrow afternoon.

I had to retype them all.  I still haven't gotten that e-mail I sent myself.


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## Sialia (Feb 7, 2007)

mythago said:
			
		

> You said that on purpose!
> 
> Maybe I'm just getting predictable in my creaky old age. Or, like Piratecat, I'm extra-rusty.





Plainly, you need more lubricant.


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## Sialia (Feb 7, 2007)

Piratecat, 

(caution: critique below and I'm counting on the fact that you know I love you and your writing to soften the tone 'cause I'm too tired & cranky to think of a sensitive & humorous way to say this.)

[sblock] 1. Why the heck is your narrator interested in marrying a woman  who doen't share his religious views? If his sect is that important to him, I'd have thought shared faith would have been a dating pre-req. 

Not that it couldn't happen that he might fall in love with someone much against his preconceived ideas of the perfect domestic partner, but it seems to me that if that's what's happened, it's important enough to the story to show us some of that.  I'd buy that maybe he didn't know she was Wicca right away and loved her first and then had to adjust to new information, but I'll bet she knew what his faith was within a few paragraphs of meeting him--he wears it on his exterior loudly.  (And it's hard to believe he wouldn't ask.  Or his passionately religious family/community.) What was she thinking? If there's some other reason he's into her, or that she's into him, that would have been important too.

I dunno--something just didn't ring true about this relationship. If the story is to work all the way through, I'd have to buy the struggle between faith and --whatever the strong compelling reason for wanting to get married to each other is. 

2. As it is, the relationship becomes kind of irrelevant compared to the discussion about whether there is one god or many. In which case, lose the relationship altogether, and focus solely on his own spiritual journey. There's enough meat for the story there, if that's really where you want to go. But if I don't buy either his faith, or his immersion in a community that makes him think he has no faith options, it won't fly. You haven't gotten far enough inside his head to really show us the world through his eyes.

3. If the story is rather about the thirsty frog god's experience, then give us a narrator who's more inherently flexible, but a virgin to flexible ideas, maybe someone who's never met anyone who wasn't a member of his own faith before. It would give him fresh eyes to see the frog with, and leave a lot of his distracting baggage outside.

[/sblock]


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## Rodrigo Istalindir (Feb 7, 2007)

Sialia said:
			
		

> Plainly, you need more lubricant.




Is the judging going to be that harsh?


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## mythago (Feb 7, 2007)

Rodrigo Istalindir said:
			
		

> Is the judging going to be that harsh?




"Bring me a semicolon....well oiled."


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## FickleGM (Feb 7, 2007)

Rodrigo Istalindir said:
			
		

> Is the judging going to be that harsh?



 My mellow is unharshable.


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## Drawmack (Feb 7, 2007)

*Round 1 Match 6 (Monday):
Rodrigo Istilindir vs. Drawmack*
The Case of The Disappearing Husband

It was a cold winter day, like so many other cold winter days. I just collected a large tab and was looking forward to taking a little break. Detective work can be rather boring sometimes, hell most of the time, so I was looking forward to a Sam Spade novel reminding me why I became a detective.

That’s when she walked in on a set of gams that would leave a priest needing a confessional. Her head was crowned with red hair like smoldering embers, ready to erupt any second. Southern fire and brimstone evangelists had nothing on the intensity in her emerald eyes. Innocence almost exuded from the pores in her milky complexion, innocence found nowhere else in her appearance, but ample innocence was visible around her skimpy green dress. I just knew this dame was trouble, but I also felt this could be passed on almost as easily as passing on water in the desert.

She walked in like she owned the place, grabbed a coffin nail from the box on my desk and leaned in for me to light it. Then she sat down and flourished her perfect get-away sticks in the name of crossing them. When she spoke, a smoky voice added to her allure as she started her story.

“Hi Jack, I’m Laura a friend of Bill Williams. There’s this little problem with my husband and Bill told me you might be able to help.” She stated taking a long pull off her cigarette, and flashing elegant hands that one could picture doing many things. 

Great just another “my husband is cheating” case, I thought but the possibility of this broad needing some comfort bought the response, “Tell me what you need doll.”

Taking a second drag off her cigarette, she said, “Well the story starts a couple weeks ago. Ralph, my husband, got a telegram that his brother, and only living relative, Karl, had passed away. The telegram implored him to return to Rapid Falls and make the necessary arrangements, so off we flew.” 

“Set center stage at the funeral home was a casket looking more the size of a child then a full grown man, especially one Karl’s size. The size discrepancy became even more apparent when the six pallbearers could barely fit under the casket. (1_6_2.jpg)”

 “It took a week for the lawyer to read the will. Karl’s money, a quite substantial amount, went to various charities and organizations. Personal belongings were split among friends. Ralph received a single manila envelope containing four two-sided, type-written sheets. These were tucked away with a vow to read them at home.”

“Three days after we returned, Ralph sat down to read his inheritance. After about half an hour he screamed “OH MY GOD!” and ran from the house clutching the letter. I have not seen him, or the letter, since. I need to find him.” She finished tossing her cancer-stick into the ashtray. 

Deciding this sounded interesting, I set Sam Spade aside and informed her I would take the case. She laid a file on the desk with a phone number on the front and turned to leave saying “Call if you need anything.” Then she walked from the office with a parting shot as nice as her entrance.

Looking at the file revealed a list of Karl’s friends, colleagues, and some of his favorite haunts. I decided to head up to Rapid Falls, after a night’s sleep.

I headed home for my pre-case ritual, two blocks into the sixteen block journey I noticed them. Tailing me, like a four-year-old sneaks up on a chocolate bar, was a black Chevy Suburban with tinted windows. I did not know who these clowns were, but Occham’s Rasor told me it had something to do with Laura, Karl, and Ralph.

--

Upon landing in O’Hara international I noticed more thugs tailing me. These guys looked more like professional wrestlers then guys that should be tailing anyone, let alone a private investigator. I figured their bosses had to be some pretty powerful people if they were using tails that were almost as hard to spot as Arnold Schwarzenegger in a day care. But I decided to keep pretending I was stupid and blind.

Outside I picked up my rental and headed for the local motel. Once in my room, well more of a closet really – but at least it was clean, I opened Laura’s file and looked for a logical starting point. Of course the Black Suburban followed me here and was parked outside the window. I found the name Iserpio. As if that name were not enough to pique my interest, it was accompanied by a note reading “Don’t let his appearance shock you.” So I called the provided phone number and made an appointment to meet this Iserpio, who sounded normal enough. 

Deciding it might be prudent, I shook the tail on the way to the Iserpio’s. Pulling up, I saw a mansion where Bella Lugosi could be waiting in a lab coat while some little man with a big hump guided me in. I pulled up to the garage and honked two shorts and a long, as instructed. The garage door promptly opened, I pulled in and the door closed behind me.

Inside the garage I was definitely not greeted by a little man with a big hump. A sultry voice came out of the darkness, “Iserpio is in the yard awaiting your arrival.” Then footsteps led away. As she exited the room I caught the briefest glimpse of a woman who could have just stepped off the pages of Vogue.

--

Shock could not even begin to describe what I felt, load in my pants might have done the job though. At the far end of the massive yard I saw what looked like a snow owl coming in for a landing. As it approached closer I noticed that it had the head of a winter wolf (1_6_1.jpg). As he landed right in front of me, he looked up at me and said, “How may I help you?”

“W-W-What are you?” I stammered

“I am Iserpio.” He responded, which also answered my next question. “On the phone you commented that you wished to talk about Karl and Ralph.” He continued, unabated by my shock.

Still in a near state of shock, I could not help but ask. “What exactly are you and where do you come from?”

With a look I was unable to read, due to the alien nature of this creature, Iserpio stated. “I am Iserpio, a one of a kind creature with a one of a kind name. As for where I come from let’s just say that men should not know certain things and the people at SansLogik would do good to learn that. Now, could we please move on to Ralph and Karl every moment I spend here threatens my life a little more?”

I lit a smoke to give me the much desired moment I needed to clear my thoughts. When that was not enough time I asked for a highball and awaited its arrival. Finally with a drink in my hand I was able to compose myself. I must have looked like a school boy seeing his first bare-chested dame. “I’m sure you know about Karl. Well, it seems that Ralph was reading his inheritance when he ran from the house and has not been seen since. I was hoping you could shed some light on this, or point me to someone who can.” I explained.

“I have no idea what was written in that letter; or why Ralph had the reaction he did. But, I can tell you that Bill Fredricks might. He was a colleague of Karl’s at SansLogik. If anyone knew what Ralph wrote in that letter it would be him. Do you need his number?” Iserpio asked

“Laura gave me numbers for all of Karl’s known friends and colleagues; I think Bill’s number is on there. I’ll be on my way now so you can get out of danger.” I stated and turned to leave.

--

A black Crown Victoria with tinted windows awaited my arrival at the motel. I gave Bill a call. He agreed to meet me in the old cemetery after dark. He said to meet him at the statue to Odin and Frigga which sits on top of the hill.

The site inspired something a bit short of awe. While the entire cemetery was covered with a fresh blanket of snow, like a fine down comforter, the area around the monument was as naked as a newborn’s bottom. Sitting in the center of the dry space was a concrete casting of a bench with a banister behind it. A set of statue of skeletons sat on the bench, embracing each other like school kids in puppy love. Between what I assumed were the man’s legs was a copper bowl (1_6_3.jpg). A middle aged man, thick middled like a fryer, stepped from behind a near by tree and approached me.

“Did you come alone?” He asked in a hushed voice. 

“Well there was a tail on me when I left the motel, but I shook ’em.” I replied

“Was it two brutish guys who look like they share ten IQ points between then in a black Crown Victoria?” He asked.

“Yeah, how did you know?” I replied.

“Standard SansLogik flare. I’ll be extremely quick and to the point. First of all Karl is not dead and Ralph is with him. Their lives are in danger because of what Karl was working on. We’re talking about really weird stuff here.” He started.

“Yeah, I met Iserpio.” I interjected.

“This stuff makes him look normal. Karl had two choices go into hiding until the story breaks, or die. He opted for hiding. If you want to find them go to Crowley’s Closet, it’s a small club in the basement of a bowling alley downtown. It’ll be easy to find there’s only two bowling alleys downtown and one of them is closed this time of the night. I have to go now.” Bill stated then took off into the graveyard. He disappeared among the tombstones like a cricket in a wheat field.

--

The bowling alley was easy enough to find, being right on the main drag and all. Of course Frick and Frack picked up my trail at some point, because I noticed them parking as I got out of my rental. These two were almost as good at hiding as a three year old is at keeping a secret. 

I went in, got a lane, rented some shoes, found a ball, and bowled my 43 average until the two thugs from the black lagoon got bored. It took all of about thirty minutes before Neil and Bob were in the bar. 

Then I turned in my shoes quicker then an Irish Protestant fights an Irish Catholic. There was an open stairway to the basement, but it was not marked by any signs. I headed down the stairs and tried the door. I was greeted by a large man wearing a diaper and carrying a rattle. Now, I have been in some pretty strange places, but this left me longing for a conversation with Iserpio. “What are you looking for?” The giant baby queried.

“I was told I might enjoy Crowley’s Closet.” I responded.

“Well come on in then. You can take off your normie clothes over there.” He pointed to what looked like a dressing area, except it was completely open.

I walked around a little; looking for someone strange in this place was like looking for a drop of water in the ocean, but eventually some people who might have information. Standing against a wall, shrouded in red light which added a demonic air to them, were two dames I’d do just about anything to bed. One was a redhead with freckles and creamy skin the light set fire to. The other was dressed in a Nazi hat, lederhosen and not much else. They were laughing at a couple who might have been engaging in adult activities, if they were not dressed like giant birds. (1_6_4.jpg)

As I approached the Nazi said. “Bill called and said to expect you. Karl is in the back. Just go to that door and tell them you’re with Me. They’ll let you in to see Karl then.”

I headed to the door, well really more of a loose panel. The door was guarded by a Fryer Tuck, who I’m pretty sure was packing more then himself under that dress. He let me through to the back. I was greeted by Karl and Ralph. I told them my story and Karl decided that Ralph needed to leave with me because he could be endangering them both by staying.

--

Eventually I made it back to the motel. I had to get a second room for Ralph, as I was not going to share a bed with him. Around midnight there was a loud crash outside followed by several reports from a hand gun, probably a nine mil, and then the screeching of car tires.

I grabbed my gun and ran out the door just in time to see the Crown Vic heading onto the road. One look in Ralph’s room was all it took to convince me a door nail contained more life then he did. Three holes in his head and two more in his chest, attested to the capability of the assassins. Maybe they could not conduct a tail, but they could shoot like a nun can pray.

I left in a hurry and reported to Laura that I was unable to locate her husband.

Next time you have a choice between Sam Spade and a pretty dame, take Sam Spade.


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## Drawmack (Feb 7, 2007)

There my entry is posted. I've never written a story in this genre before. I hope it pays off and I can't wait to see what Rodrigo posts.


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## yangnome (Feb 7, 2007)

Gabriel said:
			
		

> My mellow is unharshable.



 is that a challenge?


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## FickleGM (Feb 7, 2007)

yangnome said:
			
		

> is that a challenge?



 Do. Your. Worst.


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## Sialia (Feb 7, 2007)

Rodrigo Istalindir said:
			
		

> Is the judging going to be that harsh?





Mercy, I hope the judges aren't as hormonal as I am.

This is one of the many reasons that I'm a heckler and not a judge.


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## Herremann the Wise (Feb 7, 2007)

Judgments for the first three judgments sent.   

Best Regards
Herremann the Wise


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## BSF (Feb 7, 2007)

Comments to comments - Sblocked for prudence.

[sblock]







			
				Gulla said:
			
		

> BSF, were-toads? Somethimes you have ideas that just strikes out of the blue. A nice story with a hero with some resistance that fails in the end, and it even feels somewhat fair that the pretty witch wins  Nice picture use, except the bulldozer, I feel. Not really sure how to comment more. It is nice, slick and good, but I just don't feel it is brilliant. I have no idea why.




Thanks!  There are a few notable weaknesses in my opinion.  Though I probably need more time to distance myself from the story before I can give it a thorough assessment.  But to summarize, I didn't tie the pieces together tightly enough.  Ceramic DM is a creative writing exercise, to be sure.  But it is not an easy exercise.  The challenge really is to find a string that you can write from.  A string that you can weave throughout the story to tie all the pieces together into a cohesive whole

Sometimes, that string is hard to find and write from.  For me, it wasn't as compelling as I would hope for.  Yet, there is that time limit.  That is what makes it fun.  

I intentionally tried to leave a few things unsaid.  I really thought about trying to explain everything, but that too is fraught with peril.  My goal was to make the 'hero' feel less than heroic by the end of the tale.  When you reach the end, I want people to recognize and realize that this is just a guy that really hasn't changed his heart.  He is a philanderer, mostly interested in his own welfare.  Likable enough, perhaps, but not somebody with a strong moral compass.  That might be part of what detracts from the story for you.  In the end, there really isn't anybody to empathize with, or root for.  Hugh could be somewhat noble about his goals, but he isn't.  

It has made for an interesting story, I think.  But I don't think my execution is brilliant.  There are some wonderful writers here on EN World and I immensely enjoy seeing the creativity and different approaches to Ceramic DM stories.  Everybody I write against is somebody that I feel like I need to push myself and stretch to earn that win.  Sometimes I am successful, other times I am not.  But it is always a pleasure to compete and while I can be snooty in the name of good fun, I honestly do hope to entertain, and be entertained and have a good time with my fellow board members.  

So thank you for your comments Gulla!  And thank you Piratecat for the match up.  



			
				Berandor said:
			
		

> BSF: Were-toads! Also a D&D-story! The wedding picture did stick out a little bit (that *was* a mean pic!), and I felt the ending was a little rushed. Overall, I enjoyed the story very much, from the matter-of-fact behaviour of the toady family to the rakish-roguish plan of our anti-hero.




*laugh*  Thanks Berandor.  Yeah, the wedding pic was a pain to bring in.  My (rueful) compliments go to Yangnome for that pic!  The ending was a bit rushed.  The were-toad idea was the best crumb I picked up.  The second best one was a retelling of the Frog Prince.  Conceptually I could get half the story together.  But the rest just wouldn't fall into place.  And the worst option, well it was a jumble of ideas that couldn't be strung together at all.  *sigh*  Nevertheless I am pleased that you enjoyed it.  I have enjoyed your stories over the years and it is nice to return the favor in some small way.  

One of the great things about Ceramic DM actually.



			
				sialia said:
			
		

> Anyway, the only reason I mention this is that I think the very best fiction always has some sort of true thing at it's core. Our writers this season all seem to have the hang of grammar, character, plot and a pleasant turn of phrase. Given the consistently high level of quality in this first round, I'm still hoping one of you breaks through the "pleasantly amusing" barrier into the realm of "ohmigosh--that is incredible."




Ah Sialia!  Favored of the Muses, I understand what you are saying.  I wish I had that sort of inspiration.  I do enjoy writing when I can feel that passion for some sort of message within the story.  Yet some would assert that fiction should merely entertain, messages are not the realm of fiction writers.  

As you are aware, I do not entirely subscribe to that theory.  *smile*  

Truth is, private life has had challenges that made it difficult to find an emotional core to write this story from.   If I go to those depths, I fear that it will be melancholy at best, and overshadow any real story.  

Perhaps if I am fortunate enough to curry the favor of the judges, I will find a thread I can passionately embrace and write around in the next set of pictures.  Else, I will wish Piratecat the best.  

But thank you for the encouragement disguised as gentle chastisment.  You are right, we have some wonderful folks writing and there is still hope for an epiphanous moment in one of these stories.  The delightful thing is that it could come from any of the competitors.  It is always amazing to see what these pictures dredge up and cough out isn't it?

[/sblock]


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## Berandor (Feb 7, 2007)

BSF said:
			
		

> Truth is, private life has had challenges that made it difficult to find an emotional core to write this story from.   If I go to those depths, I fear that it will be melancholy at best, and overshadow any real story.



I'm currently sitting in a 3-day writing class (not "how to write in 3 days", alas, but just a class that only has three sessions) at university. There are 17 students in class. We all had to write short stories, which we are now discussing. Of the 17, 4 deal with whiny, stressed-out students (who aren't really that stressed out), and 8 are melancholy and not much more. Indeed, in five different stories no character has a name. Only six stories contain dialogue at all. So if you go to these depths – I can take it. I'd rather not, though 

(Incidentally, me having to read these 16 stories last week might have played a part in me writing a lighter narrative. Oh, in case you're interested: among all those stories of cancer-ridden parents and dialogue-free train rides, my story is about a warlock hired to uncover industrial espionage; it's a horror-urban-fantasy story.)


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## orchid blossom (Feb 7, 2007)

I took two semesters of creative writing in college and sometimes reading other people's stories was absolute torture.

Of course, there were a few fantastic writers that made it all worthwhile too.

We get consistently better quality here in Ceramic DM than I ever saw in those classes.


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## Berandor (Feb 7, 2007)

orchid blossom said:
			
		

> I took two semesters of creative writing in college and sometimes reading other people's stories was absolute torture.
> 
> Of course, there were a few fantastic writers that made it all worthwhile too.
> 
> We get consistently better quality here in Ceramic DM than I ever saw in those classes.



Tell me about it. For tomorrow, I'll have to prepare a short analysis/critique of a text that is horrible. Reading it once was tough; I just cursed my way through a second time (for the analysis), and I think other students looked at me strangely because I couldn't sit still while reading that dreck. Terrible style, no proof-reading whatsoever, and boringest plot with a totally unlikeable protagonist. Argh!

The seminar is done by an accomplished author who's visiting the university ("poet in residence"), and we had a lottery on which texts to discuss. Mine isn't among the chosen - so to get me involved, I had to do the introductory analysis. And the author adamantly refused to give even short, informal commentary on my and other stories that weren't drawn for discussion. Curiously, we read 5 stories so far, and all of the authors had never written anything before and more or less just did to get into the seminar with the author (there was an additional seminar on his books, which they attended). Of those who seem to be really interested in writing, there's one story among the lucky 9 that are discussed. So it's really disappointing, especially with the direct comparison of Ceramic DM.


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## KidCthulhu (Feb 7, 2007)

mythago said:
			
		

> "Bring me a semicolon....well oiled."




I don't even want to know where you plan on inserting a well oiled semicolon.


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## mythago (Feb 7, 2007)

KidCthulhu said:
			
		

> I don't even want to know where you plan on inserting a well oiled semicolon.




Between independent clauses linked with a transitional phrase. That "supercomma" stuff is just perverted.


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## Rodrigo Istalindir (Feb 7, 2007)

mythago said:
			
		

> Between independent clauses linked with a transitional phrase. That "supercomma" stuff is just perverted.




Just so long as no one messes with my dangling participle.


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## Piratecat (Feb 7, 2007)

Just keep it away from my colon.


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## Rodrigo Istalindir (Feb 7, 2007)

Ah, innuendo


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## yangnome (Feb 7, 2007)

*Round 1 Match 7*

Round 1 Match7 (Wednesday): 
Carpe David vs Maxfieldjadenfox

Sialia's not writing, so I won't set an official word limit. The guideline is don't bore the judges and make us want to stop reading. Here are your pics. You have 72 hours from post time.


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## yangnome (Feb 7, 2007)

OK, match 7 is posted.  I have some judgements done for a couple of the rounds on Friday. I'll be putting them up later today as I get time away from work.


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## maxfieldjadenfox (Feb 7, 2007)

yangnome said:
			
		

> Round 1 Match7 (Wednesday):
> Carpe David vs Maxfieldjadenfox
> 
> Sialia's not writing, so I won't set an official word limit. The guideline is don't bore the judges and make us want to stop reading. Here are your pics. You have 72 hours from post time.




Um yeah. And what sort of drugs should I be doing to make a connection between these pictures, sadist?


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## maxfieldjadenfox (Feb 7, 2007)

Berandor said:
			
		

> Tell me about it. For tomorrow, I'll have to prepare a short analysis/critique of a text that is horrible. Reading it once was tough; I just cursed my way through a second time (for the analysis), and I think other students looked at me strangely because I couldn't sit still while reading that dreck. Terrible style, no proof-reading whatsoever, and boringest plot with a totally unlikeable protagonist. Argh!
> 
> The seminar is done by an accomplished author who's visiting the university ("poet in residence"), and we had a lottery on which texts to discuss. Mine isn't among the chosen - so to get me involved, I had to do the introductory analysis. And the author adamantly refused to give even short, informal commentary on my and other stories that weren't drawn for discussion. Curiously, we read 5 stories so far, and all of the authors had never written anything before and more or less just did to get into the seminar with the author (there was an additional seminar on his books, which they attended). Of those who seem to be really interested in writing, there's one story among the lucky 9 that are discussed. So it's really disappointing, especially with the direct comparison of Ceramic DM.





Well, Berandor, you and I appear to be trapped in the same hell-dimension. I'm taking Stylistic Analysis and the book is just turgid. Tomorrow I have to turn in a paragraph written in noun style, then change it to verb style, then write an analysis of the two paragraphs, paying particular attention to hypotaxis, parataxis, and isocolon, and their effects on the style... Fun!


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## Sialia (Feb 7, 2007)

Reading and writing for Ceramic GM has undoubtedly been the best writing lessons of my life.

As far as "inner truth" goes, there is no reason emotional connectedness has to go to the heart of pain, or be about some great philosophical undertext. 

Think about Order of the Stick. 

OOTS "underlying truth" is that gaming is a hoot, and the stupid mistakes that gamers make is an especially sweet (if perverse) part of the pleasure.

We look at that strip and think "yup--that's exactly right. That's exactly how this sort of thing happens," or "I have played with soembody exactly like Belkar" or "Doh!  My party always does that to me!" 

If you really know and believe in your characters and your world, truth happens.


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## carpedavid (Feb 7, 2007)

yangnome said:
			
		

> Round 1 Match7 (Wednesday):
> Carpe David vs Maxfieldjadenfox
> 
> Sialia's not writing, so I won't set an official word limit. The guideline is don't bore the judges and make us want to stop reading. Here are your pics. You have 72 hours from post time.




Hrmmm. This'll be interesting.


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## KidCthulhu (Feb 7, 2007)

Actually, I know exactly where that last picture comes from.  I know where that is, I mean.  How weird.


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## Graywolf-ELM (Feb 7, 2007)

One of my goals here, is to take constructive feedback, back to heart, and work on my languishing story hour, with a modified perspective, and a renewed interest in writing.  I look forward to the often harsh and critical evaluations (but also often accurate, if you have an open mind).

GW


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## Berandor (Feb 7, 2007)

yangnome said:
			
		

> OK, match 7 is posted.  I have some judgements done for a couple of the rounds on Friday. I'll be putting them up later today as I get time away from work.



 You mean, like... now?


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## Gulla (Feb 7, 2007)

maxfieldjadenfox said:
			
		

> Um yeah. And what sort of drugs should I be doing to make a connection between these pictures, sadist?



Cold weather (-15 degrees Celsius here) and too much spare time obviously work since I actually got something immideately from this set. But then I don't have to write. I'll only sit back and enjoy the results.

And talking about that: You veteran players should look to the newcommers and be inspired to deliver nice stories faster   

Håkon


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## Rodrigo Istalindir (Feb 7, 2007)

Pfftp.  I never even start mine till at best the night before.  College taught me that I do my best work on caffeine and sugar and a tight deadline.


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## Drawmack (Feb 7, 2007)

Gulla said:
			
		

> And talking about that: You veteran players should look to the newcommers and be inspired to deliver nice stories faster
> 
> Håkon




I hope you're not infering that I am not a veteran player. Though I do hope you're calling my story nice.


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## Berandor (Feb 7, 2007)

Since yangnome seems to be occupied, I'll divert myself by a short commentary on drawmack's entry.

[sblock]
Sam Spade detective stories are always fun! I think your entry suffered from some flaws, however. First, and most importantly: conflict – where is it? The protagonist just goes from one scene to the next. It's easy to shake his shadows (except when they easily re-find him), and the "people" he meets tell him everything without much hesitation. The main character doesn't really do anything except make calls and visit places, and that's not really an accomplishment.
Second, the story is too open. I don't mind that the husband is killed in the end, and the ironic sentence at the end was a nice idea – but we don't get much resolution. Why did Karl go into hiding, and Ralph with him? What was that club really about? It's too mysterious, I think.
Third, the pictures aren't really that integral to the story. The casket thing is more a recollection, and not that important. Indeed, why would Karl fake his death with too small a coffin? The owl/fox was alright; if its appearance had been just the tip of the iceberg in the mystery of the disappearances, it would have been better, though. The skeletons were just random window dressing, I felt, and the doorwomen not much more.
Finally, if you jave the time, you should go through the story once more before posting; there were some commas missing, and reworking dialogue to get it more to the point can make or break especially such a detective story.
I'm not saying your entry was worthless or anything; I really like the idea of the hard-boiled detective biting off more than he can chew, a sort-of ironic look at the genre. I like the idea of a biogenetical company producing chimerae. In terms of characterization, spelling/grammar, and plotting, I'm reading much worse right now (see above). But while practice makes good, criticism makes perfect. Thank you for your story, nevertheless. I enjoyed reading it.
[/sblock]


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## yangnome (Feb 8, 2007)

*Judgement Round 1 Match 3 Berandor vs. Gabriel*

Sorry these are going up late.  Today was a hectic day at work with three people out sick, and I was still feeling ill as well.  

Orchid Blossom

Gabriel – Day of the Goatsess

The idea here is great, and I like that we don’t know how or shy the goatmen appeared, or what they want. From the point of view of the characters in this story we wouldn’t know, and it’s better that we don’t when you come to the end.

Rather than writing this in a flashback format, I would have liked to have seen it written as it was happening.  As a flashback we know the characters have at least made it to the point where someone can be telling the story and lose the tension of wondering.  We’re curious, but not invested.  We have a summary of how the group came together, and just at the moment where the reader fells “ah, here’s the story,” it ends.

The only thing that stopped me from reading smoothly through the story was the incongruity of the main character having time to tell a story as the characters are running for their lives.  Sentences such as “I barely had the time to glance back as a shape hurtled past my desk and delivered a devastating head-butt to Peter’s skull, crushing it and killing him,” don’t read naturally.  It’s a good descriptive sentence, but more comfortable as a third-person description.  Someone just talking is more likely to say something like, “The thing flew by me and caved in Peter’s skull with a nasty head-butt.”

I’d also like to have a better idea of what not-pretty things the goatmen are willing to do, and the only clue we get is the head-butt.  Not telling leaves it to the imagination, but we need a place to start.  Something as simple as dried blood on the character’s shoes, a mention of vacant-eyed stares, or mentioning flows of red running into the sewers gives us an idea just how bad things are without being gory or graphic.  Is it only people who put resistance who are hurt, or is it at the goatmen’s whim?

Each picture is used to demonstrate how someone was found, which are all important moments.  The office picture doesn’t work as well, since it would occur in the moment before the important thing happens.  Smitty’s picture is the strongest as it illustrates not only how the main character met him, but who and what he is.

I’d have happily read more of this story, but I’d like more not only at the end, but also in the middle.

Berandor – Seeing is Believing

It’s always amazing to see what different ideas people bring out of the same set of pictures.  From Berandor we’re getting a bit of a noir feeling, more along the lines of Garrison Keeler’s Guy Noir than classic noir. Despite the mentions of t-shirts and shorts my mind insisted on imagining the people in this story in 1940’s clothes with ever-present cigarettes.

I always appreciate a story a bout someone’s internal journey, and this story was about Sam and how his perceptions change.  Sam’s manner of talking pulls us in quickly, making us interested in what he has to say even if just to see how he’ll say it.

What doesn’t pan out well for me is why Sam decides to go out and help Forrest.  We see early on that he is in the habit of helping out homeless people with money, and along with his inability to help Polly Walker we can see the story threads that are supposed to pull him there, but it doesn’t feel like enough.

It also felt a bit convenient for Forrest to be walking past the office just as Sam hears the news story.  Is it the sight of him that is supposed to push Sam over the edge from sympathy to action?

The pictures work where they’re placed.  Making the late Mr. Walker an inventor helps hint at the fan contraption ahead of time.  Polly’s accordion playing demonstrates her desperation, and the office picture reflects the humor in the rest of the piece.  The police picture is a bit peripheral even though it opens and closes the story.  I think it feels like that because it should reflect Sam’s new willingness to at least consider the paranormal, something I didn’t buy into.

The story read smoothly and easily.  I liked the character of Sam, who was a fun protagonist to follow.  There was enough description to keep pictures in my mind, and the story avoided bogging down in details.

On the strength of picture use and a more rounded story, this one goes to Berandor.

---------
Herreman:
Berandor vs. Gabriel

And so after a quick clean up after last round’s events as well as a small degree of medical attention, I pressed ahead with festivities, addressing the group.

“This round sees the offerings of Gabriel and Berandor submitted for your…”
At the mention of “Gabriel” a shudder of fear rolled through the jury of imps. Several looked around nervously while others closed in tightly. All looked wide-eyed and completely spooked. I tapped ‘Lady Death’ against the altar with a dull ring to regain their attention but this only served to augment their nervous position.

“Infernal jury, it’s not THE Gabriel, so there is completely no need for nervous theatrics. It’s just some guy writing under a handle. Seriously, as if an angel would submit to being judged by you lot!” My reassurance and berating had little positive effect (if anything, harping on it distracted them further) and so with little choice, I pressed on.

“In terms of story, Gabriel has presented us with a short piece that immediately placed me in the “Dawn of the Dead” mindset except that rather than zombies, we had goatmen. Brilliance - I love it! The story then proceeds to how the group met up, slowly coalescing during an apocalyptic day. The tension then flags somewhat before the final sentence and threat from Shani’s cloven revealing. Unfortunately, what started out so well petered slightly as the story’s tension was allowed to waver. The ending was enough to provide a smile but little more. I would have liked to see things fleshed out (the setting, and Shani as a character in particular) with a little more immediate action rather than retrospectives - again show, don’t tell being the writer’s catchcry. Something was needed to increase the tension building up to that final sentence. All told though, a solid effort traversing an interesting set of images.”

“Berandor on the other hand has given us a fantastic tale of alien vagrants, police brutality and sardonic paranormal investigation. It circles strongly from its start to its completion and ends solidly without getting too syrupy sweet. For me, it’s those little interactions between the story’s various elements that give this story both depth and believability. Rather than simple/linear connections linking one story element to another, Berandor has produced a neat web of interactions, all within the intriguing context of paranormal investigations. Rather than having his story rigidly defined by the images, he has taken a step back, laid his foundation, and then drawn each of the images luxuriantly into his story’s weave. The images become important servants to the story rather than overbearing masters. All told, a very strong piece!”

“For those of you who feel Gabriel has provided you with greater enjoyment, step to the right while for those of you enamoured by Berandor’s effort, movement to the left will be your strongest means of indication. I waved my judging scythe in demand of jury deliberation to see an avalanche of support pile towards the left. As the dust settled and torches stopped flickering from the mass movement, we had a total of 24 imps on Berandor’s side leaving 13 imps on Gabriel’s.

While I thought this reflective, I did notice a trend in judgment. You see, there are three types of imps: those with horns or stubs, those without (clean-faced) and those who defy such simplistic classification. Our horny friends seem to have voted as a bloc on Gabriel’s side obviously finding a more personal and immediate connection to Gabriel’s darker use of goatmen compared to Berandor’s Madonna-loving interpretation. Imps are such fickle creatures.

“And so we progress onto the images.” I nodded towards the Gnopf, who with great energy started up his freshly-patched projector, conveying the image of an office environment and two employees upon the rear of my garage.

“Gabriel has used this as the final moments of Peter the co-worker before being head-butted by a flying goatman while Berandor has used the image to represent Sam sneaking out of his office. Gabriel has used the picture solidly while Berandor has drawn a little bit more. From a blind co-worker with unique fashion sense to his protagonists own “lack” of style; it is these little augmentations peppered throughout your piece that add further depth and even a strange verisimilitude to the story.”

I waved ‘Lady Death” once more and despite several arguments and raised voiced amongst the imps, the tally now registered 27 imps to 10 in Berandor’s favour. I glanced over to the Gnopf who was pouring an unnaturally illuminated fluid into his machine. With a little coaxing he pulled a lever and the image of riot police projected richly upon the garage. The Gnopf communicated several unintelligible words in my direction to which I nodded as if in understanding. He seemed happy enough with my response unaware of my complete incompetence in understanding him.

“Now Gabriel has used this as the turning point of the riot squad’s disbanding and the introduction of Smitty into their group, while Berandor has used it to hinge and frame his story. Allowing us a glimpse into the future, Berandor goes full circle returning to the image late, allowing the reader to fully appreciate the ramifications of the tale in between. While both images were strong, Berandor has incorporated this image as a good frame for the story, performing double duty.”

Again, I pressed the jury and again, there was a slight trickle from Gabriel’s supporters towards Berandor’s, the tally progressing to 29 to 8 in Berandor’s favour. It was at this point that a fight broke out in Berandor’s ranks. While entertaining to watch, I had to take my duty seriously and so with little warning I advanced with the scythe in hand. It appeared that a smaller imp had taken exception to one of the fat ones. Imps, quick to anger are notorious for this type of thing. With the scythe’s shadow momentarily distracting them, they pulled apart with much finger waving. Hey, that was easier than I thought it would be. ‘Lady Death’ gave me a pulse of pain reminding me to get things moving. She was hungry and tasted pretend celestial blood.

With a crunch, the Gnopf projected the image that dulled before illuminating too brightly. It was at this point that I noted his assistant, a small winged creature with two heads. He berated both heads with stinging language before picking up an implement, cracking it into the side of the device before grunting in approval at the corrected image - that of a smiling accordion-playing maiden and a dancing, t-shirt wearing goat.

“Gabriel has allowed this image to permeate and define his story to good effect. The clever derivation from dancing goat to goatmen invasion is well done with perhaps the only disappointment being the lack of further appearance of the accordion - the most effective weapon to date against the scourge. Still, this image helped define a strong opening for Gabriel’s piece.”

This engendered a level of applause and cheering from Gabriel’s supporting imps eager to coax some of their brethren back to the fold.

“Berandor has had to stretch to incorporate this image with adequate results. It is by no means forced but it does not contain the weight of the other three images. The use of a temporarily soul-shifted goat favouring Madonna was a little strained. I think that…”
At this point I felt an urgent tugging at my sleeve interrupting my spiel. I looked down to see a different imp that was not part of the jury. It must have been someone’s assistant or something… I looked around before bending down to attend to the interruption. It whispered several points of apparent cogency.

I straightened; made aware of something I had not previously been privy. “It would appear that it is common knowledge that all goat’s are partial to the music and lyrics of Madonna, a fact I was unaware of. As such I retract my previous statement in regards to Berandor’s use.” There were several snickers and derisive comments from the jury and court at my faux pas. As I tried to regain the ascendancy, further laughter ensued as something was thrown directly at me, impacting with my nose. The smell confirmed the projectile’s horrid composition.

“Well that’s it!” I stormed. I had intended only a firm explosion from the scythe. Instead, the concussive smack upon the granite altar was enough to issue a coruscating bolt of electricity directly into the worst of the offenders. The imp disappeared, apparently vaporised. I did my best not to register too much shock at the result while the rest of the imps looked at me again with renewed and enforced respect, firmly chastised for their insolence. Making quick use of a handkerchief, I resumed.

“And so for a decision on the previous image, please move in the direction of the contestant you favour.” With this, there was significant movement in both directions. A quick count made Berandor’s 24 to Gabriel’s 12 - a slight over-reaction to my mistake I believe. Wait up… I counted again but stopped midway realising why the jury weren’t adding up to thirty-seven and moved on with an embarrassed glance. This time the Gnopf pressed several buttons switching radically between the previous images of the night. With several frustrated growls he smacked the machine and to the applause of the jury, an image of a fan-propelled dork riding a scooter replete with helmet appeared in all its glory.

“Now in this final image, Gabriel has weakly connected it as the image of the hapless Todd. This was OK but a little more could have been made of it. I got the feeling it was more passing reference than not. The fact that Todd and the protagonist injured each other had little if any bearing on the story as a whole. I mean Todd’s dorkiness really could have been emphasised further than just being a burger flipper. Still, it was one of the tougher images in the set to incorporate and so on the whole, the picture-use was OK.”

“Berandor however digs deep and pulls out the goods - a rare diamond even, about the size of half a penny to be precise. If asked immediately upon viewing this image, I had been told that it was an alien vagrant about to successfully traverse his way to the other side of the universe, I would have laughed and said that whoever thought as much was a confused churl of the most easily impressed quality. Well what do I know huh? I have been converted well and truly. I will have the Thames dredged to prove it such is my conviction. This is highly impressive use that ends up propelling [what a terrible pun] the whole story forward. Congratulations.”

And with a final wave, the imps grumble amongst themselves eyeing me off as they attend their final position.

“It would appear that our jury has come to a decision awarding Gabriel’s celestial soul (pretend or otherwise) to ‘Lady Death’. Berandor wins 29 imps to 7. Congratulations though to both our contestants.”

---------

Yangnome:
Round 1 Match 3
Berandor vs. Gabriel

Gabriel – 

Story:
Day of the Goatsees (E03)

Good start for your first CDM.  Not only did you not let the pictures phase you, but you finished your story and turned it in quickly.

There’s an old mantra in writing that people drag out over and over again: “show, don’t tell”.  It’s an easy trap to fall into and here, you failed your reflex save.  You put together an interesting concept for the story, but then decided to have the narrator tell the story during a chase scene.  This leads to a few problems.  First, you are telling the story, which make it a lot harder for the reader to invest himself in it.  Second, because you cut back and forth between the present chase scene and the past, it’s easy to get lost.  There were a few times in the story where I got lost.  If you want to flash around in a story, it might be a good idea to give the reader some clue that you are switching. I think if you went back and wrote this story in chronological order, your story would have been a lot more compelling.

Some character development for at least one or two of the characters could have really pulled this story into a winner.  I didn’t feel invested in any of the characters.  I would have liked to see a bit more action and participation from Nora.  You pulled a surprise ending here, revealing her goat feet, but there was no build up to make the ending pay off.  

Picture Use:
Overall, I think your picture use was ok.  You took the goat picture and made it a major premise of the story.  Your use of the other pictures was good too, though the collision with the fan didn’t make much sense and felt squeezed in.

Berandor:

Story:
Seeing is Believing

I like the fact that you started this story off with a picture.  It got things going right away and made for an interesting start.  I also like that you framed the story in this scene.  

This story is missing something for me.  You use a well developed voice, the story reads well.  Still, it seems to lack heart or magic.  I’ve seen you pull off the Noir investigator story a couple times now and this was my least favorite one.  It seemed to lack some soul.

I also had a hard time buying into the skeptic with a change of heart.  I know that this type story can work, but the change occurred too rapidly without motivation.  It might have been interesting to see the narrator as sympathetic from the start, or some incident to cause him to change his mind and believe Forrest.

Speaking of Forrest, as a small aside, I didn’t like the “Run, Forrest, Run line.”  It pulled me out of the story, then distracted me every time I saw the name in the story after that.    You did have strong characterization of your narrator and side characters.  

Picture Use:
Overall, it seemed that your picture use was mixed, and this might be where the lack of heart feeling comes from.  It seems that you wrote the story around the pictures rather than letting the pictures illustrate your story.  Maybe this is my fault for a tough round of pictures.  You did pull out a lot of nuances from the pictures though (the blind boss)

Decision: Berandor


3-0 decision for Berandor, congratulations see you in the next round.  Good job Gabriel, I hope you stick with CDM.


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## FickleGM (Feb 8, 2007)

Good analysis (this goes for the others who have commented on my story, as well).  I really appreciate it.  I have never really written any fiction (since high school), but have always wanted to try (two failed attempts at NaNoWriMo so far).

I'll also admit that I was nervous, with this being my first attempt this and such great competition to go against.

The three biggest things that I took from my first CDM are:

1) Build tension and suspense.

2) Show, don't tell.

3) You all give good, solid analysis.

I think that I will definately consider doing this again (depending on other priorities, of course).  This was a good experience and I will definately take your advice to heart and use it to improve.


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## Herremann the Wise (Feb 8, 2007)

Gabriel said:
			
		

> I'll also admit that I was nervous..., with this being my first attempt this and such great competition to go against.



Congratulations on doing so well in your first appearance at CDM! Did you find that those nerves pushed you in a good way or was the pressure thing a complete distraction? And by the way, how big a rush did you get when you hit that submit button?
[sblock]I hope to see you in future CDMs and possibly even this one - remember the best of the losers gets a free ticket to the second round. Anyway, congratulations once again for your efforts.[/sblock]

Best Regards
Herremann the Wise


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## yangnome (Feb 8, 2007)

*Judgement Round 1 Match 2 Mythago vs. Graywolf-ELM*

Orchid Blossom:
Mythago vs. Greywolf-ELM

Domino – Mythago

The first picture use is very strong.  The story seems built from this picture, every element used to create the basis of the story, wherever it may go from here.

The strong beginning is marred y some minor technical problems.  The sentence, “Varukovna was not only one of the most pitiful subject, but at twenty-four, one of the most photogenic,” is a little confusing.  I’m not sure if it’s meant to say that she is not a pitiful subject, or is the most photogenic of many pitiful subjects.  Either, “…was not the most pitiful subject…” or “…was not only one of the most pitiful subjects…”

Each scene included tells us something and moved the story forward.  We see Tetsuno as proud of his accomplishment, savvy in business, and selfish enough not to worry about what his creation is doing; as if he knew that people would use it incorrectly, but doesn’t care as long as it brings him money.  His encounter with Sadhye Thul exposes how he has an ability to read people, and helps explain his annoyance with people wearing the RealMasques all the time.  They are losing the very humanity that allowed him to manipulate them.

While the second picture use isn’t a throw-away, it almost feels like an aside.  We learn there about the RealMasques affect on the body’s reaction to trauma, but we’re removed from the picture.  It’s something Tetsuno has seen in the past rather than being present in the story.  The third and fourth are present in the story, helping create a picture of some rather ridiculous looking people in our minds.

The last scene seemed a bit out of sync.  Although we had the scene where Tetsuno realized that one of the RealMasques is “empty” we never get any hint that the empties might be organizing, taking action, or becoming a cult.  Without any foreshadowing it feels like a car having trouble shifting.  The fact that they’re coming to change their creator would have been enough of a twist for me.


The Princess – Greywolf-ELM

This story is more a character sketch than a full-fledged story.  In the first three paragraphs we get just about everything we need to know about the Princess.  Entitled, manipulative, looking to take the best advantage she can of her marriage.  The handmaid is also sketched in quickly but effectively.  Appropriately smug, it’s obvious she knows something Sharinta doesn’t.

The piece is very short, and the end comes unexpectedly.  We know a war ended, but not that the old King of her new nation was supposed to be dead.  We can’t share Sharinta’s shock because we never shared her assumptions.

The last picture used is definitely an illustratable moment, the big reveal of the story.  The first two illustrate the Princess’ personality, but don’t offer anything new.  Each one is place with a purpose, so none feel out of place or forced.

There are also some referenced that are under-explained.  It’s not clear if Sharinta’s charms are natural; a pretty girl who knows how to use what she has, or magical in nature.  The end of the story mentions demons, which suggests she might be a succubus of some king but it isn’t clear.

The end would have had more effect for me if I had a handle on what the war between the two countries had been like beforehand, as well as what the relationship with Sharinta and her father is.

Both stories got my imagination going for different reasons, but I have to throw this one to mythago.



Herreman
Round One - Match Two Judgment
Graywolf-ELM vs. Mythago

Not wishing to delay any further, and with ‘Lady Death’ eagerly pushing for her next meal, I swung her in the air declaring the next match. “Infernal Jury, I address you for the second time this evening to beg your weight of judgment to the offerings of Graywolf-ELM and Mythago”.
Again the two dressed-up imp servants presented the two offerings. I noticed that this time, the offerings had been painstakingly printed on vellum as I placed them upon the altar.

“Infernal Jury, Graywolf has given us the story of an unnatural accord between the Lands of Men and the Infinities of Chaos, whilst Mythago has trekked into the near future and the deviously hidden possibilities of a cyberkinetic uniform. Unfortunately for Graywolf, awkward pacing has made otherwise good elements of his story suffer. In addition, we are not given very much in terms of emotion to hang our interest on. Karina’s palpable mood of vengeance simmers underneath her mild servant guise but otherwise, we are left feeling little one way or the other in regards to Sharinta’s eventual trapping.”

“Mythago starts in strong voice with a story completely convincing in its detail. Tetsuno’s dramatically obvious ego steams off of the page with the story temporally advancing to his eventual demise (and name change - Tetsuno/Tetsudo?). Thoroughly enjoyable, perhaps the only thing that jarred was the conclusion. If Tetsuno had have truly fallen to his own genius in some way, the conclusion would have been more convincing. Falling to a lapse in security was… not the huge plummet that he deserved. But I digress, as presented Mythago has presented us with a clever tale from a notoriously difficult set of images. Very well done!”

“Jury of this Dark Court, if you feel Graywolf-ELM has delivered upon his promise, to the left must you venture while if Mythago’s prose strikes the correct note, progress to the right if you will.” At this, several scuffles broke out as debates ensued in pockets of the crowd. Apparently, there were some imps sympathetic to those of fiendish origin while others, fearful of succubi of any description cast resistance amongst the crowd. Others feeling that one writer has surpassed the other also voiced their attitude. Eventually and with name-calling flying from one side to the other, the final tally went Graywolf-ELM 17, Mythago 20. I was a little surprised at this given what I thought Mythago’s dominance. Still, imps as a whole seem to enjoy a more pure D&D yarn so maybe that’s it.

I directed the Gnopf to fire up his projector as I waved ‘Lady Death’ in a casual arc before providing three soft taps on the granite. A disturbingly grainy image was cast upon the garage’s wall of four people presumably at sea. The Gnopf was tinkering with something but to little effect.

“In all honesty, I felt that neither contestant got the best out of this image. Graywolf used this as an important display of cultural significance for the princess while Mythago impresses upon us that RealMasqued pirates seeking to crown their maker is the best way to encapsulate this picture’s essence. I would have liked to see Graywolf explain the story so its significance could be judged; show us rather than tell us. Why was there a difference in interpretation, what was the difference and how would it add to Sharinta’s eventual demise? Pictures are best used when they permeate the story in initially unseen ways, having their tendrils spread and hook into various elements of the story. Mythago’s use was suitable but obviously not brilliant. What can I say; it was a difficult image almost completely out of context with the other three. In fact all the images in this selection were disparate. Still, on the pictures must the contestants be judged and for good or ill, so must you the jury decide.”

Again a tapping of the scythe on stone and again several arguments developed. I suppose if nothing else the imps were getting into this match-up a little more than the previous. Still, I would soon have to curb some of the more rambunctious behaviour. As movement finished but yelling continued, the final tally was Graywolf-ELM 15 imps to Mythago’s 22. The Gnopf then cast the next image upon the garage: a combatant getting stabbed by a short sword with onlookers of significance displaying zero passion in the background. The imps finally quieted with a few harsh words from me.

“Well this was classic D&D dress-ups. Graywolf cast this as a martial display gone wrong to honour the soon-to-be-crowned Princess where as Mythago has more ingeniously used this to demonstrate the RealMasque’s damage evading properties and eventual naval involvement. I found Graywolf’s use a little simple and Mythago’s quite bizarre - which is a good thing. Well, it wasn’t brilliant use I suppose but it did help connect an important story development - even though the naval involvement could have received a little more attention just to round things out. Anyway good jury once again, more focus on movement and less focus on combat. This time, there was just the slightest trickle as two imps headed over to Mythago and one headed back to Graywolf. Goodness knows what the hell that imp was paying attention to? And so Graywolf-ELM 14 imps to Mythago’s 23.

The Gnopf having finally rectified the projector’s “grainy-image-producing” problem now displayed in brilliant colour four uniformly contorted ballerinas.

“Now here is where I think we see the greatest divergence in image use amongst our two competitors. While Graywolf has continued with his series of entertainment displays (ho-hum), Mythago has brilliantly used what I thought to be the most difficult image of the entire first round (closely followed by the bulldozing nuptial couple). This image completely inspires the whole RealMasque Domino story and in such a convincing way as well. Given the image-difficulty I consider this the best picture use I have presided over and certainly up there with the best I have seen in CDM competition. Please Mythago, take a bow and jury, don’t halt in your praise for such fine use!”

The imps failed to move.

“That means deliberate you ignorant sods! Express your opinion!” Still nothing. “MOVE!”

Finally as if only just understanding my command (or was it the slightly careless angle in which I wielded the scythe?), the imps progressed to a position of a full 28 imps to Mythago’s side leaving Graywolf-ELM with 9. All was going well but I heard a quick snap then minor implosion as I turned to the projector to see the Gnopf blown back twenty-foot impacting with the back fence. He got up quickly indicating he was OK but it was obvious the projector was having a moment of difficulty.

“What about the next image?” The Gnopf turned at my question and his expression changed from worried thought to spreading grin. He hurriedly wheeled out a strange device then jumped up and down indicating something. Again I felt a tug from behind and one of the court functionaries informed me that the Gnopf had an emergency back up machine but he would require one of the jury members to “assist”. I slowly turned back to the Gnopf and nodded my hesitant assent to which he grabbed one of Mythago’s imps. A quick instruction and the hapless imp was bundled into the machine. The Gnopf then adjusted several knobs, manoeuvred the machine for several seconds into a particular position before pulling the operating lever with a loud pop.

The judging imp was projected at high speed directly into the garage wall with a loud bang, the poor creatures blood and bits forming a bizarre pattern. I looked to the Gnopf with a look of “what the…” but he pointed back to the garage. The imps fluids had quickly dried into the image of a strange looking Indian complete with bizarrely flowing headdress. I was taken completely aback. We may think that we as a society are high-tech but seriously, Hell has it all over us! I was impressed.

The imp divested of a large portion of his vitals stumbled back mistakenly towards Graywolf’s group. Despite cries from both sides, he remained slumped in place changing the tally. I suppose Mythago had a good lead so with luck it would not unduly affect the result. After the commotion, I continued.

“Graywolf uses this image quite well as the old, wise King having seemingly trumped his rival while Mythago presents Tetsuno with his final form. The creator is forced to be his creation. Graywolf picks upon the wizened features of someone who oozes leadership while Mythago picks upon the technologically advanced elements of the dress. As such both uses were OK if not brilliant. Still, I wonder how much this image influenced Mythago and the domino avenue that was taken? Perhaps I have directed too much kudos to the previous image? Jury, you alone have the insight to see into such things and so please, vote with a will.”

There was some minor shuffling as members of the jury decided upon their final position. However, the largest of the imps staunchly opposed to Graywolf’s offering jumped through the ranks to find the seriously injured imp. However rather than seeing if one of his brethren was OK or nursing his slumped form, he instead catapulted the hapless creature back towards Mythago’s supporters before stomping back himself.

Our final tally for the round then is 8 for Graywolf-ELM to Mythago’s 29 supporters. I tapped ‘Lady Death’ to finalise the jury’s decision. Congratulations to both competitors and commiserations to Graywolf. Unfortunately I think you caught Mythago in particularly inspired form.

Yangnome:

Graywolf–ELM - The Princess

Interesting story.  It doesn’t really start to pick up for me until the handmaid talks about resisting her charms.  You had me hooked from there.  You did a decent job with characterization all around, the characters seemed real and believable.  All in all though, the story seemed short.  The bulk of the story focused on the entertainment, which held very little emotional impact on the overall story.  It seemed as if it was meant to be a prelude to a larger story, and I would have liked to have seen that larger story.  

Picture Use:
This is where your entry is weakest.  You used three of your pictures as entertainment events that didn’t really apply to the whole story.  This to me is tantamount to using in story pictures.  I could maybe forgive it for one picture, but for ¾ of your pictures, it seemed that you were avoiding incorporating them into the story.  The use of the King was strong.

Mythago – Domino

Wow.  I really enjoyed this story.  Where you succeed for me, is that you are able to develop a story with a common theme running through it.  You take that theme and develop it and every part of the story helps support that theme.  It is interesting to see Tetsubo’s opinions change over the years as his invention becomes more ingrained into society.  

Picture use was very strong.  You seem to have taken your pictures and used them as a foundation for the whole story.  The ballerina picture definitely sets the stage for the entire story, but the others help support it, especially the Indian Chief.  The sword fight picture was probably the weakest, but even here you showed the important evolution of the real masks that built up to the end of the story.  

Congrats to both competitors for putting together strong stories. My vote goes to Mythago for a very well done story.

Mythago takes the round 3-0.


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## yangnome (Feb 8, 2007)

Gabriel said:
			
		

> Good analysis (this goes for the others who have commented on my story, as well).  I really appreciate it.  I have never really written any fiction (since high school), but have always wanted to try (two failed attempts at NaNoWriMo so far).
> 
> I'll also admit that I was nervous, with this being my first attempt this and such great competition to go against.
> 
> ...




thanks again for competing.  You clearly have the ability to come up with interesting ideas.  I think your list of things you took from the competition are very good, for any kind of writing.  Stories are built on conflict.  Build the conflict and you have a reader wanting to find out how it is resolved.  Your characters should be able to write a country western song when you are done with them .  

I know it comes off a bit trite to say good job for a first time at CDM, but between teh pictures and the timelimit, CDM is really a style you have to develop.  I look forward to seeing more from you in the future.


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## yangnome (Feb 8, 2007)

Those are the two I have at the moment.  Results from rounds 1 and 4 should hopefully be up sometime tomorrow.


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## Piratecat (Feb 8, 2007)

Thanks, looking forward to them -- and congratulations to the winners so far!

Today has been such an utterly excrable day for me that I figured if you posted round 4 tonight, I could already have predicted the results. Of course, what's bad for me Ceramic DM-wise is good for BSF, and vice versa, so it'd be okay either way.  I like competing with lots of people that I like.


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## Herremann the Wise (Feb 8, 2007)

yangnome said:
			
		

> Those are the two I have at the moment.  Results from rounds 1 and 4 should hopefully be up sometime tomorrow.



I was wondering why the reverse order - now I understand. Unfortunately, I have written my judgments in sequence so certain elements of my judgments might not make much sense.

Who am I fooling. They most likely make little sense regardless of order.   

Best Regards
Herremann the Wise


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## tadk (Feb 8, 2007)

*P.S., Transversed  Round One entry*

P.S., Transversed

A Tech No' Logical Story Related to or perhaps in The World

© CW Kelson III 2007 All Rights Reserved

CDM 2007



pollution is a necessary result of the inability of man
to reform and transform waste.
the transformation of waste
…
is perhaps the oldest pre-occupation of man.

25th Floor The Patti Smith Group

www.pattismith.net









Stone steps, stone walkway, overlooking the cathedrals and myriad bronze Buddha, down far below in the valley, men, women, and children plied their day to day tasks, making money, spending money, just fighting to get enough food to eat or feed their families. In the fields all around the city, the poor worked the land, tilling and toiling to produce the food to feed the burgeoning masses. The jungle reaches up from all around, the clear cut and fires still unable to utterly dominate the scenery and place it into submission.



"Coffee beans come and get some coffee beans?" the small child asked in a soft, plaintive voice. Pushing a small cart ahead of her tired foot, the other leg ending in a stump gained on birth to make her more efficient as a beggar and street vendor, the cart with straps a semi-rest and a place to maintain balance with moving at a   low gliding hop, with only two wheels, made of recycled hubcaps imported from Hong Kong stolen off some rich Tong leader's car, it was getting too short by far for the scrap of flesh that moved it along, peddling the roasted coffee beans for drinking or chewing.

"Coffee beans come and get some coffee beans?"



Thailand, all the ladies standing there, waiting in an endless row, waiting to see if someone will come to marry them, to take them away from the sordid life of the endless nights, pious Catholics by day, spread legged and sweaty all the night long, working for a few baht to trade in for euros on the scant days the rate favors them. Otherwise they are exchanging dignity and love for an hour or so at a time of their company
[Pic 3]


But the sweat, liquor and spent seed comes after night arrives, once the sun goes down, so do they. During the daylight though, it is look for life, love, a nice man to take them away from the sordid life the all chose in alternative to what could have lain ahead of them.



Gutter punks drift away on tides of opium and mescaline slashed with simple tobacco, dancing along to tunes downloaded into their minds, memes that etched the songs of hate and discontent rending them incapable of conscious decision. Their feet in designer shoes, all made locally of course, kept out of the filth lining the inner city sanctums. This is the status quo here in the developed world.





PS wandered along, passing up the odd man out, strolling and surveying the wares on display, quality is a variable, like all others, still the few men seemed more interested in the shortness of life lived, perhaps to find one less broken to the saddle than one with more time under her skin.



All of them are in the same business that PS is in, how to get the most of what is needed to survive with the least wear and toil on the flesh, with the fewest scars on the heart and soul, all the while making a living as honestly as possible, and turning the time and tides to an advantage, recycling the flow of life, in one tangible form or another, into something else entirely different. The insects are not so bad way up here, away from the stench of the slums and the reek of alcohol induced actions. Up here on the long cobbled stone walkway where the ladies all stand around, waiting for a rich man from the city, or a tourist to walk past, and whisk them away from the life they know, in Phuket, Bangkok, or one of the other cities scattered about the verdant and lush jungle country side.





Just a short change of heart awaits PS somewhere far and away from this dismal place, where the tale has begun. Just living in a wicked age is difficult enough, without all the predators that come along with such a time as this. Monsters, freaks, geeks, the unknown, the scary and the lost ones, all making their way along roads used and abused too many times before the start of civilization. All working to beat the man, tax the system till it can no longer support the downtrodden, and then sift through the wreckage they have left behind in the fall.





Down far below under the canopy the watchers lurk, waiting to find more uses for those that walk the land. They keep an eye out on the variables, the ones that sit outside of the norm, that walk the edges of societies, as well as stand in their way for what they think things should come out as, how the world should play its tune, and the melody and harmony of cooperation and toeing the line, is all they are really interested in. Not the loves and foibles of humanity. So they slink away into the darkness created with tree cover while PS stands there looking out over the edge, before they too turn away and head towards the airport, to arrive back many hours later, in the city on the ocean shore, where several compatriots wait for instructions and edification of the goals PS has in mind.





Days or weeks past since PS was standing on that high road, watching  all the women waiting for life to come and save them, the time since then spent mostly in travel, airlines not being the way they should be, it took so much longer than necessary.



All too many hours, watching sun rises and sun sets occur, while staring out of dirty windows as large and small aircraft took off and landed. Sometimes an errant dirigible would wind its way across the shocking blue skies, moving to destinations unknown. Sometimes a fat bellied steamcar would chug its way down forgotten roads while PS walked from one bus stop to another one, miles or towns away from the previous. All this time moving is spent in contemplation of the state of affairs. How the worlds had spun and turned all the same until that single day, when it no longer made a lick of sense. Waking up that day to find love had moved out in the middle of the night. That suddenly former friends no longer knew the names of their loved ones, and things prowled the city streets using the homeless for their feasts of sinew and plasma. All of it had shifted in some sense over the course of a night filled with sleep and terrors wrapped up in the cold and clammy sheets.



The sun rose that day, the old missive of Red Sky at Night, Sailors Delight, Red Sky at Morning, Take Warning, never more true than that sunrise. Blood orange red, staining the landscape until it rose high enough to clear the pollution and then it all was wrong somehow. Something had happened, and PS was still searching for the cause.



The first few days were freakish, running into people that no longer knew who PS was. Finding empty bank accounts, strange shadows in the darkest of alleyways, as well as the misshapen suddenly all about the place, freaks and geeks, sideshow performers as well as the tatted and pierced were everywhere. No longer just the fringe, the edges of the map had curled over and taken over the center of things.



This is when the search for meaning took on an entirely new definition. That was when traveling from country to country, all on an expired passport that was never questioned, never challenged, became the norm, working to find the answers that were elusive so far.

Along the oceans it was more the way that PS remembered it, like the moderating influence of the waters extended to reality. Farther away from bays and lighthouses, the odder it seemed to feel, yet few seemed to sense it. All was the same, reality tv ruled the nights while fashion and anorexia dominated the lack of self esteem during the daylight hours, with the endless levels of want for more ruined marriages and stomachs with equal panache.



Still the feet were in motion now, and there was no stopping the inertia that had built up over that long last night of semi-normality.





We've been living in the shadows all our lives
Where it's stand in line and don't look back and don't look left and don't look right
So we hide our eyes and wonder who'll survive
Waiting for the night...

Run Straight Down by Warren Zevon





Back across the ocean in another country, another world in practicality, nearly reality, PS moves from place to place, heading in a winding tortuous fashion to the small tourist town trap shop on the west coast where the others were waiting.



The situation with the powers in charge that are gouging them of their life savings and leaving them homeless on the streets like stray curs gone feral. This has been the situation for decades before the start of Ps' crusade to find out what went wrong. How it all ended up in the state that it has arrived at. No where near to an answer, seems the clues lead to dead ended streets, deserted moors in desolate countrysides, abandoned morgues and refuse bins where discarded lives have all lost the battle with entropy. None of the clues PS has found leads to a single source, nothing concrete, and nothing tangible to the eyes or ears or sense of touch. It flickers on the outskirts of the eyes, the peripheral vision is the only place that it all starts to coalesce, then it dries up and drifts away on the winds like spiderwebs on the night breezes.



Nothing adds up, 2 and 2 does not equal 4 when all the disparate facts and suppositions are placed side by side, Instead they add up to weird things, the strange and unnatural moving in the shadows between the day before it got odd, and the next morning. So PS went and found a few friends, who didn't get all the pieces, but had seen enough to wonder some of the same things. Banded against the night, a small coterie of misfits all looking into the cracks in the world to find out what was crawling there.



There were mistakes made, people died, packs of wild dogs ripping the innocent and defenseless into misshapen bloody pieces, all the while the feeling that something was moving behind the scenes would grow, the farther away from the small towns and suburban streetlights PS and friends would go. The inner cities and the deepest, old growths were the worse places. There things moved and used straight razor like fangs or claws on the unwary.





But that was the past, leading up to the trip to Thailand, the searching for more answers in the flesh dens and storefront rental brothels, back to the land where it all seemed to start at. Down the many long miles, cabs, cars, trains, aircraft, buses and walking all keeping to the hard places that made more sense, to the tired old shop along the waterfront where TM and the others waited to find out what PS had or had not found. There had been no rational reason to look there, and perhaps it had all be for naught.



Up to the front of the place, the garish lights and tacky B-movie spaceship looking like it had made a landing, which while not perfect, was one that would have been walked away from. Mannequins lurked on the overhang and inside, while the whine and whirr of drills, needle guns, nail guns and tattoo machines all made a ratchet and cacophony on the inside, Transversing the inner labyrinth, until the back of the storefront was reached.
[Pic4]


In there were the core crew, TM, a few others, that tall geek PS could never remember the name of, the bearded guy with the taste for snails he found on the sidewalk and would de-shell and pop into his mouth regardless of the poison hazards or not. The core crew were there, sitting around, some getting more ink placed into hard to reach places, the scent of stale blood on the floor mixed with ash and tar from the rooftop across the alley.



"Everyone outside, talk time." PS utters without preamble, then watching the bodies file into the inner courtyard area, TM and the tall geek the first out, the first to stare PS down, the first to just challenge it all. A grandfather clock counted of seconds, long ones, passing while the small motley gathered out there.
[Pic 2]


"There was nothing to be found there in Thailand, it was for nothing." PS Stands there defiant to the others, will defense need to be made of the decision to pool and seem to squander scant resources for that long trip.

"It is the same there as here, they don't remember what they lost that night, and it all is just for nothing, no reason at all."



"It makes no sense at all, it is like blinders are in place, no one sees what is clear, is obvious, damn it all, I don't get it." The frustration, the blank looks, the dim accusatory glances there of the others, some milling around, the tall one and TM just shuffling their feet, Mr. Snail wondering what is going on by the vacant look in his eyes, suddenly bending down and picking something off the ground.



"Why do I even bother with you all, look, he eats snails, fer the love of sanitation, they are poisonous, how can he eat them and live."



The rest all turn to see the shell cracked and the little slimy thing going straight into the waiting mouth, tongue slightly extended to take the mucus covered thing, almost as if taking Communion on a warm Sunday Morning Mass.

 [Pic1]

"See, that is so wrong, why can't you all see that? What is wrong with you people?" PS is about screaming at this time, hair flying all over the place, the wind whipping the loose clothing as it does the mannequins on the store front.



In disgust PS just stops the rant. Stares at the assemblage about the small area in the back part of the shop where the search to ascertain answers began, then comes the admission.



"Lately", PS says, "I have dreamt of captivity, held down, tied into a maze of stone"

Then there comes a long slow pause, like a slow sip of too hot coffee, trying to not burn the tip of the tongue, the roof of the mouth, the back of the throat, before speaking again to the assemblage.

"I do not feel a kinship with those that walk this earth.", then "I do not feel like any of them at all, not even my fellow misfits."



Head bows in shame, shame of speaking the mind, saying the words out loud, but then TM spoke up, " You talk like you know everything, but you know nothing."

PS looks up at him, at TM, wondering how he could utter such a statement, surprise running rampant across the face.



TM continues on with the verbal chastisement, "You sit there, whining and complaining about things you know nothing about. You have no connection to humans; never let yourself feel connected to people, or places, or even things, only to you. No wonder you're trapped, because you are. Trapped with no where to go, not even a means to remake yourself into another image, the great one unable to even recycle their own self."



TM bursts into deep, raucous belly laughter, mocking all that has gone on, and will go on in the life of PS. The shame, the ridicule, the humiliation of it all bringing tears to the eyes. PS stands there unable to do a single thing, there is no refutation. He stomps his stunty legs, his half sized body in contrast to his full sized head, and extra large sized mind and ego.



"You should go recycle yourself; you are not fit to be around." With that pronouncement Tim turns on his heels, and walks out the side gate, away from PS standing there staring at his wide receding back. The others watch him leave as well, before they too turn and head out of the same way, not even dignifying the occasion with the front entrance.





There are no words to be said as they all left, as PS stood there all alone, standing in the cold sunlight streaming down, as the noises of the car, trucks, vans and SUVs all wandered mindlessly up and down the busy road in front of the store with the little fake spaceship, with the decorated mannequins, all a symbol for the world and its absurdity especially since the change came over the reality that might have never existed, save in a solitary mind.



PS turned and followed them all out the side gate, with no destination in mind, save to avoid the night terrors wandering the daytime streets and the ugly truths that haunt hearts during the nighttime hours.


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## mythago (Feb 8, 2007)

Ha! They laughed at me when I put points into Bribe Imp. Who's laughing now, I ask you?

Greywolf-ELM, thanks for such a good round.


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## yangnome (Feb 8, 2007)

still need round 1 from you herreman,


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## tadk (Feb 8, 2007)

Berandor said:
			
		

> among all those stories of cancer-ridden parents and dialogue-free train rides, my story is about a warlock hired to uncover industrial espionage; it's a horror-urban-fantasy story.)





I would like to read that story personally

Like you I really tend to want to take the pics exactly like they look
It makes it a lot harder


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## Herremann the Wise (Feb 8, 2007)

yangnome said:
			
		

> still need round 1 from you herreman,



Are you sure? I sent the first three in order. Don't tell me those damn imps are playing tricks on me again.  

Mythago, while I'm sure you think it's funny to bribe imps and yes, they are all too easily coaxed and bent to one's will, I still feel that getting them to express deliver your judgment is not right! And yeah... getting them all to vote for you isn't that nice either! 
Anyway, that's it. I'm getting to the bottom of this. I know which imps will be next in the Gnopf's reserve projector.   

Best Regards
Herremann the Wise


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## yangnome (Feb 8, 2007)

ah, right,  I need it from OB, not you.  Sorry for hte conclusion.  I'd apologize to the imps that had to pay for my mistake, but I have a feeling it is too late.


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## mythago (Feb 8, 2007)

Herremann the Wise said:
			
		

> Mythago, while I'm sure you think it's funny to bribe imps and yes, they are all too easily coaxed and bent to one's will, I still feel that getting them to express deliver your judgment is not right! And yeah... getting them all to vote for you isn't that nice either!




You flatterer!


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## orchid blossom (Feb 8, 2007)

yangnome said:
			
		

> ah, right,  I need it from OB, not you.  Sorry for hte conclusion.  I'd apologize to the imps that had to pay for my mistake, but I have a feeling it is too late.




That one will be in from me tomorrow, and since I'm on the east coast probably long before you get home from work.    Since the evil virus had slain poor Aris, I did the Piratecat/BSF matchup first.


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## Graywolf-ELM (Feb 8, 2007)

mythago said:
			
		

> Ha! They laughed at me when I put points into Bribe Imp. Who's laughing now, I ask you?
> 
> Greywolf-ELM, thanks for such a good round.




Thanks Mythago.  When I read your story, I already knew the result.  Out in the first round.

Great feedback from all three judges.  No laundry list of excuses.  It was fun.  It did encourage me to write again.

My original idea was to have the dancing be something that the Princess would have to learn, to show that she was serious about becoming a consort to the King in their country.  My ideas panned out to being more than I ended up with time for to bring to the story.  I wanted to hint at something more to the princess, but not reveal it until the final scene.

If I can find the time, I'll expand on this entry as an exercise for myself.  The reviews will help me make it better as well.

Thank you, again, it has been fun.  Now I just get to read and enjoy.

GW


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## mythago (Feb 8, 2007)

Also, re the judges' comments--yes, there were a lot of typos, and yes, the ending was rather more rushed than it should have been. My free time to write this weekend consisted of 12 a.m. to 4 a.m. Monday and boy does it show.


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## Berandor (Feb 8, 2007)

Thanks be the judges! 

Seriously, very good feedback once again, I'll try and take it to heart for round 2. Speaking of which, is there already a proposed schedule, or do you plan to wait until the whole first round is judged?



			
				yangnome said:
			
		

> I’ve seen you pull off the Noir investigator story a couple times now and this was my least favorite one. It seemed to lack some soul.



You realize there are only two options now? Either I will only write p.i. stories as long as I last in this competition, or I'll write no more of them to diversify. I hadn't noticed such a trend, but it could be true because it gives the protagonist a nice shorthand motivation to follow the plot.

This correlates with some comments in the judgement to make me feel like I played it safe (this time?). Perhaps the next batch of pics will help me stretch a little more.

What's also interesting that I really can't remember writing a short story with a first person point of view outside of Ceramic DM; I use figural narrative almost exclusively. But in Ceramic DM, I slip into that mode quite often.



			
				tadk said:
			
		

> I would like to read that story personally



Well, I'd be willing to share it (once I went over the draft a final time), but it's written in German, so... I don't know.


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## Drawmack (Feb 8, 2007)

Berandor said:
			
		

> Since yangnome seems to be occupied, I'll divert myself by a short commentary on drawmack's entry.




And I will respond to your response.

[sblock]


> Sam Spade detective stories are always fun! I think your entry suffered from some flaws, however. First, and most importantly: conflict – where is it? The protagonist just goes from one scene to the next. It's easy to shake his shadows (except when they easily re-find him), and the "people" he meets tell him everything without much hesitation. The main character doesn't really do anything except make calls and visit places, and that's not really an accomplishment.



I was going for tounge in cheeck and really playing up the boring aspect of detective work. Taking what is a very interesting case and making it too easy. Remember his opening line about detective work being boring.


> Second, the story is too open. I don't mind that the husband is killed in the end, and the ironic sentence at the end was a nice idea – but we don't get much resolution. Why did Karl go into hiding, and Ralph with him? What was that club really about? It's too mysterious, I think.



Yeah, I probably could have wasted a few words explaining these things. I'm always scared of boring the judges with description and tend to focus more on keeping the action going.


> Third, the pictures aren't really that integral to the story. The casket thing is more a recollection, and not that important. Indeed, why would Karl fake his death with too small a coffin? The owl/fox was alright; if its appearance had been just the tip of the iceberg in the mystery of the disappearances, it would have been better, though. The skeletons were just random window dressing, I felt, and the doorwomen not much more.



I agree, being my first story in this genre I focused more on the genre elements and that may hurt me in ceramic dm, but probably helped me overall as a writer.


> Finally, if you jave the time, you should go through the story once more before posting; there were some commas missing, and reworking dialogue to get it more to the point can make or break especially such a detective story.



On this, I miscalculated and thought my story was due yesterday. Just me pulling a stupid.



> I'm not saying your entry was worthless or anything; I really like the idea of the hard-boiled detective biting off more than he can chew, a sort-of ironic look at the genre. I like the idea of a biogenetical company producing chimerae. In terms of characterization, spelling/grammar, and plotting, I'm reading much worse right now (see above). But while practice makes good, criticism makes perfect. Thank you for your story, nevertheless. I enjoyed reading it.



I appreciate the honestness of your critique and thank you for it. While reading negative things about ones work is always difficult the temperment with which you write them uses just enough sugar to keep the ire down but still gets the point across. Thank you.
[/sblock]
[/QUOTE]


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## Rodrigo Istalindir (Feb 8, 2007)

*Round 1 Match 6 -- Rodrigo Istalindir - "The Things We Do for Love"*

“The stuff I told you to bring – you got it?” I barked, as I blinded them with my flashlight. 

 	Two women came to an abrupt halt.   The blonde was curvy in all the right places, shoulder-length hair included.  I knew those curves all too well, and for a moment I considered dumping this job and heading for the hills.  Dammit, Gretchen, why’d you have to call me?

	The blonde’s companion was skinny, with short dark hair.  Her, I knew only by reputation.

	Puppet-like, two arms stretched towards me, clear plastic bags in white-knuckled grips.  I switched off the light and grabbed the offerings.  One bag held a large quantity of cash.  I hefted it, judged it sufficient for the job at hand, and tucked the rubber band wrapped bundle into my coat pocket.

	“This way.  Quickly,” I growled, “and quietly.”

	Footsteps crunched desiccated leaves  as we worked our way into the park.   During the summer months, this was a popular hangout with the lovey-dovey set.  Walks in the park turned into impromptu games of hopscotch as strollers dodged empty beer cans and discarded prophylactics.  In the dark of winter, though, it was deserted.  

Still, despite the weather, its sordid reputation would help sell the story.  Experience had taught me, too, that the local constabulary would rush through processing the crime scene and hasten indoors to warm themselves with liquid heat.

“Here,” I said, gesturing to a park bench.  One of my new companions squeaked, a high-pitched yip that sounded like someone had stepped on a mouse.  Two bodies sat, propped upright on the battered stone.

“Right- or left-handed,” I called out to the  dark-haired one.   There was no answer.  I looked back at the pair.  They stood immobile, staring at the macabre tableau.  It seemed  the reality of the situation had caught them off-guard.

I repeated my question, and got an  answer.  I pulled two cheap rings from the bags and slid them on frigid fingers.  A favorite scarf went around one neck, a gold strand around the other. I dropped a DVD into an empty planter that rested between the stiffs.   A few minutes work and the bags were empty.  

I retreated into the underbrush and fetched a metal gas can.  I showered my unfortunate ‘victims’ and stepped back.  I stretched an arm towards the blonde, empty hand cupping an ear and pulling back with a flickering match. 

Maybe I’m a bit of a show-off,  I thought, but the bonus points for style were good for business.

I tossed the match at the stiffs and watched impassively as they burst into flame.  In minutes, the charred remains were recognizable as ‘once human’ and little more.  (Picture 3)   It wouldn’t fool a dedicated forensic analysis, I knew, but it would take weeks for DNA or dental comparisons.  I was confident that the half-burned physical evidence from the baggies would give the cops an excuse to take the easy way out.  The video suicide ‘note’ on the DVD would play right into their expectations.

“Let’s get going.  We have a long drive ahead of us.”

“Sam and I, we’re so grateful, you don’t know…” Gretchen stammered.

I cut her off with a sharp gesture.  

“No names, no talking.  Move.”

*

Hours later, I pulled off to the side of the road and coasted to a stop.  Winter had blessed the countryside with a snowy benediction, and while the main roads were clear, the backwoods trail I’d been planning on taking was still covered.   I wasn’t worried about the car –I’d rented a real SUV, not one of those yuppified pretend ones – but one the off-chance that someone tracked us this far, our trail would be obvious.

I toyed briefly with taking my backup route, but that would entail an extra couple of hours of driving, and my ass was sore.  I figured the odds of anyone tracking us were small, despite the ubiquitous GPS transponder embedded in the engine block.  Disabling it would have been safer, but it was also a ‘D’ felony now, and it wasn’t worth the risk.

I glanced over my shoulder at pair in the back seat.   Sound asleep, mercifully.  Sam had tried unsuccessfully to engage me in conversation for the first hundred miles.  Finally, her Gretchen had whispered something in her ear and the constant stream of words trickled to a halt.

I reached into a backpack lying on the passenger seat and retrieved a pair of goggles.  Early-century military surplus, the night vision goggles weren’t nearly as effective as the newer models, but they were cheap and they were mostly legit, on loan from a licensed PI friend.  I slipped them over my head and turned them on.  The white landscape turned a harsh green.

I pulled the SUV off the asphalt and headed into the countryside.  A mile or two later, a gentle but unexpected caress nearly sent the car careening into a tree.

“Kinda busy here, Gretch.”

“I thought you said ‘no names’,” she teased.

I remained silent and concentrated on the road.  Or, more precisely, the lack of a road.

“You can’t know how much I appreciate this, Charlie,” she continued after a long pause.  “When father found out we were planning to get married, he pulled strings.  Our passports were revoked, and now we’re on the ‘watch list’ at the border.”

	I gave a non-committal grunt. 

I’d thought Gretch and I would be together forever, with that kind of innocent conviction only the young and stupid can muster.  Her leaving had broken my heart; her leaving me for another woman had turned me mean and bitter.  The subsequent three years had done little to dull the edge. 

I still wasn’t sure why I’d agreed to do this.  Gretchen’s father, Paul Dempsey, was connected in a lot of different and dangerous ways.  I’d worked for him, for a while, and learned a lot.  Eventually, I learned too much, and struck out on my own after Gretchen left.

I’d always gotten the impression that he liked me, but that wouldn’t mean jack if I got between him and his daughter.

 I’d buried myself in my work, crossing the line between legal and illegal until eventually I’d forgotten when I’d been an honest guy.  The human trafficking was just the tip of the iceberg.  The pretty, clean, shiny white tip that drew the attention away from the mass below the waterline.

	“You’re still a good man, Charlie.”

	I started to utter some insincere objection when the tires blew out.

	The SUV fishtailed badly.  I wrenched the wheel into the skid, praying the metal rims beneath the shredded rubber didn’t grab the road too hard and send us tumbling.  With a crunch, the metal behemoth came to rest against a pine tree.  All three of us started to exhale in relief when something thudded heavily onto the roof.  Panic nearly set in until I realized it was just snow shaken loose from the boughs by the impact.

	“Everyone all right?” I asked.  Shaky voices answered in the affirmative.  “Good.  Stay here till I tell you otherwise.”

	I crawled out the passenger side and tumbled into the snow.  There was no wind, and the winter air felt surprisingly mild.  For now, anyway.   I reached back and grabbed my pack,.  I shuffled through the calf-deep snow to the back of the vehicle and opened the hatch.  

	“Grab your coats and stuff and get ready to move.  We’re going to have to hoof it the rest of the way,” I called to the passengers.  

	I rummaged through the back of the car and grabbed enough supplies to fill the backpack.   We were about 10 miles inside the border, but the remote cabin I used as a way-station on the other side wasn’t much further than that.  Three, four hours, and we’d be home free.  

	I walked back to the road and looked around.  Something metallic glinted in the road a hundred feet back, so while Gretchen and Sam got their  together I went to investigate.   

	Twisted across the road like a cybernetic snake lay a long strand of tire spikes.

	I charged back towards the car as fast as I could.

	“Come on, let’s get going.  Leave the rest of the crap, it’s not important.”

	Sam seemed a little pissed, but Gretchen knew me well enough to sense when I was worried.  She didn’t say anything, just dropped the small duffel she’d been lugging and pulled Sam along.

	The tire spikes meant the Border Patrol was suspicious about this trail.  I didn’t hear a helicopter, so they probably didn’t have the area under active surveillance.  Probably just threw the wire out there as a precaution.  Still, they had other resources at their disposal.

	An hour later, one of those resources found us.

*

	We’d made surprisingly good time.  I decided that speed was more important than stealth.  The BP had the best technology government could buy, but more to the point, if we took too long or got lost, we’d likely die of exposure before they found us.

	A plaintive howl made the prospect of freezing to death seem not so bad.  Gretchen and Sam looked at me, panic plain on their faces.  

	“Wolf?” Gretchen asked.  “They’re afraid of people, aren’t they?”

	“No, it’s not a wolf.  And no, it’s not afraid of us.”  

	I stuck the tip of one gloved finger in my mouth and tugged my hand free.  I reached inside my coat and pulled the pistol from its holster.  The .9mm Glock was an oldie but a goodie, easy to find parts and ammo for, and essentially untraceable.

	I stood in the middle of the road and turned in a slow circle, scanning the sky.  Sam looked at me, puzzled.  Gretchen let out a shout and tackled her, covering her with her body.  Something slammed into me from behind, knocking me to the ground.  The gun tumbled from my grasp and disappeared into the snow.

	A low growl brought me back to my senses.  The creature crouched a thirty feet away, a genetic abomination whipped up with DNA from an owl and a wolf and god knows what else.   I took a slow breath and looked for my pistol, staying as motionless as possible.  

	Gretchen started to rise, and the beast howled and fluttered its wings.  She froze.

	“What the hell is that?” she hissed.

	“It’s called an owolf.  They made them to patrol the remote sections of the border.  It’s got the eyesight of an owl, the sense of smell of a wolf, and can subsist off the land indefinitely.”

	“Oh, god,” she whimpered. “It’s going to eat us, isn’t it?”

	“Probably not.  They’re trained like guard dogs, to intimidate and corral people until the BPs arrive.”  

	I didn’t tell her that the training wasn’t always successful.  The owolf may have gotten senses from two different animals, but it got ‘mean’ from both.

	“Could be worse,” I laughed.  “If we were in Arizona, it’d be a conyote.”

	“Why would  that be worse?” Sam asked.

	“They’re three times the size.”

	I spotted the break in the snow crust where the gun had fallen, and slowly stretched my hand towards it.   In an explosion of snow, the owolf leapt into the air and streaked towards me.  (Picture 1)  I grabbed the gun, rolled, and fired.  

	I staggered to my feet and spun around wildly waving the gun.

	“Where is it?  Did I get?” I shouted.

	“I think so.  Maybe.  Or maybe the noise scared it off.  It’s gone now,” Gretchen replied.  

	I shoved the gun in a pocket and walked to the pair.  They clung to each other like survivors in a lifeboat.  I remembered one night when I’d come home, beaten to a pulp, from an undercover job that had turned sour.  Gretch had hugged me like that then.

	“We’ve got to keep moving.   They put monitoring chips in the owolfs.  If anyone is watching, they’ll see that is vital signs spiked and send someone out to investigate.”

	I turned away, and Gretchen gasped.  

	“Your back!”

	“It’ll be ok.  The cold keeps it numb.  One of you will have to stitch me up when we get to the cabin.”

*

	Another hour passed.  The exertion kept the talon wounds in my back from closing, and I could feel the blood running down my back, hot at the top and cooling as it traveled south.  I was near the end of my endurance.

	I dropped to the ground behind a slight rise in the terrain, motioning for Gretchen and Sam to do likewise.  I pulled the night vision goggles from my pack and peered over the hill.

	A mile away, across open terrain, lay the safehouse.  A light burned in the window.

	“What are we waiting for?  Charlie, we have to get you inside,”  Gretchen pleaded.  I let the name thing slide.

	“Someone’s home.  Probably nothing – I’m not the only one that uses this place – but no one else was supposed to be here tonight.”

	“Do we have a choice?”

	Reluctantly,  I agreed.  There was no way we’d make it back to the main road, and I didn’t know of any other shelter near here.  We’d have to take our chances.

	The Department of Homeland Security had run a sensor line across the three thousand plus miles of the US-Canada border.  It worked about as well as one would expect.  Basically, not at all.  There were so many false alarms and system failures that it was virtually useless, hence the owolfs.

	But if they’d already tweaked to our activity, they’d believe the sensors.  Fortunately, the snow worked in our favor, screwing with the thermals and rendering the pressure and motion sensors moot.    I used the night vision goggles to spot the nearest thermal, then crawled up to it.  I slowly pushed the snow into two small hills, with enough room between for a person to worm their way through.

	Twenty minutes later, we staggered up to the cabin.  The cut-out car I’d arranged for, a LandRover, was parked nearby.  Behind it was a 6000-series Mercedes.  We tumbled through the door of the cabin.  A lone figure sat in an overstuffed chair, a nasty looking pistol in his hand.

	“Father!” Gretchen spat.

*
	We gathered around a large wooden table.  Paul sat on one side, I on the other.  Gretchen was attempting to bandage the furrows in my back, and the pain when she pulled the ripped coat free of the clotted blood nearly made me pass out.  Gretchen and her father argued.  It was like a tennis match between two old foes – lobs and forehands that each anticipated and returned by rote.

	“I suspected you might run to Charlie.  I didn’t really think he’d help you, though, after what you did to him.  Still, a man in my position is used to covering all the bases.”

	“You can’t stop us forever.  Sooner or later, we’ll find a way across.”

	“I don’t have to stop you forever.  I just have to stop you long enough for you to come to your senses.  I don’t know why…”

	“Why do you need to understand?” Sam interjected.  The others stopped in surprise.  I got the impression that this was a new twist.

	“Why do you need to understand?” Sam repeated. “Who can really understand what someone else feels.  Why can’t you just be happy for your daughter, be happy she found someone that loves her, that she loves in return.”

	Sam’s voice got louder, rougher.  

	“Would you rather see her spend her life in a miserable marriage to one of your flunkies?”

	Flunky?  That hurt.

	“Or stay at home and be ‘Daddy’s little princess’ so you could show her off to all your important friends?  You’re supposed to want the best for your children, to watch them grow and live and be happy.  Why don’t you understand that?”

	Paul stared at his daughter.  She glared back.  

	Click.

	We turned towards the sound, saw Sam standing there with my pistol in her hand.  She looked like she wanted to use it.

	“Come on, Gretchen.  Let’s get out of here.”

	Gretchen scrambled to her feet.  I started to rise, but the gun tracked me.

	“Sorry, Charlie.  I’d like to trust you, but this whole thing stinks of a setup.”

	The door slammed behind them.  Paul looked at me, then rose to his feet.  He hadn’t made it to the door when a scream shattered the night.  A gunshot followed.

	We rushed outside.  Halfway between the cabin and the LandRover, Gretchen lay facedown in the snow.  Sam’s stood with her back was pressed against the car.  The owolf crouched in between them, coiled like a spring.  The gun wavered in her hands.  I couldn’t tell if she was scared, or just scared of hitting Gretchen.

	The owolf pounced.  Paul fired, a disciplined, precise double-tap.  The impact threw the creature off balance, and it slammed into the car, missing Sam by inches.  It  growled, and threw itself skyward.  

	Sam dropped the gun and ran to Gretchen.  I limped towards the weapon.  More shots echoed, and I glanced over my shoulder.  Paul was firing into the sky.  The damned owolf hadn’t given up yet, and like bolt of lightning, it struck.

	Paul and the animal collapsed in a tangle.  I rushed forward, grabbed the beast around the neck, and pressed the muzzle of the gun to its head.  

	The shot tore most of its head off, spattering me with gore.  Paul was already covered.  I hesitated, torn between helping Gretchen or her father.

