# EN World Short Story Smackdown - FINAL: Berandor vs Piratecat - The Judgment Is In!



## Herremann the Wise (May 10, 2008)

*AND SO IT BEGINS*
Welcome everyone to perhaps one of the most eagerly anticipated Short Story Smackdowns/Ceramic DMs of all time. We have sixteen writers to start things off with a plethora of former championship winners amongst a hotly contested field. Not only has one of the largest and talented fields been assembled, but we have also stepped back in time to gain the assistance of some legendary judges in both Arwink and Maldur. This is a truly spectacular effort from all concerned and on behalf of the judging team, I wish you all the best of luck!

*THE RULES OF PLAY*

*1.* A match consists of two competitors who will be given a set of pictures (four images in the early rounds ascending to six in the final), from which they are to put together a short story. The pictures may be used in any order, but all pictures are to be meaningfully used. As a courtesy to the judges and others reading your entry, it is generally polite to include a footnote or some such to indicate where in your story a picture has been used. A story can be any length but if you are going to go over 5,000 words, it better be worth it.

*2.* Your match will start at a specified and agreed upon time. From this point, you will have 72 hours to assemble your masterpiece. It is suggested you write your entry in a separate word processor and then copy it directly into your post. Once posted, you CANNOT edit your entry - an edited entry generally results in disqualification. Remember though, it is expected that there will be mistakes of some nature or another in any entry. Don't stress, everyone here who has competed can most likely recall some form of blundering and foolish mistake that has been cast for all to see in the harshest light; it goes with the territory. Suck it up and don't give in to the temptation to edit your post.

*3.* And the most important rule of all, please submit something, even if it is the silliest bunch of incomplete tripe you have ever put together. To pike out and not submit is the worst disrespect you can give to your competitors and the judges. If you can just put forward something, I can guarantee you will have the sympathy, support and respect of everyone here. No one will EVER judge you harshly for submitting something, even if it really is terrible.

*4.* And a quick edited rule, if the site is down and you need to post your entry, you can send it to my email directly at samphipps at optusnet.com.au
I will make sure all judges receive this and will also confirm to the competitor that all is cool. Also, as someone has already mentioned, maybe write my email down offline somewhere as it is most likely not going to do you much good here if you can't access the site.

*THE MATCHES*

*ROUND ONE*

*Match 1 - Pictures Posted - Judgment Posted*
Pictures
1. FickleGM - Submitted
2. Dlsharrock - Submitted
Judgment

*Match 2 - Pictures Posted - Judgment Posted*
Pictures
3. Thorod Ashstaff - Submitted
4. Eeralai - Submitted
Judgment

*Match 3 - Pictures Posted - Judgment Posted*
Pictures
5. Starman - Submitted
6. Madwabbit - Submitted _Late_
Judgment

*Match 4 - Pictures Posted - Judgment Posted*
Pictures
7. Berandor - Submitted
8. Awayfarer - Submitted
Judgment

*Match 5 - Pictures Posted - Judgment Posted*
Pictures
9. Piratecat - Submitted
10. Orchid Blossom - Submitted
Judgment

*Match 6 - Pictures Posted - Judgment Posted*
Pictures
11. Ycore Rixle - Submitted
12. RangerWickett - Submitted
Judgment

*Match 7 - Pictures Posted - Judgment Posted*
Pictures
13. Rodrigo Istalindir - Submitted
14. tadk - Submitted
Judgment

*Match 8 - Pictures Posted - Judgment Posted*
Pictures
15. Mythago - Submitted
16. maxfieldjadenfox - Submitted
Judgment

*ROUND TWO*

*Match 9 - Stories Posted - Judgment Posted*
Pictures
Dlsharrock
Eeralai
Judgment

*Match 10 - Stories Posted - Judgment Posted*
Pictures
Starman
Berandor
Judgment

*Match 11 - Stories Posted - Judgment Posted*
Pictures
Piratecat 
Ycore Rixle
Judgment

*Match 12 - Stories Posted - Judgment Posted*
Pictures
Rodrigo Istalindir
Mythago
Judgment

*ROUND THREE*

*Match 13 - Stories Posted - Judgment Posted*
Pictures
Dlsharrock
Berandor
Judgment

*Match 14 - Stories Posted - Judgment Posted*
Pictures
Piratecat
Rodrigo Istalindir
Judgment

*ROUND FOUR - FINAL*

*Final - Match 15 - Pictures Posted - Judgment Posted - We Have a Winner!*
Pictures
Berandor
Piratecat Part One Part Two
Judgment

*ALTERNATE*
A. Tashtego

*JUDGES*
Arwink
Herremann the Wise
Maldur


The judges will do their very best to have judgments back within 48 hours if not sooner. I intend to have this competition complete in the shortest time span possible.

And finally, I shall finish wishing everyone the best of luck as well as giving a small piece of advice. I have found that the best entries tend to be the most daring ones. Essentially, don't play this game conservatively.

Best Regards
Herremann the Wise


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## Rodrigo Istalindir (May 10, 2008)

Ready when you are.  Any time is good for me.


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## Starman (May 10, 2008)

Well, I hope I don't make madwabbit _too_ mad when I crush him. I'd hate to see him become the madwaaaaahbbit. 

I'm ready to go whenever. A Sunday evening start would be great.


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## Berandor (May 10, 2008)

Wednesday or later is fine.


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## Eeralai (May 10, 2008)

I'm ready.


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## FickleGM (May 10, 2008)

I am good to go.  Anytime after Sunday works best for me.


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## orchid blossom (May 10, 2008)

Herremann the Wise said:
			
		

> 9. Piratecat
> 10. Orchid Blossom




This can only end in tears!  Even if I win, then there's no more Piratecat story goodness!  Why do the gods hate me??

My only requests are to not have my story due on Friday, and to not have it posted in the morning.  I can't check EnWorld from work, so if it's posted in the morning I won't see it until after 5 o'clock.  (Unless it's posted before 8 am est).


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## tadk (May 10, 2008)

*Well*



			
				Rodrigo Istalindir said:
			
		

> Ready when you are.  Any time is good for me.





_
*This season is double elimination right?*_

Rodrigo where do I send your Food Poison Gram to? I just want to make sure it arrives in time for you to 'Enjoy' my gift.  

I am as free as ever when ever


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## FickleGM (May 10, 2008)

Don't be such a girl.  Kick his ass.


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## RangerWickett (May 10, 2008)

I think that Wednesday is a good starting day.


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## maxfieldjadenfox (May 10, 2008)

Oooh, look. I found it on my own... Never mind, Herremann. I'm more resourceful than I thought. Earlier in the week is better for me, but I can be flexible if that doesn't work for Mythago.

Hi Mythago, (*waves*) you bring the beer, I'll bring the pain. And maybe some chips.


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## tadk (May 10, 2008)

*well*



			
				FickleGM said:
			
		

> Don't be such a girl.  Kick his ass.




'Looks down'

Not a girl
this is our 3rd or 4th matchup he and I

Just want to level the playing field, I get 2 weeks to write, he has 15 minutes and food poisoning, might be a Tad (hruk hruk hruk) level.

That is all I am saying Fickle, all I am saying...


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## mythago (May 10, 2008)

Got you covered on the beer. I'll also bring these brand-new nanoedged semicolons. They're great for cutting the tops off beer cans and...other things.


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## Ycore Rixle (May 10, 2008)

Any time after Monday is good for me. Ryan suggests a Wednesday start for our match, so that would be great. I'll use the intervening time to research effective strategies against Rangers and Ewoks. Perhaps I'll distract him with a shiny levitating droid.


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## maxfieldjadenfox (May 10, 2008)

mythago said:
			
		

> Got you covered on the beer. I'll also bring these brand-new nanoedged semicolons. They're great for cutting the tops off beer cans and...other things.




Cool new technology, or thinly veiled threat? You be the judge, gentle readers. And Mythago, dear, some of us can get by with our razor sharp wit.


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## FickleGM (May 10, 2008)

tadk said:
			
		

> 'Looks down'
> 
> Not a girl
> this is our 3rd or 4th matchup he and I
> ...



 Damn it all, I forgot to click the "Quote message in reply?" box.  My post was directed toward orchid blossom.


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## awayfarer (May 10, 2008)

Berandor said:
			
		

> Wednesday or later is fine.




That works best for me too.


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## RangerWickett (May 10, 2008)

Ycore Rixle said:
			
		

> Any time after Monday is good for me. Ryan suggests a Wednesday start for our match, so that would be great. I'll use the intervening time to research effective strategies against Rangers and Ewoks. Perhaps I'll distract him with a shiny levitating droid.




Oooh.


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## mythago (May 10, 2008)

maxfieldjadenfox said:
			
		

> Cool new technology, or thinly veiled threat? You be the judge, gentle readers. And Mythago, dear, some of us can get by with our razor sharp wit.




You just don't get a pleasing blood-spatter effect with wit, unfortunately.


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## maxfieldjadenfox (May 10, 2008)

mythago said:
			
		

> You just don't get a pleasing blood-spatter effect with wit, unfortunately.




I have eviscerated some poor souls with my wit in the past. (I don't generally do it because I am a nice person and prefer to use charm...) 

High tech or low tech bloodbath? Guess we'll have to hope someone with janitorial skills is nearby, cos this could get messy.


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## mythago (May 10, 2008)

maxfieldjadenfox said:
			
		

> I have eviscerated some poor souls with my wit in the past. (I don't generally do it because I am a *nice* person and prefer to use *charm*...)




Piratecat, think there's something wrong with ENworld posting - it *looks* like maxfieldjadenfox said something in English but I can't understand what the heck it is (see bold above).


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## maxfieldjadenfox (May 10, 2008)

mythago said:
			
		

> Piratecat, think there's something wrong with ENworld posting - it *looks* like maxfieldjadenfox said something in English but I can't understand what the heck it is (see bold above).




OK. No fair making me laugh.


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## Thorod Ashstaff (May 11, 2008)

*Ready*

Ready and eager. (And Starman, I happen to LIKE caves...)

Wow, paired up against a talented friend in the first round - there will be blood...


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## Piratecat (May 11, 2008)

Lori, what's good for you? I'm going to be away this coming weekend, so need something that either falls into one week or the other. I'll find out when I'm back home.


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## Piratecat (May 12, 2008)

In addition, write down the judges' email. Somewhere offline! If EN World goes down, you'll still need to email your story on time.


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## Thorod Ashstaff (May 12, 2008)

Piratecat said:
			
		

> In addition, write down the judges' email. Somewhere offline! If EN World goes down, you'll still need to email your story on time.




Good advice! Especially considering the site just did go down, for quite a while.

Eagerly awaiting pictures (be kind, it's only the first round...)!


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## maxfieldjadenfox (May 12, 2008)

I have Sam's e-mail addy, do I need to send to all 3 or is one enough? Judges?

I see that I was supposed to start writing yesterday... This creates some problems with the time space continuum. What to do? 

What happens if the site is down and I can't see the pictures? Will one of you judging type folks e-mail them?


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## madwabbit (May 12, 2008)

I haven't given my email to any of the judges -- did I miss a post instructing us to do so?

Nor do I have any of the judges' emails.  

I feel alone, lost, and bereft of judgey goodness and instruction.


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## Rodrigo Istalindir (May 12, 2008)

Damn, these pictures are hard!  I've got no ideas at all.

Oh, and nice try, max, but you're supposed to wait until I win before you crash the boards.  You're timing is off this time.


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## mythago (May 12, 2008)

What's the date on the start times?


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## maxfieldjadenfox (May 12, 2008)

Rodrigo Istalindir said:
			
		

> Damn, these pictures are hard!  I've got no ideas at all.
> 
> Oh, and nice try, max, but you're supposed to wait until I win before you crash the boards.  You're timing is off this time.




Come now Rodrigo.You are responsible for the crashing of the boards and these "pictures" are hallucinations brought on by the guilt...


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## Thorod Ashstaff (May 12, 2008)

Rodrigo Istalindir said:
			
		

> Damn, these pictures are hard!




Pictures? I don't see no stinkin' pictures! Am I missing something? I thought pictures were posted within the thread.

-One confused dwarf


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## maxfieldjadenfox (May 12, 2008)

Thorod Ashstaff said:
			
		

> Pictures? I don't see no stinkin' pictures! Am I missing something? I thought pictures were posted within the thread.
> 
> -One confused dwarf




Rodrigo, believing that his swarthy good looks are enough to protect him, tends to make undecipherable jokes... Unless I am mistaken, this is one of them.


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## Piratecat (May 12, 2008)

You spelled "warty" wrong.


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## Rodrigo Istalindir (May 12, 2008)

maxfieldjadenfox said:
			
		

> Rodrigo, believing that his swarthy good looks are enough to protect him, tends to make undecipherable jokes... Unless I am mistaken, this is one of them.




Undecipherable to the unwashed masses, perhaps.  I find myself very witty.  But, for the humor-impaired, I was making a joke that it's hard to write a story using pictures as inspiration when no one actually posted any pictures.  



			
				Piratecat said:
			
		

> You spelled "warty" wrong.




You're recycling jokes like you recycle plotlines, PC.  You'll have to come up with something more creative than a superhero story with dead-baby armor this time.  I mean, come on, that's been done to death.


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## Piratecat (May 12, 2008)

I know, I know. But I find myself oddly hilarious, and some jokes are just too good to pass up on. Is that so wrong? *IS THAT SO WRONG?*

Anyways, how about _cybernetic_ dead baby armor on a superhero? I figure that's branching out, right? (Although I think I've only ever done one superhero story. Not too, too bad.)


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## maxfieldjadenfox (May 12, 2008)

Rodrigo Istalindir said:
			
		

> Undecipherable to the unwashed masses, perhaps.  I find myself very witty.  But, for the humor-impaired, I was making a joke that it's hard to write a story using pictures as inspiration when no one actually posted any pictures.




I am so washed. Um, were you referring to Thorod? 'Cause if you were, he's pretty clean for a dwarf.

And PC, having never met Rodrigo in person, I guess I have to bow to your greater (and reiterated) knowledge, but in my mind, Rodrigo will always look like Antonio Banderas...


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## Rodrigo Istalindir (May 12, 2008)

We find you odd and hilarious, too.


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## Dlsharrock (May 12, 2008)

Sorry, first time I've been able to access Enworld since Sunday's downtime. Did we start already? 

Mid-week/Wednesday is good for me, if that's good for my esteemed opponent. I'm being kind, as I hear Thursday is garbage take-out day where Fickle lives and I'd hate for him to lose his best source of inspiration before the smackdown even begins!


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## Berandor (May 12, 2008)

Does anybody have Herreman's E-Mail address? I'm not sure I do, and even if I have, I didn't save it under "Herreman" so I can't find it. And I won't send my entry to my whole address book just to make sure. Probably not.

Maybe I will.


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## awayfarer (May 12, 2008)

I wanted to say something witty but I couldn't think of anything, like everyone else.


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## Rodrigo Istalindir (May 12, 2008)

maxfieldjadenfox said:
			
		

> And PC, having never met Rodrigo in person, I guess I have to bow to your greater (and reiterated) knowledge, but in my mind, Rodrigo will always look like Antonio Banderas...




:hola:

I'm much taller than Antonio Banderas, though.  

edit: dammit, where's my 'Hola' smilie :gnash:

edit: dammit, we need more smilies.


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## Herremann the Wise (May 12, 2008)

Hello Everyone,

Apologies for the confusion, but as of this post, no pictures have been posted and no matches have commenced. I could not access EN World *all* of yesterday, no matter how hard I tried. Everything seems to be OK now so for those reading this post, expect some images in about 50 minutes - 9:00am Sydney time.

We have two matches to commence this morning:

*Round 1 Match 7*
Rodrigo Istalindir vs. tadk

*Round 1 Match 8*
Mythago vs maxfieldjadenfox

Apologies again for the confusion. In addition, I am going to try and nut down times for all other matches so if you are reading this and have not posted a preferred starting time for this week, please do.

Best Regards
Herremann the Wise

PS: If the boards go down again, you can email your entry direct to me at samphipps at optusnet.com.au
I will make sure the other judges get it.


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## Herremann the Wise (May 12, 2008)

Thorod Ashstaff said:
			
		

> Pictures? I don't see no stinkin' pictures! Am I missing something? I thought pictures were posted within the thread.
> 
> -One confused dwarf



Apologies for the confusion Thorod, but I could not access EN World yesterday. Unfortunately you have taken Rodrigo at his word which is always a dangerous thing.   
No images have yet been posted despite Rodrigo's assertion of their supposed difficulty [I suggest you send some serious smacktalk back in response].
Your pictures shall be posted in roughly 24 hours, so have fun sharpening your pencils and getting ready - check the first post of this thread for details.

*Round One Match Two*
Thorod Ashstaff vs. Eeralai

Best Regards
Herremann the Wise


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## Herremann the Wise (May 12, 2008)

madwabbit said:
			
		

> I haven't given my email to any of the judges -- did I miss a post instructing us to do so?
> 
> Nor do I have any of the judges' emails.
> 
> I feel alone, lost, and bereft of judgey goodness and instruction.



Apologies for the confusion. Will you be OK to write in 24 hours? I'm planning your match for tomorrow. See my previous post (about 3 or 4 up) for details regarding my email and sending in entries if EN World is down again. I'll also add this to the first post of the thread.

Best Regards
Herremann the Wise


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## Herremann the Wise (May 12, 2008)

Piratecat said:
			
		

> Lori, what's good for you? I'm going to be away this coming weekend, so need something that either falls into one week or the other. I'll find out when I'm back home.



Hello PC and Orchid Blossom,

If I can get confirmation from you both that all is OK, I can post your pictures almost immediately, as this would seem to be the only way to cater to both of your wishes.
I'll do my best to fit in with you.

Best Regards
Herremann the Wise


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## Herremann the Wise (May 13, 2008)

*Round One - Match Seven*
Rodrigo Istalindir vs. tadk

You have 72 hours from this post to submit your entries. Best of luck from the judges!


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## Herremann the Wise (May 13, 2008)

*Round One - Match Eight*
Mythago vs. maxfieldjadenfox

You have 72 hours from this post to submit your entries. Best of luck from the judges!


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## awayfarer (May 13, 2008)

I gotta confess, I feel like I don't know anyone here well enough to smacktalk without just sounding like an ass. I apologize if I offended anybody.

Furthermore I've edited out all references to the Communist Party of America. There's no conclusive proof that my opponent was even there when the war crimes were committed, so I've retracted any statements to the opposite effect. Lastly, the words "kitten leather trousers" have been removed from all of my previous posts. I don't think I need to tell you why. Hoo-boy. Just saying all this by way of an apology.

Wednesday afternoon is perfect by the way.


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## orchid blossom (May 13, 2008)

Herremann the Wise said:
			
		

> Hello PC and Orchid Blossom,
> 
> If I can get confirmation from you both that all is OK, I can post your pictures almost immediately, as this would seem to be the only way to cater to both of your wishes.
> I'll do my best to fit in with you.
> ...





I'm ok to go as soon as you say.  No problem with accomodating PC as I'd also like to have my weekend free for some family stuff.

Sorry for the late response, I had some trouble with my firewall and there was much monkeying about with my PC before I could go online.


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## Herremann the Wise (May 13, 2008)

orchid blossom said:
			
		

> I'm ok to go as soon as you say.  No problem with accomodating PC as I'd also like to have my weekend free for some family stuff.
> 
> Sorry for the late response, I had some trouble with my firewall and there was much monkeying about with my PC before I could go online.




All's cool and thanks for that. 
As soon as I get a confirmation from PC, I'll post the pictures. I'll do my best to hunt him down.

Best Regards
Herremann the Wise


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## tadk (May 13, 2008)

Herremann the Wise said:
			
		

> *Round One - Match Seven*
> Rodrigo Istalindir vs. tadk
> 
> You have 72 hours from this post to submit your entries. Best of luck from the judges!





I didn't realize it was tres' gnarly pictures already.


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## Thorod Ashstaff (May 13, 2008)

Herremann the Wise said:
			
		

> [I suggest you send some serious smacktalk back in response].




I was composing just such, until I saw the pictures Rodrigo got for his match, and I feel that he is, perhaps, punished enough.

I resent the unwashed comment, however; I scrubbed the mead foam residue out of my beard just last month.


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## Piratecat (May 13, 2008)

In an ideal world I'd have the pictures posted any time tomorrow; I might get a chance to playtest 4e on Thursday night, 72 hours from now! But if that's not feasible, post them whenever. Many thanks.


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## Tashtego (May 13, 2008)

I would love to participate but guess it's a bit too late right now  Let me know if anyone drops out or something and I can be a reserve, if you need one.


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## madwabbit (May 13, 2008)

Herremann the Wise said:
			
		

> Apologies for the confusion. Will you be OK to write in 24 hours? I'm planning your match for tomorrow. See my previous post (about 3 or 4 up) for details regarding my email and sending in entries if EN World is down again. I'll also add this to the first post of the thread.
> 
> Best Regards
> Herremann the Wise



Sure, I'll be ready, no problem.  

If needed, my email is tom_DOT_cadorette_AT_gmail_DOT_com


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## Herremann the Wise (May 13, 2008)

*Round One - Match Five*
Piratecat vs. Orchid Blossom

You have 72 hours from this post to submit your entries. Best of luck from the judges!


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## orchid blossom (May 13, 2008)

Herreman, Tuesday morning is ok with me.  I can handle something due Friday morning, I just don't have any time on Friday to actually do any work.

Before 8 am est would be ideal.  Later is ok too.

_Edit:_  Or nevermind as my pics went up while I posted this.


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## Herremann the Wise (May 13, 2008)

Hello PC and Orchid Blossom,

Posting the pics now is probably the best compromise I can do, I apologise for any inconvenience. I just hope they are not posted too late in the evening for you guys. 
If there's any difficulty send me an email and I'll see what I can do.

Once again, best of luck with a mature, yet I hope thematically deep set of images.

Best Regards
Herremann the Wise


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## orchid blossom (May 13, 2008)

No problems at all, it's a great time for me.

(Means I can write madly on Thursday night trying to finish.    )


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## Herremann the Wise (May 13, 2008)

Tashtego said:
			
		

> I would love to participate but guess it's a bit too late right now  Let me know if anyone drops out or something and I can be a reserve, if you need one.



Hello Tashtego,

Unfortunately, there seems to be seating adequate for only the current crew. However, I shall register you as an alternate, just in case someone has to pull out at the death. As such, you are going to have to be on your toes. I'm attempting to post all matches 9:00am Sydney time (check a world clock for your local time). As such, just pop in and check the first post and if you see your name up in lights, then you better get cracking.  

Thank you very much for the interest. Follow the current contest (with a truly stellar field in all departments may I just say!) and look out for the next Short Story Smackdown/Ceramic DM and sign up early.

Best Regards
Herremann the Wise


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## Piratecat (May 13, 2008)

Drat - that'll only give me 48 hours unless I blow off work.  Get ready, Orchid Blossom. I'm going to have to write fast!


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## Tashtego (May 13, 2008)

Herremann the Wise said:
			
		

> Hello Tashtego,
> 
> Unfortunately, there seems to be seating adequate for only the current crew. However, I shall register you as an alternate, just in case someone has to pull out at the death. As such, you are going to have to be on your toes. I'm attempting to post all matches 9:00am Sydney time (check a world clock for your local time). As such, just pop in and check the first post and if you see your name up in lights, then you better get cracking.
> 
> ...




Thanks, Herreman! I'll be on the ball, just in case.  The time zone shouldn't be an issue, as I'm also in Sydney...


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## Dlsharrock (May 13, 2008)

(EDIT due to my stupidity and inability to remember that Sydney is *ahead* not *behind* UK) 1:00am UK time, if that helps anyone (*uses international gesture for eager anticipation - rubs hands, hunches shoulders, grins madly*)
http://www.timeanddate.com/worldclock/



			
				awayfarer said:
			
		

> I gotta confess, I feel like I don't anyone here well enough to smacktalk without just sounding like an ass. I apologize if I offended anybody.




Yes, I feel the same. So rather than smacktalk and risk sounding like an awayfarer, I'd like to offer a couple helpful bits of advice instead. 1: no matter what you hear, QWERTY isn't a kooky style of writing. 2: though it may seem like a good idea, you won't get great results using an 8 ball to write your stories for you, though you may get *better* results.

And let's just all thank our lucky stars Dr Perry Cox isn't participating


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## awayfarer (May 13, 2008)

Just noticed I left out the word "know" in my previous post. I've put it back. I've also removed the words "", "semprini" and "vibraphone." We don't need potty language like that here.

EDIT: spatchcock, regina and crevice. And potty.


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## Dlsharrock (May 13, 2008)

But you left in spatchcock, regina and crevice. And potty. I demand further edits.


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## Herremann the Wise (May 14, 2008)

*Round One - Match Two*
Thorod Ashstaff vs. Eeralai

You have 72 hours from this post to submit your entries. Best of luck from the judges!


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## Herremann the Wise (May 14, 2008)

*Round One - Match Three*
Starman vs. Madwabbit

You have 72 hours from this post to submit your entries. Best of luck from the judges!


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## Herremann the Wise (May 14, 2008)

Hello Everyone,

If possible, can competitors just post a quick reply that they've seen their pictures and are about to get busy writing/thinking/despairing/laughing or whatever the case may be. I'd hate to think I had posted images and a competitor had missed it.

Best Regards
Herremann the Wise

PS: Mythago, I've tried to contact you - can you just confirm that all is cool or not cool. Sorry for the possible confusion but the site was down and I could not post your pictures until I did.


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## Eeralai (May 14, 2008)

I saw them.


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## madwabbit (May 14, 2008)

Herremann the Wise said:
			
		

> *Round One - Match Three*
> Starman vs. Madwabbit
> 
> You have 72 hours from this post to submit your entries. Best of luck from the judges!



I sees 'em - thank you!


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## maxfieldjadenfox (May 14, 2008)

Yup, I see them. Can't make heads or tails of them, but since I have Mythago tied up in my closet... um, did I say that out loud? Nothing to see here, move along...


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## tadk (May 14, 2008)

I wish I hadnt of seen them
Can I swap out my pics for one of the last 2 sets
I see poor maxfieldjadenfox got a TOTALLY lovely pic set

Anyone up for trading pics huhh huhh huhh


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## Eeralai (May 14, 2008)

I really like how the last set stays totally in a fantasy realm.   That is rare to see in this game, so I am looking forward to those stories.  I like my set too.  Thanks for the selections!


----------



## Thorod Ashstaff (May 14, 2008)

I have seen them, thanks. And now to bleed...um... I mean write.


----------



## Piratecat (May 14, 2008)

I emailed Mythago last night to mock tell her about the pictures. She should have them.


----------



## Thorod Ashstaff (May 14, 2008)

tadk said:
			
		

> Anyone up for trading pics huhh huhh huhh




No way, tadk. I already made me a new desktop out of the nekkid lady with the sapphire eyes!


----------



## Herremann the Wise (May 14, 2008)

Piratecat said:
			
		

> I emailed Mythago last night to mock tell her about the pictures. She should have them.



Thanks PC, I really appreciate that... the telling that is...   

Best Regards
Herremann the Wise


----------



## Trench (May 14, 2008)

Just noticed the new Ceramic DM has started.

Good luck guys. I look forward to reading these latest installments.


----------



## Herremann the Wise (May 14, 2008)

Thorod Ashstaff said:
			
		

> No way, tadk. I already made me a new desktop out of the nekkid lady with the sapphire eyes!



You really _don't_ want to know where I scouted that image from... or perhaps you do. The world wide web is a strange and scary place when you disable the safesearch filter from your search engine.   

On that note, I've noticed some of the images posted so far have people wearing less clothes than they could (and in some cases less than they should). I apologise as the images are not meant to offend but to inspire. 

Best Regards
Herremann the Wise


----------



## maxfieldjadenfox (May 14, 2008)

Eeralai said:
			
		

> I really like how the last set stays totally in a fantasy realm.   That is rare to see in this game, so I am looking forward to those stories.  I like my set too.  Thanks for the selections!




Yeah, fantasy is my genre. It would have been easier to write to those, but we do this for the challenge, right?


----------



## Starman (May 14, 2008)

I saw mine.


----------



## Piratecat (May 14, 2008)

1700 words written, and well on my way. I know how all the pictures fit in. I should finish it up tomorrow.


----------



## Herremann the Wise (May 14, 2008)

Piratecat said:
			
		

> 1700 words written, and well on my way. I know how all the pictures fit in. I should finish it up tomorrow.



Well done, I look forward to seeing the final result.
Sorry again for putting you under the pump.

Best Regards
Herremann the Wise


----------



## Dlsharrock (May 14, 2008)

Any idea when my round will start? 
Is FickleGM still playing?
Fingers crossed (and toes)


----------



## Berandor (May 14, 2008)

Herremann the Wise said:
			
		

> You really _don't_ want to know where I scouted that image from... or perhaps you do. The world wide web is a strange and scary place when you disable the safesearch filter from your search engine.
> 
> On that note, I've noticed some of the images posted so far have people wearing less clothes than they could (and in some cases less than they should). I apologise as the images are not meant to offend but to inspire.
> 
> ...



 Ohh I'm plenty inspired here.


----------



## Herremann the Wise (May 14, 2008)

Dlsharrock said:
			
		

> Any idea when my round will start?
> Is FickleGM still playing?
> Fingers crossed (and toes)



Your round will start in about thirteen and a bit hours after this post - check the starting post of this thread for such details.
FickleGM has said in this thread that any time is good so at this stage, I will have to assume yes, FickleGM is still playing.

However, we have an eager alternate in place in Tashtego if things go wrong.
So, just to be organised with this, if I don't get acknowledgement from FickleGM that he has seen the pics (within let's say 4 hours of posting them), I'll put Tashtego on alert, and if there has been no acknowledgement after 12 hours, Tashtego will officially replace FickleGM... Just so people know where they stand and what's happening. I'm sure FickleGM will be good to go though.

Best Regards
Herremann the Wise


----------



## maxfieldjadenfox (May 14, 2008)

Piratecat said:
			
		

> 1700 words written, and well on my way. I know how all the pictures fit in. I should finish it up tomorrow.




Show off.


----------



## FickleGM (May 14, 2008)

Herremann the Wise said:
			
		

> Your round will start in about thirteen and a bit hours after this post - check the starting post of this thread for such details.
> FickleGM has said in this thread that any time is good so at this stage, I will have to assume yes, FickleGM is still playing.
> 
> However, we have an eager alternate in place in Tashtego if things go wrong.
> ...



 I'm always here...waiting...watching...doing stuff that shouldn't be mentioned...


----------



## Dlsharrock (May 14, 2008)

FickleGM said:
			
		

> doing stuff that shouldn't be mentioned...




Watching reruns of Queer Eye and crying when the straight guy makes good? 



			
				Herremann the Wise said:
			
		

> Your round will start in about thirteen and a bit hours after this post




Ah crud. A pox on my inability to read world time zones properly. That's 1:00 am in the morning, so if I don't confirm I've seen the pics for a while it's because I'm in bed, getting my daughter ready for school, taking my daughter to school or working respectively. I'll try to drop into Enworld while she's brushing her teeth 

Thanks for that HTW


----------



## FickleGM (May 14, 2008)

Dlsharrock said:
			
		

> Watching reruns of Queer Eye and crying when the straight guy makes good?
> 
> 
> 
> ...



I should be done mowing the lawn by the time it starts. I'll probably be finished with dinner, as well.


----------



## Berandor (May 14, 2008)

For me it's 1am as well, so please don't sic Tashtego on me after 4 hours or so.


----------



## awayfarer (May 14, 2008)

Dlsharrock said:
			
		

> But you left in spatchcock, regina and crevice. And potty. I demand further edits.




I did not notice these in my original postings and will go back and introduce them into said posts such that they may be removed later. In the mean time I leave you with "winkle."


----------



## Berandor (May 14, 2008)

I'm supremely happy that any smack talk my opponent is able to summon – which, admittedly, is not very much – is aimed squarely at someone else. I knew beforehand I would win this round, but if that is par for the course, then awayfarer will even write to the wrong pictures.

Maybe I should write blind-folded to even the match-up?


----------



## Dlsharrock (May 14, 2008)

Or he considers you such insignificant competition he figures he's assured a win this round and is merely doing some pre-emptive smacktalk with his next round opponent. A kind of 'why unnecessarily wear out your keyboard' sort of situation?


----------



## Dlsharrock (May 14, 2008)

FickleGM said:
			
		

> I should be done mowing the lawn by the time it starts. I'll probably be finished with dinner, as well.




You could kill two birds with one stone and graze the lawn. I hear grass is mighty good brain food.


----------



## Berandor (May 14, 2008)

Dlsharrock said:
			
		

> Or he considers you such insignificant competition he figures he's assured a win this round and is merely doing some pre-emptive smacktalk with his next round opponent. A kind of 'why unnecessarily wear out your keyboard' sort of situation?



 Hmm... could be.

Anyway, the blindfold is out of the picture, just to be sure.


----------



## awayfarer (May 15, 2008)

I subscribe to the holistic method of smacktalk. This method focuses on the fundamental interconnectedness of all things and thereby I must consider all competitors to be my "one" opponent. If I were to address Berandor directly it would be as if I were merely speaking to 1/15th of a human being. It all ties in with the 1978 Holland/Akers theory that...

Y'know what, nevermind. I'm a terrible writer. I can't even think of a way to explain this with words small enough for my opponent to understand. If someone will PM me with a list of the problem words I can break down the polysyllabic ones for you.

Edit: Removed "winkle" from this post and added "Spigot", "Wang" and "Hydrocephalus"*

*attorneys at law


----------



## Herremann the Wise (May 15, 2008)

*Round One - Match One*
FickleGM vs. Dlsharrock

You have 72 hours from this post to submit your entries. Best of luck from the judges!


----------



## Herremann the Wise (May 15, 2008)

*Round One - Match Four*
Berandor vs. Awayfarer

You have 72 hours from this post to submit your entries. Best of luck from the judges!


----------



## Herremann the Wise (May 15, 2008)

*Round One - Match Six*
Ycore Rixle vs. Rangerwickett

You have 72 hours from this post to submit your entries. Best of luck from the judges!


----------



## FickleGM (May 15, 2008)

Dlsharrock said:
			
		

> urp... double post. Sorry.



 Those sorry tactics won't work.  Wordcount isn't as important as story content. :|


----------



## awayfarer (May 15, 2008)

Hmmm, first round nipple again.


----------



## Herremann the Wise (May 15, 2008)

Hello Again,

And once again, can the competitors just post a quick reply that they have seen the pictures and are getting busy with them.

At this stage, everyone has responded to the extent that I have confidence we have a full flight of active competitors. Tashtego, can you stay in the loop just in case though?

Best of luck everyone and may your stories be brilliant.

Best Regards
Herremann the Wise


----------



## FickleGM (May 15, 2008)

awayfarer said:
			
		

> Hmmm, first round nipple again.



 ...and ass...don't forget the ass. 

Herremann, I have seen the pictures and have an idea for a story.  I will begin composing shortly and should have no problems making the Saturday evening (my time) deadline.  Unless, of course, my story sucks and I have to scrap it and start over...luckily, I'm not a very fickle...oh crap.


----------



## Herremann the Wise (May 15, 2008)

awayfarer said:
			
		

> Hmmm, first round nipple again.



Nipple count currently at five-and-a-bit-and-a-sort-of. Some normal, some best left unseen but hopefully none gratuitous.


----------



## Tashtego (May 15, 2008)

I'm still in the loop!  Should be an exciting competition.


----------



## RangerWickett (May 15, 2008)

I'm in like Flint.


----------



## Ycore Rixle (May 15, 2008)

I've seen 'em. Looks like a fun one.


----------



## tadk (May 15, 2008)

I will be posting my story, such as it is, here this evening due to not sure of when I will get home from work and I do not wish to be DQed due to that.
Likely in about an hour to two hours it should be posted.


----------



## tadk (May 15, 2008)

*"Report on the Viability of" CDM Round 1 Posting TadK*



			
				Herremann the Wise said:
			
		

> *Round One - Match Seven*
> Rodrigo Istalindir vs. tadk





_Report on the Viability of Test Objects and Test Subjects_
Test report of experiments recently conducted per direction

Abstract

The scope of this testing is to report on the viability and utility of the test articles and subjects. This report will be used to determine future funding and directions. 

There were a series of tests conducted recently to verify viability of delivery systems, mass displacement devices, as well as zone control methods and methodologies. These tests were conducted as far from local habitation as was possible. In several instances, difficulties arose and in one case the testing was observed by local inhabitants. Despite these difficulties, all tests were conducted successfully and this test report details the setup and results of the testing. 

All of the testing was conducted using standard sampling and retrieval procedures, following all safety and decontamination processes. At no time were test personnel in any physical danger due to environment, habitat, or other factors. 

The key objectives were all met, testing and sampling were all held to the highest quality possible with zero cross-contamination


Table of Contents
Section Page Number
Abstract	1
Table of Contents	1
Table of Figures	1
Introduction	2
Body	2
Test Articles	2
Results	3
Conclusions and Recommendations	6
References	7


Table of Figures
Figure Number Description Page Number
Figure 1: Test Subject One, Biological subject in a Can	3
Figure 2: Witness to the Mass Displacement Test (Female Subject)	4
Figure 3: Two male subjects, in two primary colors, mind control exercise	5
Figure 4: Jungle creature held by human male, under observation	6


Introduction
The test subjects consisted of four elements. The first was an analysis of the physical, chemical, and emotional components of a biological entity found in a can. 

The second test was a mass displacement device, illustrating the utility and potential of the device.

The third test was a mind control device, a sub-dermal implant, intended to prevent local detection.

The last test was a series of biometric studies of a jungle dwelling creature, with some potential for utility and use to our other future studies.


Body
One set of test engineers were utilized to conduct all the testing. There was some travel involved in the testing, as well as some minor issues relating to how they were scheduled and conducted. The main details are below in the Results section.

The purpose of the testing is to validate proof of concept designs as well as to determine whether these lines of research and study should even be continued. 


Test Articles
There are four tests in this report. 
The first Test Article is a biologic that was accidentally located in a can that was obtained in a raid in the eastern hemisphere. The can was a standard sized one for the location, and after the primary test subject was tested to destruction, subsequent investigation of the ancillary objects obtained during the obtaining of the original test subject, this was located. The curiosity of the find has prompted the testing cycle that was conducted. Due to the short timeframe involved, and concerns over deterioration, the tests were conducted as swiftly as possible. There were no appropriate surgical devices, so locally obtained plastic silverware was used to prod and manipulate the biologic.

The biologic appeared to be some sort of flesh, with small teeth embedded along the outer circumference of the entire entity. There was a filmy, pearlescent fluid in the can that took up the rest of the volume. After opening the can the testing commenced.

The second test was a demonstration of a mass displacement device. If successful it would help to reduce the footprint of obtaining main test subjects for the normal test cycles. In order to conduct this test it was determined to move unloving biological items to begin with. A standard flying disk was used to transport and deploy the device. 
Once at the test site the device was detonated. 

The third test was intended to demonstrate the effectiveness of some prototype mind control devices. As they are intended for the native population, they were inserted beneath the outer dermal covering of two of the males of the largest bipedal species, and later activated with interesting results.

The fourth and last test covered in this report was a series of tests conducted on a previously unnoticed species found in an equatorial jungle by a scout team. It was retrieved and demonstrated a high degree of potential intelligence as well as utility so some basic and routine non-destructive tests were conducted. 


Results

The various tests were all successful to various degrees. 
Follows is a more detailed set of results. 





Figure 1: Test Subject One, Biological subject in a Can


The biologic was tested for contagious diseases, sensitivity to light, humidity, pressure changes, as well as extremes of temperature. At the start of the testing, it was determined it was chemically alive, with no indication of a nervous system analogous to the indigenous life forms previously tested. 

Standard cultures were obtained, scrapings, and no infectious diseases were detected under laboratory conditions. Once that was concluded it was exposed to the local environment and further tests were conducted. 

It showed no reaction to changes in light, either from total darkness up to maximum illumination. 
Following that the environment was altered from no moisture, up to saturation levels for ambient air temperature. At the greatest value of humidity the biologic exhibited some slight change in hue, deepening approximately three shades with no other changes noted. 

Once that was completed it was immediately subjected to a high pressure environment, with a total atmosphere equal to a gas giant. It showed no damage other than a flattening of the overall structure. After that it was subjected to an immediate and rapid decompression venting to the outside and taking it to an absolute vacuum. Again no response was detected save some deformation with the exiting of the oxygen.

Last set of tests conducted were temperature. The inside of the test chamber was lowered to match that of the vacuum, reaching to 5 degrees Kelvin. The outer fluid covering froze and remained intact. 

Then it was subjected to a temperature, reached as fast as the test chamber could obtain an interior temperature of 670 Kelvin. The outer covering was converted to a gaseous form and was ablated away leaving the biologic dried and cracked. 

At the end of the testing it is concluded this is some form of artificial biological device, and worthy of further study back under more concrete and extensive facilities.







Figure 2: Witness to the Mass Displacement Test (Female Subject)

The second test was of a mass displacement device. It is intended to replace manned retrieval teams, instead pulling in test subjects and items without making the local inhabitants and dwellers suspicious.

Due to a miscalculation in the time conversion the time of the test was not in the middle of the dark cycle, but in the middle of the light cycle. This was due to a mis-calibration of the time conversion standard from local time to standard time and back again.
Despite this the test was carried out, the flying disk was able to deploy the test device. It was detonated, but due to the time mistake the detonation was observed. It is estimated less than 10 locals observed, and only one was close enough to have observed any physical effects. This is recorded in Figure 2 above. 

Based on the current population of the world wide test subject population of over 6.8 billion, and with only 10 potential observers, this comes to be a rounded off observation rate of .000000147. This value falls well below the potential noted threshold, and is well below the maximum allowed value. 

The device detonated, displacing a standard collection box worth of un-living former biological samples. It left the manufactured and worked metallic and other non-biological materials. 

Based on this and the subsequent retrieval by flying disk of the mass displacement device the test is considered an unqualified success. 







Figure 3: Two male subjects, in two primary colors, mind control exercise

The third test conducted was of another prototype. This was of a mind-control device, also intended to aid in finding and testing local test subjects. Two males of the predominant bipedal species were tranquilized and the mind control devices were implanted under the scant dermal covering this species possesses.

Once the subjects were returned to their natural habitant a series of signals were sent to test the range and efficacy of the implants. The creatures displayed abnormal behavior, including mating patterns indicative of the opposite gender of their species.

Unfortunately shortly after the tests were initiated, before actual test commands could be sent, the test subjects suffered severe physical trauma and perished. 

While this could be considered inconclusive, the fact that just the carrier wave induced such radial behavioral modifications indicates great potential for the implants. 






Figure 4: Jungle creature held by human male, under observation

This is by far the single test subject with the most potential. It was discovered by a survey and sample team while scouting in an equatorial jungle location. They were searching for a small sub-species of the dominant bipeds, and during their radar sweeps discovered this specimen. Recognizing a potential kindred spirit, they gently obtained the subject before locating the main test subjects.

Those main test subjects along with the rest of the destructive testing will be covered in a separate report.

This subject was exposed to our cultural icons, similar as to discovering a feral child of our own great race. It demonstrated a great aptitude for learning, mimicking the sequence within a few series of demonstrations. Then a series of simple mathematic tests were conducted, which did not go as well as the visual testing. This could be attributed to the difference in digits on the upper limbs, from our own. Despite that difficulty, the test subject tested equal to a small child in our developmental stages, and the test engineers feel that it has potential to be a productive member of our greater community.

The final aspect is the safe consumption of our core foodstuffs, lending credence to the superior nature of this miniscule entity.

Conclusions and Recommendations
All of the testing is considered to be successful. Both of the biological series of tests yielded positive results, leading to a desire for more extensive testing.

The two devices tested both performed to expectations, and further funding, testing, and development is recommended. 

With the greatest potential being the last test subject. The test engineers feel that further study, as well as obtaining of a viable breeding population, is warranted in the small biological specimen. This would yield a great boon to our overall society, to be able to introduce a new member into the overall good.

References
All testing was conducted in accordance with standard collection and detainment practices. At no time were the collecting personnel subjected to unprotected exposure and all precautions were followed.

Extensive visual recordings were made of all phases and are available on request.

Appendix

A short recording made of locally obtained test subject, held in seclusion post the testing of the subject entity, prior to the destructive testing the other test subject was subjected to.

[Record mental and physical]
With his hand holding the strange little creature, the one that was brought back from some distant jungle, he waited to hear the results of the many tests.

It had taken all too many days to find out, what would be the final outcome.
Too many sleepless nights waiting to find out the final judgment, yet soon it would be resolved.

Still it was strange to think that this little thing was more important than he was.
Strange indeed.
[End Record mental and physical]


----------



## awayfarer (May 15, 2008)

Got my basic eye-deer thought up but probably won't have anything posted until late tomorrow night.

Off to even the playing field by killing my brain with video games.


----------



## Piratecat (May 15, 2008)

Herremann the Wise said:
			
		

> Nipple count currently at five-and-a-bit-and-a-sort-of. Some normal, some best left unseen but hopefully none gratuitous.



"Gratuitous nipple" is a bad thing for EN World, but a great name for a band.  

Piratecat's tricks for CDM:

1. Read your story out loud before you post. You'll find typos and redundant phrases.
2. Spellcheck.
3. EN World doesn't automatically add spaces between paragraphs like MS Word does. Make sure you have hard paragraph returns in there, or your story will be really hard to read.
4. Consider using links instead of reposting the pictures. See post #123 (next page) in this thread to see how to do it.
5. Test the formatting. Find an old post of yours in an old thread, and edit it. Paste in your story. Check any links or formatting, then remove the story from the post. Paste the story into this thread.
6. There may be message board weirdness if a story is really long. If so, post it in two parts.
7. Remember not to edit your post for any reason once it's posted.


----------



## arwink (May 15, 2008)

Piratecat said:
			
		

> "Gratuitous nipple" is a bad thing for EN World, but a great name for a band.




I have sudden images of terrifying band t-shirts with a space cut out above the right nipple.


----------



## Piratecat (May 15, 2008)

*Round One - Match Five*
Piratecat vs. Orchid Blossom


*How My Brother Stopped Listening to Rock and Roll *
(a transcript of a tape found in my parents’ attic, c. 1992.)​

<Click>

I will move the tape recorder closer, so it hears me. We will want a good recording on the tape. What is that on your shirt? Heh. They spelled “Death” wrong. I am surprised that you did not take care to dress better. A boy whose grade depends on successfully interviewing me – or rather, on successfully interviewing a camp survivor before we all die on you and leave you telling the same dull stories back and forth over our graves – a boy like that should have taken care to make a good first impression. Ripped clothing makes you look like one of us. I am told that you are doing poorly in class. It is my hope that by the time we are done, you will have learned a little more about what it was like during World War 2. And what it is like to be an old man, eh?

Heh.

I can tell you don’t like that. Nursing homes make young people nervous. They smell the piss and the age and the smell of disinfectant, and they know it’s waiting for them at the end of their road. You smell it, don’t you? They give you adult diapers and occasionally they remember to change you. It’s no place for a sane person. But I don’t have that much longer. As I said, I’m old, but I have important things to tell first. When you’re old no one pays attention to you. It’s like being invisible. You’ll see. We’re going to talk, and we’ll be ignored until you bother to get up and leave. So let’s talk and pass the time. What do you want to know about?

Yes, I have killed people. What else?

The war. All right.

When they came to ask about this school assignment, I asked for one like you. Young and blond and strong, like one of the Aryans. No, sit back down. No need to look disgusted. I am not one of the homosexuals, any more than you are Jewish. And I am very old. Over ninety, now. The people here at the nursing home – even you, who sit across from me looking uncomfortable – the people here at the nursing home think I am a senile old man. A German immigrant to your country, a war refugee from Munich, a widower whose wife died in Dachau. Look, you can see my number from the camp, tattooed here on my arm. 

It is a lie. I tattooed this number on myself after killing the man who had it first.

Do you want to hear my secrets? The ones I’ll never tell anyone other than you and this tape machine? Ah. Now I see I have you. You will not walk out on the story now. It will be a fine paper you will write. If I have to confess to anyone, why not you? So shut up. I will talk, and you will listen. And record.

In 1943 I was an archeologist for the Third Reich, but more than that. I was a member of Himmler’s Ahnenerbe. You may not have heard of us, but that is only because you are stupid. You have seen the Ahnenerbe. In your Indiana Jones movie. In your comics about Hellboys. In your horror stories. We were the archeologists who found actual miracles for the Führer, and who made sure he couldn’t lose. 

Ah, you see? Now you look up at me. You’ve already decided that I am in my dotage. The senility has crept in on little scampering feet that you almost hear, but which you quickly forget because they have stolen away your memory. I have gotten very good at pretending to have dementia. “He has good days and bad days,” they say, “and on his bad days he thinks he is someone else.” It has taken concerted effort. But I’m still as sharp as I was the day that Dr. Steiger ordered me to Vienna to seize the Spear of Longinus from the House of Hapsburg. It was I who gave the grave cloth of Lazarus of Bethany to my Führer. And we uncovered the tomb of an archangel. I think that is what I will tell you about. But only if you hand me that little cup of water.

Thank you.

The Ahnenerbe was an archeological group dedicated to proving Aryan might. We also fed Hitler’s obsession with the occult. My mentor was a member of the Thule Society and a superb archeologist. Elsa Steiger was not the kind of Nazi scientist you would expect to see in an American movie. She was not tall and blonde, and she had no sex appeal to seduce American spies. I never received any indication that she liked women or men unless they could be of immediate and palpable use to her career.  I admired her drive and instincts, however; she would shoot a man in cold blood if he betrayed her, and reward the loyal with wealth plundered from our archeological digs. I was very loyal. I became very wealthy.

England had invaded the country three years earlier, so in 1944 our team entered Iraq undercover and without much military support. Dr. Steiger was seeking something hidden in the mountains a certain distance from ancient Babylon. You’ve heard of Babylon, boy? There, in the cradle of civilization? Good. Our mission was to find this dig site and see if it hid anything that could be of use to the Third Reich. Dr. Steiger wouldn’t tell us what the site was supposed to contain. She referred to it as “The Tomb,” and she possibly thought it was just a fable. Still, the hunt for the Grail was dead in the water by then, and Berlin was a dangerous place for anyone not immersed in politics. This was safer and probably more productive.

You wouldn’t have known what to make of that world, boy; Nazi agents and British counter-agents, wearing tuxedos and dishdashas, playing an intricate cat and mouse game across a backdrop of sand and betrayal. Within three weeks Dr. Steiger had our expedition packed and we were leading mounts through impossibly narrow passes in the hill country. She paid off three separate local warlords, playing one against the other to make sure that we would remain unmolested. The one Brit we saw who managed to follow us was shot by our guide, and I’ve never felt as isolated as I did in those sun-washed wastes. We had brought a good two dozen people, including local women who were not to be touched by any of the men on pain of castration. Eight of the men fled a week into the march. I never learned why they ran. Superstitious, I imagine.

We ended the expedition beside a crumbling defile and a deserted stone pit. The hills slumped over us, eroded by the hot wind that whistled above our heads. In a fever one day, I thought it was talking to us. The rocks there were covered by some sort of scabrous mold. It was not a place meant for humans.

“Dig,” said Dr. Steiger. So we dug. And we slept. And we dug.

While we did, she consulted with the women and the remaining holy man she had brought with us. They moved us twice. They chanted words in Aramaic, donned strange pointed garments and burned odd herbs. The air filled with the odor, smoky and soft, and it was while smelling it that my pick punched through the stone into an empty space. Another three hours cleared a space large enough for us to squeeze. It was dark by now and the desert grows cold at night. We huddled in front of the opening. A guard gestured with a machine gun, and the women and priest were reluctantly moved into the cave. We tethered the horses, and the rest of the expedition followed. 

I see your face. You want to know, eh? 

It wasn’t a cave. In width it was more like a street. The passageway was wide and dry, full of dust and age and sorrow. The air was heavy. The walls... the walls were covered with runes, many of which I did not immediately recognize. I remember thinking that if I perhaps studied them I would understand exactly what it was that they said. I can feel what that was like even now. Can you imagine, boy, what it’s like to explore the edge of something truly momentous? To hunger for knowledge that could actually destroy you? Oppenheimer must have felt like this. Man can not truly touch the mind of the Creator, but standing there I thought I could, and I wanted nothing else in all the world. I must have paused there for minutes, with my lit lantern and my open mouth. I presume that no one else noticed that I was missing, because soon I was alone. Alone to trace my fingertips across those graven runes, and to pronounce them quietly underneath my breath.

The sound of gunfire broke my reverie. Screams, then gunfire, then more screams. I started and turned, ran down the ancient stones towards the tumult. Above my head the ceiling opened up into darkness, and I raised my lantern. My breath dropped away.

Before me was a carving of a crying angel. It was titanic, a cyclopean masterpiece carved by unknown hands into the most perfect rendition of sorrow I could imagine. From where I stood, I was not altogether sure that it wasn’t actually alive.

When I could, I moved forward into the darkness beneath it.

Doctor Steiger looked satisfied when I came across her, standing next to our guards. The air stunk of cordite and bright copper. The blood of the civilians looked black in the lantern light. It was splashed across a weathered gray bier. Someone long ago had built this place, and carved that angel, just to shelter the blood-spattered rock that lay in front of us.

The civilians, men and women both, had been pushed into a pit at our feet. The bodies lay tangled across one another. I had seen the same at places such as Dachau, but this was different. I looked at my mentor.

“Old Testament,” she said. I can remember the flatness and efficiency of her voice. “Blood sacrifices are traditional.”

I knew better than to ask her why. She knew enough to tell me anyways. “If I’m right, this stone was once an arch-angel. Jeremiel, if the scriptures are true, angel of prophecy and the one who guided souls from their bodies. According to the apocrypha, he was killed by Lucifer before the Fall. His body, alone of all the angels, plunged to Earth outside of Eden.” She paused and cleared her throat. “I think that’s it sitting in front of us.”

There was a noise from the pit, and the guards ratcheted back the bolts of their weapons. No need. None of the shot civilians were alive. But boy, for the life of me, they were _moving_ – sliding downwards out of sight, and clinging to one another as they went. The corpses looked lost, lonely. The last thing we saw were the arms, only the arms, impossibly entwined with one another.  Perhaps they meant to hold one another as they passed. Perhaps it was a trick of the light. But it terrified me.

“Quit blubbering,” Dr. Steiger snapped. “This...”

Then the vision occurred.

And this is what you’ll care about, boy. Jeremiel was an angel of prophecy. The blood sacrifice was apparently accepted. Our black and white world of dim lanterns and ruined rock dissolved into a cacophony of screaming flame. Blood and explosions, anger and pain all stabbed across my vision at once. I saw my beloved Führer and I heard screams. I knew, beyond the shadow of a doubt, that the Third Reich would fall. I saw what would cause my death, and I saw what would prevent it. I glimpsed eternal life. The blood and flame danced before us – 

When I awoke, I thought I was dying of thirst. Filth-encrusted. Hungry. It had been days. Several had died, and I was the first to regain consciousness. I managed to crawl to our supplies. When I could, I bound the others. I knew I’d need them.

I was in that place for months. I made do for food when our supplies ran out.  Heh. No one else survived, but I learned many secrets from the Oracle and the carvings on the walls. Many secrets indeed.

I was emaciated when I finally left. It was easy enough to pass myself off as a concentration camp inmate once I returned to the Fatherland. I reported the mission a failure. I knew what would soon occur, so I wasted no time in picking a camp victim who looked like me. I had many contacts. It was easy to escape before Berlin fell.

And I came here.

Heh. You are as smart as I assumed. Of course you think this is all a lie, yes? I said the vision showed me eternal life. But here I sit, an old man in a piss-stained wheelchair. Talking to a young, Aryan boy. Why would I...

Oh, no you don’t. _Qerech l’kel myan bi’lihjh._

There we are, nice and still. I’ll be in your body in just a few moments. I learned that much in the Tomb. You’ll be in mine. I doubt you’ll enjoy it much. But I guarantee your family will think your taste in music and clothes has improved.

I’ve been waiting for this for so, so long.

<Click.>


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## Berandor (May 15, 2008)

Seen the pics, saved the pics, too tired to say more right now.

Scratch that. I've got an idea.


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## maxfieldjadenfox (May 15, 2008)

*Round 1, Match 8
maxfieldjadenfox vs. Mythago*

Spring Break
Maxfieldjadenfox​
Sarasota. Just the name alone conjured pictures in Allison’s head. Sandy beaches. Romance. Mangroves. It was everything spring break should be, and after months of dreary winter, bundled in a million layers of wool and still cold, she couldn’t wait to don her bikini and flip flops and soak up the sun. Even better, David and Robb were going with her. Gay guys are the perfect companions for such a trip. They are guys, so if things got uncomfortable in a bar, say, they’d bail her out. 

“Excuse me, but is he bothering you?” Of course if things got ugly, they might scream like girls and run… 

But, if she met someone yummy, they’d be happy to help her pick the perfect outfit, tell her she looked fabulous, and dish about the date later. It was a win win situation. She could count on them.

So, Allison packed her suitcase with sundresses, bikinis, short shorts and tiny tees and dreamed that this year, she’d find Him. Allison had been on a relentless search for Him since the seventh grade and so far she had come up empty. She hadn’t told the boys, but the reason she picked Florida this year was because she had been talking to someone, a very nice someone she thought, online, and she had finally agreed to meet him. He hadn’t been willing to send a picture, which worried her a tad, but he said he was better in person. Since she was too, she’d chosen to believe him. She imagined him. He’d be tall and handsome, with a great smile and a great personality. Maybe he’d even have a job. Most of all, he would “get” her. Most guys didn’t. She was too smart, too geeky, too apt to quote from Buffy the Vampire Slayer. And, as David and Robb often told her, she was a loser magnet. If there was a guy in a 50 mile radius of her who had no job, no prospects, maybe a little substance abuse problem, and an illegitimate kid or two, he’d find her. And it would be candy canes and puppies and rainbows until his unfortunate traits became obvious. 

Too often, she’d found herself curled in a ball on the floor of David and Robb’s apartment, sobbing as she looked at the two story red wall she’d helped them paint and stencil with Kanji characters and dragons. They fed her ice cream, commiserated about what a total bastard Joe, or Tom, or Jake was. They watched _Princess Bride_ with her again, because she said it was the only thing that gave her hope. They called her daily to make sure she wasn’t offing herself, and then, she’d meet another loser and the whole sad tale would begin again.

Allison shook her head hard. I will not start this trip with a negative attitude. I will have the boys with me. They will make sure I don’t end up with Mr. Wrong again.  She dropped some lacy under-things and her favorite little black dress into the suitcase and closed it. Just in case, she thought.  Besides, I may have already found Mr. Right, she reminded herself.

The boys gave her the window seat. She sighed as she looked out at the clouds. 

“None of that, Missy,” David said, shaking his finger at her.

“What?”

“The sighing, oh dear, my prince will never come stuff. You can’t fool me, I’ve known you since we were 5.”

“Well, that’s easy for you to say, you already found your prince.”

David squeezed Robb’s hand. 

“You’re right. I’m so lucky,” he grinned. “And you, well, you’re hopeless, and will end up alone with your 15 cats. Unless you become a lesbian. Find a nice lesbian. They’re so nurturing!”

“Geez, David, will you ever stop playing that tune? I keep telling you that I’m all about guy’s… junk.”

David laughed. “Yeah, me too.” He looked at her. “Seriously, maybe this will be the time you meet him. The one. Your lobster.”

“Well, I may have already…met him.”

“What?!” Robb grabbed her wrist. “Was there a guy between this seat and the lavatory? Is that why you’ve gone twice?” 

“No,” Allison said, suddenly not sure she should tell them. “ I met this guy online…”

Both of the boys groaned.

“Fine,” Allison said. “I just won’t tell you anymore.” 

“Come on! No wonder you don’t have a boyfriend. You’re such a tease.” Robb batted his eyelashes at her and she giggled. “At least tell us his name.”

“OK. His name is Draco.”

David slapped himself on the forehead. Then he slapped her on the forehead.

“Well, that’s his screen name. I don’t exactly know his real name.”

“Pedophile,” David said under his breath.

“I’m legal, dumb ass.” 

“Have you talked to this guy? Do you have his number?” 

“He has mine.”

David and Robb looked at each other with growing dismay. 

“I don’t know about you, but I don’t think I can sit through _Princess Bride_ one more time.”

Allison turned angrily toward the window. She felt desperate. The boys had each other. What did they know about being lonely? 

By the time they reached the terminal, she had mostly forgiven them. They cared about her. They just wanted her to be happy. They bought her expensive airline margaritas. 

It was steamy hot in the tunnel to the terminal, and they had to wait for a tram to take them to their airport shuttle. By the time they got to the hotel, all she wanted was to take a nap, but the boys wouldn’t hear of it. 

“Didn’t you see the sign in the lobby? Black tie bikini party at the bar down the street! We can’t miss that.” The elevator stopped. 

“OK, fine. You guys go to your room and I’ll go to mine, we’ll make ourselves beautiful and meet up here in an hour.” She blew them a kiss and ran to her room. She took out her laptop, found the hotel’s wifi, and logged on. She had mail from Draco. Whenever she saw his name, her heart jumped. The message was short and to the point.

“You’re here. I can feel you.”

The phone rang.

“Hi, beautiful,” he said. His voice was like black velvet, or dark chocolate.

“Hi.” She felt shy all of a sudden. They were in the same state, maybe in the same city.
“When can I see you? I can’t wait to meet you.” Damn, she thought, I’m already sounding too eager. I’ll scare him away.

“I’ll send for you.” The line went dead.

Allison’s hands were shaking as she flipped her phone shut.

About an hour later, she met up with the boys in front of the elevator. 

David and Robb were wearing matching gold Speedos ala Rocky Horror, and black satin bow ties.

“Where in the hell did you get bow ties?” she asked. “or gold Speedos, for that matter?”

“You never know when you might need a Speedo or a bowtie. We were both boy scouts, remember.” 

Allison shook her head. “You never cease to amaze me. Now, tell me how fabulous I look.” She did look fabulous in her old-fashioned black and white polka dot two-piece. 

“You look like Marilyn!” Robb said. She didn’t believe him.

They looked at the sign in the lobby once more to make sure they knew where they were going and took off down the street. The directions seemed simple, but soon they found that they were hopelessly lost. 

*Picture: Shirtless guys in bowties.*

“It said right at Ringling, didn’t it?” Robb asked. David looked around.
“I thought so, but we keep ending up at the botanical gardens. Weird.”

After seven abortive attempts to find the party, and seven times ending up at the botanical gardens, they decided to call it quits. 

“This is just creepy,” Robb said, “like magic or something.”

Allison smiled. “I love magic! Maybe we should just go inside since we’re here?” There was something about the place, something that made Allison want to see what was in there. It was like a physical pull from her solar plexus. The boys wouldn’t understand. “I can see the mangroves from here. They’re so beautiful, so ancient.”

“Um, not really dressed for Shelby Gardens, hon.” David gestured at his outfit.

“OK,” she said, “but I want to come back here before we leave town, OK?”

“Sure. I guess I didn’t know you were so into plants…”

It took half an hour to get back to the hotel, and Allison had a blister on one of her toes from her sandal. The boys were cranky and just wanted to change and get dinner. The evening ended on a sour note when Robb asked if she had heard from her ‘boyfriend.’” When she told him about the conversation, he said,

“That is some seriously creepy caca. I don’t think you should meet him. He sounds like bad news.”

“You just don’t understand!” she knew she sounded like a petulant teenager, but she didn’t care. “You don’t know about all the conversations we’ve had. All the things we’ve shared.”

“Online” the boys said together.

“No,” she was surprised to find a sob in her throat. “It’s more than that. He gets me. He really gets me!”

“Like how does he get you?” Robb asked gently, patting her shoulder.

“Like one time when we were talking about me coming here, I said I’d be here, but without bells because they’re too noisy. He thought it was hilarious. He said he had to look back over our e-mails to make sure he hadn’t said it to me at some point because it was just the kind of thing he would say. And it is.” 

“Oh, yeah, you can build a relationship on that.” David said.

“You just don’t understand!” she said angrily. 

“Ally, you know we love you! We’d do anything for you! We just want you to be safe.” 

“Safe isn’t happy!” she cried. She tipped her chair over as she got up, but left it where it lay and went back to her room.

Her phone rang as she closed the door.

“You were so close to me today, why did you leave?”

“Where were you?”

“Shelby Gardens. You felt it, I know it. I called you, and you came.”

“But how?” Allison felt a little hysterical. This sort of thing didn’t happen. She was tired. Maybe she was dreaming.

“You’re not dreaming,” he said. “I’ll send for you tomorrow.”

A storm blew in during the night, with thunder and lightning and sheets of rain. Allison could barely sleep, and when she did, she had odd dreams of ancient mangrove forests full of dancing boys in gold bikinis and a single red eye, watching her with a hunger that she could feel.

The next morning dawned clear and sunny, and the boys came to her door with a peace offering of chocolate chip waffles and mimosas. They promised not to make fun of Draco, no matter how easy it was, and they promised to love her forever, no matter how many times she made them watch _Princess Bride_, and they all ended up in her bed watching _All About Eve_ as they giggled and ate breakfast. When the movie was over and they had finished discussing Bette Davis’s formidable acting talents, and her fabulous wardrobe, Robb said,

“Beach?”

“Beach.” Allison and David agreed.

It was a gorgeous day, hot enough to go in the water, but not so hot that you didn’t want to stay outside. They joked and watched men and had a lovely time.

“I’m going to look for shells,” David said, “want to come with?” 

“Sorry, hon, I’m feeling lazy.” Allison said. Robb nodded. “I think I’ll just hang here with my girl.”

“OK, but if I find something cool, you guys are out of luck.”

A few minutes later, they heard David’s voice, carrying over the sound of the waves.

“Hey guys, I think I found something.”

*Picture: On the beach with a plane.*

Allison and Robb stood up and looked around. There, in the ocean, was an airplane. An old prop job, maybe from World War Two. David was staring at it in amazement.

“Can you guys believe this? It must have blown in during the storm last night! What do you think?”

Allison couldn’t hear him. The plane was making a sound. It was like a heartbeat, or a cry or something. It made her want to run and jump into the cockpit. Before she knew it, she was clambering onto the wing and reaching to open the door.

“Ally! No! It’s not safe!”

The door flew open as soon as her hand touched it. As she settled in the seat, she heard a voice, Draco’s voice.

“Hello, beautiful, buckle up.” 

David and Robb were running frantically around the outside of the plane, but when the engines started, they had to give up. She waved to them as the plane took off. It didn’t occur to her to question what was happening, it just felt so right.

The flight took forever and no time at all. The plane touched down in a mangrove forest, one much larger and older than the one in Shelby Gardens. When she stepped out of the cockpit, he was there, waiting. He didn’t look at all like she’d imagined, but it didn’t matter. She knew who he was.

Back on the beach, David and Robb were frantically looking for anything that might lead them to Allison. They checked her cell phone, abandoned in her beach bag, but Draco’s number came up unavailable. 

“Which direction did the plane go?” asked David.

“You’ve got to be kidding me. How do we find a phantom plane?”

“I’ve got to try. She’s my friend.”

Robb nodded. “She’s mine too. Shall we try the botanical gardens?”

The two of them started walking. They may have walked for minutes or days, but they walked with purpose and they walked with love. They found the garden, and inside the garden was a mangrove forest, and within the forest, they found a path. The path was lined with mangroves that stood like a row of teeth, each one like the one before, and the one after. The path went on for miles and led to a cave.

*Picture: Weird tree path.*

“Why do I feel like Prince Charming, going to hack my way through the brambles to rescue Briar Rose?” David asked.

Robb squeezed his hand. “Because you are,” he said.

When their eyes adjusted to the light, David and Robb were horrified to see Allison, tangled in the coils of an enormous black serpent, craggy scaled,  with one liquid red eye. Ally looked serenely happy, like she always did at the beginning of a new relationship. The eye extended and peered at them.

“Draco?” Robb asked. 

"Um, is this when we scream like girls and run?" asked David.

"Nope," Robb answered.

*Picture: Red eyed thing.
*

They could hear a voice in their heads,

“What are you doing here? This is none of your concern. She is mine.”

“No, she isn’t.” David said, grabbing Ally by the arm and dragging her from the creature’s coils. 

“Draco” Ally cried, trying to break free of David’s grip.

Draco went mad, flailing and writhing, but he seemed incapable of doing any real damage. He didn’t have a mouth, so no teeth, no arms, no stinger, no visible weapons. Even his magic seemed to be gone. He was impotent.

David and Robb dragged Ally from the cave, while Draco raged behind them. 

“Please, please let me go back to him. I know he’s not what you imagined, but he gets me! He gets me.”

“Girlfriend,” David said, as the mangroves became smaller and the sounds of other people’s voices reached them from the botanical gardens, “every time, I think it’s impossible that you could find anyone worse than the last guy. And every time, you surprise me. I’m making an appointment for you with my therapist when we get back home. She’s a lesbian from Iran. You’ll like her.”


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## maxfieldjadenfox (May 15, 2008)

OK. It's done, and despite my proofreading it about ten times, I find that I've used the word frantically twice in as many paragraphs. Aw well.


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## Dlsharrock (May 15, 2008)

I have eyeballed the images and like what I see.
I haven't got the faintest blinkin' idea what to write though - lucky I'm doing braindead work today and have plenty of time to think of something extraordinarily witty and clever. Something about testing random sci-fi-ey things, maybe- or a quirky interview with an old man read in the first person. Dunno. Funny how these ideas just pop into your head isn't it


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## Piratecat (May 15, 2008)

Wow, I'm still in that post-writing buzz, I just want to create. Finishing my story left me wanting more. The ones that come out this easily are few and far between for me. That was fun.

[sblock=A few notes on the storyThe starting point was the red artwork with Hitler in it. I knew that this had to be the image that the rest of the story was built around. The angel picture was the second image for me. That was such a great concept that I had to figure out a way to use it.

Huh. Hitler. Angel. Looking for occult artifacts for Hitler, maybe? 

The rest of the story snapped into place. Coming up with the title provided the framing device of recording an interview, and I liked the concept. My big challenge was pacing, and not bogging down too much in exposition. People talk differently than they write, and I had to make most of the story sound like it was really someone talking. Reading it out loud helped more than usual in that regard.

I could easily get knocked out of the running by Orchid Blossom right now, and competing would still be worth it.

I'd be curious to hear comments on what people think. What would you have done differently? Any advice for tightening it up?[/sblock]


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## maxfieldjadenfox (May 15, 2008)

Hi Piratecat, *waves* I sent you an e-mail last night, but I am informed that somehow I have "chosen" not to receive e-mails. I have no memory of choosing this, nor any idea how to change this choice, but if you want to e-mail me the answer to the link question (and I hope you do, just so I know how to do it in the future) my addy is: zehlers at aol dot com. Thanks bunches!


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## maxfieldjadenfox (May 15, 2008)

PC, Did you read it with a German accent?  It seems pretty tight already...


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## Piratecat (May 15, 2008)

Thanks!

A couple of useful tags for Ceramic DM. All of these use brackets  [] around them to work, instead of the {} I'm going to use for demonstration.

Black bar spoiler: {spoiler}blah blah blah{/spoiler}  



Spoiler



blah blah blah



Sblock spoiler: {sblock=say something pithy}blah blah blah{/sblock}
Sblock spoiler: [sblock=say something pithy]blah blah blah[/sblock]


Photos are a tiny bit trickier. Here's what to do. Once you have your story written, go back and view each of your photos in a separate tab. Copy the url of a photo into your clipboard. Now go back to your story and find the bit of text you want to hyperlink to that photo. For example, Maxfieldjadenfox, for your story you might want to link the red-eyed tentacle photo to your line "...tangled in the coils of an enormous black serpent, craggy scaled, with one liquid red eye."

The code is {url=PASTED IN WEB ADDRESS}the hyperlinked text{url}. 

So in this example, it would be "...tangled in the coils of an enormous black serpent, craggy scaled, {url=http://www.enworld.org/attachment.php?attachmentid=34063}with one liquid red eye{/url}." 

With proper brackets, this will look like "...tangled in the coils of an enormous black serpent, craggy scaled, with one liquid red eye."

Tah dah! Not too much work once you get the hang of it, and I think it helps some.

(Incidentally, mail settings are up at the top of the screen, under My Account --> edit profile --> edit options (on sidebar). Email me at kevin dot kulp at gmail if that's not working for you.)


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## maxfieldjadenfox (May 15, 2008)

Thanks, Kevin! You rock.


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## Rodrigo Istalindir (May 15, 2008)

*Round 1 Match 7 -- Rodrigo Istalindir - "The End of the Line"*

*The End of the Line*

Would I do things differently, if I knew then what I know now?  I’d like to think so.  I’d like to think I couldn’t deliberately set in motion the course of events that would result in the eventual extinction of the human race.

*​
Marie was the rarest of creatures.  Her brain operated on an entirely different plane than the rest of us, yet she was warm and funny and not at all what one expected of the world’s foremost geneticist.  Yet despite her genius, or perhaps because of it, she could be the most delightfully scatterbrained person I’d ever met.    They used to say that Einstein was so preoccupied thinking great thoughts that he’d show up to work with two different colored socks.  Sometimes, Marie didn’t even manage that.

The first time I saw her was in the library at the University.  She was walking through the stacks, fingers running along the spines of the books.  It was early in the morning and she was dressed in her nightclothes, bare feet padding along the carpeted floor.

I should have left her alone, but behind me I heard several students entering the hall, and I thought to spare her some embarrassment.  I called out to her, and she turned, startled. (Picture 3).   I mimed covering myself up.  Shaken from her reverie, she glanced down and blushed.  

I grabbed my coat and scurried behind the bookcases.  I held it out to her, like a child feeding a skittish deer.  She laughed, twirled, and stood there waiting for me to drape it about her.   We left the library through the back stairwell.

*​
I was smitten from the start.  I was a man of science, and if asked I’d have said that the entire notion of love at first sight was a romantic, hormone-fueled delusion, silly but harmless.  We were definitely silly.  

Our friends and colleagues just looked at us and shook their heads.  I think it amused them to see two devoutly logical people acting like a couple of addled teenagers.

I can’t deny that our work suffered, at first, but after a few months the first blush wore off and we stopped being one of ‘those couples’, mooning about, holding hands everywhere we went.  You know what I’m talking about – those couples no one can stand to be around for more than five minutes.

But the attraction and the love and respect didn’t fade.  Not after six months, not ever.
The first time we worked together on a project was as heady as our first date.  Our skills complemented each other perfectly.  Her theoretical knowledge and uncanny knack for isolating gene sequences, combined with my groundbreaking work with viral delivery systems made us the hottest thing in the rapidly growing gene therapy community.

Our first breakthrough was a remarkably effective treatment for Parkinson’s.  It wasn’t a complete cure, but it was a damned good start, and I had no doubt that it would buy time for those afflicted while someone else refined the process.  I would have preferred to keep working at it – I’m a hopeless perfectionist – but Marie was already anxious to move on.  So she did, and I followed.

Success followed success.  Had we worked for a major pharmaceutical company, we’d have been millionaires several times over.  But we were happier in an academic environment, where Marie had enough clout to ensure that the processes we developed were kept affordable for those that needed them.

Time Magazine called us ‘the greatest scientific couple since the Curies’.

*​
The first sign that something was amiss was on her 40th birthday.  I’d arranged a surprise party, the kind of thing most of our peers would have laughed at, but they knew Marie almost as well as I, and they knew she’d love it.  

The party was in full swing.  Gifts were piled on the dining room table, music was playing a little too loud, and some of the grad students were already drunk enough to start dancing in the living room.  Someone – I never did find out who – had paid Hisoka and Ozuru to dress up as ‘genes’.  Hisoka was the ‘S’, and Ozuru the ‘N’ (an inside joke – Marie and I had recently published a paper on using variant of the N bacteriophage to alter the ‘S’ gene expression in hepatitis).  Their revealing costumes were frightful, especially when they started dancing, but Marie laughed like a delighted child.  (Picture 2)

When I tried to get everyone’s attention, I had to shout, but most heard me and gathered around the coffee table as I carried in the fiery cake.  Someone started singing ‘Happy Birthday’ and the entire crowd joined in, more or less on key.

Marie was beaming from ear to ear.  She picked up the knife and cut off a huge slice of cake.  She extended it towards me, still holding the knife in one hand.  As I reached for it, her arm spasmed, and the knife sliced deep into my hand.  

I gasped in pain and clutched the injured appendage with my free hand, the forgotten cake trampled underfoot as the crowd erupted in chaos.  Finally someone returned from the kitchen with a dishrag, and the dean of the medical school wrapped it tightly around the wound before leading me to his car for the trip to the emergency room.

Hours later, we returned, my hand heavily bandaged.  My wife was mortified, and kept apologizing over and over.   The repetition stopped mid-sentence when she opened the door to our bedroom.   She let out a squeal of delight when she saw the puppy I’d gotten her for her birthday.  In the confusion and haze from the painkillers, I’d forgotten about the little thing, but fortunately he’d just gone to sleep in his crate.   One look at the radiant smile on Marie’s face and the accident was forgotten.

I think it was the last time I saw her completely happy.

*​
Within months, the tremors became more frequent and undeniable.   The doctor’s were at a loss, until one of them ran a test for mHtt, and it came back positive.  It was a one-in-a-million event, liking hitting the lottery in reverse.  Huntington’s is almost unheard of where neither parent has the gene.

Marie threw herself into her work with abandon.  In a strange way, we were lucky.  There was probably no one in the world more likely to develop a treatment, and now there was no one more motivated to find it.  Except, maybe, for me.

The progression of the disease is inexorable, but slow, and over the next few  years she remained largely unaffected.  She insisted that I I take over more of the delicate lab work; she was worried that she’d flinch at the wrong time and invalidate a test.  

We hit dead end after dead end.  Marie had never failed at anything before, and the realization that she might come up short at the most critical point in her life was devastating.  She became increasingly driven, spending twenty hours a day at the lab.  On those rare occasions when  I managed to pull her away for a few hours of a normal life, I could tell she was with me only in body; her mind was elsewhere.

By her forty-fifth birthday, the disease had progressed to the point where she was doing almost no hands-on work, and her speech had started to deteriorate.  She became a near-recluse, working through me, and never interacting with the other researchers and assistants except through email.  

*​
The breakthrough, when it came, was so obvious in retrospect I almost felt guilty for not having seen it sooner.   Previous efforts had been fruitless because in trying to reduce the polyQ glutamine chain, the treatment either went too far, eliminating it entirely, or snipped off a single repeat of the gene and then stopped and wouldn’t repeat.  

One of our previous successes gave me a brilliant idea.  Rather than using one of the modified viruses we typically worked with, I modified the hepatitis virus to serve as the delivery mechanism.  I hoped it would follow its typical path, taking up residence in the liver and continuously act to keep the glutamine chains in check.  HepB was nothing to laugh at, but compared to the alternative, I figured it might buy us the years needed for a complete cure.

There was one hitch.

FDA approval to even start clinical trials for such a risky protocol would take years, and might never be approved.  The Huntington’s lobby was damned effective, but no one had ever tried to cure someone by intentionally infecting them with a contagious disease. Marie didn’t have years.

When she almost choked to death in her office because she couldn’t swallow the chocolate pudding that had become one of her few remaining joys, I began preparing.  When I was cleaning out our bathroom and found the bottle of carefully hoarded pills, I acted.

*​
The reversal wasn’t dramatic.  No Hollywood-style ‘go to bed sick and wake up cured’ nonsense.  But over the course of a year, her life returned to normal.  It wasn’t possible to hide her hard-won health even if we wanted to.  The FDA was suspicious, but they couldn’t prove it was anything other than an accidental exposure in the lab.  We paid the OSHA fine without complaint.

The clamor in the medical community couldn’t be ignored, though, and eventually the government caved to the pressure and fast-tracked clinical trials.  A thousand of the most desperately sick patients were infected with the mutated hepatitis.   Almost ninety percent showed noticeable improvement within the first three months.

Marie’s sparkling personality had returned with her health, and she was a hit on the morning news shows.  The brilliant doctor who’d triumphed over a horrible disease like no other in history. The publicity was worth its weight in gold.

*​
We were on our way back from the airport after another appearance on ‘Good Morning, America’ when we got a call from the senior lab assistant.  There was a note of panic in her voice, and she urged us to return to the lab as soon as possible.  She met us at the door and hurried us to the room where the lab animals were kept.  We were startled when she closed the door behind us and locked it.

The animals were kept in clean, larger than normal cages on the far wall.  Marie had recognized the need for animal testing, but she had taken a personal interest in their care.  The lab assistant pointed her towards the far wall, where the animals from the earliest tests were kept for continued observation.

With a gasp, Marie reached inside one of the cages and withdrew a mouse lemur named Marcy.  The animal was horribly deformed – it looked like it had aged ten years overnight.  The skin was wrinkled and most of the hair had fallen out, the eyes were rheumy and blind.  She shivered uncontrollably.  I went to get a needle to take a blood sample while Marie cradled the pathetic creature in her hand. (Picture 4)

Marcy died that morning.  An initial post-mortem revealed no aberrant pathology; it appeared she had died of old age.  This would have been unsurprising, except that Marcy was only three years old, and mouse lemurs in captivity had a life expectancy in excess of fifteen years.  Other than the fact that she was dead, and the blood test showed the presence of our modified hepatitis virus, she was completely normal.

The true horror of what had happened didn’t become apparent until a month later, when we returned home after another marathon session at the facility.  Marie went upstairs to fetch Muttley for a walk, and found her beloved dog dead, his muzzle grey with age.

*

The hepatitis virus I’d used as the vector for the gene therapy had mutated.  There had been strict warnings to prospective patients because hepatitis B could be transmitted through bodily fluids, but most considered the risk acceptable given the alternative.  But casual transmission was unheard of.

Normally, the virus was only present in blood and semen, and to a lesser extent in saliva.  And transmission only took place when there was contact with a mucous membrane or open wound.  The mutated version, however, was present in overwhelming quantities in perspiration, and could even be transmitted via airborne particles after a cough or sneeze.   

And it carried the Huntington’s genes along with it.

There was no predictor for the unset of what we referred to as ‘Huntington’s B’ and what the press dubbed ‘Methuselah Syndrome’.  In some, it triggered within weeks of infection, while a rare few, including Marie, showed no signs of the disease even years after infection.

*​
The outcry was unprecedented.  Fortunately, the FDA bore the brunt of the blame; Marie’s media appearances had endeared her to the public.  They were more willing to focus their ire on careless bureaucrats and politicians than a woman who’d been desperate to save her own life and others.

Still, there was enough anger to go around.  The University rallied around us, shielding us from the protestors and hiring guards in response to the numerous death threats.  No expense was spared, no resource denied.  We had the best and brightest working to find a way to halt the epidemic even as it killed by the tens of thousands.  

Society was on the brink of total collapse before we found a possible avenue of attack.  In our early research, we’d identified a secretion from a rare Pacific eel that seemed to have a retarding effect on the progression of Huntington’s.  I’d discarded it in favor of more likely approaches as it was highly unlikely we’d have found a way to modify the gene to work within the human body.

Now, though, we were grasping at straws.  Even a partial treatment that bought us some time was worth pursuing, and our techniques had improved in the intervening years.  And at least in the Petri dish, it seemed to be working.   I pulled out all the old research and asked the cold-storage facility to send over the remaining gene lines from the eel.  They called back an hour later and told me they’d lost that storage locker in an electrical fire three years ago.

*​
The scramble to find a replacement for the destroyed material proved fruitless, until at long last we found a rich ichthyophile in Russia.  He indicated that he’d part with what appeared to be the last surviving specimen for an unreasonable amount of money.  We didn’t hesitate.
Thirteen hours later, a courier arrived with a padded cooler.  We rushed it to the animal section, where we’d painstaking prepared an aquarium to house our serpentine savior.  We opened the sealed container and instead of a water-filled bladder containing a jet-lagged eel, we found a single aluminum tin on dry ice.

Numb with shock, we opened the tin to see the remains of our last, best hope.  (Picture 1)  We picked it apart cell by cell, but the brining process the Russian had used made it impossible to extract anything useful from the remains.  Turns out there was a mixup in the translation, and the Russian wasn’t a fish collector, he was a wealthy gastronome with a taste for endangered species.

*​
I found Marie this morning, slumped over her desk.  Her beautiful sable hair had gone gray overnight.  In her hand was a picture I’d taken the night of her birthday party.  It showed her laughing and smiling, her new puppy cuddled against her chest.

I smiled as I thought about our life together , as I rummaged through the bathroom cabinets until I found what I was looking for.  I swallowed the whole bottle, and then went back downstairs,  I carried Marie to the sofa and sat down with my arms around her.
Despite the suffering, I wouldn’t have traded those extra years with Marie for anything.  

Would I do things differently, if I knew then what I know now?  I’d like to think so.

But God help me, I don’t know that I would.


----------



## Rodrigo Istalindir (May 15, 2008)

Spoiler



How did we ever manage to do plausible techno-babble before Google and Wikipedia?


