# Fall Ceramic Dm™  - Winner!



## mythago (Sep 11, 2005)

*Fall Ceramic Dm™  - Winner!*

All stories are due 72 hours from posting timestamp. No word limit on this round.

And please--no dropping out once you are in a round. If you find out BEFORE you are assigned that you just got an invitation to the White House, or need emergency surgery, that's OK. But just having writer's block and bowing out once your pics are up is Not Acceptable.

Round One, Set One contestants 
reveal vs. Funeris vs. Macbeth
Pictures
Judgment

Round One, Set Two contestants
SteelDraco vs. tadk vs. Aris Dragonborn
Pictures
Judgment

Round  One, Set Three contestants
RangerWickett vs. yangnome vs. Sialia
Pictures
Judgment

Round One, Set Four contestants
Ketjak vs. spacemonkey vs. MarauderX
Pictures
Judgment

Round One, Set Five contestants
Herobizkit vs. Tolen Mar vs. maxfieldjadenfox
Pictures
Judgment

Round One, Set Six contestants
Wild Gazebo vs. Bibliophile
Pictures
Judgment

Round Two, Set One contestants
Macbeth vs. Sialia vs. Bibliophile
Pictures

Round Two, Set Two contestants
SteelDraco vs. spacemonkey vs. maxfieldjadenfox
Pictures
Judgment #2

Final Round
maxfieldjadenfox vs. Sialia vs. spacemonkey
Pictures
Judgment

*Competitors:*
tadk
Bibliophile
yangnome
Herobizkit
TheGM
SteelDraco
reveal
Wild Gazebo
Ketjak
RangerWickett
Funeris
Macbeth
Aris Dragonborn
MarauderX
Sialia
Tolen Mar
warlord
spacemonkey

FAQ


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## Rodrigo Istalindir (Sep 11, 2005)

I'm gonna out-judge BSF and Maldur so badly that they'll make Wapner and Judy look like Supreme Court candidates.   

Smack talk:  Not just for contestants anymore!


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## tadk (Sep 11, 2005)

*Signup Fall Ceramic DM*

I tried it on the side this last time
Did really poorly
What the heck why not
Got NaNoWriMo coming in November
Working on a book for a company
working on stuff to send for the Dog Soul Katrina Book
Why not do fiction also

Count me in if I may please


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## Bibliophile (Sep 11, 2005)

I'm totally in.

This'll be my third time competing in Ceramic DM, maybe it'll be the proverbial charm


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## Eeralai (Sep 11, 2005)

My freind, Maxfieldjadenfox wanted to give it a go this time.  She is out of town until Sept. 14 and I told her I'd ask if I could seen her up.  Could you add her name to the list, or does she need to do it herself?


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## yangnome (Sep 11, 2005)

I'm in if you'll take me back again...


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## yangnome (Sep 11, 2005)

Bibliophile said:
			
		

> This'll be my third time competing in Ceramic DM, maybe it'll be the proverbial charm




Your strategy falls apart due ot the fact it is my third time as well and I am destined to win. Maybe you should sit this one out and invoke the third time destiny rule next time around.


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## Berandor (Sep 11, 2005)

You know what's eerie? yanggnome's avatar blinks at different times 

I'm NOT in, by the way. I'm a lazy consumer waiting to be entertained.


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## Herobizkit (Sep 11, 2005)

I like a challenge as much as the next guy, but I can't help but wonder... how MUCH time would one have to post, or is it deliberately kept secret?  I ask because my internet access is through my work, which is always on the graveyard shift (midnight - 8 am AST).


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## TheGM (Sep 11, 2005)

I like to write.
I like fiction.
I'm foolish enough to think I'm good at it.
What the heck, count me in.
I haven't had a good ego whipping in a few months


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## SteelDraco (Sep 11, 2005)

I'm in. I'll have some time this week, and I'd like to get some revenge on a certain larcenously inclined feline.

Bring it on!


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## orchid blossom (Sep 11, 2005)

Herobizkit said:
			
		

> I like a challenge as much as the next guy, but I can't help but wonder... how MUCH time would one have to post, or is it deliberately kept secret?  I ask because my internet access is through my work, which is always on the graveyard shift (midnight - 8 am AST).




Hit the link in the first post, everything you need to know is there.

To answer your specific question, the standard is 72 hours to write your story from the moment the pictures go up.  If you have a specific need (like only certain times you can get online) it can usually be accomodated.


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## Eeralai (Sep 11, 2005)

Herobizkit said:
			
		

> I like a challenge as much as the next guy, but I can't help but wonder... how MUCH time would one have to post, or is it deliberately kept secret?  I ask because my internet access is through my work, which is always on the graveyard shift (midnight - 8 am AST).




LOL I am surprised the time limit is not in the FAQ!  I read it twice and did not see it.  Maybe BSF left it out in case it changed from time to time, but I assume this one is going to be the usual 72 hours.

Edit:  Looks like Orchid Blossom was answering at the same time as me 

Mythago, I retract my earlier request about signing up a freind of mine.  Her situation has changed and she won't be able to do it.  Sorry about that.


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## MavrickWeirdo (Sep 11, 2005)

I'm tempted to sign up, but I hear that it might be addictive.


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## FireLance (Sep 11, 2005)

Much as I would like to toss my hat into the ring, I will be going into a busy period at work so I'll give it a pass this time.

This also completes my increasingly embarrassing track record at Ceramic DM:

Autumn 2004: Lost in 3rd round.
Winter 2004: Lost in 2nd round.
Spring 2005: Lost in 1st round.
Autumn 2005: Out of the running even before the contest starts.


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## reveal (Sep 11, 2005)

I'm in! Hopefully I didn't sign up too late. 

Being one step away from the finals has whet my appetite.


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## BSF (Sep 11, 2005)

Eeralai said:
			
		

> LOL I am surprised the time limit is not in the FAQ!  I read it twice and did not see it.  Maybe BSF left it out in case it changed from time to time, but I assume this one is going to be the usual 72 hours.




Got it in one try.  

Yes, it has generally been 72 hours for several contests now.  But ther ehave been contests where it was a different time limit.  

The factors that might change between contests were things I tried to avoid including in the FAQ as concrete facts.  



			
				Herobizkit said:
			
		

> I like a challenge as much as the next guy, but I can't help but wonder... how MUCH time would one have to post, or is it deliberately kept secret? I ask because my internet access is through my work, which is always on the graveyard shift (midnight - 8 am AST).



AST = Atlantic Standard Time?
If I am correct, that puts you 3 hours ahead of me and 4 hours ahead of Mythago.  Mythago is the organizer this time so you would do well to ask her to post pics begtween 8:00 PM and 4:00 AM in her local time.  You will also prefer not to have pics posted, or a story due, on your days off.  Go ahead and ask!  We generally try to be somewhat accomodating.  



			
				MavrickWeirdo said:
			
		

> I'm tempted to sign up, but I hear that it might be addictive.



C'mon give it a try.  It's only addictive if you _like_ to have your brain warped and twisted in an attempt to put several disparate pictures into a cohesive story.


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## MavrickWeirdo (Sep 11, 2005)

BardStephenFox said:
			
		

> C'mon give it a try.  It's only addictive if you _like_ to have your brain warped and twisted in an attempt to put several disparate pictures into a cohesive story.




I suppose it would only be a problem if I did well, what are the chances of that?   

but no, I have too much on my plate at the moment, maybe next time


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## Wild Gazebo (Sep 11, 2005)

I've got a pretty erratic schedule but I'd like to give it a try.  When do we find out dates and times?  I'll have to do some creative scheduling--but I'm pretty sure I'll be able to manage.  

Count me in.


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## Maldur (Sep 11, 2005)

Rodrigo Istalindir said:
			
		

> I'm gonna out-judge BSF and Maldur so badly that they'll make Wapner and Judy look like Supreme Court candidates.
> 
> Smack talk:  Not just for contestants anymore!




But at least the contestants dont have to wait two weeks for my judgement


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## mythago (Sep 11, 2005)

Eeralai said:
			
		

> My freind, Maxfieldjadenfox wanted to give it a go this time.  She is out of town until Sept. 14 and I told her I'd ask if I could seen her up.  Could you add her name to the list, or does she need to do it herself?




As long as she's around for the competition itself, no problem.


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## Ketjak (Sep 11, 2005)

*It is all for naught*



			
				mythago said:
			
		

> Judges this time around are Rodrigo Istalindir, Maldur and BardStephenFox. Tremble, mortals!
> 
> "What the heck is Ceramic DM™?" you ask. The FAQ is here.
> 
> We will take as many contestants as we can squeeze into this popsicle stand.




They will all lose, for I have entered the contest.


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## RangerWickett (Sep 11, 2005)

*chuckle*

Amateurs. If you guys want to waste your time competing against an officially-approved [smallcaps]Bachelor of Creative Writing[/smallcaps], I won't discourage you. I'm in.


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## Wild Gazebo (Sep 11, 2005)

<cough>...._masters of rhetoric_....<cough>.....<clears throat>


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## reveal (Sep 11, 2005)

RangerWickett said:
			
		

> *chuckle*
> 
> Amateurs. If you guys want to waste your time competing against an officially-approved [smallcaps]Bachelor of Creative Writing[/smallcaps], I won't discourage you. I'm in.




Bachelor of Creative Writing? That's about as useful as a BA in Philosophy.


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## mythago (Sep 11, 2005)

Oh, my friends, you SO do not want to get into a Useless Undergraduate Degree Smackdown.


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## Rodrigo Istalindir (Sep 11, 2005)

Oooh...but it's a degree in Creative Writing from _Emory_.  It could be worse, it's not from somewhere like FSU, but still, that's a pretty damn good entry.


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## Funeris (Sep 11, 2005)

Hells, I need a good ego whoopin too.  Sign me up!

~Fune


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## reveal (Sep 12, 2005)

Rodrigo Istalindir said:
			
		

> Oooh...but it's a degree in Creative Writing from _Emory_.  It could be worse, it's not from somewhere like FSU, but still, that's a pretty damn good entry.




At least he'll have something to wipe away the tears when I beat him this time.


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## Macbeth (Sep 12, 2005)

Aw, what the heck, sign me up. I may not have an Undergrad Degree in a Liberal Arts topic (CS major), but I am taking Creative Writing. At a Tech school. 

Yeah, put that in your pipe and smoke it.  (My creative writing course is a joke as compared to what I've learned from Ceramic DM)


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## reveal (Sep 12, 2005)

Should we start laying odds? I can call my bookie once we determine who's competing against who.


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## orchid blossom (Sep 12, 2005)

Macbeth said:
			
		

> (My creative writing course is a joke as compared to what I've learned from Ceramic DM)




They generally are.  My creative writing teacher's comments to me... "Fanatsy isn't literature.  You write so well, I wish you would write something else."

She got fired after her first year at my college.    Sadly, that was the only year I had creative writing.


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## Aris Dragonborn (Sep 12, 2005)

If it's not too late, I'd like to add my name to the list of potential victims contestants.


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## MarauderX (Sep 12, 2005)

Hey!  Guess there are a few threads for the Fall 2005 CDM, and I'm still in.


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## Funeris (Sep 12, 2005)

reveal said:
			
		

> Should we start laying odds? I can call my bookie once we determine who's competing against who.




Hey, reveal, could I use your bookie too?  I don't have my own yet    

~Fune


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## MavrickWeirdo (Sep 12, 2005)

orchid blossom said:
			
		

> They generally are.  My creative writing teacher's comments to me... "Fanatsy isn't literature.  You write so well, I wish you would write something else."




Tell that to "The Inklings".


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## Sialia (Sep 12, 2005)

Stares longingly at the signup screen.

Reviews calendar.

If I were done by Oct 2, I could do this. If I'm still in the competition and it runs past Oct 2, I would not be able to participate again until Oct 17th.

What are the odds this schedule could be accomodated?


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## mythago (Sep 12, 2005)

Sialia said:
			
		

> Stares longingly at the signup screen.
> 
> Reviews calendar.
> 
> ...




No promises, babycakes, but I suspect either we'll all whoosh through or it will take a long, long time. Everybody seems to be in crunch time this time of year.


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## BSF (Sep 12, 2005)

Three weeks Sialia.  

You know you want to.


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## Sialia (Sep 12, 2005)

What the hey. I'll probably disqualify myself in the first round by blowing the word limit anyhow.  


Count me in.

Where do I get my whip?


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## Herobizkit (Sep 12, 2005)

I see I'm on the "in" list, so I just thouught I'd confirm and officially say "I'm in". 

And I fear no Ryan Nock "Bachelor of Creative Writing" *shakes fist defiantly*... I'M doing an AT-HOME creative writing course!  MWAHAH...haha... heh.


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## Berandor (Sep 12, 2005)

What's especially jarring with RangerWickett is that as a Bachelor, he's got time on his hands to actually write, as he doesn't have to entertain his spouse.

"And so we meet again, RangerWickett. But this time, I am the master, and you are the bachelor."

And does that mean RangerWickett will give one of the other contestants a long-stemmed rose?


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## mythago (Sep 12, 2005)

OK, fifteen contestants--I think we are at the stage where people can start posting their schedules/availabililty.


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## Funeris (Sep 12, 2005)

Not this Friday Night.
Aside from that, I work an 8-5er (EST) and don't sleep often.

So...that's pretty much that.

~Fune


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## reveal (Sep 12, 2005)

mythago said:
			
		

> OK, fifteen contestants--I think we are at the stage where people can start posting their schedules/availabililty.




I'm good whenever.


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## Wild Gazebo (Sep 12, 2005)

My schedule would just confuse things.  I think it is best to just play it by ear.


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## BSF (Sep 12, 2005)

Sounds like Funeris is volunteering to be in the first round if we start tonight.


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## Rodrigo Istalindir (Sep 12, 2005)

We waiting on a 16th, or doing 5x3 for the first round?


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## RangerWickett (Sep 12, 2005)

Sialia said:
			
		

> Where do I get my whip?




Shh. *looks around nervously* I thought we were going to keep that secret. Later, later. Man, I don't want my EN World peeps finding out about Sialia and my weekly night out when we drink orange whips and wax poetic about plays on words.



My schedule? Eh.


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## yangnome (Sep 12, 2005)

I am good to start after Thursday...or I suppose you could post them Thursday evening, but before then, I am far too busy.


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## mythago (Sep 12, 2005)

Rodrigo Istalindir said:
			
		

> We waiting on a 16th, or doing 5x3 for the first round?




5x3. If people want to jump in as alternates, though, have at it.


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## Macbeth (Sep 12, 2005)

Any time works for me, though having a Friday in it would be best.... So I'd prefer starting Tuesday evening or later.


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## Funeris (Sep 12, 2005)

BardStephenFox said:
			
		

> Sounds like Funeris is volunteering to be in the first round if we start tonight.




Dang.  BSF, Here I am being all nice and curious about your homebrew and you offer my head up on a plate for the Judges.  Sheesh.    

Actually, I don't mind going first....if I'm eliminated it just means I get to harass the rest of you for the duration of the competition as opposed to my plans of being 'nice' and not insulting anyone.  Oh well.



~Fune


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## Tolen Mar (Sep 12, 2005)

Is it too late for me to throw in?


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## BSF (Sep 12, 2005)

Funeris said:
			
		

> Dang.  BSF, Here I am being all nice and curious about your homebrew and you offer my head up on a plate for the Judges.  Sheesh.




Somebody has to start.  Think about it this way, Maldur's judging stick is all nice and sharp now.  After he pokes a few people with it, it get's duller.  Then he just has to poke harder for the later contestants.


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## Bibliophile (Sep 12, 2005)

I'd be fine to start immediately.

In any case, and about this Bachelor's of Creative Writing business.  Bah!  I say, Bah!  I'm an accredited second year undergraduate college student, but more importantly, after last year's math courses, I'm an accredited second year, *masochistic* undergraduate college student!  Muahahah!  What is skill worth when your opponent enjoys wracking his brain with bizarro problems?


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## Sialia (Sep 12, 2005)

Mommy is ready now.


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## Ketjak (Sep 12, 2005)

mythago said:
			
		

> OK, fifteen contestants--I think we are at the stage where people can start posting their schedules/availabililty.




I will be happiest if we can start Monday, 9/19. However, I'll give it a go if it starts sooner. Wednesday is right out for me.


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## Funeris (Sep 12, 2005)

BSF said:
			
		

> Somebody has to start. Think about it this way, Maldur's judging stick is all nice and sharp now. After he pokes a few people with it, it get's duller. Then he just has to poke harder for the later contestants.




Well, if it is my fate to be the first to fall upon that proverbial sword, so be it.  I'll grasp my fate by the horns and pull as hard as I can, face split in twain with sadistic glee and laughing all the way. 

Of course after Maldur stomps me into oblivion, someone needs to be there to lift my sorry fallen-paladin butt off the ground...and direct me back toward my Story Hours.  BSF, I nominate you 

~Fune


EDIT:  Oh...and...um...so is there no word limit this time??


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## warlord (Sep 12, 2005)

Is it to late to sign up? If not I am so in.


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## BSF (Sep 12, 2005)

Funeris said:
			
		

> EDIT:  Oh...and...um...so is there no word limit this time??




Well, I guess that depends on whether you are matched off with Sialia or not.  That woman can write!  10,000+ words in three days after editing?  She is there.  It might he harder for her to limit it to 1000 words max.


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## Sialia (Sep 13, 2005)

Y'betcher.

But I'm new and improved.

Shorter. Sweeter.

(And slightly crippled.)


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## Funeris (Sep 13, 2005)

Well, if that's my luck I don't mind challenging her 
I've been known to write non-stop recently...and when she whoops my ego...
_maybe, just maybe I can make her pity me enough to supply me with one of those awesome avatars she's done for others..._

hmmm...did I say that out loud???


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## spacemonkey (Sep 13, 2005)

Looks like only alternate spots are left, but sign me up for one of those.


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## tadk (Sep 13, 2005)

I am good to go at any time. Soon is good. Later is fine. Work is hectic and I will be doing short avant garde stories anyways.....So bring it on cause I will do my worst....most likley


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## SteelDraco (Sep 13, 2005)

As to schedules, optimally I'd like my 72 hours to include Wednesday, since that's the day I have the most free time. But I can work with any time.


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## MarauderX (Sep 13, 2005)

Late Sunday 9/18 or early Monday please.  It's nice to have the weekend free for the wife to take me and our livestock on a hike.


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## Funeris (Sep 13, 2005)

You live in Alexandria...maybe a half hour from me...a suburb of dc....and....you....have.........livestock?

Do you mean pets?? or kids???  

::confused...contemplates returning to safety of Story Hour forums....decides to stay::


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## MavrickWeirdo (Sep 13, 2005)

mythago said:
			
		

> 5x3. If people want to jump in as alternates, though, have at it.




Pardon me, but that does not make sense to me. You get 5 semi-finalists that way. 5 does not divide evenly. In my opinion it would make more sense to include your 3 alternates as contestants. 

First round 6x3, for 6 semifinalists
Second round 2x3, for 2 semifinalists
Third round 1x2 for 1 winer (and 1 winner; typo, what typo)

it only adds 1 match, and is more balanced


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## Aris Dragonborn (Sep 13, 2005)

My days off are Tuesdays and Wednesdays, but I think I'm good for whenever.


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## mythago (Sep 13, 2005)

MavrickWeirdo said:
			
		

> Pardon me, but that does not make sense to me. You get 5 semi-finalists that way. 5 does not divide evenly. In my opinion it would make more sense to include your 3 alternates as contestants.
> 
> First round 6x3, for 6 semifinalists
> Second round 2x3, for 2 semifinalists
> ...





We're huddling on this right now--the problem is not the extra matches in round 1, but that there's a lot of blood on the floor when you whittle 18 people down to 2 in three rounds.

I mean, not that blood on the floor is a _bad_ thing.


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## Funeris (Sep 13, 2005)

Spoken like a true RBDM Mythago.


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## Herobizkit (Sep 13, 2005)

*ARGH* 

Naturally, the day chosen to begin is the day I have 2 days off in a row.   

S'alright, I guess... but it sure puts the pressure on.


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## BSF (Sep 13, 2005)

mythago said:
			
		

> We're huddling on this right now--the problem is not the extra matches in round 1, but that there's a lot of blood on the floor when you whittle 18 people down to 2 in three rounds.
> 
> I mean, not that blood on the floor is a _bad_ thing.




We just need to have a little time to fire the blood into the clay floor between matches.  Then the blood works as a glaze.  Given the wear and tear our contestants put on the glaze, more is better.  I have to totally shoot down the suggestion that we give the floor time to cool before the next round though.  Let the contestants back on as soon as the cherry glow fades.


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## mythago (Sep 13, 2005)

*Round One pictures*

censer courtesy of Don Sarcasmo.


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## BSF (Sep 13, 2005)

And so they are off!

Umm, Mythago, who is in round one?

EDIT:  I see them back in the beginning of the thread.


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## mythago (Sep 13, 2005)

*Round Two pictures*

color by manormouseman

stoneseat by shawarma


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## mythago (Sep 13, 2005)

Yes, competitors are all back at the original post.


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## Funeris (Sep 13, 2005)

GOOD LUCK EVERYONE!!!

~Fune


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## spacemonkey (Sep 13, 2005)

mythago said:
			
		

> *People who have not checked in*: TheGM, spacemonkey, TolenMar, Warlord




Didn't know I needed to until called upon for an alternate spot.  Does the above mean I'm officially in?  If so:

a) sweet 
b) schedule me anytime.  Sunday will be cramped for me, but I just have work, sleep, and the normal ton 'o extra stuff until then.


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## tadk (Sep 13, 2005)

Interesting images. I like mine. Getting ideas just staring at them


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## Rodrigo Istalindir (Sep 14, 2005)

tadk said:
			
		

> Interesting images. I like mine. Getting ideas just staring at them




That's better than getting them from the voices you hear that no one else can....


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## Funeris (Sep 14, 2005)

I disagree...my voices tend to be very helpful...they're pounding out the dings in my plot as we speak.  If I actually sleep tonight, they may even give me the wonderful present of a story that actually makes some sense.

Doubtful...but it could happen.

~Fune


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## Tolen Mar (Sep 14, 2005)

I didnt know I needed to check in since I was only listed as an alternate.  

But any day could work, though I have the most time on Fridays and Saturdays.


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## Sialia (Sep 14, 2005)

Funeris said:
			
		

> _maybe, just maybe I can make her pity me enough to supply me with one of those awesome avatars she's done for others..._




Already, I pity you.

If you wish an avatar, you must perform the following tasks:

1. Go excavate my old avatar thread over in the art forum. (It might say something about "avatars" or "goody" in the thread name).

2. Resurrect the thread by posting in that thread an intriguing concept that would be fun to draw, and is more interesting and punchy that your current really cool, graphically effective and thematically appropriate avatar.

3. Wait, patiently.

/hijack-plug


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## Aris Dragonborn (Sep 14, 2005)

Quick question on the pictures for round 2:

The first picture shows a frozen viewer. Now, does the viewer have to be frozen over, or can I just use the viewer itself? The same question for the girl (pic#2). Does she need to be wearing that make-up and that sweater?


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## Rodrigo Istalindir (Sep 14, 2005)

Aris Dragonborn said:
			
		

> Quick question on the pictures for round 2:
> 
> The first picture shows a frozen viewer. Now, does the viewer have to be frozen over, or can I just use the viewer itself? The same question for the girl (pic#2). Does she need to be wearing that make-up and that sweater?




You're allowed to take as much artistic license as you wish, but picture use is a major (and often decisive) factor in judging.  You should take care not to omit so many details that the picture is no longer relevant or recognizable.


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## MavrickWeirdo (Sep 14, 2005)

pardon me, when the 1st post was edited, the FAQ link was removed, could someone please repost it?


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## Aris Dragonborn (Sep 14, 2005)

Here ya go, Mav!

Thanks for the info, Rodrigo. I'm not sure how much license I would actually take, but I figured it's one of those 'just in case' tidbits that's nice to know. Thanks again!


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## MavrickWeirdo (Sep 14, 2005)

Aris Dragonborn said:
			
		

> Here ya go, Mav!




Thank You


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## MarauderX (Sep 14, 2005)

Funeris said:
			
		

> You live in Alexandria...maybe a half hour from me...a suburb of dc....and....you....have.........livestock?
> 
> Do you mean pets?? or kids???




2 of the former, 1 of the latter if you count me.  My wife has to muster us together like a herd and with a few zaps from the cattle prods we get moving in the right direction.  Judging sticks are like the soft velvet of a field of grain against my callous hide.  

Funeris, are you going to the DC game day on Oct. 29th?


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## Aris Dragonborn (Sep 14, 2005)

EDIT: Nevermind. Forgot the difference between 'words' and 'characters' (as in word count, characters w/out spaces, characters w/spaces). D'oh.  

*waves hand* Nothing to see here, move along.


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## mythago (Sep 14, 2005)

Yep, feel free to take artistic license. Sialia once turned a picture of a box sitting in snow into the top of a chimney poking up through a crust of salt.

One thing to be avoided is to make the picture a picture within the story or a dream. Not that these things are forbidden, but they're kinda cheaty ways to get a picture into a story and are so frowned upon.

Ex-alternates, no worries: but there have been problems in the past with people signing up and then showing up two weeks later saying "oh wow, forgot I entered," so I wanted to make sure y'all were still around.


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## mythago (Sep 14, 2005)

Oh, and there is no word count limit this round.


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## Funeris (Sep 14, 2005)

MarauderX said:
			
		

> Funeris, are you going to the DC game day on Oct. 29th?




That's a good question...wasn't even aware there was a game day coming up so fast.  I've never been...and that's the day after my b-day.  We're supposed to have a b-day party but if I can make it, I will.  My girly loves DC.

Now I'll have to look for the game day thread.  

~Fune


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## Aris Dragonborn (Sep 14, 2005)

Thanks, mythago. 

Here, then, is my entry.

*Round 2: SteelDraco vs. tadk vs. Aris Dragonborn*

*The Justicar*

	Daniel pulled into the parking lot of the convenience store, thoroughly exhausted and needing both a strong cup of coffee and a visit to the bathroom. He walked in and took a good look around. Everything looked normal. Not a soul in the place other than the old man behind the counter. Daniel approached him.

	“Excuse me sir, but do you have a bathroom I could use? And fresh coffee?” he asked.

	“Yes to both,” the old man replied. “The john’s at the back of the store, and the coffee’s over by the beer case.”

	“Thanks. You just saved my life,” Daniel said, walking quickly to the back of the store and into the bathroom. 

	He closed the door, stood before the urinal, and got down to business. Letting out a gusty sigh, he zipped himself up after he finished, then went to the sink to wash his hands.
“Hello Daniel.”

	Jumping about a foot into the air and stumbling back from the sink, Daniel barely managed to choke off the scream that threatened to erupt from his throat. In the mirror was the image a young, red-haired girl. She was wearing a blue-striped turtleneck, and each cheek bore a small red circle; one was on her lips as well. She smiled openly, and covered her mouth with her hands to stifle a giggle.

	“Hello Lilith. Didn’t your uncle ever teach you it’s bad manners to surprise people like that?” he asked. “I thought my heart was going to jump out of my chest.” He walked back to the sink, and began washing his hands.

	“Actually, he did. But I decided it would be more fun to do it this way. As a matter of fact, my uncle is the one who sent me to find you,” she said, still grinning.

	“Oh? What does Nicodemus want with me?” he asked, not looking up.

	Lilith’s voice dropped to a whisper, and she leaned forward. “Not here,” she said. “We need to talk somewhere more private…somewhere safe.” Daniel looked up, and was surprised to see a hint of fear in her eyes.

	“Got anywhere in mind?” he asked.

	Lilith nodded. “Get your coffee, then meet me around the back of the store. There’s one of those old Color Photo booths out back. The old man has almost forgotten it’s there, so I doubt he’ll notice us if we use it – or care,” she replied.

	Daniel ripped off several sheets of paper towels. “Sounds good to me. Be there in a few,” he said as he dried his hands.

	A few minutes later, cup off coffee in hand, Daniel made his way to the back of the store. There, just as Lilith had said, was the photo booth. A large sign with the word “Color” in large print still retained much of its luster, though the light fixtures had ceased to function long since. He took a quick look around, making sure there were no unfriendly eyes, and entered.

	Lilith sat on the bench, arms wrapped around her knees and a serious look in her eyes. She watched Daniel sit down, but said nothing.

	Daniel let the silence stretch for a few minutes, then finally asked, “What’s the story?”

	Lilith continued to stare at him, and Daniel began to feel a vague sense of unease growing in his gut. Finally, Lilith whispered, “One of the Ashan’gar has been sighted. Close by.” 

	Daniel felt the coffee turn to acid as his stomach began to churn. “And?” he asked, knowing the answer.

	Her eyes bright and a tremor in her voice, Lilith replied, “And he’s after you.”

	Daniel said nothing; he just sipped at his coffee, not tasting it. He tried to keep his voice steady as he asked his next question. “Is it someone we know, or someone new?”

	Lilith’s voice finally cracked as she said, “It’s Mordred.”

	Daniel’s heart sank to his toes. 

	Lilith regained some measure of control, wiped her eyes, and said, “My uncle wants you to come home for a while; just until Mordred gives up his search. He believes that Mordred would even dare consider attacking one of the Justicar’s strongholds without giving it some serious thought,” she said. A pleading look came into her eyes as she said, “Come home, Daniel. Please.”

	Daniel could not meet her eyes. Part of him wanted to leave just as fast as he could. Memories of his last encounter with Mordred surfaced in his mind, memories that he had no wish to relive. He had almost died in that battle, and though he had defeated Mordred that day, causing him to flee, he had no desire to fight him again.

	And yet the other part of him would not let him run. He was a Justicar; for what other purpose did he serve if not to fight the Ashan’gar? For over 1000 years the Justicars and the Magi had been all that stood between the earth and the Ashan’gar. If he left now, and Mordred appeared, he would slaughter the old man in the store. Daniel realized that he couldn’t run. Sooner or later, he would have to face Mordred again. It would be better to choose to stand to fight rather than be forced to fight when Mordred finally ran him down.

	Daniel’s thought were interrupted by the realization that it had grown cold. He looked at Lilith, whose teeth had begun to chatter. A look of naked fear crossed her face, and she rose quickly from the bench. 

	“Daniel, come on! We have no time! He’s close by, can’t you feel him?” her voice was raw; she was, Daniel realized, on the edge of panicking.

	It was time to calm her down. “Relax, Lilith. Let’s go outside and take a look. We’re on the coast, and it being late fall, it could be nothing more than a fog rolling in.” Daniel took her hand, and led her outside.

	A fog bank had indeed rolled in, but it was weak and wispy and didn’t obscure visibility hardly at all. But it was still cold out, so he began to take Lilith to his car. 

	She stopped him with a claw-like grip on his arm. “D-Daniel. L-Look.” Her shaking hand pointed at the lookout point on the other side of the road. 

	“Stay by the car. I’ll be right back,” he said, and moved off towards the street.

	As he crossed the highway, he called upon one of his Justicar powers and summoned his sword from the trunk of his car. The blade was long and broad, and the hilt extended to accommodate a two-handed grip. It was plain, unadorned by any jewels or gilding, but shone with a cold light even through the fog.

	He approached the lookout point cautiously, slowly, eyes constantly scanning for any threat. His eyes fell upon on of the viewers people used to watch the whale migrations, and he stopped. 

The viewer was rimed with a thick layer of frost; icicles hung almost a full foot from it. 

Daniel stared at the viewer as if it heralded the end of the world.	

	Lilith saw Daniel stop before the viewer, and watched in mounting fear as he stood and stared at it. She saw the fog swirl ten paces behind Daniel, saw the tall, black clad figure step out of the fog, sword in hand.

	“Daniel! Behind you!”

	Daniel was moving even before Lilith finished her warning. His blade came up into guard position just in time to block the downward strike of an ash-grey sword. His eyes met those of his attacker; fear and uncertainty began gnawing at his belly.

	“Hello Daniel,” Mordred rasped.

	Lilith stood shivering in fear by the car, unable to do anything but watch. Daniel was one of the best swordsmen among the Justicars, and she held onto the hope that his skill would serve him now.  

	“Hello Mordred,” Daniel replied, never taking his eyes from his opponent, his sword never wavering. 

	“I thought you would have run with your tail between your legs when you heard I was looking for you,” Mordred said. “This time, you will die.”

	Mordred brought his sword around in a sweeping cut at Daniel’s head; his blade rang as Daniel first parried then riposted with a slash of his own. Mordred danced back out of harms way, viper-quick.

	They stared at each other for a long moment, neither moving a muscle. Then they came together in a rush, blades singing through the air. Blade met blade in a ringing shower of sparks as the two adversaries fought, neither giving and inch of ground. Each was highly skilled with a blade; the slightest mistake could mean death.

	Mordred, images of his defeat at Daniels hands still fresh in his mind, fought with a savage fury. His teeth were bared in a rictus of hatred, and his eyes burned with a hot flame; every swing of his blade cried out for his enemy’s blood. With every parried attack, his rage grew, until it seemed that he would be consumed by it.

	This Justicar would not humiliate him again.

	He pressed Daniel harder.

	Daniel fought coldly, pushing his fear down until it no longer screamed at him. He never faltered, and smoothly parried every one of Mordred’s attacks. But his fear would not be silent, and screamed at him that Mordred was stronger, and tireless; it was only a matter of time until Mordred’s blade found its mark, and struck him down.

	Daniel fought to ignore this. He would not give in to his fear.

	He pressed Mordred harder. 

	Lilith watched, horrified, as Mordred finally caught Daniel’s blade in a bind, a sent it spinning off into the darkness. His boot caught Daniel flush on the jaw, and knocked him to the ground, where lay dazed.

 Unthinking, she spun a silver dagger from the ether and charged into the battle.

	“And so it ends, Justicar. This time, I win.” Mordred crowed. “This night, you will die by my hand!”
	Daniel watched half-aware as Mordred swept his blade back for the killing blow…

	Lilith caught Mordred off guard, and planted her dagger square between the shoulder blades. He stumbled away to the side, screaming in pain and anger. She moved quickly to Daniel’s side, trying to get him on his feet.

	“Come on, Daniel, move! That won’t stop him for long, we’ve got to get out of here!” She pulled at Daniel’s arm, urging him to move faster. 

	Then she felt herself pulled to her feet by her hair, and turned to see Mordred’s burning eyes searing into her soul.

	“Little girl, you should have run while you had the chance,” he said, smiling.

	Lilith saw his arm sweep back, then surge forward. She felt herself flying through air, then felt searing pain as her body shattered the rear window of Daniel’s car.

	All went dark, and she knew no more.

	Mordred, laughing, moved toward Lilith’s still form, to finish the job.

	Daniel watched transfixed as first Lilith attacked Mordred, and was hurled through the air like a rag doll. He saw her go through the rear window of his car; saw Mordred stalking toward her unmoving body, blade in hand, and his intentions clear. 

	Somewhere in Daniel’s mind, a dam burst, and he was filled with a hot rage. It burst forth even as he called his blade to his hand; and when it appeared, it  blazed with silver fire.

	“MORDRED!!!”

	Mordred stopped and turned around slowly. Daniel could clearly see the disbelief on his face as the Ashan’gar’s gaze fell upon a Justicar’s wrath unleashed. He took one look at the silver fire burning in Daniel’s eyes, a fire to match his own, and he saw his own death.

	Mordred fled.

	Daniel sprinted after him, stopping only long enough to check on Lilith. She appeared to be gravely wounded, but even as he examined her, she came around.

	“What are you waiting for? Don’t let him get away,” she said in a weak voice.

	“I have to get you help first. Then I'll hunt him down,” he replied.

	“Help is on the way. I’ve already spoken with my uncle, and he should be here anytime,” she said. She began to rise from the car, and when Daniel moved to stop her, she batted his hands away. “It looks worse than it is. I’m Magi, remember?”

	She could see the hesitation on his face. “Go. And this time,” she added with a grin, “make sure you finish him.”

	Daniel smiled in return, and then he was gone. 

	Mordred did not go far. He ran down a forest path behind the store, and did not stop until he entered a clearing 100 yards away. A stone chair stood in the center, covered in dirt and moss and worn with age. He spared it a fleeting glance, and then moved off into the trees.

	Daniel arrived in the clearing moment later. He looked to the stone chair, approached it warily, and checked behind it. Nothing.

	He stood next to the seat, looking around at the trees. He could see no sign of his quarry, yet he could feel his presence.

	“Mordred! I can feel you, Ashan’gar! Come out and face me!” 

	Mordred, standing silent behind a large oak, heard Daniel’s challenge. His eyes smoldered with rage at having to flee once again from this Justicar.

	In answer, he stepped from the trees, his blade at the ready.

	“I am here, Justicar. It is time to end this!”

	Daniel turned at the sound of Mordred’s voice. Calmly, he watched his enemy approach from the other side of the clearing, and come to a stop on the opposite side of the chair. Their eyes met, silver fire and red flame dancing.

	“Yes,” Daniel agreed. “Let there be an end to this.”

	They eyed each other, then stepped out from behind the chair. 

	Swords rose to the ready, and then flashed as the last battle began.

	From the start, Daniel could feel a difference in the way he moved. In finding the strength to unleash the Justicar’s silver fire, he found the way to defeat Mordred. The Ashan’gar still move like a serpent, his blade flickering almost faster than the eye could see. But Daniel no longer found it difficult to keep up with Mordred’s blows; rather, he sensed that Mordred was having difficulty keeping up with him.

	Mordred knew that he had lost. And this time, there would be no flight to safety. If he turned and fled now, the Justicar would have his sword in his back before he took two steps. Never had he faced an opponent who moved so fluidly! Daniel had somehow found a source of strength, of speed, of sheer will to prevail. Mordred had never seen it’s like. 

	The thought of imminent death brought a feeling of impotent rage to the Ashan’gar. So be it, he thought. If I must die, then he will die with me!

	Back and forth the fight raged, and indeed Mordred found it increasingly difficult to keep up with Daniel’s flashing blade. Too many times, Mordred had to swing his blade into a parry at the last instant, with the result that he fully deflected the blow too few times, and took too many hits. 

	At last, Mordred could keep up with Daniel no longer, and the Justicar’s blade struck home. It plunged through his chest and emerged from his back. He raised his own blade for a killing blow, but found it too heavy to lift. He met Daniel’s eyes one last time, and then he was gone.

	Daniel watched the light leave Mordred’s eyes, and knew the fight was over. He took a deep breath to calm down and clear his head. He stood staring at the Ashan’gar’s body for what seemed like an eternity, when Lilith and Nicodemus arrived. He looked first at Nicodemus, and then at Lilith, and then he smiled. 

	“It is finished,” he said. He willed his sword back into his car, just before Lilith slammed into him with a hug.

	He held her shaking, weeping form, and looked up at Nicodemus, the Justicar who had trained him. “Well met, my lord,” he said in greeting.

	Nicodemus smiled, and replied, “Well met, Justicar. And congratulations on a job well did. Well done indeed.” He regarded his niece; her storm of weeping now passed, he said, “Let’s go home.”

	“Yes,” Daniel replied.

	“Home.”


----------



## Aris Dragonborn (Sep 14, 2005)

Oh, and I want to wish SteelDraco and tadk good luck.


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## Ketjak (Sep 14, 2005)

mythago said:
			
		

> OK, folks, I am out of town and have very funky limited Internet access. So: rounds one and two are going up NOW. Subsequent rounds to start early Saturday morning. I'd really like to start all three now, but the judges would kill me for dropping nine stories on 'em at once. Mind you, it's no better than they deserve.
> 
> All stories are due 72 hours from posting timestamp.
> 
> ...




I eagerly await my assignment... and I'm still hoping it gets posted no sooner than Sunday night.


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## Rodrigo Istalindir (Sep 14, 2005)

Heh...wonder if Aris is just Berandor 'I don't need no stinkin' 72 hours' in disguise....


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## Funeris (Sep 15, 2005)

*Funeris' Entry:  Checkmate*

*ROUND ONE*

*Funeris vs. reveal vs. Macbeth*



> Anyone who reads my story hours knows that I use italics to show internal thought...I did the same here, although it should be obvious.  And...yeah, its nearly 3,000 words or so.




*Checkmate*

Out of a leather pocket, I pulled the worn white and green box.  The cheap cardboard snapped open revealing the always precious devil sticks.  Grasping one, I shoved the package back into its pocket.

_Eric’s Grandma had always told me to quit because it made me a bad role model_.  The thought was quick and vanished barely after it registered.  My choice wasn’t difficult; never was anymore.  The cigarette rested on my lips as the small fire scorched the tip, releasing the putrid scent and the light, menthol flavoring.  _Let the kids find another role model_.

Above, the darkening sky’s miserable, overcast clouds spit angrily at the cracked and parched earth.  The moisture coalesced after splattering upon the black trench coat then streaked down the sides and back, nothing more than clear, quick worms of motion.  

Glancing down, a brief count showed a minimum of fifteen snubbed butts.   I reached for the cell, taking another long drag.  With a click, the display flashed 8:49 pm in the pure, neon blue hue and I smirked.  _Two hours of waiting now, D-man.  Where are you?_

The reverie ended with the soft click of a basement door closing.  D-man hobbled up the steps and into the waiting rain.  His hair, black and edged white, dulled the beady but observant eyes.  He had thrown a rain-proof poncho over his clothes.  Now his head took the brunt of the drizzle.

D-man’s eyes caught mine so I slid closer through the soggy grass of his rear yard.

“I see you got through the gate alright.”  He smiled warmly, his eyes burrowing greedily into the Marbox in my mouth.

“No lock could ever keep me.  Grandfather was a locksmith, you know.  Your woman around?”

“Nah.  She went out with her friends.  Typical Wednesday night, ya know?”

“You want one?”  Before the question was out of my mouth, the near-empty pack of Marboxes was open and staring the man down.

He shrugged as a large grin across his face.  “You know me.”  He slid one out and waited for a light.  “How long you been here?”  

“Nearly two hours now, D.  You get lost in your basement?”  Another cigarette from a new pack danced magically through my fingers and up to my lips.  _Another one down, that’s seven minutes less of bad luck I’ll have._  The lighter clicked, sparking cautiously in the drizzle.

“I forgot you were coming over.”

“You called me two hours ago, D.  Don’t give me that BS.”

“You caught me, Ronaldo.  I was playing chess again.  I’m an addict you know.”  That calming grin spread across his face again.  

_Must be business and not pleasure_, I thought.  “Hear from Yeti, recently?”

“Nah, Cthulhu ate him.”  

“I’m sorry, what did you say?”  My smoking devil stick fell into a puddle, drowning.

“Huh.  Oh, I said Cthulhu ate him.  You know that computer virus programmed by that RPGer.  It crashed Yeti’s computer.”  

“Oh.  I was wondering what was up.  So, enough small talk, what’s the job?”  

“Right.  You ever been to West Virginia; Charles Town I think, half an hour from here?”

“Yeah.  I used to live there, remember?”

“Oh yeah.  I forgot that.”  For a moment, D appeared to smirk.  “Anyway, a girl spontaneously combusted in the high school today.  I want you to check it out.”

“You know I don’t do paranormal.”

“We don’t think this is paranormal, per se.  We think its just some cultist activity.  Wanna check it out?”

“I can probably handle it.  Which cult?”

“The Cult of Sebek.”

“Wasn’t he. . .”

“The Egyptian god with a crocodile head, yeah.  Could I have another?”  I handed the Marbox over, allowing him to light it and take a drag before continuing.  “Anyway, the councilors came across some papers in her backpack about the god Sebek and something about a nearby quarry.  I thought you’d like the job.”

“Yeah, I’ll take it.  I can start in the morning.”

“Good enough for me.”  D pulled some paperwork from under the poncho and I transferred it to the leather coat.  “Do yourself a favor, Ronaldo.  Don’t wear the coat.  Try to be inconspicuous this time.”

“Will do.”

“Good.  And here, you might need this.”  A black, unmarked nine millimeter Beretta appeared in his non-smoking hand.

“Just a possible cult investigation, right?”

“May as well be safe.”  He slapped the gun into my hand and disappeared down the stairs, back into his basement.

---o---o---

_Morning of the eighteenth, back in my old high school.  Joy, joy._  The yellowed hallways of the poor, white-trash, river-rat, hillbilly school had not changed much in the last decade.  Outside, trailers for the ever increasing population of the county housed additional classrooms.  The county was in a boom; real-estate continued to claw farther and farther away from Washington D.C., bringing with it upper middle class families.  Families that with their very presence pushed the lower class population, the ‘natives’ farther from their homes.  Families pushed farmland and native population farther and farther from their origins replacing it with their cloned housing, different only by the type of façade smacked on their faces.  And yet, the high school remained yellow and overcrowded.  _That’s progress_.

Walking down the hallways, I lit the first cigarette of my second pack.  Students quickly ducked out of my way, staring gape-mouthed at my open disregard of the law.  Well, it was that or the nine I wore openly.  Ditching the trench coat, I had donned a ribbed turtleneck sweater, black as my mood.  The combination of the shirt, the dark, loose blue jeans, and the black, military-issued, fleece hat probably gave me the appearance of a mercenary for hire.  _That’s right.  I rolled a natural twenty on my Intimidation check this morning,_ I thought.  My smirk just caused the seas to part faster.

I pivoted sharply and into the principal’s office.  I moved past the assembled line of do-gooders, boot-lickers, and troublemakers without as much as a complaint.  The principal glared angrily at my cigarette, which I snubbed happily on her desk.

“Look, I’ll be brief about this.  I need to know about Ms. Jackson’s spontaneous combustion yesterday.  I want to review her file.  And I need a list of her closest friends and where they’ll be in an hour or so.”

“And you are?”

“I’m a private investigator.  I work for a private client.  The sooner you get me the info, the sooner I’ll be out of your hair.”  I took a moment to light another death stick, before grinning charismatically.

The principal reached for an unmarked manila folder on her desk, never removing her cautious eyes from my face.  She pushed it toward me.  I snatched the folder and moved quickly back to my car to review the file.

---o---o---

“Ms. Divico?”  I stared hesitantly at the young brunette that sat in one of the plain, blue metal desks.  In front of her desk, a large sign read ‘The Prez’.  Another sign was taped to her gray shirt; again reading ‘Prez’.  “Uh, Ms. Divico I’d like to ask you a few questions about your friend, Ms. Andrea Jackson.  If you could step outside for a moment. . .”

“No.”

“I’m sorry?”

“No, I’ll stay right here.  Anything you ask me I can answer right here, in front of my friends.”  Her eyes, a faint blue, seemed glossed over, the pupils dilated.  Her hands twitched nervously, drumming slightly upon the metal desk.

“Very well, Ms. Divico.”  Scooting an empty desk around to face her, I sat down.  “You and Ms. Jackson were friends?”

“You could say that.  We grew up together.  We went to school together.  We still hung out on occasion.”

“You don’t seem very saddened by her death.”

“As I said, on occasion.”

“So you wouldn’t know if she were involved in any. . .cult activities?”  

The Prez shuddered and stammered before spitting out the lie of a response.  “No. . .”

“And you’ve never heard of the Cult of Sebek?”  Releasing a putrid cloud of smoke, I grinned.  Another piece of the puzzle just fell into place.

“I. . .” she stammered, but was easily silenced by the wave of my hand.

“Why are you wearing a necklace with the god Sebek on it?”  Her eyes completely dilated, her teeth grinding.  “You know; that little gold necklace around your precious and innocent neck.  The one with a crocodile-headed man dangling preciously above your. . . ‘Prez’ sign.”

Her teeth still grinding, something snapped.  The pop was loud and nearly deafening.  I instinctively dropped to the floor, pulling the nine from its resting spot.  But the girl shuddered again, spitting an arc of blood into the air.  Half a molar hit the floor.

The proverbial dung hit the ceiling.

 Her shirt expanded outward, her flesh following quickly after.  Within seconds, her eyes bulged from their sockets.  Her arms twisted unnaturally backward in a mock Exorcist pose before her body exploded.  Ms. Divico’s remains, what little was left anyway, smoldered harmlessly on the floor.  

I pulled myself off the floor, wiping the muck from my face as calmly as possible.  “Well, that was entertaining,” I said to the horror-stricken class.  With a deft swipe, I grabbed “The Prez’s” bag and the Sebek necklace.  Then I returned to the safety of my car.

---o---o---

“Well D, I’ve been to the high school.  Are you there?”  White noise hissed over the cell connection.  

“Yeah. . .m. . .here.  Where. . .?” 

“Look, I’m parked at the quarry.  There is definitely something going on here.  Both girls were excellent students.  Both spontaneously combusted, if it can be called that, for some reason.  I think they were connected to this possible cult.  Evidence points that way.”  Static looped eternally through the earpiece.  

A crackle and then the words “Quarry…safe” and a final, hollow click.  The phone went dead.  Drawing the nine, I threw the worthless cell in the glove compartment.  Then, I made my way into the quarry.

 The piles of gravel, clay and sand were stacked carelessly high.  Traversing the loose earth was like walking into a carefully plotted death trap; one that allowed no saves.  Carefully, I stepped sideways down the mountainous face, walking normally only when absolutely necessary.  Below, an ancient blue machine sat idle.  Because of distance, my imperfect eyes couldn’t make out specific detail but it looked like a machine that shifted through the earth. 

The important detail was the small shack beside the machine.  It housed rotted wood and broken windows, made clear when my descent was complete.  I stalked up to the house, peering through the windows.  Unfortunately, somebody had covered the inside sill with aluminum foil perfectly obscuring the view.  From inside, a clanking sound issued.  Glancing at the chimney confirmed the detail.  Fresh smoke billowed from the stone tunnel.  Somebody was home.

Using a trusty serpentine movement, I darted to the door, pausing beside it.  The metal-on-metal sounds grew louder, nearing the door.  With a thrust of my foot, the door shattered inward.  A dull wet thud resounded and I ducked in gun blazing.

 Three then four shots at the body I had slammed with the door.  Then five.  Then six.  I stopped squeezing the trigger and tried to make sense of the scene.  Crumpled impotently on the floor was a man, naked from the waste up.  Blood dripped from a single gunshot wound in its chest.  His head was. . .unnatural.  It was a crocodile’s face complete with spidery veins and the vertically slit pupils surrounded by red.  One eye rolled limply backward into the reptilian skull, the other lolled sickly back and forth in its socket.  

A soft hissing poured from the wound, lost air.  From within the crocodile head, a soft murmuring sounded.  Careful to keep my gun on the man-beast, I crouched and moved closer to its twisted face.  

Closer inspection revealed rough, ragged edges along the reptilian neck scales.  Sliding the nails of one hand underneath the scales, I ripped the mask off.  

“Cthulhu Fhtagn. . .” the discovered man hissed.

“What?!  Mike!  What are you doing?!  Why?”  I clutched at my skull, a sudden migraine engorging the veins in my skull.  Stumbling backward, I noted the corpse of a dead teenager strapped to the wall.  He had been gutted, one of the blades still embedded in his open abdomen.

“Cthulhu Fhtagn,” Mike whispered again, his eyes wide, crazed and dull. 

“Cthulhu?”  But before the once gamer-friend could respond, his eyes glazed over, lifeless.  I stood and moved back, hands shaking, gun quivering.