	Sam made the decision for me, helping her fiancé to her feet and shuffling towards the car.  I heard a rhythmic thumping noise, and realized the Mounties were on there way.   Canada and the US might have there differences, but law enforcement tended to stick together.  

	I ruffled through Paul’s.  

	“Sam!” I called.  When she turned towards me, I tossed her Paul’s keys.

	“Take the other car.  Plug ‘Bob and Doug’s’ into the GPS; when you get there, use my name and ask for Bob.  He’ll see you get the rest of the way.”

	I went inside and fetched the first-aid kit from my back.  When I got back to Paul, the Mercedes was gone.  I broke out the spray bandages and set to work.

*

	It could have turned into an major incident.  A big businessmen with political aspirations and the connections to realize them getting mauled by one of DHS’s monsters was serious.  If they’d discovered why Paul had been at the cabin, it would have been tabloid fodder for months.  

Paul told the Mounties he’d been at the cabin to get away from the public and deal in private with his daughter’s suicide.  They never had a chance to question him further.  Me, I just acted like the flunky they thought I was.

Paul’s funeral was nice.  He’d left prior instructions, of course.  He never left anything to chance.  He’d even requested me as a pallbearer.  As I helped carry his coffien down the steps of the church, I realized that maybe Gretchen leaving me had hurt him, too, for other reasons.  He’d never had a son, and to a man like Paul, a son was a big deal.  (Picture 2)

I guess you really couldn’t understand what someone else feels.

*

	Three months later, I was in Greater Sudbury.  My contacts told me where they’d gone, and a quick hack revealed a marriage license under the new identities I’d arranged.  I hadn’t gotten an invitation, but I figured I’d earned it.  

	I’m not much for weddings.  Too many people, too much stress.  This one was different.  Smaller, for one thing, and no family.  Sam and Gretchen hadn’t been here long, but they’d made some friends, and those friends brought friends.  The bride wore white, a sleeveless number that was probably cold despite the blooming spring.  The other bride wore something a little more outré, a kind of retro-Rocky Horror getup.  (Picture 4) 

	At a certain angle, you could see a wispy mustache on Sam’s face.  I didn’t know which direction Sam was heading.  It didn’t matter.   Gretchen looked as happy as only a woman in love on her wedding day can, and that was enough.

	She spotted me out of the corner of her eye, and there was a quick smile just for me. 

	“Thank you,” she mouthed silently.

	“Be happy,” I replied, and turned to leave.


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## yangnome (Feb 8, 2007)

Graywolf-ELM said:
			
		

> Thanks Mythago.  When I read your story, I already knew the result.  Out in the first round.
> 
> Great feedback from all three judges.  No laundry list of excuses.  It was fun.  It did encourage me to write again.
> 
> ...




I think the idea has a lot of potential.  There's plenty of story material leading up to the marriage and potentially some after your point.  I really could see this idea developed into a longer short story, or even a novel (or series of novels).  Let us know what you get out of rewriting it.


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## Berandor (Feb 8, 2007)

1. comment on drawmack's response to my response.
[sblock]


> I was going for tounge in cheeck and really playing up the boring aspect of detective work. Taking what is a very interesting case and making it too easy. Remember his opening line about detective work being boring.



Ah, I see. Perhaps stressing the parody a little more would help in getting that better across then? E.g. "By now you're probably expecting a hard interrogation. In reality, though, people like to talk, even about things they shouldn't. My job is just being the person who will listen. Basically, my job is show (up), and they'll tell."

Or something. Notice the little innuendo I put in there? 



> Yeah, I probably could have wasted a few words explaining these things. I'm always scared of boring the judges with description and tend to focus more on keeping the action going.



It is very hard to decide where to stop explaining. If you do too little, you confuse the reader. If you do to much, you seem to be condescending or, at the very least, it's boring.



> On this, I miscalculated and thought my story was due yesterday. Just me pulling a stupid.



Hey, at least you used the right pictures! 
[/sblock]

Now, my running commentary to the next two writers who delivered:
[sblock]
*tadk*: I loved your beginning! The description, the atmosphere of Thailand is wonderfully dense, and the first picture was awesomely used, giving it a quality of sadness and reality I very much enjoyed. When you talk about how things changed over night, it really intrigued me. Where I think the entry falters a little is in the meeting itself; I didn't fully understand what was happening there and why PS was laughed off, whether he was the small guy in the picture or whether that was TM and what the talk about remaking oneself was about. I liked the ending that basically described a failure, a Midnight-kind-of world where shadows *do* haunt you. Aside from the first picture, the others weren't that strongly integrated, and there were some spelling mistakes I noticed. But I still liked it a lot.

*Rodrigo Istalindir*: Very, very nice. To me, quite possibly the best story of round 1 (the three missing pieces notwithstanding). The one thing I got a little confused about was the coffin picture; did the father die, or did our hero fake another death? Especially since we start the story with the fake suicide, I half expected daddy to show up at the wedding and I was wondering whether I'd buy such a change of heart. If daddy died, however, then the coffin scene would seem (assonance!) a little weak, so I'm not sure what to believe. Also, I was curious why the protagonist never even checks to see whether the flat tire can be replaced. But I liked the idea behind it, the characters, the plot, the whole shebang. Should you proceed, I hope you'll face anyone except me in round two [/sblock]


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## tadk (Feb 8, 2007)

Berandor said:
			
		

> Well, I'd be willing to share it (once I went over the draft a final time), but it's written in German, so... I don't know.





Thank you
Well worst case i would run it through an online translation site and get an idea

or not
All good and best of luck in CDM


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## Rodrigo Istalindir (Feb 8, 2007)

In reply to Berandor, spoilered for your safety:

[sblock]


			
				Berandor said:
			
		

> Rodrigo Istalindir: Very, very nice. To me, quite possibly the best story of round 1 (the three missing pieces notwithstanding). The one thing I got a little confused about was the coffin picture; did the father die, or did our hero fake another death? Especially since we start the story with the fake suicide, I half expected daddy to show up at the wedding and I was wondering whether I'd buy such a change of heart. If daddy died, however, then the coffin scene would seem (assonance!) a little weak, so I'm not sure what to believe. Also, I was curious why the protagonist never even checks to see whether the flat tire can be replaced. But I liked the idea behind it, the characters, the plot, the whole shebang. Should you proceed, I hope you'll face anyone except me in round two




He died.  I'd started a scene with the father and the cops, but didn't think I could flesh it out right iin time and decided to cut it rather than rush it.  I figured him not ratting out his daughter to the cops at the cabin was a hint that maybe he'd had, if not a change of heart, at least a slight thaw.  The coffin scene is weak; I was trying to leverage the father dying without reconciling into selling Charlie's decision to accept things, and hence make his change of heart more believeable.

Thanks for the kind words.  I've been trying to work in more first-person stuff, which doesn't come naturally.[/sblock]


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## Berandor (Feb 8, 2007)

Rodrigo Istalindir said:
			
		

> In reply to Berandor, spoilered for your safety:



Ahh! I looked!
[sblock]


> He died.  I'd started a scene with the father and the cops, but didn't think I could flesh it out right iin time and decided to cut it rather than rush it.  I figured him not ratting out his daughter to the cops at the cabin was a hint that maybe he'd had, if not a change of heart, at least a slight thaw.



That's totally okay in my book. After all, it was still his daughter, and most of the connected guys try to do it their own way or no way; his way didn't work out, but that's no reason to sic the cops on her. And perhaps a little thaw was there, too, deathbed and all.



> Thanks for the kind words.  I've been trying to work in more first-person stuff, which doesn't come naturally.



I always found it funny when years ago, people were saying first person narrative was the go-to perspective for beginning writers because it was easier to write, if harder to pull off perfectly.
[/sblock]


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## tadk (Feb 8, 2007)

Berandor said:
			
		

> Now, my running commentary to the next two writers who delivered:
> [sblock]
> *tadk*: I loved your beginning! The description, the atmosphere of Thailand is wonderfully dense, and the first picture was awesomely used, giving it a quality of sadness and reality I very much enjoyed. When you talk about how things changed over night, it really intrigued me. Where I think the entry falters a little is in the meeting itself; I didn't fully understand what was happening there and why PS was laughed off, whether he was the small guy in the picture or whether that was TM and what the talk about remaking oneself was about. I liked the ending that basically described a failure, a Midnight-kind-of world where shadows *do* haunt you. Aside from the first picture, the others weren't that strongly integrated, and there were some spelling mistakes I noticed. But I still liked it a lot.
> [/sblock]



[sblock]  
Thank you very much for the kind words. It did most of what I wanted it to do. Actually the main character is never in any of the pics. In my mind TM was the dwarf and damned if I knew what to do with the snail pic other than that sudden inspiration to show how run down, taken out by life and the things behind the scenes had the control down.
Overall I am glad with my story, if I had not had to use those pics, then I think I would have done a better job. 
Tad
 [/sblock]


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## tadk (Feb 8, 2007)

maxfieldjadenfox said:
			
		

> Um yeah. And what sort of drugs should I be doing to make a connection between these pictures, sadist?





eek is all i say

eek


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## Berandor (Feb 8, 2007)

tadk, I'm not sure a babelfish-translation would work. I'd rather give you a rundown on the story (in sblocks).

[sblock]
_Dramatis Personae_: 
Robert, our protagonist
Simon Schuster, his employee and mentor
Tim, a rogue hedge wizard
Anne, an employee of Simon Schuster
extras

_Frame narrative 1_
Robert enters his apartment. He locks the door and makes sure the mirrors are covered by sheets of cloth. He enters the bathroom and washes blood off his hands

_Scene 1_
Robert enters Simon Schusters office. We learn that Robert just finished his degree at a prestigious occult university in the US and that Schuster paid the tuition fees. Schuster wants Robert to investigate into a possible leak of information at his company. The boyfriend of one of his employees is a amateur hedge wizard, and Robert is to find out what the guy knows about a macguffin secret project. Robert hesitates for a moment on account of his conscience, but accepts (as if he had any choice)

_Scene 2_
Robert ambushes Tim (the hedge wizard) in front of a rock club. In this scene, we learn that
a) magic works by drawing runes in blood
b) casting spells in front of "norms" is dangerous
c) the world as we know it is a comforting illusion; there are dark things afoot, and casting spells in front of norms is like a beacon to these things.
d) Robert is able to pierce the illusory veil and see how things really are.
Using subterfuge and luck, Robert manages to incapacitate Tim and distract his friends long enough to abduct the guy.

_Frame narrative 2_ 
Back in the apartment, Robert shies from his reflection in the window, wondering whether Simon Schuster has already sent out his monsters to kill him, and whether they'll be able to enter via the window. He closes the curtains, knowing that if Schuster wants him dead, that won't protect him anyway.

_Scene 3_
Robert interrogates Tim in an empty warehouse. He tries to get a reaction by exposing Tim to snakes and spiders, but the guy keeps his cool. He does panic, though, when presented with a box full of big bugs. Tim spills that Anne, the employee, is behind all the stolen data. Satisfied, Robert shows how all the critters were just illusions meant to frighten Tim, and then goes to call Schuster on his cell phone. Schuster tells Robert to take care of Tim, and to go see Anne, try to talk sense into her, but not to harm her. Robert heads back into the warehouse, fishing for his knife. We are left wondering if he kills Tim...

_Scene 4_
...but not for long. Standing in front of Anne's apartment, Robert ponders whether letting Tim go with a final warning was the right thing to do. As he enters the apartment, he is filled with a strange longing. Sensual music is playing, a musky smell is in the air, candles are glowing, and Anne is irresistably beautiful and scarcely dressed. It only takes moments, and they kiss passionately. She leads him into her bedroom, but a nagging feeling helps him concentrate just long enough to pierce the veil and see Anne as the monster she really is, with bugs crawling all over her naked body and into her... empty eye sockets. Realizing she's been discovered, Anne pushes Robert away and tries to invoke an escape portal on her bedroom mirror, but Robert smashes the mirror and is forced to fight, and kill Anne by stabbing her and cutting her heart out.

_Frame narrative 3_
The alarm clock rings. Robert heads into the bathroom and, on an impulse, uncovers the mirror. In it, he sees Schuster's newest monster: himself. He heads into the shower and gets ready for a new day at work.
The end.[/sblock]


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## questing gm (Feb 8, 2007)

Will be posting mine shortly....i know i'm late and felt that i have done a terrible job (this is something so new to me than expected). Does this mean an automatic disqualification?


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## questing gm (Feb 8, 2007)

The cultist of Smik has opened a temple in a small town where man and women dress in garbs of cloth rather than having them fitted properly. The goddess Smik, the patron of spa, mannacures and information keeping has created a ruckus among the females and they have gathered in troves outside her temple [pic 1] . The men that were standing by are probably aspirants who wished to joined the ranks of her clergy as hairdressers. It is interesting to imagine that while that such a religion of intensive haircare would find its worshippers in this small town, they didn't have one that have tailors or at least embroidery for priest or plumbers for that matter.

  As a captain of the New Yauk Policing Defenders I have been dispatched to curb a potential rebellion of angry women that lined up in the streets demanding for shampoo, conditioners and spare time to chat with their servants or just among each other. I'm not alone in this quest to maintain law in order in his majesty's honor. There have been also factions that do not see the rise of the church of Smik as something beneficial position. One of them has even sent some 'assistants' to aid in my quest. The Guild of Rock, heavily armed bards of the kingdom that manisfest angry rages when performing on stage with shouting crowds, hypnotic lights and breaking personal property. I was told that they are capable fighters and with their constantly menancing appearance even in studded leather armor, I was assured to be working with the finest of their agent.

  Rock music, an invention of the dwarves who lives in their rocky mountains. When they first discover the concept or rhytmn beside their endless chanting rituals, using steel against rock it was probably a natural to give it a name that remains them of their stoned roots. As I was about to leave the Sheriff's office with my writ from the Feudal Board of Inquisition, 

  I met with my companions just before the gate that leads outside of town. Crotek and Phelix [pic2] . Crotek, a native dwaft that was spawned from the long-line of famous dwarven rocker bands (as their labour union calls it) but certainly a far cry from the notorious Mithralicca. Phelix, not neccesarily the oddest rocker that is generated from the human fans of rock music (again Mithralicca was a big influence) but unusual non the lest. Aside from the formal dress code of the Rocker's Guild, the compulsory hair length and studded leather armor accompanied by any studded accessories, Phelix wore a pair of colorful breeches outside from where it should be kept in. Apparently I was told that he was formally a member of a clergy that preached liberation, peace and smoking pots of inducive drugs. They wore round amulets with a three branched twigs pointed downward as their holy symbol. I didn't dare to imagine or explain to myself the relation between his former beliefs with his current career choice except that there were an extension of each other, some way.....or another.

  We stumbled upon a Shelia on our journey who lived in an observation post. She decided to join us in her quest to defeat the cult of Smik because to advance their sacred blessings, they have been testing their haircare products on animals. She is a member of a secret circle of druids that actively pursue to save the lives of animals especially one that has found itself on the wrong side of the heroic adventurer's blade. One of their most secret successes in their activities has been the provisional banning of dragon-slaying by classify them as an endangered species much to the danger they posed to the nearby communities. It is the battle that these secret members of druids fight to preserve ecological over logical balance, that they have called their organization Greenwar.

  When we entered the temple of the Smik cult [pic3]  , the battle was quick but devastating. The battle songs that we brought were inspirational to Crotek and Phelix who rained havoc and destruction like a pair of bulls unleashed in a china shop. Soon, the fight was over but in their war trance Crotek managed to cut himself from one of the scissors lying around.

  In eager need of healing to Crotek's wounds, the druid pulled out a bottle and opened its top. She placed her palm at the opening while she poured the content of the white and non-biodegradable material with a label that said 'Keep Away from Children'. A piece of green jelly-like substance fell onto his outreached palm, she screwed back the top and placed it back into his pocket. With a socially unreadable expression that feints cold professionalism, she handed Crotek the 'thing'.

  'Eat it' she said. 

  'What is it ?' Crotek disgressed because he didn't want to put anything mysterious things in his mouth and green was always mysterious.

  'Chlorofilth, it helps to close the wounds. It's good for you just like the same reasons why your mothers tell you to finish your greens.', she replied reminding me of my mother and her membership in the Green Alliance of Mothers.

  'I'm not comfortable with the notion that you named it after a sewerage product...' he answered still resistant to green coloring in food products.

  'Be grateful that I am not telling you to chew weed instead of an urban processed medication!'.

  He swallowed his saliva once as he tried to imagine what it would feel like when this 
'Chlorofilth' goes down his throat. Without success of convincing myself, he scarily scooped the icky 'Chlorofilth' with his fingernail and opened his mouth wide [pic4] . Crotek's eyes narrowed at the slim till my vision converged as though he was looking right with my left eye and vice versa. Phelix and I glared as hard as he did, anticipating with anxiety on what will happen once it finds itself down my digestion tract. In a blink and all hands on deck, it slided down his tongue and gone into the abyss of his stomach. When he opened my eyes, he looked at her and said.

  'Taste like candy...'


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## Berandor (Feb 8, 2007)

questing gm said:
			
		

> Will be posting mine shortly....i know i'm late and felt that i have done a terrible job (this is something so new to me than expected). Does this mean an automatic disqualification?



 Normally, this would mean disqualification, yes. Whether the judges leave it up to tadk to allow or disallow your entry is their call; both has happened in the past. However, its also possible that even in case of a disqualification, you'll get some comment on your story by the judges simply for delivering a story.

But really, it's up to them. Personally, it's great that you didn't disappear from the thread and posted your story nonetheless. I'll for one am going to read it. Thanks!

Also, don't be too disappointed. I believe tadk has a record of his opponents disappearing...


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## tadk (Feb 8, 2007)

*Timing*

Hi questing

Were it up to me you would be fine with being a little late
an hour here or there is fine
especially for a new participant

I am utterly fine with it, I would be happy if they gave you more time to work on it more, like another day, would work for me fine.

I was afraid you had disappeared, one time the only reason I made it to match Rodrigo was due to all my opponents just not posting. Totally not fair in many respects then he handed me my head on a platter with a nice dipping sauce on the side for a condiment.


So my opinion is it is all good, and I am glad you are with us.
Time to read your story

Tad


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## Berandor (Feb 8, 2007)

Berandor said:
			
		

> Also, don't be too disappointed. I believe tadk has a record of his opponents disappearing...





			
				tadk said:
			
		

> one time the only reason I made it to match Rodrigo was due to all my opponents just not posting.



See?


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## questing gm (Feb 8, 2007)

Well now I know in CDM, lesson 1: 72 hours isn't very long. I'll be careful next time and would love to have written a more proper story....


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## yangnome (Feb 8, 2007)

I would normally DQ you as I don't like putting your competitor on the spot with allowing your entry or not.  Since Tadk already said it would be ok before we put him on the spot though, I'll let the entry stand as it is.  

FYI, I still am waiting for match 1 and 4 judgements.  I'm missing 1 from OB and missing 4 from Herremann.


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## orchid blossom (Feb 8, 2007)

yangnome said:
			
		

> FYI, I still am waiting for match 1 and 4 judgements.  I'm missing 1 from OB and missing 4 from Herremann.




Check your e-mail.  I was probably sending it as you were typing this.


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## yangnome (Feb 9, 2007)

*Roud 1 Match 1 judgement Aris Dragonborn vs. Miles Pilitus*

Round 1 Match 1:
Aris Dragonborn vs. Miles Pilitus

Orchid Blossom:


Aris Dragonborn

I'm sorry the virus took you down, but kudos to you for turning in what you finished.

It was great to see that you were putting effort into setting your scene and helping the reader find their place at the table. Since St. Patrick's is a lucky day and the lottery was the discussion, my guess is someone was going to come into some money.

The one thing I noticed to comment on in this small sample is that you have a couple superfluous sentences; something that was starting to look like a pattern. the end of the second paragraph, "After all, everyone loved to dream about hitting it big," is an example. Later on, "We had a good laugh at that," and "What a wonderful thing to do on St. Patrick's Day!" all could be cut. The reason being that you've already communicated those ideas through your writing. We already learned the lottery is a favorite discussion, so we know they like to dream about it.

By the way, I'm a fellow sufferer from Superfluous Sentence Syndrome (SSS). Judicious editing is the best cure I've found. I just let myself write them and come back later and rip them out.



Miles Pilitus

We've all been through something like this story, a family reunion, wedding, holiday, anytime you have to spend time with strangers who happen to be related to you, or people you know but don't like. Right off you start from a place that almost any reader can relate to, which makes it easy to slip into the story.

A lot of time is devoted to telling us just how hellish this reunion is, but since it's a familiar scene to us already it's much more exposition than we need. And while it is presented as a potential debacle, it is really an ordinary family gathering.

The crux of the story seems to be the moment when the family is able to agree on what to do (row on the lake). But the A to B to C style of the story doesn't change when that happens, so that change is presented just as everything else that happened. At this point I should admit that I'm not a fan of first person present point of view. It always makes a story feel like a report to me, and when we are hearing a protagonist's thoughts and end up changing tenses I keep having to change gears. Is that a fault? Maybe not. For me it's a style preference.

One other note, be careful of using the same descriptors too often and close together. For example (emphasis mine) "At least the family managed to get the old family house in Virginia. It's an old colonial house near the Roanoke Rapids on the southern border of the state. It's a nice old place..."

The pictures fit in the story without jarring the reading, a good thing, but also don't illustrate anything that notes an important point in the story. The leprechaun is the only one that sticks out and illustrates something about the character and the place he's in.

Aris I hope you'll come back and try Ceramic DM again.

-----
Herremann:

Round One - Match One Judgment
Aris Dragonborn vs. Miles Pilitus

Well hello again everyone, it’s been an interesting week of preparation at the “Herremann” residence, getting equipped and ready for judging another Ceramic DM competition. As some of you may know, judging took me a little by surprise the first time around. I sent away for a judging stick excited about the prospect of giving it a few critical whacks but instead, I received a rather large scythe.

There wasn’t too much of a problem with this until the scythe (better known as ‘Lady Death’) began to talk to me, take possession of my mind, toy with my motivations and rack up debts with the netherworld in my name. These debts have been increasingly difficult to pay off - one soul is just simply not enough to bargain with against some of the bigger players down there. Fortunately, my wife never learned about it and since she’s used to strange things lying around here and there (I am a pretty hard-core gamer after all), all went well enough. When ‘Death’ arrived at the end of the competition to get his scythe back, we shared a quick quip before he left, both knowing that my time was not quite up. You wouldn’t have thought it but ‘Death’ is a pretty humourous guy, as long as you get to meet him outside of business hours.

Anyway, this time around, my wife took one look at the scythe and just wondered what the hell I had been doing on eBay again before moving on to her own amusements. The imps aren’t quite as bad as you would imagine either as we have a large backyard with a garage right down the back. I have been able to contain them reasonably successfully in there. They’re dead scared of our dog “Bella” for some reason and that keeps them in check, only sporting occasional glances out of the garage window. Fortunately my wife and baby daughter are yet to notice such antics. The imp shipment was complete at thirty-seven and so this should be more than adequate for the competition ahead. Sometimes though, you never know, particularly with the high number of matches to be judged; strange things always seem to happen to these imps during a competition.

Well anyway, this is going to be one hell of a night to start with: four judgments to be made and four contestants to be reaped. I’ll have to start early.

***

Down the end of my backyard, behind the clad garage and underneath the massive Elm tree, sheltered a small conclave of the netherworld. While “Hell” on Earth is not nearly as dramatic as it sounds, it was still quite a sight. Several torches sprinkled as much light as shadow about the place while several fiendish helpers were running this way and that in preparation. While the thirty-seven imps making up the “enhanced” jury waited in the garage for their presence to be required, ‘Lady Death’s entourage of imps, fey, Gnopfs and minor daemons were busy readying the place.

And there she was waiting, carefully addressed upon the granite altar’s surface. Several daemons of obviously minor rank were seeing to her needs as they luxuriated her length with good oil while a flying imp saw to her blade. Cursed by vanity and normally wielded by Death, she was obviously in a good mood awaiting the evening’s activities.

To the side carefully overseeing the final manoeuvring of his equipment was my friend the Gnopf. I have no idea of his name, as conversing with him in a common tongue was impossible, but as far as producing images for the fiendish jury to see, his service was pretty good if a little strange. He’s a pretty animated fellow so I can normally get the gist of what he’s trying to communicate. If nothing else, he seems to have a disproportionate level of faith in me. He looked back at me, barked a few commands to his sub-ordinates before nodding. He was obviously ready to go.

And so, with the moon at its highest point and the jury finally having been coaxed from the garage, everything was at the ready; the judging of the Ceramic DM Contest of Winter 2007 was about to commence.

***

I lifted “Lady Death’; her solid weight pulsing me with an attitude of eagerness. I tapped her gently against the altar.

“Good evening Ladies and Daemons of the court, Servants of the afore-mentioned, minor functionaries of little consequence and of course our Infernal Jury for the night’s proceedings. It is incumbent upon you the jury to deliberate with both care and attention so as you may carefully select the offering of tastiest composition for her Dark Grace, Our ‘Lady Death’. Attend to the evidence and details to be presented and with firm resolve, cast your opinion with strong feet and defined purpose. Such I charge you with, or forever may you reside in a pit to be toyed with by Beelzebub.”

“In out first contest of penmanship, we have Aris Dragonborn contending with Miles Pilitus. If their offerings may be presented immediately to the Altar of Judgment, the court shall proceed.” At this, two imps garbed in ridiculous finery stepped towards the front with several pages in their grasp. A hidden functionary of the court quickly tapped my shoulder and addressed my attention with several facts and elements of law as I took the offerings. Informed, I then placed both offerings, (one noticeably thinner than the other) upon the stone and delicately tapped the scythe with a dull ringing.

“It would appear that one of our contestants has presented the absolute minimum expected. Let it be known that while this is disappointing, it is at least satisfactory. Woe be to the churlish competitor who attempts to hide his offering from the jury’s consideration or skulks and sneaks about attempting to escape her Dark Grace’s attention. Aris Dragonborn has at least offered what he could which is more than some in competitions past. Unfortunately, this will mean a shorter round of jury deliberation for this match.”

“Aris has presented us with a simple bar scene, pondering the possibilities of fortune and fate, where as Miles has elected for a drab weekend with relatives. On the surface, Aris has trundled along the more fascinating path but unfortunately the story was never able to get beyond its opening premise. Miles has given us a piece where the groundwork has been suitably laid but regrettably without significant pay-off. I was left waiting for the story to find top gear but it barely ventured past first. Where was the twist? Where did the tension go? I prefer a story that makes me wonder where the writer is taking me? What surprise awaits my enraptured gaze? Where will the writer catch me out with his or her cleverness? Such are the things I yearn for when I read.”

“Anyway, both stories have been related with good voice but in all seriousness, I believe I can only give adequate response to Miles’s submission. However, I will make my comments general so that they may be of use to all newcomers in this competition. The set of pictures for this match were difficult in their own way.” I nodded to the Gnopf who with a majestic swing pulled the primary lever, projecting the images in cascading display upon the garage. As if reading my mind and requirements, he rotated between them at suitable intervals for the jury’s consideration.

“As you can see, there is nothing obtusely strange with these images, nothing easily grasped and flung in some bizarre direction. This is where you the writer must whip the most out of them. Unfortunately, Miles has interpreted these photos in the most literal and conservative way. For example, image three was simply a snapshot pose of two family members pretending to knife a family member in the back. Well damn it; why not have them go through with it? Too risqué? Throwing too much caution to the wind? You must be the judge but at some point, your tale should twist and turn with tension. What about image two and the leprechaun pouring some fluid into someone’s gullet. You thought that was beer!? Bah! It was truth serum, or some strange concoction so that for a year a month and a day, whenever someone was told to do something, they had to obey!”

“Now I appreciate that your story was of a more laidback nature, but all the better for contrasting with the completely bizarre and unusual. You will find that the images from this point on in the competition only get worse and the more you try to conservatively straighten them into a story, the more they will want to pull you in ten different directions. My advice: don’t fight it and instead take a few risks. Cast the cat amongst the pigeons. Roll the dice, Take…” I now noticed that the entire front row of the jury was asleep while the back row on the left were trying to start up a Mexican wave.

I tapped ‘Lady Death’ to the altar. Nothing. I struck her hard to the stone producing a neat little concussive rumble. The jury now somewhat more attentive awaited my final instruction for the match.

“And so, it is with resignation, I ask the jury to step to the right, awarding the privilege to continue to Miles Pilitus.” In no hurry (in fact they seemed totally bored by the affair), the majority moved to award Miles the victory with several stragglers barely bothering to move. I tapped ‘Lady Death’ once more to the altar and such was her first victim of the competition. If nothing else Aris Dragonborn, you pleased her Dark Grace as a tasty meal. I hope to see you compete at fuller health in the future.


-----
Yangnome: 

Aris,

Thanks again for submitting a partial story.  Much better than abandoning the competition all together.  I won't put comments on the start as you didn't have a chance to work it into a whole.  If you would like comments on that portion, let me know and I'll give them.

Miles Pilitus – Family Reunion

You write the story of a family reunion in a stream of consciousness style, so I won’t fault you for show vs. tell.  The voice of your narrator works and flows well.  The story is easy to read and I like the level of description you provide.  However, there is no conflict, nothing driving me to make me want to continue reading.  I won’t say that this can’t work—I’m a fan of literary fiction and realize you don’t always need a plot, but it would be nice to have some conflict or character motivation to help push the story along.  

You hinted at some conflict, you mentioned that past reunions have gone bad.  This one didn’t.  There was slight apprehension, but nothing to drag me along for the ride.  It would have been nice to see some potential for things to blow up, only to have the reunion be worthwhile in the end.

I thought you made good use of the pictures considering what you turned them into ordinary events at the family reunion. They certainly blended well enough, but like the story, they lacked impact.  I thought that the first picture (the clouds over the house) was your strongest picture, mainly due to the fact that you use the small portion of the house in the picture to set the scene for your story.

My decision is for Miles 

Miles wins this round 3-0, congrats.


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## yangnome (Feb 9, 2007)

orchid blossom said:
			
		

> Check your e-mail.  I was probably sending it as you were typing this.



 Indeed. OK, I'll post match 4 once I receive Herremann's judgement.  I might not be online much tonight though, so it may not be up until tomorrow.


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## Herremann the Wise (Feb 9, 2007)

Judgment 4 sent. I look forward to seeing the final result.

Best Regards
Herremann the Wise


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## yangnome (Feb 9, 2007)

*Round 1 Match 4 Judgement: Pirate Cat vs. BSF*

Round 1 Match 4: 
Pirate Cat vs. BSF

Orchid Blossom

Idolatry – Piratecat

It took me two reading to appreciate what was going on in this story.  To be specific, there are lots of small references throughout the story that hint at or tie in with the story of Kyzyk.  The protagonist noticing frogs as he’s looking for civilization, the thirst, and even the name of the tavern he finds.  Later on when it’s suggested he was drawn there it rings true because it was gently hinted at earlier.

On first reading, some of the description got in my way.  I love a good word picture, but some things got two or three when one would do.  In the scene where Alicja had pulled the car over, just the phrase about her words or the phrase about her expression would have given us the picture.  With so much in the sentence the reader is starting to get lost by the end.

There are a lot of phrases in the piece that mean two things, but I had to read the story the second time to pick them up.  “I’m not entirely sure where my internal compass failed me,” is a great one.  Physically and spiritually lost.

By the time he gets to the tavern we know what we need to know about our protagonist.  His beliefs are deep-seated and he’s holding on to them for dear life.  Which is why it bothered me that he never interrupted the old woman in her storytelling.  Not to challenge her so much as to discuss what she was saying.  I wanted to see him chew over what he was hearing, so when he realized what happened in the morning, it’s the final strike that pushes his mind open enough to accept, if not embrace.

The toad on the pedestal is well used, and the people on all fours is illustrative if not illuminating.  I would have liked to have seen the castle used other than a flash.  The bride and groom in the bulldozer help start the conversation and are metaphor for how the present barrels over the past, but it doesn’t feel particularly illustratable.


Untitled – BSF

The story felt like two chapters of a larger story.  One, the story of how Hugo became a were-toad, and two; the story of how he became a familiar. 
They are connected by his slow loss of freedom, but not enough that the change from one story to the next isn’t jarring.

Both parts of the story are necessary.  The first half lets us see what’s he’s willing to do to protect his own life, and how far his selfishness goes.  We need to know that to understand what agreeing to get married means for him, as well as how his fate is particularly hellish for him. 
The trouble comes in that we spend a good amount of time getting to know Lucinda’s family, but very little getting into Gemma’s head.  Even though more text is devoted to her, we don’t really get a feel for her, excepting that she might be even more selfish than Hugo.

The picture of the gothic castle and the toad on the pedestal were well used.  The castle picture helps paint a picture of foreboding for the wedding night.  The bulldozer was the weakest, I felt.  It could have easily been left out without affecting the story.  The picture of the people on all fours did its job, but if you look closely all three women are wearing head-scarves, so the comment about them being on the unmarried girls contradicts the actual picture.

Overall, I’d like to see the first half shortened up.  All we really need is what happened to him, the declaration from Lucinda that he will return, and then his return.  The welcome to the family parts from her mother and father aren’t needed.  Just a mention of looks from them is enough to bring them in for the picture later.  It’s even possible the story could be opened with his return and first experience with his toad form. 
(Admittedly, I’m not sure how well that would work, but it’s a possibility.)

These two are so close for me that I could almost roll a die to make the decision.  I prefer BSF’s picture use in the round, and Piratecat gave a character that undergoes a definite change and a story that moves more smoothly from one scene to the next.

This one basically comes down to what kind of story I like. I’m throwing this one to Piratecat on the strength of a bit more mystical story and a folktale feel.
----
Herremann:
Round One - Match Four Judgment
BSF vs. Piratecat

At this point, I called a short recess to consult the scythe. “It would seem good mistress that we are down a judging imp after you blasted that last one into vapour. Would it be possible to get a replacement to pick up the slack? Perhaps even one of your staff could fill in even?”

‘Lady Death’ then firmly berated me, indicating that it was my own lack of knowledge and management skills that led to the imp being disintegrated and thus my responsibility alone. She felt that most would have dealt with the matter differently and in a far superior manner. I quietly nodded. As if sensing my sullenness at her rebuffing, she then said that she would see if she could get one of her assistants to address the situation with some measure of aid.

From somewhere out of the shadows, a flying imp bowed deeply before standing to immediate attention. This guy was obviously the aid.

“Good Sir,” I said. “We have the serious problem of being down one judging imp. I have need of a replacement and thought perhaps you or even one of your sub-ordinates might be able to fill in … if it was not too inconvenient?” His mood was unreadable. “That way, we would once again have an odd number of imps and thus prevent the embarrassment of a drawn jury.”

He took this information in, silent for a few seconds in concentration before responding in perfect English. “I believe good master I understand the full weight of your quandary and dilemma and have formulated the most efficacious solution encompassing all the variables at my disposal. Would you like me to act upon this Sir?”

Surprised yet welcoming his obvious efficiency and intelligence, I nodded. He then approached the jury, pulled out a wicked looking crossbow and fired it directly into the face of his chosen target. A second bolt to the throat stopped the imp getting up before a third confirmed the kill. Quickly folding the weapon back into an impossibly small pocket, he returned to me, nodded with a smile at his ingenuity before manoeuvring back into the shadows.

Yeah… that was what I had in mind.

Uneasily, I stepped back to the altar and picked up the scythe. She said nothing but I could feel her quietly laughing at me. From behind in the shadows, I sensed several giggles but decided to move on, preferring to appear unreactive to their callous little barbs… at least we would not have a drawn jury for this match... I suppose.

“If the servants of the court would please provide the final two offerings of the evening, we shall commence”. This time, the two imps in finery delivered the articles with an exaggerated sense of purpose. With the two sizeable submissions upon the altar, a quick tapping of her blade started the final match.

“Infernal Jury of high repute, I will require your most considered opinion for the following match. Do not be swayed by external hyperbole or threat but instead be guided by your inner feelings and emotions.” I allowed them to ponder this in confused silence before continuing. “BSF has given us a cautionary tale of particular cleverness and symmetry while Piratecat has delivered the internal struggles of a man fighting his faith before a strangely enforced epiphany changes his outlook. Both stories were convincing at different intervals. However, BSF’s piece delivers a firmer conclusion while Piratecat’s leaves us pondering several matters, muddying the almost simplistic finish. Let us examine both of these offerings further.”

“While I tried to sympathise with BSF’s philanderer, I could not help but smile at the Lady Gemma’s ingenious trap, but then I thought of the cursed were-people soon to wither and die and so in the end, I found it difficult to emotionally attach myself to one side or the other (something I’m not too sure BSF was aiming for). We have a cautionary tale but a tale whose deeper message I’m still not entirely sure I can pin down. As a story I enjoyed the cleverness of its symmetry and in terms of conclusion, it was satisfying enough to produce a hearty smile. But amongst all of this, there was just something a little forced. Perhaps it was the Lady Gemma’s motivations wrapped up all too succinctly in a statement of former betrayal and a stolen hearthstone? A little further explanation of Lady Gemma’s motivation would have been appreciated to really seal the deal. In the end, despite the very occasional phrasing that distractingly stumbled over itself, I found this story quite enjoyable.”

“Piratecat on the other hand has produced a deeper piece, incredibly well voiced throughout. However, it is this clarity of expression that all too clearly reveals a conclusion too convenient and simple. The fact that a terminating “The End” was provided is almost evidence in itself of a writer trying to convince his readers that a satisfying finale has been made. It is my belief that a story’s conclusion should be strong enough that such obvious signage is unnecessary. This is a shame as on the whole, the offering was a pure delight to read and one that had me comfortably sinking into my lounge.”

“And so good jury, we have the awkward task of differentiating between two suitable offerings. If you feel BSF has provided you with the greater enjoyment, a hearty step to your left would be appropriate while if Piratecat has tickled your emotions, congregating to the right would be the correct option.” Even I was a little excited to see which way the imps would go on this one.

There was a period of stumbling movement and separation, with several indecisive shifts from one group to the other and then back again. It seemed the group had neatly separated in two except for one imp who maintained a central position, completely obfuscated by the affair. Both sides were yelling at or imploring the creature to attend their position. A closer inspection revealed that this was the same imp who had been sent face first into the garage by the Gnopf’s reserve projector. Perhaps he had been affected more deeply than previous behaviour would indicate? His semblance was certainly lacking vitality. It then hit me what must have happened: ‘Lady Death’s assistant had crossbowed the larger imp that had obviously been dragging him backward and forward in the previous round’s judgment. Now with no one to pull him this way or that, he lacked all facility in the judging process.

Before I could speak to give further direction, a small group of imps parading pink “Piratecat Fanboy” shirts collected the hapless imp, finally breaking the deadlock to much protest and rowdiness from BSF’s supporters.

“As such, we have seventeen imps for BSF competing against eighteen imps for Piratecat in a perilously close result.” I tapped the scythe to continue. This match was really going to come down to how strongly the competitors used their images. The Gnopf with a simple press of a button provided the first image - a bloated ceramic toad with a look of surprise upon its features.

“Now this image was a centrepiece for both our writers. BSF has had this influence his entire story from the were-toad introduction through to the end, as Hugh becomes the all too surprised familiar candidate, permanently bound by magic. On the whole, exceptionally creative use that directs and flavours the entire piece. “

“Piratecat has likewise used the toad as a symbol to an almost forgotten (but still revered) water deity. This mystical use links well to the “drinking” tavern but not quite as strongly as the connections BSF has developed. As such, and even though I felt both contestants used this image very well, I found BSF to have the best of it. However good jury, it is your opinion that matters so please, vote with a will.”

There was immediate movement from both camps but not in the way I had expected. Several of the larger horned supporters of BSF had taken exception to the previous vote and so were launching themselves deep into Piratecat’s faction. In the end, they found the injured imp and took several others while they were there. Several fights then broke out which I immediately calmed with a vicious warning swipe of the scythe. Her blade was close enough that they could hear her whirring tang as it sliced the air near them. Immediately, the melee separated revealing a tally of nineteen to BSF to Piratecat’s sixteen.

I pressed the Gnopf who with a surprising lack of difficulty projected the next image upon the back of the garage - a strange group of humans walking on hands and feet near a body of water.

“BSF has presented this superbly as the family about to turn into were-toads. With the use of the lake in the background (and even the building as a B&B), I could not help but be impressed at how well this fit BSF’s story. To draw each of the elements from the image into his story was incredibly well done. The only question mark I had was the comeliness of the B&B wench who got the philandering Hugh involved in the first place. Perhaps this is more indicative of Hugh’s lack of selectivity in bedmates? Anyway, the picture was well used.”

“Piratecat has used this as inspiration for the watery nature of the Mongol godling and its followers strange method of prayer. In all honesty, this use of the image’s most prominent feature was a little weak. Perhaps if weightier significance could have been attached to this strange behaviour? As such, the use was suitable but nothing astounding.”

Once more I tapped the scythe for jury deliberation. It seemed now that both sides were firmly entrenched with only minor movement between the two groups. BSF had now pushed his lead to twenty imps to Piratecat’s fifteen. The Gnopf almost before being addressed then rotated to the third image - a gothic style castle of ominous form. 

“Now BSF has linked the Gothic nature of the castle to the occasional abode of the witch Gemma. This was OK but not super strong - although in concert with other images, it is quite a nice thread linking them all together. Piratecat has used this as representative of the weight of punishment awaiting his unnamed protagonist if he is to fail in his faith. It is the image he sees and fears if he fails. Is the image enough of a counterweight to represent this? Most probably but really, I think a little more detail would have strengthened the use of this picture. It is a careful line one treads; do you make certain connections obvious and in the process mess with the story’s pacing and delivery or do you leave it unsaid and the reader’s responsibility to join? Story-wise, I think you are forced to go the latter but this is Ceramic DM where the images are everything. As such, this is OK use but with a question mark. Good jury, I now require of you your penultimate position.”

The imps barely moved. Finally a single BSF supporter sneaked across to Piratecat’s side to much booing from one side and hooting on the other. I tapped the scythe, confounded as to the imp’s interpretation of my comments. As I looked across to the imp, he was being showered in praise by Piratecat’s side - their new hero. Perhaps he had a slicker understanding of the judging process than I initially credited? Anyway, that made it nineteen to sixteen in favour of BSF. I nodded to the Gnopf who once again tamed the projector to his will. An image of a freshly married couple being transported in the scoop of a bulldozer appeared.

“Now let it be said that this image was despicably introduced into the set. I’m brought to mind of an image of cheerleaders in fact in trying to think of a picture so at odds with its brethren. How did our submitters deal with this? Unfortunately, not overly well. BSF has tried to link the magics imposed upon the bulldozer sealing Hugh’s demise while Piratecat has it as a fresher interpretation of old Mongol custom whereby the confirming couple hope to succeed in conception. Both felt a little unnecessary without some clever incorporating trick. I’m not saying that either use was unsuitable, simply not inspired. As such good jury, it comes down to your opinion who shall venture forth in the competition and who stands to be reaped.”

Despite fervent discussion and argument from one side to the other, there was a minimum of movement, which is to say none. The final tally then sees BSF victorious with nineteen imps to Piratecat’s vocal sixteen. I could feel the strain from the imps after a truly torturous night and a very close final match. Congratulations to both contestants in a hard fought contest.

Now, to pack everything up and clear everything out of the backyard before my wife wakes up. Goodness knows what she would think of all of this?
---

Yangnome:
Pirate Cat - Idolatry

Interesting story.  I like the feel and flow of the story and it brings a message along with it.  Your voice throughout the story was strong and your characterization were spot on. You made the narrator a likeable fellow, and I think the ending works well for what it is.  I read your alt ending and it didn’t ring as true, though it certainly could have been used as well.  

I like the frog references through the story; it definitely adds a nice imagery.  While it is possible for repetition to become tedious, here I think you manage to pull it off and it really helped the set the tone and ambiance for the story.  A lot of your hints are subtle through the story and this really works to set the mood.  

Picture use overall was strong.  I liked your use of the frog and how it helped shape your story—Herremann was certain this picture would wind up being thrown away in the stories as a wedding gift .  The weakest picture was the castle.  It wasn’t important to the story (you could have just mentioned the Kinghts Templar and it would have worked.  I also thought that this castle could have served to set the mood in your story.   While the bride & groom on the tractor wasn’t integral to the story, I do think it you did a decent job lining up the tradition theme for the rest of the story.  The people on all fours picture was well used too.   


BSF – Were-toads
I love the fact that you made the frog a center part of your story, if for no other reason that what I mentioned above.  This too is a strong entry, though overall it felt a little emaciated.  I was hooked from the second line, and it made me laugh out loud.  You use a strong voice here and the story was a joy to read.  

You give us a very selfish narrator and it would have been nice to see some redemption within the story.  There’s a good chance for this once he return to the lake and Lucinda, but I don’t ever feel that he cares about anything more than his own skin.  The ending with Gemma worked well, I liked her betrayal, but it felt a bit rushed.  I think some more character development on her, and maybe a small hint or two would have helped make this a better ending.  Perhaps having him actually fall for her might have worked as well.  As it is, I don’t really feel sorry for him when the tables are turned, nor do I really learn any lesson.  

Your picture use was strong.  Obviously, you made big use of the frog and formed your story around it, but the others were used well too.  You gave a fun story to read, but I really would have liked a bit more meat.  

This was a good round.  I expected it to be close, and indeed it was.  Ultimately, I had to side with Pirate Cat as he had a deeper story that meant more to me.  

Pirate Cat wins the round 2-1.  Thank you both for playing, this was a very fun round to judge.  Pirate Cat advances.  BSF, please stand by to see the announcement of the losers bracket once this round is complete.


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## BSF (Feb 9, 2007)

Congratulations to my feline foe.  As always, it is fun to write and I greatly appreciated the shot at taking Piratecat out of the running early.


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## Piratecat (Feb 9, 2007)

BSF said:
			
		

> Congratulations to my feline foe.  As always, it is fun to write and I greatly appreciated the shot at taking Piratecat out of the running early.



Wherein I escaped by the skin of my teeth. Thanks you for setting the bar so high, BSF! 

My story had some flaws, and I think Berandor highlighted the biggest of them up-thread. The protagonist is actually based on a co-worker of mine who spent his childhood in an _extremely_ conservative church -- or perhaps a cult -- that follows the laws of Deuteronomy. When he told me that his grandparents divorced because of religious differences, and how the church typically excommunicates and shuns anyone who thwarts them, I knew I wanted to include it. I almost posted the "narrator turns evil because of the knowledge of gods" ending, and although I think the story was too pat and simplistic without it, my emotional tenor at the moment is just as happy to lean towards a possibly happy ending.  [for anyone watching the ENnie discussions, it's been a frustrating week for us moderation-wise.] 

So I had a big plothole in my emotional logic, but I really like some of the story's aspects as well. I tried to use a very different voice and sentence structure than I usually do. I like how chunks of the story are based on fact instead of imagination, although that's not necessarily obvious to other people, and I like some of the frog imagery I was able to create. Orchid Blossom, you filled me with joy when you said you picked that up the second time through -- that had been my hope.  But mostly?  Mostly I love how I felt when I was writing, finally, and four hours disappeared like ten minutes.  I needed that.

BSF's story was really interesting. I love the slimy, untrusty narrator. It was an honor to go up against him; thanks!


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## Piratecat (Feb 9, 2007)

By the way, on the part of all the competitors, thank you to the judges for providing such useful feedback. I remember how hard it is to read and write judgments.

It's appreciated.


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## BSF (Feb 9, 2007)

*A little exposition*

Ah, I have children to bed and can now post a bit more.  

I took a chance with this story in making Hugh a character that does not find redemption.  Call it a bit of cynicism and bitterness in general that bled over into the story, but also call it an attempt to try something different to see if I could gain a leg up on my worthy opponent.  It is all the above wrapped up into one.  

So in one regard I am very pleased with the observations that Hugh had the opportunity to redeem himself, and still didn't.  It was hard not to go that route, not to turn him into some being with a moral fiber.  Did it work?  Well, maybe not well enough to win the round, but those are the breaks when you are competing.  Would I try that strategy again with a different story?  I don't know, maybe I would.  But I would give it more consideration if I wanted to pursue that element once again.  

Orchid Blossom - There is some keen commentary on providing more insight into Gemma.  I avoided it because Hugh simply didn't care.  He thought he would be using her and it never entered his mind that she might be using him.  I had already alluded to where Gemma might end up with Lucinda's comments about witches, and Gemma's interest in the supernatural.  I was afraid I had made the story too predictable already so I didn't want to push too much of her perspective into the narrative.  But it does make the ending feel a bit rushed toward a conclusion.  

I appreciate that you were able to develop a bit of a feel for Lucinda's family.  I was trying to bring a lot without devoting too much time to it.  I want people to ponder whether Milos fell into the same trap when he was younger and just made a better effort to accept it.  I want people to ponder how much Lucinda and Na-na know of their own history.  I should have found a way to provide the same feel for Gemma without revealing too much of what was to come. 

I am skipping over some of the commentary - I appreciate it greatly but I don't need to comment on all of it.  Otherwise this might sound like some odd rebuttal, which it isn't.  No, I appreciate the commentary and you all bring to mind a possibility of how I could have possibly strengthened the story in a manner I had offhandedly dismissed.  

Piratecat - I thoroughly enjoyed the references throughout.  Both the foreshadowing and the bits of fact that I recognized.  I thought it was very nicely done.  The biggest issue I had was that the character didn't quite ring true for me.  I believe Sialia summarized the reasons quite well.  

If anything was shared between our stories I think it _might_ be this:  We were both writing about characters that we could look at and externally understand, but maybe we can't entirely integrate the character's mindset with our own?  So maybe we ended up with cariactures rather than characters.  People are complex and I don't think I quite captured that complexity as well as I could have.  

But it was great to write off against you.


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## orchid blossom (Feb 9, 2007)

I didn't want Hugo to find redemption, at least I don't think.  Not everyone changes when life-altering things affect them.  I was cool with him staying what he was.

The thing I find hard in the judging is that I know a lot of the flaws are time-crunch related.  So even though I'm mentioning something, if the author had time to let it sit and come back in a while those kinks probably would have been worked out.  I know I really have to stay away from a story for a good month before I can go back and read with a new eye.  Sometimes longer.

Probably obvious by now, but what I really look for in stories is characterization and language use, the two places where I'm strongest as a writer.  (In my humble opinion, anyway)  The thing I'm finding most common in every story is that I can see the framework the author is hanging everything on, but there just wasn't enough time to flesh out the story so they become invisible, if you get what I mean.

I can tell you this, the judging process sure teaches you a lot about writing.  I imagine this experience will improve mine a couple notches.


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## BSF (Feb 9, 2007)

orchid blossom said:
			
		

> I didn't want Hugo to find redemption, at least I don't think.  Not everyone changes when life-altering things affect them.  I was cool with him staying what he was.
> 
> The thing I find hard in the judging is that I know a lot of the flaws are time-crunch related.  So even though I'm mentioning something, if the author had time to let it sit and come back in a while those kinks probably would have been worked out.  I know I really have to stay away from a story for a good month before I can go back and read with a new eye.  Sometimes longer.
> 
> ...




Well sure there may be flaws from the time crunch.  But that is the nature of this beast.    Yes, sometimes stepping back and rethinking your story is good, but don't underestimate the value of an external opinion!  There is nothing wrong with having a strong critique and jumpstarting the re-evaluation process.  

You are doing a fine job judging and I appreciate your perspective on characterization and language.  I was pleased to see you stepping in as a judge.  Primarily because I have liked your stories in the past and I was really interested in seeing what you would do with being in the judging seat.


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## yangnome (Feb 9, 2007)

BSF said:
			
		

> Ah, I have children to bed and can now post a bit more.
> 
> I took a chance with this story in making Hugh a character that does not find redemption.  Call it a bit of cynicism and bitterness in general that bled over into the story, but also call it an attempt to try something different to see if I could gain a leg up on my worthy opponent.  It is all the above wrapped up into one.
> 
> So in one regard I am very pleased with the observations that Hugh had the opportunity to redeem himself, and still didn't.  It was hard not to go that route, not to turn him into some being with a moral fiber.  Did it work?  Well, maybe not well enough to win the round, but those are the breaks when you are competing.  Would I try that strategy again with a different story?  I don't know, maybe I would.  But I would give it more consideration if I wanted to pursue that element once again.





I think that writing a successful unsympathetic protagonist is really difficult.  When doing so, for me personally at least, I think it becomes all the more important to have some lesson for the audience, or at least some way to give the audience gratification.  I can't really put my finger on it, but I think where the story missed for me was that none of the characters were sympathetic.  It might have been interesting to make Gemma a sympathetic character for the audience--at least initially.  That certainly could have helped turn the story a bit.  Since there was no character in the story to root for, I didn't really feel like anything was won or lost as a result of what happened.  With nothing invested in the characters, I didn't get that "aha!" moment I yearn for at the end of a good story.  That, for me is a big part of the magic.


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## yangnome (Feb 9, 2007)

Berandor said:
			
		

> Thanks be the judges!
> 
> Seriously, very good feedback once again, I'll try and take it to heart for round 2. Speaking of which, is there already a proposed schedule, or do you plan to wait until the whole first round is judged?




I intend to wait until the first round is judged, then post the schedule.  We need to determien which loser will be able to advance (and which writer tehy'll face).  I'd also like a chance that anyone one writer can go up against any other writer, rather than segregating days of the week.  Once I post the matchups, I'll work with each pair to determine the best set of days for the writers.  Oh, and if you thought pictures from round 1 were evil....


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## Gulla (Feb 9, 2007)

orchid blossom said:
			
		

> I can tell you this, the judging process sure teaches you a lot about writing.  I imagine this experience will improve mine a couple notches.



 Then I guess the others should be *really* worried when you enter as a competitor in the next CDM. As an experienced spectator I'll just look forward to it   

But I was sort of promising to comment on the stories, so in the sblock comments for the next 4.

[sblock]
By the way, reading things more than once is normally not my way of doning things. So whatever I miss on the first read probably will come like a big surprise when someone else points it out to me. So comments are from first impressions.

*tadk* - In the begining this was compelling and pulling me in, but also confusing. What is happening? who is telling this? and why? I seem to remember from earlier entires that this feeling somewhere between a story and a poetic sketch is your style.
This time I feel it is a bit too sketchy. I get that some great change has happened, but I never really find out what. My gut feeling is that something like a "Shadowrun transformation" has happened, but I never get anything really confirming this. 
The use of initials for the only named characters is nice, but Post Scriptum (PS) and (registered) Trade Mark (TM) are disturbing to me since i never really find out why they are named like that. So all in all I like the mood and I really feel that there is something "wrong" with the world and that we should know what, but I end up a bit disappointed in the end not knowing much more than at the start.
*questing gm* First of all: late is better than nothing and showing up is much better than disappearing. Good work delivering a story. I like the setting, but (probably due to running out of time?) it still feels like a story sketch. The plot seems to be to save the world from the god(dess?) of hairdressers by Rock n' Roll, and with some work and fleshing out the first two thirds of the story looks good. The last part doesnt seem to fit in quite well, and really needs something to get it tied in with the rest. And the punchline (?) is totally lost on me. Wether that is because of my lack of American/English cultural background or because it is no good, I cannot say. Hopefully you live and learn and come back to play another time.


*Rodrigo Istilindir*What is it with this CDM and hardboiled and/or questionable detectives? This story has a nice tension to it, and I like the pacing. We get nice small hints of a rejected man who (I think) still loves the girl enough to help her. The pace is exactly the same as my reading speed, which for this type of story is probably a little bit slow (that is, I'm not "chasing" the next paragraph/page in excitement).
I was wondering why he didn't try to change the weel, but the tire spikes explained that (but maybe you should have explained someway that running over tire spikes normally ruins more than one tire. A short curse or something about all weels being destroyed.)
The owolf is a nice touch and the conyote is a great monster. I think I'll steal that one. The end is a bit too sweet, I think. The father dies with some level of forgiveness for his daughter and the wedding is ok. It just didn't feel on par with the rest. Maybe if the pace through the rest of the story had been a bit faster the relaxing in the end would feel nice, but now it felt a bit like relaxing after having a short walk (which is nice) more than coming to rest after a hard run (which is wonderful). (If that makes any sense...)
*Drawmack*Another hardboiled PI, but for me this is the stylistically best of them so far. It made me laugh and I really like some of the pictures and sentences. You basically had me hooked with "a set of gams that would leave a priest needing a confessional".  The rest of the story is a nice trip in the dark detectives life, but maybe a bit too little resistance. On the other hand it shows that "detective work is boring" in a vary entertaining way   
The end is a bit sudden and short, so I don't feel as satisfied finishing this as I do reading it, but the trip was nice, so I'll just live with the destination being "not so good".

But 4 nice stories and I see that there will be a rough competition in the loosers bracket as well. Good luck to all of you.[/sblock]

Håkon


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## Herremann the Wise (Feb 9, 2007)

Congratulations to Piratecat for a great story and the win - you have been saved despite the imps and their strange opinions. Still, the more you write, the plumper you'll be for the reaping. Best of luck in the next round.   

Commiserations to BSF. I thought your use of images was excellent and if you could have only swayed one more judge.   Still, that loser's draw is starting to look pretty tasty.

Best Regards
Herremann the Wise


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## Drawmack (Feb 9, 2007)

and my response to your response


			
				Gulla said:
			
		

> [sblock]
> 
> 
> > *Drawmack*Another hardboiled PI, but for me this is the stylistically best of them so far. It made me laugh and I really like some of the pictures and sentences. You basically had me hooked with "a set of gams that would leave a priest needing a confessional".  The rest of the story is a nice trip in the dark detectives life, but maybe a bit too little resistance. On the other hand it shows that "detective work is boring" in a vary entertaining way
> ...


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## Rodrigo Istalindir (Feb 9, 2007)

orchid blossom said:
			
		

> I can tell you this, the judging process sure teaches you a lot about writing.  I imagine this experience will improve mine a couple notches.




I think my first stint at judging Ceramic DM was what let me win the next time I competed.  It taught me to focus on the 'scoring' aspects, and to get a better feel for how big a bite I could take given the time constraints.

Oddly, though, I think I like the stuff I wrote before judging better than the stuff I've done since.


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## Piratecat (Feb 9, 2007)

Rodrigo Istalindir said:
			
		

> Oddly, though, I think I like the stuff I wrote before judging better than the stuff I've done since.



Playing to the judges/contest is not necessarily as satisfying as following your own muse.


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## Rodrigo Istalindir (Feb 9, 2007)

Piratecat said:
			
		

> Playing to the judges/contest is not necessarily as satisfying as following your own muse.




I don't think that's it, or at least not the primary reason.  I don't think I play to the judges, at least consciously.  And creatively, I haven't felt constrained -- I actually feel a little freer as time goes on to experiment with different things.

What I think it is, is that where before I'd see something that didn't work, I'd try to paper over it and trust that the intent got through, or at the least that it didn't cripple the story.  And because at least in my head I'd know how it was supposed to work, it felt finished and complete. 

After judging, though, I find I'm more uptight about that, and I'll cut things out, because I know they don't work, and I won't have time to do them the way I want.  The stories, I think, are better for it, but because *I* made the decision to cut something, I lose that sense of completeness.

Or maybe I'm just watching too much Oprah.


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## tadk (Feb 9, 2007)

*All the comments on mine*

Hi there all,

Thanks for the kind words and comments on my stuff so far
yes the time frame tends to thunk me up badly
I fight to get it done within 48 hours cause I dread posting it too late
So I push it hard.
Now if I were to stay in straight up free verse poetry
odds are my writing would be tighter, more coherent, more flowing
Then I try to add in the prose elements and it tends to toss me a loop.
I honestly need more time to write, and so I never seem to hit all the points I want to.
That aside, I again chose to place my story in an existing, for me, writing setting, of interconnected stories, game settings, what have you, poetry, what not. So it all ties in in my head. Making it easier to write, a whole lot harded for someone else to read a partial story like this one.
Overall I liked what i got done in the time I took to do it in. It didnt say all I wanted, but it came out just fine.

TK


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## Drawmack (Feb 9, 2007)

So how does the ceramic dm thread end up on page two?


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## Rodrigo Istalindir (Feb 9, 2007)

The judges are slackers?

(I'm kidding.  Judging is harder than writing.)


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## Sialia (Feb 9, 2007)

Piratecat said:
			
		

> Playing to the judges/contest is not necessarily as satisfying as following your own muse.




My muse gets perverse glee out of writing to the judges-- I love the focus I get from writing to a specific audience, as if the story were almost a private conversation between me and someone special and intimate. Different parts of my brain work when I write here.

BSF, if I were judging, you'd have won me on this round if you had done one thing different: don't tell me "and then she bit him"--stick her sharp wet teeth into his shoulder and bite him.  All the way through the story, I keep feeling like I was reading the synopsis of a really good story, instead of experiencing the story itself. I really think this is a good first draft worth re-visiting. Something about the camera angle or the tense needs to become more immediate, so that I _feel_ what is happening instead of just knowing it. (If you do decide to rework this, you know my email address . . . I'd love another look at this.)

Congrats Piratecat! As usual, my elevated expectations of your brilliance follow you to the next round. Be a tough act for yourself to follow, again.


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## yangnome (Feb 9, 2007)

now wouln't it be funny if PC were the top choice for the round and BSF as the favorite loser...they'd have to face one another again next round.


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## mythago (Feb 9, 2007)

yangnome said:
			
		

> now wouln't it be funny if PC were the top choice for the round and BSF as the favorite loser...they'd have to face one another again next round.




see previous smacktalk re: Golden Comeback


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## orchid blossom (Feb 9, 2007)

I had a busy day at work and ended up doing some overtime, so I didn't get any work done on judgements today.  (It's our slow period at work so I can usually do them during downtime.)

I'll try to get more done tonight, and I hope to be all caught up tomorrow morning.


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## yangnome (Feb 9, 2007)

Sounds good.  I'll be spending most of my weekend underwater, so you probably won't see much posting from me until evening or night time, especially Saturday when I'll be doing a night dive as well.


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## Piratecat (Feb 9, 2007)

yangnome said:
			
		

> I'll be spending most of my weekend underwater... especially Saturday when I'll be doing a night dive as well.



I'll be seething with jealousy for Yangnome all weekend.

Actually, I'll be working. But I can multitask.


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## Rodrigo Istalindir (Feb 9, 2007)

Piratecat said:
			
		

> I'll be seething with jealousy for Yangnome all weekend.
> 
> Actually, I'll be working. But I can multitask.




I just run 'seething' as a background process.


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## maxfieldjadenfox (Feb 10, 2007)

*No Experience Necessary*

No Experience Necessary
Maxfieldjadenfox vs Carpedavid​

I’ve heard it said that out there, somewhere, there’s a job for everyone; the perfect employment, the occupation that will do more than pay your bills, the occupation that will feed your soul. My checkered employment history began at the Deng Xiaoping orphanage in Taiwan. That’s not so unusual there, if you’re born a girl. With the one child policy and my lack of a Y chromosome, I counted myself lucky to be alive at all. Sometimes I prayed to Matsu that I might find my parents, but the orphanage wasn’t so bad. I learned to read and write, and thanks to the government’s cultural preservation program, I also learned traditional calligraphy, painting and even a little opera. There was a tree outside my window, and little red birds that sang to me and made my heart glad. 


None of that helped me much out in the real world though, and when I turned 18 and found myself on my own, I went looking for something to put rice on the table. I had stopped praying to Matsu for parents and started praying to find my dream job. My first job was in a factory, manufacturing bobble-head dolls. You know the ones I’m talking about, with the grossly distorted features and huge heads on teeny tiny bodies? I lasted 6 months. I started to have nightmares about waking up with a head so large that I couldn’t hold it up without breaking my neck… I had to quit.


I stumbled onto my next job accidentally. I was walking home to my room in Mrs. Sun’s cheap boarding house where I was about to be evicted for non-payment of rent, wondering if becoming a prostitute was any kind of possibility, when I saw a placard in the window of a convenience store. 
“Chinese bikini ski team. Perform in beautiful Changkun! No experience necessary. See Mr. Hsu for more information.” Most people don’t know that the Jilin province has some pretty amazing skiing. This might just be my dream job!  I had never skied, but when I showed up on his doorstep bright and early the next morning, Mr. Hsu, a small but imposing man, looked me up and down, made a small hissing sound through the gap between his front teeth, and hired me on the spot. Even on the meager rations of the last few months, I was curvier than most Asian girls and I guess I was sort of cute too. My friend Mai said I looked like Sailor Moon. I took her word for it since I hadn’t seen much Japanese anime. Anyway, next thing I knew, I was on my way to Changchun, and the Jingyuetan skiing field with five other girls who actually knew how to ski. Mai was the leader. She was so graceful she made the ridiculous yellow floral bikini and gloves combo look elegant. I did my share of falling down at first, but I did get the hang of it, mostly in self defense. It’s damned cold to fall in the snow when all you’re wearing is a bathing suit, and Mr. Hsu yelled constantly about me “bruising the merchandise.” I did love the way the snow sparkled in the bright winter sunlight though, and Mai taught me how to shift my weight so I didn’t fall, to lean forward enough, but not too much. She became my best friend. We practiced and performed in small venues for a few months before Mr. Hsu pronounced us ready to go to the big leagues, the Yabuli Ski Resort. On the day of our performance, I had such stage fright I could barely dress myself. Mai had to help me put my skis on, and she laughed when I couldn’t get my hair into a ponytail. 
“You’ll be fine,” she told me as she pulled on her trademark red gloves and picked up her green flag. With hands shaking from fright as much as cold, I put on my sunglasses, picked up my yellow flag and headed down the mountain. I was doing my best to remain upright and not look at the huge crowd of tourists standing on the sidelines. A guy whistled and I looked over at him and that’s when things fell apart. My ski hit Mai’s boot and she stumbled. Then I slid into her and Lin slid into me and instead of a hot sleek line of bikini babes, we were a tangle of skis and flags and Mr. Hsu was yelling at me that I was fired and Mai laughed and he fired her too. 


Mai and I were standing on the street in front of the resort when Mr. Hsu came running out. 
“Mai,” he said, “you’re my best girl. I didn’t mean it. You’re not fired.” Mai slugged me in the arm and said, 
“Come on.” 
Mr. Hsu said, 
“Oh, no, not her. She’s pretty but she’s bad news. Just you.” 
Mai tried to protest that she wouldn’t go back without me, but I told her to go on. She gave me a hug and promised we’d keep in touch. I got a letter from her a few weeks later. She had told Mr. Hsu to get stuffed and she was in Sun Valley Idaho, giving ski lessons.


I was back in Taiwan, trying to hail a cab when I found my next job. 
“Matsu wants you!” read the ad on the top of the cab. “Water taxi service needs immediate help, no experience necessary.” 
I had never been on the water, never been in a boat, but when I arrived at the dock the next morning, Chun Lin slapped me on the rear and said, 
“Welcome aboard!” He showed me how to steer the ugly, rusted craft that I would use to ferry people from bank to bank, and I got the hang of it, even as I was fending off his advances. 
“Matsu,” I prayed, “please help me to be a good sailor, like my seafaring ancestors.” For a few months, things went well. I began to enjoy the way the tiller felt in my hand, and the sense of mastery I got from piloting my little boat through the choppy water. I loved to watch the sea turn from green to blue to grey, to watch the waves go from small ripples to huge rip tides. One day, a middle aged business man had the same ideas as Chun Lin. I was trying to miss a pilaster in the water at the same time as I was trying to keep the businessman’s hands off my behind. Next thing I knew, the boat was on its side and the businessman was drowning. I felt a sensation of unseen hands lifting me, as if the sea itself was protecting me. For a moment, I thought about swimming off and leaving him to his fate, but I couldn’t. He was revolting, but I prayed again to Matsu to save us and she did, sending Chun Lin in a rowboat. As he dragged the businessman choking and sputtering out of the water, he bellowed at me, 
“Look what you did to my boat! You’re fired!” I was sorry to lose the job, but the sensation of the arms of the sea stayed with me and I was content.


I was late with the rent again and Mrs. Sun was about to kick me out. The bobble head doll factory was beginning to look good. I thought about the boat, the ski team, and Mai. I wondered if I would ever find my dream job, or if it was just that, a dream. As if by magic, the telephone rang and Mrs. Sun answered it. With a sour look, she handed the receiver to me. 
“Hello?” It was Mai, offering me a ticket to Vermont!
“What happened to Sun Valley?” I asked her. 
“I like to keep moving,” she said. I ran upstairs and packed my things into a duffle bag and the next day, blessing Mr. Hsu for my passport, I was on my way to the United States. When I got off the plane a bleary 18 hours later, Mai greeted me at the gate and took my hand. 
“Min Su! It’s so good to see you!” I hadn’t realized how much I missed her. As we made our way to her apartment, I told her about the boat. She clucked in an understanding way and told me I was sure to find the job of my dreams in America. She seemed so positive, and she was certainly happy. I hoped that she was right. 


In the morning, jet lagged but eager, I sat at Mai’s little table and read the want ads. In the unskilled labor section I found my next job. 
“Work for New England’s biggest pest control service, no experience necessary, we train!” 
I wrote down the address and hoped my English was good enough for me to find my way there. I was surprised at how easy it was for me to find the building. The giant winged cockroach on the roof reminded me of home. I went inside and the big man behind the desk stood up and held out his hand to me. A sense of deja vu rocked me, but I ignored it. 
“I’m here about the job”, I said, proffering the newspaper. 
“You got any pest control experience?” 
“No, but I come from Taiwan. Our insect life is legendary.” 
“You’ll do girly.” He grinned. 


Walking around with a canister full of poison definitely wasn’t on my list of dream jobs, but a girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do, right? Every day, I went to people’s houses, crawled into their crawl spaces, stumped down into their basements, climbed into their dusty attics. Every day I saw my prey, spiders and roaches, ants and termites, succumb to the liquid death I sprayed. I felt sorry for them, akin to them. I heard their small voices cry out to me as they died. It was then I started to have the dreams. I was walking through the woods. It was autumn in Vermont and the trees were ablaze with yellow and orange and red. I heard a voice, mellifluous, kind, feminine, ancient, calling me to come deeper into the forest. And then I woke up. Every night I walked deeper into the woods, and every morning it was harder to find my way back. Mai thought it might be the poison, causing hallucinations, but it felt like something more. She was worried about me, especially since she had been offered her own dream job in Aspen. She wanted me to come with her, but somehow, I knew my dreams and my dream job were connected to New England. When Mai left, I stayed in her apartment. The job with New England Pest Control paid the bills, but more and more I sleepwalked through my days, eager only for the night and the woods. 


“Min Su,” the voice said, “Come to the forest today.” I opened my eyes. The sun was streaming through the window but in my heart it was still the clear moonlit night. It was Saturday, so I didn’t have to work. I put on a pair of boots and some warm clothes and headed for the forest west of town. I had avoided it up until now, but somehow I knew today was the right day for me to walk down the path, the path scattered with fallen leaves, and meet… what, I wasn’t sure. 


The forest was the forest of my dream. The path, though unknown to me in my waking life, felt as familiar to my feet as my old slippers. I began to walk faster, then to run, and soon I was at the very center of the woods, amongst oaks and ash and blackthorn trees. The ground was thick with fallen leaves and the voice said, “Welcome, daughter.” 
I looked up and a woman with seaweed hair and eyes the color of the ocean and a big man, clothed in leaves, with a leafy mask, stepped out from the trunk of one of the oaks. 
“Matsu?” 
The woman smiled. “Daughter.” 
I looked at the man. He seemed familiar. He spoke, but only leaves came from his mouth. Matsu smiled again. “Meet your father, the Green Man.” 


I had heard of the Green Man, but he certainly wasn’t a Chinese God. I told Matsu as much. Her smile became a laugh. “Gods have no geographic boundaries, daughter. When we met and loved, he was a wandering in my land. After you were born, I followed him here.”
“You left me in an orphanage?” I was confused and angry. What could any of this mean? 
“Things that come too easily are not valued. You had to find us in order for us to be found.” I shook my head. Why did Gods always talk in riddles? 
“I don’t understand.” 
“Why are you here?” 
“Because you called me.”
“No, daughter, you called us. When your heart sang with the small red birds at the orphanage. When you felt joy at the sparkle of sunlight on the snow. When you were adrift in my ocean and felt my arms about you, when you felt compassion for the meanest crawling things. You called us and said you were ready for your work, and we have come to set you on the path.” She held out an enormous leaf mask. “Put it on and see with new eyes.” 

I took the leaf from her and placed it on my face. The world rocked. I could feel the sap slowing in the trees for their winter’s sleep. I could see the ants deep under ground, preparing to hibernate. I could hear the birds discussing the coming migration. And far away, off the coast of Maine, I could sense the sea, its salt water mingled with my blood. Leaves swirled around me, blown by an unseen wind. I looked at my parents, who beamed proudly at me. “How will I know what to do?” I asked. My mother, Matsu, Goddess of the sea, smiled at me and said, “No experience necessary. Only love for this earth.”


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## carpedavid (Feb 10, 2007)

*A Late Aubade*

This turned out a bit longer than I expected. Not Sialia long, mind you, but still long enough to be a pain to read on screen. So I'm attaching a pdf of the text in addition to the post.

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

Ceramic DM: Round 1, Match 7
maxfieldjadenfox vs. carpedavid

*A Late Aubade*

Ryan’s day began like most days: early. He woke at four AM, which gave him a half an hour to talk to his subordinates in Texas before his daily conference call with the company’s officers. As a Junior VP of Sales for one of the largest oil companies in the world, his mornings were filled with conference calls. He slipped his earpiece on, rolled out of bed, and padded to the bathroom.

“Call the office,” he mumbled as he stood in front of the toilet, willing his bladder to relax. His headpiece happily beeped away as it connected him to a speaker phone in a conference room in a building an ocean and half-a-continent away.

The voice of his European sales manager greeted him, as it usually did each morning with a bizarre mix of French accent and Texas drawl. “Hello Pierre,” he said with a sigh, “What’s the situation in Europe?”

Pierre, the Frenchman who learned English while living in Dallas, began rattling off a list of sales prospects and opportunities in each of the EU nations in alphabetical order. Ryan sighed as he tried to picture babbling mountain streams and waterfalls. _Waves_, he thought, _maybe waves will work_.

He half-listened to the list of million dollar opportunities until one in particular caught his attention: “What do you mean Sweden won’t sign on? They can’t not sign on.” His bladder tensed up again.

“No, I know they’re concerned about global warming. It’s your job to sell them on it anyway.” He looked at the toilet, scowled at it, and then turned away. 

“What do you mean, ‘What do you tell them?’ You tell them that global warming is a myth. It’s a g—damn myth.” Catching sight of his reflection in the mirror, he frowned at the dark circles under his eyes.

“I don’t care what their experts say. We have experts, too. Everybody has experts, and we pay ours more than they pay theirs. That account is worth four billion dollars. Do I have to spell that out for you? Four. F—ing. Billion.” He heard a buzzing noise, looked toward the bedroom, and saw a fly. _Sonofab—ch_.

“What do you mean it could be worse? How could it be worse? You’re one step up from a retard, aren’t you, Pierre? It can’t be any f—ing worse.” Ryan grabbed a flyswatter and ran after the interloping insect, swinging wildly. “If we lose Sweden that means that we don’t make our numbers this quarter. If we don’t make our numbers this quarter, then I don’t get my bonus. If I don’t get my bonus then I’m going to have to sell my condo, and if I have to sell my condo that means I have to move back to Texas. I hate Texas. I moved here to get away from the giant f—ing bugs in Texas.” He knocked over a lamp with a backswing and then nearly tripped over a chair. “So no, you mongoloid, it can’t possibly get any worse. You get on that g—damn phone and you call them back and you tell them that global warming is a g—damn myth.” He stopped and looked for the fly. _Where are you? There!_

“I don’t care – fly our experts up there to testify. Send bonbons or fish or turtles or whatever the hell it is they eat up there. If you have to, you go up there yourself and you get down on your knees...” Ryan slammed the flyswatter against the side of his dresser and was rewarded with a satisfying crunch.

“No, not to beg. To suck. Now, whatever you have to do to get them to sign on, you do it!” He ripped off his earpiece and threw it across the room, where it shattered against the wall.

_S—t. _ He looked over at the clock – 4:29 – one minute to the conference call. _I’m going back to bed._

***

As a child growing up in Texas, Ryan had befriended a tree. He brought the sapling home from a school fundraiser in the early spring of his fifth-grade year, and his mother helped him plant it in the backyard. For the first month, he came home every day, filled his watering can from the lake at the edge of the property, and dutifully watered the ash.

Once the tree took hold, his mother told him he didn’t need to water it any more, so he spent his time playing with his toys near it instead. Some days, he would stage elaborate battles, setting up his army men in strategic locations around the yard, marching them and their tanks to and fro, but every few minutes he would look over to make sure the tree was still there.

The first fall, he watched, amazed, as the leaves turned a brilliant orange, gold, and red. He tried to collect every one, and he plastered the walls of his room with them, where they stayed for months until they crumbled into dust.

In junior high, when he thought he wanted to be an artist, he spent days drawing pictures of the tree. His mother would drag him by the ear inside and make him eat dinner, but as soon as he was finished, he would run back outside.

When his father died during his sophomore year of high school, Ryan spent most of his time sitting under the ash, staring out at the lake. He felt comforted by the leaves that hung overhead and by the sturdy trunk at his back. On warmer evenings, he would curl up and sleep underneath it; out there, by the tree, he couldn’t hear his mother and brother cry.

When, after college, he left Texas and moved to Hawaii, he realized that he didn’t spend much time missing his mother or his brother. He missed that tree.

***

After stopping by the electronics store to pick up another earpiece, he headed to the slopes. Over the past fifty years, Hawaii had become the skiing capital of the United States, and Mt. Haleakala was the center of it all.

The deep powder that covered the multitude of Haleakala’s trails and slopes was far superior to anything that Las Vegas’ myriad resorts could boast, and Aspen had been covered by a sheet of ice nearly twenty years earlier, so everyone who could afford to ski came to Hawaii.

Ryan waved his pass at the ticket collector and entered the line for the lift to the Black Diamond trail. He watched as the multitude of regulars and tourists passed by, on their way to the Green Circle and Blue Square trails.

He looked at his watch: _ten o’clock_. On cue, the sound of gourd drums suddenly began, and a group of bare-chested male dancers paraded out into the snow. They wore floral-patterned loincloths, shell necklaces, and lei. A crowd began to gather as the men began a hula which told the story of a great feast which welcomed the first visitors to the island.

Ryan watched the audience swell, and smiled in amusement as they clapped and cheered. He had to hand it to the dancers – they really knew how to sell their act. The hula continued for another two minutes, during which time the line for the lift progressed at a moderate pace.

Finally, the line of men parted in the middle, dropped to their knees, and gestured up-slope. The audience gasped in admiration as a line of beautiful women began descending the mountainside on skis. Each of the women wore a colorful, Polynesian-inspired, two-piece outfit, and trailed a long streamer behind her that billowed in the wind. [Image 3]

Ryan wasn’t interested in most of the women – just the one at the very end of the line: Amanda. She wasn’t Polynesian, but she looked the part with her long, black hair, tanned skin, and cocoa-brown eyes. Because she was an excellent skier, she had taken a job entertaining the tourists after she arrived on the island a year ago. When she reached the bottom of the slope, she looked over at Ryan, who was just about to sit on the lift, and smiled.

He waved as the lift moved forward. Amanda was a goddamn hippie, in his estimation – always talking about nature, and how man was destroying the environment, and global warming, and all that crap – but she was great in bed, drank like a fish, and, at nearly thirty years his junior, wasn’t interested in marriage. It was more than enough to keep him interested.

After relieving his stress on the trail, Ryan returned to the scene of the hula, where the men and women were handing out lei to the tourists. He sidled over to Amanda, who excused herself from her current mark and lassoed him with a lei.

“Hi Tiger,” she said with a wink.

“Hey gorgeous, are you going to grace me with your presence tonight?”

“That depends. Are you going to give up your job of destroying the natural world in order to line the pockets of rich white men?”

“No, but I am making my famous chili.”

“Well, in that case, how about eight?”

“Bring something sexy.”

She leaned in to whisper in his ear and lightly brushed his cheek with hers, “There’s nothing sexier than bare skin.”

She might have been a hippie, but he couldn’t get enough of her.

***

Ryan hadn’t returned to Texas in thirty years. He had moved to Maui after graduating from college, shortly after the snows began to fall and the bugs began to grow, and he had vowed never to return. When his mother died the year after he left, his brother took care of the funeral arrangements and sold the family home.

When he arrived in Hawaii, he possessed a philosophy degree and no marketable skills, so he took a job hawking cheap tiki statues to tourists. Once he realized that he was good at sales, he decided to make it his career, and he quickly became the sales manager at an electronics company before being recruited by Big Oil. Each bump in salary involved a move to a new dwelling, and eventually his efficiency turned into a two bedroom apartment, and then a flat, and then a condo.

For years, he thought little about anything other than work and skiing, but that had changed once he met Amanda. Now, he was cooking chili.

The market was crowded, as was usual, so he had to push past people to get what he needed: beef, chilies, beans. He had to resist the urge to start beating a woman with a can of beans when she ran over his foot with a shopping cart. After picking out several ripe tomatoes, he grabbed a six pack of beer and hurried to the checkout.

A runaway child smacked him in the groin with his elbow as he stepped out the front doors of the market, nearly causing him to drop his groceries. He staggered over to his car, leaned against it, and groaned. _For crying out loud_, he thought, _kids are worse than giant bugs._

He set his bag down on the trunk of his car and tried walking off the pain. After a few paces, and a few deep breaths, he began to feel somewhat better, so he turned around to grab the groceries. There, sitting on top of the bag, was a red leaf. _Huh?_ Normally, he would have ignored it, but something about it caught his attention. That looks familiar. The answer clawed its way out of the recesses of his memory. _Oh right, a red ash. I haven’t seen one of those in years. I wonder where it came from?_

He looked around, but didn’t see anything other than palm trees. _Ah, well,_ he thought, _probably came off some tacky tourist crap_.

***

Dinner was consumed quickly, and Amanda and Ryan’s clothes were shed even more quickly. He wanted to feel her bare skin under his hands; even with as little as they had in common, there was something familiar and comforting about being in physical contact with her. Early on in their relationship, he had tried to figure out what that something was, but he quickly realized that he didn’t care.

The sex was, as always, amazing. Afterwards, lying on his bed, in the soft glow of the dozens of candles she had managed to insinuate into his life, he thought about that something again. She sighed and nuzzled his chest, and he smiled. _I wonder…_

He opened his mouth to ask a question, but she spoke first, “Ok, so want to do something fun?”

“Like what, handcuffs?”

“No,” she rolled her eyes, “like something that doesn’t involve sex.”

“That doesn’t sound like fun.”

“You’re such a boy. Seriously. It’s something you’ve probably never done.”

“What, like shave my armpits?”

“Jesus.” Amanda rolled over and grabbed her purse off the nightstand. “No, it’s something I’ve been into for a while. It’s really illuminating.”

“Ok. This sounds like some new age crap.”

“No, not new age. Old age. It’s shamanic.”

“Right.”

“No, seriously.”

“Right.”

“Do you want to try it or not?”

“Ok, fine.”

“Hold out your hands,” she said as she reached into her purse and pulled out a large velvet pouch. After unwinding the golden cord that tied it shut, she tipped out a pile of large seeds.

“What the hell is this?”

“Baby woodrose. It’s called the ‘Brown Pill.’”

“What’s it do?”

“It takes you on a trip, man,” she laughed. “It’ll get you in touch with your natural side.”

“I don’t know.”

“Come on. You’re not going to p—sy out on me, are you?”

He frowned. He had never experimented with hallucinogens, even in college, but he certainly wasn’t going to let a hippie chick, much less a naked one, call him a p—sy. “You’re such a f—ing  hippie. Ok, fine. How many do I take?”

She smiled, “All of them.”

“All of them?” There were at least twenty seeds, each the size of a hazelnut.

“All of them.”

He popped several of the seeds into his mouth and started to chew. “Mmmm, crunchy,” he mumbled.

Amanda giggled, and then leaned over and began kissing his neck. “You need this,” she murmured between kisses.

“I thought you said this wouldn’t involve sex,” Ryan muttered as he popped another few seeds into his mouth.

“Shut up and keep eating,” she replied as her hands traveled down his body.

***

Hours became minutes and minutes became hours as time twisted in upon itself. He couldn’t tell where one minute ended and the next began. For that matter, he couldn’t tell where his body ended and hers began. Colors flashed at the edge of his vision as the candle flames began a serpentine dance.

“Why?” he asked – his words buoyed by the effervescent vapors swirling through his chest.

“Why?” she replied as she smiled coyly.

“Why do you feel so comfortable, so familiar?”

“You probably don’t remember,” she whispered as she twisted her hips. He shuddered underneath her. “It was a long time ago, but we knew each other once.”

He closed his eyes and the flashing colors grew more intense: red and orange and gold. “Why are you here?” The vapors wound their way through his limbs, causing every part of his body to tingle.

“I missed you,” she leaned in closely, now whispering in his ear. He could feel the words crawl out from between her lips, parade through the air, and then dive into his ear.

“How could you miss me?” he laughed as the colors inside his eyelids multiplied. “We couldn’t have known each other that well if I don’t remember meeting.”

“Things were different then,” she said sadly as she sat back up.

Ryan opened his eyes and realized that the woman riding him had transformed: no longer the Polynesian look-alike, her face had taken the form of a red ash leaf. The gold and red and orange were leaves that swirled around her nude form, dancing and playing in the space between them. [Image 2]

“I’m not well, Ryan,” she said. “I need your help. I’m dying.”

For some reason, he wasn’t shocked by her statement. In fact, he was fairly certain that he already knew. “Yes.”

“I love you,” her voice became light and airy. “I always have.”

The air between them shimmered and he felt her entire body vibrate. He gasped as the flashes of light intensified, and then, within a minute, his entire field of vision exploded into a kaleidoscope of red and orange and gold leaves. The effervescence overcame him, and he giggled as his entire body dissolved into thin air.

***

He rolled over, expecting to drape his arm over Amanda’s warm body, but instead his arm hit the bare sheet. _Huh?_

He looked over at the glowing green numbers on the alarm clock – 4:29. _S—t! Did she turn off the alarm?_ He jumped out of bed, grabbed his earpiece, and headed toward the bathroom. As he padded across the soft carpet, he stepped on something rough that crunched underfoot. _Oh s—t, a bug!_

He jumped toward the wall, flipped on the light, and immediately felt nauseous. _Ugh. Bright._ He covered his eyes and looked down at what he had stepped on. _A leaf? Am I still hallucinating? _ He looked around, and everything else looked normal, if excessively bright.

“Amanda, where the hell are you?” he said in a voice which felt a whole lot louder than he knew it was. _Ow. _ “What the hell did you do to me?” He listened for a response, but heard none. “Amanda?”

He looked over at the night stand by the bed. Her purse was gone. So _she drugs me up and then leaves. What the hell?_ He sat down on the bed as he fought off another wave of nausea. _Oh god._

Something tugged at his brain. _Oh, the leaf._ He staggered back over to the floor and picked up the leaf. _Where the hell did this come from?_

His earpiece rang. _Crap. _ “Answer.”

“Good morning, gentlemen and women. This is Ryan.” A cacophony of voices greeted him, which he ignored until he heard the voice of his direct superior, the Senior VP of Sales.

“Good morning, Ben, I’ve got good news on the European front…” he stopped as the voice interrupted him.

“What bad news?” His heart sank. _That b—tard, Pierre! That little frog sold me out._ The voice continued.

“I’m sorry?” He dropped the leaf, which twiddled gently to the ground.

“No, I can’t. I mean, I can, certainly, but that’s short notice…” His heart began to race.

“Right. Dallas. Tomorrow morning. I’ll see you then.” The earpiece clicked off and he stood for a minute in stunned silence. Then, he ran to the bathroom and vomited.

***

As Ryan stepped off the plane after his eight hour flight, he had to fight off hyperventilating. He hadn’t been able to get in touch with Amanda before he left, and he realized how much he relied on her presence to keep him sane. _You’re not going to get fired, you’re not going to get fired, you’re not going to get fired,_ he kept repeating in his head over and over.

Hoisting his bag over his shoulder, he walked briskly down the concourse. After fighting the crowds, he arrived outside and hailed a cab. He gave the cabbie the address and then closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the headrest. _G—damnit, this can’t get any worse. This just can’t get any f—king worse._

He opened his eyes and looked out the window to his right. Perched on top of a small blue and yellow brick building was a fly the size of a large truck; it fluttered its wings in the breeze and then rubbed its forelegs together. [Image 4] “Oh, Jesus!” Ryan screamed as he dove off the seat and pressed himself to the floor.

The cabbie laughed, “First time in Texas, sir? You’ll get used to them.”

“No, actually, I left thirty years ago to get away from them.”

“Oh, well, don’t worry, sir, that’s a house fly. It’s the horse flies that you have to watch out for.”

“Horse flies are demons. My father was killed by one.”

“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that.”

Ryan was quiet for a moment. Then he carefully climbed off the floor and stared out the window at the giant insect. “No, it’s alright. I just haven’t thought about it in a while. He was a cop, you know.”

“Yes?”

“Yeah – it was just after they started growing big, after all the frogs died off.”

“Global warming has killed a lot of things off.”

“Global warming is just a…never mind,” he paused and took a deep breath. He stared out the window again as the building with the giant fly disappeared from sight behind another building. “So we lived on this big, fishing lake northeast of here, and frogs had just died off, and the insects had just started to grow to huge sizes, and my father was on patrol, and this giant horse fly just came out of nowhere. Bit his head right off.”

“I’m sorry to hear that, sir.”