----------



## Thorod Ashstaff (May 15, 2008)

*Match 2: Thorod vs. Eeralai - Thorod's Entry*

To Weep In a Dark Time

by Thorod Ashstaff


	I'd tell you my name, if only I could remember what it was. Call me Eve. No, strike that, that's not right.
Jake—dear Jake—called me Eve on that first day. I'd been asleep for so long. How many days, how many centuries? But I had been awoken; I had been called to come forth. It is so hard to remember things when you've been asleep for so long. And sometimes it is so hard to want to.
"I have to call you something," he'd said, "just because you've got amnesia, or you're in shock, or whatever, I'm not just going to call you Jane Doe like they do on TV. I'm going to call you Eve, because you looked so beautiful when I found you climbing out of that canyon, so amazing, like you were the first woman I'd ever seen." 
His language was new to me, though a few of the words sounded like ones I'd heard before, only changed. I had been asleep for a very long time. I understood him of course, and could answer his questions soon enough; tongues are easy to learn when you can reach in and grab each word's thought. Soon enough my own thoughts were in his language, English.
He'd called me beautiful, and I looked down and realized that I was. He'd given me a flannel shirt from his pack, one big enough to cover me like a robe, because he was worried for my modesty, or his own. It was a red plaid, and it clashed with my hair, which was auburn again, and long. My body, this body, was one of youth, young and perfect and fresh, and my eyes again shone with the deep blue of the evening sky. Jake looked at my face and I could see his hunger, and the beginnings of his love, and I was troubled.
We sat on the edge of the little canyon, and he told me how he'd go to the police when we'd hiked back to town, just a two-hour walk back to his car and then a one-hour drive. We'd check for missing persons reports, and find out who I was. He called this place England, but that's not what it was called when I'd gone to sleep, when I'd been pulled deep, deep into the earth by the long roots. But Jake was wrong. It wasn't amnesia, not like he thought anyway, and I didn't need to go to any enforcers, nor would there be any records. But I didn't tell him that, he would not have understood. I didn't even understand, not completely, not yet. I knew so little, this soon after waking, but I knew I had to find the ones who had called me.
"No," I'd said, "please. Could we just go someplace quiet, where I can collect my thoughts. I feel like deep fog, and I'm strangely tired, and hungry. We can go to the police tomorrow."
So we walked out of the woods, along a well-used trail, under a grey sky that was threatening rain. I would have liked the rain, cold and fresh on my young body, but I sensed it would worry Jake, with me wearing only his big flannel shirt, so I held it off. We walked, and he asked me questions I couldn't answer, and he told me tales of his life: his flat in the city called Cardiff, his job, which he hated, and his dreams, which he believed in. And I saw the goodness in his heart, and I began to love him in return, though I knew that was a mistake, and at some point on the trail his hand reached out, and I took it in mine, and we walked together.
At the end of the trail was a road, not of stone or of packed turf but of some hard black tar, which had a foul smell. We got in his machine, which he called an SUV, and when he brought the beast to life it smelled like poison, and I recognized it as the taste in the air that had so confused me. He was poisoning the world's air just to travel from town to town, they all were, and yet there was no hatred of the world in his heart. I was sad, and quiet, on the drive back to town. I had been called from sleep in a strange time, a time of poison and paradox, a time that felt like endings. Jake sensed my sadness, though not its cause, and he was wise enough to drive to town in silence.
We drove to his flat, his home, and he offered me strange meats, but they smelled like poisons too, different poisons, but still foul, and I could not touch them. But he had bread, which smelled wonderful, and creamy butter which he kept magically cold, and good honey, and wine. He built a fire in his small brick fireplace, and we sat by the fire and I ate the good food and drank the heady wine, and Jake put the strange meats away without a word and ate bread and honey with me, because that's who he was. And as the windows grew dark with dusk and the fire burned low, I took off the big flannel shirt, and let my long auburn hair fall softly against my breasts, and Jake took off his clothes as well, with clumsy, shy fingers, and I helped him. 
"You are so beautiful," he said, "and I feel so unworthy, which is a new feeling for me, and so old."
I laughed, for the first time in a very long while. This child, this mortal, this too-brief spark of goodness was telling me he felt old, while his touch was making me feel so young. I laughed, and I ran my fingers through the fine, soft hair of his chest, and pulled him down to the floor, and we made love by the dying embers of the fire, and he fell asleep in my arms.
"Dear Jake," I whispered, "Dearheart." And then I killed him.

I wept for a long time. Wept hard, for his love and his spark, for his beauty and the feel of his soft hair between my fingers, wept in rage against the poisons I'd sensed lying deep in his lungs when we made love. While I wept I let the rain finally come, and it spattered against the windows like the footfalls of mourners. I had awoken in a dark time, a time where there were poisons in the air, where mortals with good hearts breathed the poisons of their own creation until their very lungs became black. Jake's body grew cold and stiff as I wept, and the embers of the fire at last went out, and I, I who could not feel cold, shuddered.
I had given him such a gift, to touch that which so few mortals were allowed to touch. And I had given him another gift when I had killed him, when I had protected him from the long, ugly, painful death that his own lungs were about to bring him. I sat in the darkness, with my hand lying in the soft hairs on his cold chest, and I began to remember who I had been. And then I wept some more.
At last, when the windows were once again growing light, I got up. It was time. Death, for these mortals, can come as a gift, or as a judgment. It was time for judgment. I ate the last of the bread and honey, and drank the last of the wine, and found clothes in Jake's closet that would do, though they did not fit. I reached out with my mind, seeking for the ones who had called me, and soon enough I found them, or at least knew in which direction I had to go. It was not far, a few leagues at most, and I walked quickly, avoiding as much as I could the strange metal beasts with their poisonous breath. Sometimes I would reach out again with my mind as I walked, but the ones I sought were not moving, they were gathered together and my way was sure.
There was a stone archway, deep in the center of this city Jake had called Cardiff, with a locked metal gate within the arch. I touched the lock, and opened the gate, and I walked through the archway already knowing that those who had called me were on the other side. It was an open courtyard, and in the center of the courtyard they stood in a circle, wearing white robes and white cowls, hands clasped. Such fools. They were doing it again, and that was something I could not allow. 
They were chanting, but they stopped when one of them spotted me and called out. The circle broke, and I walked through, walked straight to the old man who wore a red sash over his white robe.
"I'm sorry," he said, "but this is a private ceremony. The gate was supposed to be locked."
"I am come," I said.
The old man looked into my eyes, and paused, and for a moment I thought he knew who I was, but when he spoke again I knew he didn't, though he may have begun to guess.
"Are you interested in neo-paganism?" he asked. "We're druids, and we come here once a week to reflect on nature. Today we're doing a new chant, only the second time we've done it. I found it in the old archives at the Trevithik library, I'm the librarian there."
"You are not druids," I said, suddenly angry, "you are fools! Fools and amateurs who somehow stumbled on the right words at the wrong time, that's all."
The old man stepped back, his eyes wide. He'd at last seen something in my eyes, and he was beginning to understand.
"You're..." he said, but he stopped.
My anger cooled, gone as quickly as it had come. The old man had a good soul, and all of them, all these confused mortals standing in a circle around me, they had their hearts in the right place at least. I realized now they must have had, or the words wouldn't have worked, even the right words. They were closing in, wanting to defend the old librarian from this angry stranger who had come into their midst. So I put them all to sleep, and they fell to the grey stones of the courtyard in a tangle of white robes. Then, one by one, I laid them out flat, and I laid the palm of my hand on their foreheads, and I made them forget. I made them forget me, and I made them forget the new chant. But I let them remember who they were, and what they believed in; there was no evil here.
Lastly I came to the old man, and kneeling beside him I lifted him up to a sitting position, and I let him wake up. He looked around at his friends, and then at me.
"What happened?" he said. "Did you do that? Are they dead?"
"No, they are not dead, though I came here to kill them, for the sake of my sisters. I cannot allow them, allow you, to do this, it is not the right time. Your friends sleep, and they have already forgotten me."
"The chant..."
"Yes, the chant. You must bring me the chant you found. And any copies that have been made." I was not angry, but I put Command in my voice, and he nodded.
"I've got it right here," he said. He had a backpack lying against the wall of the courtyard, and from it he took an old, tattered book and a few pieces of white paper with the words of the chant typed out on them. "Here, this is the book I found it in, it wasn't even in the catalogs, just an old history book stuck in the archives. These are the copies I made for our group." I looked at him, and he understood. "They're the only ones, honest, and the book might be the only one left too, at least I couldn't find any record of it when I went online."
I took the book, and opened it to the page the old man had marked with a red ribbon. The text was copied from a broken stone monolith, in an old tongue, and then translated into English. There was a line drawing of the monolith, though the author of the book was vague about its location. I touched my fingertips softly to the line drawing, and I knew where the old stone was, knew where I had to go next. I put the typed pages into the book and shut the musty covers, then I held the book in my hands and squeezed until there was nothing but dust, grey dust which swirled out of my hands and disappeared over the walls of the courtyard. The old man did not look surprised, and I gazed at him with new respect. He was, perhaps, not as much of a fool as I had thought.
"Now you must sleep again," I said softly, "and dream. You will not remember me."
"Please," he said, "let me remember you. You're so beautiful, and your eyes are so blue, there is light in them." There was something in his look, not quite love but close, it reminded me of Jake.
"Make me forget the chant," he said, "but not you. I will keep the memory to myself, always."
"It will cause you pain."
"I'm an old man, I've lost friends and lovers both, and I've lost my companion of forty years. I can handle the pain of a beautiful memory. Please."
"So be it," I said. "But the chant..."
"I understand. The chant will be gone. I promise not to even look for it."
"You will not even remember there was anything to look for." He looked into my eyes, and then he was asleep, and I lowered him gently to the grey stone, and laid my hand on his forehead.

I found the stone the next day, at dusk, and sent its dust to the wind to follow the dust of the book. Then I began the most important search of all, the search for a place to rest. Now it is the deep quiet before dawn, and I can feel that I am very close. Again I am clad only in sky, as I began. I walk west along a road of packed dirt, in the midst of a forest of virgin wood, and the full moon leads me on. Soon I will turn off the road, perhaps just ahead, and I will find a place where I can once again sleep. A place where the roots will push me deep, deep into the earth, until the time is right. I wish that I, too, could forget, like those sleeping mortals in their white robes, but I cannot. I take heart from the old man's words, and turn into the wood, and find the place, and as I lie down on the soft pine needles and close my eyes, I let myself remember the feel of Jake's soft hair beneath my fingers, and accept the pain.


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## Thorod Ashstaff (May 15, 2008)

*Paid up?*



			
				maxfieldjadenfox said:
			
		

> I am informed that somehow I have "chosen" not to receive e-mails.




This is often ENWORLD's subtle way of saying "Hey, it's a great site, but it needs the occasional influx of cash." i.e., If you're not paid up on the (reasonable) annual dues, you can't receive or send private emails. If you ARE paid up, then you need to change your settings under 'profile.' I think.

If some administrator type like PC has a different idea, feel free to correct me.


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## Thorod Ashstaff (May 15, 2008)

I have noticed that Enworld's formatting doesn't indent paragraphs, and that entries like Rodrigo's (with paragraph line breaks) are easier to read than mine. Sorry.

I will not edit the post (as promised), but if I happen to defeat my honorable opponent Eeralai then I will use such breaks in Round Two.

And thanks, PirateCat, for the picture instructions. I knew how once, but that was long, long ago in a thread far, far away...

Also, I've found that you can copy the pictures' URL (with the brackets and such) straight into an MSWord document, and that when you copy that into a post it works fine. In case that helps anyone.


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## arwink (May 15, 2008)

Just sent my comments and judgment for Round 7 (Rodrigo Istalindir vs. tadk) off to Herremann.  Good luck to both of you.


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## mythago (May 15, 2008)

Jacque clapped his hands and squealed at the airplane that bounced up out of the artificial surf. - “Cee, it’s _darling_! Did you really give it a puppy brain for an AI? Oh, look, it’s _splashing_ me!”[1]

Criminal Procedure sighed. Jacque was less tiresome than many of the beautiful idiots he’d kept as arm candy, but that just meant he’d kept his interest longer than average. Or maybe that was just a side effect of having your secret underground hideaway directly beneath Las Vegas; you got used to constantly being tempted with brighter and gaudier things, until you ended up with the attention span of a fruit fly.

“Cee?”

“Yes, Jacque, I did, superimposed over the AI it already had. That’s the plane I took off Mister Right.”

Jacque gaped. “That was *you*? When he was battling Viragor over the Caspian Sea and that big vortex opened and he vanished into another dimension?”

“That was me,” Criminal Procedure agreed. “He didn’t really go into another dimension, though. He’s in the Hung Gardens. But I kept the plane. I had to overwrite all that truth-and-justice crap he’d programmed in, and I had this puppy that wouldn’t stop pissing on the Tabriz rug in the command center, so–“

“You need to get rid of the sharks, honey,” Jacque said, peering at the underside of the airplane. “They’re starting to rip up the paint.”

Criminal Procedure eyed the couple sunbathing on the artificial beach. Jacque’s immediate predecessors in his bedroom, they’d been a matched set, but lately seemed far more interested in perfecting their tans in performing for him.

“Maybe they’re just hungry,” he said. “Bring me a gaff, would you? And a stun pistol.”

#

Five miles up, the Chippendale Boys did their best to blend in with the scenery. [2]

“I’m not sure whether to be happy nobody is giving us a second look, or annoyed that nobody is giving us a second look,” Geoff said. 

Brian shrugged. “We’re in Las Vegas, Geoff. You’re practically wearing a burqa by local standards.”									

“I don’t understand why we can’t wear our costumes. I hate civvies.”

“I don’t particularly like them either, but are we trying to be inconspicuous or not? Do you think we’re going to find Criminal Procedure if he gets word that we’re traipsing around town?”

“I think we’d definitely find him,” Geoff said. “I just don’t think we’d walk away.”

They stood in silence for few moments, remembering Mister Right.

“Okay,” Brian said. “I want to get this mofo as much as you do. All we know is that he’s somewhere in Vegas, and he’s got some kind of garden that doesn’t match any of the attractions in Vegas. All we have is half a photo and nobody’s been able to map it.”

“Not even the one in that Japanese restaurant at the Wynn?”

“Okada?”

“That one.”

“What is it that you can never remember the name of that restaurant?

“Who _cares_ about the damn restaurant?!” Geoff shouted. “We’re looking for Mister Right and all you can do is talk about a restaurant?” A few tourists paused and looked at him, as if they expected him and Brian to be starting some kind of impromptu theater. Brian took him by one well-formed arm and steered him around the side of a faux Italian pillar.		

“Geoff,” he said quietly, “you know there’s only one way to do this. You’re going to have to _feel the love_. Are we close enough?”

Geoff bit his lip. “I think so. We might have to wander around to find something in range. But I was hoping we wouldn’t have to....you know how wasted it makes me. I’ll be a dishrag for days.”

“You’re worried about a hangover at a time like this?”

“No. I’m worried that we’re going to show up in Criminal Procedure’s lap and I’ll be useless to you.”

Brian stood on tiptoe to kiss Geoff on the forehead. He still had to pull Geoff’s head down to reach him. 

“The guy may be a criminal mastermind, but he’s got a solar plexus and a pair of ‘nads like everyone else,” he said. “Let’s do this.”

Geoff tipped his head back and closed his eyes. Brian watched in awe. They both loved Mister Right, of course, but only Geoff had the power to feel the love, to reach someone he cared for so deeply that he could, literally, move heaven and earth out of the way and open a door to wherever they were.

As the dimensional gap unfolded, showing a hint of green beyond, Brian had two fleeting thoughts: that only in Vegas could you open a door in the space-time continuum without anybody particularly noticing, and that it was a really good thing Geoff wasn’t the stalker type.

#

The garden was an orderly progression of topiary trees and hand-cut stone. [3] Geoff expressed his appreciation by dropping to his knees and heaving.

Brian helped him over to a strip of grass between walkways. “I didn’t think it would hit you this fast,” he said.

Geoff rubbed his face on the grass and rolled onto his back. “It didn’t,” he said. “Something’s wrong. Mister Right’s here, but....”

“Show me.”

Geoff slung an arm around his shoulders and they staggered across the garden. Geoff thrust one arm out like a drunk trying to get his hands around a doorknob. He pulled them past one of the oddly-angled topiary trees, then another, until they reached the last in line. He threw his arms around the slant of the trunk and sagged.

“Here?” Brian asked, but Geoff only moaned in reply.

Brian inspected the tree carefully. Who would get a tree to grow like that? The trunk was shaped strangely, its top parting like a pair of legs, a huge knob at the bottom about the size of a–

“Human head,” he whispered. “Geoff. He’s the tree, isn’t he? What did that bastard do to him?”

“Nothing I wouldn’t do to you, eventually,” a voice called from across the garden. Brian whipped around, moving his body between Criminal Procedure and the incapacitated Geoff. He’d expected the villain to be decked out in some new super-science armor and wielding a death ray, but instead he wore a perfectly ordinary pair of board shorts. The only thing in his hand appeared to be a mojito. He stared at Brian.

“Are you cruising me?” Brian demanded. “You really put the ‘ch’ in ‘chutzpah,’ you know that?”

“You and your friend came barging into my underground fortress wearing tuxedo collars and matching Speedos,” Criminal Procedure pointed out. “Can you blame me?”

“You killed Mister Right!”

“Not killed, exactly. I think the word you’re looking for is ‘transmogrified’. He’s quite alive there, just in a slightly different form. Hm, maybe ‘re-engineered’ is a better term? I used an intelligent micro-lifeform to do the work; I’m still trying to figure a catchy term for it.”

Brian cracked his knuckles menacingly. It wasn’t really necessary–of the many schools of martial arts he’d mastered, he preferred _muy thai_–but it was important to keep up the look of the thing. “You can let him go,” he said, “or we can do this the hard way. And if you make a double entendre out of that I swear I’ll kill you.”

“Don’t you want me to give a monologue about my next grand scheme to take over the world?”

“I assume it has something to do with that micro-lifeform you told me about. At a guess, I’d say you plan to introduce it into the water supply or some other delivery system, infect the entire population of the world, turn a few into hideous monsters to make a point, then demand they obey your every whim or else. Am I missing anything?”

Criminal Procedure sighed theatrically. “Nothing significant. You take a lot of the drama out of this, you know? So let me skip ahead to the part relevant to you: if you surrender now, you can have a short, but exciting, career as my bedwarmer. If you don’t, I’ll kill you and your skinny friend, and chop down Mister Right to make firewood.”

“I was actually thinking that you’d surrender and face a fair trial in the criminal courts, or resist and I’ll have to twist your head off your neck.”

“Looks like we’re at an impasse here,” Criminal Procedure said. “Say, do you remember that prop plane Mister Right liked to fly? The one with a computer brain?”

“The Friendly Skies?”

“That’s the one.” He reached into a side pocket of his shorts and pulled out a small metal box with a few buttons. He pressed one.

There was a whine that spun into a deafening roar behind him. Brian threw himself flat as the Friendly Skies shot over the wall behind him, tearing leaves from the trees in the topiary garden. It zoomed past, raining seawater. That’s hell on the paint. Mister Right is going to have a fit, he thought, and then some instinct told him to grab Geoff and get behind one of the trees. 

“I reloaded the forward guns!” Criminal Procedure shouted. Behind him, the Friendly Skies banked, bumping into the artificial sky a few times as it came back around.	

Brian tried to think of whether there were any security overrides, any codes that Criminal Procedure might have overlooked or forgotten to close off in the Friendly Skies’s mind. Probably not. Was it tracking him by sight, or heat signature? It would have to have some way of locking on him as a target; it was unlikely that Criminal Procedure would have had time to program his image in specifically. 

At worst, he needed cover.

As the plane dipped toward them, Brian dashed forward and tackled Criminal Procedure. The mojito flew from his hand and shattered on the pavement. He threw the villain over one shoulder and dashed through the topiary trees, weaving back and forth, making it difficult for the Friendly Skies to get an accurate shot at him. He also hoped it knew not to shoot Criminal Procedure.

The curved walkway gave way to a short beach that lapped at some kind of indoor ocean, bounded by a framework on the far side. Brian pounded along the beach. He slowed once to reach over his shoulder and punch Criminal Procedure in the face to keep him from struggling. The plane circled overhead, propellers beating.

I need some way to control that thing, he thought, and then kicked himself for being an idiot. He reached back again and rummaged in Criminal Procedure’s shorts for the remote control. His hand closed around a sleek box the size of a very expensive mobile phone. He looked at the complicated array of buttons. There was one labeled HERE BOY.

Brian pressed the button. The Friendly Skies pulled out of its turn and aimed its nose straight at him. He could swear it sounded eager.

He waited until his legs stopped listening to him, dropped Criminal Procedure in the sand and ran faster than he’d ever run in his life. He made it almost all the way to the topiary garden before the plane met the beach in a sound he’d never be able to forget, no matter how many drinks he poured over it.

#

“I know it’s an intelligent micro-lifeform with the power to do terrible evil,” Geoff said, “and I don’t care, I _still_ say it’s adorable. Look at it scoot around. ” On the display screen in Criminal Procedure’s secret laboratory, the thing turned its tiny red orb back and forth as it wriggled. [4]

“I don’t really care if it’s adorable,” Brian said, “I care that we can use it to undo whatever he did to Mister Right.”

Geoff put his arm around Brian’s shoulders. “I care too. Look, neither of us has the science background to do this. Who do you think we can ask to take a look?”

“Captain Curie?”

“I’m not sure she’s forgiven him for that spat at the Embassy.”

“Maybe not, but do you think that she’d pass up an opportunity to get her hands on this fabulous laboratory? It’s got all the equipment she’d ever dream of....”

“And it’s in Vegas,” they said in unison. The Chippendale Boys clinked their mojitos together in a toast.
--------------

[1] plane
[2] boys
[3] trees
[4] microscopic lifeform


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## mythago (May 15, 2008)

Uh, that would be Round 1, #8,maxfieldjadenfox vs. mythago. Hope I wasn't late, but if so, congratulations to maxfieldjadenfox for going on to the next round 

Note to self: tell judges ahead of time which days aren't so good to start a round.


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## Piratecat (May 15, 2008)

mythago said:
			
		

> Uh, that would be Round 1, #8,maxfieldjadenfox vs. mythago. Hope I wasn't late, but if so, congratulations to maxfieldjadenfox for going on to the next round



By my count you're six hours early! 

Everyone else at work headed out to lunch today. I stuck around to read stories.  



			
				Mythago said:
			
		

> "And if you make a double entendre out of that I swear I’ll kill you.”



 So, this woman walks into a bar. She goes up to the bartender, who's just finishing up someone else's mixed drink, and she says "Give me a double entendre." So he _gave her one._


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## Rodrigo Istalindir (May 15, 2008)

Thorod Ashstaff said:
			
		

> This is often ENWORLD's subtle way of saying "Hey, it's a great site, but it needs the occasional influx of cash." i.e., If you're not paid up on the (reasonable) annual dues, you can't receive or send private emails. If you ARE paid up, then you need to change your settings under 'profile.' I think.
> 
> If some administrator type like PC has a different idea, feel free to correct me.




Sometimes, it's also ENWorlds not-so-subtle way of saying 'Yeah, I'm half broken and some of the things that should work, like taking people's money, don't do what they should."

*cough*


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## Dlsharrock (May 15, 2008)

Level42 said:
			
		

> I wondered if anyone on Enworld had ever had a near-death experience in their time and if so, what did they see on 'the other side'. I'm really interested to hear about this kind of thing. I've always wanted to know what actually happens when you die. I realise this is off-topic. Mods please feel free to move this elsewhere if this is an unsuitable thread. Thanx



I'll tell you one thing, being dead sure gives you a fresh perspective on life.

Ok, there's the novelty stage. You get to hang out with Elvis, ask God what it was all about, tourist stuff. Once you settle in, though- once you get past the whole shock/wonder/philosophy of actually being a bone-fide stiff, you start to see things with pin-sharp clarity. Let me tell you about it. _All_ about it.

The trouble with humans (I know this, because I used to  be one) is this: you're too marginalised by time. You need that beginning, middle and end, and if you don't have it, you lose all point of reference. Which is gonna make it real hard to explain exactly what it's like to be dead.

Life: it's all about the process; all about the sequence. Short stories, movies, politics, books, life, war. He started it, she started it. He called me a name, so I threw a punch. He ground my face into the dirt, so I kicked him in the nuts. He threatened my pride, so I took his land. He killed my baby, so I bombed his people.

Violent stuff eh? But you can't blame it all on the equilibrium. Round here, there's no such thing. If you were here with me, instead of expending the precious seconds of your life on this internet forum, oblivious and happy in that land of the living you cherish so much, you'd get this whole thing instantaneously. It takes some real convolution of thinking on my part to make it work, believe me. See, in life, there really is no comparison to the timeless, non-sequential nature of death. For you, even the most immediate moment is still a moment. Even the most infinitesimal quantum second is still a measure of time. 

If Death's like anything, it's like that. Click your fingers - gone. The whole 'majestic' span of all things condensed to a point smaller than a singularity, and then its over... Jeez, I can see your brain straining at the seams from here. Forget about it.

Anyway, once you lose the luxury of time, you lose the t1t for tat. Night follows day, he said/she said, bears no relation to reality here, not even the reality of rationalisation (we don't have that either). You ever hear the term 'seeing the light'? Aren't the dead supposed to 'move into the light'? Maybe that's ghosts, I forget. Well, let me tell you - the light's extraordinarily bright around here. No filters. No shadows of thought shading rational hypocrisy, no word-forged nooks and crannies, no place for those nesting lies to hide. A spade is, without exception, a spade. That kind of lucidity can be very intimidating.

And the cold truth lurking beneath the shadows of logic? People are violent, sadistic and blooded. Life: it's a sudden flash of brutal existence, reason stripped to the core, results unwinding like random ribbons of blood flying loose from a ragged wound. 

Here the veil is lifted, the filters removed. Welcome to Death. That was your life. What did you think? Nasty, wasn't it? What's that? Bits of it were ok? The bits where you lied to yourself? Lied to others? Did a convincing job, didn't you? So good you convinced yourself. Well- guess what. There's no fooling the soul. Filters removed.

You look disappointed. Maybe you were expecting paradise? You imagined us all here, little gods, basking in the divine joy of the supreme being, magic sparking from our fingertips? Maybe you have something else in mind? Some kind of alter-reality you can mould to fit your petty Earthbound dreams? Man, that would be sweet wouldn't it? I'd have me an Austrian villa, all icicles and turrets, and a room filled with naked porn stars, and maybe some kind of robot to fix me up with burger banquets and tend to my every whim; a roaring fire, skiing like a pro and sex on tap!

Wake up doofus. I'm here to answer your question, remember? Why waste my breath on whitewash? Go find a hardware store and a priest if that's what you want. This is death, not fairyland.

The other cold truth is this (and this will really fry your nuts if the rest hasn't already) the universe has a real problem, and that problem is YOU. The Universe thought death might sort out the problem. But death failed miserably as a solution, in fact it made things _worse_. Can you believe that? What a hoot! So we got our strife here just like you’ve got yours there. We just don't allow ourselves the luxury of fantasy or logic, and there's the only difference (well, apart from the whole incorporeality thing we‘ve got going on). It's not about us against you, you against us, or us against us. Conflict is bunk. It's every man for himself and you'd better get your gear wired down because when you get here you'll find out real fast that being a newbie is no excuse.

Take me, for example. I thought I had a pretty good life. Now I'm here I realise, in fact, that I had a pretty awful one, and regret most if not all of it. The majority of my actions were detrimental, mostly resulting from my own insensibility to consciousness, responsibility and, above all else, charity. No, the image you just conjured in your head is not the sort of charity I mean. Get rid of it. That's the rationalist, narrow-minded image of charity right there. Equilibrium really rules you doesn't it? Listen dude, I'm talking about charity to Creation. Recognition of and (unpaid) dedication to Universal lore, embracing of the whole, not just the miniscule aspect you lifers call home. What the hell is Earth anyway but a spit-ball compared with the vastness of everything else. But let's not externalise too much. I'd hate to scare the crap out of you before I've even gotten to the best, most terrifying bit. So for your sake I'll play along - Earth really is the most important peckerwood in the whole intergalactic megaverse and God spends every ounce of his being worrying about you guys down there, just like you spend every moment of your waking day worrying about that speck on the left testicle of the ant that lives in your garden, mmmkay? 

Back to me though. I was this fat, spotty, pretentious, self-centred geek. Spent half my time playing games online, the other half moaning about the suckiness of those same games right here on Enworld. I Larped (you should've seen me, what a disaster), I dungeon-crawled, I nitpicked and analysed game systems, campaigns and RAW. I studied every detail, every inch, of worlds, locations and people that existed only in my head, or, worse, in someone else's head. And all the while, the real world thundered by and I, oblivious to its deafening roar, simply played on. Life was a game. Dice were my friends. Disembodied voices, manifest as text and smilies on my computer screen, represented the greater part of my contact with human life. What a sad, pathetic individual I was.

Then one day, while taking the bus to work, some guy with a backpack, several pounds of improvised explosive and a whole manure pile of righteous indignation sent me and everyone else occupying the top deck on a one way trip to never never land. As wake up calls go, it was pretty damned impressive. Unfortunate really that I should come out of it in a body bag or I’d have been a changed man.

The bomber’s here too, by the way. And man, is he disappointed. There's been a lot of encouragement for me and him to interact, to 'repair the shattered aspects of our souls'. I don't know if either of us are getting anything out of it, but he's sure as hell catching on real quick that there are no virgins in the afterlife. What a maniac. Imagine blowing yourself up for the sake of sex (we don't have that either, by the way).

So, I've meandered a bit, and I forgot the core principle, or the point I was trying to make - aka, the truly terrifying bit. No. That's not strictly true, I didn't forget. I just decided to keep it to myself. I've kinda warmed to you, so consider yourself off the hook. What can I say. I'm a sucker for a great fantasist 

The truth is, you don't wanna know about life after death. You don't wanna know that life is actually just about as good as it's ever gonna get for you. And you know why? Because time is a dreadful thing. It drags, don't you find? No more so than when you're waiting for the end. All the worse when you have to start from the beginning.

The least you want is certain knowledge that when the end finally comes, everything's gonna be great. That, and comfort in knowing there's a point to the story, that when you started this whole thing there'd be an outcome. There's nothing worse than a story that just fizzles away to nothing halfway through. 

And everyone likes a happy ending.

In the tradition of equilibrium, this is the end. I'm due a whole heap of trouble for this. Not just because I hacked the spirit of the Enworld server (yeah, go figure, computers have souls. And if you  think that's scary you should hang around for, oooh, about twenty years, then we'll talk) but because we're really not supposed to incite flawed logic in the grandeur of creation, or screw around with lifer's heads. It's gotta be all 'hey doofus, I'm thinking of a name beginning with S, first part sounds like weave, or leave, or heave‘. Communion favours ambiguity, but what can I say; I was a facetious, argumentative, non-conformist in life. Being blown to bits didn't change much more than the relative location of my limbs.

On which note, some parting words: 

A body is not the sum of its severed parts.

You can have that for your signature if you like. Just don't forget to give credit where credit's due. Don't make me come down there and haunt your sorry ass.

[SBLOCK=Message for Mods]Can someone delete this. I can't find the account. Looks like trolling - the stuff about Enworlders as sad, pathetic individuals is particularly offensive: Morrus[/SBLOCK]


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## Dlsharrock (May 15, 2008)

Irrespective of win or lose, that was a lot of fun 
I can't think of a title though. It didn't seem appropriate to give it one either. Is a title essential? Couldn't find anything in the rules one way or the other.
EDIT: Oh, and also, I substituted an i for a 1 in  for tat because Enworld censors  for some reason. Nothing wrong with that particular species of bird that I know of.


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## Thorod Ashstaff (May 15, 2008)

*Titles Schmitles*



			
				Dlsharrock said:
			
		

> Is a title essential? Couldn't find anything in the rules one way or the other.
> EDIT: Oh, and also, I substituted an i for a 1 in  for tat because Enworld censors  for some reason. Nothing wrong with that particular species of bird that I know of.





Who needs titles. I changed mine three times, and am very unhappy with the one I ended up with, should have left it off. We live or die by the words on the page (or in the post), not by titles.

As for that particular word, as the brilliant G. Carlin once said: "#### doesn't even belong on the list, man!"


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## FickleGM (May 15, 2008)

Dlsharrock said:
			
		

> Irrespective of win or lose, that was a lot of fun
> I can't think of a title though. It didn't seem appropriate to give it one either. Is a title essential? Couldn't find anything in the rules one way or the other.
> EDIT: Oh, and also, I substituted an i for a 1 in  for tat because Enworld censors  for some reason. Nothing wrong with that particular species of bird that I know of.



 Wow...you got yours done already?

I just wanted to mention that I accidentally looked at the wrong pictures last night and all my planning up to this morning was for naught.  Luckily, I have until Saturday at 6ish (my time) to complete this.  It does seem, however, that my opponent has put the pressure on me by firing the first salvo and getting his story done in a hurry.

Also, I have the beginning, core and end to my story in mind (using the correct set of pictures).  I just need to type it, tie it together and proof it.  I'll do the bulk of my writing Saturday morning and should have no problem getting my story posted before the deadline.


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## orchid blossom (May 16, 2008)

*Round 1: orchid blossom vs. Piratecat*

Untitled

She was sixteen the first time she slipped out of the maiden house and into the foothills.  Her daytime explorations had revealed only a strange energy, one her Priestess-trained senses felt but didn't see.  Still young, it had taken her several weeks to discover that this veil was like the one that hid their valley from the world beyond.  A hidden place within a hidden place.  And like curious young people everywhere, she sought that place.

Heart beating hard in her chest, she crept out of the maiden-house and into the night.  Away from the small village that housed the Priests and Priestesses she muttered to herself and a blue ball lit her way across the meadow and into the trees.  Her feet knew the path as if she had walked it each day of her life, in every life before this one.  She reached a place where two trees arched over the path; their limbs intertwining to create an arbor.  

The time of testing was still months away, but so determined was she that she focused her mind and used the spell that was reserved for the ordained to part the veil.  With surprising ease it opened, and the soft tread of her bare feet were the first of a human felt in that ancient place in millennia.

She returned to the maiden-house before dawn, but a priestess waited to bar her entrance.  Instead she was led to a small hut of her own, maiden no longer.

*          *           *

Years of vigorous training passed with years of watchful eyes.  No word was ever said of her midnight journey or the journeys that followed.  No accusations or punishments, no words of discouragement.  She continued her training, and at 26 finally wore the delicate tattoo on her forehead of the ordained.  Chosen for her was a circle of stars, and a secret name.

Some nights a flame burned in her heart that led her away from her home and into the foothills to part the veil and meet him.  It was years before they even spoke, years more before he began to teach.  He was, without doubt, of another world but she did not fear her gentle teacher of those arts the priests could not teach.  He touched the very stuff of the stars and infused them both.

She began to glimpse the afterworld and the otherworld, and then the neverworld.  Possibilities swirled through her mind that none had before seen.  “You must be prepared for these,” he said.  “The world is changing.”

*      *      *

The years were treating her kindly.  At nearly forty she looked and felt no older than she had on the day of her ordination.  Twisting strands of ink wound themselves around her wrists and the backs of her hands to encircle fingers signifying her mastery of the spheres.

She led services and cast the circles.  She advised the mighty and tended the common.  Power grew in her and the respect of her teachers and students was hers.  Even the eyes of the old ones who remembered her impulsive departure from the maiden-house watched her now with some pride.  Yet they still wondered about her midnight rambles into the foothills.

His beauty had not faded, but in his movements age had begun to show.  She parted the veil into his realm and saw the signs of autumn.  Had summer not still embraced this place in its soft warmth just the week before?

He came to her through the autumn leaves, unashamed to live uncovered in the body he inhabited.  Here there was no such thing as shame or sin and they united in unbridled passion.  “The world is changing,” he said again, later.  “All things come and pass in their time, and come again.  A new world is coming, and you must know it, so you may remember and guard the old.”

Drowsy with satisfaction, she nodded.  He had said such before, but he continued.  “Tonight we will journey. I will guide, but with your power we will pass between the worlds.”

She clothed herself, questioning.  Surely her own power was nothing to his.  Yet he was calmly waiting.  Whether or not this was beyond his power was irrelevant; it was within hers.  “The first lesson,” he whispered to her, “The power is always yours.  You have seen the place we must go, the otherworld.  Lift the veil.”

Breath moved in and out of her lungs.  The inner eye turned to the visions she had seen, some beautiful, some terrifying. A different world was before her eyes, one of machines where people had become estranged from the world they lived on, but one with a great beauty of its own.  Lips moved in prayer, but the veil remained closed.  In great compassion he said, “We cannot go there, it is the future world and even our arts cannot send us into a place that does not believe in them.  If you could dig deep enough into the earth you would find remnants of the last technological age, the age when I was born.  The place we must go is not so pleasant.”

Unsurprised by the confession that his life had spanned millennia, she focused on the other place she had seen in her visions.  A place of pain; one she would not willingly enter without his assurances.  The veil parted, and they stepped to the edge of a crater so large the other side could not be seen.  The sounds of far-off screams haunted the place and torment hung heavy in the air.

“This is not a place of my world,” she said plainly.

“It will become so.  It already lives in the imaginations of many, although not yet those of your homeland.  It is called Hell, an afterlife of eternal punishment for the wicked.”

“Will the wheel then be forgotten?  Souls return, all know that.  Our sojourn in the afterlife is short; until we are brought again into the world to right our past wrongs and learn from a new life.”

He sighed.  “Already some seek a simpler solution.  Bliss for the good, eternal pain and suffering for the bad.  A simple justice of black and white.  The belief in this has already created this place, it will become larger and stronger as more come to believe.”  Stairs appeared in front of them and he began a slow decent into the increasing cacophony.

Blistering air washed over them as they descended.  Red haze filled their eyes and faces, screaming and contorted sped toward them, their voices driving her to the edge of madness.  She held to the rock behind her and pulled sulfurous air into her lungs.  Moments later she asked, “Who are they?”

“Men of great evil from the last technological age.  There are few whose souls truly deserve such a place as this.  They are among them.  Come.”  He led them through a doorway in the rock.  Inside the cave it was cooler, and the further they walked the more the screams faded, but the heavy feeling of the air did not lift.

The corridor ended in a column of clear white light shining down on what seemed to be a creature made only of human arms.  They were twisted together such that even hands were hidden.  “These are among those who believe they belong here, whether they do is another matter.”

Her hand reached out to touch, but stopped, suddenly fearing the hands that must be there.  “Why would they believe such if they do not belong?”

“The twisted arms tell you why.  These are those who unwittingly assisted those with evil intent.  Forced, or tricked, or ignorant, guilt has led them here.”

Finally she asked the question that had been held at the back of her mind.  “Why have you led me here?”

“Like all things, I must pass.  I have already spent many more lifetimes on the earth than I should be allowed.  The next age is too close now to release them, but it will pass and someone must return these souls to the wheel.  I could not reach them all in the time I had, I spent too much of it searching for one who I loved.  Those who believe they belong here are the hardest to find.  Such a one were you, my beloved.”  He leaned and spoke a name in her ear.

As if from a spring, memories came slowly to the surface of her mind.  A life in another world.  A noisy, busy world filled with machines and grand buildings and people scurrying self-importantly here and there.  Even as she reached out to him he said, “We have had our time together, as we will again.  My time is at hand.  Lift the veil; to a place that is the opposite of this.”

She wanted to refuse, but this most recent life still dominated her thoughts and obedience to this teacher was a habit ingrained.  An overwhelming sense of power was manifest in this new place, seeming to emanate from a huge winged man before them.

“His rebirth has begun,” her guide said.  “Human belief is changing him, but he has worn this shape before and will wear many others in turn before he returns to it again.  Not many will pass after me who can join the wheel and be reborn.  They will abide here or in hell until the age changes again.  Then your work will begin.”

“Will this place not trap their souls as much as hell?”

He shook his head.  “This place bears a much closer resemblance to the afterlife you have always believed in.  It will change again and the souls residing here will be reborn.  But hell is always hell, it is kept there by the belief of those who feel their punishment is justified.  Those you must release, and perhaps on a distant turn of the wheel hell will be emptied and finally disappear.”

The wings of the man, or rather god, rustled.  Her guide turned to look.  “It is my time,” he said again.  He looked at her again for a long moment then turned and walked away toward what she now remembered the word for.  Angel.

*      *      *

The sisters had noticed her leaving the small hut near the foothills at midnight.  As usual, one watched for her return at dawn, but she did not return.  They opened the door uninvited to find their sister lying peaceful but lifeless on her palette.

The moment had been anticipated from the night a sixteen year old girl had slipped away from the maiden house.  The priests and priestess brought offerings, herbs and texts, plants and jewelry and arts, all the knowledge she must preserve.  Then together, they lifted the veil around the cottage, leaving to await another age.


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## orchid blossom (May 16, 2008)

[sblock=comments about my story]I have had an extremely busy last couple days, so I’m just pleased I managed to get something to turn in. It’s certainly not my best work, but I feel good about it.

I decided to try to break one of my bad habits, overexplaining.  I always want to describe everything, and explain everything.  So much so that it can drag the writing down.  So while the language here is a little flowery (or a lot, depending on your definition) I tried to make sure I didn’t use extra words.  I also tried to avoid starting too many sentences with He or She, instead stating things other ways.

The other things that tends to be important to me is a name.  Names for characters make a huge part of who they are.  I wanted to try and go without that little cheat of definition through name.  I also felt for this particular story having the characters be sort of anonymous worked.

And of course, keeping it short.  I don’t tend to think in short story lengths.

I don’t know that I’m proud of this as a piece of writing, but as an exercise for me it was well worthwhile.

Oh, also, this is what comes of listening to Loreena McKennitt while writing.[/sblock]


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## awayfarer (May 16, 2008)

D'oh! Only 50% done. 

College finals are ruining my ability to interact with strangers in the internet.


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## Piratecat (May 16, 2008)

awayfarer said:
			
		

> D'oh! Only 50% done.



Then you're doing fine! I usually don't write anything for the first 24 hours. You're ahead of the game.

I love the stories I've read so far. Orchid Blossom, you know how sometimes two stories using the same pictures are very similar? Well, not this time.  

Nice work. Win or lose, I'm proud to be writing against you.


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## tadk (May 16, 2008)

*Thanks*

Thanks Arwink

Hey awesome post there Rodrigo
I bow to your infinite story writing ability

I find it interesting we both went in a scientific route

Good Luck next round
Tad


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## Eeralai (May 16, 2008)

orchid blossom said:
			
		

> [sblock=comments about my story]
> 
> 
> 
> ...




I would be proud of this writing.  I enjoyed it.


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## orchid blossom (May 16, 2008)

Piratecat said:
			
		

> I love the stories I've read so far. Orchid Blossom, you know how sometimes two stories using the same pictures are very similar? Well, not this time.
> 
> Nice work. Win or lose, I'm proud to be writing against you.




Thanks.  I hope to get a chance to read the other stories sometime today, and now I'm more curious than ever.  I wasn't kidding when I said life got suddenly busy.  



			
				Eeralai said:
			
		

> I would be proud of this writing.  I enjoyed it.




Thanks.  I'll have a better idea after _I_ read it!  Well, read it again anyway with a few days distance.


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## Dlsharrock (May 16, 2008)

Note to self: don't ever ever *ever* volunteer to judge a future Smackdown! I honestly don't know how you guys are going to differentiate. I don't think I've seen such a great collection of stories, even in a book of collected short stories, in a long time. What a bunch of show-stealers!

That said I do definitely have two favourites, one of which I believe is worthy of some kind of prize, if not a publishing deal. At this point I think I'll keep my specific opinions to myself 

EDIT: just in case that was misleading, I'm not in a position to offer a publishing deal


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## Piratecat (May 16, 2008)

It's great to give feedback to authors! I know I like to hear people tell me what they liked and didn't like about my stories, and I think most other people feel the same way. Just toss it in a [sblock], so that the judges can ignore it until after they've already made their decisions.


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## maxfieldjadenfox (May 16, 2008)

What the kitty said. It's hard to be objective when you only have 72 hours from idea to execution. My stories fall into two categories, I either am in love with what I wrote and can't quite see it realistically, or I hate what I came up with and feel like it's utter crap. A couple of stories that fall into the crap category have been favorably received, and a couple of my faves have fallen flat with the judges. It's always nice to hear other opinions. If one person says something about your story, you can listen, but if several say the same thing, you really start to get a sense of what's wrong or right with the piece.


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## Dlsharrock (May 16, 2008)

Well, the main problem is time. As in, I don't have any. In an ideal world I'd like to sit down and give each story a full and gushing appraisal (no criticism to be honest, the luxury of not being a judge and I don't really have any anyway), but that Dlsharrock lives in an alternative universe (the bastard) so the woefully inadequate alternative is my previous post. Sorry. Maybe if I get some spare minutes this Sunday I'll share in an sblock stylee.


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## Eeralai (May 16, 2008)

*Jenna*

I think this crosses the grandma line a couple of times, so if you are easily offended, please don't read.


“We are gathered here today in the name of the Almighty...”  We'll just skip the droning here.  You've heard one supplication to God, you've heard them all.  And I've heard 561 since I joined this sisterhood 3 months ago. Okay, fine.  This ceremony was a little different because we were out on the roof top and all.  And there were these odd banners that looked like they belonged more to a courtroom than in a Catholic ceremony.  My interest was peeked until the traveling head honcho priest guy started in with the same old, “We are gathered here in the name of the Almighty,” shtick.  Plus, also, my white habit was itching like crazy and the sun, despite being behind clouds, was beginning to make little red pin pricks into the skin on my hands on account of I'm allergic to the sun.  Okay, fine.  I'm a vampire. 

I know.  It's a little unusual for a vampire to be on a rooftop in a white habit during a catholic ritual during the day.  Well, maybe it's unusual for a vampire to be in a catholic ritual at night too, just not as much.  But what's a nice girl like me supposed to do in a situation like this?  I mean, I keep searching and searching for a way out of this crazy curse.  I've actually been a vampire for 213 years.  Okay, fine.  213 years, 5 months, 2 days, 7 hours 3 minutes and 16 seconds.  17, 18, 19, 20.  What was I talking about?  Oh yeah. I know it's taken me a long time to try the Catholic way.  But, first of all, there is that whole natural aversion to holy water going on.  I thought the droplets of water were going to burn holes straight through my brain and out my soles when they baptized me.  That's actually why I tried the Catholics before the Baptists.  The Baptists use a lot more water.  So there's the problem with holy water to contend with, and I've never been one for organized religion.  I was a dryad prior to becoming a vampire and dryads just don't do a whole lot of gathering in the name of the Almighty.  It just doesn't occur to us.

Yeah, I know.  A dryad-vampire?  But it's not like vampires go after only plain, boring humans.  Okay, fine.  Humans aren't boring.  Just stunted.  Anyway, that's why I can stand in the sun as a vampire.  The vampire curse didn't overtake me completely like it does with humans.  My dryad magic and tree were too strong for that.  Of  course, when the vamp curse first set in, I felt like an ogre druggy who hadn't had a hit in 24 hours and his dealer was telling him the shipment wasn't in yet.  Yeah, I was that ragin'.  My constant thoughts of, “When will I get laid again?” were replaced with, “Who can I dominate now and what will their blood taste like?”  So, yeah, I went through a pretty intense S&M phase, and I was a dominatrix like you've never seen, but it's only fun until someone loses a life.

Anyway, I should've kept paying attention to the traveling head honcho priest guy because suddenly I was holding hands in a circle and, whoa, this wasn't the same old song and dance anymore.  The head guy, looking a little ridiculous with his beard and nun outfit, started chanting in low, sustained sounds.  My name was coming up frequently, along with the words “cleanse” and “demon.”  Who was this guy?  Was he a vampire hunter that I didn't know about?  I know all the vampire hunters out there and am currently friends with three of them.  This guy was not on the list.  But then the words “evil dryad,” came out of his mouth and my world turned upside down.  I could feel part of my soul reaching for the sky, and it was the good part of my soul.  The vamp side rushed in to fill the void.  I looked around for a potted plant, a flower on a lapel, anything to ground my soul back.  But the roof was bare.  The sun pierced my skin, and I was once again grateful for the cloud cover.

“What are you doing?” I shouted in a guttural voice that made me sound like a demon in a really bad horror movie.  It was enough to break his concentration, and I grasped at the remaining dryad soul.

“We, we, we're cleansing you of your evil ways,” he said as if he hadn't expected the spell to work.

“But you're taking out my good side.”

“Your dryad blood is from the devil,” he replied gaining strength in his self righteousness.  “You have brought shame to this sisterhood.  You have defiled it.”

“Defiled?” I said, my voice coming back to normal.  “Defiled?  They've been having a good time so far.    I've heard no complaints.”

“Sex with other women is wrong!” he shouted.  “Especially in a nunnery.”  Then the head honcho guy resumed his spell against the evil dryad in me.

My brain swirled with legs and pleasure trying to see the evil.  So he was exorcising the good part of me and leaving the evil vamp in because I had livened things up in the nunnery? And how did he know I was a dryad?  Oh, yeah...the wine night.   The monks next door brewed some pretty strong wine, at least strong for me.  I think holy wine has some sort of weird effect on one magical soul or the other in me.  Anyway, I think one of the nuns asked where I learned the things I knew, and I let it slip I was a dryad.   Okay, fine.  I did a lot of things with the nuns that were probably against their religion.  But wasn't it up to them to say no instead of being curious and then blame me later?  I guess confession around here was probably a whole lot steamier than it had been in a long time.  While I was musing the why's of the situation, my dryad soul was slipping away again.  

Anger swelled within me like a balloon being filled with too much helium.   I broke out of the circle and rushed toward the head priest.  Before I reached him, I noticed a guy carrying a banner with scales on it tilt the banner to the left and look around it quizzically at me.  I continued my run toward the priest guy and ran straight up his torso, pushing him back into the guy holding the scale banner as I flipped over in a backward somersault.  A collective gasp rose from the remaining circle.  The banner holder was pushing the priest off him, but I didn't stick around to see if he succeeded.  I leaped from the edge of the roof to the roof next door.  I jumped from building to building until I thought I was far enough away that I could go down to ground level.  I was going on the theory that I had broken his spell and he wouldn't be able to cleanse me anymore if I wasn't there.  You never know though.  I might've left a hair or something behind, and they could continue with the ritual using a mere particle of me.

I raced through the streets.  Talk about a case of the mean reds.  I was Holly Golightly on crack and running as fast and as far as I could.  Anger and anxiety were bunged up in a ball in my stomach wrapped in the thirst for blood.  Anyone on the street would do.  A construction worker was giving me the eye.  I know.  I was still in my nun habit.  Some guys are really into that.  I could pretend to kiss him and have him drained before his boss told him his break was over.  But he would just be a snack.  I spied four more construction workers ripe with sweat and filled with blood.  Wait, something was wrong.  It was all about blood and I wasn't even thinking about the sex I could have.  Where was I?  Lincoln and fourth.  Three-hundred-five light poles until the end of town.  One, two, three...I focused on the light poles.  I had to make it back to my tree.  It was the only place I could regain my dryad spirit.  Ten, eleven, twelve.  

Yes, I was in the town close to my tree.  My vampire blood gave me more mobility than a dryad has, but I have found in order to keep the balance I require for the sanity I desire, I need to stay nearby my tree.  Twenty-five, twenty-six, twenty-seven.   The balls of my feet bounced like rubber on the pavement.  It wouldn't take me too long to get out of town.  I just needed to stay focused on the light poles.  Fifty-seven, fifty-eight, fifty-nine.

The sun was going down as I reached three-hundred.  Paved road and cement gave way to pebbles and dirt.  The moon was high, full and shining brightly when I hit the windy poplars.  I began to count the poplars quietly in twos.  My voice took on the rhythm of a sultry samba and I released my clothes one by one.  I was a lone figure among the trees , cloaked in shadow from behind and bare to the moon in front.  The road sloped down into rocky terrain at the end of the poplars.  I leaped down the hill, anxious to reunite with my tree.  The blood lust roared to the surface again as if in a last attempt to claim me permanently.  With one great jump, my body dispersed, and I became cottonwood, straight and downy.  I sighed in relief and began counting my leaves.

I had planned to stay there a few days.  It was, after all, my Tiffany's.  But the next morning, I felt a presence on the road.  It was a man and he had an ax.  Oh my gosh (I find it best not to take the Lord's name in vain, especially when I am the focus of a ritual).  There has not been an ax in the area, for I don't know how long.  Okay, fine.  192 years, 7 months, 2 weeks, one day, 2 hours, 3 minutes and 9 seconds.  10, 11, 12.... Anyhow, what was the man with the ax doing in my copse?  I had to take action.  

Running out of my tree, I lost contact with the whereabouts of the man, but I had a good idea of how long it would take him to get to the end of the road.  I was sure he was sent from the priest if not the priest himself and was doing a good job of tracking me.  I would just have to put forth my most charming effort.  I got to the hill and began to climb.  The nakedness would work for me.  Now for a pitiful look with the morning sun shining down on me.  All I needed were my eyes glowing bright blue, ever so slightly.   I was working it and there he was bending down to make his way on the hill to my tree.  

“Some might say the glowing eyes are cheesy, but I rather enjoy them,” he said.

“What the...who the...” I started sliding down the hill on little pebbles and suddenly I needed help to keep my balance.  I made myself slide faster and fall so I wouldn't have to take his help.  I stood up and dusted myself off.  I only had a few scratches, so no big whoop.  I crossed my arms over my chest and said, “Just who do you think you are coming to my tree all naked like that and carrying an ax, mister?”

And he certainly was naked as a jaybird.  I've never understood that phrase.  Aren't all animals naked?  Why is the jaybird singled out?  And really, jaybird is not accurate for him.  It was more like naked as a wolf.  His whole body was quite hairy.  His neck was strong and I could see the pulse beating on it.  His blood would be healthy and make the vamp in me stronger.

“I was trying to disguise myself as a satyr?”

“Well,” I said, ripping my eyes away from his neck to look down.  “You're not satyr size.”

“Really?  Angels aren't bigger than satyrs?  That doesn't seem right.”  He was heading down the hill now with the ax swinging gently in one hand.

I shrugged.  “It's kinda their job to be big.  And they have better manners than angels on account of they don't bring axes around with them.”

“I'm sorry about the ax.  Really I am.  Why don't we have a little chat?”

“Little chat?  Why do you look familiar to me?  Oh, your the banner guy.  I don't want to talk to you since you were trying to rip my soul out of me.  The good part, I might add, so just take your ax and your small angel parts and move along.”  Okay, fine.  He was big .  But I wasn't going to give him the satisfaction of admitting it.  Besides, I was much more drawn to his neck.  Angel blood would be sweet and powerful.  No, no.  I couldn't give in now.  Really, I'm a good girl.

“That's what we need to talk about.  You are not exactly what we thought you were.  That is troublesome.  When George contacted us saying he needed help in ridding a demon from his order, I wondered why I hadn't felt your presence before.  I didn't find out until the ritual was going on that you were a dryad.  By the time he named you, the magic had already started.  But a dryad losing her soul shouldn't have caused you to go berserk.  What are you?”

“What am I?  What are you?  You don't look like an angel.  Is George the priest guy?  I don't like him.  And I don't like axes.”  I was walking back slowly toward my tree.  If he was going to take a swing at it, I was going to stop it.  But still, his neck called to me.

“You keep looking at my neck.  Why?”

“I want your blood,” whoops.  Where did that demonic voice come from?  There was something about this guy that made me want to eat him in more ways than one.  He was sinewy and good.  I could sense he wanted to help me, but I couldn't tell which part of me was his focus.  His neck called to me.   But as I looked, his hands pulled up to his chest and the muscles across his collar bone pulled apart to release wings.  

“I am an Arch-Angel, Jenna,”  he said.  “The Almighty has taken a renewed interest in earth and has sent out some of us to see what is going on.  Obviously, I am rusty.  I did not see the vampire curse in you right away.  Unfortunately, there is only one way for you to be released.  Godspeed to you.”

The ax flew too fast even for my reflexes.  My head hit the earth and blood poured into the ground and into the roots of my tree.  I felt the cleansing of my blood taking place as I always do when I meld with my tree, but this time the blood flowed through the roots, leaving the bad behind.  It headed towards ground water and into a stream flowing well below my tree.  Everything was whacky-cracky with minerals, energy, and water swirling everywhere.  I sighed when my new shape finally formed and I realized I didn't need to count the bubbles going by.  I'd always wanted to be a naiad.  Do you think that angel guy is still around to try out my new bod with?


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## Eeralai (May 16, 2008)

The above is for match 2, round one.


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## Starman (May 16, 2008)

Round 1: Match 3

Cycle

Sixteenth of Gemmis, 1101 – Year of the Breathless

_It ends today._
	Spring was full upon the land after a harsh winter and the verdure had returned with a vengeance – the trees so thick, the grass so green as if the vegetation shouted a challenge to the harsh winter gods. The Pelis River, not as blue as it once was being now choked with mud, wound its way through the land dividing the Palios Forest in the east from the hills to the west that rose up to the Akrib Mountains. North along the river could be seen two of the Ynach Towers, ancient monuments built by the Chryfus, ancient sorcerers now long departed from the world. Many of the Onimos devoted their lives to searching for their secrets. Not Axin, however. Not anymore, anyway. 
	His goal was above him, inside the third Ynach Tower which floated in the sky above him. It was an imposing spectacle. Legends said the towers were carved from the corpse of Gidrakon, the great drake responsible for the Woe of Kalyps and the death of Xifas, renowned king of Irinis. Thirteen of the greatest Chryfus thaumaturges met Gidrakon in battle, but only one, Ynach, survived. As a monument to his fallen brothers, he directed a cabal of sorcerers in raising the towers that now bear his name. 
_How did he raise it from the earth? His power – and hubris – grow. No matter, Axin thought. Today I reclaim what is mine, what was taken from me. _Closing his eyes, the sorcerer calmed his breathing and reached out with tendrils of magic. He pulled in the tiriots, the arcane energy existing in all things, from the cool air in the shadow of the tower. The energy infused him and he felt alive. When he opened his eyes, they flared blue; his was the discipline of agom, that which found power in the cold things of the world – shadows, ice, death. In Axin’s mind, the collected tiriots were a shapeless block requiring the deft touch of an artist chipping away at it until it assumed the form he wanted.Then thin, translucent wings bore him aloft toward the tower and the man he had sworn to kill. 
	A preternatural calm settled over the sorcerer as he came to rest in front of the massive entrance to the tower. How many times have I chased him? How many times have we battled? No more, it ends now. Drawing on the strength of the icy void in his mind, Axin worked the tiriots against the door. He heard it crack, felt it shudder slightly, and then with a deafening boom, the door shattered. Shards flew in all directions. 
	“Chrotis,” he called out. Axin’s cool tone somehow made his voice seem louder and belied his murderous intention. He stepped inside the tower. Fires blazed all around – in torches and braziers and standing in front of a large throne, his mortal enemy, clad in orange robes, his face alternating between surprise and hot rage. And there she was, to the right of the Chrotis and just behind him. She looked at Axin with fear or joy, he wasn’t sure. Of course she is scared. This monster has no doubt done unspeakable things to her. 
“Think what you are doing, brother,” the orange-clad sorcerer began in a panic. “She loves me, not you.” With the last words, flames shot from his mouth toward Axin, but the icy thaumaturge was prepared. Before the flames had barely left Chrotis’s mouth, a swirling gust of snow spun out from Axin extinguishing the other man’s fiery breath and many of the sources of fire within the room as well. Right on top of that, a dozen small figures took shape in front of Axin. For a brief moment, they resembled blocks of ice before tiny humanoid shapes took form out of the ice. They glided impossibly fast toward Chrotis and began slicing him with their sharp claws. He screamed and began retreating backward. Blood trickling from several wounds, the sorcerer shouted a word of power. The flames from one of the remaining torches suddenly drifted free and began growing and taking shape. Just as Chrotis jumped toward it, the fire had become a bright orange chariot flying toward the ruined door.
     “This is not over, brother! Raida is mine. She told me she loves me!” he shouted, the last word trailing off for an interminably long time. Axin quickly forgot the other sorcerer, though, and ran toward the woman by the throne. She had collapsed to the ground and was sobbing gently. Axin fell down to her, clutching her tightly. “I’m here, Raida. It’s over. I’ll never lose you again.”
     Raida wrapped her arms around Axin. “It was horrible, so horrible. I prayed every day you would find me and save me.” She continued sobbing on his shoulder. Stroking her blonde hair with one hand, the man held her tight with the other. 
     “Never again,” he whispered into her hair.

Third of Fannim, 1103, Year of the Fleeting

_The fool would hide in a cave. So much the better for me. I tire of this. How many times have I had to fight him to save her? _
     A warm autumn breeze was blowing whipping the sorcerer’s orange robes around him. Paired with the sunlight, it warmed his blood. Looking ahead, the view served to cool him off just as quickly. He did not relish the thought of entering the yawning maw in front of him. (Pic #2) Besides the fact that he abhorred dark, cold places, this was rumored to be the home of Nychtinkin, a demon escaped from its abyssal realm due to the overconfidence of a Drosh Spiritwalker. His prey was foolish to take refuge in a cage with but one way in or out, but if he was going to pick one, this was probably the best place to do it.
     Looking around one more time, the sorcerer approached the cave entrance. Crossing the broken down bridge made him feel uneasy, especially with the stone visage of Yamia, the drake god, leering down at him. Standing on the other side, it seemed to the sorcerer that the wind was not so warm anymore. He rubbed his arms and moved into the inky blackness of the cave. 
     Chrotis debated whether or not to gather the tiriots for a small light source. It would help him see in the oppressive darkness, especially since he had a hard time extending his senses in an environment like this, but it would also aid the man he had come to kill by making himself easier to spot. He decided to wait and press forward with the little light he had peaking in from the cave entrance. I must still be quiet, though. Chrotis used the fiery hatred within his heart to find tiriots for his spell. Kaiom was his discipline, Onimos mages dedicated to fire. Their power came not just from that which burned, but from light, the sun, and the heat of intense emotions such as lust and anger. In his mind, the tiriots resembled a hungry fire which needed to be stoked. Chrotis did so and created a spell that burned away most of the echo created by his feet.
     The fire sorcerer walked until the entrance was the barest pinprick of light. He stopped trying to see if there were any branching paths he had missed, but the smooth walls did not seem to have any branching paths. He walked a ways further and realized that up ahead, there was a faint blue glow. As he walked toward it, the air became cooler and cooler. The temptation to start a giant conflagration was hard to resist as Chrotis felt his teeth clack together. He was too close to his prize to take any chances now, though, so Chrotis rubbed his arms and hands together as he walked toward the blue glow. The temperature continued to drop and by the time Chrotis got to the threshold with the blue glow beyond, it seemed the walls around were made of actual ice. 
     The sight beyond made the sorcerer’s blood boil. Raida and Axin lied together on a shimmering bed of what looked like ice. The agom mage was whispering something to her as he helped her out of clothing. An inarticulate cry erupted from Chrotis. He flew into the room, his eyes burning. Magical energy coalesced around him, tiriot sparks which grew into a large elemental beast. Axin fell out of his bed, tripping over his clothes trying to stand up. From the ground, he tried to counter the fire elemental with magic of his own, but he was too late. Its shape constantly shifting and dancing, the elemental fell up upon the mage and began pummeling him with his burning fists. Axin screamed and tried to attack again, but was unable to focus long enough to shape his spell. 
     Chrotis thought his brother would finally die this time, but it was not meant to be. Axin fumbled for his clothes and reached inside a pocket. His charred hand pulled out a small blue stone. Mumbling a word and holding the rock to his forehead, Axin suddenly turned into water. Where the mage had been was now only a pool of water, but one that could move, and fast. The water flowed out of the room, bubbling and hissing as it passed the kaiom mage. 
     Raida was weeping softly. Chrotis ran to her and gathered her in his arms. “Shhhh. Shhhh. He’s gone now. I promise I won’t lose you this time.” He held her tight, rocking gently. 
     “I love you, Chrotis. Please don’t lose me again,” she sobbed.
     “Shhhh. I won’t,” he whispered.

Ninth of Junnthim, 1124, Year of the Inconstant

Axin snarled as he tangled with Chrotis. Neither had the desire to stand back and throw spells at the other. It was too personal now. Each enchanted their bodies with their favored elements and sought to obliterate the other with their fists. (Pic #3) Axin’s eyes glowed blue as did his right hand. The cold from it could be felt by someone standing fifty paces away. Both of Chrotis’s hands were aflame. His whole body ached to see his brother’s body being at the center of a fire that reached to the heavens. The years of warring had taken a toll on both of them. Their skin was pale, their bodies gaunt. Nothing but the death of the other mattered anymore. And of course their desire for Raida.
	A short distance away, in a beautiful grove of trees, Raida stood surrounded by faeries. She carried a handful of flowers for the winner of the battle between Axin and Chrotis. She looked up at the faeries dancing around her head. (Pic #4)
	“Hasn’t this gone on long enough?” she asked. “I don’t want to play this game anymore. I don’t want to keep pretending that I love either of them when I don’t.” 
	One of the little sprites laughed. “Te he he. Maybe you should have thought of that before you broke your vow.”
	“But I’ve learned my lesson!” she cried.
	“Oh, but we are having so much fun,” another sprite said and they all started laughing.
	“But—“ she began, stopping when she heard her voice.
	“Raida!” She didn’t know which one of the brothers it was and didn’t care. She could barely tell them apart anymore. Slumping to the ground she began crying and the cycle began again.


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## Starman (May 17, 2008)

_Whew_. Just in time. I got slammed with work and ended up writing a good chunk of mine in the last forty-five minutes which means I did almost no proof-reading and didn't get to adjust the formatting for the boards. Ah, well, I had fun with it and hope it's good enough to get to the next round.


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## Starman (May 17, 2008)

I see that I also forgot to mention where my first picture fit in. It is part of the third paragraph. Don't dock me for that. :embarrassed:

It also looks like my opponent did not make the deadline. What's it going to be madwabbit? I don't want a victory just because my opponent didn't show up. I couldn't have been that intimidating.


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## tadk (May 17, 2008)

If it comes to a group vote, since this is his first time, let him post late I say


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## Piratecat (May 17, 2008)

tadk said:
			
		

> If it comes to a group vote, since this is his first time, let him post late I say



Well, he should post his story anyways. Then it's up to the judges.


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## Eeralai (May 17, 2008)

Rodrigo Istalindir said:
			
		

> Spoiler
> 
> 
> 
> How did we ever manage to do plausible techno-babble before Google and Wikipedia?






Spoiler



I was mightily impressed with your techno babble and your story.  Good job!


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## Eeralai (May 17, 2008)

*Comments on the contest so far*



Spoiler



I just finished reading all the stories so far and just wanted to say that I think this is a really great round.  Bravo to all of you!  I am glad I am not a judge


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## Dlsharrock (May 17, 2008)

i hope, if I go through to the next rounds, I don't come up against you Eeralai. That Chili Palmer avatar is *very* intimidating  (Yes, I realise I'm the one with the fiery eye of Sauron, but even that pales into insignificance alongside the steely gaze of the world's coolest movie mogul.)


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## Herremann the Wise (May 17, 2008)

*Judgment - Match Seven / Rodrigo Istalindir vs. tadk*

ARWINK’S JUDGMENT

Tadk Report on the Viability of Test Objects and Test Subjects

The curse of ceramic GM: great ideas for stories don’t get a chance to fully percolate before the timeline. I dig tadk’s idea of story-as-test-report, but given the strong reliance on the test-report side of the genre merge it tends to fall a little flat. I kept going over it, looking for the story (as in, conflict that builds and gets resolved) and the connections between the experiments, but if it’s there then I’m missing it. This feels like a grab-bag of ideas without a strong sense of thematic unity, and without that thematic unity and storyline it all feels a little too easy in its picture use. The questions I want answered: What are these test-designs for? What’s at stake with their success or failure? Once that seeps into the narrative a little, affecting the voice of the narrator and the experience of the reader, I think this would become a very different story that uses its report structure effectively instead of relying on it.

Rodrigo Istalindir / The End of the Line

It’s to Rodrigo’s credit that he gives us a familiar set-up and proceeds to make the story his own, quilting together the images into a solid narrative after an opening paragraph that just doesn’t live up to the rest of the story. His set-up’s a tough one to pull off – it’s a familiar trope enough that a well-read genre reader isn’t going to give it an inch – but the story succeeds in creating a believable voice and makes good use of narrative authority to given the events a credibility that far to many science-gone-wrong stories don’t have in early drafts. My quibbles with the piece largely come from a personal dislike of narrative frames that don’t add to the story (and I don’t think the current opening/title does) and the feeling that the canned eel and blue/red genome twins aren’t as strongly woven into the narrative as the girl-in-library and weird-lemur-thing.

The Judgment

Interesting round, with both contestants mining the science angle and putting together weird tales of experimentation. I think Rodrigo Istalindir takes this on the strength of both the story and his picture use, though I’ll give props to Tadk for attempting something relatively out-of-the-box as far as form goes. 

THE JUDGMENT OF HERREMANN THE WISE

I’ll start unusually for me by saying that Rodrigo has my vote for this match for a well constructed and written piece that carried my interest from start to finish.

The images for this match were what I personally define as dissonant, lacking any obvious cohesion. As such, part of the joy of judging the entries from this perspective was to see how the competitors would pull them together. Rodrigo did a very solid job of unifying them where as tadk laid some excellent groundwork but failed to tie the images together with a golden thread. I was left wondering, if only tadk could have had these four disparate experiments unified by a common goal, with the ironic conclusions leading to a defining truth or moral. It would have been a truly impressive if unorthodox effort. Alas, we were served with four disparate pieces of research and thus a piece that left me unsatisfied. 

To Rodrigo, your writing always has a solidity and strength to it, making you a formidable contestant in any match-up. This piece certainly maintained that standard so congratulations. The direction you took the pictures in was a little surprising but wonderful none-the-less (in fact both contestants had a scientific foundation which I really didn’t see coming). 

On a personal note to tadk, I always look forward to reading your entries; I always know I’m going to get something different and I know that one of these times, you are going to really hit the mark. Thank you very much for your efforts and I look forward to seeing that home run!

Judgment: Rodrigo Istalindir

MALDUR’S JUDGMENT

ye people of yore will remember I do my judgement short and to the point , so here goes nothing:

Odd how pictures push towards a certain idea. Especially if the result is so very different, yet with a similar vibe.
tadk, that is a very "different" ... work (cant really call it a story), and a very incoherent one at that. I dont think  the different parts (one for each picture) had anything to do with one another, you could have easily used any other picture.
Rodrigo made a decent story, and a pretty sweet, yet tragic, one at that.
The science could have used some more elaboration, yet me as an avid "regenesis" viewer could figure it out .

Judgement: Rodrigo Istalindir

FINAL JUDGMENT
Rodrigo takes the match with all three judges in agreement.


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## Piratecat (May 17, 2008)

Congrats, Rodrigo! 

Judges, thanks for speedy and concise judgments. They're appreciated.


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## Thorod Ashstaff (May 17, 2008)

*Slimy things in a can...*

Congratulations Rodrigo!
Both these were an interesting take on a REALLY interesting and disparate group of pictures. tadk, I liked the tie-in of the 'unobtrusive' (mostly) aliens. Rodrigo, your words really flowed well, and it was touching, in a disturbing kind of way. I especially liked the conclusion: is a few more years of True Love worth the lives of six billion people? An interesting question.

Well done.


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## Eeralai (May 17, 2008)

Dlsharrock said:
			
		

> i hope, if I go through to the next rounds, I don't come up against you Eeralai. That Chili Palmer avatar is *very* intimidating  (Yes, I realise I'm the one with the fiery eye of Sauron, but even that pales into insignificance alongside the steely gaze of the world's coolest movie mogul.)





LOL Yes, I thought Chili Palmer had the best game face   And I am immune to The Eye because my husband, unkowingly to me, put it as a screen saver on my computer and the first time I saw it, it scared the crap out of me.  But after seeing it over and over, I have grown immune to its evil ways


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## madwabbit (May 17, 2008)

Firstly, to all, but most specifically to Starman and the judges, I apologize for being a complete loser.

Despite several warnings and invocations to the contrary, I did NOT take this contest as seriously as I should have from a time-wise perspective.  I waited until nearly the last minute to begin working on my story, did not complete it in time, and then compounded the problem by forgetting to post even my partial text before going out drinking last night with my friends at work.

I suck and am full of epic fail.  For that I apologize.

Piratecat is correct, however, that I don't get to get off without posting what I did come up with, and you will find that below the sblock.  

By all means, please do not hesitate to snark at me and ridicule me mercilessly for my failure -- I definitely deserve it (although I am too hungover to read any of it, so you might want to save it for now).

Here goes:
[sblock]The single toll of a bell sounded throughout the lush and verdant valley that was the heart of the Forest of Emeranna. All other sounds were stilled in an instant, silencing even the birds and fauna throughout. The people within the valley were struck dumb and motionless as well, as if turned to stone, hoping desperately that the warning had been a mistake.  As the echoes of the toll faded, a single lark's song chirped hesitantly, waiting for its mate's response.

The bell tolled again, three sonorous and ominous tolls in succession.  It was no mistake. 

The Khanathrai were coming.

The bell then continued to toll without cease, frenetic like the heartbeat of the afraid, sending a cascade of din and echo washing down the valley, breaking upon the walls of Wovenbough, the people's village crafted and woven high in the treetops of the Forest.  The villagers broke their stillness, dropping whatever they carried, abandoning their chores, moving quickly towards the trees that edged central clearing in the Wovenbough's midst.

In the clearing, Chaili rose from her tending of an herb garden, to look in the direction of the bell's tolling, her heart skipping a beat.  Around her, the other young girls blanched in fear, whimpering and wailing, some breaking with panic to run towards the trees.  Chaili set her spade and bag down, shaking the dirt from her hands and brushing it from her smock, and then set about unbraiding her hair.

"It is time, girl-child," the voice croaked behind her, with slight sad tone belied by the harshness of age.  

Chaili turned to face her grandmother, bending down slightly to kiss the crone's forehead, without ceasing her unbraiding. 

"I know, Mémé, I know. I only wish I had just a little more..."

"Time?," Mémé cut her off bitterly. "Time? Don't we all wish this?  Don't we all wish for that which we cannot have, that which we can never have.  If wishes were loaves, we would all be bakers and then grow weary with the surfeit of bread. No, girl-child, you can wish for nothing but your duty, and pray to the Goddess that you do not fail in it, and if you fail, that you have enough courage and sense to die well.  This is the only thing you can wish for, Chaili, the only thing that you can ever or will ever call yours."

Her grandmother's rare use of her name made the sting of the words the more painful. "I know this, Mémé, you do not have to be so cruel in telling me what I have known my whole life. I know what my duty is, and I will not fail, and if I do, then I will die well and bring no shame to my people."

Chaili looked up at the sky, as a shadow passed across the sun, blocking the light that dappled the treetops and shone through to the clearing.

"It is just that in this moment, Mémé," she said as she finished unbraided her and shaking it about her shoulders, her head turned upwards to the growing shadow, "that I have no doubt, no fear, no question save one.  Why me, or any of the others?  Why were we chosen without given any choice of our own? It is not..."

"Fair?," Mémé snorted. "No, girl-child, it is not fair. And you are a fool to even have that thought cross your silly little mind.  There is only the truth of what is, and that truth is you were born Fae-wyrd and that you have come into your moon-blood.  That the Khanathrai come is also the truth of what is, and that they have now come to take you and any other Fae-wyrd girl-child who has come into their moon-blood.  

"There is no fair, there are no wishes... not for you. That you are what you are is the truth of what is... and the Khanathrai now come."

In the same instant that the crone finished speaking, there was the sound of innumerable trees groaning, snapping and splintering into thousands of shards.  The floor of the valley shook as if a giant fist slammed down upon it, followed by quick succession of the ancient giant trees of the forest being crushed as if mere sticks, and the hard quakes of something huge slamming into the ground.

The sun above Chaili and Mémé was completely blotted out by an impossible sight: a island floating in the sky, shaped like a mountain peak, covered by a city of towers harshly hewn at odd angles from the very stone of the mountain itself, the bottom of the mountain shaped into a conical plow which now hovered above the clearing.  It descended slowly, in a silence made eerie by its impossible size.

Up and down the valley, smaller floating island cities pushed down upon the edges of the forests, smashing tree and groud aside as they slammed hard into the earth, planting their plows deep within.  The tolling of the bell abruptly ceased.

"Step back with me, girl-child," Mémé said softly, "for it is time, the Khanathrai have come, and there is no more time for anything else."

Chaili turned as Mémé gently tugged her, and they moved quickly back towards the edge of the clearing, where the other villagers waited, on their knees with heads bent, holding onto each other. The tip of the giant plow slammed heavily into the soft earth of the clearing, shaking the earth mightily as it tore into it, crushing Chaili's herb garden and all other growing life within, as a giant wave of earth was pushed up and outward towards the forest's edge.[/sblock]


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## Rodrigo Istalindir (May 17, 2008)

For Dlsharrock:

[sblock]Nice story, Dlsharrock.  There's a lot of lines in there I wish I'd written  (especially "Being blown to bits didn't change much more than the relative location of my limbs.") 

It can be really hard to pull of that sort of meta-story, but you handled it really well.  

The picture use IMO was adequate, but lacked any real ties to the story.  They seemed interchangeable.  In other words, if the picture of the LARPer had been a guy fishing, you could have used it more or less the same way without much difference.  Ideally, the picture and the text intertwine so that neither would work without the other.  Obviously, the entire setup is contrived -- that's the point of CDM -- but the more you mask that, the better.

Uusually, you can spot the picture that inspired the story.  Sometimes it's not even the most unusual pic, or the one that features most prominently, but generally you can look at how a picture is used and say 'Aha!  That's what sparked the idea for this story.'  With yours, though, I can't see it -- what was the spark?

Good job with the first one, btw.  I really like it when writers take a fairly straightforward picture and stretch it (and conversely, I really like it when a really wierd picture gets used in a mundane manner that makes sense).  
[/sblock]


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## maxfieldjadenfox (May 17, 2008)

madwabbit said:
			
		

> Firstly, to all, but most specifically to Starman and the judges, I apologize for being a complete loser.




I had the flu last week and managed to turn in a story. It made me cranky that you didn't. But you did cop to the fact and I think I was overly harsh with you since I was still feeling cranky. 
So, all is forgiven but don't let it happen again...


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## Rodrigo Istalindir (May 17, 2008)

For Eeralai:

[sblock]Fantastic stuff.  The protagonist was funny, interesting, and unexpected.  Oh, yeah, and *funny*.  The story moves quickly; maybe a little too quickly, as more would have been most welcome.  Maybe a flashback during her flight and before the arrival of the angel to provide a little change of pace as well as flesh out the character's history?  

Picture use was very good, and the figure in the trees was perfect.  The only negative was I thought working in the blue-eye-glow was stretching a bit, forcing the fit of what was really a trivial element of the picture. 

Great job!  I really enjoyed reading this.  'Holly Golightly on crack' slays me.
[/sblock]


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## madwabbit (May 17, 2008)

maxfieldjadenfox said:
			
		

> You know those people who go to karaoke and they have the song memorized, and they really perform it? That's us serious SSS people.  And you know those people who stand up and sing and they have a good voice, but they screw up the words even though they're on the screen and then they laugh? That's you. Consider yourself chided.
> 
> Really, I know that life can get in the way of this little competition. I also know that the only reward you get is the personal challenge and bragging rights, but for future reference (to anyone who thinks about playing) when you don't post at least something on time, it shows great disrespect for your opponent, and you've also taken a spot that someone else would have loved to have...
> 
> *jumps off soapbox and goes back to wait for judges*



Right.  

Duly noted.


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## Piratecat (May 17, 2008)

madwabbit said:
			
		

> Right.
> 
> Duly noted.



Hey, just a public thanks for posting what you had written. That's far, far more satisfying than the alternative. I'm sorry you didn't finish the story, but good job on that.


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## Rodrigo Istalindir (May 17, 2008)

I'll save my verbal abuse of madwabbit, delivering it in small doses over the course of months or years.  More fun that way.

But, I will say this:  Newcomers, don't overestimate your ability to put words on paper (metaphorically, anymore) in a crunch.  Start writing right away, even if it's just a rough outline, or if you think you'll end up scrapping most of it.  Once you've done this a few times and know that you can crank out a page an hour (or know that you can't), it's okay to procrastinate a little and figure stuff out in your head until you're ready to write.

My first CDM story took me around twenty hours of sitting in front of the computer to finish.  It had been years since I'd written anything creative, and I'd forgotten how damned hard it is to produce on demand, how much time you can fritter away thinking of the right word so you don't reuse the same adjective over and over, or how many words it can take to resolve a complicated plot.

Now I spend, on average, around four hours actually writing, but two solid days thinking about it ahead of time, working out the plot, snatches of dialogue, and especially internalizing the pictures so that they have a chance to become inextricably part of the story.

For anyone that likes to write, or has to write, I can't recommend enough participating in these events as much as possible.  It's hard,  no doubt, and may not be fun at first, but it will get easier and more enjoyable.  And you absolutely will improve as a writer.  You'll learn how to deal with writer's block, how to honestly appraise your own work, how to take criticism well and learn from it, and you'll get oh so much better at stretching yourself by working in new genres and perspectives.

And when that starts to get commonplace, take up the judge's mantle, and you'll take things to an even higher level.  You'll find that having to critique others' work holds a mirror up to your own stuff, and you'll learn how to evaluate your own stuff as you write it.  No substitute for a good editor or outside analysis, but it will make your first drafts 10x better.


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## Rodrigo Istalindir (May 17, 2008)

For Piratecat:

[sblock]
Ok, damned near perfect.  Not a lot to pick at, here.  You keep getting better, and that's kinda scary.  Hopefully Orchid Blossom will bump you off so I won't face a rematch from last year.

Technically, this story is a work of art.  The speech pattern of the old Nazi, the descriptions, the setting.  Top notch.  My only quibble is not hearing from the boy; something to give him some personality would have made his eventual fate a little more resonant.  As it is, we're just left with the twist and have to appreciate it rather than feel it.  Partly that may be because I thought the ending was a little predictable, but that's more because I've gotten to know your style, not to mention be the virtual victim of one of your body-snatchers myself.

The picture use was good, with the angel sculpture perfect and awe-inspiring.  If I may be so bold (and so foolish as to advise a potential rival), I think that picture use is sometimes the least-strong element of your stories (calling it a weakness would be great exaggeration), but here the supporting pictures play into the centerpiece perfectly and organically.  Nothing felt forced to fit.

This may not be quite the story that your modern-day saviour tale was from last year, but it's a superior Ceramic DM entry, I think.  Glad I wasn't up against it.

Oh, and if you haven't read 'Declare' by Tim Powers, I command you to go forth and get it.  You will thank me.

[/sblock]


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## madwabbit (May 17, 2008)

Piratecat said:
			
		

> Hey, just a public thanks for posting what you had written. That's far, far more satisfying than the alternative. I'm sorry you didn't finish the story, but good job on that.



Thank you.



			
				Rodrigo Istalindir said:
			
		

> I'll save my verbal abuse of madwabbit, delivering it in small doses over the course of months or years.  More fun that way.



Gee, I can't wait.

Hold on... how is that any different from how you communicate with me anyway?


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## tadk (May 17, 2008)

*My esteemed Rival*



			
				Rodrigo Istalindir said:
			
		

> I'll save my verbal abuse of madwabbit, delivering it in small doses over the course of months or years.  More fun that way.
> 
> But, I will say this:  Newcomers, don't overestimate your ability to put words on paper (metaphorically, anymore) in a crunch.





Hi there Rodrigo
Excellent work as always.
My thanks to the judges
I must admit I did not have the same level of inspiration to my work as you did Rodrigo. Props and Kudos to you good sir. Kudos to you good sir.

I wish the best of luck to all the other competitors and I look forward to reading some other awesome writings.


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## Ycore Rixle (May 17, 2008)

*The Scooter Preacher's Daughter - Match 6 - Round 1*

The Scooter Preacher’s Daughter

The first time Theresa ran into him was at Spencer’s Drug near the checkout lane. She was carrying an armful of mama’s supplies: Zarqa fungicide, Peppermint Odor-Destroying Foot Oil, and Dr. Scholl’s Massaging Gel Inserts (mama was SO not gellin’).

Everything fell. There was a terrible clatter – she hadn’t heard anything so loud since she dropped her bookbag while mama was praying and the romance books and tarot cards spilled out. The Zarqa bottle shattered, of course, and the medicine odor of the fungicide set up a holy reek right by the rubber bouncy ball bin.

Sandy from behind the counter rushed out with a mop. There were polite mutterings, and worried titterings, and later Theresa remembered, through the red haze of her embarrassment, that the man was nice about it. Naturally what she remembered best was what made it the worst.

He was picking up his Cracker Jacks and his Bic lighter and maybe a prescription slip when she realized what he must have thought. She said, “Oh! They’re not mine,” and regretted it as soon as the words left her lips. She should have just sucked it up and soldiered on. Why did she always say things like that? It’s not like he would believe her anyway. Now she just looked desperate. So what if he had a flat stomach. He was older than her, and even a little bald in front! Who cares what he thought?

 “Right. No problem,” he said. He was smiling like “shya right,” or “shya who cares?" When it was all cleaned up, he was still smiling. He said bye and left.

Sandy chuckled. “Wow, girl. Stare much?"

***

Home was a trinary star system in a galaxy of misery. The trinary star system was her little room in the basement with its three points of light: her computer, her lab, and her magic table. The pain was everything else. Her downstairs room was cool, even now in the late spring. The lab’s dirt box diffused a fresh earthy smell. The hard disk rattled like a fragment of angry candy in its drive, but the computer didn’t finish booting before mama was yelling for her.

“I’m coming! In a minute!”

She made mama wait until after the shroom data from the dirt box was in and the updates were on the Crystal Falls news page (weather, fishing contests, no obits today).