 Beside the dead teen sat a old, three legged stool.  Upon the stool rested a brass censer.  Smoke billowed around the object, lazily dancing and spiraling out of control.  The faint, white clouds twisted and turned and were absorbed by the metal object.  Following the trails with my eyes, they ended roughly at the teen’s open abdomen.  _What in the infinite layers of the abyss?_  

Mike’s body jolted upward, his eyes wide again.  As I watched with disgust, smoke poured from the bullet-hole I had inflicted.  The smoke was faint, white and spiraling.  It snaked upward and toward the brass censer.  Before my eyes, the metal devoured the smoke, the soul of my now departed once gamer friend.

Clapping broke the unfathomable scene.  Turning wearily, D-man walked through the open doorway.  His hands beat together while his lips parted in a maniacal smile.  He casually pulled out a Beretta and aimed it at me.

“Well Ronaldo, stand up.”  I did as he said.

“What?  Why?”

“Cthulhu.”  He smiled again when I smirked.  “You see, that censer is a key of sorts, my dear boy.  The city of R’lyeh is due to rise again soon.  To unleash Cthulhu upon the world, the key must be present for the re-emergence of the ancient city.  But,” he raised a finger, “here’s the kicker.  You see, the key can’t be used, unless it has been filled with souls.  Thanks to you the final four souls have been devoured.  The ritual is now complete.  The key can be used and Cthulhu can be released from his deathless prison.”

“Destan, why?”

“So many questions, Ronaldo.”

“And what do you mean the final four souls?”

“Let’s break this down for you.  Ms. Divico was the last soul number one.  That teenager behind you was soul number two.  Mike was soul number three, and you make the fourth. As to the why, I’m tired, very, very tired.  I’m ready for this world to end.  I’m ready for an age where I can break away from the penname ‘Destan’.  I’m ready to be a ruler.”

“You’re insane.  Wait,” everything finally clicking, “Yeti??  Bill!?”  I raised my own Beretta, finger on the trigger.

“Cthulhu ate him.  And if you want to get personal. . .maybe I was tired of you constantly switching characters during my game, Ronaldo.  Maybe, you should’ve let me kill you once or twice.  *Would that have been too much to ask, really!?!?  I was kicked out of the RBDM club because I couldn’t kill you.  Couldn’t KILL YOU!*”  D-man paused to wipe the spittle from his lips  “But I can now.

“And then, you constantly beat me at chess, adding insult to injury.  Would it have been too much to show a little *damn* mercy?  Instead you took every one of my pieces, every time; ruthlessly slaughtering me.  *I didn’t even win when I liquored you up!*”  D-man wiped the spittle from his lips.  “But I’ll win this time.  The pieces are on the board, set, and it’s a forced mate in one.”

“Do I get one last request?”

“What?”

“A cigarette, of course.”

“Go ahead but slowly, Ronaldo.  Why don’t you lower that gun, while you’re at it?”

_Last one in this pack of Marboxes; that’s a bad omen_.  The cigarette lit quick and smooth, burning all the way down.  The gun rested, aimed toward the floor while I puffed away, searching for a way out.  Lightning fast, I jerked the nine upward and depressed the trigger. . .one, two, three squeezes.  Three bursts of deafening sound followed.  Destan only smiled.

“I had one real bullet in the magazine, Ronaldo.  The rest were just blanks.  Checkmate.”  His gun exploded; a flash of light and sound.  The world faded to black.


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## Funeris (Sep 15, 2005)

Sialia said:
			
		

> Already, I pity you.




Ouch. Ouch. Ouch.  That hurt. 

~Fune


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## tadk (Sep 16, 2005)

*Round 2 TadK posting In Periphery*

_*In Periphery*_
© 2004 CW Kelson III (Tad) All Rights Reserved
For the Ceramic DM Contest September 2005


_Breathe in breathe out
Breathe in breathe out
Breathe in
Breathe in
Breathe in

Got a machinehead 
better than the rest
Green to red 
Machinehead…
I walk from my machine
I walk from my machine_

Bush	"Machinehead"

Winter
The sign says a world and nothing all at once there at the edge of the sprawl.

Welcome To Periphery
Population 2000 Census  
50,000

But that does not tell the entire story of the city along the oceanfront. It does nothing to indicate who or what comes to visit in the dark of the moon. In that time of the year when Uncle Ice hands the unwary their head on a platter, when Sister Moon is absent from the sky and only the cold stars are out for comfort where there is none to be found. This is the time when things come up to the surface, wander down from the far frozen plains to the north, where nothing ever thaws, things that come to the lands of man to prey and cavort. 

There are 3 Men on the Cold Promontory or perhaps not men after all. The wind whips snow and ice shards around and up and down the granite faced from overlooking the white caps down far below. Granite knives appear and disappear from between waves crashing. All along the way to south and north it looks the same. Storm water lashed landscape where man is no longer welcome till spring comes to visit again. 
http://www.enworld.org/attachment.php?attachmentid=22227

Now
Ice Storm
There might be spying
It might be a Tech-no-logical device perhaps
Faceless things standing around on shear ice concrete slab
Black outfits all alone
Vision
Visionary
Ice reflects past and future
Overture
Fog shroud
Funeral silence
Rolling in off the Northern Atlantic seaboard
Granite Etched stone monoliths tortured spirits moan, betraying their fate on the unforgiving deep

The trees are all dead, covered with ice and cracked limbs wishing spring would come and the hope for life once more. Unless Old Man Winter wins out this time and then nothing changes. An Ice Age come in a hurry at his behest. 

Fog, towers lurking in the distance glittering in the light, secrets, flesh and skins personas and the end of relationships
This is the land the three have come to visit once more, down from their home of unforgiving nature.
This is winter, it is just past the Winter Solstice and their power is at the peak. Soon, within days, it could come to fruition. Patience rewarded finally. 
All the while the winds come down from out of the Noreast. 
It is a blizzard of salt water and hypothermic winds racing along.
This is the heart of winter when spirits and aliens walk the land in search of what it is they think they want.

Spring
There is a Modern Home sitting alone. 
The house sits there along the walkway covered with ice from the drizzle and snow of the night before. 
Rotunda-like house, encircling a dead garden of plants
Filled with wrap around windows

http://www.enworld.org/attachment.php?attachmentid=22228
Suze & the house locked away all alone on the promontory
She is a recluse, an artiste, painter sometimes sculptor and performer. 
A Mime, a clown, ala Cirque du Soleil performance artist
Red in China Wealth, Prosperity, Feng Shui, facial decorations making a 
Triangle, Triad, 3 of a kind, the first stable geometric figure
The first third of the New Year devoted to her kindness bringing forth life and love to the new growth.

It symbolizes the 3 Shadowy figures lost in time and ice. They are alone as she is, even with each other they are alone while the winds whip away their thoughts leaving only the empty garments that they are.
She is unaware of this all. Still for her, all alone, in the 3 by 3 space allowed in her mind, she moves in fluid grace
Sculpted brows over smiling eyes and lips parted ever so little while she dances to the howling winds outside waiting for spring to arrive. 

There is a rose of crystal water hanging start in the air suspended by the weight of devotion. It spins crazy in the twisting dervishes of convection and tree altered courses. The woods are comforted with the sounds it makes and the expectations is ensues with.
Far away the city lies to the other direction, up towards Providence way, not that close to Portsmouth, the three Ps so to speak. There is Periphery. Sitting all alone in the dark.

“_Old Baso knows the way there, but ain’t going this time about no sir, no sir._” 
His thick local drawl, coming out past rotted gums and gold tooth stark exposed when he speaks. The throat of his thick with mucus made severe from chronic bronchitis and a nervous twitch to the eyes. Ash gray face from parching wind wrapped up in thick scarves all around, trousers damp on the ankles from wading through foot some deep snow. Old Baso knows the ways around the lonely places, but no one seems to hear him speak.

Peripheral, being or having or part of, constituting the periphery, out of the way and on the fringes.

Summer
Crazy ballistic dance of life
Echoes off the ceiling, sensory bound
Overload of lights and kinesthetic ballet
Toe to toe, fingertip to fingertip, dance the life away, 
Old Baso in the background of memory pasted on the mind’s eye, a cornucopia of disjointed digits.
Fingers spayed out in supplication to eroding fate
The three are not kind, kindred to their home a fourth of the time extant on the earth
Spirits of the laments of eternal white and frost bit. Not allowed here now with the sun high in the sky and temperatures well above the freezing mark. No they are only allowed down here when the cold wraps the land in a cocoon of deadly cold.

The radio is playing now,
The words epic in relation
The children stop playing in the street and begin to cry
Only knowing something bad has happened. 

“_no bangs, no yells, merely the sea
is Mr. Freeze inside of me

no bangs, no yells, merely the sea
is Mr. Freeze inside of me_”

Sitting there on the radio in the background of the house music from somewhere
Shipwrecks in the Arctic Circle leading to death. Drowning after slipping under the ice. A 
Grip of Glacier, they are coming home again

The Daughter of Spring was ambushed and with her discarded vitality, the three there, only two seasons, six some months or less, remaining till triumph is possible. The ones in black that live in white using the weak to bring it around again. The plans continue to enfold.

A cold stone seat in the heat of summer, holding onto the promise of winter and her aching grip on the joints. It is a promise to the powers of white lying in wait.
http://www.enworld.org/attachment.php?attachmentid=22229


Fall
No more will my green sea go turn a deeper blue
I could not foresee this thing happening to you
If I look hard enough into the setting sun
My love will laugh with me before the morning comes

Rolling Stones _Paint it Black_


All alone
Lost in the park waiting till the snow comes again to keep it company
Worried over
Old
Aged
Pocked and torn town
In summers lament

http://www.enworld.org/attachment.php?attachmentid=22230
The photo place far down the street is lit from the street lamps that are left of the nightlife.
Winos sitting along side the alleys, marking the hours till morning comes and the agony of life with the drink starts all over again.
There was Old Baso squatting outside, marking time till the shortest day comes back around again, leading towards the longest day not so long past.
His thick local drawl, coming out past rotted gums and gold tooth stark exposed when he speaks. The throat of his thick with mucus made severe from chronic bronchitis and a nervous twitch to the eyes. Blacked skin made darker than usual in the wake of the summer months. Now that the season has turned, and the way lies open to things to return to the world once more, his step is slower and measured. 

Black and White folding into the night
Walking all alone, down the deserted side walk
A circle of life, darkest winter till spring summer falling
Into night strident pastiche of Kaleidoscope


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## tadk (Sep 16, 2005)

Thank you Aris. I do appreciate the well wishing


----------



## SteelDraco (Sep 16, 2005)

A Day's Work
by D Brooks, aka SteelDraco
For Round 2, Fall 2005 Ceramic DM

To most, it would have just been another office building, tan sandstone and darkened glass concealing all manner of boring paperwork. The manicured lawn and scattered pieces of modern sculpture only added to the mundane appearance of the place. Of course, I knew that there were cameras watching my every move, and wouldn’t be surprised to learn there were gun turrets in a few of those sculptures. It’s what I would have done. Working for the Hoffman Institute can have that effect on a man.

	I nodded to the man at the desk inside, and flashed him my Institute identification. He let me pass without comment, and I made my way to the side of the large entryway, where another glass door led deeper into the building. I scanned my card and entered a passcode, and the door hissed open. Couldn’t be too careful, with some of the things stored in here. Fumimaro’s office was just down the hall, past the Xenotech R&D department.

	“Good afternoon, Mr. Bertoulli.” That was Marta, Fumimaro’s assistant. She smiled up at me from her desk, looking a bit too much like Rosalyn for me to ever really feel comfortable around her, with long blonde hair and green eyes. Even had the same smile, damn it. “He’s expecting you. Ms. Lyons has already arrived.”

	“Thanks.” I walked past her desk, and into Fumimaro’s office. It was one of the few places in the Institute where I really felt comfortable, since it actually felt like someone spent time there. Pictures on the walls, a clutter of paper on most of the flat surfaces. It felt… real.

	There were already two people in the room when I entered. Seated behind the desk was Ichen Fumimaro. He was a Japanese man, most of a head shorter than me, and probably sixty pounds lighter. I’d guessed before that he was in his late thirties, but despite going to several birthday celebrations with him, I still didn’t know exactly how old he was. He smiled at me as I entered. “Ah, Michael. Good to see you.”

	The woman across the desk from him stood up as I entered, and moved to hug me. “Michael! It’s been too long!” She had to stand on her tiptoes to give me a kiss on the cheek, and I smiled at her warmth. No matter what she saw, you couldn’t get Samantha down. I looked down into her wide face, all friendliness and dimples, and laughed. Her brown hair went most of the way down her back, and she flipped it around as she sat down again.

	“You got rid of the glasses,” I said. “Contacts?”

	She made a face, almost pouty. “Laser surgery. I was tired of the librarian look.”

	I snorted at that. Samantha was the head librarian of the Wolcroft Collection, one of New York’s most prestigious private libraries. Not everybody has heard of it, of course. You have to have some connections among the mystic circles to get an invitation, but there’s probably not a better source of occult lore on the east coast.

	I sat down next to her, and looked at Fumimaro. “Well? What’s the catastrophe?”

	He looked at me for a second before chuckling, and hitting a few buttons on his computer. “This, actually.” A monitor on the wall flickered to life, showing an image of what appeared to be a grassy field with a sizable pit in the center of the photo. The grass around the edge of the pit was greyed, as though covered with ash. “What you’re looking at is the area above the Baston Particle Collider, yesterday morning. Quite a few of the recent breakthroughs in particle physics have been done here; it’s one of the most extensive supercolliders ever built. Unfortunately, it seems like they were a little too successful at breaking down matter. They seemed to have created a temporary dimensional rift, allowing something from another reality access to our own.”

	I leaned forward at that. “Another Chernobyl? I’ve heard stories, from the members of the Order of St. Gregory. If demons are coming through –“

	“No, no, nothing to that extent. The rift was small enough that it sealed almost immediately, and the entity that came through hasn’t been nearly as destructive as the creatures that manifested around the Chernobyl reactor. Just… odd.” He hit a few more buttons on his computer, and the screen changed. The view was closer to the damaged area, and there was a scattering of rocks and other debris apparently hanging in the air, over the pit.

	“When our technicians went in to examine the area, they discovered something startling. What we initially took to be a breach in the side of the collider actually, well, wasn’t. Everything that was there, still remains. They discovered that the terrain was rendered transparent. The area near the transparent terrain was drained of color, reduced to black and white. Obviously it’s some manner of supernatural effect, since black and white doesn’t make any sense for how color is transferred. It is still not certain exactly what’s going on – samples were sent over to Xenotech R&D Central today, to see if they could make anything of it. We have not yet received word back from them. I don’t expect to for a few days – they needed to run some complex tests to figure out what is going on, as I understand. As of right now, we know this entity’s touch drains color completely, and its proximity causes colors to fade. We have no information on how long this condition lasts, so I’d suggest you avoid getting close. Samantha, you’ll be issued a dimensional containment unit, for when you manage to find the entity.”

	That seemed like a problem to me. “How, exactly, are we supposed to do that? Has the thing been spotted? Do we even know what we’re looking for here?”

	Fumimaro passed us a photograph from inside his desk. It was a trim young Asian woman with short hair, dressed in drab black clothes. She was standing in an art gallery, looking rather proud.

	Samantha . “Suzette Noriko? How is she involved in this?” I stared at her blankly, then at Fumimaro. She laughed. “Boston art scene. Famous painter. Don’t you ever go out?”

	“Not there, no.” I turned back to Fumimaro. “How is she involved?”

	He hit another button, and the monitor showed a house – decently sized, with trees to screen it from neighbors. And a sizable hole in the side of the wall. “This apparently happened just this afternoon. This is from the police report, and they forwarded it immediately to us. Her cleaning service found the place like this. You should start here. She was supposed to be home, but hasn’t been accounted for. The entity may have kidnapped her.” Fumimaro stood, and bowed to both of us. “Your equipment is prepared for you. Good luck.”



	Samantha pulled the company sedan past a couple of uniformed cops. I showed them my ID when one of them flagged us down to explain that the house was under quarantine, and they let us on by. The gravel crunched under the tires as we pulled up to the artist’s house, which looked even more alien in person. There were two sizable holes in the exterior – one on the second floor, near the rear of the property. The other was near the front door, as though the thing had gone all the way through the house. You could see portions of the floor, here and there. It looked like one of those cutaway diagrams you see in books, explaining how things were built. Most of the color seemed to have been leeched from the place, with only a few patches of real color noticeable. It looked like the place might have been bright yellow, at one point.

	I stepped onto the porch, and put my hand against the transparent wall. It was perfectly solid, and felt the same as the rest of the wall as I ran my hand along it. The edges seemed ragged, as though the thing that had caused this was irregularly shaped. Something to remember. Samantha had pulled out of some her tools – what looked like a Geiger counter, as well as an amulet hanging from a chain, which she was swinging loosely. She was searching for whatever had been here, or whatever residue it might have left behind.

	I went in first, my hand resting on my service pistol. Couldn’t be too careful, after all. Though from the look of things, I might just end up with transparent bullets. The inside of the house was leeched of color, too. I noticed a few picture frames, and that made me stop. There didn’t seem to be a canvas inside any of the frames – just a greyed-out frame, and then the interior of the wall. The thing had brushed up against each painting, rendering it transparent.

	“Sam, look at that.” I gestured, and she seemed to ponder for a moment.

	“Colors. She’s known for her use of color, with many conflicting and clashing colors in the same piece. It’s eating the colors.” She ran her hand over one of the frames, and nodded. “The canvas is still there. It… it ate the painting.”

	I supposed that made sense, in a strange, alien sort of way. “Probably why it came here. If that’s what it eats. But… if it eats colors, where’s the artist?”

	Samantha nodded. “Good question. Let me go find out.” She headed upstairs, and I looked around some more. I found a room where it looked like there had been a struggle of some kind. The room was obviously for showing off paintings, with a few little tables and walls covered with frames. One of them was on the floor, obviously pulled down and flung or carried across the room. A few of the little tables were fallen and scattered. Several places in the room had been made transparent, including a sizable patch of floor. I felt around, but didn’t notice anything.

	I heard Sam looking for me, and called out for her. She was holding what seemed to be a hairbrush, and the dangling amulet seemed to be pulling toward the back of the house. Probably using magic to find the artist. “She close,” I asked. Sam nodded, concentrating. I followed her, out through the spacious kitchen and into a small garden area.

	There were shrubs and flower bushes here and there, and what looked like a small hedge maze near the back. A few stone benches and an easel were nearer the house, obviously where she sat and did some of her painting. Sam led me toward one of the stone benches. ((PICTURE 3)) It wasn’t out of the ordinary – just faded grey stone, weathered with age and the elements. And yet, Sam’s amulet was barely swinging at all now – it was pulled directly toward the bench, a though by a powerful magnet. She nodded toward it, and I reached out to see what was there.

	My hands brushed clothes, just above the bench. I felt around, and it was clearly a person – Suzette Noriko, I presumed. She started to stir, slowly. She seemed to be injured, or at least not moving well.

	Errr. “Miss? Suzette Noriko?” She made a noise, a sort of groan.

	“Y… yes. I’m Suzette Noriko.”

	“Are you all ri – are you injured?” I supposed it was obvious she wasn’t ‘all right’.

	“Hit… my head. I tried to talk to one of the police, when he came. I scared him. He tried to run, and I grabbed him. He hit me. Sort of… went blank. Hoped it would be over when I woke up. Bad dream. Not… not dream…” She trailed off again, and I let Samantha try and tend to her. She had more medical training than I did – mine was mostly just making sure cops and Knights in the field didn’t bleed to death. This was more of a mental shock. Being turned transparent would probably have that effect.

	It was a few minutes before Sam got Suzette coherent enough to give us the full story. She had been working on a new display in her private gallery, when a cloud of tiny motes of light had come through her wall and started leeching the color from her paintings. It hadn’t responded when she’d yelled at it, or when she’d started throwing things. It was only when she entered the cloud – to pull a favorite painting away from it – that the entity had reacted. She said she felt something touch her mind, screaming in agony. It hungered, needed the colors to stay alive. It pulled at her, trying to find where more colors could be found, where she got them. Then she’d passed out, only to wake up when the police arrived later that day.

	“Did you get the sense that it was going somewhere?”

	“Y-yes. It wanted to know where I got the colors. It left right after that.”

	Purposeful little thing, I had to give it that. “Where?”

	“A shop. Not too far.” She sniffed. “It’s an art supply place, in Cambridge.”

	I looked at Sam. “It doesn’t seem to move too fast. We’ll be able to beat it to Cambridge from here.” I turned to where Suzette was (probably) sitting. “Wait here. We’ll come back when we have the thing captured.”

	“No! I – I need to be there. What if it goes away and I never get better? It thinks, maybe I can get it to give me my color back. Or I’ll be a freak forever.” I looked at Sam, but she seemed sympathetic to the woman’s problem.

	“All right. Fine. You can come with us.”

Sam stood up, pulling Suzette along with her. “I have an idea,” she said. That didn’t sound good.

I waited for them for probably ten minutes. I heard water running upstairs, and then what sounded like a hair dryer. And all the while, the creature was getting farther away, probably eating color all along the way. I found a few things in a coat closet that might prove useful later, and put them in the trunk of the car, next to the dimensional containment unit from Xenotech R&D.

((PICTURE 2)) They came back down, and I was surprised that I could see Suzette. She was wearing a green-and-black turtleneck, black slacks, white gloves, and high boots, that covered up almost all her skin. What wasn’t covered had been painted with thick make-up, done to look like a mime. Her hair was visible, too – still a little damp, probably freshly dyed. She looked quite fetching, really.

“Huh. Good thinking, Sam. She’s visible again. But why?”

“Directive 7b, Michael. Don’t scare the mundanes. We couldn’t have an invisible girl running around town, talking to us. She’s going to be with us, she needs to be disguised.”

“Decent point.” After everyone was in the car, I sped toward Cambridge, following Suzette’s direction. On the way, Samantha called ahead to the local police, and had the area around the store cleared, so we wouldn’t have to deal with many witnesses. Better safe than sorry. We made it there in good time, and I didn’t notice any greyed-out terrain as we went. Maybe we had actually gotten lucky.


We arrived at the shop near nightfall. It was hard to miss the place, really. It had a garish sign that read COLOR, with at least fifteen different, painfully clashing hues. The interior was just as bad, even in the relative darkness after close. Certainly a creature that fed on color couldn’t stay away from here long.

Sam got into the trunk, and started pulling out the containment unit. I passed each of the girls my little protective item – a long, black coat, taken from Suzette’s coat closet. “Maybe if you’re dressed like this, the thing won’t be interested in your colors, and leave you alone. Worth a shot, at least.” I pulled mine on, as well – apparently Suzette had had male guests who had left their coats behind at some point. Lucky for me.

While Sam set up the containment unit across the street, Suzette and I went into the shop to bait the trap. Apparently she was a part-owner or something, since she had keys. Inside, everything seemed normal. It was an upscale art supply place, with all kinds of paints, brushes, canvases, tools, and such. Each of us grabbed a few buckets of paint, and started a swathe of color to the small bit of grass where Sam was setting up the containment unit. 

((PICTURE 1)) The air was thick with fog already, and the containment unit was frozen over. Some side effect of the way the thing worked meant that it was always bloody cold nearby. Sam had explained it to me at one point, but I got as far as “molecular oscillation” and “induced superconductivity” and “Einstein-Rosenberg bridge” before my head got all fuzzy and I had to sit down. I’m just a cop who ran into some bad stuff, after all. She’s the genius. I was just glad I had stolen such a big coat.

We had gone back and forth several times, creating a wide line of color between the shop and Sam. After about twenty minutes, Sam radioed us, while we were inside looking for cheap paint to use. “It’s here. Hurry.”

We ran across the street, watching the sky above us. Sure enough, there was what looked like a thick swarm of tiny, silver fireflies moving toward the shop. It wasn’t terribly fast, but it was probably a good six feet across, pulsing slowly. We moved behind Sam and the containment unit, and she closed the protective circles around us with a few words. I knew they were designed to funnel the creature toward the containment unit – I’d seem them work before on much more dangerous things.

The cloud hovered for a few moments in front of the store, and I could see the colors on the sign flowing into it. The silvery light of the cloud flickered as it absorbed colors, and different hues flowed across it in shifting patterns. The front of the store faded slowly to grey. ((PICTURE 4))

The thing moved slowly downward, as if sniffing at our scattered paint. Slowly, it settled over it, and began to move toward us. It inched toward us, quivering and coiling as though suspicious. Past the first circle… just a little more… there!

Sam triggered the containment unit, and it began to hiss loudly, like a teakettle on full boil. The entity surged and roiled, but was unable to move away from her, thanks to the containment circle she had created. Slowly, agonizingly, it was sucked into the nova-bright opening at the tip of the containment unit, until every last silver sparkle was gone. Only after that, and a few breaths more, did Sam seal the containment unit. It was over.


It was a few months before I heard how everything turned out. Suzette never got better, but she was recruited by the Institute – it’s amazing how useful an invisible operative can be. In the art world, she became known for wearing mime makeup all the time, but then, they’re sort of expected to be eccentric. Her home had to be bulldozed, and the invisible pieces carried away to safe places. The supercollider was modified with the same protective wards the Knights of the Order of Saint Gregory put around nuclear reactors, to prevent extradimensional breaches. Last I heard, they’re working on a way to selectively release the entity, to make transparent materials. Apparently transparent steel goes for a price you wouldn’t believe. Really, all just another day in the Hoffman Institute.


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## reveal (Sep 16, 2005)

I sent this to mythago but I'll post it here. I know it says you can't drop out but, well, stuff happens.

"I hate to do this, but I gotta back out. Stuff has come up and I don't have time to finish my Round 1 entry."


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## Funeris (Sep 16, 2005)

Darn it, darn it, darn it.  I was looking forward to the competition.  

~Fune


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## BSF (Sep 16, 2005)

Three more hours, give or take, before we have the remainder of the stories roll in.


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## Macbeth (Sep 16, 2005)

I'm actually not sure if I'll make it with a full story... I just can't write these pictures for the life of me.


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## Macbeth (Sep 16, 2005)

Crud. I had a hell of a time writing this, the worst writer's block I've ever had. Felt like a cork in my brain, keeping all the good ideas in. But I want to make some kind of effort, so here it is: I hope I can at least provide some people some good reading.


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## Macbeth (Sep 16, 2005)

Election
by Sage, a.k.a. MacBeth, for Round one, Match one

Jamis watched the audition for the next President of the United States of America from the front row of an abandoned theatre. A bloated homeless woman, probably carrying a menagerie of diseases, stretched in front of the Powers That Be, the people that she was auditioning for. The Powers sat behind her, as they always did, watching not the candidate, but the reaction the crowd gave the candidate.

Jamis thought this woman was one of the worst he had seen yet. Even with the reworking, the coat of polish, that the Powers gave the winner, it seemed unlikely that she could be anything but a Cabinet member.

Half of the people auditioning were crazy. Jamis probably was too, the only difference was he knew he was crazy. The others were still in denial. Jamis always thought of his insanity like an addiction: the first step is admitting you have a problem. Jamis had never heard the second step.

The audition happened every four years: word went around the street people, the beggars, the crazies, that some people would be auditioning for a new President of the United States. Nobody sane, or at least half sane, would come. But the street people would come, try to be presidential, then spend the next four years swearing that they knew the President before he was famous. That the most powerful man in the free world, the King of the democracy, they would claim that he hadn't actually gone to Yale or that he hadn't been a governor. The governor had been another man, the records were all false. The man in the oval office, they would say, had picked cans out of the 7-11 dumpster with them.

These homeless people, they would claim they had stepped in the president's vomit that one night he had tried to drink mouthwash.

Jamis just sat there. He hadn't auditioned yet, so he watched as the Powers sat silently, occasionally laughing at some of the worse auditions. Behind them a small golden cone poured smoke onto the stage.

The rumors among the shifting crowd that had formed to try out for the role of the most powerful man in the free world said that the gold cone was how the winner was chose. Not by a popular vote, not by a vote of the Powers, not by the edict of one ruler, but by the shapes the smoke made as it poured out of the cone.

This, Jamis decided, was Democracy at it's best: the popular opinion of the people, judged by an elite few, and then disregarded by some unknown mechanism that poured smoke into a deserted theatre.

********************

Most of the people, the homeless, the future Presidents of the United States, they were there because they were crazy. Jamis was there because he was part of the MUMU, which was a lot like being crazy.

The MUMU was the Mankind Unity Multinational Union. They were the greatest political scientists to ever eat leftovers out of a Denny’s dumpster, and they were hoping that their man, Jamis, would be the next President.

The name for the group had been the subject of much debate. Kevin had suggested something that involved the word League, while Henry wanted to work Revolutionary into the name. David would work with any words, as long as they had alliteration. Jules wanted to include the word Club.

Needless to say, Club is not a serious enough word for an organization like MUMU, so Jules was shot for insubordination, then declared a martyr for the cause of the MUMU.

*********************

The auditions had been going for hours now, and it was Jamis’ turn.

“Next we’ll have… Jamis Stevens” came the voice from one of the Powers That Be.

Jamis stepped up onto the stage, watching for the water damaged corner that had almost killed another potential President. Taking a seat at center stage, with the powers behind him, he began his speech. The MUMU had been working on it non-stop for weeks, and now all the back-alley schemes would pay off, if Jamis could appear sane (or insane) enough to be the next President.

“My fellow homeless people:” Jamis began, in his most presidential voice. “We are gathered here today for free shelter, for a chance to be the biggest pain in the rear in the world, and to live up to the American Dream. What is the American Dream, you ask?” Nobody had asked. “The American Dream, my friends, is to live in a way that is showy, annoying, and impersonal as possible. We want to live places that look like they’ve never
been lived in. We want food untouched by human hands. And this, my fellow hobos, is what I intend to give you: the American Dream.”

For a few moments the crowd was silent, until suddenly cheers of joy broke out from the back of the theatre, and spread forward. Jamis thought his speech had gone over well, the crowd though they had found a full bottle of vodka beneath some seats.

Regardless of the reason for the crowd’s reaction, Jamis heard a voice from over his shoulder. “Good job. Come back tomorrow.”

*******************

Jamis left the theatre and walked to the nearest bus stop, caught a ride as far is he could go, and then kept walking, pass the center of town, past the suburbs, until, somewhere in the middle of the morning, he reached the headquarters of MUMU.

Walking down the sides of the pit that held the (literally) underground headquarters of MUMU, Jamis pondered the events of the day, and planned for the next day. He had seen a number of other possible Presidents called back for the next day, and he wondered what they would be put through. His mind wandered as he trudged through the collapsing walls of the old quarry, down to the headquarters of MUMU.

Jamis was very happy with the headquarters of MUMU. He had always been disappointed that there wasn’t actually a tunnel with trains in it bringing slaves out of the South, or a cave with French resistance fighters in it. In his opinion, if you were going to be an underground organization, you might as well be really underground.

Hoping into the hole beneath the digging machine that still languished in the quarry like a forgotten corpse, Jamis squeezed himself through the hole that lead into the grand gallery of the MUMU.

The grand gallery was about 10 feet on a side. So it goes. Really grand rooms are hard to get underneath a quarry.

The mascot of the MUMU sat in the center of the room. The MUMU equivalent of the proud Donkey of the Democrats or the bold Elephant of the republicans was a lazy white crocodile. He stood for everything that MUMU stood for: sitting around all day, being lazy, being cold blooded, and pretending to be a log to catch food. 

Jamis patted the croc on the head. “Good job watching the door, Snaps.” The croc made a half-hearted attempt to eat Jamis’ hand, but it had long ago grown tired of the stagnant taste of homeless people.

“Anybody else home?” Jamis called, his voice echoing around the small chambers of the underground base.

After a few minutes with no answer, Jamis decided to lie down and sleep in the grand hall, next to Snaps. After having lived homeless, he had never been comfortable sleeping in a bed, or in his own room, again.

*************

The next day, back at the theatre, Jamis sat down in the front row. The theatre was maybe a quarter as full as it had been the last day, with only the grubbiest, the most insane, the most charismatic of the hobos left. From the looks of it, many of the applicants had slept on the grime-encrusted floor of the theatre over night.

The gold cone was still smoking at center stage. Jamis thought that, just maybe, he could make out the shape of words in the smoke. Seeing things that most likely weren’t there made Jamis feel comfortably insane.

After a few minutes of talk among the congregation of the homeless that sat around the theatre, the Powers That Be stepped back on stage. They stood there, eyed the crowd, and then one of them turned to the gold cone. Another one of the powers spoke:

“This, my dear citizens, is how we will decide. When I finish speaking, my friend will drop a small ball into that cone. After that, the smoke will tell us it’s recommendation for the Next President of the United Sates of America.”

As soon as the last words had left his mouth, the other Power dropped the ball in, and the cone began to smoke more heavily. Jamis was sure he could see words in the clouds now, but nothing he could actually read. The smoke swirled for a minute, as if mulling over it’s choice, and then a word appeared: “Jamis.”

The Powers That Be immediately left the stage, grabbed Jamis, and walked away. The rest of the crowd followed, hoping that they might get another chance, or maybe a shot at Vice President, or at least an Intern position.

As the theatre emptied, nobody noticed the next word to form in the smoke still pouring from the censer: “is.”

And, a few seconds later, another word “not.”

Then “fit.”

And “to.”

Followed by “be.”

Then “President.”

“of”

“the”

“United”

“Sates”

Then a few minute’s pause.

Then:

“Seriously,”

“this”

“is”

“a”

“really”

“bad”

“decision.”

Then a another pause, and, perhaps, some comprehension in the swirling smoke.

“Damnit”

“They”

“Never”

“Listen”

Then, nothing, for another four years.


----------



## Funeris (Sep 16, 2005)

Well Macbeth, I enjoyed it.  I had thought of going toward a political bent with my story...and then said "nah", let's do some semi-noirish Cthulhu inspired weirdness.  

EDIT:  Oh, and again, Good Luck.

~Fune


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## Macbeth (Sep 16, 2005)

Good luck to you too. It ended upa  LOT shorter thenI would like, but I had writers block beyond all belief, so I'm happy to just have something.


----------



## Sialia (Sep 17, 2005)

Macbeth, you worry me.

And it was not one word longer than it should have been. Nor shorter.


----------



## Funeris (Sep 17, 2005)

I thought it was a good length too.  I felt mine might have been too long...and I actually cut a bit of it out as well.  Which is sad   I get into dialog...and it just keeps going forever and ever and ever and ever and . . .


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## Aris Dragonborn (Sep 17, 2005)

*reads tadk's story*
*reads Funeris's story*
*reads Macbeths's story*

I think I'm in _waaayyy_ over my head.  Need...more...practice.


----------



## tadk (Sep 17, 2005)

*Aris*

I am sure you will do just fine

To the Others
I could not get mine going the way I wanted to
Too many ideas from the first picture alone
But I think I have a new city to put stories in at least out of it
Maybe I should have stayed with my first impulse and just did it as Freeverse Poetry instead.


----------



## mythago (Sep 17, 2005)

Has anyone seen TheGM or Warlord about?


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## mythago (Sep 17, 2005)

*Round One, Set Three*

RangerWickett vs. yangnome vs. Sialia

glassangle by FGD
rat by felina
handprints by corpsebride


----------



## yangnome (Sep 18, 2005)

Wow, I got stuck in one hell of a round... RangerWickett and Sialia?  Who did I piss off?

Oh well, I suppose it is better to take them both out of the competition now rather than wait to battle them in later rounds.

Pics received, idea seeded, sword sharpened with a heavy coat of poison.  

Let's see what you guys have got!.


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## Macbeth (Sep 18, 2005)

Sialia said:
			
		

> Macbeth, you worry me.
> 
> And it was not one word longer than it should have been. Nor shorter.



Woohoo! I worried somebody!


Wait... is that a good thing?


----------



## Tolen Mar (Sep 18, 2005)

You know Im looking at the pics for the other contestants and I think..

What did I get myself into?


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## Sialia (Sep 18, 2005)

First draft is done.

1166 words.

Although only 182 of them actually count as fiction, I suppose. 



Since I have a little time left, I think I may sleep on this for a bit before posting.

I feel kind of weird about this piece.


----------



## mythago (Sep 18, 2005)

OK, I can't PM either warlord or TheGM, so if anybody knows them in real life or is chatting with them on another thread, please tell them they need to check in or they are  not going to be in the competition.


----------



## BSF (Sep 18, 2005)

Maybe we will have one or two more folks that want to join in late?


----------



## yangnome (Sep 18, 2005)

ugh...I typed all but the last bit of my entry last night at work.  I sent it home to myself via email, but forgot to save prior to sending it.  Now I'm about three pages short.  So I could either retype it all from what I have, go back in to work on my only day off in two weeks to get it, or wait until tomorrow night when I go back to work and hope my muse doesn't abandon me...


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## mythago (Sep 18, 2005)

BardStephenFox said:
			
		

> Maybe we will have one or two more folks that want to join in late?




If anyone's been waiting in the wings, now is your chance.


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## maxfieldjadenfox (Sep 18, 2005)

I would love to do this round if there's room... Am I too late?


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## Sialia (Sep 19, 2005)

Self-Portrait, B&W 1994

Ceramic GM Fall 2005
Sialia

Black rats live in the decrepit brownstones around here, and the high rises, and the alleys between them, and the sewers below them. They are loathed, poisoned, feared, and avoided. But they are free to scrabble through their busy, terrified, hungry, brief lives. 

Across the street from this bus shelter, below the hospital where my fiancé works, white rats live in cages of metal and glass, row upon row, stack upon stack. Some of them live   futile lives devoid of excitement, opportunity or terror. The rest live lives of inexplicable torment. The difference between them is randomly assigned, and incomprehensible to them. Their lives also--whether treasured or despised--are brief. 

At least, unlike me and the dark rat corpse before me, they are warm. The bus shelter is half-buried in snow, the rat corpse moreso, dug up by a plow at some indecent hour this morning. The city is covered in white, spattered with gray, and the wind chews through it.

When I leave my apartment in the morning, I am usually the only white person in the crowded elevator. Today there was also the heavyset pale girl from the 16th floor. Her skin tone is really about the same as mine, but in her case, her “color” isn’t so much about hue as shape. She has a flat nose. Her shy little child is dark, and he buries his face in her bosom, peeking out at me only when he thinks I’m not looking. 

By the time I get to Copley Square, there is not one black person in sight. I don’t know where the black people spend their days. I walk up to my building and stare up at the stacks of metal and glass offices. [glassangle.jpg] They look eerily like the racks of cages below the hospital. I am one of the white folks, so this must be where I belong. I wonder idly whether I’m test or control today. At least I’ll be warm.

In my cube, I spend the day hunting for multicultural illustrations for high school textbooks. The photos show people of all different colors and cultures and costumes.  Every editor and designer on the floor is white. Except for Alva. Elegant, dark and tall, she’s from Congo. Her first language is French, and her perfect English has a delicate, pretty accent. She has a graduate degree in graphic design from RISD. Her name means “white.” 

When I go home at night, the lobby is crowded, the elevator taped shut with yellow. What happened? Man shot his girlfriend on the 16th floor. 

I do not see the heavyset pale girl anymore. I never find out what happened to the baby.

At 5 am, my fiancé puts on his white lab coat and leaves for a 36 hour call shift, having drawn the short straw for the holiday weekend. I sleep in late, wrap up in my black wool coat and take the T out to the suburbs to visit my friends. He’s Polish, she’s Italian/Irish and I’m a Jew, but what the hell, these days anywhere but Southie, we'd all pass for white.

We tromp through the snow for the joy of walking. Weekend snow is more fun than workday snow. Whiter. Warmer. Optional, at least. Freedom is being able to choose whether to spend the day indoors or out. We wander down to the toy store, the antique shop, the playground. We make hand prints on the swing seats, before brushing them off, riding high and jumping from the swings to make full body outlines in the snow. We sign the body prints with our names, and then I shiver, thinking of an outline on the 16th floor. We wander into the coffee shop for hot drinks, we stroll through the pet store.

In the pet store, a gray and white parrot cunningly tries to pry the shiny stone out of my engagement ring. We laugh at his antics. I always wear my gloves when I walk in my neighborhood, often because it’s cold, more often so my neighbors won’t see the sparkly. Nothing there, cute or otherwise, has expressed interest in my ring, for which I count myself lucky.

The pet shop has cages of hamsters, gerbils, guinea pigs, mice, and yes, rats. The shop owner has one riding on his shoulder named Albert Beastie. Albert is black and white. He is eating a piece of popcorn with both little hand-shaped paws, balancing gracefully with his long, bare tail [rat.jpg]. The shopkeeper obviously loves the little scamp. Albert is a little over 1 year old, middle-aged. By next New Year’s Eve, he’ll be ancient, or more likely, deceased. I’ve no doubt watching the two of them sharing their bowl of popcorn today, he’ll be genuinely missed.

But this New Year’s Eve, the world is full of opportunities. We’ve bought our tickets, so we head downtown for First Night. For one low, low price, almost unlimited dancers and singers, storytellers and comedians.  The air is breathtakingly cold, and the duck pond in the Public Gardens is frozen through. Up to the Commons we go to see the translucent pale ice sculptures: castles, dragons, dolphins, ships. There is even an eerily transparent chorus of life-sized ice people, singing silently in front of Trinity Church. We buy fried dough, powdered white. 

And then I am too cold, too frozen through to go on, and so we bustle in to one of the venues to see a show. 

She is resplendent in saffron, red, ivory and gold. She dances Bharat Nãtyam with a speed and rhythm that makes me feel dizzy. And warm. Warmth pours from her through the gymnasium, the gymnasium full of many people neither black nor white. 

I blink. 

She smiles at me, almost as if she sees me get the joke—or, no—almost as if she sees me realize I’m a fool. [Chennai.jpg] The world is so much more than black and white, or even mingled patterns, or shades of gray. Winter has been so long--I have forgotten. 

As my boots drip slush through the bleachers, I unwrap for a few minutes and dream of hot climates and lush colors green and red, saffron and brown, olive, ivory and gold. 

And then there is the parade, full of masks and giant puppets yellow and purple and blue and green, and groups of people marching from various organizations—a great many of them finding kinship for various causes and reasons, not all of them related to which boat their ancestors came on, or where it left from. 

The lights have come on and the ice sculptures refract rainbows of colored light. We wander from one venue to the next: klezmer and capoeira, Taiko and tango, Celtic, choral, cubist and a capella. Everyone is there, all the people of Boston who are brave enough to wander in the frigid night air. 

At midnight, there are fireworks in green and purple and blue and red and gold shimmering over the shining upturned faces that are every color of human flesh.

Where we all came from, I do not know. Save for the friends I came in with, I have never seen any of these people before. We share a box of malted balls with the joyous and friendly multitude.

And I go home to the 17th row of the tallest stack of concrete and glass boxes in Roxbury wishing I were not walking alone. 

I am too tired to sleep. The first dawn of the new year is not far off-- the sky is again paling from black to white. 

I write.

In my story, Albert Beastie lives in a city full of different peoples. He is the size of a panther and wears a red bridle with golden bells. He and his rider (who looks like the shopkeeper) escort supply caravans over the vast snow-covered prairies. One night, a pale, heavyset ghost-girl leads them through the howling winds and darkness to find her child, protected in the still cooling warmth of her dead body. They bring the dark little child back to the city, where it turns out he is the long-lost grandchild of the High Councillor, who welcomes him with tears of joy, and also tears of grief for his lost daughter who tried so hard to come home. 

The townspeople pay tribute to Albert’s courage with a festival of ice castles and dancing, and a monument of handprints frozen in the snow—Albert’s, the child’s and the rider’s. [handprints.jpg] 

Albert lives a life of companionship, adventure, purpose, love and joy, and only goes out in the most horrible weather because it pleases him to be brave and noble when he is needed.

I never write down how or whether he dies.


----------



## mythago (Sep 19, 2005)

maxfieldjadenfox said:
			
		

> I would love to do this round if there's room... Am I too late?




Not as long as you can start tomorrow


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## Funeris (Sep 19, 2005)

Bravo, Sialia.


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## Hellefire (Sep 19, 2005)

*hey guys!*

How is everyone? Just wanted to sayhi and let you know I'm back. Things got aboslutely crazy in life. I hate having to miss a CDM, but life is like that sometimes. Good luck, and I'll try to login and give some sideline comments when I can.

Aaron


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## mythago (Sep 19, 2005)

*Round One, Set Four*

Ketjak vs. spacemonkey vs. MarauderX


----------



## Sialia (Sep 19, 2005)

Since the minor biographical inaccuracies in this piece bother me, here is the annotated guide to what's fictional, just for the record:

---------



Spoiler



1. The timeline of the thoughts/events/activities depicted has been compressed. This probably didn’t all happen in two days.

2. The 17th floor studio wasn’t actually in Roxbury—it was in South End, at the very edge of Roxbury. I didn’t want readers to get confused between “South End” and “Southie”—completely different neighborhoods. And I didn’t actually reside in the 17th floor studio. I had my own apartment in Fenway. But I did leave for work from there on more than one occasion. 

3. My fiance never pulled the New Year’s Eve shift because he was always able to swap it out for Christmas, us being Jewish and all. But there were plenty of times that were like this, and the isolation seemed important to the narrative.

4. There was no rat in the pet store. It was all birds. But I didn’t have a picture of a parrot to work with. My fixation with rats grew entirely out of Piratecat's game, but it seemed too much of a distraction to go there.

5. We didn’t attend a Bharat Natyam performance. It was capoeira. But I didn’t have a picture of that, either.

All things considered, I thought the changes to reality were minor. But just for accuracy, I wanted to make note of them.


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


----------



## maxfieldjadenfox (Sep 19, 2005)

I can start tomorrow! I'll be watching for my pictures...


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## spacemonkey (Sep 19, 2005)

mythago said:
			
		

> Ketjak vs. spacemonkey vs. MarauderX




Pictures: check
Ideas: check
Time to write: later on tonight, after the percolations


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## maxfieldjadenfox (Sep 20, 2005)

Sialia, I loved the story, but either the link you posted is broken, or I'm not smart enough to make it work (which would bode ill for me in the competition...) I want to know the minor biographical inaccuracies...


----------



## yangnome (Sep 20, 2005)

maxfieldjadenfox said:
			
		

> Sialia, I loved the story, but either the link you posted is broken, or I'm not smart enough to make it work (which would bode ill for me in the competition...) I want to know the minor biographical inaccuracies...



 click on the page after her last statement and drag down to the end of her post.  She posted in black to hide teh text from the judges.



As an aside, I went into work and got a copy of my full story.  I've also received some new inspiration that I can include in one of the scenes toward the end of the story.  I should post late tonight once I get my family to bed, or very early in the morning tomorrow.


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## Sialia (Sep 20, 2005)

Yay yangnome!  I'm glad we are going to get to see the whole story. I'm really looking forward to it.

(And thanks for explaining about the spoilered text--I should have specified.)

And thank you to Funeris and maxfieldjadenfox for the kind words -- I'd forgotten just how hard it is to wait for the judging to find out what people think.

Note regarding the what's true/what's not post: it's compeltely irrelevant. I just needed to get it off my chest.


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## TheGM (Sep 20, 2005)

I *deeply* apologize. Something came up and I haven't even been out here in about a week.

I will have to withdraw. I'm sorry for not notifying anyone.

Don.


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## BSF (Sep 20, 2005)

Reading through stories, trying to process judging thoughts.  You all aren't impatient are you?  

Of course you are!  It's the agony of being a contestant and getting through your round.  Then the waiting begins.  Everyone always talks about how hard the writing is to do.  But it is rare to mention how difficult the waiting is afterward.  

OK, a little more seriously - I am working on my judgement.  Hang tight folks.  Let's get a little more spectator commentary.  Even competitor commentary would be good.


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## maxfieldjadenfox (Sep 20, 2005)

yangnome said:
			
		

> click on the page after her last statement and drag down to the end of her post.  She posted in black to hide teh text from the judges.
> 
> 
> 
> ...


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## RangerWickett (Sep 20, 2005)

Do we have a word limit for this competition? I didn't see one posted, but in the past I believe it was 5,000 words for the 4-picture rounds.


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## yangnome (Sep 20, 2005)

they said no limit this round


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## Bibliophile (Sep 20, 2005)

Mythago, I've been having some computer difficulties lately, nothing that'll keep me from competing, but I'd none the less appreciate being in one of the later matches for this round, as long as it's not too big of an administrative upset.


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## Ketjak (Sep 20, 2005)

mythago said:
			
		

> Ketjak vs. spacemonkey vs. MarauderX




Doh! Just saw this. Shows me for checking the main post.

Those pictures... WTH?


----------



## Funeris (Sep 20, 2005)

BardStephenFox said:
			
		

> Reading through stories, trying to process judging thoughts.  You all aren't impatient are you?




Maybe   



			
				BardStephenFox said:
			
		

> Of course you are!  It's the agony of being a contestant and getting through your round.  Then the waiting begins.  Everyone always talks about how hard the writing is to do.  But it is rare to mention how difficult the waiting is afterward.




IMHO, the waiting is the most difficult part.  Throwing a story together, not so difficult.  Bending the story slightly to fit within the constraints of four illustrations, well the difficulty varies depending upon how whacked out the photos/illustrations are.  The crocodile head, for example, kinda threw me off for a bit.  Waiting for the review, however, is much, much, much harder.  

Of course, I probably write my stories backwards compared to most of you.  I figure out my story (at least the basics) before I look at the photos.  Then I check out the pics and allow them to stimulate my creativity and modify the framework of the story. . .



			
				BardStephenFox said:
			
		

> OK, a little more seriously - I am working on my judgement. . .




[begin fake british accent]*  Get on with it!  *[end fake british accent]



~Fune


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## maxfieldjadenfox (Sep 20, 2005)

I'm holding my breath, waiting for pictures... I'm kinda turning blue. Is that a bad thing?


----------



## mythago (Sep 20, 2005)

Breathe a little--they will go up tonight


----------



## yangnome (Sep 20, 2005)

*4/14 - 4/17*

“AAAAAHHHH!”  Thomas let out a scream as the blade cut across his cheek.

“You made an egregious mistake in coming here,” the tall bald man said in a thick German accent as he laid his scalpel on the table beside me.   He then took the monocle from his right eye and wiped it with his handkerchief.  He then used the handkerchief to wipe the beads of sweat from his forehead.

Thomas reached deep into his soul and pushed the pain aside.  “You won’t get away with this Wanger.  We’re on to you.  You can do your worst to me, but your foul plan will never succeed.”

The man released an amused chuckle, replaced his monocle and retrieved the scalpel from the table

***
72 hours earlier:

 The sound of the carnival carried through the courtyard.  Thomas weaved his way through the crowded area.  Off to his left, a man on a podium was yelling to the crowd, trying to lure them in to see the two headed woman.  Thomas quickly looked toward the right as a loud pop came from a balloon, popped by a customer’s dart.  Reassured that there was no threat, he continued through the crowd.

He ducked into an alley off of the main courtyard.  Tents lined the alley, each with games promising large prizes, or other exhibits, each trying to lure in suckers and take their cash.  