“I was, too.”

He tried to call Amanda from the cab, but there was no answer. His stomach lurched. Did she say that she was dying? Did she really say that she loved him, or was that part of the hallucination, too? On the plane, he had convinced himself that it was the latter, but now he wasn’t sure.

***
After the cab dropped him off, Ryan spent a good ten minutes staring up at the office tower. _S—t, _ he thought, finally. _Might as well get this over with._

His boss’ secretary hustled him into the office as soon as she saw him, and the Senior VP of Sales shook his hand warmly. “Thanks for coming in, sit down.”

“Thank you, sir,” he said as he sank into the plush leather chair. His boss sat down at his cherry wood desk, flanked by a panoramic view of the Dallas skyline. Ryan glanced out at it for a moment, and it made him uncomfortable.

“Get you a drink?”

“Am I going to need one?” Ryan replied with a laugh.

His boss smiled uncomfortably, and then took a deep breath. “Ryan, we’ve been doing some thinking, and we’re going to take a different tack with this global warming thing.”

“Oh?”

“The European governments aren’t responding to the myth angle any longer.”

“Ok.”

“We’ve decided to acknowledge global warming.”

“What?” That idea ran counter to everything the industry had espoused for the last thirty years. “But we’ve spent billions on that strategy.”

“Yes, yes. But you know just as well as I do that sometimes you have to change strategies in order to catch your opponent off guard.”

“I know – but what about all of those experts, and all of the studies?”

“I’m sure they can get jobs experting something else. We’re planning on closing down the Institute for Climate Research at the end of the fiscal year.”

“Wow. Ok. Well, what’s our new strategy?”

“Well, our new strategy will be to offer compensation packages to these governments in exchange for long term contracts. Build them new refineries, clean up their shorelines – that sort of thing.”

“So, in effect, we’ll be bribing them.”

“Well, essentially, yes.”

“Well, ok. We can make adjustments. I’ll have to cancel the current marketing campaign, but I don’t think it’ll take too long to implement a new one. I’ve already got focus groups lined up…” A wave of his boss’ hand stopped him.

“Well, you see, Ryan, you’re part of the old guard – part of the old strategy, if you will.” He took another deep breath, “And we don’t see you fitting in to this new one.”

Ryan’s eyes narrowed, “Who do you see fitting in?”

“Well, Pierre has already presented a very detailed and innovative plan. We think he has the vision to get Europe back on track.”

His chest tightened as he desperately fought the urge to vomit. “So that’s why you called me here?”

“Yes, I always find that it’s best to do these things in person.”

“I see.”

“You’ve made us a lot of money over the years, Ryan, so we’ve arranged a very generous compensation package for you. Think of it as an early retirement. Hell, I almost wish it were me getting this deal,” he said with a stilted laugh.

“Almost.”

“Almost.”

Ryan nodded and pressed his lips together. After staring out the window at the skyline for a minute, he finally replied, “Ok, thank you.” He stood up, shook his former boss’ hand, he wandered to the elevator in a daze.

“Call Amanda,” he said to his earpiece as the elevator descended to ground level. The line rang, but she didn’t answer. _Come on, you g—damn hippie, pick up the phone. _ He exited the building and waited for her to answer. After twelve rings, he hung up. He stood there in the middle of the sidewalk, in front of the tallest building in Dallas; people rushed past him – the lifeblood of the city flowing through its veins.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a solitary leaf floating through the air above the crowd. It drifted lazily toward him, occasionally tumbling in the wind. Eventually, he was able to reach up and pluck it from the air: a red ash.

He stared at the leaf as people crushed past him. Finally, he drew a deep breath, clutched the leaf to his chest, and then stepped to the curb to hail a cab.

“Can you take me to Lake Lavon?” he asked the man who finally stopped to pick him up.

The cabbie looked at his watch, “Sure man, you can be my last fare of the day.” After Ryan seated himself, the cabbie pulled away from the curb, and then looked in his rearview mirror. “You going fishing?”

Ryan chuckled – the lake had been one of the most popular fishing spots in the area when he was a kid. “No, I used to live there. I want to go back.”

“Ah – you live in town?”

“No – right on the lake.”

“Oh,” the cabbie was silent for a moment. “How long has it been since you been back?”

“Thirty years.”

“Right on. I’m not sure how to tell you this, but they tore down all of the houses and raised the water level of the lake about a year ago. Said it was to hedge against drought caused by global warming.”

Ryan was quiet for a long time before he responded, “Well, just get me as close as you can.”

***

Two hours later, the cabbie dropped Ryan off near the new edge of the lake. He hadn’t been lying. They had raised the water level by about four feet, which meant that most of the neighborhood he had grown up in was now underwater.

He wandered for a while before he found a man who rented rowboats to the fishermen. “It’s getting late,” the man said. “Are you sure you want to head out now?”

“Yes,” he replied quietly, “I’m just out for some sightseeing.”

The man looked at him with a puzzled expression, but rented him a boat anyway. Ryan chose a small white rowboat and began to paddle out to where his house used to stand. A gentle breeze tousled his hair and brushed against his skin. It took him nearly an hour to reach his destination, by which time the sun rode low on the horizon, throwing long shadows over the lake.

An overturned, rusted-out tug lay on its side right where his house used to stand. [Image 1] He remembered watching the tug as a child as it made its near-daily runs to pull broken-down fishing boats back to the docks at the far end of the lake. Now, it was the one in need of rescue.

He dropped the anchor overboard and quickly climbed out onto the tug. As he stood on top, he looked out at what used to be his backyard. Everything was gone except for one thing: a lonely ash, devoid of nearly all foliage.  Water circled its trunk, a few yellowed leaves populated the high branches, and a single red leaf hung near the water.

He choked back a sob as the solitary red leaf fell from the tree. It bobbled on the surface of the water for a moment, and Ryan was about to jump in after it, but then it began a slow journey, floating toward him, carried along by the ripples caused by the breeze. He clambered down the far side of the tug, nearly loosing his footing twice, and grabbed the leaf.

For a long while, he cried. Two giant dragonflies danced over the surface of the lake in the distance as he held his face in his hands, sobbing. “I’m sorry,” he whispered over and over again. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

After he stopped crying, he sat in silence until the sun finished its journey behind the horizon, and then he slipped on his earpiece. “Directory assistance,” he spoke quietly. Thirty seconds later, a voice sounded in his ear.

“Lavon Lake, Texas, please.”

“Yes, you can help me by connecting me to a landscaper. I need to transplant a tree.”


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## maxfieldjadenfox (Feb 10, 2007)

Wowee, zowee Dave! I really love this story. Thanks for sharing it.


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## Berandor (Feb 10, 2007)

Comments on the last match-up:

[sblock]*maxfieldjadenfox*: Yours is an interesting story, though I can't decide whether it's a coming-of-age theme or more like a superhero creation story  I somewhat missed a stronger characterization of the protagonist/narrator; she comes off as pretty care-free, and since nothing really affects her overly much (save for perhaps the giant-head nightmare), I had a hard time being affected, as well. One extremely cool sentence was how the giant bug reminded her of home  I also liked how her jobs fell through; I half expected roaches to overrun New England, and I also expect her now to be somethiong like a spirit of destruction. As for the pictures, it's always hard to transform a more episodic structure into a cohesive whole, and I think some pictures could have been implemented a little stronger. With the skiing chicks, see how carpedavid used the pic in a similar way, but with a bigger background. It feels more natural in the story. All in all, an enjoyable entry, but I'm missing the unique element.

*carpedavid*: Yesterday, I wrote a blog entry on the Intergovernmental Panel on Climate Change, and I watched Thank you for Smoking (which stars a lobbyist working for big tobacco). So this story feels like the third side of a triangle. Ryan was very well drawn, and his change of mind at the end was realistically unspectacular – he didn't go from Saul to Paul in a paragraph or two. 

The one thing that imo didn't fit was the fly picture and the surrounding explanation. We have a fairly realistic story, even though with somewhat futuristic technology. We have a supernatural element*, i.e. the tree spirit, and a classic conflict of morals. And while global warming is not fully understood yet, it is enough of a scientific phenomenon that we sort-of know what its effects may be. Giant insects are not one of them, as far as I know. The matter-of-fact explanation of these monsters as a byproduct of global warming took me somewhat out of the story, especially since it seems like mostly a random effect caused by the picture. You tied it to the character's hatred of bugs, I know, but during the last part of the story I was still wondering where those giant bugs came from, and why we hadn't killed them or were trying to kill them all. I mean, a normal fly can be a total nuisance at a summer picnic - what's a ten-foot-fly gonna be? Other than that, a really cool story that I enjoyed a lot, almost as much as Rodrigo's. Thanks.

*I read somewhere that you can get away with one unexplained phenomenon, but more than that endanger the reader's suspension of disbelief (if they aren't logical extensions of the premier "macguffin"=.[/sblock]


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## carpedavid (Feb 10, 2007)

Comments:
[sblock]
Maxfieldjadenfox - one of the other ideas I had was "Polynesian Danger Force," and I think your story captured that spirit beautifully. It was very fun 

Berandor - the giant insect picture was the one that I definitely felt was the biggest stretch. At one point I did have the conversation between Ryan and the first cabbie include exposition on how the city did a good job of keeping the really dangerous bugs out of the city, but it just didn't work with the flow of the conversation, so I cut it.
[/sblock]


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## Piratecat (Feb 10, 2007)

For anyone curious, here's the actual background on that giant insect photo.


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## maxfieldjadenfox (Feb 10, 2007)

Can someone tell me how to do a hidden spoiler in a post? Or do I have to wait to reply to comments til the judging is over?


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## Berandor (Feb 10, 2007)

maxfieldjadenfox said:
			
		

> Can someone tell me how to do a hidden spoiler in a post? Or do I have to wait to reply to comments til the judging is over?



The easiest thing would be to quote a spoiler comment 

Other than that, use {sblock} and {/sblock} for the collapsible ones, only in []. For the other ones, I forgot how to do them.

Edit: it's {spoiler} and {/spoiler}

Test [sblock=Klick me!]I wonder whether I can give an sblock a title by using sblock=title[/sblock]


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## Piratecat (Feb 10, 2007)

For the collapsed hidden paragraphs, put the words [sblock] before your post, and the word [/sblock] after it.  Include the brackets!

For the black bar, use [spoiler] and [/spoiler].


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## maxfieldjadenfox (Feb 10, 2007)

Piratecat said:
			
		

> For the collapsed hidden paragraphs, put the words [sblock] before your post, and the word [/sblock] after it.  Include the brackets!
> 
> For the black bar, use [spoiler] and [/spoiler].




Thanks, Berandor and Piratecat! See spoiler below...



Spoiler



Thanks, Berandor, for your comments. I came home from Chicago with a miserable cold, and had to turn around and go to Santa Rosa to appraise a warehouse. I only had last night to throw something together and I think it felt like that: thrown together. I was disheartened that my plucky Chinese orphan came across as flat, but I couldn't seem to find the _there _ there.  
Carpedavid, I was thinking of a global warming story too, but I couldn't get it to gel and needed to write_ something_. I really enjoyed your story, nice pathos at the end, good picture use, and despite the need to inject weird, disparate, CDM images, it feels like a "real story." Good work!


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## tadk (Feb 10, 2007)

*Stories*

two great stories there you two
glad i was not up against either of you
or anyone
Heck I still think I will be shooting for a backup spot 
Great work to all


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## yangnome (Feb 11, 2007)

ok, I'm in from a fantastic day of diving.  I received OB's judgement for the Rodrigo/Drawmack match, I still haven't seen anything from Herremann.  I'll be out diving again tomorrow during the day, so depending on when I receive things.


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## orchid blossom (Feb 11, 2007)

I just sent the judgement for tadk vs. questing gm as well.  I'd say I'm all caught up, but more stories went up today!  It never ends!!!  (I need the smiliey that goes around in circles with its hands in the air.)


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## Herremann the Wise (Feb 11, 2007)

Hello Everyone,

Major apologies, I have been off the computer all weekend. I will hand in judgments for matches five and six tomorrow and seven as well if work's not too busy, otherwise number seven will have to be the following day.

Best Regards
Herremann the Wise


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## Gulla (Feb 11, 2007)

Hmm, a nice day in the snow seem to put me a bit late with comments this time. I'll try to do them without looking at other peoples comments this time as well. Only having two stories to comment on makes it a little bit easier, having three kids running around (that is "going to bed") makes it quite a bit more difficult   

[sblock]
*Maxfieldjadenfox* A nice story, with an interresting inner journey to find who you are, but I feel it lacks a bit of tension. And even though I normally don't pay much attention to "show don't tell" (or even always see the point or the difference) I think this story would have felt better if we could experience it with the girl. Now it feels almost like my character diary/journal: a summary of what has happened. 
The idea to have the pictures show different work the girl has done is nice, and well enough done that the lack of picture references didn't matter. But over all I feel you could have done this better. I seem to remember stories from you where I have felt more. This one lacks any resonance for me. 
*Carpedavid* Wow. This is very good. You hook me in with the first sentence, and then tells a story that doesn't feel long at all. And I read all these stories on screen, never on paper. I really feel with the old salesman who have given up/lost his childhood and his way back to it. The pictures fit seamlessly and I really feel sad (and relieved) at the end. I guess this is where I should be able to point out *why* I like the story, but I have never been able to dissect that feeling without ruining it, so you'll just have to be content with my gut feeling saying that this is the best of the 14 stories this round. Thank you.[/sblock]

So, that was 14 stories commented on. That is a new personal best. I hope I kan keep it up through the whole competition. If you continue writing stories this good, I guess my motivation will be sufficient. Good luck to all in the next round, and welcome back next time to those who were eliminated.

Håkon


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## Piratecat (Feb 11, 2007)

Gulla said:
			
		

> So, that was 14 stories commented on. That is a new personal best.



It's great that you're doing this -- thanks!


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## maxfieldjadenfox (Feb 11, 2007)

Spoiler: 


Spoiler



Gulla, thanks for the critique. I definitely saw problems with the story and would have done some major changing if A.) I had had more time (which is always a CDM whine) and B.) If I hadn't been knocked flat by a virus... (Aris, is it possible I caught it from you over the internet?  )
That being said, I think Carpedave's story for this round was pretty un beatable, so even if I had whipped mine into better shape, I think it would have been for naught.


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## Berandor (Feb 12, 2007)

400 posts, and still round 1. Wow.


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## Aris Dragonborn (Feb 12, 2007)

Berandor said:
			
		

> And I'll echo what Piratecat and yangnome said. Well done, Aris, for posting what you had so far. Can you tell us (me) what you were planning to do with the pictures?




Sorry it's taken me so long to reply.  

The story was going to center around the leprechaun, and the three wishes he grants to the main character. I was going to have some sort of moral in the story, along the lines of "Be careful of what you wish for...". The picture of the two people holding up knives were going to kill someone for the main character, which was a twist on one of his wishes. I had not, unfortunately, come up with anything for the other two pictures when I came down with this virus.

That's about it.


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## yangnome (Feb 12, 2007)

OK, I'm back from swimming with seals and dolphins.  Here's the plan for the next round:

I can't pair people up yet, because we still have to decide who the favored loser is.  This time instead of pairing by availability, I'm going to do it the old fashioned way and make the pairings first (randomly assigned except for the round with the top story vs. top loser) and then let you guys tell me when you'll both be available.  

My target date to have matchups paired is Wednesday.  I'll be able to start the next rounds as soon as the contestants can agree on a time window for pictures.


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## Gulla (Feb 12, 2007)

Berandor said:
			
		

> 400 posts, and still round 1. Wow.



Seems that both the participants and the spectators are talkative this time around. And what's up with the new avatar?

Håkon


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## carpedavid (Feb 12, 2007)

Gulla said:
			
		

> So, that was 14 stories commented on. That is a new personal best. I hope I kan keep it up through the whole competition.




Thanks for the comments Gulla! I'll echo Piratecat and say that it's great that you're commenting on every story. I know that, as a writer, it's always immensely satisfying to get constructive feedback - good or bad.


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## Rodrigo Istalindir (Feb 12, 2007)

Thanks, Gulla.  I missed your commentary first time around -- must have been the 4am post-time 

[sblock]
I think you see a lot of 'hard boiled' stories (although I think mine only dips a toe in those waters) because it's an easy genre to work with.  It gives the story a lot of flavor and setting for free.  It also sets up a strong protagonist that I think is often necessary in Ceramic DM in order to provide the pacing and action to satisfy the pictures.  And, too, I think some of us just like the genre.

Charlie helped Gretchen not because he loved her (though he did), but because he wanted her to love him again.  He came to realize that you can't control or understand what other people feel; the best you can hope for is to understand and control what you feel.  Yeah, that probably bites off a lot of stuff to chew in a Ceramic DM shortstory.

[/sblock]


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## Berandor (Feb 12, 2007)

Gulla said:
			
		

> Seems that both the participants and the spectators are talkative this time around. And what's up with the new avatar?
> 
> Håkon



There's this thread about avatars here that made me consider changing mine. So I'll probably use a new avatar for each round I advance, and when I lose, I'll keep the current one. 

Or perhaps I shouldn't reward the losing picture and switch to the next avatar in line? Hmm... choices.

Of course, thanks from me as well. If the contestants are anything like myself, we all crave feedback. You're doing a good job of keeping us going, then.

Edit: These are other possible avatars, Gulla. Which would you prefer?


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## Rodrigo Istalindir (Feb 12, 2007)

Gulla said:
			
		

> And what's up with the new avatar?




The combination of Ceramic DM and that writing seminar he's in has him channeling his inner angsty German.  It's just a phase -- it'll pass.


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## Berandor (Feb 12, 2007)

Rodrigo Istalindir said:
			
		

> The combination of Ceramic DM and that writing seminar he's in has him channeling his inner angsty German.  It's just a phase -- it'll pass.



 Damn. that's true, of course.

The seminar was truly awful. The poet/teacher didn't even attend the final session, and so we sat around talking freely about the stories. A greater heap of pretension has rarely been encountered. In the end, we were all good friends, and all our stories were valuable and wonderful in their own ways (even those written by legasthenic analphabets without sense for structure, tension, or characterization), and I longed to hear some good judgement, Ceramic DM style (or even, Nemmerle forbid, Iron DM). All the while snow was falling outside, but when I finally left, it had already thawed away. So I'm really somewhat egocentrically adrift right now, going through a slew of new faces to present the world.

The worst thing right now is, I don't want to take on any of the other contestants – they're all so good.

It'll make me feel bad when I oust them. 

Here's my inner angsty German:


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## orchid blossom (Feb 12, 2007)

Just as an update, I'll be writing my last first round judgement, Carpedavid vs. maxfieldjadenfox this evening and getting it sent on to yangnome.


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## orchid blossom (Feb 13, 2007)

Sent!  I'm all caught up!


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## Drawmack (Feb 13, 2007)

so yang who are we waiting on yet?


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## Herremann the Wise (Feb 13, 2007)

Drawmack said:
			
		

> so yang who are we waiting on yet?



Me unfortunately.
Work has been busy so I won't be able to send my judgment through until tomorrow.
However, I will be sending both outstanding judgments through then.

Best Regards
Herremann the Wise


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## Gulla (Feb 13, 2007)

Berandor said:
			
		

> Edit: These are other possible avatars, Gulla. Which would you prefer?



Having a slightly conservative outlook on the world; the original one  

But if you relly need to change it I think you should avoid the second and the fifth. I think they give a totally wrong first impression (even though the "german sweinhound" is a bit funny). I think I prefere the fourth, personally. It gives a nice impression of reflected calm which is rather fitting (IMO). I actually like the current one as well, better than most of the remaining ones.

Håkon
trying his hand at both art criticism and psyko analysis at the same time  

Edit: PS. If you want a nice selection algorithm based solidly on superstition you could select the last avatar to win, so if you are eliminated you simply take one step back in the line.


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## Berandor (Feb 13, 2007)

Gulla said:
			
		

> Having a slightly conservative outlook on the world; the original one
> 
> But if you relly need to change it I think you should avoid the second and the fifth.



You know that the second is the original "Berandor" 

But good analysis, and good idea with the "last one to win".


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## Gulla (Feb 13, 2007)

Berandor said:
			
		

> You know that the second is the original "Berandor"



I know, but you just don't seem like the angry, young man any more, if you ever did. The picture rather gives me the impression of a Flambeau with major Fury and Magical Addiction  (that's an Ars Magica reference, btw  )

Håkon


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## Berandor (Feb 13, 2007)

I hide my anger behind a veneer of civility – passive-agressive behavior is great. You're never the bad guy, no matter what you do. But yeah, I think I need an avatar that projects calm, rationality, wisdom... something like thog.

Also: Unless you want me putting up another batch of possible avatars and discuss them, hurry up with the judgements.


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## yangnome (Feb 13, 2007)

Hello,

I do have another round (or is it two) ready to post, however I forgot to put them on my flash stick before leaving for work today.  I'll get them posted tonight.  Sorry for the delay.  i am anxious to get moving as well.  The good news is I turned in my last assignment for my MBA last night, so I'm all done.

yang


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## yangnome (Feb 13, 2007)

Berandor said:
			
		

> I hide my anger behind a veneer of civility – passive-agressive behavior is great. You're never the bad guy, no matter what you do. But yeah, I think I need an avatar that projects calm, rationality, wisdom... something like thog.
> 
> Also: Unless you want me putting up another batch of possible avatars and discuss them, hurry up with the judgements.



 careful or I'll make you write a round based on the avatars you've posted.


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## Berandor (Feb 13, 2007)

yangnome said:
			
		

> Hello,
> 
> I do have another round (or is it two) ready to post, however I forgot to put them on my flash stick before leaving for work today.  I'll get them posted tonight.  Sorry for the delay.  i am anxious to get moving as well.  The good news is I turned in my last assignment for my MBA last night, so I'm all done.
> 
> yang



 Hey, that's cool.


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## Rodrigo Istalindir (Feb 13, 2007)

yangnome said:
			
		

> The good news is I turned in my last assignment for my MBA last night, so I'm all done.




So, does that mean your transition to LE is almost complete?

Congrats


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## Piratecat (Feb 13, 2007)

I'm looking forward to the next round!


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## Graywolf-ELM (Feb 13, 2007)

I'm looking forward to reading the next round. 

GW


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## Berandor (Feb 13, 2007)

I'm looking forward to writing about my avatar pictures.

But most of all, I'm looking forward to getting up tomorrow and reading the judgements. It'll be like christmas!


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## Hypersmurf (Feb 13, 2007)

Piratecat said:
			
		

> Alternate (cynical) ending to my story, not to be used in judging it...




Interesting how the ending can totally change the story.

I came across an example of this recently, when I discovered that David Gerrold's "Starhunt (Previously published as Yesterday's Children)" was not, in fact, the same as Yesterday's Children.

Starhunt's plot, summarised:
[sblock]Interstellar war; old rickety warship with a captain who's essentially been put out to pasture, and an eager firecracker of a first officer who's yet to see combat.  Their patrol route is supposed to be a 'milk run', but they've detected a hint of a sensor trace of an enemy ship, and the first officer convinces the captain to go in pursuit.

After weeks of chase, the engineer starts to suspect that the sensor trace is in fact just interference from mismatched components; there's no ship after all.  At one point, we have a scene where the first officer smashes the sensor officer out of his chair, and begins obsessively running and rerunning search patterns.

The captain finally declares enough is enough, and they head back towards the base; as the engineer predicts, the sensor ghost reappears, this time following them.  The first officer continues to drill the crew relentlessly.

When they're nearly back to base, and everyone but the first officer has stopped believing there was ever an enemy ship at all, it swoops in and attacks, but thanks to all the drilling, the crew win the engagement despite the surprise.[/sblock]

In the original, Yesterday's Children:
[sblock]The story _ends_ with the first officer sitting in the sensor officer's chair, running his plots over and over in vain, as the sensor officer lies on the floor bleeding...[/sblock]

It really changes everything that comes before, having that ending different...

-Hyp.


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## yangnome (Feb 14, 2007)

Round One - Match Five 
tadk vs. questing gm

Orchid Blossom

Tadk – P. S., Transversed

I’ve read through this story a couple times now, and I wish I could do so a couple more before making comments.  

The language is stunning.  You mentioned that poetry is really your preference and I can see that.  Poetry requires an ability in the mind to jump from one concept to a related one while cutting out all the thoughts that got you there.  The story, while taking advantage of the more verbose form to give use a rich picture, is still asking us to make poetical leaps.  For myself, that meant I spent a lot of time confused.

Any real movement of the plot doesn’t happen until about halfway through, and at that point I was already feeling a little lost in the hypnotism of the first couple pages.  I found myself having to go back and reread, trying to pick of plot threads I thought I’d missed. 

This takes place in a world gone wrong.  Something unknown happened and changed the world overnight, and PS is looking for answers.  When I reached the end, after the other members of the crew chastised him, I began to wonder if the confusion of the rest of the story was meant to reflect PS’ state of mind.  If we were inside it and he was just as confused as everyone else, so that we felt what he felt.  Thus my desire to read this a few more times to see if I got it right.

The slug eating picture was well-used, illustrating just how wrong the world had gone.  The picture of the long line of women was too clean to really reflect what you wanted, but the spaceship storefront lent the sense of weird you were looking for.  The picture of TM and the tall geek was a little odd, but was one of the things that made me wonder if PS was as messed up in the head as the rest of the world.



Questing gm – Untitled

I love how you aren’t afraid to mix their fantasy and the modern day, and to really go urban modern with it.  The piece itself is very short, so it reads like a summary of a longer story.  Outline might be a better description.  

You have everything there you need, there just wasn’t much in between.  Every place you’re taking the story is foreshadowed or explained.  We know about the druid, so it isn’t surprising with she has an idea how to heal someone, and we’re told why she’d come along.  The idea of dwarves inventing rock and making it a guild is great, and having human hangers on is funny, and all explained.  The trouble comes in that it’s all thrown at the ready rapid fire, without a chance to get comfortable and get to know the characters.

On a purely technical note, there are some problems with tense and plurals that a good proofing would fix.  (Hard to do when you only have 72 hours to turn the story out.)
The eating of the green, slimy thing is your best picture use, relating directly to something happening to one of the characters that will save his life.  The other three show us the environment the story takes place in, but doesn’t really expand on what’s happening to the characters.


I’m going to cast my vote for tadk this round, on the strength of language and mood.  While questing gm’s story was clearer, tadk’s still felt more complete even with my confusion.


Herremann-
Well it’s a smaller night tonight with only two judgments to be made and four offerings to be received. Her Ladyship seems well pleased with the current pace although her appetite still seems to be without end. With everything at the ready I began the judgment.

“If our two imps of high repute may bring the first of our offerings forward, we shall begin.” The first imp dressed finely in velvet hues of black and cerise brought forth a weighty offering with an apparent look of smugness. I waited for the other to appear but in this it failed. I tapped ‘Lady Death’ urgently to rouse the imp from either hiding or slumber but to no effect. Just as I was about to intone words of dark purpose, one of Her servants politely sought my attention informing me of several facts of pertinence before handing me a pile of soggy handwritten papers.

“It would appear that our second offering of the match has been delayed. However, because of a loophole in the rules of competition, tadk has graciously allowed his opponent to submit late. I have been handed a copy of this offering and so will use that instead.” How the hell the imp would have a copy of a submission that had not even been submitted yet, I have no idea. I guess they have methods at their disposal beyond mortal understanding.

“And so Infernal Jury we have two rather different offerings to consider. tadk has given us a pastiche of images broadly sprayed with descriptive paint and colour; of a man once the focus of his cause, but who had been defeated, unable to realise the dreams that he had once dreamt. questing gm on the other hand has knocked together a humourous tale pitting the evil cultists of Smik against The Guild of Rock.”

“I find myself swaying backwards and forwards in indecision. What do I make out of the images tadk has provided us with? Is this dribble or brilliance, conveyed with colours too bright or too real? Having read the piece one more time, I am going to cautiously tip the hat on the side of brilliance. The language is completely evocative if almost too so. One cannot help but be taken to the Thai gutters and the lives of the downtrodden. Equally compelling, one can hear all too clearly PS’ flagellant voice, of one who has failed, of one who has lost faith. Of one seeking an imperfect epiphany but, instead is rewarded with nothing. If you listen, you can here a soul being torn apart.”

At this point, the imps looked completely bored with my commentary and the offering, although they held their impulses in check. I had given them dire warning before this evening and they were wary.

“However, is this enjoyable to read? Should it be enjoyable to read? Perhaps the only thing I can say on this matter is that it is not readily accessible. Again though, should it be? Such is my indecision. While all too ready to impatiently dismiss it, in the end I could not. As such good jury, I ask of you to consider this piece more deeply when making your decision.”

The jury were strangely silent - of their motives I could not be sure.

“questing gm has attempted as best as possible a fantasy interpretation of images ill-suited to such treatment. Grammatically, this piece felt rushed and it should be penalised accordingly, however, there is enough of a strange story there, that it should not be instantly dismissed. Where as tadk’s piece has eventually worked for me, this one has not. With time slipping past, the conclusion was rushed and snipped, barely adding anything to a slim plot. There are moments of clarity and humour but on the whole, there is simply no golden thread; there is no spine turning a series of events into an actual story. Ceramic DM is difficult enough joining images together without the pressure of time as well. But even with this difficulty, the basic elements of plot should be adhered to so as to create an element of tension and resolve, otherwise there is little satisfaction for the reader.”

“As such good jury, I will need you to adjudicate either to the left in supporting tadk or to the right and questing gm.”

The imps eager to be doing something piled to the left although as if releasing energy too long held, there was movement backward and forward finally settling upon a tally of twenty-one imps to tadk and fourteen to questing gm. I tapped the scythe in recognition of the movement.

“Now for the moment I have been waiting for. It has come to my attention that some of the judging imps have been in possible discussion with competitors. However as I have not been able to ascertain which ones [I frowned at a nearby imp who had been directed to assist me with the matter - he simply shrugged his shoulders in bewilderment], I have instead asked the Gnopf to take a random selection as an instructive warning to all of you in dealing with any mortals aside from my good self.”

The Gnopf aware of my plans immediately moved forward taking two random imps off of each side before loading the hapless creatures into his reserve projector. There was a ruckus cut short by my slamming ‘Lady Death’ into the altar with suitable detonation. I nodded to him to begin and with a careful degree of thought and aiming, a sharp pop had an imp flying headfirst into the back of the garage wall. Within seconds, a satisfying blood-red pattern of a person about to eat something bad appeared. The imp failed to get up.

“Now tadk has used this image in the most intriguing manner. While open for interpretation, the eating of the snail seems to represent the imperfect freedom that PS once followed and supported but by stories end has come to see as abhorrent and wrong. Strangely evocative use of the image if you poke a little further and see the act as disgusting and only one that the poor and downtrodden would need to resort to anyway. Maybe I’m reading too much into this but it certainly made me think beyond the immediate presentation so full marks there.”

“questing gm has humorously used the green blob [I thought it radioactive snot myself] as Chlorofilth, an all-purpose curative that tastes like candy. Now this is the thing, what does that ellipsis mean at the end? Does it taste like candy… and then he dies from it or, does it taste like candy… and yeah, it’s kind of sweet… ha ha boom tish? A little clarification or signage here would have been good (adding further to the dominant but not necessarily supreme use of the image). Anyway good jury, once again, clarify your position.”

The imps down some of their number responded with several shifts giving tadk the edge, twenty-one to ten… no wait, the collapsed imp has been moved and propped into position so that makes eleven. I nodded to the Gnopf for his next offering and the machine spluttered an oversize imp into the fence (the garage was being cleaned by a crew of daemons). The gnopf got angry at his machine for the poor trajectory and image and started twisting all manner of apparatus upon it. The colourful scene of a couple of metal heads gathering was subdued slightly by poor aiming except for the grossly enlarged crotch on the taller guy.

“For tadk, these are the misfits PS was once representative of. It is a quick snapshot of the group as they assemble to hear the “words of wonder” and perhaps does them a greater disservice than tadk intends. However, the image is not really expanded upon and so does not bring anything additional to the piece. questing gm sees this as Crotek and Phelix from the Rocker’s Guild. To me this was pretty funny as although the image was not taken as far as it should have been, it was still able to give us a funny visual of the two primary characters. I thought this really could have been hammed up further than it was (sustaining the piece and allowing suitable plot elements to be explored) but heh, it was not exactly that easy to pull off either.”

Again I tapped the altar and in response I was given a result of Twenty One to Twelve, the fat imp projectile having bounced several times and assumed position amongst tadk’s mob.

“Now good Gnopf for the third in our series of images.”

An imp bullet blasted out of the machine at highest velocity spraying the wall with fluid before collapsing. The image in fact was a little thin as if the imp had “run out of ink” so to speak. ‘Lady Death’s assistant flew over to the creature pronouncing it dead with the shake of a head. A quick scan revealed that this must have been the same imp cannoned during the previous judgment. The Gnopf had come over to me as well showing that the final imp in his projector had perished when the machine exploded (there was little left of the reserve projector or imp so I nodded sympathetically towards the Gnopf). Still, the jury were able to see a line of Asian Women and a separate line of men with what looked a temple off to the side.

“tadk has used this fairly well incorporating it into the ‘downtrodden’ of Thailand and thus the whole journey to the East for PS. The use mirrors the divide between haves and have-nots. However, I felt that there was something missing here, as if tadk had gained a simple whiff from the visual before exhaling a myriad of images, not all totally related. As such suitable use but not truly spectacular.”

“questing gm has used this as the entry to the Smik Cult for the many who had gathered there. Let’s be honest here, this was pretty soft use of the image. Again, the picture is used but nothing happens. Good jury, once again demonstrate your inclinations.”

And so the jury now down to thirty-three assembled once more in tadk’s favour twenty-two to eleven. Seeing the way the wind was blowing, I tapped the scythe once more and this time, our regular projector was back in action - the reserve projector destroyed beyond possible repair. The court saw a picture of a hairdresser’s salon decorated with of all things a rocket.

“Now for me, this picture was the golden image of the match but neither offering was able to take significant advantage of it. For tadk, it was the bohemian address for his gang of weirdos while for questing gm, it was the actual temple of Smik. While tadk was able to breath a little life into this, I thought questing gm struggled. On this note I shall say no more and allow the imps to finish the judgment. Imps… move!”

The imps tottered in a couple of directions but eventually; they gave the match to tadk without too much harassment - twenty-three imps to ten. I clanged ‘Lady Death’ against the altar registering the final result. This was a strange match-up for me but in the end, I agree with the imps giving the result to tadk and his fascinating piece. Commiserations to questing gm as well as thanks for actually handing a piece in. It would have been easier to give up and not post; but you got it in only slightly late so thank you.


Yangnome-

Tadk- P.S., Trasversed

Your imagery in language is fantastic.  I really, really loved the first part of this story, up through the paragraph that started “down far below”.  This description for me was really reminiscent of Steinbeck’s intro to Cannery Row.  

After this portion of the story though, I got lost in the language.  The flowery prose is fine to an extent, and I think it can definitely be a strength in certain circumstances, but after too much, your story got lost in it.  You set a beautiful setting, but I didn’t feel it had followed through.  I would have liked to see you throttle back on the poetic language and tell your story once you introduced the setting and P.S.

I felt your picture use was mixed.  When I read this, I forgot what pictures you used, so I had to flip back to look at them with each reference.  The first picture you used was great.   The rest, not so great.  The main problem was that the pictures are supposed to illustrate important parts of the story.  Here, none of these seemed important enough to the story as to deserve illustration.  This might have to do with what I mentioned above about your story getting lost in your language.  

My advice to you is to take that first few paragraphs and turn it into something.  Use the CDM pics or not, but take them and use the setting as a foundation for a story.  Step away from the poetry and tell a story.  It is ok to indulge yourself here and there with it, but don’t lose the story in the language. 

questing gm-

This is a really interesting setting you came up with, something that definitely could be used for a fun satire.  You hint at a number of things that make me giggle while reading it. However, you never really get around to telling a story. You hint at an interesting setting and briefly introduce us to a couple of characters.  Get them involved in something that has meaning for them and throw some conflict in their path.  There are a lot of fun ideas that I think you could develop into something cool and original.

Your picture use was strong for the most part in terms of description within your piece.  You managed to integrate parts of each picture into your larger work. However, you were never able to unite them into a common “story” as discussed above.  

My vote is for tadk.  Tadk wins this round 3-0 and advances to the next round.


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## yangnome (Feb 14, 2007)

ok, I'm still waiting on round 6 and 7 judgements from Herreman.  I'll post as I get them.


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## Drawmack (Feb 14, 2007)

yangnome said:
			
		

> ok, I'm still waiting on round 6 and 7 judgements from Herreman.  I'll post as I get them.




Maybe we need a ceramic judging competition where the judges only have 72 hours to put in their posts


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## Herremann the Wise (Feb 14, 2007)

yangnome said:
			
		

> ok, I'm still waiting on round 6 and 7 judgements from Herreman.  I'll post as I get them.



Match 6 handed in, Match 7 to come - hopefully soon (within 4 hours otherwise tomorrow - late Wednesday your time).

Best Regards
Herremann the Wise


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## Herremann the Wise (Feb 14, 2007)

Drawmack said:
			
		

> Maybe we need a ceramic judging competition where the judges only have 72 hours to put in their posts



Ha ha! [Waves 'Lady Death' maniacally before squeezing his nose back to the keyboard]

Best Regards
Herremann the Wise


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## BSF (Feb 14, 2007)

Drawmack said:
			
		

> Maybe we need a ceramic judging competition where the judges only have 72 hours to put in their posts




Speaking from experience, judging is difficult and can be time consuming.  In this case, blocking out time to read 14 stories as well as providing a bit of feedback is quite a drain on time.


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## questing gm (Feb 14, 2007)

Congrats to tadk and thank you judges for your constructive criticism.
I'm amazed of what i can learn in CDM and if time allowed me again, i would love to be here again !   

Next time, i will have enough time to plot something more complete. Woe to my foe !


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## Piratecat (Feb 14, 2007)

No question about it; I think judging is tougher than writing.


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## yangnome (Feb 14, 2007)

Round One - Match Six
Rodrigo Istalindir vs. Drawmack

Drawmack – The Case of the Disappearing Husband

Ceramic DM seems to invite private-eye stories, I suppose because they’re people who are likely to see weird stuff.  This story offered a feast of clever phrases and pithy comparisons, and as a language lover I definitely welcome those.

I find the 1940’s private eye narration fades after the first scene.  This isn’t necessarily a bad thing, as I found it becoming distracting in the beginning.  I’d rather see some of the clever, fun private-eyeisms sprinkled throughout instead of concentrated so much in the beginning.  

I wasn’t sure at the beginning what time period the story was in, since it was using the old style, but then Laura’s manner of speech and some of the references like “cancer stick” threw me.  It wasn’t until the end of the first scene when a Suburban was mentioned that I knew we were in the modern day.  I like the idea of mixing a genre so attached to one era into another, but a hint earlier on of when we are would have helped me concentrate better on what was going on.

The other matter that sticks in my mind is the file that Laura gave Jack.  At first I wondered why she needed him if she already had all these names and numbers.  She already knew about Iserpio, and probably some other things too.  Surely if she knew these things there must be something else going on.  Throughout the story I was waiting for the shoe to drop.  I think I kept expecting that because there wasn’t much conflict in the story.  Things went pretty well for Jack; he had the file, he managed to talk to everyone and get what he needed with little trouble.  It made his comment at the end a little strange, since while he saw weird stuff, it didn’t seem stressful for him.

The pictures are used to give the scenes somewhere to take place, but aren’t necessarily integral to the story.  Iserpio is strongest, giving us the idea that something weird is going on here, and that Karl was into some strange, strange stuff.  The coffin picture illustrated that something wasn’t right, but it’s never explained what, or why no one questioned it.  The people on the bench seem to be mostly a landmark, but don’t have bearing on the scene happening around them.




Rodrigo Istalindir – The Things We Do for Love

You jump right in with the action here, and it pulls the reader in with it.  Your first scene is a great example of showing and not telling.  There’s almost no dialogue, and we aren’t getting an explanation from Charlie’s narration, but the descriptions show us exactly what’s going on, if not why.

Two of the pictures are beautifully used.  The owolf and the skeletal couple both introduce something that shows up again in the story, as well as being integral to the story in their initial appearance.  

The coffin picture is fine, although not terribly important.  What throws me there is that we just heard Paul talking to the Mounties, and in the next paragraph he’s dead.  How did he die?  I assume from his injuries, but except for mention of Charlie bandaging him we never had any idea of how serious they were.  It’s possible he killed himself after his daughter ran off.  (Ok, so I don’t really believe that, but since we don’t know it could be.)  I think the picture would have felt more significant if the whole thing had become a major incident.  Paul’s death from those wounds, if known to the public how he got them, would be the kind of scandal that throws political spin machines into overdrive.  Although the story wouldn’t wander into that territory, the reader would accept that funeral as a very important event.

Sam is the only character here that I think gets shortchanged on development.  There was enough that I was surprised by her taking Gretchen and running.  We saw her being uncomfortable in trusting Charlie and appeared to want to take charge more than once.  Where she doesn’t fit is in that last picture use.  The mention of the mustache helps some, but the outfit just doesn’t seem “Sam”.  My imagination wanted her in a stylish men’s suit, not lederhosen and odd make-up.

These are two interesting stories, both of which I enjoyed very much.  For strong picture use and a nice, complete, well-styled story I’m calling this one for Rodrigo.

Herremann-

“And so continuing the evening’s festivities if we will. Please good imps provide for me the offerings from Rodrigo Istalindir and Drawmack and with some pace please.” Upon the instant, the two imps handed me two weighty offerings. With a tap of her Dark Grace, I began.

“Rodrigo has advanced us somewhat into the future with a tangled web of relationships as Charlie assists his ex and her partner to freedom and a new life. Drawmack has slid back in time in terms of feel into a world of Dames and PI’s and the case of a missing husband. Both are well presented so let’s take a closer look.”

“Rodrigo gives us a story of satisfying tension, as we slowly make sense of the fake suicide scene and the relationships between Charlie, Gretchen, Sam and Paul. The action at the cabin was then brilliantly scribed taking me right into the thick of it and the eventual tarnished success of the mission. The action here is incredibly well expressed providing a satisfying rush after the well paced and manipulated build up. The conclusion was like a pie cooling fresh out of the oven: nothing spectacular but satisfying all the same. All in all, I found this a very enjoyable story constructed with a deceptive degree of skill.”

“Drawmack has likewise given us a well-styled story of the case that had to be taken. I thought this highly enjoyable. You were able to maintain this style confidently for most of the piece so well done there. However, in terms of the story itself, after reading it a couple of times, there is something I couldn’t find convincing. If Karl and Ralph were trying so hard to stay hidden, why was this strange cast of people trying their hardest to help Jack find them? What’s so special about Jack?”

“In the end, I could not attach a true sense of wonder at the machinations involved. It ended up feeling more like a curious slide show, amusing filler but that was all. This is a shame as the conclusion while somewhat clipped was absolutely spot on. Perhaps if the trail Jack was following could have been reversed, with the final result being the dramatic image of Iserpio, more tension could have been induced. On the whole, great stuff in terms of style but in terms of structure and motive, it could have been stronger.”

“And so imps of the jury, cast your initial positions please for this judgment.” The imps seemed paralyzed by indecision as they slowly moved into position. Aside from a short series of clipped words between a few of the imps, the jury seemed happy to present Rodrigo with eighteen imps to Drawmack’s fifteen. I nodded to the Gnopf who clicked several levers into place upon his projector presenting the court with an image of two people, one a pretty girl and the other of indeterminate sex.

“Rodrigo has allowed this image to infuse his tale. As the eventual marriage photo sent to Charlie, it provides the motive for the tale of getting the same sex couple out of Dodge and into a new life across the border. Normally, the “photo” use gets a bad rap from the judges but because Rodrigo has in fact based the entire story on the eventual union of Gretchen and Sam, I thought this perfectly reasoned. To draw such significance out of a slightly tricky image was well done.”

“Drawmack’s use on the other hand while more immediate was weaker. The club scene was mildly amusing but seemed to unnecessarily pander to this image. The picture was quickly glanced over holding little significance. To get a particular story to fit, you have to sometimes do this so the use while nothing inspired was suitable. Good jury, progress to your newly defined positions please.”

The imps shuffled slightly, progressing the tally to twenty imps in Rodrigo’s favour leaving thirteen imps aligned with Drawmack. I nodded to the Gnopf for the next image and once again he was able to provide perfect service, an image of two sitting skeletons in partial embrace presented upon the back of my garage.

“Rodrigo has used this as the spark to get his story firing. The initial fake suicide scene presents several elements of confusion that the reader will seek to unravel. It also confirms the lengths Charlie will go to adding to his interesting characterisation. I felt this use quite strong, gluing several important elements of the story together. I like the way that Rodrigo is able to add depth to such a static image.”

“Drawmack has used this picture as the cemetery meeting place, confirming that Karl and Ralph are still alive. While an attempt has been made to supernaturalise the scene (lack of snow around the statues compared to other parts of the cemetery), the image is just a passing waypoint, not having further meaning that its most basic presentation.”

“Imps, your opinions once again are needed.” The imps seemed a little lethargic, with the tally updating to twenty-one imps to Rodrigo and twelve to Drawmack. I tapped ‘Lady Death’ to continue and once more the Gnopf was able to perfectly present the penultimate image: an owl with the head of a wolf.

“Now this was an image I had concerns about when yangnome selected it. I wondered what the hell the competitors would actually be able to do with it? Neither disappointed! Rodrigo has gone the futuristic route where the creatures are genetic creations to augment border security. I liked the way Rodrigo was able to induce significant tension with the creature. It’s appearance really turned the action-meter up a notch. Likewise Drawmack has unveiled Iserpio equally as a strange genetic mutant crafted by the devious power of SansLogik. I really liked this use and just wish that you could have garnered a little more momentum from its use. Rather than pushing Jack further into a web he could not escape from, the sense of danger was allowed to flag a little. Still, I have to say that both competitors strongly used this image. Imps, to your updated positions please!”

The imps clambered this way and that seeming to pick and choose between the two. Somewhat surprisingly, the momentum was swinging the other way back in Drawmack’s favour. Rodrigo’s lead was cut to nineteen imps to Drawmack’s fourteen. There must have been something in there that they really liked.

“And lastly,” I waved to the Gnopf, “we have the image of a…”
I tapped the scythe to further gain the Gnopf’s attention but he seemed to be in deep discussion with one of his sub-ordinates. I looked at him sternly but my gaze was dismissed. I moved towards him to see what the problem was. The Gnopf was listening to the strange tongue of a fey regarding the discourse with pure venom. The smarmy look upon the fey seemed to indicate the transgression of some contract or binding deal. The Gnopf looked most upset with the creature’s tenor, pulled out a contraption that glowed slightly before activating. The smarmy look of the fey turned slightly to one of concern. A small buzz and a pop later and the fey seemed to be pulled into the device, prisoner. The Gnopf pocketed the device, said a few unintelligible words to me and then activated the projector. He nodded as if confirming that I was allowed to continue. I simply shook my head and returned. The picture of a casket being carried by six men glowed brightly.

“This image is most likely Rodrigo’s weakest but it still provides a suitable ending to Paul, and how in the end, he did not betray his daughter. While adding some emotional weight, the picture was for all intention a snapshot. It is very difficult to make every image spectacular but heh. Drawmack uses this as the linchpin in the fake death of Karl. It is this that spurs the story forward, as all is not quite what it seems. From this point of view, I thought the image use quite strong. This picture was one I expected to be used well and so in the end, there were mixed results. Still imps of the jury, I will need your final accounting of the two submissions so if you please, a final result for the court.”

The imps laboured long realising that this could hand the match one way or the other. Each time there was overt movement from one or the other, another would counterbalance the move. I cracked the scythe to hurry them up and so in their final positions, we had Rodrigo Istalindir with eighteen imps to Drawmack’s fifteen. Congratulations to both our competitors. This was close to the strongest round so far. As for Drawmack though, ‘Lady Death’ awaits your pleasure.

Yangnome-

Rodrigo Istalindir-
You have a really tight story here, it was an enjoying read.  I don’t have too much to comment on, but will make a few notes.  I think you tried to explain the owolf too much.  It took me out of the story. It definitely needed some explanation, since this is a near-future story, but I think you might have been able to do this in a smoother fashion. Maybe a reference to genetic crossbreeds earlier in the story or something would have worked, or just a shorter explanation.  It seemed almost as if you were apologizing for it.  The mention of the conyote took me out of the story too, since I had to figure out what you were talking about.  

It would have been nice to see a bit more bout the relationship between Paul and Charlie.  It would have made some of the interaction later in the story a bit more interesting.  I was also surprised by Paul’s sudden death.  One sentence, he’s cleared up problems with the Mounties, the next he is dead—at which point his political aspirations no longer matter.  It may have worked better to mention that he was seriously wounded.  

Picture use overall was strong.  I think your best picture was the skeleton couple.  Your weakest was the Gretchen and Sam wedding.  There wasn’t really an explanation for the attire and though I was expecting the picture, it seemed out of place.  

Drawmack-

You started with the weather.  I know you’re doing a PI story, but instead of pulling me in, this pushed me out of the story.  Then you follow up with detective cliché.  I know you were trying to get the feel of the story, but it just didn’t work for me.  I realize it is part of the shtick, but each bad simile pulled me back out of the story.

The part where you started talking about Karl and his strange experiments is where I started to get into the story.  It felt like things were beginning to get interesting.  Unfortunately it didn’t pay off.  We get a brief meeting with Karl and Ralph, then are ushered away and Ralph is killed for some inexplicable reason.  In doing this, you basically skirted around the conflict and the meat of the story.  

As for picture use, I thought your strongest was the wowl.  Iserpio was an interesting little character and I would have written it off as an everage use of a picture, but then you turned it into something more—a result of Karl’s experiments and why he’s on the lam.  The skeletons were merely scenery and not really part of the story.  I thought the couple picture was interesting, though not really an important use.  It would have been interesting to find out why Karl was in this environment.  Why was he surrounded by these people?  The coffin was ok, but nothing very special about it.  

I give this match to Rodrigo Istalindir for having a stronger story.  

Rodrigo wins this round 3-0


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## yangnome (Feb 14, 2007)

OK, unless herremann pulls somethign out of a hat, I think this is all for tonight,  he assured me he is going to work hard to get the last one done so we can make our pairings for the next round tomorrow.


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## Berandor (Feb 14, 2007)

BSF said:
			
		

> Speaking from experience, judging is difficult and can be time consuming.  In this case, blocking out time to read 14 stories as well as providing a bit of feedback is quite a drain on time.



Yeah; while judging one story is work, judging a bunch of them is hard work. If you don't have that much time, you're better off competing than judging.


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## Drawmack (Feb 14, 2007)

Congrats Rodrigo,you did have the better story. 

At least I don't have to face PC


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## carpedavid (Feb 14, 2007)

Berandor said:
			
		

> Yeah; while judging one story is work, judging a bunch of them is hard work. If you don't have that much time, you're better off competing than judging.




Indeed. While timely judgments are appreciated by all, I know how much time it can take. When I ran/judged the Iron DM tournaments, I read each entry four to five times, and then wrote an average of 1500 words for each match. It was thoroughly exhausting. 

That said, I'm checking my email for update notices about every five minutes!


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## Rodrigo Istalindir (Feb 14, 2007)

My thanks to the judges for their valuable critiques, and bravo to Drawnack for such an excellent entry.  It's fun in CDM to see how different people use the pictures in different ways, but its fun, too, to see how wierd images can provoke similarities as well.

So, who's next on the chopping block?


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## tadk (Feb 14, 2007)

*Wow*

Wow I made it past the first round
Tip of the hat to my esteemed competitor. Most likely had this now been your first competition you would have advanced much farther. I look forward to reading more of your writing.

I wish to thank you three judges for their time and effort in reading my entry. I totally appreciate it and as BSF and others can attest, I tend to the poetic in my writing. Someday I will write prose and none of you will know what to do with yourselves.

Again thank you, I appreciate the comments and as always I pick up more information and ideas from your comments, and the others writings.

TK


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## maxfieldjadenfox (Feb 14, 2007)

Yup, congrats to all the first round winners! Still waiting for Lady Death, but since I've met her before and felt the blissful peace of her blade, I'm not askeered. 

And I totally agree, judging CDM is MUCH harder than competing. Especially in the early rounds when you have so many pieces to read! (Take your time, judges, I have to clear up my affairs, get my will in order, you know, the usual...)


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## yangnome (Feb 14, 2007)

In the mean time, I've been setting the pictures for the round two matches.  Remember how I said tat I skipped the easy round?  I'm not certain that is true.


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## Berandor (Feb 14, 2007)

So round two will be easy? Cool!

I'm not sure when the judgement will arrive; should I be offline again, I'd prefer any picture date post-thursday, but I can do thursday if need be (I'll just start writing friday, then). That's all.

and hello to carpedavid, who after seeing yangnome post most likely rushed to the thread in top speed


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## carpedavid (Feb 14, 2007)

Berandor said:
			
		

> and hello to carpedavid, who after seeing yangnome post most likely rushed to the thread in top speed




*waves*


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## yangnome (Feb 14, 2007)

hi carpedavid


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## Berandor (Feb 14, 2007)

Argh.


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## Herremann the Wise (Feb 14, 2007)

Hello Everyone,

Judgment sent!

Best Regards
Herremann the Wise


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## Herremann the Wise (Feb 14, 2007)

Berandor said:
			
		

> So round two will be easy? Cool!



I have just viewed the images in store for you guys in Round Two. I think I can assure you that yangnome was *MOST DEFINITELY* pulling your leg. I think they will produce good stories but easy? Hah. Wishful thinking in the extreme.

Best Regards
Herremann the Wise


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## yangnome (Feb 14, 2007)

oh no, you misinterpreted me.  I meant round one was the easy round.


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## yangnome (Feb 14, 2007)

I don't have access to my home email from work, so I'll have to post the results once I get home (roughly 7 or 7:30 PST)


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## Herremann the Wise (Feb 14, 2007)

yangnome said:
			
		

> I don't have access to my home email from work, so I'll have to post the results once I get home (roughly 7 or 7:30 PST)



Any chance I can forward to your work to let these pour souls out of their misery?

Best Regards
Herremann the Wise


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## yangnome (Feb 15, 2007)

Round 1 Match 6
MJF vs. CarpeDavid

Maxfieldjadenfox – No Experience Necessary

This story goes in the short and sweet category.  But even though it only makes about four pages printed, it had just about everything it needed. 
The first person narrative worked well for this story; I felt like I could look up from the paper and see Min Su sitting across from me sipping from a steaming cup of tea.  Often, first person suffers from the author using language that’s more formal than a person would use if they were just sitting with you and talking.  You avoided that, and that’s no mean trick.

Because each picture is used to illustrate a job and Min Su’s jobs are what finally lead her to the right one, each is important.  The bikini skier and the leaf-woman work a little better for me, since the boat and the cockroach don’t have any action.  The cockroach was probably the weakest in its placement, although it gets a little more importance because of her sympathy for the poor bugs later.

You gave us enough hints that the ending didn’t seem out of the blue, but I would have liked the foreshadowing to be a little stronger.  I think it’s possible to do that without giving away the ending.  I would have liked to know what Matsu was the goddess of earlier in the story.  Knowing that when the ship capsizes would make an even stronger connection between Min Su and the goddess in that scene.  If the birds in the trees and the enjoyment of the snow had gotten a little more weight I would have felt a little more satisfied at the end.  You may have gone that purposely to show Min Su’s growth toward her eventual occupation, but that didn’t quite work for me.

The struggle to find out what you’re meant to do is one we’re all familiar with, and the story of Min Su’s journey made me smile.



carpedavid – A Late Aubade

This story starts out with a narrator that is hard to like, but the flashback to the tree shows us he wasn’t always what he is, and gives us hope that maybe he’ll remember that child.  And of course the whole story shows us that maybe, just maybe he will.  We don’t get that sense of , “All better” at the end, which would ring false in this story anyway,  just a sense of him realizing it’s time to rethink a few things.

You effectively sketch in who he is, who he was, how he relates to people and the world without going into exposition mode.  

All four pictures are strong.  The leaf-woman is the strongest for me, but they all reflect something about Ryan’s life or the world that are important to know.  I could go on for several paragraphs but I’ll spare you all.  The giant bug was probably the weakest use for me, just because it exposes a fear of bugs we’ve already seen.  It does show us just how big the things have gotten and leads us to how Ryan’s father died, but it doesn’t seem really related to the picture itself.

If I was an editor, I’m sure I could go through this and find little things that could improve it, but then you wouldn’t get a judgement until next week.

I don't feel like I did my job here, which is to give constructive criticism, but there just wasn't much to pick at in either story.

Although it’s probably obvious by now, carpedavid’s story really hit every note for me.  This is a really tough match-up to judge, with both stories succeeding at their goals.  For me, carpedavid takes this one.

Round One - Match Seven
carpedavid vs. maxfieldjadenfox

I was getting excited now; it was time for the final match of the first round. The court looked resplendent in their finery, the excitement of the final match of the round danced around the imps, fey and other creatures present. I stepped up to the altar with Her Dark Grace in hand.

“Members of the court and of course our Infernal Jury, it is my pleasure to conclude the first round with the final match between carpedavid and maxfieldjadenfox.” I nodded and the two imps dressed this time in delicate shades of navy and bisque advanced with firm and exact purpose to the altar. I then pressed the offerings to the stone granite to begin.

“Both carpedavid and maxfieldjadenfox have given us stories somewhere between tale and moral fable. It is interesting to see how a strong image can capture the imagination so readily (as image two - the leaf lady - does).”

“carpedavid’s tale stretches several decades from corporate eco-terrorist, and back in time to innocence and a child’s love of nature, symbolised by an ash tree. It is the conflict between these two fantastically presented sides of Ryan that pushes the story forward; to see whether the child was still inside or whether Ryan was but a husk, with any such memory burnt from his being. I think more than anything else carpedavid has given us a beautiful lesson in pacing. It was the natural and exquisite joining of each of the story’s parts that neatly progresses the story to its satisfying conclusion that had me smiling as I read this one again and then again particularly looking at this aspect. While the conclusion did seem inevitable, there was still a beauty to it that resounded nicely, even after finishing the piece. Congratulations on such a well polished and paced entry.”

“maxfieldjadenfox has also gone for a nature-inspired piece under the guise of employment searching. While at first, this seemed a little bit aimless going from one job to the next and to the next, in the end it was saved by a good conclusion giving meaning to what had gone before. On the whole, I did enjoy this but I’ll point back to carpedavid’s story and how he introduced tension with a childhood flashback. Likewise, this story needed some measure of tension to sustain it. It never really felt like Min Su was ever really in trouble of becoming destitute. Finding employment seemed easy enough as was getting a passport and the money to go to the US. If this had have been more of a struggle, I believe your piece overall would have been stronger for it. Still, an enjoyable and satisfying entry.”

“Good imps, I will strike ‘Lady Death’ thrice, after which I demand of you to find your opening positions for the match. Step to your left for carpedavid or to the right if you wish to align yourselves with maxfieldjadenfox’s fate.”

After a firm series of tapping, the imps finally coalesced into two divisions, nineteen imps to fourteen in carpedavid’s favour. The Gnopf had provided a strange attachment to the projector and as he powered up the machine, this attachment whirred with conviction. An image of a partially sunken boat graced the back of my garage.

“carpedavid has used this image in capable fashion. The boat represents what has happened to the world since Ryan’s childhood. With his hometown flooded, this image represents that whole global warming/ sea rising phenomena. It is with some skill that this permeates the entire piece so well, so as not to be just a simple snapshot. As such, well done. maxfieldjadenfox has also capably used this with the sinking of Min Su’s fine rusted vessel. This was humorously done but at the same time, I was able to get a stronger feeling for her growing attachment to Matsu. As such good use as well.”

I tapped the scythe with the imps progressing to a new position of eighteen carpedavid imps to maxfieldjadenfox’s fifteen! The gap was closing and there seemed to be strong disagreement between the two groups of imps. I thought carpedavid did enough to hold or even extend his position but these imps thought otherwise. I nodded and our next image of a strangely leafed woman appeared, glowing brightly. The Gnopf seemed most satisfied with his new attachment.

“Now this image was by far the strongest of the group. Incorporating it bent both offerings towards an eco-friendly tale/fable. carpedavid’s mysterious lover tempting Ryan back to his childhood, a final realisation of what he had wrought while for maxfieldjadenfox, it was the realisation of Matsu and the Green Man’s hidden influence upon Min Su’s life. While she thought herself an orphan, this image represented her “adoption” to her “real” parents. I thought this a very strong use of a difficultly strong image. Please good imps, advance your positions once more.”

The imps seemed to pile onto maxfieldjadenfox’s side but then there was an equal balancing back to carpedavid. With but a few stragglers finally deciding upon their new positions, a tally of seventeen to carpedavid and sixteen to maxfieldjadenfox was presented as I tapped her Dark Grace in recognition. Wow, this was getting much closer than I imagined! The Gnopf sensing need for progression filtered a picture of a strange trio of bikini clad skiers. There were numerous giggles at the ridiculous image.

“Now this was in some ways, the most difficult image of the match. Incorporating it must have screwed with our contestant’s heads and as such; I’ll be gentle because I thought neither use was strong. Still to actually include the piece without derailing either story was an effort in itself. carpedavid uses this to introduce Ryan’s lover and eventual saviour while for maxfieldjadenfox, the skiing troupe is just another job to be fired from. Really, neither overly inspired but kudos anyway to both for using it at all. Imps?”

The imps threatened to move one way or the other but in the end, not a single move was made. The balance of 17 to 16 in carpedavid’s favour held. “And finally for the final image of the final match of the first round, we have… a large bug on a business roof”. The imps cooed in pleasure at the strange sight.

“On first glance, neither offering seems to outdo the other in using this. While maxfieldjadenfox uses this as another employer, carpedavid, relates this back to his primary theme as well. Giant bugs caused by a radical decline in the frog population was somewhat novel. How to split them? Perhaps in the end because carpedavid has used this as an actual bug rather than just the snapshot as presented, our good jury will find in his favour? The suspense is killing me so please imps, you have seen the offerings, seek your final positions for the match and round!”

The imps looked carefully this way and that. One moved from carpedavid’s side to maxfieldjadenfox’s causing a high degree of tension. Would this be their final positions? It was then that that large bastard of an imp launched himself from carpedavid’s side over to maxfieldjadenfox’s as well. However, his mood was determined as he grabbed as many imps as he could and started dragging them back to carpedavid’s. The fight was on as the two group’s met in a melee worthy of a final. I let them express their angst for a while before giving the scythe one almighty crack. The imps checked themselves immediately, their numbers strewn across my backyard. They seemed concussed by the thunderous explosion long enough that I was able to work out a tally.

“It appears that our final match of the round has gone to…carpedavid by eighteen imps to fifteen. Congratulations to both our competitors but in the end, I suppose the stronger story won out. maxfieldjadenfox, I believe she is calling you once more to her fickle blade. Know though that this time, I believe you are providing her with a much tastier meal.



Maxfiled Jadenfox-
Interesting story.  I liked your voice through here, it was pleasant and easy to read, which fit well with this story.  I think I might have changed the tense of the story though as it was a bit distracting in a couple places.  

You tied together a number of jobs, represented by each picture (which you didn’t label).  I felt that this was a bit cheap as it made them a lot easier to string together.  Still, it was an interesting approach, and I was happy it wasn’t another PI story .  I didn’t feel that there was enough tension or conflict in the story though.  You certainly presented problems along the way, and you resolved them in the end, but it didn’t really hook me into the story or Min Su’s plight.  Sure, she had bad luck, but it would have been nice to dig a little deeper, especially if you are going to have a string of scenes.

Your picture use was strong overall.  We see each of them as a point of bad luck (except the last one) in Min Su’s life.  The descriptions matched the pictures very literally and you didn’t really turn any of them into something unexpected.

Overall, good job, as I said above, it was a pleasant read.

CarpeDavid-

I really enjoyed this story.  I like the “marketing for the bad guy” theme and you pulled it off well.  You also managed to pull off a solid down ending to the story.  Your imagery was strong throughout the story and you led up to each picture, they definitely worked well as illustrations for a story that would stand well on its own without them.  None of them felt forced. 

 I do think there were a couple things you could have done that would have made the story work better for me.  The mention of the glacier in Colorado was a bit shocking , as up until that point, I thought we were reading a story in the modern day—this also doesn’t match too well with the global warming theme (not as I understand it at least).  Second, I might have made mention of the tugboat, or at least the size of the lake earlier in the story.  I hadn’t pictured the lake as being that big when reading it, so the tug boat didn’t really fit for me when you got to it.  This was the only picture that felt a bit forced to me.  I would go on further, but there isn’t too much more to say.  Great job.

I have to give this round to Carpedavid. While both were good stories, he presented a solid story that weaved the pictures together well. 

CarpeDavid wins this round 3-0


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## yangnome (Feb 15, 2007)

And so brings the end of round 1.  I'll post matchups for round 2 in a few minutes (unless my wife kidnaps me).  

Herremann- I probably could have had you forward it to me, but I didn't get a chance to log on again.  That's ok, I like the torture.


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## Herremann the Wise (Feb 15, 2007)

Hi Everyone,

Just a quick note. Congratulations to all our contestants for providing me with such wonderful reading for the last week and a bit - it has been very enjoyable. I look forward to reading an even higher grade of story in the next round. Best of luck to all still in the competition, it was very difficult for me to nominate a strongest loser and strongest winner, most of the stories were quite spectacular in their own way.

As for those exiting the competition early, commiserations. I'm sure you'll find Death's blade not quite as harsh as I make out. Please stay in the loop and add comments throughout the competition as this one is definitely going to be something special!

Best Regards
Herremann the Wise


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## yangnome (Feb 15, 2007)

Round 2:
Match 1:
Carpe David vs. BSF

Match 2: 
Berandor vs. PirateCat

Match 3:
 Rodrigo Istalindir vs. Tadk

Match 4:
Mythago vs. Miles Pilitus

It looks like we have a couple heavy hitting matches this round.  Reminder there are no further loser brackets this round unless someone fails to submit a story or otherwise drops from the competition.  Let me know when you'll be available and we'll get it started.  The earliest I can post is 9am Thursday (PST).


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## Rodrigo Istalindir (Feb 15, 2007)

I'd prefer to start Sunday or Monday, but I'm flexible.


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## BSF (Feb 15, 2007)

Hey CarpeDavid, 
It looks like you and I get a rematch from way back when.  *smile*

So what is that?  Four former Ceramic DMs and an Iron DM in the second round.  Wow!  I have some illustrious company.  Thanks to the judges for my raise dead!  

Timewise, I think I can make just about anything work.  CarpeDavid, do you have a preference?


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## mythago (Feb 15, 2007)

Monday is a holiday*, so anytime that crosses over Sat-Mon is fine.


*defined as, "technically everything is closed, so when I am in the office, I don't deal with as many interruptions"


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## maxfieldjadenfox (Feb 15, 2007)

Thanks so much to the judges! The criticism portion of the competition is always helpful, and ya'll were pretty kind to me. Carpedavid, lovely writing! It was great competing with you and I'll be watching the rest of the competition (and commenting, of course) and looking forward to the next CDM whenever it may be.


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## maxfieldjadenfox (Feb 15, 2007)

I wake up with a start. At first I think I must be sleepwalking since I am no longer in my cozy bed, but in the open somewhere. As I walk, I see that I am actually in someone's back yard. There is what appears to be a garage straight ahead, overhung by a large tree that might be an elm. There is a peculiar flickering against the side of the garage, and as I get closer, I realize I've seen something like this before. The pictures that flash onto the garage are out of focus, but I recognize them. Ceramic DM pictures, not just from the recent round, but from every round I've ever written in. Even the pictures from the rounds I judged are showing up. As they flash by, I find myself feeling all sad and angst ridden. "I could have done that one better credit," I think as image after image taunts me with unfulfilled promise. Finally I can take it no longer. I walk into the circle of light where Herremann the Wise stands, surrounded by judging imps, Lady Death in his hand, thrumming for blood. I nod at Herremann. The gnoph at the projector casts a withering gaze at me. I refuse to be withered. "You have called me, and I have come." 
I kneel next to the altar and expose my throat. One of the more fragile judging imps faints from the excitement. Herremann steps forward and draws his hand along the top of the blade. He gazes at me, a smile playing about his lips. 
"Maxfield Jaden Fox. My Lady is hungry. Any last words before her hunger is slaked?" I look at him, give a faint smile myself and say, "I'll be back." The blade flashes across my throat and I


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## Berandor (Feb 15, 2007)

yangnome said:
			
		

> Match 2:
> Berandor vs. PirateCat



I must be schizophrenic, because this is like a dream and a nightmare at the same time.

No. Wait. It's only a nightmare.

Well, you know what they say: If you want to be champion, you gotta beat them all. I would have wanted Piratecat to submit more than just two entries, but...

Edit: And congrats to BSF and carpedavid for advancing. I'll echo what Herreman said: I hope the unfortunate ones stay with the thread and do some gossiping and commenting.


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## carpedavid (Feb 15, 2007)

BSF said:
			
		

> Hey CarpeDavid,
> It looks like you and I get a rematch from way back when.  *smile*




Indeed! I'm looking forward to it. Great competition makes for great stories.  



> Timewise, I think I can make just about anything work.  CarpeDavid, do you have a preference?




Starting Sunday would be best, but any time after that would also work.


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## carpedavid (Feb 15, 2007)

maxfieldjadenfox said:
			
		

> Thanks so much to the judges! The criticism portion of the competition is always helpful, and ya'll were pretty kind to me. Carpedavid, lovely writing! It was great competing with you and I'll be watching the rest of the competition (and commenting, of course) and looking forward to the next CDM whenever it may be.




Thanks, MaxfieldJadenFox, for the tough competition! I wasn't previously familiar with your writing, but I know now that I'll be very nervous should we ever meet again.


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## Piratecat (Feb 15, 2007)

Auggh! BSF is _back!_ He's like a zombie or something!  Shoot for the head, everyone, shoot for the head, and don't let him eat your brains.



Berandor, when would you like to  lose  compete? My ideal time to get photos would be Friday night or Saturday morning.


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## Miles Pilitus (Feb 15, 2007)

mythago said:
			
		

> Monday is a holiday*, so anytime that crosses over Sat-Mon is fine.
> 
> 
> *defined as, "technically everything is closed, so when I am in the office, I don't deal with as many interruptions"



 That timeframe will work for me as well.


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## FickleGM (Feb 15, 2007)

Good luck to all the remaining participants.  While I may not have much in the form of comments, I will be following along and reading your stories with interest.


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## tadk (Feb 15, 2007)

*Weekdays*



			
				Rodrigo Istalindir said:
			
		

> I'd prefer to start Sunday or Monday, but I'm flexible.



I am better during the week personally, weekends I get no writing done at all, but will bow to the image placement.

Good Luck worthy opponent, with luck and a little typing I won't be quite the pushover I have been to you in the past


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## maxfieldjadenfox (Feb 15, 2007)

carpedavid said:
			
		

> Thanks, MaxfieldJadenFox, for the tough competition! I wasn't previously familiar with your writing, but I know now that I'll be very nervous should we ever meet again.




Most of my CDM writing was consumed by the great post fire...  Thanks for the kind words though.


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## Berandor (Feb 15, 2007)

Piratecat said:
			
		

> Auggh! BSF is _back!_ He's like a zombie or something!  Shoot for the head, everyone, shoot for the head, and don't let him eat your brains.
> 
> 
> 
> Berandor, when would you like to  lose  compete? My ideal time to get photos would be Friday night or Saturday morning.



I don't much care as long as it's after today. Really, take your pick, at least then you cannot blame timing. I guess I'll have to look for an avatar for round three, already.



Spoiler



Now, let's just hope the remote control I put on Lady Death during my recent stint as emergency judge works.


Did I say that out loud?


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## yangnome (Feb 15, 2007)

OK, Here's what I have for match times.  Let me know if there is a problem

Round 2:
Match 1:
Carpe David vs. BSF (Sunday after I wake up, will probably be later than 9am PST unless my wife has somethign planned for me, which could make it earlier in the morning)

Match 2: 
Berandor vs. PirateCat (late Fri night/early Sat morning)

Match 3:
Rodrigo Istalindir vs. Tadk (Monday morning PST)

Match 4:
Mythago vs. Miles Pilitus (Sunday after I wake up, will probably be later than 9am PST unless my wife has somethign planned for me, which could make it earlier in the morning)


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## Piratecat (Feb 15, 2007)

I'd actually rather have it late PST Friday night after your game, if that's an option! That'll let Berandor see it Saturday morning European time, and it'll be there when I get up Saturday. I fly to California on Tuesday, so the more I can do before Monday night the better.

Thanks, and let me know if that would be okay.


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## Berandor (Feb 15, 2007)

Actually, late friday evening would be perfect timing (as PC said, I'll see them as I get up or after breakfast).


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## Rodrigo Istalindir (Feb 15, 2007)

yangnome said:
			
		

> (Sunday after I wake up, will probably be later than 9am PST unless my wife has somethign planned for me, which could make it earlier in the morning)




Or later, if you're lucky.


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## yangnome (Feb 15, 2007)

Piratecat said:
			
		

> I'd actually rather have it late PST Friday night after your game, if that's an option! That'll let Berandor see it Saturday morning European time, and it'll be there when I get up Saturday. I fly to California on Tuesday, so the more I can do before Monday night the better.
> 
> Thanks, and let me know if that would be okay.



 OK< I can do it late Friday night/Very early Saturday morning. I'm usually home between midnight nd 2am.  Postnig then won't be a problem.

Where are you going to in CA?


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## Piratecat (Feb 15, 2007)

LA - in Tuesday night, back home on the red eye Wednesday! 

And thanks.


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## mythago (Feb 16, 2007)

Including Sunday or Monday would be great for me.


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## yangnome (Feb 16, 2007)

ok, based on your request and Miles' response I moved it to Sunday Am.  I just need a response from Miles noting the change.


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## Sialia (Feb 16, 2007)

CarpeDavid, apologies for being late in getting around to reading your story. Even though everyone has already told you it's brilliant, I wanted to add my two cents: It's brilliant.
And also, you've gone and gotten the song "The Ash Grove" permanently stuck in my head now.


(MaxfieldJadenFox, further apologies that I haven't had time to read yours as yet. I will over the weekend.)



I only remember the past and its brightness,
the dear ones I mourn for again gather here.
From out of the shadows their loving looks greet me,
and wistfully searching the leafy green dome,
I find other faces fond bending to greet me,
the ash grove, the ash grove alone is my home.


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## Piratecat (Feb 17, 2007)

Sialia, gird yourself. There will be no crying. I haven't seen the photos yet, of course, but I suspect that my tale will involve baseball, hunchbacks, economists, an eccentric linguist, a ukelele, durian fruits... and no crying.

Look at me manage expectations!


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## carpedavid (Feb 17, 2007)

Sialia said:
			
		

> CarpeDavid, apologies for being late in getting around to reading your story. Even though everyone has already told you it's brilliant, I wanted to add my two cents: It's brilliant.




Wow! Thanks, Sialia!



> And also, you've gone and gotten the song "The Ash Grove" permanently stuck in my head now.




I wasn't previously familiar with that song, but now that I've looked it up, I can say yes, that's just about perfect.


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## Wild Gazebo (Feb 17, 2007)

carpedavid:

I don't really comment on these things very often; but, that was very well written.  Very concise--economic yet encompassing.  Good work!


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## yangnome (Feb 17, 2007)

*Round 2 - Match 2*

OK folks.  It is time to kick off the next round of our competition.  The first match we're posting is actually match 2, Pirate Cat vs. Berandor.  This promises to be a very good round and I'm sure it will be difficult to judge.  Writers, I expect you to come out of your corners with both hands swinging, and I better see some shots below the belt.  You have 72 hours from the time of this post.


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## Berandor (Feb 17, 2007)

Huh. Saw the pictures, had an idea. They seem to be okay.

See you in 72 hours at the latest. I'm really looking forward to where PC will include the ukulele...


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## Herremann the Wise (Feb 17, 2007)

Dear Piratecat and Berandor,

Best of luck with these pictures; may you both quickly find the thread that joins these guys together. I'm really looking forward to the results!  

Spoiler for Judges Only!
[sblock]Now I meant it, unless you are a judge, *don't open* the spoiler block.
[sblock]Seriously, unless your name is either yangnome or orchid blossom, you're just ruining things.[sblock]OK, I can see you're not playing fair so neither will I![sblock]
[sblock]Now remember who's scythe I'm holding. I can - if pushed - give him a suggestion or two for future work![/sblock]
[sblock]Ha Nothing! You think I'd be silly enough to post something important here?[/sblock]
[sblock]That's what emails are for buddy![/sblock]
[sblock]You still looking? I thought you would have gotten the hint?[/sblock]
[sblock]OK, I'm just going to have to be cruel and give some more pain[sblock]You[/sblock][sblock]will[/sblock][sblock]find[/sblock][sblock]nothing![/sblock][/sblock]
[sblock][sblock]Nice photoshop on image one. I reckon you maybe could have left the willy in but heh, best not to upset anyone. 
Well i had to have _some_ message for the judges.  [/sblock][/sblock]
[sblock]Actually, you may have gone past it by now.[/sblock]
[sblock]Well go on, back up to the top.[/sblock]
[sblock]Oh so you thought you'd go direct to the bottom one huh? Why don't you go bake to the top.[/sblock]
[/sblock][/sblock][/sblock][/sblock]


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## Berandor (Feb 17, 2007)

Can we open the spoiler later? Or never?


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## Piratecat (Feb 17, 2007)

Damn good pictures.


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## Gulla (Feb 17, 2007)

Herremann the Wise said:
			
		

> Spoiler for Judges Only!




That is just plain mean   

I'll probably be so distracted by this that I won't even manage to write comments. So if no more comments are comming, blame Herremann   

Håkon
trying hard not to look.


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## yangnome (Feb 17, 2007)

Herremann the Wise said:
			
		

> Dear Piratecat and Berandor,
> 
> Best of luck with these pictures; may you both quickly find the thread that joins these guys together. I'm really looking forward to the results!
> 
> ...




[sblock]Now I meant it, unless you are a judge, *don't open* the spoiler block.
[sblock]Seriously, unless your name is either yangnome or orchid blossom, you're just ruining things.[sblock]OK, I can see you're not playing fair so neither will I![sblock]
[sblock]Now remember who's scythe I'm holding. I can - if pushed - give him a suggestion or two for future work![/sblock]
[sblock]Ha Nothing! You think I'd be silly enough to post something important here?[/sblock]
[sblock]That's what emails are for buddy![/sblock]
[sblock]You still looking? I thought you would have gotten the hint?[/sblock]
[sblock]OK, I'm just going to have to be cruel and give some more pain[sblock]You[/sblock][sblock]will[/sblock][sblock]find[/sblock][sblock]nothing![/sblock][/sblock]
[sblock][sblock]Nice photoshop on image one. I reckon you maybe could have left the willy in but heh, best not to upset anyone. 
Well i had to have _some_ message for the judges.  [sblock]I figured it was better safe than sorry.  I'm still debating about PSing the other photo as well.[/sblock][/sblock][/sblock]
[sblock]Actually, you may have gone past it by now.[/sblock]
[sblock]Well go on, back up to the top.[/sblock]
[sblock]Oh so you thought you'd go direct to the bottom one huh? Why don't you go bake to the top.[/sblock]
[/sblock][/sblock][/sblock][/sblock]


----------



## Piratecat (Feb 17, 2007)

You guys suck.


----------



## yangnome (Feb 17, 2007)

glad you guys enjoyed the pics.


----------



## maxfieldjadenfox (Feb 17, 2007)

I'm not a boy (I only play on in D&D) but I think I'd way rather see dangly bits than an amorphous blob... Kinda creepy.


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## orchid blossom (Feb 17, 2007)

maxfieldjadenfox said:
			
		

> I'm not a boy (I only play on in D&D) but I think I'd way rather see dangly bits than an amorphous blob... Kinda creepy.




Dang skippy.


----------



## yangnome (Feb 17, 2007)

i wanted to make sure we were grandma friendly.


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## orchid blossom (Feb 17, 2007)

Of course, but it also lends a nice...  mystique... to that pic.


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## Herremann the Wise (Feb 17, 2007)

Piratecat said:
			
		

> You guys suck.



Coming from the guy who plays "I'm a mod so I can add replies to locked threads...repeatedly", I feel not bad at all.   

Anyway, I suppose you guys can look at the spoiler - when you've submitted your stories. It would be way too distracting otherwise.   

Best Regards
Herremann the Wise


----------



## Piratecat (Feb 18, 2007)

Hmmph. Well, I have a plot I like and the writing is going suspiciously easily. We'll see.

But no ukeleles.


----------



## yangnome (Feb 18, 2007)

*Round 2 Match 1*

Match 1:
Carpe David vs. BSF

OK contestants.  You have five pictures this round and 72 hours from the time of this post to draft a story.  Good luck.


----------



## yangnome (Feb 18, 2007)

*Round 2 Match 4*

Match 4:
Mythago vs. Miles Pilitus

OK contestants.  You have five pictures this round and 72 hours from the time of this post to draft a story.  Good luck.


----------



## mythago (Feb 18, 2007)

yangnome said:
			
		

> Match 4:
> Mythago vs. Miles Pilitus
> 
> OK contestants.  You have five pictures this round and 72 hours from the time of this post to draft a story.  Good luck.




Yay, two pictures without people in them


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## orchid blossom (Feb 18, 2007)

Remind me never to compete when yangnome is choosing the pictures.


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## BSF (Feb 18, 2007)

mythago said:
			
		

> Yay, two pictures without people in them




Yeah, it is nice to have the implied characters minimized.  

I gotta say that I love the picture with the dog and cat though.  Though, it does look familiar.  I am pretty sure it hasn't been used in a previous Ceramic DM, but I think I have seen it somewhere.  *shrug*  Them's the breaks when you scour the internet for odd pictures sometimes.


----------



## orchid blossom (Feb 18, 2007)

BSF said:
			
		

> I gotta say that I love the picture with the dog and cat though.  Though, it does look familiar.  I am pretty sure it hasn't been used in a previous Ceramic DM, but I think I have seen it somewhere.  *shrug*  Them's the breaks when you scour the internet for odd pictures sometimes.




I've seen it used as someone's avatar in a couple places.  Since we frequent some of the same places, you probably have too.


----------



## carpedavid (Feb 18, 2007)

Oh, come on - those are _easy_. I mean, you could do...

*erm*

*umm*

*hrm*

Nope, I got nothin'.


----------



## Berandor (Feb 18, 2007)

Piratecat said:
			
		

> Hmmph. Well, I have a plot I like and the writing is going suspiciously easily. We'll see.
> 
> But no ukeleles.



 I'm looking forward to see what you came up with. I like my plot, too, but writing is hard this time. I struggle through the paragraphs, revise them, delete them, write them anew... and I fear it might be a long story when it's done. If it ever gets done. 

I feel like Sialia, only without the genius.


----------



## Piratecat (Feb 19, 2007)

I'm not sure I ever feel like Sialia. One of her hallmarks, and one of the things that fills me with wonder, is that she starts writing as soon as she sees the pictures and _just doesn't stop._ Her problem is stopping the story, not starting it. I generally don't work that way. For better or for worse, tonight seems to be my exception.

This story is writing itself. And nary a hunchback to be seen.

I can't wait to read your story. I love seeing what someone else does with the same photos, even though it always makes me curse when I see opportunities that I might have missed.


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## Berandor (Feb 19, 2007)

Piratecat said:
			
		

> I'm not sure I ever feel like Sialia. One of her hallmarks, and one of the things that fills me with wonder, is that she starts writing as soon as she sees the pictures and _just doesn't stop._ Her problem is stopping the story, not starting it. I generally don't work that way. For better or for worse, tonight seems to be my exception.



Okay, so I don't feel like Sialia. That's one hell of a problem to have, though


----------



## yangnome (Feb 19, 2007)

*Round 2 Match 3*

Match 3:
Rodrigo Istalindir vs. Tadk

OK contestants. You have five pictures this round and 72 hours from the time of this post to draft a story. Good luck.


----------



## tadk (Feb 19, 2007)

*Wtf*

I was really liking this batch till that 4th picture
can we get a little context on that bad boy?
And why the inflatable off color penguin

I had a plot forming till I saw the alien baby thing
G/L my esteemed opponent, I doubt you shall have much to fear this round.

TK


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## yangnome (Feb 19, 2007)

you're supposed ot provide the context


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## Berandor (Feb 19, 2007)

First draft done. Only 4,000 words, so all turned out right. Now to see whether it makes any sort of sense, at all. I foresee posting my story within the next 2 hours.

And then I'll read the frigging spoiler.

Edit: I just took a look at the other pictures. Wow, yangnome, you are *mean*! Remind me not to enter a Ceramic DM you're running.

Uhm, ever again.


----------



## Piratecat (Feb 19, 2007)

Second draft done. I'm going to walk the dog and reread my ending. I find endings to be the most difficult part of a story. I came in at 3700 words, so we're pretty close to one another. I'll post it once I'm back.

I'll race you to the spoiler.


----------



## Piratecat (Feb 19, 2007)

Round 2, Match 2: Piratecat vs. Berandor


*Thy Kingdom Come*
By Kevin Kulp (Piratecat)

*Dateline: June 5
EBRO, FLORIDA*

I can smell the cordite. This little corner of the Panhandle goes quiet as the assault rifle fires, surely scaring off any wildlife that might otherwise have expressed an interest in us. Spent cartridges drop into the rich Florida mud at Parker’s feet. I wonder how many cartridges are down there. Thousands, I decide; this hill has the bumpy texture of a teenager’s forehead. The sound of the rifle echoes around us, hammering the rancid summer air. Birds take flight as if in a bad John Woo movie.

From where we stand on the hummock, the target is a pink lump two hundred yards distant. You can’t see the stake it’s tied to. If it squirmed, you wouldn’t be able to tell. It’s too far away.

The fat man next to me bites his lip as he squints and aims. Ripples of flesh jiggle from the recoil. I imagine what it’s like for the bullets to hit, flatten, tear, ricochet, smash. He stops firing and spits out a thin brown stream into the dirt.  “Still alive,” he says with a slight grin, and slots another clip. “You want a go?”

I decline, and he brings the rifle back up to his shoulder. 

“You can never be sure how hard they’ll be to kill. That’s why I practice. I’ve had everything from simple to nightmarish. The worst one was in a souk in Morocco. She was close to the time, I think, so the killing shot only hurt her. I had to chase her. It got ugly.”

I inquire about gender. “They’re not all male. Most are, I think, but God doesn’t particularly care about gender.” He smiles again, a private joke. “Don’t tell the churches. They’ll be scandalized.”

I’m here in this tropical swamp to profile a man named Parker. He kills children, and he claims he does it to save the world.

- - -

Ten minutes later, I extend a finger to tap the target’s head.  Small chunks of pink plastic fall into the mud. He hadn’t said, and I hadn’t been sure. From where I stand next to the green and white stake, I can see the lonely remains of other shattered mannequins dropped into the bushes behind me. I count, and there are at least sixteen.  All are the size of children.

I feel exposed as I walk back to Parker. He nods at me. “Got a brother who owns the factory,” he says, and slots a third clip with an audible ka-CHAK. “Even when things are slow, you have to keep your hand in.”

“Does it bother you shooting at something the size of a child?” I ask. He looks at me.

“They’re the right size. Every time I squeeze the trigger, I remind myself what’s at stake. The only difference here is that the target isn’t living.”


*June 6
TALAHASSEE, FLORIDA*

“The Rapture would come if we’d just let it,” says Parker. “My job is to make sure that it doesn’t. I accomplish that by any means I can.”  We are buying coffee in an urban Starbucks. Even with the air conditioning he sweats from the heat. There is another Starbucks two blocks down the avenue, but he has chosen this one for a reason. Parker points out the window and across the street.

“Do you see it?”

I study the storefront with the picture in the window. “Books-A-Million!” the sign trumpets. “30% off!”  A bright yellow sign leers at me, sun-faded, boasting an adorable child in a lop-eared bunny suit. Easter-themed, which strikes me as particularly ironic. People stroll past with no idea of what they’re seeing. I study the image of the child, and for a second I think I can sense the sanctity.

Still, it’s an inauspicious introduction to the new messiah.

Parker shades his eyes. “For a while, pictures of that one were everywhere. It was closer to the surface than it is with most of them, and his parents saw it too. They just didn’t understand it. He went easily.”

I keep my expression steady. “No one noticed?” I ask.

“Not particularly. His whole family disappeared. Moved, supposedly. Their neighbors never learned why. Someone filed a missing persons report, and the FBI got involved, but I was long gone by then.”

“You killed them?” I ask, knowing the answer. He knows that he’s being recorded.

“Of course I did.”  He studies my face, squinting as if into sunlight. “It goes with the job.”

Something occurs to me. “JonBenét Ramsey?”

He harrumphs, and his jowls wobble. “Sloppy. Not me.”

I ask then who. “There are very few of us, and we don’t know one another. Each person has a protégé or two. We make bad jokes about Star Wars and Sith Lords. But we aren’t evil. I’m certainly not. I’m more like the Little Dutch Boy.”

I raise my eyebrows. “Hans Brinker? The one with the dike?”

Parker nods once. “You know the story. He kept back the flood by sticking his finger in the dike and stopping up the leak until help could come. It led to a lot of schoolyard jokes. It also led to the timeless image.” His head tilts up and his voice gets deeper. “One man standing between innocents and horrible disaster, holding it back with inadequate tools, the only way he knows how.”

“Is that how you see yourself?”