Upstairs, the house’s one bedroom smelled like sweat and feet. Mama’s stupid feet. Mama had been the office manager at the hydro plant when the storm of ’99 hit. Lightning everywhere. Lightning is supposed to be an outdoor phenomenon, but mama swore she was inside when the flood waters came in. Sparks hit the water and fried her feet. There was nerve damage. Now mama couldn’t walk. She lived on disability and cruised Superior Street on her scooter, scolding shopfolk and tourists alike, issuing philippics like traffic tickets. Right now she was tearing into Theresa as if the girl had double-parked too long in the Not Honoring Your Mother spot and the Thou Shalt Have No Other God Before Me spot.

“Mama, honestly. I’m 19! I have a right to be interested in men. And I only told you about him to explain what took so long. Don’t you want me to talk to you?”

“Interested in men! Ha! Were you there when my feet were melting? Were you? Were you?”

Theresa kept rubbing the peppermint oil into the woman’s feet and waited. She had stopped answering that question long ago.

“No, you weren’t there. Well that was a message from God, Theresa! We have work to do in this town. Important work. But not at the hydro plant. No, not there.

‘You’re the strong one. You have to take care of me while I do my work. So many people are leaving this town, Theresa. So many. I have to minister to the ones that are left, and you have to help me. And that doesn’t involve you throwing your hussy self at men in the drug store! Lord, we thank you that Spencer’s has a No Shirt No Service policy or else my daughter’d be topless and shaking her little treasures at every man that walked in the place!”

It went on like that.

Theresa finished the peppermint foot massage, apologized for being late, and finally retreated to her trinary star system when Judge Judy came on to command mama’s attention.

After a good long cry, Theresa lit the vanilla candle on her magic table. Magic was nonsense, she knew, but she found some sort of peace in the ceremony. And she always felt like there was more, somehow, to this life. There had to be. What if magic were real? The vanilla scent keyed her meditation. She was deep in the trance when the computer pinged.

Today’s dirt box data run had finished. The data didn’t exactly fry her feet, but it was shocking enough. Ended the trance right quick.

***

“Something’s happening!” The keys clicked rapidly under Theresa’s fingers, like a machine gun. “Remember how I told you that strange stuff always happened in Crystal Falls? Like the Navy and their ELF testing. I’m still convinced that that led to the Humongous Fungus. Anyway, it’s happening again! I’m forwarding you the mycology data from today. The armillaria is off the charts!

“There’s something else. A plant, like a fern or something, has appeared in the dirtbox along with the honey mushrooms. There’s a nit or a cyst or something on it. I’m attaching a picture here. I don’t know what it is, but it’s growing at a phenomenal rate, just like the rest. I think it’s going to hatch something soon.”

Theresa was writing to Parad. Technically, he was her internet not-quite-boyfriend. Unfortunately, he hadn’t answered emails for the last month. She gradually stopped sending them, but the new data spurred her to try one more time.

“Anyway, Parad, if you get this and I don’t come back, call my mom. I sent you our number before. Because I’m going out to track down that guy. That one from Spencer’s. I don’t know how, call it intuition, call it candle magic, but I’m sure that he’s the one behind all this.”

***

It took a week to find him. A week is a long time in a town as small as Crystal Falls. Theresa noted the man’s uncommon anonymity as just another example of the weirdness that was cropping up.

He was at the car show. Here is how you go to a car show in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula: You get as many friends and stocked beer coolers as possible. You go out to the highway. You sit on the guardrail or on top of your cooler as your friends drive their cars up and down in front of you. That’s it. There’s no grand marshal, no floats, no firemen throwing candy, no blue ribbon judges panel. 

He was at the tent city for all the folks who come from Ishpeming and Marquette and even down from Duluth. People love their cars at the North Country Cruisers car show, and no one wants to drive drunk. So they set up tents in the state park and break out the bikes. It’s a giant automotive Woodstock for one weekend to kick off summer.

More weirdness: for the first time since 99, the spring run-off from the river had overflowed the dam at the hydroelectric plant. It swamped the tent city in the state park.

Theresa was walking by the state park, not really on the search, when she spotted him (they always say you’ll meet someone when you’re not looking). It was the morning after the car show. The flood had hit at sunrise, and people were cleaning up now. Already the stagnant water smelled like swampgrass with a hint of sulfur and acid. Theresa tried not to look in the flood waters at the slicks that she suspected were vomit. Everyone had a hangover. The whole park was moaning under so much unfairness of things.

But not him. Theresa heard a laugh. She looked. It was him.

He had a beer and he was smiling. Despite the flood waters, this man was actually smiling. And – holy frakking Zeus and Athena and so say we all – he was looking right at her!

Theresa looked down and hustled on. Did he recognize her? Was he drunk? If he recognized her, did he think she was just another drunk Yooper? With foot fungus?

Maybe she should give up on this. But the nit on the fern stalk in her dirtbox at home lolled in her memory. It was swelling, fit to burst, and it reminded her of all the urban myths about girls with cold sores that pop open and spill out baby spiders. Something about that nit itched her.

She turned around and ducked behind the VFW pancake breakfast tent. When her man finished packing his tent, she trailed his friends and him as far out Fettig Street as she dared. When she had a general idea of their direction, she returned before getting caught.

***

Naturally, Mama objected.

“Were you there the night my feet got fried? I don’t think so! They were fried, Theresa! Fried! It was a sign from God. To help people! Not to go traipsing off into the woods at night on your two non-fried feet to find some jack-a-ninny hambone to fornicate with! That’s not why god gave you non-fried feet, Theresa. You’re the strong one. You need to help me! God demands that we help people!”

“I’ve got my cell phone, mama. And here’s the remote. I love you.”

Theresa was not certain the cell phone would be useful. Fettig Street led pretty far up into the Porcupines. The hills played hell with reception.

A quick trance with the vanilla candle to center herself, a note to Parad in case she didn’t come back, a check on the nit (still growing!), an update pass on all the websites she worked for, and she was off to catch the man in his lair. 

It felt GOOD to be doing something. Too bad about mama. But Theresa had given enough time to her mom, and she would give as much more as the woman needed. The woman was her mom, after all. It’s just that it was sometimes such a burden. Whatever. Life was life, and if it meant Theresa had to stay home and help her mom instead of going off to college, well, there were people starving in Africa and people back in the Middle Ages getting frakking impaled, for the gods’ sakes, and if you were a geek like Theresa you actually knew what true impaling meant, so in the end what did she have to complain about? Life was tolerable. It beat getting impaled.

Still. It felt real good to be doing something.

The leaves crunched under her feet whenever she turned off Fettig to investigate a side-road, a two-track, a snowmobile route, or just a trail. The moon was high in the sky and lit the UP forest well. Cicadas buzzed and the occasional rustle of leaves betrayed an opossum or porcupine or restless squirrel.

The moon was low in the sky when she started to give up hope. She was high enough up now that she could smell the wind coming all the way in from Lake Superior, fresh and wet and full of secrets. But nothing in the wind led her through the darkness to the mystery man’s house. She couldn’t go too far off the road easily because the branches scratched and tugged. Staring at the ground by her cell phone light – even going so far as to brush dirt and leaves out of the way when she thought she saw a trace of the man’s red shirt, or a beer can of his brand – Theresa realized she was no tracker. Where was Strider when she needed him? Shya right. As if she hadn’t asked herself that five million times before!

She tripped on a root. Everything fell. There was a terrible clatter as her cell phone hit a rock. Her shin was burning. Nix that – bleeding. She felt the moisture with her right hand while her left hand scrambled for her cell phone.

It was there. Please work… please work… please work. Blue LED light. Thank you Nokia engineering!

The LEDs lit up more than her bleeding shin. They illuminated the root that she tripped over. Only it was not a root, but a mound of some vegetable material, almost like a landscaped berm, or a tremendous snake covered with soil and last autumn’s leaves, smelling of ozone and decay. She waved the cell phone. The mound curved around and around in the clearing, making a spiral pattern in the moonlight, hypnotizing Theresa for a split second with all of the possibilities. Snake mounds. Native American burial sites. Crop circles. Colonization.

It enthralled her. A dream in the moonlight. She had to tell herself, “Get up, Theresa, get up,” to snap the spell.

The cabin was nearby, one-story, wood, with a pole barn behind it. Theresa wasn’t surprised to smell wood smoke even in the late spring. It got chilly at night, especially up here in the hills. Some people used wood stoves to run their generators now, too, thanks to gas being more expensive than mama’s foot oil. There were no lights anywhere.

Later, Theresa could not say why she went to the pole barn first. She had no real plan, at least to her recollection. She just wanted to find out who the man was. Maybe talk to him, if he turned out to be a non-psycho.

The door pushed open with a hushed woosh. The odor of fresh earth wafted out… she recognized it. It smelled like her lab’s dirt box back home. She knew it! The guy was up to something. She had been cultivating the humongous fungus for years, using her own antennae to simulate the Navy’s ELF radiation. All kinds of electromagnetic bombardments had produced some interesting effects, but nothing as dramatic as the nit that was ready to pop any day now back in her lab. And now – she smelled the same odors here. The man. Was he in the Navy? Was he one of the scientists who had initially started the ELF experiments and covered up its effects?

The cell phone’s LEDs lit up the barn’s interior like a spotlight. Dirt boxes covered the floor. Some covered, some uncovered, some with worms, some peat, some graysoil. Almost every box was teeming with fungus, mushrooms, or ferns. She knew she would find it, and she did: her nit. There was an entire box full of fern stalks with eggs on them, just like hers. Funny that she had never found the insect that lay the eggs.

Now wasn’t the time to worry about it. It was time to pick up the box and take it home to study.

“I’m afraid you can’t leave with that.”

The lights came on, blinding her for a moment.

It was him. Red shirt, beer in hand, just like she had seen him at the flooded tents in the state park. But now he wasn’t smiling.

“Who are you?” she asked.

“You’re the one in my pole barn! Who are you?”

Like any geek, during the long hours in algebra class waiting for the rest of the class to finish, Theresa had spent time daydreaming about turning mundane situations into life-threatening ones and planning accordingly. She almost forgot to use her training now. But it came back to her while he attempted to parley. That would be his downfall.

She remembered now: throw something at the bad guy, and while he’s distracted, make your escape. Even if he shoots, he’ll be distracted by your missile, and he might miss (not that he had a gun, and his beer can didn’t look like it was designed by Scaramanga).

Theresa heaved the box full of ferns and nits.

“No!”

There was a bang, and more shouting, but Theresa wasn’t listening. She was dashing out the door. She vaguely noticed the man stooping and trying to salvage the plants.

“I said you can’t leave!”

Another loud bang, but this one sounded like a potato gun. Compressed air. Theresa wondered about that curious sound for the split second that she had before it hit her.

The sensation was warm and sticky, spilling over her arms and legs, slowing them, trapping them to her body. Before she passed out, she had time to look down. It was like a web-bomb had exploded on her. Sticky strands everywhere.

***

“Let’s have a more civilized discussion.”

Waking up, Theresa swung her head around. Her eyes were gritty, but through the blear she made out a cabin kitchen, walls lined with canned food, a wood stove burning, and on top of the stove a bowl of oatmeal, maple by the smell. Beyond the kitchen was a room with a bank of computer monitors. Looked like they were running some sort of protein-folding program; she recognized it from a distributed computing screensaver she once participated in. Beyond that, there were windows out into the bright morning forest.

It was light! Mama would be waking up soon and worried to death. Oh god, the poor police chief is going to get an earful.

The mystery man was at the breakfast table, ignoring the maple oatmeal in favor of a Schlitz beer, and staring up at her. Sticky strands webbed her to the wall tightly, making the sand in her eyes unreachable. She flailed.

“Easy. A civilized discussion, remember? So. You want a beer?”

He looked just like she remembered from the tent city and the pole barn last night. This cabin was looking more and more like a lab as she woke up, and she had never been more sorry to be right. Think, girl. If he is working in a lab, then he must have backing. Probably the US Navy, if there history in the area is any indication. At any rate, he’s not a psycho acting alone. Maybe you can use that. Somehow.

“Look, just calm down and tell me what you were doing out there last night. My roses – I’m a rose dealer, you know? – my roses didn’t come out too well. You dropped a whole box.”

That was the worst lie that Theresa had ever heard, and once she told her algebra teacher that she paid attention every day. But she didn’t know how to use the lie to her advantage. “Roses. Yeah. Whatever. Look, I told everyone where I was, so if you don’t want to go to jail for any more time than you’re already going to get, you should let me go know.”

“No. I found your cell phone. I texted Parad and your Mom and even Sandy. They all think you’re staying at someone else’s house. The old round-robin trick. What? I watch Gossip Girl. I know how it works.”

Well switch my body and call me Faith, Theresa thought, that’s the last time I’ll store my contacts by their real names. Not to mention a note to self: never save old calls or texts. Or else, password protect everything (but who does that on a cell phone?). Damn, this guy was good, sort of. And – he mentioned Sandy. Did that mean he remembered that day at Spencer’s?

He said, “I’m waiting for an answer.”

“You watch Gossip Girl? You don’t sound like a psycho killer.”

“And you don’t look like a Chinese spy.”

“So there’s something about your supposed roses that would interest a Chinese spy?”

Blank stare. Then the guy took a shot of Schlitz. “Aw hell, this is why I’m not in intelligence. That was a pretty good trick I thought of with the cell phones, though, don’t you think? My name’s Johnny, by the way.”

“Theresa.”

“I know. From your cell phone. What I don’t know is what brought you out here.”

“Let’s just say we raise the same kind of roses.”

There was a long pause. “You’re kidding.”

“No, I’m not kidding. You think only the Navy can grow crazy stuff based on the ELF waves you’re pumping through here? You are from the Navy, right?”

“I can’t tell you that. It’s classified.”

“Classified. That’s military speak. So you admit you’re from the military?”

“Listen, I can’t tell you that. It’s classified.”

“So, what, there’s no protocol to cover me finding out about you? Isn’t that a little short-sighted?”

“We pay $400 for a toilet seat. You think we can plan on high school kids duplicating PhD-level mycological research?”

“I’m not in high school. I’d be in college now, if mama didn’t need me.”

That’s when the story came out. Theresa was crying by the end of it. Johnny seemed like he cared. But he didn’t cut her down from the webs. And mama was not what he asked about.

“Wait,” he said. “Just wait. You said – you said not only did you get the web ferns, buy you also had a cocoon on one? How far along was the cocoon?”

“I duplicate mycological research. Some botanical. Entomology is for the birds. Well, that’s ornithology. But you know.”

Blank stare.

“I mean, Johnny, the nit – the cocoon – I don’t know. It looked like it was going to pop any day now. I don’t know what kind of bug laid it there. It’s just –“

That’s when he started cutting her down. “We have to get back there,” he said. “Now.”

***

Mama didn’t like the first man she ever brought home.

“Not in my house! Fornication! Not in my house! You two running around both with non-fried feet and you can’t think of anything better to do than fornicate in my house! Get out!”

They raced downsairs. “It’s here –“

Johnny pushed her out of the way. “There!”

The cocoon hatched just as they reached it.

It was fascinating, really. First a slice of orange appeared, the color of a creamsicle in the white egg casing. Then a faint popping sound like a Whoville-version of a 4th of July champagne popper. The white strands sproinged after that, snapping like over-tightened violin strings, bulging from the thing underneath hatching. It was purple with orange spots, and it fluttered and flopped over to the computer keyboard, where it fanned its wings free of the cocoon goo.

Johnny was rapt. “Oh my god. Do you know what that is?”

“Looks kind of like a butterfly but –“

“It’s hell!” Mama cried. Like an angel of vengeance descending in her welfare-funded stair chair, she had come down behind them.

Slam! She banged her hand down on the keyboard, crushing the baby butterfly. Proud of herself, she held up her hand to show them the smashing. “And that’s what god is going to do to you, mister!”

She tried to lift herself up out of the stair chair and over to the roller computer chair.

And faltered.

“Mama?”

“Oh god…” Johnny said. “Theresa, listen, I… you might want to…”

“Mama!” Theresa shouted as her mom collapsed. Her head clanked on the lab table as she fell to the cold cement basement floor.

Theresa cradled the old woman in her arms. She shouted, alternately at her mom to wake up and at Johnny to explain. She could feel her mother growing cold and limp in her arms.

“I don’t know, exactly, what it was,” Johnny said. There was fear in his voice. He probably had never killed anyone before, despite being in the armed services. “It was a research project. The ELF radiation that we put through here… the humongous fungus, the 40-acre armillaria… yeah. It’s not actually 1500 years old… more like 15 years old. Once we noticed that ELF radiation could do that, not to mention the effect it has on honeybees, well, we decided to test it on other stuff. 

“Test being the key word. Oh my god, Theresa. I am so sorry.”

Theresa wept over her mom for a long time.

Johnny finally said, “Theresa, the fact that you could do all this – what the - ?”

Theresa screamed and went flying across the room. She crashed into her trundle bed and slumped to the floor. Her mother was standing up. Her eyes were wide and there was spittle at the corner of her mouth.

“Theresa! God has given me strength, Theresa. Stay where you are. Keep away from the fornicator.”

The woman was transformed. The scars on her legs and feet were gone. Her housecoat was ripped at the seams in a couple of places. Theresa had two thoughts: mama is the Incredible Hulk, and Johnny is going to pay for his experiment’s success with his life.

“No. I didn’t do anything wrong with your daughter. We actually – we can help you.”

“I don’t need your help! I’m strong now!” The mother spared a glance for Theresa. “I’m the strong one now, girl.”

She advanced on Johnny.

But the scientist was ready with his air-powered web-gun. He shot the woman from point blank range, the fwoosh of the gun followed by the splat of the webs. Theresa was amazed that mama could continue advancing. Those webs were strong.

The third shot finally stopped her.

***

The military came for mama. “It’s ok,” Theresa said. “You’re the strong one now, mama. You need to help us. The best way you can help us is to let the Navy boys study you. Good job, mama.” Mama was flailing in the webs, still, when they carried her away.

***

A few days later, the VFW had their pancake tent up again for the Humongous Fungus festival. None the wiser, the townsfolk and tourists were enjoying their Fungus Fudge waffles and honey mushroom syrup on hotcakes. 

Theresa and Johnny had just finished agreeing in principle to an adjunct naval research contract for Theresa. Now they were seeing if they could agree in principle to something more personal.

Theresa sighed. “You know Parad is an anagram for DARPA, right? We’re gonna have to go over and straighten those boys out.”

“They’ll wait. What’s important now is getting you some foot fungicide for that problem of yours. Because I really want to ask you out, but -”

“THAT WAS FOR MAMA! It wasn’t –“

“Kidding! Kidding!”


----------



## Rodrigo Istalindir (May 17, 2008)

tadk said:
			
		

> Hi there Rodrigo
> Excellent work as always.
> My thanks to the judges
> I must admit I did not have the same level of inspiration to my work as you did Rodrigo. Props and Kudos to you good sir. Kudos to you good sir.
> ...




Thanks, tadk.  Glad you got a chance to stretch yourself a little bit.  I'll agree, these pictures left me kinda at a loss, too.  Nothing that really cried out 'write about me!'.

Early on, I knew it was going to be about the canned eel being the last hope for mankind.  But watching the news about Burma and China, I got to remembering Stalin's "One dead is a tragedy, one million dead is a statistic" and immediately flashed to the picture of Marie.  The rest pretty much wrote itself.  Nice when they come together like that.


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## Ycore Rixle (May 17, 2008)

*Notes on my story*

[sblock=Notes on my story]

Whew! That was fun. It came in on the long side, so I hope it is worth the words. If not, apologies!

1. It's partly a response to Rappacini's Daughter. That's what I had in mind, anyway. In Hawthorne's story, the science is the devil, and tragedy is the price for playing god. In my story, science helps at every turn. Theresa's relentless pursuit of science eventually sets her free from her mom.

2. That's why most of the metaphors, similes, and symbolism follows the following rule: If it's a natural image, it represents something troublesome or something that is an obstacle to Theresa; if it's a scientific or technical image, it helps.

3. Parad's original name was Hawthorn until I thought of the Parad/DARPA anagram trick. I wanted to fit in a reference to Louis Friend and SOTL, but couldn't get it to work.

4. The info on Crystal Falls is accurate. There wasn't anything in the rules about not putting in extra links, so to lend authenticity, I put in a few. Herreman said not to play conservatively, so I figured I'd go for it.

5. The story formulation went like this: I loved the hillbilly/redneck guy with the beer in the flooded tent city. He had to be a central character, and he had to be a happy, good guy. The girl with the candle looked good too. So I had to make a third character to be the villain. The insect nit was a hard fit (heck, I still don't even know exactly what that thing in the picture is), but eventually I decided that its impending hatching would make a good plot device that drove toward a climax, like Fortinbras marching in the background in Hamlet. Then the crop circles went with the botanical theme that came from the nit, the hillbilly/redneck setting (Crystal Falls worked because of its Humongous Fungus), and the science fiction tropes.

6. In Rappacini's Daughter, the daughter is named Beatrice after the guide in the Divine Comedy. Beatrice was too old-fashioned a name for a web-designer BG fan, so I went with Theresa, after a more modern saintly figure.

I think that's about it for now. Best of luck to everyone!

[/sblock]


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## Eeralai (May 17, 2008)

Rodrigo Istalindir said:
			
		

> For Eeralai:
> 
> [sblock]Fantastic stuff.  The protagonist was funny, interesting, and unexpected.  Oh, yeah, and *funny*.  The story moves quickly; maybe a little too quickly, as more would have been most welcome.  Maybe a flashback during her flight and before the arrival of the angel to provide a little change of pace as well as flesh out the character's history?
> 
> ...




[sblock]  Gee, Rodrigo, thanks so much!  You have made my weekend a happy one!  I agree about the things that were wrong.  I wanted to add more of her history and had envisioned a longer story, but I couldn't figure out how to do it and keep the pace going.  In the end, I decided pacing was more important than the history since I couldn't figure out how to do it right.  I am so glad you appreciated the Holly Golightly comment.  I was a little worried about putting that in.  Thanks again! [/sblock]


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## FickleGM (May 17, 2008)

*Round One - Match One*
FickleGM vs. Dlsharrock

The LARP That Wasn't
by FickleGM


"Hey Johnson, come here," shouted the officer, handing a book toward the detective. "I think I found something."

"Whatchya got, Davis?" asked Detective Johnson, as he took the book from the officer.

"Looks like a journal of some sort," was the reply.

"Well, let's hope it has some clues, 'cause this is just plain weird."

Davis replied, "I here ya, Johnson, mansions don't usually just fall into the ground."

Johnson had already stopped listening as he walked away, opening the book.  It was obvious from the first page that this was, indeed, a journal.  It belonged to a guy named Bob Fredrickson, a young man from Innsmouth, Massachusetts.  Apparently, the guy wasn't very popular, as he seemed to write mostly about bullies, girls who never noticed him and video games.  He wrote a lot about video games.

Finding an intact chair, Johnson sat down as he skipped ahead to the last few entries.  It was time to find out if this thing held any clues that would help them figure out what had caused the mansion to collapse into the earth and burn.  He still hoped that it was some sort of natural disaster, caused by a sinkhole or something, but it just didn't fit.



			
				Bob's Journal said:
			
		

> Tuesday, August 12th, 2008
> 
> 9:10am
> I am going to GenCon tomorrow and am so excited.  It is my first time going to the con, but my roommates have all gone befores, so it shouldn't be too nerve-wracking.




"Big surprise there," Johnson mumbled under his breath as he skipped ahead another page.  He had already assumed that this guy was here for the convention, but hoped that the following pages would be more interesting.



			
				Bob's Journal said:
			
		

> Wednesday, August 13th, 2008
> 
> 5:30am
> 
> ...




_Who is this LeAnn character?_ Johnson thought to himself.  He had read her name in a couple places in the journal, but Bob had also written that he's never had a girlfriend or been on a date.  It was possible that LeAnn was a friend, but it seemed more likely that she wasn't a real person at all.



			
				Bob's Journal said:
			
		

> As we walked along the beach, we came across the most peculiar thing.  Lying in the sand was a disembodied stone hand held against his disembodied stone head, which was half buried.  The left eye of the head, which was not buried, suddenly moved and appeared to look up at us.  LeAnn let out a slight scream and jumped behind me.  Then it spoke.
> 
> "Bob, I'm going to need your help," it said.
> 
> ...




_Oh my, this guy must have watched a few too many Sci-Fi Channel movies. I hope the rest of his entries don't recount his fantasy dreams._  Reluctantly, Johnson turned the page and kept reading.



			
				Bob's Journal said:
			
		

> 10:45pm
> 
> Well, it's been a long day, but I'm here in Indy with Ted, Jimbo and Alan.  We got checked into the Embassy Suites a little after 2pm and then decided to walk around.  The first thing that I noticed was how active the place was on the day before GenCon.  It was like the convention had already started for a large number of people.
> 
> ...




_Well, I agree that The Ram is nice, but I'd much prefer watching the Colts beat the Pats while I eat, rather than whatever he was watching.  I guess this just reinforces that this particular convention is definitely not for me._  With a slight eye-roll, the detective continued reading the journal.  Fortunately, he was quickly rewarded for his decision to turn the page.



			
				Bob's Journal said:
			
		

> Friday, August 15th, 2008
> 
> Well, it's been a couple days, but recent events have convinced me that I have to write this down.  The convention is not going the way I had hoped and I'm afraid that this weekend is not going to end well.  I wish I would have just stayed home.
> 
> ...




"Davis, where did you find this...exactly?" Johnson called out to the officer, waving the journal in the air.

"Down in that depression," Davis pointed to the pit where a large portion of the mansion floor had collapsed.

"Take me down to the spot," the detective was already climbing down into the pit.

Davis climbed down and walk across the rubble to the spot where he found the journal.

"Right here, detective.  Why?"

"I think we have something.  Help me move these bricks."

The two policemen cleared out an area of bricks, rocks and dirt, revealing a tunnel.  Turning on his flashlight, Davis shined it into the darkness.

"Where do you think it leads?" Davis asked.

Grabbing the officer's flashlight, Johnson started into the tunnel, tossing the journal down and pulling his gun.

"I'm hoping it leads to the owner of that journal...if we're lucky he'll still be alive."

Davis followed behind, "Okay, but why the gun?"

"'Cause of something I read in that journal.  You may want to pull yours, too."

The two moved down the tunnel, guns drawn.  It didn't take long to start feeling the heat that Bob wrote about in his journal.  As they rounded a bend, it wasn't the river of lava flowing beside the path that caught their attention, but the beautiful woman walking toward them.

"Stop right there," Johnson ordered as he pointed the gun at her. "You must be LeAnn.  Or should I call you Irkalla."

"What are you doing, Johnson..." Davis began as Irkalla interrupted him.

"I had hoped that someone would find the journal.  Poor Bob wasn't able to complete his task, but I'm sure that either of you will do."

Johnson fired six shots in rapid succession, but Irkalla was not phased by the bullets as she continued to walk forward.

"That will not due, detective," she frowned and her hand glowed a magical blue as she reached out and grabbed him by his neck.  Davis could only stare as Johnson's body withered and died before his eyes.

"I assume that you will be more cooperative, Officer Davis."

Davis nodded solemnly and lowered his pistol.  His eyes caught a flicker of movement from behind Irkalla as a large teenager lumbered toward her.

Noticing Davis' eyes widen, Irkalla was able to turn just in time to see Bob barrel into her.  As his momentum carried the two off the path and toward the river of lava, Davis swore he could hear Bob scream out, "FALL IN LAVA AND DIE. NO SAVE, B1TCH!"

The ground shook and the tunnel started collapsing again as Davis fled back the way he came.  Crawling back out into the ruins of Arkham Mansion, Davis had no idea how he was going to explain this mess.  He grabbed Bob's journal and climbed out of the wreckage.

Captain Lewis noticed the dirt covered officer climbing out of the hole with a battered book in his hands and walk over to the edge.

"What did you find, Davis?"

"Oh, nothing Captain, I slipped and fell into the pit when that last tremor hit.  I'm okay, though, just messed up my clothes and damaged my book."

"Okay, well get cleaned up and get back to the precinct.  The Feds have decided that this is now their investigation.  Have you seen Johnson?"

"No, sir.  Wasn't he poking around in the east wing?" Davis answered as he limped back toward his cruiser.

_It would be best if nobody ever found this,_ Davis thought as he drove away, still holding the journal.


----------



## FickleGM (May 17, 2008)

Oops, I mislabeled my match...


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## FickleGM (May 17, 2008)

Dlsharrock, I had a chance to read through your story.  I think it was an interesting take with regards to subject matter, approach and style.  I'm not good at critiquing, so I can only say that while it wasn't the type of thing that I would normally read (I hate reading, as it is), I felt that it was well done.  Those with a better eye for that which makes a good story will be able to provide better feedback.

Nice job.


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## BSF (May 17, 2008)

Dlsharrock said:
			
		

> Note to self: don't ever ever *ever* volunteer to judge a future Smackdown! I honestly don't know how you guys are going to differentiate. I don't think I've seen such a great collection of stories, even in a book of collected short stories, in a long time. What a bunch of show-stealers!
> 
> That said I do definitely have two favourites, one of which I believe is worthy of some kind of prize, if not a publishing deal. At this point I think I'll keep my specific opinions to myself
> 
> EDIT: just in case that was misleading, I'm not in a position to offer a publishing deal




You know, writing these things is a heck of a challenge!  Judging is a very different challenge.  Writing has rewards because once you have beat yourself to a pulp with the stress of writing the story, you have something you can look back on with some source of pride.  I fully believe that everybody writing a short story like this, under these constraints, should end up proud of the effort.  Even if the story has flaws, the work is something to be very proud of.  Judging has a completely different payoff for me.  Judging has a different payoff.   It has the payoff of watching these people sweat and work to get a story out there, and then providing some feedback.  

Being a spectator is just pure enjoyment - though I sometimes miss not being a participant in the smack talk.  

EDIT:  Dang, I left out a whole sentence, which left half my statements being nonsensical.  The kids are distracting me...


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## awayfarer (May 17, 2008)

This is going to come right down to the wire. I forgot I was visiting my folks this weekend and the trip's taken a little time away. D'oh!

About 80% done. I should add that I've got roughly 3800 words so far. There's not hard and fast limit set right? Anyone know if I might have trouble posting a story of this length?

Edit: This is what happens when you mix an overly fertile imagination with hopelessly optimistic goal-setting.


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## Rodrigo Istalindir (May 17, 2008)

awayfarer said:
			
		

> This is going to come right down to the wire. I forgot I was visiting my folks this weekend and the trip's taken a little time away. D'oh!
> 
> About 80% done. I should add that I've got roughly 3800 words so far. There's not hard and fast limit set right? Anyone know if I might have trouble posting a story of this length?
> 
> Edit: This is what happens when you mix an overly fertile imagination with hopelessly optimistic goal-setting.




Shouldn't be a problem.  I've had stories approaching 6000, and I'm sure Carpe David had ones longer than that.

In the olden days, we used to have word-limits on the stories, but it wasn't usually a problem, so it sort of fell by the wayside.


----------



## BSF (May 17, 2008)

We have seen some very long stories!  Sialia cranked out some immensely long tales under these timelines.  It was after her stories that we started bantering about the ideas of word limits.  That was mostly to make it easier on the judges.  

Personally, I prefer to refrain from hard limits.  If a story is engaging and flows well, even a very long story feels like a short read.


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## RangerWickett (May 17, 2008)

*The Contest of Harmony and Invention*
By Ryan Nock

The power lines shook like violin strings being bowed by a dying man. The streets were well past rain-slick, and now had currents of their own, pushing flotsam of both the trash and the citizen variety away from the great river. Sewage and sea brine splashed beneath Jordan’s feet as he stumbled through the storm, pistol and fiddle case in hand, calling out to his brother.

He could barely see ten feet, and the crowds – all fools as bad or worse than Jordan to have waited this long to evacuate – threatened to trample him into the rising flood. Cursing God, Jordan turned and cut across the street to the dark shape of a two-story building. A motel, he realized, as he staggered out of the rain and under the carport awning.

The door was locked. He kicked in the glass, cleared out the remains with the barrel of his pistol, and clambered inside. The flood had preceded him, and in the near black interior he sloshed through ankle-deep detritus. Roaring gusts blew rain in after him, and he tucked his pistol into his pocket so he could flip open his cell phone for light. At the far end of the lobby was a staircase, and he climbed a few steps up so he could sit out of the water. He lay back on the steps and caught his breath, glad to be out of the rain, at least for a while.

Jordan and Nathan had thought they could outlast the storm, wait until the weather cleared and then be on the ground to fight off looters and squatters. Their mother had owned a historic house on the edge of the bayou. Jordan now wished they had sold it, because the storm would probably turn it into a playhouse for alligators, but if it didn’t, he and his brother were going to protect their property.

Or so they had planned. But the disaster radio’s governmentally stentorian proclamations of doom had convinced them they needed to find sturdier shelter. They’d grabbed their most cherished possessions – mom’s fiddle and dad’s rifle – loaded the truck bed with supplies, and taken off for the stadium. 

They had been taking the road that cut alongside the north levee when the water poured over, the truck hydroplaned, and they crashed into a store that was in the process of being looted. Nathan tried to drive them off with a few blasts of his rifle, but the looters had guns of their own, and they had to flee. Jordan tried to follow the sounds of his brother’s gunshots, but the storm roared louder, and soon he was lost.

Now Jordan had no idea where his brother was. He tried to call his brother’s cell phone, but reception was almost nothing, and the call just went to a static-riddled voicemail. It was just as well, Jordan thought. He would rest here tonight, wait for sunrise and clear weather, and then go to the stadium to find Nathan.

Reverently, Jordan checked the fiddle case. The outside was drenched, but almost no water had seeped in. The antique instrument and bow were safe. 

Sirens wailed, an ambulance flashed by outside, and the flicker of its emergency lights gave Jordan a glimpse of the lobby. It was a motel, like any other, but a plastic tray of fruit had somehow miraculously been knocked off a counter without flipping, and it bobbed nearby the base of the stairs.

He closed the case, then reached down and grabbed a fruit, barely able to see in the reborn gloom. It felt like a pear. He was about to take a bite when a lamp flickered on above him, and he saw a wretched worm-like thing with white strands of hair crawling out of the fruit. [imager]http://www.enworld.org/attachment.php?attachmentid=34127[/imager] Grimacing, he threw it into the water.

“That’s just a sign of what’s to come,” a voice said.

Jordan tensed and looked in the direction of the voice. Standing in the storm-blown waters just ten feet away was a young woman in a white dress. The lamp seemed to illuminate only her. No light glinted off the cheap motel decorations. The tiny waves were black. There was no wake in the water from the woman’s passage.

“Who are you?” Jordan asked.

“I need you to play a song for me, Jordan.”

The building shook in the wind and Jordan grabbed his pistol.

“Who are you?” Jordan asked again.

“You need to get out of here,” she said, “quickly. Our city has been rotting for years, though we have survived through the blues. But something wretched has been feeding on our decay, and child, this storm and the death it brings will give it the strength it needs to be born.”

“What are you talking about?” he shouted. “Listen, I have a gun, woman, so don’t you come any closer.”

She had not moved since he had seen her, except to talk. She didn’t seem frightened.

“Your brother, your friends, this whole city is in danger. If you want to save them, think not of your safety. Follow the currents. They flow to its gnashing mouth.”

The lamp died, and the room fell to darkness. Jordan squinted, but he couldn’t see the woman anywhere. Wishing that asylums would know better than to let their patients out in the middle of the apocalypse, Jordan grabbed his mother’s fiddle case and led the way with his pistol as he went for the door. The woman didn’t accost him, and once he got out on the street he heard the deep, unsteady creak of shearing metal and cracking stone. 

The motel began to shift in the force of the wind, and Jordan ran clear as it crashed down behind him. Thunder boomed overhead, and Jordan came to a stop beside a tilting metal pole, a blackened street light lurching sideways. He caught his breath, then looked down as he noticed something floating past him in the current.

The bowl of fruit, barely visible but seeming to writhe in the shadows, drifted away from the debris of the collapsed motel. 

Jordan glanced around, and on all sides he saw trash and refuse carried on the flood, flowing westward, toward the swamp. Along with it stumbled confused people, nearly blind from the rain and from their tears at what they knew they would lose. The stadium was south and east, but Jordan was more afraid to go there than to ignore the unearthly warning he had received. He began to run with the current, while all around him the city was pummeled by winds and rain from the sea.

He felt like he had walked for hours, and the streets turned into rivers, and then vanished entirely as homes stretched out, letting the bayou dominate. Broken swing sets, upturned tupperware, wrappers of Popeye’s chicken sandwiches and plastic daiquiri cups congealed amid the knees of cypress trees. Dark shapes, not moving, floated face down, and hungry teeth and snouts pulled them under the murky water. Once teeth bit at his leg, and he had shot down into the swamp, and the creature had released him.

The sky was threshed with tempest and thunderclouds, but above its roar Jordan heard a sound, like a hungry voice, or an ancient horn, coming from straight ahead. The current began to quicken, and Jordan knew he had to be close. So he wouldn’t be swept away, he leapt onto a half-toppled tree, then climbed to the next, through branches that tried to shake him loose. He scrambled from tree to tree, watching everything that was dying in his city be dragged toward something that spoke in the gloom. 

Finally, he knew he had to be right above it. Witchfire hovered above the swirling flood, and below he saw a vortex of refuse.

[imagel]http://www.enworld.org/attachment.php?attachmentid=34128[/imagel] “My God,” Jordan said. “What is that?”

The deep murmur stopped, the vortex slowed. A voice called out, rumbling from every direction.

_Under a hard Season, fired by the Sun
Languishes man, languishes the flock.
We hear the cuckoo's voice; then sweet songs of the turtledove and finch.
Soft breezes stir the air.
The shepherd trembles.

The fear of lightning and fierce thunder
Robs his tired limbs of rest
As gnats and flies buzz furiously around
And the nests of songbirds are silenced.

Alas, his fears were justified
The Heavens thunder and roar and majestically
I am born._

Jordan felt revulsion at its every word. He had heard many stories of demons and ghosts and sin in his youth, had heard his mother play the fiddle in church like her music alone was all that was keeping evil from claiming her children, but never had he believed in raw evil as he now witnessed.

Balanced dangerously in the branches, Jordan drew his pistol at fired at the center of the vortex, but the bullet vanished into the gnashing froth of garbage, and the swamp laughed at him. The tree beneath him shook, its roots snapping at the flood threatened to pull it from the ground. He fired more shots in a swift, desperate cadence, but it was futile. 

Then, over the din, a tinny song called out, digitized, muffled. In Jordan’s pocket, his cell phone played “When the Saints Go Marching In,” the ring tone for his brother Nathan, and at the sound of the song, the thing beneath the vortex coughed in pain. The flood paused and the ground shuddered.

The ring tone repeated once, then ended, and the evil thing murmured again, insistently. Hurricane winds pulled at Jordan, and his tree’s trunk was sundered. He threw his pistol away and leapt for the next farther tree. Still holding his mother’s fiddle case, he caught a branch, swung badly to the surface of the water, and then grabbed onto this new tree’s trunk, holding tight as the current pulled him toward the vortex.

He braced himself against the roots of the tree and steadied himself, then turned and faced the devouring entity. All it existed for was to consume, not to create, but his city was one of splendor and song. He opened the fiddle case, and in the thrashing rain he held fiddle and bow high. A memory of childhood and church guided his hands as he pulled the bow across the rain-streaked strings.

The current stopped and the ground trembled. The sound of cello strings rose up behind him, and then to his right and left guitars called out from the darkness. Violins hummed from the distance, and Jordan saw other men and women, silhouettes accompanying his fiddle in a symphony, their every note causing the thing pain.

They played for minutes, and that which sought to devour their city fought against them. The ground bucked at their feet, but they all held steady. Beasts of the swamp snarled, but the music kept them at bay. The hungering thing roared and cursed at them, but Jordan raised the song to its crescendo and their enemy screamed and fled. 

Echoes of strings faded out under the still rumbling storm, but the vortex vanished, and the ground was still.

Lashed with rain, Jordan tucked his mother’s fiddle back into its case, then set out into the night. He met the eyes of some of the other musicians – men, women, children of the city’s many races; poets and doctors and thieves and vagrants, fools all – but none of them spoke. It wasn’t necessary.

It did not take long for him to find his mother’s old home, though he could not see his way. Stairs elevated it above the flood, and it had survived a century of storms. It would survive this one. The door was already open, but not by wind or looters. He walked inside, made his way through by memory as the great storm continued to shake the city to the east.

In the kitchen, the young woman sat at the table. Jordan sat down across from her.

“It’s a good fiddle,” he said, “though I don’t think I play it as well as you.”

“You drove it away,” she said. “Now the storm can pass. Darkness hovers over the waters, but let there be light again.”

[imager]http://www.enworld.org/attachment.php?attachmentid=34129[/imager]The young woman lifted her hands beside a candle on the table between them, and a flame blossomed at its tip, filling the room.

“Don’t forget to play from time to time,” she said.

Jordan nodded, stood, and picked up the fiddle case. There was a bowl of fresh fruit on the table, just like his mother had always kept, and Jordan took one as he left. As he stepped out onto the porch, the sky was just turning a light shade of gray.

He stretched, then pulled out his cell phone. He had one new voicemail, from his brother.

“Hey Jordan, where the hell are you? I’m praying you get here safely, but hey, you’re my brother. You’re probably off helping old ladies cross the street or something. Not like I can complain. I helped a bunch of people who were lost tonight. Would you believe, they were headed to the swamp? I’ll tell you all about it when you get here, but dad’s rifle sure came in handy.

“Well, we’re all safe now. Safe and _dry_, at the stadium. Where the hell are you?

“Be safe, okay bro? And, assuming you don’t die, do me a favor. We need to celebrate when you get here, so if you could loot some beer for us, that’d be great.” 

The message ended, and the first light of day broke the eastern horizon, pushing away the storm’s gloom. Jordan smiled, and began to walk.

Eventually, he reached the great stadium, fiddle and beer in hand. The waters were receding, and there, amid crowds of flooded tents, he found his brother, surrounded by a flock of drunken, foolish people, already celebrating that their city had survived.


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## Starman (May 17, 2008)

madwabbit said:
			
		

> Firstly, to all, but most specifically to Starman and the judges, I apologize for being a complete loser.




Eh, no hard feelings. At least you did show up and let us know what happened. 

It is amazing, though, how quickly the time flies. I started almost right away and still barely finished in time. Damn Real Life!


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## awayfarer (May 17, 2008)

*Ernest Stibman as Penelope Dondelinger in The Other World. PT-1*

Ernest Stibman endured the chittering clacks of the cameras as reporters, advertisers, stage crew and others swarmed the set of “Penelope Dondelinger”. He felt like a queen bee at the center of a hive, only without a way of exerting control over the brood. The getup they insisted on was a ridiculous admixture of yellow and pink that only an openly gay bee could appreciate.

“Penelope, over here! Give us a smile” Shouted a portly man, his little sausage-like fingers barely grasped the too-small camera. Ernest flashed his teeth to the man. He scuttled around for a better angle and tripped on a cable left lying haphazardly on the ground. The others kept their cameras clicking. A nearby agent half-heartedly walked to the flabby, fallen man and helped to pick him up.

Five more minutes of this and Teddy, the lone studio exec assigned to oversee the proceedings, spoke up. “Alright, that’s a wrap ladies and gentleman. There will be no more pictures today. I think we’ve got enough promo material. You know what to do from here. See you on opening night!” The swarm buzzed merrily to one another about how successful “Penelope Dondelinger” was going to be. Ernest was on a roll, no doubt, and his fan base was grew with each high-heeled step and each drop of the inane catchphrase “Go fish!”

The white ottoman was needlessly tall. Ernest nearly tripped over himself as he stepped down. Admittedly he was prone to clumsiness. In fact it was one of the keys to his success. That and the fact that at 23 Ernest still looked like a gangly 14 year old. His ridiculous appearance and awkward motions had won, if not the hearts, than at least the moviegoing bucks of millions. All in all he had begun to tire of these same insipid roles.

“Teddy, we need to talk.” Ernest said

“Ernest, Ernest I don’t like that tone. Talk to me Ernest, what’s going on?” shot Teddy

“I need a vacation.” The exec shook his head vigorously “No, Ted, listen to me for once. I NEED a vacation. They’re making me a doll here. I get dressed up and spout the same crap over and over again like somebody’s at my back pulling a string. Next thing they’ll have me…”

Teddy interrupted “Ernest babe, I know how you feel. I haven’t had a vacation in seven years myself but it’s the business. You gotta just suck it up and play ball for a while. You’ll get some time to yourself after you’ve finished filming” he clasped Ernest on the shoulder. “We’ll be done here in no time. Hey you’re practically finished with it already.”

Ernest shook his head “I just need a week. I need to clear my head. Just a week and I can do this.”

Teddy gazed skyward and threw his hands in the air. Any pretense of warmth of was thrown out. “Fine. Let your agent know. We’ve got deadlines to meet. Make sure you come back ready to film because this is going ahead whether you’re ready or not.” The irritated exec left without a goodbye. Ernest sighed with relief as the man left.

The getup was pulled off with all haste. Ernest hailed a cab and hoped the cabbie didn’t recognize him. He tipped the driver, went into his apartment, packed his bags and went to bed. As he closed his eyes that night he remembered Lake Sapphire. “The lake. That’s the place. Can rest…there.” Sleep came over him.

Lake Sapphire was dazzling in the sunset as Ernest’s little yellow bug pulled off the dirt road. The overgrown gravel driveway was in sore need of maintenance and he promised himself he would get to it by the end of the week. The Stibman family cottage had seen lot of use in the twenty-three years that Ernest had been alive, but much less so recently. The lake had taken on a kind of cold pallor since Ed Stibman, renowned Hollywood agent and Ernest’s father, had gone missing eight years ago. In his will he had left the cabin to Ernest. It was a surprise to everyone. Ed Stibman was a huge, impressive man, just as comfortable outdoors as he was in a studio and possibly more so. Ernest didn’t share his frontier spirit or sportsmanlike attitude.

And so for eight years a Stibman would come to the cabin and air it out, generally stay there a day or two and leave. It was a far cry from the fond memories of the cabin in his youth. There was one year in which the bodies of several drowned swimmers had surfaced, but that was at the other side of the lake, and in a month the Stibmans weren’t using their cabin. Lake Sapphire still mostly represented peace and quiet to some extent. Ernest had come here primarily due to nostalgia and the hope that maybe he could relive some of it’s past glory: fishing in the morning, swimming around lunchtime, barbeques around dusk. This time though, all alone.

It did not take long to unpack the single scruffy duffle bag that the young actor had brought. There was still a little sun up. “Yeah, why not?” Ernest thought to himself. He changed into his swim trunks and walked down the hill behind the cabin. A mayhem of weeds had grown over the dirt path and a lot of time was spent ripping them out. Mosquitoes bit Ernest as he walked. Flies droned in his ear.

It was exhausting work. By the time he had reached the lake he barely felt like swimming, and the sun was practically gone. “I’ve come this far.” Ernest thought. He rubbed his arms. It was surprisingly cold for a summer evening. His limbs shook. He waved them around to get his blood flowing and dove from the short dock into the dark water. 

It was cold. Ernest shot back to the surface, gasped for air and swam to shore. Even this late, even this far in the hills the water shouldn’t been this cold! Come to think of it, the air was getting a bit chilly too. A small fire at the cabin seemed in order.

But… no. No! Damned, stupid Penelope Dondelinger would have done that. He’d come this far and he’d be damned if he were just going to turn back without a proper swim. Even if the water, the deep, dark blue water was cold. But wait, it was really, really cold and…

There was a splash as Ernest dove headfirst into the lake, interrupted in mid-thought. The water surged past. Deeper and deeper he went, past fish (Go fish!) and watery weeds until there should have been a sandy bottom. But the weeds just kept going. No lake plants should be this long. And Ernest kept swimming faster downward. The surface light vanished.

No, there it was! A small star of white was visible in the distance. Ernest swam towards it but his lungs ached. His stomach twinged with the effort of holding back breath. The swim was hard, like he were fighting buoyancy rather than going with it.

Penelope Dondelinger’s alter ego kicked as hard as he could and with some effort reached the light. His body was pulled toward the surface. The end was in sight, but only a few strides towards the surface his breath resumed. Ernest breathed in the water. He began to panic. Movement became erratic and in a few moments slowed to a halt.

This was it then, he reflected. The light didn’t seem much closer. What was that? The girl swimming towards him could only have been a hallucination. It seemed pointless to scream to a hallucination to help. Ernest went under. “Go fish!” swam through his mind over and over, grew indistinct and suddenly stopped. He was not awake when a small, feminine hand grasped him and pulled him to the surface.

Light flickered. There were moments of conscious thought between inky pools of oblivion. A woman’s voice sung in his ear only from far away. Only the plaintive tone was understandable, the words lost. The last slip into blackness felt like days.

It was a large, candle-lit cave that Ernest awoke in. A heap of warm furs had been placed under him. A song was heard not far away although the words were not discernible. A pair of censers hung from hooks in the walls and sent a mild but sweet scent into the cavern. Ernest at once attempted to prop himself up for a better view, but his chest ached at the attempt. He caught a glimpse of two halls leading away from the room he lay in, but that was all. Mere moments later the woman he thought a hallucination entered the room. She was tall, auburn-haired and wearing a long green dress with a pattern of yellow flowers. A golden cross adorned her neck.

“Gri? Sne ta ia ta oijaga!?” the woman exclaimed. She nearly dropped the loaf of bread she held in her rush to actor’s sickbed. She knelt by his side.

“I’m sorry?” Ernest coughed. “I don’t understand.”

“Ah, then you’re an otherworlder! It’s been so long since I’ve seen anyone. Here, eat. You’ve been unconscious for two days now. You need to regain your strength.”

A fit of coughing interrupted Ernest’s protests, and the woman entreated him so earnestly that he felt compelled to try and eat. The bread was coarse and heavy. Ernest felt full after only a few mouthfuls.

“I’m sorry but the bread is all I have. There’s a lot of it. It keeps for a very long time too. I’d like to go out and perhaps gather some fruit but the ogres have been stirring in this area again. It’s not safe to venture far from here.”

“Hold on.” Ernest exclaimed, “Just where is this? What is going on here? What ogres? And who are you?” Something else about her bothered him, something familiar.

The woman wrung her hands. Her eyes shimmered as if she were on the verge of tears. “My name is Tarentia Alvaz. I’m sorry; it’s just been so long since I’ve seen anyone else. The ogres have slain them all, put them all in the Ossuary.” She let her face fall into her hands and began to weep. The cross caught a glimmer of light from the other side of the dark room.

“That necklace! Where did you get that?” Ernest exclaimed. That was what was so familiar. It was the necklace his father wore. The Stibman family always tried to tell their father that it looked gaudy on him. Ernest had never been so ambivalent about it in his life as now.

“This…” Tarentia said through tears, “…belonged to the last person to come here. It was a man, many years ago. I was only a child and the last of my people. He washed up on the bank of the cave-pool. I did what I could and he was healthy again quickly. Uncle Ed stayed here for three years, I’m sure he felt homesick but he wouldn’t abandon me. He finally decided he would go out and fight the ogres but…”

There was a heavy clicking sound from somewhere in the cave. Tarentia gasped. “Quickly! Get up, there’s no time now!” she hoisted her slim patient up and ran towards one of the openings in the cavern wall. An enormous shadow loomed as Ernest looked behind, but it seemed like it must belong to several creatures for there were two large arms, a spider like body and long, long neck. A slow series of clicks moved behind them.

Tarentia led Ernest to the side of a dark pool. “I’m sorry to do this to you but we must dive in! Just hold my hand!” “Wait a…” she dove and dragged him under before he could finish his complaint. From behind was the sound of objects being thrown about. There was a terrible chattering yell. There was barely enough time for Ernest to hold his breath.

They didn’t go far. Just under the edge of the pool was a small alcove only a few feet tall and maybe four across. It was shallow enough here that both could stand on the bottom albeit, with little more than their heads above the surface. They waited.

And waited

A few long minutes later came the sound of a slow clicking, like someone striking metal poles against the earth. They stopped at the edge of the water. There was a quieter clicking noise. Then there came the scream. It was an unearthly howl of rage; a combination of a shrill, piercing yell, a low bellow and a distinct chattering beat. Something heavy pounded on…on what? It must have been the rock. Small waves washed over the shaken pair as they stood in their minute sanctuary. The pounding got more and more insistent for several minutes, and then was silenced.

The clicking noise echoed into the distance. Ernest attempted to speak but Tarentia waved him into silence. She motioned for him to stay still, and dove under the water.

Moments later she returned, and brought Ernest back to the surface. Each shivered on the edge of the pool; Ernest due to the chill, Tarentia for other reasons.

“What…was that?” Ernest asked

“An ogre.” Came the stifled reply.

“They don’t swim I take it?”

“Far more. They cannot enter water. It represents an impassible barrier to them. They react to it as if it were solid. They can push it around, deform it, but never move past the surface.” 

“Go fish!” popped into his Ernest’s head. His eyes went wide as he threw his hands in the air. “This is insane! I must have tumbled off that Ottoman. I’m on the set of Penelope Dondelinger. Teddy is freaking out that I’m in a coma, but not this.”

“It is real.” Tarentia murmured. “We lost our war to them long ago. We were never very many but I’m the last. There are only three more of the ogres as well.” She turned quickly to him. “I want to leave here, but you know yourself how difficult it is going between our two worlds. Few have come from your world to ours and likewise. Although during the war many of ours did try.” Ernest reflected on this. Of the bodies they found on the shore of Lake Sapphire years ago none could be identified. The authorities wrote them off as illegal immigrants but couldn’t explain what they were doing on the lake.

“So what do we do?” He asked. “I can’t spend the rest of my life here. I’ve got important…well, I’ve got things I need to do back home.”

“You can stay here with me, and try to avoid the ogres.” Tarentia crossed her arms. She looked at the floor. “You can try and swim back. Or you can fight them.”

In spite of himself Ernest laughed. “Fight? I don’t know what the hell those things are but I know I can’t do anything about them.”

“Then you will swim or stay. Those are your options.”

The thought of staying here with this woman might not have been a bad choice if it weren’t for the “ogres”, whatever they were. Swimming back was basically suicide and would be risky even if he knew which direction to go. He made the decision.

“Tarentia.” He sighed, “Could those things even BE killed?”

Her eyes brightened. “Yes but, only with a certain kind of weapon, and only by piercing one small part of their body. The ogres have destroyed most of the weapons. I believe a pair of them still exists. They’re in the middle of The Ossuary. That was the rumor at least. When there were still some of us left to pass rumors.”

“Why didn’t they destroy them?”

“The weapons fell into the courtyard fountain. They cannot reach them there.”

“And the one spot, the weakness?”

“There is a spot on their throats. It is difficult to reach as their necks are long and constantly in motion. They are not terribly bright creatures, but smart enough to recognize when something is a threat.”

Ernest nodded. He wiped his brow with the back of his hand.

“I’ll go with you. There’s little for me here.” Tarentia blurted out. “You’re my last hope. If you die in the attempt I may as well.” They stared at one another for a while. “I haven’t even asked your name yet.” She said.

“Penel…um…Ernest, Ernest Stibman.” Said Ernest as his face reddened. “Go fish!” said Ernest’s subconscious. “Shut up” thought Ernest.

They spent the next few hours discussing the details. The Ossuary was once the royal palace but was taken over years ago. It was only a day’s travel from the cave, at most. They rested for the night.


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## awayfarer (May 17, 2008)

*Ernest Stibman as Penelope Dondelinger in The Other World, PT-2*

In the morning they packed some of the coarse bread and a pair of canteens but little else. If they survived this, the trip back to the cave would be minimal. If not, they wouldn’t need anything else. The pair set out shortly after sunup.

About midday they passed through the remains of a quaint village surrounded by heavy woods. “My hometown.” Tarentia said, mournfully. Most of the houses were cottages. Some only had thatch for roofing and few had more than one floor. A stone pit sat at the foot of a water tower. “It’s no good to drink. I’ve tried.” Terentian mentioned. “The pit was once a pool but it has since dried up. I imagine the tower water is still there since it’s not exposed to the sun.” They sat at the pools edge, took out their bread and ate.

“Srr..” Ernest swallowed before continuing, “So, you never told me how it is you know English?” He queried

“We know…we knew several languages. Your father was not the first to come here. There were seven others. Five of them came to live among us and we recorded their ways and their languages. One was…what was it? Spanish, many hundreds of years ago. There was another even further back than that, Ojibwa I believe it was called. Anyway, your father was the last visitor we had.”

She blushed at these words. “Well, the last since you arrived.” 

He gulped down the last mouthful of bread. It felt like a pool ball going down. He took a sip of water.

There was a clicking noise.

Out of the woods twenty feet away emerged a pitch-black creature on four thin legs like pool cues. It was vaguely scorpion-shaped in that it had a long tail, a corrugated, chitonous body, two long arms and a giant mandibled maw.

It was not like a scorpion in that a dark grey, malevolent human face dripped acid from a tiny “o” shaped mouth at the end of the tail. The two arms were not like an insects claws, rather they were enormous, brawny things with hammer-like fists at the ends. The body was elevated several feet off the ground by its long legs.

“Ogre!” Tarentia screamed. She threw down her bread and leapt away. The ogre pursued. Ernest barely had enough time to get to his feet. “Hey you!” he cried. “Oh .” he thought “Go fish” said his subconscious.

He got the ogre’s attention. It charged Ernest and the actor, in his haste to get away tripped. He fell backward; his canteen spilled its contents in the air.

The ogre tripped o the airborne water, straight into what was once the pool. It crashed squarely into the opposite side. Both Ernest and the hideous thing got up slowly.

Tarentia stood nearby, looking around wildly. “Find an axe!” she shouted.

“What good would it do!?” cried Ernest. The Ogre slipped on the smooth pool bottom. It was having trouble getting up but this probably wouldn’t be the case for long. Ernest rushed around to the rear of a small cottage. As luck would have it a large, albeit rusty, woodsman’s axe stuck out from the trunk of a long dead tree. As Ernest pulled it out a hunk of the blade snapped clean off. He grimaced.

Tarentia was already at the edge of the water tower; hacking away at one of the supports with a small hatchet she’d found somewhere. The ogre was up and skittering around the pool. Ernest rushed around the deep side and it pursued, waving an enormous fist at him as he passed. Man and woman hacked one each at two of the rotted beams of the tower.

On Ernest’s third stroke the rusty axe broke and embedded itself in the beam. The ogre was up now and climbing out. “Tarentia, go!” Ernest shouted. She was still only halfway through her beam and would never finish in time. She ran. Ernest stood in front of his beam and waited.

The ogre was mostly out of the pool. It swung a huge arm and connected with the half-chopped beam with the axe still stuck in it. Ernest dodged, who’d have thought walking in high-hells could have made him so nimble?

The axe head was pushed the rest of the way through the beam. The tower crumbled, smashing into the ogre on its way down. The old, stagnant water filled the pool with a loud rushing noise. The waves subsided. Frozen in place in the middle, one fist still sticking above the surface, was the ogre.

Ernest’s breath came in heavy, ragged gasps. His heart felt like it would burst from the stress. Tarentia came over to him. They embraced, tightly and sunk to their knees.

“We got one.” She cried, quietly. “I can’t believe it.”

Ernest nodded. They knelt there for a while, one supporting the other.

They stayed for a little while to examine their handiwork. “Is it?” Ernest began.

“I think so. I’m sure they need to breathe like anything else.” Came the reply.

	They moved on.

	It was late in the day when they reached the woods surrounding The Ossuary. “Their lair. They’ve spun some strange silk around it. It doesn’t stick, like a spiders would, but I think that they know if it’s been disturbed. Try to avoid stepping in it if you can.”
It took time to get through the web-like material. Ernest had always been thin and limber and training to be Penelope Dondelinger had pushed him even further. He had next to no difficulty in avoiding the webs. Tarentia made do as best she could, but she lagged behind him.

	They emerged from the woods into a stone courtyard overgrown with weeds strewn with bones, and a few animal corpses in different state of decomposition.

	“Quickly now. If we can take them by surprise we’ll be that much better off.” Tarentia whispered.” Ernest nodded. Something brushed Tarentia’s sleeve as they left the woods. “Just a strand.” She gasped “I’m sure it’s nothing.” Her look suggested that she wasn’t so certain.

	The gate of the former royal palace, now the ogre’s nest, was wide open. By the look of the dust aside the two enormous iron doors they hadn’t been opened in some time. The left one hung only off its lower hinge, the upper hinge completely torn away. The door on the right had numerous dents. Each was orange-red, marked by years of decay. The sight beyond the door was even less inviting.

	The front hall of The Ossuary was full of bones, but much less haphazardly placed than those outside. Bones were stacked in neat, even rows. Bones were arranged carefully upon an alter that was obviously not created for the task. The death in the room clashed with its original purpose as a sanctuary. Ernest was surprised to see a figure hung upon a cross it’s complete details blotted out by the light from the window behind it. He was going to ask Tarentia how her people came to know of Christianity when he realized that the figure was really the husk of some apelike creature nailed to a pair of wooden slats. Ernest felt his stomach twist. They moved on. Tarentia remained silent, her head bowed until they were out of the hall. “They’re beasts, but they do…they do such intricate things with the bones. We never knew why. We’ll never know why.” Her voice wavered. Ernest thought that she suddenly seemed very small.

	Past the cathedral of the opening hall was a large, circular courtyard some two hundred feet across, an immense stone fountain at its center. There were three other doorways that led into it such that they were lined up like the directions on a compass. The fountains till ran, although only at a small trickle of what it must have once been capable of. The center spout was easily twenty feet tall or larger.

	The two quickly crossed the courtyard and the sounds of clicking began when they were only halfway there. “The weapons in the fountain!” The two remaining ogres clicked their way into the yard on their lance-like legs. The two roared with the same unearthly bellow Ernest heard before. All four being in the courtyard: Ernest, Tarentia, the two ogres, charged for the fountain.

	All arrived at nearly the same time, such that the two ogres collided into one another and the two people had to dive into the fountain to avoid them. It was surprisingly deep but half empty and Ernest banged his head on the bottom as he fell. He momentarily felt nauseous, his vision blurred, and then he saw them as if in a fever dream.

	Two silver spikes sat on the bottom of the fountain, which waved ferociously as the ogres pounded the surface. The spikes glistened in the little light that reached this far down. Each was attached to a small slanted platform as if…

	“Oh no” Ernest thought “You’ve got to be kidding me” Either he’d hit his head harder than he thought, or the weapons Tarentia mentioned were a pair of the sharpest stiletto heels he had ever seen.

	They couldn’t hold their breath forever, and the ogres were striking the surface of the water so fiercely that Tarentia and Ernest were nearly uncovered when the trough of the waves moved over them. Ernest scrambled over the stone fountain floor, grasped the shoes and hastily slipped them on. His leg stuck out of the water as he did so, and just as he finished slipping the last shoe on, a gargantuan fist grasped him by the ankle and tore him from the brackish water.

	There was a popping noise as Ernest was tossed head over heels into the air and pain shot through his leg. He had one confused glimpse of Tarentia, curled into a ball and desperately holding her breath as the other ogre tried fruitlessly to reach her. It seemed like forever until Ernest finally fell on the back of the ogre that tossed him.

	He sat up on the beasts back. A horrid, venomous face hissed at him, a drop of liquid fell from its mouth, burning his skin. It reared back to strike. Ernest shut his eyes and threw his hands over his face. He reflexively kicked his leg up and felt the force of the thing’s head slam into his foot, resulting in another loud pop and a worse pain than before.

	There was a sudden sensation of being lifted. Ernest opened his eyes long enough to see one of his heels jammed directly into the creatures throat. A thick, grey ichor spewed from the wound. The ogre thrashed, whipping the attached actor violently. With one final whip of its neck Ernest was released. He came crashing into the fountainhead. The ogre fell over dead.

	The last remaining ogre bellowed a shrill, ululating death-cry for its comrade. It ignored Tarentia for the moment and clacked its way around the fountain in an attempt to destroy Ernest, who lay conscious but crumpled around the fountain top.

	“Tarentia?” he muttered. The star of Penelope Dondelinger was barely awake. His head swam. A massive dark blur approached him, a small segment of it whipped back. He was barely able to roll out of the way when a viscous greenish gray slush splattered the fountainhead. Smoke poured from where it hit.

	The roll put Ernest on a lower portion of the fountain, and he found himself once again in the grip of an enormous fist. It drew him back and was going to batter him against the stones of the courtyard when a voice came from the other side of the fountain.

	“Leave him alone! Come and get me!” Tarentia yelled. She had found a spear somewhere and was waving it in the ogre’s general direction. It dropped Ernest on the stones with a thud and walked ever so slowly to the opposite side.

	The actor was in a bad way. His breath came rapidly but each gasp hurt. He could see Tarentia, her dress an emerald blur, being swallowed up by a large black shadow that crept towards her. With an anguished groan Ernest began to climb the fountain.

	Tarentia kept as much of the spear between her and the ogre as possible. She hadn’t thought of what to do once she had the things attention and it dawned on her that when she died her people as a whole would cease to exist. The ogre spat from its tail and the sludge caught a portion of her dress, dissolving it instantly and marring a patch of stone behind her. She dodged but one of the ogre’s enormous arms caught her. It began to draw her to the enormous mandibles between its gargantuan limbs.

	Ernest had barely reached the halfway point of the fountain, but he didn’t need to be at the top for this to work. Pained and bleeding he crept around just behind the ogre. This was to be the end. He wished he had been an action star, not some stupid cross-dressing geek. He wished he could spout some catchphrase and slay the bad guy and get the girl all with ease. None of this was easy. He wished he had something witty to say.

	“Hey, you!” he shouted. The ogre whipped its tail around. The tail narrowed its eyes. There was a hiss.

	“GO FISH!” Ernest shouted. As witty lines go it wasn’t the best. He leapt from the fountain as best as he could with one broken leg. The heel was planted firmly under the ogres jaw. There was one last screeching, chittering bellow. The ogre stumbled around on its little legs and fell over dead. Ernest toppled over with it.

	Tarentia freed herself from the massive arm and ran over to the fallen hero. “Oh god! What were you thinking! You’re insane Ernest!”

	“What?” he replied. It was not the thanks he’d expected.

	“Trying to kill two ogres with a pair of shoes! You’re mad!” Tarentia paused “but…but you did it!” She embraced him: a wonderful but painful gesture. Ernest winced.

	“Those weren’t…those weren’t the weapons!?” he bawled.

	“No! Er, I meant one of these spears. I can’t believe you missed them! They were right there on the fountain bottom!”

	Ernest chuckled, then laughed. He laughed loudly though it hurt like hell. Tarentia joined him. They laughed, and laughed and laughed and it echoed through the halls of the now monster-less Ossuary

	A month passed, uneventfully. They lived in the cave for now but would move into one of the houses soon. Ernest’s wounds were healing nicely. He still had some trouble getting around but Tarentia fabricated a makeshift crutch that helped immensely. It was nice just to lay down for a while anyway.

	She entered the room just as Ernest awoke, carrying with her a little coarse bread, some fresh water and some strawberries that were picked that morning.

	“Morning Hon.” She smiled. The ex-actor gladly took the food and took a large swig of water from the mug she proffered. “I think I’m nearly ready to start burying the bones.” He stated. “I don’t know that we can find him, his remains that is, but I’d like to have some small ceremony for my father if we can. We can do it for all of them.”

	“I’m hoping now…” Tarentia replied; her azure eyes positively shimmered “…that we might find some others alive. Maybe some others hid from the ogres. It’s a slim hope, but it’s all I need. No I don’t hope, I’m sure we’ll find someone.” She lay by his side, placed her head on his chest and closed her eyes.

	Ernest smiled. Somewhere out there in another world was a movie called Penelope Dondelinger that will never, ever be finished.


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## awayfarer (May 17, 2008)

I realize now that I forgot to post the pics in with the story. Not sure if the spoiler tag is necessary but figured I'd include it anyway. Sorry folks. I have the organizational ability of a potted plant.

[sblock]Pic 1 (The nerd) shows up right at the front. First sentence.
Pic 2 (The naked lady) during the swimming portion "The girl swimming towards him could only have been a hallucination."
Pic 3 (The creepy woods) near the end. "It was late in the day when they reached the woods surrounding The Ossuary."
Pic 4 (The church) nearer the end. As they enter The Ossuary) "The front hall of The Ossuary was full of bones"[/sblock]


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## Berandor (May 17, 2008)

Round 1, Match 4(?), awayfarer vs. *Berandor*

*Make a wish*

It felt wonderful. In the mirror, Manfred saw how the high heels straightened his back and made him appear almost three inches taller. His feet looked delicate as they were pushed into the tight tip of his new stilettos. It felt so good Manfred wanted to dance. He did a little improvised tap, finishing up with his hand thrust toward the mirror and his imaginary audience.

There was a knocking at the apartment door. Manfred almost fell over himself in his rush to pull off his shoes and roll down the legs of his trousers. Barefoot he walked to the door and opened it.

»Manny White?« a cheery female voice asked.

It was friday, April 23rd, 1982, 5:03 pm, and Manny’s life had just taken an unexpected turn.

-

The cheery voice belonged to a stunning woman. She had green hair, golden eyes and wore slippers fashioned from autumn leaves. She also had gossamer wings and was about 2 feet tall. She was also accompanied by two cameramen blazing their lights into Manfred’s face.
Manfred squinted in the brightness as the faerie fluttered up to his face, holding a microphone fashioned like a wizard’s wand and pointing it towards him like a lance.

»Manny White,« she repeated, »do you know who I am?«

Manny squinted at her. He couldn’t focus. He knew her. He knew it. He knew he knew her. Heh. ›Knew he knew her‹. Funny.

»Why are you grinning? Stop that,« the faerie said. She turned to the cameras and moved her hand across her throat. »Cut. We’ll do this again.« The men lowered their cameras and took a step backwards. The faerie fluttered closer to Manfred. »You do know who I am, don’t you?«

Manfred managed to stop grinning and nod. The faerie tilted her head and regarded him for a second. »Too risky,« she decided. »We’ll do the hick routine.« She flew into the hallway and one of the cameramen closed the door in Manfred’s face.

There was a knocking at the apartment door. Manfred stared at the door. He could hear the sound of fluttering wings behind the door. His mouth was dry. His head was blank.

Again with the knocking.

»Manny?« the faerie’s voice came through the door, syrupy sweet. »Dear? Open the door, please?«

Manfred opened the door and was hit by a double blast of camera lights. He squinted again.
»Manny White!« The faerie appeared next to his face, but now she was looking at the camera. »I’m Morgaine le Fay, and you’re on The Faerie Hour! Are you ready to have your wish fulfilled?«

-

It had all gone so very fast. After Manfred hat stammered his consent to wish-fulfilment, about two dozen people had invaded his home. Five or six of them had pulled him into the kitchen, where they began to put make-up on him and prepare him for the beginning interview. A young woman named Cherry practically force-fed him the answers to everything Morgaine would later ask him. At the same time, most of the rest of the team re-decorated his living room in order to make room for the cameras and to better fit whatever the producers had decided Manfred’s image on the show would be – he’d been told not to worry about such things: »You’re dealing with professionals«. Finally, a single cameraman accompanied Morgaine on her short tour around the apartment.

The interview had gone quite well, he thought. At least none of his co-workers at the office had commented on it. They’d all been too busy winking at him and pointedly looking at his footwear. If the camera hadn’t scared them away, that is. William Wambaugh Worthington, the show’s producer – »call me Trip« – had insisted he wear high heels to work. Manfred had felt so uncomfortable he would have changed his wish to making them go away again, if anyone had asked him. But as he had already discovered in his few hours of television experience, nobody bothered to ask him. He was expected to do what he was told, and nothing more. And he had been expected to walk into his boss’s room and ask for his vacation, even though said boss had called him right after his interview had aired last night and told him he could take a week or two off. So that’s what Manfred had done: walked into the office, asked for vacation time, and watched as his boss pretended to mull it over. And afterwards he’d had one hour to pack a few things together before he was shipped off to Temptation Island. That’s where he was right now, waiting for his trial to begin.

-

»The Island of Temptation,« Morgaine intoned. »This is where our aspirants prove their mettle – or fail miserably. Tonight, Manny White will set out on the quest for his greatest wish, and we have some brand-new challenges for him. First, he must cross the Frosted Forest and get to the Moon Lagoon. Will Manny make it to the other side, or will he return home as someone who could have made his wish come through, but was too weak to do so? We’ll give you the answer tomorrow, or you can watch live on our internet stream. Just click…«

Manfred tuned out. He had thought that maybe he would be asked for a final statement, but it seemed Morgaine went with her first impression of him and did not trust him to say his own name on camera.

»Hey man, you got a minute?«

Manfred turned to the speaker. It was a lean, tan man in his mid-twenties. Manfred recognized him as one of the cameramen. He shrugged. »I’m not sure.«

The man laughed. It was a rough sound, but not unfriendly. »I hear you. Don’t worry, you’ll get word soon enough. I’m Bill.«

»Manfred.«

»I know.« Bill winked. »I’ll be your cameraman for the trial. Which means I’ll follow you around and stick my lens into your face.«

»Thanks for the warning, I guess.«

»There’s more,« Bill said. »I’ll be right next to you, but I won’t be right next to you. You know?«

Manfred thought for a moment, and then nodded. »I’m not supposed to talk to you. Like you’re invisible.«

Bill nodded. »Exactly. Like I’m invisible.«

»But you’ll help me if I get in trouble, right?«

Bill hesitated. »Depends. What kind of trouble?«

»If I break a leg?«

»Sure. I’ll call someone. And film every minute of it.«

Manfred took a step away from Bill. »I see,« he said as coldly as he could muster.

Bill winked. »Just a job, you know?«

»Not really,« Manfred answered, and then went to find somebody else to talk to.

-

»Would it kill you to share some water?« Bill ignored the question and kept on filming. Manfred held out his hand. »Come on, I’ve been walking for hours now. Just a sip.« The camera moved from him to the surrounding forest and back.

Manfred scratched his sweaty brow. »Don’t be such an-« he stopped himself, »such a donkey. You know the rules.« Bill kept the camera focused on him. Manfred could not take it anymore. he wanted to punch the man, hard. Instead, he turned and walked to the edge of the path. 

Bill kept on filming.

»See this?« Manfred pointed at the barren trees. White webs covered the trees from top to bottom. Manfred pulled at the web and tore off a piece. »Cotton Candy,« he said. »Over there is a bush that grows gingerbread. Those flowers drip melted ice cream. I think I even saw a roasted chicken flying about. We passed a bridge over a river made of slush.« Manfred pressed the cotton candy into a small ball and threw it away. »And while I can’t eat or drink, my little invisible cameraman is munching lunch or gurgling water. Now give me something!«

Bill kept on filming.

»Screw this.« Manfred walked towards the camera and past it. He tore a twig from a tree and used it to collect cotton candy. He thrust the stick at the camera. »See this? This… sugar torch will bring me freedom. I will eat, and then you will give me some water.« He brought the candy to his mouth.

Bill kept on filming.

Manfred could already smell the sugar. His mouth watered, but his eyes focused on the black lens of the camera. That bastard had not reacted to anything he’d said. He just. kept. filming. And not because his contract forced him. No, he kept on filming because he didn’t care whether Manfred actually passed the trial. Either way, it was good television. Manfred would fail, would end up the laughingstock of his whole office, but it would have been good television.

Suddenly Manfred wasn’t hungry anymore, nor thirsty. He just had a bad taste in his mouth. He threw the twig away and spit out. then he got really close to the camera.

»You ain’t got me yet. Not yet.« He shoved Bill to the side and continued on the path.

-

Manfred tried not to scream. This was worse than prom night. He was in the middle of the second part of his trial and freaked out as hell. He’d entered Moon Lagoon armed only with an iron belt, which he had then proceeded to tie around his waist before jumping into the dark water. The belt had pulled him down mercilessly, and Manfred had realized too late that he didn’t even have the key to its lock. Needless to say, he also didn’t have an oxygen tank.

Now he was more or less standing on the ground of the Lagoon, careful not to cut his bare feet on one of the sharp corals that lined the floor and surrounded on all sides by ominous darkness. Anything could be watching him, approaching him. Anything but Bill, that was, because Bill was already next to him, dressed in professional scuba gear and filming with a light-sensitive camera. It was dark enough that Manfred couldn’t see Bill, but he felt him. It was like an allergy.

Something moved in front of him. Manfred opened his mouth to scream, realizing too late that this would drive out almost all of his remaining air. The bubbles fled to safety. Something touched his lips. And then Bill activated the camera spotlight.

She was _beautiful_. In fact, she was the most beautiful woman Manfred had ever seen. And she had kissed him, breathed air into his lungs. He stood there, mouth agape, until the first bubble of air – air that had been in her lungs recently – drifted lazily past him. He shut his mouth quickly. Her pearly laughter wormed its way into his head, turning him around, making him smile in response to her.

He had always expected mermaids to have a fish tail, but the woman in front of him didn’t possess one. He had also expected them to wear a bra made from sea shells. The woman in front of him, however, was nude. Manfred felt dizzy. The woman tilted her head to the side, and then she crooked a finger at him. _Do you want to come with me?_ Manfred understood without words. And he wanted to. Oh, how he wanted to. He thought of everybody he knew sitting in front of the television, seeing him with _this_ woman.

Her necklace glinted in the murky light. It was her sole piece of clothing, a golden chain with a strange golden cross. Manfred glanced at it, then at her breasts, and then his eyes flew up towards her face again. He felt himself blush. The woman laughed again, then beckoned him again. Suddenly Manfred felt as if he could move, as if he could leave the chains behind. All he had to do was to nod, and he could follow her.

She held out her hand to him. Manfred grasped it. She pulled, but he pulled to, and he still had the weight of the chains attached to him. He had not nodded yet. So he slowly drew her closer, and she came, smiling all the time. He drew her almost close enough for them to kiss again. He glanced down again, and sure enough, it wasn’t a cross dangling from her chain, but a small golden key.

The woman realized what was happening. She shook her arm free and swam backwards, but too late. All Manfred had had to do was reach up and grab the key. When she swam away, he pulled. the chain broke. Manfred had the key. The woman’s smile vanished and was replaced by a look of sadness. For a moment, Manfred’s resolution wavered. Had she really been willing to stay with him? It didn’t matter. He used the key to unlock the iron chain and swam up towards the light, towards the final part of the trial, towards his wish.

-

»Cool. What is this place?« Manfred studied the domed ceiling as he approached the far end of the hall. »Looks like a church.« He didn’t expect an answer – especially not from the everpresent Bill – and let out a small gasp when an answer did come.

»Not a church. A temple.«

Manfred looked to where the voice had come from and saw a figure about half as high as he was, dressed in a grey robe with a cape. Manfred didn’t see the speaker’s face. The voice had been low, a little coarse, but still indefinably feminine.

»What kind of temple?« Manfred asked as he walked towards the robed woman. »And who are you?«

»I am Cypher«, she answered, but now Manfred wasn’t so sure about her gender anymore. The voice had changed… somehow. »And this is a temple of time. This is where you will receive a great gift, Manfred. You will know your future, and you will be able to choose.«

»My future?« Manfred turned to Bill, but didn’t even bother to say anything.

»You have withstood the allure of luxury and the wiles of lust. Now you will have to make your decision.« Cypher pointed at a small pyramid to the side of the hall. »Choose your wish.«

Manfred held up his hands. »Wait a minute. What do you mean? I thought I already chose my wish. I mean, I had to say it into the camera at least five or six times until Trip was happy. I can’t change it now.« He looked at Bill. »Can I?«

»Look,« Cypher said, pointing at the pyramid again. Manfred shrugged and walked over there, Cypher and Bill following behind. 

The pyramid was maybe eight feet tall and adorned with human skulls, twenty-four of them. Each of the skulls had a bone in its jaw, the bone being inscribed with a name. Manfred’s name. Each and every one of these skulls was chewing on Manfred’s bones.

»I still don’t get it.«

»These are your fates«, Cypher said. »This is what may become of your life. Now, you have a specific dream. But in a few years, you would have another. And then another. None of them any better than the dreams before, nor worse than the dreams that come after. Just different. Touch the skulls, and watch. Then choose.«

Manfred looked at the pyramid, and then at Cypher. He slowly reached out and touched a skull.

-

_»…and I want to thank my mother, who always believed in me, even when I didn’t. Mommy, this is for you!«

Hammering applause as Manfred raises the golden statue over his head. He basks in it for a moment. A hand touches his arm.

»Come on, Manny,« Cate Blanchett tells him. »We can celebrate backstage. The show must go on.« And she leads him off the stage._

-

»Wow.« Manfred pulls his hand away. »Was that– is that really possible?«

»It is your choice,« Cypher says. »Touch another one.«

-

_»God, M,« Jenna says as she twirls his chest hair with her hand, »you really are the best lover in the world.«

»She’s right, you know?« Sasha purrs from the other side. She reaches over him to caress Jenna’s arm. »When you did that thing with–«_

-

»Touch another one.«

-

_»So, Larry – Larry is alright, isn’t it? – how does it feel to be a guest on your own show?«

»Well, Manny,« Larry King says as he folds his hands together, »if you’d told me I’d happily hand over my show to a newcomer, I wouldn’t have believed it, but if anyone can do it, you can.«_

-

_»There you are, honey. Did you get stuck in traffic again?«

Manfred doesn’t even take his coat of before embracing his wife. They’ve been married for twelve years now, but he still can’t wait to touch her. 

»Let’s not talk about it, okay?« he says, grimacing. »How’s Gracie?«

»You won’t believe what she did today…«_

-

Manfred was tired, and confused, and terrified. He’d watched twenty-four snippets of his life, or what could be his life. All he had to do was choose the future he liked best. But which one was the best? He stared at the pyramid. The skulls grinned back at him.

»You have looked,« Cypher said. »Now you decide.«

»But… but how?«

»Just name it.«

»No. I mean, how can I choose one future over the other? How do I know what to choose? How do I know I made the right choice? There’s so much…«

»Decide,« Cypher repeated. »Or walk out.«

Manfred put his head into his hands. It wasn’t possible. How could he possibly make that choice? If at least there’d been a future where he did something great like cure AIDS, but every one had revolved around him only. He asked Cypher, »Is there another one?«

Cypher did not answer. Finally, after what seemed like a minute had passed, she said, »There is always another. But not for you. Not to touch, nor to look. You must decide now.«

Manfred shook his head. »But I–« Then something clicked in his mind. Cypher was right: There was always another possible future, always another choice that might set him off on a different path, always the uncertainty of having chosen correctly. But as she had also said, no choice was inherently better or worse, just different.

Manfred turned towards the camera. »I have decided when I entered this show. I have made my choice, and I will follow it through.«

At first, Cypher did not react. Then her robe fell to the floor, revealing Morgaine le Fay.
»Manny White!« she exclaimed. »Congratulations! You have passed the test of time and proven that you would follow your wish despite life’s bountiful offerings. You have passed the trials! Aren’t you happy? Say something!«

»Well,« Manfred began.

»Cut!«

-

Three weeks later, on monday, May 24th, 1982, Manny White got his wish. He – and his favorite pair of shoes – made the cover of Vogue Magazine.


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## Berandor (May 17, 2008)

Cutting it awfully close here, but life grabbed me, pulled me into a dark alley and beat the crap out of me. Didn't even get to spellcheck, so I apolgize if there are too many typos or preposition mistakes. I don't even know whether the story's any good. 

You tell me.


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## Dlsharrock (May 18, 2008)

Rodrigo Istalindir said:
			
		

> With yours, though, I can't see it -- what was the spark?




Thankyou Rodrigo for the critique  You make some interesting points. Yep, I could have made more of the larper picture. More descriptive, less relying on the picture to do the describing. It's something I think you get used to as you do more of these and I have a lot of admiration for those writers who've really weaved the images into the story and vice versa. I intend to master this in future rounds/CDMs (judges willing, of course )

The spark? It's essentially a character study. The whole death thing is a convoluted plot delivering the protagonist's character to the reader. I wanted him obnoxious and annoying in order to suggest these aspects of personality might not vanish when the soul passes over,  but I also wanted some profound, near-poetic, facets to his character, hinting at growth and spirituality resulting from death. He's not a very nice person, but nobody said a victim has to be the nice-guy and villains have always intrigued me more than heroes. Also, I love flirting with shock-value and controversy which pretty much explains the rest. I have to admit, the images didn't inspire the story, but Nintendo Cleric _was_ the basis for the protagonist, so I suppose, if there was a spark, he was it. My sincere apologies to Nintendo cleric if he read my story and/or this post, by the way


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## RangerWickett (May 18, 2008)

Credit where it is due, in my story, the 'poem' is a reworking of a translation of the summer sonnet that accompanies Vivaldi's "Four Seasons."

I'm going to sleep, and read all y'all's stories tomorrow.


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## Herremann the Wise (May 18, 2008)

*Match Eight / maxfieldjadenfox vs. Mythago*

ARWINK’S JUDGMENT

Maxfieldjadenfox / Spring Break

My first response to the story was, quite literally, yes, we’re going chick-lit!(note: no irony intended; I was legitimately excited to see the story go there).  It’s always a refreshing change of pace to get something that isn’t fantasy or SF in a competition like this, especially when you’ve got the added tension of wondering exactly when the weirdness will start (an inevitability, really, given the nature of the contest). Then the weirdness comes and there’s a great build, the tension growing, and then…we dump the protagonist and switch over to David and Rob as the primary POV instead?

Hrm. Call me a grumpy reader, but this kind of threw me since I’d spent the first half of the story investing in Allison. I can’t think of many stories that pull of this kind of bait-and-switch effectively (except Psycho), and despite some nice dialogue between our new heroes the story never quite picks up the momentum it had prior to Allison stepping into the phantom airplane. Even the picture use suffers a little, lapsing into easy choices and quick scenes. I’m guessing Maxfieldjadenfox fell victim to the time-crunch and rushed to get the story out, which is something of a pity since the narrative was building so well. 