Thomas passed by all of these, making his way to a storefront behind one of the tents.  On the window of the store was a picture of a moon, some stars and a large palm.  The sign posted under the picture advertised tarot readings, contacting loved ones from beyond the grave, palm reading, crystal balls, etc. The name of the shop was Madame Sialia’s Psychic Shop.

Thomas opened the door to the shop and stepped inside.  As he closed the door, the bells tinkled.  He walked into the waiting area and looked at the beaded curtains that hung between him and the reading room.  A moment later, Madame Sialia stepped through the beaded curtains and into the room.

 “Thomas,” she said with a large smile, “I’m so happy to see you.  It has been so long since I’ve seen you.” She pointed at him, in a chastising manner.

Thomas crossed the room toward her and gave her a hug.  “Well, what can I say; business hasn’t brought me this way in sometime Madame Sialia.  I see you are looking as wonderful as always.”

“So, only business will bring you here?  You can’t stop in to see me on your own accord?”

“Well, you know I would, but all I have time for is business.  The agency keeps me so busy I don’t have time for anything else.”

Madame Sialia looked at him for a moment, “You really do need to slow down and enjoy life Thomas.  Working so hard, it will only kill you.  You need to relax and enjoy life a little.  How is your wife?”

“She left me three months ago.”

“See what I mean,” Madame Sialia cut him off “No good can come of working yourself so hard.  You need to take time for yourself and your family.  The agency won’t care if you work yourself to death.  They’ll just replace you.  Family is what is important.”

“Protecting other people’s families is important too.  If I don’t do it, someone else will have to.”

“Listen to you Thomas,” she said as she ran her fingers across his cheek, “always looking out for the good of everyone else.”

Thomas stepped back and looked toward the room behind the curtain, “So, I understand you have a message for me from beyond?”   

“Indeed, I do.  If you step through here, I can contact the spirits for you”  

Madame Sialia stepped over to the doorway and pulled back the curtain.  She motioned for Thomas to step through into the room beyond.  Once he stepped into the reading room, she walked over to the door to the shop; put up a sign that said closed for lunch and locked the front door.  She then walked into the reading room, closing the curtains behind her, then a door. 

Thomas was already seated at the table with a long purple tablecloth.  On top of the table was a crystal ball.  Madame Sialia walked across the room to a small bookcase.  She moved her hand over the top of a small box while uttering something incomprehensible.  She then opened the box and removed a deck of cards and a small chip from inside a small lock box.  She returned to the table and sat on her side.  She placed the cards on the table and then reached underneath the tabletop.  

Suddenly the crystal ball on the table came to life.  There was a slight whoosh of energy and then a purplish light that emanated from the inside of the globe.  Madame Sialia looked across the table at Thomas.  

“Are you ready?” she asked.

“As ready as I’ll ever be.”

“She waved her hand over the top of the ball in a wide gesture.  Suddenly, an image appeared before Thomas.”

ULTRA SECRET//  H E L I U S //SI
EYES ONLY

2007104R2FZXJB457

FROM: DIRAPSA

TO: PSNI235

SUBJECT: ARES CORP ACTIVITY IN NEW YORK CITY, APRIL 14 2007.

NARRATIVE:
According to reliable sources, the Ares Corporation is planning to conduct a super natural attack in New York City, probably on 17 April.  Sources believe that the group will conduct a large scale ritual during a concert in a local park a source inside the Inner Circle of Ares reported that the corporation has recently begun distributing drugs, crack cocaine, in the local black market which has been laced with an unidentified paranormal substance.  The source believes that this chemical in the drugs will act as a mind control agent.

BACKGROUND:
The Ares Corporation is located in Manhattan at 254 Madison Ave.  The corporation is a front for Nazis who fled Germany after World War II.  A group who moved to the United States from Argentina founded the corporation in 1964.  The entire board of the company is made up of people from this original group.  They also form the Inner Circle of Ares, though there are other members of this group as well.  

The Inner Circle of Ares meets in an extra dimensional space called the Inner Sanctum, believed to be located near the Ares Corp. headquarters in Manhattan.  The APSA has linked them to past events, including the attempted summoning conducted concurrently with the 9/11/01 attacks in New York City.  

Dr Ulrich Wanger currently heads the Ares Inner Circle.  He is one of the founding members of the Ares Corp.  Wanger was personally involved in attempts to raise Adolph Hitler from the dead in 2005.  The group did successfully steal Hitler’s skull from Russia, but we managed to stop them from performing the ritual.  We were unable to capture Wanger at that time and he has since eluded the APSA.

RECOMMENDED ACTION:
You are to infiltrate the Inner Sanctum.  From there, you will attempt to gain information on the drugs that the corporation is currently distributing and the role it will have in this upcoming ritual.  

Additionally, you will obtain whatever information you can about this ritual, what its intents are and who will be involved.  Everything possible must be done to stop this ritual from taking place.  If possible, terminate Dr. Wanger and others involved in the plot.

END REPORT

Thomas looked up from the crystal ball.  “Ok,” he said,” I’ve got the information now; you can destroy it.  What other information do you have for me?”  

Madame Sialia picked up the deck of cards off of the tabletop and began to shuffle through them.  She laid the cards out on the table in front of Thomas.

According to satellite imagery, this is the keypad which will give you access into the Inner Sanctum.  We have not yet been able to break the code.  The pad is located on a walkway near the corner of the building. 

Madame Sialia laid out a few ore cards in front of Thomas.  “This,” she said as she laid out a card with the picture of a bald man on it, “is Dr Wanger.  As the note said, he is the leader of Ares Corp and of the Inner Sanctum.  If he is involved in this project as they say, no good can come of it.  He generally delegates duties such as these, so this must be big if it is getting him involved.”

Thomas studied the picture of the man.  He had heard of Wanger before, and a bit about Ares.  He had never personally worked a case involving the corporation before.

“Do you know anything about the raising of Hitler?” he asked her.

“I cannot speak much on that subject Thomas.  I was involved, but it is classified beyond what we can discuss here.  I will tell you that I’ve felt Hitler’s spirit stirring again.  He is gaining power and is looking to make a return.  I fear this ritual may be the first step in another attempt to bring him back.”

“Absolutely ludicrous,” Thomas sighed.  “Who would be crazy enough to bring that madman back?”

“Dr Wanger has a lot to gain from Hitler’s return, it would be quite a victory for him, both in political and supernatural powers.”

“So, how do I infiltrate this place?  We don’t even know if it exists.  I certainly can’t just walk in the front door to some extra dimensional space, knock and ask that they let me into their sanctum.  It isn’t as if the security guard in the lobby of the building will just buzz me in.”
“You’ll need to travel in disguise Thomas.” Madame Sialia stood up and turned toward her bookcase again.  She reached into a small box and returned a few moments later.  

“Here,” she said with an outstretched arm.  “Take this when you get close to the building.  It’ll offer you a disguise, which may make it easy to get into the building. Careful though, it’ll only last for a couple hours.”

Thomas reached out his hand and caught the pill as she dropped it into his palm. “Thanks. I always love your toys. So, you have anything else for me?”

“No Thomas, just be careful.  This Dr. Wanger is a dangerous individual.  He will stop at nothing to achieve his goal, even if it means the destruction of the human race.  He certainly wouldn’t think twice about killing you.”

“Sounds like a charming fellow.”  Thomas stood up from the table and reached his hand out to Madame Sialia. “It was a pleasure seeing you again.  Stay safe.  I’ll do my best to take care of Wanger and these other loonies.”

“Ok,” she said taking his hand. “Be careful Thomas.”

Thomas turned and exited the shop.  He had a number of preparations to make before he’d be able to infiltrate the Inner Sanctum.
****
24	Hours later in front of the Ares building:

Thomas exits the subway train and heads toward an exit.  He stops at a locker, places a backpack inside, inserts four quarters and removes the orange key.  He’ll have to return for his gear later once he reconnoiters the place.  

After securing his bag, he heads up the two flights of stairs leading out of the subway tunnel.  The large black glass and steel Ares Tower stands in front of him, like a large monolith jutting out from the ground toward the gray sky. 


He walked up toward the building and started looking around the perimeter.  The sidewalks were crowded with people hustling back and forth to work during the lunch hour.  Thomas walked around the courtyard, over toward the walls.  He’d need to find the keypad before he could find his way to the inner sanctum.  When he got home from Madame Sialia’s place last night, he spent the night studying the keypad in his head, trying to figure out the code to get in.  After hours of consideration, he thought he had the answer, but would need to try it to be certain.  Of course, if he was lucky, he might be able to just find a way to get around the keypad altogether.

It wasn’t long before Thomas spotted the keypad on the ground.  As Madame Sialia had told him, the pad was located near the corner of the building.  Thomas was careful when approaching, examining the other bricks of the sidewalk for pressure pads or sensors.

Thomas closed his eyes for a moment.  He placed his right hand in the handprint on the left, and then pressed the letters in an order that spelled out an acronym for an old nazi paranormal organization.  A moment later, the air around Thomas filled with the smell of ozone.  Thomas was about to jump back when the surroundings seemed to flicker in and out, then he had the feeling that he was moving up at a high rate of speed.  Thomas looked up from the keypad and saw the floors of the building quickly passing by him. He looked back down and he was already more than 50 feet in the air.   Thomas reached into his pocket and took out the pill that Madame Sialia had given to him the previous day.

Just before Thomas could put the pill into his mouth, everything around him went black.  The next thing he knew, he was standing in a long hallway with a bright red carpet, black stripes running down each side.  Thomas quickly popped the pill into his mouth and choked it down his dry throat.  

A strange sensation washed over Thomas.  He began sweating and his stomach churned.  A moment later, Thomas was knocked to the ground by pain that shot through his spine.  He lay in the ground in the fetal position for a few moments, unable to move.  Thomas felt his spine arching and his limbs were drawn in towards his body.  The next thing he knew, he began shrinking.  Moments later, Thomas had taken the form of a rat.  His clothes were nowhere to be seen; they probably changed with the magic.

Thomas scurried across the hallway floor, trying to get out of sight of anyone that might walk through the hall.  He scrambled into a room adjacent to the hallway.  Inside, Thomas found an office.  This appeared to be some sort of records room.  The office was in pristine condition, whoever kept it was very organized.  

Thomas crawled over to a coat rack and crawled up the folds of a long coat that hung on it.  Once up the coat, he leapt to a nearby chair, and then up onto the desk.  A number of files were piled neatly on the desktop.  Thomas began to look at each one, trying to get an idea of what the contents of each were.  A large black swastika imprint was on the front of each file folder.  The labels on each file were in German.

Thomas used his body to leverage open the first file folder.  The name on it said Projekt Aurialus.  He quickly glanced over the papers inside the file and it appeared he was in luck.  He quickly scanned the files.  

_These arrogant bastards kept immaculate records of all of their plans,_ thought Thomas.

They had been selling their version crack on the streets for over a month now.  They had put a chemical into mix when cooking it that not only made the drug more addictive, but it also made its users susceptible to mind control.  They planned to use the addicts to attack people at the concert in central park on the 17th.  The concertgoers as a blood sacrifice in order to an old god in order to gain powers and raise Hitler on his upcoming birthday.  

After reading over the papers, Thomas decided to try to find the cooking room, which was also somewhere in this dimensional space.  He leapt down onto a chair and from the chair to the floor.  Once on the floor, Thomas scampered across the floor and out the door to the hallway.  

Thomas decided to look right.  He had a vague idea of where the cook room was located, but the report was not very specific.  Thomas headed down the hall and turned into another room.  Sure enough, this was the room.  On the table there were a number of beakers like you’d see in a science classroom.  Off on one side, there were a number of rocks, already formed.  Thomas climbed up onto a couch that sat along the wall, and leapt over to the table a few feet away.  He smelled the white crystalline rock.  It had a chemical odor to it, the smell alone made him a bit dizzy.  

He needed a way to figure out how to get the rock out of here so he could take it to headquarters and find an antidote in time to thwart the Nazis’ plans.  The rock was too big for him to carry in his small paws, and too dangerous to carry in his teeth.  Thomas picked up the rock with his front paws and tried to toss it over to the couch.  He missed and the rock fell to the ground.  He picked up another one and tried again.  This time, it landed on the couch.  

Thomas leapt back over to the couch.  He began pushing the rock toward the end of the couch. Just then the light to the room turned on.  Thomas looked up to the door.

Thomas froze in place.  Two shapes stood in the doorway.  He figured whoever it was, they’d likely mistake him as just a rat.  They’d underestimate him and he’d be able to squeak by and foil their plans for domination.  

Thomas took a closer look at the two.    One was a bald man, wearing a monocle over his right eye, Thomas recognized him immediately as Dr. Wanger.  A female stood in front of him, someone he also recognized.  It was Madame Sialia; they’d captured her!  He couldn’t leave the place without helping her escape.

“See, I told you he’d be here.” Madame Sialia said to Wanger.

_Oh no, Thomas thought, She’s given into their torture!_

“Wonderful,” Dr Wanger said in his thick German accent, “I do not know what we would do without your help Madame.”

_What was this?  Was she on the drugs too?  What had they done to her?_

Madame Sialia moved across the room toward the rat.  Thomas tried to jump between the back of the couch and the wall, but he was too big to fit in the tight space.  He started to sprint off in the other direction, but it was too late.  Madame Sialia scooped him up into her hands and held on tight.  

Dr. Wanger waved his arm and a thin waif-like woman came into the room from the hallway.  She walked past Wanger, brushing up against him and giving him a sly, sexy grin, the kind of grin only seen in the deep, dark recesses of one’s imagination.  

The girl moved to Madame Sialia who was still holding Thomas in a tight grasp.  She stepped toward Madame Sialia’s cupped hands, withdrew a syringe from her pocket and stuck it into the rat.

“I always liked you Thomas, but you just couldn’t take a clue.” Madame Sialia’s words were the last thing Thomas heard before losing consciousness.

***
48 Hours and 30 Seconds later:

After adjusting his monocle, Dr Wanger stepped toward Thomas once again. 

“We didn’t expect you to sleep so long Thomas,” Wanger said with precision.  “The agent had a stronger affect on your rat body than what we had expected.  Still, you have woken in time to see our plans come to fruition.  You will provide the first blood needed to raise the Führer.”

 “And what will your leader think when he sees you cavorting with non-whites?” Thomas asked.

“Thomas, it was never about race, it was about power.  The kind of power most men do not know about.  You though, you know that power.  You have used it to find your way here.  Unfortunate for you that no one will be able to track you and come to your rescue.”

As Dr Wanger spoke, Madame Sialia and the dark skinned girl both entered the room.

“And what is it you did to control her?” Thomas asked. “Did you use your drugs to control her mind as well?”

Dr. Wanger chuckled.  Before he could respond, Madame Sialia spoke up.

“He didn’t use any drugs, Thomas.  Though I guess you could say that psychic power is a hell of a drug.  He had more to offer me than the agency.  It was as simple as that.  I meant what I said though Thomas; I always liked you and wish it didn’t have to end this way.”

“So whom is she asked Thomas, motioning to the dark skinned girl?  What has she got to do with all of this?”

“Don’t you worry about her Thomas, she’s nobody.” Said Dr. Wanger.

“I’m nobody?” yelled the girl.

“Trin! This doesn’t concern you; shut your mouth.” Snapped Wanger.

“Shut my mouth?  Why do you have to treat me like I’m merely some figment of your imagination you sick little man?”

For just a moment, Dr Wanger’s face flushed bright red, and then with cold, calculated precision, he took control of his emotions and gained control of his anger.  He turned and took a step in Trin’s direction.

“You never speak to me like that, not in private and not in front of people.  I will not tolerate this kind of insubordination.” Wanger slapped Trin across the face with the back of his empty hand.  “I created you, and I can destroy you!” 

Trin dropped the metal tray she was holding, raised her hands to her eyes and began sobbing.  “Why do you have to treat me like this…on my birthday of all days!”

Dr Wanger pointed at her with the hand that held the scalpel. “Don’t you ever talk to me..”

At that moment, Thomas kicked out at Wanger’s back.  Dr Wanger fell forward into Trin, the scalpel plunging into the side of her neck.  Dark blood began flowing from the wound and Trin fell to the floor.  Realizing what he had done, Dr Wanger fell on top of her, trying to cover the wound with his hand.

“NO…Trin…Trin Gren’eys.  I didn’t mean it, I didn’t mean to do this to you!”

Meanwhile, Thomas had grabbed another scalpel from the shelf next to him.  He used it to cut through the binds that held his arms and broke free of his restraints.  Before Dr Wanger noticed, Thomas pounced on top of him and slid the scalpel across the front of Wanger’s throat.  

“Like I said, you won’t get away with this Wanger!”

Wanger resisted, but blood began pouring from his neck.  His breathing grew shallow and the blood began to mix with the air he took in.  Soon, his body fell limp on top of Trin.

Madame Sialia turned and began to run out of the room.  Thomas released his grip on the Dr Wanger and ran after her.

“Stop there, Sialia!  You won’t be able to get away.”  Thomas grabbed Sialia’s arm and threw her down to the ground.

“Thomas, it isn’t what you think, I was working undercover.” Sialia pleaded.

“Your wiles won’t work on me anymore.  You can save your pleas for the agency.”

Thomas tied Sialia’s arms behind her back with zip strips he carried in his back pocket.  He escorted her down the hallway and out of the building.  He would return later with a team from the agency to clear this space and ensure that their evil plan had indeed been put to rest.


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## yangnome (Sep 20, 2005)

[sblock]

OK, dumb story in my opinion and I don't expect it to win the round.  I started out wanting to write an over the top Nazi story in a round this competition.  From early on, I decided I wanted to include RW and Sialia as characters in my story...or their names at least.  

All was in fun and I don't mean to imply that either of them are Nazis in real life.  The dark elf on the other hand, well I can't be certain if she was a Nazi or not... I guess I'll let you decide.[/sblock]


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## Maldur (Sep 20, 2005)

I left my judgement notes at work, will send in tomorrow


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## maxfieldjadenfox (Sep 20, 2005)

I thought it was fun! And using an opponents name in the story is an interesting form of taunting...


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## maxfieldjadenfox (Sep 20, 2005)

mythago said:
			
		

> Breathe a little--they will go up tonight



 Whew. Thanks. I was beginning to feel woozy...


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## yangnome (Sep 20, 2005)

maxfieldjadenfox said:
			
		

> I thought it was fun! And using an opponents name in the story is an interesting form of taunting...



 [sblock]that was my thought.  if I couldn't beat them on the battlefield, I'd beat them in my story.[/sblock]


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## RangerWickett (Sep 20, 2005)

*Steam
The Undying Sky*​
Lawrence struggled to ignore Leone’s murmuring voice, wanting to focus on Kasvarina’s movements. This was his favorite part of visiting the Crisillyir branch. Indeed, it was the only thing that made the journey from Risur tolerable.

From the tray between them, Leone scraped asiago cheese onto a cracker, and quickly ate it, then poured himself wine, preparing for his wife’s appearance.

On the subterranean theater’s stage, Kasvarina Varal, one of the few surviving women of the Elfaivar race, was to perform a dance for the Obscurati that few humans had ever lived to see. She strode onto stage as a beautiful young woman, clad in a white sari trimmed with gold thread, her face and arms adorned with jewels more ancient than the city of Alais Primos above them. She gleamed, and her virginal smile stirred even the oldest, most dark-hearted members of the secret order.

Leone leaned close to Lawrence and whispered, “The Elfaivar believe that the stronger a person is, the more souls he or she has. A woman can have as many as three. ‘Cfamrah,’ the virgin.”

Kasvarina drew an unmatched pair of swords from the sheaths and her hips, both curved and subtly lined with magical flames. Lawrence drew in a breath at the sight of such fearless sorcery, and then his breath caught in his throat as Kasvarina spun slowly, dipping and swinging her swords in long, graceful arcs, trailing tails of flame. Her dance slowly increased in speed, and as she flourished the blades the gems across her beautiful body snapped a metallic percussion, creating her own music.

From side to side across the cracked wooden stage, her dance filled the theater with flaring firelight. Where she stepped, the beams of the stage seemed to heal, nourished to the youthful gleam of live wood. The spinning blades snapped across each other with steady, driving clangs, and her spinning rose to a whirling, disorienting swiftness, the individual movements of body and blades impossible to see. 

Then, when there seemed to be nothing but a whirling pillar of flame, the noise stopped, and Kasvarina leapt from the flames, her arms thrown back, the swords falling behind her, etched with flaming feathers. 

The blades imbedded in the stage behind her, and Kasvarina landed on her knees, in profile to the audience. But she was changed. Her body was more rounded, her smile no longer enticing, but nurturing and reliable. The sari and gems seemed worn, but she was still beautiful.

“‘Janivshu,’” Leone continued proudly, “the mother.”

The illusion was startling, but Lawrence found himself drawn into Kasvarina’s song. He knew only a few words of the ancient Elfaivar tongue, but the joy in the woman’s voice was unmistakeable. She stepped a slow figure-eight between her two swords, stuck hilt up in the stage. Her song was classic, the story of an Elfaivar woman, mother to many children over many hundreds of years, always cherishing her children. Kasvarina’s voice lilted deeply and lovingly, and her sorrowful eyes often strayed across the audience to Lawrence.

He knew that she was really looking at Leone, her husband, but caught in her words, Lawrence could not help wanting to protect her. And Leone, he was sure, was one of the more frightful men in the theater. If only she knew, Lawrence thought.

The song turned dark, and Kasvarina’s steps faltered, her gaze dropping to the blades, which suddenly seemed dappled in blood. She pulled one from the floor and held it in a shaking hand for a moment before casting it to her feet. Wracking with sobs, her back to the audience, she seemed to shrink as the last words of her song shuddered raggedly over them all.

“And ‘Abiva,’” Leone concluded, “the Crone.”

[imager]http://www.enworld.org/attachment.php?attachmentid=22387[/imager]Kasvarina, with three unsteady steps, turned to face the crowd. Her eyes were dark, her clothes dim and commanding. She raised her hands and smiled mockingly. Spiteful words dripped from her lips as she scoured the crowd with her eyes. Leone’s enraptured voice translated into Lawrence’s ear.

_“When my first child died in war, the crone rose within me, though I thought my heart still alive. It is a painful thing to die from within, because, ever looking outward to the beauty still around you, you do not see that death is already within you.

“But worse, far worse, is to surround yourself with death. More honest, perhaps, my children. But hidden as you are, out in the darkness of your own creation, you have given yourself nothing to want to live for. While there is beauty without, one can still dream of youth, of wind and song, of the undying sky. But, trapped here as I am, I cannot fight the death within me.”

She raised both hands, and the two blades were again rimmed with fire. They rose, one from the hole it had pierced in the stage, one from where it was carelessly cast aside. And then the blades began to spin in the air, surrounding the motionless form of a woman who had forsaken life.

As before, the blades spun faster and faster. The elderly and the powerful in the subterranean theater of the Obscurati leaned forward to see what would happen, some perhaps hoping the Elfaivar witch would truly kill herself. Then the blades flared with blinding light, and the crowd’s darkness-weakened eyes turned away in pain. Lawrence forced himself to watch, his aged hands gripping the back of the seat in front of him so he could not look away.

Kasvarina began to cackle, the mad laugh of a dying woman, and Lawrence was certain that she was burning alive. A figure appeared, vague within the pillar of flame, six arms gripping six swords, flourishing them high with life, at the waist for the mother, and scraping the floor with a dying despair. The laugh changed, shifting upward to contentment, and finally to glee, and the flaming pillar burst outward, revealing the young Kasvarina again, the virgin, swathed in a burning cloak and dancing only final whirling flourish of blades.

For an instant, Lawrence was certain she had six arms, but she stopped suddenly, snapping her blades into their sheathes. She stood still for a moment, her head raised proudly, her hands at her waist, and in the shimmering heat her form seemed to waver briefly from maiden to mother to crone.

Then the fire faded completely, and she was herself. Kasvarina Varal, wife of Leone Quital the steelshaper, an aged crone.

An Elfaivar could only perform the dance once every hundred years. This was Kasvarina’s eighth. After a long minute of breathing awe, the audience erupted into applause. In Kasvarina’s eye, Lawrence thought he saw disdain.

“My lost,” Leone whispered, his eyes filled with tears. “If only I could have known her when she was young. Was she not the most beautiful thing you had ever seen, Lawrence?”

Lawrence Grapa, the mindmaker, felt nodding would belittle the moment.

* * *​
Lawrence had joined the project late, almost too late. Leone Quital, the steelshaper, and Tinker Oddcog, the gearbuilder, had thought the project would take their entire lives. Instead it had taken only seven years. In the last two years, the Obscurati had realized the creation itself would be useless if it had to be controlled directly, so they had come to Lawrence, seeking his expertise. He would help protect the world from war, they had said.

The steelshaper, the gearbuilder, and the mindmaker – the three most brilliant people in their fields – had created a monstrosity that might destroy the world.

Lawrence wished that he did not love his child. It would make this so much easier.

* * *​
“Eh?” Tinker asked, glancing over his shoulder nervously at Lawrence. “They don’t want any more changes, do they? Eh?”

“No,” Lawrence said.

“Good,” Tinker hissed. He continued to pack, his tiny gnome hands piling tiny gnome clothes into three tiny gnome suitcases. “Good. I told them, smaller, no no, smaller is what it has to be. They kept wanting big gears, but they didn’t understand, you know, eh?”

“Please finish packing,” Lawrence sighed. “The elders will use any excuse to take over the project from us. They’re waiting at the docks, Tink. Now the sooner we can get back to Flint and complete the project, the sooner they’ll leave, and the happier I’ll be.”

It was a lie. Honestly, if Lawrence thought he had a chance of sneaking out of Alais Primos and back to Flint without being caught by the Obscurati’s agents, he would have already left. But he was stuck here with a paranoid gnome mechanic and the powermad mage Leone. Of the two, Lawrence preferred Tinker.

Next to Lawrence, his companion golem, a hunched thing whose personality he had crafted based on a buddy from the war, chuckled and leaned toward the luggage Tinker had already packed, offering to pick it up.

“No!” Tinker said, suddenly hopping off his bed and scrambling next to the largest suitcase. “I’ll carry my own. Look, you, eh, you shouldn’t be here to watch me pack.”

“Golem,” Lawrence said, “please guard the door.”

The hunched golem nodded and closed the door, leaving Lawrence and the gnome alone.

“What?” Oddcog asked.

“Are you feeling alright, Tink?”

“Yes, excellent, yes, yes, excellent.”

Tinker held his large suitcase close, his hands idly rubbing it. Rumor was that much of Tinker Oddcog’s brilliance was the gift of an ancient, pre-Elfaivar artifact he had unearthed in Slate, the capital of Risur. Sometimes when Tinker was away from his room, Lawrence had thought he had heard a voice calling to him from inside the gnome’s room. In the catacombs that the Obscurati called their headquarters, however, Lawrence had learned it was not useful to pry.

“Tink,” Lawrence said, leaning low and putting his hands on his knees to look eye to eye with the gnome, “you’ve been getting worse. Is something bothering you?”

Tinker frowned, then hesitantly nodded. “It says, they’re going to take the Masterpiece away, and all my work . . . all the tiny, tiny gears, shrinking when I wasn’t looking . . . they’ll be lost to me.”

Suddenly Tinker stiffened, spinning around like he thought someone was watching. “But that’s all fine. Really, eh, yes. I wouldn’t want the elders to think, . . . yes.”

“Don’t worry,” Lawrence said. He straightened, his weary joints arguing briefly. “I won’t let them abuse Borne. I’ve raised him like a son, and I imagine he’s something similar for you, or as close as is possible. I pity you, Tink, you know?”

“Yes, smaller,” Tinker whispered, rubbing his suitcase again.

Lawrence sighed. He could leave now. At least, he knew, Oddcog would not oppose him. 

* * *​
The project was divided across the Gutter Sea, between Risur and Crisillyir. Crisillyir had provided the technical genius to make the project possible, but the only city with enough raw industrial capacity to build the Colossus without attracting attention was Flint, in Risur.

Lawrence had spent the last two years almost entirely underground. Even sailing between the two nations was underground, in the primordial tunnels under the world. It was appropriate for the Obscurati, but Lawrence had once been a soldier. The sight of the cerulean sky overhead during a long march, or the starlit night sky while sleeping after a battle, had helped him keep sane during the war against Danor. Far too often he and his unit had been camped in industrial ruins, surrounded just by steam and steel and festering rats. 

Men had indeed gone mad in the war, including his old friend upon whom the hunched golem’s personality was based – a quiet, loyal man who in the end had betrayed their unit for the chance to desert and live a quiet, scornful life. After the war, Lawrence had taught himself the subtle magic of mind-making. If nothing else, he had decided, he wanted to ensure that future wars could be decided by metal creations, not flesh-and-blood men.

Flanked by two mighty iron golems and his unspeaking hunched servant, Lawrence stood on the oil-fire-lit docks of the Obscurati, waiting for the elders to arrive.

When they arrived, their pale faces, turned sickly orange by the oil fires, made Lawrence less disdainful of his own aging flesh. But with them was Leone, young and virile, and his wife, beautiful despite being eight hundred years old. She smiled to him, then embraced her husband for a farewell kiss.

The pumps that kept the tunnels from flooding hid their words from Lawrence’s ears, but her expression was loving. Lawrence could not imagine how she could love that man. As the steamship departed down the almost-black tunnel, Kasvarina watched until there was nothing to be seen, and perhaps long after.

* * *​
The most wretched of the elders opened the door to Lawrence’s quarters without knocking. His name was Vito, his family name something unpronouncably Crisillyir. Lawrence always thought of the rancid man as Vito Muerte, a living corpse. He wondered whether the man had to use magic to stay alive.

“Your report,” Vito coughed, “is disheartening. The Colossus must be a warrior, yet you coddle it, teach it stories instead of politics and military tactics. Have you been wasting these past two years, Grapa?”

Lawrence waited for a moment. A heart-shaped pendant lay in his hand, and he placed it in a drawer before replying.

“I know you lied to me when you said you wanted a creation that could keep peace. Call me naïve.”

“Now now,” Vito chuckled, “there’s enough of that behind closed doors. I have better things to say to your face.”

Lawrence huffed. “Regardless, when a mind is made, it takes a long while for it to mature. When transfering a mind the process is faster, but even then it takes a few days for every year of memory to return.”

Vito scoffed. He turned to look at the bookshelf Lawrence had in his cabin on the ship. “I’m quite aware of the effects of transfering a mind. You think is my first body, Grapa?”

Lawrence blanched. He wondered who the body had belonged to before Vito had claimed it as his own. Worse, judging by his current state, it was likely Vito would be in the market for another replacement soon.

“This is what you teach our Colossus?” Vito asked, gesturing at a shelf of histories, fairy tales, and art from three centuries ago, before the rise of industry.

“Don’t worry,” Lawrence said defiantly. “Your even-tempered staff has made sure to school the Colossus in matters of war. Think of my training as an attempt to make sure it doesn’t simply turn on us the moment we give it an ill-worded order. Even a machine needs a little humanity. I may have some free time, if you’d like to try it yourself.”

Vito chuckled, sounding like a death rattle. He started out the door, pausing long enough to say, “Just do not grow too attached to your ‘Borne,’ Grapa. He is ours.”

The door closed softly, with as much strength as the Obscurati elder could manage. It had the desired effect, however. Lawrence wondered how many spies were reporting to them, and who had paid close enough attention to know the name he had given the Colossus.

It was no matter, Lawrence decided. He pulled the pendant out from the drawer and returned to studying the spellbook on his desk.

* * *​
The crowd hustled through the scaffolding corridors of the Obscurati facility under Flint. After arriving they had wasted no time. The elders wanted to see their Colossus. Lawrence led them, Leone and Tinker at his side, the iron golems clearing a path ahead of them. The thirteen elders followed eagerly, whispering hungrily as they approached the main chamber, and the Colossus slowly came ever more into view. Rats scurried out of their way, the vermin that infested the massive complex somehow knowing that a great danger was approaching.

Electrical arc lights illuminated the Colossus from the top of a three-hundred foot shaft. Beneath their blue-green glare, the darksteel skin of the Colossus seemed to absorb the light, rather than reflect it. They were approaching its waist, a massive and masterfully-crafted interlocking series of drives and gears that held the mighty construct straight. The titan’s arms hung past them, each as much as thirty feet wide, with fused plating etched with antimagical wards and underlaid with regenerative mimetic polyalloys crafted by the steelshaper himself. Any injury dealt to the Colossus would be repaired in due time, and even if under-powered, they had calculated that the Colossus could withstand the combined fire of a thousand battlefleet cannons and remain functional.

This was his son, and it was going to be taken away by the Obscurati, used for their own malevolent ends.

A hundred feet above them, the Colossus’s blinking golden eyes turned down at their approach, and one arm shifted. Lawrence knew this was meant as a wave. The shaft where the Colossus was constructed and trained was too narrow for much movement, and only twice before had it been let out through the subterranean tunnels to move freely.

*“Lawrence,”* boomed the Colossus hopefully. *“Steelshaper, Gearbuilder. My parents. Welcome.”*

Tinker cringed under the behemoth’s gaze. Everything large frightened him.

Climbing into the lift with the rest of the elders, Leone called up to the Colossus. “Greet also your grandfathers.”

*“Elders,”* the Colossus breathed in awe, its voice churning with steam. *“Have you come to give me a mission?”*

Leone spoke into the loudspeaker and was busying telling the Colossus it needed wait just a little more, but very quietly behind him, Lawrence heard Vito chuckling. Lawrence discreetly turned to look.

“Yes,” Vito whispered, smiling to the other elders. “Oh yes.”

* * *​
“Follow me,” Lawrence told the hunched golem. And it followed.

The elders were distracted cooing over their new toy, and Lawrence could not stand the sight of it. He did not care if the spies spotted him and reported that he was breaching security. He needed fresh air.

It took nearly an hour to reach what he recognized as surface streets of Flint, and he marveled at how out of touch he had become. It was cold here, and in the cracks in the skyline, he could see glimpses of the vivid, crisp sky of winter. He wandered for nearly an hour until he found a clear view.

[imagel]http://www.enworld.org/attachment.php?attachmentid=22388[/imagel] Flint had let industry take it over, digging deep into the granite earth beneath it for subtrain tunnels and electrical cables, growing upward in layers of steel and gears and pumps to keep the lower levels flush with hot, breathable air. There were few places where one could see the sky from within the city.

Looking up a shaft of glass-lined towers, the sky looked tiny and wasted, but it was free. Soft clouds blew by in the heavens, and Lawrence wept. The hunched golem waited silently, and finally Lawrence’s tears ended, and he composed himself. He looked up again at the sky, far beyond his reach, and he sighed.

“Did you know,” he said, “that before all . . . this, the people of Risur believed the stars could tell the future? You can’t even see the stars from this city anymore, can you?”

The hunched golem looked up and shrugged.

A clock clanged loudly, and all around Lawrence, massive gears churned, opening grates and vents. Steam poured from behind the dark windows of the towering shaft, and electrical lights along the clogged, mechanical street crackled to lurid life. Overhead, the sky was obscured by steam.

The hunched golem pointed away. Lawrence guessed what he meant.

“Yes, I could just leave. And they would track me down and kill me, or perhaps find something worse. I might not even mind it now. But there are some things I need to do, and I need time for them. Are you with me, old friend?”





* * *​
The news came a day later that Kasvarina had been abducted by agents of the Family, hired by Danor nobles as retribution. It threw Leone into a rage.

Three hundred years ago, the five nations – Risur, Danor, Ber, Drakr, and Crisillyir – had attempted to stamp out the Elfaivar race by hunting down and slaying ever female of the ancient, magically-gifted people. Tens of thousands of humans, gnomes, and other goodly races had died in the war, but in the aftermath there were left perhaps less than a hundred Elfaivar women, many of them slave brides of noble families. Passed down from generation to generation, these wives were perhaps the most precious commodity in the world. The leaders of the five nations would do anything to protect their trophies.

Fifteen years ago, in the latest pointless war between Danor and Risur, Leone Quital had left Crisillyir and sided with the Risur. From what stories Lawrence had heard from Kasvarina, Leone had been a surgeon working with the Risur army, and he had been witness to one of the most devastating battles, which left only a handful of survivors. Wandering the bloodied streets of Cherage in Danor, Leone had followed wailing cries until he had found Kasvarina, trapped in a sealed coffin with only an opening for air. Too prideful to let their trophy fall into Risur hands, but too greedy to slay the woman, the Danor nobles had imprisoned her and left her for dead.

Leone had long possessed steelshaping powers; it had been an easy task for him to bend the metal free from Kasvarina’s prison. He had freed her from her cell, and then had done the unprecedented: he had offered to free her entirely, and let her return home to the distant land of Elfaivar. He had gone with her, protecting her, and somehow, she had fallen in love with him.

Lawrence could only watch as Leone railed against the cruelty of the Danor. Hesitantly, with almost convincing reluctance, the elders of the Obscurati agreed that everything could be risked for the rescue of Leone’s beloved. The Colossus would be sent, Kasvarina would be retrieved, and the Danor who had dared strike against the Obscurati would be destroyed. Lawrence could almost believe it wasn’t scripted.

* * *​
In the darkness that passed for night in this timeless construction shaft, Lawrence snuck as quietly as his aged body could take him to the scaffolding next to Borne’s face.

“Borne,” he whispered.

The Colossus’s eyes opened, but they did not gleam. This was not the first time Lawrence had snuck out to talk to his son.

“Father.”

The mouth of the Colossus was twenty feet across, crafted of steel and silver and other metals of anathema, but it moved silently, it’s whisper scarcely louder than Lawrence’s own.

“Borne, my boy, how do you like the elders?”

“They are given much respect,” replied the Colossus, “more so than I, though I am much more powerful than they.”

“Yeah, you are,” Lawrence said with a smile. “But that’s not why you’re better than they are. You’re better because you actually care about people other than yourself. They care for nothing but advancing themselves.”

“They want me to rescue Kasvarina,” the Colossus said. “They seem to care about the Steelshaper . . . but something in their stances seemed cruel to me.”

“That’s my boy,” Lawrence said, patting the Colossus’s upper lip, an articulated shifting set of metal plates that could actually form expressions.

Of all of Tinker’s creations, Lawrence was most fond of the mouth he had crafted. It showed a subtle care for more than mere functionality. It made Borne more human.

“They’re right lying bastards,” Lawrence said. “They’re going to let you go, and while I know you’re made to do what they say – and by lost, I wish I could have found a way around that – you should look for ways you can leave. This will be your chance to be free.”

“What will I eat?” The Colossus sounded frightened.

Lawrence looked beyond Borne’s shoulder, to the massive gantries for lowering coal into the furnace on his back. Right now Borne was kept awake by the slow charge of electrical cables, but to move with any speed, he would need great amounts of coal to fuel him.

“Don’t you worry,” Lawrence assured him. “You can eat trees. Works just as well, really, for someone your size.”

“No father.” The Colossus sighed. “You say the elders are liars, that they do not care for others, and that I am better because I care. But you tell me to abandon Kasvarina. You make me sad, father. No father, I must do as they say. And . . . they told me not to tell you that they had told me not to listen to you.”

The Colossus smiled, proud of getting around the elders’ commandment. But then he frowned.

“I’m sorry, father. You told me before, you care about Kasvarina. I cannot abandon her, and I want to meet her.”

Lawrence looked into the mighty, gold-etched eyes of his son, and he smiled. This was why he had spent two years teaching and raising the metal creation: so that it could become a man.

* * *​
The elders confined Lawrence to his quarters for going to speak to Borne. There had been no doubt in his mind that he would be spotted, and it was just as well, anyway. He did not want to hear the reports of the destruction Borne would inevitably wreak, and he needed time to prepare his plan.

Almost mockingly, Leone had made sure to send him daily packages of cheese and crackers. The hunched golem delivered the packages each day, and from the silent construct’s body language, Lawrence inferred that Leone saw him as a traitor for trying to talk Borne out of rescuing Kasvarina.

Over the past two years, Lawrence had come to know more about Leone than the man suspected. Lawrence could not merely make minds, he could take thought as well, learn it and discover its secrets subtlely. One of those secrets was that Leone had not merely been ‘lucky’ to have rescued Kasvarina. He had planned the whole affair.

The man was a genius, in his own manipulative way. He had determined just the right amount of information to give to each side in the conflict to ensure they would slay each other to nearly the last man, and with his powers had protected himself from any swords or bullets aimed for him. He had wanted a way to get into the ranks of the Obscurati, and orchestrating the destruction of two small armies and the theft of a priceless Elfaivar wife had been more than enough to get the Obscurati’s attention.

The man was a genius, so Lawrence was very careful in his planning.

Day after day, he ate the spiteful cheese and sent the hunched golem away with instructions. One benefit of having a companion who could not speak was that most people assumed he was an unthinking automaton, and were unafraid of him running errands.

* * *​
The letter the hunched golem delivered on the eighth day was simple. “She has been returned. Elders pleased. Casualties – 1,300 Danor.”

Lawrence burned the sheet, sickened. 

An hour later, Leone entered Lawrence’s quarters. His eyes were brimming with pride.

“You have lost your chance, my friend,” Leone said. He shook his head and sat across from Lawrence.

Lawrence tried to look impassive. “Did you plan this from the start, to have a mighty war machine? Or were you ever the peacekeeper that your beloved wife thinks you to be?”

“I am a man of power now,” Leone replied.

He gestured at a knife on Leone’s desk. The edge of the knife sharpened to a serrated edge, and the utensil floated above the block of cheese. It cut a piece, then reshaped into a thin tray, which hovered over to Leone. The Crisillyir man ate slowly, smiling at the taste.

“Yeah,” Lawrence laughed mirthlessly. “Great power. No cheese can stand against you.”

Leone sneered. “The Obscurati has a powerful new tool to control the power of the five nations. And I have been offered a position in the Obscurati as soon as one of the current members dies.”

“I’m sure you’ll get right on that.” Lawrence sighed. “Tell me, how is Borne?”

“The Colossus,” Leone said, “is repairing itself. It will be nonfunctional for at least a few hours. Once it is healed, you will be fortunate if the elders give you a chance to speak to your dear creation again.”

“Good,” Lawrence whispered. “I’m glad he’s alright.”

“Lost,” Leone swore. “Tell me. I must know. Why did you try to make the Colossus abandon my wife?”

“First, answer one of my questions.” Lawrence held up a hand when Leone started to object. “I’m old, so give me this request.”

Leone gestured for Lawrence to continue.

“I listened to your wife’s song, back in Alais Primos. We’ve surrounded ourselves with death, and I will not accept it. I intend to be free of you. But you still have a chance to live up to the . . . well, honestly, to the lies you’ve been feeding your wife. 

“If you turn against the Obscurati, and see that using the monster we have created to reign terror is a vile sort of war, then I’ll let you keep what you love. If you do not, I will take what is most dear from you. I swear this to you.

“So my question is, Leone, would you give up power for the one you love?”

Leone looked confused. “You cannot turn the Colossus against me. I will have power.”

It took a moment for Lawrence to realize what the man had said, and what he had meant. Leone had thought that Lawrence was threatening the colossus, not Kasvarina. Lawrence could not help but laugh.

“I don’t believe I’m surprised,” Lawrence said, “but you are a low thing. You don’t love Kasvarina, do you? She’s just property, a trophy, a sign of the rank you feel you deserve.”

Leone stood and glared at Lawrence, and Lawrence cringed.

“Ah, then I suppose I just lost my bargaining chip.”

Leone demanded, “What do you mean?”

Lawrence looked down, then smirked at Leone. He handed the Steelshaper a glass bowl, a recording of thoughts he had made from the elders. “I had hoped this would anger you, but now I see that you really don’t care.”

Leone was impatient. “About what?”

“About the fact that the elders wanted a test of the Colossus’s power, so they were the ones who abducted Kasvarina. The proof’s all there, if you doubt me.”

Leone stepped back, looking at the glass recording bowl. He shook his head, trying to reconcile the information, and finally he leveled a finger at Lawrence. “If you lie. . . .”

The door opened telekinetically for Leone, then slammed shut as he departed. Lawrence took a moment to catch his breath.

He still wasn’t sure if Leone actually cared about his wife at all, but he was certain he had given himself a good hour of confusion to take advantage of. Now was the time to enact his plan.

He only regretted that he might never get a chance to see the sky again.

* * *​
The letter Lawrence left the hunched golem contained all the necessary instructions, several sheets long, stacked next to a piece of coal, a heart-shaped pendant, and a plate of asiago cheese. Lawrence had shot himself in the forehead with a double-barreled flintlock, leaving a spray of brains on the wall that would ensure the Obscurati could not reconstruct his memories and discover what he had done.

The hunched golem read the letter. Perhaps it considered betraying its master as the man upon whom it had been based once had. For two years the hunched golem had been spiteful that Lawrence had not simply transferred his mind to the Colossus, but now that its old friend was dead, the golem realized that, had it been given the power of the Colossus, it would have become as corrupt as the Obscurati.

Quietly brooding on all of this, the hunched golem nevertheless fulfilled the instructions. 

The Mindmaker’s first request was challenging, as was always the case when the hunched golem had to deal with the Gearbuilder. Tinker Oddcog, always having a knack with machines, somehow knew when he saw the hunched golem that he needed to flee. The gnome had been reluctantly willing to perform one last duty for Lawrence before fleeing.

For the Mindmaker’s second request, the hunched golem had braved the eyes of the elders. The Colossus was powered down, however, so no one could notice a change when the hunched golem used the magic of its creator to remove the dark titan’s mind and place it in a mundane piece of coal. Within half an hour, the coal was tossed into a barrel of wine, sealed, and shipped off for an eventual burial at sea.

Kasvarina, the Mindmaker’s third request, was easier. The Mindmaker had wanted to leave a message for the Steelshaper, one easy to retrieve. So the hunched golem delivered a heart-shaped pendant to Kasvarina, and the moment she put it on, her mind was drawn from her body and trapped within the pendant. The hunched golem caught her slumping body and carried her to the surface.

He had barely made it to the glass tower shaft and its invisible, starless sky when Leone and his men reached them. In a fury for having his wife betrayed and abducted twice in as many weeks, the Steelshaper had simply torn the hunched golem apart, scattering his pieces across the icy streets of Flint. In the painful daze of dying, the hunched golem watched Leone show actual love for his seemingly lifeless wife.

“Kasvarina,” Leone whispered. “Please, wake up. Please-”

And then he spotted the pendant. Hesitantly, the Steelshaper opened the locket and read the instructions within. The hunched golem knew what it said:

She may yet be reborn. Place the pendant upon her lips, and kiss her forehead, and her memory will return. Consider this my mercy, bastard.​​
With furious resolve, the Steelshaper clenched the locket in his hand, shivering in the cold for a moment before following the instructions. Snow fell down the glassy shaft, draping Leone and Kasvarina in a curtain of white as he leaned down and kissed his wife’s forehead.

She stirred. The hunched golem was fading, but he struggled to watch, knowing his creator would have wanted to witness this revenge.

“Kasvarina?” Leone asked. “Kasvarina, do you know who you are?”

The Elfaivar woman whimpered and flailed mindlessly. Leone’s men grabbed her and held her as Leone tried to figure out what was wrong, but then finally he realized what had happened.

“When a mind is made, it takes a long while for it to mature. When transfering a mind the process is faster, but even then it takes a few days for every year of memory to return.”​
Kasvarina was eight hundred years old. It would be a year or more before Kasvarina’s mind returned to her, and in that time she would have Leone as a stranger, remembering a time when her people were being slaughtered by humans.

The hunched golem chuckled, the only noise it could make. Leone glared at it, snarled, and tore its last remaining pieces to oblivion.

When he turned back to look at his wife, she was being held up two of Leone’s men. She had the mind of a child, and did not know her body, but she looked into the ice-glazed windows of the tower shaft, seeing a hint of a reflection.

“Kasvarina?” Leone pleaded. “Please, remember.”

[imager]http://www.enworld.org/attachment.php?attachmentid=22389[/imager]She did not look at him, and instead reached out at her reflection. For a moment, she seemed to reach with three hands instead of one, and when she pulled her hand away, three palm prints had melted the ice from the glass.

Over each were two letters. 

AB. CF. JA.

Abiva, the crone.

Cfamrah, the virgin.

Javishu, the mother.

They were the only names she knew.

* * *​
And what of the Mindmaker? True, he wished to hide the location of the Colossus’s mind from the Obscurati so they could never use the titan again, but he was not so hopeless as to truly kill himself.

Asiago cheese is often used as a component in healing potions, especially in Crisillyir. As Tinker fled, the hunched golem had offered him a chunk of cheese, to barter for safe passage. Even the hunched golem did not know the reason for this offer, so that there would be no chance the elders could track him, but Lawrence Grapa, the Mindmaker, hoped one day some poor soul would swallow a bit of his mind. He hoped he would live again.

His wish was granted, but not quite as he expected. Many months later, when the Obscurati agents caught up with Tinker and tortured him for information, all he could say was that as soon as he had gotten out of the city, left the steam and steel behind, and could see the stars, a voice has whispered to him that he had carried the burden far enough. He had dropped the cheese, leaving it to its own end under the undying sky.





_


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## RangerWickett (Sep 20, 2005)

Oh durn, a formatting error.

Well, I suppose it's time to see myself be mocked.


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## RangerWickett (Sep 20, 2005)

Commenting on my opponents. *grin*
[sblock]I am just giddy on two counts. One, Siala, I love your story. I enjoyed your earlier epics, but I must say I'm really digging the poetry of having such a short story this time. The last section about your writing really got to me. Thank you.

Two, yangnome. . . . *giggle* What a bizarre little story. I think if nothing else it will go down as the most original smack-talking the Ceramic DM competition has ever seen. Bravo![/sblock]


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## Funeris (Sep 20, 2005)

Mocked?  Look at the showoff...embedding his photos directly into his post....

durned...WYSIWIG editor-savy...ranger-classed...Ewoks!!!!

:tries to use force choke....shakes head sadly::


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## maxfieldjadenfox (Sep 20, 2005)

A formatting error! I didn't notice. I was reading the great story...


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## RangerWickett (Sep 20, 2005)

Funeris said:
			
		

> Mocked?  Look at the showoff...embedding his photos directly into his post....
> 
> durned...WYSIWIG editor-savy...ranger-classed...Ewoks!!!!
> 
> :tries to use force choke....shakes head sadly::




Didn't you know that Wangers are immune to force choking?

No, the 'mocked' comment was with regards to yangnome's story. A little gnome told me he might be making a few sidelong references to dark elf imaginary friends I may or may not have. *grin*


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## Funeris (Sep 20, 2005)

> Didn't you know that Wangers are immune to force choking?




Well, good.  That means I'm not losing my dark force blessed powers.  You had me worried there for a moment.  

I haven't read yangnome's story yet...busy at work today and finished up catching up with another guy's SH...so...that's where I'm heading next.

::looks up::

~Fune


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## Rodrigo Istalindir (Sep 20, 2005)

Funeris said:
			
		

> Mocked?  Look at the showoff...embedding his photos directly into his post....




Well, from my perspective, I'd prefer the pictures *not* embedded in the story, but since I generally cut'n'paste the entries into a text editor, it doesn't really make a difference one way or another.