He rips a yellow packet in half and dumps it into his coffee. He doesn’t look at me. “The pressure keeps increasing. These things keep getting born, faster and faster. They’re all over, each one ready to step in when the other one dies, none of them knowing the truth. You know that Buffy show on TV? It stole the idea, only in reverse. Joss got in some trouble for that.” 

I ask him to explain.

“In that show there’s only one slayer at a time, right? She dies, another one gets created. The Messiah is the same. One of them dies, and the holy spirit moves on to the next one. Heaven keeps trying. They’ve been trying for nine years.” He grins like a feral dog, showing his teeth. “We’re overdue for Armageddon. Me? I keep the world alive.”

We walk outside, and the wet heat hits us like a club. I try to believe him. What I believe is that I just had coffee with a serial killer.

“How many of these Messiahs have you killed?”

He looks at me, pulling on his sunglasses. I can’t see his eyes. “You want to meet one?”


*June 8
OGDEN, UTAH*

We stroll past the Dino Day Camp, up by the brachiosaurus exhibit and onto the bridge that leads to the lab and museum. Parker doesn’t seem to be in any particular hurry. Ogden’s Dinosaur Park is busy today. A kid in front of us slaps at mosquitoes, and a small child screams bloody murder when his father holds him up to the fiberglass pterodactyl.

I’m not sure what to look for. Someone walking on water, maybe. Or turning soda pop to wine.

I ask Parker why he’s being so open with me. After pondering it for a time, he answers slowly. “There’s no danger in telling you the truth. You can’t publish.”

I stare at him. “Of course I can. That’s why I’m here.”

“No it isn’t, but I’ll tell you about that later. You’ll never be allowed to publish this story. A number of very influential people have a very large vested interest in seeing that I don’t get caught.”  He laughs, but there isn’t much humor in it. He puts his hands in his pockets.

“How so?”

“Think about it. What happens if I fail and a messiah returns to us? I’m sure you read Wikipedia or went to church or something before you got assigned to this story. So what happens?”

 “It depends on what religion you are.”  I pause. “What religion are you?”

“Later,” he says. “It doesn’t particularly matter whether I’m Muslim, or Christian, or Jewish. It certainly hasn’t mattered to God.  Pick a religion, and describe what happens.” He wipes his brow.

I describe what I can remember. Natural disasters and plagues, Armageddon, the judging of the faithful, the dead rising from their graves, ascension into heaven for those found worthy, hell for those who aren’t. A world war. The horsemen of the apocalypse. The more I repeat, the more comes back to me. Most of it sounds like nonsense.  “So,” Parker says with intensity, “if a messiah shows up, all that adds up to a lot of misery. Right? And you thought global warming was bad. But in this case, _everything_ ends. And _everyone_ dies.”

I stare at him. “But people get into heaven!”

“_Some_ people get into heaven. Quite a few religions, mine included, believe that number is exactly 144,000 souls, drawn from both the living and the dead.” He wipes his brow again. “The last estimate I checked said that about 100 billion people have lived on this Earth. I did the math. If those scientists are right, that puts my chance at making it into heaven at .00014%. It’s the proverbial ‘one chance in a million.’ You feeling righteous enough to take that chance? Cause I’m not.” 

I don’t answer him. I wonder whether I can call 911 on my cell phone without him noticing. I point out that his chances of heaven would be better if he didn’t murder children, but he ignores me.

Instead he continues, ticking off points on his fingers. “And there’s seven years of death and misery beforehand, and the world pretty much collapses. So I’m putting that off, too. All it takes is killing some kids who are being used by God. And a lot of powerful people in the know are working on a long-term solution. I don’t worry about official repercussions, so I don’t think you’re actually going to publish.” He looks at me and smiles. “But I surely do appreciate the company. And now we’re here.” He pushes open the door to the museum, and cool air washes around us.

I ask him where the current messiah is. His target. He scans the room and points past a T-rex towards a gawky boy climbing in to a large dinosaur egg. I excuse myself and walk over to the boy. He must be fourteen, and he doesn’t look unusual in the least. He lolls in the huge plaster egg, his mustard-colored shirt making him easy to spot. I realize that I’ve seen him walking in front of us on the way to the building. He’s the boy who slapped at a bug.

He looks at me with pale eyes as I squat down next to the egg. “Hey there,” I say.

“Hey,” says the boy, and his spirit strikes me with the force of a hammer. For a second I have no choice but _believe._ I would follow this boy anywhere. I would die for this boy. I love him. The rest of the room fades to a pale blur. 

I swallow. “I’m a reporter. Who… who are you?”

“My name’s Mike.” He seems exhausted, but his voice transfixes me. I soar in light. “So?”

I stutter out that I’m writing an article. He groans theatrically and my heart leaps. “Not another one! What is it now?”

I shake my head like a wet dog. “What do you mean?”

“The last few weeks, man. Everyone wants to be around me. _Everyone_ wants to talk to me. I dunno why. I got no privacy.” He looks resentful, and then yawns. “I came here to get away. And now a reporter!” I find myself wanting his approval more than I can say. I remember the threat.

“Look,” I manage to get out, “you need to run. There’s a man over there who wants to kill you.” I look around, but Parker is nowhere to be seen. “You’re in real danger.” I look back at Mike, but he looks stoned as he lies inside the egg.

“You know, I feel so good.” He mumbles, but I hear every word. His eyes slide half-closed. He smiles. “Can you maybe call…” He manages to raise his hand and simulate a phone, but my cell is already out and I’m mashing the nine and one and one keys as quickly as I can. Mike slouches into sleep there inside the egg, and I crouch next to him while 911 assures me that an EMT is on the way. And a police car. 

No one arrives. 

I call again, and the first call was apparently never logged, and they assure me that an ambulance will be sent. I look around and the room is now completely empty, but I can’t leave my savior’s side. No one comes. I call a third time and no one picks up the phone. As I sit there, Mike’s breathing slows, then stops, and just like that the spell is broken. I stumble outside with no idea how much time has passed. Parker is waiting for me in the heat, eating an ice cream cone and spitting tobacco juice into a fountain. 

“Told you,” he said. “Almost got to this one too late.”

“How did you…” I ask, and despite myself I start to sob. I hitch and rock. A woman looks at me oddly and shoos her children away from me.

“On the path,” Parker says. “And now you know the truth. For a little while there, he was the son of God.” He looks up to the blue sky. “Another Armageddon averted. A lonely mother sad because her son just died of an undiagnosed heart condition. And right now the divine spirit just entered some other kid. That’s the bitch of it. I try to let them live as long as they can, but we don’t know how old they have to be before everything triggers. There’s too much at stake to allow many risks.” 

My breath catches in my throat. Right now I could kill him myself, but curiosity takes hold. “How do you find them?” I manage to ask.

He considers. “Bring your passport.”


*June 11
KONYA, TURKEY*

They spin in the dust, whirling. Their purple robes shimmer in the heat. The air here smells of incense and something I can’t identify. I wonder if it’s the odor of corruption. It occurred to me on the flight here that the stolid neutrality that I’d maintained throughout my career was badly shaken. I feel lost, bobbing in a sea of insane possibility. Worse, it is an insanity that makes a horrific amount of sense.

In the airport, I whispered to a security guard that my companion had murdered a child. With competent aggression they immediately marched both of us out of the line and into back rooms. They take that sort of thing seriously. I breathed a sigh of relief. And twenty minutes later we were escorted via a little white electric cart directly to Gate 23, where they bumped us to first class and brought us complementary cocktails. Parker didn’t say anything, but he looked disappointed. I felt like I was drowning. I decided to do the only thing I could.  I called my editor. 

He told me to do my job and hung up. 

He must be part of Parker’s conspiracy. There’s no one to trust.  I asked Parker about religious leaders. The Pope, for instance. Parker laughed and gulped down a drink, his fleshy throat wobbling as he swallowed. “You think they want the world to end any more than we do?” He didn’t elaborate further. I didn’t ask. I should have. I was still shaken from Utah.

Now jet lag wears at me, and the song is giving me a headache. These dervishes are distinctly modern; they arrived at the ruin in a line of SUVs, they wear sunglasses and sneakers, and their robes are far from traditional. “The hat is the tombstone of the ego,” Parker says. “The skirt is the ego’s shroud. They whirl around the truth.”  I don’t particularly believe it. Parker leans over to tell me that this is a daily occurrence, and that these men or their fathers or their forefathers have been performing this dance for five hundred years. Almost as an afterthought, he adds that it wasn’t until nine years ago that anyone remembered why. “And who says that tradition isn’t important,” he chuckles. My hands shake.

The dance ends. Parker steps forward to speak with one of the Sufi mystics. He turns. “China. A bad one. God is upping the ante.”

I take a deep breath and nod.

Later, on the plane, I jostle him awake. “Why me?” I demand. “Why’d you want a reporter if I can’t tell the story?”

He grunts and turns away. “There’s a lot for me to tell. I wanted a hagiographer.”

I stare. “For you? What?”

He turns back. “What do you call a man who selflessly sacrifices his life and his soul to save millions of innocents? Who performs miracles?” I stare at him, and he shrugs. “Most people would call him a saint.”

I try to keep my voice to a whisper. “You’re mad! You’re thwarting _God!_ You’re defying divine will!” 

“To save the world,” he reiterates patiently. “I think that sort of defines martyr, don’t you? So make sure you take good notes.”

I want to whine. “But you’re a murderer. That means eternal torment. How are you not going to roast in Hell?” 

He winks. “And how do you know there is a Hell? I’ve seen no proof. Maybe the true religion is Judaism. I’m still not sure which Testament god we’re dealing with here, and I don’t particularly care. What I have right now is better than what I’m going to get. I’m happy to prolong it.” 

I rub my eyes. He turns back. “I’ll point out that in addition to a biographer, I need a disciple. Think about it.” 

Western China rushes past beneath us. 


*June 21.
UNNAMED VILLAGE NORTH OF YUMEN *

We are within a hundred miles of China’s border with Mongolia. This is the embodiment of emptiness. Parker tells me that the village ahead of us didn’t want to be found, and now I think I understand what he means. We certainly didn’t find any roads that led here. We crouch in darkness on the eastern edge of the village. The sun will be up soon. I smell smoke, and goats, and body odor.

Parker speaks quietly. “Now you’ll see why I sometimes feel like one of the three wise men. I just bring high caliber ammunition instead of myrrh.” I fail to laugh. He does it for me.

“Watch the stable,” he says. “That’s usually the place. Symbols are important.”

And sure enough, it’s the ramshackle stable whose door opens first. The sound of a hymn fills the air. I don’t understand the language, but it’s clearly a holy song. It spirals like a dove up into the pre-dawn silence, pure and beautiful. The messiah making his way out to greet the dawn. My breath catches in my throat at the image, and I suddenly wish I could paint with something other than words.

I bring the binoculars to my face. I see two men and a boy, and at first I think that the boy must be the new vessel. They carry a basin. It’s too dark to see what is inside it, but I see something twitch and jiggle. A sacrifice, I ask? Then the sun breaks across the horizon, and the sky above me fills with pink and gold. I gaze upon the Son of Man.

I was wrong. It isn’t the boy who’s the Messiah. It’s the thing in the basin. 

It isn’t much of a savior. Naked and mewling and horribly large, it looks like it just pulled itself from the womb. At first I can’t conceive of it being human. It has spindly limbs and the self-aware eyes of a frog, its bloated face oddly passive and content in the morning dawn. It is dried blood and bedsores and caked on filth. I see no sign of divinity in this creature, except maybe that it wasn’t stillborn. 

Parker makes a sound of disgust. “One of _these_,” he says. I don’t have time to ask.

The lilting hymn reaches a crescendo, and the disciples lift the child towards the sky. Parker raises his rifle and looks through the telescopic scope. It’s time. I know in my heart I should stop him and I realize that I don’t have the courage. I wonder what the consequences will be. I wait for the killing shot. I lower my binoculars as if pretending it will help, and from here the target is just a pink lump two hundred yards distant. I can see why Parker practices with the mannequin.

And I can tell when it sees us. 

The terrible awe hits me like a geyser, and this time I struggle against it. The distance makes it weaker. I felt this same exultation in the museum with Mike. It knows me and welcomes me, this spirit. I have no doubt whatsoever, and I wait for Parker to kill it. My heart soars in rapture. The shot doesn’t come. The power of the Lord rises up against us, a vast golden wall of terrible love. Conflict wracks me. Angels sing in my ears.

The shot doesn’t come.

I look over to see Parker crying. He’s fitting the end of the rifle barrel into his mouth. He’s clumsy at it. I snatch away the rifle, tearing it from his grasp, and the gun skids across the hard-packed soil. Parker’s lips are working and I’m not surprised to hear him mouthing the Lord’s Prayer. He unholsters his pistol and raises it to his head, tears still coursing down the dust on his fat face. _Suicide is a sin,_ I think irrationally, and I scoop up the rifle.

I hear the song of angels. The holy spirit is eternal, I tell myself. This is what I saw in Mike. This is what I love. If it is gone from here, it will be reborn elsewhere. I’ll have another chance to decide. What I’m doing is buying us some time. 

I tell myself it’s not actually death. 

It’s still focused on Parker. I think of the Little Dutch Boy, standing in the dark and plugging the leak so that his country will be saved. 

I pull the trigger.


- x -


----------



## Berandor (Feb 19, 2007)

*Ceramic DM, Round Two: Piratecat vs. Berandor

Dancing in the Streets*

Part one: Dan Smith

The door to the delivery room flew open. A nurse hastened out, pressing a hand to her mouth. Dan stopped wringing his hands and got up.

»Miss? Is everything alright?«

The nurse barely spared him a look and rushed along, disappearing into the ladies' room down the hallway. Dan looked at the door to the delivery room. It was closing slowly. It drew Dan towards it. From inside the room, he heard the doctor giving orders like a general under fire: frantic, yet calm at the same time.

»More swab. Hold it tight. You'll have to sew it. I'll take care of the cervix. Don't faint on me now. For god's sake, get yourself together!«

Rachel's voice was but a tiny whisper in comparison, but Dan heard her every word. »Can I see him?«

The door fell closed. The voices ceased. 

A terrible scream echoed through the ward. Dan rushed to the door, but he would be too late. Rachel was dead.

-

Dan took Adam home the same night. The doctors said it was dangerous, that the child might die.

»Very well«, Dan answered. He hoped it did. The ›child‹ was an abnormity, an ugly miscreation. And more, it had killed Rachel. When Dan looked at that misshapen face, he felt like he might puke. He brought the thing home and put it into the room they had prepared. The cot barely contained its bloated body. Dan could not stop staring. The child looked back with its bulging eyes, silent as death.

Dan forced himself away. He closed the door behind him and went downstairs into the living room to make short work of any alcohol he could find. God willing, he would get too drunk to climb the stairs and choke the child as it slept.

»My son«, he said, tasting the words. They tasted foul, slimy. He resisted the urge to spit them out. Tomorrow, he would get a caretaker for the thing. Tonight, he would drink.

-

Over the next months, Dan went through several caretakers. Adam freaked them out. It wasn't so much his looks, they claimed (though Dan hardly believed them). It was his silence. Adam would not utter a sound, whether he was hungry, tired, or his diapers were full. One woman went so far as to put a needle into his arm. The boy flinched, but he did not cry.

A friend of Rachel's, Myriel T. Hago, urged Dan to see a doctor. She was preparing a lawsuit against BioLabs for the radiation treatments Rachel had undergone, a process called OptiChild that was supposed to genetically enhance a child's intelligence. Dan didn't want to spend any more money on Adam than was necessary, but the more damage he could claim, the more likely would BioLabs have to pay for their part in the killing of his wife. He relented.

They did not have to wait for the examination. The nurse was anxious to get Adam out of her sight again and had them go right through. The doctor stared at Adam for a few seconds before catching himself. Dan felt like he was the father of the elephant man. The doctor examined Adam thoroughly. The child's muscles had atrophied from lack of exercise, and of course his bones were bent and crooked, but the nerve reaction was normal, as was his larynx. Adam felt discomfort and pain, and he wasn't dumb, either. He simply didn't cry. Or babble, for that matter.

Dan heaved Adam back into the car. He didn't fasten the seatbelt around the child – perhaps he would have an accident and be relieved of the boy. He got into the driver's seat. Adam stared at him.

»What are you looking at?«, Dan said. »You're gonna kill me, too?«

-

»It's not looking good«, Myriel admitted. »The jury is not convinced you're not simply out for the money.«

»Out for the–« Dan was furious. »It took me almost two years to get this thing to court, and now I'm the bad guy? Let me testify, and I will tell them who the bad guy really is.«

»We can't do that«, Myriel said. »The defense will tear you apart. You're not exactly father of the year.«

»But my wife is dead! And I have to live with – with a freak instead of her.«

»Still, that's not going to make your standing with the jury any better.«

»Then what do you expect me to do?«

Myriel paused for a second. »Get Adam.«

Dan shook his head. »No way.«

»Yes way.« She patted his arm. »We can sell your reluctance as not wanting to hurt the boy, but we have to have him appear in court. One look at him–«

»One look at him, and they'll know what a monster he is.«

»And that BioLabs created him.«

The next day, Dan took Adam to court. The boy looked grotesque, just as Myriel had imagined he would. Barely two years old, he was already the size of a young boy. Dan had put him into a large steel basin in order to make his appearance even more striking. He'd never bothered to buy any clothes for Adam, so the boy was nude and only covered by a large blanket. He still didn't have any hair on his body. Dan could not bear to look at his face with its fat lips, the flat nose and the trumpet-like ears sticking to the sides like alien antennae. 

When he ascended the stairs to the courthouse, people started gathering around him. Everybody wanted to take a look at this freak of a child, it seemed. Suddenly, someone pulled the blanket away and revealed the cancerous blob of flesh the boy had for genitalia. The crowd murmured, cell phones and digital cameras flashed. Someone flung a water balloon at Adam. It hit him in the chest. It must have been filled with jelly of some kind, because now Adam was covered in a greasy substance as if freshly born. As if he had just torn Rachel apart. The crowd roared, and even more cameras flashed.

Dan stumbled into the courthouse, barely reaching the men's room before throwing up. He rinsed his mouth with water, and then went to find someone to clean Adam up.

Three days later, the jury awarded Dan and Adam two hundred forty-one million dollars in damages. Another week later, BioLabs declared bancruptcy. They never paid a cent.

-

Dan wrote a book. It came out on the fourth anniversary of Rachel's death. It was an account of Rachel's pregnancy, and of Dan's life with Adam. Critics hailed it as »impressive«, »depressing and realistic«, and »brave and honest«. Dan's editor wanted a picture of Adam on the cover. Dan said no. Ernie also disliked the title. Dan resisted. And so, ›Torn Apart: how OptiChild killed my wife and ruined my life‹ featured an overly cute baby on its cover, and kept its title. It sold one hundred and seventeen copies.

-

Dan put his briefcase on the kitchen table. He scratched his head and got himself a glass and a fresh bottle of vodka. He was in the middle of his second glass when he noticed the sheet of paper. Marie had written a letter. Another caretaker had quit. Dan walked to the foot of the stairs. The first floor was eerily silent.

»Just shout if you need something«, he muttered, then went back to his drink.

The bottle was half empty before he dared check the mail. Invoices, all of them. Dan threw them away. Only when the bottle was empty did Dan notice it had been his last one. He would need to buy some more. He got into the car and drove to town.

A truck was parking in front of Jimmy's Liquor. Dan parked right behind and fumbled to get the key out of the ignition. He made to get out of the car. He noticed the bookstore next to Jimmy's Liquor. He froze. His book stared right at him, on sale for thirty percent off.

»...ruined my life,« Dan muttered. »Ruined.«

The cutest baby in the world grinned at him from the cover of his book.

Dan put the key back into the ignition and started the car. With screeching tires, he sped off. He didn't need more vodka. He needed a gun.

-

Dan opened the door to Adam's room. It was dark; a handful beams of sunlight streaked through the window shutters. Dan was nearly overwhelmed by the smell. He wondered when Marie had left and whether she'd cleaned Adam before she had. He stepped forward to the large cot. Adam sat there, dressed in diapers and nothing else, dried feces on his stomach and legs. 

»You're almost five«, Dan leered. »You should have learned to clean yourself by now, freak.«

A book lay next to him, but Dan couldn't make out its title. He picked it up: ›Berenice‹. It didn't seem like a children's book, but then he didn't know that much about children's books, anyway. Or about writing books. Dan drew the gun he'd just bought.

He pointed it at Adam. It felt reassuringly heavy in his hand. Adam simply stared at it. His ears twitched, but his eyes did not blink.

»You killed my wife and ruined my life.« 

Adam reached out to touch the gun, but his bent arms did not reach it.

»You f...ing ruined my life.« Dan felt tears running down his face. He tried to blink them away. When he closed his eyes, he could hear Rachel's dying scream, her terror when she saw what she had given birth to. Sorry, the doctors had said. Bancrupt, BioLabs had said. Thirty percent off, the picture had said.

»F...ing starve to death, you freak.« Dan turned the gun around, put it in his mouth, and pulled the trigger.

The police found Adam, caked in feces and blood, reading his book in near total darkness.

-

Part two: Adam

His mother had been a dancer, Adam was sure of it. She danced all the time, even when there wasn't any music playing. She heard the music in her head, and that was enough. Adam could see her, standing in the street, her hands full with shopping bags, spreading her arms and swirling around. All the other people had to duck away from her, to make room for her dancing. And they looked at her angrily, and she smiled, and their anger disappeared.

And when she came home, she would grab Adam and sweep him through the kitchen, into the living room, and out into the garden. She sun would shine for them, and they would smile back at the sun, and everything would be fine.

But his mother never came home. She had spoken, she had sung, she had screamed. And when she did, she had died. Adam would not die, and so he did not speak, nor sing, nor scream. It was too dangerous.

Adam still remembered the look the doctor gave him in the delivery room. He remembered the exact face the man had made, even though at the time, Adam had not known it was a face. He remembered everything that had ever happened to him. If one of the many caretakers read a book to him, he would remember every sound she made, and every letter that went along with it. And if his father came into his room late at night to sneer at him, Adam would remember every bit of hate and disgust that man offered him. And when his father went back to his drinks, Adam would close his eyes and see his mother dance.

He also remembered the gun in his face. It was one of his favorite memories. He had been tested, then. Adam had been hungry that evening, and soiled. His father had taken his book away, and then threatened him with a gun. But Adam had not said anything. For a moment, he'd wanted to apologize, even though he didn't know why or what for, but he had managed to remain silent, and had survived.

Silence was golden.

-

After his father died, Adam was brought to Saint Angela's orphanage, where the only book allowed was the bible, where the nuns were mean, and where the children were meaner. The nuns often beat Adam with a paddle, and the children liked to try to make him scream by pinching him or putting beetles on his face. Still, it was the best time he'd had so far. Adam was put into a wheelchair, and as he learned to push the wheels and himself forward, he was also allowed to go outside, to the courtyard. It was so wonderful, Adam had almost squealed with joy, and only barely restrained himself.

About six weeks after he had gotten to the orphanage, a woman arrived. Adam recognized her as his father's lawyer, Myriel. She smelled nice, not at all like the nuns. She smelled of life. Adam watched her bosom rise and fall as she breathed. He liked that.

»Hey,« Myriel said. »How are you, Adam? You look good.«

Adam would never look good; not while he was in this imperfect body. But he chose not to hold the lie against her.

»I've got good news«, she said. »They're going to publish a book about you. Your father wrote it – most of it, anyway, and now they've got this journalist who's going to write an addendum. And you know what?«

She smiled at him. Adam stared back, too caught up in her smell and her breathing to react.

»They want a picture of you on the cover. You know what the cover is, don't you?«

Adam made his ears twitch. Myriel got the hint.

»Of course you do. Anyway, what do you say if we go outside and make a few pictures, right now? It'll be fun!«

Adam forced his maligned muscles into a smile. 

»Great! Let's go.«

›Suffer the Little Children‹ came out two months later, featuring Adam's face on the cover and a full-body shot on the back. It sold a hundred million copies worldwide.

A few months later, Adam was adopted by struggling physicist Dr. Mark Adair, his wife Emily, and their son Steve. The money, they claimed, was not a factor in their decision.

-

»What's this, then?« Steve asked.

He was home on one of his rare visits from UCLA, and as always he wanted to see what Adam had been up to since they last saw each other. Steve probably thought that as always, it would end with him rolling his eyes at Adam and leaving for university with new stories about his freak brother.

Adam typed something into the computer installed on his wheelchair, and the monitor facing Steve showed the message. _It's comfortable._

»Yeah?« Steve frowned. »Maybe for someone like you, but I've grown in the last ten years. I wouldn't even fit in.«

_Sure you would._

»Anyway. What's it for?«

_I can't explain. I must show you._ 

Adam could have explained. He could have explained that after getting his engineering degree and his doctor of medicine, he had spent what had been left of his fortune to build himself a new body. That he had invented and constructed a machine that would tear his own body to shreds, preserving only the brain, and transplanting it into a perfect shell, a slim, lithe, and powerful body looking not unlike a mannequin and being equally sexless. Adam saw no use for genitals. And he saw no use in explaining all this to Steve, the art major who couldn't tell the difference between a neuron and a neutron.

»Alright, but I gotta tell you, I feel like an assistant to Copperfield or something. Don't saw me into two, alright?«

_I will make you disappear._

Steve laughed. » I see you've developed a sense of humor. Better late than never, eh?«

Adam did not respond. Steve shrugged. »Whatever.« 

He sat down on the edge of the chamber and swung his feet inside. Finally, he took up a curled position in the nest-like chamber. 

»This must be what flying in an alien escape pod must feel like.« Steve turned to look at Adam and put his hand up like a telephone. »Adam phone home.«

_Very funny_, Adam typed. He called up the command screen on his computer and de-activated the interior controls. Now to see whether his construction had worked. Would Steve's body be totally destroyed? Would his brain survive long enough for a theoretical transplantation? Adam clicked on the command screen. The chamber closed.

»What the–?« Steve sounded surprised, but not worried. »It seems I was wrong about your sense of humor, Adam, because that's not. Funny! Now let me out of here.«

Adam hesitated for a moment. Nothing had happened yet. He could pretend it had just been a joke. Nobody would ever know. Nor would he know whether the extractor worked. Adam imagined himself in his new body. Walking across the street, jumping over fences, and above all: dancing. He saw himself dancing. He clicked the screen again.

»What's happening now, Adam? What's tha–« 

The rest was screaming. 

Adam cursed himself for not sound-proofing the extractor. He turned his wheelchair away from the machine and towards the stairs out of the basement. That's where Steve's parents would come from if they heard anything. Adam counted ten seconds before the scream was cut off. He waited for ten minutes, and when nobody came, he turned his focus back on the conputer screen. He smiled. The extraction had been a success.

-

Adam bounded up the stairs and threw the door wide open. He ran into the moonlit garden, arms spread wide. He tested his new legs by jumping up and down a few times. He turned around and around, in ever faster circles, watching the world swoosh past his new eyes. He heard the living night with his new ears, and the distant sound of a television.

-

Dr. Mark Adair got up as the first commercial began to blare its message. »Do you want something from the kitchen, Em?«

»You could re-fill my wine,« Emily Adair answered, holding up her empty glass without looking. Mark Adair took the glass from her hands.

Adam watched his foster father leave the room. He opened the garden door and slipped into the living room. With a few steps – actual steps! – he stood behind the couch. Emily did not look up. For a moment, Adam watched her bosom rise and fall as she breathed. He liked that. Emily shuddered.

»Did you open a window, honey?« 

She turned her head. Adam pressed one hand in front of her mouth and the other around her neck. He broke her like a twig.

»Did you say something?« Dr. Mark Adair came back from the kitchen, a glass of wine and a bottle of beer in his hands. He froze as he saw Adam's new body.

»Who – what are you?« His foster father looked past him. »What did you do to my wife?«

Adam walked towards his foster father. He had to set himself free. Mark Adair stared at him, eyes growing wide, recognizing something.

»Adam? Is that you?«

Adam gently took the wine glass from his foster father's hands. It did not break. Adam had perfect control over his electronic muscles. He plunged the glass deep into his foster father's chest.

-

Adam stepped over the twitching body. He had remade himself, and now his fake family was gone. Soon, he would dance with his mother. There were just a few more ties he had to sever. He still remembered the children who had tortured him, the nurses who had punished him, and the look on the doctor's face in the delivery room. And he remembered all of their names.

-

The orphanage was quiet in the night. Adam stalked the hallway leading to the head nurse's office. He should have come here first. Looking up the children's names, even on the internet, had not helped very much. Adam had only been able to locate three of them, and one had already been dead. The other two had died quickly, as well. Adam found that he had gotten somewhat bored of killing. Perhaps after burning down the orphanage, he would stop for a while. Leave the country, take dancing lessons, and come back when the mood struck him. It wasn't as if he was pressed for time.

Light spilled out from under the office door. Adam heard pages being turned, accompanied by stifled yawns. He turned the doorknob and opened the door just an inch, when suddenly it was pulled from his grip and pulled back. 

There were three men in the office, dressed in riot gear. One man was flipping the pages of a book. The second one had opened the door and smiled grimly at Adam, mimicking a yawn. The third one stood directly in front of the doorway, aiming large rifle at Adam. The hum of electrical current emanated from the strange-looking weapon.

»Hello, Adam,« said the gunman. He pulled the trigger. There was a flash, and then darkness.

-

Another flash, and the world came back. He was outside. It was day. In front of him, half a dozen soldiers with automatic rifles knelt on the ground, facing him. Adam tried to shield himself from the sun, but his arm wouldn't lift. He looked at his body – what was left of it. His arms had been torn off. His legs stuck in a block of cement. They would not move, either. Furthermore, he was bound tight to a pole.

»Adam Smith,« a woman said.

He turned his head back towards the firing squad. Next to the soldiers was a woman in a business dress, reading from a folder she held in her hands.

»You have been found guilty of murder and sentenced to death. In order to insure your passing, your artificial body will be put under heavy fire until it is utterly destroyed. Do you have any final words?«

Adam did not respond. He wanted to see them try.

»Very well,« the woman said. She turned to one of the soldiers. »Sergeant.«

Muzzles flared in staccato. Bullets step-danced on his skin, ricocheting everywhere. The paint coat splattered, tumbling through the air like snowflakes. His skin bent, but did not break.

The gunfire stopped, magazines depleted. Adam's left eye had stopped working, but other than that, he felt fine. The soldiers stared at him. The sergeant spit.

»Get the grenade launcher.«

One of the soldiers got up and hurried to a building in the distance. Adam tried to grin, but only half of his mouth still obeyed his commands.

Was it simply the echo of the gunfire, or did he hear music? Yes, definitely. It had an Eastern European flavor. Adam turned his head to see where it came from. There, next to the firing squad, was a group of four women, dressed in some kind of traditional garb, swirling around to the music. He had not noticed them before. Strange.

The soldier returned from the building, carrying a large rifle. One of the women stopped dancing. Her skirt continued to twirl. The soldier prepared the rifle and aimed. Adam stared in shock at the woman – it was her! She had finally come to him. He wanted to join her, to dance with her, but his legs would not move. They were trapped in something. Adam pulled with all his might, but they would not budge. The woman smiled at him, holding out a hand, beckoning to him. And yet he could not reach her. Adam opened his mouth. 

»Mother,« he said, only then realizing his mistake. He had spoken.

The sergeant nodded towards the soldier.

»Fire!«


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## tadk (Feb 19, 2007)

*no more reason to write*

Personal comment to participants not judges please
[SBLOCK]
Damn

No more reason for me to write anymore

Thank You Piratecat

TK.
[/SBLOCK]


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## Berandor (Feb 19, 2007)

Spoiler for anybody except the judges 
[sblock=Piratecat's story]
Damn. Congratulations, I guess. What a great, great idea. What a brilliant story. That's all I can say right now. Damn.

At least I tried.
[/sblock]

Oh, and Herreman: Very funny. Not.


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## FickleGM (Feb 19, 2007)

Comments for Piratecat...

[sblock=For non-judges only]







			
				tadk said:
			
		

> Damn
> 
> No more reason for me to write anymore
> 
> ...




What he said.  Well done, Piratecat.  Bravo.  Captivating.  Encore.  Encore.[/sblock]


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## Piratecat (Feb 19, 2007)

I note that I mis-linked one of the photos. The dervish shot shot should be this link, not this thread itself -- sorry about that!

[sblock=Spoilers for non-judges]Berandor, I really liked that. I thought the beginning was especially creepy; your portrait of the silent child and the miserable father was excellent. When he sees the book cover with the adorable child on it, I got a shiver. Damn good photo usage.

Thank you so much for the kind comments. I'm really glad you liked my story. The ending was absurdly difficult to write, but I'm very happy with how it came out.

More later. I need to breathe.  [/sblock]


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## Berandor (Feb 19, 2007)

Uhm, not that I might be afraid or something, but could you guys spoiler the adoration? Wouldn't want to influence the judges, right?

[sblock]I don't know that it will make a difference, but just on principle.[/sblock]


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## tadk (Feb 19, 2007)

*My personal opinion in the SBlock*

My personal opinion in the SBlock
Judges dont read please.

[sblock=Spoilers for non-judges]
I think this story, personal opinion, needs to be nominated for like Hugos or something. Honestly, it needs to sit next to _The 9 Million Names of God _ and other stories like it. 

I found Berandor's story to be strong as well, Dont get me wrong. Not in the least bit. In any other CDM, any other WRITING competition, it rocked.

But Piratecat, you made me doubt my ability to write.
Easy win for Rodrigo this round (well against me when is it not  )

Just my 2 cents worth.
And trying to do a design an RPG challenge at the same time. What a maroon I are.

[/sblock]


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## FickleGM (Feb 19, 2007)

Now for Berandor...

[sblock=For non-judges only]A very good story.  I don't know how well it will hold up against Piratecat's, but I liked it.  The beginning and body were excellent, but the end felt off.  Unfortunately, I'm not the best a reviewing/criticizing, so I can't say what exactly got me.  Part of me wanted to see more of Adam's rampage...I think that was it...the story ended before I was ready.[/sblock]


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## Berandor (Feb 19, 2007)

Gabriel said:
			
		

> Now for Berandor...
> 
> [sblock=For non-judges only]A very good story.  I don't know how well it will hold up against Piratecat's, but I liked it.  The beginning and body were excellent, but the end felt off.  Unfortunately, I'm not the best a reviewing/criticizing, so I can't say what exactly got me.  Part of me wanted to see more of Adam's rampage...I think that was it...the story ended before I was ready.[/sblock]



[sblock]Thanks. Funny, I wanted to see more of Adam's rampage, too, but I was afraid to bore the judges. I wanted to cut to the chase.

And Piratecat messed up a link to a picture – that'll be my in [/sblock]


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## Gulla (Feb 19, 2007)

Argh! 

Two stories to read and no time 

Gaming night tonigh, and I'm just back and should go to bed. No comments until tomorrow morning (*my* morning, CET)

Håkon


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## Piratecat (Feb 19, 2007)

[sblock=For tadk, not judges]



			
				tadk said:
			
		

> But Piratecat, you made me doubt my ability to write.
> Easy win for Rodrigo this round (well against me when is it not  )



Buddy, if this is true, then I fail. The only way that _any_ of us get better is to draw inspiration and ideas from the other writers. What, you think I don't learn from you and Berandor and everyone else? Hardly. I'd be really disappointed if you did the opposite of this, just because someone wrote a story that is different from the one you would have written.

Do your best work. Make _yourself_ proud. And I for one can't wait to read the result.

 - Kevin[/sblock]

By the way, tadk, have you ever listened to Mike Doughty's Poemfone? He's the lead singer of Soul Coughing and has some great solo albums, and _Poemfone_ is his spoken word free verse. As I read your last story, I heard the whole thing in his voice, and it was a wonderful experience.


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## carpedavid (Feb 20, 2007)

Well, I've got a story, of sorts. The question is whether I'm going to have time enough to tell it all.

Also,

[sblock]This story has considerably less pathos than the previous one, but considerably more rockabilly. If only I could attach a soundtrack.[/sblock]

I haven't had a chance to read PC and Berandor's stories, yet, but it sounds like I'm in for a treat.


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## maxfieldjadenfox (Feb 20, 2007)

I have homework! No time to read and obviously fabu stuff posted. Damn. Maybe tomorrow...


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## Gulla (Feb 20, 2007)

So, finally time to read and comment.

[sblock]
Ok, this time I must admit i cheated and read the short comments from yesterday, since I didn't have the time to read the stories then. That might have influenced me, of cource.

*Piratecat* A really strong story, but I'm not as impressed as many others. It has no obvious weaknesses, a well described main character and a good narrator (I feel that Parker is the main characterer and the narrator is the sidekick telling the story. Much like Dr. Watson and Holmes). But still for me there is _something_ not quite to my liking, but it is very hard pinpointing it, so for the first time since school I'll try dissecting the story (or analyse it, as the proper term probably is   ) I haven't done this in 20 years or so, so bear with me...

Even though written in 5 parts, the story is really divided in 4. First in Florida we get introduced to the characters and the setting and plot. A lot is not said, but enough to set the mood and get the interrest of the reader. I felt maybe allready at this stage that I knew which story I was reading, and that might be what is giving me the "this is great, but..." feeling.
The second part show us more about the (possible) conspiracy to stop the Armageddon and the power of a almost returned Messiah. It lacks drama to me. The lowtoned murder shows very much how cold blooded Parker is, and he still seems like the untouchable killer. But the no fuss murder is in too much contrast to the strong emotions of the narrator. To me the scene dillutes or weakens the emotional experience so it doesn't really hold the impact it should to build up to the last scenes.
The third part has the dervishes giving information, which is the one place I feel the pictures dictated the story. It is not far fetched or anything, but I feel it is a bit too sudden. Maybe some hint earlier would improve this scene. The other section of part 3 is the, to me, expected "I need a diciple" speach. It felt very much like the scene near to the end of Men In Black: "I haven't been training a partner, I have been training a replacement" At that point I knew the ending, which is a bit sad.
The last part is very nicely done. The total and enormous power of the Messiah, even in a normally disgusting vessel, is shown, and the narrator shows that Parker's work over the last weeks did work. I "knew" the end beforehand, but the writing is very strong in the last part, so I didn't feel as let down as I had expected when no sursprise apeared.

So, that was the dissection, and I'm still not sure why I have ambivalent feelings about this story. It might be that I have seen it a bit too many times (hey, I've even used it as a GM a couple of times), but the writing is good, the picture use is brilliant, except maybe the dervishes which is only good. It feels like a good story, but to me this one is only _almost_ perfect.

*Berandor* I have been writing these comments while reading, and was goint to start this with "you really have something to compete against here", but right now I feel like moving that comment up to Piratecat. This was also an excellent story, and this one hit closer to home for me. First the story of the Dan losing the love of his life and being burdened with a parody of a child. The trip leading to his suicide and the small hints that Adam is something more than just a deformed child is nice foreshadowing. The courtroom use of the picture is inventive and the use of the rather plain and boring book-sale picture is brilliant. It shows how low Dan has fallen.
Then the story of Adam. Suddenly we see what he is, and it is a good confirmation more than a surprise. A super intelligent boy caught in a misshapen body. And then we get to see that he is not nice... I was actually surprised at that as I hadn't seen any indication before, but it still made perfect sense. The test run on his "brother" is a very good use of the egg-picture. And only showing the results of studies and work on a new body works very well.
I feel the ending is a little bit short. We have no hint that he is being chased, but seeing the world through Adam's eyes, this might be expected. Maybe some scene showing how sloppy he is or something might have been done. Or maybe a run in with someone to show how solid his new body is could have done it? The EMP-gun to shut him down works nicely, though, and waking him up to be executed is very nice. 
The end is very good, I think, and classical. Failing in a "simple" thing like looking at the Prince at night, or speaking, ruins the magic and in this case ends Adam's life. 
I can really only think of two things I would have changed in this story. There should be a scene with Rachel dancing in the first part or early in the second part where the picture should go. Placing the picture at the end with the brilliant "Mother," picture seems like a throw-away. Maybe a sentence or two added (and the picture) when Adam first experiences his new body would be the best place. If he imagined dancing with his mother then or remembered it in the third paragraph in the second part (which could not be after birth, but he remembers thing from before birth, so he could have experienced it) the ending would be even better, and you would have avoided two pictures in the end scene.
(Hmm, that seemed unclear. The two things I would suggest changed is:
having the dancing picture earlier and 
having a better foreshadowing of the dancing. Maybe that could be the very first thing Adam remembers?)

So what I am sure of is that this is one of the very best pairs of stories I've seen through the years of CDM, and I'm very happy not to be judgeing it. Brilliant work, both of you.[/sblock]

Håkon


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## Berandor (Feb 20, 2007)

More details for my esteemed opponent:

[sblock]Really an excellent story. I find it risky to write in present tense, and it works only in shorter stories such as these. Here, it mostly plays a part in the opening paragraph, drawing us right in, and in the end, when it really seems like present tense, i.e. we're reading about armageddon right now. One thing I just now noticed: we don't know whether the narrator hits; could be the story ends because a moment later, all he has to say is prayers 

I know when I end up writing three hours at a time and not noticing it, it is a sign that I really got into the characters. It seems the same happened to you. Your story is almost like a Sherlock-Holmes story, with the narrator being the sidekick. The "hero" of the piece is very well drawn; he's the strong personality that draws us in. The narrator, on the other hand, is the one who changes from a non- to a true believer. Looking at my story, I don't have this kind of characterization, and I see in yours how important it is.

The story starts off brilliantly, with the target practice not being totally explained, and the sentence about Parker killing children to save the world hooks us and never lets us go. The second part with the bookstore sign is expository, and important, though I didn't fully understand what the bookstore sign had to do with it and where the thirty percent came from. I understood it as a sort of viral marketing that Christ is coming, yet with the bookstore – did the parents publish a book about their holy child? This part is also where I as a reader think Parker is totally off his rocker. I don't necessarily think he's wrong, but there's no question he's mad, too. And that makes this character all the more interesting, especially since he's not sanctified in the end. He may do the right thing, but he's not a very stable person.

The third part, of course, is where we learn it's true. Again, I'm not sure whether the dinosaur egg is supposed to signal something (maybe the evolution debate?), and I'm still unclear about how Parker killed the boy. The thing with the emergency services is creepy. A truly global conspiracy? I'm not sure how it would work, but I accept it. On first reading, the next part seemed to me the weakest of the story, constrained by the picture. Perhaps that was myself talking, because that was the image I had the greatest trouble with fitting into my ideas. Now I think you really made it work; having this dance to locate Christ, and only noticing it when suddenly Christ appears? I would have liked to be there when the first one was born, must have been quite the discussion afterwards.

Of course, the ending is wonderful. I wonder why god's son appears in such a form ("one of these"), but that's all. In the end, the biggest hurdle I have to accept in this story is not that the christian spirit jumps from slayer to slayer, but that such a thing would come about and that we'd get a global conspiracy to reign it in, and that no faithful heard about it and put up their own troops. As a matter of fact, I expected Parker to be hunted by fundamentalist ninjas or something. But that is easy to forget or accept because the story is simply very well told, very tight and exciting. Great work.

For a moment, I thought I might still have a chance based on picture use , but now I'm not so sure. The pictures all have a place. I mean, who knows? Maybe I strike a chord or something. But it's no shame to lose to your entry, and truth be told, I'd hate to see you out of the competition after this story. It seems it's true what people say; you really can't win them all 

Edit: After reading Gulla's comments, forget it! I'm gonna kick you out! [/sblock]


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## Berandor (Feb 20, 2007)

Gulla:
[sblock]

*Berandor* 


> I feel the ending is a little bit short. We have no hint that he is being chased, but seeing the world through Adam's eyes, this might be expected. Maybe some scene showing how sloppy he is or something might have been done. Or maybe a run in with someone to show how solid his new body is could have done it? The EMP-gun to shut him down works nicely, though, and waking him up to be executed is very nice.



It seems I should have trusted my feelings. As I said above, I wanted more, but was afraid it'd be too much. Damn rationality!  


> The end is very good, I think, and classical. Failing in a "simple" thing like looking at the Prince at night, or speaking, ruins the magic and in this case ends Adam's life.
> I can really only think of two things I would have changed in this story. There should be a scene with Rachel dancing in the first part or early in the second part where the picture should go. Placing the picture at the end with the brilliant "Mother," picture seems like a throw-away. Maybe a sentence or two added (and the picture) when Adam first experiences his new body would be the best place. If he imagined dancing with his mother then or remembered it in the third paragraph in the second part (which could not be after birth, but he remembers thing from before birth, so he could have experienced it) the ending would be even better, and you would have avoided two pictures in the end scene.
> (Hmm, that seemed unclear. The two things I would suggest changed is:
> having the dancing picture earlier and
> having a better foreshadowing of the dancing. Maybe that could be the very first thing Adam remembers?)



You know, now that you mention it that would have been a great idea. I was a little worried because my first idea was to bookend the story with the dancing picture, and I didn't want to do that again. Now I think I took the wrong instance away.



> So what I am sure of is that this is one of the very best pairs of stories I've seen through the years of CDM, and I'm very happy not to be judgeing it. Brilliant work, both of you.



Thank you for your comments, you're giving me hope [/sblock]


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## tadk (Feb 20, 2007)

*Thank You*



			
				Piratecat said:
			
		

> For Piratecat not Judges please and thanks
> [sblock]=For PirateCat , not judges]
> 
> You totally did not fail
> ...




Hi Kevin, Nope never heard of that person. I will google and wiki once done posting this response and see what I can ascertain about them. thanks for the direction and you are right, most of my writing sounds better spoken than read. Guess I have stood in front of too many people reading my poetry to have it not sound that way regardless of the topic.

Thanks for the kind words too.


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## Piratecat (Feb 20, 2007)

tadk, he has a book of poetry out that you might really like. 

Anyways, I think you should play to your strengths and write stories that are designed to be read aloud. I may be prejudiced, but I love those.

Gulla, thank you for the comments! Some responses to you and Berandor:
[sblock]*Berandor: *

It's funny. I wrote my whole story hour in the present tense, and it worked really well - but I'm out of the habit! I had to go back and make lots of corrections, and I still missed a few tense errors. I think it works for this story, though. I wanted the feel of a correspondent reporting live. 

The two questions you had -- the 30% off picture? The child in that advertisement was one of the messiah children, and his parents got him into child modeling because they recognized his charisma. The dinosaur egg didn't have any hidden symbolism; they just happened to be at Ogden's Dinosaur Park, because that seemed like a good place to have a giant egg.  

Parker apparently drugged Mike, probably with a lethal sedative, while he was walking through the park. My throwaway line about a kid slapping a bug is referencing Mike noticing the dart but thinking it was a bee sting.

I didn't think there was room in the story for the fundamentalist troops you mention, although that's a cool idea; presumably Parker operates below the radar so as to avoid that sort of recognition.

*Gulla:*

Sorry this didn't work for you as well! I haven't seen this plot before, so I was surprised that it was so well-worn for you. It's worth noting that most of the aspects you didn't like as much were by design, and not accidental mistakes on my part; we may just have different taste in stories. 

I very much appreciate the analysis and kind words, because there's no other way to improve.
[/sblock]


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## Piratecat (Feb 20, 2007)

20 hours to go for the next batch of stories!


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## Berandor (Feb 20, 2007)

20 hours to go for the judges to clean their desks 

Actually, I'm really looking forward to the next stories – I've been checking in several times tonight because I had messed up the deadline by 12 hours.


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## carpedavid (Feb 21, 2007)

Ugh. Done. I'll look it over for typos and such in the morning and post it then.


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## mythago (Feb 21, 2007)

Sorry, guys, I know how lame this is, but I've had about two hours' sleep and I'm not likely to get much more before tomorrow. I probably should have sat this Ceramic DM out entirely. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

*Stepchildren*

	This is not the story of Jackal’s first marriage, where his bride trapped his skin under a boulder and left him to shrivel up in the sun;  or his second marriage, when he bragged about his beautiful long tail until Crocodile bit it off and left him too ashamed of the bushy stump to come to his own wedding; or even his third marriage, where his mother-in-law put a curse on his _wusuu_ so that he had to beg all the other animals until Rabbit let Jackal borrow his own _wusuu_ for his wedding night. No, this is the story of his sixth marriage, after which he ended up left with nothing but a sore nose and a packet of excellent cigarettes. Jackal slunk away from the marriage-hall but left some mischief in his path, as he always does. Listen:

	The Meintje Wax Museum and House of Horror accumulated a slow layer of dead flies and dust. In its heyday, its owners charged teenagers to wander through and giggle and poke the displays while they groped each other in the dim purple-and-red light. Both the owners and the museum had seen better days. It made a good place for Jackal to get drunk undisturbed, and when he was good and liquored up he wandered around the museum, dog-laughing at the garish scenes of violence and torture. He stopped at a display showing a man wincing from deep shark bites. [1] Jackal liked this one, perhaps because it made him hungry. He blew four puffs of smoke at the wax man, dropped the butt of his cigarette on the no-slip floor and loped outside into the tall grass.

#

	The wax man stood up and stretched. His half-zipped pants slid down around and he snatched at them. The air smelled of dog hair and cigarettes. He noticed the wounds on his arm and side and tentatively poked at them. There was no pain, no blood. They felt smooth. He hunted around until he found a shirt, striped with long sleeves from a horror-movie display. He pulled it over his head to hide the strange wounds; he didn’t want to frighten anyone. Confused and aimless, he wandered around the dusty warehouse until he found a corrugated steel door. He pushed it open and blinked in the sunlight. Tufts of long grass pushed through stone pathways that led to and past the warehouse. He picked one at random and began to walk.

The stone paths wound through small farms and houses. Somehow the wax man knew he must stay out of the sun, and kept to shade as much as he could, darting from overhang to tree like a strange animal.

He stopped at a farmhouse when a voice called to him. He turned to see a disheveled young man perched atop an odd puppet. [2] “Come on, he won’t hurt you,” the boy said, and then he realized it was the puppet that had spoken to him first. He came closer and squatted on the lawn, in the shade of an overturned wheelbarrow.

“He’s never spoken to a stranger before,” the young man explained.

“I’ve never seen another one like me,” the puppet said. Its voice made the wax man think of whiskey and needles.  “Other than you, Rik, my friend, none really worth talking to. Ah, you, the wax man, are you one of Jackal’s bastard children?”

The wax man shrugged. The word was strange, but it resonated as true. He remembered the smell of dog and the cigarette smoke, and absently mimed bringing a cigarette to his lips.

The puppet laughed. “I do not think you want fire near you, brother. Jackal gets up to things when he’s on his own for too long without a woman, and he tries to make his own children. You need to go to him and demand your birthright if you want to be free to walk the land, not a mindless puppet. You can never marry or farm or raise children until your father claims you.”

The wax man nodded. This, he knew, was so: without a mother he had only his father to give him a place, and it seemed Jackal would not come to him; therefore, he needed to corner his father and demand the blessing due to any son.

Rik gave him a parasol to keep off the sun, a pair of sturdy shoes and a warning. “Jackal is cruel and unfair. I don’t need to tell you that, but you might forget, seeing him as your father. He’s a god, after all. Mind your step.”

There was little to say after that, and the wax man left the farm and headed for the tall yellow grass.

#

	He traveled by night and curled up in the shade by day. The wax man didn’t sleep, or eat, although in the heat of the day sometimes beads of moisture would appear on his skin, turning milky and flat again in the cool of the evening. He wandered through the savannah, following the strange trail of tobacco and dirty fur that he imagined rather than smelled. It looped and meandered through piles of dung and around the territory of large, fierce animals, and wherever the wax men actually met something living it seemed to be either angry or afraid. The sturdy shoes sprouted holes, then wore through until he discarded them entirely.

	He met his father’s enemies face-to-face one night when he trudged through a flooded field near an abandoned farmhouse. There was a scurrying off past his field of vision and two shiny metal figures waved to him cheerfully. [3]

	“Wax man!” one of them shrieked. “You smell delightful! Won’t you help us? We were out in this muddy field looking for food and we got stuck.” Something about the tin-can-and-foil person’s voice frightened the wax man, but he couldn’t think why. 

	“We can tell you the way to your father,” the other called. Its voice, too, alarmed the wax man, but the promise of help was too great to resist. He waded through the wet slime of the field. Then he looked at the outstretched hand and saw that it was a monkey’s paw.

	Monkey and his wife saw that the wax man had seen through their disguises. They howled with simian rage and struggled after him, but his slippery feet went in and out of the mud while their broad, flat-toed feet, made for gripping and climbing, bogged them down. They tore off their tinfoil costumes and crumpled it into balls that they hurled at him as he fled. The wax man ran until the sun started to nudge up over the horizon. He curled up under the shade of a tea bush until the sun finished its trip across the sky and went to sleep for another evening.

	The wax man had no way to measure time, or how long his wanderings went, but he tracked his father’s scent until the toes were worn off his feet. He was ready to lay down and let the sun take him when he saw an unusual tree, wrapped in a cloth headdress like a woman ready to pound mealie for the evening meal. The tree would make shade when the sun went down, he thought, and went to sit beneath the tree. Its cloth stirred. 

       The dead branches shook as if the tree were laughing. "No! I am not one of your father's by-blows," the tree said with a woman's voice. "I am too wise to let Jackal make children with me, either. I am Auntie Rooibos, a tree of the people who live across the river, and even when I had leaves I could see your father's children for what they are. You want help, hm?"

       The wax man nodded. Even in the shade, heat-tears puddled under his eyes.

      "I will tell you how to find Jackal. You will never catch him on foot; he has many years of hiding from anyone who wishes to find him. Do as I say: Strip off your clothes, and step into the sun."

     The wax man obeyed. The hot noonday sun beat down on him, and he moved as if to step away, but Auntie Rooibos shook her branches at him in warning. He stood, and the wax of his naked body dripped, then ran, and by the time the sun plodded off to a well-earned rest he was no more than a flat disc of wax. 

     Aunt Rooibos shook her branches in satisfaction. The people of the village would come to hang garlands of mealie stalks on her trunk, and they would see the fine, clear wax, and they would use it to make candles in honor of the gods. And the wax man's spirit would find itself on the very doorstep of his father, Jackal, who would no doubt be expecting to steal the other gods' tasty gifts of food, and not to find an angry, demanding spirit sun on his doorstep.

     It would be a while before the festival, though, and just at that moment Jackal was trying to escape from his _seventh_ marriage, which he had been foolish enough to do in a big city where the white men's gods tried to drop their heavy machines on him, and were getting angrier when they missed. [5] 

[1] http://www.enworld.org/attachment.php?attachmentid=27871
[2] http://www.enworld.org/attachment.php?attachmentid=27868
[3] http://www.enworld.org/attachment.php?attachmentid=27870
[4] http://www.enworld.org/attachment.php?attachmentid=27869
[5] http://www.enworld.org/attachment.php?attachmentid=27872


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## carpedavid (Feb 21, 2007)

*Three, Two, One, Go*

As with the first round, this turned out a bit long, so I'm attaching a pdf to the post:

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

Ceramic DM – Winter 2007: Round 2, Match 1
carpedavid vs. BardStephenFox

*Three, Two, One, Go*

Shoji checked his watch; he didn’t want to be late for his first shakedown. As he hurried down the crowded streets of Tokyo III, passing businessmen in suits and housewives in smart skirts, people gave him a wide berth. The pompadour haircut; black, leather pants; black shirt; and black, leather gloves made him look like a gangster – which, of course, he was.

After passing the Spaceport, where the whine of antigravity engines filled the air, Shoji cut through Yamamoto Square. He hurried past the hundreds of robotic solicitors that continually beamed holographic advertisements into the air in front of the thousands of tourists that passed through the center of the city each day. Finally, he dodged between the wood-paneled family sedans, growling hoverbikes, and hopped-up hot rods that sat, stopped, in the daily rush hour traffic jams, before emerging onto the sidewalk in front of Tanaka Park.

He could feel his heart pounding in his chest, so he took a deep breath and tried to calm himself. Although Ichiro, his mentor in the Green Dragon Clan, had informed him the day before that this would be an easy mark – a street performer – he wanted to make a good impression. _Think tough, Shoji_, he thought to himself. _Keep cool. Don’t be a spaz._

Shoji dashed past the ice cream stand, tilt-a-whirl, and merry-go-round before seeing his counterpart sitting slouched on a park bench. He was watching what Shoji presumed to be their mark: a woman dressed in a heavy kimono and a noh mask who was reciting her lines in time to a walking bass line that emanated from a speaker off to one side. At her feet was a golden bowl, which passers-by occasionally dropped a few newyen into.

“Hi Ichiro,” Shoji said as he crouched down next to the bench.

“What’s buzzin’, cousin?” Ichiro said with a slight nod. He cocked his head to one side and frowned. “Bad news, Clyde, you look like an Ivy Leaguer.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Un-tuck your shirt, man.”

Shoji grimaced inwardly, and then hurriedly rearranged his clothes.

“You’ve got to look cool to be in this business,” Ichiro drew out the word “cool” for several more syllables than it actually possessed. “This business is all about intimidation. You’ve got to make the squares believe that you’re going to go ape if they don’t get with it. For example, you see this nest?” he pointed to his head.

Shoji had indeed noticed Ichiro’s hair – it was also a pompadour, but was easily a foot tall. He nodded. [Image 1]

“You know what this nest says to the squares we deal with every day?”

“No, not really,” Shoji said, more than a little puzzled.

“It says, ‘I don’t care that you have to pay the rent.’”

“How does it say that?”

“Because it says that I’m too cool to care about their problems,” Ichiro replied with a snort.

“What if they don’t think it’s cool?”

“They don’t have to think it’s cool. Only I have to think it’s cool. They just have to know that I know that they know that I think it’s cool.” He looked sidelong at Shoji, “Why? Don’t you think it’s cool?”

“Oh, it’s cool!” Shoji replied nervously, “Very cool. Really.”

“That’s what I thought,” Ichiro replied as he examined his own image in a small mirror that he produced from his back pocket. “You know, I can give you some pointers on getting yours to look like this. Not that it’ll be as cool as mine.”

“That would be great,” Shoji said as he forced a smile. “I…uh…don’t know if I can get mine to grow that long, though.”

“Implants.”

“Oh. Right.”

“I know a place where you can get a deal.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Here’s the word from the bird, man: you’ve got to get noticed if you want to move up in the organization,” Ichiro produced a small comb from the same pocket that he had produced the mirror, and smoothed a single stray hair back into place. “You do want to move up in the organization, don’t you?”

“Well, I’m really just doing this to save up money for college,” said Shoji, “I’d like to study hyperspace and become a jump gate engineer.”

“Ah, so you really are an Ivy Leaguer,” Ichiro frowned. “I dunno, daddy-o, Boss Takashi was hip with that, but Boss Oda’s a lot more demanding.”

Shoji grimaced. He had joined the Green Dragon Clan four months earlier, just before Boss Takashi had a heart attack. Under the fat man’s rule, the worst transgression was showing up late with his double bento-box lunch. Once Oda took over, though, he demanded tribute, and failure resulted in sacrifice. More than a few members of the clan had lost their little fingers in the past three months. Shoji was now worried that he wouldn’t be able to get out.

“Besides, who wants to be a square?”

“Well, my dad’s a square. That’s why I’m on Mars. He’s a terraforming engineer for the Colonial government.”

“Man, that’s not a square, that’s a cube. A square squared.”

“Actually, a square squared is…”

“Hey, cut the gas, man, the girl’s done.”

Shoji looked up to see the woman take a bow and then turn around to switch off the music. She removed her heavy kimono, revealing a silk blouse and a pink poodle skirt, and then took off her mask and glanced over at the two of them.

She got a puzzled look on her face. “Shoji?”

“Mei?” Shoji groaned. Mei was Shoji’s lab partner in Quantum Physics class, and they got along well enough that they had gone out for ice cream after school the previous week.

“What do you two want?”

“We’re here for the Green Dragon Clan’s payment,” Ichiro said, stretching out his hand expectantly.

“This isn’t Clan territory, this is Triad territory,” said Mei as she pulled a handful of multi-hued bills out of the golden bowl.

“Well, now that Boss Oda is in charge, we’re expanding our territory,” Ichiro said nervously.

“Great, now I have two groups who want my money. Why don’t you go out and find a real job, huh?” she said as she counted the money. “Here, ten percent,” she stuck out her tongue as she handed over the newyen.

“Actually, it’s fifteen percent, now,” said Ichiro.

“You’ll take ten and you’ll be happy,” Mei spat. “Besides, you should be ashamed, shaking down your little sister.”

“Little sister?” Shoji gasped as he looked back and forth between Mei and Ichiro. If he ignored the hair, the resemblance was certainly there.

“Ok, baby,” Ichiro laughed uncomfortably, “don’t have a cow. We’re cool.”

“We’re cool? We’re cool?” she crossed her arms and glared at Ichiro. “Only one of us is in any way, shape, or form cool, Ichiro, and it’s certainly not you.”

“Oh, I see, so you’re the cool one?” Ichiro said as he turned his head to the side and slid his hand along the top of his hair.

“Yeah, and maybe if you spent a little more time studying and a little less time preening, you might actually get into college and do something with your life.”

“Oh. Oh. Oh. Okay, right.” His head began to bob in anger, and with the giant hair, all Shoji could think of was a rooster strutting around. “Come on Shoji, let’s blow this place,” he said as he turned and began walking away.

“Ok,” he turned to Mei, “I should go.”

Mei winked at him, “See you later, alligator.”

Caught by surprise, Shoji smiled, “After a while, crocodile.”

***

Shoji rode on the back of Ichiro’s hoverbike as they returned to the noodle house that served as the Green Dragon Clan’s headquarters. Located in a primarily residential district of Tokyo III, the noodle house saw significant foot traffic, but far less car traffic than the busy city center. Ichiro parked at the curb, and the two walked inside.

Patrons packed the restaurant, most wearing the same type of outfit that Ichiro and Shoji wore. They walked past the sea of pompadours and black leather pants to a room in the back where a black and white cat was curled up on the cushion of a gilded, baroque chair.

Shoji looked around, and was about to bow and introduce himself when Ichiro motioned to him to be silent. He pointed to a curtain on the other side of the room, which rippled with activity. A dun-colored pit bull emerged from behind the curtain, carrying a tray of sushi in its jaws. It walked over to the chair and set the tray down in front of the cat, then sat and wagged its tail expectantly.

The cat sniffed at the sushi and then nibbled off a corner. After a second, he began growling at the dog. The dog whimpered but sat obediently at the foot of the chair as the cat rose from the seat and stretched.

“This is maguro!” the cat said in a deep, gravelly voice as he climbed down from the chair. “I said toro! Toro is the fatty tuna, you imbecile!”

The cat swiped at the dog with its front paw, opening a gash on its nose. The dog whimpered. It swiped again, and the dog let out a cry of pain, but still sat motionless. Then, the cat jumped into the air, twisted its body, and slammed its back paw into the side of the dog’s face, sending a spray of blood and saliva into the air. [Image 4]

Oda had been Boss Takashi’s robotic cat, handed down from Boss to Boss since the inception of the Clan. He had spent over a hundred years lying in the laps of the Green Dragon’s leaders as they cut deals, ordered hits, paid bribes, and ate lunch. In addition to learning nearly everything possible about being an underworld boss, Oda had become accustomed to eating the finest raw tuna.

“Dogs really are as stupid as they look,” Oda hissed as the robotic pit bull ran out of the room. He briefly glanced at Shoji and Ichiro before hopping back up into his chair, where he curled up and lay his head on his paws. “What?”

Ichiro stepped forward, “Boss Oda, sir, we came to turn in our tribute.”

“Good, good,” the cat said as he motioned with his tail toward a giant golden urn. “You know where to put it.”

Ichiro walked across the room and dropped in the newyen. The urn hummed for a second before announcing in a pleasant, female voice, “three hundred.”

“Three hundred?” Oda lifted his head. “That’s it? Pathetic.”

“I’m sorry sir, it was our first day in the new territory,” Ichiro said as he bowed deeply.

Oda narrowed his eyes at Ichiro, “Fine – you get off easy this time. Next week it better be three thousand.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir,” Ichiro said, bowing with each syllable – his hair frantically bobbing to and fro.

“You leave.” He then pointed to Shoji with his tail, “You stay.”

Ichiro stared at Shoji with wide eyes. “Sorry, daddy-o, you’re on your own,” he whispered as he dashed past him toward the main restaurant.

“I heard that you went out on your first shakedown today, Shoji.”

“Yes, sir,” Shoji said as he bowed deeply.

“Please, sit.” Oda motioned to the floor in front of him with his paw.

“Thank you sir,” Shoji replied nervously as he knelt down and then sat back on his feet.

“How long have you been with the clan, Shoji?”

“Um, four months, sir.”

“Ah, just before Takashi left us.”

“Yes, that’s correct, sir.”

“How do you feel about having a new Boss, Shoji?”

“You seem to be very,” he paused for a moment as he searched for the least offensive word possible, “effective.”

Oda smiled. “This operation became a bit loose under Takashi’s leadership. I’m just returning it to its former glory.”

“Yes, sir.”

Oda shifted his position, flopping over on his back and hanging his head over the edge of the cushion. He looked at Shoji upside-down. “You want to move up in the organization, don’t you, Shoji?”

“Actually, sir,” Shoji shifted his position, sitting back and putting more weight on his feet, “I’d like to become an engineer, like my father. I joined the Clan in order to earn money for college.”

Oda licked his paw and then flipped back over and frowned at Shoji. “Your father, hmm? You know, I’m aware that my predecessor was inclined to look favorably upon these mixed allegiances, but I’m not my predecessor.”

“Sir?”

“I demand total allegiance from my clan members, Shoji. It’s the only way we’re going to win this war.”

“I didn’t know we were at war, sir.”

“We’re not yet, but we will be,” Oda began to purr.

“With who, sir?”

The tip of Oda’s tail began to flick back and forth. “With the Capitoline Triad, my boy.”

“With the Triad?” Shoji began to sweat.

“Indeed. It will be a war to end all wars, and I’m going to need every soldier I can get.” Oda twisted his head and stared at the wall to his right.

Shoji looked over but saw nothing. He couldn’t get comfortable for some reason, so he shifted his position again, leaning forward on his knees this time. After half a minute, he said quietly, “Sir?”

“Mmm? Oh.” Oda turned his gaze back to Shoji, “That’s why I’m trying to weed out the weak now. You don’t want to be one of the weak, do you?”

“No sir.”

“Good,” Oda said before yawning. He curled up on the cushion, placed his tail over his head and said nothing more.

A minute later, Shoji stood up, bowed, and left.

***

The next day, Shoji stood in front of the library, trying not to sweat. The heat of the Martian sun made the summers unbearably hot, and he was glad that he decided not to wear the leather pants today; instead, he wore jeans and a white t-shirt.

He was watching for Mei. They had planned to go to the park to get ice cream again after school, but he had to drop books off at the library, so Mei had agreed to pick him up. From what he knew of Mei, he was expecting something normal: a Europa maybe, or a little Shockwave coup. He was extremely surprised, then, to see a ’35 Inferno pull up to the curb.

The car was painted jet black with orange and yellow flames running along the side. Its blunt front end stood in contrast to a set of foot high fins on either side of the trunk. To complete the hot-rod image, it floated less than three inches off the ground. The passenger side window rolled down and Mei’s voice drifted across from the driver’s seat, “Hop in, Shoji.”

“Wow, Mei, this is unreal!” he said as he opened the door and climbed in.

“Thanks,” she tilted her head and smiled, “I modified it myself. Hopped up the engine and lowered it about three inches.”

“That’s amazing.”

“Plenty of room for back-seat-bingo, too,” she said with a wink.

“At least let me buy you some ice cream first,” Shoji said with a laugh.

“I didn’t mean you, goof,” Mei giggled as she hit the gas and blasted into traffic; Shoji was thrown back in his seat. The volume of the radio increased as the low thrum of the antigrav engine rose to a high-pitched whine; Mei tapped her hand on the steering wheel in time to the walking bass line of the of the rockabilly as she deftly dodged the tanks, rag-tops, and hot-rods that crowded Tokyo III’s streets.

Less than three minutes later, Mei swerved, cut off a truck, and skidded expertly into a free parking space. “We’re here,” she said excitedly as she jumped out of the car. Shoji sat in silence for nearly half a minute before Mei tapped on his window. “Hey, you coming?”

Shoji nodded slowly and reached gingerly for the door handle, afraid of doing anything to spook the car. _Oh, thank you ancestors_, he thought as he stepped out onto solid earth.

Mei cocked her head and frowned at him. “Don’t you like my driving, Shoji?”

“No, it’s fine. You’re very good at it.” Shoji replied with a smile. _Just very fast._

“Good, let’s get ice cream!” she said as she grabbed his hand and led him into the park. Shoji took the time to notice that she was wearing the same pink poodle skirt that she had been wearing in the park the other day, but had accompanied it with a low-cut kimono top.

“You look great, Mei.”

“Thanks,” she replied with a coy smile.

After buying ice cream cones, Shoji and Mei strolled through the park. Mei was uncharacteristically chatty, which Shoji was thankful for. He was having trouble concentrating on anything for very long since his meeting with the Boss.

They had passed the tilt-a-whirl and were headed for the merry-go-round when Mei turned to Shoji. “So what’s your story, morning glory?”

“Huh?”

“You haven’t been talking this whole time. Did my driving really rattle your cage that bad?”

“Oh, no, I’m sorry,” Shoji laughed. “No, I just had a meeting with Boss Oda yesterday.”

“Ah, I see. I’m guessing it didn’t go that well,” she said in between licks of her cone.

“No, not really. I told him that I’m trying to save money for college.”

“What did he say?”

“He said that I had ‘mixed allegiances.’”

“Hmm,” Mei caught a drip of ice cream that was about to fall from her hand.

“Yeah. He also said that there was going to be a war with the Capitoline Triad.”

“A war?”

“Yeah. I guess he’s intent on taking over the whole city for himself.”

“Wow. That’s heavy.”

“I really don’t want to be in the Clan if that’s where this is headed.”

“So what can you do?”

“I don’t know. That’s the problem.”

“You could just tell them that you quit.”

“No. Boss Oda would never let that slide. Besides, I wouldn’t want to get Ichiro in trouble.”

“Ah, don’t worry about that drag,” Mei smiled, “he needs a little trouble to get his ass in gear.”

“Yeah, I guess.”

As they passed the merry-go-round, a familiar voice sounded loudly from behind them, “Think fast!”

Shoji turned around just in time to get an ice cream cone in the face. “Agh! Man, why do you have to be such a nosebleed?”

“Ichiro, that is so uncool!” Mei fumed.

“Heh, only to a square,” he said as he smoothed back his hair. Shoji noticed that Ichiro’s pompadour was significantly shorter than the last time he saw him.

“What happened to your nest, man?”

“Huh? Oh, well, I realized that I was spending too much time looking cool and not enough time actually being cool.”

“My mom made him cut it,” Mei said with a snort.

“Hey, Mei. Why don’t you go drop dead twice.”

“What, and look like you?”

Ichiro rolled his eyes. “Anyway, I’ve got good news, Clyde. This is like crazy, man. The ancestors want to see you.”

“What? Really? The ancestors? I didn’t think my meeting with Boss Oda went that well.”

“I guess you were on the stick man. If the ancestors want to see you, you’re made in the shade.”

“Shoji, that’s great!” Mei exclaimed as she grabbed his arm and pulled herself close to him.

“Shoji, that’s great!” Ichiro exclaimed in a high pitched voice, as he clapped his hands together and batted his eyelids.

“Get lost, you spaz!” Mei yelled as she threw her ice cream cone at Ichiro’s head.

“Easy, baby!” Ichiro yelped as he barely ducked the flying creamy confection, “It’s deadsville here anyway – I’m going to split.” He smoothed the hair that had fallen out of place and then strutted off.

“Ugh, I hate him.” Mei said as she watched her brother disappear around the merry-go-round.

“He’s ok,” Shoji said as he put his arm around Mei’s waist. “He just tries too hard.”

“Well, he needs to try harder, ‘cause whatever he’s doing isn’t working.” She turned to him and pressed herself close. “Anyway, it sounds like you don’t have to worry – things are working out.”

“Yeah, I guess. Cool, huh?”

“What do you say we get out of here?” Mei said as she grabbed his hand and pulled him along. They made their way through the park and then climbed back into her ’35 Inferno.

“Oh, I have to show you the coolest thing about this car,” Mei smiled as she hit a button on the console. Shoji held his breath expecting to be rocketed into space, but the only thing that happened was that the windows turned an opaque black, leaving the orange glow of the dashboard the only illumination.

“Oh?” Shoji said, puzzled.

“That’s not what’s cool,” Mei smiled, before nodding to the backseat. “That’s what’s cool.”

“Oh!”

***

Shoji took a deep breath before entering the ancestor’s shrine. He wasn’t quite sure why they wanted to see him, and he hoped that the bottle of sake he had brought would be a good enough offering for them. _It’s now or never_, he thought to himself as he opened the door and stepped inside.

With the advent of neural imaging, death was no longer necessarily the end of one’s existence. After death, the brain could be scanned, and a perfect replica of one’s memories and personality reconstructed. The replica could be interfaced with via computer system, loaded into a robotic head, or, for the very wealthy, even loaded into an entirely new body.

While this didn’t actually resurrect the deceased, it provided his survivors with easy access to years of experience and information, and in many cases, the comfort of hanging on to a small part of a loved one.

The robotic heads of Goro, Zenko, and Nobu, the Green Dragon Clan’s former leaders, sat on top of an altar. In front of them were incense bowls, cups full of sake, and elaborate jade dragon statues – each gifts from clan members, politicians, businessmen, and anyone else who wanted to stay on the Clan’s good side. [Image 3] Shoji was a bit surprised that Boss Takashi hadn’t joined them yet, but nonetheless crossed the room and knelt down in front of them.

“Greetings, ancestors,” Shoji said as he opened the bottle of sake, poured out three cups, and then placed one under each of the heads. “I bring you an offering.”

“More sake?” Goro, the first head, asked incredulously as he opened his eyes and stared at Shoji.

“What good does sake do any of us?” said Zenko, the second head, as he too opened his eyes and regarded the young gang member.

Nobu, the third ancestor, looked over at Shoji and shook his head in dismay.

“It’s not like any of us can drink any more,” said Goro.

“Now, a cigar I could probably manage,” added Zenko.

Nobu licked his lips.

“Ah, I haven’t had a cigar in three years,” Goro murmured.

“Do you have any cigars?” asked Zenko.

“No,” Shoji stammered, “but I have some cigarettes.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a crumpled, half-full pack.

“Ah, that’ll do!” exclaimed Zenko.

“Yes, give one here!” demanded Goro.

Nobu looked at the cigarettes greedily.

Shoji pulled a cigarette from the pack, lit it, and then passed it from mouth to mouth.

“Excellent!” roared Goro.

“Tremendous,” sighed Zenko.

Nobu simply smiled.

“So what can we do for you?” asked Goro.

“Don’t you mean, ‘What can I do for you?’” Shoji said as he ground the cigarette out in an incense bowl. “You asked to see me.”

“Did we?” asked Goro.

“Oh yes, so we did,” replied Zenko.

Nobu nodded in agreement.

“That’s right,” said Goro. “You made an impression on Oda.”

“Yes, but not the kind you were probably hoping for,” said Zenko.

“Indeed, he was quite displeased. He mentioned that he was collecting little fingers, and that yours would be next.”

Shoji gulped, “I’m sorry ancestors.” He prostrated himself on the floor in front of their altar.

“Ha! Get up Shoji,” said Goro.

“Indeed, that’s precisely the kind of impression that we were hoping to hear about,” said Zenko.

“I’m sorry?”

“You see, we are very displeased with Oda.”

“Yes, very displeased.”

“The Green Dragon Clan was founded to bring peace to Tokyo III, not war.”

“That’s why we’ve maintained a truce with the Capitoline Triad for the past one hundred years.”

“Yes, everyone is happy that way.”

Nobu nodded in agreement.

“So why did you want to see me?” asked Shoji.

“We need you to overthrow Oda for us.”

“What? Why me? I’m not even that high up in the Clan,” asked Shoji.

“Ah, but that’s exactly why. You haven’t been indoctrinated yet,” said Goro.

“Those with a longer history might resist,” added Zenko.

“Ok,” said Shoji, now feeling a bit nauseous.

“Not by yourself, of course.”

“No, you’ll have assistance.”

“Ichiro?” Shoji asked, afraid of the answer.

Nobu giggled.

“No, Shoji,” Goro said as he shook his head in dismay.

“You will bring Takashi back.”

“Boss Takashi?”

“Indeed. You may have noticed that he is not with us yet.”

Shoji nodded.

“We have made arrangements for his return.”

“You must talk to Boss Juno; she is assisting us.”

Shoji was quiet for a moment as he tried to process everything: overthrowing Oda, talking to Boss Juno, and brining Takashi back. He could feel his stomach tighten and felt a bit light headed. “Ok. What if Boss Oda asks what we talked about?”

“Tell him that we told you to shape up and do everything he says,” Goro said with a laugh.

“Indeed, he’s pompous enough to believe it,” Zenko said wistfully.

“Thank you ancestors,” Shoji said as he bowed deeply.

“Make us proud, boy,” Goro growled.

“We’re counting on you,” Zenko added.

Shoji stood up, bowed again and walked to the door. As he placed his hand on the handle, Nobu finally spoke in a deep baritone voice, “Good luck, Shoji.”

***

Juno looked into the mirror and smiled. She liked the image that stared back at her: young and beautiful, with flaxen hair and green eyes. Her cheeks were rosy and pleasantly plump, and her smile shone a brilliant white.

“Holography off,” she instructed, and the image in the mirror transformed. Instead of the beautiful visage of a young woman, she now peered into the eyes of an old and wrinkled crone. The longevity treatments had taken their toll: now her skin stretched over her skeleton like canvas over a wooden frame; the hollows around her eyes had sunken; her skin had turned a mottled grey; and she had lost every hair on her body. [Image 5]

She sighed, _one hundred and thirty years, and yet I’m still can’t bear the thought of it ending. I wonder, though, am I getting soft in my old age?_

“Holography on,” she said sadly, and the image of a young, vibrant woman replaced the crone. She slipped on a silk kimono and hobbled out into the hall. One hundred years ago she had founded the Capitoline Triad, and had quickly formed a truce with the Green Dragon Clan’s first leader, Goro. She had renewed the truce with each successor, but now that the diabolical Oda was threatening war – well, she didn’t know what to do.

_I never should have agreed to let that cat succeed Takashi_, she thought, _but he seemed so…sleepy_.

A man wearing a pompadour and black, leather pants ran up to her and bowed. “Boss Juno?”

“Yes?”

“The man the ancestors have sent is here.”

“Very good,” Juno replied with a nod. “I’ll meet him in the drawing room.”

_At least the ancestors agree with me that Oda needs to be removed_, she thought as she slowly made her way down the hallway. Outside the drawing room, she readjusted her kimono, tightened her belt, and then entered.

“Greetings, Boss Juno,” Shoji said as he bowed deeply.

“Please, don’t remain standing on my account,” Juno said as she settled down in a chair. “So, the ancestors have sent you to me.”

“Yes, that’s correct. They…”

She interrupted him, “I know what they want, and I happen to agree with them.” She leaned forward slightly, and then continued, “Oda needs to be replaced.”

“Yes.”

“Yes, and we need to bring back Takashi in order to lead the Clan.”

“Right, but how do we do that?”

“Ah, technology is a marvelous thing, Shoji.” Juno half-smiled. “You only have to be willing to spend the money on it.”

Shoji looked puzzled, “I don’t understand.”

“You’ll understand quickly enough once you see him. He’s at one of my warehouses, being…prepared.”

“So I need to go get him?”

“Quite,” Juno smiled. “I’ll have my assistant give you the address. You should tell no one about this, by the way.”

“Of course,” Shoji said as he stood and bowed.

“Oh, and Shoji,” Juno said just as Shoji was about to leave.

“Yes?”

“Be careful. We’re all counting on you.”

***

The Triad warehouse was located near the eastern edge of the city, and it took Shoji nearly two hours to make it there by subway and on foot. The sun had long set, and, as he looked at his watch, he realized that it was nearly midnight. He looked around uncomfortably – if Triad members found him out here, would they believe that he was working for Boss Juno?

He stopped under each streetlight to check the directions that Juno’s assistant had given him. When he finally found the steel-sided building, he was unimpressed. A single, rusted door opened directly onto the sidewalk. He tugged on the handle, and, to his surprise, it was unlocked.

Inside, the warehouse was filled with robotics parts: barrels of pistons, titanium rods, and gears were crammed against the walls, while boxes of wires, cables, microprocessors, and circuit boards were stacked in giant piles. Shoji wound his way through the mess toward a single light bulb that hung over a work bench near the middle of the floor.

A bespectacled, middle-aged man in a white lab coat was sitting at the work bench; he appeared to be soldering together a pile of wires and gears. “Doctor Nakamura?” Shoji asked.

The man startled and looked around frantically, “Yes, who’s there?”

“My name is Shoji. I’m here to pick up Boss Takashi.”

“Oh, right,” the man said with an air of relief, “Boss Juno told me you’d be coming.” He stood up from the work bench and motioned Shoji to follow, “This way.”

Shoji stared at the various cables, wires, and actuators as the doctor led him through the warehouse. “I have to tell you,” said Nakamura, “I was a bit dismayed that you were coming so soon. He’s not exactly complete, yet.”

“Not complete?”

“You’ll see,” the doctor said. “By the way, did you bring any food?”

“I didn’t know I was supposed to. Can he eat?”

“Not technically, no, but that hasn’t stopped him from trying.”

“This is a new model, by the way. Much more advanced than the previous ancestors. Better funding.”

“Oh?”

Nakamura stopped in front of a cylindrical, stainless steal chamber, which stood a foot taller than he and was about twice as wide. A tangle of tubes and wires emerged from the top and sides, and a section of the front had a handle on it – clearly designed to be a door.

“Ready?” asked the doctor.

“Sure,” Shoji shrugged.

“Ok then,” he said as he grabbed the handle and pulled.

The creaking of steel hinges echoed throughout the warehouse as the door opened, letting light stream into the interior of the cylinder. Shoji’s eyes widened with surprise as Boss Takashi’s voice echoed from inside. “Shoji, my boy. It’s good to see you!”

***

Shoji stood outside the warehouse in the cold Martian night. He pulled out his phone and dialed Mei’s number, hoping that she was still awake.

“Hello?” Mei’s voice answered groggily.

“Mei, it’s Shoji. Can you pick me up?”

“Don’t be a goof, Shoji, it’s nearly midnight.”

“Come on, Mei. Please?”

“Shoji, I’m not coming all the way out there in the middle of the night so that you can get me in the backseat again,” she paused for a moment. “You should have called around ten.”

“No, I’m serious. I need your help.”

She sighed. “Ok. What’s going on?”

“I’ve got to deliver something, but it’s a bit…bigger…than I thought it would be.”

“What is it?”

“I can’t tell you over the phone.”

“This isn’t going to get the heat after me, is it?”

“No. Well. Not the heat at any rate.”

Mei sighed. “Ok. Where should I meet you?”

Shoji sighed in relief when, less than fifteen minutes later, a ’35 Inferno screamed to a halt in front of the curb. The driver’s side door opened and Mei stepped out. “Lay it on me,” she said with a frown, “why did you drag me all the way out to nowhereseville in the middle of the night?”

Shoji opened the warehouse door and looked inside, “Boss?”

Out stepped a figure that was covered from head to toe in a silken robe. In the soft glow of the streetlights, even its face was shrouded in shadow.

Mei stared as the man pulled back the hood of the robe before removing it altogether. After a minute, she let out a low whistle, “Like crazy, man.” In front of her stood a life-size, titanium skeleton – completely devoid of muscle and flesh.

Ichiro emerged from the car and stared in amazement, “Woah. That’s the most.”

Shoji looked sidelong at Mei. “What’s he doing here?”

“You said it was something big. I thought we might need the help.”

“I kind of like the new look,” the skeleton said as he patted his ribs.

“Mei, Ichiro, this is Boss Takashi,” said Shoji.

“Boss Takashi?” Ichiro said, stunned.

“Well, a copy of me, at any rate,” Takashi said, “the ancestors decided that since things went so well under my leadership, I deserved more than just a head.”

“This is so radioactive!” Ichiro said excitedly. “Wait ‘till I tell everyone about this.”

“No!” Shoji barked, “You can’t tell anyone until…” He looked at Takashi for approval.

“Go ahead – it’ll be front page news by tomorrow.”

“…until Oda is removed from power.”

“Woah – heavy,” said Ichiro.

“The ancestors wanted me to pick up Takashi, so that he could go reclaim his position as head of the Clan.”

“So,” Mei said pensively, “where are we supposed to deliver him?”

“Back to the noodle house,” Shoji replied, “That’s where Oda is.” He looked over at the former leader of the Clan, who was staring at his metallic, skeletal hands, clenching and unclenching them, and chuckling.

“Do any of you have some food? I’m starving,” Takashi said as he looked at three teenagers.

“Oh. Oh. Oh. I’ve got this,” Ichiro said as he fished a candy bar out of his pocket.

“That’ll do.” Takashi took the proffered candy and stuffed it between his skeletal jaws. He chewed for a few moments, but only succeeded in smearing chocolate all over his face. “Hmm, as much as I like this look, I’ll have to get the process finished soon if I ever want to eat anything,” he said with a grumble.

“Shall we go, Boss?” Shoji offered.

“Yes, indeed. Let’s get this over with.”

Mei looked fearfully at Shoji, who just shrugged. “You don’t have to come, if you don’t want. You can just drop us off.”

She frowned and crossed her arms, “Not if you’re going to be there, goof.”

“Oh!” Takashi exclaimed, “I almost forgot.” He disappeared into the warehouse and then reappeared a moment later carrying a four-foot long, black metal case. “I’m going to need this,” he said as he patted the case lovingly.

***

As the ’35 Inferno pulled up to the curb in front of the Green Dragon Clan’s headquarters, Shoji began to feel nauseous. He wasn’t sure what was going to happen, and the life-size metal skeleton sitting beside him in the back seat wasn’t helping to calm his nerves.

After every one piled out of the car, Takashi pulled out the black metal case and set it on the ground. He flipped open the latches, kicked back the lid, and pulled out a massive, automatic machine gun. [Image 2]  He looked over at Shoji, “I always bring this with me to negotiations.”

Shoji nodded nervously, but followed the skeleton’s lead and walked toward the door of the noodle house. He turned to motion to Mei to stay in the car, but wasn’t surprised to find out that she was already right behind him.

As they stepped through the door into the empty restaurant, Takashi opened fire. Shoji pushed Mei to the ground and covered her with his body as tables, chairs, and noodle bowls exploded around them. The titanium skeleton kept the trigger pressed for a full minute as even the support columns of the building were chewed to shreds by the hail of bullets.

“What was that?” Shoji exclaimed once the bullets stopped. He lifted his head up to see the extent of the damage.

“I find that it always helps to set the terms of the negotiation right up front.”

Ichiro stumbled in from the street. “What’s going on?” he yelled.

Takashi waved to him to be quiet, and Shoji looked at him and shrugged.

“Are you ok, Mei?” Shoji asked the girl who was lying under him.

She was quiet for a moment, and then smiled. “Yeah. I’m on cloud nine.”

Shoji gasped and quickly rolled off of Mei. Then he looked up to see a black and white cat wander out of the back room. It jumped up onto a broken table, sat, licked its paw, and then looked at the group assembled in front of it. It cocked its head and stared at Takashi for a full minute before glancing at Ichiro and then settling its gaze on Shoji.

“Why, Shoji?” Oda hissed.

“I told you, I’m only doing this to save up money for college.”

“I should have collected your finger while I had a chance.”

Shoji shuddered, but then Takashi lowered the gun and stepped forward. “I’m taking the clan back, Oda.”

“I see that.”

“You’re not going to make any trouble, are you?”

Oda licked his front paw and ran it over his face. “Can I still sit on your lap?”

“Of course.”

Oda turned his head and nipped at his fur for a second, then looked back at Takashi. “Will you still feed me toro?”

“Absolutely!”

“Even for breakfast?”

Takashi laughed, “Yes, even for breakfast.”

“Fine then,” Oda said with a sniff, and then turned and jumped down off the table. “I’m going back to sleep.”

After the cat disappeared into the back room, Takashi leaned down and helped Shoji and Mei to their feet. “You make a cute couple,” he smiled.

Shoji blushed, but then put his arm around her waist. She leaned against his chest and smiled. “Thank you, Boss Takashi.”

“What? A couple?” Ichiro exclaimed from near the front door.

Takashi shook his titanium skull and laughed. “I should go talk to the ancestors and thank them for sending you. Is there anything I can do for you?”

“Well, I do want to study hyperspace – is there any chance you could put in a good word at Tokyo University?”

“Tokyo University? That’s in Triad territory. How about Mars Polytechnic?”

“Don’t you start,” interjected Mei, “wasn’t the whole point of this to maintain the truce?”

“Indeed it was,” Takashi shook his head. “I’ll talk to Boss Juno. I believe her son is the Dean of Engineering at the University.”

“Thank you sir,” Shoji said as he bowed deeply.

“You know what we need?” said Takashi, “some music.” He turned, “Ichiro, find the jukebox.”

Ichiro looked around at the debris filled room; dust was beginning to settle upon the wreckage. He picked up a splintered table leg and tossed it out the door, then turned back to see Shoji and Mei locked in a kiss. He groaned. _Man, what a bunch of squares._


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## Miles Pilitus (Feb 21, 2007)

I find myself unable to complete a story for this round of competition. I have been busy with class work for the last three days, and I still have more to do.