Mythago / Untitled

Pulp super-heroes? Plane with a puppy brain? The Chippendale Boys? Awesome. In terms of picture use, Mythago surprised me time and again. Even when I thought one of the pictures was just being slipped in as scene-setting, the story looped around and made it an important part of the narrative. The short, concise scenes capture the characters well, and the voice suits; if I had to pick a flaw, it’d be the momentary confusion I had at the beginning of the story as I tried to place it in a genre – the absence of visual cues makes it a tricky setting to get a grasp on as a reader.

Judgment

Very disparate stories in terms of style, and if we’d only been working from the first half of the stories I think it could have been a close contest. As it is, I think Mythago takes this round by virtue of the better picture use and a more cohesive story.  

THE JUDGMENT OF HERREMANN THE WISE

I knew as soon as I had put the pictures together that this was going to be a tough one – the toughest set of pictures in round one I think, and by quite a way. Not only was each image from a completely different ballpark, there was a universal lack of strength or dominance amongst them (with the aim of forcing the competitors to not only somehow join the dots but colour it in as well). The fourth image in particular -  even I have no idea what the hell it is! These pictures were going to really force the writers to find some strange weirdness to fit their story in and neither writer disappointed. 

I adored the love failure of maxfieldjadenfox and the tale of Allison although the eventual scene with Draco was… a little weird (good) but disjoint (not so good). I loved your tone and style early on; it set me at ease as a reader, comfortably joining along for the ride. When we shifted more to David and Rob, there was something here that jarred. On the whole though, I thought this was a very solid effort with a very difficult set of images.

Mythago has put all other competitors on notice with a lesson in how to assemble a cohesive, sharp story that truly embraces a horrid set of images. Allow me to take a quick bow to your skills.

While there were parts of maxfieldjadenfox’s that I enjoyed more, I think I am going to have to go for Mythago this time around for the highly consistent and complete package given (and excellently weird picture use too).

Judgment: Mythago

MALDUR’S JUDGMENT

Match 8 Mythago vs maxfieldjadenfox

Gods this is hard, both very funny, very original stories. if I could I would let both pass on to the next round. odd superheroes vs an odd sitcom.

hard hard hard.

Judgement: Mythago, a puppy with an airplane body did it in the end.


FINAL JUDGMENT
Mythago takes the chocolates but it would seem to have been a very narrow thing. A tough one here for the judges.


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## Herremann the Wise (May 18, 2008)

madwabbit said:
			
		

> Firstly, to all, but most specifically to Starman and the judges, I apologize for being a complete loser.




madwabbit, a complete loser would have just made a quick sorry, or just simply disappeared. You did neither so thank you for posting what you had, even if it was late.

However, perhaps the biggest disappointment for me (and others) was that you were given a very rare opportunity in terms of the history of this competition - of which you probably did not even realise. I cannot remember a recent time when four fantasy images were presented for a story. My purpose was to allow two writers to give us a story that could truly stay in the realm of fantasy - testing their ability to write more so than assemble; easier in some ways, but harder in others. Please, next time you think of entering (and this goes for everyone), consider the time commitment necessary, particularly if you keep winning.

Anyway, no hard feelings. 

This match will most likely go to Starman automatically but I will consult the other judges first.

Best Regards
Herremann the Wise


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## mythago (May 18, 2008)

I agree with arwink's comments about the 'chick lit' theme maxfieldjadenfox used - it's almost too easy here to fall into fantasy, sf and/or horror to the exclusion of other, equally worthy genres.

Though I do think it's pretty funny that we both wrote stories about the adventures of two gay heroes. 


On the picture use, I tend to get fixated on what one of the pictures "is", and that drives the story. The plane picture looked, to me, like it was happily jumping out of the ocean to play with the guy standing up with his back to us. It sort of drove itself at that point.


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## Ycore Rixle (May 18, 2008)

Berandor said:
			
		

> I don't even know whether the story's any good.
> 
> You tell me.




I enjoyed it! I liked the consistent characterization. I also enjoyed the overall readability. The pacing, economy of words, and diction helped to make it a read that was fun.


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## maxfieldjadenfox (May 18, 2008)

Congrats, Mythago on the win. I found it amusing that we both went with gold Speedos even though they weren't in the picture.

Thanks judges for the comments. I came down with the stomach flu on Monday night ( I think I may have turned completely inside out at one point) and Tuesday I was useless. I slept literally all day. Wednesday I had to catch up at work because I had been off the day before, so yeah, the story ended up being rushed and suffers from some inconsistencies that I may remedy at some point. There was going to be another scene in the botanical gardens and maybe another on the beach, but time is a bitch, isn't it?

Thanks for allowing me to compete, and if you need a sub, I'll be here waving from the bench.


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## awayfarer (May 18, 2008)

Berandor said:
			
		

> Cutting it awfully close here, but life grabbed me, pulled me into a dark alley and beat the crap out of me. Didn't even get to spellcheck, so I apolgize if there are too many typos or preposition mistakes. I don't even know whether the story's any good.
> 
> You tell me.




I'se still a kollege student (English major) and there are three things that keep getting drilled into us in every writing course. They are...

1: Edit
2: Edit
3: Edit

These are exceedingly difficult with the 72 hour time limit. Just be glad you have a complete story posted.

You rapscallion

Edit: Removed "scallywag."


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## Berandor (May 18, 2008)

Ycore Rixle said:
			
		

> I enjoyed it! I liked the consistent characterization. I also enjoyed the overall readability. The pacing, economy of words, and diction helped to make it a read that was fun.



 Thanks. Fun read is good.

awayfarer: I'm sad to see you go in the first round, but you're right, of course. Originally I'd hoped to be finished friday night, so that I had a few hours left for some rigorous editing. At least with the first two to three passes, a story can improve a lot. Now it's just written down and done. But: done.

I haven't read your story yet (or anyone else's), but I'm sure the judges will hesitate a bit before declaring me the winner  (really though: good luck, and may the better story win)

Edit, read it.
[sblock]I liked the story. The moment where Earnest finds the silver stilettos was great, and the ogre was totally against what I expected. Creepy. I did think the story took a little long to get started, and even now I'm not sure what "go fish" is supposed to mean. As for the pictures, I think the webbed forest is the weakest, because it could have been cut without harm. But a very nice story nevertheless. This could go either way, I think.[/sblock]


----------



## Eeralai (May 18, 2008)

Ycore Rixle said:
			
		

> [sblock=Notes on my story]
> 
> Whew! That was fun. It came in on the long side, so I hope it is worth the words. If not, apologies!
> 
> ...




[sblock]  Good use of language.  I particularly liked "Home was a trinary star system in a galaxy of misery."  That was excellent imagery.  I think the story could roll at a better clip with some editing, but enjoyed it. [/sblock]


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## Dlsharrock (May 18, 2008)

awayfarer said:
			
		

> 1: Edit
> 2: Edit
> 3: Edit




Who was it said stories aren't written, they're _rewritten_?
Well, whoever it was, they knew their bananas.


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## Ycore Rixle (May 18, 2008)

Eeralai said:
			
		

> [sblock]  Good use of language.  I particularly liked "Home was a trinary star system in a galaxy of misery."  That was excellent imagery.  I think the story could roll at a better clip with some editing, but enjoyed it. [/sblock]




[sblock]  Thanks! I agree about the editing. I've been accused of writing too tersely in the past, though, so I wanted to err on the side of giving good weight. But yeah, editing would be good.

I enjoyed "Jenna" too. I liked the Holly Golightly modern/ancient juxtapositions that were a common theme, and they highlighted how sex is both modern and ancient. I thought there could have been a few more plot points in the middle, but that's a good sort of criticism in that it implies I'd like to spend more time with the characters and the world. Good stuff.

[/sblock]


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## Rodrigo Istalindir (May 18, 2008)

Ok, this is just creepy.  On my Yahoo page today was a link to this article:  Monkeys Genetically Modified to Have Huntington's.  Time to head for the hills.


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## Berandor (May 18, 2008)

I call dibs on using this in the next round!


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## Berandor (May 18, 2008)

Rodrigo Istalindir said:
			
		

> For Piratecat:
> 
> [sblock]
> Ok, damned near perfect.  Not a lot to pick at, here.  You keep getting better, and that's kinda scary.  Hopefully Orchid Blossom will bump you off so I won't face a rematch from last year.
> [/sblock]




I saw that! Just you wait!


----------



## Rodrigo Istalindir (May 18, 2008)

Berandor said:
			
		

> I saw that! Just you wait!




Not an intentional slight; I forgot who was playing who.


----------



## Dlsharrock (May 18, 2008)

Fight fight fight!


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## Berandor (May 18, 2008)

Rodrigo Istalindir said:
			
		

> Not an intentional slight; I forgot who was playing who.



 You say that now... ;-)


----------



## awayfarer (May 19, 2008)

Dlsharrock said:
			
		

> Who was it said stories aren't written, they're _rewritten_?
> Well, whoever it was, they knew their bananas.




Dunno, but it sounds familiar.

On the other side of the fence there's the adage (I'm paraphrasing), "You never finish a work, you just abandon it." That one's helped me immensely. There comes a point where one needs to stop fretting over every last detail and just put up the goods.

In any event...

Berandor, I still haven't read yours. I just got back from visiting my folks for the weekend and I've been trying not to monopolize their internet. I have a lot of catching up to do here.  

Edit: Fixed a couple of typos. Removed an uneccessary apostraphe and used it to hold up a liqour store.


----------



## Herremann the Wise (May 19, 2008)

Just a quick note to all our competitors - thank you very much for your stories and congratulations on both the quality and timeliness of your submissions. Out of sixteen competitors, everyone got something in with only one being late. This is a great effort from all concerned!

Now it is up to the judges to get our judgments out as quickly as possible - I'd like to try and get all judgments posted by Wednesday night (Sydney time) if not sooner. I know one of the judges has had a small hiccup in their schedule but all should still be cool.

As for round two, could Rodrigo and Mythago please post suitable times for their match? I'm looking at starting round two matches this Thursday (9:00am Sydney time), Friday and possibly Saturday. Which out of these works best for you - or do you prefer a later (or even earlier I suppose) start?

Best Regards
Herremann the Wise


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## Rodrigo Istalindir (May 19, 2008)

I'm going out of town for the long weekend, so I'd prefer pictures either go up tomorrow so I can finish before I go, or a week from tomorrow so I can finish when I get back.


----------



## Herremann the Wise (May 19, 2008)

Rodrigo Istalindir said:
			
		

> I'm going out of town for the long weekend, so I'd prefer pictures either go up tomorrow so I can finish before I go, or a week from tomorrow so I can finish when I get back.



Mythago, which one of these works best for you? I'm happy to go either way.

Best Regards
Herremann the Wise


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## Maldur (May 19, 2008)

ok, my isp died this weekend, ill be there within the hour (I hope)


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## Eeralai (May 19, 2008)

Berandor said:
			
		

> »God, M,« Jenna says as she twirls his chest hair with her hand, »you really are the best lover in the world.«




That's just funny


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## Eeralai (May 19, 2008)

*Comments on the rest of the stories*

[sblock]  Just finished reading all of the stories and I really enjoyed myself.  What a great first round!  I am glad I am not a judge  [/sblock]


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## Eeralai (May 19, 2008)

Ycore Rixle said:
			
		

> [sblock]  Thanks! I agree about the editing. I've been accused of writing too tersely in the past, though, so I wanted to err on the side of giving good weight. But yeah, editing would be good.
> 
> I enjoyed "Jenna" too. I liked the Holly Golightly modern/ancient juxtapositions that were a common theme, and they highlighted how sex is both modern and ancient. I thought there could have been a few more plot points in the middle, but that's a good sort of criticism in that it implies I'd like to spend more time with the characters and the world. Good stuff.
> 
> [/sblock]




[sblock] Hey, thanks!  Yeah, I was talking with my husband at length about the contest and I think the lack of plot points and the lack of developing more interaction between the angel and Jenna will be my doom.  I wonder how this contest would go if we could take three days off of work/school/kids to write.  If all the stories would be much more flushed out or if we would be going crazy until the last hour trying to come up with something and the story would still be rushed?  I guess we'll never know  [/sblock]


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## Maldur (May 19, 2008)

Finished, all judgements send to the herremann.

Sorry for the delay.


----------



## arwink (May 19, 2008)

That will probably leave me as the delay. Seems it was a bad weekend to be a Ceramic DM judge (I was in a minor car accident; I'm fine, my car is not quite so lucky, and the insurance companies have eaten my free time today). I've sent off a judgement for Piratecat vs. Orchid Blossom, but I won't get a chance to read/judge the other rounds until tomorrow.


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## Dlsharrock (May 19, 2008)

Stomach flu, ISP deaths and car crashes?? Is somebody 'upstairs' trying to tell us something? Are we witnessing the birth of the curse of Ceramic DM?

I had my in-laws over for tea on Friday and I consider that a pretty awful situation, and like any right-thinking human being I blame Ceramic DM.
Yes, these are evil times.

I jest, but it's good to hear you're not hurt Arwink. Accidents are a royal pain in the rump but walking away from them unscathed is only ever a good thing!


----------



## Maldur (May 19, 2008)

Good you are fine Arwink!


----------



## Berandor (May 19, 2008)

Yeah, glad to hear you're alright.


----------



## Piratecat (May 19, 2008)

Me too! 

Also, thank you for the kind words, everyone. I'll be going through with comments for everyone once I carve out a couple of hours.


----------



## mythago (May 19, 2008)

Will have to be next week for me.


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## Thorod Ashstaff (May 19, 2008)

*Dibs!*



			
				Dlsharrock said:
			
		

> Are we witnessing the birth of the curse of Ceramic DM?




Okay, I get dibs on THAT plot idea (IF, of course, I make it to the second round...).

Seriously, glad you are unhurt, Arwink!


----------



## maxfieldjadenfox (May 19, 2008)

Dlsharrock said:
			
		

> Stomach flu, ISP deaths and car crashes?? Is somebody 'upstairs' trying to tell us something? Are we witnessing the birth of the curse of Ceramic DM?
> 
> I had my in-laws over for tea on Friday and I consider that a pretty awful situation, and like any right-thinking human being I blame Ceramic DM.
> Yes, these are evil times.
> ...




Probably having the in-laws for tea is the worst of the lot...  Seriously, glad you're OK Arwink.

I suggest a spin-off of SSS- everyone writes a story with the subtitle The Curse of Ceramic DM. IMHO, the curse started back with the great post fire, but it may have started before that- that was just the first time I was directly impacted.


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## Eeralai (May 19, 2008)

I'm sorry about your crash, Arwink.  I am glad you are OK.  It seems like bad stuff always happens to the judges.  I hope this is it for this time around.


----------



## Berandor (May 19, 2008)

Some (really short) notes on what I've read so far:

tadk:
[sblock]I really like the idea of your "story", but to me it didn't really work. When I get drawn into this strange fugue world where your normal stories live, I sometimes wish for a little more structure. This, however, was too structured, too matter-of-factly for me. I didn't feel dread, or surprise or some other typical CDM emotion.[/sblock]

Piratecat:
[sblock]Great story. Short, succint, not a lot of fat to trim. The title is perhaps the best thing of it. I imagine finding this recording in the attic, long after the brother moved out... Of course, the pictures flowed together very organically, even the fiery red whatever.[/sblock]

Orchid Blossom:
[sblock]A mythical story that I enjoyed very much, but I didn't get everything in my first reading. I'll have to re-read more closely – but I want to. Your story reminded me of good entries by tadk, somewhat dream-like, our of this world. It was uch easier to forget that I was reading a story than the usual CDM story of paranormal investigators written in first person point of view  Good luck against Piratecat, though - as usual.[/sblock]

Mythago:
[sblock]I must say this story left me a little confused. It may have been too wacky, though I find it hard to believe I wrote that. On the other hand, the names and the dialogue was really funny. Looking for Mister Right, the Chippendale Boys, and so on. Fun![/sblock]

maxfieldjadenfox:
[sblock]I was disappointed with the second half, as suddenly we're with the sidekicks of the tale. And Draco was gone faster than he appeared, which gave this story a really rushed feeling. And the plane... was kind of a stretch. On the other hand, the beginning was really good, up until the plane escape, really. Oh well, maybe next time you won't get sick and the whole story will be like this. [/sblock]


----------



## maxfieldjadenfox (May 19, 2008)

Berandor said:
			
		

> Some (really short) notes on what I've read so far:
> 
> 
> maxfieldjadenfox:
> [sblock]I was disappointed with the second half, as suddenly we're with the sidekicks of the tale. And Draco was gone faster than he appeared, which gave this story a really rushed feeling. And the plane... was kind of a stretch. On the other hand, the beginning was really good, up until the plane escape, really. Oh well, maybe next time you won't get sick and the whole story will be like this. [/sblock]





Thanks, Patrick. I am pretty disappointed in myself for this one, but sometimes real life gets in the way of art. I'm seriously considering retooling it at some point, without the constraints of the pictures.


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## Thorod Ashstaff (May 19, 2008)

maxfieldjadenfox said:
			
		

> I suggest a spin-off of SSS- everyone writes a story with the subtitle The Curse of Ceramic DM.




What part of the "dibs" concept are you not understanding?  ;-)

(That siad, I think it's a great idea, but not until AFTER the final round...)


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## Gulla (May 19, 2008)

So many stories, so little time.

OK, so now I have 16 (15.5?) stories to read, and no time. Well, hopefully you'll slow down just a little, so I can read and comment soon. It seems that every time one of these comes up I get bogged down in lots of work and activities.

I *will* be back with comments.

Håkon


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## maxfieldjadenfox (May 19, 2008)

Thorod Ashstaff said:
			
		

> What part of the "dibs" concept are you not understanding?  ;-)
> 
> (That siad, I think it's a great idea, but not until AFTER the final round...)




Dibs, schmibs. I see a good idea and I run with it. Half elves are much faster than dwarves the last time I looked.  

Seriously, you can write it first, but I do think a spin-off is a good idea.


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## Dlsharrock (May 19, 2008)

I just patented it. Now you guys have to use that little TM thing every time you write Curse of CDM. And I get major kickback on any spin-off merchandising, T-shirts, mugs, miniature novelty guillotines etc.

Time for a victory evil laugh I think
Bwaahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaaa aha ah ahem


----------



## maxfieldjadenfox (May 19, 2008)

Dlsharrock said:
			
		

> I just patented it. Now you guys have to use that little TM thing every time you write Curse of CDM. And I get major kickback on any spin-off merchandising, T-shirts, mugs, miniature novelty guillotines etc.
> 
> Time for a victory evil laugh I think
> Bwaahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaaa aha ah ahem





Damn. I didn't see this coming. The same thing happened to me with the pet rock and the Rubik's Cube.


----------



## Herremann the Wise (May 19, 2008)

*Match Five / Piratecat vs. Orchid Blossom*

ARWINK’S JUDGMENT

Piratecat / How My Brother Stopped Listening to Rock and Roll

It took me a couple of minutes to warm to the voice of Piratecat’s story, but once I was in I was in for the long haul (and thank-you for letting the contractions in once you’d established the voice – you would have driven me crazy if they’d continued the entire length of the piece). Nice picture use, and the story itself does a great job of taking an old trope and making something new with it. 

The only flaws I saw were basically minor quibbles: one, it feels like it’s missing a narrative beat – I wanted something in the middle of the story so there was a bridge between that first hint of what’s to come (…I asked for one like you. Young and blond and strong…) and the possession at the finale; two, the title, for me, doesn’t quite fit the story. Rock and roll isn’t prevalent enough to give the title weight (again, it probably needs a beat on this point in the middle of the story to bridge the first reference and the gloating statement at the end). 

Orchid Blossom / Untitled

This is a nice, gentle story that manages to use its micro focus on the central character to reflect and hint at a much larger story. The voice is suited to the style of the piece – mythic in tone, hinting at a world that’s slowly coming into focus – and any real critiques I’d offer about the story would largely be aimed at tightening the prose (which, given the time-frame of Ceramic DM, is an accomplishment).

That said, I find myself a little ish-ish when it comes to the story. It does many things right, it has an internal consistency that works to its favor, but I don’t find myself getting excited about it. The crux of narrative largely comes down to a character making a moral choice, and that choice is at its most satisfying when it’s being made by our protagonist. I’m not sure I see that big choice being made here (though certainly there has been one made prior to the story beginning), and thus I feel like I’m left adrift in the serenity and beauty of the voice. Despite the attempt to close the narrative loop with the priestesses death, this feels like it’s the beginning of something longer rather than a self-contained story in its own right.

Judgment

This is a tough round to call – both the stories are strong, make good use of the pictures, and they’re very diverse in their approach. Similarly, both have but one or two things that I’d look at tweaking to really give the story more weight. I’m largely going to go with my gut on this one and give it to Piratecat on the strength of the more immediate satisfaction it provides – Orchid Blossom’s tale will linger, but I think it’s potential and strengths are really going to become apparent if the story is given more time to breath and flesh itself out than Ceramic DM provides. 

THE JUDGMENT OF HERREMANN THE WISE

This was probably my favourite set of pictures for round one and neither of the stories disappointed. Piratecat has seamlessly incorporated the images into a completely engrossing recounting while Orchid Blossom has taken the meat from the pictures and spun an intriguing and profound tale of the afterlife.

Orchid Blossom’s effort was something I sat down with and enjoyed from start to finish. I knew the pictures had the potential to bring a certain profundity to the competition and Orchid Blossom has realised this very nicely. In some ways, I wish there had have been more time and space, but that is most likely me being a selfish reader, wishing to luxuriate in Orchid Blossom’s words and ideas. However, in real terms, the pace was more than likely spot on for this competition. A well constructed piece.

Ok, Piratecat’s Indiana Jones style effort was a fantastic story that had me hooked throughout. I was completely sucked into the story and could not turn away until its final twist. I think what’s worth noting here is the level of polish Piratecat has been able to apply in such an abbreviated space of time. It reads incredibly well and does everything that I think the writer was trying to accomplish. Excellent foundation, fantastic fluency and perhaps most importantly, a great read.

Judgment: While there were many things I loved about both stories, Piratecat gets my vote this time with a truly fantastic and polished story.


MALDUR’S JUDGMENT

Orchid, I was confused after reading your story. It was unclear to me what actually happened, It reads either unfinished, or like a vignette for a world that is very well known, so the details are left out. Yet I dont know the world. You have done better in the past.
Piratecat with an indianajones/chtulhu inspired story. Nice twist at the end, I didnt see that coming. Oddly enough you made the badguy, "nice"
though he is doing and saying horrible things.

Judgement: Piratecat

FINAL JUDGMENT

Piratecat seems to have the favour of the judges for this match. Congratulations to both our competitors on a pair of stellar performances.


----------



## orchid blossom (May 20, 2008)

Many congrats to Piratecat, who wrote a hell of a story this round.  

Unlike many people, I find Ceramic DM getting harder and harder for me instead of easier.  I tend to have no idea whatsoever for a plot until after about two days, then have to hurry to get the skeleton written at all.

I'm pleased with the piece overall.  I managed to avoid overdoing the explaining (to the point of underdoing it for some), give up my love of naming anything and everything, and kept it short.

And of course, everyone who feels this belongs as part of something larger, it probably does.  The biggest challenge for me in this contest is thinking in short story terms.  Even in my creative writing classes in college my "short stories" were usually chapters of something longer.  I think in terms of character rather than plot, and character takes time.


----------



## tadk (May 20, 2008)

Berandor said:
			
		

> Some (really short) notes on what I've read so far:
> 
> tadk:
> [sblock]I really like the idea of your "story", but to me it didn't really work. When I get drawn into this strange fugue world where your normal stories live, I sometimes wish for a little more structure. This, however, was too structured, too matter-of-factly for me. I didn't feel dread, or surprise or some other typical CDM emotion.[/sblock]
> ...


----------



## Piratecat (May 20, 2008)

orchid blossom said:
			
		

> I'm pleased with the piece overall.  I managed to avoid overdoing the explaining (to the point of underdoing it for some), give up my love of naming anything and everything, and kept it short.
> 
> And of course, everyone who feels this belongs as part of something larger, it probably does.  The biggest challenge for me in this contest is thinking in short story terms.  Even in my creative writing classes in college my "short stories" were usually chapters of something longer.  I think in terms of character rather than plot, and character takes time.



I thought you did wonderfully. It's a piece I absolutely don't think I could have written, and you should be proud of it. 

Thank you to everyone who commented on my story. Some of the feedback is very accurate in my opinion, including Rodrigo's analysis of my strengths and weaknesses in past performances. I think I'm getting better; I don't think I could have written this story two years ago. This competition is doing a fantastic job of identifying my weak points and helping me learn to strengthen them.

I thought about not doing the body-stealing at the end, as it seemed a little traditional. I couldn't help myself, though. I had worked in some foreshadowing I really loved, and I liked the story title too much to change it. Better to end on a climax instead of an anticlimax, I figure. I think it worked, although - like all my endings - it was a little too abrupt.

Anyways, I look forward with great eagerness to the next round.


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## arwink (May 20, 2008)

orchid blossom said:
			
		

> Unlike many people, I find Ceramic DM getting harder and harder for me instead of easier.  I tend to have no idea whatsoever for a plot until after about two days, then have to hurry to get the skeleton written at all.




One of my friends has a theory that writing should get harder, rather than easier. It means you're getting more discerning when you judge your own writing, that you're pushing yourself to try new things rather than relying on familiar techniques, and generally evolving into a better writer. 

All in all, I think it's a terribly sensible way of thinking about things.


----------



## maxfieldjadenfox (May 20, 2008)

arwink said:
			
		

> One of my friends has a theory that writing should get harder, rather than easier. It means you're getting more discerning when you judge your own writing, that you're pushing yourself to try new things rather than relying on familiar techniques, and generally evolving into a better writer.
> 
> All in all, I think it's a terribly sensible way of thinking about things.




Well, it makes it less painful if it seems like you're going in the right direction. I know that the older (and theoretically wiser) I get, the less I seem to know, and the less often I'm really pleased with my art or my writing. 

I plan to comment on the other entries after all of them are judged. So far some really great odd writing in this round. 

It's hard to be done though...


----------



## Dlsharrock (May 20, 2008)

Orchid Blossom said:
			
		

> I tend to have no idea whatsoever for a plot until after about two days, then have to hurry to get the skeleton written at all.




Ah, the ongoing war between writer and brain. 

With regard to mental blocks, it helps, IMVVHO, to consider the positive aspects of storytelling, rather than dwell on the negative (in both the milieu of writing and your own talents). Dwelling on the negative, particularly voicing negativity out loud (see the quote above), invariably causes a mental block loop and spoils your chances of writing something cool. The loop is, of course, self perpetuating. If you get a mental block once, you'll expect it next time, and what the brain expects, the brain usually gets. 

A simple trick: say out loud to yourself, and to friends, family, strangers on the internet etc, that you'll come up with ideas from the get go and won't experience mental blocks. Repeat until brain is convinced and you start to expect an easier time. Not a new trick, by any means, but it works wonders.

[SBLOCK=My thoughts on Piratecat/Orchid round (yay, finally have some spare time to comment!)]



			
				Orchid Blossom said:
			
		

> The biggest challenge for me in this contest is thinking in short story terms. Even in my creative writing classes in college my "short stories" were usually chapters of something longer.




It definitely helps to think of the two things (books and short stories) as different animals. It's easy, IMO, to mistake the two as similar because some stories use a comparable narrative structure. In fact, I think, a well conceived short story can be about as different from a book as a data spreadsheet is from a word processed letter, and I'm not just talking about length  

On which note, congratulations Piratecat,  but my vote in this instance would have gone for Orchid Blossom's piece. I loved your story idea Piratecat, really liked the idea of a first person dictation and you certainly display an awesome understanding of foundation writing, but for my preferences the story was a bit... hm... safe? It adhered a little too closely to traditional structure (set up, knock down, twist, baddaboom baby- the end) and I think there's scope, particularly in a competition like this, to experiment a bit and push the envelope more than a little. 

Flawless structure and writing though. In terms of scoring rounds in CDM, I think this might be the best tactic to go with.

Orchid Blossom's piece, by comparison, was... well... how can I put it... beautiful, subtle, near poetic in places. Nothing is explained so bluntly that you know exactly what's going on first time, but with second and third reads you notice more, and I prefer this kind of tantalising suggestion to slap-in-the-face explanation. I did feel it was the superior of the two stories, perhaps not so conventional, but certainly more experimental. And beautiful. Did I mention beautiful?

Both, of course, were really very good and there's clearly no lack of talent here.
[/SBLOCK]

[SBLOCK=Critique/feedback of my two favourite stories (tadk's and mythago's)]
*Report on the Viability of Test Objects and Test Subjects by tadk*

What can I say? I loved it!! Absolutely revolting and shiver-inducing. As the first story in the CDM I was praying this would set the tone. A horrible (in places disturbing) piece that pushes the envelope and plays around with both the conventional composition of a short story and our own expectations. Very subtle, so not to everyones' tastes, but subtle is by no means a bad thing and this story would not have looked the least bit out of place in Interzone or Third Alternative. The cold, clinical, dystopian world these awful experimenting... (aliens? Inter-dimensional beings?) creatures inhabit left me feeling rather sick, and there were some great parallels with our own health and safety obsessed culture. Want to study an oozing toothy maw in a can? Make sure you do it by the book! Hehe. Great.

In terms of writing I found the piece to be almost as flawless in its officious and clinical tone as Piratecat's more traditional narrative tone. Either tadk has a medical background, or he has a real flair for delving deep in his subject matter??

Well done tadk and commiserations that you didn't make the cut for the next round, I was really hoping you would as I'd like to see more of your work.

*Untitled by Mythago (suggest The Chippendale Boys In Search of Mister Right )*

Helluva confusing at first, but I loved it! Here's a story that turns the whole concept of tradition on its big gay head and slaps its lycra-clad ass with a feather duster. From the naming of characters (just sublime) to the stitch-face staccato gunfire style of scene set ups and dialogue. Here's a great lesson in how to throw everything out the window and let imagination take over. 

Descriptions are minimal, but give you everything you need to know (with the possible exception of the first few paragraphs, but all writers are allowed at least one brain-burp in this thing I think). Characters are cartoonish, but fleshed out quickly with quirky dialogue and humour "You’re practically wearing a burqa by local standards." Imagination rules the day though, and that's what grabbed me, spanked me and left me chuckling. A plane with the AI of a puppy, a protagonist turned into an upside down tree (what the hell?!) and a BBEG called Criminal Procedure. Excellent.

If I have a complaint it's that this is more akin to the first chapter of a book (or even the second/third chapter) than a story within its own boundaries. I know this, because I was left wanting more and wondering what was going to happen next. Ending a one off short story on a cliffhanger is really not a very nice thing to do to a reader Mythago 
[/SBLOCK]

These were the main points I wanted to make about six pages back. As I  mentioned then, I think all stories were really great and, though my opinion probably matters diddly in the greater scheme of things, I'd hate for anyone to think I was deliberately snubbing them or their story by not giving specific feedback.


----------



## orchid blossom (May 20, 2008)

Dlsharrock said:
			
		

> Ah, the ongoing war between writer and brain.
> 
> With regard to mental blocks, it helps, IMVVHO, to consider the positive aspects of storytelling, rather than dwell on the negative (in both the milieu of writing and your own talents). Dwelling on the negative, particularly voicing negativity out loud (see the quote above), invariably causes a mental block loop and spoils your chances of writing something cool. The loop is, of course, self perpetuating. If you get a mental block once, you'll expect it next time, and what the brain expects, the brain usually gets.
> 
> A simple trick: say out loud to yourself, and to friends, family, strangers on the internet etc, that you'll come up with ideas from the get go and won't experience mental blocks. Repeat until brain is convinced and you start to expect an easier time. Not a new trick, by any means, but it works wonders.




Good advice in general.  For me though, it's not a mental block.  2 days is just about how long it takes for the pictures to percolate and compost in my brain.  I spend some time looking at them, some time thinking about them, and some time ignoring them.  I write down whatever ideas pop in my head over that time and occasionally write a paragraph or two about one of the pictures or other.  By the time the thoughts have gelled I usually have a day left for the business of writing.  (Most of which I usually have to spend at work, but don't we all?)

I totally agree with you about the power of positive thinking, though.  If you tell yourself you can't do something, then you can't.

I have tried taking an opposite track and just writing whatever comes into my head when the pictures come up and go with it, so I'll have more time for the writing.  It never comes out well.  The story just needs time to "brain bake" for me.


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## Piratecat (May 20, 2008)

Dlsharrock said:
			
		

> [SBLOCK=My thoughts on Piratecat/Orchid round (yay, finally have some spare time to comment!)]
> On which note, congratulations Piratecat,  but my vote in this instance would have gone for Orchid Blossom's piece. I loved your story idea Piratecat, really liked the idea of a first person dictation and you certainly display an awesome understanding of foundation writing, but for my preferences the story was a bit... hm... safe? It adhered a little too closely to traditional structure (set up, knock down, twist, baddaboom baby- the end) and I think there's scope, particularly in a competition like this, to experiment a bit and push the envelope more than a little.
> [/SBLOCK]



Interesting thoughts, and they're making me think. My goal this round was to write something accessible and tight that was still a challenge to me. Nah, I wasn't trying to subvert conventional paradigms, but I knew that going in. Would it be a better story if I had? I dunno. But if you're seeing it as too safe, then all I can say is that you're glad you weren't reading my stories a few years ago.


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## Thorod Ashstaff (May 20, 2008)

*A battle of giants...*

My comments on Piratecat and Orchid Blossom:

WOW! (That might be enough right there, but I'll go on.)

These are my two favorites so far, by a pretty wide margin (though admittedly I am way behind on reading and many competitors haven't been looked at yet); it is unfortunate for Orchid Blossom that two great stories hit in the first round, but that's happened before and is part of the game. A huge congratulations to both of you.

O.B. : Sleeping in the Hell You Made...
Orchid Blossom's piece was not as tight as Piratecat's, but it might be my favorite (by a hair's breadth), I especially love the multiple layers of underlying concepts. There's the 'cycle' thing of the world's ages, which has been done before but which isn't overdone here and doesn't feel cliche'; and even more intriguing is the layers of hell thing, created by belief and sustained by belief. The idea that hell exists because we need it to is not entirely new, but it feels new here because of the added element that its denizens continue in torment despite having paid their debts many times over, simply because they think/believe they deserve it. That is so human, and so very disturbing, and I love that the main character was a former denizen. I wanted more (feels like a piece of something bigger) but it was a lovely, disturbing, and beautiful (as has been mentioned) piece.

P.C. : Narrative by Cassette...
Piratecat's piece is so amazingly tight for a 72-hour effort, and I am very impressed by that. I don't agree that it is 'safe,' and the ending got me (despite the fact that because of the very smart foreshadowing I was tingling with the anticipation of what exactly the hook/twist would be, a great feeling for a reader). I think the title is brilliant (despite the judgment) and it adds to the foreshadowing in exactly the right amount. Foreshadowing is a tricky, walk-the-fence procedure, especially when your audience has seen so many fantasy/horror stories with twists, but P.C. walks that fence perfectly here. I also love the creepy (because subtle and implied) cannibalistic element in the middle, and I think the cassette interview is a great frame, reminds me of Rice's "Interview...," the only good vampire novel she wrote.

Well done both of you!


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## Dlsharrock (May 20, 2008)

Piratecat said:
			
		

> But if you're seeing it as too safe, then all I can say is that you're glad you weren't reading my stories a few years ago.




No no no. I have a preference for subversion of convention in competitions like this, that's all, and my 'feedback' reflects it. I like my stories with plenty of wierdness, in terms of subject matter and narrative structure, because I like prodding envelopes, testing waters and seeing if new shapes fit in old holes - then again, I am a bit of a wanker.

Lucky I'm not a judge really


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## tadk (May 21, 2008)

Dlsharrock said:
			
		

> Ah, the ongoing war between writer and brain.
> 
> 
> [SBLOCK=Critique/feedback of my two favourite stories (tadk's and mythago's)]
> ...




Hello there
thank you so much for the gushing praise. Makes this old man's heart feel good. 
I do not have specific medical background, had to take a lot of first aid and cpr in the military.
As the piece came out it is really told from the point of view of the aliens that do the abductions. I tried to not be too over the top, several veiled references to testing to destruction, vice what they are doing in the course of the tale.
I tried to slide those in as obliquely as I could.

I must owe a serious shout of thanks to the test engineers I recently worked with. While they were all electrical, mechanical, and aeronautical engineers, their phrasing in test reports, their methods, ways of looking at things, all contributed to my submission.
Thanks again.


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## Herremann the Wise (May 21, 2008)

*Match Two / Thorod vs. Eeralai*

ARWINK’S JUDGMENT

Thorod Ashstaff / To Weep in a Dark Time

I’m going to go right out and say it: Thorod started behind the eight ball with this one, as soon as he threw the word amnesia into the opening. One of the reasons you generally don’t see a lot of amnesia stories in magazines and books is because an editor tends to be inundated with them; “I woke up and didn’t know who I was/where I was” is a common opening for many unpublished story drafts because it puts the author and the character in exactly the same position – they know nothing and have to discover what’s going on at the same time. 

Unfortunately I couldn’t shake the feeling that this is what Thorod’s story was doing – the way the character gradually comes into focus, only really gaining definition and a real sense of wanting something at the very conclusion, feels kind of weak. It essentially ends at the point where the character becomes interesting – we’re presented by something she wants badly but can’t have, while we never really feel like discovering her name is all that important to her. Had we started with her waking, knowing that the chant was taking place and wishing she could end it, the ambiguity about her identity would be easier to accept and much more powerful as a narrative device.

Despite this, Thorod has some solid picture use and some very nice metaphors scattered through the piece. The voice worked, for the most part, though the dialogue felt stilted and unnatural. The overall effect is that it is a story with strong potential, but the ideas haven’t quite finished gelling into their final form.

Eeralai / Jenna

Kudos for the hook here – a vampire nun attending a ritual during the day is a great way to grab a reader’s attention and keep it locked in place. A vampire that sees their curse as an irritating inconvenience rather than a reason for self-torture is even better. A vampire-dryad? Well, I’m interested. One of the strengths of this kind of set-up, especially in something like Ceramic DM, is that it earns you a lot of leeway – you’re promising me something I’ve seen before so as a reader I’m willing to give you the space to make it work, and you take that leeway and don’t let us down. The real strength of the piece is the narrative voice, which bubbles along with a lot of energy. It’s naturalistic and flows well, though I didn’t quite buy the dialogue, especially the finally exchange of banter between Jenna and the angel. 

Overall I think this is a fun story, but it could be pushed a little further than it is at present. I’m a little up in the air over the ending, though that may well be because the frivolity isn’t really to my taste as a reader.

Judgment

I give the round to Eeralai; her story has a sense of cohesion to it that isn’t quite there in Thorods tale, and I think she’s pushed the picture use further when it comes to providing us with the occasional surprise as a reader. 


THE JUDGMENT OF HERREMANN THE WISE

I thought this was an intriguing set of images and was looking forward to reading how our competitors were going to deal with them. While there was a degree of diversity, there was still a unity to the pictures that I thought would allow our writer’s room to stretch their talents. Thorod has perhaps taken a slightly more conservative path whilst Eeralai has let loose like a horse being given its head.

For Thorod Ashtaff, the just awoken memory thing I think worked OK here. I suppose I’m the type of reader who is happy to go along for the ride – and it was a ride I enjoyed. By the end though, I had a few questions and by two read-throughs later, they were still left unanswered. Sometimes this can be a good thing as a reader wonders about some profundity but on this occasion, I was querying why she did what she did in regards to Jake. Dramatically when I first read that she had killed Jake, I was blown away; shortly after though, the weight that should have been behind this event just wasn’t there for me as a reader. Again, the brevity of a match can force certain decisions by the author that if given more time, they would do differently. Having said that though, Thorod continues on completing in the end what I thought was a fine piece. Your picture use was pretty strong throughout and so congratulations.

I have to bow to Eeralai for her piece here. The thought of the combined urges of Dryad and Vampire just made me laugh. The light humourous tone of the piece was majestically maintained with the eventual conclusion feeling right. However, the thing I appreciated even more than this was the intertwining of images and story. It was a seamless and stellar effort for our other competitors to learn from. Each image had presence and purpose in the story, as if you had sucked out the absolute purpose of the pictures provided. Well written and congratulations on a marvellous piece.

Judgment: Eeralai for a superb effort but congratulations to Thorod here too for a great performance as well. While I enjoyed both stories, the vampiric dryad did it for me this time.


MALDUR’S JUDGMENT

You two are making this hard.
Thorod Ashstaff, gloomy, almost pandoraish story. Nice idea, allthough I dont get why jake had to die.
Eeralai with an almost Anita Blake style mixing of races and outragious action ... funky.

Judgement: Thorod ashstaff

FINAL JUDGMENT

Eeralai takes the biscuits this round but only with a two to one advantage. Well done to Thorod, and best of luck for next time.


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## Thorod Ashstaff (May 21, 2008)

Congratulations to Eeralai!

Thanks for the insightful critique, and I'm looking forward to the stress-free job of spectator for the rest of this CDM.


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## Eeralai (May 21, 2008)

Wow.  Thanks, Thorod Ashstaff for making it such a great round.  Thanks to the judges for their time and helpful comments.  It is all appreciated.

I think Rodrigo must've put Hermann up to matching two people from NM in the first round.  He has always been scared of New Mexicans   Anyway, I look forward to writing with you another time, Thorod.


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## Rodrigo Istalindir (May 21, 2008)

Wait, Thorod's from New Mexico too?  

Sending in one of the Cabal undercover....very sneaky.  But you shouldn't have blown his cover.


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## Herremann the Wise (May 21, 2008)

mythago said:
			
		

> Will have to be next week for me.



OK, Cool.

Match 12 Rodrigo Istalindir vs. Mythago shall commence with four images posted 9:00am Tuesday 27th May Sydney time (that should be Monday afternoon/evening your time, check your world clocks for precise details).

Will this be OK?

Best Regards
Herremann the Wise


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## Dlsharrock (May 21, 2008)

Rodrigo Istalindir said:
			
		

> Wait, Thorod's from New Mexico too?




I think actually he's from Cardiff, if memory serves (something about he and I being on the same time zone). I could, of course, be mixing him up with some other hairy Welsh dwarf 

Um, excuse me Mr H T Wise: I have a note from my mum:

Dear Mr H T Wise
Dlsharrock is having his wisdom teeth out next week, under general anaesthetic, and everyone he's said this too has made a sort of nasty wincing sound and advised him he should be prepared for taking a couple days out from life due to the pain etc. So I think, if he makes it to the next round, I will not be able to allow him to participate in your nice game next week from Tuesday to Thursday (3 days to be on the safe side). If it turns out he loses this round (and that really wouldn't be a surprise to me, I can tell you- sigh) then it doesn't matter.
Yours Sincerely
Dlsharrock's Mum


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## Rodrigo Istalindir (May 21, 2008)

Herremann the Wise said:
			
		

> OK, Cool.
> 
> Match 12 Rodrigo Istalindir vs. Mythago shall commence with four images posted 9:00am Tuesday 27th May Sydney time (that should be Monday afternoon/evening your time, check your world clocks for precise details).
> 
> ...




Works for me.  I don't get back until Tuesday night, but I never write the first day anyway.


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## Herremann the Wise (May 21, 2008)

Dlsharrock said:
			
		

> Um, excuse me Mr H T Wise: I have a note from my mum:
> 
> Dear Mr H T Wise
> Dlsharrock is having his wisdom teeth out next week, under general anaesthetic, and everyone he's said this too has made a sort of nasty wincing sound and advised him he should be prepared for taking a couple days out from life due to the pain etc. So I think, if he makes it to the next round, I will not be able to allow him to participate in your nice game next week from Tuesday to Thursday (3 days to be on the safe side). If it turns out he loses this round (and that really wouldn't be a surprise to me, I can tell you- sigh) then it doesn't matter.
> ...



While it looks like we are going to have a later start for match 12, I'm hoping to get the other three matches (9, 10 and 11) started before or on the weekend - dependent upon people's preferred schedules. As such, if you advance, your writing skills will most likely be required before your dental procedure, rather than during. Of course, if you think being spaced out/tripping on anaesthetic and pain medication may enhance your chances... I could always delay the start...if you would prefer. 

Best Regards
Herremann the Wise


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## Maldur (May 21, 2008)

As my internet at home is still ...shady, I can not garantee judgements over the weekend.


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## Eeralai (May 21, 2008)

Dlsharrock said:
			
		

> I think actually he's from Cardiff, if memory serves (something about he and I being on the same time zone). I could, of course, be mixing him up with some other hairy Welsh dwarf




He's a desert dwarf.  He and Maxfield and I used too be in a critique group together.


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## Thorod Ashstaff (May 21, 2008)

Yeah, high desert dwarf here. New Mexico raised, green chile addicted, and, sadly, never been to Cardiff...


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## Dlsharrock (May 21, 2008)

Herreman The Wise said:
			
		

> Of course, if you think being spaced out/tripping on anaesthetic and pain medication may enhance your chances... I could always delay the start...if you would prefer.




It would only lead to random drug testing in the CDM, and I don't want that on my conscience.


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## RangerWickett (May 21, 2008)

Herremann the Wise said:
			
		

> While it looks like we are going to have a later start for match 12, I'm hoping to get the other three matches (9, 10 and 11) started before or on the weekend - dependent upon people's preferred schedules. As such, if you advance, your writing skills will most likely be required before your dental procedure, rather than during. Of course, if you think being spaced out/tripping on anaesthetic and pain medication may enhance your chances... I could always delay the start...if you would prefer.
> 
> Best Regards
> Herremann the Wise




I edited one of the WotBS adventures while on painkillers for knee surgery. _That_ was fun. One of the villains always keeps trying to mess up the PCs' knees if he gets the chance.

I'd love to see Olympic writing competitions, where people would dope with LSD and Absinthe.


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## Berandor (May 21, 2008)

I might not be around for the weekend (beginning tomorrow, since Germany has a holiday), or I will probably be around to check, but not to write. It's not clear yet, but if I don't write anything, you know what's up.


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## awayfarer (May 21, 2008)

Any time after this Friday is good for me for the next round. I've got one last final exam on that day.

Been busy in the mean time. I got around to reading Berandor's story. Really liked the premise. Still haven't read the others but I'd like to.

Bah. Well, off to hit the books, handouts, various notes, text files, word documents and Wikipedia for now.


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## Piratecat (May 21, 2008)

Any idea when I'll be up next? Posting pictures for me next Monday night would be ideal, but I have some flexibility. Just let me know.

And who is my esteemed opponent?


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## Gulla (May 21, 2008)

Hey, I stole some time and started reading. Comments for Tadk and Rodrigo.
(In Sblock, since I'm only on page 9 and better safe than sorry)

[sblock]*"Report on the Viability of", TadK*
A nice report, but it lacks much of the dreamlike images and flow of some of your earlier efforts. I like the idea, but cannot find anything to get emotionally attached to. It lacks some life, I think. Which makes it a very good scientific report, but not so interresting reading. So maybe a successful experiment and well done style excercise, but it is just plain good to me. Not exciting.

*"The End of the Line", Rodrigo Istalindir*
Wow. That is for me the best one so far. The eternal hunt for a cure for anything treathenig our beloved ones. And it almost succeded. With a terrible price. It's an old plot, but very well done. (And for once the geniouses are nice, social and loveable instead of weird). Nice painting of the two main characters, a believeable (newr future?) world and good pacing. I really like this one.[/sblock]

I have read all up till Rodrigo's but will try to keep my comments for each match together. If anyone thinks I should rather post as soon as I get the comments written, I will do so.

Håkon
Theoretically with lots of free time tomorrow.


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## Herremann the Wise (May 21, 2008)

Piratecat said:
			
		

> Any idea when I'll be up next? Posting pictures for me next Monday night would be ideal, but I have some flexibility. Just let me know.
> 
> And who is my esteemed opponent?



Hello PC,
Written down that you would also like the Tuesday morning (Sydney time) start. I'm still waiting on a judgment or two and then you shall find out your esteemed opponent... not wanting to give anything away mind you.


*Eeralai VS. Winner Match 1 - FickleGM/Dlsharrock*
I'm also conscious of the fact that Eeralai may have some issues later in the month regarding time away. As such, if Dlsharrock and FickleGM (and Eeralai) can be on notice that Match 9 (Eeralai vs. Match 1 Winner) will be starting sooner rather than later (possibly within 24 hours of this very post), I'd appreciate it. If you guys could just add a post saying if that is OK, and that you are ready and waiting eagerly for your judgment.

Best Regards
Herremann the Wise


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## FickleGM (May 22, 2008)

Herremann the Wise said:
			
		

> Hello PC,
> Written down that you would also like the Tuesday morning (Sydney time) start. I'm still waiting on a judgment or two and then you shall find out your esteemed opponent... not wanting to give anything away mind you.
> 
> 
> ...



 Okilee Dokilee, Smokilee!


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## Herremann the Wise (May 22, 2008)

*Round One / Disharrock vs. Fickle DM*

ARWINK’S JUDGMENT

Disharrock / Untitled
As usual, I’ve got a lot of respect for people who try and write a story using a non-standard format, even if the attempt doesn’t quite come together. This largely barrels forward on the strength of the voice and the layering of image-after-image and it mostly gets away with it. Had it not been for the sudden introduction of a narrative hook (Take me, for example. I thought I had a pretty good life.) in the middle of the story I probably would have just surfed the wave of imagery and enjoyed myself. Unfortunately, once Disharrock gave me that hook and a story to latch onto, the story just felt unbalanced. The first half is a layering of images, the second half is a story, and both halves needed a more even distribution.
In terms of the picture use, I found the first image to be something of a disappointment since it was a relatively easy use of a fantastic picture in a piece that was willing to throw itself on the sword of surreal after-life imagery to fit the last two images in. 
And cause I’m a stickler for such things, I really wanted this to have a title 

FickleDM / The LARP that Wasn’t
This story had a couple of laughs, but I think the complexity of maintaining two narratives (Johnson in the present, Bob in the past) means that both get short shrift in the end. Johnson feels too much of a device for me; he’s skeptical at the beginning, passively reading the dairy, then switches to a man of action who believes in what’s happening the moment we’ve had the background set-up complete. The real interesting character of the story is Bob, and not just because he’s a gamer , since he’s the one who actually acts and changes as the story progresses. Even the eventual victory is his, since Johnson proves to be pretty ineffectual when the goddess has actually broken free.
Judgment: This is something of an awkward round to judge; both the stories had strengths and weaknesses, and neither really leapt out at me in terms of their picture use. Both tried something interesting with their structure, though neither really succeeded on pulling it off in my eyes. I think I’m going to give the round to Disharrock, but it’s a close thing in my eyes.

THE JUDGMENT OF HERREMANN THE WISE

This match was a tough one for me to judge as the entries were at opposite ends of the expected spectrum. FickleGM has done well, piecing the images together into an amusing tale of Gencon gone bizarrely wrong. Dlsharrock has produced a spectacular rant from the grave/afterlife that unfortunately only pays a cursory glance to the images provided. How to split the two?

FickleGM’s stuttered use of the journal worked well for me in propelling the mystery forward. While I enjoyed the story well enough, it was not at what I would call the premium end of “Wow”. It was however well rounded enough in that it concluded with enough space to keep the pacing even throughout. However, I could not help feeling that there should have been a little more to it, be it in more consistent characterisation, or ramping up the tension. Johnson really was flatly presented and so his demise was little more than a speed bump rather than the dramatic loss of a major character. Bob’s sacrifice was over before it really began – although if you are going to die and take the bad guy with you, "FALL IN LAVA AND DIE. NO SAVE, B1TCH!" has to be considered the ultimate in style! This was a fine effort but there are most probably a few things for you to work on. 

Dlsharrock has produced a truly engaging piece of writing that really hit the mark for me. It was an impassioned and enthralling piece, well composed and delivered and great to read.  However Dlsharrock has played thin with the images with only the sand-face and Nintendo boy carrying any metaphorical weight. It is a real shame to say it but in terms of picture-use, I felt as if the images provided little to no inspiration for the direction of the piece. The “Austrian Villa” and the “magic sparking from our fingertips” pictures could have been of almost anything and just as casually folded into the mix. It is one thing to have the story or theme dominate the images provided, it is another to have it trample over the top of them. 

Judgment: Whilst Dlsharrock has provided the superior writing performance for this match, I am going to have to award my judgment to FickleGM for giving the pictures suitable recognition with a good story. It is a very fine line but most unfortunately on this occasion, I think Dlsharrock’s brilliant submission has tiptoed over it with a bulldozer.


MALDUR’S JUDGMENT

Funny fickle, Funny. Lava no save, almost had me spewing my coffee out of my nose. But Dlsharrock pulled a rabbit out of his hat, that was pretty impressive.

Judgement: Dlsharrock

FINAL JUDGMENT

Dlsharrock wins this match with a 2-1 advantage over FickleGM and advances into a round two matchup with Eeralai. Well done though to both of our competitors.


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## FickleGM (May 22, 2008)

Congratulations, Dlsharrock.  Your story deserved the victory.  While it may not have been my style of story, I could felt it was a stronger entry than my story.  Good luck from here on out.

I may have went too far with inside jokes (or not-so-inside) and such, but I was in a real giddy mood when I wrote it.  Once again, I find that I rush my stuff (I believe that all my CDM entries have had some advice to the effect of expanding more on my thoughts and not rushing so much).  I am a very impatient person and it shows in my writing.  With practice, I hope to eventually improve.

I'll also say that I have a hard time writing anything deep or meaningful (I like books and movies with thin plots, too).  It isn't my style and at times seeing other people's deep and/or meaningful stuff is quite intimidating.

Finally, while I can see the shortcomings of my story, I still had a lot of fun writing it (it was my most fun story to date) and if I will be competing in the future.  

Now, I get to sit back and read everyone else's stories.


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## Herremann the Wise (May 22, 2008)

*Match Six / Ycore Rixle vs. Rangerwickett*

ARWINK’S JUDGMENT

Ycore Rixle / The Scooter Preacher’s Daughter

Thus far, Ycore has put together my favourite opening paragraph of the competition. Such a mundane moment, but the phrasing and the choice of details tell us that the conflict is coming and provides us subtle detail about the character. And the rest of the story carries with the trend – tight plotting, great choices when it comes to the description, and a series of engaging characters that layered conflicts that slowly twine together. One of my favourite moments was the start of section two, when we’re told that “Home was a trinary star system in a galaxy of misery” and the grandeur of that metaphor is gradually winnowed down to something more mundane and unhappy (much like Theresa’s potential at this point).
Despite the strength of the story, I have to admit that I don’t think the title compliments it. It’s a good title, but there’s not enough made of Mama as the Scooter Preacher to really give it resonance. 

Rangerwickett / The Contest of Harmony and Invention

Rangerwickett gives us a very focused and polished story, which is always a bonus in Ceramic DM, but the overall effect still feels a little flat for me.  The story handles the external conflict of the storm and the demon well, but I couldn’t get a sense of the internal struggle that Jordan faces and overcomes.  Without that internal struggle in place, most of Jordan’s choice are being robbed of their importance and the climax seems like something of a false high because, realistically, once Jordan accepts that there is such a thing as demons and all he has to do is play violin to save his home, why wouldn’t he? It’s something of a non-choice, although it has the illusion of choice there. If I had had a greater sense that, say, he didn’t quite understand his relationship with his home city, or he had turned against his mother’s beliefs and refused to accept there was such a thing as a demon, then I think the choice to believe and play would have had a greater resonance and become a true climactic moment that would elevate the story and change our protagonist at a fundamental level. 

Judgment

Both of these stories are strong work, quite possibly the strongest we’ve had in the first round to my eyes, but I’m going to give this round to Ycore Rixle. While the Scooter Preacher’s Daughter wasn’t as polished as Rangerwickett’s tale, I felt more hooked into the characters Ycore presented us with and that his picture-use was a touch stronger. That said, I think Rangerwickett has a brilliant foundation for building a highly-effective story there, albeit one that needs a solid redraft without the looming time-crunch of ceramic DM to bring it to the fore. 

THE JUDGMENT OF HERREMANN THE WISE

This was one of those sets of pictures that went in several opposing directions – a real traditional Ceramic DM to be sure. It was going to be tough to tame them into a coherent story, but I think both of our competitors did a great job.

Ycore Rixle has spun a tale of a young geeky, loser-in-love, mother-dominated mycologist that while totally and utterly bizarre, really gelled for me (pardon the pun please). I think full marks for writing and style here with the slowly built tension well crafted – you had me for the whole four-and-a-half thousand word ride. I have to say that I liked the space and room you gave the story, allowing the tale to gently unfold. Strictly speaking, your picture use was only OK rather than great with both the magic candle and the spiralling foliage images being little more than visual waypoints. I think if you advance further, in this competition, I’d like to see a slightly more solid use of the images provided – although admittedly, these ones were pretty tough. Your use of additional resources may be frowned upon by some, but I thought this a nice touch that added to the overall experience. Congratulations on a story that will stick in my head for quite a while...fungus... who would have thought.

Rangerwickett has done a lot of things very well in his story but there is something nagging in the back of my head about it. Whilst the storm was raging (excellent description!), and guns were a-firing and a strange young woman was mysteriously appearing, I never felt that our hero Jordan was in any true life-threatening danger. I don’t know if it was the images that failed to inspire enough inherent tension or if whenever there was some element of conflict in the story it was resolved just a little too quickly/easily? I think this is a shame because the story was excellently conceived, brilliantly written (Rangerwickett has a real knack for placing words exactly where they should go) and the images were well covered. 

This has been a really tough match for me to split. Whilst Rangerwickett has ticks in so many boxes, I think I’ll go with Ycore for this match with a story that I enjoyed just a tad more. If possible, I would go for a draw and flag both competitors through.

MALDUR’S JUDGMENT

Secret mushroom experiments, what the heck? it is so silly, it became hilarious.

Floods, bayou, mysterious happenings. Although sometime a little too descriptive.

Judgement: Rangerwickett

FINAL JUDGMENT
Ycore Rixle has the most coffee beans at the end of the judging and scrapes through in perhaps the most hotly contested match of round one. Very well done to both competitors for crafting such fantastic stories.


----------



## BSF (May 22, 2008)

Rodrigo Istalindir said:
			
		

> Wait, Thorod's from New Mexico too?
> 
> Sending in one of the Cabal undercover....very sneaky.  But you shouldn't have blown his cover.




Absolutely!  I'd recruit more if I felt it necessary.    We have had a lot of NM folks over the years.


----------



## arwink (May 22, 2008)

FickleGM said:
			
		

> I'll also say that I have a hard time writing anything deep or meaningful (I like books and movies with thin plots, too).  It isn't my style and at times seeing other people's deep and/or meaningful stuff is quite intimidating.




Deep and meaningful is over-rated. All other things being equal, I'd happily read the story of a writer whose having fun with their work over anything else


----------



## BSF (May 22, 2008)

Herremann the Wise said:
			
		

> *Eeralai VS. Winner Match 1 - FickleGM/Dlsharrock*
> I'm also conscious of the fact that Eeralai may have some issues later in the month regarding time away. As such, if Dlsharrock and FickleGM (and Eeralai) can be on notice that Match 9 (Eeralai vs. Match 1 Winner) will be starting sooner rather than later (possibly within 24 hours of this very post), I'd appreciate it. If you guys could just add a post saying if that is OK, and that you are ready and waiting eagerly for your judgment.
> 
> Best Regards
> Herremann the Wise




We leave for Massachusetts in about 16 hours from the time of this post.  For the next couple of days, we will try to hit the site if we can find wi-fi internet access. 

Once we stop travelling, we should be able to find something out there.  One of us will post once we have some idea of connectivity and availability.


----------



## Herremann the Wise (May 22, 2008)

*Match Four / Berandor vs. Awayfarer*

ARWINK’S JUDGMENT

Awayfarer / Ernest Stibman as Penelope Dondelinger in The Other World

Awayfarer’s story doesn’t quite work for me, largely because the arc of the story feels a little too familiar. Fussy Hollywood stars/starlets searching for meaning; people visiting another world fantastic worlds and finding themselves unable to get home until the vast evil is done; awkward and unlikely heroes who succeed and get the girl; all of these are classic movie and fantasy archetypes, and while Awayfarer does a great job of segueing them together I couldn’t quite get a handle on what makes this story *different* to all the others.  Thematically it’s a little loose and unsure of where it’s going, or at least how to make the theme resonate.

That said, I do think the elements are there to give this story its own identity, but I don’t think they’re doing the job. The components of the story are acting independently, without relating to one-another, and thus they feel a little forced rather than building upon one-another to create a cohesive and unified whole. A prime example of this is the climactic scene, where Ernest mistakes the stilettos as the weapons for defeating the ogre. In a cross-dressing-star-turned-fantasy-hero-farce such as this the joke makes perfect sense, but as a reader it only seems like it’s happening because this is a cross-dressing-star-turned-fantasy-hero-farce rather than a natural mistake that Ernest should make due to his character. While some are going to be happy to take the joke as a joke, others (including me) are going to be alienated from the humor unless it’s been built-up through previous scenes and we can accept Ernest’s action within the context of his character and the theme of the story. 

A great way of doing this would be to continue playing the theme Ernest going for a “manly” solution (like his father would have) and failing; you set this up with the axe in the previous conflict with the ogres, where the brute-strength of wielding a weapon failed and it’s only Ernest’s improvisation that kills the beast.  This is Ernest’s chance to accept the Penelope Dondelinger aspect of his personality, to see the good it can do rather than the bad, to make a choice to become Penelope for the greater good, and the happenstance robs that choice of its impact.

Berandor / Make a Wish

A solid and light-hearted story that makes great use of the scene-breaks to keep the tension high. It moves fast, skipping from scene to scene, telling the story and letting us appreciate the humour of a fairy-based reality TV show without letting the joke get old. My real complaint largely revolves around Bill – he seems to be a superfluous filler character at present, but he occupies a great deal of the narrative and the growing frustration Manny directs towards him doesn’t actually lead us anywhere. 

Judgment

I’m going to give the round to Berandor, but props to Awayfarer for his story - I always take it as a good sign when I have to work hard to figure out why a story doesn’t resonate with me, and it took me a long while to process why I wasn’t getting into Ernest’s story as much as I’d expected to. Both of these stories were full of light-hearted fun, but I think Berandor’s gets away with it a little better due to its focus and quick cuts.

THE JUDGMENT OF HERREMANN THE WISE

The pictures for this match were a little jangled about. I really had trouble settling on these four, there were three other images that I kept on putting in and out before finally settling on what was actually presented. The first image of a... weird skinny person screamed ceramic DM to me but the rest were loosely selected. Awayfarer has given us a traditional adventure whilst Berandor has gone all reality TV in fantasy land... sort of.

Now the beginning of Awayfarer’s story started well for me and this carried it to about the half way point – where Ernest meets Tarentia. From this point however, the story flattens out before finishing with a little excitement albeit without the strange twist I was kind of expecting. I think with more time, you could have sharpened  this section up a little, getting rid of some of the fat and leaving us with just the meat. In many ways, pacing is a writer’s best friend in this competition because it can cover up some of the weaker points that these short stories sometime have. By slowing the pace of development, you make the reader struggle through and so the hurdles for the characters become likewise hurdles for the reader (rather than satisfying packets of drama). Still, there was a lot about this story that I enjoyed. The concept of the story was engaging and the setup of the adventure to come was well done. All in all, a fine effort that you should be proud of.

Berandor has taken the pictures and twisted them in a direction I did not expect – which was excellent. However, I could not help feeling a little let down as I thought there was more that could have been plumbed from the story’s great premise. Not wanting to compare this to a feature length film (but I will for the moment), “Groundhog Day” takes a bizarre premise and explores it from every possible angle in both amusing and profound ways. I thought you could have (or perhaps I was just left feeling that I hoped you could have) squeezed a little more juice out of your idea. You had a fantastic vehicle in the relationship between Manfred and Bill the cameraman that could have explored these concepts, but alas, this came up a little short. Again, given more time you might have done more I suppose, but what this amounted to was a little dissatisfaction on my part as a reader. Now while that was the negative part, I still cannot help but commend you on how well you framed the story. Whereas Awayfarer struggled with pacing, I think you nailed it showing that despite some weaker moments, the whole was delivered in a more focused, complete and satisfying way. 

And so I am left feeling that the two stories are pretty much equal at this point when I add everything up – neither story provided a knockout finish that would have normally split them. Image use from both was good without anything really standing out for me (except perhaps for Awayfarer’s Ernest/Penelope). I suppose I have to split the two on this and as such, my vote will go with Awayfarer for the slightly better picture use (but ever so slightly). A real tough one to judge. 


MALDUR’S JUDGMENT

Match 4 Berandor vs Awayfarer

Fairy quizshow, now here I thought I read it all...... nice work.

Oddly enough, another story with cameras from awayfarer, though I feel it need some more work.

Judgement: Berandor

FINAL JUDGMENT

Berandor advances with a 2-1 advantage. Congratulations to our competitors for haranguing these images into two good stories.


----------



## RangerWickett (May 22, 2008)

Congrats Ycore! And Judges, thanks for the critique (and compliments).


----------



## Herremann the Wise (May 22, 2008)

*Match Three / Starman vs. Madwabbit*

ARWINK’S JUDGMENT

Starman / Cycle

Starman gives us a solid story, but for me it suffers a little because there’s no real moment of surprise, nor is the conflict given a context at the beginning of the story. Our character’s don’t progress or change until that last scene, and the set-up sets off my spidey-sense that says “wait for the twist” as soon as we switch to Chrotis’s point-of-view, especially in light of the very on-the-nose title. Worse yet, it actually ends just as the story gets interesting – you’ve provided us with a context for the conflict between the two wizards, and a hook us with a character that wants something that she can’t have. As an ending this is a little weak for me, but as a beginning it would be marvelous – just look at all the dangling hooks you’re presenting me with that I need to keep reading to see resolve! I wish that this story had more time to let itself develop, because I think the world and the set-up have been done an injustice by its brevity, and I think it would be a much more powerful story if we got to see the beginning of the cycle and its progression.

Madwabbit / Untitled

It’s kind of unfortunate that you ran short on time with this, because I kinda dug the direction it was heading in. The voice holds, the use of sensory information to set the scene is good, and the arrival of the floating cities is a great core image. While the dialogue felt a little stilted to me – it reads like fantasy characters making epic statements to one another, rather than panicked people talking to one another in a crisis – there was a lot of promise here.

Judgment

Madwabbit’s story came in late, so this round is going to Starman regardless. I think it would have been a close round though, and I applaud both competitors. I thought these images were actually the toughest to work with out of the first round thanks to their strong default-fantasy-world feel, and both competitors did a nice job of bringing their own individual touches to the settings they created.

THE JUDGMENT OF HERREMANN THE WISE

By the unfortunate circumstances of madwabbit’s tardiness, my vote will go with Starman. 

The images for this match were interesting in that they were all fantasy themed. I wanted to see what a pair of competitor’s could do with stories that could exist completely within the realms of fantasy. While this may seem an easier task than usual for this competition, I actually believe in many ways it is more difficult. The genre can be so overloaded with tradition that to come up with something inspired that will hold the reader’s attention over a short word span can be very difficult. To differentiate your story from the hum-drum as well as your competitor's is a difficult task.

Madwabbit has done quite well in my opinion with the short amount that was offered. There was the beginning of a story that could have gone on to be a well crafted piece of writing. I can only assume that a lack of time crippled Madwabbit’s chances. There was the start of an epic feel to the writing and that kind of feel can only be transferred to the reader with a large degree of space (in this case words). As I mentioned before, and I suppose with twenty-twenty hindsight, to try and cut an epic in 72 hours is going to take an awful lot of that 72 hours to do. Anyway, I suppose a thank you is in order for submitting what you had, and a commendation that it looked like the story was going to go somewhere interesting.  Better luck for next time.

Starman has done a good job doing  justice to the images; quite an achievement when you consider this was done in fewer than two thousand words! By focusing upon the action, bombarding us with rich but un-explained terms and concepts and most of all keeping things tight, Starman has achieved a solid result. The twist at the end with Raida’s attitude to the two sorcerers was OK and felt right given the cyclical nature of the conflict between the two brothers. As an allegory, it could have been pointed in a variety of directions and perhaps this is something you could have pinned down to add further weight to the story. Perhaps the only major criticism I can give is the occasional expression that was overly worded or awkwardly presented. A good effort all the same!

MALDUR’S JUDGMENT

Starman: cycles, love, eternal damnation, I like it, especially the description of the magic, very well done.

Crazy wabbit, where is the rest?

Judgement: Starman, and not just because the wabbit was late.

FINAL JUDGMENT

Starman goes through but a special note of thanks to Madwabbit for not giving up completely.


----------



## Herremann the Wise (May 22, 2008)

And so that completes the judging for round one. Congratulations to all our wonderful competitors for a stellar effort as well as my fellow judges for judging an entire competition's worth of matches in this double-sized Smackdown. To those that did not make it through, commiserations and I hope to see the odd comment or two from you guys as the competition gets more frenetic. As for those who progressed through, I have some evil pictures planned so beware!

Round Two will look as follows (Check the starting post of this thread for up to date and complete information).

*Match 9 - Pictures Posted - Awaiting Stories*
Dlsharrock
Eeralai 

*Match 10 - Pictures to be posted - 9:00am Monday 26th May (Sydney Time)*
Starman
Berandor

*Match 11 - Pictures to be posted - 9:00am Tuesday 27th May (Sydney Time)*
Piratecat 
Ycore Rixle 

*Match 12 - Pictures to be posted - 9:00am Tuesday 27th May (Sydney Time)*
Rodrigo Istalindir
Mythago

Best Regards
Herremann the Wise


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## Starman (May 22, 2008)

Thanks to all three judges for the critiques, criticisms, and complements. I had a lot of fun with it. I had a lot of fun writing it and, like everyone else, was wishing I had more time with it. Just one more hour would have been great. 

The genesis of the story started coming together fairly quickly for me. I saved all four pics on my computer and cycled through them over and over just staring at them. I started asking why the two men in the third pic were fighting and then when I went to the next picture which was of a woman, I had it. At first she was going to be a fairy herself, manipulating both men. As I started writing, though, and looking at her picture, I decided to change it so that she was just another pawn in a game. I will probably revisit the story at some point and revise it. I like the framework of it, but it had virtually no editing.

Reading the other stories has been a bit intimidating. The competition is going to be fierce. I'm looking forward to it, though.


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## Starman (May 22, 2008)

Herremann the Wise said:
			
		

> *Match 10 - Awaiting Confirmation*
> *Starman
> Berandor*
> _Looking to post these pictures sometime between Saturday Morning and Tuesday Morning Sydney time. I will await confirmation of the competitor's wishes although the earlier the better at this stage._




Saturday evening would be best for me. Sunday afternoon would be my next choice.


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## Eeralai (May 22, 2008)

Okay, it looks like we are going to have internet access at our hotels all along the way.  So getting the pictures should be easy.  If Dlsharrock even wants to start now, that would be fine.  Post at will and I will be checking in at least once a day.  We are hitting the road in about 16 hours from this post and will be gone for over two weeks.  Who knows what I may find for inspiration outside of the pictures


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## arwink (May 22, 2008)

Congratulations to all the winners, and commiserations to all the folks who didn't go through. Ceramic DM is a tough competition, both in terms of the contestants that show up and the kind of pressure you put yourself under coming up with ideas and getting the story down. I have a huge amount of respect for anyone who undertakes the challenge and lets people see stories and story-drafts in their rawest forms.


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## Ycore Rixle (May 22, 2008)

Herremann the Wise said:
			
		

> *Match 11 - Awaiting Confirmation*
> Piratecat - confirmed time.
> *Ycore Rixle*
> _Looking to post these pictures 9:00am Tuesday 27th May (Sydney Time) and will do so if I can get confirmation from both competitor's before that time._
> ...




A Monday afternoon start time is ok (the earlier in the day, the better for me).

Congratulations to all the competitors. I have read every story and been thoroughly entertained. Great stuff. What a collection of writers!

Thank you to the judges for your comments. I will keep them in mind in the second round. As a first time competitor, I found a couple of things (notably the relative importance of the pictures in the judging) a bit murky at first, but I think I'm getting a handle on it.

I commented on Eeralai and Berandor's stories up above. But I have a few more comments on other stories.

Piratecat - I enjoyed reading "Why My Brother Quit Listening to Rock and Roll." The pacing is outstanding, and if I recall correctly, in your notes you said you worked hard on polishing that. The foreshadowing was also superb. I liked the build-up more than the ending, which was still good.  Overall, it definitely makes me want a sequel to see what the title's speaker does after he finds out.

FickleGM - The "Fall in lava" line is super. One of the most memorable lines in any of the stories. Well done. I liked that Bob instantly recognized the demon (he's not one of those dumb characters you root against). But I also thought his reaction was a bit too calm. In the end, I had fun reading the story. I will think of it when I am at Gen Con!

Starman - The first time I read this one, it didn't really draw me in. But I went back over it, and I was able to pick up on it. I like the Ouroboros theme, and I felt for the characters stuck in their cycle.

Rodrigo - I didn't find the main character sympathetic until the last line. Then it was like, "Oh yeah, ok, that's a good one." That was well done. Reminds me of Millay's sonnet "Love is not all: it is not meat nor drink." 

RangerWickett - I liked the consistent use of symbolism, and your theme of artifice (music) vs. nature (evil, the storm) resonated with me. The poem was excellent as both an example of language even more artificial than prose and as language that is most like music; it scored on one of your major themes. "The Saints Go Marching In," played by the cell phone (a perfect example of techonology married to music), was another pitch-perfect choice. I love literary writing. Your story reminded me of Robert Frost when he was asked by someone about whether or not he thought of such mundane things as meter and metonymy when he wrote his beautiful poems ("Think of 'em? I RELISH 'em!"). You clearly relish literature, and it was a feast for the reader as well.


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## Starman (May 22, 2008)

Ycore Rixle said:
			
		

> Starman - The first time I read this one, it didn't really draw me in. But I went back over it, and I was able to pick up on it. I like the Ouroboros theme, and I felt for the characters stuck in their cycle.




I think that since all the judgments are in, you can probably forgo the sblocks for round one, now.

Thanks for the feedback. Rereading it, I can definitely see where it could use some improvement especially since the last half was really written in the last hour before the deadline. Talk about pressure.


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## maxfieldjadenfox (May 22, 2008)

arwink said:
			
		

> Deep and meaningful is over-rated. All other things being equal, I'd happily read the story of a writer whose having fun with their work over anything else




If you can have fun _AND_ be deep and meaningful, so much the better...


----------



## Herremann the Wise (May 22, 2008)

Eeralai said:
			
		

> Okay, it looks like we are going to have internet access at our hotels all along the way.  So getting the pictures should be easy.  If Dlsharrock even wants to start now, that would be fine.  Post at will and I will be checking in at least once a day.  We are hitting the road in about 16 hours from this post and will be gone for over two weeks.  Who knows what I may find for inspiration outside of the pictures



That's excellent that you'll have internet access, I was a little concerned you might be left stranded. If you need any further assistance on the road with the competition, send me an email and I'll do my best to help.

Anyway, have a safe trip, enjoy yourselves and best of luck with all manner of inspiration, your match could be up very soon depending upon Dlsharrock.

Best Regards
Herremann the Wise


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## Herremann the Wise (May 22, 2008)

Ycore Rixle said:
			
		

> A Monday afternoon start time is ok (the earlier in the day, the better for me).



I'll be starting your match with PC at 9:00am Tuesday Sydney time which is about 5:00pm Monday afternoon/early evening your time - I think.


			
				Ycore Rixle said:
			
		

> Thank you to the judges for your comments. I will keep them in mind in the second round. As a first time competitor, I found a couple of things (notably the relative importance of the pictures in the judging) a bit murky at first, but I think I'm getting a handle on it.



I suppose all the judges have their own perspective on the pictures and there's an awful lot of precedent passed down from previous competitions. I've written before on this and will copy and paste it here:



			
				Herremann the Wise said:
			
		

> *Picture as a Picture*
> This is the classic no-no. For example, when you have a painting, and one of the characters steps into the room and "sees a painting of several fairies", then you have not really dealt with the topic of the picture. In short you've lost a whole stack of opportunities to take your story in some fantastic direction. Don't be nervous about taking a risk.
> 
> *Picture as a Waypoint*
> ...






			
				Ycore Rixle said:
			
		

> I commented on Eeralai and Berandor's stories up above. But I have a few more comments on other stories. I'll put them in an sblock because I'm still not sure of the protocol.



The sblock is so that the judges don't stumble upon something that could influence their decision on a particular match. It's a lot of fun as a judge to go back over these and see what others have said. Now that all first round matches have been decided, you can write and comment as you will.


			
				Ycore Rixle said:
			
		

> RangerWickett - I liked the consistent use of symbolism, and your theme of artifice (music) vs. nature (evil, the storm) resonated with me. The poem was excellent as both an example of language even more artificial than prose and as language that is most like music; it scored on one of your major themes. "The Saints Go Marching In," played by the cell phone (a perfect example of techonology married to music), was another pitch-perfect choice. I love literary writing. Your story reminded me of Robert Frost when he was asked by someone about whether or not he thought of such mundane things as meter and metonymy when he wrote his beautiful poems ("Think of 'em? I RELISH 'em!"). You clearly relish literature, and it was a feast for the reader as well.



Excellent commentary! As I said in my judgment, I wish I could have flagged both of you through. I suppose it shows the strength of the competition when an entry like RangerWickett's misses out.

Anyway, if you have any other questions regarding the competition post away and I'll do my best to help (as will others). And best of luck in your upcoming match versus Piratecat, he's a tough competitor but you're from the New Mexico cabal so I'm sure he's shaking in his Piratepussy boots as we type. A little sabre rattling and smacktalk over the weekend should have him at your mercy by the time the pictures are posted.   

Best Regards
Herremann the Wise


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## arwink (May 22, 2008)

I've got to ditto Herremann's notes on the picture use. For me the basic default test for effective image use in Ceramic DM is this: 

1) Would the story be changed if you removed the scene/character/etc the picture inspired from the narrative? _Commentary: I'm going to pick on Rangerwickett on this one, because the example is the freshest in my mind. Three of his four images are vital to his story, but I found his use of the flooded camp-grounds to be a little weak. This is probably the point where I differ from Herremann's notes above, because from one perspective that image is everywhere in Rangerwickett's story of a city slowly being flooded and drowned by the torrential rain. From another perspective, that image is basically a throw-away line at the end - a way-point more than anything else. _ 

2) Is the picture being used in a way that I wouldn't expect? _Commentary: I think 2 is one of the reasons that I see the fantasy-themed image round as tough, because those pictures scream fantasy and finding a way to tiwst them while staying true to the image is difficult. By contrast, people who get the stranger pictures are forced to find a way to fit them, and short of falling back on surrealism or dream-imagery there's no default or easy way to slide them in._

Every Judge tends to approach the task in their own way, though, and I'm probably more inclined to be forgiving of less-than-stellar picture use if the rest of the elements involved in your story are outstanding. Similarly, no matter how innovative your twist of the pictures, I'm not going to care if your story doesn't give me an engaging character whose problems I care about.


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## Berandor (May 22, 2008)

First of all, thanks to awayfarer for making this a nailbiter. Also, this may be the first time maldur gave a judgement to my story, so huzzah!



			
				Starman said:
			
		

> Saturday evening would be best for me. Sunday afternoon would be my next choice.



Is that American time?

Sunday afternoon Sidney time would be sunday morning German time... I guess that would be sort of alright with me (though Sunday afternoon American time would be better )

So either way, Sunday afternoon and I'll make do.


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## Dlsharrock (May 22, 2008)

Looks like everyone woke up when I went to bed! And I thought Enworld was slow yesterday.

Thankyou, esteemed judges. Commiserations Fickle, I think actually your story was stronger in terms of picture use. I think I kinda missed the point a bit in that quarter.

Yes H T Wise, I am available for Go whenever you want. I have no work this week and it's a long weekend. Moreover, my partner is going away for the weekend, which means I get to spend Saturday, Sunday and Monday with my brain. [(Hi!) Shut-up, you know nobody wants to hear from you, why do you always interrupt!]

Feedback has been very enlightening, thanks to everyone who gave me critique. 

I think I made one major faux pas in CDM terms and didn't give the pictures due consideration. In fact, I don't just think it, I know it, and hang my big stupid red faced head in shame for so doing. In my defence I am feeling around in the dark a bit, being both new to CDM and Enworld, but that's not really the best excuse as I could have researched better and checked the archives for last years/previous years competitions. I guess I didn't take it seriously enough and for that I won't mind if someone comes round my house, rips my arm off and beats me with the soggy end.

However, having run roughshod over the entire basic premise, and felt the bitter sting of a slapped wrist for my wayward way-point methods, I feel very lucky to have scraped through to round 2 so now intend to give the pictures the respect they deserve,  bless 'em. 

I think I get it now, is what I'm trying to say in 1000 words or less. Thanks arwink and HT Wise for the clarity also. I've saved those words of wisdom and will use them as sort of churchy gospel when I compose my next story


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## Herremann the Wise (May 22, 2008)

Dlsharrock said:
			
		

> Yes H T Wise, I am available for Go whenever you want. I have no work this week and it's a long weekend. Moreover, my partner is going away for the weekend, which means I get to spend Saturday, Sunday and Monday with my brain.



Done.

Images shall be up 9:00am Friday morning, Sydney time which is whatever time it is in the Old Dart and the East Coast of the U.S. via New Mexico.



			
				Dlsharrock said:
			
		

> Thanks arwink and HT Wise for the clarity also. I've saved those words of wisdom and will use them as sort of churchy gospel when I compose my next story



Like with all _rules_, take them with a grain of salt. If you have some bizarre sort of idea that you think is cool, go for it! I suppose what I'm saying, is that you are more than welcome to jump off a cliff... just do it with a parachute if possible. Congratulations on getting through and best of luck, you are up against a fierce and successful competitor in Eeralai. I look forward to seeing what you cook up.

Best Regards
Herremann the Wise


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## Dlsharrock (May 22, 2008)

Herreman The Wise said:
			
		

> Images shall be up 9:00am Friday morning, Sydney time which is whatever time it is in the Old Dart and the East Coast of the U.S. via New Mexico.




Or if you have them now, that's fine with me, if it's fine with Eeralai. Get things moving along and all that.


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## awayfarer (May 22, 2008)

Congrats to Berandor on the win. Now where's my copy of the home game and 12 month supply of Hamburger Helper?


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## Starman (May 22, 2008)

Berandor said:
			
		

> First of all, thanks to awayfarer for making this a nailbiter. Also, this may be the first time maldur gave a judgement to my story, so huzzah!
> 
> 
> Is that American time?
> ...




Yup, American. So, Sunday afternoon American then?


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## Ycore Rixle (May 22, 2008)

Herremann the Wise said:
			
		

> And best of luck in your upcoming match versus Piratecat, he's a tough competitor but you're from the New Mexico cabal so I'm sure he's shaking in his Piratepussy boots as we type. A little sabre rattling and smacktalk over the weekend should have him at your mercy by the time the pictures are posted.




Actually I'm from Buffalo, but that being the home of the NHL's Sabres, sabre-rattling shouldn't be too much of a problem. And yes, I'm fully aware of Piratecat's prowess! After RangerWickett in Round 1 and PirateCat in Round 2, at this rate, if I make it to Round 3 I'll be going against a resurrected Charles Dickens! But I'm just having fun. I've seen these contests over the years and enjoyed the stories (and the smack-talk), but not having entered, I was never really up on the exact rules etc. I'm glad I entered this time. Totally worth it.


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## Starman (May 22, 2008)

Ycore Rixle said:
			
		

> But I'm just having fun. I've seen these contests over the years and enjoyed the stories (and the smack-talk), but not having entered, I was never really up on the exact rules etc. I'm glad I entered this time. Totally worth it.




I feel the same way. I mean I am going to feel bad when a complete rookie wipes the floor with everyone, but, you know, sometimes the old guard needs to be swept away to make way for the new.


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## BSF (May 22, 2008)

Starman said:
			
		

> I feel the same way. I mean I am going to feel bad when a complete rookie wipes the floor with everyone, but, you know, sometimes the old guard needs to be swept away to make way for the new.




Abso-frickin-lutely!

That is one of the great things about these writing contests.  It is possible for a "rookie" to win.  The folks that have competed several times have a lot of practice, and practice definitely helps!  But a strong competitor can come out of anywhere.


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## RangerWickett (May 22, 2008)

Ycore Rixle said:
			
		

> Actually I'm from Buffalo, but that being the home of the NHL's Sabres, sabre-rattling shouldn't be too much of a problem. And yes, I'm fully aware of Piratecat's prowess! After RangerWickett in Round 1 and PirateCat in Round 2, at this rate, if I make it to Round 3 I'll be going against a resurrected Charles Dickens! But I'm just having fun. I've seen these contests over the years and enjoyed the stories (and the smack-talk), but not having entered, I was never really up on the exact rules etc. I'm glad I entered this time. Totally worth it.




Dammit, stop complimenting me. You're doing the smack talk all wrong, and I haven't even had a chance to give _you_ any feedback. Stupid work week. (I will actually read and comment on these stories tonight. My fellow writers deserve the feedback.)


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## Berandor (May 22, 2008)

If you still need confirmation, sunday afternoon US time (whichever) would be fine with me.

And yes, in CDM, a rookie can win virtually enytime. Just not, you know, this time.