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## MarauderX (Sep 21, 2005)

Round One, Set Four

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

Ketjak vs. spacemonkey vs. MarauderX

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

The dream was the same again.

I start in the street, in front of the shack. The faded signs greet me with indifference, merely acting as a starting landmark to the dream. A blue truck is stalled in the street that is otherwise deserted. Behind the wheel is Michael, and a look of astonishment stays plastered on his face for a minute before he begins weeping.  I wish I knew why.  I run beside the shack, down the dark alley and I see the wooden fence behind it. I squat, touching my knee to the mud, and duck my head to fit through the low opening in the fence. 

On the other side is Lyra and she is the first to see me coming into the backyard from the hole in the fence. The yard is lush and beautiful, a harsh contrast to the muddy pits behind the property. The white house has smoke pouring from a second floor window. I still wonder whose house and yard this is, and I hope to find out soon. Lyra talks in a slow muddled way, as if she is faking slow motion. She leads me to the back and I see Felix with his back to me. Like an experienced magician he leaps to the side in a silly way  and the group of matchsticks he was playing with fall and roll all over the table. I would smile but I’ve seen it too many times now, and I know what is to come. He was trying to get them all to do some trick, and I help him make the sticks stand on end like soldiers in a phalanx. 

We walk together, the three of us, to the front of the house. Lyra pulls her hair back into a ponytail. Felix asks if I like the hat he had found and I ask where he got it, but I’m not listening. I am scanning the two maroon vans parked out front for more details. I know that we’ll watch as the sliding door of the first van opens and four men get out. We’ll listen to what they tell us. We’ll get in the van willingly. I will brush a hand away from my unsoiled knee as the door closes and we drive away. 

The dream ends the same again.

* * * * *

I opened my eyes. I had fallen asleep in my office again.  The motion sensor snapped the lights on as I lifted my head from the back of my chair.  The room was washed with bright light and I blinked until my eyes adjusted. Four-thirty.  I had caught about two hours of sleep in the middle of the afternoon, and with the light off most probably thought I was at the hanger to push for a few more tests. 

I am a radar specialist.  I know how to detect submarines underwater, planes in the stratosphere and exactly how stealth technology works.  As a graduate student I engineered a new system to install on the U.S.S. Connecticut fast attack, sea-wolf class submarine.  The ship pulled up beneath the concrete shipyard in order to prevent satellites from witnessing the work.  On board, we were asked the output voltage of the system in order to determine whether it could be tested with divers in the water around the ship.  After working a quick calculation on a pair of napkins, my conservative answer was to wait until the divers were out of the water.  My boss looked over my work, and, overruling me with a nod, he gave the go ahead to test the new radar system.  An hour later two red-faced divers explained the electrical shock they had experienced to the captain of the sub.  Since no one was seriously hurt, the man pushed back his hat and shrugged.  He said he wasn’t concerned since he didn’t have to cuddle up to them at night.  Keeping the schedule and for the new radar system meant more to the captain than a pair of diver mechanics.  That was my first exposure to how much life was worth to the commanding officers.  

*

I picked up the file folder of the latest chart printouts on my desk and walked out among the rows of cubicles.  I passed Lyra and she smiled like cat playing with a mouse.  She must have known I had been napping.  I just grinned and nodded – I would owe her another blackmail lunch at the only vegetarian restaurant in Tucson.  I found my assistant, Michael, and the nameless intern together, the former leaning against a cabinet full of old test data.  They were looking at the profile of some woman on an online dating service.  I sighed heavily to let them know I was there, and Michael stretched as though he knew all along.  The intern turned from the picture of the girl, a prospective next date for Michael, and I handed him the folder. 

I ignored the intern and spoke to Michael.  “Run the data in the hourly analysis program, then use the tracer to find the peaks and spikes.  Punch out the numbers on electrical loading and drop the obvious to the end.”  I waited for Michael to open his mouth, then said “Tomorrow, noon.”  Michael nodded a confirmation and he didn’t object, at least not in front of the intern.  I stepped back and yawned my way back to my office.

I picked up the plastic model plane from my shelf.  I had added the F-22 fighter jet to my resume after two years with a well-known military design and build firm.  That was ten years ago, when I was Michael’s age.  Information about each of the plane’s systems was kept separate from one another, and walking through the secure areas meant the contractors had to stop and cover their work until I had passed with my four-guard escort.  I wasn’t the only one; everyone had it that way.  The radar system was the most advanced ever installed, and the data from rugged testing helped to refine our work.  When the plane tests were conducted it took us two years getting the bugs out since it took four hours a day to fly into and out of Area-54.  It would have been easier to just live there, but no one was allowed to spend the night. 

*

I left Michael at the office at seven that evening.  I stopped at the cafeteria to grab a left over sandwich and made it home by eight.  I checked the mail, phone messages and finally email.  Like most days there was nothing noteworthy.  I turned off the light at ten to sleep, knowing that Michael was probably cursing me and keeping the intern late with him to share the misery. 

I knew what was coming when I shut my eyes. For a month now I’ve had the dream. I wondered if the dream would come true someday.  

As I lay waiting for sleep I thought instead about our department’s money.  I knew how the industry worked and how little some government agencies worked to get funding.  We never hurt for money, and sometimes it was simply a phone call to ensure that we got funding for the coming fiscal year.  My salary increased by more than ten percent a year, and my projects were always the most critical.  Getting another two or three junior assistants to help us would be easy enough, now that they were approaching the meaty part of the project.  With them at least Michael would have it easier; Michael always had it easier than I did.  He was spoiled with the number of lackeys and speed of computers these days.  It seemed anyone could get a Masters degree in engineering and be content to numbly crunch numbers all day.  

*

I woke with a start. I was having trouble breathing and my eyes could only see darkness. I gained my senses and felt a hand holding me down at my throat, pressing down to keep me in place. A pair of hands grabbed one arm at a time and I heard the zip of plastic cuffs as my hands were pulled together. I stopped squirming when the large man sat on my chest and I saw that the drapes in my room had been drawn shut and my alarm clock had been unplugged. Now I struggled to breathe as my mouth had a length of duct tape holding my lips together and the large man sitting on my chest kept my lungs from working. I felt a ski mask pulled onto my head and what little I did see went black. 

I was removed from the bed and pulled out of the room where I purposely fell to the floor. This earned me several booted kicks from the man behind me, and they dragged me forward once again. I was taken out of my home and heard the familiar sound of a van side door opening. Once inside it slammed shut and we were moving. 

I sat motionless for an eternity. I half waited for a hand to touch my knee.  I had time to think about my life and where it was going. I felt fulfilled with what I did, and though it took its toll on my social life, I would trade a mediocre marriage to be satisfied knowing I was on the edge of using the latest technology and being the best in my field. I would leave such compromises to my parents. Then again, perhaps I was too judgmental of others. I would have to work on that, to accept others no matter what lifestyle or impure choices they made. The only thing I shouldn’t abide by was incompetence or laziness. Yes, should I live beyond this day I would change this about myself. 

The van stopped and I heard voices for the first time outside the van. The side door slid open and I heard several men get out of the back and several more get in with me. The duct tape was removed. For some reason I thought it wise to speak first, but before a word escaped a swift jab to my ribs cut me off. 

“You’ll listen, camel jockey, or you’ll spend the rest of you days in jail for treason. We know a lot about who you’re hooked up with in Saudi Arabia and Pakistan, and we don’t care to explain how, especially to you. You’ll be getting some different data on your project today, and you’ll like it. The presentation you’ll give should emphasize that you’ve had no problems with the radar. It’s perfect. Now, tell me you understand.” 

I paused and then said “I’m Indian.” I doubled over from pain before I knew I had been hit in the abdomen. I had trouble breathing, coughing and sucking air when I could. I finally knew what it was to have the wind knocked out of me. 

“You understand, don’t you raghead. You know exactly how to fall in line, or disappear to a resort in Cuba, next to your buddy Saddam. So you’ll trash the other report and give this one, got it?”

I got it and nodded. 

“Good. We’ve been watching and we’ll be watching. You can be sure that you’ve got a huge pile of debt you gotta dig yourself out from. And be enthusiastic. Do you know what that means? Smile when you give that report, like you just won yourself a new goat. That’s what it means.” 

The man shoved me from the van and I heard it pull away. My hands were still bound, but I managed to pull the backward ski mask from my head as I sat up. I saw my car in front of me, and realized they had driven it behind us. I scanned the area and realized I had been deposited in near some rock formations in the desert. In front of me were three mounds of dirt the length of a man and each had a makeshift wooden cross at the far end. I wondered if there were three men under the piles who didn’t get it.  

*

I ignored, for now, the thoughts and questions that surged through my head. I got in my car and found the keys in the ignition. Beside me lay a thin manila folder with the new report I was supposed to give. I started the car and drove on dirt roads for nearly an hour before I found a paved highway. The sun was cresting when I found out I was an hour away from home. I had to go home first to shower and change in order to be ‘enthusiastic’ about this new report. I’d have to wait until I got to work to review what this new report had to say.

I got to work at eight-thirty, much later than my normal six. The questions of who these men were and how they knew about the project kept bubbling up in my mind. My office was dark, and when I stepped in the motion sensor triggered the lights, the bright light reminding me of the little sleep I have gotten last night. 

“You’re in late.” It was Michael. I was silent. Normally I would have read his work by now and had some last minute changes to be done. He was waiting.
“Thank you,” I said, “I’m sure it’s good enough for what they need.”
“Okaaay… did the deadline slide or something?” Michael asked.  He was agitated.  
“No no, we just won’t need to give them as much detail as I thought.” I replied.
“Ah. Well, good to know now. Next time let me know so I can let Sanjay out early.” he said.
“Sanjay? Oh yes, the intern. Oh, Michael, did you have plans last night? Oh, I’m so sorry. I… I didn’t… Hey, take the day off, go, I don’t want to see you until you’ve made amends with that girl. Go, take her out tonight. And write me a memo on what you did with her so I can expense it.”
“Sure boss. You okay? The project didn’t get cancelled, did it?” Michael asked.
“No, no, now go and give me some space to think and read this. And tell the intern to go to.  See you tomorrow.” I said, waving him out of my office.

I sat down and placed the two reports next to one another. Both had the same title:
“SR-71A #61-7951 RETROFIT & UPGRADE FEASIBILITY STUDIES.” Below it much of the rest was the same too, including the initial specifications on the aircraft, its age, and probable future use after being re-commissioned. After this Michael’s much thicker report described at length the many testing problems and radar system failures that showed the electrical system would need to be revamped or scrapped completely. The bogus report described a ninety-five percent success rate on all of the radar systems tests. I had never seen, let alone heard about, a system with over a seventy percent success rate on the first run. I read the bogus report and I felt my head droop after finishing. I succumbed and dreamt the same reoccurring dream.

My growling stomach woke me. It was noon. I needed to get going to make copies of the report to give out at the meeting.  No.  I wouldn’t do that.  No, this would be the only copy, and it was going to stay in his hands.  Should anyone find this publishing they might think it the work of an incompetent intern that I never reviewed. I could be the end of my career if it got out.  But then again, it was my _life _ they were threatening.  

My mind again races as I think about what to do.  I disappear to the cafeteria for the next hour before the meeting and think about my options.  I would have to give the report summary and find out what was going on later, and give the FBI or CIA or NSA or whoever a call afterwards.  I walk down the hall to the hanger and along the catwalk where the project plane sits.  Felix, my opportunistic boss, walks towards me with his brow furrowed and dark.   We stop and I crumple the fake report unconsciously.  

“I read what you have to say in the report.  I don’t like it.  Too many errors.  We’ll have to take them out for now or else the plane will never fly.  Understand?”  Felix said.  He never talked to me this way; if anything he was afraid to confront me with anything since he didn’t understand half of what I did.  Then I noticed Felix was wearing a tux, a white tux.  Somehow the moment had become surreal – the plane, the tux, the report – my fear was somehow replaced with the relief of familiarity.  
“I already changed it,” I said, “see?” and I showed him the report.  

Felix gazed over it.  “This isn’t the one that was on your desk?” he asked.
“No, thought Michael’s work was a little too wordy, so I pared it down.” I said, trying my best to lie for the first time since a child.  
“Well, good, that works.  Let’s go.” he said, and then we went to the large conference room.  

*

After introductions and a little fanfare, everyone had found a seat and allowed Felix to call on several other engineers to give a synopsis of their work on the old plane.  Around the table were different ranks of Air Force elite, each focusing intently on what was being said.  Chief among them is General Avery, and smart, gruff man known not to waste time or money on foolish projects.  It was important that he be impressed, as he was the one in charge of the purse strings.  The other engineers gave rosy outlooks for the project, and after an hour my turn had come.  I was fourth of six, and I before I could speak I felt myself becoming sick.  As soon as I stood I vomited on the table, my chair, and the floor.  I couldn’t stop, and before I was aware I had sprinted out of the room to the bathroom.  

I reached the first stall in the bathroom and deposited the rest of my lunch in the ceramic water closet.  I reached to flush and remembered I still had the bogus report in my hand.  I stirred from the tiled floor and darted to my office. I wasn’t sure why I was there, but when I got there I saw that Michael’s report was gone.  In its place was another fake report.  Michael was gone too; I was the one who told him to go home, after all.  I spotted Lyra holding the old report and jumped over to her.  

She smiles crookedly at me.  I don’t know why until she closes the report and beneath it I see a gun.  A sudden flood of understanding overwhelms me.  Now I know why she has been my constant friend, nothing more, but nothing less either.  She lives within sight of my house, and her husband applies insecticide on my house every year – for free.  How could I be so blind, so stupid as to not think of such things?  I take a step back, but before I do Felix has spotted me with her, but not the gun.  I stammer, thinking of what to say, but it’s too late.  

Lyra tells us both to step into my office.  We do.  She tells us to be quiet or she will make certain we are shot once we leave the grounds.  She promises us that there is a way out of this, as long as we still cooperate.  Lyra explains that if we give the report to General Avery this evening at his home we’ll live to continue working on the project, as if nothing had happened.  Five minutes later, four rough-neck guards show up and escort us downstairs and outside.  I see two vans there; Felix and I get in at Lyra’s gunpoint.  I know these vans, and I want to tell them that I have seen them every time I sleep, but Lyra keeps us distracted with promises of a safe return.  I listen while Felix seems distracted.

*

We pull up outside of a white house, and I have seen the house, have known it, and now I knew whose house it was.  It is two stories.  I will have an immaculate back yard.  I have seen it all before, studied it almost.  The van side door opens, and I notice Lyra has her hand on my knee.  I slap it away and shoot her a look of anger.  Her smile cracks and fades into hate.  

We’re towed onto the lawn and told the general is out back.  We listen to the four men threaten us, and instructions for Lyra to keep a close eye on us while they stay out of sight.  They return to the first van and close the door.  We walk toward the back of the house.  Felix asks if I like the tux and the hat, and he says he was supposed to be doing a magic act after work.  Then he asks me again if I like the hat.  I pull myself out of my daze of watching Lyra pull her hair into a pony tail, and glance into the hat.  Inside it is the phalanx of matches.  I look up at him and think about what is happening.  It was all happening in reverse, the dream was in reverse.  I know what we needed to do next.  

Once we reach the back yard we see that it is empty.  Lyra, frustration written on her face, talks slowly into a microphone on her sleeve.  I take the matches out of Felix’s hat and wrap the fake report around it.  I tell Felix to cause a distraction.  A moment later he launches into a song and dance routine, waving his hat around.  Lyra screams at him to shut up.  I know I’ve seen it so many times before, but truly now I can’t help but smile.  I know exactly where the second floor window is; I light the matches and launch the bound matches and report through it.  In a second smoke is streaming out.   

My mind races – what comes next?  I wave to Felix to follow but Lyra fires a warning shot that nearly freezes my blood.  Were all guns that loud?  I hear Lyra yelling one word at a time again into her sleeve.  I run toward the fence where I know the gap awaits.  I hear another crack of the gun and my knee slides into the mud as I squat to make my escape.  I run along the alleyway, full speed, already I know what the front of the building looks like.  I run blindly into the street.   

And I remember the blue truck with the astonished Michael behind the wheel.  It was too late – I was flying through the air then landed on my back.  I looked up, one last time, and saw the front of the shack.  

The dream was complete; now I could sleep peacefully.


----------



## mythago (Sep 21, 2005)

*Round One, Set Five*

Herobizkit vs. Tolen Mar vs. maxfieldjadenfox


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## BSF (Sep 21, 2005)

Round 1, Match 1 judgement sent to Mythago.


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## Tolen Mar (Sep 21, 2005)

Hrm...

Thats...interesting.

*starts scribbling ideas*


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## Tolen Mar (Sep 21, 2005)

Well I've banged out a story, but I'm going to leave it for the night to stew, look at it tomorrow and see what can be changed.  Expect it sometime tomorrow night unless I decide to do a massive rewrite.


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## Wild Gazebo (Sep 21, 2005)

<sheepishly stares at the ground and twiddles foot>


You know, I kinda feel like the kid who gets picked last for kick-ball.​


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## Rodrigo Istalindir (Sep 21, 2005)

Wild Gazebo said:
			
		

> <sheepishly stares at the ground and twiddles foot>
> 
> 
> You know, I kinda feel like the kid who gets picked last for kick-ball.​




It can work to your advantage, especially if you haven't done Ceramic DM before.  If the judgements start getting posted before you have to have your entry in, it can really help you when you see what the judges reward and punish.


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## Wild Gazebo (Sep 21, 2005)

I'm kinda not really reading the submissions.  I'm just skimming to see what stage the contest is at.  I have more fun that way.   I'll be able to read everything all at once after the round is over for a fresh comparisson...perhaps I'm weird.


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## Rodrigo Istalindir (Sep 21, 2005)

Not wierd.  When I'm competing, I don't read any of the other submissions for any round till I'm knocked out.


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## Ketjak (Sep 21, 2005)

mythago said:
			
		

> Ketjak vs. spacemonkey vs. MarauderX




To be clear, I have until 7:59 AM Thursday morning to make this happen, right?


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## RangerWickett (Sep 21, 2005)

Mythago, if I may be honest, posting pictures in the wee hours of the morning is a little unfair to the competitors. Most folks are only awake and able to write from 8am 'til midnight. In the future, could you please only post pictures during regular waking hours?


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## Tolen Mar (Sep 21, 2005)

RangerWickett said:
			
		

> Mythago, if I may be honest, posting pictures in the wee hours of the morning is a little unfair to the competitors. Most folks are only awake and able to write from 8am 'til midnight. In the future, could you please only post pictures during regular waking hours?




I saw that, but didnt say anything.  I just assumed he was in some far off time zone.


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## BSF (Sep 21, 2005)

Ryan,
keep in mind that even between your geographic location and Mythago's, there is a 3 hour time difference.  In the past, we have had competitors from Singapore, Australia, Germany, Finland, etc.  As well, one person's 'regular waking hours' might not match the accepted norm.  We have folks that work swing shifts, graveyard shifts, etc.  Then there are the folks that don't have traditional 'weekends'.  

If I were writing, set 5 is the only set, so far, that has been posted that I would consider a 'good time' for me to get the pictures.  The one that would have been the worst was the 8:59 AM (Mountain) set of pictures.  Brutal!  8:59 AM on a Monday morning - I wouldn't really have a chance to think about the pictures for another 12 hours, or more.  Even then, I would need to finish the story Monday night, or perhaps Tuesday night.  Of course, I woked until after 8:00 on Tuesday as well.  

Is there a globally 'good time' to post pictures?  One that works for each contestant and the organizer?  I doubt it.  That's why there are 72 hours total to work on it.


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## maxfieldjadenfox (Sep 22, 2005)

OK, being technically challenged again, I'm having trouble getting Notepad to translate my formatting... And I cant figure out how to insert the links... But I'll try. OK, tried and failed. So, I put the places where I referred to the oictures in bold. Hope that's good enough... I'm not from around here.

Round One, Set Five

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

Herobizkit vs. Tolen Mar vs. maxfieldjadenfox


                                               The Calling


Annie cried. She cried for weeks, til her eyes felt like red flannel and her nose forgot what it felt like not to be plugged. 

Something inside of her broke the day Dog died, something that couldn’t be fixed. He was just a mangy little mutt, a little terrier, maybe some Chihuahua, a smidgen of poodle. It didn’t matter. She loved Dog with a fierceness that shocked her, especially since she couldn’t remember ever having loved anyone before him. Well, that wasn’t strictly true. She had loved her Granny. But it seemed like Dog was the only one to have ever really loved her back.


“Ugly!” “Leather Face!” “Hey, Frankenstein, look over here.” 
She hugged her books to her chest as she ran the locker gauntlet. Now and then, someone, not content with verbal taunts, stuck out a foot and laughed as she went flying. Her only respite was in class. Her teachers never really looked at her, but they couldn’t deny that she was smart. Yes, that girl was preternaturally intelligent, which made her all the more spooky. 
The first day of school, the teacher’s lounge was buzzing.
“She’s in my home room, for God’s sake! How am I supposed to look at that first thing in the morning?”
“I know she’s just a kid, but she gives me the creeping heebies.” 
“I had her last year. She understands theoretical physics better than Einstein. I wish I could stand to be within five feet of her, she could do great things with the right mentor, but ugh, you know?”

                                                     ~
*It was twilight. The swamp water glowed a soft blue green as it trickled around downed branches.* The frogs kept up a constant chorus of peeps and belches, and the crickets chirped the temperature. 
On the porch of the shack, Annie sat with a basket of greens, willing herself to go inside and fix something to eat. Pickings were pretty slim since Granny died, but she made by. There were the chickens out back, and the nanny goat. There was 
Granny’s garden, but she didn’t have Granny’s hand with plants. She sat and watched as the stars came out, counting until she was in the thousands. Finally, she heaved herself up off the porch and limped inside. 
She had killed one of the roosters yesterday, so there was fried chicken leftover in the Frigidaire. The generator wheezed and puffed, but it managed to run the fridge and the lights. It died on a regular basis, but she, with her talent for fixing and making things, always managed to get it running again. 
After supper, she cleared off the table and brought out the machine. It was built from parts she had found down at the dump, lifted from classrooms back when she was still going to school, and some copper pipe she had bought with money she made collecting bottles and cans for recycling. That was a good way to pick up some money, but the second time she went there, the guy who sat in the recycling truck wouldn’t wait on her. He pretended she wasn’t there until she left.
                                                     ~

Annie was sitting on the stained, green, sculptured shag carpet, playing with the doll her Papa had made for her. *It was a strange little figure with a straw hat and multicolored shirt and pants.* He said it reminded him of his Pere, back in Haiti. He 
had made her some flat shapes of balsa wood too, a circle, a square, a triangle. She knew the names of all of them. 
Her mother was sitting across the room on a thrift shop sofa, twiddling her foot and smoking a cigarette. She had a bottle of Southern Comfort next to her. She was drinking straight from the bottle. Even though she was only two, her mother’s hostility was obvious to Annie. 
“Where’d you get that evil eye of your’n, girl? Must be from your Pap’s family. Nobody in my family ever had one of those.” She stopped then, took a drag of her cigarette and shook her head.
“How come you don’t talk? Say 'Mama.' Girl, you must be dumb as a post.” She took a slug from the bottle. 
“Your Pap is a no good SOB, you know that? Went and got his self arrested for ‘tempted murder. Now what am I gonna do?” Her face collapsed and she began to sob. “How’m I s’posed to take care of you?”
Annie looked at her with her one good eye. The other one, white, with no iris or pupil, seemed blind. Since she hadn’t spoken yet, nobody knew what she could see through it, if she was looking the right way. The circle she was playing with rolled from her hands. She pointed at the little manikin, and *it stood and jerked it’s way across the room after it, and brought it back to her. * 
She smiled.
For a moment, her mother just stared, but then her face twisted with fury.
“Witch!” she screamed. “Demon child!” She rose from the sofa and bore down on Annie, yanking her up by the arm. 
“I knew,” she shrieked, her whiskey breath hot on Annie’s face. “I knew there was something wrong about you!” She dragged the little girl into the kitchen, and took the matches off the back of the stove. Then she hauled her into the yard. Frantically, she began to make a pile of twigs and branches, still holding tight to Annie, who watched with her blank eye. 
When the pile of kindling was tall, her mother tossed a match into the center of it, and as it blazed, she picked Annie up and threw her into it. 
“Thou shall not suffer a witch to live,” she screamed.
Pain. It was an interesting feeling. Annie observed as the hair on her right side caught fire, felt the flesh on the right side of her face begin to melt. She put her arms out to her mother and pointed. Her mother staggered into the fire and was engulfed. 

                                                  ~
*Annie looked down the length of her machine, and fiddled with a few of the crossbars. Then she looked through it with her left eye*. Yes, there he was. 
                                                  ~

When she came to live with her Granny, she was burnt and bandaged. 
“Lord,” Granny said, “if that ain’t about the ugliest chile I evah saw!”
The social worker glared.
“Mrs. Tridden. I would appreciate it if you would be careful what you say in front of the child. She’s been through a lot and with you her only kin…”
“What happened to her Pap?” Granny asked, “My good for nothin’ son?”
“Well, ma’am, he was serving time down in Folsom. Attempted murder. He died a couple of weeks ago. Not sure what he did to make the other prisoners turn on him so… We don’t know if the child’s mother heard, but something made her burn herself up. Almost took this baby with her too.” 
“No surprise,’ said Granny, and spit a big blob of chewing tobacco at the social workers feet. “Guess you might as well bring her in then.” 
Granny’s cabin was small and dark. Herbs hung from the ceiling beams and the only light was from a massive stone fireplace that took up nearly one whole wall. 
“Kin I get you some tea? I make it my own self.” Granny took a cracked mug from the cupboard.
“No, thank you,” the social worker stammered, “I can’t stay long.” She looked around the poor little room. “Perhaps she would be better off in foster care?” 
“None of my folk gonna be in foster care evah agin. Not after what happened to her Pap.”
“Her father was in foster care?” 
“Fo’ a little bit. Long nuff to mess him up right bad.”
The social worker clutched Annie. 
“Maybe this isn’t such a good idea…” she began 
Annie pointed her finger at the woman and she staggered to the door, her gait a peculiar stiff legged shamble. Granny gave a wondering little smile to Annie. 
“I take care of mine.” Granny said, as the door slammed behind her.
“You got the sendin’ magic girl?” Granny asked. Annie nodded.
“You got the callin’ magic too?” Annie nodded again.
“That’s real special. All us Tridden’s got one or t’other, but I don’t recollect any one of us evah havin’ both.” She patted her head, but pulled her hand away as if it were hot. “There now, chile,” she said, “there now.”

                                                     ~
*Annie held Dog’s collar, then laid it in front of her, stroking his name gently*. Not long now, she thought.
                                                     ~

It was a hard scrabble existence, and Granny resented her. She could tell, even though Granny did her best not to let her know. She taught her to cook, and to sew, to sweep the battered wood floor, worn smooth by generations of Tridden feet. She also taught her to carve, as she had taught her son. The wood was special, harvested only under a full moon, and only fallen branches.
“We don’t harm a livin’ tree,” Granny said.


When she learned to read, Annie felt like a bird let out of it’s cage. Books were the best thing ever. Lost in them, she could go anywhere and be anybody. It didn’t matter that the other children were afraid of her, and mean to her. It didn’t matter that most of the teachers wouldn’t look at her, she could read. By the time she was 10, she had read every book in the school library, and by the time she was 12, every book in the public library. 
One day, when she was coming out of the library doors with an armload of books, she tripped over a small dirty puppy. He was as unattractive as she was, and they were fast friends. Granny wasn’t happy to have another mouth to feed. 
“What chew want with dat mangy beastie?” she wanted to know.
“He’s my friend,” Annie said. 
Granny said there wasn’t enough food to go around, but Annie found a way to feed Dog, even if she went hungry herself.
She carved a beautiful replica of him, and took the carving with her anyplace Dog wasn’t allowed. He made her feel safe. 

                                                       ~
She set the carving of Dog, never out of her sight now, inside of the machine on a plank of alder wood, just past the eyepiece. 
She put her hands on either side of it and concentrated. The copper began to glow. A vortex opened at the back of it, and she heard distant barking.
                                                       ~

“You know, chile, people will hurt you if you’re different. So you be just as not different as you can.” 
It was an easy enough thing for Granny to say. Neither of them were good at doing it. 

It was Hallo’een. It was also her seventeenth birthday. The townsfolk were stirred up because there was a strange sickness going around, made people fall asleep and not wake up. It was easy to blame Granny and Annie. They came, like some parody of an old horror movie, toting pitchforks and carrying torches, and demanded to see Granny. Annie turned some of them back, but there were so many of them. Granny came out and they set upon her, set upon her like rabid dogs, and threw her bony old body into the swamp, with the gators. Annie ran back into the shack with Dog, and bolted the door. Her Granny was gone. 
She was miserable. She couldn’t go to town, and she couldn’t go to the library. She would have died of loneliness, she told Dog, if it wasn’t for him. But the same strange sickness that had got the people got Dog. One morning, Annie couldn’t rouse him from the gunny sack where he slept. She sat by him, calling him day after day but this was one place her calling magic didn’t seem to work. Maybe he had gone too far away to hear her.

                                                     ~
The machine was too bright to look at now. 
“Come on, come on boy," she called, closing her right eye, and beckoning with a pointed finger. The carving shuddered, and trotted toward her. 
“I knew it’d work! She cried. She hugged the wriggling wooden dog to her chest. 
“Just one more thing boy, now I know I can do it.”

Under the light of the full moon, she found a branch, tall and thin, and that night, she set to bringing Granny back.
                                                    ~


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## maxfieldjadenfox (Sep 22, 2005)

Nice, already typos, and in my little introduction... Scared to look at the story. I'll be sitting here with my eyes closed, OK?


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## spacemonkey (Sep 22, 2005)

Round One - Set Four

Ketjak vs. spacemonkey vs. MarauderX

Title: Micro-Fury
Author: spacemonkey

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

She wished Timmons had not been such a good compatriot.  At least she would have one less formal function to attend now.  Smiling, she knew that thought was now half-hearted at best.  The stuffy parties were growing less loathsome by the year as well, she mused.  Perhaps if they ever actually became enjoyable, it would be the perfect signal to cast off this line of work and find one more mundane.  Every time she wore lace, it seemed that day drew nearer by a good margin.  Today was no exception.

"Kate! Over here."  

One of Nate's flunkies from Research and Development, his hands gesticulating wildly, hailed her from across the manicured lawn.  She shoved the limo door closed and turned to Toni.  

"Five dollars says its something pedantic about the guests or decorations."

Toni tipped her chauffeur's cap, replying "Nope, the food.  Too much, too little or the type.  I can't be certain which, but that's all these eggheads care about at a place like this.  And I'll let you take the wheel on the ride back if I'm wrong."

A grin spreading quickly on her face, Kate quickly accepted the wager and turned to the tuxedoed payday jogging her way.  He was panting heavily by now, his toupee flapping just slightly in his own breeze.

"Don't you have any comm equipment on you?" He managed to spit out before wheezing to a stop.  "We've been trying to reach you for nine minutes now!"

Her grin diminished slightly.  "Well where do you expect me to fit anything on this glove of an outfit?  It was all I could do to get me into the damn thing!  Besides, Nate said no business today, and I took him literally.  He could always reach me on the earplant in an emergency, and I trust him not to do it if he doesn't need to.  Plus I have this to haul around.." she said tersely, indicating the purple package under her arm, the wide black bow now slightly crumpled as she squeezed it in annoyance.

They don't own me, she grated inwardly.  Not completely anyway.

"That's just it though - Nate I mean.  He's been poisoned.  We couldn't get in touch with you that way and.."

The rest of the sentence she left by the limousine in her blurred rush towards the garden, where she saw the ring of guests arrayed like the petals of a flower.  As she pushed her way to the pistil, a *grotesque sight * met her eyes.  Nate Timmons, dressed all in his white groom attire, stared dead-eyed into the cluster of faces about him.  Sally wept at his feet, her bridal gown now streaked with green from the lawn.

His arms splayed out, one still holding his hat in an unmoving grip - he might have looked comical under different circumstances.  Kate had no time for such illusions, and she knew it.

"Who's got some information for me?"

She saw Dawson hold up his smartphone and was halfway to him by the time he answered verbally.  All the Agency guests were there, every one of them fully on the clock now.

Punching a few keys as she neared, Dawson smoothly relayed the information while simultaneously managing to give her one of his characteristic looks (the lascivious one, in this case).  She was still surprised at his capacity to be completely unfazed by any and all emergencies surrounding him.  That was surely one of the reasons he had been chosen for his job, but it was still damn annoying at times.

She filed the facts as he read them: paralytic toxin (the same used on a certain South American dictator some two years back), no suspects in custody, everyone accounted for but one florist, and little else.  It was a clean job, whomever had done it, that was for sure.  Dawson was still staring at her intently.

"Dammit Dawson!  Shouldn't you be getting me more information instead of sustaining that slack-jawed expression?  One, I might add, which will very shortly bring you some severe pain if it does not leave my presence?"

Dawson smirked slightly, then was all business once more.  He leaned in close.  Close enough for a good punch to the gut.  Or somewhere lower perhaps..  Her thoughts were interrupted by what he said next, barely loud enough for her to hear.

"Timmons had Matchbook on him.  They took it."

"What!?"

Heads turned her way, but she ignored them.  "What are you talking about Dawson?"

He gripped her arm and pulled towards the street.  "Let's get back to the Office."  Louder, over his shoulder, he let the others know where they were headed.  One of the security boys tried to protest, something about the area not having been fully checked yet, but by that time Kate had regained her composure and stared him down.  He wasn't about to get into it with her - not right now.

"Call us with any information you get, no matter how small it seems."  Her instructions were all that was left as she made her way with Dawson to the limo waiting on the curb.  Toni had been with the Agency for 12 years, and had the sleek black monster charging down the street moments after they were inside it.  She knew her job well, but Kate still regretted not getting to drive.  That always took her mind off of things.  She would have liked that about now, if only for a few minutes.  She would still get her time 'behind the wheel' so to speak.  Assuming they could find where the Matchbook had been taken, and who had done it.


The ride took just enough time to go over what she knew of *Matchbox* in her mind, and to pick Dawson's brain a bit as well.  He seemed quite versed on the project, but she wasn't very technically minded, and had only paid attention to the main points in the briefings.  He had to fill in quite a few gaps.

Born of the new technological world, but firmly seated in the realm of the biological, the Matchbook was more formally dubbed MF-P1.  Actually a collection of small spheres with what appeared to be sticks attached to one end, it had gained the moniker Matchbook from the fact that it resembled a collection of matches stuck together.

Each 'matchstick' was a separate unit, grouped for efficiency and convenience.  Much like an actual match, all of the action took place in the head.  In this case it was a compact containing sphere housing several hundred million nano-machines and their auxiliary parts.  The stick part contained building blocks with which they could make any structure they were programmed to make, along with the massive (for them) amounts of spare energy needed for them to function.  They had thought of making them run off of ambient energy, but that was deemed too dangerous.  That might limit their destructive power now, but how easily could they be modified?  She didn't know, and Dawson was already onto the next bit about them.

They were made of ordinary protein, but like many biological systems they could reproduce, as long as they had the energy to do so.  They could also be programmed like a modern computer.  She didn't understand all the details, but it sure made for a powerful combination.  "Like DNA with a brain, a purpose." Timmons had said.  She couldn't help but wonder what purpose they would be put to now.

Screeching to a halt in front of the Office, Toni gave a quick salute as the limo's passengers rushed inside.  Her job done, she headed for a local bar, trying in vain to forget what she had overheard of their conversation.  The clouds on the horizon threatened rain.


Beneath the ordinary looking exterior, the Office was a monstrosity of highly secure labs, firing ranges, clean rooms, and things even Kate had never seen.  Watching the floors drop by one after another through the bulletproof, but clear, elevator doors, she wondered why Nate had not left the Matchbook here.  It was the safest place, wasn't it?  It didn't make sense, unless..

"Dawson, why did-"

"Sorry Kate, phone's vibrating.  Might be news, hold on a sec."  The cell was to his ear before she could finish her query, and the elevator stopped before he was done.

Might as well get her prepped, she thought.  Maybe Dawson would have a destination after that call.  Even through the opening elevator doors, she could see  *The Shadow* in its flight bay below.  Sleek, aerodynamic, and virtually invisible to radar, this was a plane to be reckoned with; a machine she felt just right at the controls of.

"Nice looking machine, I'll give you that."  Dawson's voice started her as he exited the elevator.

"It sure is.  They modeled her after some old atmospheric plane called the 'Blackbird'.  My Shadow is smaller, lighter, and faster.  I heard the Blackbird was the fastest in her day, but I can get into LEO with my scramjet before they could have had that thing on the runway.  But you've seen her before, haven't you?"

"Not this close.  You know how it is around here, they don't show or tell you anything you don't really need to know."

"That's true, I suppose.  Well?"  Kate looked at him expectantly.

"Well what?"  

Was it her imagination, or was he almost taken aback by the question?  Maybe the stress was getting to him at last, but it made her nervous to inquire further if that was the case.  Maybe the call was bad news..

"Well, what was the call about?  Any new information?"

"Oh that.  Yeah, looks like someone from the New Ukraine Union nabbed the Matchbook, or someone they hired.  One of our sats caught a high speed retrieval vehicle rocketing back that way.  We have coordinates, too."

Kate sighed.  At least there was someone to go after now.  And the NUU had been itching to get its hands on something like this for years - ever since their bio-weapons programs were shut down.  Nano weapons would be so much easier for them to conceal.

"Well, good thing I'm ready to go then," she said as she took her hands away from The Shadow's preflight control panel.  "I'll get moving, and you round up some backup for me.  I imagine I'll need it.  Those NUU boys will follow me all the way back if I know them."

"That sounded like you think they might spot you out there.  Did you get sloppy while I wasn't looking?" Dawson said with mock astonishment.

"Shut up and go, we both have work to do."  Dawson smirked and headed for the elevator while Kate made her way down to the hanger floor.  It would still take a minute for the subterranean launchway to open, so she started suiting up.  She should have felt better now, with a target in sight, but she couldn't shake the feeling that something was out of place.  

The wedding present dropped to the floor, the large sliver of wood shaking free of the box.  She had been carrying it this whole time without really noticing.  She had thought long and hard about what to get Nate for his wedding day before settling on that.  A bit of one of the smuggling crates from their first real mission, so many years ago.  The least she could do now was carry it to his enemies, so she pulled her hair up and used the sliver as a pin.  "Why didn't you tell me you had the Matchbook on you Nate?  I would have at least added some security for you."  The cold hanger echoed her question, but supplied no response.

Minutes later, Dawson felt the building tremble as The Shadow was on its way.  Two cars pulled out of the parking garage at surface level shortly after, just a handful of seconds apart.


Dawson pulled to a stop in front of the old building.  The sign outside said  *'Dependable Rexall Drugs'*.  To Dawson, it seemed a fitting end to this day.  After all, he thought, weren't nano-machines pioneered by the drug companies, looking for a new way to make and sell their products?  Fitting that the latest and best should end up here, even if only for a short time.  He patted the case containing the Matchbook.  Long enough to make a lot of money, anyway.  Long enough.

A figure waited in the shadows just under the prescription sign.  The two entered the dilapidated building together as fat drops of rain began falling from the sky.

Kate pulled to a stop a block and a half away, then crept around the street and got close to the building.  Climbing the Rexall's Drugs sign, she peered in a window at the scene below.

Dawson was checking the payment, via wire transfer, from his smartphone.  The other person, an Australian by the looks of her hopper war tattoos, was peering through an imager at the Matchbook.  She quietly made her way back to the ground and covered the back entrance.

"This looks good, payment in full."  Dawson smiled.  The Australian nodded.  "Yes, the product checks out as well. A pleasure, as always.  You don't mind if I leave now do you?  I have another meeting to get to, and I suspect you merely have retirement ahead."

He watched her leave through the back exit by the stairs, and started towards the other door.  He was halfway there when he heard a soft thud accompanied by a splash.  He whirled, pulling out his weapon, but she was already there, her own sight right on him.

He smiled.  "Shouldn't you be on a plane about now?"

She inched closer.  "Maybe I should be, but something told me I needed to be here instead, so I put The Shadow on autopilot and told it to take a few photos over Canada, then return to base."

"Oh, and what was it that told you to come here?"

"You, actually.  You said that nobody in the Agency was told anything they didn't need to know.  It didn't really hit me until I was stepping into The Shadow, but why would Nate tell you where he had secreted the Matchbox, and not me?  It fell into place then.  Something had been off with the whole situation, and I finally realized that it was you.  I just have one question."

"Oh?"

"Did you have to put Nate in such a ridiculous pose?"

Dawson smiled.  "Of course.  He always enjoyed treating me like a trained monkey, giving me the lowest assignments, making me do the go nowhere background checks.  I thought he needed to play the fool for a change."

He snickered, and that was all the chance she needed.  The bullet guided itself just where she had tracked it to when she started aiming - right into Dawson's shoulder.  He cried out and dropped his own gun, grasping his shoulder.  She walked over to him.

"I should take you out right here, but I imagine Intelligence will want to have a crack at you before-"

The crash came from outside the building.  Dawson was quick to recover, and Kate's gun skidded across the floor.  He was on her in a heartbeat, following the swift jab to her chest by grabbing at her throat, his thumbs searching for her trachea.  Kate gasped for breath.  His right hand was weak from the shoulder wound, but he would crush the life out of her anyway - it might take a little while longer was all.  Dawson had the same training she did, and he wasn't going easy.

She struck at his vitals, but he was too quick still, kept dodging out of the way.  Dawson was smiling, confident.  Kate mumbled something softly.  Dawson leaned in to hear her last words.

"Did you get a gift for Nate's wedding?" She could barely get the words out.

"No Kate, I must have forgotten."  He was enjoying this now, but she shared a smile with him.

"Maybe we can go in together then, Dawson."  

His amused consternation quickly turned to surprise as she pulled the splinter from her hair and drove it into his neck.  He tumbled off of her, collapsing.  She watched him expire as her breath slowly returned.  Then she dragged the Australian's body inside, grabbed the Matchbox and walked outside.  She saw the Rexall's sign lying broken in the rain-soaked lot in front of the store.  

Kate laughed, letting the clouds pour rain upon her.  She felt exhilarated.

"Well, maybe those formal functions don't always end up so boring after all.  Some good, old-fashioned covert operations should be a welcome change."


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## spacemonkey (Sep 22, 2005)

Oh yeah, and the smack-talking.. um..

take that, or something.

pinky tied behind my back, and I still wrote the pants off of -someone? I guess?


I think I'll wait until the moring and/or I've read my competitor's stories before I do the smack-talking.  That sounds good


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## Tolen Mar (Sep 22, 2005)

*Tuesday*

Well, I hope this does well.

I'm not entirely sure that its the kind of thing that gets entered into these things, but here we go.  

(Also, the pics will be indicated in bold, as Ive never been able to get links to work properly.)

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Round One - Set Five
Herobizkit vs. Tolen Mar vs. maxfieldjadenfox

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
*Tuesday*

	Becca had long suspected.  The late nights, the smell of tequila.  The fact that Pablo never seemed to be interested in her anymore.  She knew he was having an affair, but needed to see the other woman herself.  The constant worry was turning her into a wreck.  She knew she had to do something, confront him about it, but until she had the evidence she needed, he would just wave her off as if she had said nothing at all.  She needed to catch them in the act.

	Morning came, and Pablo finally dragged himself out of bed.  He grabbed a quick snack, muttered a goodbye and left for work at the sawmill.  This was her chance, she knew.  She gathered up her things, got in her car, and headed downtown.  She didn’t know if they still made what she was looking for.  After the privacy riots of the last decade, anything that could poke into someone’s private times was banned.  Of course, everyone knew it was only because the president had been caught with his pants down (literally!) in the oval office with that girl, and if not for that, the problem might have been ignored.  But when she passed the curio shop and saw it, she knew it was what she needed.

	The bell over the door rang softly as she quietly made her way into the dark gloom of the store.  There didn’t seem to be a single electric light on in the place, it was lit only by what light could drift through the crowded front window.  As she walked through the piles of random odds and ends, she noticed that everything was labeled, a simple hand-made tag hanging from each object.  A vase had a tag that had a flower on it, and the word ‘vase’.  A box of crayons had a rainbow on it; even the shelves had tags hanging from them as if someone kept forgetting what everything was and needed some way to remind himself what they were.

	She stepped on something, and looking down *it was another of the tags, this one was apparently for a dog.*  She hadn’t yet seen a dog here, but she picked up the tag to give to the shop owner.

	As soon as she did, a strange little man came from behind one of the stacks.  He was short, barely over five feet tall, very round in the middle and bald.  He wore a yellow sweater over black slacks and glasses whose lenses were so thick, she wondered how many soda bottles had died to make them.  His nose was extraordinarily long, and looked more like a birds beak than anything that should be on a humans face.  Taken all together, he resembled some sort of oversized goldfinch.

	“Good morning!” He said with a big smile.  His voice was high and had a slight warble to it.  “And what can I help you with on this beautiful day?”

	“Um…” she said, momentarily surprised by the bird mans sudden appearance.

	“Oh! I see you found Dog’s collar!” before she could respond, he snatched it out of her hand and began to whistle.  The sound seemed more appropriate in the woods than the cramped confines of the shop.  “Come here Dog!” he called.

	After a few moments of his whistling and calling, Becca heard something in the back move.  Then the shelves began to shimmer and rattle, and the floor shook.  She began to panic, when bird man saw her.

	“Oh, relax,” he said, “It’s just Dog.”

	The shaking and rumbling grew louder until, just when she thought the building would collapse, something appeared at the end of the aisle.  It was huge, standing a good three feet tall, and it was furry.  It was a cat.  It walked up to the man, and nuzzled his leg, nearly knocking him over.  The purr resonated through her skull as the shopkeeper petted its head, then reattached the cord around its neck.  Satisfied, the cat turned and rumbled back to the back of the shop again, the shelves settling back into their normal stance, not shaking again as the dust settled.

	“That’s your cat?” She asked.

	“Heavens no, that’s my Dog.”  He replied, fixing her with a one eyed stare.  “Haven’t you ever seen a dog before?”
	“Well, yes, but…”

	“I won’t have a cat.”  He went on.  “Beastly creatures.  Always chasing down and eating defenseless birds.  Now then, what can I get for you?”  He blinked once, in the same fashion a bird might blink at something that caught its attention.  He held his head at an angle, looking at her out of one eye more than another.  The image of a goldfinch was becoming clearer now.  

	“I, uh…” Becca began.  She stopped, cleared her throat, and tried again.  “Is that a dimensional perspective viewer there in the window?”

	“Why yes!” The bird man nearly shouted.  “Not many people recognize them for what they are these days.  Impressive, young lady, impressive.  And why would you be needing one?”

	“I think my husband is cheating on me, and I…well…I...”

	“Say no more, say no more.” He put a feather light hand on her shoulder, though he had to reach upward to do so.  “Yes this viewer will help you.  It’s a tad banged up, I used to keep it in the back, but Dog kept knocking it down.  But it can be cleaned up nicely and reassembled.”

	“How much do you want for it?”

	“Oh, I couldn’t think of selling it.  You do know they were outlawed, don’t you?  I could be imprisoned.  I couldn’t stand living in a cage like that.”

	Becca couldn’t hide her disappointment, and the bird man became even more fidgety than he was before, he kept flipping his elbows up and down.  If he kept it, she was sure, he would fly away.

	“Well,” he said.  “The law only forbids me selling it.  It doesn’t say I can’t give it away.  Let me see if I can find the tracking bug you need.”

	He disappeared into the back room, and began shuffling through whatever he kept back there.  There was a scream of pain that sounded vaguely cat-like, and entirely too loud, and another shelf bouncing rumble before he returned.

	“Here we are!” he said as he held up a button.  “Just sew this onto one of his shirts, and the viewer will let you look in on him wherever he is.”

	“A button?” she said skeptically.

	“Well of course it only looks like a button.”  He slid a fingernail along the edge, and it swung open like a pocket watch, revealing a complex set of flashing tiny lights and moving gears.  “This way, he won’t be able to tell it’s a bug. Ingenious!”

	Half an hour later, she was home, and trying to follow the instruction packed in the box.  After several false starts, she got the device assembled.  It being Tuesday, she knew Pablo would go out ‘with the boys’, and would want his best shirt.  She took it, ripped off one of the buttons and sewed the new button on.  At first it didn’t match, it being blue and the shirt red, but as she watched it changed color and shape to match the rest of the buttons.  Then she hid everything for later.  When evening came, and he headed out again, he grabbed the shirt with the new button.  As soon as he was out of the room, she rushed to where she had hidden the machine, and turned it on.  

*As she sat behind it and looked through the reticle*, she saw the dimensional rods extend from the back of the machine.  After about two feet, the ends of the rods disappeared into a strange foggy mist.  She began to pull on the cords that warped reality between the rods, and started trying to tune in the tracking beacon.

     She saw Pablo, clearly as if he were standing in front of her.  *He was stealing her gold coin*, the coin her mother gave to her before that fateful day when she fell into the ice, never to be seen again.  The little puppet was taking it right out of her purse.  Then he left, carrying the coin that was as big as himself, and went out into the night.  

     The viewer allowed her to see everything he did that night as if she were following him with a real camera.  She saw him walk over to the liquor store and trade the coin for two bottles of Tequila (the coin was worth at least twice as much by itself!).  He went to the drugstore and picked up a pack of condoms.  This baffled her as Pablo didn’t actually have all of the ‘equipment’ needed to use them.  Then she saw the house.  It was an expensive house in the snooty part of town.  Pablo looked to see if he were being watched, then let himself in through the doggie door.  Then he went upstairs and into the next house.  It was an ornate doll house, yellow, and a white picket fence around a fake lawn.  Barbie was there, standing in the door in almost nothing.

     She flipped the machine off in disgust.  She had the address she needed.

     Pablo was drunk.  Next to him, on the small bed was Barbie.  She was having an affair too, they both knew it, and perhaps that’s why they wound up together.  The tequila boiled its way through his wooden stomache, keeping his thoughts from staying together long enough to marshal themselves into rationality.  All he could do was look at the sleeping doll next to him and wish they had been carved (for himself) and molded (for her) so that the two of them could do something besides lie together and pretend.

     He began to giggle.  Becca didn’t have a clue.  She thought they were still strong.  Pablo had been careful.  He had made sure not to bring home any lipstained collars, no doll hair to explain away.  She thought he spent his nights with his friends.  Women were so easy to fool.  He lifted the tequila bottle to his lips, found it was empty, and began to stumble around the dollhouse looking for the next one.  

     As he passed the kitchen sink, he looked out the window and saw a giant on the lawn.  Then his sense of scale kicked in, and he realized it was Becca standing outside the dollhouse.  He panicked.  He turned to run away from the window and fell out the open side of the house.  Ordinarily, it was only a two story fall, and at doll sizes, that wasn’t much.  But today the dollhouse had been set up on a table, and he tumbled slowly through the air that was a lot deeper than it should have been.  When he landed, his leg broke, and he could see his wife in detail.  The sudden shock of pain cleared his head, and he realized she was carrying a bottle of tequila, and a lighter.  He started to crawl, his broken leg useless.
Barbie came to the edge of the floor at this point, to see what was going on.  Becca saw her, and grabbed at her.