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## Piratecat (Feb 21, 2007)

You make baby Piratecat cry. Damn. And I was really looking forward to reading yours.







Have any portion of it to post?


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## BSF (Feb 21, 2007)

CarpeDavid vs BSF


Vodou Justice

(Picture 2_1_5)
Dame Madelyn Roberts leaned over the sink and stared into the mirror.  

“As you can see Mr. Heath, the scoundrel has cursed me!  This simply will not do.”

I looked across the room, at her reflection in the mirror.  The polyester sweat suit was bad.  But the reflection in the mirror was worse.  I shook my head slightly in distaste.

“Yes ma'am.  Now you say he is trying to blackmail you?”

I had been summoned up to Dame Roberts' house to help her with a little problem.  Apparently the problem was blackmail.

“He is demanding that I pay him an exorbitant sum of money to remove the curse.  Look at me, I look like a shriveled, old, monster.”  She was almost shrieking again, that always gets on my nerves.

I looked up from my notes and winced at the image in the mirror once again.  Grayish skin, bald head, it was a doozy of a curse.  I silently wished that Dame Roberts would step away from the mirror.  Whatever glamour was cast on her to cover the wretched form she had become was preferable to the brutally accurate reflection from the mirror.  There was no sense encouraging her indignation though.  I grunted noncommittally.

“Do you mind telling me how much blackmail he requested?”

She turned from the mirror and glared at me.  Her eyes flashed dangerously and her posture told me that she was annoyed.

“Is that really necessary Mr. Heath?  The dollar amount isn't important to me.  I will not be blackmailed.”

I avoided rolling my eyes.  “Yes ma'am, it would be helpful.  You see, depending on how big the sum is, he will probably have different plans for it.  My job, as a private investigator is to track him down for you.  So if I know how much he is looking to score, I might be able to do my job better.

She harrumphed me.  “Well, he is asking for a million dollars.  It's not that I can't afford it, I can.  It's the principle of the matter.”  Her tone had shifted to plaintive, but I wasn't buying it.  Old money, like Dame Roberts' family, hated losing money in any form.  She continued, “He used a camera.  He was pretending to take a picture of me at the time, but the camera delivered the curse instead.  I am assured that if you can recover the camera, and the film that was in it at the time, the curse can be reversed.  The sooner it is recovered, the better the odds are that damage will not be done.”  She had more to say, but nothing that was important. She wanted to recover the magical camera that had cursed her, and she was willing to pay well for it.  I spent some time getting descriptions from the few staff that allegedly saw the blackmailer at work. 

(Picture 2_1_3)
Seventy-four hours later, I was standing outside a nearby face shop.  The magic to replace your face with another face is difficult to manage, but the few warlocks able to manage it often made a decent, if somewhat unscrupulous, living.  The thing is, face shops weren't illegal and a warlock able to run a face shop was difficult to intimidate.  Looking through the window, I could the face of my quarry sitting on display.  He had apparently changed his face for somebody else's face.  

I went inside with the promise of cash and a checkbook to prove it.  As I said, most warlocks willing to change your face for somebody else's face are unscrupulous.  It turns out that I was able to pay better than the client.  I finally had a name to work with:  Michael Ibaraki.  It turns out he was a freelance photographer.  A few hours of research didn't indicate that he had any magical skill or any predisposition to engage in blackmail.  The friends I could locate had lost track of him a few weeks earlier.  

Still, there was nothing saying he couldn't have had a camera enchanted to curse it's target.  As well, a lack of prior history didn't mean he couldn't blackmail Dame Roberts.  I would keep an open mind, but in the back of my mind, I began to feel some suspicion that Dame Roberts hadn't been entirely honest and forthcoming with me.  

(Picture 2_1_1)
It turns out that Michael Ibaraki had gone back to his roots to hide out.  It was Obon week and using the warlock's description, I was on the lookout for a man with a mohawk.  Michael was photographing one of the bon odori, and Obon dance, for the ancestors when I found him.  My first thought was that he had a really bad comb over that the wind had picked up and stood straight on end.  

I followed him for the better part of an hour, watching him to discern what I could about this man that was allegedly blackmailing Dame Roberts.  He seemed nervous, but not like a man that was expecting a million dollars.  More like a man that felt hunted.  Something was definitely up and I resolved that I would pull Mr. Ibaraki aside and see if he could shed some light on everything.  I made my way through the crowd toward Michael Ibaraki.

Before I could reach him though, my suspicions were abruptly and violently confirmed.  I must have seen something out of the corner of my eye, or something.  In any case, I felt the hair on my neck stand up.  That is always a bad sign.  It means my body has senses some sort of problem before my brain has processed what it is.  When that happens, I don't think, I let my body act and my brain just follows along until it can process the information.  With a twist and a leap I was mostly out of the way before a bullet grazed my leg.  I was still pushing off that leg and the bullet spun me around in an uncomfortable direction.  Pain flooded my brain as my ears registered the sound of an M60 unleashing an entire belt of bullets into the crowd around us, and specifically into Michael Ibaraki.  

A child fell on top of me, pinning me to the ground for the moment.  I twisted my head to see where Michael was, only to be greeted by a harrowing sight. A skeleton, over six feet tall, carrying an M60, walked up to Michael Ibaraki as he lay there, gasping at the last moments of his life.  Face changing isn't outlawed, but all forms of necromancy are.  Yet here was an animated skeleton, carrying an automatic weapon, making a brazen attack in the middle of the day.  The skeleton put it's bony foot to Michael's head and with unnatural force crushed his skull.  It then reached down and picked up his camera bag.  It appeared to scan the crowd for a moment, then it made it's way back to a pickup across the square.  

(Picture 2_1_2)
I twisted and turned until I edged my way out from under the girl that had fallen on me.  I limped to where I could see the walking skeleton better.  I climbed into the back of a pickup truck and turned to be sure nobody in the crowd was standing.  A man groaned and started to sit up.  The M60 opened up again and the man fell down in a splash of blood.  Reaching down to the truck bed, the skeleton picked up something and lobbed it into the middle of the square.  It was another one of those situations where my body recognized the danger before my brain did.  Pain streaked across my body once more as I leaped for cover.  The square erupted in white light for a moment as the white phosphorus exploded.  I was already rolling into a gutter and closing my eyes, my body's natural reflexes taking over despite everything that had happened.  But not before my brain had memorized the license plate of the truck as it drove off, skeleton standing in the back, gun poised to destroy any pursuers.  

I was awakened by water running into the sewer and on top of me.  Somehow I had rolled down a storm grate and avoided the conflagration that the firefighters above were bravely fighting.  Water, blood, and ash.  I limped up the sewer for a few miles before I crawled out to the streets above.  It took a while longer to flag down a cabbie that would help me.  Paranoia got the better of me and I didn't go back to my office.  

As it turns out, that was a good idea.  The next day I was nursing my wounded leg and reading the paper.  The attack on Michael Ibaraki had resulted in the deaths of 36 other people.  Anger burned deep inside me as I remembered the little girl that had been gunned down next to me.  Three pages further into the paper, I saw the article about my office burning to the ground.  Arson was suspected and it was noted that the nobody had seen Peter Heath, Private Investigator since the previous day.  There were vague implications that maybe I had burned my office to avoid creditors and then skipped town.  I was beginning to think that maybe Dame Roberts wasn't entirely honest with me.

It took a few days to recover and backtrack everything.  It was sloppy work and they couldn't have made it much easier for me.  The truck was registered to a company owned by Dame Roberts.  Some time looking through old newspapers pieced together a bit more of the puzzle.  Nobody had ever gotten a picture of Dame Roberts.  Paintings and sketches existed, but pictures were nowhere to be found.  I stopped by an occult bookstore whose manager, Towanda, owed me a favor.  

My office was destroyed, my bank accounts monitored, but I had a score to settle.  The thought of a dead little girl pushed me on, perhaps foolishly.  I snuck back onto Dame Roberts' estate in the evening.  There were security cameras, but those are easy to deal with.  I was more worried about guards, living and unliving.  Quite frankly, I was hoping to encounter more of the living guards rather the animated dead.  

(Picture 2_1_4)
I was lucky and got my wish.  I had been sneaking around one of the sheds at the edge of the estate and had found an illegal crate of white phosphorus grenades.  I didn't need to be a private investigator to notice that a few grenades were missing from the crate.  It was then that I heard the growled challenge.  There aren't many people like me.  But I was relatively lucky.  Most sentient animals are treated as little more than circus freaks.  I had parlayed my unique advantages and curiosity into a career.  The dog bearing down on me obviously worked as private security for Dame Roberts.  I'll spare you the profanity laced tirade he was spewing as he offered to break my neck and torture me.  I crouched in what I hoped would look like a fearful pose.  Then as the dog reached me, I jumped straight up and kicked him in the head.  I managed to catch him in that spot near the ear that would rattle his brain around in his skull enough to knock him out.  It was a lucky shot, even for me.  

It took a bit to tie some of the grenades to the unconscious dog.  At the back of my mind, my conscience was beginning to nag at me.  Sure, Dame Roberts needed some payback.  Sure I didn't much care for dogs.  But did that give me the right to use this dog to take Dame Roberts out?  Fortunately I had a possible solution.  Towanda had given me a magical infusion that would allow me to influence the minds of 'those whose souls are heavy in sin.'  It couldn't affect the unliving since they didn't truly have souls.  I don't like drugs, even magical ones.  Towanda told me this one would be ill tasting and had wrapped it in catnip to make it more palatable.  

With a sigh, I bit into the infusion.  The euphoric smell of catnip filled my nostrils and for a moment I rolled over onto my back in bliss.  Then the world swam before my eyes and I could 'sense' how despicable the dog was.  He truly would have enjoyed torturing me and hearing me plead for my life.  Suddenly, everything snapped into perfect clarity.  

I was riding Butch the guard dog like some vodou spirit.  We were rushing through the hallways of Dame Roberts' mansion, seeking her out.  In some corner of my mind, I was noticing the lack of mirrors.  The mirror shows the truth of the soul.  Seeing Dame Roberts in a mirror just showed her true self.  Cameras use mirrors.  Michael Ibaraki simply had the misfortune to snap a picture of Dame Roberts.  For that, he had to die.  Because the unliving were outlawed, and if anybody knew what Dame Roberts was, she would be destroyed.  

Butch careened around a corner and into a sitting room.  Dame Roberts was sitting there, reading the paper.  Her skeletal assassin was in the corner.  Even as he raised his gun toward Butch, I nudged the dog's brain a bit to the left, toward the window.  I was holding the pin of the grenade in my mouth.  Dame Roberts' beautiful, glamoured face was twisted in anger.  I jumped for the window just as Butch exploded under the hail of gunfire.  I tumbled through the glass, closing my eyes as the room erupted in white light.  

As I rolled on the ground, I could feel glass cut through my fur.  I could see the Michael Ibaraki's face in the face changer's window and his skull beneath the heal of a skeleton.  I rolled into some bushes and felt something fall atop me, pinning me to the ground.  I thought of the little girl, gunned down.  All of these people dead to protect the vanity of a woman that had long ago sold her soul so she could go on living.  

Was it revenge, or justice?  Did it matter?


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## BSF (Feb 21, 2007)

Another beast of a story to write.  I caught a catnap in the middle of the night, but that is pretty much all the sleep I had.  I hope there aren't too many errors.  

Whew!


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## Rodrigo Istalindir (Feb 21, 2007)

Piratecat said:
			
		

> You make baby Piratecat cry. Damn. And I was really looking forward to reading yours.
> 
> 
> 
> ...




That cat's got one too many limbs.  Where's my hacksaw?


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## Berandor (Feb 21, 2007)

Just a short commentary on the entries.

[sblock]
*mythago*: I love trickster stories, in part because I think they're hell to write. Your story has a nice foundation, but it could have used some finish in order to make it flow better, to tie the pictures stronger into the narrative (the last one, for example). And, obviously, some more time to spend with the wax man (to better feel for him) or Jackal (to enjoy the story more; he's more a side player here). I hope you'll have some more time next round – it seems your opponent was even more stressed out. I'm looking forward to it.

*carpedavid*: Once again, a wonderful story. Your characterization here is top-notch, not only of Shijo, but of all characters (except perhaps the robotic dog). And it's funny! A cat as a boss, and how it's disposed, and the hungry skeleton, and... really, a wonderful, complete entry. No doubt there were things to catch or to improve, but on my single perusal I didn't notice them. Thank you.

*BSF*: Damn, you're unlucky this time around. First against Piratecat (and believe me, I know now how that feels), now against carpedavid. Your story is very nice, as well, though I would have liked a little more meat. Some dialogue, or something. I realize this may have betrayed the narrator's identity earlier, but then I'm not sure that would have harmed the story. As it is, we learn about the cat-thing just as he's kicking the dog, and so I had to accept the talking animal thing AND his lucky kung-fu kick in the same line. Also, I was a little pulled out of the story by the dead girl; the story seemed more or less ironic in tone as opposed to dark, and dead children seemed too dark somehow. Still, a very enjoyable entry, albeit one that I'm not sure will survive against carpedavid. Thank you.
[/sblock]


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## mythago (Feb 22, 2007)

Miles Pilitus said:
			
		

> I find myself unable to complete a story for this round of competition. I have been busy with class work for the last three days, and I still have more to do.




You know, I'm angry enough that I'm just going to say I'm incapable of making a polite reply just at the moment.


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## Herremann the Wise (Feb 22, 2007)

Judgment for the spectacular match-up between Piratecat and Berandor almost complete - give me another hour or two to polish it up.

Mythago,
I understand and commiserate with your obvious frustration.

Contestants, you should always put something in, even if it makes you squirm really bad to press the submit reply button. Otherwise it seems more like you looked at the pictures, found them too tough and looked for the nearest excuse. If you can't compete due to obligations, it is far better to announce this before your match than after. An alternate from the previous round can usually be organised.

Now I better get back to my judgment otherwise I'll be the pot calling the kettle black. Work has been exceedingly busy.

Best Regards
Herremann the Wise


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## orchid blossom (Feb 22, 2007)

Mine is also currently being worked on.  I've been under the weather for a couple days but my head is pretty clear now.  So hopefully what I write will make sense!


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## KidCthulhu (Feb 22, 2007)

Rodrigo Istalindir said:
			
		

> That cat's got one too many limbs.  Where's my hacksaw?




It's baby Piratecat.  He was young then and still had all his limbs.


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## maxfieldjadenfox (Feb 22, 2007)

mythago said:
			
		

> You know, I'm angry enough that I'm just going to say I'm incapable of making a polite reply just at the moment.




Mythago, I feel your pain. It looks like you had a hard time getting your story done, but you made the valiant effort. I'll do an impolite reply for you. 

I wrote my story with one of the worst colds I've ever had, going to school full time, working full time and going through a divorce. Classwork, just not a good enough excuse IMHO.


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## Rodrigo Istalindir (Feb 22, 2007)

Ok, all done.  I'll sleep on it tonight in hopes of additional brilliance, and post in the morning.  Balls in your court, tadk.


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## Sialia (Feb 22, 2007)

Comments on Piratecat v Berandor.

[sblock]

Babykillers, I agree mostly with what Gulla said.

Additional comments: Piratecat, I think you have in past competitions created stronger narrators with more personality --as with your first round story this competition, I think the story holds together well enough, and the picture use works, and you have both something to get across and an interesting way of getting it there, etc. but it lacks your very best sparkle because you haven't spent enough time developing the persona of your narrator. If you can step back from that bland generic first person voice and really know who's talking, you'll hear those "level up" bells go off. My favorite part of this story is the calcuation of an individual's odds of redemption, and the exploration of why a messiah might not be the best thing to ever happen to the majority of the population of the planet. To me, it was fresh.

Berandor, I'm tempted to say that "my only visceral response to your story was that I threw up, but I was planning on doing that anyway," except that that would be both unnecessarily harsh, and also untrue. 
The better way of putting it was that I desperately needed to go throw up, but I was so busy reading your story I made myself wait until I was done reading it to go puke. That has to be some sort of testament to a worthwhile read, because if it had been less compelling, it would have gotten shelved along with everything else I haven't gotten around to in the past month because I've been busy puking. So you get points for distracting me from my misery for a while, even if it was only to gloat over someone else's.

Thanks both for a tight and competitive round. [/sblock]


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## Sialia (Feb 22, 2007)

Mythago, that is one of the greatest opening paragraphs you have ever written.

I can see why you feel this one is still a bit rough, but I liked what you tried to do with it. It took me someplace unexpected and I liked being there. I loved the narrative voice, and the setting. I just wanted a whole lot more of it, and the ending felt a bit too sudden.

This is worth going back to finish when you have time.


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## Berandor (Feb 22, 2007)

orchid blossom said:
			
		

> Mine is also currently being worked on.  I've been under the weather for a couple days but my head is pretty clear now.  So hopefully what I write will make sense!



Making sense... I never knew that was a requirement. 

Sialia:
[sblock]


			
				Sialia said:
			
		

> Berandor, I'm tempted to say that "my only visceral response to your story was that I threw up, but I was planning on doing that anyway," except that that would be both unnecessarily harsh, and also untrue.
> The better way of putting it was that I desperately needed to go throw up, but I was so busy reading your story I made myself wait until I was done reading it to go puke. That has to be some sort of testament to a worthwhile read, because if it had been less compelling, it would have gotten shelved along with everything else I haven't gotten around to in the past month because I've been busy puking. So you get points for distracting me from my misery for a while, even if it was only to gloat over someone else's.



Who would've thought that "I had to puke after reading your story" could sound positive? Thanks be the post hoc ergo propter hoc logical fallacy. 

Thank you for your comment.[/sblock]


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## Gulla (Feb 22, 2007)

Finally some time. It's quiet in the house after the kids left for school and my brain is mostly awake and the interresting parts of the Skiing World Championship isn't on for another 3 hours. Prefect for reading stories.

First Mythago. Since Miles Pilitus didn't deliver, you get another go at this. If you can squeeze in some sleep and a little more time the next round the other three probably should start making offerings to their dark gods to avoid you in the semi finals. 
I don't quite agree with Siala that the opening is the best you have written, but it is more than good enough to keep me reading. The part that got me totally hooked was the start of the third paragraph: "The wax man stood up and stretched". I read it three times to be sure I got that right, and then just settled in for a nice ride.
I really like the mood and voice in what you did deliver. It's been some years since I read a lot of fairy-tales from around the world so my memory might fool me, but this felt like a traditional African fairy-tale. The mood was right, the images and the mythology also just fit perfectly. It is a bit rough, but what is there is very good and I think you could get a diamond out of this with some more work and time. 

And then on to the spoilered ones:
[sblock]
*BSF* (Boy am I glad you abbreviated it   ) You said you hoped there wasn't too many errors, but I'm afraid the ones I noticed did reduce my enjoyment a little. First I'm used to the spelling "voodoo" and when used in the title it disappointed me at the start, which is not good. The other jarring one was "I could the face of my quarry sitting on display" (missing word).
Otherwise it is risky writing another detective story after some rather good ones in the last round, and this time I don't think you managed to pull it off. The hints about the cat-detective are nice, and the story ok, but since speaking/intelligent animals are rare, the narrator should have more problems with it. Also the two uses of "the client might not be honest with me" seems like repetition (in a bad way) more than rising tension (which would be reptetition in a good way).
I like the overall idea behind the story, but feel it doesn't quite flow and come forth as finished. So my overall impression is that this is OK, but you can do better.

*CarpeDavid* Nice! And with a happy ending. I like those    As with the last story I didn't feel it was long, but the watch tells me it was. That's the way a story should be (at least one of the ways it should be). The atmosphere of the story is very good. Gangs in a (not too far?) future setting is interresting, and the difference between "sqares" and "cool" gives almost a Grease-feeling. The characters seem believable and there is just enough resistance for the heroes to introduce tension in what I feel is more a very good description of a possible future. Extra brownie points for setting it on Mars, but you lose (most of) them by not having anything being different from Earth (low gravity, two moons, lack of atmosphere, anything, really)
Not much more to say, really. You write good, tell a good story with a pleasant pace. I still feel there is a little bit to go before you reach brilliant, which might be needed in the next round. Maybe some more complex characters or a more "difficult" story? The two stories so far I feel that you set your aim for "Exellent" and reach it easily (I know it is hard work, though). Maybe you should aim for "Genious" and take the chance of spectacular failure?
One thing I forgot: The dialogue is very good. (At least to me, as a very "square" and without English as my main language). 
[/sblock]

Thanks to all the writers so far, and I'm really looking forward to the last match and the next rounds. 

Håkon


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## tadk (Feb 22, 2007)

*Almost*



			
				Rodrigo Istalindir said:
			
		

> Ok, all done.  I'll sleep on it tonight in hopes of additional brilliance, and post in the morning.  Balls in your court, tadk.




Almost done with it
Want to add some more
Will be a smidgen over 2k in word count
no where near what I wanted to produce, but there are some  parts to it I really like, if I might say so about my own writing.
I will be posting in the 11 AM EST timeframe, just a few hours to think, clean, add some more, finish this one spot.
This is getting harder and harder on me with each CDM that comes along.


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## tadk (Feb 22, 2007)

Berandor said:
			
		

> Making sense... I never knew that was a requirement.
> 
> Sialia:




I dont let that stop me Berandor


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## Rodrigo Istalindir (Feb 22, 2007)

I once made a mental list of the best ways to be awakened in the morning.  Number three was the sound and smell of bacon sizzling in the pan.  Number two was to slowly drift from blissful darkness through that hazy twilight of semi-consciousness and finally to fully awake.  Number one required, shall we say, outside assistance.

	Feeling a tug on your foot and opening your eyes to see a priest and a zombie doctor staring down at you was not going to make the list. (Picture 2)  Excuse me, an ‘undead-American doctor’.  Wouldn’t want to get HR’s knickers in a twist.

	“Whtmst?”  I asked.  They looked at each other and then back at me.

	“What time is it?” I repeated.  This time they looked like they understood.

	“A little after 10,’ Father Murphy answered.  “In the evening,” he added helpfully.

	“Oh, good,” I replied, attempting to sound bitter and cheerful at the same time.  “Two hours of sleep every two days is plenty.”

	I swung my feet off the gurney and sat up.  Dr. Singh grabbed my arm to steady me when I wobbled.  The sharp smell of disinfectant crawled up my sinus and poked me behind the eyes.

	Groggy, clumsy, and in the presence of a priest.  A sudden spike of fear ripped through my guts. 

	“Oh my god, I died, didn’t I?” I gasped.

	“Sorry, Sean.  We did everything we could,” said the doctor, eyes downcast.

	I looked at him, then at Father Murphy.  The priest’s mouth twitched, and then the two of them burst out laughing.

	“Not funny,” I groused.  I staggered to my feet and headed for the door.  My sense of humor needed coffee, stat.

	“Dr. Benson, please, wait.  There is a situation,” called Dr. Singh.  There was no humor in his voice.

	I’d served as a corpsman under Captain Stark in the Demon Wars.  I’d done my residency in Chicago, when the creatures of legend and cinema first rose to walk among us.   The fact that they used government-speak instead of telling me straight up meant it was something weird, even by modern standards.

	*

	When we entered the corridor, the first thing that struck me was the eerie silence.  Hospital emergency rooms are many things – smelly, bright, sticky.  Never quiet.

	The second thing I noticed was that the ER was populated by plastery-white statues.  Yes, I said I noticed that second.  Sue me  -- I still hadn’t had my caffeine.

	“Someone called the parish and asked them to send a priest to perform Last Rites,” Murphy whispered.  “It was like this when I got here.”

	“I’ve been in radiology all night,” Singh continued.  “I assumed when no one bothered me that it was a slow night.  Then the Father found me.”

	I walked down the hall towards Admitting.  The waiting room looked like a Rodin competition at a first-rate art school.  

	I grabbed the clipboard with the admitting sheet from the receptionist’s counter.  Columns listed the names of patients, doctors and examination rooms.

	“You two take the left side, I’ll take the right.  See if there’s any room missing a patient.”

	I hit pay-dirt in exam room three.  Dr. Jamis crouched immobile over an examination table.   Frozen behind him, looking over his shoulder, stood the statuesque Nurse Rawlins.  (Picture 1) There was no sign of a patient.  

	There was, however, a chart.  The blessings of modern day medicine and malpractice suits:  nothing happens without being written down.

	I scanned the sheets of paper.  Magaera Gordon, 22, female, 7 months pregnant.  Complaining of sores on her scalp and hair loss.  Jamis had sent blood samples off to Toxicology, had requested a consult from Nuclear Medicine thinking maybe there’d been exposure to radioactives, and had taken a skull X-ray.  He’d also called Psych; compulsive hair-pulling wasn’t that uncommon among young women in stressful situations.  Based on his position, it looked like he was doing a pelvic.

	It seemed like an awful lot, but then I saw the last page.  Ah – fully insured.

	I called out to the others.  They came quickly.  I wondered if they’d even left the lobby.

	“Go check the waiting room and see if any of the stiffs look like a pregnant woman.  We may be missing a patient.”

	A heart-stopping scream rendered that unnecessary.  Work in a hospital long enough and you learn the sounds of pain.  A junkie going through withdrawal curses and moans.  A stabbing victim gasps and whimpers.  Terminal cancer patients sob quietly.

	This cry was a textbook example of a woman in labor.

	We rushed from the room like the Three Stooges.  Our training urged us to be the first out the door; our fear urged us to let another go first.  Somehow I ended up in the lead.

	The cry had come from the direction of Pharmacology, so we edged our way down the hall.  There were no more marble mannequins; this part of the hospital was essentially closed at night save for a single pharmacist.

	An unlucky pharmacist.  He stood frozen behind the waist high divider that was supposed to keep the desperate from nicking the good stuff.   You could hear the sounds of deep breathing from the back of the room, but the floor-to-ceiling cabinets containing the meds hid the patient from our view.  Her Lamaze coach would be proud.

	I started to clamber over the counter, but Dr. Singh grabbed my arm and held me back.

	“Let me go.  Maybe whatever is going on won’t affect the unliving,” he offered.

	I hesitated.  My combat training was kicking in, and the ‘ooh-rahs’ were echoing in my head, urging me to vault the divider and charge in.  Singh had a good point, though.  Zombies were resistant to every known disease and toxin.  He might have a better shot at getting through this.

	I backed off and let him go.

	He had a hard time climbing up, and finally the Father and I had to give him a boost.  He slid his legs around and stepped to the floor.   The patient cried out again.  The contractions were getting closer together.  

	“She’s lying on the ground.  I think her…oh.  Oh my!”

	“What?  Doctor Singh, what is it?” I called out.

	The only answer was more huffing and groaning.  And hissing?

	I looked at Father Murphy.  He shrugged and gave me an ‘I don’t know’ look.  He  brought his crucifix to his lips and kissed it gently, then hopped up on the counter.

	“Wait!  I have an idea.”

*

Minutes later, we stood in the Imaging department.  I plunked myself down in front of the imaging computer and pulled up Ms. Gordon’s records.  I whistled softly.

	“What is it?”  Murphy asked.  “What are those lines in the skull?”

	I gave him a sardonic grin.

	“Snakes,” I said.  “Why’d it have to be snakes?”

	I jumped to my feet and started rummaging through the cabinets that lined the far wall.

	“Get to Security, Father, and see if you can figure out how to work the camera controls.  I have an idea.”

	It took longer than I liked,  but I found what I was looking for.  I ran to meet up with Murphy.

	I found perched in a comfy chair in front of a bank of closed-circuit monitors.  We’d gotten lucky – there were cameras throughout the hospital, but there probably wasn’t a square inch of the pharmacy that wasn’t covered.  The Schedule II meds were a big temptation.

	I traced the video cables back to the PC that controlled the system.  A stuffed penguin stood by its side.    (Picture 5)  Must be a Linux server, I thought, same as the stuff in the Imaging lab.  I ripped open the case and inserted the circuit board I’d pilfered.

	I used a Y-cable to split the signal running to the monitors, and ran the second cable to the input on the newly-installed card.

*
	“Are you sure this will work?” Murphy’s voice whispered in my ear.

	“Louder,” I replied, “I can barely hear you.  And no, I’m not sure.  But I can’t hold a metal shield and deliver a baby at the same time.”

	“Is this better?”  Louder, this time.

	“Good.  Ok, patch me into the camera over the admitting desk.”

	The image in the VR goggles I’d looted from the Medical Imaging department blinked out for a moment, and then was replaced by a birds-eye view of the rock garden in Emergency.  I looked up at the camera and felt a ripple of vertigo as I looked at myself looking at myself.  (Picture 3)

	“Ok, good.  Switch to the cameras in the Pharmacy.  I’ll pop the goggles back on before I go in.”

	I raised the goggles, taking care not to dislodge the earpiece and lapel mike.  

	“You’re clear,” Murphy reported.  “She hasn’t moved.”

	I scooted down the hall and stopped just beyond the counter.  I dropped the goggles back into place and tried to get my bearings.  

	It was surreal, dream-like.  The camera was opposite me, so I had to do everything in reverse.  As I moved between shelves, the priest switched cameras.  I worked my way to the very back of the stockroom.

	Magaera lay on the floor, legs slightly spread.  She looked like she’d been through the wringer.   The floor appeared wet, but I couldn’t tell from the black-and-white video feed if it was blood or just amniotic fluid.

	I steeled myself, then looked at her head.  Serpents writhed and hissed and snapped at the air.  She must have heard me, or maybe she saw what the snakes saw, because she opened her eyes and stared right at me.

	Nothing.  No tingling, so sudden stiffness.  I relaxed slightly.

	“What…what’s wrong with me?” she whimpered.

	“It’s ok, it’s gonna be ok,” I answered.  “I’m a doctor.”

	I slowly removed my lab coat, taking care to re-attach the mike to my scrubs.  

	“Ok, now, I’m going to have to cover your head.  Don’t worry, everything’s going to be fine.”

	I tossed the coat over her head.  The snakes went wild, the coat rippling as they struggled to extricate themselves.  So far, so good.

	I hesitantly raised the goggles and knelt before the distressed woman.  I pushed the hospital gown back and set to work.

	The baby was tiny, fitting comfortably in the palm of my  hand. (Picture 4) The head was oversized and oddly-shaped, and I wondered what she would grow up to be.  Kids could be mean, although I guessed being able to turn your tormentors into lawn ornaments would cut down on the teasing.

	“It’s a girl.”

	Magaera was spent, her breathing slow but regular.  I was holding the child with one hand and rummaging through my pockets with the other looking for something to tie off the cord.

	“Sean!  We’ve got company,” Father Murphy hissed in my ear.  “The cavalry is here.”

	I started to call out to the cops, to warn them to stay back, when I saw a red dot appear centered on the lab coat covering Magaera’s head.

	“Back away, doc, and get out of the way.  We’ll take it from here,” a no-nonsense voice barked.  

	I slow interposed myself between the police and my patient. 

	“It’s under control.  Go get a gurney and leave it in the hall,” I called back.  “No shooting – there’s a baby here,” I added.

	The red dot wavered and disappeared.  Over my shoulder, I could hear the officer withdraw.  

*

	Everything turned out ok for the flexibility-challenged in the hospital.  The petrifaction turned out to be temporary; within twenty-four hours all the victims had returned to normal.  Dr. Singh was the last to recover, but his impromptu time-out didn’t even faze him.  He was already planning his next research paper.

	Magaera and her baby were doing fine as well.  I’d offered to continue her care, and the pediatric doctors offered no objection.  We’d move the neo-natal care equipment into the mother’s room out of caution.  We didn’t think the baby could hurt anyone but the house attorney had damn near died on the spot when we suggested leaving the daughter in the same room with other babies.

	The techs had refined the goggle setup, adding a camera to a head strap that made the image almost normal.  I was reading over the results of the last blood work when Magaera stirred.  The serpents on her head started waving about and hissing.

	She looked confused, and I started to put a hand on her shoulder to reassure her when an asp snapped at me.  I jerked my hand back.

	“Just relax.  Everything is fine.  Your little girl is going to be ok,”  I assured her.

	I wheeled the incubator closer to the bed.  Magaera’s gaze fell on her baby, and I realized that no matter how weird things got around here, some things were universal.  Her eyes lit up like every other new mother I’d ever seen. 

           The snakes stilled, and god help me, their hisses turned to coos.  I didn’t think snakes could coo.


----------



## tadk (Feb 22, 2007)

*Throwing it Down*

*If I had a week more I could do more with it. Here we go*
*Good Luck my esteemed opponent*



Throwing it Down

© 2007 CW Kelson III (Tad)
All Rights Reserved
A Tale of the Tech no' Logical Worlds
Ceramic DM Competition, Round 2, Spring 07



This is a tale told with all my dark art craft.

All tales, all stories, all remembrances future or past, are real, in one form or another. They are real because it is agreed on, in the singular or the plural, that all things are real, all elements are possible, life has potential, and the striving of kind is the end pursuit of the act of breathing. 

This is as real as anything else that exists in the realm of light, this tale to be told to you that are taking the time to read the missive constrained with the English Language, the act of typing, the relating of a story pursuant to other frameworks and ideas. 

This is a story of reality, how things really are in the Real World ™ instead of the make believe world of truth, honor, democracy, and politicians. This is how it is underneath it all, where madness is the stuff of everyday occurrence, and where hope can blossom in the most unlikely of places. This is the story of people, like and unlike all the rest that have crawled across the face of Mother Earth.

These are words of what things are like when you get below the sticky sweet surface of corporate responsibility, and just get down to business.
Just.
Throwing it down.



Starting off:

Lost in cavernous malls populated with hollow shells fueled by endless outs of over sugared caffeine in stark recycled white and green highlights, the two couples waltz through the mindless drones of modern thought. 

The Doctor, the Liar and their twin loves all dancing to tunes only they can hear, up and down the endless alleys and side sections, in front of the strip malls with the same products, phones, hair, fingers and toes, as well as prepackaged food, the difference is usually only the name blazoned across the front of the establishment, and sometimes it is difficult to make out the lettering, they all look the same. 
[Pic of the Doctor and the Priest}

"Love is nothing but a performing art" the liar said in his mockery of piety, "Filled with Palms, Blackberries, and other PDAs conducted in the privacy of the self-esteem and home, hopefully for some people."
[Pic of the two ladies standing or dancing, not sure]

"But you are wrong there my good man," the Doctor spouts off around his trademarked drink, warm in the summer sun, cold in the winter months, available to anyone with the coin to drop, "I find you utterly wrong in this regard." 

Small children still with minds left are dragging their parents from one distraction to another. The mothers are less susceptible than the fathers, inoculation started early with baby dolls and other ragged promises.

The quartet staggers on down the crowded shopping mall, pausing to purchase nothing, to savor and regret even less. Waiting for the call to come and visit the other, to get the ball rolling down the hillside once more into that gray area of light and dark.



Throwing it down.
Long before it all started, as an starting point to The World

"The ratios are off your Lordship," the technician is cowering behind the plate glass, tempered in the forge fed by mistakes and fueled with anger and despair, "the timing is wrong, the placements are suboptimal, as well as immediate deformities arising." 
”As you can see from this prototype this human genome is not as adaptable to the alterations required, it needs to be modified before further alterations will take effect.”

The technician knows when to finally close its mouth, and await the fate in store with the deliverance of news not conducive to prolonged existence.

“Well,” smooth, sardonic, akin to smoke sliding across a gently resting pond in the middle of virgin wilderness, “Well it seems there are limitations to the species, it will take a few generations longer I suppose. No matter for it, draft plans to cull the herds more to speed up the process, start a few wars or something, just make it happen.” Glint of black on black, white chiffon dangling at the cravat line, pallid white flesh that has never been touched by the light of the sun, paler than the deepest cave bred mushroom could strive or dream to achieve, echoed in the ebony of the drapery and finery that adorned the skeletal structure with its scant covering of an epidermis. Turn on the heel and leave out the stone bound wooden door deep in the fastness of the earth.
[Pic of the alien looking thing in the hands]

The technician goes back to work, time to destroy the test material. Time to start over again, there is no lack of raw material to work with. Even when using only the local stock walking around the facility, it might be decades before they would need to tap back into the outside world for fresh stock to manipulate among the humans. Time passes slowly when there is all of it left in eternity stretching out in front of the eyes.



Throwing it down.

Keeping it all in check

Death comes knock knock knocking on the basement door
tick tock tick tock the clock strikes the hours on the dot, tick tock tick tock
stealthy little steps up and down the cold concrete floor
while the water goes drip drip drip down the back of the neck standing in the puddle watching the seepage seep
This is where the boundaries are weakened with each and every birth that is forced into the world, with each drawing of breath, of each outreaching of unnatural arms, does the fabric become ever so slightly more torn, ever so gently more ripped, worn away with the work of the unceasing mechanics of design taking all into endless ripostes of control and harmony enforced with blade and shovel into the cold hard ground to bury the dissenting. 
This is what is happening every single day to the world, as it grows colder with the lack of human hearts, with the expansion of the meme of consumerism, with the advent of one world scattered to all the corners, forever reaching hands out to touch, and unable to make solitary contact.
This is what is happening when man does not care about man, woman ignores woman, children are cruel to one and another, all the while the pets run rampant, feral lurking behind each overturned rubbish bin called a home by the homeless, it only takes a few generations for domesticated porcine to become feral razorback killers, the potential lurks under the torn and broken flesh with each step into broken glass of a relationship.
There are things out there, that touch on the lives of men, women and children, bringing out life and pouring death as a decanter of wine is emptied into each and every glass at a banquet, leaving none spared the embrace of the bitter absinthe like slide down the throat of the nightshade that comes with the passing of time, or the swiftness of stolen eternity cut short in a spray of crimson flecked foam from a gurgling pair of lips. This is when it all turns sour, heads south and drops out of sight six feet under the ground with only weeping as a memorial.
This is what happens when hearts have grown colder, as the Ice Age of the soul steals away the warmth of human interaction, borne away on the wings of gold and lust for power.



Throwing it down.

Rocked Lives torn into tiny scraps of putrid flesh decayed lying in the gutter.

Standing outside the dingy tenement square, where the time has stopped for all practical purposes, but still it crawls as a carcass twitches in the final throes of rigor mortis, death gases nearly complete in emission.

The bloated corpse, once a female from the vestigial traces of an outline, is left to rot away into nothing. The old man, growing older in the passing of time, letting the flecks of life drip off his fingertips making way for more pain and despair, every breath a small concession to living again, moves from the shadows into the light of the doorway, eager to enter and see what the others have concocted this time. There in the endless battle against entropy, the dark destroyer of all that was lovely and beautiful. At one time he felt that religion was the true evil, then it was money, later on it was the fickle nature of man, when all along it was the endless decay into mindless entropy, the winding down of choice into destruction, that is the true root of all that is inimical to love and happiness.

Now he just knows it is all lies, the words spoken by the big governments, by the giant multinationals, the lies told by those in power, as well as those desiring power and dominion over others. They are all lies, meant to mislead and confuse the real issues, of life, love, giving, and being creative. Those are the true boons of mankind on the skein of existence. Instead though, the words of hate, of greed, of existence for the sake of consumerism flow in torrents to rival the largest of waterfalls made with imagination and delight. 

The leftover man, the remnant carried out of the depths of the past, across the wide worlds and left forgotten in the dark wire twisted realms of nether fey that drift along, tormenting all they come across. The Remnant limped along the darkly lit ways down the streets, making his way to meet up with the others of his little cliché. Too few to be of notice, too many to gather safely, meeting up with the Doctor (really only in name along and not in function, assumed name at that), the Liar and their Twin Loves (not lovers) to discuss their findings of the recent past. The Remnant wanders along, with cup in hand, goggles for the dust and miasma that floats in particulate state,  and with a hat on to disguise and dissuade comments, he walks along and dreams of the days before he knew of other things. He makes a lonely path on the urban sidewalks looking for answers in the world all about and around him. 
Footsteps echoing in the distance of time, down the rusted stairwell into the bowels, rumbling coming from deep below, steam pipes breaking open to spill open second and degree forms of almost or actual death, while pumps eat themselves alive in the frenzy of unmentioned states of existence.

[Pic of the b/w guy with the big goggles on]

Down into the depths he descends, seeker’s journey in the waking state. The others should be there as well, in the meeting place, where they can discuss what can be done to thwart what seems to be occurring all about the world, in the skies, under the waves, buried in the rocks dredged up from the bones of the planetary body.

The Doctor’s pale flesh, by design rather than genetics, gleams in the soft bulbs illuminating the small room where the five are all meeting at. The cold steel table is bolted to the floor, relic of a time when someone with a scalpel made this their work space. Now it is somewhere far from prying eyes, electronic devices, and full of cold iron to ward the unwanted from spying on the conversation. 

The Liar and his ruddy complexion making a fine mockery of health and good fitness habits, was next to enter the space. He in his usual frock of black, pretending to know things he does not profess to adhere to. His boots always go click, click, click as he steps on metal plates or doorstops. 

The twins enter, the loves of the flesh of these conspirators. Really little more than mindless blood and sinew automatons, they are a pleasant distraction as well as eye candy to distract from the two men on their dealings.

The ensemble is all there, another round of expository about to ensue, another bout of philosophical masturbatory fantasies of making a difference when the hand basket has already be doused with accelerant and the roadside flare is burning almost into the Kelvin. 

“So where does the road lie this day.” The Doctor in typical obtuse fashion just spouts, never saying anything, never doing anything, never meaning anything. 
“Ohh look a dead spider, dears come and look at it!” One of the twin loves, with the aplomb and intelligence that selective breeding for looks not brains will produce, ohh the  wonder of the anorexic age.
“Not now my sweets, our dear meditator, I mean mediator, has something he wished to discuss with us all.” The Liar smoothing the way, as usual, decorated in the usual frock of lies and disguise.

“This is over, I am done.” The lost one, lonely, short, getting round and hairy leftover from a bye gone age, one of life and the want to help others, just sighs out loud.
“If this is who wants to change the world, then what is the point to change?”
“Go ahead, go back to the malls, the stores, the lies, the latest fashions, I am through with this world anyways. Time to move on.”

“But dear sir,” The Doctor who is not a doctor in reality, in typical Moulin feeling, “But dear sir, we are here to lend a helping hand, or perhaps eight.”

“I say, what is going on?” Caught in the lie of paying attention, the Liar looks up from his attempted observations of almost displayed distractions while the mindless pair coo and awe over the desiccated remains of an arachnid.

“He says he is through, all done with it all, the quest, the search, the good fight.”

“Yes I am done.” The chest sighs, heaves, pain flares on the inside, anxiety and panic at constant war ever since fleeing from the first set of chains, only to find the ones forged all alone in the dark, wandering lost rain streaked roads and back alleys, were all the tighter for being self-inflicted.

“Well if that is all, why did you call us down here good sir?” Indignity at the duration to come here, indignity at the lack of couth it might appear, the faux man of cloth stands straighter, evidence of too few meals missed straining at the seams.

“Lets go sweeties, the spider bores us.” One or the other of the twin loves, who can tell them apart unless they were to be tattooed or branded, one could imagine they cannot tell a difference save if one should sleep, but that might require a brain that was leached out in the modern school system.

“Yes, forget him, let us all depart,” The Doctor or was it the Liar says that. The lonely man has his head bowed in entropic reaction to fatigue.

The other four make their way out the door, forgetting why they came there almost immediately, the stain of almost confrontation draining away under the ever increasing acidic PH balance of the fog on the ground once back to the city streets.

Far below, where the pipes have rusted away, and the remains of dead insects lie, the Remnant, the leftover one, he who escaped a captivity of servitude, stands all alone chained with links forged of his own device.



Throwing it down.

Far behind the scenes, back where The Dark Fae Queen and The Fox Queen both held their courts when they would deign to touch the earth, there a lonely old man, on his birthday in fact, a lonely old man sits in a forgotten corner of a server room. His sole task being the monitoring of traffic devoted to search engine requests and how it affects the speed of the various government owned and operated supercomputers, as they being non-private sector tend to be overloaded and called upon for tasks unrelated to their true purposes. 

He and his stuffed animal hand puppet, Wiggly the Penguin, sit and spend their lives there, watching the HDDs spin up and spin down, there in the server room locked away from sight and sound of the outside world. 
[Pic of the Blue penguin and the blade server rack]

Nothing ever happens to them, and someday this other lonely old man will die of old age sitting there watching nothing happen to him at all. 

While his counterpart stands all alone in the darkness, paralyzed with his own self.



This is a tale told with all my dark art craft.
It is a tale of The World, and how it impacts the rest of creation, with pain, fear, loathing, disgust and lies.
It is not over yet.


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## tadk (Feb 22, 2007)

*Rodrigo*

Rodrigo

My comments on your story 

[SBLOCK]

Way cool, I love it. I want more in that setting. So Dresden meets ER. Completely neat and if you write novels or more in that setting I would buy them. 

Thank you and best to you in the next round

[/SBLOCK]


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## Berandor (Feb 22, 2007)

Unspoilering a spoiler below. Proceed at your own risk 


			
				Gulla said:
			
		

> *BSF* (Boy am I glad you abbreviated it   )
> Håkon



Which is not something you can say about carpedavid's story. 

Zing!


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## Berandor (Feb 22, 2007)

Two more stories, innit? Here are some random associations right after reading:

[sblock]*Rodrigo Istalindir*


> “Oh, good,” I replied, attempting to sound bitter and cheerful at the same time. “Two hours of sleep every two days is plenty.”



Ahh – the life of a Ceramic DM contestant  I really enjoyed your idea of medusaic labor. It's a weird world you throw us in, but it fits to the proceedings pretty nicely. I had to think of "Alone in the Dark" and similar computer games with fixed camera points when the doctor moved through the drug cabinet. In the end I feared a turn for the worst, that the mother would petrify her child (since it's not clear that it, too, will be a medusa). I also find it interesting that the mother is treated matter-of-factly; I mean, even a 24 hour petrification would be quite the downer. So I expected something to the effect that she was undergoing some training for her abilities. And while I laughed at your penguin picture – those Linux fans can be pretty rabid, after all  – it's not that strong a use. But all in all, a very enjoyable, irreverent little story. Thanks.

*tadk*
_The cellar of an isolated and defunct hospital. Rust bleeding from walls. A long hallway, naked lightbulbs hanging from the ceiling every now and then, buoys of light in a sea of darkness. Each buoy illustrating a moment frozen in time, something recognizable, but nothing you can understand without knowing its past or future, drifting along in emptiness. The glimpse of a face, someone dancing, searching, and in between... nothing. Then a door, too rusty to be opened, but having a small barred window into a cell. A scene, a play, but then the bulb above flickers and dies, and darkness takes its reign again._

That is me reading your entry. Once more some very nice imagery – especially the ending I felt was great, it echoed within me – but this time I got mostly lost. Sometimes I would grasp at things that resonated, only to have them disappear into confusion again, pulling me in behind them. 

That's really all I can say to your story right now. Thank you for posting it. It won't be easily forgotten (for good or ill )[/sblock]


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## tadk (Feb 22, 2007)

*Thanks*



			
				Berandor said:
			
		

> Two more stories, innit? Here are some random associations right after reading:
> 
> [sblock]
> *tadk*
> _The cellar of an isolated and defunct hospital. Rust bleeding from walls. A long hallway, naked lightbulbs hanging from the ceiling every now and then, buoys of light in a sea of darkness. Each buoy illustrating a moment frozen in time, something recognizable, but nothing you can understand without knowing its past or future, drifting along in emptiness. The glimpse of a face, someone dancing, searching, and in between... nothing. Then a door, too rusty to be opened, but having a small barred window into a cell. A scene, a play, but then the bulb above flickers and dies, and darkness takes its reign again._



[/sblock]

[sblock]

Totally cool lines up there
I wish I had written those.

Yes My style of writing is pretty outre'
I hate to admit my emails, my in person converstations, my lines of thought run those same sorts of tracks, unless it is some business related item then all dry like croutons left in too long is how I end up writing.

I appreciate you reading my offering, I like your comments, blame the Cat, he said write how I want not to write to the contest, so I did. 
All Piratecat's Fault you know. 
Either way thank you so much for your comments, I appreciate the time you took to compose them
TK

[/sblock]


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## Berandor (Feb 22, 2007)

Once more, washing the spoilery muck off of a comment:


			
				tadk said:
			
		

> All Piratecat's Fault you know.



If you go back far enough, that is the case with everything. Six degrees of pirate kitties


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## Rodrigo Istalindir (Feb 22, 2007)

Tadk:

[sblock]I love the way you use language; the metaphors and descriptions are amazing.  Its just sometimes when I'm reading your stuff, I feel like I'm missing something; there's a glimpse of something moving in the corner of my eye, but when I look it's not there.  I find it a little frustrating because (as you can tell by what I write) I'm much more straightforward.   But I suspect that's what you intend, so consider it a success on your part and failure on mine, in terms of imagination at least.

I do like that you write the way you want, though.  More so than any other Ceramic DM you've got a unique style and voice, and I'm glad to read your stuff, even if it does make me feel slow somtimes.  
[/sblock]

Berandor:

[sblock]
I got up this morning and discarded the ending I wrote last night, which was along the lines of what you'd described.  I just felt that it took the focus away from the doctor and felt a little awkward.  I also copped out on the 24-petrifcation thing; I'd originally written in a piece about how they used the placenta and amniotic fluid to devise a cure, but it came across as rushed and unbelievable.  Also, a little gross.

The penguin pic is a total cop-out, but the rest of the pictures came together so neatly (I think) that they pretty much dictated the story.  I'm hopeful that the rest of the pictures are used in such an inextricable way as to carry the one weak one.  We shall see!

Thanks, as always, for your comments.  You and I seem in tune on these types of stories, so if you don't think something works, I trust that it's a failure on my part and not a simple difference in style.[/sblock]


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## tadk (Feb 22, 2007)

*Don't*



			
				Rodrigo Istalindir said:
			
		

> Tadk:
> 
> [sblock]
> 
> ...


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## carpedavid (Feb 22, 2007)

*Comments*

Comments on all of the stories from this round:

[sblock]

*Piratecat: * Just wonderful. I’ve seen the “Christ is alive and well and living in Hoboken” concept before – just not from this angle. Usually, the conspiracy is to keep the messiah safe – not to kill him off, so this was refreshing and really fun. I do, though, agree with Sialia that a stronger personality for the narrator would have helped. That’s really the only fault I could find – I heartily enjoyed it otherwise.

*Berandor: * I like dark and disturbing stories, which yours certainly was. The one fault that I could find is the not-speaking thing. I don’t understand if not speaking actually granted Adam a form of invulnerability, or if that was merely meant to be metaphoric. You were going down a sci-fi angle with the invulnerable body, but then the end felt almost supernatural. I guess I’m not sure which it was supposed to be. While there’s nothing wrong with combining them, the rest of the story suggested that it should be one or the other, and so I was left confused at the end.

*Mythago: * You tell fairy tales like no one else. Even with the obviously limited amount of time you had to put this together, I think it would’ve been a difficult story to beat.

*My Esteemed Opponent:* I was amused by how similarly some of the pictures struck us – particularly the anthropomorphic cat and the shriveled woman who had to use illusions to mask her true nature. I was also delighted to see how we used things differently – I loved the idea of the “face shop.” I nervously await our judgment.

*Rodrigo: * I love the “urban fantasy” genre, and this is a thoroughly entertaining example of it. That’s pretty much it. I liked it .

*tadk: * Parts of your story had a very spoken-word feel to them, especially the beginning. I could hear the cadence in my head, and I was grooving along. Then, though, it veered into almost-prosaic surrealism, and the voice in my head went quiet. If you could maintain that spoken-word vibe throughout, I think it would be much stronger.


[/sblock]


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## Berandor (Feb 22, 2007)

Because I live in this thread...

[sblock]


			
				carpedavid said:
			
		

> *Berandor: * I like dark and disturbing stories, which yours certainly was. The one fault that I could find is the not-speaking thing. I don’t understand if not speaking actually granted Adam a form of invulnerability, or if that was merely meant to be metaphoric. You were going down a sci-fi angle with the invulnerable body, but then the end felt almost supernatural. I guess I’m not sure which it was supposed to be. While there’s nothing wrong with combining them, the rest of the story suggested that it should be one or the other, and so I was left confused at the end.



Just to unconfuse: It's definitely meant to be a technical thing; the not speaking being only superstition (and something I introduced for the illusory "breaking the spell" moment  But making it explicit is something I'll consider if I work on the story some more. And thank you for your comment and for not puking 
[/sblock]


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## Gulla (Feb 22, 2007)

Ouch!

I don't have time to comment until the morning, and I am far too curious for my own good. Not reading the other comments is killing me 

Well, comments incomming tomorrow morning (my time) after breakfast.

Håkon


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## Herremann the Wise (Feb 23, 2007)

Judgment sent for Match 2 (PC vs. Berandor).
All other judgments should be completed by the weekend Os-stray-lee-un time which should be early Sunday morning in the US.

Best Regards
Herremann the Wise


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## yangnome (Feb 23, 2007)

*Round Two - Match Two Decision*

Round Two - Match Two
Piratecat vs. Berandor
Dancing in the Streets - Berandor 

You have fantastic bones here for a gruesome, creepy story. Human cruelty, self-destruction, making a true monster of something that at first only looked like one; it’s all here. 

The thing that really kept me from digging this story was that it felt very disjointed. It came at you like rapid fire; short, staccato bursts of story without time to digest what came before. I don’t think it needs to be longer, but more focused.  The rapid fire style works, but then you occasionally get more descriptive.  In the first scene of Adam’s section it works beautifully, a breather after following his father.  But in the very next scene the styles mix, and that threw me off.

I mentioned the story having bones before, but it does have most of its meat as well.  To really give constructive criticism, I’d have to go through the story line by line suggesting slight language changes, and I’m not going to do that.  I will mention the beginning of the second scene in Adam’s section.  I’d make the sentence about it being the best time he’d had so far be the end of the paragraph, and leave out the statement that the nuns and the children are man.  You showed us how mean they were in the next sentence. The impact of the statement that abuse by nuns and peers is better than life with his father would be stronger if it were the last statement. The wheelchair is part of the courtyard action, so introduce it in a new paragraph.

Your picture use is pretty darn impressive.  The dancers as a hallucination would usually get under my skin, but you set it up well earlier in the story.  Adam imagines his mother as a dancer, and his silence because of his belief that making sounds would kill him make that hallucination very important, so it works.  You managed to work in even the hand gesture in the egg picture, and the entire piece is built around the picture of the malformed Adam.

The bookstore picture is the weakest.  The book becomes important in the story, but the actual picture use only serves to illustrate Dan’s misery, which we already have a good handle on.

This is a very impressive story and I enjoyed reading it.


Piratecat – Thy Kingdom Come 

You sir, seem to have religion on the brain.  In this case, that seeming obsession treats us to an excellent story.  How far would you go to save the world from its savior?  It’s a fascinating question, and there are no easy answers. 

The story is really a story of our narrator searching for answers.  It’s not as strong as it could be because the narrator himself doesn’t have a distinctive personality.  Perhaps that’s purposeful, so he can be more an everyman and allow the reader to slip into his shoes.  But the questions he wants answered are compelling and universal enough that the narrator could be a distinct personality without damaging the sense that we are in it with him.  Even just giving him a distinct style of speaking/thinking would do it. 

The Sith Lord comment made by the assassin jolted me out of the story.  It didn’t seem to fit.  Even with his later reference to Buffy, he doesn’t come across as a sci-fi culture guy, such as one who’d make this comment. 
The Buffy comments, he has a reason to know. 

I was also a little confused by how Mike was killed.  We see the assassin practicing with a gun, a gun is used in the final scene, but it’s never seen when Mike is killed.  Does the assassin have some way to cloak what he’s doing?  Is Mike’s presence enough that other’s don’t notice?  Why will he appear to have died of a heart condition? 

Stylistically the story flowed.  Each scene our reporter is in a little deeper, understands a bit more, has walked a bit farther down the path to where killing these children becomes first acceptable, then right. 

Picture use:  Pretty strong here, although the weakest for me is the dancers.  Although an attempt is made to make them a symbol of the coming change, it still feels like it could have been done better some other way if it had to be done at all.  The bookstore is somewhat the same, but here it introduces the powerful intoxication that comes from the messianic children, so it’s a little stronger. 

I had to read both these stories several times, and I’ve gone back and forth about which one should move on about least ten times now.  These stories make me hate being a judge.  I’m gong to go with Berandor for a story that makes you react from your gut, that disgusts you, but you can’t look away.


Herremann:
Piratecat vs. Berandor

The court had been hastily arranged; as it appeared that Match Two had temporally been brought in front of Match One. The two court imps dressed in their finery appeared to be heavily weighed down by the two submissions. Both had been delicately scribed in gold leaf upon scrolls of finest vellum, replete with golden tassels upon the handles. Their walk to the altar was slowly paced with chins held high with occasional glances to this side and that making sure the court was giving due respect to the two offerings. I bowed to the two as the heavy scrolls were placed neatly upon the granite altar. There was a hush around the Dark Court in awe of the spectacle they were about to witness. One of the Ceramic DM Gods was about to fall. The scythe smelt blood.

“Good court and others present, it is with delight that I present the offerings of Piratecat and Berandor. Imps of the jury, your best behaviour will be expected along with your finest discretion. It is a difficult task this evening I present to you, to differentiate between the two items before me. As such, I shall provide suitable evidence for your consideration. Choose wisely and make your decisions both firm and just. And so shall Round Two begin.”

I delicately tapped ‘Lady Death’ upon the altar, small evanescent bolts issuing from her blade towards the two scrolls. This was going to be one hell of a judgment.

“Piratecat has given us a gripping piece that does not let go for its duration. May I say that:

‘I’m here in this tropical swamp to profile a man named Parker. He kills children, and he claims he does it to save the world.’ 

is one of THE greatest short story lines I have ever read! In such a simple spilling of words, a dark shadow is cunningly cast over the introductory paragraphs before it. From this point, one cannot help but be drawn towards the story’s conclusion. Each of the story’s partitions is separated with striking momentum, like a perfect line of falling dominoes. Sublime excellence in terms of structure!”

“The dialogue between the unnamed reporter and Parker is likewise exquisite. This reporter is the perfect vessel for the piece, becoming like a clear, see-through observer that the reader cleaves to in the hope of making sense out of something so bizarrely logical - the halting of the Apocalypse; the ultimate battle versus God. Piratecat bites off more than most writers could hope to chew but then swallows it with dramatic aplomb. It is fantastic to be presented with such epic subject matter in a short story. A truly marvellous feat.”

“And one more element of the story that I would like to present that standing back from now, I consider to be a truly sublime moment of the craft of writing.

‘Parker speaks quietly. “Now you’ll see why I sometimes feel like one of the three wise men. I just bring high calibre ammunition instead of myrrh.” I fail to laugh. He does it for me.’

And so do we the reader. I laughed aloud when reading this humour. However, it is almost like from this point we the reader take over the vessel of the reporter. As if we push the reporter into the role of disciple, truly seeing things from Parker’s warped view; inviting the story’s conclusion. I felt this subtle and perhaps even serendipitous. Perhaps I am seeing more in the words than intended but regardless, this is how I interpreted it. Magnificence!”

Before I could continue, there was applause from the Dark Court in my backyard in appreciation of a truly great story. This was the first time this had ever happened. I looked around as the applause continued. Eventually, the grand appreciation ceased allowing me to finally continue. Piratecat, take a bow.

“Berandor has continued his great form in the competition so far with a fantastically dark piece. Split into two parts, the tension is subtle as we ponder Adam. Is he the blank page presented or is he something special - a true savant? Then comes the pondering of whether he will be a heroic figure who has overcome adversity, to transcend his form and upbringing? Adam transcends by falling; being consumed by the victual of hate fed to him from birth.”

“While I thought this was presented well, I found the action at the end somewhat jerky. The judgment of Adam seemed somewhat strange, logic dictating and demanding a different course of action rather than the destruction of a unique hardware. Surely they would wonder how Adam had “created” himself? As such, I fought with the conclusion of what I thought an otherwise excellent story.”

“Imps of the jury, cast your vote with firm indication - to the left for Piratecat or to the right for Berandor.” I brought ‘Lady Death’ up so she could truly cast her “gaze” upon the proceedings. The imps jumped this way and that but on the whole, there was almost overwhelming support for Piratecat. The imps were to start the judgment split twenty-one to twelve in Piratecat’s favour.

Since the previous judgment, I had spoken carefully to the Gnopf that I would be requiring a more consistent visual display for the proceedings, particularly now that more images were being demanded. He had nodded giving an impression of expertise. I suppose we would now see the fruits of his labour.

The Gnopf charged up his projector with several new squirming attachments. From an elevated position, he typed several commands into a fiendish laptop, automatically displaying a truly horrid birthling of somewhat human origin. The imps were jumping up and down in glee, the image very much to their macabre liking.

“For Piratecat this represents the messiah that finally beats Parker with the disciple waiting nearby, trapped into action. In some ways, this use is seamless with the Asian/North Chinese in the background supporting the creature. It’s horridness compared to the other messiah we meet is bizarrely appropriate for Parker’s final capitulation and the manic transferring of responsibility. Perhaps I’m still focusing too much on Piratecat’s story, not separating it from the specific picture-use but frankly, I think that is part of the extreme quality of this submission. When the story has such ownership over the images, each empowers the other, the total greater than the sum of the parts.”

“Berandor has perhaps gone even further in shaping his entire story around this image. With the horror of Adam freshly birthed, we wonder whether this horridly silent vessel will be some sort of hero savant or scarred villain. Of course, as much as I was hoping otherwise, the details were all in the picture. Look closely…” I nodded to the Gnopf who did a high-level zoom of the creature’s crotch, “and the answer is right there. No person, monster or otherwise can have that done to their genitals and not be turned to the dark side.” The jury and several members of the court quickly glanced down like pimply teenagers checking that their flies were not down. “On the whole, I thought this dramatically good use. Please good imps of the jury, if you could further express your collective opinions.”

The imps on both sides started a slanging match of epic proportion. Jibes were sent this way and that with several of the smaller imps being thrown backwards and forwards. At the end of the melee, Berandor’s position had been improved to fourteen cutting Piratecat’s imps down to nineteen. Somehow, Berandor’s side had gotten the idea that hurling the battered imps back to the opposing side while satisfying on several levels was weakening their overall position. A ceasefire had been selectively called leading to their enhanced position. Direction from me led to the Gnopf progressing to the next image, a man and car in front of a books-a-million store.

“This was one of Piratecat’s weakest image uses which is saying something as it still fitted in so well with the overall picture. The “Easter” bunny irony just made me laugh and shake my head, almost as if these images were ordained to be drawn into this particular story. As a “former” messiah, it was a little stretched but the outlandish use is conveyed so convincingly by Parker and the reporter, I did not even blink.”

“Berandor has manipulated his story to include this in the shape of a failed book by Dan Smith. The 30% off sale was meant to represent the final straw for Dan before his suicide and while OK, I did not find this as convincing as it could have been. Still though, suitable use. Imps?”

The melee from the previous round was rejoined but this time more directly. With fists flying, I had to wade into their ranks to break up some of the nastier scuffles. A swing from Lady Death separated head from neck and an imp’s body dropped. I had to kill another one, just to get them to regain their senses. Eventually they made their positions, eighteen to Piratecat to thirteen to Berandor. While Piratecat had a significant lead, he just could not quite put Berandor away. The next image appeared, that of four brightly attired dancers whirling around.

“Piratecat has used this image well but in some ways, this was the least convincing of the quintet. I thought the colourful Sufi reference intriguing as a modern day oracle to find new messiahs but at the same time, not entirely persuasive. It certainly was not enough to knock me out of the story’s flow so I suppose thumbs up once more are deserved.”

“I have to say that I thought Berandor’s use was a little strained. As a visage or memory or premonition, the dancing “mother” thread was something I struggled with. Representative of perhaps Adam’s last piece of innocence, there was not enough there for me to grab and run with. In the end, it simply did not gel like perhaps was planned. Perhaps then imps of the jury, further movement in a less volatile manner should be the order of the day. I do not wish to cull your numbers further!”

The imps wary of movements held static for a moment before there was a slight shift to Piratecat, nineteen imps to twelve. I tapped the altar in recognition, the penultimate image of a shot-strewn child mannequin glowing brightly from the Gnopf’s projector.

“Excellence. That is all I can say for Piratecat’s use of this image. You can almost see how this one image engendered a masterpiece. As the introduction to Parker and his bizarre occupation, it was faultless. Period.”

“Berandor has ably used this image as the final annihilation of the newly formed Adam. I thought the connections here interesting but again, I was not totally sold on the concept. It was suitable but perhaps it was also responsible for a logically jagged conclusion. Bah, it was OK but not great.”

The imps responding to a wave of ‘Lady Death’ and a stern gaze from her wielder actually shuffled further in Piratecat’s favour - the lead a dominating twenty-two imps to nine. While there was a small amount of backchat, the imps seemed to have accepted the inevitable. The Gnopf then presented the final image of a boy inside a boy-sized egg. 

“Now this was one of those images that just makes you shake your head when it comes to Ceramic DM. You look at it and ponder what the hell the writer’s are going to make of it. Piratecat actually turned the boy into a messiah soon to meet his fate while Berandor crafted a bizarre engineering feat of brain transplant/transference. This seems strange to say but I found Piratecat’s strange use entirely believable while Berandor’s I thought too fantastic. Something about this seems wrong and I’m pondering my own inadequate perception but this was how I was left feeling. While the engineering feat was encompassed by the envisaged hyper-intelligence of Adam, there was just something here that once again was not wholly convincing. Good enough for a regular round of Ceramic DM but not good enough when competing against a great competitor having penned a story of pure magnificence. Imps of the jury, your final position is required to decide this match.”

The imps stayed unmoving before a final capitulation of three imps to Piratecat’s side. In the end, an astounding round and a dominating performance by Piratecat, twenty-five imps to Berandor’s six. While I thought the imps perhaps a little overenthusiastic, I could not fault their decision nor Piratecat’s offering. Good work from Berandor but immaculate stuff from PC.


Yangnome:


Pirate Cat

Excellent story.  It’s hard to find things that need fixing here, but I’ll try to address a few things I liked and a few that didn’t quite work for me.  During the first part, where you introduce us to the assassin, I think you paint a picture of a redneck here (at least in my mind), but there’s no real follow through with that picture during the rest of the story.  I’m not certain whether this is good or bad, it just didn’t seem like it had follow through.  I was also taken out of the story a bit where you talked about how one couldn’t tell if the target was squirming or not at 200 yards, but he was only shooting at a mannequin.  At only 200 yards, a shooter should have a good sight on a target, even with iron sights—I’m probably nit-picking here, but it was enough to pull me out of the story.  Really good use of this picture.

The bookstore window picture felt a bit forced, but you managed to make this a bog portion of your story, I think you might have been able to integrate this section of your story in with the first section (later in town?) to make it a little stronger.  The use of the egg was a strong.  It showed the power of the messiah and eventually helps build tension in the narrator’s decision. 

The dervishes felt pretty forced and I think this picture is the weakest in the bunch.  You build a reason to have the story make a stop here, but it could have been cut out and the story wouldn’t have suffered.  I think you might have been able to build this scene up a bit more, or used the picture for something else.  The final picture use was strong.

You have a real skill for writing stories that include lines with double meaning (whether intentional or not).  For instance, with this one, the editor telling the reporter to just do his job definitely gets turned on its head with a second read.  I really enjoy your wordplay in places.  The disciple line also gave good foreshadowing.  I think I would have liked a little more build up to the narrator’s final decision, but I felt it worked well as is.  Great story.

Berandor-

You have a really good story here too.  Reading the first part, I thought you were going to knock this out of the park.  I was a bit disappointed that the story didn’t have a sympathetic character in it.  Your writing really made his father come across as a despicable character, even though it was possible for the reader to commiserate with him on some level.   I could see how his treatment (and others’) of Adam led to the ending, but it just wasn’t fulfilling for me.  It would have been nice to see Adam as sympathetic, or barring that (sine that would have made an entirely different story), at least his adoptive family.  

Your picture use varied, but overall was strong.  I felt your use of the dancer was your worst story.  You bring it up as a memory, but it would have been nice to have this mentioned earlier in the story since it plays a large part of the end.  The bookstore picture was a bit weak—shy would there be a poster for a book that sold 100 copies—but it showed the breakdown of his father.  The egg, the child and the mannequin were all very strong.  I would have liked to have known why speaking was the weakness that allowed for his death.

This is a tough round to judge.  I caste my vote for PirateCat who gave a story that worked better overall for me.

PirateCat wins this match 2-1 and moves on to the next round.


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## Berandor (Feb 23, 2007)

[sblock]Damn. For a moment, I believed  Congrats, Piratecat, for a deserved win. Good luck for the rest of the contest.[/sblock]



			
				Herreman said:
			
		

> “While I thought this was presented well, I found the action at the end somewhat jerky. The judgment of Adam seemed somewhat strange, logic dictating and demanding a different course of action rather than the destruction of a unique hardware. Surely they would wonder how Adam had “created” himself? As such, I fought with the conclusion of what I thought an otherwise excellent story.”



I was slightly influenced by Saddam Hussein's quick death despite the chance to psychologically analyze him, so that I totally didn't think that fat-fetched. Adam is a threat first and foremost, and the threat needs to be neutralized. Scientists can then take the scraps and see what they get.


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## Gulla (Feb 23, 2007)

So, morning again, and time for comments. 

[sblock]
*Rodrigo Istalindir*  A sweet story about problems with fantasy creatures in a modern world. This feels like a "good enough" story, but is missing the little extra. It might be that I have read far too much fantasy and mythology (is that possible?) but I have the same feeling as with Piratecat's story: I've seen this before. The new setting isn't enough to make this feel like a new and exciting story. Perseus finds a way to look at Medusa, and gets the job done. The small twist with saving Medusa instead of killing her didn't do much for me, I didn't get enough of her story to sympathise.
The picure use is varied. I liked the "priest and zombie" and the "dancers -> doctor & nurse", The video-picture is ok, noth more and the penguin (even though very realistic) is a bit of a throw away and the baby wasn't very exciting for such an interresting picture.
And then what seems to be a reccuring problem this round: "I found perched in a comfy chair ". Who? What?. Missing words makes a jarring interruption for me in a normal text. Som a small minus for that sentence.
All in all a godd story, but maybe a bit bland.

*tadk* I'm always a bit scared to start on your stories, as I never know what ride you will take me on... This time it is a bit of a dark future thingie. As often before it is a lot of seemingly disconnected picures and scenes, and I feel a story underneath, but this time it is a little too well hidden. I'm normally not very good at picking up symbolism and layers and i have a vague feeling of not quite getting all of it this time. Of cource, there is always the question then: "Is there a deeper meaning and symbolism, or is it just empty words?" I don't think this is empty, but I can't pinpoint the story this time.
The picures feel right, and I have a consistent feeling of the mood. But I still feel it is a little bit too obscure for me, and not as strong as the last round.

So a thight contest, I think.
[/sblock]

Håkon
going to read other comments and a judgement.


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## Piratecat (Feb 23, 2007)

Thank you so much to Berandor, who made me work my butt off. I think I wrote a story that people either really liked or were "eh" on. I was on the former side. This may be the piece I'm proudest of from all the things I've written either in or out of Ceramic DM, which probably says something telling about me. I did exactly what I set out to do - so if you think the story failed on some level, at least we know it's a failing of the author and not an eccentricity of the time limit or the prose.  

I specifically tried to make the story seem more like a live documentary than anything else, written by a reporter whose job it is to keep his personality separate from the story. More of his personality seeped in, but what you're seeing there is very deliberate. This story evolved from a conversation I had here at work with the co-worker who had grown up in the "cult-like" church I mentioned earlier. "If only 144K people get into heaven," I pondered, "can you increase your odds by killing the others?" That seed grew into this, and I think it works much better this way. As one of the judges said, usually these stories have a secret society trying to protect the messiah. I realized that there were enough plausible reasons to instead kill him off for the story to work.

Some excellent criticism, however, and I agree with quite a lot of it. Thank you - it's making me think, and re-evaluate some characterization that was inconsistent. Also, thank you to anyone who read the thing more than once, and thus picked up some of the layered sub-text. Finally, a shout out to everyone who just saw me write "layered sub-text" and thought "Do you think he _meant_ to sound like a pretentious wanker?" - 'cause I _totally_ did.


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## tadk (Feb 23, 2007)

*More from me*

Not for the judges unless you want to know why i wrote what i did before you judge me

[SBLOCK]

Hi all
Thank you so much for the comments on this and all my other CDM stories.
I admit I find CDM to be darn tough on me. I just do not see stories in the pictures. So I go a different route and fit the pictures into story lines, linked together with other stuff I have written, use them to expand my own speculative writing world using the CDM as a point of work.

So yes there is an underlying theme, of The World, which is sort of a modern day, inpsired by Unknown Armies, Over the Edge, and similar RPGs as well as Urban Fantasy and Conspiracy.

So there is a theme, this story semi fits into the general mood generation part of the setting, where man has been made useless by technology and the actions of the beings from other worlds/dimensions slowly taking over, for no apparent reason at all. So hopelessness, despair, uselessness, the waste of life, the grind of the modern age wearing people out are the main themes for this particular entry.Other times it is the intersection of this world and other worlds especially with The Fox Goddess and The Dark Fae Queen of Barbedwire and the Remnant Stories. So that is the underlying element to pretty much all my CDM stories, and a huge chunk of my writing for the last 8 to 10 years.
Thanks for indulging me in reading any of this. 
Ta ta
Later Days and Stranger Ways,
Strange is as Strange is (Motto to The World)


[/SBLOCK]


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## Piratecat (Feb 25, 2007)

It would be totally déclassé of me to bump this just for the sake of higher visibility. So instead, I'm doing it for the Gipper.


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## Gulla (Feb 25, 2007)

Uhm, a little thought on a Sunday afternoon:

How are the pairing for the next round done?  If BSF can survive CarpeDavid, will it be "open for all" or do you pair BSF up with someone else so Piratecat cannot meet his first round foe until the finals?

And some comments on the judgement. I really think that this match between Berandor and Piratecat is the best ever in CDM, but then older events often pale a bit. Anyway I feel you could both have won, and that the only real difference is in what type of story each one preferes. And with the two nice training matches so far, we expect Piratecat to keep on improving. You are only rising the bar, you know   

Håkon
looking forward to new judgements and new stories.


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## mythago (Feb 25, 2007)

I think next round, we all gang up on Piratecat.


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## Piratecat (Feb 25, 2007)

Seconded!

Hey, waittaminnit...


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## tadk (Feb 25, 2007)

*All in Favor*

All  in Favor of ganging up on Piratecat Say Aye



*Aye*


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## Berandor (Feb 25, 2007)

Gulla said:
			
		

> And some comments on the judgement. I really think that this match between Berandor and Piratecat is the best ever in CDM,



I agree 


> but then older events often pale a bit. Anyway I feel you could both have won, and that the only real difference is in what type of story each one preferes.



I prefer mine 

Now, to be more serious for once, I appreciate the thought, but I think I remember other very close matches with mythago and Macbeth, or with carpedavid and ... someone, or how about the time Sialia won? I'd be happy if a year from now this would be a match spoken of in concert with these other ones (and more I'd recognize if I read the older contests). Though next time, I think my star-struckness will have paled enough for me to im-pale PC on Lady Death 



> And with the two nice training matches so far, we expect Piratecat to keep on improving. You are only rising the bar, you know



Yeah... if PC wins this, it'll be because of BSF's and my sparring. Absolutely


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## yangnome (Feb 25, 2007)

Still waiting on judgements from both OB and Herremann.  

Next round pairups will be decided randomly.  There is no safeguard preventing a second BSF/PC matchup prior to the finals.


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## Daulnay (Feb 25, 2007)

mythago said:
			
		

> You know, I'm angry enough that I'm just going to say I'm incapable of making a polite reply just at the moment.




I'm Mythago's partner.  From Monday through Friday last week, her work demanded so much that she was gone before 7 am every day, back after midnight every night.  Sometimes hours after midnight.  Her 3 children did not see her all week, and I barely did.  The last 3 nights, she got less than 4 hours each night.  By Friday, her eyes were haunted with black circles, and she collapsed Friday night for 10 hours of straight sleep.  Somehow, she stole a few minutes here and there to write a story anyway.   She undertook the obligation of this competition seriously, you can understand now why she's upset her opponent did not.


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## orchid blossom (Feb 25, 2007)

yangnome said:
			
		

> Still waiting on judgements from both OB and Herremann.
> 
> Next round pairups will be decided randomly.  There is no safeguard preventing a second BSF/PC matchup prior to the finals.




You should have gotten one from me earlier today.  I'm working on another now...  My head is swimming just a little, so it may take a bit, but it shall be done today!  In the next hour or so I hope.


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## carpedavid (Feb 25, 2007)

While we're wating, I thought I'd ask a question of my esteemed competitors, in the hope of generating some discussion that might be useful to new competitors. Do you have any sort of technique for beginning your stories?

I generally tend to look at one of the pictures, and try and interpret it literally, especially if the picture interpreted literally is absurd. I ask myself, "how would the world have to function differently if this picture were a depiction of normal events?" The answer sets the framework for the story - whether its a world overtaken by global warming or a rockabilly space opera.


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## Berandor (Feb 25, 2007)

carpedavid said:
			
		

> I generally tend to look at one of the pictures, and try and interpret it literally, especially if the picture interpreted literally is absurd. I ask myself, "how would the world have to function differently if this picture were a depiction of normal events?" The answer sets the framework for the story - whether its a world overtaken by global warming or a rockabilly space opera.



That's a really interesting approach; I might try that next time.

What I tend to do is look at the pictures looking for my protagonist; if I can't find him/her, then the pictures must have been taken from his/her point of view. Next I look for the picture that is central to the story – this is often the picture that I find the most difficult to integrate or interpret.

If I have some idea of a protagonist, and a central picture, then I try to fit the pictures together somehow. I usually have either a very firm idea of how the story will end (but not begin), or of a central theme I want to write about. I usually look very closely at the pictures then to find some idea or hint that they belong together (for example, in the first story, the riot police in the background weren't in formation, it looked as if somebody might have rushed past or through them).

[sblock=About my stories]In the first story, the most difficult image for me was the guy on the fan-bike. This would have to be central, and that often means it's related to the climax. I didn't really find a protagonist, but the crawling guy might do. I knew the climatic action would be the guy – clearly not the protagonist – rolling off. I was also interested in doing a "skeptical" story, so some kind of debunking (or failing to debunk) was supposed to happen.

In the second story, the mannequin image seemed to be the most difficult one, but closely related to the deformed person. I wrestled with either making it into a story about my protagonist being outside of the pictures, trying to get a perfect child by cloning; or with the deformed child as the protagonist. One would have been mostly about ambition, striving for perfection without regards of the costs, the other would be about the costs driving towards an evolved body and an angry mind. I found the latter idea to be stronger, so I went that way.[/sblock]

After reading Piratecat's last story, though, I had a different idea. If I had advanced, I would have started the next story by first trying to find a conflict in the pictures, and then building theme, characters, story around that conflict.

I'm notoriously bad at world-building though, so your approach might help me in that regard. Even thinking about my previous pictures in a way you described gives me great ideas. You may have just told your greatest secret... muhahah!


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## maxfieldjadenfox (Feb 25, 2007)

Since I made my living as an illustrator for about 10 years, I find CDM to be a bit like turning my mind inside out. I usually print all of the pictures, lay them out and look for some sort of theme. If there is none, (usually that's the case) I look for my protagonist. But often, I'll see one of the pictures and an idea will pop in. Often it's a bad idea, and I spend a lot of time trying to make it work before realizing it and by then it's too late and I have to make do...


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## Berandor (Feb 25, 2007)

maxfieldjadenfox said:
			
		

> Since I made my living as an illustrator for about 10 years, I find CDM to be a bit like turning my mind inside out. I usually print all of the pictures, lay them out and look for some sort of theme. If there is none, (usually that's the case) I look for my protagonist. But often, I'll see one of the pictures and an idea will pop in. Often it's a bad idea, and I spend a lot of time trying to make it work before realizing it and by then it's too late and I have to make do...



Normally, I chuck out at the first two ideas that I get, knowing that they either won't work or, if they do, will come back to mind later.


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## orchid blossom (Feb 25, 2007)

I'm officially all caught up.


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## carpedavid (Feb 26, 2007)

Berandor said:
			
		

> I'm notoriously bad at world-building though, so your approach might help me in that regard. Even thinking about my previous pictures in a way you described gives me great ideas. You may have just told your greatest secret... muhahah!




Heh - I've got plenty more.


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## Herremann the Wise (Feb 26, 2007)

Judgment for carpedavid vs. BSF sent.
The final two judgments are being cooked as we speak. I'm working on finishing off tadk and Rodrigo's first so we can get the semi-finals sorted, but I'm also working hard on getting Mythago's done too.
[presses nose back to keyboard]

Best Regards
Herremann the Wise


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## Rodrigo Istalindir (Feb 26, 2007)

One of the pictures always (or at least, so far) speakls to me right away.  Usually its what the setting is going to be, occasionally its the main character.   The darkened bridge said 'spy story' for example.  

I have the rough idea generally within a few minutes of seeing the pictures for the first time.  Then I don't even look at them again until its time to write, usually the night before the deadline.  I just let things simmer in the background, occasionally working out a plot point or bit of dialogue.  Usually I just work on how to get from A to B to C, that is, from picture to picture.  Then it just sort of writes itself.  

What's harder for me is editing after the fact, although I'm getting better.  That was my goal for this Ceramic DM -- to make the stories tighter and more focused (for better or worse).


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## orchid blossom (Feb 26, 2007)

I'm not writing this time, but...  I'm amazed that everyone says they get some kind of idea right away.  I usually stare at the picture, wonder what the hell, and let them stew for a couple days before I get any idea at all.  Then I write frantically and pray I can get something finished.

Anyone remember the were-rooster story I wrote?  I stared at the computer most of the day and wrote it in the last 3 hours before the deadline because I had no ideas.  I was actually considering getting drunk to see if it would help.


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## Piratecat (Feb 26, 2007)

In general I ponder the photos for 12 hours, leave the last 12 hours for editing, and spend the intervening two days writing. 

I check the photos for any obvious commonalities, then try to turn them on their proverbial ears in order to come up with a less expected entry. What else is in the photo that might be relevant? Is there a time, or a background image? What might tie the pictures together?

Then I go and sit in the tub. Or take a shower. Then I sleep. And I studiously don't think about it except to occasionally remind myself what the photos are.  If I've properly fueled my brain, I've got the photos in there all sliding around like puzzle pieces, hitching this way and that way as they try to line themselves up. When I get it right I know, and when (if!) I snap the last photo and plot element and character interaction in place there's a near-audible "click." This happens in my D&D design, too. It's a tremendous feeling, and one that I don't feel often enough.

Then I write. I write anything, and I edit later. The more I slam down on the page initially, the better the story ends up and the less I freeze up a day later.


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## orchid blossom (Feb 26, 2007)

Piratecat said:
			
		

> Then I write. I write anything, and I edit later.




I wish I could do that.  I have the terrible habit of editing as I go.


----------



## mythago (Feb 26, 2007)

I would love to be able to sit and write and not stop, or to just sorta plan what I was going to write. Mostly it just drops into my head and that's just all there is to it. I get one or two pictures I am not all that sure what to do with. This makes for some sucky stories, let me tell you.


----------



## mythago (Feb 26, 2007)

Berandor said:
			
		

> Yeah... if PC wins this, it'll be because of BSF's and my sparring. Absolutely




I'm just peeved that he got to you first.


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## Berandor (Feb 26, 2007)

orchid blossom said:
			
		

> I'm not writing this time, but...  I'm amazed that everyone says they get some kind of idea right away.  I usually stare at the picture, wonder what the hell, and let them stew for a couple days before I get any idea at all.  Then I write frantically and pray I can get something finished.



Well, at least for me, I've got the benefit of a different time zone. Usually I get the pictures in the evening, and I can let them sink in, sleep on them, and next day somewhere between noon and afternoon I start writing; so a simmering process is almost "built in".

But I usually have an idea after that time.

And usually, when I decided on a story, I focus on that to the extent that the interpretation seems totally natural. When writing, I often think my opponent is probably writing the same story or using the pictures the same way. Although that never happens.

*bump for judgement*


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## carpedavid (Feb 26, 2007)

orchid blossom said:
			
		

> I wish I could do that.  I have the terrible habit of editing as I go.




I edit as I go, too, which helps me in two ways:

1. I seem to have less to edit when I'm done.

2. Going back over previously written material seems to help me find connections that I'd otherwise miss.

In situations where I'm the only one who has input to my work before the story is finalized (like this contest), I find that this approach works acceptably well. I think it would probably make me "slow" compared to others, though, in a situation where I were expected to pass editing duties off to an external source.

Oh - I just thought of a technique that I've been using in this contest that I had never tried before. When writing, if I come to an area that I find is slowing me down, I put in placeholders - usually something along the lines of "[more dialogue here]," but sometimes entire plot points.

I then move on to other parts of the story where I find that the words are flowing more freely. Thus far, I've only used it twice, so I can't tell you how well it holds up over time, but so far it seems to have enabled me to write longer stories in the same amount of time.


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## Piratecat (Feb 26, 2007)

I do that too. As far as I can tell, its biggest advantage is that it helps maintain momentum.


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## Rodrigo Istalindir (Feb 26, 2007)

I can't do that, at least in Ceramic DM.  The couple times I have, I found that the cool idea I developed for the placeholder obsoleted the parts I wrote afterward.  For something not time-limited it wouldn't bug me, but I hate being faced with having to shoe-horn something in and go with it.  Mentally, at that point I've already written off the story, and it becomes a chore to finish instead of fun.

Of course, if I could train myself to start writing the first night instead of procrastinating, I'd have the time to do it right, but I think that's too hard a trick to teach this old dog.


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## Piratecat (Feb 26, 2007)

Rodrigo Istalindir said:
			
		

> Of course, if I could train myself to start writing the first night instead of procrastinating, I'd have the time to do it right, but I think that's too hard a trick to teach this old dog.



I'm _totally_ counting on this if we have to face one another. It's far more reliable than those old days of "post my story then use secret admin mojo to turn off EN World."


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## Rodrigo Istalindir (Feb 26, 2007)

Dog > cat.


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## Piratecat (Feb 26, 2007)

Rodrigo Istalindir said:
			
		

> Dog > cat.



Touché, Rodrigo!  You've succinctly summed up your writing style using your typical number of syllables!






_EDIT: Note to self: when trashtalking, it is very very embarrassing to misspell words like "syllables." With luck, he never saw it. . ._


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## Rodrigo Istalindir (Feb 26, 2007)

Piratecat said:
			
		

> Touché, Rodrigo!  You've succinctly summed up your writing style using your typical number of syllables!




Only if you read it as 'dog more than cat'.  If you read it as 'dog greater than cat' it stops being monosyllabic.


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## Rodrigo Istalindir (Feb 26, 2007)

Cost of business-class DSL connection:  $60/month
Cost of ENWorld community supporter account:  $45/year
Thread subscription catching Piratecat in a grammatical faux pas:  Priceless!


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## Berandor (Feb 26, 2007)

Piratecat said:
			
		

> Touché, Rodrigo!  You've succinctly summed up your writing style using your typical number of syllables!
> [/i]



That's not fair. Some of Rodrigo's characters have more than one syllable in their name.


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## carpedavid (Feb 27, 2007)

*whistles innocently*

Just passing by...


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## orchid blossom (Feb 27, 2007)

I did my thing, now I'm waiting anxiously too.  I'm always interested in finding out if the others agreed with me.


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## yangnome (Feb 27, 2007)

Hello,

I apologize for not having these up yet.  A series of events has led to these not being posted yet.  First, my domain/email host had a bunch of problems this weekend.  The only judgement I've received is Herremann's for Carpe David and BSF.  I see OB says she's sent it, so I assume this is lost somewhere in the ether.  If Herremann  has sent any others, I haven't received them.  Second, I was sick yesterday and didn't spend much time online.  Anyhow, OB, of you could please resend (my email appears to be working now).  Thanks.  I won't have access to my email until tonight.


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## Sialia (Feb 27, 2007)

In my case, I usually spend months before the competition filling up on cool ideas I am going to get around to writing about someday when I have time. Sometimes I even jot them down in a list so I won't forget them.

Then, when the pictures go up, I stare at the pictures and try to figure out how each of the things in the pictures arrived at that moment in time--what would have to have come before, what is likely to happen after. Since use as a static image is all but prohibited, it's important to think about everything in the shot as an object in motion, undergoing endless change, in some context. Folowing Piratecat's lead, it's interesting to look for ways to understand the motion that aren't obvious.

Also, I'll make lists of the obejcts in isolation from thier contexts and think about what symbols or metaphors fit these things.

And then I'll try to think up some characters suggested by all of the above, and what each one has in his or her pockets. That's a metaphor. Sometimes the inventory is not physical objects--but the idea is, what does this person walk into this story with at their disposal that no one else has?

Then I try to connect the dots. 

Usually I have way too many dots to coonect by this point, so it's largely a matter of spilling out a huge heap of ideas and then carving it down to just the good stuff. 

When I get stuck, I take a break and do something utterly unrelated, and then I go look at the personal inventories again. Getting unstuck almost always comes from getting to know the characters better. I have to stand in their shoes and pretend I'm a PC: the GM just handed me this sucky situation, and here's what I've got at hand to respond with--a list of personality quirks, skills, experiences, objects at hand.  If I can't get the answer through one set of eyes, I move my point of view to someone else for a while.