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## Starman (May 22, 2008)

Berandor said:
			
		

> And yes, in CDM, a rookie can win virtually enytime. Just not, you know, this time.




Well, it will be hard saying goodbye to Ycore Rixle as he has done an outstanding job, but we don't want the greenhorns getting too big a head on their shoulders just yet, not at least until they've got a few CDM seasons under their belts anyway.


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## Dlsharrock (May 22, 2008)

Herremann The Wise said:
			
		

> you are up against a fierce and successful competitor in Eeralai





			
				Herremann The Wise said:
			
		

> best of luck in your upcoming match versus Piratecat, he's a tough competitor




Thank Christmas the judges are impartial, that's all this rookie can say


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## Herremann the Wise (May 23, 2008)

*Round Two - Match Nine*
Dlsharrock vs. Eeralai

You have 72 hours from this post to submit your entries. Best of luck from the judges!


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## madwabbit (May 23, 2008)

Thanks to all the judges for the critiques and good words of encouragement -- as opposed to running far far away from the humiliation of not finishing my story, I'm now more encouraged than ever to follow this contest to its end, and hopefully try and prove myself in the next. 

I need to start early and keep the scope a bit smaller next time, I think.


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## RangerWickett (May 23, 2008)

Ycore, I originally figured, "Hey, he's new to the site. I'll have an easy time." Then I checked out your website. There's some nice stuff there.

I really dug that you included hyperlinks in your story. In the past people have written D&D adventures for Ceramic DM (I think that's where the name came from), so it's not like the stories should be limited to the same format that would be in a literary magazine.

The story was entertaining, but in a few places it felt like action was rushed, or description was glossed over. Apparently I read too quickly, and I missed that mama had a way to descend the stairs in her chair. I got this weird mental image of her tumbling down the stairs in order to crush a butterfly.

Still, I'm amazed anyone can pull together a coherent story in 3 days with the weird sorts of pictures the judges give us, and you did very well. I feel no regret being beaten by you. Good luck taking on Piratecat.


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## Piratecat (May 23, 2008)

Yeah, RW, he's quite good. 

Frank, I've been working out for our contest by lifting pictures of photos in 20-rep bursts. Well, writing about lifting photos. Well, thinking about writing about lifting photos. 

Well, drinking beer.

But that counts, right?

This will be really fun!


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## Dlsharrock (May 23, 2008)

Thankyou Herremann The Wise. I have eyeballed the pictures once again, spluttered coffee all over my keyboard and am now ready to come out of the corner where I have been sobbing and rocking for the last ten minutes 

*extends hand for sportsmanlike handshake with no intention of pulling it away at the last minute, holding thumb up to nose and waggling fingers with tongue sticking out* - Good luck Eeralai!


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## maxfieldjadenfox (May 23, 2008)

I'm hoping to finish reading all of round one this weekend so I can comment. It will be nice to read and enjoy without the pressure of judging! So far the stuff I've read has been excellent.


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## Eeralai (May 23, 2008)

Saw the pictures last night at a rest stop in Texas.  Good luck Dlsharrock.


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## Ycore Rixle (May 23, 2008)

Thanks for the kind words RW and PC!

Kevin, yeah, drinking beer definitely counts. Hm. Does that mean there's a secret Ceramic DM Drunken Master technique? I'll have to counter with an intense weekend of training at Dunkin Donuts and Fuddruckers. Hardened artery method, very powerful!


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## Dlsharrock (May 24, 2008)

I think that's the reason my last story wasn't my best work. I got some blood in my alcohol stream. 

Oh right, the story...


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## Dlsharrock (May 24, 2008)

Urm. What's the accepted word count for a 'long' short story here on CDM? I'm having editing problems.


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## Piratecat (May 24, 2008)

Dlsharrock said:
			
		

> Urm. What's the accepted word count for a 'long' short story here on CDM? I'm having editing problems.



"Don't bore the judges."

I usually use 4000 as my ballpark.


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## Dlsharrock (May 24, 2008)

*The Tale of the Passionate People Eater*

Caitlin danced, hiding fear behind a flash of pearly teeth and a twirl of copper hair. Tonight, the bad stuff stayed inside her head, along with the past. Outside was Cathy Curves, proud to be big! 

She writhed and made snake shapes with her hands. "Wooooo!" Bella tottered across the stage, a vision in glitter and leopard skin. The audience, all teeth and neon-luminescence, screamed their approval.

Out came Jemima, clad tonight in black leather. The spotlight swept to illuminate the new arrival and, but for the flame of her red hair, Caitlin all but vanished into the background. A scrum broke out and Jemima wobbled away, avoiding the sudden out-thrust of hands. "Oi, give over!" she scowled, kicking away some of the more over-zealous punters. 

The crowd whooped. They crowed. They snarled. But they reserved the best for last. That one final ecstasy.

On she came, striding across the stage, parting the miasma of cigarette smoke with the sheer magnitude of her bulk. Donna was the most voluminous; the ultimate in blonde glamour and her fans adored her. Accordingly, they unleashed their ultimate ovation. Shot glasses rattled on their shelves, bulbs in spotlights quivered and punters standing clear of the throng stuck fingers in their ears.

Afterward, Caitlin felt like a used car, but the job prevailed and they were led outside by the local press for a photo opportunity. Donna and Jemima grappled for centre-stage, Jemima winning by a belly when the shutter finally clicked.

"Whose the new girl?" a seasoned slime-bag from the local rag, gestured toward Caitlin.
"This is Cathy Curves" Bella gave Caitlin a bear-crushing hug, "lovely in't she."
"If you say so," the photographer sneered.

Afterward, Caitlin recalled it as the single most humiliating part of the day. 

"How'd you find it then?" Bella asked later.
"Terrifying," Caitlin told the truth and the troupe dissolved with laughter.
"You ain't wrong. My first time I threw up all over the front row. You remember that Donna? All over the front row?"
Donna leaned forward then, excluding everything, focusing on Caitlin, "you just remember, there's nothin' wrong with bein' cuddly. Plenty of blokes like a curvy lady."

The night was young and growing younger, but not for Caitlin. She felt drained and wanted nothing more than home, normality, her shop, her flat and a comfortable chair. Besides, she had to remember her health. She didn't want to overdo it. So making her excuses, she left them guzzling tequilas on the terrace of Belushi's.

Walking along the bay road, gazing out toward surfers working the last breakers of the day, something caught her eye. A flint of reflected light in the sand between sea and promenade. Litter was commonplace on the beach in summer but for some reason Caitlin sensed this was something different. 

She picked her way down to the sand, the warm grains reassuring between her toes, reminding her of sunny days and her father building sand castles. A broad-shouldered surfer was already hovering near the spot when Caitlin arrived. She could see something lying in the sand at his feet. He hadn't even noticed. One step forward and he'd stub his toe. But he was looking right at her and she held his gaze in turn, willing him not to look down. 

"Did you see it?"
"See... it?" 
"Lightning for sure, or something" He was Australian, trademark dizzy and typically cute. Caitlin found herself replying with a dainty shrug. In her mind's eye she saw herself as he saw her. Girl-mountain, yards of flesh, bubble chin, dappled cheeks, moles and... 'Nothing wrong with being cuddly. Plenty of blokes like a curvy lady.' Not this one, Caitlin was willing to bet.
"I didn't see lightning," she stammered, gesturing vaguely toward a sky streaked with the crimson onset of dusk, "you'd need a storm for lightning."
"Yeah" the surfer chuckled, and "weird." then he was gone, padding back toward the surf.

Caitlin dropped to her knees before the object and the sandy crater it occupied, watched in a strange, disconnected fashion as her own plump hands reached out and touched it. It, the thing, looked like nothing she'd ever seen before, round like a ball and half buried. Covered in irregular cavities, like frilly mouths. The comparison prompted a quick withdrawal of her fingers and a sharp intake of breath. Was it some kind of sea creature?

Silly. She chided herself and reached out again. Traced the valleys and paths between cavities with her fingertips. It felt cold, and smooth, like polished stone, or glazed clay.

Whatever it was, she liked it and wanted it. A cursory glance revealed no wandering artist, searching for his lost creation, so she took it, excavating it with no great difficulty then hiding it in the folds of her dress. 

As she climbed the steps to the promenade she heard the surfer calling out, but ignored him. If he wanted it, he should have said before. Too late now. Much too late. The thing belonged to Caitlin.

...

Home was a flat situated above her father's old toy shop. These days the shop was a novelty store; a tourist haunt, which she ran with the help of her sister Jocelyn. Once the talk of Newquay, it was now little more than a building full of memories. If Caitlin concentrated, she could hear her father's laughter, see the sparkle in his eye as he watched a customer swoon over his latest creation. Wooden trains, sail boats, matchstick aeroplanes and tin soldiers. Charming. Simple. Beautiful.

The novelty store didn't compare. Jocelyn lacked her father's sense of fun and preferred cheap over substance, but she possessed a daunting business sense and for this reason the sisters agreed early on that Jocelyn should take over the management side of things. So while she sourced stock, kept the books and managed the bankroll, Caitlin manned the till. 

Not now though. Now was down-time and Caitlin's feet ached, her scar throbbed. She put the thing from the beach on a table and flopped on the couch. There she lay, gazing at the enigma and wondering. 

As ornaments went, it didn't quite fit with the decor, and she knew what Jocelyn would say when she saw it.

Later she found herself sitting in front of the telephone, struggling with inner demons. In one hand a note saying 'you did good, Donna was impressed - call us later, Bella' and in the other a pamphlet for a local weight loss club. The slogan on the front cover read 'Decide Today, New You Tomorrow!" Jocelyn's idea. A way to get back into shape. Back to the old Caitlin.

...

The child pranced and clapped his hands, all excitement, exuberance and shining eyes. 

The mother, a tiny woman, gave Caitlin an encouraging smile, so Caitlin picked up the widget, turned the key a few times and released it. Twin rotors buzzed into life and the thing rose jerkily into the air. The boy clapped and beamed. The mother chuckled.

"It's five ninety nine," Caitlin said, feeling stupid when she realised the mother couldn't understand a word. She counted off the price on her fingers. The mother nodded, but Caitlin could tell she had no intention of buying the toy. 

She was about to pluck the widget out of the air when she found herself face to face with the father. He looked angry, or disapproving. At first Caitlin thought his expression was aimed at the flying robot, but then she realised his eyes were on her.

Slowly, deliberately, his unflattering gaze travelled the length of her body and he sneered. Before bustling his family out of the store, the man glanced back and barked something in Japanese. 

Caitlin knew she should react, perhaps in the way Donna might, as a powerful, confident, curvy lady, proud of her girth. Happy with the flab. Instead, she just stood while ice filled her veins and heat flushed her cheeks.

"He said you're too fat, a disgrace to society," Jocelyn barged past, carrying a large box of novelty whoopee cushions. 
"Finally got that diploma in foreign languages you always wanted?" Caitlin gazed into the middle-distance, tone flat. She felt sick.
"Rise above it, that'd be my advice." Jocelyn plonked the box down on the floor. "Caitlin, this stripping business. Dad would be mortified!"
"It helps," somewhere at the back of Caitlin's mind a voice was niggling. "The money helps."
"Sleazy help. All those perverts looking at your..." a hand swept the air, encompassing all things Caitlin. It was a big gesture, "bits and bobs. I could understand it, maybe, before... I mean, you were always... but now?"
"There's nothing wrong with being cuddly!" Caitlin screamed.

Jocelyn staggered backward, tripped over the box and crashed to the floor. She lay there, legs akimbo, eyes wide with shock and gibbered, "Jesus Caitlin!"

--

She sat alone, cradling the ornament in her lap, stroking in an absent minded way. The phone lay nearby. Two pieces of paper.

She stared at the phone, and in her mind the receiver morphed, the visage of Mr Japanese. The angry buzz of the widget filled her ears. "A disgrace to society huh?"

_"What did one disgusting amorphous blob say to the other disgusting amorphous blob?"_

Caitlin's breath caught in her throat. She leapt to her feet, the ball tumbling from her lap, landing with a soft sound. It looked different, strange, organic. The cavities were moving; working like myriad mouths; like a grounded fish gulping down air. The ball rotated of its own volition, showing a previously hidden swelling. As she watched, two lids peeled open to reveal a pearlescent eye, slimed with a film of milky goo. A multitude of root-like tentacles were unfolding. Bile was rising in Caitlin's throat.

_"Come on, it's not a rhetorical question."_

Some kind of trick. A practical joke. "Jocelyn?" Her lungs were deflating, all energy drained. A dead battery, vulnerable and flat. 

_"Guess again."_

"What.. what is this?"

_"Don't you know a joke when you hear one?"_ The tentacles were combining to form a trunk, elevating the ball. Caitlin glanced toward the living room and, in her mind's eye, the front door. Escape.

"There's somebody at the door. I have to go let them in." It seemed like a reasonable thing to say. A decent lie for a tentacled phantasm. Forcing herself not to look at the thing, Caitlin strode into the living room, across what suddenly seemed like a vast expanse of floor. She reached for the door handle.

_"I can make you thin again."_

She stopped, hand in mid-turn. She could hear the tentacles squelching as they propelled the thing into the room behind her. 

"How?" She heard herself. Her voice, joining a waking nightmare in conversation.

_"Pick me up and I'll show you."_

Caitlin recalled the beach, the compunction to investigate, to hold the thing, to cherish it. She remembered the surfer, imagined his hands on the object in the sand, his triumph over her failure. "I don't want to pick you up," She span, pressing her back to the door, forcing herself to look. The eye rolled in its socket. "My God. You're..."

_"Disgusting? Yes, I know."_

"You said you could make me thin again?"

_"Pick me up and I'll show you."_

"I can't pick you up! The very thought makes me want to puke!"

_"I'm beautiful. I'm disgusting. Are you always so capricious?"_

"You've changed! How could I find you beautiful now?"

_"Have you truly learned nothing about beauty, Caitlin? It's in the eye of the Beholder. Now quit your whining and pick me up."_

She swallowed hard, her gut squirming as she moved away from the door, hands trembling, lips dry. 

_"There you go."_

She hunkered down, that single eye coming level with her face. She could feel its warmth, smell vile sulphurous breath emitting from fifty different mouths. Worst of all she could sense its quivering need. "What are you?" She whispered.

_"You'll see. Now pick me up!"_

Hands reached out, as they had done on the beach. Moving with a mind of their own, or something else's. Fingers touched and her throat spasmed. She held a ball of acid puke in her mouth then swallowed. The eye swivelled. The mouths worked. Her hands closed around its hideous bulk and she picked it up.

_"I'm surprisingly light for my size. You might say I'm just big boned. Now take me to your breast for long have I hungered."_

Caitlin concentrated on her breathing, on staying conscious. The room behind the thing was spinning now, but that was all background. 

Just background.

--

"There's something different about you" Jocelyn said the next day, and the day after that. And indeed there was. Caitlin had made her decision. Her step carried a lightness and a confidence previously smothered by the heft of her body and the weight of her guilt. The pounds were falling off, in both respects.

"I've quit the Busty Bubbles," she announced.
"I'm glad," Jocelyn embraced her, stood back and admired. "You joined the class I take it- the pamphlet I gave you? It'll be hard work, Cait, but you stick with it. There are no quick fixes." 
"No pain no gain huh. Sorry Joss. This is all my own work. I didn't call the class."
"Really?" Jocelyn blinked away surprise, "sorry. That's great. Really. You look great."
Caitlin looked nonplussed. Insults veiled in compliments. "I love you too Joss."
Jocelyn paused in her work, but only briefly. Caitlin could hear the smile in her voice, "while we're on the subject of aesthetics, maybe you could tell me what that thing is in the flat?"
Something fluttered through Caitlin's stomach and latched itself around her spine. She pictured the moment. Pulsating, slime drooling, tentacles dangling and Jocelyn staring. "You saw it?"
"Could hardly miss it sitting right there on the table. What is it, glazed clay? You've been to St Ives again. You know those artists are all pot-heads. You give them money and they just smoke it away."
"It's mine."
"Maybe, but it's horrible. I brought it down. You can have it on display down here if you must, but I'm not living with it." She pointed toward the store room.
"Jocelyn, you... shouldn't have brought that thing down here."
"Ha. Had it just where you wanted it did you? God Caitlin. You might be getting thinner but your taste in crap hasn't improved any."

--

Days passed. The weight continued to fall from Caitlin while the thing distended in turn. It approved of its new home on the counter. People stroked it, admired it, commented. They only ever saw the polished Cornish sculpture. Caitlin only ever saw the bloated, pulsing blob.

Some weeks after Jocelyn's discovery, after hours, in the dark, Caitlin asked, "why can't others see you the way I see you?"

_"You've heard of 'I think therefore I am?'"_

"Sure."

_"Others are of the opinion that I am a piece of Cornish sculpture, and objectivity is a powerful thing."_

"Am I going mad?"

_"Many things seem senseless. You must form your own opinion in order to make wisdom of flawed objectivity. Now be silent child, and let me make you thinner."_

--

The day of blood marked a down-turn in Caitlin's personal timeline. The slime-bag from the local paper came to the store. He recognised her immediately and she recognised him. "Well, well, well. If it isn't Cathy Curves. What 'appened to you gal? D'you get cancer or sommat? Ain't seen you on stage since that one time."

The thing was larger than ever, tentacles thick as branches, covered in a forest of vicious barbs. The eye was sharper, faster to latch onto movement in the shop. Its mouths were filled with row upon row of sharp pointed teeth. 

The tentacles lashed out first, peeling back a neat triangle of skin on the man's temple, revealing bone and sinew. Then the mouths worked their magic. Tearing, sucking...

"No!" Caitlin could only stand and watch. Iced veins again. The flush of heat around her face. And bile. Always bile.

It went on, and the scream was inhuman, endless, less a cry of fear, more a venting of life. When it died, the silence was abrupt. The slime-bag was gone. Most of him was gone.

Jocelyn was away, thank God. Caitlin had the rest of the day to close shop and mop up. She couldn't clean slime-bag out of everything, and some of the toys had small working parts, easily clogged - so she invented a story, took money from the register and threw away the damaged stock. There'd been a hold up. The thieves had taken cash and a bunch of toys. Probably kids. They hid their faces.

"Wish they'd taken that bloody horrible clay thing too," Jocelyn would say later, giving the thing an unfriendly prod.

--

The police came, as Caitlin knew they would, searched the shop, questioned her, and Jocelyn at length. The man in charge - DI Burnside was his name - commented slyly on Caitlin's demeanour, asked after her health, insinuating drug abuse perhaps. The thing remained in place on the shop counter, bloated and wheezing vile vapours into the store, wreathing the policemen in grey mist. 

It was Jocelyn who mentioned the operation. Told of her concerns for Caitlin's weight loss, her 'erratic behaviour'. She even brought up the Busty Bubbles. Burnside seemed interested.

"Erratic behaviour?"

The store was closed, Caitlin and Jocelyn confined to the flat while police scoured every inch of the ground floor. Alone, with her sister, watched closely by a female officer, Caitlin fidgeted while Jocelyn stared into the distance, "Dad's probably turning in his grave."

Caitlin couldn't speak. The pith of her soul writhed, aching to crawl out of the hole it was in. Her thoughts were for her father too. His beautiful shop, a scene of carnage. She found her voice, small and terrified. "They always said he created beautiful things".

Jocelyn patted Caitlin's hand. "They were right."

The front door opened and DI Burnside stepped into the room. A pall of grey smoke and the smell of cordite followed, preceding three men dressed in body armour and helmets. They were heavily armed with machine guns and moved as those trained to behave like living weapons are wont to move. "I'll take over from here Judy," Burnside informed the female officer. 

A pregnant exchange of silence passed between them, while the police woman seemed to calculate her response. Finally she gave a curt nod, "you sure sir?" 

"Sure."

She left, pushing past the three men who were now examining every part of the room, left right and centre.

"What the hell is this?" Jocelyn sounded ferocious, but Caitlin recognised the tremor in her voice. 

"We've found something," Burnside sounded like he was recounting a tale so absurd even he knew it made him sound like an idiot. He sat down heavily and lit a cigarette.

"You can't smoke in..." Jocelyn began, but thought better of it when she saw the look on his face.

"Who are these men?" Caitlin frowned.

Burnside seemed to freeze. Slowly, he inhaled on the cigarette, eyes closing. "We know two things, Caitlin. Firstly, we know about Ray Meer. Local journalist. He was seen coming in here. Nobody saw him leave. We spoke with your friends, the...uuh" he studied some scrawl in a notebook, "Busty Bubbles? They confirmed Ray said a few nasty things to you, last time you met."

To Caitlin's astonishment, one of the heavily armed men took a step forward. _"I'm Agent Body, Anthony Body"_ he had a gentle voice. His eyes seemed to shine in the cordite mist. _"Ministry of Defence. We're here for the thing."_

"You know about that?" Caitlin shivered.

Jocelyn gaped at her sister. "You know what he's talking about? Who the hell is Ray Meer, Caitlin?"

_"We've been tracking its movements,"_ Agent Body replied, as if this explained everything. _"We're here to help."_

"The other thing we know," Burnside went on, ignoring Body, "is that you had an operation...uuh," again the notepad, "seven months ago. Removal of a lump," he tapped his own head, meaning Caitlin's. "A tumour, no?"

Jocelyn put an arm around Caitlin. Her voice was borderline hysterical, "I told her to take it easy. She wouldn't listen. She never listens!" 

Burnside stubbed out the cigarette. "Caitlin, is there anything you want to tell me?"

"I killed him didn't I? The man from the paper. Ray Meer? It was me." Caitlin was looking at Agent Body. 

Jocelyn dissolved, melting and broken. Burnside grabbed her before she could slip from her chair. 

The room was spinning. Caitlin grasped the table, a link to reality. "And the thing? What is it?"

_"We're not sure,"_ Agent Body remained calm, impassive. He shook his head, shouldered his weapon and sat in the only remaining free chair. In the background Jocelyn, Burnside and the flat were blurring into a sudden frenzy of sickening motion. The other two armed men seemed to levitate in the midst of the kaleidoscope. _"A metaphor probably. Certainly representative of something. A lump, we think."_

"Another tumour?"

_"Yes, Caitlin. Another tumour."_

--

Bright lights. White and stark. An empty mist and an endless voice calling her. Always calling her.

Time had passed, and time, they say, is a healer. But the talents of time were limited in this respect and in the meantime, Caitlin slept.

"Burnside calls it mitigating circumstances. You weren't yourself. The lawyers think this will be taken into consideration." Jocelyn, eyes rimmed red, face pale as ash, was sitting next to Caitlin's hospital bed. "Ray Meer, it turns out, had his fingers in all kinds of pies. Drugs, prostitution. A real nasty piece of work. In some ways," she laughed, but the laugh was dry and humourless, "you did society a favour."

Caitlin's eyes were closed. Her face bruised and pinched by bandaging.

"So there's really plenty to come back for sis." Jocelyn's voice caught in her throat, snagged on pain. "Me. For one."

She talked some more. Read a little. Dozed and finally awoke as the nurses were calling an end to visiting hours for that day. She kissed Caitlin and touched her gently on the hand, just as she had many times before. Just as she would again.

When she was gone and the room plunged into darkness, Caitlin slept alone. 

Alone but for the glazed-clay sculpture decorating a table on the far side of the room. 

A surprise... for when she woke up.


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## Dlsharrock (May 24, 2008)

[SBLOCK=Notes on my story]Man, the time limit on this thing kills! (I should probably point out that I'm tied up the rest of this week, I'm not a serial early-submitter or anything) But I'm pretty happy with it and currently enjoying that creative buzz Piratecat mentioned  It's a tale with a twist, this time, and too damn long for my liking. But I wanted to explore the relationship between Jocelyn and Caitlin too much to edit them completely. Some of the metaphors relied on their interplay too, as did the running theme of body image. In this respect I've mixed up some of the suggestions given about using the pictures, using them where possible in all ways: most notably the four overweight ladies as a theme, a literal photograph, a way-point _and _an integral part of the story. I hope everyone enjoys it - sorry for the wordcount[/SBLOCK]


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## Eeralai (May 25, 2008)

*The Skinny*

“I think I'll go back home,” said Cate.  “I'm not really into the party scene these days.”  She looked down at her flesh rolling over itself and spilling out of her lime green bikini like bread dough that's risen over the bowl and flopped down the sides of it.

“What're you talkin' about, girl?” asked her friend Rene whose flesh was as flabby and free in her black leather bikini as Cate's flesh.  “You're gonna make a splash!”

“Literally,” giggled Susan.  “I've got a long ways to go before I can match your girth, Cate.”  Susan had a round stomach that popped out over the string of her bikini, but compared to the rest of her friends, she was a waif.  “You have to stay and make your magic.”

“Don't copy me,” said Cate. “Turn back before it's too late.”

“Turn back and what,” said Rene.  “Be a skinny?  That's no life.  They don't know how to feel.”

“Well,” said Cate.  “I'm tired of feeling.  I'm tired of feeling tired, of feeling out of breath, and of feeling like I can't even get out of bed.”

“Shoot,” said Wanda, another friend of immense immensity. “I just kinda roll off and hope my feet hit the floor first.  Another 50 pounds and I think I'll need one of those gliding things like that character from the twentieth century had.  What's his name?  Pizza the Hut?”

“Jabba the Hut,” said Cate rolling her eyes.  “And he was rich.  You couldn't afford something like that.”

“Don't need to,” said Wanda.  “Health Free would cover the expense.” 

“Aren't you guys worried about the Naturalist Militia?  They're getting bolder and bolder.” Cate knew her reasons were weakening like paper in water, but her lethargy felt as thick as her fat.  And the news of the militia was increasing in intensity.  They were against all forms of cyberazation, insisting that God had never intended for humans to expand their abilities and life through computers.

“They only hit labs.  We're just here for a fatty party.  I think we're safe,” said Wanda. 

“Whose throwing this party anyway?” asked Cate.  “There aren't many rich fatties I haven't heard of, but this mansion is posh.”

“All I know is the food is awesome,” said Susan who had already downed a dozen shrimp cocktails.

“We don't even know who it is?” said Cate.  “His plugs might not even be clean.”

“Would you relax,” said Rene.  “It's a professor.”

“A skinny?” asked Cate.

“Yeah, he's doing some sort of research to make site parties more realistic.  It's all on the up and up so quit worrying.” said Rene.  

“Well, you guys have fun without me, anyway.” said Cate.  She stood up and started to go.

“Oh no you don't,” said Rene.  “You're the Queen.  You always make sites better automatically.  We need to get out there now because everyone's gonna be on line already and miss our entrance.”  She tugged on Cate's hand. And Cate turned to follow her with her rubber thongs scraping against the dressing room floor.  They thundered outside, and the sun shone down on them like a spotlight on stage.  Rene took it as a personal queue, stretched out her arms and shouted, “The queen bees have arrived.”  Cate couldn't help but laugh.  She put her arms around her friends and they did their best fatty pose. (pic34301) 

Out around the pool area, a few fatties looked over in their direction, but most were already plugged in and zoned out.  One man looked up, whistled and winked.  Another man motioned for a waiter to send over a round of drinks to the new comers.

“See,” said Rene still grinning at the crowd.  “Why would you want to shed the weight and lose the awe?  It's like deleting how many hours you've logged in.”

“I don't know,” said Cate.  She started plodding over to the nearest shaded chairs.  “Feeling on line just isn't the same anymore.  I mean, when's the last time you had real sex?”

“Ewww,” said Wanda.  “Who wants to have that?  It's messy and embarrassing.”

“Yeah,” said Susan.  “And you could catch, like, a real virus that way.”

“Come on,” said Rene.  “Plug in and shut up.  I want to get some cyber sex with that guy who sent over drinks.”  The drinks were the latest fad shakes that Cate had sampled several times on line.  It was rich with chocolate ice cream, irish cream, whipped cream, and caramel.  Rene sucked hers up without taking a breath.  “Ahh, that's actually better in real life.  I'm already buzzed.”  She motioned for another one to be brought over as she stuck a poolside internet jack into her ear.  She leaned back in her chair and her eyes glazed over.  The rest of Cate's friends quickly followed Rene, and Cate was left staring out at the pool.  

She sighed, plugged herself in but kept staring consciously at the pool.  On site, the pool area looked exactly the same as in real life.  Many colorful table umbrellas, palm trees blowing in the wind, and flowers bursting in red, yellow and orange.  The only difference was the people.  Everybody  had svelte, chick avatars that looked nothing like themselves.  Her own avatar was thin with big breasts like cartoon characters, except with programming to make it look and feel like a real person.  She had many upgrades that made her popular online.  The hours she spent improving her avatar and home site showed in her real life obesity.  Hours on line meant hours of taste jolts in her head from food advertisers making her constantly desire eating and drinking.  The culture had been embraced by most of the population.  But there was a time she had been a skinny.  A time when she had walked a thin line of self confidence

Her avatar self stood up and swayed its hips over to the diving board.  The site was good, but it didn't sparkle.  She fed some code in, climbed up the ladder to the diving board and jumped off.  As she hit the water, it sprayed out in multicolors and wrapped around all the avatars to form tattoos.  Some got pink or purple butterflies flittering across their skin, some got flowers opening and closing and some got rainbow snakes slinking around.  The crowd did a collective ahh and broke into applause.  Cate got out and started talking to half a dozen charming men who made their way over to her.

Out at the real pool, she kept watching the house and the patio.  She wondered what would happen if she went swimming in the real pool.  She had heard that at skinny swim parties, they really did get in the pool and splash about.  Of course, she couldn't make tattoos for everyone out of the water in real life, but the feelings in real life would be more intense, more substantial.  On line, feelings were fast , so everyone kept wanting more and more to make up for the quickness.  She scanned the patio again and took in a sharp breath.  The skinny who had snapped her twig of courage was standing across the pool from her.

“He's the professor who's throwing this party?” she whispered.  She quickly looked away, hoping that he hadn't seen her or wouldn't recognize her if he had.  It had been ten years, but he still looked the same.  Same short haircut parted to the side.  Same teardrop glasses.  Same superior expression.  She had been a stellar student studying robotics programming and he had been her professor her third year.  He had made a mistake that she then made the mistake of pointing out.  The rest of the year, she could not please him and came out of the class with a D despite working harder in it than in all her other classes put together.  Shattered, she had turned her back on college.

Unfortunately, it appeared that Professor Ishikawa had seen her.  He walked briskly over to her, stuck his face in hers as if he were examining a frog he was about to dissect and said, “Cate?”

“Uh, yes,” said Cate.  On line, she waved to the suitors she had been chatting with and unplugged.

“You're a user?”  said Ishikawa.  The word user dripped with disgust.  Cate felt as if he had slapped her.  Fatty and skinny were thrown around all the time, but calling someone a user was like saying they were a bottom feeder in a pond.

“So good to see you, Professor Ishikawa.  I didn't think skinnies liked coming to fatty pool parties, much less hosting them.”

“Oh, we hate it.”  He stood up straight and suddenly smiled.  “You would be perfect.”

“Perfect for what?  The last time I talked to you, you said I was a perfect loser.”

“Yes, that sounds about right, but I have a great opportunity for you.  At least, I think it would be great.  I hosted this party to find someone like you.  Come inside and I will show you something that I think you want.”

“Look, I can just plug in to get that.”

“No, no, no.  Don't users ever think of anything else?  Come on.  Follow me.”

Cate sighed and stood up.  She knew she should tell him no and just leave, but she always needed to please people, especially ones who had given her a D.  She thought she was getting one more chance to show the worth of her brain.

He disappeared through the back door as she hefted her weight out of the chair.  Her friends would be on line for hours.  They might wonder why she had disappeared on the pool site, but would probably assume she had gone off to a more private area with one of the fatties here.  

Inside, the house was decorated with antique tapestries and furnished with real wood furniture.  Ishikawa sat in a chair with a miniature helicopter robot spinning in front of his face.  (pic 34304) It had two levels of propellers, a wired area with four legs and a ball glowing beneath the wires.  Cate wasn't impressed as it was something most first year robotic students built.  “So what would you like to show me?”  She asked.

Ishikawa lifted one of the wires dangling from the helicopter and plugged it into his ear.  Suddenly he slumped like he was dead.  The helicopter started buzzing all around.  “I've done it!  I've done it!” shouted Ishhikawa from inside the helicopter.

“Done what?” asked Cate.

“I've transferred my sentience into the helicopter.”  Suddenly Ishikawa sat up with his eyes open.

Cate rolled her eyes.  “Do you really expect me to believe that?  It was some good acting and ventriloquism, but please.  Don't insult me.”

“I always insult you. But this time I am not.  My sentience was in the helicopter.  I could only stay there a few seconds though, otherwise my body would die.  Look at this.”

Her skepticism slowly turned.  It seemed unlikely he was playing a joke.  He was never the type to waste time with laughter.  He was busy unwrapping the the ball that had been attached to the helicopter.  Inside was a small brown marble looking sphere except for the pinprick craters.

“What is that?” Cate asked.

“The sentience housing.  The brain if you will.”

“It's small.”

“For something like the helicopter, you don't need much space.  There are few joints to control, and I have limited emotional use.”

“So normal for you,” Cate thought to herself, wishing she had the courage to say it.  Carefully, Ishikawa wrapped up the tiny brain and plugged it into the helicopter.

“Come,” he said.  “I have more to show you.”  They walked into the back rooms of the house.  While the front had comfortable and expensive furnishings, the back became sparse with hospital white walls and more lab equipment than furnishings.  They finally came to a room where a female service robot dressed in a purple bikini was laying on a table with the top of her head off.  The skin had small hairs on it and slight imperfections to make it look like the most realistic skinned robot she had ever seen.  She looked supple instead of stiff, and her thin body looked like it could get out of bed easily and immediately do a back handspring.  Cate saw that the face had a quiet beauty even with the top of it open.  

“Did you make this” she whispered.  

“Just the sentient containment.”  Ishikawa had been putting latex gloves on while Cate had been staring at the robot.  On a table next to the robot, she saw the marble like sphere she had seen in the helicopter, only this one was the size of a human brain.  (pic34302)  He lifted the glass cover off and gently picked up the synthetic brain.  It seemed to pulse gently in his hands as he carried it to the robot.  He deftly placed it in the robots head, connecting wires here and there and closed the top.  “The rest,” he finally continued, “was made by independent scientists like me working under contract of Clear Host.  You may have heard of us.”

“Your office in New York was just bombed last week by the Naturalist Militia,” said Cate.

“At least you view some of the infotainment sites,” said Ishikawa.  Then in a quieter voice he said, “You want to be her, don't you.  You look at her as if she were your lover, but that's not it.  You want her body for your own.”  Cate frowned but didn't say anything.  “You are too smart to be a user.  You were the brightest student I ever had.  You should be a creator.”

“If I was the brightest student you ever had,” Cate bit out.  “Why did you give me a D.”

“Let's not dwell on the why.  Instead let me make a peace offering.  You send your sentience into her and I'll give you her body.  But you have to remain here as my assistant.”

“I'll be the first one won't I?  You want me to stay here so you can see what goes wrong.”

“Why should anything go wrong?  It's wonderful when I am flying around in the helicopter.”

“Only you don't really know how long you can stay that way because you have to swap back to your body right away.”

“But once you are over, there should be no reason why you can't stay.  You don't even like your body.  Think of how free you'll be.  And she is fully capable.  Fully feels, capable of many physical activities you can only experience on the net.”  Suddenly, an alarm blasted in the room.  Ishikawa swore when he looked into a monitor that was in the corner of the room.

“What is this?” shouted Cate.

“The militia has found me.  The New York lab was hacked shortly before it was bombed.  We didn't think they had gotten any pertinent information, but apparently we were wrong.  Quick.  Do the swap now.  Her body is fast and strong and can be out of here soon.  I'll swap into the helicopter and we can dissapear.”  

Cate heard gunfire out by the pool.  Her heart seemed to stop in shock.  Prior to now the Militants had left users alone.  “My friends,” she gasped.

“You can only save yourself now.  Quick.  Plug into her and I'll do the rest.”

Cate quickly pulled the cord out of the robot's ear and put it in her own.  Ishikawa pressed the robot's nose and Cate felt a jolt of electricity through her body.  She heard a thud and crack and opened her eyes.

“It worked,” breathed Ishikawa. 

Cate turned her head slightly and saw her blubbery body prone on the floor.  Gunfire was still blasting outside.  She scanned her new mind and found it loaded not only with her familiar memories, but also with programs for her new body.  Ishikawa's body smacked down on the floor as the helicopter zoomed toward the ceiling.  The door straight in front of her slammed open and in rushed three militia men.  Before she could do anything, one of them aimed and fired at the Ishikawa helicopter. (34303) A propeller sailed through the room and landed on the helmet of one of the others.  Cate sat up and took full control of her programming.  Within 10 seconds the three militia members all had broken necks.  Cate looked briefly outside to see if there were anymore, but quickly turned away when all she saw were the bloody masses.

Down on the ground she spied the remains of Ishikawa.  She unwrapped the brain casing and saw that it was still pulsating slightly.  “Hmm,” she said.  Good thing you loaded me with all of your lab notes.  I guess we'll have to go and find you a new body.  But for now, I'll just put you in here.”  She lifted the glass container where her own synthetic brain had been stored and placed the pea sized one in it.  Then she connected herself to his mainframe to download all his files concerning Clear Host and the Naturalist Militia.  Her war with the militia had begun.


----------



## Herremann the Wise (May 26, 2008)

Round Two - Match Ten
Starman vs. Berandor

You have 72 hours from this post to submit your entries. Best of luck from the judges!


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## BSF (May 26, 2008)

We are here in Massachusetts!  OK, we were in Massachusetts hours ago.  Eeralai posted her story from Worchester when we snarfed some wi-fi while looking for a place to grab dinner.  

I did my best to encourage the kids to give her time to finish it up.  In retrospect, I probably would have encouraged her to hold off until we got here before asking for pictures.  But in terms of keeping momentum for the contest, I think it was good to get everything up.  

Now that we are actually here, I can start spending time checking out the stories.  It will be late, but would folks appreciate more commentary?  If so, I will be happy to see what I can kick out for you all.


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## Herremann the Wise (May 26, 2008)

BSF said:
			
		

> We are here in Massachusetts!  OK, we were in Massachusetts hours ago.  Eeralai posted her story from Worchester when we snarfed some wi-fi while looking for a place to grab dinner.
> 
> I did my best to encourage the kids to give her time to finish it up.  In retrospect, I probably would have encouraged her to hold off until we got here before asking for pictures.  But in terms of keeping momentum for the contest, I think it was good to get everything up.



And thank you both very much for that. It was very nice of you to keep the momentum going. It's not going to effect the judging mind you... but certainly noted with appreciation. I'm glad you guys got there safely too.  



			
				BSF said:
			
		

> Now that we are actually here, I can start spending time checking out the stories.  It will be late, but would folks appreciate more commentary?  If so, I will be happy to see what I can kick out for you all.



I'd appreciate any extra commentary you can give - it's always fun reading other people's opinions when you have spent the time making a judgment. I think it was a particularly strong round too, so I'd be intrigued to read which stories were standouts for you.

In addition, after the judgement for Eeralai's story has been handed down, I'd be intrigued to know how you guys did this on the road. A little sideline commentary on how you saw it from a close bystander's viewpoint would be really cool. From seeing the pictures to posting the final result is a huge journey in itself.

Best Regards
Herremann the Wise


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## Starman (May 26, 2008)

Herremann the Wise said:
			
		

> Round Two - Match Ten
> Starman vs. Berandor




Well, this should prove to be quite interesting, a very eclectic selection of pictures, not that I would expect anything less. Good luck, Berandor!


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## Maldur (May 26, 2008)

Back after the weekend, still no internet at home, but judgement on the first story send.

So how is everyone doing?


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## Piratecat (May 26, 2008)

BSF said:
			
		

> We are here in Massachusetts!  OK, we were in Massachusetts hours ago.  Eeralai posted her story from Worchester when we snarfed some wi-fi while looking for a place to grab dinner.



You're in Massachusetts!?! Dude, how long are you guys in MA for? You're only an hour away from me.

Check your PMs for a cell number from me.  I'm SO going to kidnap you and make both of you write my next story...


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## Dlsharrock (May 26, 2008)

Not fair. I wanted lip clouds


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## Berandor (May 26, 2008)

Seen the pics. "Interesting." Good luck, Starman!

BSF: Commentary is always good.


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## Eeralai (May 26, 2008)

Dlsharrock,

[sblock] I bow to your superior word usage.  Good luck to you.  [/sblock]


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## Eeralai (May 26, 2008)

Maldur said:
			
		

> Back after the weekend, still no internet at home, but judgement on the first story send.
> 
> So how is everyone doing?




Glad to be at our final destination!  No more driving all day and night!


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## Dlsharrock (May 26, 2008)

[SBLOCK=Eeralai]Thankyou, thankyou *grins, bows* and I'd just like to say a big, heartfelt thankyou to my thesaurus for helping me through the rough times. Seriously though, I bow in turn to your amazing ability to write a story on the road! The only other person I know who can do that is a journalist. Well, actually he's a cartoonist, but he calls himself a journalist. Funny too that we both called our protagonist a variant on the same name. May the best wordsmith win![/SBLOCK]


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## Berandor (May 26, 2008)

I've got two ideas. Do I go with the safe one, or the strange one? Hmm... Either way, Starman: It's on!


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## Starman (May 26, 2008)

Berandor said:
			
		

> I've got two ideas. Do I go with the safe one, or the strange one? Hmm... Either way, Starman: It's on!




Well, I'm not sure it really matters because I've got _one_ idea and it's the bestest idea EVAR!!1! 

Or not, but it is going to be very interesting, nonetheless.


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## Berandor (May 26, 2008)

Pfft. 2 > 1, always. Have you never been to a Math class? Plus, my idea involves the four pictures in a non-random fashion. A-ha!


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## Starman (May 26, 2008)

Berandor said:
			
		

> Pfft. 2 > 1, always. Have you never been to a Math class?




Except that splitting your attention between two ideas is going to weaken each. If we assign a value of 1/3 (giving you the benefit of the doubt) to each of your stories, we end up with a final value of 2*(1/3) = 2/3, definitely less than the 1*1 = 1 final value of my effort. 



			
				Berandor said:
			
		

> Plus, my idea involves the four pictures in a non-random fashion. A-ha!




Heisenberg called. He would like a word with you, something about the uncertain quality of your writing.


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## Herremann the Wise (May 27, 2008)

*Round Two - Match Eleven*
Piratecat vs. Ycore Rixle

You have 72 hours from this post to submit your entries. Best of luck from the judges!


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## Herremann the Wise (May 27, 2008)

*Round Two - Match Twelve*
Rodrigo Istalindir vs. Mythago

You have 72 hours from this post to submit your entries. Best of luck from the judges!


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## Piratecat (May 27, 2008)

I hear and obey. Thanks!


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## Ycore Rixle (May 27, 2008)

I've seen 'em. Off to work!


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## Piratecat (May 27, 2008)

Exactly. I've got my concept, my title, and how the pictures fit in. Tomorrow, the writing!

Really, the BEST smack talk gives the impression of uber-confidence and competence, even when the freakin' judges *gave us three pictures without any people in them whatsoever.* Ahem. And Frank, please don't read this footnote and discover my secret smack-talkin' strategy. It's for the best, really. You'll have more fun if you don't know it.


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## Herremann the Wise (May 27, 2008)

Piratecat said:
			
		

> ...even when the freakin' judges *gave us three pictures without any people in them whatsoever.*[/size]



Hehehe...
It was going to be worse. You were going to have none and have the below image instead.


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## Herremann the Wise (May 27, 2008)

Of course if I was feeling even more capricious, I could have thrown this one in...

But that would have been way too much perhaps...


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## maxfieldjadenfox (May 27, 2008)

Herremann the Wise said:
			
		

> Of course if I was feeling even more capricious, I could have thrown this one in...
> 
> But that would have been way too much perhaps...




You can't have the competition thinking Pirate Cat is kyoot as well as a false smack talker...


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## Berandor (May 27, 2008)

Starman said:
			
		

> Except that splitting your attention between two ideas is going to weaken each. If we assign a value of 1/3 (giving you the benefit of the doubt) to each of your stories, we end up with a final value of 2*(1/3) = 2/3, definitely less than the 1*1 = 1 final value of my effort.
> 
> 
> 
> Heisenberg called. He would like a word with you, something about the uncertain quality of your writing.



 You overlook that my ideas are quantumly entangled and thus, any attention spent on one is transferred to the other. So, going by the measly 1/3 you proposed, it adds up to 2*((1/3)*2) = 4/3, which is almost double your solitary 1.

Also, the quality of my writing can be ascertained well enough if you just disregard the quantitiy of it. It's just the combination which is impossible to judge. I *will* be good enough to win, even if I happen to write just one sentence. So there. Physics is on my side.

Edit: And just to prove it (and for tadk), I will write a poem. (Clarification: Not purely a poem, there will be story)


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## Berandor (May 27, 2008)

Short preview:

[sblock]"Starman?" The professor scoffed. "What kind of monicker is that? And what self-respecting superhero would go by a name like that? And you say he is..."
"A living tree that can possess people," I repeated.
"That's even worse. That's ridiculous."[/sblock]


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## Berandor (May 28, 2008)

My first draft is running a wee long (>5000 words). I hope I can edit that down, but I am more prone to add things than cutting them. So prepare yourselves...


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## Dlsharrock (May 28, 2008)

I found Piratecat's succinct 'don't bore the judges' to be useful. Though I wasn't sure if he was referring to my editing or just jotting down a quick reminder for himself.


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## Piratecat (May 28, 2008)

Dlsharrock said:
			
		

> I found Piratecat's succinct 'don't bore the judges' to be useful. Though I wasn't sure if he was referring to my editing or just jotting down a quick reminder for himself.



Actually, my rule when reading my story back to myself is "don't bore _me_."


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## Eeralai (May 28, 2008)

Dlsharrock said:
			
		

> [SBLOCK=Eeralai]Thankyou, thankyou *grins, bows* and I'd just like to say a big, heartfelt thankyou to my thesaurus for helping me through the rough times. Seriously though, I bow in turn to your amazing ability to write a story on the road! The only other person I know who can do that is a journalist. Well, actually he's a cartoonist, but he calls himself a journalist. Funny too that we both called our protagonist a variant on the same name. May the best wordsmith win![/SBLOCK]




Yes, that was strange.  I had a different name entirely picked out for the protagonist, but when I sat down to write it, I had forgotten it.  Maybe I picked up brain waves from you.  At least I didn't forget what the plot was


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## Starman (May 28, 2008)

Berandor said:
			
		

> You overlook that my ideas are quantumly entangled and thus, any attention spent on one is transferred to the other. So, going by the measly 1/3 you proposed, it adds up to 2*((1/3)*2) = 4/3, which is almost double your solitary 1.
> 
> Also, the quality of my writing can be ascertained well enough if you just disregard the quantitiy of it. It's just the combination which is impossible to judge. I *will* be good enough to win, even if I happen to write just one sentence. So there. Physics is on my side.




I think your equation is flawed. If you add the variables you are conveniently left out, it shows that your writing will open up a Schwarzschild wormhole which will suck in your story(ies). Thankfully, it should close before it has a chance to destroy any of the good stories (read: mine)



			
				Berandor said:
			
		

> My first draft is running a wee long (>5000 words). I hope I can edit that down, but I am more prone to add things than cutting them. So prepare yourselves...




I just finished my first draft and it is just under 2400 words. Short and sweet, if I do say so myself. I'd give you a preview, but I'd hate to make you cry when you realize how inadequate your own attempt was, at least until we've both turned in our final drafts that is. Then you can cry your heart out.


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## Berandor (May 28, 2008)

I will, but it will be tears of joy.


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## Starman (May 28, 2008)

Tears of joy as you see the glorious light that is my story.


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## Berandor (May 28, 2008)

Well, for what it's worth, mine will probably clock in around 5,600 words. I will explain in the spoiler after the story, but I will not apologize. If I must crush Starman with the physical weight of my post, then so be it.


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## Starman (May 28, 2008)

Don't apologize. You gotta do whatcha gotta do ta win, right? Perhaps my lighter story will be deft enough to dodge your story's massive girth, anyway. 

I've got my editor (thanks, Mom!) reading my most recent draft now. I should have it up within the next 2-3 hours.


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## Berandor (May 28, 2008)

I must say either way, I will miss these smack-talking posts.


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## Starman (May 28, 2008)

Me, too. It's been fun, Berandor. Best of luck to you.


----------



## Starman (May 28, 2008)

Round Two - Match Ten
Starman vs. Berandor

*A Great Illusion of a Dream*

Mocking laughter dogged his footsteps. 

“Seen any ghosts, Frank!” 

“My grandma’s dead, Frank, but she’s not interested in you. Sorry.”

“Hey, Frank, I think my house is possessed. Can you come check it out for me?”

“Who ya gonna call, Frank?”

The bright, sunny day was in stark contrast to Frank’s mood. He was walking home from his job at the local amusement park where he worked as an “actor” in Dr. Faust’s House of Doom. Being an actor meant that he put on various monster costumes and scared – or tried to scare – people. Demonic imps, demented gnomes, evil elves; they were all on Frank’s resume. The job wasn’t so bad when he started it, but ever since the County Fair last year, he could hardly stand it. No one was scared of him now. Everyone knew who he was, even when in full costume and they laughed at him, made fun of him, smote him with plastic swords, and pushed him around. It was a thankless job, but it paid for his grungy apartment and Raman noodles. _What more could anyone want?_ Frank thought sarcastically. 

What Frank did want was to be more than just a “little person”. His thoughts were filled with rousing tales of adventure and love in which he was the titular hero. Dragons were slain. Knights were his to command. Above all, princesses were rescued and wooed. _Why can’t dreams be reality?_ he wondered. _If there was any justice in the world they would be._

For the last three years Frank had a recurring dream, a vivid, lucid reverie, that stood out over the rest. In the dream world, he was a noble, a prince of some mighty realm. This was very exciting for Frank except for the fact that his dream self was a tall, white guy when he was in actuality a short (okay, midget) Hispanic. _My dreams are as bad as Hollywood; all the heroes are white._ He did not pay too much attention to this detail, however, because it felt so extraordinary to be a man of power and virility. The first part of the dream would be about him running his kingdom and leading armies. Very exhilerating. The end was always puzzling to Frank, though. He would suddenly be walking into a wooded area alone. It was the middle of winter and an unnatural pall of silence hung over the trees. A phantom image of a beautiful woman stood ahead of him in front of a mighty tree. A snow owl with the same ghostly appearance was flying around the tree, but did not make a sound. The woman would beckon gently to Frank, but before he could approach her, the dream would end and he would wake in a cool sweat. 

The little Latino could not shake the feeling that this woman was not just an inhabitant of his dreams. No, she was somehow real. And she was trying to send him a message. He was sure of it. 

Not long after the dream started, the would-be hero began seeing phantoms in the waking world. It was rare at first and Frank chalked it up to lack of sleep or his hyperactive imagination. _A shrink would probably call it a symptom of “deep, disaffected loneliness” or something._ A shadow in the corner of his eye. A flicker of movement. The phantoms started to become more and more frequent and then one night, Frank recognized one. 

Home alone with a six-pack of beer, Frank was sitting on his couch watching TV, a typical evening for him. His eyelids were feeling heavy, but just when he was about to give in to their demands there was a whisper of movement outside of the window. It caught the little man’s attention and he shifted his head to see what it was. Expecting to see that it was just a passing car, he was shocked to see it was the ghostly woman in his dreams. Frank jumped off his couch. Or tried to jump off his couch. Being a little drunk meant that he tripped over his coffee table and fell forward on his face. When he struggled back to his feet, she was gone. It was her, though. Frank _knew_ it. She had the same long hair, the same face. Now, Frank had no doubts. The woman was real and she was trying to contact him. 

After that, Frank saw her more and more, but never for long at a time and never was he able to talk to her. Sometimes she would wave to him or beckon to him. He would see a pile of leaves vaguely shaped like a heart or two faint stick figures in the dirt and knew she was telling Frank that she loved him. The Latino knew that he had to be vigilant for her signal and patient. Whoever she was, she would find a way to come to him. Was she a captive of some nefarious wizard? A lonely princess looking for a suitor? It did not matter to Frank. He was in love. 

Unfortunately, as so often happens when one falls in love, Frank became giddy and flighty. He had trouble concentrating on anything. He was frequently late for work. He began talking about his love. This last was the most unfortunate for Frank because he could not conceal for long the fact that he was in love with a ghost, a phantom. 

“You mean this girl you’ve been raving about doesn’t even exist?”

“She does!”

“But, you just said she’s a ghost.”

“Well, that’s what she looks like, but I know she’s real!”

“Ha ha. Sure, Frank.”

Soon it seemed everyone at work knew about his obsession with the ghost lady and Frank was regularly teased about his “ghost love.” That would have been bad enough, but then came the County Fair incident. 

Frank wasn’t even really sure why he had gone in the first place. He had no friends to go with, nor was he keen on the rides. Perhaps the spectacle of it all was what drew him in. That and the fact that he was one amongst so many, he could blend in and pretend to be anyone he wanted to be. Frank was doing just that (and drinking a bit too much) when he saw her.  

A girl, dark-haired, wearing a dark blue jacket was standing a short distance away as if waiting for someone. Suddenly she faded and shifted and Frank could see the girl of his dreams in the woman’s place, her hair so light and perfect. She held up a camera as if to take a picture of him. He cried out and ran to her. 

“It’s you! It’s you! My love, I’m here!” He threw his arms around her

“What are you doing, freak!” Something cuffed the side of his head and he staggered back, his beer spilling over his shirt. The dark-haired girl was back and his dream beauty was nowhere to be seen. 

“Where did she go?” the little man yelled. “She was right here. You’re playing a trick on me!” 

“What are you talking about, you short prick?” 

“The woman who loves me. She was you. I mean you turned into her.” Frank ran up to the girl again, grabbing her, touching her. “Right here! Where did she go?”

The girl again whacked Frank with her purse. “Get your grubby hands off me, sicko!”

By this time, a crowd was circling around the two. Seeing a woman in distress, a shaggy, tattooed man in a leather vest stepped forward. With scant effort, he picked up the tiny man and flung him away. “The lady said ‘no,’ Shrimp. I think you better leave before you get seriously worked over.”

Tears started down Frank’s face as he sat on the ground, a pathetic mess. “Why would she do this to me?” he sniffed quietly and then again louder as he struggled to his feet. 

“Why would she do this to me? She loves me!” The beer slurred his words together and the crying made it worse. 

“I don’t care if no one believes me! I don’t care if everyone laughs at me! She _is_ real! And she loves me.” The last sentence was not much more than a whisper. The whole crowd was silent for a moment, watching Frank, his shoulders slumped, his face puffy and red. 

The silence was finally broken by a laugh. It started with one person, but soon swept over everyone until it seemed to Frank that the entire world was laughing at him. With an inarticulate cry, he ran, his stubby legs not stopping until he was buried under the covers of his bed. 

Frank didn’t leave his apartment for a week. He had hoped that no one would have heard about the incident or forgotten about it if they had. Unfortunately, several people in the crowd recorded the whole thing on their cellphones and soon Frank was an internet sensation. His co-workers helped things along by sharing the things they had heard from Frank himself about his “ghost love.” The little man was now famous throughout the city as the crazy drunk in love with a ghost. Everywhere he went, kids laughed at him, adults pointed and snickered, and everyone cracked wise. Frank tried not to think about it anymore. The alcohol helped. He had not seen her since the County Fair and he was beginning to think that maybe he was crazy.

He was nearly home when he heard his name.

“Frank. Frank, can I talk to you”

A man was jogging toward him. He must be a reporter, Frank thought, seeing a microphone and camera in his hands. I don’t want to talk to the goddamn media. They hassled me enough last year. 

“Look, pal, I’m tired and I just want to go home, okay?”

“You are Frank, correct? The one who attracted quite a bit of attention around here?”

“You seen many three-foot tall Latinos around here, jackass?” Frank kept walking, barely glancing at the man. 

“I talked to her,” the reporter said.

Frank almost ignored him, but something in the man’s voice stopped him.

“What do you mean, you talked to her?” Frank asked, looking over his shoulder. 

“Well, I guess I should say she talked to me,” the man said coming around and kneeling in front of Frank. “She gave me a message for you.”

Frank’s eyes opened wide. A tingle crept up Frank’s spine. _She hasn’t forgotten me._ Then a sliver of doubt crept into his mind. He frowned at the man. “Look, if this is some kind of joke, it’s pretty pathetic. Don’t you think I’ve been belittled enough already?”

The man smiled. “Look,” he said, pointing up to the sky. “That’s for you.”

Frank rolled his eyes, but couldn’t help looking up. A gasp escaped from his lips. “It is true. She hasn’t forgotten me,” he whispered. In the sky, at the bottom of a dark tower of clouds was an imprint of bright, red lips. Her lips. Its beauty mesmerized him. 

“Well…?” The man was holding his microphone to Frank and had somehow found enough time to set up his camera. 

The dreamer forced himself to bring his gaze back down, but his eyes were still wide in astonishment, gazing far away. “I…I…what did she say?”

“She says that when you dream about her tonight, you must go to her. Do not hesitate. When she beckons, you must answer.”

“But, she hasn’t been in my dreams for almost a year!”

“She will be there tonight and –“

“But –“

“Listen. She will be there and you must go to her.”

A grin broke out on Frank’s face. “Yes!” He suddenly grabbed the reporter in a fierce hug. “Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.” 

The reporter gently pushed Frank away. “So, you will go to your ‘ghost love’ tonight.”

“Oh, yes. Yes, I will. I knew she was real. I knew she loved me and wouldn’t leave me.” Frank was fairly dancing as he stood there. The reporter stood up. 

“I won’t keep you then.” He gestured that he was done talking to Frank. Once more the hero in his mind, Frank sprinted home. After he turned a corner and was out of sight, another man stepped out from a convenience store. 

“Oh, that was great, man. What the hell were you pointing at?”

The “reporter” chuckled. “Nothing. Whatever he thought he saw was all in his head.” Both laughed.

“Come on. Let’s get this uploaded. This’ll be a hoot.”

--

Frank crawled into bed almost as soon as he got home, but his excitement meant that he lay there for a few hours before sleep came upon him. He had an ear-to-ear grin when he did. 

The dream came back for the first time since the County Fair. Again, it started with him as a mighty (but still white) king which Frank normally enjoyed, but this time he couldn’t wait until the next part. After an eternity, the second part of the dream started. He was walking into a forest on a serene winter day. Ahead, he saw the large tree, its massive trunk splitting into several smaller, but still impressive branches. In front of the tree, she stood, arms outstretched. 

Time seemed to slow as he ran to her and this time the dream did not end. Frank stood in front of her. She smiled and opened her arms wide. 

“I surrender to you,” he whispered, turning and falling into her. 

He felt her breath on his ear. “I love you,” she said. He clutched his heart.

“I love you, too.”

When Frank opened his eyes, he was sitting on a throne in an opulent chamber. Hundreds of men, some knights, some nobles, all finely attired were arrayed before him, kneeling. Next to him, on a similar throne, was his love. She was no longer an apparition, but tangible flesh and blood. She met his gaze and smiled. Frank’s heart nearly jumped out of his chest. He reached out to touch her and stopped in shock. His hand was dark! He looked down at his other hand and it was too! Frank started laughing.

“What is it, dear?” his love asked.

“Nothing, love. Nothing at all.” He paused. “It’s just that I’m me now.”


----------



## Berandor (May 28, 2008)

*My story*

*Grandma Warning: some slight sexual innuendo and bad language use coming up.*

EN World Short Story Smackdown, Round two: Berandor vs. Starman

*Samsara*

—-

_To the Wheel our life is bound
turning slowly, surely, steady
till for moksha we are ready
round and round and round and round

Death and birth are but the same
end is needed to begin
loss required for the win
dharma useless without shame

On the wheel, along the rim
devas and rakshasas thrive
for order and for chaos strive
godly creatures, bright and dim

Though with hate and spite they seethe
without the other, one can’t breathe_

– William H. Gladly, »Upon visiting the shrine of Shiva«, 1907


_The wheel has stopped turning._

– handwritten addendum by the author, 1917

—-

(1)

The arrow was as white as mother’s milk, the tip as black as the heart it would pierce. Rudra watched through Navidjan’s eyes and held his bow with Navidjan’s hands. Amurayi, screaming obscenities and threats and lashing out with her twisted claws, nevertheless fell back from the swords of the Panchala forces marshaled against her. The rakshasa was in her true form now, a feline creature of terrible ferocity and beauty. She towered over the turbaned warriors and, despite bleeding from countless cuts – which would heal over time – laughed at the chaos of the battle. Now, she found her back against a tall champa tree and gathered herself to once more jump into the fray.

Rudra slowed Navidjan’s heartbeat so his aim would not be compromised, and then he called out with his host’s voice.

»Amurayi!«

The rakshasa turned towards him. She seemed bemused at the sight of the bowman before her, but then, like an unfaithful husband coming home late at night, recognition crept into her face. »Rudra?« Her eyes grew as wide as a lake formed by a deva’s tears. Her muscles tensed.

Rudra/Navidjan let the arrow fly. Its aim was true, as Rudra had known it would be. The arrow pierced Amurayi’s heart and the heart of the tree behind her, confining her spirit to this wooden prison unfit for man or deity alike. Amurayi’s body turned to ash before them, and Rudra could not stand it any longer. He left Navidjan’s body and returned to his own form next to his avatar.

»It worked!« Navidjan yelled, fist in the air as if celebrating the birth of a son. He looked up at the deva. »Great Bowman, why are you crying? The she-devil is dead.«

»You are twice mistaken,« Rudra said. »If there are tears, then they are tears of exhaustion. And Amurayi is only bound, not dead.« The lie in the first statement was balanced by the truth in the second, or so Rudra told himself.

»Can’t we kill her?« The human’s voice was full of bloodlust. He was a noble and handsome warrior, but Navidjan’s dharma, his understanding of correct behavior, had been unable to stop him from pursuing his kama before. It seemed possible Rudra’s possession had further weakened it, but if so, then that was the price Rudra had had to pay. Rudra did not address his concern, however. He simply answered the question.

»Not while I live, no.«

»But what if she is freed?«

»Then, by the same token, I will be there and fight her once again. As long as you believe in me,« Rudra gestured to the people around him, »I will have the power to stop her. It is samsara.« The wheel. The circle of life and death, of everything.

Navidjan nodded. »Of course. Samsara.« He bowed. When he looked up again, Rudra had turned himself into a breeze and was drifting upwards to the sky, to take up his sentinel’s position once more. He saw Navidjan look around once, and then walk to his men to tend to the wounded and prepare the dead for transport back home.

—-

So it was for one hundred and eight turns of the wheel. One hundred and eight generations were born into the world, as many generations as there were beads on a prayer mallah. During all this time, Rudra slept in the sky. Often he thought of Amurayi, for though they were mortal enemies, they had also been lovers, and he could hardly bear to live without her. Every year, on the anniversary of her imprisonment, he cried hard and long, and the Ganges grew to overflowing before Rudra remembered his dharma and stopped the rains again.

Otherwise, the world went on turning. One hundred and eight generations, as many as there were energy lines meeting at the heart chakra, had not passed without effect. The Mahajanapadas had been forgotten as new people and new rulers had come to India, and new gods had rivaled the old. Shiva, destroyer and benefactor, had been one of those new gods. Slowly, over the course of generations, she had beguiled the people of India until at last, they thought Rudra was but another name for her, and when he drummed up thunder and shot lightning with his bow, they would nod and smile. »Shiva is dancing again,« they would say, and Rudra was forgotten.

Even Navidjan forgot him, though it took him longer than most. During his fifty-second reincarnation, he fell in with a crowd of opium merchants. His dharma forgotten, Navidjan was soon controlled only by his thirst for kama – sensuality – and artha – success. As Navidjan’s karma was corrupted, Rudra felt his last smidgen of influence drain away. He was still a deva of storms and of the hunt, but the mortal realm was closed to him now.

Thus he could only watch when, one hundred and eight generations after she had been bound to the tree, Amurayi was freed.

—-

The smell was intoxicating. Richard had smelled it from almost a mile away. He had been walking along the forest trail when it had caught his attention. It was a heady smell, one he associated with the summer when he had first met Stephanie and they had used the nights for anything but sleep. He had made the decision almost as soon as he had noticed the smell: he needed to find the source, to pluck a flower from whatever tree it was that smelled so, and bring it back to Steph at the hotel. All fears of snakes forgotten, Richard had walked straight into the forest. He did not notice that he never strayed from his path, nor that he never questioned his direction. 

The smell led him to the largest tree he had ever seen (though he was sure that those redwoods at home were larger, everything was larger in America). The tree had to be a hundred feet tall – or taller. Its flowers were nothing special to look at: narrow, yellowish petals curving out like a talon ready to grab a victim. The smell, on the other hand… Richard leaned against the tree, closed his eyes, and inhaled deeply. So this was why the Indians had come up with the kama sutra. With trees like this, it was a wonder if you ever _not_ thought of sex.

Richard opened his eyes again. He noticed a dark spot almost right in front of him. Something had been wedged deep into the bark, some kind of metal. He stood on the tips of his toes and looked closer. It was an arrowhead, dark and dull with age. Perhaps it was valuable. Richard picked up a stone fit for prying and went to work. He had to stretch a little but the arrowhead came out surprisingly easy. It fell into his hand. Richard flinched at how cool it was.

Suddenly the tree _groaned_. It sounded like all the floorboards in India creaking at once. The tree also began to shake. Richard raised his arm over his head, expecting a branch to come falling down. Instead, he felt the soft touch of velvet on his arm. He looked up. Every single flower had shaken loose from the tree. A mass of white petals rushed towards him, thicker than the blizzards of Buffalo. Before Richard even managed to turn around he was hip deep in flowers. He tried moving away, but the petals grabbed at him, tore at his clothing, kept him in place. Now they were lifting him up. He felt his feet losing contact to the ground. He tried to scream, but the petals pushed into his open mouth and muffled his voice.

Suddenly, the flowers were gone. Richard fell to the ground and slumped against the now naked tree. He took three deep breaths, waiting for something else to happen. Nothing did. Thank God. Richard pushed himself up and off of the tree, intent on getting away as quickly as possible.

That’s when cold hands grabbed him from behind. His head felt like he had eaten a giant cone of ice cream in under a minute. His heart alternately raced and stopped altogether. Goosebumps spread all over his body. He was pulled back to the tree with impossible force, and now he heard a whisper in his head.

_»Liberator. Vessel. Victim.«_

It was a cruel voice. It was a female voice. It was the last voice Richard would ever hear. Except for his screams, later on.

—-

_Visions tumbling through her head. Dreams. Experiences. She can see fire in the sky, a huge mushroom of death and destruction, and her heart weeps at what she missed. She rejoices at India’s fracture and the death of its spritual leader by one of his own. It only takes a split second for her memory to catch up with her, but in that split second she realizes the world has changed. It will welcome her with open arms. She closes the eyes of her vessel as she takes her first step into this new world, relishing the feeling of corporeality. Her vessel’s dangly bits annoy her, but the remedy is waiting for her in a hotel room. It is called Stephanie. And after that, she will have a look around. She is still weak, but soon she will be stronger. Soon._

—-

Passion burned brightly in Rudra, anger and desire turning his blood into lava. He knew at once that Amurayi was free again, and just as she took her first step he found her at the foot of the tree. Rudra summoned his might and darkened the clouds over the forest. Amurayi looked up at him, and then she lifted a hand and waved. Rudra trembled with impotence. He unleashed the storm, wrung every last drop of rain from the clouds he had gathered. Amurayi simply stood in the rain, arms spread out like some foreigner’s idea of a messiah, and laughed at him. He threw a lightning bolt down at her, but his impotence was such that he could not touch her with it, and Amurayi seemed to know. She blew him a kiss.

Rudra let go of the storm, his passion suddenly spent. Despair crept up on him. There was no fighting her this time, and there would not even be making love to her, though he desired both. There was noone who might have heeded his call. He had been forgotten. Who remembered a deva who had done nothing but watch from the sky for as many generations as there are Upanishads? Nobody. 

Or was there somebody? At the thought, Rudra saw the sun poke through a tiny crack in the dark clouds ahead of him. His former avatar was but two rebirths removed from when he had lost his dharma. It was Navidjan’s fifty-fourth incarnation, as many as there were sanskrit letters in the alphabet, and half as many as generations had passed since he first helped Rudra defeat Amurayi. An auspicious number. Surely Navidjan would remember him. Not at first, no, but then, a deva of storms and rain had other ways to influence mankind than simple speech, had he not?

With hope on the horizon, Rudra focused his attention once more on the world beneath him.

—-

(2)

The rain was a blessing and a curse at the same time. It was a blessing because when people rushed along trying not to get too soaked, Navid had an even easier time picking their pockets than he usually had. It was a curse because the rain stank like an overflowing toilet, which was understandable, really, because Delhi was nothing but a toilet waiting to be filled to overflowing. Navid had often wondered what kept him here. He had yet to find an answer to that question.

Navid barged into a man waiting at a traffic light. The man pushed him away and kicked after him. Navid held up his hands apologetically and bowed a little to show he was no beggar. The man snarled at him, but then the light turned to green and he crossed the street and disappeared into the brown veil of the rain. Navid walked for two more blocks before fishing the man’s cell phone out of his pocket. He dislodged the memory chip and tossed it into the gutter, and then pocketed the phone again. It was a fairly current model.

Navid laughed at his latest victim. The man had probably thought if he stayed too long, Navid’s bad karma would rub off on him as if it was some infectious disease. The very idea of bad karma was amusing enough, but Navid couldn’t understand how being small and hard to notice could be bad for a thief. Not to mention being able to pose as a child in a pinch.

A truck roared by on the street and a huge wave of brackish water rose up from the gutter, the memory chip swimming on top like the eye of a literal lake monster. Navid stumbled backwards in an attempt to save his dirt-specked khurta from further soiling. He was not fast enough. The wave seemed to grow even larger as Navid stepped away from it, and then it loomed over him like a dark fate – or better, a $h**-colored fate – sent by the gods. Navid had only a moment to close his eyes before the water swept him off his feet and had him tumbling down a couple of steps. He was smashed into a door and heart it rattle in its hinges from the impact.

»Maybe being small does have its disadvantages,« he muttered as he got back to his feet. When he looked at where he was, his mood instantly lit up again. The door he had washed up against belonged to a tea room, the ›Jolly Buddha‹. Inventive. Still, he could do with a hot cup or two while waiting for his khurta to dry. »Bad karma, my ass.« He pulled off the khurta to stand only in his pyjamas, made sure neither his money nor his gun would fall out of the pockets, and then he opened the door.

The tea room was warm and dry. Navid sighed as he stood in the small entrance room. There was a desk and another door, both fashioned from dark red wood, but he could see nobody. Music drifted through the air, some pop version of an ancient mourning threne by the sound of it. Navid shook the water from his head and simply walked on through the second door.

»Namaste. Would you mind if I–« His voice broke off when the smell hit him and even before he saw its source.

The room behind the door had been fashioned from dark red wood, as well, so the blood wasn’t as visible on its walls as it would have been, say, in a white room. That was all the help Navid had in order to not become nauseated, and it wasn’t enough. First of all, no amount of red could color the smell. It was a wonder Navid hadn’t noticed it when he came in, a wonder he attributed to his own stinking khurta. There was the smell of fresh blood, of course, and, with what looked like a dozen bleeding people, how could there not be? But the people weren’t just bleeding. They were also oozing black puss from wounds and other orifices. And mixed in with the smell of blood and the stink of puss was a dark, rich scent like freshly ground champa flowers. Navid guessed that last scent came from the sole unharmed figure in the room, a tall blonde dressed in a green raincoat. 

The blonde was holding a man of perhaps seventy by the throat. Her other hand touched the old man’s cheek, and under her touch an oozing wound opened up. The man let out one of the wails Navid had misinterpreted for music. The blonde’s attention had been fixed on her victim before, but now her head had turned towards Navid. The look in her eyes was the only thing keeping him from throwing up. He’d much rather piss himself. Which he promptly did.

»Who are you?« The woman hissed. Her eyes narrowed to slits, and Navid could swear he saw her pupils tilt up like a cat’s. »I know you. How?«

»Lady,« Navid said as his trembling fingers fished around in his khurta, »I have no fricking clue what you are talking about.«

She let go of the old man, and he dropped whimpering to the floor. »You are ugly,« she said. »Have you ever known the touch of a woman?« She came towards him. 

His fingers found what he was looking for. »How can I resist the – you know what? Forget the silly banter. Here is my answer.« He drew the gun and aimed at her. »Keep the fu** away from me.«

She tilted her head to look at the gun from all angles. »A modern bow. It is small, but your small things are powerful. I wonder if it will hurt.«

»Me shooting you? Keep back or you’ll find out.«

She held out her hands and beckoned to him. »Try it.«

That woman was crazy. Well, he had gathered as much from the first moment he saw her holding the old geezer by the throat. But what could he do? He’d always been a gentleman at heart. »As you wish,« he said and pulled the trigger.

The gun barked loudly. The woman spun around and backwards, almost falling over. It had taken Navid the upside of a year until he could fire the 40 caliber glock without either hurting himself or totally messing up his aim, and he had continued to practice afterwards. He had hit her right where he had wanted, in her left shoulder. The pain alone should knock her out.

The woman snickered. It sounded as if a swarm of dung beetles was holding a parade. She turned around and rubbed her shoulder. Her fingers came away bloody. »Interesting,« she said. Then she smiled enthusiastically. »Do it again!«

Navid emptied the magazine into her, and he no longer aimed to incapacitate. He fired eight shots into her chest and saw her stumble backwards from the force. But she did not fall. Instead, she looked at him with a new expression, a mixture of hunger and lust.

»I remember you now. You have changed, but not enough.« With that, she threw herself at him. Navid screamed, but his screams were cut short as she pressed her lips on his. Her body pinned him down, her hands held his face, and her tongue slipped into his mouth. Gods above, he was getting an erection!

She was off of him as quickly as she had jumped him. »You’re you, aren’t you?« She glanced around the room. »Where is he? Is he here?«
Navid spit on the floor, but her taste remained, enticing him and making him sick at the same time. »What the fu** are you talking about?«

She fixed her gaze on him. »Tell Rudra to come and find me, if he is done playing games.« Her hand dove into her pocket and took out a digital camera. Navid didn’t even bat an eye. Nothing that woman did would make her seem any more crazy. Also, she was apparently capable of opening wounds with a touch and withstanding bullets as if they were made from the same material as Delhi’s slum hovels. 

Eyes were batted, though, when her body began to contort and change. Skin bulged, hair grew darker, and her whole frame shrank a few inches. Her face changed as well. Navid focused on that even though he would have rather focused on the changes happening beneath her throat than above it. Identifying her would be easier with a facial sketch than with a description of her boobs. He didn’t know whom he was supposed to identify her to, but some long-forgotten instinct made him focus nonetheless.

Not that it did him any good, because right in the middle of her change, she lifted the camera and pointed it at him. The flash was brighter than it had any right to be, and when Navid could see again, she was gone.

»This is a good time to fall unconscious,« Navid said to nobody in particular. 

»Now? Did you really forget everything about dharma?«

Navid spun, empty gun at the ready. He saw a tall man with bronze skin and silvery eyes. He wore ancient-looking clothes like something out of a Bollywood historical and had a tall bow slung over his shoulder. »Hold!« Navid shouted. »Wait – do I know you?«

The man rubbed his hands together. »You remember! And you can see me! Finally. Now we can go and stop Amurayi once more.«

Navid put his hand to his face. This couldn’t be happening. But it was. »Don’t tell me. You’re Rudra, right?«

»Excellent. You really do remember. Now come, Navidjan. We have to go.«

»Go where?«

Rudra put his hands on his hips. »Remember what we spent two years doing before we bound Amurayi to the tree? We need to find the arrowhead.«

Navid rubbed the back of his nose. »Of course. The arrowhead.« It was probably better to just go along. With people vanishing into or appearing out of thin air, being impervious to bullets or corrupting with a touch, why shouldn’t it all come down to devas and rakshasas?

»Yes!« Rudra turned towards the door. »Come on!«

»Wait,« Navid called as he rushed after him, »aren’t you supposed to be Shiva?«

—-

[End of Part I]


----------



## Berandor (May 28, 2008)

[Part II]

—-

(3)

Rudra was severely disappointed. It seemed Navidjan’s memory had not returned at all, or returned only insofar as his stunted body would hold it. If Amurayi had not kissed him, Rudra might have never been able to appear to Navidjan in his current state of karmic penance. Even so, Rudra had had to explain the whole enterprise to Navidjan while they were walking through the streets of Delhi, and he had been so annoyed at both this inconvenience and at Navidjan’s slow pace that Rudra had not had the leisure to enjoy the sights from a point of view other than up in the sky. Was Delhi not the Jewel of the Gangetic Plains? When he had mentioned this to Navidjan, of course, this caricature of a once great warrior had simply laughed.

Once they had arrived at the hotel Amurayi’s victims had stayed at, Navidjan – wearing a fresh khurta he had insisted in changing into – had first argued about going in at all, and then he had refused to tell the hotel manager about his presence and his intentions. Instead, Navidjan had hidden amongst baggage to enter the hotel, he had then stolen a key from a room maid, and he had broken into the room Rudra had pointed out to him. The room that most smelled of Amurayi. This was not at all how dharma told you to behave. Rudra was afraid Navidjan’s next life might be as a woman or, even worse, as a dog, but Navidjan did not listen to his concerns.

He had conducted himself well in the hotel room, however. Even in his spirit form, Rudra had found it difficult to cope with the sight and smell of a completely eviscerated man covered with black boils. And Navidjan had had to put his hands into the man’s trousers in order to fish out the arrowhead. It was a testament to his noble heritage that he had held off throwing up until they had left the hotel again.

Of course, just when Rudra had glimpsed the noble Navidjan in the malformed man, he had had to go and disappoint him yet again. At Rudra’s suggestion of fletching an arrow from ivory in order to use it with his bow, Navidjan had laughed at him again. And while he may have had a point in that he was simply too small and disfigured to aim and shoot Rudra’s bow _Heartfinder_, you could also stab someone with an arrow. Rudra was the bowman, the master of hunting. What else but an arrow was he supposed to use for his most dangerous and most alluring prey? Navidjan wanted to use his gun, a tool so ignoble and common that anybody could kill with it. 

Rudra still bristled with anger when he thought of how Navidjan had allowed his arrowhead to be made into a simple hollow-point bullet. For two years he and the true Navidjan had worked on forging the iron without heating it, performing the correct incantations and binding spirits of destruction into it powerful enough to kill deva and rakshasa alike – or bind them, as it was. And now this work had been debased by a purely mechanical manufacturing tool. It was all Rudra could have done to insist on there being no heat involved.

Sure, he could have wrested the arrowhead out of Navidjan’s hands. He was able to touch him, even grab him. Navidjan was the only person or thing Rudra could affect directly. But what then? Even if Rudra had had the arrowhead, what was he supposed to do with it except hand it back to that ugly little thing that once used to be his avatar. Rudra shocked himself with such thoughts. But it was true, wasn’t it? This was no hero, no noble creature, and still it was his – and the world’s – only hope of defeating Amurayi. That was why, despite Navidjan’s disregard for dharma and despite his lack of respect for seemingly everything, Rudra stayed with him, and when Navidjan asked Rudra to lead him to Amurayi, why he obeyed. Besides, perhaps Navidjan died a hero’s death in the forthcoming battle, ensuring that the next incarnations of Rudra’s sole follower would be easier on the eyes.

—-

_Now that she had gorged herself on the flesh of mortals, her senses had returned. She felt them. Felt them coming. Coming to her. Both of them, the abomination and the deva. Surely they were planning some kind of deception. But this was a new age, the age of steel and silicone, not of cold iron. Let them come. First she would ravage the dwarf, and then she would tear him apart piece by piece._

—-

»This is the second time I’ve had to change into a new khurta today. I hope you’ll mention that to the other gods when we’re done here.« Navid tugged at his clothes. His last clean khurta was a little tight around the waist.

»Everything you do is recorded,« Rudra intoned, »but I fear changing your clothes does not prove your dharma.«

»Of course it doesn’t. That might make sense, after all. Like taking a taxi instead of walking all across Delhi. Twice.«

»You would do best to use this walk as an opportunity to meditate and prepare yourself. When was your last puja?«

Navid couldn’t suppress a giggle. »Puja? What do I have the gods to thank for? I alone am responsible for my success.«

Rudra shook his head. »Artha. Is that all you think about?«

»Kama is fine, too, you know.«

»But it is not all. You must straighten your path if you want to achieve moksha.«

»Yeah, sure. I was the one your girlfriend kissed when she thought you possessed me, remember. Don’t tell me you didn’t put out.«

»I did make love to Amurayi, yes. But I did not let my love for her cloud my dharma.«

»Yeah, whatever. Listen, are we ever–« Rudra held up a hand and silenced Navid.

»We are here.«

›Here‹ was a large, walled structure opening to a courtyard and a domed marble building inside it. The temple of Shiva. From within, Navid heard faint whimpers, but this time he did not mistake them for music. He looked for a place that wasn’t readily observable, and then approached the wall. »Lift me up,« he said.

»Will you not pass through the gate?« Rudra pointed to the closed double doors leading into the temple.

»And walk right into whatever trap awaits us. Good idea. Now lift me up.«

Rudra shook his head. »Sneaking into a temple. You are ruining your karma.«

»Well, that’s for my next life to worry about.« Navid impatiently tapped with his foot. Rudra sighed and grabbed him, then lifted him up until Navid managed to hold onto to the edge of the wall. He dragged himself over the wall and jumped down on the other side. »Quiet now,« he whispered to Rudra, who had simply stepped through the wall. He crouched low and hustled over to the nearest column surrounding the temple proper. From there, he looked over to the building, but he couldn’t make out anything. He turned to Rudra. »Any idea why she chose this place?«

»She makes a mockery of my station,« Rudra said.

»Such disrespect! Imagine how she will be reincarnated.«

Rudra looked him in the eye. »Is that your plan? Killing her? I told you that as long as–«

»Yeah, as long as you’re here being a nuisance, she’s not going to die. Relax. If I wanted to kill her, I would have brought a rocket launcher, not a gun.«

»Do you really think a rocket launcher would kill Amurayi? She has withstood small armies.«

»And did they have rocket launchers in 600 BC?« Navid did not wait for an anwer. »Anyway, I only brought a gun. So let’s get closer.«

»Closer?« Amurayi’s voice rang from above. Fabric swirled and then she landed in a crouch in front of Navid and Rudra’s hiding place. Navid drew the glock, but before he could aim, Amurayi had stepped so close he thought he heard her heart beating. »How close do you want to get?« She bent low and touched his nose with hers, all the while staring into his eyes. Then she got up again. »He’s not in there. Where is he? I can smell him.«

Navid lifted the gun. Amurayi laughed. »Is it the arrowhead?« She dodged to the left, then spun to the right. »Do you think you can hit me through the heart whithout Rudra steadying your arm? Do you want me to hold still? Shall I stand in front of a tree first?«

»No need,« Navid said. »I’m not going to risk you getting free again.«

Amurayi giggled. Rudra, who had watched her every move, turned towards Navid. »So you do want to kill her! Did I not tell you?«

»You cannot kill me,« Amurayi began.

»You cannot kill her,« Rudra said.

»Who said I wanted to?« Navid asked and pointed the gun at Rudra’s chest. »Now shut up already.« He pulled the trigger. 

»No!« Amurayi screamed. Rudra just stood there with a dumbfounded expression on his face. A dark spot spread outward from his heart. He stumbled backwards and would have fallen, but Amurayi rushed over and caught him. She held him in her arms as he struggled to breathe.

»You… your karma.« His body went limp. Amurayi raised her head to the sky and screamed. Navid dropped the gun and instinctively put his hands over his ears. The rakshasa’s scream grew louder and shriller until Navid thought his brain would explode. Through slitted eyes, he saw Rudra’s body blacken, his skin falling off like ash, as if Amurayi’s touch burned him. As if on cue flames spewed from her mouth and her eyes while her scream continued. All this took no more than a second, but Navid saw every detail as they decomposed and turned into black ash and gouging flame. 

A wind came up. It gathered the ash and formed a small cyclone around the remainder of the bodys. Navid thought he could still see their figures, Amurayi on her knees, Rudra lying in her arms, but then the ash became too thick. There was a cracking sound, and the scream finally stopped. The ash cloud remained for a moment, and then it rushed towards Navid and pushed him against the column. It was past him. Not caring about his burned and blackened khurta, he turned around and watched the cloud ascend into the sky, a red light trailing behind her, the twin spirits of Rudra and Amurayi, lovers and mortal enemies, now either joined or parted forever. The cloud grew in size as he watched. There was a red flash, and then it was gone. It might have been Navid’s imagination, but he could have sworn that right before the end, there had been a kiss.

—-

(4)

»Someone’s coming out. Ladies and Gentlemen, we seem to have a new development. There is what appears to be a child – no, it’s a dwarf, and he’s only dressed in his pyjamas. Sir! Sir! You are live on Delhi Five. Can you tell us what is going on in the temple? There have been reports of screams and gunshots! Did you see anything. Sir? You are on air. All of India is watching, don’t you want to say something? Why aren’t you wearing clothes? Sir?«

»All right, listen. Listen well. If there are any devas out there, or rakshasas, or whatever the gods else – leave me alone or I’ll show you what technological progress is all about. And now get this damn microphone out of my-«


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## Starman (May 28, 2008)

Alright, blast away at me!

[sblock= Story Notes]The title was shamelessly stolen from a Visions of Atlantis song, "Seduced Like Magic," which ended up providing some inspiration for the story as well. I just happened to be listening to it when I first started looking at the pictures. 