     “You naked, plastic slut!” She screamed, and then picked up Pablo as well.

     The two tried to get free, but her grip was like iron.  Becca took them outside, and down the street to her car.  She tied them up, tossed them into the back seat and drove off into the night.  Pablo passed out from the pain.

     When he awoke again, dawn was beginning to clear the horizon, it was foggy, and damp.  He was tied to Barbie in an obscene pose, a pose he might have enjoyed under other circumstances.

    Becca stood over the two of them, and poured the entire bottle of tequila over them.  She leaned down to look Pablo in the eyes.

     “Guess you wish you’d stayed home, huh?”

     “How…How did you know?” he mumbled.

     “Oh, you don’t think I know how to find out what you’ve been up to?  How long did you think you could hide it?  Did you really think you could keep it from me?”

    “Baby, come on now, untie me.  We can talk this over.” He begged.  “She meant nothing to me.”

     “That’s rich!  So you mean to say you threw our marriage away for nothing?”  

     “I didn’t say that!”  He struggled against the ropes.  “Come on baby, you know you are the only one who means anything to me.”

     “You have a hell of a way of showing it.”

     Barbie moaned a bit and opened her eyes.  She smelled the alcohol, saw the ropes tying her to Pablo, began to struggle and wimper.

     “Awww, look.  The poor thing thinks she can get away.”

     “Baby, don’t do this, I’ll make it up to you.”

     “Pabby, what’s going on?”  Barbie asked, voice almost completely taken over in panic.

     “Nothing, just calm down.  We’ll be ok.”

     “You’ll be okay?  You’ll be okay?” Becca shook her head.  “You don’t get it do you?  I’m not stupid like she is.  You can’t offer me dinner and a movie and expect me to forget.  We are through.”

     Then she flipped open the lighter and ignited the alcohol.  The two screamed in agony, Pablo burned for a good long time, but Barbie melted almost immediately.  

     When the fire died down, Becca picked up the two bodies, *and tossed them into the river*.  At this point, the river was overgrown, and the stream that fed it was choked with deadwood.  The remains of the two dolls looked like just another dead branch in the water.  Pablo had not fully burned away, he still had one eye left.  As the current took him downstream, he saw the burned remains of another doll’s arm.  And there a leg.  He was surrounded by dead dolls.  If his mouth had remained, he’d have screamed again.


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## mythago (Sep 22, 2005)

BardStephenFox said:
			
		

> Ryan,
> keep in mind that even between your geographic location and Mythago's, there is a 3 hour time difference.  In the past, we have had competitors from Singapore, Australia, Germany, Finland, etc.  As well, one person's 'regular waking hours' might not match the accepted norm.  We have folks that work swing shifts, graveyard shifts, etc.  Then there are the folks that don't have traditional 'weekends'.




Exactly. It's difficult enough to rig rounds to miss _days_ that are bad, for one thing; trying to post pictures to match all two or three competitiors' personal schedules, when they may not all live in the same time zone as me, let alone each other, would be a nightmare.  And, as BardStephenFox says, time zones and preferences differ.

Please also keep in mind that I, too, have a job and time limitations. If I get home at 12:30 a.m. and have to be out of the house and on the road by 7 a.m., "only post between 8 a.m. and midnight" might mean nobody gets their round at all that day.


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## Eeralai (Sep 22, 2005)

Judges,

I was wondering what was happening with the last match up.  I have not seen warlord pipe up and didn't know if you were going to run it with two people or if you were looking for a third.  My schedule is not as hectic as I thought it would be right now, and I would have fun with this.  I'd only like to do it though if Mythago and BSF could switch out for my round.  I am married to BSF and would not want to put him in a sticky postition.  Please let me know.  Thanks!


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## mythago (Sep 22, 2005)

Except that if you won, we'd have to switch out for the next round as well. Also, there is no way I have time to judge


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## Eeralai (Sep 22, 2005)

okay.  Thanks!


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## Herobizkit (Sep 23, 2005)

Ack!  I knew this would happen... 

I had Tue and Wed off, and I come back on Thu to see that the contest is already over?  Maybe it's not... guess I should have let everyone know, eh?

Anyhow, I'll try and have my story posted ASAP... if I can't get it by 8 am AST on Sat morning, consider me Did Not Finish.


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## maxfieldjadenfox (Sep 23, 2005)

I enjoyed reading Tolen Mar's story, and look forward to reading yours, Herobizkit! A big part of the fun for me has always been to see what different people do with the same pictures. 
I hope to have time to catch up on all of the others soon.


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## mythago (Sep 23, 2005)

Herobizkit said:
			
		

> Anyhow, I'll try and have my story posted ASAP... if I can't get it by 8 am AST on Sat morning, consider me Did Not Finish.




There is no 'try'....


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## Funeris (Sep 23, 2005)

...only do.  DO or DO NOT...

so...um...heh.  Any word on those judgements???  I saw that BSF sent his awhile ago.  My leg is paralyzed from the pins and needles I've been waiting on for a week now.  



~Fune


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## BSF (Sep 23, 2005)

Herobizkit said:
			
		

> Ack!  I knew this would happen...
> 
> I had Tue and Wed off, and I come back on Thu to see that the contest is already over?  Maybe it's not... guess I should have let everyone know, eh?
> 
> Anyhow, I'll try and have my story posted ASAP... if I can't get it by 8 am AST on Sat morning, consider me Did Not Finish.




Do as much as you can.  Even if you don't finish, post the story unfinished.  

That's my advice. Even an unfinished piece can have good material and you can still learn from the experience.


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## Bibliophile (Sep 23, 2005)

waiting for roud 6 to be posted.


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## Aris Dragonborn (Sep 24, 2005)

All I can say is, "Wow". 

These stories are fantastic. Great work guys.


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## Herobizkit (Sep 24, 2005)

Sadly, I didn't get as much done on this as I would have liked... work always interferes with my creative process.  I'll post what I have and, if judging permits, I'll try and get the rest done tonight.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Round One - Set Five
Herobizkit vs. Tolen Mar vs. maxfieldjadenfox

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

“Noon!”

I woke up with a start, and a hangover.  Damn boss, always tryin’ to keep me awake on the job.  It wasn’t a job, really.  More like a hobby, really; a hobby that don’t pay the bills, but keeps me off the street and outta the gutter.  As long as I made enough scratch to keep my tonsils wet with pleasure… and before you get all gross, I ain’t no fairy, but I love men like Jack Daniels and Johnny Walker… I was a happy sleazebag.

And a sleazebag is what I was, really.  I mean, what kinda job pays money to dig around in other people’s dirty laundry, lookin’ for that pair of shiny pan… ahem, “women’s undergarments”… that pinned a guy for another sleazebag?  I was a rat.  But I was damn good at bein’ a rat.  My name’s Jack Noon.  And I’m a private dick.

Now, don’t get me wrong.  I don’t just chase around cheatin’ husbands, or boyfriends.  I’ve chased a skirt or two in my day, and lemme tell ya… chasin’ skirts is much more dangerous than chasin’ two-timin’ men.  In more ways than one, lemme tell you.  Guys are easy to turn yellow… women ain’t nothin’ less than demons in people clothes.

I slid my loafers off the desk and knocked a can of pencils onto the floor, making a helluva racket.  The noise bounced around in my head a few times and the pain slammed me between the eyes.  Glancing from under the brim of my favorite fedora, I could see that it was only ten a.m.  Now, anyone that knows me (and there ain’t that many that do, or that can be bothered to stick around long enough to) knows that my last name ain’t really Noon.  The first boss I worked for gave me that nickname ‘cuz I was never awake before noon.  What most people didn’t know is I hardly slept at all… kept after my mark all night long.  While Johnny Sleazebag was passed out face-first in the chest of some dame, I’d be kickin’ in his door with my trusty camera and takin’ home some souvenirs.   If he got all up in my grill about it, well… I was more than able to kick in other things besides doors.

So I got up, and shuffled over to the sink I got rigged up in my office.  Damn office… it used to be some druggie’s crack house, but I got it cheap on police auction.  I’m usin’ the term “house” real loose here, too.  It was a single-story shack out in the ‘burbs, and it ain’t seen repairs since World War II.  Hell, there was no wall between my can and my living room; looked like someone threw some fat slob right through it.  So, what I did was kicked the rest of the plaster out and set up a nice Oriental blind-lookin’ thing… 

“Get in here, Noon!”  

Geez, what a grouch.  So anyways, I checked my face in the mirror, and saw that I looked like crap.  I ain’t shaved in a few days, and I got them big circles under my eyes that make me look like I got two big fat shiners.  I splashed some cold and dirty water on my face and presented myself forthwith to the Big Cheese.

“What’cha want, ya loudmouth bastard?”  I said politely.

“I want your sorry ass to head over to this address,” Vince Ortega says to me as he hands me a slip of paper.  Vinny O’s a good cat, for a black guy.  I gawked at the glare off his shiny, bald head as he rambled at me through his cigar.  His tobacco-stained teeth looked almost as black as he was, and he wore the same damn brown suit and faded yellow shirt every day.  I might get him a tie for Christmas; he never seems to have one.  He pointed his stubby finger at me and said, “Seems as though some broad needs us to find her dog.”

“You woke me up for that?”


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## mythago (Sep 24, 2005)

There is no editing...once you post, absent some kind of technical heave by the boards, you're entered


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## mythago (Sep 24, 2005)

Funeris said:
			
		

> ...only do.  DO or DO NOT...
> 
> so...um...heh.  Any word on those judgements???  I saw that BSF sent his awhile ago.  My leg is paralyzed from the pins and needles I've been waiting on for a week now.
> 
> ...




Waiting on one more Round One judgment.


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## mythago (Sep 24, 2005)

*Round One Set Six*

I believe we are down to our last two competitors.

Wild Gazebo vs. Bibliophile


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## Tolen Mar (Sep 24, 2005)

mythago said:
			
		

> I believe we are down to our last two competitors.
> 
> Wild Gazebo vs. Bibliophile




Not to make things seem worse for you two, but that to me seems like a pretty dull set of pictures.  

Good Luck!


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## maxfieldjadenfox (Sep 24, 2005)

Tolen Mar said:
			
		

> Not to make things seem worse for you two, but that to me seems like a pretty dull set of pictures.
> 
> Good Luck!




I don't know, the cars gave me an idea immediately... Wonder if Wild Gazebo or Bibliophile will go in the direction I'm imagining?


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## Tolen Mar (Sep 24, 2005)

Oh, Im not saying I couldnt write a story around them, but eh, I dont think Id like how it turned out.

However, I am suffering withdrawal...I wanna go edit my story soooo badly.


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## Herobizkit (Sep 25, 2005)

Geez, I would have rather quit than entered what I did.  I didn't even get far enough to reference any of the pics.

So it goes.


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## maxfieldjadenfox (Sep 25, 2005)

I'm sorry it didn't work out Herobizkit, it was a neat start... Maybe you'll finish it and post it anyway, even without the contest being a factor?


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## Maldur (Sep 25, 2005)

Sorry for the delay, but I send in the judgements for the first three sets, Ill get started on the rest, after I get some more coffee.

(I hate it when real life gets in the way of serious online lazying about)


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## Funeris (Sep 25, 2005)

Maldur said:
			
		

> (I hate it when real life gets in the way of serious online lazying about)




Heh.  You're not the only one that feels that way 
::Stands slowly, massaging pins and needles from leg, shouts for joy::



~Fune


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## mythago (Sep 26, 2005)

*Round One, Set One Judgment*

*BardStephenFox*
Funeris vs Macbeth

*Funeris - Checkmate*

OK, this is an interesting story.  Very fun!  It definitely appeals to the EN World Gamerati.  Kudos to writing to your audience.  But how about I add some actual critiquing in here? 
I like your opening.  You have some very evocative descriptions of the environment.  I like that you use the number of cigarette butts on the ground to help track time.  You describe the protagonist pretty well here.  I get the feeling that he is a bit weary and cynical.  But we never learn why.  For the confines of the story, perhaps you don't need to explain it.  But I do wonder about it. 
You have good conflict going on here as well.  There is the 'job' and then there is the revealed conflict between Destan and Ronaldo.  You keep the story moving along and it was fun to discover the real conflict of the story. 
I am conflicted here.  Some of the issues I would point out are the lack of depth.  The characters are just deep enough to be explainable.  The action is just useful enough to be entertaining.  The setting is just detailed enough to be usable.  But in the end, I think that these might not be valid complaints.  After all, you have written a piece of gaming fiction.  And you have done it in such a way that it is fleshed out enough to be 'playable', but might not quite pass muster for a solid piece of publishable fiction.  The kicker is that you are writing a parody.  I can imagine writing out a series of game notes with this degree of depth.  When we get to the end of the story, it comes out almost exactly like a game.  So rather than criticizing you for not breathing more life into everything, I think I should be applauding you for cleverly poking fun at our hobby. 
The story is a fun read.  You bring in a lot of in-jokes.  The more I know about EN World & gaming, the more amusing the story is.  So I give you high marks on writing some amusing gamer fiction. 
But Ceramic DM is more than just writing.  It also involves integrating the pictures!  So how well did you do? 
The weakest picture is the quarry.  I am left with the feeling that the endgame could have taken place just about anywhere.  As a result, the quarry has no more significance than any other location in the story. 
The crocodile head wasn't too bad.  I think using it as a mask is a little weaker than it needs to be.  But you did a good job integrating the picture throughout the story via the Cult of Sebek.

'The Prez' was a bit fun.  I was afraid it would end up being mostly a throwaway.  Having the pic represent her explosion was fun in a gory sort of way.

The censer was very good!  You made it an important piece of the story since it was containing the souls of the victims. 
In all, I very much enjoyed the story.  It isn't a classic piece of fiction, but then Ceramic DM isn't a classic sort of writing contest.  You have written to your audience and you have done so pretty well.  Your picture use isn't outstanding, but it is competent.  Please don't take that too harshly though.  I have high expectations for handing out really high marks for picture use.  In all, I had fun and that is a wonderful quality to have in a story.  Thanks for writing it!

*Macbeth - Election*

*sniff* *sniff*
Is that the smell of social commentary laced with bitterness?

What a ludicrous premise!  I dig it. 
OK, your opening is pretty good at drawing the reader in.  I would like a little more description of the theater.  This is the main arena for the story and it deserves a little more detail.  It's an abandoned theater, but is just dusty from being closed for a while?  does it smell?  What condition are the seats in?  You flesh it out a bit more throughout the story, but a little more detail early would be nice. 
Jamis could use a little more depth as well I think.  You tell us he is crazy, but we don't really see it.  For that matter, we don't see much of the insanity of the rest of the 'candidates' either.  It is a difficult balance for this story I think.  It is a short story so you don't want to overdo the detail, but a little more coupld be helpful here.  I think I would approach it from the standpoint of a television screenplay.  You want to briefly describe the actions of the vagrants in the theater so an extra could act them out, but not so much as to bog down the story. 
I find the entire explanation of MUMU to be amusing, but possibly unnecessary.  I suspect it is intended to show two things.  First of all, that Jamis will have someplace to go 'home' to before the next day.  He has an organization he is part of and that sets him apart from the rest of the 'candidates'.  You are also drawing a parallel with presidential committees that help buttress a candidate enough to get through primaries and the like.  The story is short enough that it isn't a distraction. But if you are going to go for satire, there is no reason not rip into MUMU.  Jamis' sycophants should have walked home with him while showering him with praise. 
You have a nice satirical piece here.  Looking over it though, I think the pictures detract from the story. 
Like Funeris, your use of the censer is the strongest picture.  Spewing forth it's wisdom, which isn't listened to in a rush to make a decision, the lamp is an interesting metaphor. 
The use of the quarry is weak since it isn't even a location of any real importance.  The limited chamber beneath the quarry is more important, but only marginally so.  The quarry ends up being a piece of background scenary, and that's it.

The crocodile is worse.  It serves no purpose in driving the story anywhere.  I'm not sure how you could have made it relevant, perhaps as a metaphor elsewhere in the story?

'The Prez' was evocative in usage.  But ultimately you have used it to introduce a character that serves no purpose beyond window dressing.  Fortunately, the picture has many elements.  Using the background people as the Powers that Be is good.  If you had used the woman as a more relevant character, I would have given you high marks for this picture.

I think you would have written a stronger story without including the quarry or the crocodile.  As it is, both elements provide a distraction from the main flow of the story. 
I think you could tighten the story up a bit, rip out the bits that you only included because the contest compels you to include them, and then submit the story for publication.   Perhaps at the local university paper?  Despite some of the nitpicks, I also enjoyed reading this story.  Thanks for posting it.  Now I need to start looking for more words to alliterate with.  

*Comparison*
Funeris provides parody, Macbeth provides satire.  Both stories are enjoyable.  Both have strengths.  There are weaknesses in the picture use for both stories.  This is one of those rounds that I wish I could advance both contestants.  But I can't, so I have to choose.

[sblock]If one of the stories had stronger picture use, it would be easy.  But I think the picture use for both is pretty close.  I enjoyed Funeris' story.  But I enjoyed Macbeth's story just a bit more.  I've got to go with Macbeth on this one.[/sblock]


*Maldur*
Round One, Set One contestants
reveal vs. Funeris vs. Macbeth

Funeris
Chtulu, insane rbdm's, egyptian gods, and a double cross

Macbeth
Cutting political remarks in disguise, bum's, odd elections and "low keys"
secret societies.


My judgement: [sblock]Macbeth, for a more readable story, great flow and a nice
twist in the story.[/sblock]


*Rodrigo Istalindir*
Round 1 Match 1 Reveal v Funeris v Macbeth

Reveal - Scratch

Funeris - Checkmate

This story starts strongly, and immediately establishes a very nice rhythm.  The prose is descriptive yet economical, and the dialogue between Ronaldo and D-man rings true.  The line "You know I don't do paranormal" is marvelous, setting up a character history with a minimum of effort.  The first paragraph of the second act ("Morning of the eighteenth...") is also exceptional.  The scene with the doomed girl is nicely done, and includes the strongest picture use in the story.  Shades of Alien and Monty Python.

The setup proves stronger than the resolution, however.   The school administrator seems unrealistically willing to cooperate with a gun-toting stranger, and this is the kind of jarring event that hurts momentum.   The quarry setting comes across perfunctory, included because of the picture instead of being part of the natural flow of the plot.   The resolution with D-man seems to be part of a in-joke, or at least, there wasn't sufficient back story to give you the 'A-ha!' moment it needs.

Picture use is decent, given the relatively tame and mundane images.  The exploding girl is a perfect Ceramic DM use, creative without ignoring an element of the picture, and integral to the story.  The quarry is a throw-away.  The croc head is Ok, but a bit of a stretch to use it as a shapeshifter when there are no humanoid elements.  Still, you get credit for not just using it as the necklace.  The incense was a difficult picture, and it is worked into the scene reasonably well.

Macbeth - Election

Ah, satire.  Hard to pull off, even harder when it's overtly political.  Here we have an 'election' with a mystic oracle picking the leader of the free world from the ranks of the forgotten.  The prose is workman-like, not spectacular, but functional.  Jamis' speech is the highlight, and is pitch-perfect.  The ending is laugh-out-loud funny.

The brevity of the story hurts it, though.  This is an intriguing premise, but it suffers from not being grounded in time or place.  The 'what' and 'how' are covered, but the 'why' is missing, and that would be the most interesting part, I think.

Picture use is average.  It leads off with the best picture, an afflicted homeless woman auditioning for President.  The next two are perfunctory -- the quarry base of MUMU and the croc mascot.  The latter was a missed opportunity -- the urban legend of gators in the sewers could have played into the homeless protagonists.  The censer is better, absolutely integral to the story and part of the sly ending.

Judgement:
[sblock]
Macbeth gets credit for swinging for the fences and taking a chance, but the story never reaches its potential.  Funeris starts strong and finishes a little weak, but he has the single best picture use of the match, and a more polished story with some excellent prose.  Judgement:  Funeris[/sblock]


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## Funeris (Sep 26, 2005)

"Shades of Alien and Monty Python". . .Well, I did just rewatch the _Holy Grail_ last night 

There were a lot of in jokes and I tried to make it fun.  I also realized that while the setup was good...that my resolution lacked.  As I stated earlier in the thread I ended up going back and cutting some of the dialog (which really screwed it up).  

So...eh.

Congrats Macbeth on two of the votes.  

~Fune


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## Macbeth (Sep 26, 2005)

I just got back from an all-weekend Rugby Tournament in Flagstaff (7+ hours away in a big ol' van), so I haven't done more then scan the judgements, but thanks to the judges, and thanks to Funeris for a great round.

This week isn't preferable for a next round, I'd prefer to wait to start on Sunday (a week from today), but if the judges and conestants are ready before then, I can go anytime this week.


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## Wild Gazebo (Sep 26, 2005)

Cracked Pavement

by

Wild Gazebo

Image One​
366 Emaner Street.  Shifting patterns of French quarter mingled with the rich aroma of fried shrimp and gutter coloured my future.  I can still hear the buzzing echoes of the quiet city street.  The bitter calls of my frustrated Mother tasted of sweet bread upon the wind--but always to that empty hall.  That last scourge of emotional battery before the stovetop warmth and wolf-mother wallpaper.  That lonely chair ensconced in brick amidst the tempered forbearance of our callused hands and bitter regret.  That temple of loss.

…​
Stepping across the spiked tent wires I study my kaleidoscopic horizon:  modern nomads.  Grease splattered, hydraulic motored, grift minded mobile symphony of discarded bacchanals mingle in appropriated busyness--culling the public herd and quenching the thirst of the innocent and bored.  A quivering smirk creeps across my face as I bow below the canvas entrance of my office.   It is just as I left it.  The cot is neatly made with the blankets tightly wound into hospital corners.  My regalia are curtly folded into my battered blue trunk with worn green bronze filigree.  The single oil lamp rests gingerly upon an upended apple-crate placed adjacent to the head of my bed.  Eliot’s _Waste Land _ weighs down my foam pillow:  breeding lilacs out of the dead land.

After carefully paralleling my soft leather shoes amidst my other footwear, I calmly take the three steps to the edge of my bed, make a smooth practiced quarter turn and sit.  Smoothing down the folds of my trousers in fixed rapidity I lie back upon the tight structure of the cot.  I stare at the yellow, red, pink, blue, and green facets of my canvas ceiling and pretend I can control the undulating wind that ripples my rainbow world.

Image Two​
…​
Three, six, six.  It wasn’t just a street number…it was a calling card.  It always felt like a beacon—a grotesque mockery of everything that I didn’t want the world to know.  I could hear them whisper…_poor, poor Emannuel_.  Why did she always keep that chair there?  I guess it is all she had left of him.

It was a good place to grow up nevertheless.  I always had people to play with, not friends, just other children whose mothers held sway over playtime with a lordly wooden spoon.  There was no mockery, or ill will, just quiet perplexity with a dab of uncertainty and a great deal of pity.  Pity from the eyes of a small child:  emotional make-up to paint the void of certainty until time fills the cracks.

I didn’t waste my youth with the regrets of what was.  I traveled on as only I knew how.  I learned to appreciate the space between, the vastness of everything and the wonder of nothing.

…​
I clinically examine Sasha as she gracefully steps off of me.  The gentle rippling of her attuned muscles manipulate her frame through the space of my room.  She arcs over like a young willow and redresses in her bright red gown delicately tying it about her waist.  Cradling her head down and to the right, she looks at me as I lie watching her.  No smile, no lust, no look of connection graces the room.  I reach over and douse the lamp watching the smoke dance in the flickering florescent light that escapes from the world as Sasha leaves the tent.  The darkness is my friend.

Dawn paints my room like a psychedelic glow-worm.  I reach for the lamp; first to the right and then to the left, touching each side exactly the same way so as not to imbalance my day.  The dawn light is bright through the canvas but not strong enough to read by.  I leaf through my book coaxing memory and desire:  shoring the fragments against my ruins.  Pieces of me become the work and pieces of me stay in my tent.  It is a short read.  I reach down underneath my cot and lift out my diary from the shadowy underbelly of the bed.  Flipping through the hundreds of pages toward the end of my current volume; scores and scores of tick-marks darken the pages.  I carefully draw the pen from the fold on the spine and make a small mark behind the last mark I made.  Everything seems to be in order.

…​
I met Sasha when I was but fifteen--she was much older but she never seemed to age.  I was standing just down the lane.  In front of a red bricked café I was showing some of the block kids how I was able to grow a moustache.  I had just carefully groomed the thin sickly lip fur and was more than a little smug about the possibility of buying some spirits off of old Bill down at the Dime.  Sasha had heard my adolescent boasting and sauntered over.  She brushed past the other children and laid a smouldering caress upon my neck and face--speaking like a temptress and moving like a serpent.  Coiling her finger around my collar she led me down the road.

The day became a blur of flirting and adventure.  We stopped at local shops and stole sweets and cigarettes--making no effort at modesty or subtlety.  We stampeded the boulevard like drunken cattle laughing and yelling--ending up choking on bourbon late into the evening.  Sasha has somewhere acquired dark glasses and two fine hats as we were waiting in the sitting room of an upscale burlesque down town.  She took one that looked awkwardly like a matador’s cap and crushed it onto my head while she fished out the two last cigarettes and placed one in each of our mouths.  The two cigarettes burned in unison hanging from the edge of our lips.  It made me wonder how light can only fill the darkness for but a short time.

Image Three​
Lacquered mahogany, silken frills, soft skin, burning liquor, and jasmine became but fragments upon my shore.

…​
Fully dressed in my bright yellow, red, and white mockeries, I skip toward the grandstands through the throng of people.  No thought of happiness or sadness clouds my mood--I skip for the watchers:  the children and the elderly.  Playing the crowd I am able to escape notice and secure attention.  I filter from one gag to another adjusting a small amount of time for a dabbling of theft and a smattering of lounging.  My eyes read the faces of the times and take in the meaning of the rippling motions of the liquid people.  Making my way to the top of the grandstands, the peak of the extravaganza, I take in the wholeness of my world.  The drunken azure sky sparks my vision with a wonder of emptiness, leading to a dun horizon of earthiness, sprinkling to a paved greyness.  

Two vehicles stand out amidst the paved greyness.  Two cars smashed in the fore.  Two machines driven forward and disabled by what got in the way.  Two vessels seemingly uninjured in the rear yet still commissioned to stay put—side by side, until they can be dealt with.  Two objects that enrapture my white and grey interest until the cusp of dawn. 

Image Four​
Accumulating my shores of ruin.


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## Bibliophile (Sep 27, 2005)

My story follows, but I have a feeling a few words will be hit by the "grandma-unfriendly" censor, so I've also included a .pdf version.  They really are necessary for the tone/atmosphere.

Without further ado, I present:  Good Advice

********************

Good Advice

Somehow, getting shot always seems to ruin my day.

It was supposed to be a normal day at work.  The house call was a bit out of my way, but I needed the money, so I dutifully got in my car and drove for hours to Charlotte, Vermont—right off of Lake Champlain.

I found the house without a problem.  Everything was just like the descriptions: stately Victorian columns, white siding on everything with a coat of drab grey on the walls, a walkway leading straight up to the door, and an expansive, green ranch for miles around.  It was perfect.  I pulled up to the driveway and got out.  Knocking on the door, I checked myself in a pocket mirror, I looked beautiful.  To top things off, it was an amazing blue-sky day, and I was about to hit pay dirt.

The lady who answered the door was exactly who I expected.  I opened up with some small chit-chat, before going on to the business at hand: her life insurance policy.  I knew she didn’t have one, not that it was urgent for her—she was only fifty three.  Yet, I knew she had a brother in Brooklyn: a successful banker, and quite rich, just the same as I knew she hated it when her brother helped her with money; her brother was always helping her with money.  I did my homework, and I knew how to approach my mark.

Soon enough, I had convinced her that I had a policy suited just for her, and she invited me in.  I tripped over the doorway, making enough noise in catching myself that anyone else in the house would hear; from the lack of response, I guessed that nobody else was.

The two of us sat down at her living room table and I opened my briefcase to remove a small stack of papers.  She looked at them for a moment, obviously starting to entertain second thoughts, so to distract her, I asked for a cup of water, claiming the heat outside had gotten to me a bit.

She stood up and walked to the kitchen.

I stood up and followed her.

She didn’t notice me.  They never do.  I slit her throat as she was pouring the cup.  I let the water filter fall to the ground behind me as I made my way out of that house.

I decided to take the back exit, just in case someone was out there.  There was, but I never saw him.  One moment I was passing by rows of tie-dye shirts, apparently ready for sale, and the next I was on the ground, my mind reeling as my blood poured out of the new hole in my shoulder and onto the trimmed lawn.  I felt the shooter prod me in the back just before I lost consciousness. *picture 3*

I didn’t take any jobs for a while after that.  Regardless of my own injury, I completed my task, and the pay from that was good enough to last a whole six months.  Once that ended though, I started looking around again.  I needed work, and I was going to find it and carry it through, healed shoulder or not.

It was another two years before I had a big one.  I was sitting at the bar in a club down in Sydney.  The job was on one of the local bigwigs.  The guy had made some serious enemies during his career, but I never asked why.  Only the rookies ask why.  In any case, he was heading out of the country soon, and I was biding my time until he started heading to the airport.  The bar was close enough that it would be a short drive down to the airport, and I’d still have enough time to plant the poison in the pre-packed meals that would be loaded on the plane by that time.

I went over the plan again in my mind.  It was flawless.  Once again, I had done my homework.

Fate had a different plan however.  I was watching the television above the bar when I heard the screeching of metal coming from outside.  Every last bit of attention in that bar became focused on the door, and half the people jumped up to see what was happening.

Needless to say, I was one of them.

You know how sometimes you have bad days?  And sometimes you have worse days?  And then there are some days that manage to be so incredibly god-awful that you just can’t believe it?

This was one of those days.

I stood amidst the crowd in the doorway of the bar, watching as the front of my car, and part of the car parked next to it in the number twenty-seven spot, began to deform.  The hood started buckling as the metal framework of the car seemed to bend back in on the engine compartment.  The headlights shattered.  A tire came off of its wheel as the hubcap was deformed into oblivion.  Then, just as suddenly as it had started, it all ended.  My car looked like it had been hit, front-on, with a semi.  The SUV next to it didn’t look much better, but I didn’t care about it.  The only thing flashing through my mind was the fact that somehow my ride had been totaled—in a very strange way.  It would be an understatement to say that I felt something amiss.  *picture 4*

Apparently the entire bar, or at least those close enough to the doorway to see, felt the same way.  The silence that had settled on the place at the first sound of the metal deforming was shed, as best humans can, by a loud, shrill, piercing scream, the kind of scream that as a kid you’re sure has the power to wake the dead.

Two things became very clear to me—firstly something had seriously begun to screw with me, to my detriment, and secondly, I didn’t understand a bit of how or why.  I needed a place to go—a place to catch up with reality and decide on a new course of action.  The job was as good as gone; there was no way I could make it to the airport on time now.

I started running.

It took me a while on foot, but I finally reached the relative safety of #336, a nondescript, drab, grey building off of the Pacific Highway.  This was my safe house.  I could stop and think here.

Climbing up the front stairs, and making my way to the bedroom to collapse on the bed, I tried to do just that: stop and think.  I even managed it for a bit, before I was interrupted.

I never heard the door to the bedroom open.  The first I knew that he was there was when he sat down next to my feet on the bed, and I turned over with a start.

“Where the hell did you come from?”

“I didn’t.”  He looked like he was young, maybe seven or eight years younger than me, and he wore a black beret with a plaid shirt.  He looked vaguely Spanish.

I sat up.  “Look, I don’t know what that’s supposed to mean, and I sure don’t know who you are, so why don’t you tell me something about yourself real quick now.”

“I was clear, I didn’t come from anywhere.  I’ve always been here.”

“For how long?  You must have been waiting for me to get back.”

“Not here in this room, but here as in watching you.  And always.”

I had a sinking feeling in my gut.  This guy had me under surveillance and I never knew it.

“Who put you up to it?”

“Who?  Who do you think?  It was the old man.  He said you needed some looking after.”

If things were strange a moment before, they had just become downright weird.  I’d never heard of any “old man,” and I certainly couldn’t imagine why anyone I’d never heard of would want me under surveillance.

“Look gal,” he moved over and sat down next to me on my right, “Here, have a drag.”  He pulled out a pair of fags, and handed me one, taking the other for himself.  It took him a moment to find a lighter, and we sat there in silence on the bed, as the smoke began to thread its way around the dimly lit room, making everything seem even more colorless than it had before. *picture 1*

“There’s something you’ve got to understand,” he began.  “It’s time you found out about something.”  He jabbed me in the shoulder with his left index finger, right on top of the scar that bullet had left, some two and a half years earlier.  “You’ve had a string of luck, the way I see it.  You were left for dead in a field in Vermont, and you still made it back from that.  Even now, you were determined to go get yourself killed by the security force at the airport that you didn’t know was in place, but your car gets itself some serious issues, and you come down here, trying to figure out what’s going on.”

I starred at him dumbly now, more out of shock than anything else.  He continued though.

“Now, I know you aren’t religious, heck, you haven’t even looked seriously at a church since your father died when you were six, but even you have to admit that it looks like you’re being watched out for.  Well, there’s a thing about that;  you only get so many ‘Get out of Hell’ cards free Hon, and that was your last one, earlier today.  If I were you, I’d do some serious thinking about your life, and figure out really quickly just how many chances you really want to keep taking…”

I came to, and it was seven a.m. the next morning.  He was nowhere to be found.  My memories from the day before were a bit hazy, but I remembered enough to give my therapist a call.  We chatted for a bit, and within two more appointments, I was on a new drug that would, sure-thing, get rid of my hallucinations, once and for all.  I kept on living my life.

********************

“And damnit, you better take me more seriously than I took him myself!”  I yelled at the youth.  He stared back, baggy clothes and tattoos marking him as a ganger.  “It took me three thousand years to pay off my debt, and you’re going to be facing the same, or worse, if you don’t get your sorry ass in order, and there won’t be any way I’ll be saving you again.  There’s only so much a guardian angel can do!”  I slapped him.  That seemed to shake him out of his stupor, and he slowly nodded his head.  I could tell he was giving my words careful consideration.  Finally though, he nodded his head.

“All right lady, you know things about me that I can’t figure out how you learned, no matter how I try thinking about it.  Plus, you scare me, damn bad.  I’ll work on it.”  As he started walking away, I knew I had gotten through to him, and that he’d not need my services again.

One more time, I returned back to #336.  The grey, drab, brick walls looked not a bit different than they did the day I threw my life away.  Hell, that might even have been the same chair there, just inside the screen door. *picture 2*

I never did see him again, my old angel.  But that was where it started.  It took me three thousand years of punishment to repent for my sins, and when I was done, well, since I’ve been done, I’ve been doing what I can to help out those who really need it.  After all, you know the saying: if you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em.


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## mythago (Sep 27, 2005)

Waiting on a few more judges' decisions and then we'll post some more winners.


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## Wild Gazebo (Sep 27, 2005)

Oops.  I guess I should mention that my images are ordered in the sequence I used them...not from which they appeared.  They should link to the proper images.


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## RangerWickett (Sep 28, 2005)

As a quick side discussion to keep this thread alive while we wait for judgments, who here has a storyhour or other ongoing story that readers might be interested in? I imagine if someone wins the CDM competition, he or she has to be a pretty good storyteller, so why not advertise your storyhour? That way, when you win (and we all know you're going to win, aren't you?), people will be able to read even more fiction by you. *grin*


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## Tolen Mar (Sep 28, 2005)

Interesting you should mention that...Ive been thinking of doing a story hour for our iron Heroes game.

In fact, there might be 2 camps turned into fiction.


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## maxfieldjadenfox (Sep 29, 2005)

Well, I'm always working on something, but the only published work I've done has been in the form of books for the kiddies, so the grown up stuff is unfamiliar territory... A story hour might be fun. (just what I need, another "hobby" to keep me away from my "real work")


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## Funeris (Sep 29, 2005)

Well, I've already been disqualified...but heh...if anyone enjoyed my writing I have a couple story hours.  The Blade of Phoee is updated pretty regularly...just about every day when I'm not suffering from writer's block...The Heroes of Marchford is one that I get around to updating on occasion...and Valus +20 is actually Yeti's story hour...but I drop in to coauthor some days as well.

::Returns to sobbing in the corner alone, naked and broken::



~Fune


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## Funeris (Sep 29, 2005)

And P.S. - If you don't want to read a grim mature (well as mature as I can make it for EnWorld) story (read as: you are easily offended) then enter at your own risk...there are disclaimers all over the thread....

PDFs of the first two chapters can be found on page 6 (Blade of Phoee).

::Truly returns to the corner to bawl::



~Fune


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## Rodrigo Istalindir (Sep 29, 2005)

Sorry for my tardiness, folks.  I knew work was going to suck through the end of the month.  I had to resort to printing the stories and trying to read them on Metro.  Match 2 judgement sent, the rest will be in tomorrow.   I hate to be slow, but I'd hate more to not give these the attention they deserve.

I'm off double-duty as of Friday, though, so subsequent rounds I should be much more punctual.


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## Bibliophile (Sep 30, 2005)

Had to rescue this from page 3.

Any chance we can get some judgements anytime?


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## tadk (Oct 1, 2005)

*OT about Story Hours*

While I am waiting for the Judgement
Are Story Hours strictly fm peoples games or serial fiction...


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## Sialia (Oct 1, 2005)

Bored with waiting for judges now.

How about we revive the ancient pastime of commenting on each others stories?

I liked both of my competitors stories.

My initial strategy consisted of hoping RangerWickett would invent such a beautifully intricate tale that he would never complete it in time and be forced to skip or summarize his ending, thus leaving me with only one foe to worry about.

Sadly this Mexican standoff strategy failed utterly because the son of a birch managed to fit the entire eloquent and complex thought into the allotted space and time.

And while I am standing dumbfounded with jealousy by its beauty, Yangnome went and shot me in the back. 

Which is not to say I count myself out of the running for this match yet, but that I was initially extremely pleased to be stuck in an agony of not knowing how the judging will go. I love a close match and worthy competition.

Initially, I say, because the ache is getting numb at this point. Can't . . . hold  . . on .. much  . . longer . . .


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## Sialia (Oct 1, 2005)

Also, Macbeth--that was "worry" in the good sense. In the event I am judged worthy to face you in a later round, I'm worried.

What I most like in a story, apart from good characters and clever dialogue and a plot that respects the intelligence of the audience, is that it should add up to soemthing. It should be _about_  something--not just about what happened, but why I should care about what has happened in the story. The sort of a something that is true--the whole story can be fluff and fantasy, but if what it is about it true, then it moves to a higher level. You got there. 

I had trouble getting to the fantasy part this round--I've been so grounded in reality lately (Katrina has taken me past the bounds of all fictional horror, steampunk, cyberpunk, government conspiracy, crime, science fiction, historical fantasy--reality sometimes makes fiction seem really shabby) -- it's been hard to get loose to the level where metaphors turn into funhouse mirrors to see ourselves differently in, or even to where illusions become safe havens from stress. Or to where humor takes the edge off of pain.

 RangerWickett didn't have any trouble doing it all, of course. Thank goodness, one way or another, I won't have to face _him _ again this season.


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## maxfieldjadenfox (Oct 1, 2005)

tadk said:
			
		

> While I am waiting for the Judgement
> Are Story Hours strictly fm peoples games or serial fiction...




That's a good question, and I never saw an answer... BardStephenFox and I have done a couple of fun tag team stories for our D&D game, is it that kind of stuff, or anything you want to write and post? Inquiring minds want to know.


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## orchid blossom (Oct 1, 2005)

Story Hours...

The vast majority are people's tabletop games written out.  There are lots of different styles, but most people try to make them read mostly like a story.  Some include lots of notes from the table, others don't.  It might be written by the GM and be a faithful accounting, it might be written like a particular players journal.  You have to sample to find out.

The one I am doing right now is from a pbp, so it's pretty much just what the players wrote, arranged to flow correctly.

I believe there are a couple story hours that are serialized fiction, but not many.


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## tadk (Oct 1, 2005)

*OT: Story Hour*

Well since I have no games going on at this time
the perception I have of a story hour does not fit my current situation

So time to re-read the other postings and make some comments...Off to see either Serenity or Flightplan here in a short while



Would anyone care if another serialized fiction piece was started or not


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## maxfieldjadenfox (Oct 1, 2005)

Thanks, Orchid Blossom! I looked at a couple but wasn't sure they were representative of the whole thread. Boy, for somebody who lurked on this site for as long as I did before posting, I sure don't know much. >g<


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## BSF (Oct 2, 2005)

Bibliophile said:
			
		

> Had to rescue this from page 3.
> 
> Any chance we can get some judgements anytime?




Life has been kicking me aorund a lot this week.  But I finally sent off something to Mythago.  I will try to do more catchup later this weekend.


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## mythago (Oct 2, 2005)

*Judgment - Round 1, Set 2*

*BardStephenFox*

*Aris Dragonborn - The Justicar*

You have a good story here.  It has good pacing, good action and
interesting characters.  I enjoyed reading it.  This is not to say that
the story doesn't have room for improvement, because it does.  But I
wanted to start with my first impression of the story.

Your opening needs a little work.  It includes description and dialog,
but doesn't drive the story forward.  I think you could cut out the
conversation with the old man by summarizing the exchange.  The
introduction of Lilith is a bit confusing.  Does Daniel see her
reflection in the mirror or is her imagfe literally in the mirror?  If
Lilith isn't in the bathroom herself, is she leaning forward out of the
mirror?  You can clarify this and strengthen the introduction of the
character.  I want to be concentrating on who Lilith is, not where she
really is.

You do a good job creating conflict on multiple levels.  There is the
obvious conflict between Mordred and Daniel.  Then there is Daniel
trying to overcome his fear.  I like that you have created parallel
conflicts.

The characterization is good, but it could be a little stronger.  Some
of Lilith's mannerisms and actions don't quite ring true for me.  Daniel
is pretty consistent.  I did have a problem with how easily Mordred was
able to sneak up on Daniel.  Clearly Daniel was expecting the
possibility of trouble, but if Lilith hadn't been there, Mordred would
have been well positioned to end the fight immediately.  It is a
difficult balance to maintain because you don't want the protagonist to
appear as too competent.  I think you could have simply relied on the
fear aspects to show he has weaknesses though.

In all, it is a good story with some places that could be polished up
and improved.  So now we move on to how well the pictures are integrated.

You used the picture of the girl to introduce Lilith.  It is an unusual
introduction, but it works.  You didn't simply rely on the picture for
description.  You did describe Lilith within the story.  I would have
liked it better if you had explained her unusual makeup, but it was
still a solid picture.

The photo booth was the second picture.  You don't adequately explain
why it is better to step outside to a forgotten photo booth to discuss
Mordred. As a result, the picture use is weakened.  They could have
stepped outside to a phone booth, or even to Daniel's car.

The ice covered telescope is your next picture.  Your descriptive
language is strong, but you don't follow it up with a compelling reason
why the fog is moving in and the telescope is frosted.  Does the ice
herald the end of the world?  Or is Daniel just letting his fear get to
him?

The stone chair ends up being scene dressing.  I was expecting there to
be some sort of symbology with the chair to make it somewhat relevant.
As it is, it could have been a log or a boulder just as easily as a chair.

Your picture use is competent, but it isn't particularly strong.  The
best Ceramic DM stories cleanly integrate the pictures as vital pieces
of the story.  It is not easy to do this, but that is the challenge of
the contest.

You still have a good story here and I enjoyed it.  But your story could
be a little stronger and your picture use could be better.  I really
hope to see more stories from you in the future!

[]SteelDraco - _A Day's Work_[/b]

This is a creative story.  You have taken the pictures and then created
an odd explanation for them.  An entity that eats color and leaves
things transparent is kind of neat.

The problem is a less than compelling conflict component.  There is some
mystery as to what the entity is, but the discovery of Suzette resolves
it pretty quickly.  Your strength with the story is your description and
dialog.  But the conflict doesn't create enough tension to actively
engage me as I read the story.  This lack of tension hurts the story.

There is a slight flaw to the logic of the story.  Michael steals the
jackets from Suzette's house.  It appears that he has done this because
they are black and he thinks it will offer some protection from the
entity.  This isn't a bad idea, but when compared against the pictures
it appears to be more an effort to fit the frost picture into the
story.  However, you already establish that the containment device has a
side effect of making the area cold.  Given that Sam is a genius, it
doesn't make much sense that they don't already have cold protective gear.

My point is that you didn't need to have Michael steal the jackets to
justify the scene.  You could have established the dark figures based on
the qualities of the containment device.  Michael's actions in the
context of the story seemed odd and weakly motivated to me.  In
retrospect you didn't need to include them at all since the color of the
jackets doesn't play any significant part in the story.

Keep in mind that this didn't ruin the story, but it is a weak component
you could revisit and strengthen.

How about your picture use?

Your first picture is the stone bench.  The bench itself isn't
significant but you use the scene as an opportunity to introduce
Suzette.  She just happens to be invisible so the picture is significant
for what it doesn't show.  Very cleverly done!  I appreciated it.

The second picture used was the made up Suzette so she is visible.  You
weaved in aspects of the picture into a believable motivation.

The significance of the containment unit being iced over is decent.  It
isn't the strongest use, but it isn't bad either.

The usage of the last picture as a storefront works.  Fortunately you
have established throughout the story that the entity eats color.  So it
leaves the picture with some significance as the characters witness the
entity at work.

Overall this is good picture use.  You were creative with a few of the
pictures and retained significance for the rest.

It was a fun story and I enjoyed it.  If you do revisit the story in the
future, I would encourage you to try to increase the tension with more
conflict as well as rethinking whether you need Michael to lift the
coats from Suzette's house.

*tadk - In Periphery*
Tadk takes a chance with poetic symbology in his submission.  At least
that is what it seems like to me.  This tale seems more like freeform
poetry than anything else.  I must be honest here, freeform poetry is
not a vehicle I particularly like.  Nor is it one I feel particularly
well-equipped to comment on.

The tale did not engage me enough to hold my interest.  I found myself
wanting to skip forward and find something that piqued my interest.
This is a bad sign and it considerably weakens your message.  In my
case, I think it obfuscated it completely.

This is not to say there aren't strengths to your submission.  You have
some wonderfully evocative language.  It might be a little overdone, but
maybe not.  I do like that you tried to tie everything in with a theme.
Unfortunately I think that the pictures may have been too creatively
constrictive.

You have some strong picture use.  The weakest one is, perhaps, the
photo place.  I do like the bench sitting in the sun, but holding the
cold of winter.  In any event, all the pictures are well used within the
context of your submission.  That was well done.

You obviously put a lot of effort into this.  I cannot find the cadence
or the hook to really engage me and reveal what your message is.  I'm
really sorry for that because your langauge is evocative enough that I
really wish I did understand what you are trying to convey.  I have a
feeling that if I heard you read it aloud, things would fall into place
better.   But even when I tried to read it aloud to myself, I still
couldn't make sense of everything.

As I said, the format is not one that I like so keep that in mind when
reading my comments.  It might be that I am not the target audience and
I completely missed what you were trying to say.

*Comparison*[sblock]
For me the decision is between _The Justicar_ and _A Day's
Work_.  Both stories have strengths and flaws.  I can go back and
forth pointing out comparative elements and I still won't come to a
clear decision. In this case I think SteelDraco has a little better
picture use.  This is Ceramic DM and the significance of the pictures is
a big component.  In that light, I must toss my vote to SteelDraco's
_A Day's Work_.[/sblock]


*Rodrigo Istalindir*
Aris Dragonborn - The Justicar

This story feels like a small part of a greater whole, dropping the reader into the middle of a larger saga.  This can be an effective technique, giving a short story the weight and detail of a larger work.  It can also work against you, confusing the reader or presuming knowledge of details that don't come across.  'The Justicar' falls somewhere in the middle.  The author does a good job of introducing the characters and setting the stage for the action to follow.  It's weaker, though, when it comes to establishing the back story.  We get the impression of an eternal battle between powerful forces, but the details that would create a framework to hang the story on are missing.  Is Lilith the mythical demoness?  The supposed first wife of Adam?  Or is it just a name?  The same for Mordred.   If the choice of names was supposed to be literal, then more back story is necessary to link the disparate elements.  If the names are just names, then they set expectations that the sto!
 ry doesn't meet.   The hints and tease of an epic story don't really play out.  The bulk is a fight scene between Daniel and Mordred, with Daniel overcoming his fear and emerging victorious.  The transition, though, seemed forced.

It's unfortunate that the elements of the story aren't up to the writing, the fight scene in particular.  This kind of action can be hard to do without being repetitive or boring, but here the pacing and prose are evocative and effective.  Overall, the writing is solid, with only a few awkward turns of phrase.

Picture use is average.  The picture of the girl introduces Lilith, but there is no explanation for the makeup.  The photo booth is a throw-away, used as a backdrop and nothing more.  The frost-covered telescope is a little better, but more explanation of 'why' would have made it stronger.  The stone bench, too, is merely window dressing.  Nothing bad here, but nothing really clever or inspired, either.

tadk - In Periphery

Judging this story gave me fits.  Very non-traditional, especially for Ceramic DM.  Almost more poem than prose, there is some superb imagery and exceptional lyric phrases.  "This is the heart of winter when spirits and aliens walk the land in search of what it is they think they want."  I'm not entirely sure what the author was getting at, but it definitely evokes a reaction from me and sticks in my head.  An elegy to the seasons, I think, but so elliptical that even after several readings I'm not sure I have a real idea of what the author was trying to convey.  Not that that's a bad thing -- something challenging and multi-facted is welcome.

But.

But as interesing as this was, and as beautiful and intriguing as the writing, it lacks the narrative flow that is almost required by Ceramic DM.   The pictures are all used well, in that they reflect what is in the text, but they lack any grounding in a plot.  Much like using the pictures in a dream sequence or virtual reality can be considered a cop-out at times, here the abstract nature of the tale makes it seem like the pictures were shoehorned into the story, rather than inspiring and driving the writing.

SteelDraco - A Day's Work

A nice little story in the X-files/Bureau 13 motif.  The tone is spot-on, with the right mix of techno-babble, hard-boiled detective, and paranormal.  The background is sketchy but sufficient.  The characters are a little two-dimensional, but this *is* a short story.  Definitely characters and a setting that could be re-used and expanded.  A clever and original mystery, too, with an extra-dimensional entity leeching color from the world and one particularly unfortunate artist.

The setup is stronger than the resolution, which is too bad, because it was really rolling along.  Some explanation of 'why' is really needed to tie things up neatly.  I did like the now-transparent artist becoming a part-time agent, though.

Picture use is pretty good.  Having the invisible artist being made up as a mime was a perfect way to use a picture as something other than what it literally was and yet still account for its oddities.  The bench was kind of a throw-away, although I can't decide whether to take off points for inserting an invisible element or laugh at the audacity.  The frost-covered telescope is also a little weak, but at least the self-referential nod at the explanation helps.  The photo booth, coming at the end, fits perfectly.