Characters make the story happen, and plot connects the dots so I really focus there when I'm writing. The metaphors and preconceved notions of what would be cool to write about just percolate in wherever they happen to fit. They are things in my inventory as the writer, and most of them stay in my pockets, unless there's some really good fit. A lot of times, I can tease myself with getting to use one as a carrot for getting a scene out. Usually I find it tastes different than I thought it would once I've prepared it. But when one starts really working, it adds a depth to "what this story is all about" that is intoxicating to me.

That, and I drink a lot of caffeine and Southern Comfort or vodka to get my brain limber, which is another reason I don't write when I'm pregnant.


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## Sialia (Feb 27, 2007)

I just remembererd: there is one other trick I use in "making up the guest suite for my muse".

Just before pictures are posted, while I'm nervously waiting for the starting time to tick around, I usually read. I try to pick something really powerful and evocative that I haven't read before by some really stupendous, well-recommended author. One of those people who makes you jealous that they thought up writing that story instead of you.

If I can't find just the right short story or novel, I look for a piece of nonfiction or reference on some subject that's really cool.

The idea is, by the time the pictures go up, the muse and I are already having a dialogue about what I just read, and what I wish I could write, and chowing down on a stack of ideas about what would be really cool to be able to write about if only the pictures would be kind.

It avoids that waiting around at the train station for a muse on a delayed flight feeling.


----------



## orchid blossom (Feb 27, 2007)

Everything resent as requested.  Good thing I'd saved them all as word docs or I'd be writing them over again.


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## Piratecat (Feb 28, 2007)

Sialia said:
			
		

> Just before pictures are posted, while I'm nervously waiting for the starting time to tick around, I usually read. I try to pick something really powerful and evocative that I haven't read before by some really stupendous, well-recommended author. One of those people who makes you jealous that they thought up writing that story instead of you.



Every time I do this, I find myself inadvertently trying to write in their style. My Ceramic DM entries over the years can boast a few bad Neil Gaiman, Donald Westlake, Harry Harrison, and John D. MacDonald stories to prove it. Heck, my latest story aped a documentary/expose style that I just read. Maybe I'm hyperconscious of it, but if I read someone else right before I write, I'm always less pleased with the results. The voice just doesn't sound as much like me.


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## orchid blossom (Feb 28, 2007)

Piratecat said:
			
		

> Every time I do this, I find myself inadvertently trying to write in their style. My Ceramic DM entries over the years can boast a few bad Neil Gaiman, Donald Westlake, Harry Harrison, and John D. MacDonald stories to prove it. Heck, my latest story aped a documentary/expose style that I just read. Maybe I'm hyperconscious of it, but if I read someone else right before I write, I'm always less pleased with the results. The voice just doesn't sound as much like me.




Just last night I was posting in a pbp while watching a Jane Austen movie.  I was writing like a Jane Austen character by the end of the night.


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## Sialia (Feb 28, 2007)

It totally does mess with my head and influence what comes out.

The trick, I think, is to know my character's voices. It's hard to write like Ray Bradbury or Ursula leGuin or Kage Baker when I'm really focusing on trying to write in the voice of my protagonists, and to make sure they each have thier own voices. (Heck, if I pick somebody I'm that awed by, there's not much chance of me effectively modeling thier style to begin with. Shtick is reasonbly easy to model, integrity is a ruthless bitch.)

I will admit, sometimes I'm weak about yielding to the tempation to steal really cool characters though. It's harder to get caught at it if you've changed the race, species, gender, setting, events, relationships, etc. but it still feels a bit like cheating--like writing fan fic on the sly.

Better things I have stolen from  been inspired by are the Draconomicon and Ilithiad, and other reference works like that. There's little tempation to steal the voice, and all the joy in the world of stealing a few tidbits of world detail. It would probably get me into copyright trouble if I ever wanted to publish any of these for profit, but since that's not on the agenda, it's no biggie.


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## tadk (Feb 28, 2007)

*bwhahahahaaa*



			
				Piratecat said:
			
		

> Every time I do this, I find myself inadvertently trying to write in their style. My Ceramic DM entries over the years can boast a few bad Neil Gaiman, Donald Westlake, Harry Harrison, and John D. MacDonald stories to prove it. Heck, my latest story aped a documentary/expose style that I just read. Maybe I'm hyperconscious of it, but if I read someone else right before I write, I'm always less pleased with the results. The voice just doesn't sound as much like me.




So all I have to do is email you a bunch of my old writings if we ever meet in head to head writing competition, and voila' a win for moi  !!!


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## Rodrigo Istalindir (Feb 28, 2007)

Piratecat said:
			
		

> Every time I do this, I find myself inadvertently trying to write in their style. My Ceramic DM entries over the years can boast a few bad Neil Gaiman, Donald Westlake, Harry Harrison, and John D. MacDonald stories to prove it.




John D. MacDonald is probably my biggest influence.  Not that he should be held accountable for that or anything.


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## Piratecat (Feb 28, 2007)

Rodrigo Istalindir said:
			
		

> John D. MacDonald is probably my biggest influence.  Not that he should be held accountable for that or anything.



I challenge you to a McGee-off. The winner buys the houseboat.


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## Rodrigo Istalindir (Feb 28, 2007)

Piratecat said:
			
		

> I challenge you to a McGee-off. The winner buys the houseboat.




I grew up in Sarasota,  Florida.  Actually met JD once when I was a kid.  He would go over to the college and talk with my dad.

Travis McGee is the closest thing I have to a role-model.


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## mythago (Feb 28, 2007)

Sialia said:
			
		

> The idea is, by the time the pictures go up, the muse and I are already having a dialogue




A dialogue?! Your muse LISTENS to you?

Man.


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## yangnome (Feb 28, 2007)

OK, sorry this is later than I had originally planned.  I had a dive class that I had forgotten about.  Rodrigo Tadk will be coming up in a few minutes. 


Round Two - Match One
carpedavid vs. BSF

Orchid Blossom-
carpedavid – Three, Two, One, Go

This story is long, but I didn’t find it long to read.  You seem to think like a novelist even in short story form, and in this story at least it’s working.  I’m thinking particularly of the scene with Mei and Shoji where they go to get ice cream.  Nothing really happens in the scene that’s integral (he could have been summoned to the ancestors in many other ways), and yet the story would be less without it.  It introduces the fact that Mei has a car, that she’s into the gangster culture, and fleshes out the relationship between Mei, Shoji, and Ichiro.  We know the characters better, so their actions later are more believable.

I enjoyed the 50’s vibe in the story, and I bought into it pretty easily.  The mention of Tokyo III early on lets us know this is far enough in the future that there must have been a Tokyo II at some point, and human beings have a tendency to try to recreate the past.  Since Japan is known to take on at least the outer forms of other cultures, a future where Tokyo looks like America of the early 50’s is oddly plausible.

It would have worked better for me had there been a few more clues about the culture before we started running into the language.  The first use of the word spaz threw me out of the story for a moment.  It wasn’t until the poodle skirt on Mei that I really saw what you were doing, so until then I was distracted in trying to find my setting.

This is a strong story, but the end came too easily for me.  It is very catlike for the new Boss to just give in, but it makes everything that came before seem unnecessary.  It kind of goes… tension, tension, tension… oh, that was easy!  Let’s party!  It makes the ending unsatisfying.

Picture use:

None of the picture uses in this story wowed me.  The “hair” picture was alright.  While it didn’t illustrate important action, I can see where a publisher might chose to picture these two punks with their hair in order to help solidify the setting.  After that the cat and dog picture illustrates why they need to be physically careful of this robotic cat that’s taken over.  The skeleton and the heads fit where they are placed, although the heads work a bit better for me in illustrating the technology of keeping the brains of the ancestors.  The weakest one for me is the woman in the mirror.  It appears in the only scene where we change narrators, and the scene is mostly superfluous.  Most of what we learned we already knew from the ancestors.



BSF – Vodou Justice

In a polar opposite, this story is very short and it moves fast.  I’d like to see it move a little slower.  I never really got into the narrator and so had a hard time getting involved in the story.

The big reveal of the story is the revelation that the narrator is a cat, but the moment where it was revealed confused me.  I actually stopped reading and started looking back for whatever hint I had missed.  The reader starts with a supposition that the narrator is human, and that assumption is reinforced in order to preserve the surprise.  For me, at least, that caused the story to stop in its tracks.  We know from the beginning of the story that this is a magical world, so just a mention of talking or thinking animals in this world would have preserved the surprise but not caused me to come to a screeching halt.

The story also suffers from what some of the other detective stories in this CDM has, skipping the conflict and discovery of facts in order to get through the story.  Obviously the three hour limit almost always causes corner-cutting, but it causes the story to read like a draft, all bones, little flesh.

There are so many fun concepts here, the idea of the sentient animals on its own would be interesting.  I’d enjoy reading another story set here with the world fleshed out further.  It feels like it was be a rather dark place.

Picture use:

The picture use here is pretty solid.  The skeletal assassin sends Mr. Heath on his mission of revenge, and the dog and cat picture appears at the big reveal.  The woman in the mirror illustrates the curse.  The other two are weaker.  I love the idea of the face shop, but the picture didn’t really illustrate that idea well, and the picture of our crazy hair guys could probably have been replaced with any picture of a man in a crowd.


For a more filled out and robust story, I’m judging this one in favor of carpedavid.



Herremann-
Once again, the court was arranged for the much anticipated match-up 
between
carpedavid and BSF. This time, my two court imps delivered two 
offerings,
one a weathered scroll of fine parchment and the other, a miniature 66'
Impala, replete with holographic display and flame-marks down the side. 
How
novel. I carefully balanced the car on the altar to stop it rolling off
before continuing.

"Jury, it would seem that a strange temporal arrangement has taken 
place.
Even though this is the first judgment of the round, it would appear 
that
the second judgment and its results have already taken place. As such," 
I
pointed to two imps who promptly faded, "future events have already 
taken
effect and as such I apologise for the reduced jury number as well as 
to any
deity offended with me mucking about with the space time continuum, 
thank
you."

"Anyway, we are given two interesting stories here by two highly 
competent
authors. carpedavid has unleashed a space opera of surprises while BSF 
has
gone the well-worn PI route but in "pussy" mode to interesting effect."

"Meaty in both scope and detail, carpedavid has sent us both in to the
future and the past mixing terraforming Martian technology with 
characters
and action reminiscent of the Fonz and Danny Zuko, with a splash of the
Terminator thrown in. When bombarded with such a pastiche of different
elements, my first reaction was to smile as my mind was blown away. The
dialogue and repartee between the characters was superb. While you make 
this
look so easy, this is a really difficult thing to do, particularly to 
stay
in the pocket for the piece's lengthy duration. The plot was lean and
conclusion simple but this perfectly fit the lightness of the 
submission as
a whole. To try and make things more than superficially dramatic would 
have
weighed the piece down, confusing the reader. As such an entertaining 
story
told by someone with fantastic control. Wow!"

"BSF has tried to go a darker path, with a neat plot and a few good "ah 
hah"
moments. I love the way in which you incorporate the stranger elements 
of
the piece with the more mundane - although the cat as detective was a 
little
weird on the first reading. Your submission while somewhat brief was
complete and achieved what I believe you wanted it to. Perhaps the only 
area
that let you down a little was characterisation. Peter Heath PI is a 
pretty
forgettable character with nothing really to make him stand out except 
for
the fact that he's a cat. There is a balance here between the "shock" 
value
of Peter being a cat and a handful of insights that could have been 
garnered
and explored because of this. I think in the end this hurt the 
conclusion. A
stronger character (even of the feline variety) would have made me care 
just
a little more and cheer a little harder. Still a fine and enjoyable 
story."

"Please imps of the jury [all thirty-one of them], I wish you to 
announce
your starting positions for this match."

The imps jumped around, spitting pithy sayings at one another with 
differing
levels of excitement. After several extended periods of disagreement, 
they
fell in line giving carpedavid the start, eighteen imps to BSF's 
thirteen. A
nod to the Gnopf and the error-free projection of a strangely coifed 
Asian
man glowed brightly upon the back of my garage.

"carpedavid fantastically introduces us to Ichiro and Shoji with this 
image.
Ichiro's personality is well developed from that strange haircut, 
quickly
pinning him as a mix of the Fonz and Danny Zuko. I'm not too sure if 
these
were the character's that inspired carpedavid but this was the 
immediate
reaction for me. To then take the Asian influence and spin it into 
Tokyo III
on Mars was such a stretch, it was actually completely and utterly
believable. I think this is where a powerhouse of skill is required to 
pull
this off; something I believe carpedavid does."

"BSF has used this image quite well as the photographer Michael 
Ibaraki.
This would eventuate in his murder at the scene, the pivotal point of 
the
submission so on the whole, good use indeed of a rather weird image. 
Good
imps, I need your collective thought and opinion on the matter so if
please..."

The imps jumped around once more this way and that with a slight 
advantage
given to carpedavid once more, nineteen imps to twelve. I nodded 
twisting
'Lady Death' in a complex series of arcs to register the result and 
address
the Gnopf's attention for the next image: a gun toting skeleton.

"This image was well incorporated by carpedavid as the newly "revived"
Takashi. While it was a weird use, it was well led up to by the meeting
between Shoji and the even stranger ancestors. Between robotic cats and 
even
peculiar things, I suppose the titanium skeleton of a former boss 
engineered
back to existence was par for the course - and delightfully so."

"BSF has used the entire scope of the image as the necromantic assassin 
upon
a truck about to lay waste to a square full of people. I thought this
connected well with the story and firmly pushed the story forward as 
the
integral moment of the piece. As such, very strong use."

Once again I implored the imps for movement and with a definite shift 
in
momentum, BSF found several new supporters including a trio of imps, 
kitted
in Elvis uniforms. It is quite bizarre sometimes to see how the imps 
vote
and what the hell motivates them. Carpedavid's lead had now slipped to 
two
imps, seventeen imps to BSF's fourteen. I tapped 'Lady Death' a little
harder than necessary and once more, a fresh image was conveyed: three 
Asian
style masks or faces.

"carpedavid now introduces us to the Ancestors of the Green Dragon clan 
in
fantastic fashion. The robotic heads are used to good effect, pushing 
Shoji
towards his mission to reclaim the former glory of the clan, disposing 
of
Oda and re-instating Takashi. As I mentioned before, the plot was a 
little
thin but even still, the picture use was well done."

"BSF strains to incorporate this one as the warlock's face shop. To be
honest, I thought this element of the story only served to confuse. It 
was
however a difficult image to incorporate so in a series of five images 
I was
prepared to let this one slide. Imps, the evidence is before you, how 
do you
vote?"

The imps were actually a little more settled at this stage of the 
judging
process and so there was only the movement of a single imp back to
carpedavid's side. The lead was now eighteen imps to thirteen. This was
going to be a close one going right down to the wire. The next image 
was of
a cat giving a thunderous kick to a dog.

"For carpedavid, we are introduced to the fickle kitty Oda. Displeased 
with
the obviously poor service the image represents the result of this
displeasure. While this was a stretch, the nature of the story as a 
whole
gave more than enough room for this use. For BSF though, this image 
reveals
the true identity of the PI, something which I feel could have been 
explored
further because as shock value, it is most likely more jarring than
revealing. In the end, I felt it added little to the piece except to
momentarily confuse. This is a shame because with more development, I 
think
this could have thrust the story dramatically into the "superb" 
category.
Still, the use of a very difficult image in such a way shows a certain
degree of chutzpah so well done on this count."

The imps were once again implored to move and once again, there was 
only the
slightest shift in movement, one imp to BSF and then one imp back.
carpedavid once again found himself with eighteen imps to BSF's 
thirteen.
The Gnopf walked up to me, said something and then returned to the
projector. Apparently he was having difficulty with the final image. I
shrugged my shoulders and the final image was presented upside down and
reversed in colour. The face already reflected poorly in the mirror, 
was now
even more hideous. 

"And so we have the final image to form some element of judgment upon. 
For
me, this was BSF's strongest use while carpedavid has once again ably
incorporated it into his tale. As the age-extended leader of the Triad, 
this
was capably used to the point of seamlessness. While not super strong 
or
plot dominating, it was enough to continue the strange tale. BSF starts 
with
this image, which to me is exceedingly good style. There is no better 
way to
start a story in Ceramic DM in my opinion than rushing out the starting 
gate
with one of the images. Not only that, but it more than capably got the
whole story moving forward, bending the reader down the path of Dame 
Roberts
as victim, rather than villain. The twist to be unfurled later on is 
very
capably set up here."

"Imps, it is now at this point that you must cast your final judgment 
for
the match. May you act with solid pace and purpose."

The imps were now more confused than ever. I could almost see them 
battle
with the best image use for the match, and the overall standing of 
possibly
disposing of carpedavid in the winner's seat. Every time, an imp moved,
another made a counter-move so as to keep the balance. I smashed a 
lightning
bolt into the tree above warning them to hurry up and so with a few 
last
series of movement, the final score went to... carpedavid, sixteen imps 
to
BSF's fifteen - a closer tally than expected.

While carpedavid had the style quotient firmly rapped up, I thought 
there
was greater potential in BSF's story that was not quite realised.
Congratulations to both competitors in bending these images into two 
very
enjoyable stories.




CarpeDavid-  Another great story.  You really use the first picture to set the mood and tone for the story, subtly dropping hints about the setting.   My only complaint was the robot cat and dog and cat boss.  I felt that these were too sudden and weren’t hinted at.  I was immersed in an interesting setting and enjoying the story and was jarred out of it by something completely unexpected.  Sometimes this is good, but here it kept pulling me back out of your story.  I think a small little comment about robotic (and real) talking cats and dogs might have helped soften that blow.

I really enjoyed reading it.  Picture use overall was very strong, my only complaint is the cat & dog picture.  Aside from that, a really strong story.  

BSF-
I was a bit disappointed by this story.  Mechanically things were right, but it lacked that spark that makes a story sizzle.  It seemed like you didn’t really follow the “show don’t tell “, or at least didn’t follow it enough.  I think this might be a result of the first person PI-type story. 

The style of narration really almost defaults to “telling”.  I also thought your use of the cat & dog picture was jarring.  Unless I’m really dense (not ruling that out), I had no reason to believe that your narrator was not a human until that picture came up—well, the sentence before it hinted at it.  While you created a world laced with magic, this was still a shocking revelation, especially to have my mind’s image of the narrator change in such a drastic way.  Perhaps you were aiming for some shock here, but I don’t really see the purpose of it and it really took me out of the story.  I think this would be a pretty easy fix though.  Dropping a few subtle hints throughout the story leading up to that scene might have done it.  Alternatively, telling the audience upfront that the narrator is a PI cat would work well too.  I remember Berandor used this technique to great effect  in a past CDM—unfortunately I was his opponent.  

The story also seems a bit thin in some places. My guess is that this is due to your lack of time you mentioned, so I won’t hammer on it too hard.  I think you have a shell of an excellent story here, it just needs some more development.  

My decision for this round goes to Carpe David.  Carpe David wins 3-0


----------



## BSF (Feb 28, 2007)

Congratulations to CarpeDavid!  

It was a bear of a story to write and there is a lot of commentary and discussion I want to participate in.  Unfortunately, I have been short on time.  It will wait for now I suppose.  Hopefully I will free up a bit of time to feel like I am participating in the contest in some manner again!  

It will be interesting to see what the next round produces.


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## yangnome (Feb 28, 2007)

Round Two - Match Four
Orchid Blossom

Rodrigo Istalindir – Untitled 

The opening paragraph of this story pulled me right in.  The tone carried right through the first scene, promising us something light and witty.  It was a little disconcerting when that’s not what followed. 

This is one of those random life occurrence stories.  The problem with random occurrence stories is that they tend to lack a soul.  Why do we tell stories?  The answer for me is to explore something about the condition of living.  Although this story ended with a comment on the universal nature of motherhood, nothing in the story prepared us for the revelation.  The narrator never voiced doubts about that or commented on the nature of the demons that had entered the world.  He worked with a zombie with no reaction, so we get the impression that he’s accepted these things as normal.

There wasn’t much for conflict here, either.  Although the whole story was the solution to a conflict, everything went fairly easily for our protagonist.  I got a little lost in the technical talk, so I might have missed a bit there, but the solution was readily available and even the soldiers didn’t give him a hard time.

Picture use:

I enjoyed the picture of the zombie doctor and the priest.  The written scene reflected the humor in the picture, and those humor pictures can be hard to work into a story.  The goggles picture gives us the setup our doc is using to help his patient.  The picture of the people in white, frozen is a hard sell.  I can’t really imagine people getting petrified in that pose, and the linux picture is clever, but a bit of a throwaway. 



Tadk – Thowing it Down

I loved the opening of this piece.  It painted a vivid word picture and made me look forward to what was coming next.

I’m going to admit right off I had an extremely difficult time reading and following this story.  My only complaint about the language is that it can’t quite decide if it’s a poem or prose.  Some of the sentences go on without punctuation where it needs it and it gets harder to follow.

The word picture is dark, but any understanding I have of it is instinctual at best.  I know there was something with an ultimate goal for the human race, allowing the world to go to hell in order to leave just a few to work with, although I couldn’t really understand the reasoning.  When it comes to genetics, you’d think more would be better.

There is also the concept of people letting happen through selfishness and greed and letting corporations and big governments run our lives.  After that, I can see some of the connections you’re trying to make, but there is so much language between that I can’t follow them through.  I’ll admit right here that poetry was never my strong suit; I’ve always struggled with it.  So my inability to follow could be entirely my problem rather than a problem with the writing.

Picture use:

The pictures of the doctor and priest and the dancers are good illustrators in this strange, dark world, but I think I would have placed them later, when the lonely one meets with them.  The goggles on the lonely one do the same, illustrating the strangeness.  I wasn’t sure what the alien thing was supposed to represent.


I have to throw this one to Rodrigo.

Rodrigo Istalindir vs. tadk

I looked closely at each of the imps in the Dark Court that is my backyard. I held ‘Lady Death’ up before them, my gaze like ice. I was not happy.

“One of you has played with something you should not - my server connection. When I find the miscreant who has done this, ‘Lady Death’ has assured me she will suck the marrow from the creature responsible. Let you all be on notice!”

The imps of the jury shifted uneasily, as if in mass conspiracy? It better not be, there where still two rounds of judgment to go and I needed at least some imps left so as to cast correct judgment.

“Anyway, those of the court please attend to the current match-up between Rodrigo Istalindir and tadk. Rodrigo has given us a curious tale of a slightly warped future, where things that should not be roam the Earth as casual citizens. tadk has followed up his previous offering with one similar, a tale of digging below the veneer of life, a tale of as he describes it, of ‘Throwing it down’. Rodrigo has given us a compact story neatly encompassing the curious range of images provided whilst tadk has once again splashed descriptive paint with a vibrant brush painting an ugly image. While this was beautiful in parts to read, I was concerned that the connections to the pictures provided were cursory at best.”

“Rodrigo’s submission is a neat story that skilfully dances its way through the various images. Told with a slightly wry tone, it does not attain the greatest of heights in terms of storytelling but there is enough there to produce a decent level of satisfaction as the medusa calamity is unravelled and dealt with. While on the surface, the tale may seem only satisfactory; I will note that the images for this match-up were particularly difficult and so to package them so neatly together is a feat of considerable skill. Anyway, imps, I shall leave judgment upon this up to you after we have attempted to carefully look at tadk’s submission.”

“tadk has continued in a similar mode to where he left off with the first round’s submission. I tried not to be distracted by the pointed vitriol at modern society (something which personally, I happen to like) and instead tried to soak into tadk’s world of gnashing ‘truth’. While I enjoyed the imagery presented [there were several nods from the imps too at this point] there was a lack of movement and clarity that had me trying to fossick for added meaning where in fact I could find little. I struggled for direction this time around - the images smearing each other in passing leaving them difficult for me to decipher. Tadk, you defeated me with this piece. As such I am unsure at whose door to place the blame, my own inadequacy or your own?  Unfortunately, the line you have trodden was too thin, your path too inaccessible. I needed more guidance from the author and I did not receive it. Imps, cast your initial position.”

The imps half confused wandered around settling into a final position of seventeen imps to Rodrigo and thirteen to tadk. I tapped the scythe hard upon the alter acknowledging the result. I nodded to the Gnopf who pressed a button upon his fiendish keyboard but to no effect. He kept pressing buttons but no image was conveyed. I tapped “Lady Death’ irritably to get him to do something but his own frustration was obvious. He belted the keyboard apart and started jumping up and down upon the projector. There was a momentary flash of bright images before a small explosion blasted the Gnopf high into the sky. He never landed.
I looked around, up in the air but nothing. Moving quickly so as not to allow the judging imps attention to falter, I abbreviated the normal image progression to present an overall summation.

“Rodrigo has used the images exceedingly well. The two dancers as statues of Doctor and Nurse mid-delivery was perhaps the surprise packet of this set. Inspiring the whole “medusa” theme I thought it one of the best image uses this round. The penguin/computer was a difficult image but well linked to the “image” of a person looking back at himself and ingeniously tied in to avoiding the medusa’s gaze. Double thumbs up here for a fantastic idea to incorporate the deviously diverse set of pictures.”

“tadk on the other hand has thrust his discourse upon us moulding it on top of rather than around the images. I have to say that I felt the connection between what you were saying and what the images were conveying at odds in the main. The doctor/priest picture was perhaps the most intriguing although the foetus carcass as misguided experiment was the most powerful. As a whole though, I was left a little disappointed that so many extra elements of the images were left out or skipped over. In comparison to Rodrigo’s more intrinsic use, I felt tadk’s was satisfactory at best. Good imps of the jury, I apologise for the lack of visual accompaniment, a situation we will have to address before the next judgment. For the nonce, if you could indicate your final position for this match, we will record it and hope that the Gnopf safely descends from its current orbit.”

The imps confused by the lack of detail skipped this way and that leaving a final tally of twenty-two imps to Rodrigo and nine to tadk. Thank you competitors for your submissions and hopefully, my connection to EN World can be reinstated as quickly as possible.


Yangnome-

Rodrigo-

This is an interesting story, though I don’t think its potential was fully realized.  The first paragraph really hooked me and the first portion of the story had me laughing out loud.  The story didn’t follow through with this though. 

You initially built up some conflict with the unknown, but once that was solved there really wasn’t any conflict.  The ending seemed to lack impact.

Your picture use was ok, but nothing really spectacular.  I think your best image was the baby alien picture in the incubator, followed by the zombie doctor.  The goggle picture was decent.  The penguin one, while witty didn’t seem like an image that would be taken from the story.  The dancers probably inspired the statues, but I didn’t buy the roles of these people in your story.  

Overall, I think this story could have been much stronger.  It would have been fun to see you carry out a story that the beginning promised.  I felt like a kid who goes to get a happy meal toy they are excited about (seen the advertisements, pictures on the bag) to only find a cheap substitute toy inside because the store ran out of the cool toy.

Tadk-

I feel like I just watched the forbidden zone.  If I did drugs, maybe I could understand your story and the movie.  As I’ve said in the past, you have a way with words, but you leave the story behind.  Flowery language can definitely make writing interesting, but there’s a very definite line where you’ll lose your readers in purple prose.  I think you were way over that line.  My challenge to you would be to try to write a story without the language play.  I realize you are a poet, but try to put that aside and write something where the language is simple, but the story deep.  Once you’ve done that a time or two, season the story with language, but don’t drown it.  

My decision for this round goes to Rodrigo. Rodrigo wins this round 3-0


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## yangnome (Feb 28, 2007)

OK, Mythago also advances by default.  I'm still waiting on Herremann's comments on Mythago.  FYI Herremann is having connection problems with En World again, but I do have contact through email.  I'll post comments to Mythago once I have them from all judges.  I'm going ot post the next round match-ups tonight though so we can get this competition rolling by this weekend.


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## yangnome (Feb 28, 2007)

OK, here's the line-up for Round 3

Match 1:
Pirate Cat
Rodrigo

Match 2:
Carpe David
Mythago

I can start posting these pictures as soon as I get a confirmed start range from both contestants in a round.  Let's say tomorrow night is the earliest I can post (just so no one is waiting all day for me).  I'd like to have both rounds started by MOnday at the latest iff possible.


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## mythago (Feb 28, 2007)

I will not be able to start writing before Friday.


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## Berandor (Feb 28, 2007)

orchid blossom said:
			
		

> The story also suffers from what some of the other detective stories in this CDM has, skipping the conflict and discovery of facts in order to get through the story.  *Obviously the three hour limit almost always causes corner-cutting*, but it causes the story to read like a draft, all bones, little flesh.



I... what? You guys write these things in three hours? 

Congratulations to those who advanced, and be glad I didn't


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## orchid blossom (Feb 28, 2007)

Berandor said:
			
		

> I... what? You guys write these things in three hours?
> 
> Congratulations to those who advanced, and be glad I didn't




Hey, I warned you I was sick and my head was swimming. 

For the record though, I did write one of my stories in three hourse.


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## Rodrigo Istalindir (Feb 28, 2007)

Berandor said:
			
		

> I... what? You guys write these things in three hours?




Four to five actually pounding on the keyboard, usually, sitting on the sofa with the laptop and the TV on.  I find having it on helps with the rhythm of the dialogue.    Although I think a one-shot three hour competition could be fun, too.

Looks like in my efforts to be more succint and tightly written, I almost succeeded too well.    Thanks to the judges for the comments -- it's as helpful as always.  Hopefully I'm continuing to refine and shore up what I think are my weaknesses.  

So.

I've been waiting for you, Obi-Wan.  I mean, Piratecat.  We meet again at last. The circle is now complete. When I met you I was but the learner. Now, *I* am the master.

I'd prefer a Sunday or Monday start, as its easier for me to write on weekdays (and I have freakin DST patches to do this weekend), but I can be flexible.


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## tadk (Feb 28, 2007)

*Thank you to one and all*

Thank you to one and all

I appreciate the time taken to read my entries and to comment on them
Once again a pleasure to face you Rodrigo, best to you in the next round
The better writer has advanced I feel

Have a good one and I look forward to chuckling to myself at your next image sets

Thanks for hosting it yangome, very kind of you
TK


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## Piratecat (Feb 28, 2007)

For me, the ideal time to post photos would be Friday evening. I can't write on a weekday at all this week; it's the final week before shipping _Ratatouille_, and I'll be working 14-16 hour days. How flexible can you be? A Saturday morning post might work, giving me the weekend and allowing you Monday as well.

Congratulations to those who advanced!


			
				Rodrigo Istalindir said:
			
		

> I've been waiting for you, Obi-Wan.  I mean, Piratecat.  We meet again at last. The circle is now complete. When I met you I was but the learner. Now, *I* am the master.



[Zander] Bater. [/Zander]


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## Rodrigo Istalindir (Feb 28, 2007)

Piratecat said:
			
		

> For me, the ideal time to post photos would be Friday evening.
> 
> Congratulations to those who advanced!




Can we split the difference and try for a Saturday evening start?


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## carpedavid (Feb 28, 2007)

mythago said:
			
		

> I will not be able to start writing before Friday.




A Friday start would work well for me.

Thanks to BSF for providing very tough competition, as always!


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## Piratecat (Feb 28, 2007)

See above - I just edited my post. Saturday evening means that I'll have the half of Sunday when I'm not at work, and no other time - which is doable, I suppose, but far from ideal if you want to face me in fighting form. How do you feel about a Saturday noon compromise?


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## Rodrigo Istalindir (Feb 28, 2007)

Piratecat said:
			
		

> See above - I just edited my post. Saturday evening means that I'll have the half of Sunday when I'm not at work, and no other time - which is doable, I suppose, but far from ideal if you want to face me in fighting form. How do you feel about a Saturday noon compromise?




Sorry, our posts crossed in the ether.  Sat. morning is fine, at whatever point yangnome can drag himself out of bed to post. That'll give me Saturday and Sunday to think about it between Windows reboots and Monday night to write.  For that matter, a really, really, early Sat. morning (like 3am) would be fine, too.

But I'm not really concerned with facing you in fighting form; I'd much rather face you after you've had a 16-hour day of work and 8 hours of drunken debauchery.  History will record only my win, not the circumstances!


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## Piratecat (Feb 28, 2007)

Cheat to win, baby, cheat to win.

That 3am Saturday morning (midnight Yangnome's time) would be great for me, even better than mid-morning Saturday. Thanks for the flexibility! I'm so appreciative, I'm not even going to print the pithy trash-talking I had prepared. It'll hold for my next opponent in the final round.


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## yangnome (Feb 28, 2007)

I can post a late night Friday/early saturday morning.  I work Saturdays, but typically stay up until midnight or close to it.  I can post before going ot bed, which would be between 10 and mignight my time.


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## Rodrigo Istalindir (Feb 28, 2007)

Bugger me and my generousity!  I just found out its "Double XP" weekend in Vanguard, my current MMO addiction.  So now I'll have to write inbetween reboots and virtual slayage.  Maybe I could hire someone to take dictation?


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## Sialia (Feb 28, 2007)

Piratecat said:
			
		

> Cheat to win, baby, cheat to win.
> 
> That 3am Saturday morning (midnight Yangnome's time) would be great for me, even better than mid-morning Saturday. Thanks for the flexibility! I'm so appreciative, I'm not even going to print the pithy trash-talking I had prepared. It'll hold for my next opponent in the final round.





Now _that's _ fighting form.


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## Sialia (Feb 28, 2007)

Rodrigo Istalindir said:
			
		

> Bugger me and my generousity!  I just found out its "Double XP" weekend in Vanguard, my current MMO addiction.  So now I'll have to write inbetween reboots and virtual slayage.  Maybe I could hire someone to take dictation?




I'll be happy to take dictation just for your epitaph if you don't actually give facing P'cat a respectable level of effort . . .


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## tadk (Feb 28, 2007)

*Well*



			
				Rodrigo Istalindir said:
			
		

> Bugger me and my generousity!  I just found out its "Double XP" weekend in Vanguard, my current MMO addiction.  So now I'll have to write inbetween reboots and virtual slayage.  Maybe I could hire someone to take dictation?




Hey if you need someone to fill in for you on that round
I should be available
I will even lend him some poetry of mine to read before hand so we can have a "proper" face off

just offering to help out a valued and worthy opponent in a time of potential need


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## mythago (Feb 28, 2007)

Rodrigo Istalindir said:
			
		

> Bugger me and my generousity!  I just found out its "Double XP" weekend in Vanguard, my current MMO addiction.  So now I'll have to write inbetween reboots and virtual slayage.




Look outside your window. See that river? I just cried it for you.


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## maxfieldjadenfox (Mar 1, 2007)

mythago said:
			
		

> Look outside your window. See that river? I just cried it for you.




Yup, I'll second that boo hoo. My heart is bleeding for you.


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## Rodrigo Istalindir (Mar 1, 2007)

See, that's why I come to ENWorld.  It's like 'Cheers'. 

With swords.


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## Piratecat (Mar 1, 2007)

Rodrigo Istalindir said:
			
		

> See, that's why I come to ENWorld.  It's like 'Cheers'.
> 
> With swords.



I used to live down the street from the Cheers bar. Believe me, we're more fun! Anyways, I heartily endorse you playing a lot of your MMORPG this weekend. don't worry about it at all. I have no doubt that you'll be able to bang your story together between missions.

Honest.


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## Herremann the Wise (Mar 1, 2007)

Hello Everyone,

I'm back again - I don't know exactly what happened except that I'm down a further 8 imps. Do not worry about them, they have all been neatly sacrificed for disturbing my connection to En World.

Best Regards
Herremann the Wise


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## yangnome (Mar 1, 2007)

good to see you back Herremann.


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## maxfieldjadenfox (Mar 2, 2007)

Rodrigo Istalindir said:
			
		

> See, that's why I come to ENWorld.  It's like 'Cheers'.
> 
> With swords.




At least you didn't say rapiers. That swishy poke stuff makes me want to hurl... 

Last night my seven year old computer monitor fried itself. Wowee, smoke and everything. I was forced to sacrifice myself and buy a 19 inch flat screen tonight. 
Hurry and write some good words to fill it up! I promise when life slows down a bit that I will have comments to make!


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## Piratecat (Mar 2, 2007)

Last 12 hours of pre-writing free time!


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## Rodrigo Istalindir (Mar 2, 2007)

Piratecat said:
			
		

> Last 12 hours of pre-writing free time!




Really?  By my calendar, I've got either 3 weeks 17 hours, or it was due two years ago.

Stupid Microsoft and their crappy DST patches.


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## yangnome (Mar 2, 2007)

*Round 3 Match 2*

CarpeDavid vs. Mythago

Six pictures this round.  You have 72 hours.  Good luck.


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## carpedavid (Mar 2, 2007)

Huh.


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## yangnome (Mar 2, 2007)

bump


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## Piratecat (Mar 2, 2007)

Yangnome, you may want to change the thread title to flag Mythago's attention.

Looking forward to my photos!


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## yangnome (Mar 3, 2007)

*Round 3 Match 1 Photos*

Pirate Cat vs. Rodrigo Istalindir

6 pictures.  you have 72 hours.  Good Luck.


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## Piratecat (Mar 3, 2007)

Oh my.

Good luck, Rodrigo!


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## Berandor (Mar 3, 2007)

Hooray for the judges! They kicked me out before... this.

So. many. people. 

I think my head would explode. Or, in other words: Good luck everyone. It seems you're going to need it. Man, I can't wait to see the stories to these maniacally evil pics.


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## Piratecat (Mar 3, 2007)

Hey now! In six pictures, there are a whole... none... without people. How hard can it be?

EDIT: hopefully, not too hard. Things just snapped into rough place. Time to walk the dogs, then I dive into the writing.


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## tadk (Mar 4, 2007)

*eek*

eek

some  interesting images there


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## carpedavid (Mar 4, 2007)

Well, I've got a basic plot, but I think I've run out of words. This is going to be difficult to write.


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## Piratecat (Mar 4, 2007)

... brain... hurting...

How's that double xp weekend going, Rodrigo?


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## Berandor (Mar 5, 2007)

Oh come on! It can't be that hard to write a simply story out of six pictures showing several dozen people. Post some fiction, already!


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## Piratecat (Mar 5, 2007)

Berandor said:
			
		

> Oh come on! It can't be that hard to write a simply story out of six pictures showing several dozen people. Post some fiction, already!



I'm glad I beat you. If I could, I'd beat you again - but in a _totally_ different way.  Preferable involving steel-toed boots and some sort of truncheon.  


The only thing I can guarantee is no religion.  Honest!


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## Rodrigo Istalindir (Mar 5, 2007)

Yangnome, you suck.


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## Piratecat (Mar 5, 2007)

Okay, all finished but the last scene. Longer this time. Going to bed. Speaking in fragments. Must be tired. 

Or perhaps that's just what I _want_ Rodrigo to think!


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## mythago (Mar 5, 2007)

carpedavid will be going on to the next round. Apologies for not having a complete story--between trial and some medical BS I did not have time to do everything and still function. Here is what I had so far.

---

	Tuong had lived in the egg-yellow stucco house with his mother and pictures of his dead father for as long as he could remember. He rode his bike under the freeway and played stickball with the other kids whose fathers had brought them across the ocean after America lost the war; the lucky ones still had a daddy at home, either still in the Navy or working in the civil service. Most of the other kids’ mothers were Vietnamese, or Hmong, or even Montagnard. Tuong didn’t know what he was. He asked once, and his mother looked away and said “American. We are American, like your father.” His mother never spoke a word of anything but English until the night Grandpa Le came to their home.

	Tuong was watching a Peanuts special on the little television set his mother had won for being Employee of the Month at the factory, where she sewed work shirts for the Navy men while Tuong was at school or riding bikes with his friends. Someone pounded on the door. Tuong turned to ask his mother who would be bothering them so late in the evening—all of his friends would be doing homework, or watching TV like him—and she stood, staring at the door, hugging a soapy plate to her chest like a shield. 

	Whoever was at the door banged on it again, as though they’d never heard of a doorbell.  A voice shouted something in a language Tuong didn’t know. His mother walked to the door, still gripping the plate. She moved slowly, with dread, as though she were being called to an execution. Tuong shrank into the couch and tried to pretend that the angry voice at the door was just one of the parents in the cartoon, making wah-wah-wah noises that meant nothing, and whoever it was would go away and stop frightening  them.

	The old man standing on their doorstep was no taller than his mother. Tuong was surprised, because his mother was so little; even at ten years of age, he was almost as tall as she, and his teacher, Miss Rayburn, towered over her at parent-teacher meetings. 

	His mother bowed to the old man and said something in that strange language that sounded like a bag of nails dragged over concrete. The old man pushed rudely past her into the living room and turned slowly, arrogantly, as if judging their tiny home: the shelves displaying Tuong’s school photographs, the rows of pans hung on the kitchen wall, the small color television singing the praises of Dolly Madison snack cakes. The man’s gaze lingered on the photograph of Tuong’s father and mother on the day of their wedding, his father in his Navy uniform, his mother in a white cotton dress Tuong knew she’d sewed herself. The old man’s gaze finally settled on Tuong. 

	“Tuong,” his mother said, her voice high and trembling like a frightened girl’s, “this is my father, your grandfather, Le. He—he has come a long way from Vietnam to see us.”

	The old man stared at Tuong. He ignored Tuong’s mother completely. “To see you,” he said in thick English. “And from Vietnam, yes. This time. We have had to move around much, after the war. The Americans kept our enemies away, but that is all gone now. We look out for ourselves.”

	Tuong blinked. The language his grandfather and mother spoke was nothing like the Vietnamese his friends’ mothers spoke. It seemed familiar, as if he had heard it a long time ago, but he had never heard it from his mother, who refused even to learn Vietnamese or Laotian to talk to his friends’ mothers. “Grandfather,” he asked, “are we Vietnamese?”

	The old man looked over his shoulder. Tuong’s mother flinched as if he had slapped her. “Vietnamese,” he said. “Is that what you have told him?”

	“Grandfather, no,” said Tuong. He was suddenly very afraid for his mother, who he had always thought made out of iron.  “We are American.”

	Grandfather Le turned back to Tuong. He reached over and turned the television off with an ugly snap. The house was abruptly silent.

	“We are not people of any country,” he said. “I am here to teach you the traditions, because your mother was too weak. We cannot return to our homeland yet, the war is still not over for our kind. We will teach you here.”

	The door slammed open again and strange, short men crowded the narrow hallway. They were carrying Grandfather Le’s baggage. Tuong’s mother began to cry.

#

	Tuong did not go out to play with his friends the next day, as he usually would. Grandfather Le ejected his mother from her small bedroom and took it for himself, unpacking a collection of wooden boxes and mold-smelling old suitcases. Grandfather Le seemed to have few clothes, but he had brought many strange books, things carved out of wood, odd draperies that he hung in the bedroom and across the drapes to block out the sunlight. Grandfather Le berated Tuong’s mother in that strange language, seeming to order her to cook strange rice dishes or to put away household items Grandfather Le found objectionable. His mother cringed as if his words were blows.

	To Tuong, Grandfather Le was kind, as if they were old friends.

	He spent the rest of his summer learning the strange language Grandfather Le called Chauchau. Tuong learned it easily; he struggled with some of the unfamiliar glottal stops and pauses, but it was as if he had just forgotten the words, and it merely took a bit of help from Grandfather Le to bring it back to his mind. He thought that there might be some sort of writing, the way he’d learned to print his A-B-Cs in grade school, but Grandfather Le never asked him to write. The mildewed books that crowded his mother’s home stayed firmly closed. 

	One day, Grandfather Le took him on an outing. Tuong rode in the back of an old pickup truck while Grandfather Le rode in the cab with the strange men who had brought his baggage. They talked the whole way in Chauchau. Tuong couldn’t hear them over the wind and the cars rushing past them on the highway. They drove most of the day, and slept in the bed of the truck, under the stars. They came to a flat land in the desert filled with more of the short, stocky men like his grandfather’s helpers, all of them talking in the same language, amiable to each other but watchful, as if they expected danger to strike at any moment. Tuong sat, bored, while the men danced and chanted, catching a few words here and there. When the sun was high, he joined a line of men waiting to enter a small clearing in the middle of the crowd. Tuong was motioned to sit down. A boy slightly older than he took a sharp implement and shaved the hair on both sides of his head. [1] The boy nicked his right ear and it bled freely; Grandfather Le carefully blotted the cut with a white handkerchief, which he put away in his pocket. 

	Tuong’s mother wept when she saw his new haircut. Grandfather Le smirked.

	When Tuong was eleven, he was awakened in the dark of night by the sounds of his grandfather and his mother arguing. He was surprised to hear his mother speaking Chauchau, and even more surprised to hear that she was speaking back to Grandfather Le.

	“He is old enough,” said Grandfather Le. “Much longer and She may become impatient.”

	“He is a child!” his mother shouted. “You can’t do this to him!”

	“Of course I can. Your own brother—“

	“I married an American so that my sons would not be chosen for this!”

	“Do you think She cares who you—“ Grandfather Le used a word Tuong did not understand. “You do not wish to be Chauchau? Then you are _bhak dzon_. You are no longer one of us. But your son is.”

	His mother wailed. Tuong jumped out of bed. He reached for the doorknob and was thrown back by a wave of something that was not light, by a sound that was not a scream. A terrible smell filled the air, something that made him think of meat gone rotten, the sick perfume of a dead pigeon bloating in the hot San Diego sun.

	The door swung open. Grandpa Le stood in the doorway, looking as calm as if he’d come to bring Tuong a late-night glass of water.

[1] http://www.enworld.org/attachment.php?attachmentid=28023


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## carpedavid (Mar 5, 2007)

Ceramic DM Winter 2007 – Round 3, Match 2
Mythago vs. Carpedavid

*King of Snake*

In the days of the Southern Song Dynasty, in the land of Hangzhou, two snake spirits took on the form of humans. One named herself Bai Suzhen, the white snake, and the other named herself Chingching, the green snake. While out wandering one day, Bai and Chingching met a simple medicinal herb merchant named Xu Xian, and Bai fell in love with him at first sight.

Bai and Xu quickly married and opened a medicine shop, which allowed them to live a comfortable life together. Xu’s skill in medicine drew disciples from all over the region, and one day a powerful monk named Fahai arrived from the Jinshan temple.

Fahai asked to study under Xu, and to prove his worthiness as a student, he revealed that Bai and Chingching were not humans, but were, in fact, spirits in disguise. Xu refused to believe Fahai and drove him away, refusing to ever take him as a student.

Fahai persisted, though, and, on the day of the Dragon Boat Festival, he convinced Xu to offer his wife some wine, as was tradition. At first Bai refused to drink the wine, but Xu was insistent. When Bai drank the wine, she became violently ill and fell unconscious. 

Distraught, Xu went to find herbs to cure his wife. While he was out, the wine loosened Bai’s control over her form, and she transformed back into a snake. When Xu returned, he was horrified to find a giant snake where his wife should be, and he died from fright. Triumphant, Fahai imprisoned the weakened snake spirit in his alms bowl and returned to the Jinshan temple.

Chingching could not bear to see the fate that had befallen her sister and brother-in-law, so she retreated to the mountains to meditate. After a year spent focusing her energies, she traveled to the Jinshan temple to demand her sister’s return. Fahai refused, so she used her magic to flood the temple.

Fahai and his disciples fought back, and in the process injured Chingching. In her weakened state, Chingching could not control her powers, and the flooding extended throughout the region, wiping out village after village, killing tens of thousands of innocent peasants.

Seeing the damage being caused, Fahai released Bai under the condition that she use her own powers to stop the flooding. The white snake accepted the terms of her release, and once the waters were under control, she returned home where she used the powers of the sacred lingzhi herb to restore her husband to life.

Bai apologized to Xu for concealing her true form, and asked for his mercy. He was so moved that he forgave his wife for her deception, and the couple lived together in the medicine shop until the ripe old age of one hundred and three.

But this is not their story.

***

This story begins at four o’clock in the morning, when the ringing of a gong woke the monks of the Jinshan temple. Each of the monks rose from the wooden benches where they slept, wrapped themselves in grey robes, and made their way to the courtyard. The abbot of the temple, a middle-aged monk named Shi Yong Xin, watched closely as the adepts ran circuits of the courtyard for an hour.

When the morning exercise turned to meditation, he wandered up and down the ranks of students, smacking them with a bamboo cane when their posture slackened (indicating that they had slipped from deep concentration into deep sleep).

Finally, he led the group in the practice of wushu for another hour; he taught them the secret strikes of dragon fist, which can break through any enemy’s defense; the principles of qing gong, which allows the body to become light as a feather; and the discipline of nei jing, which harnesses the vital energies that flow through every body.

When the gong rang at seven o’clock, the monks were more than ready for breakfast: a simple bowl of rice. Prayers accompanied breakfast, and once each monk had eaten, they turned their attention to their daily chores. Shi Yong Xin wandered through the temple, watching his disciples sweep the courtyard, clean the prayer hall, and polish the bronze statues of Buddha.

Normally, he paid very close attention to each monk’s activities, and would rap them with his bamboo cane if he found any deficiencies. Today, though, his concentration was on other matters. He wandered for a while, lost in thought, until he happened upon the object of his contemplation.

“Fahai,” he said as he motioned to a young monk of eighteen years.

The monk looked up from his task of scrubbing clean the cracks between cobblestones in the courtyard. “Yes, master?”

“Come with me Fahai.”

Fahai set down his brush, stood up, and followed Shi Yong Xin through the monastery. They wandered in silence for a minute before they reached the prayer hall. The abbot ushered all of the monks out and then crossed the hall and knelt down before a bronze statue of Buddha. Fahai followed and knelt down next to his master.

“Do you remember last month when I was bitten by a snake?”

“Yes master, I went to get the sacred lingzhi herb to heal you.”

“Yes, and you returned just in time. Do you remember what kind of snake it was?”

“A mountain viper, you said. We searched the entire temple for it, but it escaped before we could find it.”

“Indeed it did escape, Fahai. But it wasn’t a mountain viper.”

“Master?”

Shi Yong Xin lit several sticks of incense and placed them before the statue. The sound of monks in the midst of labor echoed in the background. “The snake that bit me was no ordinary snake. It was the King of Snake.”

Fahai shuddered. Everyone knew tale of Madam White Snake – they knew of her imprisonment by the temple, of the destruction of the temple and the surrounding villages, and of her husband, Xu Xian, who she had brought back from the dead. Fewer knew that Xu, having been brought back from the dead, had developed magical powers that rivaled even Bai Suzhen’s. He was known by those in the martial world as the King of Snake.

“But didn’t Xu die, master?”

“Yes, he did – at the age of one hundred and three. But he has returned.”

“Returned? How?”

“That I do not know, but the King of Snake was here that night, and he stole our most sacred treasure – the scroll of the Lotus Sutra.”

“Why would he do such a thing?”

“Revenge, perhaps,” Shi Yong Xin said with a sigh. “He may also be trying to regain his power.”

The thought of the King of Snake regaining power frightened the young monk. “Well, then he must be stopped.”

“Yes, Fahai, he must. And you must be the one to stop him.”

Fahai felt his blood run cold. “Me, master?”

“You are the champion of Jinshan temple, Fahai, just as your namesake was five hundred years ago.”

“I am?”

“Yes, Fahai, it is your destiny.”

“Destiny?” This was the first time that the abbot had ever spoken of destiny.

“Fahai, we all have a destiny which we must fulfill.” He paused for a moment before continuing, “You are our strongest and most able student. Your knowledge of the sutras is exceptional, and your martial prowess exceeds that of everyone else, including me.”

Fahai was silent. He had never known a home other than the temple. Though he was comfortable traveling the surrounding countryside by himself, he always knew that the temple was waiting for him to return. From the look on his master’s face, he suspected that he was not going to return from this journey.

“The honor of this temple rests upon your shoulders, Fahai.”

“Yes, master.”

Shi Yong Xin rose and beckoned to his disciple to follow, “Come. We must prepare you.”

Before a monk of the Jinshan temple leaves to travel the world, he undergoes several purification rituals. Then, just before he walks through the front gate, the final ritual is performed. The next morning, Fahai knelt before the front gate of the temple as Shi Yong Xin and the other monks gathered ‘round.

The abbot took a sickle from his belt and began to shave Fahai’s head, chanting a sutra of protection while he worked. The other monks chanted along with Shi Yong Xin, though they still managed to clap and cheer as each lock of hair hit the ground. [Image 1]

Once the ritual was complete, the abbot motioned to Fahai to stand. “You must never trim your hair with any blade but this one,” he said, “Which means that you may not cut it until you return.”

“Yes, master,” Fahai was familiar enough with the custom, having undergone it several times before. Still, he expected and appreciated hearing the instructions each time.

“The length of your hair will provide a measure of your experience. The longer it is when you return, the more knowledge we will expect you to bring back.”

Fahai took a deep breath and then bowed. “I will attempt to grow it long enough to circle all of China.”

The abbot smiled. “This marks a new beginning for you, Fahai.”

“I will make the temple proud, master.”

***

Thus it was at the beginning of spring that Fahai left the Jinshan temple and set off on foot, heading north. According to Shi Yong Xin, the King of Snake was likely to head west toward India, so Fahai planned to meet up with Chang Jiang, the long river, and follow it west as it cut across the length of China.

First, though, he needed to find an antidote to the King of Snake’s venom: the magical lingzhi herb. Also known as the mushroom of immortality, it was a kidney-shaped fungus so rare that it grew on one in ten thousand trees, and only then in very few locations throughout China.

Fortunately, one of those locations was a small forest that lay directly north of Jinshan temple. It was there that Fahai had traveled to find the lingzhi herb when his master had been bitten, and it was there that Fahai now found himself. The first time he had been lucky – he had felt a voice call to him – directing him to the one tree in the forest on which the mushroom grew. At the time, he thought it had been the hand of Buddha, for his master was a pious and good man who deserved the intervention of the divine.

Now, though, as he stood at the entrance to the wood, he wasn’t so sure. He heard the voice again, but this time he detected a distinctly feminine tone. As he followed the voice, he felt a nagging sense of familiarity – and not simply from the last time he had heard it.

He spent nearly an hour following the voice, climbing through underbrush, and running up and down gullies, before he emerged into a clearing. There stood a magnificent silver birch. He immediately recognized that it was the same tree he had found previously, but he didn’t remember it looking so…beautiful.

Fahai stared up at the tree, for it had taken on the form of a woman. Her legs sprouted from the trunk, her arms merged into the branches that stretched overhead, and an exquisitely sculpted face peered back at him from a frame of leaves. [Image 2] “Hello?” he said softly.

“Welcome,” the tree replied.

Now that he could place a face to the voice, he had a hunch as to the tree’s identity. “Chingching?”

“Yes, Fahai. It is I,” her voice sounded like the rustling of leaves and creaking of branches.

The young monk shuddered – the green snake that had lost control of her powers and killed thousands now stood in front of him, transformed. “What has happened to you?”

“I have imprisoned myself here in order to atone for my misdeeds. Where once I created destruction, I now offer the gift of life.”

He looked at the base of her trunk – there were two small kidney-shaped mushrooms growing at the very bottom. “Though I am grateful, I do not understand why you offer the lingzhi to me.”

“You will need it to combat the venom of the King of Snake.”

Fahai accepted the truth of the statement, but something else tugged at the back of his mind. “You brought me here on purpose. To what end?”

“To help you fulfill your destiny – the same reason that I brought you here last time.” 

“My destiny?” This was the second time someone had mentioned destiny to him in the last week. “What do you know of my destiny?”

“Only that I play a small part, and that the rest is for you to discover.”

Fahai frowned. He didn’t like the fact that everyone but him seemed to know about his destiny. “I thank you, Chingching,” he said, bowing deeply. He carefully cut the lingzhi off of the tree, wrapped them in a white silk cloth, and then placed them in the base of his pack.

Once he finished, he pulled out a second white silk cloth, tied it around a low branch, and then offered Chingching his blessing.

“Thank you Fahai,” she said sadly. “Perhaps once I receive ten thousand more blessings, I will have finally paid off my debt.”

Fahai smiled. “If I survive my quest, I will be certain to come back and offer you one more.”

The young monk spent the night sleeping under the watchful eye of the remorseful spirit. The next morning, he bid her farewell and then resumed his journey. A week later, he arrived at the Chang Jiang and began his long journey west. As he moved from village to village along the river, he would produce his alms bowl and beg for enough money to buy a bowl of rice.

Fahai’s hair became shaggy at the same time he wore out his first pair of sandals and at the same time his stomach began growling at him without pause.

***

Bo enjoyed being a bully. As the enforcer for the region’s governor, he was able to boss people around, demand tribute, and occasionally knock a few heads together with his club. Most days he stood around in his leather smock, showing off his biceps and looking very pleased with himself. This day, however, he had work to do.

A group of peasants had gathered at the river, for this day was the day of atonement. They would wade into the river and wash themselves with fragrant herbs in order to wash away the impurities that they had gathered over the past year. This was all well and good, Bo thought, but they were taking entirely too long. The more time they spent at the river, the less time they spent in the master’s fields. The less time they spent in the fields, the less money his master would make. The less money his master made, the angrier he would become with Bo. 

Bo, therefore, meant to send the peasants back to the fields. After parading back and forth along the shore for a few minutes without eliciting a response, he walked down to the end of a wooden dock, jumped in, and waded toward them. “All right all you good for nothings!” he yelled as he swung his club over his head, “Get back to work!” [Image 3]

The peasants screamed and splashed toward the shore - all except one young man who was wearing a set of grey robes. He turned and glared, which made Bo unhappy; Bo shook his club menacingly in the air.

“What are you doing?” Fahai exclaimed. “This is a sacred ritual that you’re interfering with.”

“Bah – back to the field with you!” Bo roared.

Fahai reached into the folds of his robe and pulled out a rope of prayer beads. “Alas, I am not a field worker – just a humble monk.”

Bo paused for a moment. He had never beaten a monk before, but then, again, no monk had ever spoken out against him before. He looked around at the crowd of peasants who had stopped running and were now watching. Bo was not a bright man, but he realized that if he let one peasant tell him what to do, they would all think they could tell him what to do.

“You will pay for your insolence!” Bo yelled as he swung his club at the young monk’s head.

Fahai deftly ducked under the club and dashed back out of Bo’s range. “Please, I have no interest in violence, but I must defend the honor of this sacred ritual.”

“And I must defend my master’s money.” Bo raised the club above his head, jumped forward, and then brought it crashing down in a great arc.

The monk jumped back once again, just barely avoiding getting his skull crushed, and once again held up his hands in supplication. “Please, sir, I only ask that you respect the honor of this ritual.”

“And I said, get back to work!” Bo screamed as he jumped forward again, swinging wildly.

Fahai splashed back toward the shore, dodging the club with each step. As Bo careened toward him, Fahai grabbed a washing bucket and sent it flying. The bucket bounced off the big man’s forhead and fell into the river with a loud splash.

The group of peasants that stood behind Fahai laughed and pointed. Bo’s face turned crimson as his face contorted with rage. “I’m going to kill you!” he spat as he lunged toward the monk.

Fahai turned and vaulted out of the water, springing onto a wooden rowboat and then onto the dock. With a quick flick of his foot, he sent several planks of the dock shooting toward his opponent.

Bo knocked aside each of the planks and then brought the club over his head once again. “So, you are a martial artist, are you?”

Fahai nodded.

“Then feel the might of the Thundering Blade!” he exclaimed as he slammed the club into the river in front of him. A knife edge of water erupted from the end of his club and raced toward the dock, knocking Fahai into the river beyond.

The group of peasants gasped as the monk was sent flying, and then applauded as he landed on his feet with a tremendous splash. He sprang from the water, sailed through the air, and landed back on the dock. This time, he sent every remaining plank of wood careening through the air toward Bo.

The brutish enforcer was able to knock aside the first few planks with ease, but then became overwhelmed by the hail of flying debris. He put up his arms to shield his face, which left Fahai with an opening.

The young monk somersaulted off the rowboat and flew toward Bo with his feet extended over his head. “Wrathful Dragon’s Tail!” he yelled as he flipped his legs downward and slammed his heels into the big man’s head.

Bo staggered back, dropped his club, and then collapsed.

After Fahai fished the enforcer out of the water, he dumped him in the rowboat and pushed it out into the river, where the current caught it and carried it down stream. The group of peasants cheered as Fahai returned to shore. “Please,” he gestured toward the river, “continue with your purification.”

Later in the afternoon, as Fahai dried his robes in the cool spring breeze, the peasants of the village began to bring him gifts. First they brought bowls of rice, which he gratefully consumed, then bundles of nuts, bags of fruits, and even new robes.

“Please, please, I have asked for none of this,” he said to a woman who offered him a brick of tea.

“But we give it freely,” said an old man who carried a steamer full of pork buns.

“Perhaps it was your destiny to come here and protect us,” a teenaged girl said as she draped a silk sash around his shoulders.

“Yes, it must be destiny. Buddha has sent you to us,” the crowd agreed.

The thought was tempting. For the first time in a month, Fahai’s stomach was not growling at him. After a moment of contemplation, though, he shook his head. “No, I do not know what my destiny is, if such a thing even exists, but I do have a duty to fulfill.”

The villagers refused to let Fahai leave without filling his pack with as much rice and fruit as he could carry. He thanked them profusely, offered them his blessing, and then headed west once again.

***

Spring gave way to summer by the time Fahai reached the Three Gorges. The osmanthus trees were in full bloom, their white blossoms filling the air with the sweet scent of apricots and ripe peaches. He wandered through verdant fields of camellia, occasionally stopping to pick the young leaves so that he could make fresh tea. 

As he stood on the high cliffs that overlooked the river a hundred feet below, his hair fluttered in the breeze. He reached up and tucked it behind his ears, then sighed. He had crossed the river a hundred times during his journey, and the trail on the northern side of the river was becoming impassible, so he needed to cross again. _Time to get to work_, he thought.

Fahai spent the next day building a raft from bamboo and reeds. The day after, he followed the river until he found a good spot to cross. Here, a trail led down the side of the cliffs to the tranquil river below. The young monk dropped his raft in the river, tested it to make certain that it wouldn’t sink midway, and then paddled out using an oar he had fashioned from an old tree branch.

The current was lazy at this point along the Chang Jiang, so Fahai took his time and paddled without exerting much effort. After ten minutes of paddling, drifting, and enjoying the warmth of the summer sun, he reached the midpoint of the river. He yawned, stretched, turned to look upstream, and nearly jumped off his raft.

From the center of the river emerged a beautiful woman. She had flawless, pale skin, long, black hair, and wore a diaphanous white dress that Fahai could only consider immodest. [Image 6] He stared, slack jawed, as she rose out of the water. Her ascent stopped only when her bare toes just touched the surface. 

Fahai dropped his oar as he realized who the woman was. _Bai Suzhen! She has returned, too? What is she doing here?_ He felt a twinge of activity below his belt. _Why is she so beautiful?_

“Welcome to the Three Gorges, Fahai,” the woman said as she winked and licked her lips.

“You may have managed to seduce your husband, Bai Suzhen, but you can’t corrupt me with temptations of the flesh,” He gulped. _It is very lovely flesh, though._

“Oh, I don’t need to corrupt you,” she smiled, “only distract you.” Fahai tore his attention from the entrancing vision just in time to see a wave of water ten feet high roaring down the river behind her.

“Floating Leaf Step!” Fahai exclaimed as he somersaulted over the incoming wave and landed lightly on the surface of the river. The wave picked up Fahai’s raft and sent it tumbling downstream where it smashed into a thousand splinters on a rock outcropping. He dashed toward Bai Suzhen, each step creating a tiny ripple.

“When Xu and I died, we joined the gods and goddesses in Heaven, but our anger at your meddling was too great, and we were condemned to return to earth,” said Bai Suzhen as she jumped twenty feet into the air, her white dress rippling in the breeze. “Feel my Crushing Palm!” she yelled as a colossal fist of water erupted under Fahai’s feet.

The young monk tried to leap to avoid the fist, but he was a split second too slow and was knocked out of the air. “It was your deception that caused this pain, not my temple’s meddling,” Fahai said angrily as he tumbled backward along the surface of the river, carving a trough in the water. The white snake swooped toward him and lashed out with her heel, but Fahai dodged to the side, sailing up into the air toward the wall of the gorge.

He pushed off the rocks and dove back toward Bai Suzhen. “Five Headed Dragon Strike!” he yelled as threw a volley of punches at the vital areas of her body. Bai blocked the first four strikes with a superhuman speed, but missed the final strike to her heart, and screamed in pain as she was sent flying across the gorge into the opposite wall.

“Not your temple, Fahai – you,” the white snake in human form spat, “When we were exiled back to earth, you voluntarily returned.” She dropped back down to stand on the river. “Why couldn’t you just leave us alone?” Bai Suzhen disappeared under the surface, while Fahai tried to understand what he had just heard.

Was he indeed the reincarnation of the elder Fahai – the monk that had imprisoned Bai Suzhen so many years ago? Was that why he had been chosen for this journey now? He was lost in contemplation for only a split second before the river rose from its bed and twisted upward toward him; a massive set of jaws opened below his feet.

“The Great Water Dragon!” he gasped as he looked around for some method of escape. He realized that he would not have time enough to avoid the dragon, so he took the only option open to him: he dove straight down into its waiting jaws.

The current clawed at him, dragging him angrily toward the earth. Instead of fighting, though, he used it to propel himself. As he plummeted toward the ground, he spotted Bai right where he expected her to be: the heart of the dragon.

The white snake’s eyes widened in surprise as she saw the young monk speeding straight toward her. She tried to turn and swim away, but Fahai slammed into her back, driving her into the riverbed thirty feet below. Bai crumpled, and the gargantuan column of water crashed back to earth, sending a massive plume of mist and foam soaring into the air above the gorge.

Fahai grabbed the body of the white snake, braced his feet on the riverbed, and launched them both into air high above the water.

Bai looked at the young monk and a look of realization crossed her face. “I understand now,” she groaned.

“Understand what?!” he yelled

“Destiny,” Bai answered as her eyelids begin to close.

Fahai pulled her close to him, “Destiny?! What is my destiny?”

She stroked his face softly with one hand and smiled weakly. “You’ll figure it out soon enough.”

“Figure out what?” Fahai yelled, only to feel her body go limp. After a moment of silence, he let her body fall into the waiting waters far below.

***

Summer turned to autumn and autumn to winter by the time that Fahai reached the foot of the Himalayas. He spent several days begging in the few nomad villages in the area until he could afford to buy a set of heavy robes made from yak fur. He wrapped his hair, which now reached to his mid-back, around his head and secured it with a scrap of cloth. He hoped that it would keep his ears warm.

For seven days, the sun shown down upon Fahai, warming him while he traveled during the day. At night, he was fortunate enough to find plenty of wood to build a fire, and so he retained the warmth he had built up. On the eighth day in the mountains, however, the wind picked up and the snow began to fall.

He was in the middle of a rocky pass when the blizzard hit; the wind that was channeled along its length cut through his robes and the snow battered his face. He looked around for shelter but saw none. _This is bad_, he thought. He had no choice but to press on.

The pass wound up into the mountains, and with every step the air grew colder, the wind more bitter, and the snow heavier. Fahai couldn’t tell how much time had passed since the storm began – the snow blotted out the sun and the cold numbed him to the core; he couldn’t even feel his stomach grumble.

The snow swirled around him, and Fahai began to feel tired. He stumbled on for what seemed like hours through snow that swirled around his knees. He grew more and more exhausted with each step, until he finally decided to sit down and take a nap. Suddenly, he saw a small figure wandering through the snow in front of him. The creature stood about three feet tall, and, except for a ruddy red face, it was covered from head to toe in shaggy grey hair. [Image 4]

The figure looked at him and waved. “Hello!” Fahai yelled over the roar of the wind as he waved back. _What can it be? A yeti?_

The little figure smiled, so Fahai approached cautiously. It was indeed a yeti, but it looked like a child. He looked around, but couldn’t see any looming figures through the snow. Still, if it was a child, there must be adults nearby, and he was in no condition to fight a full-grown yeti.

“Hello little one,” Fahai said as he knelt down in the snow. “What’s your name?”

“Ang,” the little yeti said quietly.

“Hello, Ang. My name is Fahai.”

“Fa. Hai.” the little yeti pronounced each character independently, and then smiled sheepishly.

“What are you doing outside in the middle of a snowstorm, Ang?” He realized as soon as he said it that it probably sounded silly. The little yeti didn’t look the least bit concerned by the raging blizzard.

“Looking for herbs. My mommy is sick and my daddy said that herbs would make her feel better.”

“I’m sorry to hear that, Ang, but I think it might be hard to find herbs under all the snow.”

“That’s why I brought this stick,” he proudly held aloft a gnarled tree branch. “For poking in the snow.”

“Ah.” Fahai was certain that a raging yeti parent was going to come charging down the pass at any moment. Nevertheless, he hoped that he could get Ang to find him shelter from the storm. “What is your mother sick from?”

“She was bitten by a snake.”

_A snake? In these mountains? Still, perhaps she ventured down into the valley._ Fahai’s thoughts settled on the lingzhi buried deep in his pack. He sighed. As much as he was certain that he would need it, he couldn’t bear the thought of this little creature losing its mother.

“Ang, I think I have an herb that would help your mommy.”

“Really? Wow!” the little yeti’s eyes lit up as he smiled. “Come with me. I’ll take you!” He grabbed the young monk by the hand and led him deeper into the pass. While Fahai didn’t feel any warmer, the time seemed to pass more quickly. Before he knew it, Ang pulled him between two boulders and they emerged into a dry cave.

A small fire near the mouth of the cave illuminated the interior. Fahai looked around to see a massive female yeti, well over nine feet tall, lying under a yak-fur blanket against the far wall. Leaning over her and gently stroking her hair was an even more massive yeti.

“Daddy!” Ang exclaimed as he ran toward them.

The yeti looked up and then jumped to his feet when he saw Fahai. “Ang! You know that you cannot bring humans here!” He looked to the yeti under the blanket, then to his son, then to the intruder. He advanced menacingly toward Fahai. “You must leave, human!”

“Please forgive me,” Fahai said as he bowed deeply, “but I believe that I may be able to help your ailing wife.”

The yeti stopped. “How can a human help?”

“Your son stated that your wife was bitten by a snake. I happen to be carrying the lingzhi herb, which saved the life of my master when he was bitten by one.”

“Let him try, Lhak-pa,” the female yeti said in a weak voice.

“But he is a human, Pa-sang.”

“Not all humans are wicked, Lhak-pa.”

“How do I know that you are not here to hurt us? Humans hunt yeti.”

“I am not a hunter, but a devoted servant of Buddha,” Fahai said, then nodded to the small bronze Buddha statue that stood in the far corner of the cave. Lhak-pa stared at the young monk for a minute and grumbled. He looked at his ailing wife, then at his child, then at his wife again. Finally, he stood aside.

Fahai strode over to Pa-sang and knelt down. He rummaged through his pack and then brought out a small package wrapped in silk. He unfolded the silk and set the two small mushrooms contained within on the ground. “I believe that you must take both herbs,” Fahai said, “as you are far bigger than a human.”

He turned to Lhak-pa, “Do you have some tea? It will make eating the herb easier.”

The yeti nodded to Ang, who ran to the fire and returned with a large stone cup. Fahai helped Pa-sang sit up, and then fed her both mushrooms, followed by the tea. “Rest now. It will take some time, but I believe that you will recover fully.”

The young monk looked at the empty silk lying on the ground and sighed. He now had no protection against the King of Snake. _I hope that destiny knows what it’s doing,_ he thought. He placed the silk back in his pack and stood up.

“You must have been destined to meet Ang when you did,” Lhak-pa said. “Humans don’t often survive in the mountains in the winter. We often find corpses after storms like this one.” Fahai nodded. “Why are you out here in the first place?”

“I am on a journey to seek out the King of Snake, who stole the Lotus Sutra from our monastery.”

“The King of Snake,” Lhak-pa face contorted, “He is the one who poisoned my wife.” The yeti pounded his fist against the wall of the cave, “Two days ago he came through this pass. Pa-sang was trying to chase him away from the cave when he bit her.”

Fahai nodded – he realized that he journey was nearly at an end. “If you help me cross these mountains, I will be able to avenge both my temple and your family.”

Lhak-pa’s ruddy red brow furled in contemplation for a minute. “I will hold the storm at bay for you. This much I owe you.” He wandered to the front of the cave and peered out as the howling winds began to die down. “I cannot offer more assistance than that, though. I must watch after my wife.”

“I understand,” Fahai said with a bow, “I thank you, Lhak-pa.” The young monk wrapped his robes tightly around himself and stepped out into the snow.

***

Fahai emerged from the pass to find himself looking out at an evergreen-covered mountainside that bordered a mist-covered valley. A narrow trail wound down the side of the mountain and disappeared into the mist five hundred feet below. Sitting on a rock outcropping, dangling his feet over the edge of the trail, was the target of his quest: the King of Snake.

Xu turned to look at Fahai. His skin was dark brown, almost black, and he wore the grey robes of a peasant. “So, to what do I owe this honor?” he said with a grin.

“You know very well that you stole the Lotus Sutra from Jinshan Temple. I have come to reclaim it!”

Xu opened his mouth and laughed. A bright green snake darted its head from his mouth and flicked its tongue. It turned toward Fahai and hissed. [Image 5] “Pitiful. I go to the trouble of traveling all the way across China to steal a sacred scroll, and this is who they send?”

“I am not to be taken lightly, snake. I have followed in your footsteps, defeated your wife, and survived the mountains. I will restore the honor that you took from my temple.”

“I see,” Xu chuckled as he climbed to his feet, “Did I at least kill that soft-skulled abbot of yours?”

“Shi Yong Xin is alive and well, thanks to your sister-in-law, Chingching.”

“Well, she’s always been weak. She should have finished off your pitiful little temple when she had the chance.”

“She is much stronger than you think, Xu.”

“I imagine that she thinks it her destiny to be imprisoned like that.”

“What do you think your destiny is?” demanded Fahai.

“To meet you,” said Xu, “and to destroy you!”

“Five Headed Dragon Strike!” Fahai yelled as he lunged at Xu. The King of Snake deflected each of the monk’s blows, grabbed the collar of his robe, and then stepped backward, sending both of them plummeting off the side of the mountain.

The wind roared in Fahai’s ears as he and Xu fell toward the mist below. “Cobra Strike!” Xu yelled as he jabbed at Fahai with a rigid hand, hitting him in the neck and solar plexus.

The monk gasped for breath as he clutched his neck, and Xu followed up with a flurry of kicks to his midsection. Fahai was spun around like a top from the power of the blows, and he struggled to right himself.

Fahai tried to dodge out of the range of Xu’s attacks, but the King of Snake was too quick and caught him behind the neck with a hook kick. Fahai’s head snapped forward from the force of the blow, and he was about to try and catch himself when he realized that he had been given a lucky opening. Using the momentum that had already been generated, Fahai somersaulted toward Xu, kicking his legs out behind him.

“Wrathful Dragon’s Tail,” Fahai screamed as he flipped over in midair and slammed his feet into the back of Xu’s head. The force of the blow sent the King of Snake tumbling away from him and he disappeared into the mist below. Fahai dove after him, tearing through the air and crashing into the mist, only to realize his mistake after he flew right past his opponent.

“Ha! I’ve got you now!” Xu exclaimed as thick bands of mist formed around Fahai, pinning his arms to his body. “Feel the Python’s Grasp.” The monk struggled and tumbled head over feet as the rippling coils began to constrict, squeezing the breath out of him. The two continued to fall as Fahai felt his ribs begin to crack, one by one.

The King of Snake swooped in from above and grabbed him by the collar of his robe once again. “And now, you shall feel the Adder’s Kiss,” Xu opened his mouth to reveal the small green snake, its fangs bared. He pulled Fahai slowly toward him as the snake extended itself toward the monk’s face. Fahai could see the venom drip from the ends of the snake’s fangs. 

Then, as suddenly as they entered the mist, they fell clear of it, directly above a copse of pine trees. The coils pinning Fahai’s arms disappeared, and the King of Snake looked shocked as the young monk from Jinshin temple reached up and grabbed the green snake by the neck with one hand.

The next second, they crashed into the trees, and Fahai grabbed a branch with his free hand, abruptly stopping his fall. Xu’s momentum continued unabated however, and he fell through the tree, his body tearing away from the snake as Fahai held tight. Fahai heard a sickening crunch as the King of Snake’s lifeless body hit the ground.

Fahai waited for a moment before breathing a sigh of relief. Then he looked over to the lifeless snake that he held in his hand and his heart sunk; the snake’s fangs were both fully embedded in his flesh. Fahai shook the dead adder from his hand and then climbed down from the tree.

He groaned in pain as the venom worked its way into his body; it felt like his veins were burning from the inside. Collapsing against the base of the tree, he looked over to see Xu’s corpse. Without the lingzhi to heal him, he would join Xu within three days. _Wait._

He sat in silence for a minute – the only sound the breeze rustling the leaves of the trees – and replayed the course of events that had led him here: his master, Chingching’s benevolence, the slaying of Bai, his defeat of the King of Snake, and the venom now running through his veins. After a minute, he smiled and laughed to himself. _Of course. Now I see._

Though he would not be able to return the Lotus Sutra, Fahai had brought honor to his temple, and, he now realized, almost fulfilled his destiny – there was just one more task to accomplish. He assumed the lotus position and began to meditate. In three days, the venom would reach his heart, and Fahai would join Xu Xiang and Bai Suzhen.

_Then, I will be able to keep an eye on them._


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## Piratecat (Mar 5, 2007)

[sblock=Quick comment for CarpeDavidDavid, that was superb. I'd say the ending needs to be longer, but that's a minor quibble.  It was great fun to read.[/sblock]


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## Berandor (Mar 5, 2007)

Comments:

[sblock]*mythago*: I'm sad to see you didn't have time to finish your story. What's there is very intriguing, I like it! And when you say you didn't have the time, I know that's no exaggeration. I hope things will become a little less stressful for you in the following weeks.

*carpedavid*: So, when you had no words left, someone made you a great package deal for new ones?  Once again, a great story, one that reminds me of the tale in Neil Gaiman's "Sandman" (I believe). Very, very nice. I'd agree with Piratecat that the ending was a little too abrupt, and I'm now confused whether Fehai was the original, reincarnated as part of his "job", or whether the new Fehai now was destined to become a watcher, so to speak. There's also this one moment in the beginning, with Bo, where you switch narrative perspective. On the other hand, the description of the martial arts was excellent, both exciting and a little funny with people shouting their techniques at each other. That reminded me of "You Bastard!" Really, a great story, once again, and if Rodrigo cannot stop Piratecat, you most certainly can. Whether you will stop him, that's another question, just as whether you'll even get the chance. But here and now, three great stories in a row, I'm already looking forward to your next entry.[/sblock]

Edit: Post #666 :evil:


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## Rodrigo Istalindir (Mar 6, 2007)

Piratecat said:
			
		

> Okay, all finished but the last scene. Longer this time. Going to bed. Speaking in fragments. Must be tired.
> 
> Or perhaps that's just what I _want_ Rodrigo to think!




Sleep is for the weak.


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## Piratecat (Mar 6, 2007)

No, sheep are for the week. But you have to return them on Tuesday. Otherwise, they charge you late fees.


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## Rodrigo Istalindir (Mar 6, 2007)

This one's a bit icky.  Sialia may want to pass this by.


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## Rodrigo Istalindir (Mar 6, 2007)

*Round 3 - Rodrigo Istalindir vs Piratecat*

*The Devil You Know*

	“You’re with child?” David stammered.

	Strange how the same phrase uttered under different circumstances can mean so many things.   I’d dreamed of being a mother for as long as I could remember, and had thought that the moment I told my husband would be among the happiest of my life.  I’d imagined hearing those words in a rush of excitement and love and the promise of a life together as a family.

	Instead, I heard disbelief and anger and resentment, and the promise of being shunned by my family and neighbors.

	We sat in the buggy alongside the road, bundled in blankets amid the cool Appalachian air. (Picture 5)  The harvest moon was obscured by clouds, yet the highway was brightly lit in stark contrast the forest encroached on either side.   

It had been a full moon that night, too, when we had returned from the monthly trip to the town for medicines and other things we could not provide for ourselves.  Some of the elders still resisted it, fought tooth and nail against any contact with the outsiders.  They feared the contamination of modern life.   My father had forbidden me to go, so I learned a secret path through the woods and would wait by the roadside for David to pick me up.

	He withdrew his arms from around me, arms that had moments before been trembling with passion.  

	“I will deny it.  I will deny you, Emily,” he snarled, ardor turned to anger in a heartbeat.

	I sat silently.  I would not allow myself to cry.

I knew that he would deny me, deny our baby,  and that the elders of the community would believe him.  The older women would know the truth, but their condemnation would sting no less for it.   It was my duty to protect my virtue, to understand the weakness of men and be stronger in response.

	The younger women would be worse.  For several years, no child had been born to our community.  Without fail, the glow of impending motherhood had turned to pain and confusion.  For the lucky, the child was still-born; an unlucky few got to hold their baby for a few moments before its cries stuttered and ceased.

	They would look at me with envy and resentment, and while their voices would speak kindness and good wishes, in their darkest hearts they would be praying that I shared their fate.

	I looked at my lover, amazed at myself that I had once been swayed by his words, his touch.  He looked now like the petulant little boy he was.  Men carried that within them always, I realized.  When a girl became a woman those things left her; her 


	Without a word, I jumped from the buggy and fled into the woods.  I could not stand to be near him a moment longer, and the long walk home seemed a small price to pay.  I pulled the blanket tighter and disappeared into the darkness.  


*

	For as long as I could remember, the woods had been my friend.  I knew them better than any of the other children, better than most of the adults.  Even when I grew older, and my time for play was replaced by chores and the other responsibilities of  a  soon-to-be adult, I snuck away whenever I could to explore.

	I even went to the forbidden lake, once or twice.  Though it was a good distance from our homes, before I’d been born it had supposedly been a swimming hole for the kids.  No one talked of it now, save for the warnings we all received as young children.  Some said that a child had drowned there; others that there were monster leeches waiting to suck you dry.  In any event, our parents had dammed the creek close to home to create a place to frolic during the hot summers.  The lake was mostly forgotten,  save as a setting for the ghost stories we told each other around campfires.

	In the summer I’d often sneak out of my stifling bedroom at night and sleep beneath the trees, but it was too cold for that tonight.  I didn’t want to go home, but I didn’t want to freeze, either.

*

	Hours later, I lay in bed, nearly paralyzed by the enormity of the dilemma I faced.  If I stayed, I would become a ghost to my friends and relatives, always seen but never acknowledged.  I tried to convince myself that I could run away, find help from the outside world, but I knew that our life here had done nothing to prepare me for such an undertaking.  I could no more leave the commune than a fish could leave the lake.

	Red and blue lights teasing around the edges of the curtains distracted me.  I pulled the fabric an inch to the side and peered down upon the green from my dormer window.  Below, an automobile with spinning globes atop its roof sat like some fearsome beast surrounded by hunters.  The adults encircled it, but kept their distance.

	I threw on an overcoat and dashed downstairs.  Other children and the unmarried adults had formed a second ring around the elders.   In the back of the police car a young man sat, head in hands.  Jacob, my father was arguing with an officer, gesturing at the forlorn figure.  I edged closer.

	“He left on his own,” my father argued.  “He’s not welcome back.”

	“Sir, with all do respect, I don’t care whether you want him back or not.  He’s under eighteen, and that means the only people that got a say in this are his parents.  Now, either tell me where they are, or get out of the way,” the cop replied, clearly getting frustrated with my father.  I could sympathize.

	Jacob appeared ready to continue the argument when a couple my parent’s age pushed past me.  It was Brian and Emma Brenneman, and when I saw them I realized that the young man in the car was their son.  Everyone called him ‘Fat Brian’ on account of how skinny he was.   

	Fat Brian had run away a few months before.  That wasn’t uncommon, especially among the men.  Most came back before too long, sometimes like Brian in the back of a police car.  Others we never heard from.  Sometimes, the police car would come with no one in the back, and that was always bad news.

	Mr. Brenneman pushed between my father and the officer, and the two exchanged words.  The murmur of the crowd kept anyone from hearing what was said, but it must have satisfied the police.  He walked over to the car and opened the door.

	The crowd gasped, in perfect harmony, as if they were singing one of the Sunday hymns eveyone knew by heart.   The man that stepped from the back seat of the car was dressed as a woman, and atop his head was a blonde wig.  He cowered at first, but then must have drawn upon some hidden reservoir of strength.  His raised his head and coquettishly patted his wig, daring the crowd to say anything.  (Picture 1)

	There was stunned silence followed by a low rumble.  No one challenged him directly, but there were murmured insults and cursing.  His father removed his coat, threw it over the boy’s shoulders, and hustled him through the crowd.  Mrs. Brenneman followed. 

	As the crowd started to disperse, I ducked away and hurried back to bed.  If my father saw me there’d be a lecture at least.  As I lay beneath the covers, I couldn’t help wondering what Fat Brian had been through, and what he would face in the morning.  God forgive me, but for a while I felt better about my own problems.

*

	Brian’s parents kept him away from view, but that didn’t keep everyone from gossiping.    I went to his house and asked to see him, only to be politely but firmly refused.  Nearly a week passed before he was seen again.

	When he did reappear, he was wearing the overalls and flannel that served as a uniform for the men, and in place of the blonde wig was close-cropped black hair.  There was a desperate look in his eyes.  I’d seen that look on lamed horses, as if they knew that the merciful cut was coming.

	Later that day, I contrived to meet him by the well as he fetched water for dinner.  The desperate look remained, but if you looked closer you could see a hint of defiance as well.

	“Fat Brian,” I said, “It is good to see you returned home.”

	He looked at me, eyes judging, and he managed a flicker of a smile.

	“It is good to see you too, Emily, though I’d rather it were in another place.”

	“Pay no mind to the others,” I said, trying to comfort him. “Soon enough something else will happen to attract the magpies.”  In another few weeks, I though, I would be the object of their ridicule.

	“They know no better.  I understand that.  I just wish my parents could understand that...”  he trailed off.

	“Understand what?”

	“That my leaving wasn’t about them.  I don’t want for Hansen’s Grove to change.  I want the people here to be as happy as they’ve always been.  It’s just that I know now that I can never be happy here.  And they would rather hold me here than admit that their ways aren’t the only ways.”

	We chatted for as long as we dared.  If we tarried too long, my father was bound to find out, and I didn’t need the extra attention right now.  

	Still we managed to steal a few moments together here and there.  Fat Brian had been no closer to me when we were children than any other, but now I felt a strange kinship.   I could sense that the isolation was starting to get to him, and so one morning I shared my secret with him.

	He seemed genuinely happy for me.  Whether it was his brief time among the outsiders, or his own internal struggles, he didn’t show any sign of judgement or condemnation.  For the first time since I’d realized I was pregnant, I felt like my burden was bearable.

	Things seemed almost normal for a few days, but then Sunday morning before church the morning peace was shattered by shouting voices.  Folk went about their business pretending to ignore the commotion, but one couldn’t help but overhear.  Fat Brian and his father were arguing again, and it seemed as if Fat Brian had planned on sneaking away during the service and making a run for it again.

	I watched Brian’s house from the corner of my eye, and saw his father drag out the door and towards the church.  In his other hand was a backpack.  The elder Brenneman caught the attention of my father, and through the pack to him.  

	I desperately wanted to find out what had happened, but Fat Brian’s parents were watchful as a hound in the kitchen, and wouldn’t let him stray more than a few feet away.

*

	I resolved that night to sneak from my room and visit Brian, find out if he was okay.  I tiptoed down the stairs, sticking to the side nearest the wall so the ancient boards wouldn’t squeak.  Across the way the Brenneman’s house was dark.

	I stole around the edge of the green, flitting from tree to tree.   Anyone watching probably would have thought my attempt at stealth pathetic, but sneakiness was becoming a habit with me, and it didn’t occur to me to just walk like a normal person.  As I neared Brian’s side of the house, however, I was glad for my caution.

	I heard the back door slam, and the sounds of a commotion.  I peered around the corner and saw my father and another man carrying a struggling figure.  They were heading for the communal barn, where most families kept their milk cows and the plow horses.  

	It was also traditionally the place where correction was administered.  In public,  we shunned those that transgressed, until such a time as their actions and contrition demonstrated that they were ready to be readmitted to society.  In the worst cases an offender would be banished, but that hadn’t happened in my memory.

	Privately, however, parents were free to discipline their children as they saw fit.  Young children might receive  a swat on the bottom in the privacy of their home.  Older children, who might be tempted to resist, were taken to the barn and beaten by several adults.  If you noticed a black eye at church the next morning, you looked away.

	We are often cautioned about borrowing trouble, to not stick our noses where they don’t belong.  This applied to our internal affairs as well as those of the outside world.  I didn’t think Fat Brian deserved a beating, but I knew there was nothing I could do to stop it.   To my regret, I slunk home like a frightened child.

	I was awakened in the early morning by shouting.  Torchlight flickered through the window, and I threw aside the curtains to see what the disturbance was.  Below, it seemed like every adult was rushing about, some carrying water-filled buckets that slopped over as they ran.

	I went downstairs and onto the front porch.  Off towards the woods I could see a flicker, and a chill ran through me as I realized that the woods were burning.  Fire was one of our greatest vulnerabilities.  A blaze had to be stopped quickly, for the hand pumps could never provide enough water for the bucket brigades to quench an inferno.

	I ran to the kitchen to fetch a pail, then joined the line forming before the pump.  The line moved quickly, and as soon as the bucket was filled I ran towards the tree line.  The fire was spreading rapidly; already red and yellow tongues licked up the trunks of several trees.   The fiery autumn leaves fell from the branches and drifted on the wind, and several of the women raced from place to place stamping them out before they could spread the flames.  

	I handed my bucket to one of the men, and grabbed an empty one from the pile.  Seven or eight times I raced back and forth until finally I had to stop to catch my breath.  Over the crackling flames I could hear a siren, and I realized that an outsider had spotted the blaze. The city folk generally left us to our own ways, but a forest fire threatened the town as well, and they wouldn’t hesitate to send their firemen.