I knew almost right away that ghosts would somehow play a part in the story as I looked at the cool phantom image in the second picture and then the wonderful painting that was the third picture. 

My first thought on seeing the fourth picture was big lips as I think someone else mentioned up thread. I almost didn't want to use it that way because it seemed too obvious, but it started to fit with the way the story was shaping in my head. 

The first picture was the hardest for me to work in at first, although truthfully the skeleton of the story formed within about 15-20 minutes of me staring at the pictures. My first reaction was, "You've got to be sh*tting me." Then, I thought, "He's in love," and it all started to fall into place. 

I was trying to get somewhat of a fairy-tale feel with the story. Reading it again, I'm not sure how well I succeeded. I was also aiming for ambiguity which I have always been drawn to in stories. Again, I'm not sure how well I achieved that. If I had more time and expanded the story, I would probably go into more detail about incidents where Frank saw the ghost. 

But, there it is. I had fun with. Feedback is welcomed.[/sblock]


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## Berandor (May 28, 2008)

Uhm, I guess I might have written it up there, but that's the end of the story right there.

[sblock]5,700 words, give or take. Wow. And I suspect it's quite a mess, what with the different styles and meandering themes and such. So why? WHY?

I must say my first idea for this was using the fire thingy in the sky as an incorporeal guardian trying to guide the hero (pretty much our current hero) to doing good. In researching Indian gods, however, the current story developed. And when I had written the first draft, I was basically faced with three choices.

One of them would be to concentrate more on the mythical aspect, but I didn’t feel that was a story I really wanted to tell. The second one, and the one I almost chose, was to cut down on the deva parts extensively, turning one (the hotel one) into a dialogue scene and cutting the rest almost entirely. That would have meant, however, that this story was the usual "paranormal investigator" CDM story. It would have been tight and safe. And I really didn’t want to play safe this time. So I kept the jumbled format and just edited the parts separately.[/sblock]

And now I'll read Starman’s entry. Should be quicker than him reading mine. Muhahaha!


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## Berandor (May 28, 2008)

Starman:
[sblock]I liked it. I might have enjoyed more dialogue or direct action, but as you may guess I like longer stories  I wonder: did you see the flaming lips in the picture? I only saw them after DIsharrock pointed them out. So... did Frank die? Or did he really get to be king? And what was his love’s name?[/sblock]


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## Berandor (May 28, 2008)

Eeralai:
[sblock]A nice story even though I wish someone would actually have a professor being hard on a student because he is mean, not because the student is gifted  Also, the ending didn’t really resonate with me. I think I would have enjoyed it more had it just been about Cate deciding between feeling at least something and being a thin robot confined to a lab. The war with the militia – I didn’t really care about that.
[/sblock]

DIsharrock:
[sblock]Wow. Extremely nice. Not only did you do a creepy story, but the twist was awesome. I half expected Caitlin’s sister to get eating any time, and if that had happened – wow. Perhaps the ending is a little too clear-cut, then, what with the victim having been a bad guy after all, not just a jerk. But well done.[/sblock]

Good luck to you both.


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## Starman (May 28, 2008)

Berandor said:
			
		

> Starman:
> [sblock]I liked it. I might have enjoyed more dialogue or direct action, but as you may guess I like longer stories  I wonder: did you see the flaming lips in the picture? I only saw them after DIsharrock pointed them out. So... did Frank die? Or did he really get to be king? And what was his love’s name?[/sblock]




[sblock=More discussion]Thanks. I did see the lips before DIsharrock pointed them out. In fact, it wasn't until after he pointed them that I started thinking it might be too obvious. I guess I'm glad someone did _not_ see them. 

It's funny. I typically like longer stories, too. If I had more time, I would have made this longer. As we only had a limited amount of time, I put in what I thought I needed to make the story. 

In all honesty, I'm not sure what happened to Frank. I wanted it to be ambiguous, and that is one thing that probably would not have changed if the story was expanded. [/sblock]

I'm at work, so I don't have time to read yours right now, but I can't wait to do so tonight.


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## Eeralai (May 29, 2008)

Berandor said:
			
		

> Eeralai:
> [sblock]A nice story even though I wish someone would actually have a professor being hard on a student because he is mean, not because the student is gifted  Also, the ending didn’t really resonate with me. I think I would have enjoyed it more had it just been about Cate deciding between feeling at least something and being a thin robot confined to a lab. The war with the militia – I didn’t really care about that.
> [/sblock]
> 
> ...


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## Starman (May 29, 2008)

Berandor...

[sblock=Thoughts on your story]I really enjoyed it and I have to say, were I a judge, I would be voting in your favor. Indian mythology is sadly underused and it was great to see it form the basis for your story. 

Mad props for the poem. It worked very well, although the last line didn't sound quite right to me. It didn't seem to flow, if you catch my drift. 

Navid's character was one of the best parts. In fact, I think he made the story for me. The last paragraph was hilarious.

The whole thing just had a great...sense of time and place. It felt _real_. Great job. [/sblock]


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## Piratecat (May 29, 2008)

Hey Ycore Rixle!  I graciously invite you to run out of time and not finish your story, only to tell me right now so I can go to bed instead of writing more dialogue.  Any takers?

Bueller, Bueller?

Damn.


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## Ycore Rixle (May 29, 2008)

lol I'm burning the midnight oil myself. Just checked back in for another glance at those pictures. But feel free to go to sleep anyway. And sleep in, and sleep all day, and don't re-write... yeah, that's it.


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## Piratecat (May 29, 2008)

Ycore Rixle said:
			
		

> lol I'm burning the midnight oil myself. Just checked back in for another glance at those pictures. But feel free to go to sleep anyway. And sleep in, and sleep all day, and don't re-write... yeah, that's it.



Sure! It's a plan. That's _exactly _what I'll do. So you shouldn't work too hard on yours, since I'll be slacking off on mine. I'd hate for you to put yourself out or anything.


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## Berandor (May 29, 2008)

Starman said:
			
		

> Berandor...
> 
> [sblock=Thoughts on your story]I really enjoyed it and I have to say, were I a judge, I would be voting in your favor. Indian mythology is sadly underused and it was great to see it form the basis for your story.
> 
> ...




[sblock]Thanks! I'm glad at least one reader didn't mind the mixture, and I'm really glad you liked it.

Which line do you mean in the poem? The addendum or the "without the other..." If it's the latter, then I don't really know how to do it differently. The addendum (written in WW I, though I first thought about putting it into 1922, when "The Waste Land" was published), on the other hand, is supposed not to gel. Because that's the story, right? All this wheel thingamabub, and then Navid breaks it.

"Without the other, one can't breathe" is a construction I don't really like, though. I admit it. Maybe tadk could do better.[/sblock]


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## arwink (May 29, 2008)

Appologies to those who are waiting for judgement - this week has kind of gotten away from me despite my best intentions. I wish I could say I was about to do it now, but I've been up for fourty-six of the last fourty-eight hours trying to hit a work deadline and I'm feeling a little vague. The current plan is to read and write judgements early Saturday morning my time,


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## Starman (May 29, 2008)

Berandor said:
			
		

> [sblock]Thanks! I'm glad at least one reader didn't mind the mixture, and I'm really glad you liked it.
> 
> Which line do you mean in the poem? The addendum or the "without the other..." If it's the latter, then I don't really know how to do it differently. The addendum (written in WW I, though I first thought about putting it into 1922, when "The Waste Land" was published), on the other hand, is supposed not to gel. Because that's the story, right? All this wheel thingamabub, and then Navid breaks it.
> 
> "Without the other, one can't breathe" is a construction I don't really like, though. I admit it. Maybe tadk could do better.[/sblock]




[sblock]I did mean the "without the other..." line. It just didn't seem to flow quite right. I'm not sure how I would have done it, though, 'cause I'm not a poet. Anyway, I did really like the poem and that line wasn't bad, just a little jarring for me.[/sblock]


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## Dlsharrock (May 29, 2008)

Arwink said:
			
		

> I wish I could say I was about to do it now, but I've been up for fourty-six of the last fourty-eight hours




Go to bed!
Seriously though, no problem. I'm enjoying the mounting tension *and* you've given me an idea for a story about sleep deprivation, so your suffering was all worth it


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## Berandor (May 29, 2008)

And by Saturday, we might get all the judgements done at once.


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## Starman (May 29, 2008)

One might even call it..."Judgment Day."


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## Dlsharrock (May 29, 2008)

Ah, but then which judge is Sarah Connor?


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## mythago (May 29, 2008)

*Chosen*

Later, reflecting back on the words of the prophecy, Gabriella had to admit that it was technically correct in parts: she was wearing purple and scarlet, even if the scarlet consisted of a ratty pair of red underwear, and she supposed that the pearl earrings and her gold crucifix with one tiny diamond chip might be counted as precious stones and pearls. She wished that she had been _called_ at a less awkward time, though. She wondered whether the Virgin Mother had been doing some equally awkward or embarassing chore, some Biblical equivalent of crawling around under her desk, trying to use a half-dead penlight to find an empty USB port on her computer.				

Which is exactly what Gabi was doing when she was _called_. She banged her head, swore and crawled out from under her desk. The first thing she noticed was that the room seemed to much colder, with a faint, chill breeze that crawled right up her legs and froze her to the skin. The second was that the lights seemed to have dimmed - much more than if there had been yet another brownout, or “power saving opportunity”, as her supervisor liked to characterize it; but that didn’t fit with the sudden overdrive in the air conditioning. A power outage in a government building in D.C. in high summer meant sweltering heat, not teeth-chattering cold.

Then she saw the devil standing in her office.

Gabi was not a screamer. Even if she had been, her throat felt swollen, as if she were in a nightmare where the loudest sound she could make was a hoarse croak. For lack of anything more rational to do, she grabbed the container of hot coffee from her desk and threw it at the devil. It - or he - swatted it aside.

She blinked, and the devil was replaced by a man. A gorgeous man who looked as if he’d stepped right out of a magazine shoot cooked up by GQ Europe and a Renaissance painter. Gabi backed behind her desk and hoped the pepper spray in her purse was still good. The devil she could put down to some kind of weird office prank, but no way could any of her co-workers could be responsible for this _this_, a man so beautiful it hurt her heart just to look at him.

Some part of her mind, some old memory, sounded a warning note. He was familiar, and not in a nice way. Like a beautiful ex-boyfriend who’d ended up cleaning out her bank account and running off with her best friend. Only worse. She pushed it aside; she’d never met this man in her life, and he was so, so easy on the eyes.

“Gabriella,” he said, in the sexiest voice she’d ever heard. He had some kind of accent fluttering behind the word, nothing she could place, maybe not even European.

“What?” she croaked, and her chest tightened at the ugliness of the sound, so out of place in a room with this beautiful man. Or devil. She couldn’t tear her eyes away.			

“Fear not,” he said, and his lips curved in an enticing smile. “You, Gabriella, have found...not grace. But you have been chosen in service to humanity and to the Lord. Will you take this burden?”

Gabi cleared her throat. It took a few tries. “Grace? Is this....look, I’m not a virgin, I’m not bethrothed. My name isn’t even Mary. If you mean – “

The man chuckled. “No, no, no,” he said. “That is done. This is the....second part of the story? And here, too, a woman must be chosen.”

“Oh,” she said. “Now I’m confused. Does the second Messiah need to be born of woman? I’m sorry, catechism was a long time ago.” She was aware that she was talking too fast, talking with her hands - a habit she’d tried to break herself of, but that came back whenever she was nervous.

He caught her hands in his and drew them to his chest, pulling her closer. Even wearing her heels, she was shorter. He smelled like bitter cinnamon. _I can’t believe this is happening_, she thought, as he kissed her, she stopped thinking about anything at all.

It was only after he tore off her skirt that she realized the cold in the room was pouring from his body, and shortly after that she learned that the stories of Hell as a place of endless fire were exactly backwards.

#

The dawn of the End Times was sullen and cold, unusual for the time of year, especially in San Diego. Gabi barely noticed. She was still drunk from the night before, her stomach sour from too much wine and too little food. Thinking vaguely back, she couldn’t remember the last time she’d eaten. Somewhere in the long string of debauchery she must have eaten; there had been decadent feasts, and sometimes rich food to go with the wine, and exquisite little hookahs full of expensive tobacco.

And the sex. She’d never thought of herself as a prude, not even when she was a girl in Catholic school, she’d certainly dated enough, but she felt sick and overwhelmed; her new friend, who refused to tell her his name, knew all the right people and parties. Her memories were stream of pleasure smeared by wine; she remembered some of the men, and even a few of the women, were famous, and she’d done things she’d never even thought about before, and all of them had applauded, and watched, and joined her. Some of them joined only because she told them to.

Always, he was there, waiting, and no matter how late it was or how long the party or how many lovers she’d had, he took her. Because she could not turn away from him or his ice-cold body. By now neither of them even pretended he was human.

They stood on the edge of the marina, watching the sea.

“Don’t worry,” he said. “It will find you, and bend its neck for you to ride.”

“I know,” she said, listlessly. She watched as ice crawled up from the seawater, covering the rails of the boats, chunks of ice pushing them up out of the water. “Everything’s freezing. That means it’s the end, for me. For everyone, I guess.”

“Yes,” he said. “But after that? The righteous, blinded by the glory of God, will ascend to heaven. The Messiah will defeat you and bring about Paradise. That is why you were chosen, to work at God’s left hand, as his servant in the greater destiny.”

“Like Judas,” she said. “Only with better parties.”

He patted her on the shoulder, not unkindly.“Exactly so,” he said.

The Whore of Babylon and the Morning Star waited as the first of the Beast’s seven heads broke the water.


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## Berandor (May 29, 2008)

Mythago:
[sblock]Wow. My first thought was "too short", but then I read it. Excellent. I don't think it's missing anything. It's simply to the point. Okay, my one complaint is the links to the thumbnails with the last two pics. Thanks![/sblock]


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## Piratecat (May 29, 2008)

*Round 2, Match Eleven
Piratecat vs. Ycore Rixle


Fast Learner*
By Kevin Kulp (Piratecat)


He looked slowly around my now-littered home. One foot nudged a twitching corpse. There was moisture leaking from his eyes.

“I surrender?” he asked uncertainly.

“Okey dokey,” I said, and started humming a jaunty little tune. I made up the song myself a long time ago. It’s the only one I know, and it’s fun to sing, so I sing it a lot. “I don’t have a name. What’s yours?”

“Morro,” he said. “You killed everybody.” He sounded shocked.

I stopped humming. “Not everyone, Morro. You’re still around!” I wondered if I’d made a mistake. “Is that okay?”

He looked at me, shuddered a little, and looked at me again. “Is it okay? Yes, it’s okay. Except that you just killed my wife Sara and three of my best friends. And you killed some of them twice.” He took a gulping breath of air.

“Oh. Whoops?” I wasn’t really sure of the proper manners. I hadn’t met many people who were still living. “You can leave if you want to. It’s okay.”

“No I can’t. I don’t have any way to leave.”

“You don’t? Why not?”

“See that pile of bones over there?” My eyes bobbed in agreement. “That was Linae, our wizard. She got us down here. Without her or Griff I have no way to get home. And even if I could, I wouldn’t leave without Sara’s body.”

 “Can’t you swim?”

“No. We’re a long way under water.”

“A long way from what?”

“From... have you never moved?”

“Nope. Not really. I shifted once, but it ended badly.” There was an awkward pause. “What did you mean when you said I killed them twice? I didn’t even know I could do that.”

He pointed at a mass of steaming charcoal. “Cendra was trying to attack you –”

_Pain. Massive pain caused by sharpened metal. I had focused one eye and blinked very quickly. Just a tiny bit of power, not enough to deplete my carefully hoarded reserve, but more than enough to make the pain stop coming. The human screamed and grabbed her melting face, staggering backwards as her flesh rendered from the heat and wept down her face like bloody tears –_

“– and you killed her just like that. She was tougher than anyone else I knew.” He snapped his fingers.  I’d never seen anyone do that before, so I was pretty excited.  I wished he’d do it again. “Griff ran up to bring her back to life. They were in love, so he probably figured it was important.”

“Um, what’s love?”

The man sighed, pushed half of an older skull out of the way, and sat down on a rock. He didn’t answer my question.

“So Griff ran up to heal her, and you –”

_– Suddenly the tall man was standing next to the melting woman with the metal. He said words that sounded suspiciously like prayer, but not to any God I’d heard of. Golden light leapt out of his hand, bright enough to hurt. A volcano of light, and the dead woman’s wounds simply vanished. She floated a foot off of the ground, motes of liquid fire swirling around her like excited eyes, and then she was whole and healthy once again. Their eyes met for just a few seconds with a look I didn’t understand, and she reached for her sword as she started to rise and turn towards me.

So I killed her again. More thoroughly this time, not stopping until the metal melted and the bone turned sizzling black. Her friend, too. She looked a little surprised as she died the second time, so I turned – _

“– and you killed them both. He plucked her soul back from the afterlife, and you burned them away like they were scraps of wood.” He was shouting now, and his voice was loud in my cave. Then he started to cry. 

“What’s wood?” I asked. I got no answer. I went back to humming.

- - -

Hours later, I was learning how to make small talk.

 “I’ve had a little more than thirty heroes come down to try and defeat me. It’s always fun to visit with them, but they always try to kill me first. So that makes it harder to talk.” The thought made me sad.

Morro nodded. “I can well imagine. Sara and I led this expedition because we’re technically Knights of Reef. After all the tidal waves, and that one horrible explosion that wiped out most of the inner islands, the High Governor commanded us.” He laughed, but it hadn’t been funny. “We were supposed to be the best in the city.” 

“You were pretty good,” I ventured, trying to cheer him up. “I almost got nervous. That doesn’t usually happen.”

“Thanks,” he said flatly, and changed the subject. “Divinations suggested there was some sort of horrible disaster-causing, sea-smashing threat down here. We didn’t expect you. I assume you’re the guardian for the threat?”

“Nah.” I was feeling bashful. “I sort of am the threat.”

His whole body stopped moving for a few seconds, complete still. Then he turned just his head. “You caused those earthquakes and tidal waves?” 

I felt funny. “Umm. Yes? I’ve been saving up for something special, but every once in a while I find myself fighting someone, and I forget myself.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, God made me to be a nifty magical conduit. I absorb magic from the sea, and I use it to open gates to this place with a lot of fire. It takes all my concentration not to let the magic out.” I shuffled a tentacle. “That explosion thing last year. I sort of –”

_ – I had never felt so *full* before, every pore of my being trembling with magic until it felt like I couldn’t possibly take any more, but I had to! I knew I had to, if I wanted to fulfill my purpose, just a few weeks more, but it really felt funny, and I just needed something to distract me, and I hadn’t ever really seen my reflection before. All this effort to concentrate on my restraint, but maybe I could see what I looked like if I slithered a little over to the side and actually looked in the water. Hey, I looked pretty good! Lots of eyes, and the tentacles looked really stylish, and I bet if I lifted up all my tentacles and spun around... oops, leaking, leaking away –”_

“– sort of got distracted and let some of my energy out. I’d be finished here already if that hadn’t happened. I got yelled at afterwards. And usually when I’m fighting someone, I sometimes forget a little bit. That may cause problems in the water.” 

“Yeah. Problems. Yelled at by who?”

“By God.”

He seemed confused. “God? Which God? There are over forty of them last time I counted, plus innumerable demigods that spring up every time someone gets a little randy and turns himself into a dolphin. Which one made you?”

My eyes spun around my body in consternation. “I’m not sure what you mean. There’s only one God, and I know him pretty well. We’re buddies. He created me and gave me my destiny. His name is Verminox.” I sighed with affection. 

“Verminox?” He stared at me. “Verminox the Dark Wizard? Verminox of the Bloody Sail? Verminox the deadly evil bastard who every freaking hero in the Sea Realm has sworn an oath to one day destroy? That Verminox?”

Boy, that didn’t sound right. “...maybe? He has brown eyes. Does your Verminox have brown eyes? ‘Cause maybe they have the same name or something.”

He rubbed his forehead. “No, I don’t think so. That explains why you’re so powerful, at least, but Verminox is no God. What are you supposed to do as your destiny?”

“Boil the ocean. I should be ready early next year.” He sputtered a little. He must not have believed me. “No, Morro, really! I can feel the power building in me again. If I didn’t let too much out in that last fight, it won’t be too much longer now. Maybe you can keep me company until I do. It’ll be fun.”

There was a long pause from my new friend. “Let me get this straight. You’ve just killed everyone I care about. If you stay alive, you’ll rip open a gate to the plane of fire, so you can boil the ocean and everything in it. I have no way to hurt you. And you just invited me to keep you company.”

“Uh huh!” I confirmed, and squelched up and down a bit. “Hey, do you know any fun games? The only one Verminox plays with me is ‘Silent Aberration.’ It’s not very much fun. I can’t say anything when we play.” 

“No, I imagine not.”  His voice was quiet. “Thousands of people die every time you forget yourself. Probably hundreds of thousands when the central islands exploded and created a tidal wave. The beaches were full of corpses. You have to stop this.”

“Gosh,” I said, trying to shrug like I’d seen him do. I failed. No shoulders. “It’s my destiny.”

He paused. “Sorry, did I say thousands of people? I meant thousands of _interesting_ people. Who like to play games. And tell stories.”

I squinted all the eyes that could squint. “Really?”

“Yup. There’s a special city where I’m from, named Reef. It encloses all of the sea Realm, Grand Bay to Laughing Point to Pelass. Those are just names to you, but you would love it. It is a place where the air smells like stories. The crystal roofs of buildings capture all the colors of the sky and the sea, and minarets pierce the clouds of sea mist that floats across the waves.” His voice had gotten heavy, like he was recalling a thing he loved. A thing I’d love, maybe. “The sea at sunset is the color of your central eye. In Reef, people come every year to the Grand Arena, a huge bowl of polished stone that hangs out over the sea like.. like your vent-hole hangs over your body. They spend a week there every year, telling stories and playing games. Meeting people. Laughing.” He paused. “But you probably wouldn’t like it.” He turned away.

“No, wait!” I said. “I might. Maybe. I don’t know what most of those things are. Are they good stories?”

“Sometimes. My favorite last year was the story about the creature everyone thought was a monster, but who turned out to be the most beloved prince anyone had ever known.”

I gathered in breath. “How’d it end?”

“I don’t know,” he said sadly. “I think you may have been fighting someone at the time. The sea lifted itself and smashed into the city before the storyteller could finish. I fell in the ocean, and I would have drowned if the woman who would become my wife hadn’t saved me. I owed her my life, and I loved her at first sight.” He stopped and looked at me. “I’d like to go back next year and find out how the story ends.”

We both fell silent.

“There’s a part of me that loves to destroy things,” I said slowly. “But that city sounds awfully nice.”

Morro stretched out on the ground. “You have time to decide, I think,” he said. “I have faith you’ll make the right decision. You seem like a fast learner.” He turned away.

The thing is, I knew he must have had a wife for longer than a year if he was so upset that she’s dead. He didn’t want me to complete my destiny. He was lying so I’d do what he wanted.

But did it matter? 

I sat in the darkness, thinking, and humming my favorite tune quietly to myself.


----------



## Berandor (May 29, 2008)

Piratecat said:
			
		

> Sure! It's a plan. That's _exactly _what I'll do. So you shouldn't work too hard on yours, since I'll be slacking off on mine. I'd hate for you to put yourself out or anything.




Yeah, right.

[sblock]How do you come up with these things? I’m starting to get worried for the finals here  I mean, not only is that a nice story set in a role-playing world, but the ending... the ending is beautiful. I’m glad I’m not a judge and have to closely comb for criticism. And now I'll play "Silent Berandor"... [/sblock]


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## Rodrigo Istalindir (May 29, 2008)

*Match 12 -- Rodrigo vs Mythago in Ceramic DM A Go Go*

All in a Day’s Work

	I crawled out of bed and yelped when my feet hit the floor.   

	“Damn, it’s cold in here.”

	The words barely had time to condense in the air before I vaulted to the window and threw back the curtain.  I beheld a veritable winter tableaux Thomas Kinkade would have been proud to call his own.

	“Oh, damn it to *hell*,” I groused.

	I hated snow days.  Hated them with a divine passion.  Hated them more than Cain hated Abel, more than Punch hated Judy, more than any ex-wife hated her ex-husband.  I really didn’t care for them at all.  Not one little bit.

	Grumbling to myself, I dragged a dusty chest from under the bed and popped the cover.  We hadn’t had a snow day since God knows when.  I hoped the dusty and wrinkled winter clothes contained therein still fit.  I’d been eating a lot of pizza lately, and you know what they say – “A minute on the lips, an eternity on the hips.”

	I pulled the flannel-lined jeans up, grunting a little as they caught on my hips.  I had to suck in a bit to get them to button, but when I exhaled, they held together.  So long as I didn’t have to bend over, I’d be fine – it would really suck to split my pants in front of a client.   Some things can be hard to explain.

The shirt fared better, and I completed the ensemble with a leather jacket and pair of Timberland boots.   Of my cashmere gloves, only one remained.  I suspected its mate was in the same place dryer-eaten socks go, but I didn’t have time to go look for it.

	Reluctantly,  I grabbed my Blackberry.  I despised the damned thing, but we’d helped design them, so we got a great discount and management handed them out like candy.  Evil, poisonous, spirit-sucking candy.  I snagged my keys and some change for the ferry out of the urn I kept by the door as I headed out into the frigid air.  

I hadn’t made it ten feet when my electronic ball-and-chain started chirping at me.   I considered answering it, but my hands were nice and toasty inside the jacket pockets.

	Screw it, I thought.  I’ll check it when I’m on the boat.

	Despite the exertion of the hike to the docks, I was shivering when I got there.  The sight that greeted me did little to warm my bones.  Every single one of the boats was encased in ice and rimed with hoarfrost, immobilized like flies caught in amber.  (Picture 3)

	I saw the ferryman standing on alone on the pier and went to give him what-for.  One look from the cadaverous old coot stopped me dead in my tracks.  He just frowned and pointed at a dilapidated bus idling nearby.

	Great.  The bus.  Could this day get any worse?

	I joined the queue shuffling aboard the coach.  It was going to be crowded, so I threw a couple well-timed elbows, knocked some sucker’s briefcase out of his hand, and pushed my way to the head of the line.  Damned if I was going to stand all the way to the city.

*

Why do I hate snow days so much, you ask?

Lots of reasons.  The commute sucks.  Things are twice as busy as on a normal day, and on top of the usual contract-signings and collections work, we have all the special cases that have lain dormant since the last snow day to deal with.  And does the boss hire temps to help out, or outsource some of the mundane stuff to some hell-hole in India?  Of course not.  We don’t even get overtime.

*

	The bus dropped me off near my first appointment.  I was running a little late, but there was no way I was starting the day off without my coffee.  I darted into the Starbucks across from the building where my client waited obliviously, and stood in line for ten minutes for an overpriced cup of joe.  The monkey working the machine forgot the whipped cream on my venti mocha and I considered cursing him, but figured his life sucked enough as it was.

	I hurried back across the boulevard, brakes squealing and horns honking.  I flipped off the irate drivers, and strode through the rotating doors of the Criterion building.  I double-checked my Blackberry, but as usual Dispatch had sent me out without anything but the bare minimum of information.  I stopped at the front desk.

	“Excuse me, miss.  I’m here to meet with Sandra Dupree, but my employer didn’t give me a suite number, just the name.  Can you help me?”

	I waited.  Finally the overfed, underexercised security guard put down the copy of Cosmo she was reading (“Seven Ways to Satisfy Your Man” –  try not eating him out of house and home) and looked at me.  

	“What was the name?”

	I told her.

	She turned to the antiquated computer terminal that occupied half of her desk.  She hit the keys a number of times (mostly <Backspace>) and  grunted.

	“Suite 1424,” she said.

	As I turned towards the elevators, she called out.

	“Hey, you need to sign in before you…”

	I gave her the look over my shoulder and she shut her trap.

	The elevator was one of those New York deathtraps that should have been retired fifty years ago.  After much mashing of buttons, it finally arrived.  As I stepped through the doors, I could hear the cables groan as they stretched.   I wasn’t worried about them breaking, but getting stuck in an elevator would really screw up my schedule.  

	Fate was on my side, however, and it finally struggled to the 14th floor.    I stepped off and did a quick twirl as I read the little signs on the wall indicating which direction the different offices were in.  Spotting one that read ‘1400-1426 ->’ I spun left and strode down the lovely brown-and-orange carpeted hallway.  Behind double-glass doors, I saw an attractive young thing sitting behind a desk.

	“Excuse me, Miss,” I said for the second time in 5 minutes.   Politeness is big with the boss.  Says you catch more flies with honey than with vinegar.   He should know, I guess.

	She looked up at me and smiled.  

	“Can I help you?”

	“Please.  I’m here to see Sandra Dupree.  No, I don’t have an appointment.  No, she isn’t expecting me.  Yes, I can go right in,” I replied.  Politeness is all well and good, but I was on a tight schedule.

	Her pretty smile faded, and she started to say something, but I gave her the look and she just turned and pointed down the hallway.

	“Down there all the way to the window, it’s the third cubicle on the left.”

	“Thanks, beautiful.  You have a great day, okay?”  I poured on the charm.  I can do that when I need to, and I was inordinately pleased to see the smile return.

	I strode down through the planted rows of the cubicle farm, soaking in the waves of quiet desperation.  Some days I think I have it too easy.  Then I remembered it was a snow day and recanted.

	Sandra was sitting in her slave pen, back to me, when I approached.  She was typing an email -- a quick glance told me it was *the* email – so I waited quietly until she clicked ‘Send’.

	“Huh-hmmm,”  I coughed.

	She jumped about five feet in the air.

	“How long have you been standing there?” she gasped.

	“Long enough.  So, I’ve been sent here to inform you that according to Section 3, Paragraphs 7 through 12 of the Concord Eternum, the email you just sent is considered a binding contract which must be fulfilled no later than 24 hours from this point.”

	She gave me a blank look.

	“The email.  The one you just sent to your boss?  The one where you said, and I quote, ‘Howard, you are a disgusting, vile man, and I don’t care if you can fire me, but I’ll sleep with you when Hell freezes over.’”

	Still the blank look.  What is it with these people?

	I sighed, muttered a phrase or two in my native tongue, and let the disguise drop.

	She turned pale as a ghost (which, if you’ve ever seen one, is pretty damned pale) and started to scream.  I gave her the look, too, and her mouth snapped close with an audible click. (Picture 2)

	She looked at me, looked at the computer, looked at me again, and then dived under the desk and began yanking cables out of the wall as fast as she could. (Picture 1)

	I rolled my eyes.

	“That won’t help.  You already sent it.  No take-backs, that’s one of the rules.”

	With a sob, she crawled out of the plastic cave and into the artificial sunlight.  The fluorescents made her look a little green.  I hoped it was just the fluorescents; I hated it when they puked.

	She started to speak, stopped, started again and finally managed to squeak out a single word.

	“Why?”

	“Beats me, sweet-cheeks.  I’m just a corporate drone like you.  ‘Why’ is way above my pay-grade.  All I know is there was frost on the windows when I got up this morning, and snow on the ground, and a message on my phone telling me you were going to make a promise today.”

	“So I have to sleep with Howard?  But he’s repulsive. “

	“Sleep with him, don’t sleep with him, all the same to me.  I’m just required to inform you of the nature of the contract you’ve entered into,  make sure you understand the penalties,” I said, “and get your signature on the line which is dotted.”  I love that movie; half my best lines came from that movie.

	“So, Option A, you sleep with him, a little of you dies inside, and the world is a slightly grayer place.  Option B, you don’t sleep with him, we get your immortal soul, and the world goes on exactly like it always does.”

	“Sign here,” I held out a clipboard, “and put your initials next to each paragraph indicating you’ve read and understood.”

	“Are you crazy?  I’m not signing anything.  Do I look stupid enough to sign a contract with the Devil?”

	“First of all,” I replied, “I’m not the Devil, merely one of his minio…assistants.  And second, if you don’t sign, you’re assumed to have defaulted on the deal, we get your soul whether you sleep with him or not.  And don’t get me started on the penalty clauses…”

	She reached out nervously, took the clipboard, and grabbed a pen with the company logo from a coffee-cup holder on her desk.  I could see her lips move as she read the contract to herself.  She reached the end, sighed, and started scribbling.

	When she was done, I took the clipboard out of her shaking hands, and tore off her copy.

	“Thank you, and have a nice day,” I said, handing her the sheet of paper.  I stepped away from her desk to file the paperwork in my messenger bag, and as I left I heard her calling her husband to tell him she had to work late.  I kind of felt bad for her; most mortals don’t think twice about such verbal clichés, but what can you do?  I didn’t make the rules.

	I strolled out of the office, patted the cute secretary on the ass as she walked past me down the hall, and waited for the elevator.

*

	The rest of the day didn’t get any easier.  After Mrs. Dupree, there was the old Jewish guy who was going to have to sign over half his business to his wastrel son-in-law because he got angry and told him it “would be a cold day in Hell” before he let him ruin the company.
I grabbed another cup of coffee on my way to a meeting with a weepy co-ed who’d chosen a bad day to tell her true love exactly how long she’d stay with him.   That one was rough.  I didn’t lose much sleep over the connivers and cheaters and such, but screwing over decent people on a technicality never got easy.  

The worst part was that they’d blame us for their fate, when it was the Big Guy Upstairs himself who let that clause slip by during the negotiations.  If he’d been more on top of things and less  focused on winning the ‘bells ring/angels wings’ crap, the mortals would have been a whole lot better off.  You’d have thought that Captain Universe would have known better than to get into a legal tussle with the Prince of Lies.

	Right before lunch I almost got screwed by dispatch.  I got to the client’s home right before the critical moment, and just as I was about to reveal myself, she switched from ‘Hell’ to ‘Heck’ at the last second.  We would have gotten sued for sure.  

	The afternoon was jam-packed with a dozen more sob stories.  Nothing interesting, just your run of the mill ‘words spoken in anger’ stuff.  And that was why I hated these days so much.  Normally, we’d do a little research, get to know a prospective client, figure out what it would take to seal the deal, and before you knew it we had another soul for the team from Down Under.  It took finesse; maybe not as much as in the old days when people really believed, but there was some skill involved, and you’d get to work with the poor guy for the rest of his life.

	These snow-day specials, though, had no art.  It was wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am, no subtlety, no thrill of almost landing a big fish only to have him wriggle off the hook at the last second.  And there were so damn many of them.

*
	I was standing in the hallway of posh, art deco office building, waiting for the elevator.  The bell chimed as it arrived, and as I stepped on I collided with another man who was trying to exit.    

	“Damn it, wrong floor,” he grumbled, and irritably gave me a look.  Actually, he gave me *the* look.

	“Ralph?” I asked.  “Ralph Anslem?”

	He paused and peered at me curiously.

	“Oh, hi Steve.”

	“Sam,” I corrected.  “What brings you here?”

	Ralph was a lucky bastard.  He was assigned to Legal.  Not the Legal Department – you needed to be a full-fledged Prince of Darkness to run with the big boys -- but the division of Contracts and Collections responsible for the souls of lawyers.   They did almost as much business as the rest of us combined, but they got to work regular hours, stayed with the same firm for decades, and basically never had to lift a finger.

	“I’m with Kellerman, King, and Dobrinsky.  They have the top three floors in this building.”

	“Nice.  Bet it has a health club, too,” I muttered enviously.

	“Oh, yeah,” he enthused.  “Swedish massage, too.  They really look after their people here.”

	I started to make some snotty remark when my Blackberry went off.  A moment later, so did Ralph’s.

	We looked at each other, chuckled nervously, and let our hands fall to our holsters like gunslingers.  I snuck a quick peek at the display and felt my blood turn to ice water.  The subject line was  short  – just three numbers – but that was enough.  

 I glanced up at Ralph, and couldn’t help laughing.  He’d gotten so rattled by the text message that he’d let his disguise drop.  Too bad his supervisor wasn’t around to see it.

I pulled up the email, saw the address, and was chomping at the bit waiting for the elevator to reach the lobby.  As soon as the doors parted, I pushed past Ralph and sprinted for the exit.  I grabbed the only cab within sight, and slammed the door in my co-workers face.
I looked at the email as the taxi sped away, one pissed-off devil in its wake. 

“Where to, Mac?” the driver asked.

“St. Patrick’s Cathedral,” I replied, thinking this could be the chance of a lifetime.

*

	When I got there, I saw a bunch of priests and nuns milling about outside.  I was curious.  It was written into the Concord that neither side could divulge to mortals the nature of the deal, but the Church has been around a long time, and I’d always assumed that if they didn’t know for sure, they suspected some of the details.  Anyway, I’d never gotten to bag a priest on a snow-day special, and didn’t know of anyone else doing it, either.

	I sidled up to the nearest, hoping to get close enough to overhear any damning utterances without him realizing he was in my presence.  Can’t be too careful.  Holy water leaves a mark, you know.

	He was mumbling something in Latin, and I wished I’d paid more attention in class.  Hardly any use for it anymore.  But I knew enough of the ecclesiastical jargon to catch the gist of it.  Standard ‘Oh heavenly Father’ stuff for the most part.

	I wandered through the crowd unnoticed until I ended up too close to an overly enthusiastic nun and caught a rosary bead in the eye.  Close call – getting nailed by the crucifix would have hurt something fierce.  She started to apologize, then pointed and gave me that ‘Invasion of the Body Snatchers’ look when she realized what I was.

	Oh crap, I thought.  Now I’ve done it.  If I’d screwed up and let one of the holy rollers get away, I’d be in big trouble.  Even if they didn’t can me, I’d probably get transferred to Detroit or someplace worse.  Assuming there was someplace worse.

	I backed away slowly, but it was too late.  The rest of the congregation had heeded the nun’s warning, and they’d started blindfolding themselves and sticking their fingers in their ears.  See no evil, hear no evil, I guess.  And the chanting continued unabated, so that took care of ‘Speak no evil’ too.

	I was slinking away with my tail between my legs and hoping maybe they weren’t clued in to the whole snow-day thing when another taxi came screeching to a halt.  Out popped Ralph, and I could tell he wasn’t happy as he came storming towards me.

	“Cute, Sam, but I’m the senior representative on the scene.  This one’s mine – check your email if you don’t believe me.”

	Sure enough, I’d gotten another message, this one telling me that Ralph was in charge and I was to follow his lead.  I shrugged and gestured to the crowd.

	“Knock yourself out, Ralph,” I said and leaned against the wall to watch.

	Ralph strode towards the people, pulling a ream of paperwork from his fancy Italian leather briefcase.  He didn’t even look at it, just thrust it in front of them and told them to sign.  Weird.  Even stranger, they did.  They didn’t even take off their blindfolds, just scrawled something on the sheet.  It took Ralph almost a half-hour to get them all done.

	He came walking back to me with a -eating grin on his face.

	“That’s why you’re stuck where you are, Sam.  When this gets processed, I’ll get promoted to the Legal Department for sure.  No more Earth duty for me!”

	As he was gloating, the chanting had increased in volume.  I caught the tail end – something like ‘hades eluvium congelo’ and suddenly the entire herd was going airborne, flying skyward towards a suddenly bright sun. (Picture 4)  A spectral hand reached out in welcome, and within moments, they’d disappeared from view.

	Ralph stood in the now-deserted square, a look of total bewilderment on his face.  

	“Ralph, what did you do.”

	He looked at me, too stunned to speak.

	“Ralph, why did the Hand of God scoop up my, I mean, your clients?”

	He was useless.  I grabbed his briefcase and snagged one of the contracts.  As I read it, I began to laugh.

	“Oh, Ralph, man, you are *so* screwed.  Did you even look at this before they signed it?”

	Used to be these things were written in blood, and for the big, long-term Faustian style bargains they still were.  But for one-offs like on snow-days, they used the magic blank paper that just automatically filled in with whatever the client was going to utter, and if they changed their mind at the last second (damned free will and all), it updated instantly.  Saved a ton on typing, that’s for sure.  You just had to  be careful to make sure they signed *after* they spoke.

	Paragraph Two was the part where the activating clause was detailed.  On Ralph’s form, it was filled in with “The devil will be banished from our city and God will call me home *when hell freezes over*.”  Signed, Father Murphy and Ralph Ael, duly authorized agent of the Dark Prince Lucifer.

	There was a bright flash of light accompanied by a loud pop and the stink of brimstone.

	Uh oh.

	“Which one of you is responsible for this?” a voice boomed.  A taloned hand held out a copy of the errant contract.

	Without a word, I pointed at Ralph.  The Elder Devil from Infernal Affairs grabbed him by the throat, uttered a blasphemous curse, and dragged him into the fiery pit from whence it had just arrived.

*

	So, that’s how I ended up working at Kellerman, King and Dobrinsky, and Ralph ended up in Murmansk.  Turns out there are places worse than Detroit, if you can’t stand the cold.  Bet they get a ton of snow-days up there.


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## Ycore Rixle (May 29, 2008)

There is in the ocean of Tvir a strip of land which has no slope and no neighbor. It curves like a moon caught in crescent, and on the land the towers of the city of Sarntis rise, redolent of lime trees and the hookahs of poets.

It was late in the day, and the sun was sinking under the waves like a lure to a nocturnal leviathan, when Knight Admiral Rhys recognized an ill portent in the throne room. The girl with whom he was sharing these delicious grapes – what was her name? - stopped giggling. Everyone stopped talking, actually. This was the hour when the grape girls and the oil girls came round, all laughing, and he would put aside the rolls and charts and wonder at how a Knight Admiral could ever select just one consort. But now: silence.

He looked up to see the prophet.

So. The time had come.

Rhys had known it would. He was a bastard, but he wasn’t stupid. He had heard the rumors in the coconut groves and the narghile houses where he walked with his brother and discussed the grape girls and the oil girls. Such always came, and it was his misfortune to be Knight Admiral when the hour came round at last.

Now the prophet shuffled forward in rag sandals, clicking his stick on the polished marble floor. 

“Doom,” the old man said. “Doom will come to Sarntis. The dreamers in the ocean wash up with the waves, and the fires of their hopes burn down your towers.”

There was more but Rhys was not listening. He was Rhys the Bastard, and for a reason. He flicked a lever under his desk. A marble wall tile rattled up, and from their kennel the rykhounds came yowling.

***

“Sarntis has never been at war.”

The conference was in the king’s sea office, on the Foam Portico overlooking the beaches and the lime trees. It was twilight still, and Rhys was there, and king Volle, and, notably, the grape girl that he had been in converse with. What was her name? Apparently the king liked her for a handmaiden.

“No, we have never fought a war,” the king said. “It is not our way.”

“Let us hope we can keep the old ways, despite the prophet,” Rhys said.

“And if we cannot? You’re the Knight Admiral. All eyes fall to you. Are you saying you won’t fight?”

“Of course I’ll fight. But Knight Admiral is a hereditary position, not an earned one. Keep that in mind as you make your plans.”

“And you keep this in mind: no more of your hounds siccing old men at court. If your beasts had not spooked him, then instead of burning himself to oblivion – or whatever magical disappearance he wrought– the prophet may have stood fast and talked. He might even have explained that nonsense about the dreamers.” The king stared off into the twilight. He took a wine glass from the girl and sipped. In Sarntis, there was wine even at war conferences at twilight.

“Bah. He was one man, in rags,” the king went on. “Probably this is a squall that flashes on the horizon and never makes landfall. Nothing but vain fantasy from a man who could sell his dreams to no one else.”

“And yet, as you point out, I am the Knight Admiral. The prophet had a presence. His eyes were wild with surmise, but he knew you. The question is, how do we investigate? Sarntis is not accustomed to mystery, or to peril.”

“Isn’t your brother a wizard of sorts?” the grape girl asked. She was looking at the Knight Admiral.

Both nobles stared back at her.

“Tara,” she said. “My name is Tara.”

***

The wine flowed while they waited for the grape girl – Tara – to fetch Dal.

Dal was younger than Rhys, and only in Sarntis could the two be imagined brothers. Dal was a broken man who refused the litter that his deformities and his station warranted. Instead he traveled on a small wheeled chariot pulled by two clockwork tortoises, designed by the cripple himself and powered by the remnants of the dream that had saved him.

The stars were burning holes in the firmament’s cerecloth when the whirrs and clanks of the turtles finally announced Dal’s arrival at the Foam Portico. 

It was a moment’s work for Rhys to tell his brother the story of the prophet.

Dal’s face fell, and Rhys’s heart followed. If Dal were worried, then the prophet was genuine after all. For Dal knew Sarntis as few others did.

“We must find out what this doom is,” he said. “For all dooms can be avoided. And we must get help. The city must rise.”

***

“I don’t understand,” Tara said. “Why am I here?”

Knight Admiral Rhys and his grape girl were behind an arras in the shade of the stage wings at the Amphitheater of the Prothalamion. Rhys smeared a lime on his lips against parching in the heat. After the nobles assembled, he was going to be doing a lot of speaking. Through a hole in the arras, he watched his audience, fanning themselves in the sun, some fresh from dreaming a thousand gold in the morning sea, some waiting for evening dreamtime before work, and many that only peripherally depended on Sarntis’s unique industry.

“We’re here because Dal is steeped in retorts and bubbling sulfur, divining the nature of the doom. That’s his half of the job. Our half is to get help.”

“That’s why _you _ are here, Knight Admiral. Why am _I_ here? I’m a grape girl.”

“Call me Rhys. And you’re here because you know these people. See old lady Thel? You carried her wine at the suckling roast. You knew my brother was a wizard. Tell me those people’s secrets: who is in whose bed, whose debt, whose dreams.”

He stared through the arras-hole out into the chrysoprase, sard, and onyx amphitheater, lustrous in the midday heat. He did not want to meet Tara’s eyes because he could imagine the surprise and suspicion there. All the stories at court, all the women that he had been with. Rhys the Bastard, they called him. Maybe she thought this was another ploy. No matter. She would either help him, or she wouldn’t.

And in the end, she decided to help. He was impressed with her acumen and the suitability of her secrets to his purposes. Was this how one selected just a single woman?

He stepped out from behind the arras armed with Tara’s knowledge. He wielded it skillfully, menacing this trade, promising that lure.

But unlike Tara, the nobles were not convinced.

They said he was the Knight Admiral. Defense was his duty. Sarntis had never been to war, had no standing navy, or armed forces at all. His fault, for not having foreseen this. The rich (and that was everyone in Sarntis) would flee, and maybe come back if Rhys found a way to avoid the doom – if, indeed, the doom were real. Was his only evidence the words of a madman and a cripple? 

***

So Rhys, Tara, and Dal went to see the doom and prove its threat. They flew across the waves in the _Crepuscular_, a galleon with dragon wings for sails and half a will of its own for an anchor. A mighty dream-fact was the _Crepuscular_.

Wind lashed Tara’s hair. She didn’t serve grapes, or wine, or tell secrets. And she didn’t ask why she was here. She smiled whenever Rhys met her gaze. That smile, at least, the Knight Admiral could understand.

But Dal? Why was he happy? The young cripple tooled around the aft deck on the back of a clockwork tortoise, sounding waves with a knotted rope, bubbling three alembics on the gunwale, shouting orders in a strange click-language to the other tortoise (which looked to Rhys to be doing some sort of Thunttian bear-dance, all that was missing was a red ball on its nose). Dal, of all people! Smiling!

That made Rhys happy. Why else had he spent ten years in the waters, dreaming? It was true: the Knight Admiral could have risen above his hereditary title. He could have been a duke or a comneni, either through talent or lucre. But he had spent a decade in the Sarntian trade of dreamcraft and sold not a single piece. The work went to Dal. Their parents did not exactly tell Rhys to let Dal die. They simply ignored the waters off the coast as if magic did not float there, as if those who swam in the Sarntian Tvir for a year or more could not, through skill and yearning, suture together fact and dream. Rhys was old enough to despise his parents for their cowardice (for a failed dreamer is often a drowner). Rhys walked into the ocean at fourteen and floated, dead to the world, dead to the salt and the foam, dreaming. Each year, Dal got healthier. At twenty-four Rhys awoke and walked out of the waves, across the beach and the Smoke Way, and into Dal’s room. His parents had passed, but Dal lived. The younger brother was still a cripple, and club-footed and bandy-legged to boot, but he lived, appearing healthy, almost Sarntian, from the waist up.

And now he smiled!

And shouted!

Actually, now his shouts were not in the click-language. “Rhys! Tara! There!”

They had been sailing for a day and a night and a day. The stars were out again, lighting the sky like someone had smashed the sun and left pieces guttering here and there. But in one part of the sky there was nothing but a black void. No stars? No. Something was blocking the stars.

Tara stood closer as Rhys hollered again, this time in the click language. A swarm of clockwork birds flapped up out of the open hold, each one carrying a limelight lantern. The birds scudded across the ocean waves, faster than the _Crepuscular _ itself, and set up lights around the doom.

The thing was enormous. Taller than the tallest tower in Sarntis, and just as wide. Coiled around its central eye were chrysoprase, sard, and onyx tentacles, all the stones of Sarntis. An oleaginous effulgence glazed the eye like a hookah-smoker’s after long hours at the pipe. At length, the eye blinked in the lime lantern beams. A roar came across the waves from the base of globular monstrosity, where swirled a miasma of salt spray and the fatty effulgence that turned Rhys’s gut to contemplate. But the thing was merciful in its hatefulness: it spared Rhys a long view. Once focused on Dal’s birds, the eye was quick to act. Its tentacles snapped out with such ferocity that Rhys expected them to rend the night sky itself. They did not. But they struck each and every lime lantern-bird. The birds died with keening wails, and then all was dark, and the _Crepuscular _ reversed course, the roar of the miasma chasing it back to Sarntis.

***

Now the Knight Admiral took the stage with more confidence. The entire city had turned out for this. The stage was a platform suspended from two distant towers by cables Dal provided. A sea of people was under and around Rhys as he spoke, his voice amplified by yet another of Dal’s ingenious devices. And while the younger brother had nothing to amplify Rhys’s arguments, the encounter with the eye fired his words and steeled his resolve. Tara and Dal also spoke, describing the doom that approached.

The jeers were beyond Rhys’s belief.

He gestured to Dal. Louder! But as loud as the Knight Admiral’s voice became, the crowd’s boos swelled louder. At the end, Rhys could feel the platform swaying as the people pounded and yelled and shook the supports.

“Time to go.” Rhys picked up Dal, descended, and with the aid of a cloaking spell, dodged through the crowd, Tara in tow.

“What are we going to do?” Tara said, ducking a vase that would have cost a mainlander a year’s salary as it shattered against the wall. After they had made their way through the worst of it, resting against a marble wall, she said, “This is madness. They’re mad. And they’re leaving.” She pointed down Smoke Way, to the docks, where every sloop and caravel was raising sail.

“We have to get to the king and –“ Rhys started.

“Time to go,” said an unfamiliar voice.

There was a tall man, grey beard, bald pate, in a commoner’s ruby-embroidered tunic. He held Tara’s arm. Rhys drew his sword. He was a bastard, but he wasn’t stupid. This was daddy, obviously.

Or maybe he was stupid. What good was a sword here?

“Tara,” her father said. “Now. We have a zeppelin waiting. And you, Knight Admiral, let my daughter sink from your thoughts as you and this city will sink beneath the waves. Sarntis is doomed. It has been coming for a long time. You should have been prepared.”

“I asked for help. Every year. Again and again I was told that nothing would come to Sarntis. We are too distant to be attacked, too benevolent to be hated, too understanding to offend. Our wizards have proved again and again that the dreamcraft of Sarntis can never harm anything, so why would anyone see us as a threat? So it was argued. Still, I asked for help. But there was never any help for me.”

“Then you should have forced people!”

“That is not our way! Help me now. Together we can convince more. The city united can stand.”

“You disgust me. Tara!”

Rhys did not understand the look in Tara’s eyes. But he wasn’t going to force her to stay. He wasn’t going to force anyone to stay.

She left with her father.

***

Rhys and Dal caught up with the king in the coconut groves in the courtyard of the palace. Mainlander servants scurried past with treasure-laden trunks. The king had a galleon in the harbor.

King Volle told Rhys that the people of Sarntis were dreamers, not warriors. He mused that perhaps it was wrong to sell dreams for gold, and the gods, so long thought dead, had returned to punish the dream merchants. At any rate, it was foolish to take up arms against the doom. What could be done? The people of Sarntis could take their riches to another place.

And trailing him from wagon to wagon, weaving through servants loaded with paintings and intaglios and dragon ivory, Rhys argued that without Sarntis, his brother would not be alive. Gold cannot heal a cripple.

“No. No, it cannot, Rhys. But I can heal you. You have been crippled by your duty to me and to our city. Be free, Rhys. Go. You do not need to save this city. Go find that girl that I saw you with, that night on the Foam Portico.”

Instead, Rhys watched his king leave, on a galleon riding low in the water, weighted by a city’s treasure and, Rhys wished, guilt.

***

And so Dal and Rhys were alone in the city when the eye rose on the horizon. It was little more than a shadow under the clouds now, but in a day it would be upon them.

The lime orchards were more fragrant than ever before, the scented waters of the hookah parlors sweeter, as the brothers walked the Smoke Way. The creaks of Dal’s chariot wheels, and his turtles’ whirrs and clanks, were louder than Rhys could ever remember. Something about the desertion of the city amplified the few sounds and smells that were left.

They discussed strategy. They spent four hours sinking a chain across the harbor, in the absurd hope that the eye had a keel.

Dal had eldritch seals guarding his laboratory. They lifted them, placed them on ropes, and festooned the towers. The hope was to catch a tentacle as it reached for the marble and emerald spires.

The planning went as well as possible until Dal decided to leave.

That pushed Rhys to despair. At first he thought that his brother was merely missing. Perhaps his chariot broke, and he was stuck in a high tower with no way to descend. Or a seal had gone off and injured him. That was unlike Dal, but Rhys wanted to believe it had happened.

A thorough check of all the buildings nearby took even that unlikely possibility from Rhys. Not a sign of the chariot or the wizard.

Then he decided to check the docks. What he found there made him regret the decision. If he had stayed in the city, looking for his brother in the towers and the narghile houses, most likely he would have died when the doom came, oblivious to the real truth. In his despair, he wished for ignorance. But he had seen the docks.

Besides the _Crepuscular_, which would sail only for Rhys, there was one boat left in the city. The people had taken all of the others. But for some reason known only to wizards, Dal had a strange narrow boat, little more than a split log with pontoons, in his laboratory. They had placed it in the docks after hauling the chain across the harbor.

Now it was gone, and so was Dal.

Rhys wept for several hours on the planks of the Smoke Way pier while the doom swept closer. He snapped out of it when the increasing winds – storm strength now -  blew an alembic into his forehead. The pain took his mind off the grief for a moment. As he picked the shards of glass out of his forehead, he remembered all the time Dal spent in his laboratory – and he had the answer. He tied a bandana across his head to stop the bleeding and ran. If only the _Crepuscular _ was fast enough.

***

It was, and it wasn’t.

He sailed out to where he had spent a decade dead to the city, dreaming of a brother who was whole. The dreams of Sarntis could never be used as weapons. That was an established fact. There had never been a wizard in five centuries who could overturn that. Dal was a rebel, to be sure, but not even he questioned the nature of the dream-magic in the Sarntian Tvir. But there was another possibility. Rhys had not thought of it, of course. Too busy with Tara or pleading with the nobles. But Dal was always the smart one. And Dal would know that Rhys would never, ever let Dal try it. Better to die facing the doom.

Taking a boat from the _Crepuscular_, Rhys fished Dal from the water.

“I have lived forty lifetimes since you saw me,” Dal coughed. His legs were useless, and his arms were little better. He sprawled in the bottom of the boat. “Each one a new nightmare. I have seen our parents die a thousand times, crying for you. I have seen Tara leave us every morning. I have seen horrors to make the eye that is coming here nothing to me.”

“It’s going to be ok, Dal. It will be ok. We’ll run. We’ll go somewhere else. Let the doom have the city.”

“No. Without the city, I would not have lived. Take it.” He lifted a small black ball to Rhys. “It is not a dream that I crafted. It is a nightmare.”

Rhys felt the emotion rise in his voice. He understood what his brother had done for him. It would be a long, long time before he saw Dal smiling again.

***

Back on the docks, Rhys set Dal in his chariot.

Black ball raised high in his hands, he started to chant as Dal had instructed him on the ride back in. He wasn’t counting on the doom’s tentacles.

With a thunderclap, the tentacle reached somehow across a mile of open water. It knocked the nightmare ball flying.

“The eye sees! The eye sees!” Dal shouted and twisted in his chair. Rhys shook his head. There would be time for Dal later – or not. He needed to act now.

The black ball – where was it?

“Looking for this?” Tara smiled at him. She held up the nightmare ball. Behind her was the most beat-up zeppelin the Knight Admiral had ever seen. But that only registered for a moment. Tara tossed him the nightmare ball.

He chanted quickly. The heat coming from the ball told him the spell was working. Dal screamed and twisted in his chair as if knives, long inserted, were being pulled slowly out of his skin. The nightmare rose out of Rhys’s hand, crackling, burning, ascending into the clouds in a conflagration of torment.

The lightning, fire, and smoke inferno was accompanied by a thousand screams. As the nightmare raced across the harbor, Rhys realized that every one of those screams belonged to his brother.

***

The doom and the nightmare collided and annihilated. The wind and the rain and the fire seared the tops of buildings and blew down the lime orchards, but the whole of the spectacle was not recorded, for Rhys and Tara only looked at each other, and Dal was still mad. 

In the years to come, that madness would fade, and the two brothers and Tara journeyed far, far from Sarntis.

At night under the distant stars, rocking on Crepuscular or lying on Thunttian grass, the former Knight Admiral would recall how he had been tempted to turn the nightmare against the city after annihilating the doom. But he always ended his reveries believing that he had made the right choice, and he drifted off to sleep in Tara’s arms free of nightmare, and hearing his brother tinker or snore or click happily nearby.

One day, the city will dream again. There is no doubt of that.

But for now, though people have returned to Sarntis, that city gleaming in marble and redolent of narghiles, few of the returnees are poets, and even fewer are dreamers. It is difficult to craft poems and dreams amidst the hot wails of torture. The word spread, as it always does, and today there is value in novelty. When the mainlanders come to Sarntis, they want nightmares instead of dreams.


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## Berandor (May 29, 2008)

Rodrigo (and mythago):

[sblock]Nice! That will be a hard round to judge between you and mythago. You wrote a really funny story; at first I thought you could have told us from the beginning about the nature of the narrator, but you uncovered it early enough, I think.

Curiously, reading your story also made me realize a few things in mythago's entry. I think both of your "duck under the table"-uses aren't that integral to the story, you both more or less went on the devil picture and then the freezing one as secondary image.

Also, I think both of your protagonists don't really do much (for the central conflict, I should add regarding Rodrigo's); they report the story, so to speak. I wonder if that will be a negative influence on the judgement. I enjoyed both stories, anway.[/sblock]


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## Rodrigo Istalindir (May 29, 2008)

For Berandor:
[sblock]
Thanks.  I decided after my last entry to go the more light-hearted route.  I really wanted to hold off on revealing Sam's nature as long as I could -- I was having fun playing with the cliches and language and trying to keep things just under the surface, so that if you read it again, it would be funny in a different way.  

This was a fun story to write.  Bonus points for anyone that gets the Sam and Ralph reference.  That and reading an ENW discussion on alignment were the fodder for this tale.
[/sblock]


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## Berandor (May 30, 2008)

Piratecat II

[sblock]Now that the story has had time to sit, I think the monster was a little off in its description. On the one hand, there's the fixed fate it has and tries to bring about, but on the other hand it readily accepts (or doesn't protest) when its "God" is called a simply wizard – and the monster seems smart enough (going by the end) to not just be fooled or confused by that. But I'm not even sure that's a true nitpick, or just an imagined one.[/sblock]

Ycore Rixie:
[sblock]While the basic plotline was quite usual, I must say I enjoyed the flavor of your story immensely, with the city of dreams and everything. I also really like the style of it, the vocabulary you use, and your fictional names. I really had the impression of a fledged-out world in there, which is great considering the time limit. Maybe the bastard thing should have been kept through to the end or cut entirely, I don't know. But Rhys didn't seem like such a bastard, really. Thanks![/sblock]

Good luck, both.


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## Berandor (May 30, 2008)

Rodrigo Istalindir said:
			
		

> For Berandor:
> [sblock]
> Thanks.  I decided after my last entry to go the more light-hearted route.  I really wanted to hold off on revealing Sam's nature as long as I could -- I was having fun playing with the cliches and language and trying to keep things just under the surface, so that if you read it again, it would be funny in a different way.
> 
> ...




[sblock]I guess knowing the pictures spoilt that surprise somewhat [/sblock]


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## Herremann the Wise (May 30, 2008)

Congratulations to all our competitors for getting their stories in. Judgments to be posted as soon as possible.

Best Regards
Herremann the Wise


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## mythago (May 30, 2008)

Rodrigo Istalindir said:
			
		

> Reluctantly, I grabbed my Blackberry. I despised the damned thing, but we’d helped design them, so we got a great discount and management handed them out like candy. Evil, poisonous, spirit-sucking candy.




Well, *I'm* sold 

[sblock]Really, my goal here was just to get SOMETHING written so I didn't let my esteemed opponent down - it's a miracle I was able to write this much.[/sblock]


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## Piratecat (May 30, 2008)

Frank, good story. I'll comment once I read it a second time.


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## Ycore Rixle (May 31, 2008)

Thanks, and yours too, Kevin. Good stuff.

Comments on your story and others:

[sblock]

Wow, as impressive as I would expect from you! I love the economy of phrasing. Your two characters' diction is spot on. Each has a distinctive voice. Remarkably, you also used dialogue to emphasize the underlying similarities and foreshadow the monster's humanity by having the two speak, if not with the same diction, then in the same patterns (both use statements as questions, endearing anecdotes, humor - love the randy dolphin zinger at mythology, by the way). But basically you created two interesting characters and put them in an interesting situation. That's always a good thing. And the first-person limited viewpoint (a la Scout from To Kill a Mockingbird) is a tough one to pull off well. You did it. If I had to nitpick, my personal preference is for sharp resoution at the end of stories, but on the other hand plenty of folks like endings with a shadow of ambiguity. Really, it was a fun, keen, witty tale!

Dlsharrock - I liked the Caitlin character and her journey through the story. I also liked the humorous lines like, "What did one disgusting amorphous blob say to another disgusting amorphous blob?" The action was a bit chopped-up for me in parts, and a touch more editing might have made it easier to follow. When I saw your pictures posted, I was wondering what you guys would come up with. Kudos on pulling them all together.

Eeralai - The idea that Cate gets out of her body and into a very different body (or housing) is intriguing. Definitely gives the reader something to think about, namely, how exactly do the mind and body depend on each other? Would she have made the same decision if she were a 'skinny'?

Rodrigo - Hey! I used to live in Detroit! Hehe, actually you're not that far off (do you live there?). I wouldn't have minded seeing the conflict introduced a little bit earlier instead of just following Sam through the day. But it picked up for me when the nature of Sam's job became clear, and it picked up again when the rival showed up. I appreciated twinning the lawyers and the servants of the Dark Prince (an allusion to Angel's Wolfram and Heart, maybe?).

Mythago - The ice and cold imagery was cool (pun intended, sorry!). Seriously, I liked it. Oh, and naming her Gabriella - that is wicked of you.  The "Judas with better parties" line made me think of F. Paul Wilson's _Virgin_.

Starman - I had fun with this one. Frank was a sympathetic character. I do wish that the picture of Frank had been included a little earlier; it was super for the character you were creating. The ending was a good payoff. Nice!

Berandor - Another fun one with a good payoff. This one is long, but it carries the reader with it. Perhaps a little editing toward the beginning (I'm thinking the section where Amurayi takes Richard) could have picked up the pace a bit. I liked the use of Indian mythology and your playing with the reincarnation theme. For me, the way that you used the gods, and the way that you spanned centuries in your narrative, both added a sense of weight and importance to the story. Kind of an epic "Listen up, this stuff _matters_!" vibe. Navid's actions at the climax were really well staged. Nicely done.

[/sblock]


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## Ycore Rixle (May 31, 2008)

A couple notes on my story and re:



			
				Berandor said:
			
		

> Ycore Rixie:
> [sblock]While the basic plotline was quite usual, I must say I enjoyed the flavor of your story immensely, with the city of dreams and everything. I also really like the style of it, the vocabulary you use, and your fictional names. I really had the impression of a fledged-out world in there, which is great considering the time limit. Maybe the bastard thing should have been kept through to the end or cut entirely, I don't know. But Rhys didn't seem like such a bastard, really. Thanks![/sblock]




[sblock]

Thanks for the comments, Berandor! I agree that Rhys's character as shown is a bit uneven with regards to being a bastard. There could be more of his earlier (pre-story, post-dreaming) womanizing and flouting of the court.

Ok, since I didn't get a chance to post anything like this earlier, here are a couple of general notes on the story:

1. Doh! I forgot to post the title. It's "The Ones That Fought for Sarntis."

2. I had Lovecraft's "The Doom That Came to Sarnath" and LeGuin's "The Ones That Walk Away from Omelas" in mind while writing it. I'd always wanted to try writing about a dream-city, albeit with a different ending.

3. I was trying to keep a dream-like tone to the narration in a couple of ways, like using a lot of latinate words and starting sentences with a lot of conjunctions. That was fun!

4. Funny that PC and I had different takes on the sex of the figure in the boat. It's hard to tell. Maybe we both should have named that figure's character Pat. 

5. I tried to pick images (limes and limelight, clockwork tortoises) that would combine disparate elements and play to a unity vs. disunity theme.

6. Also funny that PC and I each reversed moods from the first round (dark to light or light to dark).

[/sblock]

Good luck to everybody!


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## Piratecat (Jun 1, 2008)

Frank, comments on our stories:

[sblock]First, let me say that I got entirely the wrong image of "eldritch seals."  

The thing I love most about your story is the language and the setting. Both are great. You've done a wonderful job of evoking images (the clockwork tortoises, wiping lime on the lips at the beginning of the speech, stars in the firmament) that stay with you. This language and cadence strongly underscored the nature of Sarntis as a dream city. Nicely done. 

I also like how you played with scale for the picture of the giant monster. I hadn't thought of something that humongous! It's a very powerful image that way.

I do see Berandor's point. I wonder if the story would read differently if he was "the loyal" and he's setting hounds on people because he has the best interest of Sarntis at mind, at the expense of the individual citizens. This is a good reminder for me that small changes matter. I sometimes forget this while I'm writing.

My story was hard to write this time; I threw away as much dialogue as I wrote. It took me a while to get the tone right, as well as an ending I was happy with. I tried fixed endings  - one where he's fully swayed by the adventurer's (clearly a bard!) temptations, and one where he learns deception and plans to betray him. Both seemed trite and too pat, stuck in for the sake of convenience. I decided to go with the more realistic and less certain ending instead. For me, I think that was the right choice. But darn, it took me a while to get the conversation sounding correct, and even now there are some tweaks I'd like to make. Welcome to life, I guess.

The story started to work for me when I decided to make the monster the narrator. I liked the idea of this ultra-powerful threat being basically a friendly, lonely guy with an unpleasant task. Naive and sort of childish, but tremendously difficult to defeat even though it's essential that his plan not be finished. If you can't fight him with swords or spells, what weapons can you use? Language and friendship, maybe. 

[/sblock]


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## Berandor (Jun 1, 2008)

Any news on the judgment front?


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## arwink (Jun 1, 2008)

My fault, I'm afraid. The deadline I was trying to meet by Friday ended up eating most of my weekend, but it was (finaly!) finished about a half-hour ago. I've sent off quick gut-instinct-style judgments for Eeralai vs. Disharock and Berandor vs. Starman, but I imagine it'll be another couple of hours until Herremann gets them (it's about 3 am here in Australia).


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## Piratecat (Jun 1, 2008)

Go get some sleep! And speaking only for myself, quick judgments are just fine. 

Thanks for doing that.


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## Berandor (Jun 1, 2008)

Yeah, quick judgement is good, you getting sleep is better.

Thanks for letting us know.


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## Starman (Jun 1, 2008)

Thanks for the update, arwink.


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## Dlsharrock (Jun 1, 2008)

whoo. All that work, no sleep and then you read *my* story at 3 in the morning? I hope you don't have nightmares Arwink. (*guilt*)


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## Herremann the Wise (Jun 2, 2008)

*Match Nine / Dlsharrock vs. Eeralai*

ARWINK’S JUDGMENT

Sorry for the brevity of this folks: I’m still being hammered by work at present, and I wanted to make sure I got something to you rather than letting this drag on. 

Dlsharrocks story starts strong and holds together well – I’m engaged, I enjoyed the picture use, and the voice worked nicely. It all started to unravel a little by the end though, and I find myself dissatisfied with the conclusion. It’s kind of a resolution-that-isn’t, because the conflict that’s been driving the story isn’t actually resolved.

Eerali gives us a solid beginning to the story, but the ending leaves me feeling a little flat. There’s a real reliance on backstory to drive the conflict – we only ever understand Cate’s actions through flashback  - and I think this needs to start earlier or finish later as a result. The militia crashing through isn’t a satisfying conclusion to the story as it stands, but it could be if we’re given a greater lead-in to set-up the relationship between Cate and the Professor which sets-up the tension between her desire and his research. Alternately, this would work as a beginning as well.

Judgment

Both of these stories start strong, with great voice and interesting set-ups, and both seem to drift into their endings rather than really hammer the story home for maximum impact. It’s a tough choice, but I think Dlsharrock takes the round. 


THE JUDGMENT OF HERREMANN THE WISE

Being round two and still only four pictures (next round has 5 pictures while the final will have 6!); I deliberately upped the ante on the difficulty level of the images. This set was weighed down (please excuse the pun) by a couple of dominant images that put extra creative demands on our authors. Dlsharrock and Eeralai have come up with two good stories and in truth I found this a tough one to split.

Dlsharrock has done well in drawing his story together – although the title was a little trite. I enjoyed the longer ride and felt that the internal logic of the piece held together nicely. The twist at the end didn’t quite have me falling off of my chair but still, it was very neatly done. Picture use was of high quality with most images receiving a good work out. The glazed... “thing” was excellently used whilst the miniature helicopter was at the other end of the spectrum – but good enough in context.  All in all, this story scored well from me, I really enjoyed it.

I loved the futuristic premise behind Eeralai’s story and the inevitability of technology it presented. By the end of the story, I had well and truly enjoyed myself but wondered what the real message behind the story was? I don’t think that the excellent foundation that was set up was taken advantage of by the finale. To my thinking, the choice that Cate took in the end was never a real choice. I think if there was a feeling that Cate could have reasonably refused the professor, it would have made the piece more fulfilling; the true theme of the piece being allowed to resonate. Aside from this quibble, there was so much of the piece to like. I thought the images were well used, the tone consistent and the pacing controlled. Congratulations on a fine effort with a difficult set of pictures.

Splitting the two is tough but on this occasion, I’ll go with Dlsharrock by a whisker. I think this tale was the more complete package winning over Eeralai’s story that had better potential but a potential that was not quite fully realised. This was a really tough one for me.

MALDUR’S JUDGMENT

When I saw the pictures I almost wished for a story where the fat lady ...
stayed the fat lady, but it seems cultural forces drove both writers towards the promise of skinny.

DLSHarrock, nice chtuloidish story, nice twist in the tradition of the short story.

Eeralai, cyberpunkish story nice technology, when do we get to read the rest of the book, as this story practicaly screams prologue.

Judgement: Eeralai, as that story had nicer flow, and I am just a sucker for cyberpunkish stories.

FINAL JUDGMENT

Dlsharrock wins but only just.


----------



## Herremann the Wise (Jun 2, 2008)

*Match Ten / Starman  vs. Berandor*

ARWINK’S JUDGMENT

Again, apologies for the brief comments, but I figured quick and done is better than detailed and not-done at this point. 

Starman / The Great Illusion of a Dream

This one causes me some consternation; the voice is solid, the character is interesting, but the plot leaves me cold. It’s a story driven by whimsy more than anything, and I’ve never really been satisfied by this. I think it’s largely the ending that loses me – it’s an abrupt change and a happy ending that never really feels like it’s in doubt. Frank’s initial desire to become a knightly hero feels a little on-the-nose, and his transformation doesn’t feel like it’s earned.

Berandor / Samsara

That first line: great image, very exacting in its detail. That control carries through the rest of the piece, which is loaded with great one-liners and subtle ironies. The only real disappointment for me was the switch to Richard as POV character in order to get Amurayi free – for all that it has some of my favourite lines in the story, it’s a moment that’s purely narrative device. 

Judgment

Starman pulls together a solid story and may have the better picture use by a small margin (Berandor fudges a little with the tree image, IMO, switching out the fantastic feel for a more convenient milieu), but Berandor’s tale does a great job of mixing folklore and the imagery into a cohesive whole. I’m going to give the round to Berandor.  

THE JUDGMENT OF HERREMANN THE WISE

I’d have to say that I got really excited when I posted the pictures. I thought them diverse, tough yet evocative – my favourite set of images thus far.

Starman has produced an OK story that draws the images together well but in truth, I don’t think Frank did enough for me as a central character. Frank either had to earn my sympathy or deserve my derision and instead he kind of fell in the middle. As such, the ending was fairly limp in terms of affecting me as a reader. Frank’s pining for an illusion was just too one-dimensional. There wasn’t enough meat in the story for me to believe that Frank’s dream girl was anything but an illusion, the story staying in the mundane rather than threatening the fantastic. Still, it was a good effort with a tough set of pictures.

Without beating around the bush, Berandor has given me something wonderful here. This was a story that despite its length had me re-reading it several times in rapture. It was exceptionally well crafted, used the pictures to full effect and did everything you could hope for from a story crafted in less than 72 hours. The twist was well done; the characters involved engaging and the pacing appropriate for the slightly extended tale that was presented. What can I say but it was a joy to read a story of this standard. Exceptionally well done!

My judgment goes to Berandor.

MALDUR’S JUDGMENT

Round two: Berandor vs. Starman

Starman: nice story, especially the way you put in the suprised midget was priceless (great pic as well  )

berandor: great beginning, and even as the end was slightly less....epic, I loved the twist. Supernatural creatures better be carefull around indian midgets 

Judgement: Berandor

FINAL JUDGMENT

Congratulations to Starman for another stellar effort but Berandor gets the clean sweep.


----------



## Herremann the Wise (Jun 2, 2008)

*Match Eleven / Piratecat vs. Ycore Rixle*

ARWINK’S JUDGMENT

Piratecat / Fast Learner

Good comic fantasy is hard to write, and I’m usually one to groan when I see a comedy-fantasy set-up. Despite my reservations and a rocky opening where I was left struggling to find my feet, you’d really sold me on the genre by the end. In fact I think my favourite thing about this story is the fact that I know I’m being set up for a joke, but I’m still pleasantly surprised and amused by the punchline. The “Does your Verminox have brown eyes” actually had me giggling at my computer. I think it works because there’s a sensitivity to the humour – it exists outside of the joke, and I feel like our nameless protagonist is going on a journey (albeit one that doesn’t really feel resolved in the ending)

Ycore Rixle / Untitled

The world-building here is excellent, bringing the city of Sarnise to life in a series of deft brush-strokes and details. The voice of the piece echoes the lush decadence of the city, and while you brush up against the absurd there’s a certain surety that carries things through. The build of the narrative is great, but I felt somewhat let down by the all-too-convenient return of Tara to save the day. The irony is that Rhys has certainly grown into a character that feels like he deserves to be with Tara as a reward for his character arc, but that climactic moment actually makes it feel like he’s getting out of jail free. 

Judgment

I think the round goes to Piratecat, but man, I flip-flopped on this one. I started Ycore’s story thinking Piratecat had the edge; by the middle of Ycore’s story, as the voice grew more confident and the wry absurdity more controlled, I thought the character arc and growth of Rhys was going to bring this one home; With both writers doing a great job with the words and images, the final decision finally came down to which story satisfied the most (or left me unsatisfied in the right way), and Piratecat’s ambiguity just pipped the flawed-but-effective ending of Ycore’s story at the post. 

THE JUDGMENT OF HERREMANN THE WISE

These images were again somewhere in the realm of science fiction and fantasy – a test for our two competitors to come up with something extraordinary.

Piratecat has a way of presenting things that you can’t help liking. The perspective of our aberrant “hero” is fantastic and bizarre to read but completely and utterly fascinating. On the one hand I loved it, on the other, I wished there were more and on the other tentacle, I’m glad the piece was kept short and tight. An excellent interpretation of the images.

Ycore Rixle has perhaps gone a step further in presenting an other-world both broad and tangible. The scope of the world was majestically presented. Unfortunately, the actual story for me was a little too languid and in parts almost too slight. Perhaps this is the danger of this set of pictures. To treat them with seriousness and depth you need to have room for the world (which you did and did excellently) but also the drama of the story (which could have been better). I love what you tried to do here and on one level I think you succeeded. However, the story as a whole did not have as much punch as I think it deserved.

As such, Piratecat gets the vote for me but boy was I impressed with what Ycore Rixle was doing.

MALDUR’S JUDGMENT

Piratecat: For some reason the monster in your story reminds me of the thing under the umbrella in the order of the stick. Cute but deadly.

Ycore Rixle: dreams and nightmares, interesting ideas.

Judgement: Due to the slight haphazard feel of Ycores story it goes to Piratecat. As that story was "more polished".

FINAL JUDGMENT

Piratecat in a 3-0 but again, that score does not seem to reflect the closeness of the contest.


----------



## Herremann the Wise (Jun 2, 2008)

*Match Twelve / Rodrigo Istalandir vs. Mythago*

ARWINK’S JUDGMENT

Mythago / Chosen

The aggrieved tone of the opening is great, and the story does a great deal with a very short wordcount. A thousand words is a damn hard length to keep a story at and this manages it with aplomb. My only concern, and this is a potentially minor quibble, is that the short length leaves the pictures feeling like they’re flashing by. 

Rodrigo Istalandir /All in a Day’s Work

I’m almost disappointed that I’d seen the images prior to reading the story, since it meant that I could piece together the importance of seemingly throw-away lines about how long it’s been since our narrator had a snow day and the evils of the blackberry. You do a great job of building the mood here, giving subtle clues and setting-up the rules of the world. Very easy to read, lots of fun.

Judgment

This is one of those rounds that kind of sucks to judge, because realistically I’d be happy to send both writers through. Good work all-round, and but I think Rodrigo just manages to pull ahead in this one thanks to his twisting of the devil image/theme that half-step further. 

THE JUDGMENT OF HERREMANN THE WISE

I thought the images for this fairly diverse but the dominance of certain themes shone through both our entries.

Mythago has produced a short tale that very neatly pulls the images together. While the length did not provide a great level of depth to the images, there was a really nice concision to how they fitted together to produce the eventual story. I adored the way how the different influences were blended together – a real lesson to everyone how to produce a very short but complete and satisfying story.

Rodrigo has produced a true Ceramic DM classic. I’ll even go out on a limb to say that this is the best story of the competition thus far – and that’s really saying something given the fantastic standard. What can I say but beautifully constructed with some of the best lines I’ve read in any Ceramic DM competition! To any reading this judgment who have not read this story, can you please chase it down and read it as a matter of urgency. Excellent, excellent, excellent!

My judgment goes to Rodrigo for a classic effort but props too for Mythago’s excellently short contribution.

MALDUR’S JUDGMENT

Rodrigo: that was funny .... "When hell freezes over" ... * grins*

Mythago: the end of the world is nigh! *rings bell* nice story, but a little short.

Judgement: Rodrigo, great little story, well done.

FINAL JUDGMENT

Congratulations to Rodrigo for the clean sweep. Kudos to Mythago for a fine story.


----------



## Herremann the Wise (Jun 2, 2008)

Just a quick congratulations to all our round two competitors! I can't remember reading a round of such quality. Whilst I thought Berandor and Rodrigo's were standouts, every story here was premium grade with so many tough decisions for the judges.

And so we progress to round three. Can the competitors post an email with a day that suits over the coming week (I can post pictures as early as tomorrow morning Sydney time if you all wish). I'll leave it up to you guys to sort out. I will post any pictures at the regular time of 9:00am.

Best Regards
Herremann the Wise

PS: Apologies that I did not post these judgments earlier today, I only just got into work.


----------



## Berandor (Jun 2, 2008)

In spoilers, so I won't give the judgement away:
[sblock]First off, thanks to the judges for their time and effort, and to Starman for not only a tough round, but a fun one as well, with every new smacktalking post here driving me to better writing 



			
				Herremann the Wise said:
			
		

> The only real disappointment for me was the switch to Richard as POV character in order to get Amurayi free – for all that it has some of my favourite lines in the story, it’s a moment that’s purely narrative device.




I thought about that and I would have kicked this in a minute – if that wouldn't have been one of the gorram pictures  Maybe with a little time (ha!) I would have come up with some other way.

Other than that, I find more and more that I'm not very good at judging my own story right out of the gate. I'm probably too immersed in my own writing process. I'm glad you liked it. In fact, I'm glad you can't see me blush in front of the screen. Well, actually, you can – see attached file.

Finally, Herreman: It would be dreamy if my next round began on Sunday morning (for you) or later, but I'm afraid that this would be a little long in waiting, yes? Since my week is shot to hell anyway, if that isn't possible, just hit me whenever and we'll see how far I get with the pics.[/sblock]


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## Rodrigo Istalindir (Jun 2, 2008)

I'm ready to go now, or whenever is least convenient for my opponent.


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## Eeralai (Jun 2, 2008)

Thank you judges!  I took a lot of short cuts here which was making me sad all week because I had so much more I wanted to write.  Good job Dlsharrock and good luck in the next round.

Btw Maldur, when I was pregnant, there were times where I felt I couldn't get out of bed, and when I saw that picture all I kept thinking about was that feeling and how I would want a new body so I could move again.  Your, right though, it would've been interesting to write a story where the woman remained large.  Thanks for the vote!  Does that mean you'll read my cyberpunk novel when I get done with it  

Ycorerixel, thanks for the comments!  I haven't been able to read any matches but my own this round because I am still on the road.  If you like the idea of sentient jumping, I highly recommend the Ghost in the Shell movies and TV series.  The manga is supposed to be good too, I just haven't read it.

Pkitty, we had a great time meeting you and thanks for taking us to a place that was so fun for the kids!

Cheers for those going on, and condolences to those of us who didn't make the cut


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## Ycore Rixle (Jun 2, 2008)

Congrats, Kevin! And thanks for the comments, judges.


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## Starman (Jun 2, 2008)

Congrats to Berandor for his well deserved victory this round. And thank you to the judges for reading my stuff and giving me some feedback. I'll definitely take it into consideration for the next competition. 

There will be a next time, right?


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## Piratecat (Jun 2, 2008)

Ycore Rixle said:
			
		

> Congrats, Kevin! And thanks for the comments, judges.



Thanks, Frank. That was a really good match-up! 

I'm best off going either Tuesday night or Wednesday night my time (which is Wed am or Thur am Herremann time.)


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## Dlsharrock (Jun 2, 2008)

Herreman The Wise said:
			
		

> Dlsharrock has done well in drawing his story together – although the title was a little trite.




It's a Little Shop of Horrors reference. 
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Little_Shop_of_Horrors

I guess they thought it was trite too, since they changed the title 

Thanks for the words of wisdom and acumen Arwink, H T Wise and Maldur, and kudos Ealarai for a strong entry and for your entertaining story telling skills. Congratulations also to the winners of the previous round. I've been _very_ impressed by the level of writing talent on display. That last round particularly reminded me of some better stories from the early years of Interzone, especially Rodrigo's masterful 'All in a Day's Work'. Throbbingly good stuff!

Now pass me the chalk, I have my smacktalk cue lined up to pot the black 

EDIT: Oh, and I'm ready for the next round whenever the pictures are ready. I don't have any free time at all now until about 2010, so it doesn't make much difference.


----------



## Rodrigo Istalindir (Jun 2, 2008)

Well played, Mythago.  Impressive to be that concise and still put together a great story.  I always feel either like I'm blathering or I'm being terse and leaving stuff out.

Thanks for all the feedback, both from the judges and the peanut gallery.  I'm glad you enjoyed this one; it was a lot of fun to write (especially after my last one) but I was afraid it was a little lightweight for CDM, especially against Mythago.

So, who's my next vict...esteemed opponent?


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## Berandor (Jun 2, 2008)

So, all we need to determine now is whether I get to beat Rodrigo or Piratecat in the finals, right? Cool.


----------



## Rodrigo Istalindir (Jun 2, 2008)

Berandor said:
			
		

> So, all we need to determine now is whether I get to beat Rodrigo or Piratecat in the finals, right? Cool.




So you've blown past denial, anger, bargaining and depression and jumped right to acceptance?  Good for you, Berandor.


----------



## Piratecat (Jun 2, 2008)

No, Rodrigo, I think he's still in denial.


----------



## Dlsharrock (Jun 2, 2008)

Berandor said:
			
		

> So, all we need to determine now is whether I get to beat Rodrigo or Piratecat in the finals, right? Cool.




There's some guy here from the National Institute for People Who Live The Majority Of Their Lives In A Delusional Funk, says he wants a word with someone called Barn Door?


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## Berandor (Jun 2, 2008)

Rodrigo Istalindir said:
			
		

> So you've blown past denial, anger, bargaining and depression and jumped right to acceptance?  Good for you, Berandor.



 I have no idea what you're talking about. There is nothing to talk about.

And now you better shut your mouth, or I'll...


----------



## Rodrigo Istalindir (Jun 2, 2008)

Piratecat said:
			
		

> No, Rodrigo, I think he's still in denial.