Judgement:

tadk's free-form elegy is intriguing, and some parts are beautifully written.  In the context of Ceramic DM, though, it really doesn't work.  Aris' tale of immortals doing battle is well written, but focuses too much on combat and not enough on plot and detail.  SteelDraco puts together a fine story, hampered only by a weak ending. 

[sblock]My judgement is for SteelDraco.[/sblock]

*Maldur*

Round One, Set Two contestants
SteelDraco vs. tadk vs. Aris Dragonborn

Aris Dragonborn
A secret agency to protect the mundanes, sword fights with "legendary"
badguys, great fight scene

tadk
Fragmented, images and "sound bites", confusing story, too many questions

SteelDraco
A secret agency to protect the mundanes, a color eating monster, Nice flow


[sblock]My judgement: Steeldraco, best flow and readablity, I want to know more
about the hoffman institute.[/sblock]



Winner: [sblock]SteelDraco goes on to Round Two.[/sblock]


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## Aris Dragonborn (Oct 2, 2005)

_Whoa_. 

First, thanks to the judges for your critiques, they are really appreciated and (hopefully) enlightening. 

Second, congratulations to *SteelDraco* for advancing. Good Luck in round 2!

And, just as an aside, I thought that the fight scene was the _weakest_ part of my story!  



			
				tadk said:
			
		

> Are Story Hours strictly fm peoples games or serial fiction...




Well, mine is from a story idea I've had kicking around in my head for about a year. I'm still playing with it, so I don't have much, but this contest has definately given it new life, I think.

Thanks again to everyone involved!


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## Tolen Mar (Oct 2, 2005)

Speaking of starting a Story Hour, here is my first attempt, though its little more than a prologue of sorts.  The next chapter will actually be based on the first adventure session.

http://www.enworld.org/showthread.php?p=2621722#post2621722


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## tadk (Oct 2, 2005)

*My thanks to all the judges*

I completely appreciate the comments and know that a lot of my writing does not fit the Ceramic DM mold. Had I a few more days, less crunchy bits to my life, might have gone farther.

As it is I do plan to expand that story into something more. Not sure what but the winter spirits who are aliens and almost fae at the same time are still rattling around in my mind. Maybe that should be the start to my alledged Story Hour without a game.

Again thanks to the judges, I totally appreciate it when someone either likes or really dislikes my writings. Strong Reactions I completely appreciate either way.

Good luck to all and here is to the next Ceramic DM when I will attempt prose vice poetry


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## maxfieldjadenfox (Oct 2, 2005)

tadk's piece made me wonder, is there a place on EN World where folks can post poetry?
Our game has certainly spawned it's share, I'm betting there's more out there. Us gamers tend to be romantic sorts, don'tcha think?


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## SteelDraco (Oct 2, 2005)

Huh, excellent. Didn't really expect to advance - I enjoyed the stuff that Aris and tadk came up with. Good stuff, both of you.

I had trouble with my story, simply because I couldn't think of anything to pull the reader's emotions into it. I ended up finding it really, really dry - just a series of events, rather than an involving piece.

Anyway, thanks for the good round, you two, and thanks to the judges for the votes. I'm looking forward to next round.


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## Sialia (Oct 3, 2005)

Congrats. Well earned.


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## RangerWickett (Oct 3, 2005)

Sialia, I am struck at how you and I seemed to have written the same story. The dancing woman is a symbol of rebirth -- the end of one year and the beginning of another, or the cycle of phoenix from old age to death to youth. The handprints are a reflection of something lost -- in your story they are a story to try to make sense of things dying and bring some joy to replace the sadness, in mine they are of memories forgotten and ultimately groundlessness.

The rat becomes a symbol of hope and uncertainty -- the possibility that he might live on or at least be loved while he is here, or an a possibility for someone to escape being trapped. Even the towers are in both stories symbols of a prison, though in mine they are merely a barrier to freedom that can still be seen beyond them. 

We both wrote stories that are about being weighed down, being trapped, about beauty being taken away, seen only in glimpses. And in those glimpses, we both show a reason to break free of the prison. There is death and loss, and neither of us can negate the possibility for hope in the end, but both stories end in a sort of frightened uncertainty. 

It surprised me, though, that your most compelling image was one that wasn't even an illustration -- the pale girl and her son. In a way, it's a perfect cap on the story, that the most compelling image is unseen, leaving only an outline.

I loved your story. I have always admired economy of language. Your story was poetry.



Happy belated birthday.


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## Tolen Mar (Oct 3, 2005)

Well that wraps it up for me.  

I was nowhere near that deep.

I was nowhere near that eloquent.


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## BSF (Oct 3, 2005)

Damn!  I missed that Sialia's birthday crept around again this year.

Congratulations on another birthday Sialia!  I hope Bandeeto treated you to something special.


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## Aris Dragonborn (Oct 3, 2005)

Indeed, Happy belated Birthday, Sialia!


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## Sialia (Oct 3, 2005)

Many thanks to all of you.

RangerWickett the parallels _are_ eerie--as I was reading your story I kept thinking "now why didn't I write that?" and "now that's a reallly good way of saying that" and "I guess fiction isn't dead after all."

I'm guessing the similarity in the themes of our stories are because in this case in addition to the shared pictures we have similar backstory. I don't know about yours, of course, but mine is all soaked in Katrina. (How can anyone not have longed for stories of loss, prisons, government by the rich for the rich, rape, sorrow, isolation, and the need to find ways to escape, survive, be reborn, find family, freedom and joy this month?)

I've had too many weeks of reading about Katrina to write fiction. I wanted to write something real. I've never been to New Orleans (although that itself is also a story). And I don't know anyone on the Gulf Coast (unless some of you are), so none of those stories were remotely mine to tell. 

Boston's First Night celebration is a bit like what I've imagined Mardi Gras might be like, apart from the general sobriety and G rating. It's as close as I could get anyway.

And the tragedy under the tragedy of New Orleans is that the poor have lived for decades on the brink of disaster in every city in this country, and they are failed by city, county, state, feds and their neighbors day after day after day. It's business as usual.

Anyway, for a long while I've wanted to show where my stories come from--how they get built--I've often thought that what goes on behind the scenes of a story is at least as interesting as what winds up on the surface. (Why is why although I enjoyed seeing Serenity a lot this weekend, what really compells me is watching the box office tally and wondering in suspense whether Joss Whedon's personal battle to resurrect the dead will succeed. ) So this seemed like a good time to explore that. Fantasy sometimes blinds us to what we don't want to see, or just helps us escape from what we can't deal with,
but also sometimes it focuses our desires upon worthwhile outcomes, or makes us think about problems sideways, in ways that change our view of the world and open possibilities.

So fiction lives. Good fiction isn't a parasite on reality, but a symbiant.


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## Sialia (Oct 3, 2005)

And yes, yes he did.

Wrong season, wrong coast but he searched high and low and found maple sugar candy for a homesick New Englander.

And, he took me to see Serenity and made dinner.

Also, I got a sparkly.


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## KidCthulhu (Oct 4, 2005)

Man, he could have asked us.  We would have sent some!  Do you want us to send a regular tithe of maple sugar candy and fluff?


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## maxfieldjadenfox (Oct 4, 2005)

Bored now...  New something? Anything? 
PS Happy birthday Sialia, and thanks to you and RangerWickett for the conversation... Really neat.


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## Sialia (Oct 5, 2005)

KidCthulhu said:
			
		

> Man, he could have asked us.  We would have sent some!  Do you want us to send a regular tithe of maple sugar candy and fluff?




Only if you hand deliver. 

And, yes. Badly.


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## mythago (Oct 5, 2005)

Don't forget to send her a couple of bags of leaves 

Happy birthday!


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## Sialia (Oct 5, 2005)

And perhaps . . . a judgement?


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## RangerWickett (Oct 5, 2005)

Tastes great.


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## maxfieldjadenfox (Oct 5, 2005)

I'm sure all of you know, but just in case it slipped by one of you, NaNoWriMo is taking sign ups for November... Write 50,000 words in a month. Might be a great kick in the pants, eh? (www.nanowrimo.org )


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## yangnome (Oct 5, 2005)

I was just going to post, asking who was signing up this year.  I tried last year, but real life and laziness got in the way.  I am going to write a slightly different version of the idea I had last year (but with much more success this time around.)


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## Funeris (Oct 5, 2005)

Hey Sialia...just noticed...but umm....

Is that the Flying Spaghetti Monster in the top right hand corner of your birthday avatar??  

*All hail the FSM!!!*


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## BSF (Oct 5, 2005)

This judgement is a tough one.  

Admittedly, it would be easier to judge if my eyes didn't sting and my head didn't hurt when I get home from work.  This project will end someday, but that is another story.


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## BSF (Oct 5, 2005)

Funeris said:
			
		

> Hey Sialia...just noticed...but umm....
> 
> Is that the Flying Spaghetti Monster in the top right hand corner of your birthday avatar??
> 
> *All hail the FSM!!!*



It could be the FSM, but it is likely a flumph.


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## Tolen Mar (Oct 5, 2005)

maxfieldjadenfox said:
			
		

> I'm sure all of you know, but just in case it slipped by one of you, NaNoWriMo is taking sign ups for November... Write 50,000 words in a month. Might be a great kick in the pants, eh? (www.nanowrimo.org )





Darn you Fox!

Darn you all to heck!

And back again.

And then some.

*ponders how likely it is he can complete 50 grand in a month*

50,000/30 days....roughly 1700 per day.

Thats actually not that hard, 

As if I need more things to write...


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## maxfieldjadenfox (Oct 5, 2005)

Tolen Mar said:
			
		

> Darn you Fox!
> 
> Darn you all to heck!
> 
> ...




Well, yeah. That's the point! It will be fun to have someone I "know" doing it too... What genre are you writing?


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## orchid blossom (Oct 5, 2005)

Question for Funeris.....

Can I beg, beg, beg, beg, and beg some more of you to fix whatever it is in your signature that causes the page to widen?  Usually I just stay out of threads where someone's sig causes that, but I really like to follow Ceramic DM and it's kinda bothersome when I have to shift the screen all the way over to the right side to read posts.  I end up doing a lot of left arrow/right arrow trying to see who the poster was, then reading the post.


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## Tolen Mar (Oct 5, 2005)

I usually stick to fantasy or sci-fi, or both at once...

With the occasional dip into horror monster movie cliche's. 

I'm just starting to percolate some ideas around, got plenty to work with, none of which got very far.  This might be just the thing to get one of them past chapter 2.


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## maxfieldjadenfox (Oct 5, 2005)

Tolen Mar said:
			
		

> I usually stick to fantasy or sci-fi, or both at once...
> 
> With the occasional dip into horror monster movie cliche's.
> 
> I'm just starting to percolate some ideas around, got plenty to work with, none of which got very far.  This might be just the thing to get one of them past chapter 2.




Yeah, that was my thought too... I've been working on this YA historical for 4 years now (mostly doing research, but still) and I'm ready for it to be done. I figure an external pressure might be just the thing... I'm registered under Jadenfox. What name are you under, if you don't mind me asking?


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## Tolen Mar (Oct 5, 2005)

Honestly?  I havent signed on yet, but I probably will later tonite, when I have a bit more time on my hands.  It'll be Tolen Mar or some close variation when I do.

All I have throughout the day is a minute or two to check and reply to the various boards.


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## yangnome (Oct 5, 2005)

I am signed on as yangnome.


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## Tolen Mar (Oct 5, 2005)

As I hit submit, the same thought went through my mind as when I signed on to the ceramic DM...'what have you gotten yourself into this time?' 

You can tell confidence is not my strong suit.


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## maxfieldjadenfox (Oct 6, 2005)

yangnome said:
			
		

> I am signed on as yangnome.



I'll be looking for you and Tolen Mar. And BTW, Tolen Mar, I think the confidence is supposed to be inspired by the website and all of the other writers out there... It will be fun. (she said, not really sure she believes it herself but trying to keep a positive outlook...)


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## Tolen Mar (Oct 6, 2005)

Well I didnt chicken out thats for sure

however, I havent gotten my confirmation email...I think yahoo's spam killer nuked it.

I emailed them, but who knows how long it'll take.


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## tadk (Oct 6, 2005)

*OT: NaNoWriMo*

This will be my 4th year participating

Year 1 a 25k some complete story
Year 2 Barely past the outline stage
Year 3 last year, broke 50k with a steampunkish novel that needs about 12k more words to finish the last part using the descendant of Jack the Ripper as my hero
This year
Back in, logged in, posted in the writers groups for EnWorld NaNoWriMo so go post there so we can cheer each other one.

Tkelson on NaNo


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## maxfieldjadenfox (Oct 6, 2005)

Tolen Mar said:
			
		

> Well I didnt chicken out thats for sure
> 
> however, I havent gotten my confirmation email...I think yahoo's spam killer nuked it.
> 
> I emailed them, but who knows how long it'll take.




You know, I looked for you and you didn't show up as registered... Maybe you need to try again?


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## maxfieldjadenfox (Oct 6, 2005)

tadk said:
			
		

> This will be my 4th year participating
> 
> Year 1 a 25k some complete story
> Year 2 Barely past the outline stage
> ...




Cool. I didn't know there was an EN World writers group. Thanks for mentioning it.


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## Tolen Mar (Oct 6, 2005)

Feh, I jus went ahead and registered under my real name:
Chris Rebman


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## MarauderX (Oct 6, 2005)

BardStephenFox said:
			
		

> This judgement is a tough one.




Stop the toiling, make a judgement with a few sentences for each story and move on.  We don't want you getting burned out on Round 1, Set 3 when there are many more to come.  Sure the extra feedback is nice, but I'm not here to read that; I want to read and write more short stories!


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## Tolen Mar (Oct 6, 2005)

The heck with set 3, those of us over here in set 5 and 6 are the ones you gotta worry about throwing a rebellion out of boredom.


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## yangnome (Oct 6, 2005)

MarauderX said:
			
		

> Stop the toiling, make a judgement with a few sentences for each story and move on.  We don't want you getting burned out on Round 1, Set 3 when there are many more to come.  Sure the extra feedback is nice, but I'm not here to read that; I want to read and write more short stories!



 I disagree.  I'd rather have well thought out criticism than just a sentence or two with a decision, especially after waiting all this time.  I don't see myself moving on with the two excellent stories I was up against, but I would like to get something out of my efforts.


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## Rodrigo Istalindir (Oct 6, 2005)

yangnome said:
			
		

> I disagree.  I'd rather have well thought out criticism than just a sentence or two with a decision, especially after waiting all this time.  I don't see myself moving on with the two excellent stories I was up against, but I would like to get something out of my efforts.




I try to keep my judgements relatively short -- what worked, what didn't, strengths, weaknesses, any glaring omissions or things I was confused about, lines that I especially liked, etc.

I'm certainly willing to provide more detail if desired, but as a judge I feel I have to be careful to seperate what a story could be 'if only' from what it actually was as-posted.  It's easy to cross the line from judge to editor and start reading more into a story than is really there.

That said, if, once someone is out of the running, they want to engage in a constructive discussion about their story, I'd be happy to expand my critique.


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## maxfieldjadenfox (Oct 6, 2005)

Yeah, I'm kinda with Yangnome. While a judgement would be nice... A clear and detailed critique is so useful that I'm willing to wait (Taps foot impatiently) for a little while.


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## yangnome (Oct 6, 2005)

Rodrigo Istalindir said:
			
		

> I try to keep my judgements relatively short -- what worked, what didn't, strengths, weaknesses, any glaring omissions or things I was confused about, lines that I especially liked, etc.
> 
> I'm certainly willing to provide more detail if desired, but as a judge I feel I have to be careful to seperate what a story could be 'if only' from what it actually was as-posted.  It's easy to cross the line from judge to editor and start reading more into a story than is really there.
> 
> That said, if, once someone is out of the running, they want to engage in a constructive discussion about their story, I'd be happy to expand my critique.



 I'm familiar with your judging style and it is fine.  It was more an answer to the "just post a decision" suggestion above.  I'd like to see some comments on strengths and weaknesses that go a bit further than  'I thought Sialia and ranger Wickett's stories were better than yours.'


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## Aris Dragonborn (Oct 6, 2005)

maxfieldjadenfox said:
			
		

> I'm sure all of you know, but just in case it slipped by one of you, NaNoWriMo is taking sign ups for November... Write 50,000 words in a month. Might be a great kick in the pants, eh?




I just signed up for this, under the username *Stormdragon*. 
Right now, my brain is screaming at me, wondering what the hell I was doing, but this should be fun.

I mean, 50k words in a month? 1700 words a day? There goes my social life.

Oh, that's right. I don't _have_ a social life.


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## maxfieldjadenfox (Oct 6, 2005)

That's six of us now? Yay, Aris Dragonborn!


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## maxfieldjadenfox (Oct 6, 2005)

And Del makes 7. Yay Del!


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## MarauderX (Oct 6, 2005)

yangnome said:
			
		

> I'm familiar with your judging style and it is fine.  It was more an answer to the "just post a decision" suggestion above.  I'd like to see some comments on strengths and weaknesses that go a bit further than  'I thought Sialia and ranger Wickett's stories were better than yours.'




The above is precisely NOT what I want either.  What I do want is progress.  With 4-5 paragraphs of well-written critiques per story, this contest will end up being Fall/Winter.   And if you're worried about getting feedback, how do you feel about Maldur as a judge?  

Just some ideas - instead of expounding on each and every story how about talking about it after the decision, as Rodrigo suggested?  Perhaps have the 2nd and after rounds get more feedback than the 1st?  

Lastly if you want more feedback solicit it from everyone else that read your story - the judges aren't the only ones with something helpful to say.

Oh, forgot to say that I'll be signing up for the NaNoRiMo again this year.  Last year - 32,000 words of directionless drivel.  Sadly it was more of a typing exercise.


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## Berandor (Oct 6, 2005)

You know, I wonder whether I shouldn't register for NaNoWriMo, too. A German novel would be alright, wouldn't it? And I'd get that thing written for once.


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## maxfieldjadenfox (Oct 7, 2005)

Berandor said:
			
		

> You know, I wonder whether I shouldn't register for NaNoWriMo, too. A German novel would be alright, wouldn't it? And I'd get that thing written for once.




The more the merrier, I say.


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## tadk (Oct 7, 2005)

*OT: NaNo*

The more the merrier. I shall be sending out encouragement as well as posting my word counts. Last year I barely broke 50. Hope to well beat it this year......I shoot for 2k words a day. Working my outline now...


I know someone earlier talked about poetry. If you wish to share between and read each others  email or msg me.


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## RangerWickett (Oct 7, 2005)

Happy birthday Berandor (though it might be belated in your time zone).


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## Berandor (Oct 7, 2005)

Thanks. I was just going to bed; it's already friday, but it's fine. 

Being 28 sure feels a whole lotta different to being, say, 7.

I was more mature then.


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## yangnome (Oct 7, 2005)

Berandor said:
			
		

> You know, I wonder whether I shouldn't register for NaNoWriMo, too. A German novel would be alright, wouldn't it? And I'd get that thing written for once.



 yep, I'm pretty certain that you can write in whatever language you want.  You might want to read their faq though.  I doubt german will be a problem for hteir word count program, but other languages might.


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## Sialia (Oct 7, 2005)

MarauderX said:
			
		

> 32,000 words of directionless drivel.  Sadly it was more of a typing exercise.




I find that the Ceramic model is surprisingly good at lending direction.

Piratecat once explained to me the secret of writing good 4 hour con modules: pick just three or four good scenes, and then let the party have free reign to ramble from one to the next, not necessarily in a specific order.

This is exactly what the Ceramic competition does for my writing: it gives me four or five themes/moments I have to work towards. Structure, with a lot of freedom--time for exploration, imperative to motion.

Always before, I would make good characters, and then they would sit there, doing nothing. The first time I ever cranked out a really long story that went somewhere all by itself was for Ceramic GM. (I don't count the storyhour writing because I wasn't controlling the defining events/themes--Piratecat was. I was just working out the path between them, and exploring what it felt like to walk on it.)

The story got long last time because I stole something from Mythago, too. That was: if you're going to use something in a crucially defining moment, you have to introduce it before you get there. It has to already be in the world before you really need it to be there. It gets the reader off guard, and it makes things plausible. So with four or five things I had to work in for three rounds, and a desire to get them all in place before I got to the important moment, the story started looking like twenty four or thirty places I needed to explore, and it started turning into a novel quite on it's own.

Last tip I learned from years and years of gaming: know what is in your characters' pockets before they ever walk out the door.  No two people carry exactly the same kind of junk around--if you can't tell your characters apart just from thier inventories, they aren't ready to walk out the door. When they get stuck, or you feel tapped out, go digging around in that list -- there is always something you can use, and it comes from a deep sense of who they are.


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## mythago (Oct 7, 2005)

*Round One, Set Three judgment*

*BardStephenFox*

*Yangnome - 4/14-4/17*

You have an interesting opener to a fun story here.  However the opening doesn't seem to fit into place with the timeline as the story advances.  You have an established event, then you flash back 72 hours.  Then you move forward 48 hours and 30 seconds.  Then you advance another 24 hours.  The timing begins to get a bit muddled.  Your continuity seems to be broken. 
I like the references to your opponents.  Fortune telling, selling out, make-believe friends, thirst for power and other elements of villianization.  It was very amusing. 
You have some good dialog and a strong flow to the story.  But there are a few places where your narrative tone seems to change and that detracts from the overall flow of the story.  "The next thing he knew," is the best example.  You use this phrase twice within a very short span.  This began to make the story feel more like a tale being spun for the amusement of the audience.  This isn't always a bad thing, but it did seem to be a different tone than what you began with. 
Picture use:
Let's begin with the weakest picture.  The ascent between the skyscrapers hardly seemed relevant.  The only significance I can discern from it is the confirmation that magic is being used. 
The usage of the the hands as an oddball keypad was a clever red-herring.  It would have had a stronger impact if you had better described the picture.  Left strictly up to the imagination, I suspect most readers would imagine something completely different. 
The picture of Madame Sialia made me smile!  Primarily because I was trying to reconcile it against a picture I saw in Piratecat's Story Hour once.  As far as usage goes, it was pretty good.  You used the picture to introduce an important character. 
The picture of the mouse with crack was pretty strong as well.  That moment leads to a pretty significant turning point in the story. 
Overall, I liked the picture use.  With a little more description and a better usage of one of the pictures, I would have liked it a great deal. 
Continuity and tone are the two things you need to keep in mind with this story.  But those two weakenesses did not stop me from enjoying the story. 

*RangerWickett - Steam*

Wow!  Rangerwickett has woven together quite an impressive tale.  The biggest single weakness is that some of the names are unwieldy.  I like unusual names, but I do prefer if they flow well. 
I really don't know where to offer much criticism in this piece.  It isn't that there weren't any flaws.  It is just that that the strengths quickly washed them out of the way when I was reading the story.  In retrospect I can't point out things that really bugged me.  Usually I can read through a story, enjoy it as I am reading it and then be bothered by the stumbling points after I am done.  That is not the case here. 
You have created a strong, interesting world with engaging characters.  You have  believable motivations and dialog.  You have some nice twists and turns within the story.  All in all, it is a good story and I very much enjoyed reading it.  Rather than trying to go back over everything and painstakingly try to find flaws, I think I will leave it at that.

Picture use:
The picture used for Kasvarina is very good.  She is an integral part of the story. Her dance serves as a good lead into the story and helps establish her value as chattel later. 
The picture of the sky, framed by skyscrapers is evocative and establishes the setting.  It isn't the strongest picture use, but it is effective. 
The handprints are very effective.  They tie in nicely to Kasvarina and emphasize the mindmaker's handiwork.  Very nicely done.

The final picture is great for it's delivery.  Of course, you use the picture itself to deliver the message.  That isn't necessarily a problem, but it is a little bit of an oddity. 
Overall you have very effective picture use.  As I said, this is a very enjoyable story. 

*Sialia - Self-Portrait, B&W 1994*

Oh my!  What an interesting piece of art.  Sialia, I have told you how hard some of your artwork hits me.  This story affects me the same way.  It hits me hard on an emotional level. 
Perhaps the only issue I can find is that there are more evocative images than there are pictures.  You have presented a slim story thathits me with empathy from many directions.  It is beautiful, but it is also a little raw.  It is art.  I don't know exactly what to say. 
Like RangerWickett's piece, I don't see problems.  I am simply engaged by the story and entranced by the direction it takes me.

Picture Use:  The parallel of the skyscrapers and cages is frightening in it's accuracy. 
The picture of the mouse doesn't quite reach it's full impact until the end of the story.  But the empathy evoked is important.

The picture of the dancer feels somehow uncomfortable.  But I think you might have intended that. 
The handprints at the end make me inexplicably sad. 
You hit me hard in the heart with this story and I really don't know what to say.  Well, other than thank you for the story.

*Comparison*
These are three very different stories and it is very difficult for me to judge this round.  But if I didn't want to judge, I didn't have to volunteer.  I can't put it off forever and I have given it a lot of thought.  Time to commit a decision.

[sblock]I enjoyed Yangnome's story for the fun ride it was.  But I am faced with Rangerwickett's and Sialia's stories.  Sorry Yangnome, I have to go with one of them.  I really wish I didn't have to choose between these two stories!  Neither one has any particular weakness to it.  Both are very enjoyable to read and I wish I could easily choose between them.  I am waffling between both stories because they are excellent for what they are.  I suspect that Rangerwickett's might appeal a bit more to the audience at EN World.  We are, after all, a hobby community geared toward fantasy fiction.  Rangerwickett's story was a very good example of creative fiction.  But Sialia's story hits me on an emotional level.  I am a sucker for that emotion.  I'm not sure there is a right or wrong choice in this but it is truly a pleasure to have read both stories.  Right now, in my current mood, I give my vote to Sialia for hitting me on an emotional level and making me question myself.[/sblock]

*Maldur*
Round One, Set Three contestants
RangerWickett vs. yangnome vs. Sialia

RangerWickett
Nice, ancient races, constructs of steel, steam and magic, mind tricks, and
revenge, great proze as allways

yangnome
Odd story, seems like half is missing, too many loose ends, nazi's as bad guys is classical  though 

Sialia
powerfull, story, I believe there is a political comment in this story as well (see round 1 set 1), great stuff.
I esp like the 'dreamlandesque' ending.

My judgement:
[sblock]this is a hard one, but I have to go for Sialia, great feel in that story. Well done.[/sblock]

*Rodrigo Istalindir*
Sialia --

This is a sweet piece of work.  The tone is pitch-perfect, evoking cold and isolation. involved yet detached, the narrator presents a picture of the city that is at turns despairing and magical.  The writing is beautiful, poetic.  "Weekend snow is more fun than workday snow" is  a great line, the kind you tuck away to use yourself some day.  And "I wonder idly whether I'm test or control today' just resonates.

The black/white dichotomy is well-played, not accusative, but not dismissive, either, and the use of color in innocuous places echoes quietly.    (This piece reminds me strongly of Jonathan Lethem's 'Fortress of Solitude'.)

The picture use is pretty solid.  Albert the rat appears twice, once in the real world, and again as the hero in the make-believe.  The hand-prints are a stretch (no paw-prints), but it worked so well on an emotional level that I can't quibble.  Equating the glass building to the rat cages is a nice touch.  The dancer is theweakest in the group, but still key to the scene.


yangnome --

Nazi's, the occult, spies, and a gypsy Q -- oh my!

A neat setup.  The characters (especially the supporting players) are well drawn, and the story flows smoothly from scene to scene.  The dialogue between Sialia and Thomas is good, establishing their relationship and moving the story forward at the same time.  This is critical, because her later betrayal would have been trivial.  The villain is suitably menacing, and the extra-dimensional lair a nice touch.

I think beginning near the end then flashing back doesn't work, I don't think.  A twist that turned the initial scene on its head would have made it more effective.  As it is, it just sets up action that the reader is going to get to in short order anyway.   The story also seemed a little rushed.  The setup was so solid that the rather conventional resolution was kind of a letdown.  A third act at Central Park would have been welcome.

Picture use is pretty good.  Thomas' rat disguise is clever (although it would have been more interesting to have him interrogated in rat form).  The rather menacing vibe of the glass building is a good fit, as is the garish Madam Sialia.  The touchpad is a stretch, but within bounds.  Something a little more mystical would have made it stronger, though.

RangerWickett --

A cool mini-epic, with a remarkably deep world, full of tragedy.  The level of detail is impressive, almost daunting.   As interesting as the world is, the characters are moreso, exceptionally three-dimensional and with very human motivations and complex relationships.  The gnome's twitchiness and  Lawrence's world-weariness are fully expressed and believeable.  This is a place and a tale that could do with a much longer treatment.

The only real shortcoming is the tone, which is somewhat monochromatic.  The opening scene is promising, but for the most part the story seems kind of flat.  There's no humor, no excitement, no real suspense.  The plot and setting are nearly perfect, but the emotion that should come through doesn't.

Despite her striking entrance, for example, I didn't really feel any concern for Kasvarina.

Picture use is very good.  Kasvarina's dance would be a worthy story on its own, and the eventual fate of Lawrence is consistent with the setup (although metaphorically, 'rat' seems inappropriate.)  The handprints are a little weaker, but tied back into the beginning in a strong manner.  The glass and steel landscape is the only throw-away.

Judgement:

Wow, this is a toughie.  yangnome's story is solid, but I'm afraid he was up against two veterans close to the top of their game.  RW's epic is intriguing, and the level of detail impressive. although I felt it was a little cold.  Sialia's tale is magical, emotional, almost a mirror opposite of RangerWickett's golem tale.

Picture use is pretty much a tie -- RW wins with the woman, Sialia wins with the handprints, and the other two are a draw, though Sialia gets the tie-breaker on the glass building.    This one comes down to pure gut reaction, and while I liked RWs story, and could easily see myself reading a whole novel in that world, Sialia's sparked an emotional reaction that I wasn't expecting and that really captured me. 

[sblock] My judgement goes to Sialia by a rat's whisker.[/sblock]


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## RangerWickett (Oct 7, 2005)

It is as it should be.

And thank goodness. Now I can go and edit.


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## mythago (Oct 7, 2005)

*Round One, Set Four*

*BardStephenFox*
*MarauderX - Untitled*

MarauderX brings us a tale that unravels in an interesting way.  The opening is a bit heavy with three pictures introduced almost immediatelyInitially they make almost no sense.  But it wraps together at the end.  It is a very interesting tale.

The idea and delivery of this story is a little dangerous.  There is the possibility that you will quickly lose the interest of the audience.  While the protagonist's background is interesting, it might be a little too detailed.  You do a good job establishing why the protagonist works on classified projects, but the depth of background ultimately doesn't drive the story forward.  There is a lot of extraneous information in the story.  On one hand it is good to have detail on the protagonist.  On the other hand, it slows the pacing of the story somewhat.  I don't know what the right balance is, but I think a little detail trimming might be in order.

Unfortunately there is a tense shift late in the story from past to present tense.  This was a bit jarring.  Anytime I find myself having to read over a sentence or paragraph to be sure I didn't miss something, there is a problem to the story.  With the abundance of detail and the tense shift, I had to break the flow of the story and doublecheck to be sure I didn't miss a crucial detail. 
Picture Use:
It is interesting that you employ each picture twice.  It almost works if you could have found a way to mirror each picture within the dream and then in the reality.  I was worried when I saw so many pictures right at the beginning.  Having read through the story I think it was a clever idea. 
The picture of the plane really doesn't have much significance to the story.  The plane itself serves as the object of contention, but the integration with the picture doesn't carry the story forward at all.

The matches are distinctive because of the picture, but their distinction again doesn't seem an integral part of the story.

The picture of Felix seems a bit out of place.  But it is a picture of one of the characters.

The picture of the building serves as the bracketing image for the story.  Having it be the last thing the protagonist sees is a nice touch.

The picture use here isn't terribly strong.  The pictures are competently included but do not seem to be integral parts of the story.

There are some very interesting ideas in the execution of the story.  The underlying idea is interesting and I can quite easily imagine it as an episode in a TV show akin to the Twilight Zone.  But as a written story I think it loses some of it's power in delivery.

*Spacemonkey - Micro-Fury*
Spacemonkey's entry is a techno-spy-story.  We have some neat techno-gadgets, but in the end it is the work of the agents that matters. 
The opener is a bit weak.  It is a little confusing as to why we should care.  But you do setup a plausible scene to include the picture of the poisoned Nate later. 
Your dialog is pretty good.  There are a few places where it could use some rework and polish, but overall it works pretty well. 
One thing that you managed to convey well was the off feeling of Dawson's actions.  I kept thinking he was the actual bad guy and I was just waiting to see if Kate would pick up the same signals I was.  Some might view this as a weakness.  It would be if you were striving for mystery.  But it isn't necessarily a weakness if you were striving for action.  I didn't consider it a weakness, but if you were working for a mystery element, then I am wrong.

I am a bit confused on how big this wedding present is.  Since Kate keeps carrying it under her arm, I kept imagining a large present.  Perhaps the size of an average computer keyboard.  So I was a little surprised when she suddenly sticks this splinter into her hair.  I think a little more description regarding the present would go a long way to clarify the image. 
Picture Use:
The picture of a paralyzed Nate is decent.  The fact that it sets up the conflict for the story is good.

You did a good job explaining why the Matchbox was important.  The fact that the object is not quite what it appears to be in the picture is a nice twist.  It is definitely important since it is what Dawson is selling and what Kate is trying to recover.

The Shadow wasn't quite as strong.  Mostly it is used as the obligatory high-tech gadget at the disposal of the hero.  The story almost demands such a device because of the genre, but it isn't used in a particularly meaningful manner.

The drugstore scrapes by as well.  You need a location for the confrontation and you do a good job tying in the theme of the store to the Matchbox.  But it is a tenuous connection and seems just a little mundane for an exchange on this seeming scale to occur in.

Still, you had pretty good picture use all around. 
*Comparison:*
Unfortunately Ketjak did not finish a story to compare against.  On the positive side, we still have two fun stories from MarauderX and Spacemonkey.  Both stories have elements of high-tech gadgetry and espionage.  I suppose the picture of the plane served as a strong inspiration in this case.

[sblock]MarauderX has a good concept but the implementation falls a bit flat for me.  Spacemonkey's story is a solid genre story.  Coupled with stronger picture use, I give this round to Spacemonkey.[/sblock]

*Maldur*
Ketjak vs. spacemonkey vs. MarauderX
Ketjak
Unfortunately not to be found

Spacemonkey
Nice and clean agency/spy story, very vivid imaging, well done.

MarauderX
This is a new one (at least as far as I can remember), multiple uses for
each picture. Another "agency/spy"story, it seems that the blackbird
induces a agecy feel.

Nice reverce story, but I suspect taht the story would work better in
images (tv or film). Nifty idea though, well done

Judgement: 
[sblock]I liked the flow in spacemonkeys story better, so that is
where my vote goes.[/sblock]

*Rodrigo Istalindir*
ketjak v Spacemonkey v MarauderX

Gotta love Ceramic DM.  Two contestants, one set of wierd pictures, and they independently come up with very similar stories.

Marauder X starts off with a dream sequence, and that can be a real handicap, especially when three of the four pictures are put into play right off the bat.  Still, the tone has a dream-like quality, that mix of the real and surreal.

The story picks up when the protagonist awakens.  There is just enough exposition to give the character the necessary amount of background, and to establish him as a good guy.  The banter and interaction with his subordinates also rings true, and sets up later events.   The kidnapping is handled well, although the dialogue was a little jarring  -- the enemies act like competent professionals, but talk like a bunch of good ol' boys.

Throughout, the story maintains that detached quality.  The main character seems almost like he's sleep walking through events, awaking only at that point where the events of the dream began to play out in reality.  The symmetry of the beginning and the end doesn't really work, though.  There isn't enough logic to events to make the resolution seem plausible.  It needed to be as tight and grounded in reality as the dream was fantastic -- you want the reader to have that 'A-ha!' moment when everything falls into place, and it just doesn't happen.  Throughout the story, the outline of a pretty neat thriller is there, but the details aren't sufficient to flesh it out.  The 'who' is there, and the 'how', but the 'why' is missing.

Picture use is kind of weak.  Pictures in a dream almost always hurt, because its the easy way out.  They are redeemed somewhat by the ending, but not enough.  Using the Blackbird as it was was pretty good, especially as it was central to the events of the story.

Spacemonkey --

This story starts off with a bang, and establishes an interesting character in Kate right off the bat.  The pacing is good -- start to finish, there is a good blend of action, exposition, and dialogue.  The technobabble hits the right note, and the author does a good job of establishing the Agency and the main players in short order.   Kate's reaction to the death of her friend seems too subdued; yes, she is a secret agent, but having her show more emotion would have added some depth to the character.

Tieing the wedding gift into the implement of revenge was a nice touch.  Sending the Shadow off on autopilot as a decoy seemed a little far fetched, though, and the timing was a little off.  Kate's reasoning for suspecting Dawson works, though, and the end confrontation is quick and effective.

Picture use is average.  The dead groom is a bit weak -- he's clearly not a corpse.  Similary, the picture of the drugstore is just used as dressing, although the flavor text around it elevates it somewhat.  The Shadow is good, with the nod to the Blackbird, and the matches as technomagical McGuffin is a clever choice.

Judgement:  
[sblock]Gotta love Ceramic DM.  Two contestants, one set of wierd pictures, and they independently come up with very similar stories.  Spacemonkey takes the prize, though[/sblock]


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## yangnome (Oct 7, 2005)

OK, comments:

Congrats Sialia, you deserved the win.  Thanks again to the judges for your time, effort and comments.  Once again, I agree with the criticism offered.

I agree with BSF that my timeline was off and that the flashback seemed funny.  I started off thinking it would be an interesting way to go, then was going to change it to a linear story at the last minute, but decided against it.  Actually, I decided to do it, but got distrated while writing and forgot to make the change.

I also agree that there are a couple places where my tone changes.  This is another draw back of writing the story from work.  The places where this happens are places I was distracted by people, or had to go accomplish a task and come back to the story later.  

I too wanted to originally visit the happenings in the park, or some other large element at the end of the story.  Things just kind of deflated for me near the end though.  I had the last minute idea of killing RW's imaginary friend, which was fun, but it kind of caused me to lose focus on the rest of the story.  I ultimately decided to end it with the demise of Dr Wanger.  

The hand keypad bugged the heck out of me.  I wanted to tie it in better, but I couldn't for the life of me figure uot a way to discover some meaningful code inside the letters and hands in the cement.  Instead, I decided to leave it vague.  I wish I would have found something clever for the character to use.

I too wanted to initially interrogate him as a rat.  This woulnd up being an issue of me running low on time.


Anyway, I agree that I was outmatched by my other two opponents.  It was bad enough in the last IR gong against RW the first time.  This time I was floored when I saw I had to take both him and Sialia on.  Can I please get a little mercy next time around?


Anyway, thanks again to everyone. It'll be interesting to see how the rest of this pans out.


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## BSF (Oct 7, 2005)

Yangnome, for what it is worth I think you have the capacity as a writer to take on Sialia and Rangerwickett.  Both are good writers, but you also have that capacity.  Writing under distracting circumstances can be a problem.  Avoid that in the future and tighten up your writing a little bit. You have the potential if you really want to work toward it.


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## Rodrigo Istalindir (Oct 7, 2005)

BardStephenFox said:
			
		

> Yangnome, for what it is worth I think you have the capacity as a writer to take on Sialia and Rangerwickett.  Both are good writers, but you also have that capacity.  Writing under distracting circumstances can be a problem.  Avoid that in the future and tighten up your writing a little bit. You have the potential if you really want to work toward it.




Second that.  No one here is unbeatable.   I can't recall seeing any finished product submitted to Ceramic DM that wasn't a contender, and often I've seen stories that lost in one matchup that would have won in any other pairing (or triplet-ing?).  Sometimes it's just the (bad) luck of the draw.


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## BSF (Oct 7, 2005)

maxfieldjadenfox said:
			
		

> That's a good question, and I never saw an answer... BardStephenFox and I have done a couple of fun tag team stories for our D&D game, is it that kind of stuff, or anything you want to write and post? Inquiring minds want to know.




Catching up a little since it is slower than normal at work today.  

I have thought about doing a story hour for the ardania campaign, but I generally decide not to.  I don't want to split my energy further than it already is and there are too many different perspectives for me to feel good about tying it all together correctly.  The alternative is to do a singular journal, but Stephen's character perspective doesn't do the entire campaign justice.  In some ways we have too much depth to make it an easy effort.  But it does make it fun to play in!


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## maxfieldjadenfox (Oct 7, 2005)

Hey, I just looked at post #1 on this list and noticed I'm not there...  Well, I'm there in the match ups, but not the contestant list... Could I be on the list, please? It would make me feel more "real".


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## maxfieldjadenfox (Oct 7, 2005)

BardStephenFox said:
			
		

> Catching up a little since it is slower than normal at work today.
> 
> I have thought about doing a story hour for the ardania campaign, but I generally decide not to.  I don't want to split my energy further than it already is and there are too many different perspectives for me to feel good about tying it all together correctly.  The alternative is to do a singular journal, but Stephen's character perspective doesn't do the entire campaign justice.  In some ways we have too much depth to make it an easy effort.  But it does make it fun to play in!




We could always do deuling journals, like Erelai is, but I don't know if anyone but you and I would participate... I enjoyed writing the Grey Eyes thread with you though.


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## BSF (Oct 7, 2005)

OK, doing a half-elven perspective would be amusing.  

Sialia, 
I finally allowed myself to read more of your posts.  It is very interesting to hear where stories come from.  I agree with you that Katrina has been a huge hit to my energy.  We have stores in the Gulf Coast so I do know people impacted in some way by all that.  I don't think any of them were hit the worst, but they were affected.  

Re: Calling out of other competitors
I fully support it!  Sialia nailed me hard the time I wrote against her.  If you read her story - Professor Volpe was a half-blood.  Foxes belong to genus Volpes.  My character, Stephen Fox is a half-elf.  Then there is the entire bard angle...

Of course, she also included references to other folks on the board.  So I wasn't particularly singular there.  

I have made references to several folks on the board.  Both calling out opponents and even mocking the judges at times.  I am pretty sure Macbeth has as well.  

But I must applaud Yangnome for pulling in references to imaginary friends.  Very well done!  

It is fun and I encourage people to do it when it works for the story.


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## Tolen Mar (Oct 7, 2005)

I spend most of my time lurking around here, so I havent built much of a friendship with anyone.  Otherwise I think Im likely the type that would do that kind of thing.

Right now, the only people I know well enough for such a thing are people like alsih2o and teflon billy...more or less by reputation only.

Besides, Ive already consigned myself to the fact that if someone who can write like Rangerwickett can lose the first round, I don't stand a chance.


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## Rodrigo Istalindir (Oct 7, 2005)

Tolen Mar said:
			
		

> Besides, Ive already consigned myself to the fact that if someone who can write like Rangerwickett can lose the first round, I don't stand a chance.




My first two Ceramic DMs, I made it to the third round.  The third time I competed, when I thought I was on a roll, I got knocked out in the first round (unanimously, I think) after writing what I thought was one of my better stories.

Every competition, every round, is a new chance.


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## RangerWickett (Oct 7, 2005)

Tolen Mar, you pay me a great compliment (*stiff aristocratic scorn* almost as great as the insult paid to me by yangnome!). However, I see now that the four years I spent in college were wasted. I'm going to go ask for my money back, since I was beaten by a flumph. Harrumph!

*aristocratic* Harrumph!

Seriously, thank you, but Sialia has shown something clear. Stories need to affect the emotions of the reader. You have to make the reader care about the characters, or else the story is inherently hollow.

I learn from my losses. Slowly, but I do learn.

Now, if you pardon me, I've got to go get a velvet glove so I can challenge yangnome to a duel. My dark elf imaginary friend will my second.


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## spacemonkey (Oct 7, 2005)

Wow - color me surprised! (pleasantly, I might add..)

I'm still pretty new to this Ceramic DM thing, but I felt that maybe I just didn't do that great a job.. course that was me at 2 am after rushing all evening to put a story together.  Reading it afterwords, I though it wasn't so bad (and the 'glaring problems' not so glaring when I wasn't just finished dissecting them for hours on end).

then I read MarauderX's story, and figured I was probably beat.  Overall, I think it was a bit more inventive than mine, which ended up being a fairly straightforward spy jaunt.  That's not bad per-se, but I would have liked it to be somewhat more intricate.  Hard to do in this sort of format though, as I quickly found out 

Some general thoughts on my story, and the process of writing a Ceramic DM entry from a first timer (for those interested):

*  this is not easy.  I don't even think I got the hardest set of pictures, and it was still tough to pull something together.  Not that I expected it to be easy, but things are always different once you get down into the trenches.  I had fun though.

*  I found this to be good writing practice.  I went with a style that isn't what I would call my 'standard', and that has probably helped me stretch a bit as a writer.  My dialog was mentioned as being pretty good, which I'm glad of.  Usually it isn't my strong suit, and I was trying to get some practice on that.  Seems that it turned out decent this time, but I'm sure I have a good ways to go.

*  I definitely wasn't going for a mystery. (though I did consider that initially, it quickly dawned on me that I simply didn't have enough time to do that right).  I was thinking that Kate would have spotted Dawson's scheme sooner, but she was broken up over Nate's condition - it was clouding her usually sharp senses a bit.  If I had noticed, I would have played that up a little, but it got lost in the time-crunch.  Kate's lack of emotion was mentioned, but Nate wasn't dead - just paralyzed (and dying..).  I didn't really go over that too much in the story, and maybe I should have, but he was out of action for the duration, and I figured it didn't matter too much.

* The splinter/present bugged me as I was writing, but I couldn't really think of what else to do with it.  I knew I wanted revenge link there, but couldn't think of another object to use (though shrapnel may have been good, if Nate had been the soldiery type).  It seemed a little forced to me.  I didn't really consider the size too much, just that it was long-ish (and pointy   I guess I just decided that I liked it in there for the final scene, and left it.

*  I agree with both judges on picture use.  The blackbird was hard to work in, while at the same time it pretty much defined what sort of story I was writing (I probably would have gone another route if it had been different).  The storefront was a little 'it's there because it is one of the assigned pictures'.  Maybe if it had been the scene of the raid where Kate got the splinter in the first place, and if Dawson had been involved in that too or something, it may have tied it in better.  Ah, the things we think of after the fact.


I want to thank MarauderX for giving me some good competition.  From what I've seen of the other entries, I look forward to being thrashed by some talented writing in Round 2.


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## Sialia (Oct 7, 2005)

Wow. I really thought I was beat there. 

Wow.

Thank you, and thanks to my competitors for a really tight match.  I liked both of your stories very much. 

I was sure somebody was going to say, "but Sialia, why didn't you give us the cool story about the Ratrider?"

I guess there were a lot of reasons why, but one was that I had already posted the pictures for that one a long while back (back when I had an art gallery), and I didn't want folks to think I was turning in an old story instead of a new one.

For those who missed the pictures the first time around, I thought I'd include them here. The first and last are by me, and the really good middle one is by Kip the Bold because I wanted so badly to see this character illustrated and both of my pictures weren't working the way I wanted them too. After I saw his, I went back and fixed mine up a bit, and they're better now, although I still like his best.

One of the things I like best about these boards is the amount I learn from the many talents here. BSF has always helped me to hear my own voice as others hear it, which is really hard to do, and invaluable. Maldur has given me a lot of insight too--I think his brief judgements are really one of the strengths of this competion--it's like pitching a movie concept to a producer--you either get it right, or you don't. Complemented by two detail judges like Rodrigo and BSF to tell you exactly what you did, Maldur's gut response tells you clearly whether the big picture is there, or it isn't. 

I think RangerWickett and Yangnome have given me back an interest in fiction at a time I thought I had lost it. 

I'm very curious to see what comes next.


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## yangnome (Oct 8, 2005)

RangerWickett said:
			
		

> Seriously, thank you, but Sialia has shown something clear. Stories need to affect the emotions of the reader. You have to make the reader care about the characters, or else the story is inherently hollow.




Very true.  Now I need to figure out how to apply this to my NaNo novel, or rather how to make the mc important to the audience.


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## tadk (Oct 8, 2005)

*I love those Ratrider images*

way totally cool....they so remind of me the Thomas image that Harlan Ellison wrote. Not exactly the same but so similar to me. What it evokes.


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## Sialia (Oct 8, 2005)

I don't know that one--send me better citation? or link?


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## Tolen Mar (Oct 9, 2005)

Time for a good 'ole page 3 bump.


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## MarauderX (Oct 10, 2005)

spacemonkey said:
			
		

> I want to thank MarauderX for giving me some good competition.  From what I've seen of the other entries, I look forward to being thrashed by some talented writing in Round 2.




You're welcome, and good work, you've earned it.  Obviously I still have big problems with picture use and character backdrop, something to work on next month.  

Thanks to the judges - the comments are always helpful.

I suppose if there were time to edit it would have been clearer, and make sure to do some in the next rounds.  Good luck spacemonkey!


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## maxfieldjadenfox (Oct 10, 2005)

Tolen Mar said:
			
		

> Time for a good 'ole page 3 bump.




OK. I've seen this term multiple times and not to sound entirely ignorant, but could somebody 'splain me what it means?


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## Tolen Mar (Oct 10, 2005)

Every time you post, it is put at the top of the front page so people know there's a new post in it.

It's referred to as bumping, as in, 'I bumped the thread back to the top.'


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## maxfieldjadenfox (Oct 10, 2005)

Ah. Thanks for the enlightenment...
Please sir, can I have another... Judgement?


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## Aris Dragonborn (Oct 11, 2005)

BUMPDOKEN!!!


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## Sialia (Oct 12, 2005)

Maple sugar candy acquired.

Hooray for the winter holiday displays going up before Halloween!


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## BSF (Oct 12, 2005)

I think I am getting healthy enough to catch up.  Sorry folks, the past few months have sucked work-wise and it has taken a bit of a toll on my physically.


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## Bibliophile (Oct 13, 2005)

Good luck BarStephanFox!  Don't sacrifice your health for the sake of enworld.


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## Tolen Mar (Oct 14, 2005)

Bump, cause folks are looking for it.


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## BSF (Oct 14, 2005)

I sent in judgements a couple of days ago, but it looks like Mythago was pretty busy this week.

Mythago - If you didn't receive my judgements, let me know.


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## Bibliophile (Oct 17, 2005)

Any chance for the rest of the judgements anytime soon?


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## Maldur (Oct 17, 2005)

My sincere appologies, Ill send in my final judgements today.


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## Maldur (Oct 17, 2005)

Judgments send, hope you all could stand the anticipation.


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## maxfieldjadenfox (Oct 18, 2005)

So I guess we're awaiting Rodrigo Istalindir's judgement?


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## Rodrigo Istalindir (Oct 18, 2005)

Um, mine should all be in.  If one is missing, let me know and I'll re-send.  Match 5 is on the laptop, but 6 is on my home PC.


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## mythago (Oct 18, 2005)

Looks like BardStephenFox's R5 is on the other machine; I will post judgments for R5 and R6 tonight.