	With the modern technology, they quickly extinguished the fire.  As the smoke subsided, we could see several smoldering logs, the charred remains still glowing like a giant’s roasting pit.   The worst seemed behind us when one of the burned trees began screaming.

*

	Somehow they managed to keep Fat Brian alive until they reached the hospital.  Through the grapevine I heard that he wasn’t expected to survive.  His parents returned late that night.  Old Brian came to my house after all but my father had retired.  I could hear them arguing downstairs.

	“I don’t care what you all say,” the deep voice of Brian’s father cracked with grief as he spoke.  “We’re staying with my boy until the end.”

	“You will not.  He was banished from here by order of the elders.  He no longer exists; you have no son,” Jacob’s voice was cold and unyielding.

	“This isn’t right.  He’s my boy….my boy,” Brian lost control.  “My boy.”

	I heard footsteps on the wooden floors, and moments later the heavy oak door creaked open.  The sound receded as my father walked Mr. Brenneman home.

	I lay sleepless.  The thought of what Fat Brian was enduring tortured me.  The pain and the fear of dying must be unbearable, but the thought of him lying alone in a strange place, comforted only by strangers, enraged me.  Tomorrow, I resolved, I would make my way to the highway and thence to Brian.

*

	The hospital was unlike anything I’d imagined.  I had spent entire life in a hand-crafted home.  The sterile tile and glass and metal seemed like something from one of those comic books that mysteriously appeared in the hands of the children from time to time before being whisked away by an eagle-eyed adult.  My wonderment must have been obvious, for no sooner had I set foot inside the building than a white-garbed woman asked if I needed help.

	I told her I was there to see Fat Brian.

	“I’m sorry, miss, but visiting hours aren’t until this afternoon,” she said loudly, but her eyes shifted from side to side.  Seeing that no one was near, she leaned closer and whispered.

	“I’ll take you to him.  I’m sorry, but he probably won’t make until the afternoon.  I don’t know why his parents aren’t here, but someone should be with him.”

	She led me down the hall and pushed a button.  Metal doors slid open, revealing a small chamber.  She ushered me inside, pushed another button, and seconds later the door re-opened to reveal a similar yet obviously different corridor.

	Taking me by the hand, she hurried me to one of a series of identical wooden doors.  She cracked it open and urged me inside.

	“So long as you keep quiet, no one will no.  You can stay until noon – that’s when they’ll be by to check his meds.”

	She closed the door behind me.  The room was Spartan, with a couple chairs and a forlorn plant.  The bulk of the space was occupied by a bed, tented in plastic.  I walked closer, and nearly fainted at what I saw.

	Behind the plastic, a red, raw face stared back at me. (Picture 4) Brian’s eyes were closed, and at first I thought he had already passed.  After the shock subsided, though, I noticed that his chest rose and fell almost imperceptibly.

	I nearly jumped from my skin when the eyes opened.  The stared up, uncomprehendingly, and I wondered if the pain had rendered him insensate or if it was the drugs they had undoubtedly given him for the pain.

	After a few seconds, his gaze focused, and I could tell he recognized me.  His face twitched, and I hoped it was an attempt at a smile.  I smiled back, struggling to keep from bawling.

	The crimson wound that was his mouth moved soundlessly.

	“Shh,” I whispered, “Don’t try to talk.”

	Still his mouth moved, and his eyes pleaded with me.  I leaned closer but still couldn’t hear.  Glancing towards the door, afraid that we would be interrupted at any moment, I lifted the plastic curtain and lay my ear almost against his face.

	“Backpack,” he whispered.  His breath was hot against my skin.  I pulled away and replaced the curtain.  His eyes were closed.  A machine on the other side of the bed began wailing incessantly.

	Seconds later the door slammed open, and strange hands pushed me from the room.  They seemed unconcerned with my presence; perhaps the rules against visitors were often bent in situations like this.

	I don’t know what I expected.  Our rejection of modern technology gave it perverse powers in our eyes.  We wanted no part of it, but we all secretly believed that the wonders we had turned our backs on were all-powerful.  I couldn’t image that here wasn’t a mother that had lost a child to sickness, or a husband that lost a wife to old age, who didn’t wonder in their secret hearts whether or not they should have turned to the outsiders for help when all else had failed.

	I knew now first hand that however amazing the machines and medicines of the modern world, some things were inevitable.  A doctor leaving the room saw me standing there and sadly shook his head.

	The nurse that had snuck me into Brian’s room gave me a ride after her shift.  I had her stop alongside the road, and made my way home.

*

	No one remarked upon my absence.  That should have struck me as odd.  I had concocted  a story about walking among the fall foliage and falling asleep in the woods, but no one asked where I had been all morning.

I was fortunate; my father wasn’t home when I returned.  I went to the tiny room he called his study and cracked the door.  This room alone in the house was forbidden to me.  I had of course snuck in once or twice as a child, but it had been years since the stuffy room held any interest for me.

I found Fat Brian’s backpack under the hand-hewn wooden desk.  I opened it and rifled through the small collection of clothes and personal mementos.  I found nothing that seemed important, and I wondered why Brian had used his last breath to send me here.  

I dumped the contents on the floor and felt around the empty bag.  At the bottom I felt something square and stiff.  I turned the pack inside out, and saw where a seam had been sliced open.  Inside I found a folded piece of paper.  I smoothed it on the desk.  

_Emily – 

I am going to make a run for it again.  I just can’t continue here.  It’s bad enough having to return to a place that doesn’t understand me, but to know I’ll spend the rest of my life enduring the tittering behind my back and the disgust of everyone around me is unbearable.  The only thing I will miss will be you.  You have been my friend, and though I know you took pains not to let others know that, I forgive you.  I know more than anyone how hard it can be to go against them.

I must warn you – there is evil among our community.  This is more than the petty evil of the close-minded.  This is the evil that we came here to avoid, the evil that tempted Jesus on the mountain.   It has taken hold here, and I fear that the others cannot see it for what it is.  Run, Emily, while you still can.  Take your secret path to the road, beg a ride from the first person that comes along, and run.  Make your way to the city.  Find Father Martin at St. Martha’s.  He will help you as he tried to help me.  I would take you with me, but separately we stand a better chance.  I will leave word with the Father on how you can reach me.  Please, Emily—run._

							Your friend, 
							Fat Brian 

	Tears dripped from my eyes, blurring both my vision and the writing.  The sound of a door slamming nearly stopped my heart.  I stuffed the letter in my pocket and hurriedly shoved Brian’s things back in the bag.  I waited until I heard my father move past the door an into the kitchen, then stole upstairs.

*

	The following dawn found me once more beside the road.  The morning was chill, my breath billowing.  I hoped I didn’t have to wait long before a car came by.

	Unfortunately, I didn’t.

	The police car stopped a dozen yards away.  The officer got out and walked over.  It was the same man that had returned Brian to his parents.  

	“Miss, I know some of you kids don’t want to stay there, but the law is clear.  I have to take you back to your parents.”

	“Please, please, don’t take me back there.  They killed Brian, I know it.”

	“Look, what happened to your friend was terrible.  That’s not a way for anyone to have to die.  But it was an accident.  Your elder told me that he got trapped trying to put out the fire, and everyone else I talked to confirmed it.”

	“Now, please, get in the car.  I’ll take you back to the diner down the road, get some breakfast in you, and then take you home.”

	I nodded numbly and got in the patrol car.

	Ten minutes later I was picking at the bacon and eggs the waitress had brought.  I’d protested, told Officer Jensen that I wasn’t hungry, but he’d insisted.  I looked at the greasy mess and my stomach surged.  I covered my mouth and raced for the bathroom.

	I threw myself in front of the toilet and vomited until nothing was left.  Wracked by dry heaves, I could barely answer when Jensen called after me.  A minute later, one of the waitresses came in and helped me clean up.

	When I returned to the table, Officer Jensen looked at me strangely.  I stared back at him.

	“So, that’s why you’re running away, huh?  Do your parent’s know you’re pregnant?”

	“My mother died when I was little.  My father doesn’t know – he’d kill me if he found out.”

	“Well, like I said, the law’s clear.  But although we generally leave well enough alone with you folk, our laws still apply.  We’ll go back to the station, fill out a report.”
	I looked alarmed.

	“Don’t worry, you won’t be in any trouble.  But if I make it official, I can have Family Services look in on you from time to time, make sure you’re ok.”

	I looked at him gratefully, and managed a wan smile. 

	“Thank you. If they know someone will miss me, they won’t try anything.”

	“You’re going to have to tell them, you know.  Won’t be too long before they can see for themselves anyway.”

	My eyes dropped self-consciously to my belly.  There was a definite swelling, and I knew he was right.

*
	The police station wasn’t as scary as I thought it would be, although everyone looked at me like I was from another planet.  Which, I supposed, I sort of was.   I sat at Officer Jensen’s desk, as he asked me questions and filled out a form.  When he was done, he brought me a donut and tea while we waited for the woman from Family Services.   While he’d been interviewing me, I could sense the other officers trying to eavesdrop.  (Picture 3) I guess that they were curious.  While Officer Jensen was away from his desk, they all made a point of stopping by and wishing me well.

	It was strange, and a little sad, that I felt more at home among strangers than with the people I’d grown up with.

	My thoughts were interrupted by a strong hand on my shoulder.  I looked up to see a matronly woman staring down at me, her concern evident in her eyes.

	“Emily, my name is Maggie Magruder.  I’m with the county.  Officer Jensen here says you’re in a bit of a pickle.  Let’s see what we can do about that.”

	We talked for almost half an hour.  Within minutes the tears I’d kept buried deep had burst forth like a summer squall, but she waited patiently until the storm had passed.  By the time we were done talking, I felt stronger than ever.

	“Now, without evidence of abuse, we have to return you to your father.  But you’re in the system now, honey, and that gives us the right to check in on you up to once a week.  Me, or someone from my office will be out there to check on you every Friday morning,” Betty said.

	“Now, you’re seventeen, and that’s plenty old enough to get you declared an emancipated minor.  That means you’d legally be an adult.  I’ve already put in a call to Father Martin, and he’s saving you a spot in his shelter for women,” she continued.

“Everything is going to work out, it’ll just take a few weeks.  You can hold out for that long right?” she finished.

I nodded.

“Good girl,” she grinned, and I gave her a tentative smile in return.  

*
	My father didn’t say a word, didn’t even start arguing with Officer Jensen when he mentioned that Family Services would be paying him a visit.  That should have scared me, but I was so relieved that he didn’t make a scene that it didn’t occur to me.

	That night, I was awakened from the first good sleep I’d had in weeks by a cold hand clamped across my mouth.  I struggled, tried to scream, but several hands held me tight.  My attackers bore me down the stairs and into the night.

	At first I though I was being taken to the barn, and readied myself to beg for mercy.  I didn’t fear the pain – the rage that coursed through me would see me through that, I thought.  But I worried what what would happen to my child, and I knew I would have to reveal my condition.

	But they continued to carry me, and after a minute the clear night sky above me was broken by the spindly fingers of overhanging trees.  I realized they were carrying me deep into the woods.

	For long minutes we travelled, and I exhaustion eventually forced me to cease struggling.  I saw a break in the trees and heard a gentle splashing, and realized we’d come to the lake.  I was tilted upright and felt my back pressed against rough bark.  I felt something tight bind my chest, and I realized my abductors had tied me to a tree.	

	The shadowy figures retreated, but now that I could at least move my head about, I could recognize them in the moonlight.  My father led them, of course, and several others gathered about.  I saw my Uncle Robert and his wife Mary, my dead mother’s sister.  I saw my inconstant lover David’s father, and with a chill I realized that they already knew my secret.

	They gathered in the water, forming a loose circle around a round table made of woven plants.  (Picture 2) They spoke in the old language, the one we only heard during holy days, or when adults wanted to talk in front of the children without being understood.

	Their words became heated, and I sensed that there was some disagreement about what they planned for me.  My Aunt Mary seemed angry at my father, but as in most things, he would tolerate no dissent, and eventually she acquiesced.  Seeing that he had their obedience, he turned his attention to me.

	“So, child, you have shamed me, and shamed our people.  Bad enough that you snuck into town, but to spread your legs for an outsider and let him defile you, for that there is no excuse.”

	“No, no, it wasn’t an outsider,” I babbled, the coppery taste of terror filling my mouth.  “It was David Edgarson.”

	“Liar,” Jacob shouted, and I could see a knowing smirk on Elder Edgarson’s face.  “David told us about helping you sneak into town and has accepted his penance.  Don’t make things worse for yourself by dragging him down with your lies.”

	I realized it was a lost cause.  They would not believe me.  When David saw the police bring me home, he must have thought that our tryst would be discovered soon.  Offering himself up to be punished for the real but minor crime of bringing me to town made his deceit all the more plausible.

	He dismissed me with his eyes and returned his attention to the other elders.  He stepped into the middle, surrounding himself with the rotten vegetation.  They reformed the circle around him and held hands.  Strange chanting issued forth from their mouths, and though I did not recognize the language, I sensed that it was related to our tongue yet far, far older.

	The mass of plants and vines at the center of their circle stirred, and their chanting increased in volume and urgency.  The formless pile started to spin slowly, and in the middle it rose above the water, climbing like malignant ivy until it nearly covered my father. 

	When the chanting stopped,  only his head remained visible.  In the dim light I could see that small lumps on his monstrous form wriggled and writhed.  Giant leeches, I thought, and nearly swooned.

	The truth was far worse.

	Above, the clouds parted, and a moonbeam shone, illuminating the water like the gaze of God.

	Slowly he moved into the light, sodden arms reaching out in an obscene embrace, and I realized that the forms that swarmed his body weren’t leeches.  They were babies, their tiny forms hideously rotten.  (Picture 6) I realized what had happened to all the mothers-to-be, and I vomited into the dank water.

	“Why,” I begged.  “Why have you taken the babies from us?”

	My father’s voice, if indeed that abomination could still be called my father, gurgled, it’s fetid breath nearly making me sick again.

	“Because we have been blessed by God.  He has shown us where the path ahead leads.  I have seen how you and your children renounce the old ways and surrender to the temptations of technology and the modern world.  I have seen the long struggle against evil come to naught.”

	“Better that our people and our way of life dies pure than become corrupted by the Great Deceiver.  These babies died in a state of grace, their innocence unsullied.”

	He was so close now I could hear the whimpers of the lost children, see how their tiny limbs waved about.  I could feel the foul embrace of the thing that had once been my father, and I swooned.

*

	When I awakened, the midwives were gathered around my bed.  I could see by their expressions that the life within me was no more.  Eventually I stopped screaming, and much, much later, I even stopped crying.  When Maggie arrived the following Friday for my checkup, I could barely speak.  I told her I didn’t want to continue the emancipation process, and then my father put his arm around my shoulders and turned me towards home.


----------



## Piratecat (Mar 6, 2007)

Round 3, Match 1: Piratecat vs. Rodrigo Istalindir


[title]*Banter*
By Kevin Kulp (Piratecat)[/title]


You’re 12 years old again and crouched underneath your bed sheets. It’s stuffy under here, and your dim flashlight creates the illusion of a flannel cave. Your parents won’t notice, though, not tonight. So you sort through the pile and gradually pull out an issue of *Titanic Team-Up #171.* You hold it under the light.

The cover doesn’t show any bad guys or ray guns or giant gorillas. Instead it shows a close up of a particular hero’s face. He’s normally an extremely handsome black man. But not now. Now he’s staring in horror at his own hands as the melting flesh begins to peel away. It’s clear that he’s in the process of dying. Behind him a beautiful raven-haired girl in a skintight red power suit is lunging to save him – but it’s just as clear she’ll be too late! What could have done this? Who could have done this to him? The only hint is the lurid title emblazoned at an angle across the front of the book, in huge yellow letters…


*The Flesh is Weak!**
Featuring the titanic team-up 
of Rubber Band and Loophole
 in their most dangerous adventure ever – 
with a villainous ensemble like none you’ve seen! 
Monolith, the Octobomination… 
and the diabolical 
Architect of Flesh!*​
You flip open the cover, flip past some Sea Monkeys and an ad where a skinny young man is getting sand kicked in his face –

And so we begin.


*Outskirts of Crescent City, Mississippi*

Thousands of cars stood idle in the gloom of a gathering storm. The sulfurous glare of their headlights illuminated Rt. 211 better than any street light could. Somewhere in that line of cars were three escaped criminals. Riot police patrolled the snaking column and checked each car. The police wore flak jackets and carried sidearms; everyone knew that the Fratelli brothers were _dangerous._

No one noticed the horse and wagon.

It rumbled slowly across newly tilled fields a good three hundred yards from the road. The police were all looking for the Italian sports cars that they knew the Fratellis favored. No one thought to look for something that didn’t even have a motor. 

The wagon veered back onto a side road three miles past the roadblock, and the brothers laughed harshly as they high-fived one another. “Idiots!” said Vinny, a thick-browed man with a heavy gut. “Killing the farmer was absolutely worth it.” 

“We were already in for murder one,” said Al. “What did it matter? And tomorrow we’ll be in Jackson, and then Chicago. Then we’ll gack those stumblebums who put us in jail in the first place.”

“First things first,” mumbled their elder brother Joe as he twitched the reins. A lone car raced around them and vanished into the coming dusk. “The doc sprung us, and I got the package he wanted us to carry. First things first.”

The road stretched out before them, a dotted white line leading into a stormy future. Vinnie lit a cigar. “I’m looking forward to this.” The stream of greasy smoke trailed behind the wagon.

Joe coughed, then opened his pale eyes enough to glance around. “Hey,” he mumbled, “anyone else besides me feel like we’re bein’ watched?”

Then there was a snap like a stuttering bolt of lightning as something blue and yellow came out of nowhere to slam into the side of the wagon. The horse gave a desperate whinny of fright and tried to run. The wagon had tipped, though, and the mare just reared up on its hind legs and pawed at the air. The giant ball rebounded from the wagon’s debris and bounced to a stop thirty feet away.

“Man,” said Rubber Band as he unfolded himself, “do I make a good entrance, or what?” He stretched, and his arms extended a good twenty feet. “You see that, girl? That oughta be on a lunch box.”

“I saw it,” said Loophole. Her tight red costume was covered by shifting discs of solid blackness. Her face couldn’t be seen behind the rotating black discs. “I couldn’t help but see it. I’m the one who got you here.”

“I can’t even do that well when I’m bowling,” said Rubber Band with a laugh. “Strike!”  One hand undid the horse’s traces as his head stretched out to take a look at the three mobsters lying in a muddy ditch.  “What we got here? The Fratelli brothers, huh? There’s about fifty police men back there who’re just about dying to make your acquaintance.”

“They ain’t the only ones who’re dying, bub,” said Joe bitterly, and all three of the mobsters went for their guns. Pistols barked into the evening air, just as a ripple of thunder rolled across the fields. All three brothers aimed at the stretchy strongman looming in front of them, but they were too slow. Loophole was there first.

“I don’t _think_ so,” she said, and a two-dimensional black disc materialized in front of Rubber Band’s chest. Bullets that should have killed the hero disappeared into darkness and reappeared instantly on the far side of his body. 

Her teleportation disc wasn’t quite big enough, though. Rubber Band grunted as one stray bullet distended his belly backwards like a trampoline. Then his belly snapped forward again and the bullet came screaming back towards the Fratellis. It took Vinny in the knee, and he let out a cry of pain as he tumbled to the ground.

“You know,” said the rubbery man as he waved away the haze of gunpowder smoke with a fan-shaped hand, “that? That was a damn stupid thing to try. I take it personal when people shoot at me. No _wonder_ you in jail.”  His looping fists caught the two unhurt Fratellis under their many chins, and both brothers fell backwards like hewn trees. Rubber Band looked down at Vinny and extended one finger to tap him on the forehead.

“Yo. Who broke you outta jail, Vinny? Who owed you that favor?”

“My knee,” groaned Vinny. “Package. Doc… doctor…” He swooned into unconsciousness.

“We better get him to a doctor,” said Loophole reluctantly. A _prison_ doctor – in a jail that’s actually secure. Want me to do the honors?”

“Sure do,” said Rubber Band. “Meanwhile, I’ll bounce back with these two and tell the cops that we got their boys. They must have gotten this cart from somewhere. The police’ll want to check it out.”

“Sounds good to me,” said Loophole. “You grab that package he mentioned. I’ll meet you back at the Fortress.”  She stood next to Vinny, and black discs began to orbit her body. “One other thing, though.” She had a twinkle in her eye. “_You_ get to round up the horse.” With a crackle both she and Vinny’s unconscious form dropped through a hole and out of the world, leaving Rubber Band alone with the other two thugs. 

He paused, looking back at the way the horse had run. “Well, damn,” he said. He wrapped up both Fratellis and their gear inside his stretchy body, shaped himself like a huge superball, and used his arms like slingshots to catapult himself back towards Crescent City.


-- o –​

Peter Hondas was not like any other shopper at the Foodimart. He had a secret. Peter pushed his shopping cart with the balky wheel up and down the narrow aisles, waiting for old ladies to get out of his way in the deli line, and he didn’t _one_ of them up to fling through a wall.  Why? Because he was biding his time.

He was waiting.

Two boxes of chocolate donuts.
A box of Twinkies.
Two loaves of Wonder Bread.
Some of them hamburger buns. It was almost grilling season.
It had been three years. Three long years since the boss had been killed by those bastards in spandex. But nothing could kill the boss, he _knew_ that, and so he did what the boss had told him to do. Lay low. Be loyal. The money from the last couple spectacular robberies was starting to run out, and Peter wasn’t sure what he’d do when it did, but he’d cross that bridge when he came to it. If the boss could he’d be back already, and all Peter had to do was stay patient and keep low. His loyalty would be rewarded. 

Case of soda.
A box of sugar-frosted cereal _without_ a superhero on it
Three bags of chips.
New bottle of ketchup.
But would the boss ever return? Peter had _seen_ it. That scrawny little bitch had teleported Peter halfway into steel-reinforced cement, there weren’t nothing he could quickly do about that and he was sure the Boss _knew_ that, and the stretchy jerk in the yellow spandex had held some high-tech gizmo up just as the Boss had turned his deli… delicatess… deliquiss… flesh-slurping ray on him. The ray he’d been working on in the secret lab for _weeks,_ saving it for something special. And instead of melting down into a big puddle of goo like the cops at the Third National, _the ray rebounded._ 

It had bounced! And Peter had watched as the Boss turned into that same sort of puddle. 

They’d been fighting at the zoo, some sort of caper involving an endangered pregnant whatsit worth millions to China, and the boss’s flesh-goo had drained into the zoo sewers, and right then Peter had known that he had to break free _right then and there_ if he didn’t want to see life imprisonment in some sort of nuclear containment suit, so he ripped himself free and tossed teleportin’ Slutstar there into Rubber Band’s head as hard as he could and had made a run for it. Made it, too. And now here he was, planning for a barbecue instead of flinging nosy heroes at one another. 

But at least he’d gotten away with the giant panda. It’d been pretty tasty, too. 

But what was he gonna do for a new job if the boss never showed? All the super-criminals in Crescent City were losers. 

Jar of pickles. 
Couple onions.
Six pack of beer.
Three porterhouse steaks.
Two pounds of ground hamburger. 
And the hamburger had a face.
Sure, he could hire out as muscle for a crime boss like the Fratellis, but that was like working fast food after you’d cooked for the Taj Mahal or something. Peter knew that…

Wait, a face?

The old lady next to him in the aisle glanced into his cart and screamed bloody murder. Doubtful, Peter pushed aside the steaks and picked up his shrink-wrapped hamburger. Yeah, that was _definitely_ a face. There was no hair, only flesh, as if some insane butcher had carved off the front of someone’s head. He held it up.

_“Monolith!”_ the face hissed, barely audible through the shrink-wrap. _“I have returned, and I need you. Gather eight flunkies, competent or not. Come to the old sanctum in the swamp.”_ The unnatural lips pulled back in a rictus of triumph, and the hiss rose to into a scream like a dying cat. _“It is time for *revenge!*”_

Peter smiled. The screaming lady had called the cops, but he just threw his shopping cart at her and then hit the cops with their own car. Then he bounded away. He was sorry to lose the groceries, sure, but everything was going to be okay again. He didn’t have to be Peter Hondas any more. Now he was Monolith.

The boss was back.


-- o --​

“Shhh,” said Rubber Band, waving her down. “I love this part.” He was stretched back on the couch, his feet resting on a divan eleven feet away. The television showed a movie in black and white. It was very late.

“RB,” said Loophole patiently, “We’ve got to talk about what you found.”

“Later,” he insisted, and waggled his fingers to shush her. “Movies from 1913 aren’t gonna watch themselves, you know.” Loophole sighed, let the black discs melt away, and flopped down on the old sofa. Her fingers dug into the bag of popcorn that RB offered her, and she stuffed a handful in her mouth. 

“Uck,” she offered, “butter-flavored.”

“I love this part,” said Rubber Band. “See, that’s Ford Sterling on the phone. He replaced Hank Mann. See that guy on the right, leaning in?  That’s Fatty Arbuckle. They’re all trying to listen. But Fatty leans too far, trips, and then *every single* Keystone Kop goes down like a stack of dominos. Wait for it… wait for it…” He held up one long finger to orchestrate the moment. “Now!” 

Loophole started to laugh, spewed popcorn across the room from her mouth, then laughed some more. Rubber Band joined in and drowned her out.

The room grew silent other than the tinny sound of the movie’s added soundtrack.

“I thought I lost you there for a second,” she said finally. “I missed two bullets.”

“Only one.”

“No, two. One actually missed you. Al was a crummy shot.”

“Man, girl. You’re slippin’.”

“Shut up!” She punched him playfully on the arm, and her fist rebounded. “I’m serious. That was sloppy of me. I just wanted to say sorry.”

“Don’t worry ‘bout it.” His smile was relaxed. “It hurt like crazy, but it didn’t kill me. What you _should_ be apologizing for is making me catch that damn horse. Took me an hour to find it in the rain. It wandered up to the swamp.”

“Hey, you wanted the fame. I just wanted to stay dry. The portal suit gets all clammy when it’s wet.”

“Wuss.”

They watched in silence for a few more minutes while Rubber Band got himself a beer from the kitchen, then Loophole spoke again. “And another thing. How come our Fortress is your sub-basement?”

“Convenience. Who wants a crime alert where you have to fly to some satellite to get your supergear? Leave it for those big shots up north. This is handy.”

She arched an eyebrow. “I’m a teleporter, you know? You remember? That whole ‘fall through a portal and be somewhere else’ gig? We could have a secret headquarters in Atlantis for all it matters. It’d take us just as long to get there.”

He shook his head. “No way, girl. Then you’d leave me for some dumbass undersea prince fish-controller merman type, like they got two of down in Miami, and I’d have to go swimming every time I wanted to change my costume. Lousy idea. As is, this keeps you where I can see you.” 

Loophole pushed herself up on the couch and turned to face him, her voice sounding suddenly hurt. She pushed a lock of jet-black hair away from one eye. “Oh darling, that would never happen!” 

Rubber Band nodded suspiciously, waiting for the other shoe to fall. “Glad to hear it.”

Loophole nodded with as much sincerity as she could muster. “Oh sure, I’d leave you in a heartbeat. Who wouldn’t? But for a fish guy? Ha!” Her tone turned conspiratorial. “You know, no one could guess it from my _current_ boyfriend, but I do have _some_ taste.” She stuck out her tongue at him, he went to grab it, and instead grabbed the back of his own head as his fingers slipped through the portal that materialized in front of her face. She peeked her head out from behind the swirling black disk and winked. “Movie’s still on. You’re missing the finale.”

“Fine,” he grumbled, and then laughed. “Oh, almost forgot. Wait ‘til you see what the Fratellis had in that package. We’ve got some sleuthin’ to do in the morning.” He reached into the next room and brought back a brown paper bag. Loophole opened it and stared down. Her voice was incredulous.

“This?”


-- o --​

The swamp came alive with the dawn. Monolith loved this part of the day. 

Chilly and nervous and soaked to their skins, all eight of the new recruits sat amidst the colossal plants and waited for something to happen. Early morning sunlight played across the still water of Devils Bayou. Hidden defenses kept this part of the swamp exceptionally private, and there were no strangers to hear Jordy Perkins whine.

“Pffft. He’s the Archetype of Fish, more like it. Come on. You guys don’t take this seriously, do you?”  His voice reminded Monolith of a particularly troublesome mosquito.

There were uncomfortable glances from the other seven lowlifes gathered around the makeshift conference table. Eyes flickered back and forth. A badly scarred woman cleared her throat and shifted the Standard Henchman Contract still sitting in front of her. No one said a thing.

Jordy let out a short, barking laugh.  “I don’t believe it! You DO! Some strange guy dresses up in tights and hires us for $500 each and tells us that we’ve got to sit up to our waists in a freaking SWAMP to join up with a supervillain who died three years ago, and you’re so scared that you won’t even say boo!” Perkins slapped at a mosquito on his forehead, noticing with distaste the blood smeared on his hand.  “This is stupid. They can’t even afford a real table, they gotta use some plant. If it weren’t for the loot, I’d be outta here inna heartbeat.”  He slapped the giant water lily in front of him for emphasis.

Monolith sucked in a deep breath and held his temper. He tended to throw things when he got mad, and the boss wanted these morons alive. “You signed the contract, buddy. The boss said get eight flunkies. You’re about as flunky as they come. So shaddap and siddown.”

Perkins leapt to his feet, refusing to back down. “You might have them scared, big man, but not me! If I deign to join some crime gang, it’ll be as an equal. Not as a flunky. And I guarantee they’ll have better gear than some crummy giant water fern.”

“Is that so, Mister Perkins? If you ‘deign’?” The voice was silky and terrifying  and apparently came from nowhere. “You are sitting at a Victoria Amazonica, the largest water lily in the world. It is the greatest of its kind, and so it pleases me. It is function serving form. I _only_ surround myself with things that are perfect at their function, such as Monolith here. Anything else I change or destroy.” The voice paused. “And I must say, Mister Perkins, that you displease me.” 

Jordy whipped his head around and splashed in a circle. He looked under the leaf, but saw only water. The other seven people seemed to be holding their breath. The mocking voice continued. 

“You, who have taken my money and sworn an oath of loyalty, would defy ME? In my own secret sanctum within the Devils Bayou? Idiot. Your fate was sealed the moment Monolith brought you here.”

“You talk big,” blustered Jordy, still pinwheeling around to try and see the speaker. “You going to back that up?” 

“I already have. I’m just savoring the moment. Look at your compatriots, worm. I am improving their form to match their future function. I am turning them into the perfect killing machine.” 

Jordy looked closely at the other seven people at the table, the seven flunkies, and sour bile rose in his throat. They were _merging._ Like Siamese Twins in reverse, their flesh was joining and adhering. In seconds all seven of them had grown together, and horrified screams filled the air. Then the screams choked off abruptly as filaments of flesh grew over their mouths. Jordy took halting steps backwards through the water, unable to tear his eyes away from the slurping seven-headed horror wallowing at the other end of the giant lily pad.

“Where… where are you?” Jordy was almost pleading.

“Why Mister Perkins,” said the voice in a little whisper so very very close to his ear, “I’m right inside of you. Surprise.”

The drying mosquito blood on Jordy’s hand began to bubble, and he staggered backwards as he felt something on his forehead begin to grow. He caught a quick glimpse of his face in the reflective water beneath him, and was revolted to see that there was some sort of growth erupting out of the exact spot where the mosquito had bitten him. The tumor looked cancerous, a rippling and bursting of flesh that bent his neck backwards with its unnatural weight. Jordy’s feet went out from under him and he slipped backwards into the water of the Mississippi swamp. 

The back of his head buried itself in thick mud at the bottom of the swamp. Jordy looked up through the watery distortion as the growth sprouted upwards, upwards, and suddenly the alien growth _shifted_ and took the form of a skinless human man. The weight on his head changed as the tumor detached and became a solid foot. Ripples of skin rolled up from Jordy’s body onto this abomination of sentient meat, leaving Jordy partially flayed and in utter agony. He opened his mouth to scream, and water rushed into his throat to end his life. Then the foot moved from his forehead, and a huge fist grabbed Jordy and pulled him upwards into the light. 

“Gotcha,” said Monolith.

“You weren’t scared, before,” the naked stranger said. His tone was detached and mildly inquisitive. “Are you now?”

“Yuh… yes!” managed Jordy, and he mewled in terror.

“Good,” said the naked man, apparently satisfied. “Then you shall lead them.” Monolith shoved Jordy’s skinless body into the seven-headed monstrosity, and the flesh parted with a wet sucking sound to welcome him. The Octobomination shifted on its own for a few minutes afterwards, eyes sliding across skin and arms repositioning themselves, but by then the naked man had sunk into the water at the head of the leafy table. He looked self-satisfied.

“I’ll say one thing for ya, boss,” said Monolith appreciatively, “Ya haven’t forgotten how to make an entrance.”

The man looked up, eyes blazing. “Of course I haven’t, my lethiferous lickspittle. I have spent three excruciating years regaining both my form and my power. I am more powerful now than I ever have been before, in ways you can not possibly imagine. I draw now power from you, them, this plant, the entire swamp –” His voice had risen to a howl. “– but so long as the man who defeated me still lives, I will not be able to rest. He will die, and then ALL will fear me.” 

Monolith frowned. He had caught about half of that, just like normal. “Boss, so what about we…”

“Silence. The trap for him is already laid, Monolith, and we must make haste before he springs it. Gather the Octobomination, and prepare yourself. For by my hand, before the end of this day, Rubber Band shall *die.*”  He leapt to his feet.

“So I swear. For I am *Doctor Vivios…*”  He raised one fist high, and the swamp itself trembled before him. *“THE ARCHITECT OF FLESH!”*


-- o --​

Loophole looked up, eyebrow raised in not-so-polite disbelief, and sipped her coffee. “It’s a Betamax tape,” she said. “for a football promotion. ‘Meet the Green Bay Packers.’”

“Exactly!” said Rubber Band with satisfaction. “It got given to the Fratellis when they escaped. It’s what we professional crime fighters call a ‘clue.’”

“Thank you, Professor Condescending.”

“Isn’t he out of Boston?”

“Shaddap, you. A clue, huh? How do you figure?”

“Well, there was a rubber band wrapped around it.” She looked at him expectantly, as if waiting for a punch line when the joke was already finished. “A rubber band? You know? It’s a _message._” He sounded peevish. “Probably to lure me into some sort of diabolical trap.”

“Uh huh.” Loophole cocked her head. “I know you’re more experienced than I am at this crime-fighting thing, because it hasn’t been all that long since I inherited the portal suit from my uncle, but don’t you think it’s more likely that you’ve secretly been struck by some sort of alien ego ray that makes you say incredibly stupid things?”

“Could be,” he said straight-faced, “which must be why I got _me_ my own line of toys and a Saturday morning cartoon show, and why everyone thinks _you_ is some sort of cost accountant.” 

“It’s a Local Cable Access show, RB. Done by college students.”

“It still counts on a technicality, thank you very much. Hmmph. And it never hurts a hero to jump to conclusions. Let’s think about this for a second. ‘Meet the Green Bay Packers.’”

“They want us to come to the football stadium? To Wisconsin? To a cheese shop?” She shrugged.

“No,” said Rubber Band as he rubbed his rubbery chin, “too obvious.” Ignoring her sarcastic snort, he continued thinking out loud. “Meet the Green Bay Packers. Meet the packers… meat packers! Of course! The Crescent City meat packing plant on Greene Street! The one with the modern sculpture out front!” 

Loophole stared at him. “You can’t _possibly_ be serious.”

RB had the good graces to look slightly embarrassed. “Of course I am. Get moving, girl.”

“You really think that…”

RB sighed, his stretchable chest moving like a bellows. “Of course I do. It’s standard villain logic. You just have to think like they do.”

“You scare me. You know that.”

“Uh huh.”

“You think the heroes up in Freedom City have to put up with this sort of nonsense?”

“You have no idea.”

She wrapped her arms around him, held him tight, and they slid through a portal into blackness.

-- o --

“I’m so glad you’re here!” said the secretary in the low-cut dress. “There’s something weird going on in the slaughter house. I tried to call the police, but our phone line is dead. All the guys ran for their lives about twenty minutes ago. I’m sure they called for help, so I’ve been hiding in here.”

Rubber Band turned to Loophole. “I told you – ”

“DON’T SAY IT.”

Rubber Band looked disappointed. “But that’s half the fun!”

“Say it, and you better hope ALL your superballs bounce when something kicks them.” She gave him a look.

“All righty, then.” He turned back to the secretary and tried not to look down the front of her dress. It was harder than it sounded; the woman was exceptionally well built. “We’ll look into it, miss.” 

“Eyes front, RB,” said Loophole with a grin. “Time to scout.” She had opened up a small teleportation portal in front of her. Rubber Band extended one of his eyeballs and squeezed it through the portal. It reemerged on the main floor of the meat packing plant.

“It totally ooks me out when you do this.”

“Ooks YOU out? You know how hard it is to blink when your eye is nine feet long? I have to reshape my lens and cornea just to be able to see anything!”

“And what DO you see?”

“I see meat hooks. And a giant meat grinder. And sides of beef stuck on the meat hooks. And,” he swallowed, “dead people stuck on the meat hooks. Not all the employees made it out alive.” His face still at the portal, he turned slightly towards Loophole. “I think we’ve got a—” and he screamed. “Something just caught my eye!”

“What? What? You saw something? Who cares? Pull back!”

“No,” hissed Rubber Band through pain-gritted teeth, “something is _pulling on my eye!_” And as he said it, his head actually began to slide forwards through the narrow portal. Whatever was on the other side must have been incredibly strong. The hero’s skull made nasty popping sounds as it was dragged through the tiny portal inch by inch.

Loophole grabbed RB’s body and opened the portal wider. His body snapped forward, and she was carried right along with it.

The unnatural monstrosity on the other side _was_ incredibly strong; as strong as eight people, in fact. The Octobomination had over ten hands wrapped around Rubber Band’s eyeball and was pulling as hard as it could. Sixteen legs braced it. And as the Titanic Team-up slammed into it, eight mouths sent up an unholy chatter of voices.

“hE hAs cOMe! wE May kIlL Him aND wE May rESt!” One sentence from many voices. The amalgamate slobbered with all its mouths as the hands seized and held Rubber Band. Teeth snapped.

“I don’t _think_ so,” said Loophole, but something unseen smashed her on the back of the head hard enough to blacken her vision and weaken her knees. She tried to turn her head and couldn’t; someone with a grip like iron had her by the throat, brutal fingers poised to crush her larynx if she so much as twitched. _Maybe I could teleport oxygen straight into my lungs if my throat gets crushed?_ She hoped she wouldn’t have to find out. She couldn’t teleport herself free, that was for sure; she had to step into a portal for that, and right now she was caught. 

“Don’t move,” said the secretary’s voice, but it was changing in pitch. Sinking deeper.

Rubber Band snapped his face back to normal, but he was thoroughly pinned by the sixteen armed monster. No matter how much he twitched or bent, he couldn’t get any leverage at all. “Ew. You got monster drool all over my eye. That’s just plain unsanitary. Who are you people?”

“Don’t you recognize me, Rubber Band?” rumbled the voice behind Loophole. “We met before. Before I ate the panda.” 

“Monolith? You ate Ling-Ling? You know, fella, the zoo isn’t normally a take-out.” Rubber Band squinted in his direction, blinking furiously. “But all I see is one damn ugly transvestite who has my partner by the throat. You might want to think about asking her for some beauty tips or something while you got her. ‘Cause wherever you gettin’ yours, it just ain’t cuttin’ it. That dress is _not_ you.”

“RB,” whispered Loophole through the pain, “now’s not the time for mocking…”

“Oh, yeah. That.” Monolith wiped off the makeup with one hand, even as he shook Loophole with the other. “I was disguised,” the man-mountain rumbled in annoyance. “See, it was a trap. To lure you here.”

“Well, that lipstick just isn’t your color. You’re more of an autumn.”

“Not funny.” Loophole’s world went gray as Monolith briefly tightened his grip on her neck. Even Rubber Band heard Loophole’s neck creak. “But someone wants to speak with you.”

Monolith fell silent as a mouth sprouted from every single side of beef – and human corpse – in the room. 

“And who do you think made Monolith’s disguise so perfect, my rebarbative foe?” The dreadful speech came from everywhere.  “A lovely secretary in appearance, yes, but behind the all too transitive flesh lay the most lethal strongman this world has known! Mua ha ha! Tell me, who could _possibly_ fool you that completely? Who could create that Octobomination that holds you captive in your last few fleeting minutes of life? Who will you worship before he slides you into a meat grinder that can kill even you? SAY MY NAME!”

Rubber Band paused. “Exterminator? That you?”

“What? NO!”

“Captain Calamity, then? Eidolon? The Famine? No, no, don’t tell me. I’ll guess. Glamer? The Scarlet Scythe? Master Impaler?”

“NO!”

“I think it’s The Preener,” hazarded Loophole. “He’s got that same sort of self-absorption.”

“Yeah, that must be it! You The Preener?”

“Monolith,” said the voice very quietly, “feed her into the meat grinder. Octobomination, keep him immobilized. I have something _special_ in mind for him.”

Monolith had flipped on the industrial grinder by the time Rubber Band relented. “Nah, I’m just joshing with ya!” he shouted over the rising howl of clashing gears. “I recognize your voice. Doctor Vivios, I presume?  How you been? Poorly, I hope.” He grimaced as the monstrosity holding him began to twist his form and tie his body in a knot. 

“Much better. Hold, Monolith. But I am no longer simply Doctor Vivios, insect, for now my power extends to all flesh living OR dead. I no longer need a device to accomplish my goals.”

“So, you’re saying you’re some kinda, what? A meatomancer, or somethin’? That getting you dates on those lonely Saturday nights?” He glanced over at Loophole and her captor. “Course, when you can turn Monolith over there into a Missilith, I’m not so sure that…”

“Stop your yammering.” The furious voice echoed around the room from a hundred different mouths. “Pay attention, hero. I have learned from what you did to me. I have ascended. You may now address me as *Doctor Vivios… THE ARCHITECT OF FLESH!*”  Vivios paused in his moment of triumph, to drink in their rightful worship. He had dreamed of this day.

Trapped or not, both Loophole and Rubber Band started snorting with laughter.

“The Architect of… Flesh?” Rubber Band couldn’t control himself. “You go to special school for that? All the vegan crooks are gonna be _pissed._”

“Look at me,” whispered Loophole as she dangled helplessly over the meat grinder, “I’m an architect of flesh! I built me a meat house!” She started giggling uncontrollably.

“You got a meat house for your secret lair, Doc? Does that make you a hamburgler?”

“And I thought _our_ secret lair was lousy,” rasped Loophole. “I hear you’re building a new office building downtown. It’s probably a porkscraper!” Her laughter redoubled, even though she could barely breathe.

“Silence!” raged Doctor Vivios from a hundred mouths. “SILENCE!  This was not how it was supposed to be! Monolith, I command you. Silence them! Kill her! Make them be silent!” 

Neither hero was surprised when the furious Monolith threw Loophole at Rubber Band instead of dropping her into the meat grinder. Old habits die hard, and Doctor Vivios had given his commands in the wrong order. 

Loophole hit Rubber Band as hard as Monolith could throw her. She heard a bone break as she bounced off him into the wall, but she flipped a portal up just in time to avoid worse injury. The impact was enough to jar Rubber Band loose. The Octobomination had been twisting him, and now the hero unraveled like his proverbial namesake. The monstrosity that held him was knocked backwards towards the huge meat grinder, its many legs quickly finding purchase on the slippery floor.

“mUsT kilL!”

“Not today, freako. Hey Loophole, what has eight legs and flies?”

“Not now, honey. It’s too big for me to port, and Monolith is trying to kill me. You remember Fatty Arbuckle?”

Rubber Band grinned. “I do indeed. Wait for it…! Wait for it…!” He arched his body over the massive meat grinder, beckoning the shambling amalgam towards him. Meanwhile, Loophole turned towards Monolith, who had run after her. His restored muscles had ripped the ill-fitting dress. Loophole shook her head in dismay.

“He’s right. You do make one ugly woman. Kinda a shame you can’t reach me from there, huh?”

“Says you,” rumbled Monolith, and ripped a two-ton chunk out of the factory wall. With practiced ease he flipped the masonry piece overhand. There wasn’t a chance he could miss her. 

Loophole spun up a portal with perfect timing. “Now!”

The chunk of stone reemerged right next to the Octobomination, which was leaning just a little bit too close to the meat grinder as it tried to grab Rubber Band. It was just like the Keystone Kops. Monolith’s throw knocked down one side of the bloodthirsty atrocity, and as it lost its balance a second torso fell to the ground, which cascaded into a tumbled disarray of arms and legs and melded torsos squirming on the factory floor.  

“Uh oh,” said Monolith. “Never!” screamed Doctor Vivios. “Clean-up on aisle nine,” quipped Rubber Band, and reformed his body into a giant scraper. With one swift motion he swept Doctor Vivios’ prize creation into the mouth of the meat grinder. The noise was quite appalling. The remnant of Jordy’s scream was the last one to fade.

Loophole caught Rubber Band’s gaze and they shared a brief glance of shared triumph. That meant she was looking right at him when Doctor Vivios stepped out of hiding just long enough to fire a beam from the tips of his fingers. The flesh-deliquescing ray caught Rubber Band square in the chest. It didn’t bounce off.

“Noooo!” screamed Loophole, but it was already too late. RB’s handsome features sagged and melted in seconds. He tried to reach out a hand to her, but the arm drooped and fell apart into fleshy goo that spattered like rain. His essence splashed down into the churning meat grinder, which choked and coughed and ground to a sudden halt.

“Now that,” said Doctor Vivios’ satisfied voice, “was how it was _supposed_ to go.”

Loophole turned, eyes blazing. Doctor Vivios was nowhere to be seen, but Monolith was laughing.

“Now you know how it feels, little girl,” he rumbled, and hoisted another chunk of masonry. “How ‘bout I just beat you to death with this one?”

“How ‘bout you don’t,” answered Loophole, and concentrated. A portal opened next to Monolith. 

“Haw haw,” he said, “ya miss—” But the other end of the portal had been opened 500’ beneath the surface of the Gulf coast. The water pressure knocked Monolith off his feet and across the room. Slipping on congealed blood and confused fish, Monolith tried to regain his feet, but the floor slipped out from underneath him. He looked down. He was in the air! He was flying!

He passed a seagull. Aw, nuts, he wasn’t flying. He was falling. Apparently about a thousand feet above Crescent City’s bay.  Eight hundred, five hundred, less. _Lotta water down there,_ he thought. _The boss’ll flesh-shape me again. Gimme wings. And how hard could water be, anyways? I’ll be fine. He won’t let me down. He never has before._ 

He was still waiting when he hit.


-- o --​

“You’re still here,” said Loophole. Her hair hung in her eyes, and her fingers were clenched into fists. Her broken arm ached. She stood in the center of the factory floor, cow carcasses swinging slowly on huge steel meat hooks around her.  “I can sense it. You killed Rubber Band by surprise. You think you can do the same to me?”

“Frankly,” said the Architect of Flesh, “yes.” He stepped out and fired. Loophole redirected his ray back into him, but it didn’t faze him in the least. “I’m immune to my own powers, you scabrous stripling. And I can project these at the speed of light.” He eyed her from across the hall. His chuckle was thin.“Shall we see who’s faster?”

It was a near thing.

The side of beef behind Loophole extended squirming ligaments to coil around her limbs. She tore free before she could become entangled, but then Doctor Vivios was there with his flesh-deliquescing beam. Ignoring the pain from her broken bone, Loophole dashed between hanging carcasses and used her portals to deflect anything that came close. Noisome rivulets of liquid flesh rained down behind her. She was a flash of red and black in the dimly-lit meat-packing plant, and Doctor Vivios flung horrible death at her as she ran. Finally she dropped into a portal and disappeared from sight.

“You can not defeat me, you know,” called out Doctor Vivios. “You have no offensive powers unless I attack you…”  A portal opened right in front of his face, and Loophole’s fist came out to punch him right in the nose. The fist withdrew and the portal vanished.  

“No offensive powers of any merit,” he amended in annoyance. “And I am immune to my own power. I simply reform my body’s cells to avoid melting. You can not say the same. I can do that even now to heal.” He gestured, and his nosebleed stopped instantly.

From where she crouched on a cat walk, Loophole suddenly saw the obvious. _Time,_ she thought. _I need to buy time._ She silently reached for a nearby meat hook.

“Or you can flee,” continued Doctor Vivios, “and I shall reanimate your partner’s sludge and send it shambling after you with murder in its heart.” He laughed in genuine amusement. “Wouldn’t that be _fun?_”

“You know what would actually be fun?” called Loophole from her hiding place. Doctor Vivios raised his hand in anticipation for a final kill. “THIS.” Around him, two dozen portals all opened simultaneously. Loophole’s hand came out of every single one of them, and every single hand wielded the same razor-sharp meat hook. They dug into Doctor Vivios’ flesh from every possible direction. Then they were gone, bloody flesh with them, and he heard the crackle as she teleported to somewhere else in the building.

“Charming,” he said through gritted teeth. “You will pay for that. But I know a way to avoid it from happening again.” He flexed his mind, and suddenly the air was rent by the wails of a hundred newborns. Vivios stood there encased in an armor of infants. “Girl! Surely you possess some sort of maternal instinct? These are all real children. Foreseeing this day, I walked through the maternity wards of a dozen hospitals, absorbing any infant I saw into my form. Strike me again, and you kill or maim a new-born. Surrender, and I will trade the absorbtion of your form for all of these infants. Surely you count yourself as a ‘hero.’ Surely this is the sort of Sisyphean challenge, the sort of noble sacrifice, that your type could not possibly deny?” He stood there, and the hundred infants writhed and wailed around him.

He turned and smiled coldly when Loophole stepped humbly out from behind the meat grinder. She looked broken, haggard. “Do…” she gulped. “Do you know what I think?”

“No,” murmured Doctor Vivios in his final moment of triumph. “Nor do I care.”

A black disc suddenly descended around his head, and he was shocked to see that his body was standing in the middle of the factory floor, while his head was emerging from a teleportation disc right next to Loophole and behind the meat grinder. 

“She thinks,” said Rubber Band, “that you REALLY shoulda worn a baby hat.” He snapped his arms forward from where they were braced, and there was a horrible crunch as a meat hook took off the top of the Architect’s head.

The portal dropped, his body dropped to the ground, babies detached themselves and fell screaming, and Loophole rushed into Rubber Band’s wobbly arms. “I knew it!” she said. “You have total control of your body’s cells. That’s how you’re able to stretch. When he melted you, I finally guessed that it would just take a bit of time before you could reform yourself again.”

“I gotta tell you, though, I don’t feel real good.” In fact, he looked awful. “I think I got my spleen lost up in my tuckus somewhere, and a big chunk of my lungs are still missing, and I’m not remembering things real good. I’m gonna need some sleep. What are we gonna do with him? He’s already healing, even as we’re sitting here.”

Loophole pondered, then smiled. “He needs flesh nearby. There’s a modern sculpture out front – three huge steel cubes piled on top of one another.” She turned, focused a portal, and their foe dropped out of sight. “He’s now trapped inside the top one. No other meat nearby, nothing to work on – and he’ll be stuck there until the cops can figure out a way to keep him in prison.”

Together, they limped over towards the babies. “A stop at the hospital for all of us, I think. And then the police station. And then home.”

“I hear that.”  Before she could teleport them, Rubber Band cupped Loophole’s face in his hand. She looked up at him, eyes wide. “Look,” Rubber Band said, “I just want to say…”

Loophole swallowed. She couldn’t stop looking at him.

“I _totally_ told you so about that Green Bay Packers clue with the rubber band. Didn’t I tell you? I did!”

Her voice was faint over the crackle of her portals. “You know, I warned you what I’d do if you said that.”

“Honey,” Rubber Band’s voice trailed away as the teleported out, “after what I just went through, I got to _find_ them first.”


-  x -

*
THE END
*


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## Piratecat (Mar 6, 2007)

[sblock=For my erstwhile opponentOh sure, Rodrigo, *I* don't write about religion and...   

Spectacular, and you wrote phrases that I wish I'd penned myself. Whichever one of us wins, this round was worth it for me. Thank you for that.

This was really a change of pace for me. Other than some old story hour stuff, I've never tried to write a comic book before. Part way through I realized that it isn't _really_ about the adventure, it's about the clever banter that surrounds it. That's what I was hoping to capture; the feel of old friends and the joy of old comics. 

The fact that it took me as long to write as the other two combined turned out to be a surprise. It wasn't hard to write, but I found myself not wanting to cut corners. Part of the joy of conversation is all the little fiddly bits. 

Anyways, I need to go to bed, so I'll save more thought for later. I have no idea which one of us is going to win. That's fun.[/sblock]


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## Hypersmurf (Mar 6, 2007)

Piratecat said:
			
		

> [sblock]Vivios stood there encased in an armor of infants.[/sblock]




[sblock]That picture was tailor-made for you, wasn't it?  [/sblock]

-Hyp.


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## Gulla (Mar 6, 2007)

Lucky me, I was granted an extra half day off before starting my new job (in 3 hours time) and I get to read the stories and comment    Hopefully I will find time to comment on the finals as well, but currently I looks like that time is around Christmas... (But then again, my calendar always looks full, so I guess I'll find some time).

[sblock]
*Mythago* Ok, so you didn't get more than the start done, but could you please finish it sometime? You paint a very interresting triangle of characters, and I would very much like to know how this plays out. I also like what I see of the setting, and would like to see more. Hope you are doing better from the medical stuff.

*Carpe David* Pretty and nice. I have read a lot of farie-tales. Really a lot, and I have grown a bit bored with them after reading nothing but farie-tales for almost a year some time back, so you write something I generally find repetitive this time. The start feels a little bit slow for me. First I thought you simply had a very bad run and wondered what you were doing. That is the background bit. After the real story begins it flows better. I'm not sure the idea of putting the background in the front instead of inserted in between is bad, but it felt very slow to me.
The rest of the story flows nicely and is a good tale, with a very Chinese feel. It fits well with my impression from many other Chinese tales, but in that sense it is good that I'm not a judge, since I don't like those tales much. So a bit hard to comment, really, since I feel you do a very good job of writing a Chinese farie-tale (even though the shouting of combat moves feels more like bad Anime or martial arts action movies), but at the same time I don't like the type of story, so to me it is a bit bland.

*Rodrigo Istalindir*. Ouch. And, you have ruined that lovely picture forever. This is really good work. It really is a wonderful horror story. It starts out so calmly and with every sign of a "mushy girly story" and slowly, ever so slowly, the fear creep in. The girl is nicely drawn, and the community is just believeable enough. I really hate (in a good way) the ending of this and it is good for me that it is morning here, and not bedtime. I think the thing you do in this to make it work is "not show, and don't tell". As in all horror what you can almost see is the most disturbing. So: Good Work. If the cat can survive this one as well he is beginning to look  very much a champion, but I'll read his story first, and it better be good.

*PirateCat* (My keyboard insists on naming you PirateCar, today...)  And this one is excellent as well. I like superhero stories better than Chinese Fairie-tales, and this is really nice one that fits very well with the genre. I'm not sure I like the choice of using an introduction, even though this one strikes true. I was reading tings like this under the sheets when I was 12   It still feels like an introduction of the type you get with the old "tales of the unexpected" or early TV horror stories, and I don't like them much. When the story is strong enough you don't need them.
The story itself flows nicely. I always liked the different metamorphing superheroes very much, and Rubber Band is a good one. The villain is just as bad as he should be and the powers are used superbly. So: A very good story, and I'm glad I don't have to choose between you and Rodrigo.
[/Sblock]
So Good luck to all of you, and keep up the good work in the final.

Håkon
all errors due to little time.


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## Rodrigo Istalindir (Mar 6, 2007)

Random musings:

[sblock]
So I got up Saturday and spent the day at work.  Checked out the pictures before I left and let things simmer all day.  Spent Saturday night getting the MMO monkey off my back.  Sunday afternoon, I'm ready to write, a day earlier than usual.  

It's rough.  This was the hardest set of pictures I've ever had, and while I have something workable, it's just not clicking like I'm used to.  I have an idea how things are going to gel, so I go to take a shower before bed.

And then the idea hits.  I tried to shake it off; I hate changing horses midstream, plus I know Monday's going to suck time-wise.  I go to bed, and toss and turn and can't stop the new ideas.  At 3am, I get up, scrap what I've written, and crank out the first scene in the new story.

Monday night, I'm feeling the time crunch like never before.  Fingers are flying over the keyboard; sometimes I'm deleting a sentence as soon as its finished and rewriting it.  I recall the convesation here about skipping the hard parts and just leaving a placeholder.  Usually doesn't work for me, but I figure what the hell.  And whattayaknow, this time it works.  I skip over the scenes with Fat Brian and Emily, and get on to the conflict.  I have plenty of time to go back when its done and flesh things out, add the scene with the social worker to set Emily up for the fall.

This was the most fun I've had in Ceramic DM in a while.  But geez, yangnome -- a crossdresser in the first round, a baby in the second, and both in the third?  If this continues, if I have to write again, it's gonna end up as Rocky Horror Meets The Cabbage Patch Kids.  And no one wants that.

And Piratecat, I don't know what the hell in your twisted little brain told you 'Superheroes' but damn.  I just wisht there were 'real' pictures to go with it.  I never in a million years could have gone that direction.  This might have been the most divergent match in Ceramic DM history.

Ok, I'll admit it now.  I need some sleep   

[/sblock]


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## Berandor (Mar 6, 2007)

Comments, pt. 2

[sblock]*Rodrigo*: An excellent story! You pick up where PC left off – with religion. Even though I was late, I couldn't leave before I'd finished the story. The protagonist came off believable, and the sect as very creepy indeed. One thing I'm not sure about is whether in the end, Emily just gave up and stays because of that, or whether her experience actually changed her outlook on her life. Plus, in the beginning, with Emily's comment about the weakness of men, and with the rule of the sisters, I expected you were going for an "alternate reality" maternalistic rule, but all the major players still seem to be male, so I was a little confused by that. But a very good story.

*Piratecat*: What can I say? Oh, yeah: for someone using the ENworld Stealth skin, yellow is _really_ hard to read. That's it as far as negative comments go, I guess. Another great entry, and something quite different. A joy to read. There are some points that go with the territory, such as the reveal of Rubber Ball's survival being quite neat – but that's how it'd be on a comics page, so while technically, that might be critiszed, I'm not sure whether it's actually a legitimate criticism. With Rubber Band and Loophole laughing at the Architect of Flesh, I think that's too eye-winkey for a "serious" comic book during the dramatic final confrontation: being held in the inescapable threshold of doom and actually laughing whole-heartedly. That's where you went with story over form, whereas in Rubber Band's survival, it's form over story – at least how I see it. But, as with Rodrigo (and your previous story), that is nit-picking on a very high level.

Thank you, both, for making it a very close round, and giving the evil picture-giver and his flunkies something to sweat over.
[/sblock]


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## Piratecat (Mar 6, 2007)

Gulla, best of luck in the new job!

And I apologize to anyone using the stealth skin for EN World; the text looks great on the default black background, but it's awfully hard to read in Stealth. 

[sblock]Poorly used super powers drive me nuts. I just recently unearthed my box of Superman and Batman comics from 1975-79. Some of them were great, but the very first one I read was The Brave and the Bold #125, which features some of the worst writing of a hero's powers that I've ever seen. The Flash runs from Asia to America in the blink of an eye, but he can't outrun a motorcycle because it would ruin a plot point? *twitch* I wanted to do something better.

And after writing two serious stories in a row with supernatural elements in them, I was  also in the mood for something fun.

The problem is, how do you write a comic book without an artist? My answer was two-fold: good banter and vivid action. As I wrote, all the dialog was voiced in my head by my friends. I was just there to scribble it down and record the action.

Berandor, deliberately goading villains into doing something stupid was one of the main weapons I see in Rubber Band's bag of tricks. Everyone's caught, and the villain's going to kill you? Then taunt him in the most effective way possible. It ended up a little longer than I had intended because my characters wouldn't shut up and get on with the story, but I hope it also shows in a subtle way how well the heroes are matched with one another. It lessened the dramatic impact of the scene... but hey, that's because I was trying to set people up for the real moment when RB gets snuffed. 

Good nit-picking all around, by the way. I love this point in the story writing -- figuring out what we both might have done differently.
[/sblock]


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## Sialia (Mar 6, 2007)

OMG I love all of these stories.  I am _so_ glad I am not a judge. 

Magnificent!


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## Berandor (Mar 6, 2007)

[sblock]







			
				Piratecat said:
			
		

> Poorly used super powers drive me nuts.



 Hell, yeah. It's like magic in bad fantasy novels, now it works this way, now that way, and now it doesn't work at all, because it wouldn't be exciting if it did.

And just because I didn't mention it earlier: The clue was super genius. Meet the Green Bay Packers – the meat packer on Greene street? Wonderful comic logic, especially when you keep in mind that the villain actually intended that interpretation.
[/sblock]


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## Piratecat (Mar 7, 2007)

Gah, I found a typo! I thought I had squashed all of those little buggers.

It was surprising how many formatting issues had to be tweaked on this one. I think it's a consequence of using bullets and color. One lesson I'll share with folks: see the box at the left-hand bottom of the page, entitled "Posting Rules"? Click on vB Code, and you get an awesome help page for vBulletin formatting codes.


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## Hypersmurf (Mar 7, 2007)

Piratecat said:
			
		

> Gah, I found a typo! I thought I had squashed all of those little buggers.




I found a couple - missing quotation mark here, missing word there... 

-Hyp.


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## carpedavid (Mar 7, 2007)

Comments:

[sblock]
This was, by far, the most difficult of the stories to write, so far. I was able to immediately start writing with the other two, as one or more of the pictures gave me something to start from. Even if I didn’t know where the stories were going, I was able to get a handle on how I wanted them to feel.

This one though – I had a couple false starts, and I wasn’t finding any inspiration. Then, on Saturday night, as I was fretting over what to do, I sat down at my dining room table and looked over at my bookcase, where my gaze fell upon a shelf full of manga. “I know,” I said to my wife, “I should write a kung-fu story. Nobody will be expecting that!”

Then I thought about it and realized that every picture fit. So, I got up on Sunday morning and wrote the entire thing that day. That was a long day.

I understand the comments about the end being too short. I feel as though it is, as well, but I ran out of time. I actually had to cut a scene that I had planned near the beginning for time reasons, too.

Piratecat – I’m glad you enjoyed it!

Berandor – I still feel like I ran out of words. As I was writing, it almost felt like I was writing the same word over and over again.  As to your confusion over Fahai’s actual status: this is one of the areas that, if I had an extra day, I would have attempted to smooth out. My intent was that he was the reincarnation of the old Fahai.

If you’ll indulge me for a moment, I can explain my vision of the cosmology of the story. I envisioned Bai and Xu, being spirits, getting bodily kicked out of Heaven – they got sent back to earth and then had to spend time regaining their power. Fahai, on the other hand, being human, voluntarily reincarnated in order to keep an eye on them. Bai and Xu, therefore, were aware of their former lives while Fahai wasn’t.

At least, that’s how it worked in my head while I was writing the story.

Gulla – Thank you for your comments, as always. I know that not every person likes every type of story, and I thank you for sticking with it. I was, in fact, going for the martial-arts action movie feel, with the shouting out of move names. 

Now, on to comments on the other stories:

*Mythago: * You tease! I started reading, and now I’m hooked, and I want to know what Chauchau is and what’s going to happen to Tuong. It’s too bad that you weren’t able to complete it, but I hope that everything is well with you, or else soon will be.

*Rodrigo:* Delightfully creepy. I thought the supernatural element showed up a little too abruptly at the last minute, though; it felt like an entirely psychological horror story until the very end. You do a very good job of creating a feeling of isolation – I just think a few supernatural tidbits leading up to the end would have helped smooth things out.

*Piratecat: * Nice! I don’t really have anything to critique – it was all-around fun. If I had to pick something, I’d say that I felt like Rubber Band’s personality was a little too over-confident for the amount of charm he had. It felt a little bit like a cross between the Tick and Adam West’s rendition of Batman. I suspect that says more about me than your story, though. 
[/sblock]


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## Sialia (Mar 7, 2007)

carpedavid said:
			
		

> .
> 
> *Mythago: * You tease! I started reading, and now I’m hooked, and I want to know what Chauchau is and what’s going to happen to Tuong. It’s too bad that you weren’t able to complete it, but I hope that everything is well with you, or else soon will be.





For the hopelessly storius-interruptus afflicted, you could try Googling Tcho-Tcho and you might get a clue where she was possibly going with this.

Not that I'm advising that you do that, becaue there's not only a high probabilty of san loss, there's also a possibility of your quiet disappearance at the hand of folks in dark suits.

I'm just sayin'.


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## Piratecat (Mar 7, 2007)

Non sequiter related to my story: for folks who care about such things, there's a short but fascinating analysis of "realistic" modern comic themes and why comic sales may be so far down, over Eric Burns' blog Websnark. Worth reading! 

And now, back to the thread.


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## Rodrigo Istalindir (Mar 7, 2007)

Interesting.  I think there is more to it than that, but I think that might be part of it.  Escapist entertainment that just reminds you of how much your life sucks isn't very escapist.


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## KidCthulhu (Mar 7, 2007)

Sialia said:
			
		

> Not that I'm advising that you do that, becaue there's not only a high probabilty of san loss, there's also a possibility of your quiet disappearance at the hand of folks in dark suits.




Miss, we're from the government.  Can we have a word with you?  Step into the dark alley down here.


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## Sialia (Mar 7, 2007)

KidCthulhu said:
			
		

> Miss, we're from the government.  Can we have a word with you?  Step into the dark alley down here.





Not that I actually beleive in illegal government conspiracies or anything, but I can't imagine anything else --other than being abducted by crazed cultists--that would have kept Mythago from completing a tale.

Of course, it's been quite the season for crazed cultists around here, so that's probably the more likely explanation. Occam's razor and all that. No point in imagining complicated  conspiracies where none exist.


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## Piratecat (Mar 7, 2007)

Sialia said:
			
		

> Not that I actually beleive in illegal government conspiracies or anything, but I can't imagine anything else --other than being abducted by crazed cultists--that would have kept Mythago from completing a tale.



I think it's partially called "a trial." Which is _like_ an illegal government conspiracy, except she's the one who decides whether it's legal or not.

Personally, I think she was scared of possibly facing Rodrigo or me in the final round!


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## mythago (Mar 8, 2007)

It is a combination of a trial (ongoing) and some medical issues that have moved up from "you should get this taken care of sooner or later" to "you're going in for surgery at the end of the month." Nothing fatal, but it didn't help my weekend.

Which is, still, not really an excuse for leaving carpedavid unchallenged, but I hope that my effort was better than nothing.


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## yangnome (Mar 8, 2007)

indeed, we did appreciate your effort mythago.  Thanks for taking the time to submit what you did write.  

I'm waiting on decisions from both judges, then we can move into the next round.


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## maxfieldjadenfox (Mar 8, 2007)

Yup, I'm always impressed when a competitor who is in a fix manages to post something, anything, rather than copping out and not bothering. And, I would really like to see more of that one, Mythago.


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## Piratecat (Mar 9, 2007)

Looking forward to the judgments!*



* This content-free post brought to you by ThreadBumpers, Inc.


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## Rodrigo Istalindir (Mar 9, 2007)

Piratecat said:
			
		

> Looking forward to the judgments!*
> 
> 
> 
> * This content-free post brought to you by ThreadBumpers, Inc.




I don't know why.  You must have something you want to do next  week besides write.


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## Sialia (Mar 9, 2007)

For those of you who just can't get enough of this sort of agony, I've been having a thought.

Over the years, I've drawn a lot of pictures for my "Ceramic portfolio," and only some of them have been selected for use. Now, we've had so many different judges over the years--and typically they are also people who are contestants in other seasons-- I can't recall who has already seen which ones. At this point, it wouldn't be fair to use most of them because of the risk that someone will have had a previous look. And let's face it, most of the better ones _did _ get used.

Which means I need to clear out the whole cache and start a bunch of new things no one has seen yet.

So after this competition is done, I'm going to go over to my old "Miscellaneous doodles" thread in the art forum and start posting stuff. Since I can't even remember which ones got used and which ones didn't, I'm just going to post the whole caboodle, a few at a time.

What I'd love is if folks would give me feedback about which ones work and which ones don't--what kinds of stories they might have gotten used for if they'd been used. If you actually want to choose a few and assemble a story about them, that would make my day.

Anyway, I'm looking forward to getting to show off one or two new pictures in the final set. Drawing for Ceramic always takes my mind interesting places, and it's been a great distraction these last several weeks.

And yes, everything I gave Yangnome for this round is brand spanking new, and no one will have seen it before.

Enjoy, you sadistic babykillers.


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## orchid blossom (Mar 9, 2007)

Sorry for the delay guys.  I hope to finish up judgements today during work and get them sent off to yangnome.


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## Piratecat (Mar 9, 2007)

Rodrigo Istalindir said:
			
		

> I don't know why.  You must have something you want to do next  week besides write.



I do! Most of my plans involve being a good friend, sitting by your bedside and patting your hand comfortingly as you cry your little heart out into a pillow. But I also have time partitioned off for a traditional folk dance of my people, the 'Triumphant Dance of Neener Neener.' 

Please, I beg you, don't insult my rich ethnic heritage of smug superiority and make it impossible for me to perform the dance. It's best for _everyone._


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## Rodrigo Istalindir (Mar 9, 2007)

Sialia said:
			
		

> Enjoy, you sadistic babykillers.




Hey, yangnome picked the pictures.  I just write what the little voices in my head tell me to write.   

All work and no play makes Rodrigo a dull boy.  All work and no play makes Rodrigo a dull boy.  All work and no play makes Rodrigo a dull boy.  All work and no play makes Rodrigo a dull boy.  All work and no play makes Rodrigo a dull boy.  All work and no play makes Rodrigo a dull boy.  All work and no play makes Rodrigo a dull boy.  All work and no play makes Rodrigo a dull boy.  All work and no play makes Rodrigo a dull boy.  All work and no play makes Rodrigo a dull boy.  All work and no play makes Rodrigo a dull boy.  All work and no play makes Rodrigo a dull boy.  All work and no play makes Rodrigo a dull boy.  All work and no play makes Rodrigo a dull boy.  All work and no play makes Rodrigo a dull boy.  All work and no play makes Rodrigo a dull boy.  All work and no play makes Rodrigo a dull boy.  All work and no play makes Rodrigo a dull boy.  All work and no play makes Rodrigo a dull boy.  All work and no play makes Rodrigo a dull boy.  All work and no play makes Rodrigo a dull boy.  All work and no play makes Rodrigo a dull boy.  All work and no play makes Rodrigo a dull boy.  All work and no play makes Rodrigo a dull boy.  All work and no play makes Rodrigo a dull boy.  All work and no play makes Rodrigo a dull boy.  All work and no play makes Rodrigo a dull boy.  All work and no play makes Rodrigo a dull boy.  All work and no play makes Rodrigo a dull boy.  All work and no play makes Rodrigo a dull boy.  All work and no play makes Rodrigo a dull boy.  All work and no play makes Rodrigo a dull boy.


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## Rodrigo Istalindir (Mar 9, 2007)

Sialia said:
			
		

> What I'd love is if folks would give me feedback about which ones work and which ones don't--what kinds of stories they might have gotten used for if they'd been used. If you actually want to choose a few and assemble a story about them, that would make my day.




When I was sorting through them for last fall's Ceramic DM, I was trying to pick ones that hit the sweet spot of ambiguous enough that the different writers wouldn't use it the same way, yet not so abstract that it was infinitely malleable.  You have to make 'em work for it   But I have my own biases in terms of what I like in Ceramic DM pictures, and that undoubtedly influenced my selections.  I like to give the writers a mix of people, locations, things, and a single picture has all three, so much the better.  My favorite from that competition was the one I used for yangnome vs GuardianLurker -- as soon as I saw it, all I could think of was a bard singing an elegy in a graveyard.


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## Berandor (Mar 9, 2007)

Rodrigo Istalindir said:
			
		

> Hey, yangnome picked the pictures.  I just write what the little voices in my head tell me to write.
> 
> All work and no play makes Rodrigo a dull boy.  All work and no play makes Rodrigo a dull boy.  All work and no play makes Rodrigo a dull boy.  All work and no play makes Rodrigo a dull boy.  All work and no play makes Rodrigo a dull boy.  All work and no play makes Rodrigo a dull boy.  All work and no play makes Rodrigo a dull boy.  All work and no play makes Rodrigo a dull boy.  All work and no play makes Rodrigo a dull boy.  All work and no play makes Rodrigo a dull boy.  All work and no play makes Rodrigo a dull boy.  All work and no play makes Rodrigo a dull boy.  All work and no play makes Rodrigo a dull boy.  All work and no play makes Rodrigo a dull boy.  All work and no play makes Rodrigo a dull boy.  All work and no play makes Rodrigo a dull boy.  All work and no play makes Rodrigo a dull boy.  All work and no play makes Rodrigo a dull boy.  All work and no play makes Rodrigo a dull boy.  All work and no play makes Rodrigo a dull boy.  All work and no play makes Rodrigo a dull boy.  All work and no play makes Rodrigo a dull boy.  All work and no play makes Rodrigo a dull boy.  All work and no play makes Rodrigo a dull boy.  All work and no play makes Rodrigo a dull boy.  All work and no play makes Rodrigo a dull boy.  All work and no play makes Rodrigo a dull boy.  All work and no play makes Rodrigo a dull boy.  All work and no play makes Rodrigo a dull boy.  All work and no play makes Rodrigo a dull boy.  All work and no play makes Rodrigo a dull boy.  All work and no play makes Rodrigo a dull boy.



 You know, that is fine with copy&paste, but when you consider that for SHINING, all those pages were actually typed up... the woman who did it probably wakes up screaming from dreaming about it to this day.


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## Piratecat (Mar 9, 2007)

While we're waiting, here's a question for everyone. For the next iteration of Ceramic DM this summer, how do people feel about changing the name? Alsih2o originally came up with Ceramic DM in order to play off of the Iron DM competition at the time (he's a potter), but it doesn't really have much to do with short story writing. A lot of folks I've spoken to aren't aware of it because the name hasn't made sense to them. I'll admit that this was true for me, too, for about three quarters of a year.

We could possibly change it to "EN World short story death match", or something both descriptive and intriguing.

Thoughts?


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## Rodrigo Istalindir (Mar 9, 2007)

I'm a traditionalist that has a certain fondness for the idiosyncratic, so I'd be on the 'nay' side.  But a horse is a rose by any other name still stinks and all that, so if it got more people involved it'd be ok.  Although 'Ceramic DM Story Writing Competition' in the thread title would probably accomplish that.


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## Berandor (Mar 9, 2007)

I'd actually be for changing the name, because when I talk about CDM, I usually either leave the name off or feel the need to explain where it came from, which has not much to do with the proceedings anyway.

I'm for a descriptive title, something like "pictures birth story in three days, make head explode" or so. Or "EN World's quarterly three-day short story writing death match with pictures competition thing".

By this I mean, it should be a short title (or one with a handy acronym. Acronyms are fun!).


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## carpedavid (Mar 9, 2007)

I think it makes sense. Something like "EN World Short Fiction Tournament" would probably draw in more spectators than "Ceramic DM." I think the "tournament" part is probably the most important, as it implies something that people can come watch.


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## Berandor (Mar 9, 2007)

EN World's Short Tournament of Fictional Uniqueness? (EN World STFU)


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## mythago (Mar 10, 2007)

Piratecat said:
			
		

> For the next iteration of Ceramic DM this summer, how do people feel about changing the name?




A "yea" here. Originally Ceramic DM wasn't just short fiction--it was supposed to be an adventure-writing contest, a la Iron DM, using photos instead of phrases/words as a springboard.


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## maxfieldjadenfox (Mar 11, 2007)

I think I'm a yea as well. While I am also a purist, I'm tired of trying to describe what CDM is every time I compete... Something that indicated what it is would be easier.  I'm sure people could come up with a fun and creative new name... A contest? So far, I'm leaning toward EN World Short Fiction Writing Tournament. Stop me before I tip over.


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## orchid blossom (Mar 11, 2007)

I sent my judgement for Piratecat vs. Rodrigo to yangnome last night.  I know last time he didn't get the e-mail from me, so yangnome, let me know if you didn't get it so I can resend.


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## Piratecat (Mar 11, 2007)

Thanks! I look forward to the judgments... even _with_ Rodrigo's cruel taunting.  *sniff*


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## Rodrigo Istalindir (Mar 11, 2007)

Piratecat said:
			
		

> Thanks! I look forward to the judgments... even _with_ Rodrigo's cruel taunting.  *sniff*




Art is pain.  I'm just trying to make you better.


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## Piratecat (Mar 11, 2007)

Rodrigo Istalindir said:
			
		

> Art is pain.  I'm just trying to make you better.



Fantastic to know, and I plan to heartily incorporate this in my future plans. In order to improve your future writing, I hope to give you a good solid junk-kick. It's the least I can do, really.


No no, no need to thank me. That's what friends are for!


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## Herremann the Wise (Mar 11, 2007)

Hello Everyone,

Sorry for the delay on the Piratecat/Rodrigo match-up, I handed in my judgment on the carpedavid/mthago match-up on Friday. I don't think I'd be giving anything away in saying the PC/Rodrigo match-up has been on a knifepoint for me since reading the two stories. Judgment is almost complete, and may I say this has been without a doubt the hardest match-up for me to judge. it is a shame that one of them has to lose.

Best Regards
Herremann the Wise


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## yangnome (Mar 12, 2007)

HI All!

I'm waiting to post both judgements at the same time since we are heading into the final round.   Once I get Herremann's decision, we'll move on it.  I have to agree that this was a very hard round to judge.  I have next rounds pictures all ready to go and it shoudl be interesting to say the least.


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## yangnome (Mar 12, 2007)

I'm torn on changing the name.  Part of me likes the legacy that has been CDM.  At the same time, attracting new people with a more descriptive name might be good as well.  Either way, I'll be here.  

If we did change up the name, we might be able to alter the format a bit too.  I always htought it'd be interesting to have to include other elements (e.g. song lyrics, themes, etc.)  of course that might be straying too far from what CDM is.


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## Rodrigo Istalindir (Mar 12, 2007)

Just in case any of the judges are still on the fence, let me restore any memories the electro-shock therapy might have erased:



			
				piratecat said:
			
		

> Similarly, you can picture me doing the Naked Victory Dance of Exuberance when I thrash you.




I think you know what to do.


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## Piratecat (Mar 12, 2007)

Personally, I think I'd rather see themes subtly determined by photo choice. Having horrific pictures steers a story in the direction of horror, for instance. 

I think pre-set themes are a double-edged sword. On the plus side they would cause many authors to reach beyond their normal comfort zone, which is great; doing so inherently improves them as writers. On the negative side, though, I feel bad for the person going up against someone who happens to specialize in that particular theme (Mythago and horror, for instance.) In those cases one writer is in their element, and the other writer isn't but has to write in that theme anyways - and that will bias the results. It becomes more "will I luck into a good theme?" and less "I have control over the mood of my story."

I'm definitely less excited about song lyrics. Other changes -- art instead of photographs, for instance -- work fine for me.



			
				Rodrigo Istalindir said:
			
		

> I think you know what to do.



Yes. Punish the miscreant who reminded you of this in post 715!


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## carpedavid (Mar 12, 2007)

Piratecat said:
			
		

> I think pre-set themes are a double-edged sword. On the plus side they would cause many authors to reach beyond their normal comfort zone, which is great; doing so inherently improves them as writers. On the negative side, though, I feel bad for the person going up against someone who happens to specialize in that particular theme (Mythago and horror, for instance.) In those cases one writer is in their element, and the other writer isn't but has to write in that theme anyways - and that will bias the results. It becomes more "will I luck into a good theme?" and less "I have control over the mood of my story."




I think this is true. However, it might be interesting to have a special "one-off" themed tournament every so often. Horror for Halloween for example.


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## KidCthulhu (Mar 12, 2007)

While song lyrics might be tricky as a stand alone, I think using whole songs would be a great variation on the theme.  I'd love to see the story you could generate from "Part of your World" from Little Mermaid, some Schoenberg , and Kid Rock's "Bawidaba"


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## Piratecat (Mar 12, 2007)

KidCthulhu said:
			
		

> While song lyrics might be tricky as a stand alone, I think using whole songs would...



Lord help me, I read this as "whale songs." THAT would be a challenge.


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## Rodrigo Istalindir (Mar 12, 2007)

How about _4'33"_?


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## Berandor (Mar 12, 2007)

At least I wouldn't participate in a contest that used song lyrics as a starting point. In my opinion, songs are already heavily slanted, and in text form. With an image, I can take what I see about it and put it into words. But when I have lyrics – what am I doing there, as a writer? 

I wouldn't necessarily limit the images to real(istic) pictures; just like we do with Sialia, I always enjoy when there's something more open-ended in the set. I'd also try something where music had to be incorporated, or taken into account – but best make it sound effects or orchestral music. 

I could also see special tournaments where the contestants had to provide (part of) the story in lyrics, or poetry, and a theme-contest as carpedavid suggested might be a nice change of pace, too. Though I must admit that the genre of choice is one of the first surprises when I read Ceramic DM entries, and I don't know whether reading (like in this tournament) 28 horror stories in a fairly short amount wouldn't become tedious  – not the stories themselves, but the genre.


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## KidCthulhu (Mar 12, 2007)

Rodrigo Istalindir said:
			
		

> How about _4'33"_?




Eh, Cage was a poseur.  Shoenberg is the real thing.

Then again, as a story source, why not?


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## carpedavid (Mar 12, 2007)

Berandor said:
			
		

> ...and a theme-contest as carpedavid suggested might be a nice change of pace, too. Though I must admit that the genre of choice is one of the first surprises when I read Ceramic DM entries, and I don't know whether reading (like in this tournament) 28 horror stories in a fairly short amount wouldn't become tedious  – not the stories themselves, but the genre.




That's a good point. I think a "battle royal" tournament would probably be ideal for a themed contest. Eight contestants or so get the same set of pictures, and the judges select the winner out of the bunch. This would keep the number of stories down to a managable size, and it would keep it timely, too. Reading horror stories makes sense for Haloween (when a normal contest might begin), but not so much for Thanksgiving (when it would probably end).


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## Rodrigo Istalindir (Mar 12, 2007)

I've toyed with doing a "Ceramic DM - Christmas Edition" for a couple years now.  I always saw it as a relatively low word count, single winner one-shot.


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## Sialia (Mar 13, 2007)

I am a purist about this competition; I think it is perfectly conceived as is and should not be altered one iota.

Unless we want to have a spin off competition to draw "one more illustration" for the grand winner's story as a sort of prize to the champion.  That would be cool, and I'd enter.


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## yangnome (Mar 13, 2007)

OK all, I'll be posting the decision here in a moment.  Herremann emailed me last night right after I logged off, so I apologize about not getting them up sooner.  I spotted his email this morning before heading out, but I didn't have the time to post as I was already running late to meet my dive buddy.  For anyone interested, I had two fantastic dives out at Pt Lobos today, so I don't feel too guilty about making you wait in agony for a decision.


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## yangnome (Mar 13, 2007)

Round Three - Match One
Orchid Blossom:

I’m going to do this judgement a bit differently than the others, as well as keep it short and sweet.  Partially because I’m behind on getting this out and don’t want to keep you waiting, and also because both stories were so solid that there isn’t a lot to critique without getting into the real nitty gritty.  If either of you are interested in the nitty gritty, let me know and I can send you an annotated pdf in a few days.  You should be about to read the comments even if you only have Adobe reader.

Rodrigo’s story pulled me in quickly, right in the first scene, but I was a bit distracted wanting to know exactly what sect this community was, and how accurate the portrayal was.  Things were kept pretty general, probably on purpose so it could be any sect, but it was a distraction for me.

The only other complaint I can make is that I wanted a little bit more. 
Not longer, but a little more detail, a few more telling comments to fill in the character’s personalities, especially in regards to Emily.  Her situation is definitely not good, and her reactions are what we’d expect of any teenage girl who would suddenly find herself pregnant, no matter where she lives.  So it doesn’t necessarily tell us anything about Emily in particular.  What I really needed was something to strength her decision at the end to call off family services and stay.  It wasn’t startling, but it could have been stronger.

I had a harder time plugging into Piratecat’s story.  The superhero angle was definitely unexpected, and after all the dark stories in the competition it was a relief to see something more lighthearted.  I’m not a comic book fan so I think some of it was lost on me.  I think the fast pace of the writing was at odds with the length of the story.  The fast writing felt like it should get to the climax sooner.  I could see all the writer's techniques he was using, which was enjoyable on one level, but distracting on another.

As always with Piratecat, there was plenty of enjoyable banter between the characters that also served the purpose of exposing their personalities. 
The story was bright and vivid, with a dark undertone, which is just what should happen with the bad guys around.

Picture use:

Picture use was fairly even between the two.  A man covered in babies… no surprise to see Piratecat making them armor but it made me giggle.  For Rodrigo this is the big reveal, the evil that is wrong in the sect.  Both are a big moment in the story.

The transvestite is more important in Piratecat’s story.  It’s a disguise, something that sucks the superheroes in.  It’s a bit out of place in Rodrigo’s story.  We never get a sense of Fat Brian as being wild.  I wondered when reading that part why he was dressed like that and there was never an answer.

Funny how the giant lily pad was used in a very similar way in both pictures.

I think my favorite is the face in both stories.  The meat package visual is just gross, but it foreshadows the power that our Architect of Flesh has.  In Rodrigo’s story it is the conflict between the sect and the modern world in miniature, all in Fat Brian’s face.  Is this what happens when you defy your elders, or is this what happens when you become insular and hide from the rest of the world?

This is a really hard judgement, once again.  There have been a lot of those in this competition.  I’m going with Rodrigo by a hair, for a story that grabbed on.

Herremann

Piratecat vs. Rodrigo Istalindir

And so now it comes time to decide who else should make the final of the Winter ’07 Ceramic DM. I am still without a Gnopf and so have with ‘Lady Death’s help, I am using one of the court fey to relay the images verbally to the jury of imps. I’m not entirely sure how this will go…

“Good members of the court… and evil members of the court, this evening I have a contest of pure delight to cast before you for your careful judgment and discrimination. Your task is to try and gauge some measure of difference in quality between the two offerings submitted for ‘Lady Death’s ultimate enjoyment. In essence, I need your fullest attention and skill in this matter. If we may begin with the march of the offerings please.”

The two imps, this time dressed in shades of dark kiln and squash conveyed a scroll each, carefully and with respect and dignity. Bowing before me, they then placed the two submissions upon the altar, one of them unfurling to reveal a hidden comic book.

“Ahhh, my court of fiends and fey, listen if you will to two incredibly well crafted offerings. Piratecat has plunged right into the superhero comic mode with Rubber Band and Loophole versus Monolith, the Octobomination and the Architect of Flesh while Rodrigo has delved into a dark sect and the struggles of a young pregnant girl to free herself from the camps secretly corrupted touch. Both were magnificent in their own right… but now to decide and discriminate between them.” I tapped the scythe excitedly to get things moving.

“Piratecat has weaved together something only a true connoisseur of the comic genre could. I could see the cover, I could cheer for our heroes and I wanted the villains to suffer. I was the boy with the flashlight under the covers! Perhaps this is the best accolade I can give this wonderful offering.”

“As a piece representing a comic book, I found it thoroughly convincing. The shortened, almost staccato paragraphs fitted the comic book framework perfectly - to the point where I believe the piece could be turned into an actual comic with minimal effort - just some good over the top illustrations. The use of colour and formatting so rarely used in Ceramic DM entries add to the comic book feel as well. Overall I thought this a beautifully crafted submission that did everything that was asked of it.”

“Rodrigo has gone one step further though in terms of story. This one simply drew me in and did not let go for the duration. Was it perfect? No. Was it good? No, it was brilliant! However, I will add a few comments of issues that took just a little bit of the gloss off for me. Firstly was the increased number of typos: through/ threw, no/know etc. and missing words. Secondly was that I could almost feel Rodrigo rushing to get this done. Like Piratecat, he has traversed incredibly well through a terrible set of pictures but I wonder at what expense in terms of time? The abbreviated (or maybe rushed) ending worked OK for me but I think if Rodrigo had have had more time; the sharp edges could have been rounded off somewhat. In the end though, these were just minor distractions - the offering as a whole was incredibly well conceived.”

“And so good jury, on the one hand we have Piratecat’s complete and well polished offering and on the other, we have Rodrigo’s brilliant story that almost lives up to its fantastic potential. Which way shall you swing things? On what footing shall our contestants start the judgment? Please imps of the jury, vote with a will.”

The imps were genuinely passionate. They jumped around imploring others this way and that as factions were created and broken. In the end, the twenty-three imps of the jury gave the lead to Piratecat by the smallest of margins, twelve imps to Rodrigo’s eleven. There was serious tension in the air, as if things would explode if I did not keep a firm lid on proceedings.

“Thank you imps, and may I remind you that some measure of decorum is required so we can finish this judgment promptly.” I gave ‘Lady Death’ a crack to emphasise the point.

“And now it is time to judge how well each of our contestants used the each of the images. A more dastardly set of images seems difficult to imagine.” I gave a nod to the beautiful fey that was nearby. She spoke in a language that sounded like the washes of a dream, of the moment when one wakes from deepest slumber. Unfortunately I did not understand a word of it, but hopefully it was enough to make up for the usual visual image upon the back of my garage wall under the giant Elm.