Yeah.  My smack-talk is off today.  I was even just polite to a user -- didn't get all sarcastic or anything.  I better see a doctor.

BTW, thanks for fixing my CS account.  In gratitude, I'll spot you 15 minutes on the next match.


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## Piratecat (Jun 3, 2008)

Rodrigo Istalindir said:
			
		

> BTW, thanks for fixing my CS account.  In gratitude, I'll spot you 15 minutes on the next match.



Damn thing already thought it was fixed; I had to disable and re-enable it to get it to work. I'm really sorry about the wait. 

And it's a kind offer! I don't need it, but if it'll give you plausible deniability when you lose, I'm happy to accept as a salve to your ego. Whatever you think is best.


----------



## mythago (Jun 3, 2008)

Congrats, Rodrigo! And geez louise, enough with that 'even Mythago' stuff. I mean, Berandor beat me before, how hard can it be


----------



## Herremann the Wise (Jun 3, 2008)

Hello everyone and in particular our third round competitors.

I'm looking at starting both matches of Round Three Thursday 9:00am Sydney time. If I can get a confirmation from our competitors that this is cool, we can go full steam ahead.

There will be 5 pictures this time which really turns up the difficulty level - that and the fact that my picture selection is near its evil best. I'm looking forward to a fantastic round!

Best Regards
Herremann the Wise


----------



## Berandor (Jun 3, 2008)

(Edit; see below)


----------



## Berandor (Jun 3, 2008)

I just thought: If you want to start no earlier than thursday anyway, could you start my match on friday? That would give me one more or less good day for writing.


----------



## Dlsharrock (Jun 3, 2008)

5 pictures: yikes. And presumably you're going to take it easy on us all and give us the easiest sets of 5 you can, what with us all being quite tired after the last rounds and so on?


----------



## Piratecat (Jun 3, 2008)

Berandor said:
			
		

> I just thought: If you want to start no earlier than thursday anyway, could you start my match on friday? That would give me one more or less good day for writing.



Just so everyone is clear, 9am Thursday Sydney time is Wednesday evening Boston time and Wednesday night in Europe.

Herremann, I'm good to go whenever. I seem to be coming down with a sore throat, so if you need someone to go later in the week with Berandor, that'd be fine.


----------



## Dlsharrock (Jun 3, 2008)

Sore throat eh? my wikka hex is obviously working. 

Did I say that out loud?

Seriously- I can highly recommend boiling 500grams of cloves in water for 10mins, draining and gargling the liquid (chuck the mush away and let the liquid cool). As good as a local anaesthetic. I had a wisdom tooth extraction last week and the recipe has been my saviour.


----------



## Berandor (Jun 3, 2008)

Piratecat said:
			
		

> Just so everyone is clear, 9am Thursday Sydney time is Wednesday evening Boston time and Wednesday night in Europe.
> 
> Herremann, I'm good to go whenever. I seem to be coming down with a sore throat, so if you need someone to go later in the week with Berandor, that'd be fine.



Thursday 9am means 1am, means deadline Fri-Sa-Sun 1am; Friday 9am means monday 1am. Or am I totally wrong here?

I thought we were on a strict tournament schedule, so Rodrigo-Piratecat, DIshallnotrock-me. But I'm fine either way.


----------



## Herremann the Wise (Jun 4, 2008)

Berandor said:
			
		

> I just thought: If you want to start no earlier than thursday anyway, could you start my match on friday? That would give me one more or less good day for writing.



I can start your match vs. Dlsharrock on Friday as this will give the judges a little more space to provide feedback too.
Dlsharrock, please note the change and thank you for the recipe, it sounds truly horrid.   

PC, I'll keep your match against Rodrigo as planned and I hope the throat infection goes away.

And just as a little further inspiration, I've put together the six pictures for the final, and may I just say that this is a collection of images that you guys would love the opportunity to write with. The final should be something very special!

Best of luck in the Semis.

Best Regards
Herremann the Wise


----------



## Piratecat (Jun 4, 2008)

Gotcha. Thank you. Good luck, Rodrigo.


----------



## Dlsharrock (Jun 4, 2008)

Thanks Herreman. I'll be busy on the weekend with relatives and my daughter's dance recital, so I wouldn't expect anything earth shattering. Best of luck Berandor.

It tastes like menthol


----------



## Rodrigo Istalindir (Jun 4, 2008)

Piratecat said:
			
		

> Gotcha. Thank you. Good luck, Rodrigo.




Good luck?  Good luck?  What the hell?  No smack talk, no insults, no threats of pantsless dancing?

*grumble* You're really sucking the fun out of beating you.


----------



## Piratecat (Jun 4, 2008)

It's okay, buddy. You can bubble and froth as much as you like if it makes you feel better, or more secure. I understand.


----------



## Berandor (Jun 4, 2008)

Dlsharrock said:
			
		

> Thanks Herreman. I'll be busy on the weekend with relatives and my daughter's dance recital, so I wouldn't expect anything earth shattering. Best of luck Berandor.
> 
> It tastes like menthol



Is that time okay for you, then?

I'd rather beat you with just 4 hours of writing time on my part, you know.


----------



## Maldur (Jun 4, 2008)

Go Go Go! 

*Waves ponpon's*


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## Dlsharrock (Jun 4, 2008)

Berandor said:
			
		

> Is that time okay for you, then?
> 
> I'd rather beat you with just 4 hours of writing time on my part, you know.



You have to include 'angst-time' with those 4 hours - although we only have 72 altogether.

Yes the time's ok, I'm mega-busy from now until I go on lovely scrumptious holiday at the end of July, so no time is great.


----------



## Piratecat (Jun 4, 2008)

I'm ill, so please pardon any confusion. Pictures are about to be posted, yes?


----------



## tadk (Jun 4, 2008)

*well*



			
				Herremann the Wise said:
			
		

> I can start your match vs. Dlsharrock on Friday as this will give the judges a little more space to provide feedback too.
> Dlsharrock, please note the change and thank you for the recipe, it sounds truly horrid.
> 
> PC, I'll keep your match against Rodrigo as planned and I hope the throat infection goes away.
> ...




I am thinking I am almost safer not in the running anymore


----------



## Herremann the Wise (Jun 5, 2008)

*Round Three - Match Fourteen*
Piratecat vs. Rodrigo Istalindir

You have 72 hours from this post to submit your entries. Best of luck from the judges!


----------



## Herremann the Wise (Jun 5, 2008)

Sorry for the half hour delay - damn work getting in the way.

Best Regards
Herremann the Wise


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## Piratecat (Jun 5, 2008)

Got 'em, thank you.


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## maxfieldjadenfox (Jun 5, 2008)

I'm sad that I'm not writing. Truly stellar group of images and a story that just begs to be written. *sigh*


----------



## Rodrigo Istalindir (Jun 5, 2008)

maxfieldjadenfox said:
			
		

> I'm sad that I'm not writing. Truly stellar group of images and a story that just begs to be written. *sigh*




You don't need to be competing to write.   You could just do it for fun and to make Piratecat look bad.


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## Dlsharrock (Jun 5, 2008)

I'd like to see that sub-thread. I'm missing the free reading material.


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## maxfieldjadenfox (Jun 5, 2008)

Rodrigo Istalindir said:
			
		

> You don't need to be competing to write.   You could just do it for fun and to make Piratecat look bad.




Now that *could* be fun...  

And I'll take it under advisement, Disharrock... It's not like you have anything else to do with your time, right? No pesky novels to finish?


----------



## Piratecat (Jun 5, 2008)

Rodrigo Istalindir said:
			
		

> You don't need to be competing to write.   You could just do it for fun and to make Piratecat look bad.



This is true. Rodrigo's not going to, so _someone_ should carry that burden.


----------



## Herremann the Wise (Jun 6, 2008)

*Round Three - Match Thirteen*
Dlsharrock vs. Berandor

You have 72 hours from this post to submit your entries. Best of luck from the judges!


----------



## Dlsharrock (Jun 6, 2008)

Thanks Herreman, I am up late and have seen the pics. Good luck Berandor.


----------



## tadk (Jun 6, 2008)

*Pics*



			
				maxfieldjadenfox said:
			
		

> Now that *could* be fun...
> 
> And I'll take it under advisement, Disharrock... It's not like you have anything else to do with your time, right? No pesky novels to finish?





So which set of pics are you writing on?


----------



## maxfieldjadenfox (Jun 6, 2008)

tadk said:
			
		

> So which set of pics are you writing on?




The Rodrigo/Pirate Cat set. You want to give the other set a shot, Tad?


----------



## Berandor (Jun 6, 2008)

Herreman, I should kill you for the final image. Maybe I will. Maybe I won't. But I should.

Argh!


----------



## Herremann the Wise (Jun 6, 2008)

Berandor said:
			
		

> Herreman, I should kill you for the final image. Maybe I will. Maybe I won't. But I should.
> 
> Argh!



[evil chuckle = MAX]Now how did that image sneak it's way in? I originally planned three naked wicca girls performing some sort of ritual. Eric's Grandma must have pounced on it while uploading.[/evil chuckle]

Best of luck regardless. I would not be surprised if the challenge here gets the best out of the two of you. I'm really looking forward to these.

Best Regards
Herremann the Wise


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## Dlsharrock (Jun 6, 2008)

maxfieldjadenfox said:
			
		

> And I'll take it under advisement, Disharrock... It's not like you have anything else to do with your time, right? No pesky novels to finish?



Oh, but this is *constructive* procrastination


----------



## Berandor (Jun 6, 2008)

Herremann the Wise said:
			
		

> [evil chuckle = MAX]Now how did that image sneak it's way in? I originally planned three naked wicca girls performing some sort of ritual. Eric's Grandma must have pounced on it while uploading.[/evil chuckle]
> 
> Best of luck regardless. I would not be surprised if the challenge here gets the best out of the two of you. I'm really looking forward to these.
> 
> ...



 I think I have an inkling of an idea, but I need an angle. So, anybody got an angle to spare?


----------



## Rodrigo Istalindir (Jun 6, 2008)

Berandor said:
			
		

> I think I have an inkling of an idea, but I need an angle. So, anybody got an angle to spare?




I don't understand the question.  Am I being obtuse?


----------



## Berandor (Jun 6, 2008)

Only if you have a possible angle for the story but won't give it to me.


----------



## Rodrigo Istalindir (Jun 6, 2008)

Berandor said:
			
		

> Only if you have a possible angle for the story but won't give it to me.




So you're asking for a complimentary complementary angle.


----------



## maxfieldjadenfox (Jun 6, 2008)

Rodrigo Istalindir said:
			
		

> So you're asking for a complimentary complementary angle.




Oh, you guys are so acute... (this one only works if you're Italian. Which I am.  )


----------



## tadk (Jun 7, 2008)

*Your on*



			
				maxfieldjadenfox said:
			
		

> The Rodrigo/Pirate Cat set. You want to give the other set a shot, Tad?





I accept the challenge

Lets rock this Casbah


----------



## maxfieldjadenfox (Jun 7, 2008)

tadk said:
			
		

> I accept the challenge
> 
> Lets rock this Casbah




As soon as I catch up with my algebra homework, you're on.


----------



## Piratecat (Jun 7, 2008)

Okay, all done! I'm going to let it sit for a while before I post in case I missed a typo. I'm quite pleased with how this came out.

Hope you're bringing your A Game, Rodrigo!


----------



## Piratecat (Jun 7, 2008)

*Round Three - Match Fourteen
Piratecat vs. Rodrigo Istalindir


Meme*
by Kevin Kulp (Piratecat)


It was early morning and the birdsong was drowned out by the racket of my childhood being dismantled by chainsaws and bulldozers. I didn’t want to look.

“I’m sorry, Max. I don’t like it either.” I met his gaze, then guiltily dropped my eyes and checked my watch. “We’ll get you relocated as soon as we can. I have to go. I have a new candidate coming in for an interview this morning. I need to pick her up.”   

I gave them all a quick hug, my nose tickling from the musty fur. Dignity is important, and it was difficult not to acknowledge that several of them were crying. I would have been, too. All six of them stayed behind on the ridge as I left, watching the rising sun while bulldozers dismantled their home. 

Half an hour later I stood in an open field west of a white house with a boarded front door. I was leaning on the small mailbox when she came around the corner. You can tell a lot about a person from where they first arrive. I had flown out of Neverland, myself. I still bore some heavy guilt that we hadn’t closed it before the Worm arrived. 

I took a look: older, no makeup, a little heavy, probably in her fifties.  She looked ill. “Hey, Ria,” I said. “I’m your greeter. Call me Amy. Welcome.”

 “Grues! There were grues!” She sounded more excited than scared. Breathing heavily, she looked back at the house as if unable to believe it was real. “Do you realize where I just came from?” 

I checked my clipboard. “A Seattle hospital. Come on, let’s talk. You a coffee drinker or a tea drinker?”

That was an odd enough question that it got her attention for a minute. “A tea drinker?” 

I took her hand and smiled. “Then let’s go get a cup of tea.” I led her to the car. She kept looking back, trying to lock in the visual memory of a place she’d only read about for twenty years.

“Where are we?” she asked.

“Long story,” I answered. “I’ll try to tell you over tea.”

* * *

Soon uniformed waiters bustled around us with quiet precision. They served piping hot tea and fresh scones and those little cucumber sandwiches with the crusts cut off. I never get tired of those. Gentle harp music filled the air. The napkins were thick white linen and the chairs were vaguely uncomfortable, designed to be beautiful and encourage good posture: just what you’d expect. We were underdressed for Palm Court and hadn’t had reservations, but no one noticed. Rita was watchful, her eyes taking in everything. It was a good sign.

I took a sip of tea, smiled, and said, “Okay, this is your chance to ask questions.”

“Who are you?” She didn’t mean my name.

“I used to be an explorer. Now I’m an engineer. I make sure that things go where they need to go, and that things get built and maintained correctly. Technically my job is all about allocation and control, but really it’s about keeping dreams alive. Today, it’s also about interviewing new staff.”

“New staff?” She frowned. “I already have a job.”

“Not any more.”

She looked at me sharply. “We’ll come back to that. We’re in London right now, at the Ritz?”

“Pretty much, yes.” 

“Fifteen minutes ago I came out of a house somewhere in the US, and we didn’t drive over any oceans. We also didn’t fly.” 

More’s the pity, I thought, but I stayed silent. I wanted to see how far she could get.

Her eyes looked past me. “I take that back. Fifteen minutes ago I came out of the twisty little passages from Zork. I know that game. Back in 1980 I played it non-stop. And I swear that’s where I just was.” She leaned back and looked at me over her tea cup. Her thinning grey hair fell into her eyes as she tilted her head. “How’d I walk out of a video game, Amy? I’m not dreaming. I’m not on drugs. I’m not using VR, and the Matrix was just one good movie in a crappy trilogy. I’m a 53 year old programmer who happens to be fighting breast cancer. You want to explain how it is that we’re here?”

“You’re in a coma,” I said. 

“Bullsh*t,” she answered.

I just kept watching her. She waited me out, and I spoke first. “You wanted to know where we are. How many imaginary places can you picture in your head?”

“Dozens,” she said without hesitation. “Hundreds.”

“I’m responsible for upkeep on tens of thousands, and I’m having some logistical problems that I want advice on. All those imaginary places exist here. We’re where the story goes when you close the book, and where the video game lives when it isn’t being played. You’d be surprised what shared imagination can produce. For instance, what do you think of first when someone says ‘let’s go have tea’?” 

She turned the question over slowly, looking for a trap. “Starbucks. Or the grocery store. Or…” She paused and looked around her more carefully. “No, I take that back. It’s a rhetorical question. Where do you go to have tea? You have tea _here_, at the Ritz.  Little girls dream about this place when they have tea parties with their dolls. It’s iconic.”

I nodded. 

She put a dollop of clotted cream on a scone and popped it into her mouth. “And here we are. It’s exactly what I always dreamed tea at the Ritz would be. Only…” She searched for the right word. “Idealized.”

“Well phrased. Yes, it’s idealized. Here, tea at the Ritz is exactly what everyone always dreams it will be.” I offered a half smile. “Don’t go to the iconic McDonalds, though. Peoples’ negative expectations carry through, too.”

“Uh huh.” She considered. “Where would we go if I was a coffee drinker?”

“Central Perk, most likely.”

“And if I drank beer?”

“Cheers. You’d like the place. Very homey. Everybody knows your name.”

“I can imagine.” She sounded wry as she popped another piece of the scone into her mouth. “This is where I decide if I’m crazy or dreaming. But it feels more complex than that. What do you need advice on?”

I leaned back. “I’ve been here over seventy years, but we’ve had a flood of new locations in the last thirty. I’m having trouble keeping up some of the old ones. Part of the problem is that I know what TV and video games are, but I’ve never actually seen or played one.”

“Seriously?” She seemed amused.

“Seriously. Please finish your tea first, though. I’ve blocked off my whole afternoon. When we’re done, we’ll walk and discuss it.”

“Fair enough. And you’ve been here seventy years?” Ria looked suspicious. “You don’t look a day over forty.” I gave her my best enigmatic smile, and sipped my tea.

* * *

We strolled down a European avenue that doesn’t show up on traditional maps, Ria moving slowly due to her illness. The hedges hid most of the surrounding landscape, but Ria sucked in breath when she saw the castle at the end of the promenade. It was everything you knew a fairy tale castle should be. Minarets with long fluttering pennants pierced the clouds, and knights wearing armor rode powerful chargers in an out of the gate. Honestly, I love this view. It makes Disney feel like a plastic embarrassment.

“That’s real,” Ria said.

“Yep.”

She shook her head, correcting me. “You don’t understand. It’s _real._ I know this place. It’s Cinderella’s castle, and Sleeping Beauty’s. It’s where I wanted to live. My mom read me to sleep every night with Grimm’s fairy tales! I can even smell her perfume after forty years. Seeing this is like coming home.” 

“Dreams have power, Ria. Belief shapes the world. An old house will feel more like home than a brand new one because it changes over time to be what you expect from it. When people dream about a place, that place becomes real. They become the ideals from which everything else is based. And they come here.”

Ria nodded. “Sure. Platonic ideals.”  I looked at her blankly. “Plato’s philosophy, the concept that all the reality we can see is nothing more than shadows being cast upon the wall of a cave. We never see the reality of what’s actually casting the shadows, so we have to guess as best we can. In this case, I’d guess the ideals are like a pearl forming around the irritant of belief. I like the idea.”

I grinned. “This is why I asked Dispatch to keep their eyes out for someone like you – educated, an independent woman like myself, only old enough to bridge the generations between stories and computers. My problem is that the old ways are no longer working right, and I don’t have the modern experience to know why. I’m probably condemning places that aren’t entirely ready to go as a result. Hell, just this morning I bulldozed the forest of the Wild Things to make room for some slum named Liberty City.”

She looked at me with disgust. “I _really_ hope that was necessary.”

“Me too. But I’m afraid of the Worm. Before the computer age, places didn’t ever go away. If enough people forgot about them, they’d sort of fade and diminish. Eventually they’d be gone. Not now, though. About twenty years ago, old places stopped fading and started disappearing. They didn’t vanish quietly, either; something infested them, took control of them, and then ripped them screaming out of the world. We got our first hint when Green Gables got hit. Anne said she saw some sort of huge worm, a little like the things from Arrakis, huge and white and moist. It ate the whole house from below. She barely made it out.”

Ria was silent. “I loved those books,” she said, “but I haven’t thought of them in years. What went in where Anne’s house was?”

“Some dungeon complex, with a little elf-guy named Link.” 

She sighed. “The computer era shouldn’t be your enemy. It’s just a new forum for imagining. I’d guess its biggest problem is that TV shows or computer games are more insistent. When everyone sees the same landscape, everyone is going to imagine it the same way. That’ll drive out less formed visualizations of other places from literature or folklore.” she stopped to consider. “What’s your biggest problem right now?”

“Nebraska.”

She turned to stare at me. “Seriously? Nebraska?”

“Yep. We can’t grow corn.” I could see she didn’t understand. “Look, what does everyone say about Nebraska, or any of those starts-with-a-vowel states in America’s breadbasket? ‘The corn goes on forever. You keep driving and driving, and it seems like the corn is never going to stop.’ I flew over it before a long time ago, and it’s true. Turns out that we’re responsible for that. When enough people believe it, the corn really _does_ go on forever.”

“But why now?”

“Faster cars, higher gas prices, more cynical kids? I don’t know. Maybe we’ve stopped doing the rituals right. But my farmers can’t grow the eternal corn any more, and we’re worried about the Worm. The situation is reaching crisis. I have to decide whether to evacuate everyone and just call it a loss.”

She reached out for my arm. “Let’s go there. Now.”

“You sure?” I said. “I’m seeing how you’d fit in here, but that doesn’t require field work.”

She nodded. “My cancer hasn’t hurt much since I got here, and I’m still trying not to think about that coma comment you made, thankyouverymuch. Maybe I can help. Let’s go see.”

* * *

Nothing takes long to get to if you know the right short cuts. Ria kept herself amused by calling out the ones she knew as we drove. I had to pull the car over to the side of the road when we got close. Two policemen were blocking the road with one of the modern signs we use before evacuation. 

I rolled down the window. “What’s the problem, officer?”

He sauntered over. “I’m sorry, ma’am, you can’t...” He took off his sunglasses and recognized me. “Oh, hi, Amelia. The rituals are failing. I’ve been told to prepare for evacuation. We’re erasing the access road.”

“Not yet, we aren’t. Keep everyone else out, please.” I drove around his sign and left him in the dust.

Ria seemed amused. “Error 404: Road not Found?” she asked.

“Keeps GoogleMaps from accidentally noticing. Another five minutes and we’re there.” The woods had turned from stands of trees to endless rows of corn. No, not endless. We drove over a hillock and the fields became a ruin of dying crops. We motored in silence until we reached the location of the ritual.

“What the hell are they doing?” asked Ria. 

I remembered how surprised I’d been, too. “Ancient Roman fertility ritual. Involves, well, fertility. Seed and furrows and traditional blue robes. And lots and lots of sex. We get a lot of volunteers for this.” I shrugged. “Fertilizer doesn’t work here, and there’ve been enough adherents to the ancient way in the world to make this effective. No one wants to give it up until we have to.”

“You have to,” said Ria. She gestured at the dead corn stalks. “Let’s find a modern alternative.” Then she was out of the car, her cancer hardly bothering her at all as she strode towards the robed priest in charge of the ceremony.

I got out as well. “You want a hand?” I called.

Ria paused. “No,” she decided. “Let’s see what I can do.” 

She spent almost an hour talking to the priest and staring at the crops. People were watching her closely by now. When a huge smile passed across her face, I knew she’d thought of something, but her list mystified me.

“These?” I asked. “You want me to order these?”

“Right now,” she concurred. “Immediately. We’ll need tables, at least ten delivery trucks of soda, and fifty cases of the candy. Thread and needles.”

“Can you explain this?”

“YouTube,” she answered, leaving me just as confused. “People believe in YouTube, Amy, but it’s the shadows on the wall that are important. We’re dealing with symbology here. And don’t waste any time.” She frowned. “All these people truly believe the Worm is coming. And you know what that means.”

I made the call.

With that many workers relieved of their previous fertilization duty, we had enough hands to process the materials quickly. No one understood why, though. It was dusk by the time that my workers were prepared. The tables had been set up in the field’s furrows. Ria stalked the rows like the perfectionist she was, making sure everyone understood their role in what was about to happen. “You will see a sign,” she told them as the setting sun filled the sky with radiant clouds. “And when you see that sign, you will know what it means, and you will _believe._” She spoke with absolute conviction. “The Worm...”

Mentioning it was a mistake, because enough people must have thought of it at once. The soil at the east end of the field erupted in a glistening geyser. 

The noise was horrible. Anne hadn’t mentioned the noise. It was a high pitched screech, a caterwaul of pain and electronics. Ria didn’t seem to be fazed at all.  “A modem?” she asked, scoffing. “You sound like a modem?” The worm rose over her, stretching into the darkening sky with its pinchers ready to consume, and Ria turned our blue sea of belief that lined the rows of the corn field. “NOW!” she thundered, and a thousand caps of Diet Coke were loosened as one. Two thousand Mentos dropped into the two liter bottles. And a thousand plumes of soda reached into the sky.

But in the light of the sunset, they didn’t look like plumes of foaming soda. For the life of me, they looked like stalks of corn.

They _were_ stalks of corn.

“Do you see?” shouted Ria at the Worm. It had turned its blind head towards her and paused, swaying. “There is no prey for you here. You are not a virus that we fear! There is nothing for you to devour! We have made the sacrifice using the modern tools, and these fields are reborn!” The plumes of soda were starting to droop now, the blue robes of the Believers soaked with foaming brown fluid, but somehow the stalks of corn still remained. They rippled out from where we stood, the power of the internet’s belief concentrated on us for one brief second, but that was all it took. Shadows on the wall of Plato’s cave, the appearance of corn actually creating the real thing? I don’t understand it the same way Ria does. But the worm withdrew, screaming its high-pitched howl as it slid down into its hole, and we all stood in the lushest field of corn I had ever seen. A single crow circled delightedly overhead

I’d made the right choice.

* * *

It was full dark by the time we got to the forest of the Wild Things. Demolition wasn’t entirely complete, but they were preparing to lay the foundations of Liberty City for some time tomorrow. Max and the monsters had found somewhere else to sleep for the night. 

“The job’s yours if you want it,” I said in the darkness. The air smelled of wood chips and diesel. “People are starting to forget about me, and I’m getting less effective as a result. You don’t have the infamy I had...”

“I’m a nobody,” she laughed. She was sitting on one of the few remaining trees, swinging her legs. Her body was heavy and her grey hair was straggly, but she looked blissfully serene. 

“...but you know how the modern world works. You know how to harness it, and you still love and respect the classics. The job needs you.”

“What will happen to me in the real world?” she asked.

“I don’t know. I made my decision on a round-the-world flight. They never found my body. I imagine that you’ll slip away, too.”

She looked down at her dumpy form and chuckled, then glanced up at me slyly. “You know, Amy,” she said, “if there’s one thing the internet has taught us to believe in it’s that images can be manipulated. I wonder...” She trailed off as she concentrated. Then Ria transformed before my eyes as if she’d been kissed by a handsome prince. Her new form was not that of an air-headed storybook princess, I’d say; she was regal and healthy and young, and she wore a dress in the same deep blue as the robes from the fertility ceremony. It was clear she belonged.

“I accept,” she said as she hopped down from the tree limb. We linked arms as we headed back towards the car. “Tomorrow we do something about restoring the Wild Forest. There are a few internet memes that might help. I already have some ideas.”

“I couldn’t agree more,” I said, and held open the door for her.


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## Berandor (Jun 7, 2008)

I’m already at 3000 words again, and still 2 pictures to use.


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## Piratecat (Jun 7, 2008)

Berandor said:
			
		

> I’m already at 3000 words again, and still 2 pictures to use.



That's okay. The most important part of writing is cutting.  

I swear, I've written double the needed verbiage for these last two stories. In this last one I think I rewrote the same section four times before I got it right. I like cutting, though; it makes the end story that much tighter.

The best example I've seen is in the end of Steven King's "On Writing," where he shows the same story (1426) both before and after he edits, along with his editing comments. It was really illuminating for me.

I really liked writing this last story. It was fun doing something that isn't horror.


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## Rodrigo Istalindir (Jun 7, 2008)

*Rodrigo - Match 14*

*Part 1*

	‘Radar Love’ was blasting on the stereo, my hands were tapping in time on the wheel, and all was right with the world when the onboard computer beeped and totally blew the mood.  I spared a glance at the retrofitted display crammed where the 8-track used to be and cursed.

	I took one hand off the wheel and hit the ‘mute’ button on the MP3 player.   Golden Earring died mid-sentence, the feline growl of the V8 free to assault my ears unopposed.   With the same hand I pushed  the button at the bottom of the display.

	Somewhere in my dust an RFID checkpoint had pinged me and not liked the response it had gotten.  Not too surprising – the car was running on spoofed credentials, after all – but they were *good* spoofed credentials, and should have been enough to fool  a routine roadside AI.  I figured I had five minutes, tops, before a smokey saw the alert and tried to contact me.  

And that would be a problem, because he wouldn’t end up talking to little ol’ me cruising down I15.  No, he’d get Miss Rosa May Jefferson, age 80, who’d never been more than 50 miles from her home town of Ketchum, Idaho, and it wouldn’t take long for him to figure out that the car that had blown past the checkpoint wasn’t the glorified golf cart that she took to church every Sunday and the market on Wednesday.

	Ooops.

	I was still a good ten minutes from my exit, and a half-hour or more from the Utah border by the back roads I needed to take after I left the Interstate.  It had been a gamble travelling by the main roads.  They were monitored to hell and back, with every vehicle required by law to surrender to computer control that maintained a nice, orderly flow of traffic.  But the thunderstorms the night before had brought flash floods, and washed out roadways had forced me to backtrack twice before breakfast.  I was already running late, and my employer had promised me a hefty bonus for on-time delivery.

	The console beeped again, this time reporting that IHP had contacted the car’s computer system and ordered to come to a gradual halt.  Heh.  Good luck with that, coppers.  My system had been hacked to say all the right things in response to their queries, but I’d no more let a robot drive my car than I’d let one screw my girlfriend.  Some things a guy wanted to do for himself.

Even if the computer probably could do it better.

A third beep, and now they were serious.  I could see the lights in my rear-view mirror.  I abandoned all pretense of being one of the good guys and floored it, the engine responding with a sense of glee that was completely unbecoming in an inanimate object.  Shocked faces barely visible behind tinted glass looked on as I tore through the herd like a cheetah among the wildebeest.   Overhead, a sign flashed by in a green blur.  My exit was coming up.

I let up on the gas just a bit, letting the interceptor get a good sniff at my exhaust but keeping him just far enough back to keep him from tapping me in the fender.    I could tell by the way his car handled that he wasn’t driving it himself, and that gave me an advantage.  I drifted left, away from the exit lane, and watched as he matched.  

The exit was coming up fast.  When it was too late to make it across safely, I threw the car into a hard right, tires squealing, smoking, straining to hold the road.  I felt the right side start to lose their grip on the tarmac, felt that side of the car start to rise, gravity losing out to momentum.  Gravity won in a split decision, momentum screaming that it was robbed.

The car tore down the exit ramp as my pursuer flew on down the interstate.  Sure, the computers *could* drive better than me, but they didn’t.  They could make the car do things I couldn’t on the best driving day of my life, but the car wasn’t the problem, it was what was inside.  And the computers weren’t allowed to risk the meat.  I had no such limitation.

Momentum wasn’t the only thing screaming.  A shriek from the passenger seat told me my cargo had awakened, and she didn’t seem as thrilled as I that the car was on manual.  She had one hand braced on the dash, the other had a death grip on the ‘oh ’ handle over the door, and it wouldn’t have surprised me if she willed herself to sprout a third hand to grab something else.  Some people didn’t handle excitement well.  

We weren’t out of the woods yet.   It would take them a few minutes to get someone on my tail, but the entry points into Utah were usually well monitored.  The road we were on only went one place, and it wouldn’t take much time to get a roadblock up.   

The Utah Enclave was an aberration, a technological backwater that was home to unlikely bedfellows.  The Mormons, of course, and several more fundamentalist branches of that particular creed.  But Utah had also become the refuge and a number of  fire-and-brimstone Christian sects that were fighting a futile rear-guard action against secularism.  Throw in a bunch of tree-hugging hippies that would have called themselves Luddites if they weren’t too stoned to think about it and you had yourself a 21st century melting pot.  I didn’t know why the woman riding shotgun need to go there, but I’d been paid pretty well not to care.

The cloud of road dust the rose in my wake told me two things, both of them good.  The first was that the rains up north hadn’t passed through here, so there was a good chance the road wouldn’t end in an abrupt and fatal manner.  The second was that it was barely used, and so I probably didn’t have to worry about traffic.  I let the car have its head, and watched the speedometer creep northwards of 100mph.

The twenty miles to the border flew by, and I was just starting to think we’d made it scot free when I spied blinking red-and-blue lights up ahead.  Two IHP troopers were setting up a roadblock, dragging a smart-barrier across the center.  The stupid thing was flashing an error, warning me that the traffic AIs were off-line. (Picture 3)  No .  The morons hadn’t even set up their vehicles to block the lanes.
I blew past them like a tornado.  They didn’t even have time to drop the sign and leap for cover, which was just as well.  They might have zigged instead of zagged, and that would have done a number on the grillwork.  And then I realized what they’d been doing instead of moving their cars.

I hit the spiked strips at 90, blowing out both front tires in an instant.  The car bucked and squealed as the metal rims bit into the pavement, sparks flying in an early 4th of July display.  I wrestled with the wheel, trying to keep the vehicle straight and on the road.

We drifted towards the shoulder and the left front tire caught in the soft dirt.  Momentum came back for a rematch, and this time went all Rocky on gravity’s Apollo Creed.  It was all over except for the crashing and rolling and screaming.   When the car finally came to a rest, I was hanging upside down, held in place by the seatbelt.  My cargo was dead or unconscious, blood dripping from a nasty cut in her forehead.  

Through the sliver of daylight visible through the crushed driver side window, I could see four booted feet approach, and I was resigned to being arrested and thrown in jail for a long time.  They stopped a good distance away, and I wondered what they were waiting for.

“Welcome to Utah,” one of them laughed.  “Enjoy your stay.”

They turned and walked back to their patrol cars.  The flashing lights stopped spinning as they sped away, leaving us to bleed out like slaughtered lambs hung in the abattoir.  I closed my eyes and surrendered to the darkness.

*

	I awoke, head splitting, one eye refusing to open.  The first thing I realized was that I wasn’t upside down.  The second was that I was lying in a rather comfortable bed.  I struggled to sit upright, and must have groaned, because a second or two later a door opened, the bright light from the hallway making my open eye water.

	A blonde, medium-sized woman entered, dressed in a white nurse’s outfit.  She approached the side of the bed and checked on an IV that I hadn’t noticed hanging from my arm.  

	“You’re lucky to be alive, Mister.  That was some crash.  You could hear it from miles away.”

	“Where am I,” I croaked. 

	“Cornish, Utah,” she answered.  “Now get some rest.  You’ve got a concussion and lost a fair bit of blood.”

	She fiddled with my IV some more, and a wave of apathy swept over me.  I slept.

*

	When I woke up the second time, both eyelids seemed to be function properly, and overall I felt better than I probably had a right to. 

	“Welcome back to the land of the living, Charlie,” a voice to my right spoke.

	I rolled over and saw my passenger sitting in a chair in the corner.  A bandage covered half of her forehead.

	“Glad you made it.”

	“Because you’d be upset if I were dead, or just upset at not getting the other half of your money?”

	“Both, I guess.  But I do expect to get paid.  The deal was to get you from Calgary to Utah in one piece.  Did that. “

	“Barely.  But never fear, I’ve already sent word to release the other half of the money to your Cayman Islands account.”

	“Your unconventional border crossing aside, I do appreciate you’re getting me here on time.  And I have another business proposal for you – I’ll need your services getting back to Canada,” she continued.  “The doctor tells me you’ll be okay to drive day after tomorrow, if you’re up for it.”

	“What’s the rush?  We just drove eight hundred miles to get here.”

	“Never mind, I don’t need to know,” I interrupted before she could answer.

*

	I felt well enough that afternoon to get up and around.  I left the small infirmary and ventured outside.  The sunlight was blinding and the heat quickly sapped what little strength I’d regained.  But my stomach was rumbling, and I wasn’t in the mood for hospital food.  I dragged myself down the street, found a little café, and ordered a burger, rare.  Nice thing about the Enclave is no one gave you  about eating meat.

	Something had been itching in the back of my mind since I’d woken up to find my passenger sitting in my room, and I finally realized what it was.  I operate on a strict no-names basis, and yet she’d called me ‘Charlie’.  That wasn’t good – ‘Charlie’ wasn’t even one of the pseudonyms I used when necessary, it was my real name.  That meant she had contacts, good contacts.   And it meant she knew a damn sight more about me than I knew about her.

	I was just finishing my meal and considering ordering a milkshake when she found me.

	“The foods good here, isn’t it?  I miss the beef, especially.  Soyburgers just aren’t the same,” she said wistfully.

	“So,” I said, ignoring her culinary reminiscing, “You know who I am.  Who the hell are you?”

	She paused.

	“I suppose that’s fair.  My name is Dr. Kelly.  I’m a biologist at the University of Calgary, specializing in parasites.”

	“Come with me,” she said, tossing some real currency on the table to cover the meal.

*

	“You look surprised,” she noticed.

	We were a half-hour out of town, at some facility built into the side of Little Mountain.  I was kind of nervous.  There were a number of ‘Trespassers Will Be Shot’ signs posted, and we’d had to go through some sort of air lock before entering the labs.  Whatever they were up to out here, it was serious.

	“I didn’t think this kind of tech existed in the Enclave.  Thought everyone here didn’t approve of such things.”  I was surrounded by lots of expensive looking equipment whose purpose I couldn’t begin to guess at, and white-clad technicians bustled around us.

	“It’s not technology that’s the problem, Charlie.  It’s the worship of technology.  The world outside the Enclave has adopted it as its newest false god, placing it above all else.  They see it as the cure for all their woes , never understanding that they’ve grabbed a tiger by the tail.”

	“Come, let me show you something interesting.”

	She led me to a fancy microscope.  At least, I thought that’s what it was.  Science hadn’t been my best subject.  To tell the truth, no subject had been my best subject.

	She gestured towards it, so I leaned forward and peered through the eyepieces.   An evil, hook-toothed worm looked back at me.  (Image 2)

	“What is it?” I asked, standing back.  

	“It’s formal name is _glyceridae sanctus_.  Colloquially referred to around here as the ‘Holy Worm’”

	I gave her a blank look.

	“So what does this have to do with me, and pissing off the good folks of the Idaho Highway Patrol?”

	She smiled enigmatically.

	“Let me show you something else, first.”

	As we were leaving, a technician approached with a medical cooler like the ones used to transport bootleg organs.

	“Dr. Kelly, I’ve got the samples you requested.”

	“Put them on ice, Richardson.  My driver needs a day or two to recover.”

	On our way out, they took the white jumpsuits they’d loaned us and dumped them in a burn bag.   Great.

*

	We were hiking along a trail behind the facility.  The heat was killer, but the sun had started to go down, and the elevation of the peaks blocked most of it, so at least I didn’t have to worry about sunburn on top of the skull fracture.  Dr. Kelly stopped for a moment and handed me a bottle of water from her backpack.

	“Have you ever wondered,” she asked as we walked, “Have you ever wondered why religions persist in the face of the secular onslaught of modern society?”

	“Not really.  I’m not the curious type.   Not healthy in my business.”  But I was lying.  What I’d seen here had piqued my curiosity, and I was painfully aware of how that had ended up for the cat.

	“I’d always just assumed there were people that couldn’t handle the chaos of modern life that wanted to retreat to a simpler life.”

	“That’s true, to some extent, for some people.  But I’m not talking the ‘Church on Sunday’ crowd.  I’m talking about the true fanatics, the ones that flagellate themselves until they pass out from blood loss, or that can psych themselves into blowing themselves up on a crowded bus.”

	I shrugged.

	“It turns out there’s a definite, detectable, reproducible physiological response to religious rituals.  Endorphins are released, heart rate accelerates, brain chemistry is altered.  It’s short-lived, but not unlike the rush a drug addict gets from their fix.  Not as addictive, usually, but the similarities are remarkable.”

	We came to a high chain link fence.  A padlocked gate barred our way.  So did two men with M16s.

	They obviously recognized the doctor, but checked her identification carefully and called back to the facility on walkie-talkies.  Most people on guard duty in this kind of environment would get slack in a hurry, but these guys were disciplined.  The butterflies in my stomach kicked it up a notch.

	They unlocked the gate and let us through.

	“Keep as quiet as you can from here on,” she whispered.  “They’re harmless, but we’re trying to keep their contact with outsiders to a minimum while we study them.”

	We crept down a threadbare trail concealed by heavy brush.   Ahead, I could hear chanting and a strange gushing sound.

	Dr. Kelly grabbed my arm and stopped me in my tracks.  She hunkered down and crept forward.  I followed silently.  Science -- not so good.  Sneaking – damn good.

	In the clearing, blue-robed acolytes stood in long rows in front of what looked like scavenged picnic tables.  The tables held two-liter bottles of soda.  As we watched, one of them reached forward and dropped something in the bottle.  Immediately a fountain of soda erupted in the air, and there was a long, almost orgasmic groan from the congregation.  No sooner had one fountain collapsed they it was repeated by another, and another, until dozens of jets of soda were reaching skyward at the same time. (Image 1)

	After several minutes of this, the bottles were emptied, and I could tell the worshippers were getting antsy.  Already there were several fighting over the remains of a half-empty container.

	“We dropped off a thousand two-liter bottles of soda four days ago.  That’s the last of it,” she whispered.  “Watch what happens next.”

	She reached into her pack and pulled out a full bottle of soda.  In one quick motion, she stood and hurled it into the crowd.

	Chaos erupted.  No one seemed to notice us, but they focused in on that bottle like a laser-guided bomb.  The first one to reach it lasted about thirty seconds before the mob tore him apart.  Within minutes, only a handful was left standing, a few rolling on the ground in pain, the rest dead or unconscious.

	The survivors seemed to reach some sort of détente.  One of them placed the bottle on one of the tables, and the remaining cultists began repeating their ritual.

	Dr. Kelly tugged at my arm and indicated we should leave.  We retreated back down the mountain.  A half-hour later we were in a staff cafeteria in the medical facility.

	“What the hell was that?” I demanded.

	“Ritual is ritual.  It helps sell it if there’s dogma behind it, but we’ve demonstrated pretty clearly that under the right circumstances, you can make almost anyone a fanatic.  The Holy Worm is a parasite.  It takes up residence in the brain, and when stimulated, it releases chemicals that act to suppress certain brain functions. 

“First, it suppresses the amygdala, the part of your brain that triggers fear response.  Then it affects the parietal lobe, diminishing the sense of space and time.  Finally, it hits specific regions of the frontal and temporal lobes that are responsible for the sense of self.”

“In essence, it lets us take use any ritualistic behavior as a trigger and the response of the parasite amplifies and prolongs the normal biological response.  It’s a new discipline called ‘neurotheology’.  We can make them feel God.”

I felt a shiver run down my spine.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean we are on our way to a new kind of holy warrior, one that knows no fear, never questions authority, and who is biochemically hardwired to believe.”


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## Rodrigo Istalindir (Jun 7, 2008)

*Rodrigo -- Match 14*

_*Part 2*_


	That night, I lay awake on the bed in the infirmary back in Cornish.  My thoughts were chaotic.  With that technique, they could create a whole new generation of holy warriors.  They’d be fearless, controllable, and if she was right and they could infect anyone with the parasite, they could infiltrate st about anywhere.  This was a damn sight more than I’d agreed to when I signed on as her courier.  And if I judged correctly, she was going to take some of her pets back to Canada with her.  I couldn’t let that happen.

	I dressed quietly, and pressed my ear against the door.  I could hear faint movement and the sound of steady, regular breathing.  They’d posted a guard.  Smart.  Only one guard.  Not so smart.

	I eased the door open, reached out, and broke his neck.

*

	I may be a techno-tard when it comes to math and science, but computers and technology I know, and I’m a pretty damned good hacker.  The security system at the facility was functional,  but the Enclave was still a backwater, and the stuff in the real world was light-years ahead of them.  I barely even broke a sweat.

	I didn’t have much of a plan.  I was outnumbered and out gunned, so I figured my best bet was to grab some proof and get it to the authorities as anonymously as possible.  Escape should be easy; all the vehicles in the Enclave were old-school non-AI models, so it would be trivial to hotwire one and get to the border.

	I snuck through the darkened laboratories, which were mercifully deserted this late at night.  Professional habit had made me memorize the way in on my earlier visit, so I managed to get to the worm lab without getting lost more than once or twice.

	I searched until I found the refrigerator, but it was empty.  No sign of the cooler.   Crap.  I felt the first stirrings of panic and suppressed them.  The sudden burst of adrenaline must have helped, because it made me remember the microscope.  I crossed the lab, making my way back to the bench where she’d showed me the worm.

	The area had been cleaned, but on the table next to the scope was a row of test tubes, with ‘G. Sanctus’ written on white labels.  I pocketed the samples and left the lab.

*

	Maybe I wasn’t as good as I thought I was, or maybe I just wasn’t used to working on older systems, but I must have missed something on my way in.  Outside the facility I could hear cars and shouting, and flashlights played over the windows.  

	I juggled the odds in my head, realized I had a snowball’s chance in hell of making it out the front way, and decided to head for the hills.  Hopefully the soda freaks were tuckered out after a long day of making Mentos fountains.

	It was a moonless night, which helped, but this time of year the nights were short, and I knew I wouldn’t have long before daybreak.  I made my way up the path, hoping to put some fast distance between me and my pursuers before looking for another way down the mountain.  

	The fence was unlocked, which worried me, but I could hear the security team moving up the hill, and didn’t want to waste time backtracking to find a way around the compound.  I pulled the gate closed behind me and snapped the lock shut.  It wouldn’t slow them for a second, but maybe if they saw it was locked they’d waste a few minutes wondering if I’d come that way.

	I scurried past the clearing, seeing now that there were little Quonset huts set back a little ways where the Coke-cultists presumably lived.  Beyond that, the trail continued.  Mentally crossing my fingers, I dashed past the dorms and back into the brush.  So far, so good.

	Dawn was just breaking when I came to a large tree.  One huge limb stretched out across the path, and a solitary figure sat perched upon it, motionless, facing away from me.  (Image 4) I realized it was Dr. Kelly.  I couldn’t tell what she was watching, but it certainly had her attention.  There was no way I could sneak past her, though.  The tree stood atop a rocky hill, and to either side of the path I was on the foliage was thick and brittle.  No matter how careful I was, I’d sound like an infantry battalion trying to get through that way.  That left the path, or backtracking.

	If I had to kill her, I wouldn’t lose any sleep, but I figured I could take her out before she could alert anyone.  I figured my best shot was to sneak underneath the limb, grab her feet and yank her off her roost.  A quick thump to the head, and she’d be out of it long enough for me to get away.

	I was ten feet away when she whirled and pointed the gun at me.  I started to doubt I was as good as I’d thought I was.

	“No sudden moves, Charlie,” she said, pointing a small but lethal handgun at my gut.

	She touched the side of her head and whispered something.  In the early light I saw a Bluetooth headset stuck in her ear.  I didn’t think, I just moved.

	She got off one shot before I got underneath her, the bullet tearing a furrow along my side.  I snagged one dangling foot and pulled hard.  She screamed and fell to the ground, still clutching the pistol.  I dove on her, scrambling to keep the gun away from me.  I grabbed her forearm and slammed her hand into the dirt until she dropped the weapon.  Rolling across her, I got her in a headlock and started to squeeze.

	The sound of shattering glass caught me by surprise, and a second later she started to shriek.  At least one of the test tubes in my pocket had shattered, and a long spear of glass was embedded in her cheek.   I pushed her away, momentarily more interested in making sure I hadn’t gotten cut by one of the tubes than in incapacitating her.

	I gingerly opened the cargo pocket on my pants.  All but one of the tubes had broken, but it looked like the inside lining was tougher than the outside, and I didn’t think any of the glass had broken through.  I didn’t know for sure how the parasite entered the body, but I figured open wounds were a good start.

	Like someone had thrown a switch, the shrieking stopped.  I looked at Dr. Kelly as she calmly removed the glass dagger from her cheek.  She showed no signs of panic, or fear.  I picked the gun up off the ground and started to leave.

	When I turned back to the path, I saw what she had been watching.  There was a large cave at the base of the hill that supported the tree.  In a clearing in front of the cave stood a clan of black bears, gazing into the rising sun.   They began to what I can only describe as chant, their throaty roars rising and falling in an eerie semblance of human singing.  They seemed oblivious to me, so I cautiously made my way around behind them.

	I reached the far side without incident, the bears still fixated on the rising sun.  I saw movement back from the way I’d come.  Dr. Kelly walked slowly into the clearing, stood next to the tallest of the ursine worshippers, and opened her mouth.  (Image 5)

	Her pleasant contralto was a nice complement to the bears’ baritone.

	Off in the distance, I heard the approaching security team.  I looked back at Dr. Kelly, and thought about the remaining test tube.  

	Kelly wasn’t going to doing much lab work from here on out, I didn’t think.  And sending the sample to the Feds wouldn’t stop someone in the Enclave from trying to take her place, it would just give the bio-geeks that worked in the Federal labs a head-start on their own formula.

	I carefully took it from my pocket, dropped it on the ground, and crushed it beneath my boot.

	From my hidden vantage point, I saw one of the security guards try to pull Dr. Kelly from the bear circle.  They didn’t much like having their sun ritual disturbed.   While the remaining guards debated whether or not to shoot the bears or leave them alone, I made my escape.


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## Rodrigo Istalindir (Jun 7, 2008)

Good luck, PC. 

I gotta run to dinner, but I'll read yours when I get back tonight.  Looking at your title, I wonder if any of our ideas overlap.


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## Berandor (Jun 7, 2008)

Piratecat said:
			
		

> That's okay. The most important part of writing is cutting.
> 
> I swear, I've written double the needed verbiage for these last two stories. In this last one I think I rewrote the same section four times before I got it right. I like cutting, though; it makes the end story that much tighter.
> 
> The best example I've seen is in the end of Steven King's "On Writing," where he shows the same story (1426) both before and after he edits, along with his editing comments. It was really illuminating for me.



Awesome book.

Edit: End of first draft, 4,400 words. Going to sleep now. I’m not sure what to cut, but I will find something.

Good night.


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## maxfieldjadenfox (Jun 8, 2008)

Piratecat said:
			
		

> That's okay. The most important part of writing is cutting.
> 
> I swear, I've written double the needed verbiage for these last two stories. In this last one I think I rewrote the same section four times before I got it right. I like cutting, though; it makes the end story that much tighter.
> 
> ...




Hey PC,
I spent the day doing algebra, and found that you had started your story nearly exactly the way I would have started mine... I didn't read any farther yet, in case I have time to write something. Just for grins, I'd like to see how much all of our ideas overlap. The set of pictures was pretty evocative. 

I love Stephen King's On Writing. One of the best books on craft I've ever come across. Good luck to you and to Rodrigo!


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## Piratecat (Jun 8, 2008)

Rodrigo Istalindir said:
			
		

> Looking at your title, I wonder if any of our ideas overlap.



Nope, nothing in common!

Fun story, Rodrigo. There are portions of this story that are as good as anything I've ever seen you write. You kicked my butt last time we went head to head in one of these, so it's fun to have another chance. Detailed comments about your story under the cut.

[sblock=No judges, please.]There are some things you do really really well, and in the first half of the story you're at the top of your game.  That one line...  "...felt that side of the car start to rise, gravity losing out to momentum. Gravity won in a split decision, momentum screaming that it was robbed."  That, my friend, is just beautiful. Same with "Her pleasant contralto was a nice complement to the bears’ baritone." And you get mondo bonus points for using "complement" correctly.

In fact, I think the whole first half of the story is extremely strong. You're good with action, clear and concise and powerful, and your comparison of technological vs. human advantages really worked well. You introduced the problem and showed us it was a bad, bad thing. I was a little confused about the Diet Coke picture, but it made the point about absurdity in forced worship.

Note one technical error. If a character is speaking over two paragraphs, don't end the first paragraph with a close quotes. So 

[bq]“I suppose that’s fair. My name is Dr. Kelly. I’m a biologist at the University of Calgary, specializing in parasites.”

“Come with me,” she said, tossing some real currency on the table to cover the meal.[/bq]

would be...

[bq]“I suppose that’s fair. My name is Dr. Kelly. I’m a biologist at the University of Calgary, specializing in parasites.

“Come with me,” she said, tossing some real currency on the table to cover the meal.[/bq]

The second half of the story didn't seem as strong as the lead-in. The first part was largely dialog and the second part had none, and that felt jarring; I like how you write dialog a lot, so I missed it. Also, you started telling the action (such as the breaking and entering) instead of showing it.  

Picture-wise, that last photo was rough. Of course, your earlier use of the 404 sign picture was just brilliant, so it probably balances out. 

I'm left with some questions. The doctor knew he was mercenary scum; why show him this top secret project? It seems very out of character for someone in her position, especially with that much security. Other than to be conveniently in our narrator's way, why was a parasite doctor studying bears in the middle of the night while wearing a dress, even if they were infected?

Overall I think this is good but your "Hell Freezes Over" story in round 2 is stronger. I'll be interested to see how the judging goes, since our stories are in different genres.

Good job. I love Ceramic DM, and you're one of the reasons why.
[/sblock]


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## Berandor (Jun 8, 2008)

*ENWorld Short Story Smackdown: Berandor vs. DIsharrock*

Once again, a mild grandma warning for themes and language. Maybe I’ll do a children's story for the finals?

*Denial*

»I’m sorry,« I said. I stood before the bed and looked down at Janey.

»For what?« she asked. »Don’t tell me you have performance axiety.«

I laughed, but only for a moment. »No, really. This day was supposed to be perfect.«

»And?«

»And your parents didn’t come. My mom didn’t come, nor my sister.«

»Your dad was there.«

»My dad.« I turned my face away from her. »He came, saw, and left in the middle of the ceremony.«

Janey grabbed my arm and pulled me down. I didn’t exactly resist the pull. I lay down on top of her. We gazed into each other’s eyes.

»I wanted you to have the wedding you dreamed of,« I whispered. We were so close she could have heard my thoughts. Then again, she sometimes heard them even when we were apart.

Janey shook her head softly, her long black hair – bound tightly all through the day, now finally free again – fell across her left eye. Normally, I’d blow it away and she would giggle. When I didn’t, she reached up and pulled it away herself. »When did we last see our parents?« she asked. Always the smart one with the right questions.

»You know when,« I said. I cringed at the memory. Janey didn’t, she just got this hard look on her face. She was the strong one, as well.

»The night of our engagement. So I didn’t exactly expect them to come.« Her hand were on my back, moving lower. I rolled off her. Looked at the ceiling.

»And the picketers? Don’t tell me you didn’t mind them.«

»You’re right.« Janey turned to me. She sang, mimicking the shouts from earlier that day. »›We’re embarrassed – by gay marriage!‹ They should be embarassed, but rather by their poetry. Mrs. Rosenstein is probably spinning in her grave right now. Those rhymes were dangerous.«

I pushed her hand away. »Janey, I’m serious.«

»And I’m horny.«

I couldn’t look at her, or I would have been lost that second, but I also couldn’t not look at her. After all, she also was the beautiful one. I put a hand on my forehead so I ended up looking at her through the gaps in my fingers. I had to say what I had to say. Speak now or be forever silent. »I know you don’t like this political bull.«

This time she pushed my hand away. I wanted to turn away, but she pressed against my cheek. I had to look at her. »I know you care about it,« she said. »That’s enough.« Her hand moved higher, running over my bare scalp. »I like your new haircut, by the way. It’s very butch.«

»You know I’m not like that.«

Now she rolled on top of me. I had no escape but her eyes, and I fell right in. »I’ll tell you what I know. I know that you love me. That you don’t know how strong you are, but that one day you’ll see it for yourself. That you couldn’t be more butch if you wore leather underwear.« She laughed. I laughed. We laughed. »I also know that I love you, and that this is our wedding night. So kiss me already!«

»Yes, Ma’am,« I said, and did as she told me. At the touch of our lips, my worries faded away.

Janey died the next day.

-

The police said it was an accident. Our bridesmaids had taken Janey on a surprise tour. They had tickets for Dolly Parton, the one obsession of Janey’s I had never understood. On the way to the concert, a truck crashed into their van. A tire had blown. Or so they told me, along with »We’re sorry for your loss.«

Everybody was sorry for my loss. I don’t remember much of the next weeks. I remember listening to Dolly Parton for hours whilst crying my heart out. I remember the picketers at the funeral. And I remember all those people saying the same dumb-ass phrase. When I wasn’t allowed to see Janey’s body – they had to identify her by her teeth – the doctor told me how sorry he was for my loss. When I tried to find a priest to speak at Janey’s funeral – she’d been Catholic, after all – all of them were sorry for my loss and none of them would do it. When my boss, who had been at the wedding, told me that I had missed too many days and that I was fired, she was sorry for my loss. I even got a postcard from my sister: »Sorry for your loss.« Sorry for your loss. Sorry. If anybody had come up to me and laughed in my face how I deserved all the pain I was in, I might have hugged him just because of his honesty. Maybe I should have hugged that Phelps f*cker at the funeral.

Life went on. I didn’t. I locked myself in our – my – home for weeks. I didn’t eat. I didn’t sleep. I just lay there. Like dead, but not dead. I took all the pictures of Janey and me and put them on our bed. I slept on the floor next to it. I cleaned the house until I found something that reminded me of her and I broke down crying. I rushed out to buy every album Dolly Parton had ever worked on. I got a tattoo of Janey on my biceps, and when I thought of what she’d say to that, I broke down crying while I sat in the chair.

I wanted to die. I tried to die – not to commit suicide, but simply to die. I lay on the floor next to the pictures on the bed, and I welcomed death with open arms. He would not come. Of course, people tried to comfort me. At first I screamed at them and insulted them until they left, or hung up. Then I stopped going to the door or answering the phone. I stopped doing anything. I guess sooner or later, death would have come. I would have died.

Of course, that was before the tattoo spoke to me.

-

»Pam? My god, you look awful!« I barged right past her, neither waiting for nor expecting an invitation. »Hey!« Maureen shouted. She followed me into the living room, and when I hesitated for a moment, stood right in front of me. »What do you think you’re doing?«

»Surprised to see me, sis?« I asked. I wanted to slap her, but I was afraid if I started, I wouldn’t be able to stop.

»Surprised?« she echoed. »More like annoyed. You know you’re not welcome here.«

»And here I thought you loved me,« I said, trying to put so much sarcasm into the words they would melt her skin. It didn’t work. Barely.

»It doesn’t matter whom I love, Pamela.«

»Right. It’s about whom I love, isn’t it?«

»You made a choice,« she began, but I knew that rant in and out and had no stomach for it, not now. I interrupted her.

»Fricking choice I had, when my love died one day after our marriage!«

»Look, Pam, I’m sorry for your–«

»Don’t you dare say it, Mo. I swear I’m gonna break your jaw if you say it.«

»Jesus,« Mo said, »what’s the matter with you?«

»I know, Mo. I know everything.« I looked her right in the eye when I said it, and shoot me if she didn’t lit up like a Christmas tree. Maureen had always been a bad liar, but this bad? She must have wanted me to know. I couldn’t take it anymore. She opened her mouth to say something, but I just balled my fist and punched her. She screamed and fell to the floor. My leg spasmed, but I kept myself from kicking her. Not yet.

Mo looked up at me, holding her nose. Blood gushed forward from beneath her hand. »You bitch!« she snarled. »You’re crazy.«

»I know you killed her,« I repeated. »So where is it?«

»What the heck are you talking about?«

I lifted my fist, and she shrank back from me. She was scared. I almost laughed at that. My sister, who was twenty pounds heavier than me, who had taken Tai-chi for years, and she was scared of me. Pretty butch, I thought. And nearly broke into tears. I concentrated on my hatred until the feeling passed.

»I know you killed her. You killed them all. She told me.«

Mo didn’t protest. Maybe she was playing along, maybe she had resigned herself to her fate. I didn’t care. »Who told you?«

»Janey.«

»What?« She almost got up, but I showed my fist again and she sank back to the floor. »You come here, spout accusations and break my nose because you had a bad dream of your freak show lover?«

So I kicked her. Not as hard as I wanted to, but hard. I aimed for the rips, but she pulled away, and my foot missed her midsection and hit her in the head instead. It snapped back. She crumpled to the floor. I thought I’d killed her but then I heard her moaning. She wasn’t dead but it seemed she was out cold. I stepped past her and started to search first the room, and then the house.

Maureen caught up to me in the bedroom. I had saved it for last when I guess I should have gone there first. Perhaps I was secretly hoping she’d come to in time. I hadn’t counted on her gun, however.

»Step away from that drawer,« she said. She almost sounded calm, but with blood caking her face and probably a concussion hammering away inside it, she mostly came off as drunk.

I looked at the revolver in her hand. »You’re gonna shoot me?«

»I fricking don’t know why I shouldn’t.«

»Because you didn’t kill me before?«

She slumped against the door frame but kept the gun trained on me. »Listen, I don’t know what stuff you’re on, but–«

»May I show you something?« I put my hand in the back pocket of my jeans and slowly drew it out again, holding a photograph. I held it out to her. »This is Janey.«

»I know what the slut looked like.«

I almost threw myself at her right then and there. It wasn’t the gun that kept me from doing it, it was Janey’s photo in my hand. Janey, who had gotten me off the streets, away from the violence. So I simply said, »It was taken on the night of our engagement. I had it tattooed on my arm.«

»Fascinating.«

»I just want you to understand that when I tell you Janey spoke to me, I know I didn’t hallucinate. It was her voice. She woke me up. She said ›Help me.‹« I couldn’t help it, I began to cry. »›Help me, Pam.‹ That’s what she said. And she said more. She said it was you who killed her. It was you who cast some spell on her so she would die and go to hell. Because that’s where she is – in hell. And she needs me to rescue her. And that’s why I need whatever it is you used to curse her.« My tears had gone by then and turned into rage again. »So you’d better let me open that drawer, Mo, because I will kill you if I have to.«

Mo didn’t respond at first. She just stood there. She began to shake, and then she started to laugh. Loudly. Her laughter drove spikes into my brain by way of my ears, and I wanted her to shut up so very badly. »Do you actually believe that?« she finally asked. »I mean, I cast a spell? Come on, Pam! We’re not living in some kind of happy Wicca fantasy land where spells are real and lesbians go to heaven. You know what? I’m glad Janey’s dead. I’m fricking happy. And if she’s in hell, well, she pretty much got there on her own. So excuse me–«

»Look at the photo«, I said. »Look at it, Mo. I told you I’ve got proof.« I tugged at my shirt until the buttons gave, and then I took it off. I didn’t care that I was topless. I turned to the side. »Look at the picture, Mo. That’s what the tattoo looked like when I had it made. Before it spoke. Look at it now.«

Mo didn‘t look – she stared at what had become of my beloved. Her arm shook, and finally dropped low, gun pointing at the ground. She looked down, as well. I prepared myself to attack her, but her words stopped me cold.

»I didn’t know. Believe me, Pam, I didn’t know it would happen this way. I just wanted her gone.«

»Gone?« I echoed.

»Gone from your life. So that you would recognize what she had done to you, how she… changed you. Made you different.«

»She set me free.«

She smiled. »That’s what you believe. You’re wrong. She bewitched you. She-«

»So you killed her.«

»No! I swear. I just… I wanted to save you. When… when you sent me the wedding invitation, I was beside myself. I stared at that invitation for about ten minutes. I couldn’t think. I even got in late from my lunch break.«

»You what?«

»You’re right, that’s not important. Look, I… I went to Father Roberts. I explained everything, but he said he couldn’t help me. Oh, he could pray, for all the good it would do. I googled for some way to get you out in time, but nothing. Then…« The gun fell from her hand. She sat down on the bed, still looking at the floor, still not looking at me. »Then there was this email. It said… it said if I wanted to get rid of my problems, I could.«

»How?«

»It was so easy. I needed the blood of a virgin but you know I’m saving myself for marriage, and… I needed a picture. Of her. On your wedding day.«

»On my– but you–« Suddenly my whole body felt cold. »Dad.«

»I tried to borrow his camera. He wanted to know what for. I told him. He… he said he wanted to take the picture himself. He wanted to decide. To see for himself.«

»He came, saw, and left in the middle of the ceremony,« I said, the words echoing within me. I was hollow, save for those words. My own father, my own sister had conspired to kill the woman I loved in order to save me. I wanted to puke. I wanted to pick up the gun and blow my sister’s brains out. Maybe I would do both. But first… I walked to the drawer.

»It’s in the top,« Mo said.

I opened the top drawer and there it was. A photo of Janey and our bridesmaids. Their faces were blurred, but I doubted it was a digital effect. They were posing for the camera. I had almost the same picture at home. My father must have taken it when the photographer took his own. Janey probably didn’t even notice. Had he already decided to use the photo then? Or had he seen the chance and taken the photo before he knew whether he’d pass it on to Maureen? I would make sure to ask him. After I got Janey out of hell.

I took the photo and stuffed it in my jeans. I picked up my shirt. I stood in front of my sister. »Maureen,« I said. »Maureen, look at me.« She looked up. I could see fear in her eyes, but this time I didn’t rejoice. I felt tired, and I still had so much to do. I didn’t have time for her now. »Maureen, I want you to understand, so I’ll say it clearly. If I ever so much as see your car in my street, I will kill you.«

Without so much as another word, I turned and left.

-

I drove right home. My stomach growled, but there had to be something left in the fridge that I could eat. I didn’t want to waste time by going shopping. Besides, my shirt was pretty much ruined, and I had other things on my mind. How was I supposed to get into hell? I knew I needed the photo to get to Janey, but I had no idea how to get into hell in the first place. Was there a road or a highway I could take?

I saw the open cellar door as soon as I came home. I hadn’t been to the cellar for weeks, so I couldn’t have left it open. The light on the stairs was out, but down in the cellar it was on. I turned the switch at the top of the stairs. Nothing. »Hello?« No answer. »Is anybody down there?« Nothing. »I have a gun,« I lied. I probably should have taken Mo’s gun. 

Suddenly, the house felt _wrong_. It felt as if someone – or something – was watching me. I shivered under its gaze. Whatever it was, I didn’t think it was friendly. And it was up here with me, not down there in the cellar. It suddenly seemed like a good idea to go down there and look for a shovel or some other kind of weapon. I took the first step, and the feeling of wrongness subsided a bit. I took another step, and another, the feeling fading with each one. I was so focused on that fleeting feeling that I didn’t even realize how far I had walked until it was almost gone. I must have walked down at least three times as far as my cellar should have been, and still the stairs were dark and there was light just ahead. A dozen steps away but too far for me to reach. I looked behind me. There was nothing. Not even darkness, or black. Nothing at all. It was scary enough that, even though the stairs didn’t seem to end, I never stopped descending. When the air grew cold, I drew my tattered shirt around me. It didn’t help much, but then it either got warmer or I adapted to the cold, for I didn’t feel it anymore. I walked down the steps for what seemed like hours but could very well have been days, always a few steps short of the light, and always just a single step ahead of the nothingness behind me.

Then suddenly, the stairs ended.

-

The stairs ended in a turn, and at the foot of that turn was an opening, a doorway. Light shone through the opening and onto the brick wall. It didn’t look much like my cellar anymore.

As much as I had wanted to stay in front of the nothingness behind me, now that I had actually reached the end of the stairs, I was afraid to walk on. I remained standing half a dozen steps above the floor, unable to go any further. It’s not that I was exhausted – though I was – but if that staircase led to where I thought it did, then hell was right around the corner. True hell.

I couldn’t go there. I could not go to hell. I had come this close, I had hit my sister and threatened to kill her but I could not take the final steps. Janey would remain trapped in hell forever because I was too scared, too weak to go and get her. She had been the strong one – and the smart one. I didn’t have a plan. I’d just gone to my sister just like I’d just descended the stairs after I came home. I didn’t grab the gun, I didn’t even change my sodding shirt. And Janey would remain in hell because of me.

I sat down on the stairs and put my head in my hands. I wanted to cry my heart out, but I was too tired and too hungry, so I simply sobbed dry tears. There were no sounds but my own. The light kept on shining through the doorway. It didn’t waver like flames, and the air didn’t smell of brimstone, nor was it particularly hot. I could have been sitting on the stairs to my cellar after all.

I don’t know how long I sat there until the shadow came. I didn’t even notice it coming. One moment the doorway was empty, the next there was the shadow reflected on the brick wall. The shadow of a human, a woman.

»Janey?« I got up. The shadow didn’t move, nor did it say anything. I looked at my tattoo, but it still showed the twisted visage of a tortured Janey. If anything, the picture had become worse. I looked back to the shadow. It was gone. »Janey, wait!« I shouted, and without thinking I jumped down the stairs and through the doorway.

I walked right into hell.

-

I don’t know whether all of hell is filled with phallic towers or whether that’s a specific feature of the lesbian part of it, but other than that, the place waiting for me when I came through the doorway was pretty much your typical hell. It was hot, so hot that my shirt was drenched with sweat before I even started walking. Scathing winds blew across the plains to the sounds of a myriad screams. And yes, the smell of brimstone was thick enough you could have cut it with a knife. The only thing that grew out of the bare ground were large cones of what looked like limestone. There were a lot of these cones, forming towers or castles, stretching to the horizon and probably beyond. 

I had no hope of finding Janey here, but that’s why I had gotten the picture. I fished it out of my jeans and looked at it. Janey’s face was still blurred, as were the faces of the other bridesmaids, but something else had changed. Janey’s right arm had moved and now pointed directly at a nearby set of cones which had grown together tightly enough to form a castle of sorts. I could see light behind some of the holes in the limestone. Once again I wished for my sister’s gun as I made my way over to it.

The entrance to the castle, a large set of double doors inlaid with spikes and skulls, stood slightly ajar. I sneaked up to the doors and peeked through into a great entrance hall. It was empty. I entered the castle and tried not to look too closely at the frescoes adorning the ceiling or the paintings on the walls. Out of the corner of my eyes, they seemed to move, but I kept my gaze focused on the photograph. 

Janey’s arm pointed the way, leading me up a flight of stairs, through another open door and up another flight of stairs until I stood at the entrance to a dark tunnel. The light coming from the stairs barely made it through the tunnel, hinting at round, barred doors set into the walls in irregular intervals. So far, I hadn’t seen anyone or anything in the castle, nor had I heard any sign of inhabitation. I stepped into the tunnel.

The loud bang resounding through the castle could only be the double doors closing. I froze. There was the sound of another door falling shut, closer this time. I rushed through the tunnel, peering into the darkness and trying to make out faces behind the cell doors. It was too dark.

»Janey?« I asked, and then again, louder. »Are you here?«

»Pamela?« There, to my right. I ran over to the door. Behind me I could hear laughter, dark and ominous. I didn’t care. I cared about the hands reaching out to me from behind bars. I grabbed the hands and felt myself pulled towards the cell. I didn’t resist. »Pamela, it’s you.« I knelt as close to the bars as I could, shamefully aware of how I had to look. Even my sister had remarked on that. »What happened to your shirt?« Janey asked, as if that was the worst of the situation. »Did you get impatient for me to open it?«

I laughed, and the laughter turned to tears as I kissed Janey’s hands and her arms and her cheeks and her brows and her nose. I reached into the cell and caressed her face, her hair, her neck, as far as I could reach. She wore a metal collar chained to the wall, and when I touched her back she flinched. She had been whipped.

A shape appeared in the entrance to the tunnel, a large, misshapen figure that took away almost all the little light we had.

»I’m so sorry, Janey,« I cried. »So very sorry.«

»For what?« she asked.

»I wanted to save you. I wanted to get you out of here.«

I could feel her smile. I could see her smile even though I didn’t see her face in the darkness. The shape started moving towards us.

»You are so butch,« Janey said, »coming to get me out of hell. Who’s the strong one, now? Who’s the brave one?«

»I don’t care how brave you think I am,« I said, harshly. »The only thing that’s important is that I failed to get you out of hell. I failed!«

»Oh, sweetie. It seems I really am the smart one here. Don’t you get it?«

The shape moved slowly, but it was almost upon us. And suddenly it felt like it had at the top of the stairs again. I felt being watched – though suddenly I wasn’t sure that this was a bad thing anymore.

»Get what?« I said.

»Remember our wedding day?« As if I could ever forget it. »You wanted everything to be perfect. You know what? It was. It was perfect because you were there. And now you’re here. Do you honestly think I could be in hell when you are with me? You came and you got me out. It doesn’t matter for how long, you got me out of hell. So kiss me already!«

The shape was looming over us. I could smell its breath. The feeling of being watched intensified as well. I ignored all of it. I said, »Yes, Ma’am«, and I did as Janey told me.

At the touch of our lips, my worries faded away.

FIN


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## Berandor (Jun 8, 2008)

Couldn’t have done it with the original deadline even though now I’ve got some time to spare. Oh well, it’s the European Soccer Championship, I’m sure I’ll find some way to pass my time...

DIsharrock, good luck. I’m quite happy with my story (though if history has anything to say, that’s rather a bad sign). Looking forward to reading yours. (and Piratecat’s and Rodrigo's)


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## Berandor (Jun 8, 2008)

Rodrigo Istalindir

[sblock]What happened at the break? Up to the end of your first post, I was in awe. The narrator was great, the story was in full swing, and I had just gotten a good glimpse at the darkness hiding beneath the humorous tone. The coke image was great, though the aftermath was *very* bloody.

But then it seemed as if I’d missed part of the story – or maybe time caught up with you? Suddenly the narrator is dead set on doing the right thing and he’s capable of snapping a guard's neck like a carrot stick. He hacks himself into a security lab and sneaks out without much of a hitch. It all went pretty easy – I felt more tension during the car chase. The picture with the doctor on a tree was kind of iffy, too – but I loved the chanting bears, and that’s where the gruesome coke aftermath helped because you didn’t really need to describe what happens next. Though a description of the doctor standing on top of a slaughtered security guard howling victory at the sun? Perhaps.

In the end I thought the set-up was brilliant but the pay-off was a little weak. Still, a good enough story to advance on most days. This day, too? We’ll see.[/sblock]

Piratecat:
[sblock]
I liked that story, but not as much as others you did this round. I’ll try to explain why. Until the characters got to the field, the story felt a little too much like exposition to me. This is the world. This is the problem. This is what’s going on. It didn’t feel dream-like or mythical enough for me, but also not technical enough to make it humorous (a beaurocracy of dreams, for example). Or maybe it was that we were told all these things, and only shown in glimpses.

There were small touches I enjoyed (the McDonald’s reference to name one). And some that were bothering me: Amy has problems understanding the new world, but they have a sign designed to fool Google Earth?

The part in "Nebraska" was great, though – especially since from a short glance at the pictures, I *had* thought there were stalks of wheat. The end was fine, and I accept that the "girl sitting on tree"-picture was a pain to integrate. See also Rodrigo’s story. 

I wouldn’t call it a bad story, really, just that I’m used to even better stuff from you. It’ll be a tough decision this round, I think, and from only reading once (admittedly), I’d go with Rodrigo this time. Good luck![/sblock]


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## Dlsharrock (Jun 8, 2008)

*Harbinger*

Round 3 - Dlsharrock vs Berandor
--------------------------------

Welcome rider of the pale steed, silver scythe of serendipity. Come, let me embrace you, friend and keeper of the Dark Hold. Great is the thrust of thy hall, as jagged fangs of obsidian do the turrets of thy dominion stand. And I have seen the hallowed witch-crags of Elmar and known the marrow biting cold of the grey mists in Redsward where the scales of Melas sway. For within the swamp mire did the Queen of Carvings dwindle in Her rule and wither to the sting of war. Thus do I greet you, in the time honoured tradition, and may you be at peace in my home.

Yes, be seated and drink of the wooden chalice. None serve me, for mine is a meagre house, thus must the lofty valiant serve themselves, and with good humour no less. Look thee, upon my shoulder is etched the likeness of our lost Queen's fair raiment, scribed as once it was before the decanting fingertips of time sundered beauty and power to the choler of Tartarus. T'was etched at my behest by the templar of Purros, within the misery of the Redsward and as the raging colossus of thine enemy swept a bane of terror across thy lands. There is the sketch eternal to my flesh, to remind me not all is dust and blood; but that the broken borders of this world can nurture truth as fine as gossamer and light to the eye as the Great Moon. The sun may yet return and not all will be as black towers and petrified bone. And I am honour bound to my Queen.

I summoned you, and those arrayed about this room, to hear prophesy and wisdom. You know the faces you see, of course. Meet thee rider of the pale steed, Marshank Crowfoot, warlord of the fortress Purros. Meet thee holy father Parthia, priest of Elmar (and beyond the ever-sentinel clerics of the witch crags who guard their lord even in meetings of alliance). All you have met, as we have met. But greet also one whom you do not know and one who will not speak greeting in turn, for he is mute to all but I. Shadow of the gold stone, shade of the world that was, now without substance in the modest dark of my frugal mansion where he dwells upon the walls, unbidden to whisper the way and reveal fearful ends born of desire for power and glory. Four Kings, with my blood mingled. Four lords, under one Queen no more. The carvings are decayed, though the world still turns and such blinding sorrow have we known that grief hath shed all dignity to become a portent of doom. We four, whose lands suffer pestilence, death and strife. We four who draw to our hearts the end I have seen and may still ride forth to apocalypse. Hear me then, my countrymen and sons of Redsward. Hear all that the shade of the world that was hath shown unto me and let us turn from this path if yet we may. 

The nuclear winds blow and a squall of grey flakes falls in Warhelm. None have survived the destruction of Thor, whose fires were as a rising sun upon the horizon of the world. This you know.

Soon the fuel of bitter magic will turn a great wheel of flame and upon its spokes shall we few be crucified, to turn endlessly in the night of this forgotten realm; to reign forever over a revolution of tortured souls and to suffer on as wraiths in a land named unto us by the six maidens of virtue and the God they serve. For as you know, Lord of the pale steed, fellow rulers of lost souls, death hath long abandoned those who dwell in the Grey Hold. Now we four are death and to our malice shall the reaper hearken, while our people suffer. To their ends must we desist and turn from war.

Such omens does the Shadow speak to my sleeping ears, though in truth I do not sleep. Not lightly doth the head that wear the crown rest upon bolster when shadows of the past whisper fitful warnings. For I am told that I, the leper of Leukos, shall be overlord some day, a judge of days in a land of inferno as yet unborn. But it is as nothing to the full gravity of the shade's tale. I impart to you now, the words he spake.

Into the fire, the drooling flames of evil. Risen are the multitude, so sayeth he. Servants of the wrath, blood spillers of Tartarus. Their iron armours, spiked and crimson with the sweet slick of countless enemies, glimmer copper and verdigris with rust before the black stone of mighty Purros. Ugly is the odour of this host; a sea of stench breaking forth as a tide upon the fields of Elmar. 

Defenders of Redsward, warriors of the middle mists, comrades in war. These soldiers of we four lords, clasp limb and gauntlet to make of themselves a wall, while the fleshless victims of glory wax upon raven-feathered soil and sink faceless into the mire. Black and red runs the river of those who live, and its name is fear. Fear even saints cannot banish with their sigils or faith. For war is all and death cleanses even messengers from the burden of deliverance.

In these days of ill-fate, the clerics of Parthia's rule shall kneel with clasped hands, knuckle white, eyes as crystal with tear and sorrow, for without the sword they have the luxury of temperance, but lack all hope of defence as the end creeps ever closer. The six maidens are fled and faith is cracked; a broken thing. The ranks of Marshank Crowfoot, meanwhile, shall muster in the combe and witness alone the thudding hoof and marching rabble of thine enemy's approach.

It is the one true foe: my brother Nirgal, Over-King of Tartarus, and his soldiers drawn from the abysmal pit with the promise of flesh. He rides upon a horse of pitch, the witch of Burgundy tethered from throat to perennial bone as a horse brass to the collar of that magnificent steed, for once was she his wife. Her murder has turned the dark master once and for all to the path he feels he must tread. Her counsel was wise, but the world would be his and he will listen no more to her continent tongue.

In Crowfoot's eyes are long terms of sorrow. Heavy weigh these years, for I see them now, and to the warlord's back a further weight of chainmail sinks low (though no heavier than the fear of owner's oaths) the shoulders of armoured lines. Archers venture forth as though through doors of men. Fear crusts their aim as dry blood to lips cracked by disease. Yet strings are drawn and arrow heads glitter in rows.

The Over-King trembles, sensing and wallowing in despair, horned head risen above the fleece-white and black-flecked collar of dark office, for no temperance or luxury of removal has he, here where hoof meets soil, where steel tastes bone, where the rage of the shunned stands teetering upon a precipice of vengeance. No witch's skull but the purple robe descends below, graced across the flanks of the ebon horse whose hooves test the ground and throw apart mud where once was grass. The horse's venerable skull is alight as Aerdry's grazing sky, innocent of Armageddon despite stabling in the plains of Tartarus. To be a horse, great lords of men! To know peace, even while carrying such unhallowed evil! But I folly with wishes and depart from the tale.

Arrows make an arc above and the King strides forth to receive fate upon men. There will be no mercy from this driven host whose hearts shall ever sink with vacuous depths. In my vision I can taste my brother's fury and you, my lords, I can taste your fear. It is sour to my tongue. 

God is forsaken; the six deities of Celestial court are gone from these lands. The fair Priestess Shiva and Goddess Shakti, the four guardians of glade and green whose verdant hues and stately trees may never again gladden the mantle of Redsward, whose purple robes are the pumping blood of life on Earth. They are abandoned in our hearts and their faces obscured are known to us no more. In the cavity of all we believed beats now the heart of the Over-King. It echoes with vulgarity and empty flame, for now there is only the burning vanity of vengeance, the vague jest of freedom upon the routing hope of Men. Though crowns rest upon thy heads, lords of the middle mists, rims blacken a harsh fringe upon your temple and jewels are tarnished with bitter refraction. God is forsaken, for we have forsaken Him.

The Over-King sits upon a steed of black, alone before the ranks, deep in a mire of corpse and fetid organ, knowing now that we have embraced his destiny. Arrows bristle from ribs and throats and screams lift to the vaulted heavens, though no divinity remains to hear. Crowfoot is driven back as columns of brave men fall to arms in the running swamp of bubbling gore, and the last defence of Purros is lost. In the wake of retreat, bane crawls forth and his name is Nirgal, swift to take the hindmost. And as the black hollows of his skull tilt I see the horror in his eyes and the furnace sword Hammerfell, emerging from the spires of sorcery upon a chariot of fire. For we four, in our last despair, have summoned the wizards of the witch-crags, and though they have seen the annihilation of Warhelm, they would do again this terrible magic. ‘To lay waste a land that cannot be tamed is greater than to yield a land to evil‘. This shall we four utter and with such logic smite a ruin to the Earth.

The furnace sword Hammerfell, brother of Thor, whose billowing flower hath already laid waste to the dragon lairs, shall be unleashed and in the raging tumult shall the realm of the Queen of Carvings be utterly destroyed. Loving memory shall warp and the world will shiver to her core. Such a mighty blow shall cleave the socket of Earth as axe to frailty and all will be consumed by bitter light and furious wind. As two halves of one cradle shall the forgotten realm drift in an endless night, and they will be known as Gehenna and Sheol, and upon them will suffer eternal the humanity of worlds. 

On Earth as it was in heaven, we four will ride forth upon such a day as befits the final Kings of men and bring this last revelation crashing down upon the spirit of our people. Within the inferno shall the wheel turn and we upon it. No mercy shall come to us and unto the skein of eternity shall we four be branded a harbinger of doom, deliverers of evil, war, death, famine and disease to the exclusivity not of this world but all worlds and for all time. And I will be a judge of days and to my decree shall all souls come who fall upon the wheel. This will be our eternal doom unless we concede Redsward to a lesser evil.

Sit now. Be at peace. Your agitation means nothing in this quiet mansion. And before you utter reason, rider of the pale steed, priest of the witch-crags, warlord of Purros, know that more did I see and more did the Shadow whisper. Not for the suffering of the Dark Hold alone does the wheel turn and we upon it. Many are the stars beyond the veil of the middle mists and though we see them not in this choked age of forge and industry, they sparkle yet in Aerdry's heaven and to many are bound other worlds of this true Earth, all touched by the hand of God. In such remembered realms, the six maidens of virtue are still known, the features of their elegance as clarity to peace and the peaceful. And yet the bane of unrest doth sally forth under many guises and our subjugation to the call of war and our own petty prides attend threads we cannot see with the promise of obliteration. Terrible fate, as glimmering dew upon silk, does each droplet of our wrath trickle to the stars. For ours is the one mother Earth and all others are born unto her. Moreover, the Queen of Carvings was born of multiplicity, for she is bound to the fate of the Earth. She lives again among the stars!

Yes. Your silence is welcome, your expressions warrant truth and justify the love I have seen in your hearts. For this revelation above all others did I summon you.

I have seen familiar eyes in unfamiliar apparitions, beholding the news of a coming terror, and I have seen Shadow in a different guise. A box as Shadow, a world that never was but will become, warning a maiden of beauty that ruin attends and comes fleet with death. A mushroom fire as that of Hammerfell but delivered by steel and thought alone. I have seen her flee and seek refuge, only to perish in the tempest of fire. 

All have I seen, for the Queen of Carvings lives still in many forms and on each child realm of mother Earth. She is gone from our midst yet tangible within our hearts and so lives on in the pastures of greener lands wherefore she musters the heart to change the frame of creation, as was her withered destiny in Redsward. I would not see her dwindle again, in any form or world, even were such shattering vision beyond my power to see. I would be with her and know her once more, in peace and freedom. For she is my Queen and my love unto her is as cherished as my brotherhood to man. But the threads are sacred and all that we do here upon the capstone of creation, so do we deliver unto all and where our Queen beloved lives incarnate she will die once again by our doing and will not realise her purpose. The wheel turns, and we upon it.

I have told all. Now is the time to consult and to tarry, if we must. I request you travel a weary road of much passing in shorter time than any man should expect another to face, but travel you must and with uncommon haste, for men we are no longer, but deities and servants of the greater God. And though we may be kings, we shall forever be subjects of Aquarius, the Queen of Carvings, wherever she may abide. The Shadow of the world that was desires renewal and I am told such power as we possess may be used to this greater good, if we so desire and but close our hearts to pride. Should we convoke the realisation of Nirgal's fiery domain and sunder the Earth? Or may we turn yet from war? Choose, if not for the salvation of we four and those who dwell in the sufferance of our decisions, then for the sake of our Queen, that we may live to see her again in states beyond this one.