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## mythago (Oct 19, 2005)

*Round 1, Set 5*

*BardStephenFox*

*Herobizkit - Untitled beginning*

Herobizkit was unable to complete a story, but did post a beginning. Despite the lack of a finished product, I will try to provide a little feedbakc.

You have a good opening. Without the rest of the story it is hard to tell if you have a really strong opening or not, but you have enough of a hook that I am interested in where the story could have gone. For some reason, I end up with two different tones for the main character running through my head. I can't quite put my figure on the reason for the difficulty in nailing one voice down. But if you continue the story, you might doublecheck to be sure you are consistent in the character voice.

*Tolen Mar - Tuesday*

My first thought when I got done reading the story was not entirely grandma friendly. Mind you, that isn't really a bad thing. It is just that your story concept is pretty wacky and I wasn't quite sure what to think. It was a wild ride, that is certain.

You use decent descriptions without bogging down too much with inane detail. I really enjoyed the reference to thick glasses and soda pop bottles. Even as the scenes get increasingly more improbably, you continue with believable descriptions.

Your dialog is strong. I didn't ever struggle trying to figure out who said what and the conversations rang true for me. Given the characters of the story, this seemed particularly impressive.

Your concept is what continues to throw me for a loop though. The beginning seems normal enough and then we are just sucked into this strange universe. Overall it is an impressive story with a strong delivery.

Picture Use:
The picture use varies. You lead off with the dog tags. Initially it seemed barely relevant, but by the end I can see how it fits into the entire worldview. I give you credit for using the picture to emphasize the worldview, but it didn't exactly drive the story forward.

The picture of the "dimensional perspective viewer" is your next item. You use the picture to good effect, but by the end of the story I am curious why Becca used that instead of following him or whatever. Given the context of the imaginary world, an explanation isn't entirely necessary.

Pablo stealing the gold coin just seemed out of place. You do use the coin to try to setup Pablo's lack of 'equipment' as well as bringing some booze into the story. But the significance of the gold coin just seems lost.

You finish up with the river. You have a decent description of the scene. If you had left it at that I would have consigned the picture to a near throwaway. But you drag relevance into it with the revelation of multiple dead dolls. That was a nice twist.

You have strong picture use here. You have a well-delivered story. The whole thing is really odd, but it is memorable.

*MaxfieldJadenFox - The Calling*

The Calling begins with some very strong descriptive text. There are some really strong descriptions throughout the story. To some degree though, the descriptions are almost too much for a short story. You might need more economy of description here because I find the descriptions to be the most compelling quality of the story.

Annie is a character that I feel a great deal of sympathy for. The closest we come to seeing of an admirable character in her life is the social worker. I feel some degree of sympathy for Annie, but I don't really empathize with her at all. It could be that I am not the target audience. It might also be that the jumping around of present and past events detracted from my ability to know the character.

Skipping back and forth in the timeline is a risky choice. By necessity you break the flow of the story by doing this. It can work at times, but other times it falls flat. In my case I did have to reread a few areas more than once to be sure I could place the time element where it needed to be.

I do have one quibble with the writing. "Even though she was only two, her mother’s hostility was obvious to Annie," really needs to be rewritten. Taken out of context it sounds fine. When read in the story, pronoun misidentification seems to indicate that Annie's mother is two years old.

Overall, you have an interesting story here. I think you could tighten up the presentation a bit more and strengthen the story further. Consider revising some of your descriptions to be sure they drive the story forward rather than just coloring in background details. Background details are good, but when they overshadow the story, you need to revisit them.

Picture Use:

The first picture is of the swamp. You do a wonderful job painting Annie's background here. But the scene doesn't seem to drive the story forward either. Location scenes are always a challenge. They scream to be background locations, but it isn't easy to make them critical backgrounds.

The second picture is a catalyst to drive Annie's mother to try to kill her. When you began to describe it as a doll her father made, I thought there would be a solid vodoo angle going on. It didn't quite turn out that way, but that's fine. As a catalyst, it is reasonably important to the story.

The picture of the machine is next. This is one of those places where you could have used your descriptive talents better. Without the accompanying picture, the description is very sparse. It really detracts from what the machine is supposed to be and supposed to do. I'm not sure if this was supposed to represent the culmination of Annie's intellect and magical talent or not.

The dog tags are the last picture. It is possible to read this bit and miss the relevance of the dog tag being a focus for the magic Annie is getting ready to work. I am conflicted on this one. Barsoomcore has a lot to say about not beating your readers over the head with what is happening. If they are your target audience and you have described everything well in advance, you don't need to explain the significance of everything. In that context, this is a good picture. You have efficiently described a significant focus of a spell to call dog back to this world. But if others do nto see the same significance, consider finding a way to strengthen the picture for the story.

Overall I think your picture use is competent. The story is an interesting story, but it does seem to get buried a little in description and the presentation seems to muddle it a bit.

*Comparison:*[sblock]Herobizkit is a non-contender in this one. So it is down to Tolen Mar and MaxfieldJadenFox. Both have presented stories with good strengths and some weaknesses. I think Tolen Mar's picture use is stronger, but I enjoyed MJF's story more. My vote goes to MaxfieldJadenFox.[/sblock]


*Rodrigo Istalindir*
Ceramic DM Round 1 Match 5
Herobizkit vs. Tolen Mar vs. maxfieldjadenfox

maxfieldjadenfox - The Calling

A neat little story with an unexpected ending that nonetheless fits.  The main character is very well drawn, and the way the story jumps around is executed perfectly.  The supporting characters are a almost caricatures, but that's forgiveable in this format, and the action and dialogue are appropriate and well written.

Some more detail on the machine would have been welcome, especially given that "She understands theoretical physics better than Einstein."  I was expecting a time-tunnel, not voodoo.  I'm still not entirely sure of the purpose of the machine -- I'm assuming it allowed her to connect to 'doggy heaven' and call forth Dog's spirit.  It still works, but the mix of technology and magic seemed a little off.  Really, though, there is very little to criticize about this effort.

Picture use is very good.  Dog's collar will evoke strong memories in anyone who's ever lost a pet.  Annie's machine is central to the story.  The stick figure sets up crucial elements of the story as well as filling in the protagonists history.  The swamp is merely background, but again, elements of it are worked into the story in several locations.


Tolen Mar - Tuesday

Methinks Tolen has been dipping into Pablo's tequila 

This story is twisted and wierd in a very good way.  It starts off completely straight and then takes a 90 degree turn and steps on the gas.  The setup is very strong, chock-full of neat images and intriguing idea.  Almost too full, though, as some of the more interesting things lead nowhere.  Still, I'd rather an excess of ideas than a total lack.  The curio shop is excellent, but all the wierdness doesn't lead anywhere.  This could be a cool setting to wrap a whole series of stories around, in a 'Friday the 13th' kind of way.

The sudden turn is wonderfully executed.  The whole scenario is so surreal it just carries you along.  There are lots of little nagging questions after the fact, but it all definitely works in the moment.  Still, it would be a stronger story if those elements were resolved (eg, the condoms, certain elements of scale, dolls vs. 'big' people) or at least explored or explained a little further.

"You naked plastic slut" is now my favorite line from this Ceramic DM.

Picture use is good.  The 'dog' collar/tag sets up something it doesn't explain, but it fits in well with the weirdness of the curio shop.  The river of dead dolls is creepy.  Pablo stealing the gold coin is excellent -- it reinforces the text and heightens the suprise.    The scrying gizmo is also well-used.

Herobizket --

An imcomplete entry, which is a shame, because the hard-boiled tone was spot-on.  The dialogue is just top notch.  Hopefully, Herobizket will enter another competition someday when he's got the time to devote to it.  This was a very promising start.

Judgement:
[sblock]
Another tough call.  Maxfieldjadenfox (mind if I call you Max?) puts together a creepy little 'outsider done wrong' tale, with some good pathos and an ending that I wasn't expecting.  While no single picture use is a stand-out, each involves an element or theme that recurs throughout the story, making the collective picture use pretty strong.  Tolen Mar's oddball tale is just rife with ideas, weak only in that there wasn't enough time or space to explore them fully.   Picture use wasn't as pervasive as Max, but the jarring revelation of Pablo's true nature is a great 'Ceramic DM' moment.  After going back and forth on this one a dozen times, I'm going to go with Maxfieldjadenfox, because overall the story was more cohesive and the picture use more even.[/sblock]

*Maldur*
Herobozkit, Tolen mar, Maxfieldjadenfox

Herobizkit
Short but sweet, alas not finished as it was the start of a nice "noir" story

Tolen mar
Weird , What have you been smoking  Dolls,  revenge, weirdness,  very nice.

Maxfieldjadenfox
Nice voodoo style pinochio, very nice, odd story

[sblock]My judgement goes to Maxfieldjadenfox. [/sblock]


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## mythago (Oct 19, 2005)

BSF, I do not have your R1S6.


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## maxfieldjadenfox (Oct 19, 2005)

Thank you all, I really appreciate the critiques, and will go back at some point in the future and clean up some details... (By all means, call me Max or Jaden... )
TolenMar and HeroBizkit, thanks for the competition!


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## Tolen Mar (Oct 19, 2005)

I have not been smoking anything, nor have I been at Pablo's tequila.

This is how I write when I let the wheels come off and the story wander where it will.  More time to work would have let me explore more of those strange side roads, and maybe even have gotten more detail out of the riverbed.  (But then, thats the point, isnt it? Do your best in X amount of time.)

So I like to be strange...is that a crime? 

Good stories all, and good luck Max and the others for the next round.


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## BSF (Oct 19, 2005)

mythago said:
			
		

> BSF, I do not have your R1S6.




*Grumble*
OK, I am at work now and have plans for tonight, but I might be able to squeeze in a search for the judgement to re-send.  

It is unlikely, but I might be able to do it at work today.  

Worst case, I can send my vote without any commentary, but that's a cop out. I easily remember which story I preferred, but commentary is a good thing.


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## BSF (Oct 20, 2005)

OK, done with gaming and done with home stuff.  Had time to dig up the judgment and resend it to Mythago.


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## mythago (Oct 20, 2005)

Well crud. Rodrigo, please re-send.


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## Rodrigo Istalindir (Oct 20, 2005)

D'oh.  6 is at home, and I'm stuck at a client out in the boonies all day.  Will resend tonight.


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## Bandeeto (Oct 21, 2005)

Now you sickos are just messing with us.

-Sialia (forgot I was on Bandeetos machine)


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## Herobizkit (Oct 21, 2005)

Thanks for the positive words, all.  I am kinda kicking myself for not playing closer attention to the rules.  I usually do all my computer work at, well, my work, which is the graveyard shift at a hotel.  So, I was trying to squeeze out a story in a very short amount of time, and I've learned that it takes more than one sitting.   

As long as my hook interested everyone enough to see the rest of the story (which is and will probably be unfinished), I am pleased.


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## Aris Dragonborn (Oct 21, 2005)

Sialia, have you thought about turning that bit about 'Albert Beastie' into an actual story? I, for one, would be interested in reading that.


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## maxfieldjadenfox (Oct 22, 2005)

So I'm wondering if the next round will be groups of two or groups of three... And guessing it will probably happen right in the middle of NaNoWriMo...


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## Rodrigo Istalindir (Oct 22, 2005)

Two per match, this time (usually, anyway).  Don't know about BSF, but I can turn these around much faster now that work has calmed down.


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## mythago (Oct 22, 2005)

*Round One, Set Six*

*Rodrigo Istalindir*

Wild Gazebo - Cracked Pavement

This story has a surreal, dream-like quality, with some excellent prose. More a stream-of-consciousness effort than a straightforward narrative, which is hard to pull off in Ceramic DM.  Here, the individual vignettes work on an literary level, but don't cohere enough to form a complete story.

It's too bad, because the writing is very good, very evocative.  What's lacking is a focus on story. It seems like the words are there to be admired for themselves rather than as a blocks with which to build a story.

The picture use suffers for this as well.   Because there is little narrative continuity, the pictures are constrained from having any integration beyond their appearance.  The picture of the couple is very good, and integral to the scene. The circus tent is descriptive, but fits the text well.  The picture of the doorway is also merely descriptive, but of all the pictures, this is the one that seems to throw a shadow over the rest of the story.  The crushed cars seem out of place, included only because the rules required it.

Bibliophile - Good Advice

This story starts off smartly with an early unexpected twist.  There's some unnecessary foreshadowing --  "Somehow, getting shot always seems to ruin my day." gives too much away.  You get to the sudden revelation of the narrator as a hied killer soon enough.  The foreshadowing hurts an otherwise excellent opening.  Still, it's well done, and certainly hooks the reader.

The second scene, at the bar in Sydney, works in retrospect, but at the time I was reading it it really provoked a 'Huh?' feeling.  Not bad, necessarily, but the transition was a little rough.  The protagonist seems a little too willing to think the strange events are centered on her, but the story moves to the conclusion where all is explained quickly enough that it carries you through.

Nice twist, by the way, on not revealing the character's gender till the end, and using the picture to do it.  The ending is nice, tying together the previous action, and with a good twist.  The writing here is a little awkward; I had to re-read it a couple times to make sure I had everything straight.  The shift is a little abrupt.  A little longer transition between the dialogue between the woman and her angel and the woman-as-angel would help, I think.

Picture use is average.  The highlight for me was the picture of the couple, which added something to the story by reversing the expected (for me) appearance of the protagonist.  The clothes on the line is also pretty good.  The crushed cars seems out of place - the appearance of the supernatural would have been better saved for the conclusion.  A more mundane use of the picture would have been better.  The doorway as the safe-house is merely descriptive.

Judgement:  
[sblock]
While Wild Gazebo's story has some really nice writing, and the hint of an underlying story that could be very good, the fragmented nature of the tale keeps it from feeling like a whole.

Bilbiophile's story has some jarring transitions, and the pacing is a little off, but overall this
was a better 'Ceramic DM' entry.
[/sblock]

*BardStephenFox*

*Wild Gazebo - Cracked Pavement*
Wild Gazebo offers us a montage of different experiences based around
the pictures.

This piece has a very artistic feel. Presented experiences that reflect
memories.  Whether the piece is fictional or not is irrelevant because
of it's attempts to reach artistry.  It is an interesting presentation
and it is courageous for the way it steps outside the bounds of a
traditional Ceramic DM story. However it does not work for me.

There are a few issues here.  First of all, I don't really have enough
of a feel for the character to care.  I obviously do not feel the same
rush of emotions from the pictures as the author does.  There are some
very beautiful visuals being constructed from the words to mesh with the
pictures, but it isn't enough for me.  Due to the oddness of some of the
pictures, they feel more contrived than a freeform exhibit of experience
and emotion.  There isn't enough to tie these events together with a
continuity timeline. This leads to another issue.  Because it isn't a
classic story, it doesn't have a solid flow to the storytelling.

In many ways, these issues are not a problem.  I can readily accept that
a piece of art doesn't appeal to me and still appreciate the skill in
which the art was constructed.  I can do that with this story.  But this
is Ceramic DM.  The flow of the story and the importance of the picture
to fit in as seamlessly and relevantly as possible is an important
factor when I judge.  So how well was all of this integrated?

Picture use:
The first picture is of the building.  366 Emaner Street; the temple of
loss.  The scene is well described, but the centerpiece is the chair,
which I barely notice.  Arguably, the picture is crucial as the
character's starting point.  The character referencing the chair
throughout the story does help bring significance to the picture.
The second picture is more interesting to me.  This is simply because of
the language used to describe it.  But the scene described loses context
with the picture.  With the way the scene is described, I ponder what
the most significant structure is.  We are presented with the
environment from afar with the character a small detail in the overall
picture.  This causes the significance of the picture to falter.  If it
had been a picture of a book on a bed, or of the character, it would
have felt much more satisfying to me.
The story behind the third picture makes me smile slightly.  It is
nicely written, but I still don't have enough of a feel for the
character to really appreciate the scene for what it is.
The fourth picture is of the cars.  I see that there is symbolism here,
but again I don't have a strong enough frame of reference to easily
place it with the character.

This picture set baffles me.  Each picture is wonderfully rendered in
the written word.  Each picgture is significant.  But I don't find any
of it to be really engaging.  They work as a montage, but they are not
integrated into a story.  So I am baffled on how to rate it.
Individually, each picture works.  But as a whole, it falls apart
without anything to tie the depicted events together in a meaningful way.

*Bibliophile - Good Advice*
Bibliophile presents us with a slightly twisted morality tale.

We have a rather despicable protagonist that is being assisted toward
finding the path of goodness.  After several subtle tries, the
protagonist still doesn't question her actions, so the guardian must
step in and offer some advice.  It's a little hokey, but it works as a
story.

The most compelling thing about the story is the premise.  It is a
morality tale, but it is one filled with the hope that even some of the
worst folks can find a way to atone.  You just need to stop what you are
doing and recongize those second (tird, fourth, whatever) chances for
what they are.  Not everyone will enjoy this sort of morality play, but
it does work as a device to push the story along.  Though, in the case
of the protagonist, she still doesn't change her ways and must repent
before she finds the path to goodness.

Unfortunately, the events themselves seem a little forced.  This is a
fault of Ceramic DM stories.  The disparate pictures do not always make
for smooth flowing stories.  Of course, that is also the challenge.  The
stories where the pictures all flow together smoothly are often the best
stories.  Despite the forced events, there is still good dialog and an
interesting thread to tie everything together.

Picture use:
The first picture is of tie-dye shirts in a backyard.  In this case, the
camera zooms back to show the shooter investigating the protagonist.  I
would have preferred a little better framing on the environment where
tie-dye shirts hanging in somebody's backyard is a little more
expected.  Otherwise, the picture is a pretty good effort.

The second picture is of the cars.  This is one that seems forced.  We
aren't presented with a reason why the cars must be crushed to stop the
protagonist from finishing her current job.  It is an event that just
happens.  It is a Ceramic DM story and an explanation isn't always
required.  But a solid explanation would do a lot to strengthen the
presentation of the picture.

The picture of the angel and the protagonist smoking cigarettes on the
bed is slightly absurd.  But it does work because the story taps into
some of that absurdity throughout.

The last picture is a revisit to the safehouse.  I admit that I thought
the safehouse picture was being used sooner.  But I like where it is
better.  It would have worked even better if you had tied more details
into the story with significance.

The picture use is solid enough.  It isn't inspiring, but it works.  I
think you can tie it up and present it in a stronger format, butI won't
belabor the point.

*Comparison*
Wild Gazebo has some beautiful language to accompany the pictures.  The
montage effect is risky, but it is a worthwhile risk.  Unfortunately
there isn't enough tieing the montage together.

Bibliophile presents a solid 'workhorse' story.  It has flaws and places
to be improved.  But it is a good read and I enjoyed it.

[sblock]I really think Wild Gazebo has better picture use when each
picture is taken out of context.  But that is part of the problem.  Each
picture is lacking an overall context to drive a story forward.
Bibliophile might not have as strong picture use, but there is a story
to read within the pictures.  In this case, the stronger continuity
makes for a more enjoyable story.  I vote for Bibliophile.  Wild Gazebo,
I applaud your willingness to take a risk with your piece.  I think it
might be able to work, but it felt flat and detached for me this time
around.  I do hope to see more writing from both authors in the
future![/sblock]


*Maldur*
Wildgazebo
Haunting, odd, fragmented, nice imagery but a bit disjointed. I feel you can dobeter, it has potential.

Bibliophile
Hitmen with a guardain angel, The story left me with a "what?" many things left unadressed, this story needs some work as well.

Good but you can do better.

[sblock]
Tough call, but my judgement goes to WildGazebo for the better proze,
still it was more seperate yet beautifull sentences and not a complete
story.
[/sblock]


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## mythago (Oct 22, 2005)

Round 2 is two sets of three opponents each. (We have to do it this way so the rounds come out even.)

Winners, please post your availability.


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## maxfieldjadenfox (Oct 22, 2005)

Next week looks fine for me. Due to the ephemeral nature of both of my jobs, I have no idea after that, but I will make it work regardless... How exciting!


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## yangnome (Oct 22, 2005)

Sialia is in San Jose?  Had I known that, I would have made the short trip to knock her off and better my odds .


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## Macbeth (Oct 22, 2005)

Any time this week works for me.


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## BSF (Oct 22, 2005)

Rodrigo Istalindir said:
			
		

> Two per match, this time (usually, anyway).  Don't know about BSF, but I can turn these around much faster now that work has calmed down.




This last week was quite possibly the worst week at work that  I have had in quite some time.  Not sure how things look in the future.  But let's move forward when we can and I will try to set aside the work stuff whenever I can.


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## Bibliophile (Oct 23, 2005)

This week works for me.

Thanks for the awesome round, Wildgazebo!


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## Sialia (Oct 24, 2005)

I'm no good until Wednesday evening.

The 29th would be a particularly desireable writing day, if I could get started early in the a.m.


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## Maldur (Oct 24, 2005)

ok, I have a problem, my internet connection died at home, so Ill have to sneak in reading enworld at work.

So I hope I can keep my eye on this thread.


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## spacemonkey (Oct 25, 2005)

I'm here, and ready whenever.  Sorry for the late reply - was Enworld down all day yesterday?

Anyway, schedule me whenever.  I wasn't checking over the weekend as I thought we were still a little way from round 2, but I'll be checking frequently now.


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## Tolen Mar (Oct 25, 2005)

Yeah, likely had to do with the hurricane down there.


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## maxfieldjadenfox (Oct 26, 2005)

Where's Steel Draco? Any idea when we might get pictures?


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## mythago (Oct 26, 2005)

I couldn't get on either.

If SteelDraco checks in, we'll post pics Friday night (late). I'd like to post Group 2 on Saturday.


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## maxfieldjadenfox (Oct 27, 2005)

Thanks!


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## Sialia (Oct 28, 2005)

a quick beg to be in the group posted Friday night--the timing would work out much better for me.

but, of course, I'll take what I get and like it.

(submissive posture)


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## mythago (Oct 29, 2005)

Waste of a good pose. You were already in the Friday night group. 

Somebody go poke SteelDraco by tomorrow night, please.


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## mythago (Oct 29, 2005)

*Round Two, Set One*

Macbeth vs. Sialia vs. Bibliophile

warning by pseudofancy

glow by molotov-kisses


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## mythago (Oct 29, 2005)

Bump for contestants who might not have seen it yet.

Set Two goes up tonight.


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## maxfieldjadenfox (Oct 29, 2005)

Yay!


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## SteelDraco (Oct 30, 2005)

What the - ?

Ahhh! Bees!

Ahem. I'm here. Sorry, I've been having intermittent 'net access, since I just moved, and have worked quite a bit this week at a new job.

I'm off Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, so any time period that covers one of those three days is fine by me.


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## BSF (Oct 30, 2005)

Pictures up tonight should allow a Monday writing window for SteelDraco.  So I think that will work just fine for the ongoing plan.  

Good luck everyone!


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## mythago (Oct 30, 2005)

*Round Two, Set Two*

SteelDraco vs. spacemonkey vs. maxfieldjadenfox

curtain by fabemiko


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## Maldur (Oct 31, 2005)

hmmmm, interesting.


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## Sialia (Oct 31, 2005)

Admit it Mythago--you've always wanted a chance to beat me at this game.

Consider me whipped.

I have never had such trouble stitching photos together.

While you're up there dancing on my spine in your stilletos, could you do something about that knot between my shoulder blades?

I think I will just lie here face down for a while.

Not enough hours left to wedge in one  . . . more . .  damn . . .  photo . . . .


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## Maldur (Oct 31, 2005)

internet connect is back !

woohoo!


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## Macbeth (Nov 1, 2005)

I'm sorry guys, there's no way I can get my story done. I'm really sorry, most of all to my competitors, but school and a whole mess of other issues have all got together to mug me... I just had too much stuff goin on to get it all done. My apologies, especially to Sialia, who I really wanted to write against.


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## Sialia (Nov 1, 2005)

Gladly I would give you more time.

I just had two people read my current draft. 

So far the verdict is "failure to complete the images, due to illegal use of metaphor and unnecessary vagueness." And that was the kinder one.

There were even hand signals to go with that.

This has got to be my most desperate attempt to flunk out of Ceramic GM ever.

If the judges aren't in a rush to judge, I wouldn't have any problem moving the deadline out.


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## Sialia (Nov 1, 2005)

EEEE!  I just realized--there was a daylight saving switheroo in there.

I've been aiming for 10:30 tonight.

Is a strict 72 required? And would that make it 9:30 or 11:30?

Oh help.  I can't do the math.

mercy.


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## mythago (Nov 1, 2005)

My opinion of Daylight Savings Time is not grandma-compliant.

Yeah, it's supposed to be 72, but given the timestamps are probably off I think we can make allowances.

Macbeth, get your fanny in here. At least write a sonnet or something.


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## Sialia (Nov 1, 2005)

When Pari could not afford to think about the ache in her feet and shoulders as she walked, her mind had to go somewhere else, so instead she would think, “We are playing giuthi again.”

Or, “still.”  

Every few years for as long as she could remember, her family picked up everything they could carry and traveled to live somewhere new. They dropped things along the way as they went—things too bulky to bring along: a house, some cousins, a handful of friends, a favorite bakery, a good shady tree.

Pari thought, each time we go, it is as though everything I am is dwindling away, no matter how hard I try to carry all my old life along with me. Then we land somewhere and start gathering it all up again—new house, new marketplace, new friends, new languages. And then, off we go, one town to the next, dropping memories like glass seeds into the little cups of the wooden giuthi board. The purpose of our game is to keep traveling, hoping a few treasures will someday wind up in our hoard. (glow.jpg)

Pari had trouble keeping track of who her family was playing against anymore.

The king’s soldiers used to get drunk and burn a few houses, rape a few girls, and her family had been cautious enough to keep moving further away from wherever they were stationed. When new armies marched across the land with a bold red flag and the king’s gyrfalcon banner fell, she privately rejoiced to see their red flag raised in its place.

Her father drew her close and quietly told her a fable about foolish pigeons who hired a hawk to protect them from a falcon, only to find the hawk ate more pigeons in a day than the falcon had in a year. 

But the red flag soldiers never raped or burned, except on official business. The red soldiers leveled the worship house and replaced it with a theater to show State-approved plays, but they left Pari’s family alone, as long as they dressed like everyone else and did no praying. Her family was very careful never to be anyone’s official business.

The red soldiers gave everyone papers that said they had to stay put wherever they were, and Pari did not mind that one bit. Three years they had stayed in that place, and it seemed like forever. But then the red soldiers issued new papers that said the family must move to a different place. And then again, and again, and again, every year or so. They kept shuffling all the families around as if trying to find places where they would fit, but not too well, and not for too long. The red soldiers didn’t like it when families had loyalties to each other instead of to the red flag. 

And then in the terrible summer, the brown soldiers came on their motorcycles and butchered the red soldiers. The head of the hawk was severed and left to lie glassy-eyed in every meadow. (hawk.jpg) The brown soldiers rounded up the townsfolk and either executed them for being red collaborators, or marched them off to labor camps. 

Pari had been a good hard worker. And what was left of her family--because they’d moved so much—they already knew how to march. It was carrying things along that had gotten so hard. That time they had left behind much more than usual. A baby brother, among other things.

They marched somewhere north, to a new labor camp. It was very cold, and Pari had wished they had not dropped so many of their warm things when it was so hot that summer. But the clothes had been too heavy to carry—it was either warm clothes or water, and in August, they had chosen water.

Pari kept reminding herself that in giuthi, you always have to empty your hand down to the very last seed before you get to pick up any new ones. With luck, you can plan your seeds so that the last seed falls into a full cup and not an empty one, and then you can scoop up what’s there and go on a bit longer.

Pari had wondered how much she had left before that last seed, and where it would fall. 

At long last, the soldiers had ordered them to stop, and the exhausted workers obeyed gratefully, dropping to the hard pavement as if it were stuffed with feathers, and huddling into the scant shelter of a factory wall as if it were covered in warm stove tiles.

Their bivouac was unpleasant, and brief.

Little food, and little warmth, and then some villager from the town they were passing through pointed out the “No loitering” sign painted on the side of the building. To save face, the soldiers—the ones who had ordered them to halt there--arrested the lot of them for vagrancy. Two of the “ringleaders” were shot as an example, and the weary group marched on.

Pari marched away from her dead father with one less seed in her hand. She had not known that her hands could feel that empty. (warning.jpg)

The work camp was unspeakable.

One day when spring was almost in the wind, Pari’s mother and older sisters were transferred to another camp, and they marched away. Pari had never imagined that she would be one of the seeds left behind. She wondered which side would pick her up next, and realized she no longer had any idea who the players were.

Eventually—in the fall-- there were more soldiers, this time in green, with trucks. They captured the brown soldiers and the camp, brought food and medicines, cigarettes and chocolate, and then they turned Pari and some of the other camp workers over to the care of a textile mill owner, and left. The mill owner fed them and housed them, paid them wages for their labor, and then collected most all of it back for the food and rent. 

In chess, Pari thought as she sat before her loom, the pieces are black or white, and each has a name, or at least a title. Captured or free, a pawn always knows what part she plays and which side she plays for. In giuthi, once a seed is dropped, it’s anybody’s piece to use or capture. Perhaps she had already been captured and dumped in one of the granaries, a piece no longer in play. Her purpose was no longer to keep moving. Her purpose now was simply to exist and be numbered.

If the factory was a black pit from which Pari never hoped to emerge, it was at least a place to be indoors while winter besieged the world outside. 

When spring came, buyers came to the factory to inspect the plant and order shipments of rugs and other goods. Many were foreign, and spoke haltingly, or with thick accents. The factory owner would walk out to the floor and bellow “who speaks Belarusan?” or “who speaks English?” and Pari would peer through the strings of her loom and raise her hand. (weft.jpg)

Sometimes they picked someone else, but not often. Pari, it seemed, had lived more places than anyone. What was more, she knew how to translate without inserting her own opinions or comments. She was quiet, focused, discrete. A perfectly transparent conduit for communciation, pure as a lens.

After a while, the owner would just bellow “Send Pari,” without bothering to ask what tongue. If she didn’t know the tongue, she’d hunt for cognates in some language she did know, or use hand gestures, or draw pictures. Eventually, the parties always came to some understanding. It was good for business.

Translating was much more interesting than weaving. Pari learned a lot watching the men haggle. She could tell who would make a good bargain almost before he began. The mill owner was particularly skilled—a dignified and clever man who never caved to pressure once negotiations began in earnest. Bullies and cowards did not walk away with his best prices.

And then, one warm spring day, the soldier who had shot her father walked across the factory floor, and into the owner’s office. He wore a business suit now, but he had a face that Pari would never forget.

And the owner bellowed “Send Pari.”

Pari rose slowly from her loom. She walked slowly to the office, her hands numb with sudden chill.

A halo of cold seemed to have engulfed her, a shell of terrible ice. She was made of ice—her hands, her heart, her spine—transparent and bloodless—a shell to carry her frozen, voiceless tongue. She would walk into the room and be immobilized with fear, folded in on herself like the small round brittle thing she was.

She thought again of the glass seeds sitting in their little cups. In seeds—in real seeds—sometimes things grow.

The thing growing in her was pale and fierce. It had long sharp thorns that dripped poison.

She could see, could almost feel the black ichor of the man’s body smeared across her palms, her face. Surely a creature such as he carried no blood within him. Blood felt, blood cared, blood sang and wept and this man—he was no man.  She would rip him open with her thorns and teeth and only darkness would dribble out. She would crush his skull with the chunks of her frozen heart. And perhaps there would be a tiny box in which what passed for his soul was carried. She would pluck it out and crush it and burn the scraps.

It would not be murder. It would be vengeance. (interrupted.jpg)

Pari stepped in to the room, and the icy shell around her black rage felt strong, impregnable. 

The mill owner sat behind the desk in his green-walled office, the ex-soldier sat in the guest chair on the other side. They were sharing coffee. 

As she hesitated in the doorway, the mill owner introduced himself, and she translated automatically the same introduction she had repeated so many times before.

The soldier blandly introduced himself to her. He did not recognize her. Why should he? There must have been so many faces, and hers had been so small.

“This is the criminal who shot my father,” Pari translated, her voice as mild as if she were speaking the gentleman’s name and business.

She heard it leave her mouth, and the small clink it made as it landed in the mill owner’s ears. Perhaps it was only the sound of him setting his coffee on the desk.

“My father was unarmed,” she clarified. “He was exhausted from carrying me, and this man shot him down in the street for resting. For loitering. For no reason at all.”

The mill owner nodded, and picked up the phone. 

“There will be a delay while we complete your background and credit check,” she informed the soldier.

“You sure about this Pari?” the mill owner asked her as he waited for the line to connect. “This isn't going to be pretty. The war left so many criminals, it’s hard to find an honest official left to arrest or judge them. You'll have you hands full for a long while.”

“Yes,” she replied. “My hands will be full."


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## mythago (Nov 1, 2005)

Sialia said:
			
		

> While you're up there dancing on my spine in your stilletos, could you do something about that knot between my shoulder blades?




And here I was about to ask you to roll over.

I really had some nice pictures of spheres and hands, but I didn't want Piratecat to yell at me.


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## Sialia (Nov 1, 2005)

mythago said:
			
		

> And here I was about to ask you to roll over.




I don't pay you enough for that kind of abuse.


----------



## Sialia (Nov 1, 2005)

Sorry I didn't hold for you Macbeth.

When I realized how little time was left on the clock, I took a three page penalty for unneccessary verbage, dropped back to version four and punted.


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## Macbeth (Nov 1, 2005)

No problem. Even with an extended deadline, things are looking thuroughly cruddy. Projects, work, family matters, I'll try to post whatever I have sometime soon, but as is, my life is just too much. My apologies again, I wish I could have pulled out sooner, at least give you some warning, but I had hope until today at work, when another project was dropped to me. Ugh.


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## Maldur (Nov 1, 2005)

Sialia said:
			
		

> EEEE!  I just realized--there was a daylight saving switheroo in there.
> 
> I've been aiming for 10:30 tonight.
> 
> ...



 That gave you anothyer hour to play with


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## BSF (Nov 1, 2005)

OK, it looks like Sialia was a minute late.    Sadly it looks like Bibliophile missed posting and Macbeth has already declared RL precedence.  I will try to put together some comments for Sialia soon.  

It looks like I have been signed up for training classes out in San Francisco all next week.  So if we have round three go up and due next week, I might only be intermittently available.  

So I know there are a couple of people here familiar with that area.  I should be in classes from 9:00 AM to 5:00 PM.  What is there to do in Belmont, CA with the rest of my time?


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## Sialia (Nov 1, 2005)

Visit Sialia in San Jose, you silly.

Don't you dare pass through that close and not call me.


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## Piratecat (Nov 1, 2005)

mythago said:
			
		

> I really had some nice pictures of spheres and hands, but I didn't want Piratecat to yell at me.




I'm watching you, lady.  Don't think I'm not.

When I saw the images for this round, I thought, "Holy crap! That's tough, but at least there's no hand-n-sphere images." Clearly, you've scarred me.


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## mythago (Nov 1, 2005)

Macbeth said:
			
		

> No problem. Even with an extended deadline, things are looking thuroughly cruddy. Projects, work, family matters, I'll try to post whatever I have sometime soon, but as is, my life is just too much. My apologies again, I wish I could have pulled out sooner, at least give you some warning, but I had hope until today at work, when another project was dropped to me. Ugh.




"Hey, how you doing with floating in that well with a millstone around your neck, Macbeth?"

"Uh...so far so good, boss--"

"Great! We need somebody to hang onto this boulder for us. Here, catch."

Yeah, I been there.

BardStephenFox, you're not far from San Francisco and also not far from Sialia. If you can't find something to do given that information, I can't help you


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## Sialia (Nov 1, 2005)

BardStephenFox said:
			
		

> OK, it looks like Sialia was a minute late.





So . .uh. It wouldn't much matter if I went back in a re-wrote that cruddy ending then, would it?

I can't tell you what it felt like to realize that instead of having 45 minutes left to work with, there were about 10.

3 pages hit the cutting room floor in a pretty big hurry.  

I wish the last four lines had as well.


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## maxfieldjadenfox (Nov 2, 2005)

Ceramic DM Round Two
Space Monkey, Steel Draco and Jaden Fox

Elemental
By Jaden Fox

I looked up at the mast, straining to see the top. The rigging swayed a little in the breeze and I wondered if I was really ready. 
“Are you ready?” said a husky voice near my foot. 
“Sensei. Don’t scare me like that.”
“How did you know it was I?” he asked, his soft pink nose wrinkling to push his glasses back up into position.
“It was the glasses,” I laughed. “Well, or the fact that you’re the only talking hare on the ship.”
He scratched his ear with a hind foot, humming the song he hums no matter what form he’s in, and said again “So, are you ready?”
I answered by swinging myself easily up onto one of the rungs of the rope ladder that hung before me. I climbed up and up, keeping my eye on the dark platform that would be my first stop, and the place of the first test. It was uncomfortable, the twisted hemp rough and spiky. I wished I had brought gloves. I turned to look down at the small brown rabbit on the deck. 
“I said, I wish I had brought gloves.” My hands were immediately encased in soft leather, lined with rabbit fur. “You’re perverse, you know that?” I asked him, but he was hopping toward the galley. He was always hungry in rabbit form. I knew he didn’t have to be watching me to know what was happening to me, so I went on, sure I was safe.
Now with the gloves, I was moving pretty quickly. Ten feet, twenty feet, thirty feet went by. My hands began to sweat, partially because of the gloves, but partially because I was almost to the platform. What would I find when I got there, I wondered. I hefted myself up onto the wooden decking, rough and grey from years of weather, and saw a chunk of ice. It was a chilly morning, but not that chilly. I picked it up and closed my eyes. I began to feel motion, a slow clockwise rotation at first and then faster and faster like the ship was in a whirlpool. I feared I would be thrown out into the water. Far away, I heard my Sensei’s voice cry, “Remember yourself!” and then all went dark.
I woke up in what I thought was a glass cathedral, which glowed with a misty azure light. It was cold, so cold that I was frozen to the spot for a moment, but then surrounded by a forest of huge pines, I felt like a faery princess. As I moved, I became aware that I was changed, a transparent hand fluttered up into the air, a transparent toe slid across the crystalline floor. I was ice. I was clear and pure, shining and reflecting everything around me. I was solid, but brittle. I was light flickering on a frozen pond. I was beautiful in a way that I had never been before. I felt a surge of joy and I began to dance. I danced the way it felt to be hit in the back with the first snowball of winter. I danced the way it felt to see hoarfrost on the windows on a December morning. I danced snowflakes and ice caves and towering storm clouds. And when I knew what it was to be ice, I remembered that I was something more and in a flash, I was back on the platform, hands numb, shivering.

“Very good!” cried my Sensei. “Go on!”
My breath was still making little puffs of steam as I climbed to the next platform. No, it wasn’t my breath. The whole platform was covered with a fine mist, and once again I whirled faster and faster and was cast into a room full of strangers, who couldn’t see me. Sheer glassine curtains separated one room from another. There were cinder blocks holding them down at the bottom, but I swept past, lifting the edges apart and laughing to myself that they thought they could keep me out. I was incorporeal, slipping beneath a jacket here and lifting a lock of hair there. 
“Is there a draft?” asked one of the people I didn’t know. “Hey, Ken, turn up the heat, will you?” she set her Kirin on the bar. “Cheap bastard” she muttered to herself. I circled them, the people, the bar, delighting in the way I could move things without touching them, and I felt what it was to be air. I was a soft warm breeze on a spring day. I was a tornado, spinning across the great plains, lifting silos and pick up trucks. I was a hurricane, whipping the ocean into a frenzy and hurling palm trees like dandelions. I was immaterial, but so very strong. When I knew what it was to be air, I remembered I was something else too, and once again, I was on the platform, gasping from the exhilaration.

“If I had hands, I would be clapping,” said Sensei, far below.
“What’s next?” I asked, knowing the answer. 
“Climb up and see.” Said Sensei.
I climbed to the very top of the mast, to the crow’s nest. It was slick from the morning rain, but much wetter than it should have been and I closed my eyes once more and spun and spun into a canyon, where I fell thousands of feet in a splashing, crashing rainbow of water droplets. Where I trickled and flowed over boulders and around the slick scales of little fishes. And I knew I was water. I was the soft rain that falls on an autumn night. I was the torrential downpour of a summer thunderstorm. I was rills and creeks and lakes and rivers, and then I was the ocean, the tide in me, drawing me to the sand, and back out again, inhaling and exhaling the world. The inhaling and exhaling was so soothing, I felt myself slipping away, the molecules of water in my human body joining and forging with the molecules of water in the ocean, the salt in my blood and the salt in the waves co-mingling. Something about it wasn’t right, I knew, but I didn’t know what to do. Sensei’s voice rang in my head, “Remember yourself!” I knew what it was to be water, but then I remembered that I was something more and I swept up into the sky and rained down into the crow’s nest.

Sensei was standing on the dock now, next to a wall of green stone, no longer a brown, bespectacled rabbit, but a venerable Asian man in black. 
“Well done, “ he said. 
I climbed down the rigging, and ran across the ship’s deck and down the gangplank to meet him. 
“That was scary.” I said.
“You did fine,” Sensei said, “water’s always the hardest.”
“What happened to your glasses?” I asked.
“I’ve been eating so many carrots, I don’t seem to need them anymore,” he said.
He put his arm across my shoulders and asked, “Well, granddaughter, what would you like to be tomorrow?”
I thought for a moment. 
“Stone and fire and earth and butterflies, and maybe, just maybe, a rabbit.”


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## maxfieldjadenfox (Nov 2, 2005)

OK. It's posted. I didn't even try to deliniate the pictures this time, hopefully the judges will recognize them by my descriptions... NaNoWriMo here I come!
PS Sialia, your stories are always so moving! I just read the recent one and the following thoughts flitted through my mind: "Oh Goddess, I may have to write against her." "No way will I end up writing against her." and "Wow, I might get to write with her..."


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## BSF (Nov 2, 2005)

So Spacemonkey and steeldraco missed the deadline as well?  I guess it will be easy to judge round two.


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## spacemonkey (Nov 2, 2005)

The snow crunched underfoot, but Hayden barely felt the chill in the air.  Glancing at his watch, he redoubled 

his search efforts - scanning the square quickly.  Still nothing.  Perhaps this was the one - the case that 

would finally beat him.  It had been a long day.  Maybe he should call it quits, go home.  Let those smug boys 

back at the office win for -- but wait, what was that there?  Almost imperceptible, but could it be?

Speeding his pace quickly, he left flurries of new powder swirling behind as he neared the old gazebo.  Half 

buried in the snow and ice he found it.  Cute little bugger, with the glasses and all.  Lila always toted that 

stuffed bunny about with her. If he was here, then she had been too.

But where?  There were no obvious clues, and he didn't have the time for a thorough forensic search at the 

moment.  Too many things riding on a quick outcome.  Gotta think things through logically.  She'd dropped 

Herbert by the gazebo.  Did they grab her in the open?  Risky, and she probably would have kept her grip on the 

little guy anyway.  So what then?  Not an easy thing to get transportation in here, so they probably had to move 

slow, and in the open.

Couples walked in the square, a family there (with their sniffer, a mangy but servicable bloodhound - probably a 

guarddog as well).  This many people now, so there would have been even more earlier.  Not an easy proposition 

to make off with her under those circumstances.  Not unless they had some cover.  They had been Russian, from 

the looks of the rough but efficient entry hole near the north bridge.  They were good, but probably 

overconfident - maybe sloppy.  Gotta be something here - I just can't see it yet...

"Aww.. they took down the pretty ballerina already."   The mother bent down to kiss her child's cheek.  "I'm 

sorry sweetie, but I told you to hurry.  They were already crating it up when I came through earlier.  We'll 

come tomorrow when they have something else, ok?" 

The words barely registered, and the family began moving on - the father careful to put the old bloodhound 

between his family and scruffy stranger poking about in the snow with that child's stuffed animal.  There's just 

got to be something.. ballerina?  What ballerina?  There, in the gazebo.  scratches on the ice floor.  He found 

a perfect replica of a girl's mitten lying near the icy arched walls of the structure.  It too was made of ice.

"Hey, you there!"  He chased the family, and their protector whirled about, snapping jaws and froth flying from 

bared teeth.  He ignored the mutt and pulled a shiny badge from his belt.  Not a perfect forgery, but enough to 

fool these folks long enough to get some information.

Five minutes later he was running again.  South they had said.  The workers had crated up the ballerina ice 

sculpture and headed south, away from the north bridge.  Did they have another route ready?  Or was he chasing 

ghosts, already too late to do any good?  He would know shortly, if he could only track them.  He was starting 

to feel the cold now too.  And no sign yet, not the faintest clue.  These guys were good, no doubt about it - 

probably the best since his gig in Chile two years ago.  

A smile flashed across his face.  Not good enough, apparently.  There, in the snow, was the faintest footprint.  

Doing some quick calculations, he guessed the most likely route and sped towards the docks.  He had their number 

now - only one way to sneak a large crate out, and that was to hide it in with the standard cargo.  Only one 

place south to fit that bill...

He saw it before he hit the wharfs.  A big, old-fashioned wooden mast towering above the dockside buildings.  

Sure enough, she had an ice prow on the front.  Heading to colder waters, fellas?  Not on my watch.  He slipped 

aboard quickly enough.  Not too much in the way of guards though.  Shouldn't there be a bit more resistance?  

Slinking through the narrow passages below deck, he found the cargo hold, and a large crate stashed in the 

front.  Last minute addition?  The crowbar was still laying across the top too.  The figures stole from the 

shadows as he reached for it, but he was prepared for them.  Kay was prepared, rather.  He had always loved the 

way that short, dignified figure could kick the crap out of pretty much anyone.  The russians hit the floor with 

a thud, one after another.  

He had the crate open, and there she was.  Lila, but not as she had been described.  An ice ballerina, frozen in 

time.  He turned to see Kay standing still in the corner, that slightly satisfied smile on his face.

"Don't get cocky.  I taught you everything you ever knew Kay.  Let's not forget that, shall we?  Now how about 

an exit?"

Kay bowed slightly, then ripped a hole in the side of the ship.  Light poured through the gash, and the ship 

faded from view along with Kay and the ballerina.

Clark shoved his glasses up further on his nose and waited for the plastic curtain to open.  These new 

full-vision nano-screens were much better than the old headgear.  Perhaps he'd have enough to get one of his own 

after this job.  He stepped into the next room.  Technicians shifted their holo-views to the side and looked at 

him expectantly.

"Russians, from three concurrent connections.  Broke through the firewall and iced L.I.L.A., then stowed her in 

the south transport grid.  I k-spiked them - they won't be giving you any trouble for a while anyway.  There 

should be some residual data left as well.  You should be able to unfreeze her with a little time.  I'll expect 

my pay through the usual means."

He walked out, conscious of the eyes on him.  "Still got it," he thought as he left.


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## spacemonkey (Nov 2, 2005)

Whew!  and with 3 minutes to spare 

Had a tough time with this one.  I ended up going very short on it, but hopefully it makes sense anyway...

Looking forward to seeing what the other round-2ers put together.


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## spacemonkey (Nov 2, 2005)

Oh crap, I screwed up the daylight savings, didn't I?  Crud.  Well, my story (such as it is) is there, and I'm tuckered out from the writing.  I'll leave it to the judges for verdicts and such.  Hats off to maxfieldjadenfox for avoiding the whole issue by not procrastinating quite as much as I did


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## mythago (Nov 2, 2005)

Unless anybody has an issue with it, I would like to declare Daylight Savings Amnesty.


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## BSF (Nov 2, 2005)

I'm good with it.  But I'm just a judge.  

I doubt Jaden will be on before morning (local time) so we will probably need to wait a bit to see.


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## maxfieldjadenfox (Nov 2, 2005)

Not a contest without contestants, is it? Amnesty it is...


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## Sialia (Nov 2, 2005)

maxfieldjadenfox said:
			
		

> OK. It's posted. I didn't even try to deliniate the pictures this time, hopefully the judges will recognize them by my descriptions... NaNoWriMo here I come!
> PS Sialia, your stories are always so moving! I just read the recent one and the following thoughts flitted through my mind: "Oh Goddess, I may have to write against her." "No way will I end up writing against her." and "Wow, I might get to write with her..."





Thank you. I'm looking forward to next round, too.

Both you and spacemonkey turned in fine work, and either way, it's going to be verrrry interesting.


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## Maldur (Nov 3, 2005)

Give me till this afternoon for my swinging the judgment stick. Im looking for another boulder to throw at MacBeth


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## BSF (Nov 3, 2005)

I crashed last night.  I got home from work just a little late, ate dinner and then crashed.  I actually fell asleep before my little boy went to bed.  So I didn't get any judgements done last night.  But I did get a little caught up on sleep.


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## Sialia (Nov 3, 2005)

Sleep is good.

Has anyone heard anything from Bibliophile?

I've moved on from being disappointed to worried.


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## maxfieldjadenfox (Nov 4, 2005)

It is kinda creepy when folks just disappear from cyberspace, isn't it? I hope both bibliophile and SteelDraco are OK.


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## maxfieldjadenfox (Nov 5, 2005)

Any chance of judgements soon? I'm on pins and needles (and it hurts!)


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## Maldur (Nov 5, 2005)

My grandpa is dying, IM not sure if I have the time for judging.

Sorry, bazz


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## mythago (Nov 6, 2005)

I'm so sorry, Maldur.


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## maxfieldjadenfox (Nov 7, 2005)

Yes, obviously real lif has to come first. I'll be thinking of you.


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## Rodrigo Istalindir (Nov 7, 2005)

Sorry to hear that, Maldur.


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## spacemonkey (Nov 7, 2005)

My condolences also.  I know that can be hard..


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## Sialia (Nov 8, 2005)

I'm sorry to hear about your Grandfather, Maldur. Please send my love to your family.

What do you say we just skip the judging for this round and advance everybody who managed to haul a qualifying story across the finish line? Call it the survivors round.

It would still leave us with a heat of 3. 

(Unless you disqualify mine for really shaky picture use, that is, in which case, we could sudden death the whole competition with spacemonkey and maxfieldjadenfox who actually turned in qualifying stories.)

We could open up the judging to a poll of the readers who are willing to swear that they have actually read _all _ of the stories in the round, are willing to write at least one sentence about each of them, and can post their votes within 72 hours of the poll being opened.

Just a thought, in light of the awkward circumstances and difficult schedulees fo the judges.


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## maxfieldjadenfox (Nov 8, 2005)

I'd be cool with all of us advancing... Judges? Whatcha think?


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## Wild Gazebo (Nov 8, 2005)

I'd be more than happy to step in and help in any particular aspect--if need be.  I've even managed to read the FAQ and some previous winning stories since I last read this thread.  Well, the offer is on the table...just let me know if you guys need any help.


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## Rodrigo Istalindir (Nov 8, 2005)

Is it just Maldur's judgement that is pending, or are we still waiting on BSF, too?


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## BSF (Nov 8, 2005)

Still waiting for me to send one in.  I was planning to finish up tonight at the hotel.

EDIT:  I would still be open to a final round of three though.  I really enjoy seeing more ideas of how to tie the same pictures together.