“Good fiends, our first image is of a young man frocked up replete with a wig of blond curls. Piratecat has used this for monolith’s receptionist disguise while Rodrigo presents the tortured image of Fat Brian, a boy adrift from the beliefs of his commune. Piratecat has twisted this image for comic relief, while Rodrigo explores a haunting alienation, which is almost repeated with the primary character Emily. In fact, Rodrigo has explored this bizarre image in what I thought a very poignant way. The agonised and pained exclamation from Fat Brian’s father ‘my boy… my boy!’ later in the piece spoke of the build up of love and grief spilled for this image of Fat Brian. The conflict between man and woman captured by this image is beautifully explored and repeated in a conflict between sect and emancipation.”

The imps shifted in several directions before finally settling upon a mutual combination. Rodrigo had now dramatically taken the lead fourteen imps to nine over Piratecat.

I tapped ‘Lady Death’ a single time acknowledging the shift whilst the fey started once more in her beautiful language, describing a floating leaf, surrounded by eight people, deep in the pond.

“And here is the beginning of the Octobomination. I have to say that I absolutely loved this! While perhaps not describing the true tenor of the image, I still thought this excellent use. The reference to the giant water lily was a brilliant way to convey the superiority of our arch-villain, of one who is most refined in attention to detail. Double thumbs up!!!”

“I found Rodrigo’s ritual suitable and a most climactic way of dealing with Emily’s termination of pregnancy. However, there was something not wholly convincing about it. In the end, I think Piratecat was able to draw just a little bit more out of this one.”

The imps once again instructed to convey their perspective jumped around a little more than before. I advanced forward as several scuffles threatened and this was enough to contain their enthusiasm for the process. With many a harsh word spoken from one faction of imps to the other, Piratecat had clawed his way back to being just behind Rodrigo. It was now Rodrigo with twelve imps to PC’s eleven as the tension over who would finally win grew.

The fey then spent twenty minutes attempting to describe the many facets of the keystone cops image for the imps so they could interpret it in the correct context.

“Has their been a more difficult or obfuscating image than this one? An image at such discord with its partners? Maybe but I thought this image teased our competitors mercilessly.”

“Piratecat has initially performed one of the classic image “mistakes” if you will of using the image as an image (tv program) but then he delightfully turns this around with the death of the Octobomination. Capturing the falling motion of the cops tumbling over each other was incredibly clever. In terms of picture-use, this was a great feint and strike. What at first was poor was turned in on itself into brilliance. Very well done!”

“Rodrigo has taken a much straighter approach in Emily’s police station visit. Again this was suitable use but not in the spectacular category.”

The imps were commanded for opinion and with only slight disagreement, the balance swayed back in Piratecat’s favour, twelve imps to eleven.

With a nod the fey continued a truly epic description of the face behind plastic wrap.

“Now this was a great image that was well used by both participants. For Piratecat it is the bizarre return of the boss while Rodrigo pairs the image up with the first, of the torturously burned Fat Brian. If you are looking at getting the gang back together, what better way than packaging your face behind shrinkwrap? This is so weirdly bizarre it works. Rodrigo’s interpretation works equally well, allowing us to see Emily in a modern environment and draw an interesting perspective of the sect’s view and fear of modern technology - the irony being that the technology was not powerful enough to save Fat Brian. While this was a thread I had worked out, I think I still would have liked to see it developed further to expand upon the slim conclusion. Still though, excellent image use.”

The imps then tittered this way and that but in the end, there was no overall movement, the balance remaining slightly in Piratecat’s favour despite a high degree of verballing.

At this point I called a small recess while I dared to go back inside for a toilet break - this was getting all too exciting, even for me. When I returned, the court was in a state of delirium. A major scuffle had developed between a pair of Piratecat supporters and one of the extraneous court staff. I lifted “Lady Death’ in the air, a beam of dark shadow issuing outward. The court stopped as the snaking stream of shadow engulfed the hapless court imp. An explosion of impish flesh and fluid littered the backyard but it was enough to restore complete order. With a cough and a nod, I got the fey to continue with a description of the fifth image, a lone carriage travelling down a long and storm-ridden road.

“Piratecat uses this image as the ‘clever’ get away for the Fratelli brothers. However, what better way for our Superheroes to make their entrance than outsmarting the “clever” villains? As presented, I thought this was good stuff and well done. However, I think Rodrigo really captured the essence of this picture. The darkness of this image had me right in the pocket from word go. The feel of the sect, the darkness of the subject matter, and the use of the road as a portent of what was to come were brilliant. I love it when competitors not only take a literal interpretation of an image, but then take the mood and atmosphere presented and inculcate it into their story too. For me, this was very strong use by Rodrigo too. Please imps of the jury, find your penultimate position and make your stand.”

The imps launched into each other. I cracked the scythe several times (wary of killing off any more imps) and slowly, the scuffles broke into harsh words. The end result was a shift going back to Rodrigo, twelve imps to Piratecat’s eleven. Yow this was close. The imps were pumped for the final description - that of a baby covered man.

The imps chortled at the description presented by the fey. Their imaginations had run wild on what I think was a tough but oh-so-appropriate Ceramic DM picture.

“And so it will come down to this, the final picture. Piratecat has given us the horrific image of the Architect of Flesh meshed with dozens of babies stolen from a nearby hospital. Believable? You bet! What better way for the villain to finally trap the Superheroes! Combined with the face image, this made perfect sense for our villain - although I still wonder how you guys come up with such fantastically brilliant ideas. Rodrigo on the other hand has given us a glimpse of Emily’s father and the ultimate dark secret of the sect. Believable? Yes… and no. I would have liked to have seen this built up a fraction more with greater dramatic impact but as is, I thought it still very good use.”

“And so good imps, find your final positions and give unto ‘Lady Death’ her penultimate meal.”

The imps dashed this way and that as factions dissolved and new alliances were created and faltered once again. A fight appeared in the back ranks, quickly degenerating into an all in melee. Several cracks of the scythe later and still they persisted. The two groups were evenly defined with several from each side trying to pull the fattest imp in between them to their side. The huge imp was grabbed by his feet from one side and his four claws on the other as each side tried to claim the winning imp. The swell and pull rippled across his flesh as the tension increased with more imps helping out, grabbing any part they could see. The result was inevitable. The imp was rent, its body spraying in several directions, both sides collapsing to their final positions like the Keystone Cops.

I quickly consulted with my main assisting imp who informed me that past precedence would have to be taken into account. I gloriously tapped the scythe.

“Good imps, thank you for your decision. With eleven imps, a leg, a knee and foot and a pelvis, I award the final result to Piratecat. Thank you imps of the jury for your considered deliberation.”


Yangnome

Rodrigo:

Interesting, dark story.  You definitely set a good mood here through outstanding use of the cart picture.  You did a good job of hinting towards problems early in the story with the mention of problem pregnancies.  

I felt my attention get distracted in the middle, during the Fat Brian portion of the story.   I think some fine tuning could help a bit with the progression of the tension.  We’re told about the issues with the newborns/pregnancies, and then it is set aside.  I think this is a really hard balance to find in a horror story though, between telling enough to keep the reader interested, but not telling so much you kill tension (or overdo tension).  

I do like the fact you had a down ending, I thought it played very nicely here.  I would have liked to have seen a reason why she succumbed to the will of the commune though.  Did she see the light, or was all hope lost with her pregnancy/death of Fat Brian, or did they find some way to brain wash her?  Perhaps you left this for the reader to ponder.  I do think the story might have carried deeper meaning had you gone into more depth here.

I felt your picture use was mixed.  Your buggy picture was great and really set the tone for the story.  The man in baby armor was good, but a bit jarring; it might have been nice to have more lead up to this one.  The rest weren’t all that inspiring.  Sure, you used the pictures, but nothing all that surprising and most of the incidences probably weren’t illustration worthy. 

Pirate Cat:
The thing I love about this story is it doesn’t apologize for what it is.  You tell us you’re going to bring us a comic book story written for 12 year olds and you deliver.  It was fun, light-hearted and well written.   I’m not a big fan of comic books, but your wordplay and one-liners made the story a fun read anyway.  The downside to this type story, by its nature, is that I won’t take away a greater message or deeper meaning.  This is fine when reading  a comic book, but when competing against other stories, it might make yours a bit weak in comparison.

I have mixed feelings about the introduction.  It definitely tells us what we are getting into, and what to expect, but it doesn’t really fit with what you were trying to achieve. 

Your picture use was mixed.  The man in baby armor was great, as was the meat head.  The lily pad conference table was ok and lead to your creature (which probably could have been better used), though I felt that the buggy scene was a bit out of place and the keystone cops scene seemed like a bit of a cheap use, especially given the nature of your story.  The man in drag might have seen better use as well.  

This is by far the most difficult decision for me to make in this tournament by far.  To that measure, a very good job to both of you.  I really could see this one going either way.  I’m going to cast my vote for Rodrigo for a more gripping story.  

Rodrigo wins this match 2-1 and moves on to the final round.


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## yangnome (Mar 13, 2007)

Orchid Blossom:
Carpedavid – King of Snake

This was a really fun story.  I liked the folktale feel, especially at the beginning, and you managed the transition from the exposition at the beginning to the real story very well.

I’ll admit, I cringed a little when the word “destiny” came out.  In many stories the word destiny is a shortcut, a way to avoid explaining why a particular character is the one who has to go on the adventure; save the world.  It was a relief then to see as the story progressed that there really was a reason for it to be Fahai.

You did lose me during the fight scenes, but that isn’t a problem with your writing.  Any time I read a novel or story with fight scenes I change to skim mode.  Unless the scene is including banter between the participants I basically skim to see if there’s anything important said and who won.  So I had to continually refocus myself to make sure I read and didn’t skim through those scenes.

Also a bit distracting to me was the character’s habit of shouting out the martial arts move they were using.  I know it’s a time-honored tradition in anime, (I don’t know anything about real martial arts), so I kept getting these ridiculous pictures in my head of Lina Inverse from The Slayers or the anime which shall remain nameless because of the word filter where all the spells were named after heavy metal bands.

Please note, none of my problems are with execution.  The story was well-written and interesting.  Everything for me was style, which falls under the “you can’t please everyone” rule.

Picutre use:

Universally strong.  The only one I can pick on at all is the one with all the people in the water.  The scene serves to illustrate Fahai’s character, but it’s not a terribly important scene to the story.


Mythago – What can I say but “Dammit, I want more!”  It was a great beginning, and I hope at some point if you ever have the time you’ll finish this story.  Thanks so much for sending us what you had, it was worth it.

Herremann:

Round Three - Match Two
carpedavid vs. mythago

And so it begins, the task of finding the two contestants worthy of fighting it out to join Ceramic DM Godhood. And besides, I had a hungry scythe looking for three more victims.

“Welcome to the court on this dangerously ill evening”, I said with thunder cracking and rumbling all around. Staccato blasts of light hauntingly illuminated my backyard, the court in full expectation of a clash worthy of the Demon Lords themselves. ‘Lady Death’ thrummed in my hands as the two court imps brought forth the offerings. I tapped her blade against stone to begin.

“This evening’s match-up sees carpedavid contend with mythago in a battle of Ceramic DM giants. Unfortunately, it would appear that mythago has been unable to complete her entry, however she may hold her head high in submitting the generous amount that she has under the circumstances. Not only this, but she has left a tale hanging that deserves to be finished. The denizens of this court need to know more about Tuong, his Chauchau heritage and what his future held. You seem to have an uncanny knack of hooking in a reader with seemingly little effort - although I am sure to produce what you have took a great deal of effort indeed. All I shall say is that this looked like the beginning of a story worthy of a ceramic DM semi-final. Unfortunately however, this means that I will have to hand the match to carpedavid but not before giving further comment.”

“carpedavid has given us a mysterious tale of Fahai’s journey and destiny, beautifully constructed and epic in format. The prelude provides a wonderful context for the rest of the story to interact with, creating a true sense of depth and authenticity. The journey of the young Fahai while simple and linear was enough to keep me going until the conclusion - carpedavid exhibiting great skill in imposing genuine suspense into the action.  In addition may I say that this was a conclusion I enjoyed very much. Utterly suitable to the piece, I heartily smiled at Fahai’s final destiny of guardianship in the Netherworld. I will make mention though that had mythago completed her piece, this would have been a very close call.”

“In terms of image use, I could not fault carpedavid’s handling of a very difficult set of images. To meld them all into an Asian background and flavour was quite ingenious. I shake my head sometimes at what you guys can come up with. Just when I think a coherent story impossible to construct from such a wicked set of pictures, you provide a story not only coherent but with the images proudly displaying the key points of the adventure, as if they could not have meant anything but!”

“In all seriousness, I think each image was strongly used from the ritual start of Fahai’s journey, the meeting with the self-imprisoned ChingChing, the river battle with Bo the bully, the yeti pup, the final battle with the King of Snake as well as the meeting with Bai Suzhen. This is an exceptionally strong use of images that should fire a true warning to your fellow finalist - whoever that may be. However, I have a funny feeling that story-wise, you will have to be even stronger to claim ultimate victory. Best of luck carpedavid in the final and commiserations to mythago, I wish you the best for your health and look forward to reading your future writing.”

Yangome:
Mythago:

Thanks for taking the time to submit a partial story here.  You have an excellent start to what sounds like a fun story.  Being a DG fan, I’d love to hear the rest of it.  I hope you take the time to write it some day. 

Carpedavid:
Another very good story.  There isn’t too much to say about it.  Mechanically, it was solid and your picture use overall was good.  I do think the river picture felt out of place, but that happens with CDM at times.  You captured a good feel of the genre throughout the story.  I enjoyed the “named" strikes. Good job.

My vote is for Carpe David

CarpeDavid proceeds 3-0 to the next round.


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## Herremann the Wise (Mar 13, 2007)

Congratulations Rodrigo and Carpedavid and commiserations to PC and Mythago. I thoroughly enjoyed reading all four of these and had a Dickens of a time trying to separate them. Seriously good stuff!!!

***​
I like Piratecat's: EN World Short Story Death Match name change idea but at the same time, I find myself nodding at everyone else's suggestions. In some ways Ceramic DM is what it is and is best left unchanged in terms of format. Perhaps though, a Ceramic DM "Lite" tournament might be worth doing like some have suggested - but with PC's name change.

A possible idea:

*Thread Title*:EN World Short Story Death Match - It Needs YOU!!!
*Format*:
- Seven days writing time (encompassing time suitable to hopefully all concerned)
- Six pictures (themed or unthemed?) I prefer unthemed, similar to Ceramic DM
- Word Limit (5,000 to 10,000?)
- Open Event
- Judging: A panel of judges or a single co-ordinator chooses a selection of stories for judgment (let's say 8 of the entries)
- A public poll is opened for a week where any from EN World can vote for their favourite story - there should be a link to the story hour forum too so the guys over there are aware of it as well.
- This poll could be the final say or you could have it awarding the stories 8 points down to 1 and then combine this with points from the judging panel/co-ordinator for a final winner.

Best Regards
Herremann the Wise

 PS: Damn am I looking forward to this final!!!


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## Rodrigo Istalindir (Mar 13, 2007)

Wow -- I am truly stunned.  I liked what I did, but I thought Piratecat's brilliant ability to tease a superhero story of all things out of those pictures would carry the day for him.

I apologize for all the typos -- this one sort of gushed out in one long burst, and I was literally exhausted when it was done.  I gave it a cursory once-over to make sure there weren't any egregious cut and paste errors, posted it, and crashed.

Oddly enough, I don't know for sure why Emily accepted her fate, either.  She came alive to me in a way characters generally don't as I'm writing.  Usually, I've got a character figured out, but she surprised me.  The story sort of decided its own ending.

Thanks for all the comments.  I'm glad you enjoyed it, warts and all.  This was a fun one to write (more fun that the last few, truth be told), and I'd have rather lost with this story than won with the one I'd started to write.

Piratecat, I'm still in awe of the stories you manage to produce.  I look at something and I think I've got a cool idea, and you seem to effortlessly take things to the  next level each time.


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## Sialia (Mar 13, 2007)

Congratulations. I hope the next one flows as relentlessly.


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## yangnome (Mar 13, 2007)

Speaking of the next round:

CDM Winter ( or is it spring ) '07; Final Round

Rodrigo Istalindir vs. CarpeDavid


I need to know when you guys want your pictures.  I'll be ready sometime tomorrow evening.


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## carpedavid (Mar 13, 2007)

yangnome said:
			
		

> Speaking of the next round:
> 
> CDM Winter ( or is it spring ) '07; Final Round
> 
> ...




The rest of this week is completely filled. Would it be too long to wait until Sunday?


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## Berandor (Mar 13, 2007)

Congrats Rodrigo and carpedavid! And Piratecat, don't let this keep you from competing again – you'll get better eventually  Though I'm a little disappointed that now I can't say I lost to the winner...


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## Rodrigo Istalindir (Mar 13, 2007)

An early Sunday morning start would work for me.  Middle of next week gets kinda crowded.


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## yangnome (Mar 13, 2007)

OK, Sunday morning it is.  Anyone want to give me a timeframe (Keep in mind, I'm PST)?


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## Rodrigo Istalindir (Mar 13, 2007)

yangnome said:
			
		

> OK, Sunday morning it is.  Anyone want to give me a timeframe (Keep in mind, I'm PST)?




Posting late your-time the night before worked well for me the last time -- it let's me stay up late to finish -- so midnight Saturday PST is cool with me.  That way we'll both see them at more or less the same time.


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## carpedavid (Mar 13, 2007)

Rodrigo Istalindir said:
			
		

> Posting late your-time the night before worked well for me the last time -- it let's me stay up late to finish -- so midnight Saturday PST is cool with me.  That way we'll both see them at more or less the same time.




That works for me as well.


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## Piratecat (Mar 13, 2007)

Oh, the humanity! A friend emailed me last night to sympathize, but I hadn't seen the judgment yet - and when I got the email, my internet connection was down _and I couldn't go read the results._ 

And holy cow, congratulations to Rodrigo. The final round is going to be spectacular.

I think my story is definitely more accessible to people familiar with comic tropes, and the judgment probably reflects that. I recognized that as a possible problem when I started the story, at least, so I'm neither surprised nor disappointed at the results. I wrote the story that I set out to write. I agree with folks who said the introduction is a bit awkward; I debated it back and forth, made a bunch of edits to it, and finally decided that the story was stronger with it than without it. Part of what I'm trying to do is set a mood, but the intro may be an overly ham-handed way to do so.

Orchid Blossom, you mentioned that you noticed the writerly techniques I was using. Could you... erm... tell me what the heck they were, or point me to an appropriate web site that defines them? The downside of having gone to business school is that I don't know diddly about formal writing techniques.

The only way I could justify using the Keystone Kops photo as an initial movie shot was to later turn that message into a key story element. I think of it a little bit like literary jujitsu, setting up one expectation ("Piratecat made a blatant goof!") and then using it in a different way that ties tightly into the story. It's also the _only_ legitimate way I could work that image into the story without it feeling mood-breakingly strained.  The other photo that felt a little strained to me was the leafy conference table. I threw in some doubletalk about 'form and function,' but it's the one photo I think I could legitimately remove and still have effectively the same story.

The only judge comment I personally disagree with is the statement "The downside to this type story, by its nature, is that I won’t take away a greater message or deeper meaning." I couldn't disagree with this more. Whether or not my story achieved it - and it probably didn't - I fundamentally believe that graphic storytelling and comics-themed prose can have just as much weight, impact and validity as a horror story, a love story, or anything in between. I submit that if you don't go in looking for a deeper meaning you won't see it there, but I certainly wrote it to have one. 

No worries, though - I'm just debating literary philosophy. Rodrigo's story was superb, and I greatly look forward to the final round. I also would like to thank the judges; the detailed and prompt judgments help tremendously. I can't tell you how glad I am that I decided to get back up on the horse and participate in this.


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## Berandor (Mar 13, 2007)

Piratecat said:
			
		

> The only judge comment I personally disagree with is the statement "The downside to this type story, by its nature, is that I won’t take away a greater message or deeper meaning." I couldn't disagree with this more. Whether or not my story achieved it - and it probably didn't - I fundamentally believe that graphic storytelling and comics-themed prose can have just as much weight, impact and validity as a horror story, a love story, or anything in between.



Geek!

[sblock]I agree, though. As for most statements to that effect, one only has to look at "Sandman" for evidence.[/sblock]


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## Piratecat (Mar 13, 2007)

Berandor said:
			
		

> Geek!



I demand respect, darn it. That's _Mister_ Geek.


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## yangnome (Mar 13, 2007)

PC-

Actually, I meant to take that comment out.  I agree with what you posted, and any form of story can hold deeper meanings and themes.  There are certainly plenty of examples in comics, comedies, etc that convey deep messages.  I didn't really find them (or at least they didn't have the same impact on me) in the story you told.


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## Sialia (Mar 14, 2007)

Golly.  I saw at least three layers of meaning in it, possibly four, beyond the surface story.

Now, I grant you, one of those layers was full of in-jokes that made me want to do a Norton's annotations to the story, and I didn't expect a wide audience of readers to get those, even though they made me grin ear to ear. I decided not to comment on them before the judging, because Piratecat knew darn well when he worked them in that they wouldn't count in the judging. Easter eggs.

But beyond that, I thought there was a fine tribute to and portrait of many things that Piratecat loves--and he was startlingly good at portraying them clearly and honestly. You didn't really have to know the originals to enjoy the portraits, although it was even nicer if you happen to and can appreciate the startling clarity. In reading this story, I could clearly hear the voices of people I know that he has perfectly captured, insome ways Bettter Than Life.

Deeper than that, I think there was a cool metaphor for the creative act itself. The grasping of tenuous clues to stitch together a cohesive strategy, the sense of self deconstruction that Piratecat put himself through during this tournament trying to find and refind and refine his voice--the triumph of being able to stretch and reconstruct himself artistically, and even perhaps a bit of wry self-deprecating worry in wondering whether if in taking himself apart to find his way, he may have misplaced some important part of his  . . . um . . . potency. 
Some of this layer may have been unintended, but it was clearly so much on his mind while he was writing, I don't think it's unreasonable to see it there.

Mostly, I thought this story was an awful lot of fun. Angst itself is not inherently more valuable than comedy.

Rodrigo's story stands, I think, not for the angst or horror factors, but more for the thoughtful exploration of the ideas of finding oneself outside the norm, in various ways. The story touched a nerve of truth in that that was significantly powerful. Also the main characters felt genuine.


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## orchid blossom (Mar 14, 2007)

Piratecat said:
			
		

> Orchid Blossom, you mentioned that you noticed the writerly techniques I was using. Could you... erm... tell me what the heck they were, or point me to an appropriate web site that defines them? The downside of having gone to business school is that I don't know diddly about formal writing techniques.




PC, it would be nice if I could sound all fancy like I remembered stuff from my creative writing class, but alas, I can't give you the formal names for all these techniques.  I honestly never learned them.  Getting a BA in English is like getting a BA in BS.  You just make it all up and keep talking.  Eventually you figure out what's going on, but not in any way that you can easily discuss with anyone else.  But I can do some describing.

The first real example I can think of when you have the past and future villian going through the supermarket.  Interposed with his story is his very normal shopping list.  The list lead to the hamburger, but it also does something else.  There's an effective juxtaposition there.  This mundane shopping list grounds the villian in the same world we live in, where you have to drive to the market, push the cart with the crappy wheel, and pick up overpriced groceries and a few things your doctor wouldn't approve of.  In between is the exotic; the life of a criminal.  A super-powered criminal at that.  It's a technique that grounds the story while letting it go believeably into a fantasy.  And it makes the talking package of hamburger even stranger.

The next scene is the get to know the characters and get some exposition in without it feeling like exposition scene.  I don't know if I would have picked it up as that, except since I'm judging, I'm looking.  Exposition is always hard to get in naturally, so a conversation about what the readers need to know often crops up in short stories.

There were also plenty of examples of foreshadowing, which is very important.  The flesh molding is surprising but believable because we saw something with the hamburger.

And you must have been trying to play to the judge with the Green Bay Packers thing.  I mean, come on.  I used to live where I could hear the crowd noise from Lambeau field!  And they really did used to be the Acme Meat Packers...  I'm sure you already knew that.


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## maxfieldjadenfox (Mar 14, 2007)

Sialia said:
			
		

> I am a purist about this competition; I think it is perfectly conceived as is and should not be altered one iota.
> 
> Unless we want to have a spin off competition to draw "one more illustration" for the grand winner's story as a sort of prize to the champion.  That would be cool, and I'd enter.




I would love to have an illustrator's version, where you have to come up with illos for some bizarre story, or maybe a combo writer/illustrator version, where you get paired with a writer? Lots of fun ways to go with this...


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## Piratecat (Mar 15, 2007)

I'm really excited to see the final round's pictures! A little piece of me thinks that I should write a private story to them as a writing exercise. On the other hand, a great big piece of me thinks that the little piece is smoking some serious crack. Half the fun of being knocked out early is the schadenfreude of watching other people sweat.


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## Hypersmurf (Mar 15, 2007)

Piratecat said:
			
		

> I'm really excited to see the final round's pictures! A little piece of me thinks that I should write a private story to them as a writing exercise. On the other hand, a great big piece of me thinks that the little piece is smoking some serious crack. Half the fun of being knocked out early is the schadenfreude of watching other people sweat.




You could write a private story, with the luxury of taking a week to do it 

-Hyp.


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## Rodrigo Istalindir (Mar 15, 2007)

You're not devious enough, Piratecat.  What you should have done was gotten yangnome to give you the pictures early, written your story, then posted it like three hours after the pictures went up.


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## Rodrigo Istalindir (Mar 15, 2007)

Piratecat said:
			
		

> I'm really excited to see the final round's pictures!




I'm not.  I feel devoid of ideas, drained  of all creativity.


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## Piratecat (Mar 15, 2007)

Rodrigo Istalindir said:
			
		

> I'm not.  I feel devoid of ideas, drained  of all creativity.



One can't help but wish that you had felt this way before _last_ round, you goober.


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## Rodrigo Istalindir (Mar 15, 2007)

Desperation is the mother of invention.  I'm sure yangnome will find some way to torture something out of me.

Actually, I was walking to work on this fine spring morning, and I got to thinking about the Rocky Horror vs The Cabbage Patch Kids threat.  Now I can't get the damn soundtrack out of my head, and all I can think about is doing the Time Warp.


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## Berandor (Mar 15, 2007)

Rodrigo Istalindir said:
			
		

> I'm not.  I feel devoid of ideas, drained  of all creativity.



 Just think of the last round as double xp weekend... it'll work out.


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## Piratecat (Mar 15, 2007)

Berandor for the win.


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## KidCthulhu (Mar 15, 2007)

Piratecat said:
			
		

> A little piece of me thinks that I should write a private story to them as a writing exercise. On the other hand, a great big piece of me thinks that the little piece is smoking some serious crack.




Not that I'm being a nodge or anything, but if you've got all those creative juices sloshin' around, there's a perfectly good story hour that needs some lovin'.

Yep, just call me little Ms Ulterior Motive.


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## Sialia (Mar 15, 2007)

Rodrigo Istalindir said:
			
		

> I'm not.  I feel devoid of ideas, drained  of all creativity.




Ah, no sweat --the pictures are supposed to provide those.

Erm.

Although I admit I spent a long while thinking "wouldn't it be great to give the final round folks some really innocuous pictures that hardly suggested anything so they could write about whatever they wanted? I mean, they're the champions, they should be able to pull a great story out of a blank page in the dark at this point . . . "

heh. 

There are so many ways to be cruel in this game.


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## Sialia (Mar 15, 2007)

Piratecat said:
			
		

> I'm really excited to see the final round's pictures! A little piece of me thinks that I should write a private story to them as a writing exercise.





That would be the subliminal tic I embedded when last we spoke. It will never cease until you give it what it wants.

It wants you to be its daddy.


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## yangnome (Mar 18, 2007)

OK, pics will be coming at some point tonight.  I have to go out for my a going away party for my boss and it is St Patty's Day.  I'll post pictures when I get back in, which will likely be after 1200 my time.  I also warn you that though I already have the pictures selected, you could wind up with some alcohol-influenced surprises, so if you wake up in the morning and see 40 pictures for the final match, don't say I didn't warn you.


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## Rodrigo Istalindir (Mar 18, 2007)

So long as they don't involve naked yangnome pictures, I'm cool with whatever you can come up with.


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## yangnome (Mar 18, 2007)

*Round 4 - Final*

Welcome to the final round, Rodrigo vs. CarpeDavid.  I wore my kilt to the bar, but no one was drunk enough to find out what I had on under it, so no naked pictures of me.  

This round, I wanted to do something slightly different—an all art round.  There is one picture I found prior to the CDM, and five great pieces from Sialia.  Good luck, have a fun competition.


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## Gulla (Mar 18, 2007)

Yangnome, you are sure this set is not the result of too much Irish brew?   

edit: unsure whether all discussion of the pictures should go in the s-block, so to be on the safe side I put it all in one now:
[sblock]
The pictures are wonderful and I look forward to the two great stories the contestants will produce from them. The first picture is so dark that I cannot see it at all on my equipment, but that might be by design? 

[sblock=Not for the contestants]And I think the second picture is just brilliant. To me it is full of fantastic stories. I see a tired and worn out Hero resting in his quest surrounded by a seemingly friendly landscape, but on closer inspection it seems to be a Dragon sneaking up on him. 

And that last one is just plain creepy. Maybe a bit too much religios symbolism, but that just makes it more creepy.[/sblock]

A very challenging and interresting choise of pictures. Very good work on running this contest and selecting pictures.

Edit: I did some tinkering after finally getting some picturemanipulation software working I "found" the picture in the dark after using a gammacorrection of about 2 and it was very much there I could not see at all in the original, so I think the original picture might be too dark. But I guess that Siala (as the artist) is the one to have the final word on that?
[/sblock]

Håkon


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## Herremann the Wise (Mar 18, 2007)

Best of luck to carpedavid and Rodrigo. I am looking very forward to reading what you guys come up with - make the judging as tough as you possibly can for us.  

To Sialia,
Thank you very much for sharing some of your gorgeous images with us. I'm sure our finalists will contort them in ways you would not have thought - or maybe you might have    . You must be very excited waiting to see what they make out of them too.

Best Regards
Herremann the Wise


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## Piratecat (Mar 18, 2007)

Gulla, I see the first picture without a problem on my monitor.

As for this set? A piece of cake.  

I'm _really_ sorry I'm not writing to these, but I surely want to see the results.


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## maxfieldjadenfox (Mar 18, 2007)

This group of pictures is so inspiring! I wish I was writing, but I'll be content to read. Nice work, Sialia!

I have really enjoyed the variety of genres this time around. Ya'll have amused me.


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## Sialia (Mar 18, 2007)

Thank you for kind words.


Thank you to Yangnome for knowing which ones to pick out of the pile. You certainly have an evil genius for this.

Sometimes, things look very different on my home desktop monitor than on my spouse's laptop flatscreen--I forgot to check this time. I will say that it seemed darker and blurrier to me this morning than I remembered it, too, and it might partly be because I always looked at it against a neutral gray background instead of the hard white.

I hope no one minds: here's another version of it--all content is the same, but I upped the contrast and saturation a bit, and added a neutral gray frame. Hope this helps.


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## carpedavid (Mar 18, 2007)

Piratecat said:
			
		

> As for this set? A piece of cake.




Sez you. 

Also, I got called into work today, on what was supposed to be my primary writing day. I'm going to have to think "short" - something I've been having difficulty with this tournament.


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## yangnome (Mar 18, 2007)

Glad to hear you guys like the pics.  Sialia provided some outstanding pictures for this matchup and I am anxious to see how they are interpreted.  I assure you (and I think Sialia can attest to the fact) that any Irish brew I may have had or may not have had did not affect my picture selection 

I suspect that this all art match will bring some interesting results.  There's a lot more room for interpretation and ambiguity in these pictures which should hopefully provide fun stories.


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## Gulla (Mar 18, 2007)

Sialia said:
			
		

> I hope no one minds: here's another version of it--all content is the same, but I upped the contrast and saturation a bit, and added a neutral gray frame. Hope this helps.



It helps a lot on this (old, but high quality, I thought) CRT-screen. I'll get to test it on the brand new laptop tomorrow, but this version is very nice here.

Håkon
who hopes that this just might be enough to convince the wife-unit that a new monitor is a suitable birthday present


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## tadk (Mar 19, 2007)

*wow*



			
				yangnome said:
			
		

> Welcome to the final round, Rodrigo vs. CarpeDavid.  I wore my kilt to the bar, but no one was drunk enough to find out what I had on under it, so no naked pictures of me.
> 
> This round, I wanted to do something slightly different—an all art round.  There is one picture I found prior to the CDM, and five great pieces from Sialia.  Good luck, have a fun competition.




wow
some totally interesting pics there for the final round

best to you both, some awesome work so far
Wow


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## yangnome (Mar 20, 2007)

Anxious to see these stories.  Sad there isn't more trash talk.


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## yangnome (Mar 20, 2007)

Oh, and if changing the name of CDM comes back up, my vote is for Enworld Story Smackdown


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## Piratecat (Mar 21, 2007)

yangnome said:
			
		

> Sad there isn't more trash talk.



Dammit. If only I had been judged on my smack talk instead of my story....

Rodrigo STILL would have won.  

T minus 4.5 hours!


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## carpedavid (Mar 21, 2007)

Ceramic DM, Winter 2007: Final Round
carpedavid vs. Rodrigo Istalindir

*The Short Story of Esmeralda Santiago*

Esmeralda Santiago’s only friend was a girl named Luna who lived on the moon. Luna and Esmeralda had been classmates since kindergarten and had spent every day after school running through the woods behind Esmeralda’s house – skinning their knees on fallen, moss-covered trees, forging alliances with the fairies who lived amongst the ferns, and establishing an uneasy truce with the kingdom of squirrels who inhabited the tall oaks and maples.

“My mom is a fairy queen,” Esmeralda had told Luna as they lay in the shade of the old oak tree that stood next to the lily pond, “that’s why she’s always away – she has a kingdom to run.”

“That must be cool to have a fairy queen for a mom.” Luna said as she stared up at the great white galleons that floated on the endless blue sea.

“Mostly it is. I get lots of cool stuff that she brings back from all the places that she has to go rule over.”

“That’s cool.” Her hand darted up toward a cloud that drifted by overhead, “Oh, look, a windmill.”

“Oh, and there’s a rhinoceros.”

“Does that look like a bear?”

“A really fat one, maybe,” Esmeralda puffed out her cheeks, and then giggled.

“Fat like Fat Bobby!”

“No way. He’s way fatter.” Esmeralda held out her hands as wide as they would go. “He’s like twice the size of a really fat bear.”

“Hey! If your mom’s a fairy queen, doesn’t that mean you’re a princess?”

“Oh! Yeah, it totally does!”

“Does that mean you’re going to have to marry a prince?”

“Ew, no! Gross!”

“You’re going to have to marry a prince as fat as Fat Bobby!”

“Eew! No! That’s totally gross!”

“And you would have really fat kids!” Luna puffed out her cheeks this time.

“Yuck! Stop!”

“And maybe you’d even have a really fat dragon!”

Esmeralda laughed, “I’d take a really fat dragon. That’d be totally cool. Then I could curl up on him and take a nap.”

“Da?” Luna looked over at her friend; she was the only one besides Esmeralda’s mother who could get away with calling her Da.

“Yeah?”

“Let’s go feed the squirrels acorns!”

***

One day, Esmeralda’s mother brought home a pleasantly plump dragon. Esmeralda squealed and tossed her arms around its neck. It grunted, sighed, and laid its large, scaly head on the top of hers.

“Mom, this is so cool!” She bounced up and down as she talked. One hand gestured at her mother while the other scratched her new pet behind the ears. “I’ve always wanted a dragon!”

“Well, now you have one. What are you going to name him?”

“Hmm,” Esmeralda put her hand to her chin, “Let me think.” She looked into her dragon’s big, brown eyes and his tail started wagging vigorously - sending the contents of the coffee table he was sitting next to clattering onto the floor. “I think I’ll call him Spike.”

“Ok. Spike it is.”

Spike the dragon lived outside in the backyard in a very large dragon-house and spent most of his days nosing around the lily pond, looking for goblins to eat.

***

During the summer between fourth and fifth grade, Luna fell ill. She had always been prone to sickness, but this time she wasn’t getting better. At first, she simply wasn’t able to run around in the woods, but as the weeks wore on, she wasn’t able to go out at all.

Esmeralda spent most of her afternoons sitting at the edge of the lily pond watching Spike. Every Tuesday, though, she traveled to the moon to visit her friend. After school, she would wait by the pond for her transportation. She could hear it from a mile away, rumbling through the sky toward her. The great mechanical steed coughed and sputtered as it flew through the air toward her. Smoke poured out of a pipe on the rear of the contraption, and every few feet it would emit a loud bang. [Image 5]

It resembled an old truck: red and rusted and clunky; but where it should have had side panels, it had wings that flapped up and down with a loud creak. When it landed, it blinked one of its headlights and wiggled its bumper at her.

Behind her she could hear Spike growl, so she jumped in quickly, and the truck took off, zooming into the sky. The ground receded into the distance beneath her, the house and lily pond and woods growing smaller and smaller. They soared up through the clouds, and the ocean appeared on the horizon. Then, as they left the atmosphere, the world as a whole became visible.

Esmeralda settled in as they sailed through the ether toward the moon, which glowed brightly in the distance.

***

Luna curled up on the crescent moon. [Image 3] The stars glowed in the night sky, the Milky Way hung directly above her, and the earth shined in the distance. Esmeralda bounced across the Sea of Tranquility toward her, pirouetting as she left the surface with each step.

“Hi Da,” Luna said sleepily as she turned toward her friend.

Esmeralda disappeared into a crater, and then reappeared a second later. “Hi Luna! How are you doing today?”

“Worn out, like usual.”

Esmeralda stopped bounding around the surface of the moon and sat down on the bed next to her friend. “I’m sorry.”

Luna offered a wan smile, “I know.”

“Maybe next time, I can bring feyberry juice. That’ll make you feel better.”

Luna was quiet. She stared at the stars overhead.

“Feyberry juice always makes you feel better, Luna. It’s got all sorts of fairy magic in it.”

Luna pale face turned red. “There are no fairies, Da!” She began to sputter, “You can’t turn into a robot, and Spike’s a dog, not a dragon, and the alchemist doesn’t give me potions, the doctor gives me medicine, and I don’t live on the moon, and the stars are just stickers.”

“I…I…” Esmeralda stammered.

“There are no fairies! There are no fairies! There are no fairies!” Luna yelled as she pounded the bed with her fists. “They don’t have magic and they can’t make me better.” She began to cry and looked away.

Esmeralda stared in silence for a moment, and then leaned over and then hugged her friend. “I’m sorry.”

Luna cried for a few minutes, was quiet for a few more, and then finally whispered, “My Mom says that I’ll be going to Heaven soon.”

“Is it going to hurt?”

“I don’t think it could hurt any more than it already does.”

“I’m going to miss you.”

“I’m going to miss you, too.” Luna returned Esmeralda’s embrace, and then collapsed back on the bed. Esmeralda lay down next to her, and they stayed that way, staring at the field of stars above them, for over an hour. Finally, Luna turned to her, “I’m tired Da, I need to go to sleep.”

Esmeralda nodded, pulled the covers up over her only friend in the entire world, walked over to the door, and blew her a kiss.

***

A month earlier, Esmeralda sat in a chair as the alchemist peered into his cauldron. Green smoke bellowed forth, creeping into the corners of the chamber and curling around her feet. [Image 1] Luna and her mother sat next to her, as the alchemist chanted arcane phrases.

He stared at a scroll for a few minutes, then pulled out a wand and began gesturing at Luna. The wand created eddies in the smoke, and little waves of magical energy leapt off the tip each time he came near her.

Esmeralda looked around at the alchemical equipment: the decanters and vials, the mortar and pestles, the braziers and cauldrons. She looked at the cabinets full of herbs and essences and the racks of bones and talismans. _I can do this_, she thought.

After several minutes of pouring over eldritch tomes and astrological charts, the alchemist scratched his chin and then pulled a glass vial out of a cabinet. He poured the contents of the cauldron into the vial, scribbled instructions on a piece of parchment, and ushered them out of his laboratory.

“I don’t want to take any more of these,” Luna told her mother.

“I know, darling,” her mother said, “But you need them to get better.”

Luna frowned, but nodded her head.

_One day, I’m going to make potions for people_, Esmeralda thought to herself. _I bet the fairies will teach me how._

***

By six, Esmeralda was a full head taller than all of the boys in her class, and had the vocabulary of a spelling bee champion. One day, while walking through the jungle, Esmeralda saw a group of wild monkeys harassing a small, pale girl. They screeched and howled as they jumped around her, and several of them had picked up sticks.

The pale girl cowered on the ground, and Esmeralda knew she had to act. Summoning all of her power, she transformed: her arms turned into pistons, her hands into claws, her legs into tank treads, and her body spouted armored plates. Now a heavily-armed fighting machine, she zoomed into the fray.

“You primates!” she yelled as her pneumatic-powered arms pummeled the monkeys. “Leave her alone!” [Image 4]

One of the monkeys squealed as its nose was crushed. “Owie, owie, owie!” it screamed as it ran off into the trees. Another monkey threw a stick at Esmeralda, which she easily ducked. She turned, picked it up, and threw it back at the monkey’s head. It squealed in pain, yelled, “No fair!” and then ran off as well. The rest of the monkeys stopped and began to back away.

“Run, you simians!” Esmeralda bellowed as she advanced toward them. She only needed to roll a few feet before they broke and scampered off. As she watched them disappear back into the jungle, Esmeralda transformed back into a six-year old girl.

“Yes,” she whispered quietly, “Thank you.”

“No problem. When I transform into a robot, I can defeat pretty much anything, even talking monkeys.”

“Really? That’s so cool,” the pale girl said as she stood up and brushed the dust off of herself.

“Yeah. Hey, what’s your name?”

“Luna.”

“Mine’s Esmeralda.”

“Hi Esmeralda, how did you learn how to change into a robot?”

***

The next Tuesday, the great mechanical beast never arrived to take Esmeralda to the moon. She waited by the lily pond until the sun completed its circuit of the sky, and then went in side. After dinner, she did her homework, fed her dragon, and then put on her pajamas. The crickets chirped outside her window, and the light of the moon cast long shadows across her bed.

Sometime later, the sound of a phone rang in the night, and Esmeralda turned over and buried her head in the pillow. Then, she heard the sound of her mother climbing the stairs, and finally, the sound of her door creaking open.

“Da?”

“Yeah?” she said sleepily.

“Luna’s mom just called.”

Esmeralda sat bolt upright. “What happened?”

“Oh, Da. I’m so sorry.”

“No,” she said with a plaintive look.

“Da,” her mother walked over to the bed and sat down beside her.

“No!” Esmeralda threw off her covers and jumped out of bed. “No! No! No!”

“Da.”

“No!” She turned and ran from her room, bounding down the stairs and throwing open the front door. She could hear her mother calling from behind her as she ran out into the night. She headed toward the lily pond and the old oak tree that overlooked it.

Esmeralda had never felt so cold. She collapsed with her back against the tree, knees clutched tightly to her chest. Ice water ran through her veins, and her bones felt frozen through. A hollow emptiness churned within her belly – eating away slowly from within. She thought about crying, thought about yelling out at the top of her lungs, but instead sat quietly, trying to fold in on herself and disappear.

Spike peeked his head out of his dragon house and then wandered over to Esmeralda. He nuzzled her with his forehead, and, when she didn’t respond, he curled up around her: his head lying near the lily pond while his tail wrapped around the tree. [Image 2]

After a few hours, Esmeralda crawled over and lay down with her head on his belly, and the rhythm of his breathing finally lulled her to sleep.

***

Esmeralda woke in a strange land full of stone walls and steel-grey skies. Spike was gone, the lily pond was gone, and her house with her fairy-queen mother was gone. Bats flittered overhead, and Esmeralda felt the cold, damp air soak into her skin.

“Hello?” she called. Nobody answered, and the only sound was the whistling of the wind. “Is anybody there?”

She wandered through the desolate labyrinth for what felt like days. Occasionally, she would see a stray rock roll across the landscape of its own volition, and would hear a rhythmic creaking sound coming from the other side of the wall.

The light never changed: everything was washed out, nearly grey, no matter how far she walked. Her feet began to tire, so she stopped and sat. Nothing changed: the only constant was the emptiness.

She couldn’t tell how long she sat, but her feet eventually stopped hurting, so she walked again. “Hello?” she called again. This time, she heard the creaking, and it sounded close. She picked up her pace and rounded the corners of the labyrinth one after another.

Finally, she rounded a corner, and found the source of the creaking: not twenty feet in front of her, a specter, dressed in a white shroud, sat on a wooden bench. It had one hand on a wooden cradle and was gently rocking it back and forth. [Image 6] The specter groaned, and Esmeralda shuddered. _This isn’t Heaven_, she thought to herself.

From where she stood, she couldn’t see into the cradle. She didn’t want to see into the cradle – she was afraid of what she would see. “Who are you?”

No answer. The cradle simply continued to rock.

“Why am I here?”

The specter turned its head slightly, and Esmeralda notices a phrase carved into the wall behind it: “In hoc signo vinces.” She mouthed the words as she read them, “With this sign, be victorious.”

The cradle stopped rocking, and the specter turned to look at her. She saw a hollow shell filled with infinite, empty blackness, and felt a cold hand grip her soul.

“No,” she said simply. “No.”

The specter didn’t move, but she felt the cold recede. 

“I won’t let you take any more.”

The specter looked away from her.

“I’ll use potions and medicine and wands and needles and fairy magic and science, and I won’t let you take any more.”

The specter began to fold in on itself – the white shroud consumed by the infinite black. A moment later, it was gone. She blinked, and the cradle disappeared. Then she blinked again, and she realized she was lying on her back next to the lily pond, while her pet dragon licked her face.

Esmeralda wiped her eyes and looked out at the stars far above, at the Milky Way that cut a brilliant path across the sky, and at the moon, where her only friend Luna used to live.


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## carpedavid (Mar 21, 2007)

[sblock]Well, that's done, at least. I look forward to seeing Rodrigo's story.[/sblock]


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## Rodrigo Istalindir (Mar 21, 2007)

yangnome said:
			
		

> Anxious to see these stories.  Sad there isn't more trash talk.




You want more smack-talk, or you want a story?  Go away!


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## Sialia (Mar 21, 2007)

Fine work CarpeDavid. I'm honored.


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## Rodrigo Istalindir (Mar 21, 2007)

“Daddy, tell me a story,” the curly-haired moppet entreated.

	“Shhh, honey, it’s time to sleep.  You have a big day ahead of you tomorrow,” her bespectacled father replied.

	“Please?  Pretty please?  Just one story, and I promise I’ll go right to sleep.  Promise,” she repeated solemnly.

	The man looked at her, and knew the battle was over before it had begun.  He laid his daughter on the bed, tucked the covers around her, and, in the proscribed manner, started the tale.
*
Once upon a time, a sweet young woman named Kerestal fell in love with a young man named Syndir.  Had they been normal people like you and I, they could have jumped right to “lived happily ever after” and skipped all the unhappy parts in-between.  But they weren’t normal people like you and I.  Iin fact, they weren’t, strictly speaking, people at all.   Syndir was the child of the Sun, and Kerestal was the daughter of the moon.  And just like your Uncle Harry went into the family business after Grandpa died, it was expected that someday Syndir and Kerestal would follow in their parent’s footsteps.

	Now you know that the Sun and the Moon are almost never in the same place at the same time, and so Syndir and Kerestal probably would have never met, much less fallen in love.  But every so often, as the Sun and Moon circle around the Earth…

*

	“Daddy!  The Sun doesn’t circle around the Earth, it’s the other way around,” the little girl said solemnly, like she was correcting the village idiot.

	“This is ‘once upon a time’, sweetheart.  Things were different back then.  Now, do you want to hear the story?”

	She nodded and scrunched down under the covers.

*

	Now, every so often, the Moon and the Sun end up on the same side of the Earth.  This used to scare people quite a bit.  Some thought a dragon was eating the Sun, or something silly like that, but now we know it’s just an eclipse.  

	So there was an eclipse, and while the Sun and the Moon were busy ignoring one another and waiting for the other to go away, Kerestal and Syndir snuck away.  Neither got to see anyone but their parent very often, and they were each very lonely.   They were a little shy around each other, at first, but they soon became friends.  They went out past Mars and played billiards with the asteroids, and played tag amongst the stars, moving so fast they were just a streak in the sky.

	Soon, though, the Sun and Moon drifted apart, and as the heavens began to light up again, they realized their children had gone missing.  They called and called, and finally Syndir and Kerestal came slinking back.  They waved goodbye, each watched the other disappear into the distance.  

Time moves differently for the stars than it does for us, and although years and decades might pass between eclipses, Syndir and Kerestal always managed to sneak away together to play, and one day realized that they were never happier than when they were together.   Each resolved to run away from their parent so they could be together forever.

When the Sun and the Moon discovered what had happened, they were most angry with each other.  They called each other bad names and threw things and generally acted poorly.   They scoured the sky looking for Kerestal and Syndir, and finally found them hiding behind fat old Jupiter.  The Sun grabbed Syndir by the wrist, and the Moon Kerestal, and the two were dragged home.  Syndir called to his love, and promised that he would return for her.

The Sun was so angry that he sparked and flared, and before you knew it he just up and died.  At first Syndir was unhappy, for he did love his father, but then he was happy for the thought this meant he could be with Kerestal.  But he looked down upon the earth, and saw how cold and frightened the people were, and he realized he couldn’t just turn his back on them.  With a heavy heart, he turned back and became the new Sun.

The Moon was angry with Kerestal, too, but more understanding.  She tried to explain to her daughter that things would never work out with Syndir, that they were just too different, but it had little effect.   When the Moon realized that Kerestal was going to have a baby, and that Syndir was the father, she feared that her daughter would run to him.  The Moon was wise and knew that in the end the young ones couldn’t be together, so she quietly slipped into the sea and sank below the waves, leaving Kerestal to take up the job of lighting the night sky.

Soon, the new Moon had her baby, and named her ‘Halcyon’.  Every night as she looked down upon the Earth, she cradled her daughter in her arms and told stories about the people that lived there.  She loved Halcyon child very much, but every day she could look off across space and see Syndir in his father’s place, and it made her very sad.   

Kerestal knew that if Halcyon grew up with only her mother to keep her company, she would be lonely too, so one night she wrapped her infant daughter in a blanket, and as a moonbeam stole through the window of a young woman who was crying because she couldn’t have a child.  She laid Halcyon down in the empty crib the woman wept over, and returned to the heavens, her own sobs echoing in the night sky.

The young woman heard Kerestal’s lament, and raised her head to see who was as unhappy as she.  She saw the moonbeam shining upon the crib, and let out a gasp when she saw the perfect little baby inside.  (Picture 6)  She cried out in joy to her husband who slept in the next room, and held Halcyon up to him when he rushed to her side.   The father saw a piece of paper pinned to the blanket.  He plucked it free, and had but a moment to see ‘Halcyon’ written in cursive before the note disappeared in a burst of silvery sparkles.

The new parents, Sarah and Will, were happy to finally have a child, no matter how irregular the manner, but they knew the neighbors would just look at them like they were crazy.  They didn’t care what people thought about them, but they didn’t want them to laugh at Haley (for that is the best Will could remember from the note) and call her names, so they told a little white lie, and said that a cousin on Sarah’s had had a baby and couldn’t care for her.  They raised her as their own, and never told her about how she had come to live with them.

A couple of years after Haley’s miraculous appearance in the crib, another eclipse rolled around.  It was the first time that Kerestal and Syndir had seen each other since their parents had split them apart.   Kerestal greeted Syndir coolly, and though Syndir tried to talk to her, but her attention was elsewhere.   As the eclipse swallowed the earth, Kerestal turned her gaze groundward, hoping to catch a glimpse of Halcyon while she was awake and about.

Syndir saw that his one-time love was distracted, and followed her gaze.  He saw a little girl with her parents, and saw her father showing her how to watch the eclipse through a pinhole camera.  He saw the way her smile lit up her face, and knew her for his daughter.

He turned to Kerestal, and started to berate her for not telling him, but the wistful look on her face stopped him.  They started to drift apart, and she broke away from Halcyon to see Syndir looking at her.  She explained to him what she had done, and why, and Syndir’s anger drained away.  He knew that Halcyon would be happier with two parents that loved her instead of being forced to choose between Sun and Moon.  He bowed to Kerestal, and wished her happiness.  Kerestal smiled, and said she looked forward to the next eclipse.

And so little Haley grew up with her adoptive parents, never knowing that her real father watched over her while she played outside or that her real mother watched over her while she slept.  

But as much as she looked like any normal girl, Haley was a celestial child.  One summer day, the neighborhood decided to have a block party at the lake near their homes.   There were hamburgers and hotdogs and pop and ice cream, and everybody had a wonderful time.  Everyone was getting ready to leave when something scary happened.  

Mr. Gibbons had packed his wife and kids into their pickup truck.  He started up the engine, but instead of going forward, the truck slipped into reverse.  Mr. Gibbons panicked, and stepped on the gas instead of the brake, and before you knew it the truck had plunged into the lake.

There was a great commotion, with much waving of hands and running about, and a couple of men jumped in the lake to try and free the Gibbon’s from the truck, but the water kept the doors from opening.

Haley stood on the shore and watched as the truck started to sink beneath the surface.  She noticed something strange, though.  Ephemeral tendrils wrapped around the truck, some thick as the branches of a tree, some so thin that they were almost invisible.  She realized that the bigger ones sank beneath the surface, while the smaller stretched off into the sky towards the sun.

She also saw that the translucent vines were engaged in a tug-of-war over the Gibbons’ truck, and that the wavy lines pulling it below the water were far stronger.   She closed her eyes and concentrated, silently urging the lake tendrils to let go of the truck.  

The gasps of the crowd made her open her eyes.  To her surprise, the Gibbons’ pickup was floating mid-air above the lake.  (Picture 5) She shouted and clapped her hands together in delight.  She called out to the sky-tendrils to pull the truck to shore, and was pleased to see that they followed her bidding.

After the Gibbons were safely on dry land, she was less happy to discover that her friends and neighbors were staring at her in fear and suspicion.  Will and Sarah grabbed her up and rushed her home, hoping that little Haley didn’t hear the calls of ‘witch’ and ‘devil’ that spewed forth.

But she heard them.

From that day forth, the people of the neighborhood would have nothing to do with her.  Her friends were forbidden to play with her.  When she went street to street selling cookies for school, doors were slammed in her face.  Haley was confused and hurt; she didn’t understand why saving the Gibbons had been a bad thing.  Her parents were devastated at how the others treated her, and would have moved if they could have afforded to.

As she spent more of her time alone, Haley began to notice other strange things.  If she concentrated, she could see the little tendrils everywhere.  The ones from the ground were always the biggest and strongest, but the ones from the sun were always there during the day, and at night she could see very, very faint lines leading to the moon as well.

She discovered that she was never cold; no matter how bitter the winter, she would scamper about as if it were a summer day.  She could see in the dark as if it were broad daylight.  And sometimes, if she listened really carefully, she could hear music coming from the stars and planets, each playing a different tune.

Haley became more and more withdrawn, and finally Will and Sarah realized they had to tell her how she had come to be their daughter.  She was shocked, and ran to her room crying.  The next morning, Will and Sarah found her room empty, her schoolbag missing, and her bed had not been slept in.  

Haley ran far away.  She moved mostly at night, using her night vision to elude the people that were looking for her.  As the rosy hue of dawn spread across the sky, she’d ask the moon-tendrils to lift her to the treetops, where she’d fall asleep to a stellar lullaby.

Eventually, she left the town far behind and ventured deep into the forest   She was tired and hungry, and she missed her Will and Sarah.  She didn’t miss the cold looks of the others, though, and she thought if she could just find a way to talk to her real parents, then everything would be ok.  She curled up at the base of a tree and fell fast asleep.  (Picture 2).

She was awakened by a chattering sound, and leaped to her feet when she felt tiny hands pulling at her.  She scampered up the tree and realized that she’d accidentally broken into the home of  a family of monkeys.

At least they won’t make fun of me, she thought.  And if they do I’ll just have the sun-tendrils pick them up by their tails and swing them around.

For several days she lived among the little primates.  She followed them to a nearby stream where she could drink and bathe.  She watched carefully to see what berries and nuts were safe to eat.  She even made a bed for herself in the crook of the tree, and slept with her adopted family.

In the sky above, Kerestal and Syndir were beside themselves with worry.   They had followed Halcyon until she had disappeared into the forest, but the thick canopy now shielded her from their watchful eyes.  The Moon had tried using a moonbeam to lead the rescue party to the forest, but they paid her no mind, and eventually gave up.

During the day, when she wasn’t foraging for food, Haley explored her new home.  As she become more accustomed to the wild, she ranged further and further afield, until one day she discovered a small cabin in a clearing.  She saw a grizzled man puttering about, and hid herself carefully in the woods lest he spot her.

She watched until her stomach rumbled, and then she retreated into the forest to find something to eat.  She returned the next day, and the day after that, never for long, but some part of her still longed for human contact.

One day, while she spied on the man, she saw something that made her eyes widen.  The man stood in the clearing staring at a large tree that leaned precipitously over his small home.  With her sight, Haley could see the earth-tendrils pulling it down.  

The man reached out towards the tree, and to her surprise she saw the strands weaken their grip on the oak.   Freed from their grip, the tree straightened momentarily.  The stranger moved his hand sharply, and the lines yanked sharply in the opposite direction.  With a crack like summer thunder, the trunk of the tree shattered the splinters and fragments flying everywhere but towards the cabin.

Haley realized that the man could see the same things she saw.  She’d never met anyone else who could do that, and despite his scraggly appearance, she thought maybe she’d come back some day to ask him if he knew who her parents might be.

Haley turned back into the forest but had only managed to creep a few yards before she felt her arms and legs grow heavy.  She focused her sight and saw the tendrils from the ground pulling on her much harder than usual.  She struggled, but soon was prone on the ground, unable to move.  Out of the corner of her eye she saw muddy boots approach.

The man gestured, and Haley felt the strings holding her weaken.  Before she could scamper to her feet and flee, the man grabbed her by the scruff of the neck and lifted her until her feet dangled above the ground.  He marched back to his cabin, and no matter how hard she struggled, Haley could not break free.  Inside, he tossed her in the corner like a discarded toy.  She started to rise, but once again her limbs were pinned.  

Haley’s captor was a dangerous and desperate hermit named Graves.  Graves had been blessed with some of the same gifts as Haley, but he had come to see them as a curse.  Once he had seen the earth-tendrils pulling at his body, he became obsessed with escaping their grasp.  He studied alchemy and tried to brew potions that would let him slip their hold permanently, but to no avail.  He studied magic, and sought a spell that would free him, but failed.  No matter how hard he tried, he could affect their pull for but a few moments at a time.
It was only when he turned to astronomy and divination in search of his answers that he saw results.  The signs and portents pointed to the child of the Moon and Sun as the solution to his problem, Once he knew that, Graves was able to use all that he had learned to create a spell that he believed would allow him to capture the essence of the heavens and so leave the earth once and for all.

Those same auguries had led him to this cabin, and though he was secretly surprised that Haley had come wandering here as ordained, he wasn’t about the squander the opportunity.    That next night was the night of the new moon, and he intended to complete his terrible magic when the prying eyes of the Moon were blinded.  He turned to the big cauldron that bubbled and gurgled, and began to prepare the foul brew that would rob Haley of her celestial spirit.   (Picture 1)

Graves had lived too long by himself, and had long since acquired the habit of talking to himself.  Haley overheard his muttering, and when she learned what he intended, she was terrified.  She tried using her talents to free her from Graves’ control, but the sky-tendrils were weak in comparison, and she failed to move so much as an inch.

Far above, Syndir was angry.  He’d sensed the disturbance when Graves had tugged at the tree, and had seen the evil man drag his daughter away.  For all the might he possessed, he felt powerless.  While he could turn the entire planet to ash in his rage, he couldn’t even risk setting the cabin afire for fear of harming Halcyon.  

As the earth turned and dusk approached, Syndir called out across the heavens to Kerestal, informing her of their daughter’s plight.   Kerestal didn’t possess Syndir’s raw power, so through the ages the Moon had learned to be more subtle.

Kerestal scanned the space between her and the earth until she spotted something suitable.  With gentle tugs and nudges, she guided the man-made interloper the humans arrogantly called a ‘satellite’ out of its comfortable orbit and sent it tumbling into the atmosphere.  She guided the falling metal star for as long as she could, but the closer to the earth it streaked, the weaker her grip grew.  With a mighty crash, it plowed into the forest some distance from the cabin.

The next morning, a team of scientists prowled the forest looking for the fallen satellite.   They found its crumpled form half-buried in the dirt, as monkeys pranced about like it was some new toy provided solely for their amusement.  (Picture 4)

The scientists tried to shoo the playful little creatures away to no avail.  One of the monkeys even stole the chief scientist’s fancy cell phone right from his pocket, and fled to the tree when he tried to steal it back.  Complaining loudly, the spindly man climbed up after the mischievous beast.  

To his shock, he found Haley’s backpack wedged in the crook of the tree.  He pulled it free and jumped to the ground.  He gave up rescuing his cell phone as a lost cause, and instead had one of his comrades go for help.

Two hours later, police and volunteers combed the woods.  In short order, they found the cabin in the woods.  At first Graves tried to fight them, sending the earth-tendrils to knock them down, and even tried to fell trees on their heads.  Soon he realized it was a lost cause, and he set Haley free.  

Haley ran to the first policeman she saw and threw her arms around him.  Behind her, Graves walked slowly into the clearing, his hands held over his head.   The Sun brightened unbearably for a moment, forcing the rescuers to shield their eyes lest they be blinded.  When the sky dimmed once more, there was nothing left of Graves save a burnt patch on the ground.

Haley was reunited with Will and Sarah, and she stayed with them till she was all grown up.   Being the child of the Moon and Sun, Haley was unaffected by the passing of time, but Will and Sarah were mortal.  In what seemed like the blink of an eye to Kerestal and Syndir, they grew old and died.  

So grateful were the Sun and the Moon for the happy life Sarah and Will had given their daughter that they raised their spirits into the heavens, and if the astronomers noticed two stars where none had been before, they were careful not to make too much of it.

	Kerestal and Syndir grew to love each other again, and if they could only be in the same place every so often, they still talked every night when dusk settled over the earth, and every morning, too.

And Haley?  In what would seem like a long time for humans but was really the blink of an eye for a celestial, Haley came into her full powers, and left the Earth behind once and for all.  Now she streaks through the sky, travelling to see Will and Sarah for a while before swinging back to visit Kerestal and Syndir, who were the Sun and the Moon, and also her parents.

*

	The father stopped talking, and looked down at his sleeping daughter.  He might not be her real father, he thought, but his life revolved around her just the same.  As he crept silently out of the room, he noticed her peaceful face framed by a moonbeam shining through the window.


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## Rodrigo Istalindir (Mar 21, 2007)

Good luck, carpedavid!


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## yangnome (Mar 21, 2007)

Excellent stories from both of you.  This will be another very hard decision to make.


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## Sialia (Mar 21, 2007)

Also a very fine tale.

I'm so happy I don't have to judge between these!


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## Sialia (Mar 21, 2007)

While we wait for the judging, here's something to amuse: I've started posting he pictures that never made the cut:

http://www.enworld.org/showthread.php?t=24156&page=3 
(starting around post 97 there's new pictures).


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## carpedavid (Mar 21, 2007)

Rodrigo Istalindir said:
			
		

> Good luck, carpedavid!




Thanks! Good luck to you as well!


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## IvySylvan (Mar 21, 2007)

I just wanted to post and say that I'm ever impressed by the ability of the CDM writers.  This particular session seems to have been fraught with stress both inside and outside of the competition and most everyone rose to the challenge.  The stories posted, regardless of their level of completion, have been thoroughly entertaining.  (Mythago, you piqued my curiosity and now I may have to follow Sialia's conspiracy laden links and hints to try and figure out where you were going with your story.)  Cheesy as it sounds...bravo everyone!

Oh, and I think Dave really has run out of words.  His conversational skills over the past month have been reduced to grunts and hand gestures.


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## Sialia (Mar 21, 2007)

I'm pleased enough with both of these stories that I'd be willing to attempt a piece of art in appreciation for each of the finalists.

It doesn't have to be of your finalist story. Go over to my miscellaneous doodles thread and make a request for a doodle on any subject, and I'll take my best stab at it. 

Congrats on fine, fine efforts in a demanding competition.


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## Gulla (Mar 22, 2007)

Wow!

I'll comment on these in the evening, but looking at them I couldn't stop reading. Two wonderful stories, and since all CDM stories also depend on the pictures I really want a full competition with (almost only) Siala pictures. I'll sneak over to the other thread and comment on the wonderful pictures there as well.

Thanks to both the wonderful artist and the magnificent authors.

Håkon


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## yangnome (Mar 22, 2007)

I'd be interested in the author feedback on what it was like to have an all art round.  I'm walking out hte door for work now, but will chat later about why I went this way with pictures this last round.


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## Rodrigo Istalindir (Mar 22, 2007)

yangnome said:
			
		

> I'd be interested in the author feedback on what it was like to have an all art round.  I'm walking out hte door for work now, but will chat later about why I went this way with pictures this last round.




No different, really.  Maybe a little easier, since despite being art, they were still reasonably concrete representations.  Not as challenging in a masochistic sense -- I ddn't feel the 'oh crap' response that some picture combinations have inflicted in the past.


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## Gulla (Mar 22, 2007)

So, it's finally afternoon here, and I should be writing something else, but I'll have to get this off my chest first. Sblocked for the judges, of course.

[sblock]
I'll do these the oppisite way since that was the way I read them first. So I'll start with

*Rodrigo Istalindir* (who really could use a nice, short screen name that was easy to spell   ).  
The start of this story is very familiar, and my first impression was "this is a Princess Bride rip-off". I love the story (and the movie) but it didn't feel right (or maybe just too ambitious) to try following in those footsteps. Fortunately, you didn't try that, and the story has a very different feeling. And I was pulled in as soon as the introduction faded.
I do have a vague recollection of some real-world myths about love between the sun and the moon, but I cannot recall from where, and the love story is very nicely written. Yet I felt the toatlity was a little bit off from perfect.
Having now read it a couple more times I think that the problem actually is the "Princesse Bride framing" of the story. I don't think it adds anything of substance. We get to see too little of the girl and the background to really care, and then it just feels like an unwanted distraction from the very good farie tale in the middle. I think you should have trusted the farie tale to stand on its own, and dropped the frame. And if you absolutely wanted to keep it, give us a little bit more, so we care.

*Carpe David* (who at least has an easily spellable name, event though it isn't short   ). 
Oh, that is just sad. In a "you made this puppy cry" way, or something. (That was ment to be positive feedback...). 
The world of Esmeralda Santiago is very interesting. At first I was in doubt about what to think, but to me the view of Esmeralda felt corect. When Luna told us “There are no fairies, Da!” I thought she would crush out the wonderful world of Esmeralda, or that the illness was just lack of faith. And then Luna dies. For real   
When Esmeralda kept her faith and her world view through this and conquered the wraith (of doubt? of sorrow? or illness?) it felt like a very important victory.
I cannot really analyse this story as I feel it hits me on a more emotional level, but I think the story flows well, and I really get to care about both Esmeralda and Luna, but most I care about the way Esmeralda see the world. A very good story, since I still cannot quite wrap my mind around it but it feels good. In a sad way.

So since this is the last pairing I'll do a little judgeing. I cannot do worse than guessing wrong and noone will remember till next time anyway   
At the first reading I always end up with a gut feeling, and this time it was that Rodrigo Istalindir had the best story, but since reading them earlier today Carpe David's story has grown and grown. It would not leave me alone, and after reading both a couple of more times now, in the afternoon, I think I would give this one to Carpe David, and use what I feel is the unnescessary framing of Rodrigo Istalindir's story as the excuse. But it is very close, and I guess this one will come down to what type of story each judge preferes.
[/sblock]

Håkon
with another warm "Thank You!" to all participants and to Siala for the last pictures.


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## carpedavid (Mar 22, 2007)

yangnome said:
			
		

> I'd be interested in the author feedback on what it was like to have an all art round.  I'm walking out hte door for work now, but will chat later about why I went this way with pictures this last round.




The all art round felt about the same as a normal round, honestly. The task is the same whether the images are illustrations or photographs. The only difference, I would say, was that I felt a greater sense of responsibility to be true to the images, since I knew that the main artist would be here watching the results.


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## yangnome (Mar 23, 2007)

Orchid Blossom and Herremann have both assured me that they are working hard on the decisions.  I think all of us are having trouble deciding which way this round will go, which in this case is a great compliment to both writers.


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## carpedavid (Mar 23, 2007)

While we're waiting on the judgment, I want to thank all of my fellow competitors. Your high level of creativity and skill made for one of the more exciting competitions I think I've seen.

Also, thanks to everyone who commented throughout the tournament. Whether positive or negative, it's great to know that someone is reading your work. A special thanks to Gulla, who managed to provide insightful comments from start to finish!

More after the judgment hits...


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## yangnome (Mar 24, 2007)

carpedavid said:
			
		

> More after the judgment hits...




Is that a threat?


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## carpedavid (Mar 25, 2007)

yangnome said:
			
		

> Is that a threat?




Ha! No. I just don't want to appear to be pandering by thanking the judges before the judgment is made.


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## mythago (Mar 25, 2007)

Back from the anteroom of the dead--what'd I miss?

Wow! Nice stuff, guys. More coherent commentary when I'm off the painkillers.


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## yangnome (Mar 25, 2007)

glad to have you back mythago.  



(Still waiting on judgments)


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## orchid blossom (Mar 25, 2007)

Just sent mine.


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## carpedavid (Mar 27, 2007)

Any update?


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## Piratecat (Mar 27, 2007)

Aquiver with anticipation!


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## Berandor (Mar 27, 2007)

I haven't yet read the final stories, and I likely won't be able to this week, but I, too, want to know who won!


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## Rodrigo Istalindir (Mar 27, 2007)

Berandor said:
			
		

> I haven't yet read the final stories, and I likely won't be able to this week, but I, too, want to know who won!




Dude, it's like 15 pages, total.  How long could it take?  Besides, you've had the past several weeks when you weren't writing to catch up on other stuff.


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## Berandor (Mar 27, 2007)

Yeah, but then I had to go on vacation. Had to.


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## yangnome (Mar 28, 2007)

Herremann sent me an email last night, in which he promised he'd have a decision to me by tonight.  He can't access Enworld right now, but does have copies of the stories.


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## maxfieldjadenfox (Mar 28, 2007)

yangnome said:
			
		

> Herremann sent me an email last night, in which he promised he'd have a decision to me by tonight.  He can't access Enworld right now, but does have copies of the stories.




You know, I do think his dabbling with imps and gnophs and Lady Death (oh my!) have something to do with his ENWorld access problem. I'm just sayin'...


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## yangnome (Mar 28, 2007)

First, I want to thank all competitors that participated in this Ceramic DM competition.  In my opinion, this season has brought some of the best stories we’ve seen and definitely some of the tightest matches in CDM history.  That speaks a lot for the people writing here.  You managed to stick with us for more than a month, and pushed to meet the tight deadlines and cram together some difficult pictures.  

Without any further ado, here is the final judgment:  

Orchid Blossom:

One of the fun things about Ceramic DM is how different the two stories can come out.  I wonder if it’s a function of using artwork, or just a coincidence that this time both authors gave us stories that revolve around children.

carpedavid – The Short Story of Esmeralda Santiago

This is a sweet story, but it just didn’t seem to quite strike the notes you were shooting for.  The story didn’t feel like it resolved.  A story that reads like a fairy tale or a fable begs for a lesson to be learned.  There are two in this story, but the end left me in doubt as to which one was supposed to be learned.  One is how a child can deal with the death of another child, and the other is learning to take the possibilities of fairy-land with us as we grow and remember how extraordinary our ordinary world is.

There are a couple lovely turns of phrase near the beginning, and I would have liked to see more of them throughout.  Although this is our world, in Esmeralda’s eyes it’s a fantastic place, and since the story is from her point of view it would be nice to hear it described in lush, visual language to emphasize just how different things are to her.

I was a bit confused by the comments about Esmeralda’s mother.  The first we hear about her is that she is away a lot, leading us to think that Esmeralda is probably lonely a good deal of the time, thus her attachment to Luna.  But just a little further down the page we hear that she has a nickname only her mother and Luna can use, and her mother later breaks the news about Luna to her.  In a longer story there would be time to develop that dichotomy, but here it made me expect more about her mother in the story.

I can see that two of the pictures really drove the story: the one that you used for a specter with the cradle, and the one of the little girl by the pond.  The one of the girl in the moon was there as well, but it drove how Luna fit into Esmeralda’s fairy-land rather than her place in the story.

The picture with the monkeys was the weakest.  The scene felt like it was there only to get the picture included in the story.


Rodrigo Istalindir

This story carries the feeling of a mythical fable very well.  There’s only two things I’m going to mention, as there were only two things that either felt a bit out of place or made me stop and have to try to fit them in.

One was the meta-story if you will, the father telling the story to his daughter.  He tells her she had a big day tomorrow, but we never know what the big day is.  If the main theme of the story had been the love of adoptive parents, then the ending especially would have made more sense to me.  I get the feeling that there was supposed to be something implied about the father and daughter, but it wasn’t strong enough for me to be sure it was intended, or if I was imagining it.

The other part that rang a little strange for me was the man, Graves.  I kept wondering who or what he was in order to have the same abilities as Haley.  It was also a dramatic change in tone that threw me off.  I can see every reason for the scene, why it’s there, why something bad has to happen to send Haley back to Will and Sarah.  But still, it seems off.  Maybe it just should seem off.  It’s something ugly and perhaps the reader should feel like it doesn’t belong.

All the pictures fit in, but none of them really stood out to me.  The monkey picture was the most cleverly used, and I’m glad the picture wasn’t the first we saw of them, although I have to wonder where Haley was living that there were monkeys around.  The one with the cradle seemed a bit off.  If I were going to illustrate a picture of a woman who was grieving because she couldn’t have children, it wouldn’t look like the one provided.  Haley is otherworldly, but Sarah and Will aren’t, and the picture has an otherworldly quality about it.


These stories are very equally matched, so for me it’s coming down to picture use.  That sends it to carpedavid, where the pictures really drove the story for me.

Herremann:

Final 
carpedavid vs. Rodrigo Istalindir

And so it finishes as it began, with the long walk down to the back of the yard with a horrendously huge scythe in hand. 'Lady Death' was abuzz as was I for the final to one of the strongest Ceramic DMs I have seen. Rodrigo Istalindir and carpedavid have fought their way through some horrendously tough matches to get to this final and as I walked into the dark court under the massive elm, everything and everyone was eagerly waiting for the final judgment to begin. One competitor would survive the scythe's attention while the other would be cut down, smote by her hunger. And hungry she was!

The altar had been freshly cleaned, rubbed down with the skin of a demon until its surface gleamed with the dulled glow of polished granite. I tapped 'Lady Death' gently to begin the march of the two court imps, everyone's attention on their careful forms. Dressed in royal crimson and gold for the final they each held a scroll of carefully prepared parchment from the skins of several nymph maidens. I bowed to them as I accepted the final two offerings of the competition, nodded to the court and began.

"Dark Court, we are gathered here this evening to perform the final Judgment between carpedavid and Rodrigo Istalindir. For the final time, you the judging imps must decide between them; to decide the ultimate victor and who would become 'Lady Death's final meal before being returned to her usual occupation. Both contestants have provided suitable offerings to be considered so let's now dissect them in finest detail to judge who truly has earned dominion over his fellow competitors."

"carpedavid has given us The Short Story of Esmeralda Santiago. Beginning in Esmeralda's fantasy world of wonder and whimsy, we soon start to see that all is not well as this world of make-believe and nonsense slowly begins to unravel with Luna's illness. I found the disjunction between the two worlds fascinating, becoming thoroughly entranced by the mood and feel. 
Rodrigo has gone for the bedtime fable approach for his piece that works with a similar feel and mix of fantasy and whimsy. Is there something deeper here? 
After numerous re-readings I have come to the final conclusion that I could not find the golden thread and so could only judge this piece on face value. A good story never-the-less."

"Good jury, I'm sure you have had as much difficulty as I distinguishing between the story, style and presentation of these two offerings. I can give you no clue but to say I enjoyed both. What say you?"

The imps animated by their own perquisites and peculiarities eventually came to a position of 11 imps to 11 in a draw. Damn... I forgot about that whole even/odd thing with the imps. How remiss of me! Perhaps I would have opportunity to cull the judging panel later on? I tapped 'Lady Death' in acknowledgement of their initial position for the match.

"Now imps of the jury, I hate to say it but with the Gnopf in orbit and the curious absence of our fey presenter of the previous match, I have had to resort to the mundane." I quickly put up the six posters I had created from the images on the thread. I thought Sialia would be impressed by the impromptu infernal gallery set up in my backyard as the dark court oooh'd and aaah'd over the pictures.

"And so here we have the images for our viewing. Now unlike previous judgments I will have to confine the examination of these images to but a single vote. 'Lady Death' informs me that brevity is of the utmost importance. She is hungry for her final meal and so cannot wait for a series of six dissections and votes. As such I will guide you on the performance good imps of each of the submissions in this regard and then the final decision will belong to you."

"carpedavid has I believe taken the images as a whole to heart, taking the almost whimsical style of Sialia's five contributions as a guide and foundation for the wonderful inner world of Esmeralda. Rodrigo has with the majority of the images attempted a more literal approach although I believe special mention is deserved for the melding of the moon baby image and deathly cot. At first, I thought image three was totally missing as I could not find it anywhere in the text. [Unfortunately, my access to En World has once more evaporated so I am missing any possible links or special formatting that may have been used]. I then realized (or guessed more like it) of this curious symbiosis of grief from image six then joyous rapture from image three of the peacefully sleeping gift from the heavens. At first I was thinking 'what has Rodrigo done!' but with numerous readings, I believe this is the way that these two images have been curiously mixed together. Something I have not seen done before in quite this way. In the end, I thought both contestants navigated these images with aplomb"

"So the question becomes how to split the two contestants. Both works were well conceived from an incredibly difficult array of diverse images. Imps, I leave it to you to decide."

The imps of the jury moved carefully trying to sense the general consensus but this only confused and befuddled them further. Several imps then began bellowing infernal instructions that led to several outbursts of  violence. I almost intervened but preferred to let them finish things off - with any luck, the number of imps would be reduced by an odd number, ruling out the embarrassment of a draw. In fact the more I thought about it, the more I thought how appropriate a draw would be. I then clanged the scythe into the altar with percussive impact. The imps had settled down into two neat piles that were... unevenly balanced. A quick count revealed...

Carpedavid victorious with twelve imps to Rodrigo's ten. I have no idea How the imps managed to settle this but such is the whimsy I suppose of your average imp.

Congratulations to both competitors for a thoroughly enjoyable time. I have very much enjoyed all of your stories over the last month and a bit and so congratulations!!! As for the eventual loser, I believe you should expect a visit soon from a scythe most hungry.

Best Regards
Herremann the Wise

Yangnome:

Carpedavid-


Now, let’s get down to this round.  Carpedavid gives us a surprisingly dark story about a child battling to defend her imagination against the harsh realities of the real world.  When I started reading the first part, I thought _ What is this guy doing, this is so disjointed, was he really that pressed for time?_, then Luna opens the shutters to the real world and kicks us in the gut.  It became clear that we had been looking at the world through Da’s eyes.

You weaved a really strong tale that had a lot of emotional punch.    You seemed to integrate the pictures into your story really well too, with real imaginative use.   If I have only one criticism, it is in the arrangement of the story.  I don’t really see the purpose in the flashbacks in the timeline.  I could be wrong here, but I think the story might have been stronger had you told it sequentially.  


Rodrigo-
You offer us a fun fairytale, a story a father is telling his adopted daughter.  The story of the love between the sun and the moon seems very familiar, and it is easy to be captured brought into the tale.  

I think your picture use was also pretty strong, though you seemed to interpret the pictures pretty literally.  This isn’t necessarily a bad thing, though with more difficult pictures it can be jarring.  I didn’t see a reference to picture 3 in your story, but I think I found the place in the story where it should have been.  Looking at the picture, it definitely seemed to have a large impact on your overall story.

If there is a weakness here, I think that it is the framing of your story.  While I think the revelation that the father is reading to his adopted daughter, I don’t think it provides a large enough *thump* to justify putting it in the story.  I think the fairytale is strong enough to stand on its own without it.

This decision is a hard one for me.  I really feel that either story could have won this round.  Both contestants provided excellent stories and both made good use of the pictures provided.  For me, the decision has to come down to personal preference.  In that respect, I feel that Carpedavid’s story moved me more on an emotional level.   

Carpedavid wins this round with a 3-0 decision that probably doesn’t accurately demonstrate how close this match was. Congrats to both of you for providing some excellent stories.


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## Rodrigo Istalindir (Mar 28, 2007)

Congratulations to carpedavid for an awesome story, and to all the competitors for what I think is a Ceramic DM for the ages.  And thanks to the judges for all the hard work, and the invaluable critiques.  I set out this time to work on various aspects of my writing, and even if I (eventually) failed in the competition, I think based on your responses I succeeded in my other goals.

As for Lady Death, I have no fear.  I took the liberty of installing an 'upgrade' during my brief tenure running CDM last fall.  I may not be able to control the imps remotely yet, but a scythe?  No problem.    

So, when's the next one?  And what are we going to call it?


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## yangnome (Mar 28, 2007)

I wouldn't say you failed in the competition.  I don't think anyone that managed to turn in a story failed.  Sure, we have a winner and a oser in each round, but really, everyone hopefully gains from CDM--I know I certainly do.  I like to use CDM as a time to try out different things that I might not usually do.  Sometimes I hamstrong myself by adding additional challenges to an already difficult task (mimicking an author's style, trying to hide a song's lyrics in a story, etc.)  I know I've gained quite a bit of experience and insight into my own writing style through this competition.
Anyhow, sorry for the rant, I'm sure you realize this as well.

As for when the next competition is, your guess is as good as mine.  I think it might be helpful to identify who the person is who will lead it and then let them pick a start date.  If we change the name, I vote that we call it Enworld's Short Story Smackdown.


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## Rodrigo Istalindir (Mar 28, 2007)

Well, 'failed' in the sense of 'failed to grind my opponent under my boot until he cried out for mercy'.


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## Sialia (Mar 29, 2007)

Congratulations to all the wonderful contestants who provided me with such wonderful and desperately needed diversion.

Congratulations in excelsis to our deserving champion and runner-up!


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## maxfieldjadenfox (Mar 29, 2007)

Wow. This was some CDM. I really enjoyed the final two stories, but all of them were great reads this time. I agree, a CDM for the ages!


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## carpedavid (Mar 29, 2007)

*does happy dance*

Rodrigo, I'd like to thank you for that final round. It was so close that I had no idea who was going to win. It could just as easily have been you, and that's the most exciting kind of competition. And by exciting, I mean totally nerve wracking. 

I'd also like to thank all of the judges. Having judged Iron DM, I know how much work goes into it, and you all did a consistantly great job. It helps a lot to get the kind of feedback that you were all able to provide.

*does happy dance*

Also - regarding the next one, I'm on board with Yangnome's "ENWorld's Short Story Smackdown" title. It's catchy.


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## Graywolf-ELM (Mar 29, 2007)

Congratulations CarpeDavid, Rodrigo, everyone else, this competition was quite fun to follow, and read, and learn from.

GW


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## maxfieldjadenfox (Apr 1, 2007)

OK, so somebody send me an e-mail when the next one rolls around, (whatever it ends up being called) OK?


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## questing gm (Apr 1, 2007)

Congrats carpe for being champion~!
and i would love to get back into this in the next one....
i eagerly await till then


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## Berandor (Apr 1, 2007)

EnWorld Short Story Smackdown is a good idea. Sign me up for it.

Congrats, carpedavid! I haven't read your last story yet but the ones before were of such consistent quality that no matter what you earned your win. I guess that makes me the guy who lost to the guy who lost to the guy who lost to the champion? Cool!


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## maxfieldjadenfox (Apr 2, 2007)

I lost to both champions...  OK, not in this round, but I guess I'm proud... Maybe?


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## orchid blossom (Apr 2, 2007)

Hey, I'm proud of my many losses to champions.


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## Herremann the Wise (Apr 2, 2007)

Hello Everyone,

My Home connection has been restored somewhat - at least it seems to be working at the moment. Congratulations to Carpedavid and commiserations to all the other fine competitors, particularly Rodrigo Istalindir who almost took the crown - and by almost I mean I *really* struggled to separate the two final entries.

A special congratulations to yangnome too for officiating this competition. Unfortunately, most people don't get to see behind the scenes in terms of pictures/selection, ideas etc. but may I say, yangnome's arrangement with his site was pure gold!!! Congratulations on running such a great competition once again.

Anyway, this was an absolute blast to judge with so many fantastic entries. However, I wish to make mention of one in particular that for me was as good as anything I have previously read in Ceramic DM or pretty much any short story for that matter. Piratecat's "Thy Kingdom Come" was for me pure brilliance and deserving of a second read by you guys - so here it is once more:

http://www.enworld.org/showpost.php?p=3352848&postcount=513

Anyway, looking forward to the next incarnation of Ceramic DM in whatever form it takes. This time though, I think I'm going to throw my hat into the competitor's ring to give some of you guys the opportunity for revenge. Getting beaten up by a bunch of imps and a scythe should be fun.   

Best Regards
Herremann the Wise


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## Berandor (Apr 10, 2007)

What are you doing here? This thread is dead – or is it?

I just had the chance to read the two final stories. Once more great work; I think I would have had some problems with an all-art round. Since the contest is long over, I won't spoiler my comments, but before I put them down let me just say that I think yangnome's idea of Short Story Smackdown has really grown on me, so much so that I refer to Ceramic DM already by that term 

On both stories, I was suprised they're not the usual "surprise twist" kind of stories this contest often produces. Perhaps the fairy-tale qualities came about by using art instead of pictures?

*Rodrigo Istalindir*: I liked this story well enough, but I could have used a stronger leitmotif to guide me through. The adoption angle seemed tacked on somewhat – it's not that it shouldn't be there, but by referencing it at the end it seems as if that was the main idea of the story. If that was the case, then the story should have revolved around that angle a little more. The inclusion of the mad hermit was also somewhat disappointing. It's a "don't talk to strangers or go out alone" kind of warning, a typical lesson for a children's story, but you hint at very dark things and then don't go through with it. I'd suspect even the story as it is courts turning too scary for a young child at that point, and at the same time it's not dark enough for a mature reader.

The structure of the story was nice; I actually liked the idea of it being a bed-time tale. I, however, would have liked more father-daughter-interplay, both to frame the story even more and to break it up with a little dialogue. One other think I noticed was the resolution of the daughter turning into a comet, something that might go over the head of young children.

That said, the story did feel like a bed-side story, a tone which may have been difficult to adhere to in writing. Also, I liked the sadness running through (the lovers not able to meet, the moon giving up her child, Haley being regarded as a witch, the parents dying in the end). I think the story got more complex because of it. I also liked the idea of gravitational forces being represented by these lines, and of the sun super-lasering the bad guy away.

In the end, I think my biggest concern with this story is that it's neither a real story with a strong conflict nor a full-blown allegory, leaving me a little at a loss whether some things I noticed were deliberate strengths or accidental flaws of the piece. But it was great fun to read it. Thanks.

*carpedavid*: I'm a sucker for tales about the power of imagination, so you had me right there. What I liked was that Da wasn't able to save her friend, i.e. the fairy magic was not real, but that she didn't give up on her world despite it. That's as close to the message I would give as you can get. One thing you did well was pull us into Esmeralda's world without us noticing it. Only at Luna's outburst did I realize what was going on.

It's difficult to write children's dialogue. In the beginning, I felt the dialogue was very good (especially the thing about Da marrying), but it did become very direct, as if you wanted to make sure it was all spelled out nicely. I didn't like the structure of the story. When you flash back, I was totally thrown and kept asking myself why this flashback was necessary; in the end, I don't it was, you could have just told the story in succession. In fact, that might have made the reveal of Esmeralda's fantasy world even more poignant.

Finally, I'm not too sure about the ending; Da decides to become a doctor, I guess, but the significance of that didn't really register with me. I was missing some reference to an older Esmeralda, perhaps. I'm not sure. All I can say is I liked the idea of her being a doctor when it first came up, and didn't really jive with it at the end.

One last thing: I keep wondering whether Esmeralda's mother (Da's Ma?) was in on the game or not; that is, whether she referred to the dog as dragon or not. It doesn't make a difference for the story, but it's still something that made me wonder.

Once more thanks to all story-posting competitors, who really made this a great contest. Next time, it'll be even better.

Because I'm gonna win.


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## Rodrigo Istalindir (Apr 10, 2007)

Thanks for the feedback, Berandor.  Spot on, as always.

It was very hard to stay in voice, as it were, and keep it sounding like a fairy-tale.  That's one reason why I cut several father-daughter interactions -- in addition to making it seem like a 'Princess Bride' knock-off, it broke the rhythm I thought.  I did more 'write/backspace/rewrite' sentences in this than in most anything I've done, as I'd write something, read it back and think it was too concrete, and rewrite it again.

Still, it was a lot of fun to write, and a stretch from what I'm used to, so I'm glad it turned out the way it did.


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