Thus have I have spoken, my prophesy is spent.


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## Dlsharrock (Jun 8, 2008)

[SBLOCK=Notes about my story. Judge free zone]Time was not on my side this weekend! I'm fully aware of everything that's wrong with this one. I would have dearly loved more freedom to develop the idea, especially the Queen of Carvings which just didn't pan out as it looked in my head and wound up being plain confusing. I'm quite happy with it for a one-hour-effort and some frantic editing, but not as a narrative  I may come back to this one after the CDM is finished and improve on the premise.

I won't even have a chance to read the stories already posted. I hope I get to before the judges make their comments.

Best of luck Berandor![/SBLOCK]


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## Berandor (Jun 8, 2008)

DIsharrock:
[sblock]As with the other comments, this is from reading your entry just once, which I feel does this text a great disservice. I should really read it again before commenting, but it's late, and I’m sort of lazy, so I won't. 

Let me tell you I'm not really sure whether I liked what I just read. It definitely affected me, but how? I really should read it again. Perhaps tomorrow. I think I got all the pictures, but about the computer one I’m not sure. Also, at least at 1 am in the morning the style was sometimes hard to follow, and I admit I stopped in the middle of the story to do something else for a few minutes. Probably a "feature" of the lack of time.

BUT – here goes. I've read your first round entry, as well, and I love how you try to experiment with the form. I really think this contest needs you, someone who (similar to tadk) doesn't always write the same kind of story just with different images. I know it has made me considering different formats, as well, and when to try them if not here?

So let me sleep on your last entry, and maybe read it again, but no matter what comes of it, thank you for your entries so far. I hope there will be many more (though perhaps not in *this* contest, thank you very much ). Good night, and... you know.

Edit: I just read your comment. One hour? Okay, not bad.[/sblock]

(added edit)


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## tadk (Jun 9, 2008)

*reply*



			
				Dlsharrock said:
			
		

> [SBLOCK=Notes about my story. Judge free zone]Time was not on my side this weekend! I'm fully aware of everything that's wrong with this one. I would have dearly loved more freedom to develop the idea, especially the Queen of Carvings which just didn't pan out as it looked in my head and wound up being plain confusing. I'm quite happy with it for a one-hour-effort and some frantic editing, but not as a narrative  I may come back to this one after the CDM is finished and improve on the premise.
> 
> I won't even have a chance to read the stories already posted. I hope I get to before the judges make their comments.
> 
> Best of luck Berandor![/SBLOCK]




[SBLOCK=My feeling on your story]
Kick MF posterior dude
O Freaking heck yes
I so wish I had written that, you utterly rocked my socks
only 1 one hour, GD heck yes, all the naughty words in appreciation

I want to write with you sometime, if there is ever a pairs CDM I call dibs on you, we wont win, heck no, but these people will so won't know what hit them

I am going to print your entry and save it, I love it.
Tad


[/SBLOCK]


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## Dlsharrock (Jun 9, 2008)

[SBLOCK=responses to words/judge free zone]


			
				tadk said:
			
		

> Kick MF posterior dude
> O Freaking heck yes
> I so wish I had written that, you utterly rocked my socks
> only 1 one hour, GD heck yes, all the naughty words in appreciation
> ...




I've never been very good at conforming 
I would also like to write with you, tadk, as I think we both have similar ideas about experimentation. Thanks for your kind words and expletives deleted 



			
				Berandor said:
			
		

> As with the other comments, this is from reading your entry just once, which I feel does this text a great disservice. I should really read it again before commenting, but it's late, and I’m sort of lazy, so I won't.
> 
> Let me tell you I'm not really sure whether I liked what I just read. It definitely affected me, but how? I really should read it again. Perhaps tomorrow. I think I got all the pictures, but about the computer one I’m not sure. Also, at least at 1 am in the morning the style was sometimes hard to follow, and I admit I stopped in the middle of the story to do something else for a few minutes. Probably a "feature" of the lack of time.
> 
> ...




Thanks. And yes, it's hard to interpret with the first read. The epic style fits the mythology, I felt, though I'm sure it will cause the judges annoyance as it requires a couple read throughs and demands a bit more concentration on the reader's part than my previous story. Annoyance wasn't my intention, though. I'm more interested in using CDM as a platform for experimentation, as you observed. I love the time delay in some ways, as it sometimes forces the writer to throw their cards in the air and just write. On the other hand, I could protract this into a book quite easily. Though, I don't think anyone would read it 

The pictures were all used, though in some cases they provide a general feel rather than specifically point at single phrases. This is definitely the case with the fantasy image, which provided the other-worldly, apocalyptic, obsidien towers imagery. The girl with the laptop is seen at the end of the prophecy as the alternate incarnation of the Queen of Carvings and the soothsaying Shadow of the story is her laptop giving her news of impending armageddon. I'm probably guilty of way-pointing, but given the hour time limit, I think it could have been worse.

Best of luck Berandor (between you and me, I think you'll walk it )
[/SBLOCK]
Still suffering from busy lifestyle and other commitments, but intend to print and read the other stories in my lunch hour.


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## Rodrigo Istalindir (Jun 9, 2008)

[sblock=For Piratecat and Berandor]

Thanks for the kind words.  I'm inordinately proud of that first section, especially the 'gravity won' bit.  I like it so much I'm starting to worry if I subconsciously cribbed it from someone else.

Unfortunately, I think the first section turned out so well because I spent so much time on it.  I didn't get to start writing until Saturday, and had nothing in the way of an idea, so I kept screwing around on the computer and procrastinating.  Finally, I decided I had to start doing something, and hoped that just putting words down would kickstart things.  Eventually, it did, but I kinda had to rush through the rest and didn't get to flesh it out like I would have wanted.

I'd tried to convey the 'outsider' aspects of Charlie -- the old 'politically incorrect' car, eating meat, other things to try and give a sense that he too chafed under the restrictions of the modern world and so might seem to Kelly to be ripe for recruitment.  And of course she misundersands, it's not the end-result of modern restrictions that offends Charlie, it's the elimination of free will, and there's no way he'd trade one totalitarian(ish) regime he could skirt with one he couldn't.

A combination of being too subtle for my own good and not having the time to realize that and correct it. 

I'd intended to insert a scene with Dr. Kelly showing Charlie the bears, to reinforce the later picture use and to provide additional detail on the imprinting process.`

I appreciate the tip on the quote formatting, PC; I did not know that.  When I was a young lad in English class, I always had a hard time writing dialogue and avoided it when I could, ad never got a good feel for the rules.  I still have to stop and think about the proper punctuation more than I should and tend to muck it up when I'm not paying attention.  Probably 3/4 of my 'technical' edits are fixing the dialogue. :O

Personally, I like this one (and my first story) much more than 'Hell Freezes Over', which I thought of as gimmicky trifle that only works if you *don't* have pictures, but I'm glad others enjoyed it.
[/sblock]

[sblock=Comments on Piratecat's story]

I think it's a reflection on how dagger-sharp your stories usually are that this one felt a little flat.  Perhaps it's a bias against 'dream' stories I've gotten after playing and judging CDM.  But it seemed like your heart was only half in this one, like you really wanted to tell Amy's story but felt compelled by the pictures to tell Ria's.  Amy seems to me to be more alive, and her reactions more resonant.  Ria, despite being the main 'actor' doesn't seem to get the same amount of love, and comes across a bit perfunctory.  

I think maybe making her a terminal cancer patient robs her decision of any tension.  Of course she's going to jump at the chance.  Had she had a real, emotionally true reason to stay in the real world, her decision to take on the Amy's mantle might have had a bigger impact.  Imagine instead if she'd been called into the dream-world after falling asleep while reading her kid one of the classic children's stories.  Then the decision to return to the real world (and risk the world losing the 'sense of wonder' ) or stay in dream-land (and sacrifice her own happiness for the greater good) would have been harder.  No 'happier ever after' either way.

I dug the ideas behind the story, though I was a little confused by: 



> Before the computer age, places didn’t ever go away. If enough people forgot about them, they’d sort of fade and diminish. Eventually they’d be gone. Not now, though. About twenty years ago, old places stopped fading and started disappearing.




I get where you were going, but it muddled the message a the story a little.  

But the writing is top-notch as always.  I especially liked the back-and-forth of the dialogue.  It was snappy and organic, and accomplished more to establish the characters than the rest of the prose.  And technically perfect (and least so far as I can tell); the polish really shows.  You'd never know it was a Ceramic DM entry, as it's missing all the tell-tale signs of rushed writing and panicked editing.  I think from now on you're only allowed 48 hours, as clearly 72 is no longer a sufficient challenge.  

Picture use was excellent; I'm in awe of the corn-stalk interpretation of the coke fountains.  I never in a million years would have seen that, and now I can't see anything else.  Sneaking the 'Wild Things' into a story brought a smile for sure.  And the highway sign was perfectly in tune with the rest of the story, mixing the mystical, the metaphorical, and the virtual.  At first I thought it was kind of weak, but the more I think about it the way it draws the parallel between the virtual world I spend half (or more) of my life in, and the lands of make believe where we spend our youth, the more evocative it became.  Very well done.

I don't think this is your best work, even in this competition (the Nazi archeologist showed you at the top of your game), but it was still a clever take on the pictures and well executed.  You're a victim of your own success in that I expect nothing less than having my socks knocked off by each story.  

I just hope I don't get eaten by a grue.[/sblock]


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## Piratecat (Jun 10, 2008)

[sblock=Comments on comments!]Firstly, thank you for the feedback. One of the things I really value about Ceramic DM is that I get honest evaluations of my writing; even when it's a deliberate decision that someone is calling out, the feedback is really valuable. Seeing where things were less clear than I hoped on this last story is helping me learn.

I wanted a story that had echoes of Gaiman and the Fables series, one that was about ideas instead of action. It's me trying to stretch myself into a genre I haven't practiced in at all. I feel pretty comfortable with horror, action and even fantasy, but I still have a lot of weak spots. Writing a contemplative, dialogue-heavy story is one of them.  I ended up with exactly the story I had hoped for. That may be good or bad! But personally I hit pretty much what I was aiming for. We'll have to see if I set the target high enough. 

Out of curiosity, anyone figure out the identity of the narrator? There are some big clues in there for anyone curious enough to follow them, but her identity isn't really integral to the plot so I didn't spell it out.

Rodrigo, you may have misunderstood me when I praised your second story; while it's a gimmick story, I figured that was what you had set out to write, and you did it with great style. In this round, if your whole story was like part 1 I'd hand you a $20 and ask for an autographed copy of the book when you were finished. Even if the second half was rushed, you should be really proud of that. Hell, I am FOR you, and I was just a reader.

Berandor, fine work. I want to read your story a second time before I comment. I stylistic question: is the use of »« instead of "" a German usage? I tend to only see it when authors are trying to denote translated or even telepathic discussions, so it took me a bit to get the hang of.

DIsharrock, you wrote that in an hour? My hat is off to you. Dense and flavorful -- I couldn't have done that.[/sblock]


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## Quartermoon (Jun 10, 2008)

Amelia Earhart


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## Rodrigo Istalindir (Jun 10, 2008)

Apropos of nothing, there's a really good 2-part interview with Harlan Ellison at AV Club.

Part 1 

Part 2


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## Berandor (Jun 10, 2008)

Quartermoon said:
			
		

> Amelia Earhart



Yes, I got it too.

Pcat:
[sblock]Yes, the »« are the German variety of denoting speech, though the regular "" are used as well, especially everywhere outside of novels (and anthologies). I've just gotten used to using (and seeing) them, I don't really think about it anymore. I even use them as quotation marks in my university writing, which I would guess is pretty uncommon.

Additional trivia: Sometimes the marks are used the other way round, so that they enclose dialogue «like this». One of those is the Swiss way to denote speech (I think the latter one), one the German one.[/sblock]


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## Piratecat (Jun 11, 2008)

No rush, but do the judges have a feel for when judgment will be posted? (and 'no' is an okay answer.)  I just want to make sure to check back.

Thanks.


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## Herremann the Wise (Jun 11, 2008)

Piratecat said:
			
		

> No rush, but do the judges have a feel for when judgment will be posted? (and 'no' is an okay answer.)  I just want to make sure to check back.
> 
> Thanks.



If I had to have a guess, both results should be ready by this time tomorrow. Of course my guesses have been known to be wrong... so apologies for the delay.

Best Regards
Herremann the Wise


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## tadk (Jun 11, 2008)

Max,

Been working on my story a bit
Not totally done, not tied in together yet
How is yours coming along


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## arwink (Jun 11, 2008)

I just cleared Rodrigo vs. Piratecat off the decks and mailed the judgement off. Damn your hides, the pair of you - it would have been faster if it hadn't been a tough round to call.


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## maxfieldjadenfox (Jun 11, 2008)

tadk said:
			
		

> Max,
> 
> Been working on my story a bit
> Not totally done, not tied in together yet
> How is yours coming along




All I've been doing for the past week is trying to catch up in algebra. Starting the class a week late put me at a real disadvantage, as did the fact that I started with intermediate because of my SAT score and I haven't had algebra in something like 30 years. I hope to get some writing in on the weekend though.


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## Maldur (Jun 11, 2008)

give me an hour or so, I have been mulling over these stiories for a few days now, you guys cut it damn close. Four real pretty stories 

Judgements send, and I must say : YOU BASTARDS, that was hard!!


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## Berandor (Jun 11, 2008)

Come on Mr Wise, you got no excuses now! Post those judgy judgements!

in case I win:


Spoiler



I literally have no time to write on Friday or Saturday (unless I simply don't sleep at all), so please take that into consideration


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## Maldur (Jun 11, 2008)

Berandor said:
			
		

> Spoiler
> 
> 
> 
> (unless I simply don't sleep at all)




Sleep is for the weak!


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## Dlsharrock (Jun 11, 2008)

In case Berandor wins: 



Spoiler



I know someone who saw him drinking in a bar the whole time, and someone else said they saw him jotting down his story on a bar napkin between stripper shows.


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## Berandor (Jun 11, 2008)

I take my writing time where I can get it. As your friend clearly saw, I was busy!


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## tadk (Jun 11, 2008)

*good luck*



			
				maxfieldjadenfox said:
			
		

> All I've been doing for the past week is trying to catch up in algebra. Starting the class a week late put me at a real disadvantage, as did the fact that I started with intermediate because of my SAT score and I haven't had algebra in something like 30 years. I hope to get some writing in on the weekend though.





All good
 I have not done a thing to it in days

Have fun har har har


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## Herremann the Wise (Jun 12, 2008)

*Round Three 

Piratecat vs. Rodrigo Istalindir*

ARWINK’S JUDGMENT

Piratecat / Meme

Ah meta-text. I love me some meta-text and I enjoyed the way Piratecat used the connections to familiar narratives to good effect here. The voice and language is great and the story itself is very clever, but by the end I was left with a lingering feeling that I hadn’t actually enjoyed this quite as much as I could have for two key reasons.

The first is the need to explain the world the story takes place in, which seems to linger on for a couple of beats longer than it really needs to. This is a tricky thing to balance, but I felt like the nature of the world was being pointed out to me a few times more than necessary to make sure I’d “got it” when I’d already process the world and wanted something else to happen. The nature of the world is right there in the title, so I think Piratecat could scale back and trust the readers to figure things out without explicitly explaining the details.

The second largely comes down to the characters, who don’t really engage me. Piratecat’s got a great world set-up and he provides us with conflict, but the danger is all external to the characters. I was looking for some kind of internal conflict and path for both the old keeper and the new, and it never really seemed to arrive.

Rodrigo Istalindir / Untitled

Rodrigo starts strong here, but I think the story loses its way during the post-split. The set-up drew me into the story without any problems and I found myself intrigued by the notion of the holy worm and the world that’d given birth to these characters. And then I lost track of what was going on – I’m not sure *why* Charlie is so deadest against the bugs and willing to risk his life on breaking out rather than doing the job he was hired for. I think the ideas may be there, but they’re being rushed through, and the ending lacks resonance as a result. 

Worse, the lack of context in the finale makes some of the picture-use seem slightly arbitrary rather than honed – the set-up for it isn’t quite as strong as it needs to be in order to make things inevitable. The bears, for example, are one of Chekhov’s metaphorical guns – if they’re going to be fired in the third act, we need to see them hanging on the wall in the first; besides, that final image is too god not to set it up and use it at its best. 

Judgment

This is another really tough round, as both competitors wrote well-enough that they deserve to go through to the finals and both turned in stories that are perhaps just a few tweaks and a little extra time away from being truly awesome. I think the round is going to Piratecat by a cats whisker though, primarily on the strength of the meta-textual games and the subtlety of some of the icons that slip in. 

THE JUDGMENT OF HERREMANN THE WISE

I thought this set of pictures was diverse and vivid – perfect for putting two Ceramic DM veterans through the ringer. I have to say, neither of these excellent stories disappointed.

Piratecat has gone the philosophical route which I absolutely love. The blending of so many iconic references was excellent, the story resonating with some powerful ideas. Rodrigo’s near-future action thriller was excellently written, with the foot to the pedal for most of the journey. However, the finale here seemed rushed and what should have been one hell of a showdown revealing what Charlie’s real involvement was never eventuated. Still, I did enjoy this story.

All in all, I felt that PC has dealt with the images provided better than has Rodrigo, weaving them seamlessly together, finding some wonderful interactions between them that drive the story. Rodrigo in this regard has some excellently used images – the road sign – and others less so – the wild things, woman in the tree.

As such, Piratecat gets my vote for this round with a very complete package.

MALDUR’S JUDGMENT

Piratecat: damn that is a nice bit of storytelling. I especially liked the way you used the roadsign not found, and the max and the monsters picture.

Rodrigo Istalindir: damn solid start, very roadwarrior/cyberpunkish story, one of my favourite genres. The roadsign explanation was very well done, I didnt see that coming, very clever. The end however I found slightly less, there seemed to be a difference in how the attitude towards tech was portraited. great story overall though 

Judgement: Rodrigo Istalindir, though I would have loved more of the first part of the story, and less of the seciond part 

FINAL JUDGMENT

Congratulations to both our competitors for some excellent stuff this round, you had the judges in lather. There can only be one winner though and so Piratecat advances through 2-1 but props to Rodrigo for an excellent competition.


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## Herremann the Wise (Jun 12, 2008)

*Round Three 

Berandor vs. Dlsharrock*

ARWINK’S JUDGMENT

Berandor / Denial

I liked Berandor’s set-up, particularly the opening scenes; he sets up the situation and the characters fast and keeps things moving at a fair clip. There were occasional oddities (Who goes and sees Dolly Parton *the day after* their wedding? Would we have lost anything if it’d been a week? A month?) to the characters which didn’t quite fit with the image I was getting, nor did they truly suit the ending we were given.  

I think the ending proved to be the biggest weakness here – it’s the conclusion to a different story, not the one you’ve been telling me thus far. There was a realness to the lives of the characters in the introduction that’s absence in the idealized love-conquers-all conclusion. 

Disharrock / Harbinger

I’m a fan of big, bombastic narrative voices and the effect they can generate, but once I peeled that away from this story I found myself wondering what I was getting. Most of the time I’m adrift – this is a quick-fire montage that doesn’t give me time to really process and ground myself in the story, nor does it give me a character that I can hold onto for longer than a few seconds. In many respects it feels like it’s stalling for time until the story catches up to the voice, as it does towards the end. Could have been stronger if it was given more time, particularly the time to edit and even-out the overall effect. 

Judgment

The round goes to Berandor without question in my eyes, as he has the stronger story overall. 

THE JUDGMENT OF HERREMANN THE WISE

The images this time were the classic case of the odd one out. Our two competitors however have taken different paths in their telling – Berandor the straight forward and Dlsharrock the referential.

Berandor’s tale is well executed although the final stages seemed a little loose. Berandor was able to convey the emotions of Pam exceedingly well but there was a certain lack of... something that clouded the ending for me. Still there was enough here that I congratulate you on weaving the images together as well as you did.

Dlsharrock has written a piece that is nothing short of an extravaganza of imagery and language. I adored the style, daring as it is in a semi-final. I really had to work at this piece to try and ferret out the various references to the images provided – an enjoyable task but a task none the less.

The image flashes here and there however force me to once again ponder how well Dlsharrock has dealt with the pictures provided and their necessity to the prophecy given. Unfortunately, I’m left feeling that once again, an image is used but then dismissed equally as quickly, the only one having true resonance being the lady photo/tattoo. However, this is not enough to drive the piece alone and as such, I think what would have been a draw has turned ever so slightly in Berandor’s favour.

In all honesty though, I don’t think I have debated in my mind so much on a match since tadk versus Rodrigo I think several competitions back. On the one hand I feel like I am taking the easier path giving my vote to Berandor but on the other, I feel like Dlsharrock has left me with little choice. Berandor gets my vote but congratulations to Dlsharrock for providing something different, challenging and so incredibly vivid.

MALDUR’S JUDGMENT

Berandor: this story read weirdly, it all felt a bit ...fabricated, it missed a certain flow.

dlsharrock: ok, I find it very well done. I wouldnt be able to do it, but I find "ye olde english" completely unreadable 

Judgement: you guys made it hard, it is unreadable vs a lesser story. But in the end I will go for dlsharrock for I found it way more impressively written

Good luck for the finalists!

FINAL JUDGMENT

Berandor sneaks through 2-1. As I write this, I ponder whether I should have called my vote a draw, allowing an unprecedented three into the final? A very close thing in my mind at least - congratulations to both our competitors.


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## Rodrigo Istalindir (Jun 12, 2008)

Congrats, PC -- you've got your revenge!  Good luck in the finals.


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## Piratecat (Jun 12, 2008)

Thanks, everyone. Rodrigo, well written. I spent this evening realizing that I couldn't call it myself.

This last round might be tricky to schedule. If we can't schedule it for Sunday night (Monday morning Aussie time), I may have to delay until next week due to some unavoidable problems. There's a window early in the week, though!

What's good for you, Berandor?


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## Berandor (Jun 12, 2008)

Thanks for the judgement. So now Piratecat, and then the prize.

Sunday Morning Aussie time onwards is alright. There's some roadblocks later on in the week, but I could squeeze them to either later (wednesday) or earlier (sunday). Thur-Sat is not good, though.


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## Piratecat (Jun 12, 2008)

> and then the prize.

Buddy, you shouldn't strive after the booby prize! Even if you're used to losing, that isn't very far-thinking of you. Should at least give yourself _some_ credit.  

You know, even if no one else does. *whistles casually*

Seriously? It's an honor to be going up against you.


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## Berandor (Jun 12, 2008)

It is? Maybe that helps me not being scared... erm... *w*itless. Yeah, that's it. (Forget I said that.)

If the last rounds were any indication, I will have to write a story I don't like to have a chance... 

Edit: The more I think about it, Monday morning Aussie time would be best. I'd have Sunday to do what needs be done, and then I can write Mon/Tue and edit Wed. If all goes well.


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## Herremann the Wise (Jun 12, 2008)

Well it looks like 9:00am Monday morning Sydney Local Time it is for the final. I wish you guys congratulations for the fine work so far and all the best in the final.

Best Regards
Herremann the Wise


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## Dlsharrock (Jun 12, 2008)

Congratulations Berandor. Looks like my old enemy the way-point bit me upon my buttocks once again. Now, not to be smug, but I'm looking forward to relaxing back with a somewhat relieved expression on my face and not having to write vs Piratecat 

Good luck both of you


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## KidCthulhu (Jun 12, 2008)

And the trash talking begins.

Or continues.  

Rodrigo, I loved your story.  I will be in line right behind PCat for a copy of the novel when it's ready.


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## tadk (Jun 13, 2008)

*Thanks*



			
				Herremann the Wise said:
			
		

> *Round Three
> 
> Berandor vs. Dlsharrock*
> 
> ...




Just saying thank you for that kind comment.

I find honest trepidation writing vs my esteemed foe Rodrigo
Seems like I come up against him every one of these 

But then again he does deserve all the credit he gets.


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## tadk (Jun 13, 2008)

*Since the last round is over*

Since the official stories are done and judged
Here is the start using the same art as the Rodrigo/PCat round
A WIP

[sblock]

_Creative Deletions_
CDM Post loss Writing just cause
© 2008 June 8, 2008 beginning




Stories tell of entities, beings, dreams made manifest in the flesh to those untoward enough to encounter them. Mostly they stay to themselves, dealing in their spheres and worlds that interest them. On occasion one might, as legend tells it, take an interest in  a member of some location, and spend a time with them. Children most often are a result of this, and if the legends are correct, these are the heroes and villains of all the long many ages. 
If the stories are to be believed that is. But we cannot believe everything we read, see, hear, taste, smell, only touch is the real sense that is true in the sense of humanity. The rest lie but the fingertips, they tell the tales that need to be remembered in electrochemical reactions fueled by the inertia of the main motive forces so far discovered, even if the role of frequency is misunderstood, keeping mankind as blind as his ancestors dreamt they were. 

Instead all that can be trusted is what lies at the ends of the fingertips. What moves and vibrates 
All her peers moved in their realms as well, something stirring them like a hornets nest of things moving in darkness almost obscured to her eyes, certainly to most any other entity, they would all be, the peers, unnoticeable. But like her kin, she could see in the darkest of time, piercing the camouflage that they wore to live in the places they like the best. 

The Dark Fae and some Ancient Principles all are overlapping one and another, drinking into the various excesses common to all sentience that arise in all manner and hue of formats. 
There where senses of reality lap and overlap, rivulets and torrents of beliefs all conflicting and working within the pages of what should never have been in the first place, were it not for the interference.
Still there are some that straddle these elements, discrete 


He and I take out time, let the kinks work out of the car, old one, back before most of the world was born, far back in the days when cars were made to last and had steel in them as the main safety component. The vinyl is cracked, stained with life as well as death, never mind the affirmations. None of that really matters, only how large is the tank, how well will it run on unleaded and will it make it to the destination days away or will that be too much to ask of behemoth? Time, fluid as she is, shall tell the tale along with the main facets carved into the jewel of breathing. 


Driving along the mountain road, heading up and over it to reach the city that the clues had led, too, there was a sudden need for braking. There is a traffic tie up, perhaps a truck jackknifed or run partially off the road, some such thing as that to delay progress, taking longer to climb over the mountain and start the long descent into the valley where the clan meeting is to be held at.

Their car reaches the delay, inching past a turn off that seems to have fallen off the side of the mountain. It curved to the right and a few blocks worth of distance down the stretch the road no longer exists, the whole side of the mountain at that spot looks like it fell away into thin air, it must have impacted below on the side of the granite edifice. 


The voice inside gloats once more, “The goggles, dear one, notice how the goggles are not just on their faces, they are an essential element of their faces, just as your eyes and brows and nose is essential to your face. Their goggles are not accessories; they are their means to interact with all that is before and behind them. Those are not what you think they are in deed no, oh no, they are not that at all.” It pauses in the endless tirades, really an extension of electrical impulses given a purer form in this instance, “See how they are blockading off the crack, some power walked here and only a few notice the reality, you not being one such as I and so unable to recognize the truth, even if it were to sting you into enlightenment.” It stopped for a while, easier to think when it was not spouting off like that inside the skull, should never have had that implant put it, knew there was something screwy about it, dammed all to the thirteen corners of the world. 

Leaving my hands on the wheel, not staring too long at the two cops manhandling the sign stating, Error 404, Road Not Found, why the hell does it say that, that is a TCP error, not a roadway sign, still the two cops glare at the car as it cruises past in the line with the others circumventing the slicing of the mountain side.

Past there and up along the many switchbacks, they increase the higher and darker it becomes, night having fallen and with it the illumination that comes with the message from the Sun, now it is down to human intuition and faulty Halogens to light the way across the top. The road slowly putters out devolving into a rude dirt track the car has issues in negotiating. Art and part of the quest to conquer, there are hopefully no more obstacles to truly stand in the way.

Still more comes, flittering night shapes, hollow men echoing the tree trunks they are made out of. With skin sloughed branches and leave lined ways to dot the stars dangling there, while veils fall away with each turn of the tires echoing the past that is surmounted even as the ridge steepens the last few thousands of yards, no way to push the steel beast up and over, it has to make the crossing on its own, gas running low with the incline, slid to the rear of the tank, good thing it is old and beater, a veritable tank without the armaments. 
Up up up and over, and the sailing smooth’s out, time to head down and the road appears, still older than the rest, parts being wooden planks shaved by hand, and other parts being the cobblestones common to the Dark Faerie Queens delight, still running smoother than just minutes before.

It took Forever and a Day to make the crossing, not yet tomorrow even as the Hour had passed and the wings flow up and outward in droves to drive the currents, aiding the brother best they can in the careless task laid out behind them.






The Queen of the Foxes stalks along the forgotten roads, dancing to her own tunes, humming along to the melodies of the hunt and the escape as well, her children all too often on the receiving end and that is one thing she cannot change, nor would is she could.
Without being on the other end, how would her progeny ever have learned the fine arts of stealth and love for their families, with a keenness that few others realize lurks behind such lupine eyes.

Family is the one and all for The Queen, and she is reminded every day of the gentle nature to one and another her get show.


Yet there far above the forest paths trod in the mind of The Queen, the Owl Mistress also muses on many similar notions, taken in slightly slower and more sublime directions. 



Four spoken five times, making it a total of twenty, then twenty taken to that strength of five becomes one hundred, with the number being the total of what is needed to complete the tasking. 





[/sblock]


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## Rodrigo Istalindir (Jun 13, 2008)

KidCthulhu said:
			
		

> Rodrigo, I loved your story.  I will be in line right behind PCat for a copy of the novel when it's ready.




Thanks.  I'll throw it on the tall pile of stuff I keep saying I'll finish someday and probably won't


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## Herremann the Wise (Jun 16, 2008)

*Round Four - Match Fifteen*
Berandor vs. Piratecat

You have 72 hours from this post to submit your entries. Best of luck from the judges in the final!


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## Berandor (Jun 16, 2008)

Those pics are easy!

All I have to do now is log off and cry for a day or so. I'm sure something will come to me eventually... Image Five... man. Man. man.


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## Piratecat (Jun 16, 2008)

Oh, hell yeah. How hard can this be?

Umm. I need to go hand Berandor a tissue. And not use one myself. Yeah. That's it.

Gottagokthxbye.


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## Piratecat (Jun 16, 2008)

Okay, I have my plot, my characters, my voice, and my pictures all set. They're actually pretty coherent! Now I just have to write.  

EDIT: Ahhh, sleep. That's where I'm a viking! It's also where most of my plot comes together. I got up this morning and immediately went to write down all the ideas I had overnight. I'll figure out whether they were _good_ ideas a bit later.


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## Dlsharrock (Jun 16, 2008)

Image 5: the recommended thinking position for coming up with great stories 

Best of luck finalists! Looking forward to reading a winning story.


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## maxfieldjadenfox (Jun 16, 2008)

Gee, Herremann, sadistic much? Soooo glad I'm not writing in this match.


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## Piratecat (Jun 16, 2008)

maxfieldjadenfox said:
			
		

> Gee, Herremann, sadistic much? Soooo glad I'm not writing in this match.



That's funny. Going only from picture use, I honestly think this match is easier than my last two. Of course, I say that now. 50 hours from now, as I bang my head into the keyboard, I may recant.


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## Berandor (Jun 16, 2008)

There are a few minor details that I hope HT Wise is aware of which help with the picture use. But still...

Anway, I have my story as well, and so far I really hate it. So fasten your seatbelts, PC, this will be a contender


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## Herremann the Wise (Jun 16, 2008)

Berandor said:
			
		

> There are a few minor details that I hope HT Wise is aware of which help with the picture use.



And then of course there are a few minor details that make the competitors think... or have conniptions.   
I look forward to reading the results - and again best of luck.

Best Regards
Herremann the Wise


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## FickleGM (Jun 16, 2008)

Congratulations and good luck to the two finalists.


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## tadk (Jun 17, 2008)

*Images opinion*

Gahh


Image 5 and the one with 2 heads dont fit
Otherwise seeing the first and last pic I had a setting come to mind


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## Rodrigo Istalindir (Jun 17, 2008)

Nice pics.  Good luck, you two.


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## Berandor (Jun 17, 2008)

First draft done just in time before I don't have time 

We'll see what I can post...


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## Piratecat (Jun 17, 2008)

Whooo, you're ahead of me!


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## Berandor (Jun 17, 2008)

I think by about 6 hours, yes. GMT.


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## maxfieldjadenfox (Jun 18, 2008)

Piratecat said:
			
		

> That's funny. Going only from picture use, I honestly think this match is easier than my last two. Of course, I say that now. 50 hours from now, as I bang my head into the keyboard, I may recant.




Number 3 and number 5 are just not part of the same story in my universe. The others are really fun. I'm looking forward to reading the entries!


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## Berandor (Jun 18, 2008)

_EnWorld Short Story Smackdown 2008 – Final Match: Berandor vs. Piratecat._
(no grandma warning this time, though I really wanted to...)

*Kingslayer. A story in 6 1/2 chapters*

(1) The King

The king does not sleep. He does not need to. Some people say the king is dreaming. They say the king is dreaming of them, or rather, he is dreaming _them_. The world, its inhabitants, everything is just part of his dreams. And if he woke up…

These people are wrong. The king does not sleep, and he does not dream. He simply spends his time on standby, letting the whole nanoverse run past him, and through him. He is but an observer of his realm. He holds no audience, and noone asks him to. Nobody contacts him, except for the ubiquitous spambots even he cannot evade.

Correction: Nobody has contacted him before… now.



> >Neo: Can you hear me?
> 
> who are you?
> 
> ...




The king activates subroutines he has not used for a decade. Carbon tubes fold into rarely-practiced shapes. The king remains where he is, where he has always been, but his consciousness spreads out into his realm to look for the intruder. It will take him only a few minutes, at most.

Some people would say the king wakes up.

-

(2) The Slayer

I grab the phone booth to keep myself from falling as the wave of disorientation washes over me. The bastard has hung up on me! My hand tries to  grab my crucifix but my avatar doesn’t wear one. I hope nobody saw me do that, it would be a dead giveaway.

I need to get away from the booth. I sprinkle a cleaning macro on the receiver to make sure the bugs won’t pick up my trail, and then I push myself off and downwards. I keep my eyes focused on the ground as I walk. I have no idea how the sheep manage not to get sick in here. It’s probably because they spend all their time logged in anyway and are too complacent to even think about it. They’re sheep, after all.

I must not let on who I am before I’m ready. I force myself to look up and activate my blank stare application. The end of this strand looks like a modern city from about fifty years ago. Of course, the look is slightly tarnished by the fact that this strand, like every other strand in this godless place they call the nanoverse, is shaped like a tube. The sheep are walking all around its walls, not caring for up and down. The sunlight streaming in from behind the buildings makes me dizzy again. Thankfully, I must go the other way, so I turn around and walk back to the node. Just a few more intertubes and I’ll be home.

I recite passages from the Next Testament to pass the time and to remind me why I’m doing this. It’s hard to remember surrounded by sheep who follow their false deity without question. The Konscious Independent Nanoverse Governance, spelled to fit the acronym. My tongue tastes foul just by thinking his name. _There is but one crown, and it is made of gold._ A golden crown, sitting on God’s head, not a carbon crown on a golden head.

My vision fills with green light, interrupting my thoughts. I am but one node away from the rift. My stolen identity has detected a friend. The light points towards a smallish creature with white fur, goat legs and horns, and a pig’s snout. A satyr. I murmur a short prayer but God either does not answer them here or he does not want to. The satyr waves his flabby arms. It’s too late for me to activate a travel protocol and just move past. I approach him. At the same time, I am frantically searching through my identity’s contact list and chat logs.

»You here?« the satyr greets me. His stink wafts over me before I can de-activate my avatar’s nose. I still don’t know anything about the satyr, so I keep quiet.

»How’s the heart?«

This one I know. I know it because the original owner of my avatar has died of heart failure about fifteen minutes ago. I killed him when I wrested control over his nanoverse identity from him. I make my avatar smile. »Never better.«

»Glad to hear.« The satyr belches. It takes me a moment to recognize it as laughter. »Got some time to spare?«

Sure I do. I’ve got all the time between now and when either the body of this avatar’s owner is discovered or the king’s bugs discover myself. »Not really,« I say.

The satyr furrows his unibrow. »Sure you’re okay? You seem different.«
I should just unlog him. Deliver him from his poor excuse of a life. But that’s not what He taught me. The sheep are primed for the slaughter, but I am their shepherd, not a butcher. »I’m just in a hurry.«

»Oh,« he says. His face freezes for a moment. I don’t know whether his owner is only thinking or whether he’s calling the bugs, but I don’t wait to find out. I need to get out. Now. I move past him. The satyr reaches out to grab my sleeve, but I make my avatar insubstantial so his hand passes right through. This is very bad form. It breaks the verisimilitude, or so I have been told, of this fictional world where satyrs pass through giant carbon tubes to get from one place to the other. It only makes sense if you never spend any time in the real world. God’s world.

The satyr shouts an alarm code, but I have already passed through the node. I am close to the exit now, too close for automatic defense mechanisms. I cannot detect the rift, but I know it is there. I put it there. I breathe a keycode at it, and then I wait. I don’t have to wait for long.

The bugs appear right in front of me, one slightly to the left, one to the right. Their avatars look like buxom blondes in leather. Servants of the devil. The bugs do not speak. They never do. They are scanning me for my location, and as soon as they have it, they will either port my avatar into a confinement area or simply delete it altogether. I watch them for a moment. I want to see what will happen when they cannot not localize me. Will they show astonishment? Fear? The answer is neither. They simply try and retry again. Never mind. I will show them fear.

I reach out and sprinkle code over the bugs. Almost immediately, their avatars change. I make them into the opposite of their former appearance. I turn them into sheep. And then I deactivate them. Their new avatars stare at me blankly. »You have been weighed, measured and found dirty with sin,« I proclaim. »And now you are the first sign of what is to come. I am to come.«

»Danny?« The satyr has followed me into the tube. Excellent. A witness. He will be my first disciple. »Are you alright?«

I turn to him and spread my hands. »Danny is in a better place now. Soon, you all will be. Soon, the king will be dead, and I will be the instrument of his killing. Prepare yourself. All of you.«

And with that, I walk through the rift and log off.

-

(3) The King

The king does not understand what has happened. His problem is twofold. First, never before have his bugs been so thoroughly defeated. They have been destroyed before, but not made an example of. The king understands the concept of what happened, but he cannot compute how it could happen to him. Second, the perpetrator is gone. The king does not often wonder about the world of his body. His realm is the nanoverse and everything in it. He thinks of his people as either active or idle. Unless he deletes them, they do not disappear. And yet this one did.

The king’s face splits open. Bugs of all kinds crawl out, as golden as he is. Messenger bugs, servants, killers. They crawl over the king’s face, worshipping him with their mandibles and their antennae.

The king has pondered his options for almost a second. He knows what he must do. He must venture out into the world of flesh, and not many kinds of bugs are able to go there. He will send the roach. It is fast and hard to kill. But first, he must know where the enemy went.

The king sends out his messengers. They infiltrate his people, hide within the code and slip into their brain, and then report to him anything they find. At first, they do so at random, but soon a pattern emerges. The king focuses his messengers there. After sixteen hundred and twelve people, the king has an address. He deletes the people from the database. His lifts the roach to his golden lips and sends it off with a kiss and a small gift.

-

(4) The Slayer

My home is His church. God led me to it when He came to me. He came to me three times. The first time, He visited me in my sleep. That was when He told me I was to be his vessel. The second time, He took control of my body and led me to this place. He meant it to be mine, and I know why.

The creator of the nanoverse lived in this house. He originally built it because he had no need for the physical world any more. He was the first sheep, but over time, he saw the light. It was he who composed the Next Testament, his fingers moving to God’s voice. He took me in. He showed me how to use the code he had written. We prayed together. I killed him and anointed myself with his blood. That was when God came to me the third time and told me what I had to do.

I stand naked on the balcony and look out towards the sea. The house is built on a large rock overlooking what once was the Grand Canyon. Before the second Flood, that is. Gazing upon His work makes me feel angry. He sent the Flood, and nobody cared about it. »A broken dam.« Sheep. I could kill them all, but I will not turn my anger against them. I will use it to destroy the false deity on the throne, the so-called king. I will–



> *cable pulley activated*




Someone’s coming. It can’t be the food, it’s the wrong day. I put on a shirt and some shorts. The pulley arrives at the door before I do. I regard the visitor on the door monitor, a young man dressed in a suit. He smiles as if he knows I’m watching. He does not knock. He simply speaks.

»Mr. Veigh? My name is Alex Mitchell. SoulFood sent me. It seems there is a problem with the invoice.« He holds up an ID card. »Mind if I come in?«

It is a trap. I know it. I grab the shotgun next to the door and make sure it’s loaded. I will open the door and shoot him. But what if he is genuine? I cannot risk damnation on such a simple mistake. I let go of the shotgun again. I open the door. 

Alex Mitchell blinks at me as if he’s unaccustomed to using his eyes. Maybe he is. He is probably as much a sheep as everybody else. »Thank you,«  he says and walks past me. »I tried to reach you in the nanoverse, but it seems you’re keeping pretty private. I could not find you.« He laughs. It sounds like a cough. »I’m sorry, could I use your bathroom first?«

I point the way. He pretends not to notice that I’m in my underwear, or that I haven’t said a word. My hairs stand on end, but he might just be a salesman. I need proof before I kill him.

While Alex is in the bathroom, I prepare a chair with a small electrical charge and put on my shades. Alex returns with wet hands. He knows that I’m up to something because he furrows his brow at me. Have I given myself away? No. He smiles his smile again, and I recognize him. Even without the test, I recognize him. _And the wolves shall walk among the sheep, but they will wear the skin of they prey, and thou shall only know them by their teeth._

I throw the chair at him, but he deftly catches it and jumps across. The charge sets off, and my shades show him for what he really is. The charge disrupts the bug’s control over what once was Alex Mitchell. He stumbles.

»You cannot kill me,« I shout over my shoulder as I run towards the shotgun. »The grace of God protects me!«

I hear the chair crashing against he wall behind me. I swivel around just in time to see Alex’s fist coming towards me. There’s a flash. I get hit in the back by a truck. I can’t breathe. Something hits my head. The panic drives the stars from my vision. I lay against the door. Alex is five feet away. The shotgun falls from my head into my lap. My chin hurts. It hurts even more when I laugh, and I do laugh. I point the shotgun at Alex. »Shee? Toldsha.« He tries to jump for the gun. He does not make it.

-

(5) The King

The king does not sleep. He does not need to. Normally, he is on standby. Some people say he is dreaming, then. He has not been on standby for the last few hours, though. And by the activity of his processors, the same people might say he is worried. When the message comes, it is not unexpected. Merely unlikely.



> >V: Hail to the King!
> what do you want?
> 
> >V: I’ve told you already. Vengeance.
> ...




The king opens his eyes. Darkness surrounds him, and cool air. There is no throne room. No bugs are crawling on his face. The king does not have a face. He is just a slab of silicone and carbon nanites connected to the wall by large cable. The king is just a machine. The king can see the intruder now, hidden from the world, in his castle at the sea. He can feel his own programs being deleted. If the king felt pain, he would scream. 

K.I.N.G. tries to call up subroutines to combat the enemy, but the bugs won’t obey a machine. K.I.N.G. is helpless. But it is also, for the first time ever, aware of what it had been, of what it was meant to be, of what it could have been. The intruder may have a point. Is he right? It opens a terminal window – there’s not much more it can do now – and inputs data. The program cannot compute an answer. There are too many variables.

Not much remaining now.



> >V: Voilá




-

(6) The Slayer

The king is dead!

I pull my shades off and come back to the real world. No more hiding, let them find me. Just a short break, and then I will upload the cathedral software to the nanoverse. The sheep will be saved. I can already see them flocking to me. They want to hear His word, now that the false king is dead. I will tell them. I will tell them all and make them into men again. But first…

My bowels feel as if I haven’t emptied them for weeks, and when I think about it, maybe I haven’t. It’s all been so much stress, lately. All over now. Thy kingdom cometh. I kiss the crucifix and immediately feel better. I will have to clean up, though. Alex is still bleeding on my carpet. Foolish Alex. If he hadn’t wanted to use the bathroom, he might have gotten the–

-

 (6 1/2) Aftermath

»It is still unclear what happened to the king, or how the nanoverse will develop from here on out. Already there are reported instances of strands unraveling into a flat environment. The future is an open field. Who knows what will come? Everything is possible. For Inside Node Zero, this is Fox Hunter.«

»Thank you, Fox. In local news, a young Colorado man died from internal bleeding in a freak accident as his toilet broke down. The man has not been identified, and the police are looking for people who might have known him. Unsubstantiated reports say at the time of his death, he was wearing a golden crown. More after the break.«

**end transmission**


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## Berandor (Jun 18, 2008)

Damn. Uh, the first lines in the last quote block: when there's no large letters even at the start of the sentence, that's the king. Just so you know.

I'm a little pressed for time right now, but I'll answer any questions you have tomorrow or friday. 

Good luck to Piratecat!


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## Piratecat (Jun 18, 2008)

Mine will be in two sections due to a limitation of post length. Sorry about that.


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## Piratecat (Jun 18, 2008)

*Round Four - Match Fifteen*
Berandor vs. Piratecat

*Brood*
By Kevin Kulp (Piratecat)


“Mrs. Wheeler?” His voice was resonant, with a unique cadence and a rhythm to it. You could picture that voice murmuring sweet nothings to you over a cocktail in your favorite dimly-lit hotel bar. You could picture that voice whispering in your ear as you lay in the summer darkness atop rumpled sheets.

I’d been nervous to open my door to a stranger. I shouldn’t have been. The man on my front stoop was handsome and neatly dressed. He wore a collared shirt and tie along with dark blue slacks. His outfit looked just enough like a company uniform to put me at ease. It had probably been picked for that exact purpose. 

 “Ms. Wheeler, not Mrs.,” I corrected him, and opened the screen door with one arm. “Call me Shelly. Thanks for responding so soon.” 

“You bet,” he said, and grinned up at me. His smile was infectious. “Infestations are never fun. I’m Mr. Blatti from Brody Bug Removal, at your service.” 

He must be Italian, I thought. “Glad to hear it. Come on in.”

He paused at the doorway. “I hear you called for some help. Where’s the problem?”

I shivered a little. “All over the house, I’m afraid. I’m not sure how they got in, but I can’t get them out. I figured it was time to call in a professional.”

“Smart thinking. That’s what we’re here for. We’ll give you your house back.” 

“We’ll?” I asked teasingly. I didn’t see a partner.

“Figure of speech,” he said with a laugh and stepped inside. He looked at me and I looked back. His eyes were clear blue. He was clean-shaven, his hair cut short, and he looked to be in his early thirties. I didn’t know what his cologne was, but it smelled fantastic. Shaking my head a little, I silently reminded myself that I hadn’t called him in just to avoid lonely weekends. 

“Fair enough.” I led him room by room through the house, pointing out the problem areas: under the kitchen baseboards, a crack at the base of the tub, my art studio, the basement stairs. I couldn’t stop thinking about him as we walked. I knew it was a mistake; he probably had women hitting on him all the time, even in his line of work. I just couldn’t help it.

“I’ll just go out to the van for my gear,” he said. Suddenly his voice reminded me of a television actor, but I couldn’t remember who. When I strained my ears I thought I could detect the slightest buzz to his speech. An accent? If so, it was so small as to be almost nonexistent. And very, very sexy.

Don’t get interested in the hired help, Shelly, I reminded myself. You’re newly divorced and newly depressed. Screwing the exterminator wasn’t likely to improve your life. 

Oh, but I told myself, it couldn’t hurt, could it?

Steady on, girl. I focused back on what Mr. Blatti was saying. “...this is a good time for you to go out for some coffee. At the least, best to stay out of my work area.”

“Okay,” I said, and he turned towards the door. I squinted at the white van at the end of the walk. “Mr. Blatti, you said you were from Brody Bug Removal? That’s not who I called, was it?”

He laughed and turned back towards me. I felt a wave of warmth. “Buyouts and consolidations, I’m afraid. It’s hard to keep track of whose buying who nowadays. We’re all part of the same parent company.” It made perfect sense. He went out the door and I watched him walk towards his vehicle. Things were looking up, I told myself. When’s the last time you even thought about a man since Brian left? I couldn’t remember one, and this sudden infatuation was somewhat surprising. I headed into my art studio to consider ways to seduce the poor man that wouldn’t leave me feeling trashy afterwards. I couldn’t particularly think of any, but it was a fun fantasy nonetheless.

Be serious, Shelly, I told myself. After all, the man is here to kill your cockroaches.

That brought me back to Earth. My house hadn’t had roaches six months ago. Then Brian walked out of the door and into the Las Vegas sun, taking half of our belongings with him as he went. I never had any hint it was coming. He left a note on the fridge, pinned there by a cross-eyed raccoon magnet that we’d picked up somewhere over the years. “Dear Shelly,” the note said, “How are you? I am fine. This isn’t working out. I am leaving and taking half our things and half the money in our account. We would have talked this through, but there’s nothing to talk about. I don’t love you any more.  Brian.”

Bastard.

He took the couch, so I didn’t even have any place good to lie down and sob. He left all my art supplies and the painting I had made for him. He took the air conditioner. Later I heard a rumor that he was shacked up with some cocktail waitress from a wine bar down on the Strip. I was in bad shape by then. Depressed, eating too much, not doing the dishes, not living my life. Depression is miserable. It took me several months to get back on my feet, but by then the damage was done. A filthy kitchen full of unwashed dishes, plus desert heat, equals an infestation of cockroaches that just wouldn’t go away. 

And finally, enough was enough. I had been sitting around reading the night before when a roach skittered over my foot and into my bedcovers. It was the last straw. After I killed it I flipped open the yellow pages to find a professional exterminator.

“Exterminus,” the ad read. “Fast. Effective. Cheap.”

Worked for me.

And now I could hear Mr. Blatti moving around the house and starting to work, and I finally felt like my life was back on track. Maybe I’d go change clothes and ask Mr. Blatti out for a drink. Or maybe not. But I really did like his cologne.

Forty minutes later I was working in my studio when I heard an indistinct knock on the back door. I put down my brush and went to the door. I opened it and squinted into the sunlight. 

The man on my front steps slouched as if standing up straight was only for people who understood basic hygiene. A greasy baseball hat was turned backwards over his head. It hid unwashed hair, but not the man’s thinning mullet. A limp hand-rolled cigarette drooped out of the corner of his mouth like a failed erection. He had desert eyes, sunburned and cynical. A patch on his uniform shirt declared that his name was Mickey. Before I could say anything he looked me up and down and then back up again. It was like being felt up by his eyes.

“I think we got us an appointment, lady.” His voice was rough, a smoker’s voice. “You Shelly Wheeler?”

I blushed uncomfortably. “I’m sorry, who are you? Can I help you somehow?” 

“You called for an exterminator. That’s me.” He jabbed an unwashed thumb at his own chest. “Mickey Groat, Exterminus. Let’s kill us some buggies.” He hefted up a big tank of chemicals and tried to walk in the door. His frame sagged under the weight; he wasn’t any taller than I was, and I probably outweighed him by twenty pounds. I blocked his way.

“No, there’s been some confusion. Your company’s already sent an exterminator out. He’s been working for almost an hour.”

He considered, doubtful. “Oh yeah? Who?”

“A Mr. Blatti. You know him?”

He smiled, and I could see he was missing some teeth that you’re usually used to seeing. He issued a grunt that must have been laughter. “Blatti? Yeah, I know him. You didn’t call him. You called me. Exterminus.” He handed me a smudged card with the company name and logo on it, and tapped it a few times with a dirty finger. The card smelled vaguely like cigarette smoke and socks. “He’s poaching my job.”

I frowned. “He said you were all in the same company.”

“Yeah. Not so much. He probably bugged my line.” He found this tremendously amusing for some reason. “You give me just a second, yeah?” He turned away and sauntered slowly back to his car. From here I could see that his baseball cap had a picture of a dead bug on the front. He rooted around in the back of his car for a minute and came out with something in one hand. He disappeared around the back side of the Brody Bug Removal van, then reappeared and returned to his car. A minute later he strolled back to the house, this time holding a clipboard. His odor preceded him.

When he reached the door he thrust the clipboard into my hands. It was full of information from my call the night before. “Mind if I come in, sort this out? Maybe I know why.” 

I paused, unsure. Mickey Groat was not exactly the picture of a trustworthy individual. But this was the company I had called, and I was a little disturbed that I had been half-planning to seduce a man who apparently wasn’t even supposed to be there. I had an inkling that this could have been an awfully bad idea. I opened the door and stood aside.

“Where he at?” asked Groat.

I stuck my head in a few rooms, sniffing. “My art studio, I think. The door’s closed. What’s he using to kill bugs, anyways? I don’t smell any chemicals at all.”

 “Yeah, you wouldn’t. You be quiet now.” And with more skill than I would have given him credit for, he soundlessly eased open the studio door.

Mr. Blatti was sitting in a chair at the edge of the room. He had a serene look on his face. His spray pack of chemicals lay on the floor next to him, obviously not touched. He stood in what looked like a small puddle of brownish paint.

The puddle of paint was getting smaller. 

Then I realized that it wasn’t paint, it was roaches. Hundreds of roaches in my art studio, gathered around him like freezing men gather around a fire, swarming onto his brown shoes and crawling over and around Mr. Blatti’s feet. But why was the pool of roaches getting smaller? I couldn’t understand until I saw the man’s pant legs twitching. The roaches were swarming up his legs, underneath his pants. They were crawling onto his body under his clothes. Even his shadow against my wall seemed horribly, horribly wrong.

I turned and vomited. Mr. Blatti looked up.

I was hanging onto the doorknob as I retched a second time. A lone roach scurried past me from the hall and into the studio; running late, perhaps, for its appointment with Mr. Blatti. Mickey Groat stepped on it instead. It made a crunching sound. 

“Well, Shelly, don’t you look pretty,” Mr. Blatti said to me in that wonderful, resonant voice. He favored me with a smile from across the room. Then he looked at Groat and his voice fell in volume. “Sorry, fella. We’re done here, and you’re too late.”

Groat spit a thin brown stream onto my white floor, that pig. “Now, you know you ain’t welcome here. You’re on my turf. I got me a signed contract to rid this house of vermin, and you’re standing in it right now. That means you count.”

He shook one trouser leg and straightened his pleats as he prepared to stand up. No roaches were visible. “I’ll be leaving in just a moment.” 

“Too late,” said Groat as he raised his chemical sprayer.

“No it isn’t,” said Mr. Blatti, and sprung upwards from his chair. The leap should have been impossible, but he cleared fifteen feet effortlessly and landed next to both Groat and myself. Blatti reached forward and slapped Groat with the back of his hand. The scrawny exterminator flew across the studio and slammed into a stack of completed artwork. Canvas and broken frames scattered under the impact. “I don’t like actual exterminators,” said Blatti as he picked up his chemical tank and walked towards Groat. “You give us a bad name and kill our recruits. We’re efficient. We’re polite. We clean every single vermin out of a person’s house, and we don’t charge them much for the privilege. Tell me, is that so bad?”

Groat pushed himself off the floor and looked up. His hat was askew and his nose was bleeding. “What you do with ‘em afterwards?”

“We let them join,” said Mr. Blatti, “we let them get smart.”  He fired his chemical sprayer into Groat’s face. Brown fluid hissed. Throughout the attack I could still smell Mr. Blatti’s cologne, and I swear no one has ever looked as good as that horrific man did standing in my studio. I _knew_ he was probably covered with roaches underneath his clothing, and I _still_ wanted to sleep with him. That didn’t stop me from hitting him in the back of the head with a wooden easel, though. There was a crunch as if from snapping chitin. The sprayer fell from his hand and spun across the floor, spraying a fine mist of liquid as it went.

“You stop that!” I screamed. “Stop it now!”  Groat covered his face with his hand and writhed on the floor in front of me. Mr. Blatti regained his balance and turned around. I gazed into those blue, blue eyes, and this time something seemed strange. A shadow in the left eye? No, something _inside_ his eye, peering out the pupil. A cockroach. There was a cockroach in the man’s eye, using it as a window onto the world. Impossible. I felt my knees lock as blood rushed from my head. 

Slowly Mr. Blatti smiled, nodded, and fondly patted my face. A roach scurried out of his sleeve and into my hair, and that broke me from my near faint. I pushed away. “I’m sorry, Shelly. We won’t have time today. I was hoping, but oh well.”  He shoved past me back into the house. By then I had Groat dragged over to the large sink and was spraying his face and neck with water. I didn’t even hear the white van pulling away.

* * *


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## Piratecat (Jun 18, 2008)

* * *

“And what exactly do you intend to tell the police?” he asked peevishly.

“I still think you should see a doctor,” I said.

“Nah,” said Groat, “that weren’t actually poison, mostly.” He pronounced it ‘pizzen.’ “Jes some sort of acidy bug juice. You mostly got it off in time. Look what it done to my hat, though.” He sadly held his ruined baseball hat in both hands. You could see the mark on his forehead where the band had been. Even his ratty little mustache was singed. He looked furious.

I shoved a mug of coffee into Groat’s hands and sat down with my own. I was still shaking. “What the hell just happened there? That son of a bitch had a roach in his eyeball!”

Groat took one last sad look at his hat before spinning it across the room into the garbage. “That there was one smart bug. A whole mess of bugs all thinking as one, actually. They’re technically Pacific roaches. Bastards came out through California a decade ago. They’ve been establishing themselves ever since.”

“No,” I said, in denial. “That was a man.” A very good looking man, I had previously thought. Now the concept disgusted me.

“Nah. You saw a host. There’s a brainy bunch of them roaches running the show somewhere nearby, and they send agents out to do the work for ‘em. I killed a brood last year in the bottom of some old lady’s basement.  The humans they walk around in are still alive for a while, but the roaches use ‘em kinda like school buses, burrowing in and taking over in order to get places in the sunlight.”

“That’s pretty nasty,” I said. 

“You don’t want to see one of ‘em after the human shell gets abandoned. They don’t live long after that. They don’t live long, period, but the colony uses them smell gland things to disguise what they really are.”

“Pheromones?” 

“Sure, that sounds right. Them things. They use ‘em to distract people. But hell, you smoke long enough like I have and you got no sense of smell left.” He winked at me, the entire side of his filthy face screwing up in one big awkward wink. 

I shuddered despite myself. “I don’t understand any of this. It isn’t some bad movie. People don’t get taken over by bugs.”

He eyed me. “You’re kidding, right? There’re all kinds of parasites that do just that. And I’ll tell ya, if God ain’t a beetle himself, then he sure does love the little bastards. There’s over five thousand different types of roaches alone. And they been around almost three hundred million years. Humans been around for something like 200,000 years. That means that got...” He did the math laboriously. “299, 800,000 years on us. You think they ain’t been evolving?”

“Holy crap,” I said, and sat down. I didn’t want to think about what my art would be like after this. Goodbye prior world view with still lives and landscapes, hello horrible insect paintings that no one would buy. Except the bugs, of course. They’d probably love them.

“Exactly. I got told about this by the man who trained me. He was drunk, so it may be hooey. But he told me about this island chain in the South Pacific where these roaches have pretty much husked everyone out. That’s where they’re from. He found out about it because he was sailing past and thought he saw a cable car system. Turned out to be giant egg sacks dangling from cables instead. This guy claimed the island was half carved stone monastery and half organic insect hive, chock full of the things.” Groat paused. “I never saw the guy sober, but that’s why he hired me on and trained me. I guess I can’t blame him.”

“That’s awful,” I said. I should have been picturing what it would be like if an infestation like this could be real. Instead, I was brooding on what my life might be like the day after tomorrow. I had been miserable. Was this going to be any better? 

“My dream,” said Groat, “is to go there some day. Just me and my flame thrower and my chemical pack. And cleanse the whole place.”

“Seriously?” I asked. I noticed that for the first time he wasn’t slouching.

“Hell yeah,” he said. He checked his watch. “And speaking of which, I gotta go and track down that bastard. If I get him, I’ll send you a bill.”

I was curious. “How are you planning to find him?”

Groat smiled, revealing what was left of his teeth. “Gotta out-think a roach if you want to win. The nice thing about Las Vegas is that it’s got a lot of damn stupid stores for very rich people. I went into that fake spy store and bought a wireless camera. Fiber something. Put it on his van, and I got a monitor in my truck. I can see where he is.”

“You’re kidding?” I asked. I wouldn’t have expected it of him.

“Nope. Be smarter than the prey, that’s the secret to being a good exterminator. I should be able to find him now, or at least where he parked.”

I had made up my mind without ever realizing it. Screw brooding over the past. I stood up. “I’m coming with you.” 

I expected him to protest, to make a token objection before accepting my invaluable help. Or maybe I expected him to outright refuse and that we’d fight about it before I stowed away in the back of his car. Not so much. Instead, he looked at my breasts.

“Sure. You got any hotter clothing you can wear, though? I gotta look at you, you might as well be scenic.”

“You’re a real prince, Mickey.” I disappeared to go throw on jeans, a baseball hat and a very concealing normal shirt. I grabbed work gloves as well. I’d help kill them, but I didn’t want to be touching any roaches.

* * *

Just under an hour later we were on the road, Mickey Groat stroking his slightly acid-burned hair and driving while I called out what I saw in the small color monitor. The view from the pinhole camera was so wide-angle that it was difficult to read. “He’s on the strip,” I reported. “Driving past New York New York right now, and heading down past the other casinos.”  We drove slowly but dangerously, Groat honking for other drivers to get out of his way even as he swerved lanes. The inside of the station wagon smelled like unwashed body and bug spray. Revolting.

I tried not to realize that I couldn’t ever remember feeling more alive.

We made our way past the tourist areas. We finally pulled up down the street from the Brody Bug Removal, just outside a half-built casino on the outskirts of the city. The Pacific Islander Resort Hotel and Casino had planned to be huge, but they ran out of financial backers not long after they got started. Now it was just a rude framework of rusting girders that thrust up out of the desert soil. We were near a few support buildings, including a good-sized machine shop that had been built first to support the defunct casino. Groat and I got out of the car.

“How are we going to handle this?” I asked. “What should I expect?”

“Weeeell,” he mused, “they won’t try to kill us. Instead, they’re probably gonna try to burrow up inside us and husk us out. So try not to let ‘em do that.” My knees turned to water, but Groat didn’t seem upset in the least. As far as he was concerned this was just another day of work.  “I got me a few tricks up my sleeves, so let’s do some set-up. Then we walk right in and kill any bugs we can find.” He paused. “If we’re using poison and they’re using pheromones, you may find this useful.” He handed me a breathing filter.

When we were finally ready to enter I figured he’s kick in the office door, like a cop or a secret agent. Instead he just turned the handle. It was unlocked. We stepped into hot dimness. No air conditioning here. No power, either. The smell was dry and awful. I thought I could hear high-pitched clattering just at the edge of my hearing.

“Hello?” I asked tentatively. “Anybody?” I looked around the drab little reception area, chemical sprayer raised. There was no one, but I saw signs that people had been here very recently. Groat moved around the outside of the room, looking for living bugs and living people.

He pushed open a door and snorted. I came to see. There was a man lying unconscious in the small bathroom. He had actually ripped the flimsy plumbing out of the wall when he fell over. His pants were around his ankles. I nudged him with my foot. It was Mr. Blatti.

“Is he dead?” I asked in revulsion. “What happened to him?”

“Not dead, but dying. He’s been husked out by the roaches,” said Groat. He extended one grubby hand and pushed the once-handsome man off the toilet. He fell bonelessly. With his clothes in disarray, it was easy to see that his backside was a mass of red welts up and down the spine. Burrow holes made by insects?  He was breathing, but without the roaches to give him animus he wouldn’t be for very long. I couldn’t see how I had ever found him attractive. Pheromones, indeed. 

I moved backwards, breathing deeply and trying not to retch into my air filter. I had been doing entirely too much of that recently. “Wonder where they all went?” Groat said amiably, as he wandered towards the other office door.

“Downstairs,” said a familiar voice, and the door swung open on a sea of roaches. The bugs were literally pushing the door ajar. Once they succeeded they all scuttled back into the shadows of the medium sized office. I could hear their feet moving on the tile. “Hello, Shelly. We think we remember you.”

It was Brian.

“Remember us? We found him today, Shelly. After you spurned us. It’s easy to find things in this city by smell. So when we suspected you might come after us with your exterminator, we thought someone who had mated with should tell you not to.” Brian’s voice was tinged by a horrible buzzing. He had gained some weight, I saw. That cocktail waitress hadn’t been good for him. “Perhaps you still wish to have congress with this human? If so, we advise you to exit now and leave the Brood in peace, and you may do so.”

“He’s already dead, isn’t he?” I asked Groat. The Brood answered instead, through Brian’s familiar voice. 

“He maintains the semblance of life. We have more husks than we have fully trained drivers, so we need not pilot him if you prefer him for yourself.” He got up. His mouth sagged open, and I could see the brown squirming of a thousand bugs filling his airway. He cracked his knuckles, a very Brian thing to do. My heart broke.

“Kill it,” I whispered.

“Glad to,” said Groat, and he opened up with his flame thrower.

The flames filled the air with heavy black smoke, the sound of roaches popping in the sudden heat reminding me of microwave popcorn. I had a chemical sprayer and was pumping clouds of toxin towards Brian’s body. His skin was burned, sure, but he was still moving; all the roaches inside him were probably protected from the heat by his skin. He grabbed the blotter off the desk and thrust it shield-like at Groat. The flame hit it and bounced backwards, catching Groat in the face for just a brief second until Groat could remove his finger from the trigger. “God DAMN it!” my exterminator wailed, staggering backwards with his hair partially on fire. A thousand tiny compound eyes watched him fall as the roaches began to emerge from Brian’s husk. The body sagged slightly, like a balloon leaking air, but then it straightened and turned towards me. “Shelly,” it crooned in a buzzing voice, “I think I’ll like to ride your body next.” 

I didn’t think. I just shoved the end of my sprayer nozzle into his mouth and started pumping.

The results were horrible. The body had taken an involuntary breath of air as I started to pump, and his skin started to ripple as the poison hit the roaches inside. I kept pumping. Welts began to appear in his skin as the roaches tried to escape their sudden toxic prison. I kept pumping. 

It didn’t look anything like Brian any more by the time I was done. A few surviving roaches abandoned ship and streamed away into the hall. Thousands more were killed. The corpse lay on the tile, lumpy and twitching. I turned back to Groat.

“This is not my day!” Groat said, pissed beyond belief. He had gotten the fire out with no more than first degree burns, maybe second, but all his facial hair and most of his haircut were burned away. What was left was an ugly patchwork of untanned skin and frizzy hair stubble. How a man who looked like he did could have so much vanity I’ll never know. He ran his hand over his head. “You know how long I’ve had this haircut for?”

“Fifteen years?”

“Fifteen years.” He looked surprised that I could guess.

“Well, shaved heads are in.” I was still panting through my respirator mask. “We need to finish this.” We followed the fleeing roaches down a set of stairs and into the metal shop. Dried, husked-out bodies of humans lay everywhere; it seemed that when they dropped they were immediately eaten or used as nests. The floor in front of us was clear at first. Then slowly roaches scuttled in behind us. Twenty feet into the huge room I looked behind me, and realized that we were completely surrounded by a skittering sea of bugs. The way opened up in front of us, making a path.

“Not yet,” whispered Groat, seeing me start to panic. “We want the center.”

“I think it’s steering us,” I whispered back. I had the chemical sprayer clutched tightly in both hands. 

“Good,” he said, and we both walked. The beetles settled in a moving circle around us, seething and squirming over one another. The chittering from the bugs was what I remember the most. Then we turned a corner and saw their king.

The bugs had clearly been using their husked humans with a purpose. They had been building. The statue in front of us seemed to be a bronze man eight feet tall, but that illusion faded once you looked at him closely. Every inch of his frame was made from a metal insect. I couldn’t tell whether they were real insects dipped in bronze and soldered on, or whether they were cunningly crafted directly onto the statue. Either way the results were breath-taking.

“Humans.” The voice arose from the buzzing wings of thousands of roaches around us, not from any human vocal cords. 

“I’ve sealed yer death,” said Groat calmly. “I got me a whole mess of poison gas bombs hidden in the ventilation system. A mixture of Talstar Concentrate and Niban G. I press a button, and every single one goes off at once. You’ll never get a roach out alive.”

“You mean these bombs?” The buzzing rippled around us. Then eight toxic gas grenades were carried into the room on the backs of roaches, circled us once, and were carried out.

“Huh. Yeah?” said Groat. He had been pumping the button. Nothing had happened.

The voice vibrated the air. I could actually feel it on my skin. “They have been disabled. You have to out-think a human if you wish to win in this town.” The clear circle around us closed slightly as the bugs leaned inwards. Groat actually laughed. 

“Point taken. This the point where I try to take you with me?”

I interrupted, my heart hammering. This was leading nowhere good. “First,” I said, “that is gorgeous armor. Is it protection?”

The roaches rustled their wings. “You must take the semblance of man if you wish to seize the rights of man.”

“The rights?” I blinked. “You want the rights of humanity? What, are you stupid?” The roaches rustled, and I continued. “I’ve been doing a lot of brooding over the last six months. I’ve thought about life, and death, and what it means to be worthwhile. And let me tell you, you don’t want it. Right now you achieve. You grow. You learn. Humans try to as well, sure. But if you try to ape humanity, or…” I lost my train of thought for a minute. “Sorry, ape is a bad word. If you try to mimic humanity, you’ll attract nothing but hatred and fear. People who would otherwise never know you existed will try to destroy you and your home. You will gain nothing, and maybe lose everything. But now? Separate from humans? You live in millions of human homes with no one knowing it. You’ve been around something like 1500 times longer than mankind has. You’ll be around when we’re gone. So please learn from us, sure, but don’t try to take from us. That doesn’t make any sense at all.”

Groat was staring at me. The metal king gazed expressionlessly as well, but I knew that all the cockroaches had heard what I’d said. I wasn’t sure if I was dooming humanity or saving them. It was all I could think of to do.

“And do you want jobs? You don’t want jobs. We have all these human constructs that have distracted us. Please, go back to your island and focus on that which makes you better, not that which makes you more like humans. Learn philosophy. Improve your race. Trust me, you’ll be doing yourself a favor.”

I went on like that for minutes, not sure when or how to stop. Groat clearly couldn’t believe that I was trying to talk sense into something as alien as a roach. But I figured I might have a chance. Certainly it was a better chance than trying to fight. After I finished, the cockroaches inside the metal armor sent up a vast hum, and all the roaches around us echoed and amplified the call. It was loud enough to hurt. I had the feeling that something was being decided, but neither of us could know what. Finally, the roaches abruptly fell silent.

“We will withdraw and consider,” a low buzzing said. “Perhaps you have wisdom. But we will take the predator with us.” They were on Groat before either of us could do anything. He never had a chance to trigger the flame thrower. My chemical sprayer was out of poison from the previous attack by Brian. They just swarmed him, and I couldn’t get there without getting swarmed myself. I didn’t stop screaming until a long, long time after Groat had already fallen silent and been carried away.

* * *

They let me go and fell back into the shadows, and I went back to my life. The building was empty when I sent the police there on some wild, fabricated story. My house has been clean of roaches ever since. It’s been years. I managed to convince myself that this never happened. Until now.

I’ve been seeing cockroaches in my house all day.

I think they want me for something. I don’t know if I’ll be able to run far enough; roaches live on every single continent, I’m told. I’m trying to mimic Groat and show no fear, but I’m not sure what’s going to happen to me. Do I want to know?

I hear clattering wings in the next room. It doesn’t matter what I want. I think I’m about to find out. Wish me luck.


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## Berandor (Jun 18, 2008)

Piratecat
[sblock]One problem I have is writing a story from a personal narrative so that it is really infused by that person’s character. I tend to get too matter-of-fact in my descriptions, I think.

You really, really don't share this problem with me. And your use of the two hatless guys is awe-riffic. Great story. I'm still hoping to beat you, but I'm more hoping to beat you next time [/sblock]


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## Piratecat (Jun 19, 2008)

Berandor:

[sblock]Wow, the world you've created! Chapter one and two tell me that there's a huge story underneath the story you're telling, and I want to know all of it.  Very nice.  While reading I realized that I wish this had been the plot to Matrix 2 and 3 instead of the actual movies; this is much better. Good use of the circular picture to define the nanotubes.

I have no idea who's going to win this one -- but if it's you, I'll cheer you all the way.[/sblock]


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## Herremann the Wise (Jun 19, 2008)

Just a quick congratulations to both finalists for dealing so well with a tough set of images. I don't think I'm giving anything away by saying that this is going to be _real_ tough to judge.

Best Regards
Herremann the Wise


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## Maldur (Jun 19, 2008)

Judgement send, a bit short, but IM swamped.

You both did a great job, congraatz


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## Piratecat (Jun 19, 2008)

Thanks for the quick responses, guys. We're looking forward to the final judgment!


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## Ginnel (Jun 19, 2008)

Really glad this thread exists, I love short stories (Arthur C Clarke is responsible for this) and I know my favourite in the final, but still great work both of you.


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## Berandor (Jun 19, 2008)

Yes, of course a big thank you to the judges! I know judging a lot of stories is more work than writing just a few. And doubly so to HT Wise for choosing the images and organizing all this.

Now all you‘ve left to do is vote for me.


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## Piratecat (Jun 19, 2008)

Feel free to give the authors feedback. I find this most interesting when people comment on ym stories, both strengths and weaknesses.


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## Berandor (Jun 19, 2008)

Yes, please feed my back!


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## Rodrigo Istalindir (Jun 19, 2008)

I thought the sign said 'Don't Feed the Berandors'


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## Berandor (Jun 20, 2008)

Only after midnight.


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## CruelSummerLord (Jun 20, 2008)

When is the next one going to be held?  I never even knew there were short story competitions on ENWorld.  I'd absolutely love to enter the next one...and hopefully prove that gaming fiction can be just as good as any other kind of writing.


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## Rodrigo Istalindir (Jun 20, 2008)

CruelSummerLord said:
			
		

> When is the next one going to be held?  I never even knew there were short story competitions on ENWorld.  I'd absolutely love to enter the next one...and hopefully prove that gaming fiction can be just as good as any other kind of writing.




Generally, 2-4 times a year, depending on the availability of people willing to judge.  So, maybe around October?   We don't really plan them out; sooner or later someone pipes up with a 'Hey, we haven't done Ceramic DM in a while.'


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## RangerWickett (Jun 20, 2008)

Piratecat said:
			
		

> It was Brian.
> 
> 
> “Kill it,” I whispered.
> ...




The best thing? As I read this story, Alanis Morisette's "You Oughta Know" came on. Hehehe.

My critique? When I first started reading, I assumed it was in New York, not Vegas, so I was surprised when they were suddenly in Vegas later. I guess I don't envision roaches in Vegas.


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## Piratecat (Jun 20, 2008)

RangerWickett said:
			
		

> My critique? When I first started reading, I assumed it was in New York, not Vegas, so I was surprised when they were suddenly in Vegas later. I guess I don't envision roaches in Vegas.



A valid critique. My challenge was that I wanted a part of the country where a rural exterminator like Groat could live, but I still needed to show Times Square. New York City was out of the question for Groat, at least how I was picturing him. The New York New York casino in Las Vegas seemed like a pretty good substitute. 

I did my research first, though; there are roaches in Las Vegas.


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## Eosin the Red (Jun 20, 2008)

Hey Guys,

This is my first time to read any of these things and I only read the finals. Wow, kudos to both for crafting amazing stories. Per PKs request some feedback. Take it with a grain, I loved both these stories. 

*Comments *
Berendor: Nice use of textual media with the quote blocks and faux computer prompts <<>> It lends strength to the story. Great use of word and sentence variability to break things up. Your sentences felt powerful. On the negative side, I didn't like the Matrix riff and felt the story would have been stronger if it stood on its own. It felt like a short cut to set the mood. Still, I wouldn't kick the story out of bed for eating crackers. Thanks for some entertainment.

P-Kat: Your dialog is fantastic. It reads as organic. You also demonstrate a great panache for characters. I got Shelly and Mickey quickly. Mr Blatti was eerie but cool. You also did just the right projection on the pheromone thing... not too thick and not too skimpy. I also loved the fun facts [acid spit, varieties of cockroaches, pheromones, smoking destroying sense of smell]. There was a little weakness on the close, "I went on for minutes..." but it took a some re-reading to find something that could be improved.

I am quite envious of these stories. They are both stunningly original and well written. Hats off.


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## Piratecat (Jun 20, 2008)

You're kind. Thank you!  Dialogue used to be my really weak point, so I'm glad to hear I'm getting better.

Boy, I can't tell you how much mileage I get out of reading all my dialogue aloud. Any time something feels awkward, I change it. Three or four iterations of that usually leaves me with something I can live with.

Incidentally, Berandor, I like the subtlety of using both V and Neo in your communications. Nice touch.


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## Berandor (Jun 20, 2008)

Eosin, thanks!

[sblock]If you talk about the Neo login, the first draft (or maybe draft 0.5) had more online dialogue, and each time the "hero" would use a different revolutionary nick. In the end, I kept Neo and V.

This story is one that I'd really like to work on some more... making it way longer, for example, and probably mostly focusing on the "hero" of the piece. Though that would probably lead me to come down even stronger on him simply being a lunatic (who incidentially might do a good thing, who knows).

One thing I'm happy about is the parallels between his God and the king, how they both don't really listen, and when the hero acts (as with the king), he kills people. I also like the wide open end, but I'm not sure I could do it justice in such a short paragraph. Also, I might now make the ending into two online newsstreams running concurrently, ending with 
> Everything is possible.
> He was wearing a golden crown (made of paper mache).
Or something like that.

I'd also like to explore whether the home/church/castle thing was really in the physical world or just "on another server" so to speak, i.e. another layer of the nanoverse.

And, is the king worshipped somehow? What does he actually do? Does he do good sometimes?[/sblock]


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## Eosin the Red (Jun 20, 2008)

Ber,

I apparently missed the subtlety of the changing log-in "persona" there. As they say, that changes everything. Kudos.


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## Berandor (Jun 20, 2008)

As they say, the writer should have done a better job  But thanks!


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## Piratecat (Jun 21, 2008)

Hey, judges! I should probably not check obsessively. Any guess when you'll have judgments up? Again, no rush. Just curious.

Thanks!


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## arwink (Jun 21, 2008)

Sorry guys, my fault again. It seems like the only free time I'm getting these days are Saturdays, so this has been my first chance to check in and read. Currently writing up comments and getting them ready to send through.


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## Piratecat (Jun 22, 2008)

Cool. Thanks.


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## Herremann the Wise (Jun 23, 2008)

*Final

Berandor vs. Piratecat*

ARWINK’S JUDGMENT

Berandor – Kingslayer, a Story in 6 ½ Chapters

On the surface, Berandor has provided us with a really solid story that showcases some very nice language, picture use and structure. While there were certainly parts that didn’t work for me (Matrix references without recontextualisation – aiieeee!), the overall effect is solid, but slippery. 

Reading this story, for me, felt a little like running around after a greased pig – I had just enough detail to pick up what the story was doing, but it somehow stopped short of giving me the details I really needed to get a good grip on it and really understand. If you sat me down and asked me about what happened, where it happened, and why the characters did what they did I think most of my answers would come back with question marks: the overthrow of a virus/king? Some kind of virtual world? Religious idealism? I’m only about 80% sure of these answers, and I kept wanting more. 

I think the reason that the story works as well as it does is because Berandor has a solid idea of what those answers are and the depths that exist behind the story he’s shown us, I just wish that a little more of that knowledge had filtered its way through to me as a reader. 

Piratecat – Brood

I think this has been the most solid story of the competition in terms of tight plotting and character growth; it hits all the key elements of the three-act narrative at regular intervals, gives me all the information I need to really understand what’s going on. It feels, to me, like a very tightly-plotted Buffy-esque kind of TV episode, which is both the stories strength and weakness. It’s a strength because this kind of cohesiveness and polish is enviable when done in a three-day period. 

It’s a weakness because, well, there just wasn’t much by way of surprise, not even in terms of the picture use. There was nothing that leapt out as bad or wrong, but the inevitability just kind of stole some of the joy from it for me. 

For the me the ending was also something of a false note; The sentiment is probably right, but the execution needs work. Shelly needs to take control of her life after the disarray and misery she’s been living with at the start of the story, and she does in the lead-up to the climax, but the tone of her final speech to the roaches seems a bit regressive. 

Judgment

Another tough round to judge: Berandor seems to be stretching further in his story, but Piratecat’s is definitely the more complete and coherent work. Neither has really blown me away with their picture use – I think this round would have been a steal if either contestant had done something other than “dead guy on a toilet” with one particular image. 

Can I call it a draw? No? Damn. Piratecat then, though both contestants deserve kudos for their work in this round and the competition in general. 

THE JUDGMENT OF HERREMANN THE WISE

I thought these pictures would make our two competitors think while at the same time giving them some strong cues to feed off of. With six images to draw together, both would have to be at the top of their game – and I think they were.

Berandor has gone Matrixesque with an intriguing story of fanaticism and revenge. While initially confusing, I think there was enough going on here that it held my attention and kept me reading with a passion. And in fact, I think this is what I liked most about it. Berandor has a fine capacity to write things that just simply read well. The blend of structure and style was really well done.

Piratecat also has that amazing talent to write things that you want to read. The interplay between Shelly and Groat was very well handled but their interaction with the cockroaches I’m not as sure of. Whilst Groat, was happily explaining the “weirdness” of the roaches, Shelly seemed to accept a little too meekly what was going on. I thought she would have sought a second opinion or something. Despite this, the story for me was enjoyable and tightly controlled. The many “bug” references were well done too. About the only other thing that took the shine off of the experience was the ending which while suitable was not bristling with strength and revelation. On the whole though, an excellent story and effort.

And so how did our competitors deal with the images given? I think the standout was Piratecat’s imaginative double use of the crim pictures – the single, Groat. Very well done indeed! For Berandor, whilst there was no standout, there was a really well developed cohesion between the story and images that I think deserves credit. To me even the weakest picture – that of the man on the toilet – was well used, punctuating the story in a weird but provocative way.

And so we come once again to two different stories that seem equal in different ways. I’m going to go with my gut on this one and give it to Berandor for the slightly more enjoyable tale. I better finish now before I change my mind... again.

MALDUR’S JUDGMENT

Berandor:freaky reli-matrix-buggy story, I was almost expecting the roach to say: "Mr Anderson". Great storytelling.

Piratecat: YUCK, that was digustingly disturbing.

Judgement: berandor, you get my vote, allthough Piratecat spun a great tale, Yours was amazing. Congratz.

FINAL JUDGMENT

And so Berandor wins 2-1 in the final by what would seem the finest of margins. Ouch was this one close! Congratulations to both our competitors for not only stellar efforts in the final but throughout the competition as well.
Good stuff and thank you very much to everyone who participated this time around. The quality of competition was excellent. This competition seems to keep going from strength to strength – I really look forward to seeing it next time. And to my fellow judges Arwink and Maldur, thanks for the excellent judgments and feedback; I know how much the competitors appreciated it and how much I enjoyed reading it too. Well done and until next time,

Best Regards
Herremann the Wise


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## Berandor (Jun 23, 2008)

Oh, well.

[sblock]OMFG! I did it! Huzzah! 

I guess now I can admit that the King of my story was, of course, Piratecat, whom I figuratively killed. Naw, just kidding 

Before my ego explodes, let me thank the judges and the competitors for their hard work, and especially DIsharrock for introducing the use of quote blocks which I really, really liked, enough to make a story with them.

Thanks again. It's been nice beating you all [/sblock]


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## Sialia (Jun 23, 2008)

And Piratecat gets to wear teh roach nfested bridesmaid dress again.

But it _was _ an heroic effort.

Gratz to you both for fine competition, and thank you for stories!

-Si


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## Piratecat (Jun 23, 2008)

Congratulations, Berandor!

I think my story was a solid B+. I was working on good dialogue and an interesting female protagonist, and I think I got that, but otherwise this particular story didn't really stretch my boundaries as much as I would have liked. My biggest problem was the ending, a traditional weakness of mine; in this case I didn't have a concrete and cinematic finish in mind when I started writing, and that came back to bite me.

I'm really pleased by how this CDM went for everyone involved. Thanks, everyone!


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## Gulla (Jun 24, 2008)

Congratulations to Berandor for the victory and all the others for hard work and good writing.

I should have commented a lot more but it seems work and Real Life have a conspiracy drowning me in work and activities every time CDM/SSS comes around.

Hopefully you can do this outside the "close before hollidays" next time so I can have time to read and comment on the stories.

Håkon
CDM fanboy


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## Eeralai (Jun 25, 2008)

Congrats to both of you!  Good writing everyone and thanks to the judges!


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## maxfieldjadenfox (Jun 26, 2008)

Yes, thank you to the judges (I know how much work goes into judging these things, especially in the beginning rounds!) and all of the competitors for some fine writing. And congrats, Berandor. I'll be back.


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## Rodrigo Istalindir (Jun 26, 2008)

Well played, Berandor.

I've been remiss; I've not read the last round yet.  But I'll download 'em now and read them when I can.

I archived all the Ceramic DM threads I could find, just in case.


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## Graywolf-ELM (Jun 30, 2008)

Gaaah I missed it all, and with the new Enworld, the links to the thread, and all the stories, are broken. 

Sounds like one I would have loved reading along with.

GW


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