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## spacemonkey (Nov 8, 2005)

I'm fine with either of the options Sialia put forth if we need to go with one of them.  For the record, I would say Sialia should advance as well (especially in light of the clemency already afforded to me by my most honorable competitor Maxfieldjadenfox..)

I'm fine with the judges doing their thing with one less verdict also, if that works.


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## maxfieldjadenfox (Nov 8, 2005)

Absolutely Sialia should advance. I think the journey is the best part of this competition, since there's no prizes...


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## mythago (Nov 9, 2005)

Sialia said:
			
		

> What do you say we just skip the judging for this round and advance everybody who managed to haul a qualifying story across the finish line? Call it the survivors round.
> 
> It would still leave us with a heat of 3.




Fine by me, but I still think the people who bothered to write stories at least deserve commentary from the remaining judges.


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## maxfieldjadenfox (Nov 9, 2005)

spacemonkey said:
			
		

> I'm fine with either of the options Sialia put forth if we need to go with one of them.  For the record, I would say Sialia should advance as well (especially in light of the clemency already afforded to me by my most honorable competitor Maxfieldjadenfox..)
> 
> I'm fine with the judges doing their thing with one less verdict also, if that works.




I like being called "most honorable", but my lifelong dream is to be called a "saucy minx"...


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## BSF (Nov 9, 2005)

Gack!  Today has been less than pleasant.  I just sent off the final comments to Mythago.  Finishing up my 'lunch' at training class in between crisis at work.  Bleah!

Anyway, I finally had time to email the last set.  Sialia's were sent this morning when I got to the training center.  

Speaking of Sialia - Email me, please?


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## BSF (Nov 9, 2005)

maxfieldjadenfox said:
			
		

> I like being called "most honorable", but my lifelong dream is to be called a "saucy minx"...




I didn't know that.  I'll file that away for future reference.


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## Sialia (Nov 10, 2005)

ok


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## BSF (Nov 10, 2005)

Wow, I met Sialia, Bandeeto and the Scampering Chaos last night.  It was a very good evening and I was amazed at how comfortable I was meeting these people whom I only knew as online personae.  I hope I was reasonably coherent.

I should be back home by late Friday night.  Looking forward to the next round of stories.


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## maxfieldjadenfox (Nov 10, 2005)

I should be back home by late Friday night.  Looking forward to the next round of stories.[/QUOTE said:
			
		

> Me too. Will the last round be commented on? When might we expect the next set of pictures?


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## Sialia (Nov 10, 2005)

BardStephenFox said:
			
		

> Wow, I met Sialia, Bandeeto and the Scampering Chaos last night.  It was a very good evening and I was amazed at how comfortable I was meeting these people whom I only knew as online personae.  I hope I was reasonably coherent.
> 
> I should be back home by late Friday night.  Looking forward to the next round of stories.




We had a really good time, and the best bit was not having to hit "send" and wait for a reply after each communciation. BSF in person is very much like his online voice, or at least, he played the part _very _ convincingly.

Also BSF brought the Scampering Chaos a beautiful homemade dream catcher, and we hung it up over her bed before she went to sleep last night. 

This morning, as soon as it was light, she asked me to check to see if she had actually caught any dreams in it.

At which moment I realized that BSG hadn't really described to her what the item was supposed to do . . . and actually had sort of demurred when I told her last night that the purpose of the thing was to sift out the bad dreams and only let good dreams through. "That's what _some _ people say they do . . . " he had said.

I cannot now recall why I didn't ask him what the maker of this one said it does . . .

As a PC, I think I should know better by now than to disreagrd a rat bastard when he uses those kinds of italics.

Bit late now. Big front of dream weather hanging over us now. Guess we''ll find out the hard way . . .


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## BSF (Nov 10, 2005)

*laugh*

I was very specific in not necessarily providing a direct answer.  Why inhibit a child's creativity with a foreign perspective?  For me, the joy was in the making, and the giving to your family.  You have given me a fair amount of art over the years and I enjoyed creating something for your family.  

Your daughter will come up with her own interpretation of the dream catcher and then it will fit exactly whatever need she wants it to fill.  That will be influenced by how you have reared her.  That she was excited about it made me happy.


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## maxfieldjadenfox (Nov 10, 2005)

The Scampering Chaos is a perfect name for a child... Makes me feel I lacked creativity with my son's moniker, "Bunny"... (Which, by the way was an embarassing nickname by the time he got to mid-school.)
PS We are all used to BSF being inscrutable. It's what he does.


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## Sialia (Nov 12, 2005)

Er. That was "rat bastard" in the good sense, of course, oh most honored judge.


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## maxfieldjadenfox (Nov 12, 2005)

Bazz, how are you holding up?


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## mythago (Nov 12, 2005)

I believe I have both Rodrigo and BSF's judgments, and will post (with new pics) tonight.


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## Sialia (Nov 12, 2005)

Well, that big storm system blew over us last night. Now I know this is not a "storm" in the sense that anybody with real weather would call a storm. "Mild drizzle, with fog" is about what I would have called it, had I been awake.

But these weather systems that move in off the Pacific always bring pressure changes that cause strange dreams in those of us suceptible to such things.

I had a large bouquet of nightmares last night, ranging from ebola on the new Battlestar Galactica kills pretty much everybody, to one about needing to file lions. ("File" as in I'm a records manager and I'm in charage of rounding up all the unlabelled adult male African lions running loose around my office and getting them indexed and put away in thier proper filing cabinets.) That sort of nonsense--you get the idea.

Anyway, after a hideous night of about five of these--and several incidents of waking up sweating and gasping-- I staggered in to see the Scampering Chaos this morning. She says to me: "Mom, I think this dreamcatcher needs new batteries." 

"Did you have nightmares?" I asked her.

"No, but I had one really weird dream," she says. 

I had a sudden image of the poor charm hanging there bulging at the strings trying to hold back what blew through our house last night.

She describes how things went from strange to bizarre, and then just as they were about to get scary, the dream ended. " . . . And that's when it must have started working again," she concluded.

"In that case," I replied, "it's probably working just fine, and probably doesn't need new batteries. I'll bet it worked pretty hard last night."

She leaned over  "It doesn't _actually _ have batteries, Mom," she whispered, "I was just sayin'."

"I knew what you meant," I replied, amused both by her imagery and by her literalness.

In any case, _my _ batteries are all fueled up with images to shake the soul now, so I'm ready for posting images anytime. Four or five picture beads, and a web of gut . . . let's just see what dreams dare come.


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## mythago (Nov 13, 2005)

For "tonight" read "Sunday morning". The surprise in-law visit chewed up more of the day than I expected.


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## mythago (Nov 13, 2005)

*Rodrigo Istalindir*
Sialia advances by default.

With all due respect to Macbeth and bilbiophile, this would have been a tough story to beat in any event.  The giuthi metaphor is perfectly executed, absolutely essential to the story; in fact, it *is* the story.  And just when you think that it's been played out, the contrast with chess takes it to another level entirely.  This is a near-perfect Ceramic DM entry, one where the story seems to effortlessly incorporate the pictures without strain or accomodation.  Much like Michelangelo once explained his sculpting by saying "I just carve away anything that isn't art", this story seems like it was waiting for Ceramic DM to be told.

It serves equally well as a revenge tale as political commentary, and neither the pathos nor the politics comes across as heavy handed.  It is sufficiently set in the real world but isn't so explicit that the world becomes more important than the character's place in it.

Picture use is excellent.  The giuthi board permeates the entire story.  The warning sign is part of a critical scene, and works both to set the stage for the murder of Pari's father as well as a Helleresque observation of the totalitarian state.  The girl behind the loom captures the Pari's (understandably) skittish nature.  'Interrupted' is a little off, and a little too abstract or dream-like.  The hawk is the weakest of the bunch.

An excellent story, Sialia.  Bravo.

*BardStephenFox*
Macbeth & Bibliophile were, sadly, unsubmitted.
*Sialia - Untitled*
Curiosity; loss; sadness; trepidation; loneliness; abandonment; pain; bitterness; vengeance; resolve.  You evoke all of these feelings within a short space of time.  I marvel at your ability to do this and I envy your skill.  I did not expect this story to move me in this manner when I began reading it.  But you did.
I can go on about the quality of the story or the style of writing, but to be honest this story isn't directly competing against something else.  So I will focus on how it made me feel.  You elicited an emotional reaction, and that is good.
Picture use is not quite as strong as some of your past stories.  You already know that though.
The strongest picture, by far, is glow.  You weave this through the entire theme of the story.
Weft and Warning are both relevant pieces.  I like the picture integration for Weft better.  But I think Warning is a stronger picture because of the emotional attachment of Pari losing her father.
Hawk is definitely a bit of a stretch.
Interrupted is difficult.  (I bow to Mythago's picture picking skillz.)  I like the imagery from your writing rather than the picture.  This leads me to believe that the integration isn't very strong.  I can easily see where the picture provided inspiration.  I can imagine how this is more the image in Pari's mind.  But it is a stretch for me.
This is a very moving story.  It is a shame that there isn't anything to compare it against this round.


*MaxfieldJadenFox - Elemental*
OK, we are looking at a story told in First Person.  First person can be risky, but this is Ceramic DM.  Why play conservative?
It is an interesting story.  I have one or two problems with it.  Most notably, the irreverence in which the protagonist addresses her Sensei.  I was expecting a much more conservative interaction based on my limited experiences with friends involved with various martial arts forms.  This is not to say that you can't have characters with an informal relationship between student and sensei.  I only point it out because you should be aware that you are using language that may be loaded with assumptions by the reader.  This can work to your advantage as you turn these assuptions over and upside down.  It can also work to your disadvantage.  Just be aware of it.
The other problem I have is that most of the events don't really take place. Or maybe they do?  Using a mystical journey can kind of be a cop-out within Ceramic DM.  It all depends on context.
In this case, the context is a spiritual journey of experience.  So it can work.
You have an interesting concept here.  It makes for a nice short story.  But I want more detail.  Why a ship?  Why is sensei a rabbit?  Why these specific elements?  As a reader, I want more context so I understand why her journey is important.
But it is a good story that reads pretty smoothly.
Your picture use is competent.  The ice dancer is well used.  I like some of the imagery associated with it.  The ship is the vehicle used for the journey.  There is a nice metaphor here.  But instead of travelling forward, you are merely climbing the mast.  I am not sure if this is intentional, or the result of the picture.  But following the metaphor, I realize that this journey just ascends and descends.  It never really goes anywhere.  I'm not sure that is what the intention was.  The rest of the pictures don't carry much emotional weight or drive the story forward for me.
It is a good little story with some nice imagery.  Dialog seems to work pretty well.  I would have liked to have seen more story.

*Spacemonkey - Untitled*
Interesting little story here.  It has a nice gumshoe/cyberpunk vibe.  It doesn't quite make sense though.  Why would a data construct need a stuffed rabbit?  Why would a data construct be out in the open in cyberspace?  Why is there an entire family sniffing that section of the net?  You have some good foreshadowing for those that know the cyberpunk genre.  Outside of that genre, the story might seem a little forced with the beginning being a red herring.  I think you could probably clean this up in several places and have a much tighter story.  But I still enjoyed the overall story.
Your picture use is hard to track.  I'm not quite sure where curtain is used.  The ship doesn't seem particularly relevant.  It is a location, that's all it is.  The rabbit is essentially a throwaway bit.  Presumably Kay is represented by dignity?  It isn't a bad usage, just not one that drives the story forward.
In short, this is a story with a lot of promise.  But in the context of a Ceramic DM competition, you will probably get clobbered if your opponent has more effective picture use.  Keep it in mind for the final round.


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## mythago (Nov 13, 2005)

*Final Round*

ENWorld is beng shirty with me about attachments, so I uploaded them offsite.

*maxfieldjadenfox vs. Sialia vs. spacemonkey*

Image #1
Image #2
Image #3
Image #4
Image #5
Image #6


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## Rodrigo Istalindir (Nov 13, 2005)

Mythago, are you missing my commentary on Maxfieldjadenfox v spacemonkey?


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## mythago (Nov 14, 2005)

I might be--could you please resend?


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## Rodrigo Istalindir (Nov 14, 2005)

Re-sent to your gmail account.  

Something twitchy with the 'email' function via the boards.  I might have forgotten to send the last time, but I know I sent this one and the Sialia comments at the same time.


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## maxfieldjadenfox (Nov 14, 2005)

I'm looking forward to seeing it, and thanks BardStephenFox for the comments. I guess I have to actually write a story based on these new pictures, huh?


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## spacemonkey (Nov 14, 2005)

Thanks for the comments, and I'm looking forward to Rodrigo Istalindir's as well.

To clear up my pic usage: 'Dignity' was Kay, and the curtain was the nano-screen (which I just mentioned briefly, but was present the entire time, so to speak).  I certainly agree some of them were a bit shaky usage-wise.  Hopefully I'll have a bit more time to put in on this round (though I'm already 1/3 or the way down  :\ )

Anyway, I'm going to look at the pictures now, and I'll see you guys at or before the finish line.  Good luck to both Sialia and Maxfieldjadenfox (that saucy minx )


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## maxfieldjadenfox (Nov 14, 2005)

spacemonkey said:
			
		

> Anyway, I'm going to look at the pictures now, and I'll see you guys at or before the finish line.  Good luck to both Sialia and Maxfieldjadenfox (that saucy minx )



 That makes me happy!


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## Sialia (Nov 15, 2005)

Thank you for kind comments.

I think I've finally found my way back from where I've been wandering.

Hope you enjoy the next one as much.


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## maxfieldjadenfox (Nov 16, 2005)

Okey dokey, here is my CDM story... Done counts for something, right?

Topsy Turvey
By Maxfieldjadenfox


The first soft notes of the chanter were almost inaudible, but slowly, they grew louder, and louder and louder until it was hard to keep from putting your hands over your ears to muffle the sound. The song was discordant, ugly and willful, like a cross between fusion jazz and death metal. The player of this mad melody was a gargoyle named Neville. Neville had once been employed at Notre Dame Cathedral, but he was undependable and had a penchant for hanging upside down, spewing water up onto the roof instead of fountaining it down like a good waterspout gargoyle should. In fact, Neville was as contrary as any gargoyle ever chipped from stone. When he began to play the pipes, the effect was so stunningly terrible that the bladder was taken from him, leaving him with the chanter until he got better or learned to control himself. Unfortunately, neither of these things happened, his music was as awful and destructive 800 years later, which is when this story begins. 

Jacob was late. He was late and he was pissed at himself because Mr. Manders had said if he was late one more time, he was fired. Jacob couldn’t afford to be fired. He had just bought a new car, a Beemer, which he felt befit his position as an up and coming junior, junior executive at Manders, Finch and Sloan, and he wasn’t going to blow it because of a stupid frozen waffle. The waffle had gotten stuck in the toaster, and had set off the smoke detector and that had brought the landlord which had led to an angry confrontation, but that didn’t matter. Jacob was late, and he had to make up for lost time. As he tied his purple and green tie while trying to finish his coffee and grab his briefcase, he thought he heard music. Well, that was a charitable description, it was a series of bleated notes that made his head ache and set an odd tingle running at the back of his neck. The music seemed familiar somehow. For a moment, he remembered a dream he had been having, just before he woke up. It hovered at the edge of his mind, but then it was gone. Jacob shook his head. Must be those neighbors upstairs.
‘Jeez, how can people listen to that crap?’ he thought as he climbed behind the wheel of Black Beauty. Nobody knew he had named the car, especially after an old kid’s book character, a girl kid’s book character. He had an image to protect. He revved the engine, not taking the time to let his gem warm up slowly as he usually did. 
“Sorry, girl,” he said, ‘I promise this won’t happen again.” He gunned the engine and the back wheel popped the curb. He narrowly missed old Miss Franklin, walking her sausage-like pug, Winston. She shook her cane at him and he yelled “sorry” out the window. Blasting up the 105, radio cranked to drown out the memory of the weird tune, Jacob looked at his Rolex. “Ten til eight. I might still make it.” He pressed the accelerator harder and saw the speedometer shoot up to 110. “Now that’s more like…” 

Neville’s tune reached it’s crescendo. 

Jacob’s eyes returned to the road in front of him just in time to see the mini van. 
“Oh, shi…” 

Trooper Dan Stevenson got the call. A wreck on the 105. A bad one. Sirens wailed their way to the scene, Black Beauty inverted, crumpled and smoking , Jacob hanging from the seat belt. Nearby, the mini van, smashed, windshield shattered. The sound of a child’s wailing came from what was left of the back seat. The firemen and paramedics employed the jaws of life as the woman driver of the van, amazingly alert and uninjured, said over and over, 
“He just came out of nowhere.”

Jacob heard the sirens. He also heard something else, that damned song he had been hearing all morning. He gradually became aware of an odd pulling sensation in the pit of his stomach, and he was suddenly flying over a deep forest. The song was louder here, and as he watched, something seemed to be happening to one of the trees. It’s leaves were turning grey, as if they were slowly being drained of their color. Above, he saw what looked like DNA molecules floating in the sky, twisting and winding around themselves and each other. He landed with a thud near the trunk and saw that it had turned to stone. He closed his eyes and found himself on a plinth, in the moonlight. That was odd enough, but he seemed to be standing on his hands. “I must be hallucinating,” he thought, “or maybe I’m dead. Maybe this is the afterlife?” He pondered this for a moment. Why would he be standing on his hands on a plinth in the afterlife? He had never been athletic, how was he doing this incredibly long handstand now? He couldn’t feel his body. He knew it was there, because he could see it, but it was as if he were carved out of stone, just like the tree. He stayed that way for a long while, as the sky went from indigo to grey blue and finally to the rosy hue of dawn. Then he heard the music again, more discordant, louder, more insistent. He strained to see where it was coming from, and to his surprise, his eyes made out something coming toward him, something grotesque, stomping along on stumpy legs. It had red eyes and pointed ears, or were they horns? A cowled hood and a rough brown robe, like those worn by monks in the olden days. At it’s lips was a chanter from a set of bagpipes, but somehow it was making a noise like a jet engine. Jacob wished he could plug his ears, but his hands were frozen fast to the plinth, and all he could do was suffer as the awful melody vibrated through his body. Soon all of the trees were drained of their color, and then the ground nearby. Everything had taken on the look of icy marble. The gargoyle smiled, and placed the chanter to his lips again. 

Jacob was back in his bed. The melody, if you could call it that, was fading. He looked over at his dresser at the digital alarm clock. 7 AM. Next to the clock was Julie’s ceramic peacock music box, and her pearls. What the? Hadn’t she taken them with her when she left him? 
Jacob shook his head hard. 
“Sweetie, get up. You’re going to be late.” 
Julie was standing in the doorway, a cup of coffee in her hand. She was wearing the blue terrycloth bathrobe he had given her for her birthday. She was beautiful. What was she doing here? 
“Seriously. Here. How about some music to start your day?”
She picked up the peacock and twisted the key on the bottom. A melody began to play. 
“I know this song,” he said, “It’s the one that the gargoyle in the forest was playing when…” He stopped. What was he talking about? 

The paramedic stood by the remains of Black Beauty. His fingers were on Jacob’s throat, feeling for a pulse. 
“Afraid this guys a goner,” he said. Trooper Stevenson next to him shrugged. 
“Call it.” 
“Eight Ten. Wonder what the hurry was?” 
“Who knows?” Stevenson took off his mirrored sunglasses, and wiped them on his shirt. “Huh. That’s funny, where’s that music coming from?”
The paramedic reached into the car, and pulled out the peacock.
“Must have turned on from the impact. Wonder why it didn’t break? Crazy tune, huh?” He put the peacock back next to Jacob, who lay on the pavement, unseeing eyes open to the summer sky.

Somewhere, miles and eons away, Neville smiled.


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## spacemonkey (Nov 16, 2005)

maxfieldjadenfox vs. Sialia vs. spacemonkey

Spacemonkey - "Sight"

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

"Relax, my friend. The jungle is dangerous, yes... but so is the city."

Carlos' wide grin flickered in and out of view in the firelight. Despite his misgivings, Tiago smiled as well. Carlos always had that effect on him - probably the most important reason they were still friends after so many years. And so many hairbrained schemes hatched from that melonball atop his shoulders, Tiago mused. 

"I suppose you are right Carlos. But don't let it go to your head, it's big enough already!"

As the pair settled down in their sleeping bags, Tiago caught the image of Atkins staring at him from across the fire. Or maybe he had nodded off already sitting there. It was impossible to tell from behind those chromed shades. 

"Was there any time the scientist didn't wear them? Or doesn't make my stomach turn, just a little?" Tiago thought as he drifted off to sleep. "I'll be glad to get this trip over with, regardless of Carlos' assurances..." 

---

He grew to hate that blank mien as the days went by. Atkins' blank face was accentuated only by Tiago's own staring back at him, reflected. He saw fear in those eyes sometimes, though he did not know why.

He let Carlos speak with the scientist whenever possible, instead of doing it himself. Atkins' other companions were much more affable, anyway. The four sinewed men, apparently natives of the region (strange accents aside), were at least decently interesting. They had promised to reveal their linguistic past when they returned to civilization, if he had not guessed it by then. "And I most likely will not, at this rate." He thought to himself. "Even still, I may write a paper on the subject, assuming it turns out to be half as interesting as it seems now when I'm back at the university." The long trudge through the undergrowth seemed easier (and the heavy pack a bit lighter) while he posed them discerning questions, at any rate. 

It still seemed like ages before they reached the higher foothills of the mountains. Carlos had not known why this Atkins had wanted to go during this, of all seasons. Any other would have been easier - they could have even taken a helicopter or small plane. "Don't worry about it, he probably wants the 'authentic rain forest' experience" Carlos had said. "And besides, we get paid many more days this way." 

Looking at Carlos now, he seemed eons away from that enthusiastic figure who, on that day, had rubbed his hands together in monetary glee. "The fog is never behind, only in front," he said softly.

"What's that Tiago? Not mumbling incoherently from the hiking already, are we?" Carlos slapped him on the back as he caught up with him, smiling. "Atkins says we are stopping to plan our route from here. Time to start the real work.." 

Tiago followed his friend's eyes as they turned to the lofty, snow-capped peaks above. At least the winter things would be of use now. Carlos read his thoughts easily. "No, you did not drag that pack through the jungle for nothing, my friend. I told you it would pay off eventually, as you will soon see. We may have both grown up here, but even you must admit I know more about our southern Brazilian mountains than you - degree or no." He smiled. "Now let's get over there and help them plan, before Atkins decides the 'best' route all on his own, no?" 

Tiago let Carlos do most of the planning, as did Atkins. "At least he has sense enough for that," Tiago thought. More interesting were the symbols the natives drew on the ground. Tiago tried to ask about them, but all he got were annoyed stares before they scuffed the drawings from the dirt. 

Probably some secret tribal code. He tried to get a look after they wandered off to ready the supplies, but there was nothing intelligible left. He had only had a glimpse, but had he seen rudimentary pictograms set in a picture of the sky above a forest? "I wonder if the picture had any meaning for the symbols, or if the opposite is true?" He turned to watch the natives unpack coats and heavy fur pants. "I must attempt to broach the subject, but delicately, at a later time." Perhaps this journey would yield more unexpected discoveries yet. The natives certainly were the saving grace for him on this adventure. It would have been most dull without them around. Tiago smiled, but his expression soon faded as he stared at the difficult terrain he was to face. "Tomorrow we leave - straight up the mountain, more or less," Carlos called to him. 

"Wonderful," Tiago thought. He barely paid attention as Carlos showed them all how to tie a powerful knot that would not slip or bind much, even in the cold.

---

The four days that followed were the most arduous of Tiago's life. Bitter cold, infrequent rests, and a mouthful of brandy now and again were all he remembered by the time they reached their destination. The rest was numbed out of his memories by the toil and snow of the mountain trek. Now he knew real snow, real winter. Not like the few flakes that fell once in his home village. Tiago thanked his stars that he lived in the southern americas, and for the fact that he would never again have to endure such a thing as real winter again. Not if he had anything to say in the matter. 

Then, suddenly they stopped. The mountain slope ahead had a huge swath of rock missing, almost as if it had been carved from the mountainside at the forging of the world. It formed a shallow, but tall and wide, cave of sorts. As if God had run his finger softly across the width of the rock, just to judge its worthiness. Nestled inside were the remains of a stone city, buried by time, rock, and snow. 

Atkins rushed forward, followed closely by the natives and Carlos. Tiago followed, his own weariness not quite lifted. He was intrigued, however. He hadn't really thought that the journey would be of real significance, despite Atkins' affirmations. Looking at the ruins ahead, he felt now that he may have been rash in coming to that conclusion. 

It took half a day of crawling about the ruins to satisfy Atkins. Tiago had just found an old fresco, with a familiar scene emblazoned upon it when he heard his shouts of triumph. Making a quick sketch in his journal - trees, sky and symbols, just as he had seen days ago on the forest floor - he headed toward the jubilant cries. "They must be of the same tribe these ruins were inhabited by," he thought. "I wonder if they should be trusting that Atkins with their history. I don't think I would have." 

The last to join the others, Tiago received a terrible fright. Atkins was staring at him, his eyes alien and horrific! It only took a moment to realize it was the object in his hands reflecting off his mirrored eyewear, and nothing more. He sighed, somewhat relieved. None of the others noticed what must have been quite a disturbed look on Tiago's own face, though Atkins cocked his head just a bit - or had he?. No matter, he hadn't seemed to take offense, and was babbling about his find. "Am I that skittish of him, that I care what he thinks?" Tiago thought disgustedly. "I pray we are nearly done now that he has what he came for." 

The object turned out to be a small statue, in the shape of a peacock. "Rather awfully gaudy it seems to me," he thought as he looked at it. "The feathers certainly do resemble eyes though, with their shape and the stone at the center of each. Were those pearls? Hard to imagine what a mountain people would have had to trade for such baubles. Certainly more than they were worth, I'd bet." There was a little bit of wear or discoloration on the peacock's body, but the lower tail seemed quite untouched by time. Maybe it was buried partway, and half was preserved better than the other, he mused. 

Tiago helped Carlos map out the next leg of the journey as the natives and Atkins packed up a few more finds - those going directly into packs and not lovingly cradled as the peacock had been, he noticed. This time he was quite interested in the map, as it now showed the return trip - something he was keenly interested in. 

"Here we go around this peak, then down the other side," Carlos was saying. "It should be easy going down it, but I'm glad we took the easy route up."

Tiago cocked an eyebrow at him. "Well, _easier_ at least," Carlos said, with an only slightly sheepish grin. 

As the packing finished, Tiago wandered about the cavern, examining the buildings and occasional piece of pottery. At the far side he came upon a strange sight. Piles of snow, eight or ten feet high and quite narrow, freestanding in a large cluster. He began to sketch them in his journal. The shapes were quite fascinating, like a collection of snowy stalagmites. Carlos found him there, staring at one of the formations. 

"Hey buddy, time to get moving. We only have a little light for today, and I - hey Tiago, you dropped your book. Tiago?" 

Tiago barely heard him. Staring out from the outer layer of snow, encased in ice, was a face. A horrific, bestial face, but with aspects of a man. The others were the same, he saw that now. A frozen white finger there, a tuft of hair (or fur?) there. The sight of the snow-limned grotesquerie had frozen him where he stood. 

As Carlos shook his paralysis out of him, he only pointed behind him. Carlos was too busy rousing his friend, and never saw the blow strike, just above his neck. Tiago was next, though he may have fainted before the blow actually struck. He would never be sure, one way or the other. 

"Wish ya hadn't of seen that." Atkins chewed out as the native dropped the bloody rock and hefted one of the bodies. "I was a-hopin' we'd at least let you walk back to the forest on your own."

---

Things were muddled as Tiago wakened. He felt weary, as if he had slept a long and unnatural sleep, with no dreams. In later days, he would long for that blessed terror-free rest to return.

His first thought was pleasant. "I'm out of the cold." The light filtering through the canopy was pleasant. Then he remembered. He was lying on something hard and flat. A rock or table. Why were his arms held? With horror, his slowly clearing sight beheld a scene utterly out of reason to his still stupor-held mind. 

The natives stood, naked, in the clearing about him. They were mutilated. Large knife wounds criss-crossed their bodies in strange symbols, but the blood flowed slowly upwards instead of down to the ground. A misshapen figure played a discordant melody upon a strange bone flute. The wind was howling about, and it seemed to flow with the music itself, eerily. Gazing upwards to where all the others seemed to be looking, he saw a black gash in the blue sky, and glowing green symbols (all too familiar now) circling around it slowly, but with increasing speed. 

The peacock sat near him. It glowed vermilion, and pulsed in time to the shrill sounds of the flute and the wind, but only the tail. The body itself was dull and lifeless. He clearly saw the dividing line upon it now - where the older ring of eyes had been topped with a disguising peacock body sometime long ago. Something about it filled him with dread far surpassing the scene around him, but when he reached for it, to push it away, he found his hands were tied. The knots, he noticed with a grimace, were expertly tied - just as Carlos had unwittingly shown them. Carlos! He looked at his friend, but saw only his corpse. Blood flowed from his wrists, and was drawn in whisps towards the statue. His friend's cords had been cut with his wrists, but Carlos' free hands could not help him now. 

Tiago writhed, trying to move his feet close enough to the statue. The bestial figure noticed him now, and motioned for the natives to move to him, perhaps to kill him as well. He squirmed the harder, but the sky opened then with a terrible roar. Black night spewed forth from the expanding gash above, as the symbols converged upon it. Lying on his back, staring into that void, Tiago's mind screamed. His legs jerked still, but just managed to connect with the statue. It skittered to the edge of the altar, and dropped off the end, out of sight. Above the roaring sky, the flute music, the shouts of the natives, he heard a tiny crash, as if fine porcelain were hitting stone. A glowing red mist shot upward and out of sight into the blackness. 

Immediately the symbols disappeared from his sight. The wind picked up, but it was no longer in harmony. Now it was a roaring gale, sucking all things to the sky - devouring them into the black void. The natives went first, then Carlos' limp form. Tiago had a fleeting glimpse of the beast-figure, as it reverted to Atkins - all but the eyes. His eyewear gone, Tiago saw him as he was for a split second before he too was swallowed up by the vacuum. His own legs were lifted, and the cords cut deeply into his skin. Only the sure knots saved him as he hung there for what seemed like eternity, inverted on the altar with his feet towards hell. 

He awoke later, exhausted. His wrists were numb, but he managed after a long time to cut his bonds on the sharp edge of the altar stone. There were only small signs of what had transpired, but mostly broken branches and empty space greeted him. When he gathered the courage to look over the edge of the altar where the statue had dropped out of sight, he saw only two halves of a ring of eyes. A tiny replica of what had stared back at him while his mind screamed as he peered into that black void. 

He ran, not caring about direction or supplies. He pumped his legs, affirming that he was alive, while simultaneously hoping that the jungle would finish him soon. As long as he did not meet that same visage when he passed from this world...


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## Sialia (Nov 16, 2005)

Sweet Remembrances, Inc. 


[Image#2]

Fourteen hours in the workshop with the airbrush and spatula building a gilded masterpiece of bittersweet in the shape of a Harley, and it took both the paramedic and the police officer to extract the mangled corpse of that cake out of the minivan. 

From the look on Valerie’s face, it should have been me, and she’d have been just as happy if the actors had dropped the body if it had been mine.

I wouldn’t have hit that pothole either, if John hadn’t been screwing around with his rubber gloves in the van, but you can’t tell Valerie stuff like that. He may be the moron in the passenger seat, but I was the idiot behind the wheel. Anyway, the costumes bought us a reprieve, ‘cause the bikers appreciated the irony. Sometimes life hands you a lucky break, or at least a patch of forgiveness. Life’s a bitch with a sense of humor like yours, Sal.

Once we got the remains out of the van, we set up the candles, and there were so many of ‘em my fireman outfit seemed like a decent idea after all. I was kinds hoping they were gonna ask me to blow out the candles with my extinguisher, but life’s sense of humor apparently isn’t as forgiving as all that. Either that or the bikers really like their devil’s food, even if it is kinda squashed and melty. I did get to spray down some of the dancing girls with a garden hose after they got sticky, so the day wasn’t a complete loss.

The biker crowd, they’re all right, and November’s not so bad in San Diego. You’d have liked it.

Tomorrow’s gig is druids, or monks. I forget which. Druids would be more fun, I’ll bet. You always kept track of this stuff, Sal, I’m not the details guy. Heavy lifting, hazardous driving, I’m your guy. Don’t ask me to bake or sew or keep track of where we’re supposed to be when dressed up as what. For these things, we have business partners.

When I get home, I smoke a few. The last one I stub out in your urn, because I still feel guilty smoking in front of you and not sharing. I set your little gilt peacock back on the mantle. [Image #4]

Night Sal. Jaws of life today, shaking of the sheets tomorrow.

. . . 


The morning’s rig fits the client’s orders: “mask of clay, and pipe of clay also
for we are all made of clay and unto clay must go.” The saving grace is that no one can see my face in this outfit. Toot toot, blow my flute. John looks like a leper with bells on, so I figure I got off easy. [Image #6]


I always used to wonder whether I’d go on doing these stupid memorials after you were gone. But it turns out the living still need to make a living, so go fig. Here I am, blowing it out my pipe. 

Cake’s in the standard mini-casket this time. Fits snug in the old van. We’re still saving up to buy that refrigerated hearse, Sal. They did a 30-second spot about us on one of the cable shows last month, so I think word’s getting around. Business has been good, but the expenses keep going up 

Not so many candles today—this corpse still too fresh in the ground. I don’t reckon the widow’s gotten the sprit of the thing yet anyhow. Sure she’s called his old pals out to spend the night, but every time they mention the deceased, she busts out bawling. I still can’t tell whether they’re religious or medievalists or LARPers or what. We’re the only ones in drag, and the guests are all walking around like they’re afraid to say or do anything, ‘cause the widow’s still busy being widowed instead of celebrating the spirit.

Personally, I liked the biker dudes better. Less concern about life eternal, pretty firm grip on living fast and brief. 

Maybe it’s just a better grip on denial. 

Anyway, guessing from the biker’s candle count, it’d been a while. Grandkids and fans are always less soppy than widows. Life’s too short, know what I mean, Sal? 

Well, obviously. Stupid question.Withdrawn.

Today’s been either one precious day I won’t get back again in a hurry or one less humiliating experience left to endure.

Now that’s the sort of tempting fate that really makes me look forward to tomorrow.

Tomorrow, I’m flying to Chicago to wear tights. And just for the record, in case it gets easy to lose track of the time in your eternal rest there, it’s still November.

You’re laughing. Think you’re flying baggage or coach, bright eyes? Here’s a hint: security check. 

Think about it.

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

Chicago is not the place where I’d plan a street festival midwinter. I’m just saying, it’s no San Diego. 

The tribute to the famous street tumbling troupe founder turned out a decent crowd after all, wind chill and everything. Turns out we didn’t have to wear the tights—just deliver and the giant cake , and set up the decorations all over the park. The troupe took care of the actual tumbling, thanks much. 

I kept hoping one of them would blow the vault and land in the cake, but they never did. 20 minutes of tooth rattling cold, and those kids went up over and everything but through that logo-covered monster. Handsprings, backsprings, whathaveyou. Sun even tried to come out for bit in the late afternoon before giving it up as a bad job. [Image #1]

Turns out this guy had a lot of friends. About 10,000 tumbling alumnae showed up to remember a good man well. It was actually a pretty good memorial, as these things go. They even brought in some guys to do pyrotechnics. In my next life, I’m getting a real job blowing things up.

But we shoulda brought a chainsaw to slice the cake, because it was frozen stiff as my fingers by the time the celebration got to dessert. I never want to serve 10,000 slices of anything again, even if it does buy us a hearse.

Oh—and there was a newspaper reporter there wanted to know about how we got into the  memorial business. I told her about our old office party delivery service, and that day you handed an engineer his “over the hill” balloons and cake and he said “Beats the alternative.” 

And you said “Right. With the alternative, you don’t get balloons. Flowers maybe.” 

And he said “Who says? My funeral, we’re having balloons. And cake. Gimme your business card—I’ll put it in my will.”

And how one thing kind of led to another. Funeral festivals didn’t work out so good, but  we did alright with the memorial services, and how you were a genius at Hallmarking the whole thing into an annual affair. Doesn’t seem decent not to light a candle for grandpa these days. One knock off vendor after another showing up to get a slice of the cake, but nobody who does it like you, Sal. 

Ah, hell with the security check this time. Stow yourself in my shaving kit, lady. I’ll carry you home.
------

I don’t even get back to my nice warm house in my nice warm neighborhood a whole day before Valerie calls with the next assignment.

Which is good, right? Because work beats the alternative. But it’s hell on the laundry and packing. I don’t know when Valerie finds time to bake or book these things. 

Rest your sweet remains up there on the dash, Sal. We’ve got a long haul uphill to tomorrow. Had your peacock’s butt magnetized for the occasion.

Skiiers. 

You ever transport a cake on a snowmobile? Don’t ask.  Six layers of frosted hell. 

I hate to leave you in the van, but lady, there was just too much stuff to get up there.

Hella view from up there in Heavenly: trees all standing around in snow covered silence, looking like the middle digits of the mountain upraised in salute to the memory of the dearly departed. [Image #3]

The crash site was as cold as the day the ski patrol flipped their Bombardier over the lump of the departed in the snow. The wind wouldn’t let us get the damn candles lit for more than half sec. On the plus side, nobody expected fancy dress for the occasion. 

You’d have liked the procession of skiers with flashlights afterwards, and especially the part where you have called me a damned idiot for not bringing electrics for the cake. Tell you what—we find a salute to a deceased pyrotechnician, I’ll rig the cake with anything you want. You want a teaspoon of you to go up for a ride, I’ll grind a few extra smokes under your bejeweled tail to make up the balance.

Anyway this corpse wasn’t into pyrotechnics or electrics—just some snowbunny scientist on holiday. Colleagues planned the memorial bash with the laureate’s PhD thesis doodled over the cake: “the trees are trying to kill us.” Only it was in scientific, with little ball and stick diagrams for the molecules of isoprene and other crap the Amazon rainforest is spewing in the air. [Image #5]

No really—I thought that too—that the rainforest was supposed to be saving our sorry ozone butthole. Turns out the trees are each sweating buckets of “smog precursors” trying to save themselves from the heat. It’s same as us cranking up the AC. Cool me down, and screw you and your little dog, too. 

Kind of ironic about snowbunny hitting that juniper, when you think about it.

My mustache iced up on the screaming salute to eternity that was the ride back down the lodge. Ride sort of got me to wondering who’s throwing parties for me when I’m gone. We shoulda had kids, Sal.

Nah, you’re right. Scratch that.

Ecosystem’s halfway to the grave as it is. 100 years is about all we got left, from what I overheard today. Polar caps melting down, state of Florida going underwater, hurricanes up the yinyang, fossil fuels running out, countries going to war over the scraps, whole planet heating up or going down in nuclear winter. 

No point in bringing a kid into all that. 

But I ain’t using that stupid matching peacock urn you had made for me, Sal. Man dies a man whether there’s anybody left to celebrate him or not. I’m leaving instructions. I’ve got a plan, assuming there’s someone left to find the corpse. 

Although. 

Seems likely, if we’ve only got a couple decades to go, I’ve got a reasonable shot at being the last man left alive on Earth. 

I mean, why not?

Somebody’s got to plan that last bash. Who better than you and me?

We’re the original party planners, babe.

And yeah, no worries. I’ll take out the trash and turn the lights down ‘fore I come up.


----------



## spacemonkey (Nov 16, 2005)

no more words now... talk later... 

And good luck to everyone once again.


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## maxfieldjadenfox (Nov 16, 2005)

Wow. This is what I love about CDM, the parallels and the differences in the stories generated by the same pictures... Good luck! (Saucy Minx "R" Us)


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## BSF (Nov 16, 2005)

I may or may not get to the stories tonight.  But sometime on Thursday seems like a pretty good bet.  My daughter goes in for some minor surgery tomorrow and I have the day off.  Barring anything really going wrong, I will probably be looking for excuses to keep my mind occupied.  If it isn't judgements, it will probably be updating my resume and stuff.  Hopefully it will be both.   

After this, I am going to have to step back from Ceramic DM until my project is complete, or I have a new job.


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## Sialia (Nov 16, 2005)

Yes--that's what makes it interesting--so many possible paths to connect the dots--so many possible modes of expression--it's kind of astonishing when the things we converge on aren't the images but what they might mean.

One of the many reasons this game is more fun with many. Thanks to SaucyMinxFox and spacemonkey for the fine, fine round.

p.s.: http://www.mpg.de/english/illustrat...tion/pressReleases/2004/pressRelease20040224/


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## spacemonkey (Nov 16, 2005)

Thanks for the link, I was wondering about that one myself.  Probably the most difficult one to put in, for me anyway.


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## Sialia (Nov 16, 2005)

spacemonkey said:
			
		

> Probably the most difficult one to put in, for me anyway.





I'll say. I lost a whole night sitting around being depressed once I figured out what it was a picture of. 

The draft of the drivel that came out of that session derailed the story so hard, I almost didn't make it back in time.

I finally threw the whole thing out in disgust and said to myself "What would Piratecat do with these photos? He'd find _something _ funny in them."

And then I found my hook, and one thing led to another. It's not the story he would have written, but it starts in the same roots.

Humor 15' radius is almost as good as a Prot Despair.


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## Sialia (Nov 16, 2005)

BardStephenFox said:
			
		

> I may or may not get to the stories tonight.  But sometime on Thursday seems like a pretty good bet.  My daughter goes in for some minor surgery tomorrow and I have the day off.  Barring anything really going wrong, I will probably be looking for excuses to keep my mind occupied.  If it isn't judgements, it will probably be updating my resume and stuff.  Hopefully it will be both.
> 
> After this, I am going to have to step back from Ceramic DM until my project is complete, or I have a new job.





 Best wishes to your little one, and good luck.


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## maxfieldjadenfox (Nov 17, 2005)

Yeah, BSF, give Tamara a big smooch for me.


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## Rodrigo Istalindir (Nov 18, 2005)

Judgement sent to Mythago.


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## maxfieldjadenfox (Nov 18, 2005)

Which ones?  I am curious to see the last round judgements too...


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## Rodrigo Istalindir (Nov 18, 2005)

maxfieldjadenfox said:
			
		

> Which ones?  I am curious to see the last round judgements too...




I re-sent the previous rounds to Mythago a couple days ago.  This morning's email was for the finals.  

If I had the previous set on this computer, I'd post them.  I'll try to remember to do that when I get home.


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## BSF (Nov 18, 2005)

I know Mythago keep very busy lately.  It doesn't look like she has even logged in since the 15th.  But I am sure she will get everything posted when she has a chance to breathe.


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## Sialia (Nov 22, 2005)

crickets chirp against
empty, hesitant darkness
bumping the silence.


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## maxfieldjadenfox (Nov 22, 2005)

Ceramic DM
I look into the vast void
and see no judgement

(Gauntlet has been thrown, Space Monkey. do you haiku?)


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## mythago (Nov 22, 2005)

SteelDraco -- Scratched

Maxfieldjadenfox - Elemental

Short and sweet, there is a nice economy to this story that makes it seem
almost like a parable or fable.  There are some nice touches (the
rabbit-fur gloves, for example) that add a little depth to the story
without distracting from the flow.  That one sentence does more to
establish the character of the sensei than anything else, and is a
marvelous example of defining a character indirectly.  The story moves
quickly from event to event, as the granddaughter (re)discovers the
elemental forms of nature.

There are a couple of things that seemed missing, though.  The story is
too self-contained, with no sense of place or time or purpose.  Having the
story entail teaching the granddaughter a lesson would have turned it's
lack of external references into a strength.  On the other hand, even a
sketchy plot that involved something outside the scene would have enabled
the reader to get a little more involved.  As it is, it seems too much
like a story written just to be a story.  Not a critical flaw, by any
means, but the writing and concept deserved better, I think.

Picture use is solid, for the most part.  The use of the mast as the path
to elemental enlightenment works, but there was nothing in the setting
that made the image fit (aside from a tenuous ship/sails <> water/air
link).  The bunny as sensei seemed a little too cute, at first, but the
writing elevates it, and it ties into the end nicely.  The sensei in the
corner is a little perfunctory.  The ice ballerina was very good, and the
accompanying text was exceptional.  The transparent curtains were
intriguing, with the text ("laughing to myself that they thought they
could keep me out") adding an additional dimension.

SpaceMonkey - Untitled

Wow.  A lot of twists and changes in a short story.  I must admit I didn't
see the ending coming.  The fast pacing keeps things moving, which is
good.  The internal monologue of the protagonist is serviceable, although
by the end it was getting a little old.  Thats a technique best used
sparingly, I think.    The way the story morphs from hard-boiled detective
to high-tech to maybe supernatural to cyberspace is well-executed, the
pace of the story helping keep the reader off-guard.  The text is
workman-like, but the breathless run-on nature wears out its welcome
pretty quick.  A lot of that might be formatting, though, so it's not that
big a deal.

A little more, beginning and end, would be welcome.  Show the setup to the
crime using the same virtual metaphor, and then bookend it with action in
the real world, perhaps.  The symmetry would help the overall effect.  The
biggest problem with this story is that cyberspace and Ceramic DM
constraints don't mix well most of the time.  Any picture, no matter how
off the wall, can be used as a cyberspace metaphor without having to go
through the contortions of setting that a normal story would require.
Much like using dream sequences, or god forbid, a picture as a picture,
it's a sort-of cheat.  Not against the rules, per se, but kind of a crutch.

Given that, the picture use is decent.  The ice ballerina as the kidnapped
AI is clever, although the virtual stuffed bunny doesn't seem to fit.
More connection between the two would have elevated both uses.  The ships
rigging and virtual martial artist are simply descriptive.  The plastic
curtain as high-tech VR screen was an interesting use, though.

Summary:  Spacemonkey has the outlines of an interesting world, but the
cyberspace setting gimps the picture use, and the story would be well
served by a more detailed context.  Maxfieldjadenfox has some pretty good
picture use, and has written a tight story.  It, too, could have used a
little more context, but a pretty good effort overall.

Judgement:  Maxfieldjadenfox


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## maxfieldjadenfox (Nov 22, 2005)

Thanks, Rodrigo. This is so good for me. Being a picture book writer, I tend to rely on the art to carry a lot of the story, which works and doesn't work in CDM... I think fleshing out the story and explaining the context a bit would benefit it greatly and I will do that at some point. 

Turns and bows to Space Monkey. Thanks for a great round, honorable opponent.


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## BSF (Nov 22, 2005)

Mythago,
Do you have my judgment from the final round?  Just checking to be sure.


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## Sialia (Nov 23, 2005)

cherry blossoms fall
floating like shoes of judgement
first one drops and then


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## spacemonkey (Nov 23, 2005)

.. and the same to you maxfieldjadenfox - good round considering hiccups and such.

I agree with most of the comments on my last story (especially the crutch/VR - something i somewhat realized at the time, but couldn't seem to find an alternative that was usable..)

.. and I guess I can do haiku.  Looks like the 5-7-5 english style, so I'll give it a whirl:

down and down it scrolls
many old posts, and one new
there is no next page


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## maxfieldjadenfox (Nov 23, 2005)

Oh yay for Haiku
It can state the obvious
with such easy grace.


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## mythago (Nov 25, 2005)

BSF, I have Rodrigo's but not yours.


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## Sialia (Nov 27, 2005)

chirp chirp, chirp chirp, chirp
sometimes when you bump silence
silence pushes back


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## maxfieldjadenfox (Nov 27, 2005)

Hey, Bardstephenfox,
You are a great dinner guest,
but where's our judgement?


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## maxfieldjadenfox (Nov 28, 2005)

Silence deafening
The writing is completed
I long for closure


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## BSF (Nov 30, 2005)

OK, the first one was my bad.  .net, .com, there is a difference and I hosed up the domain I was emailing for Mythago.  

The second one, I am not sure.  I don't see a judgement posted so I am sending again from my Yahoo account just to be sure.  

Oh yeah, I am posting here as well so if Mythago sees this post and *still* doesn't have an email from me, something very wrong has happened to my email.  

I probably should have checked back sooner.  But I was working on rewriting my resume.  That's finished and it is sent off to a potential employer.  If I am lucky, I will switch jobs here in the near future.


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## maxfieldjadenfox (Nov 30, 2005)

Hey BSF,
Yay for new jobs if you want one! And good for you finishing up your resume. I know that's been a work in progress and I'm sure it feels great to have it done!


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## spacemonkey (Dec 2, 2005)

The page slowly falls
From lofty heights to the depths
Bump! it shoots skyward


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## mythago (Dec 2, 2005)

Ceramic DM Finals


*Rodrigo Istalindir*
Maxfieldjadenfox v Spacemonkey v Sialia

Maxfieldjadenfox - Topsy Turvey

An intriguing opening paragraph.  Mysterious music, an animated gargoyle (named Neville, no less) that plays the bagpipes, and some good foreshadowing.  A nice mix of the spooky and the absurd.  A good segue to the rest of the story as well.  The description of Jacob and his morning from hell is very well done.  You quickly get a good sense of who the character is, and the long, complicated sentences impart a feeling of chaos and breathlessness.  It quickly leads into disaster, but the rapid progression from first meeting Jacob to his 'Oh shi-' moment is well paced.

Things take an unfortunate detour from that point, though.  The dying man's vision seems perfunctory.  He sees Neville, but there is no interaction. People and events from Jacob's history are depicted, but with nary a mention during Jacob's introduction, their inclusion here seems artificial.  Even a brief allusion to his relationship with Julie prior to her appearance here would have been welcome.  The same goes for the music box. 

The surreal nature of the middle of the story gives away the ending.  That kind of twist requires some distance between the supposedly fatal event and the resolution, and here there just isn't enough story in between to make the ending anything other than what was expected.

The writing is very strong, with some excellent bits.  "Neville was as contrary as any gargoyle ever chipped from stone." in particular.  

Picture use is a bit weak.  Neville the bagpipe playing gargoyle is excellent.  The trooper is also pretty good (despite being an easy choice), although he doesn't really play much of a role.  The handstand, ice pillars, and trees suffer from being part of a dream sequence, and don't really work as symbols or as concrete items.  The peacock music box was creative, but the item's use in the story seemed to come out of nowhere.


Spacemonkey -- Sight

Unlike many Ceramic DM stories, this one is told from the point of view of the minor characters, guides for a jungle expedition.  It is a good approach -- the characters uncertainty and fear of the unknown is plausible, and makes the necessary brevity of the short story an advantage.  The readers uncertainty mirrors the characters.  

The setup is solid.  An enigmatic scientist cloaked behind mirrored shades, natives who may be more than they appear, and two long-time friends, Carlos and Tiago.  The briefly-sketched past relationship of the two is important.  It adds some emotional depth, for one thing.  It also makes the story a little more grounded and less self-contained.  

The progression is straight-forward, so low-key I found myself wondering if anything were actually going to happen, if the payoff would satisfy.  When it comes, the twist is a little unexpected.  The climax to the story is exceptionally well done.  The descriptions are great, there is some real tension in the air.  Knocking over the statue was a bit of a stretch, but the rest carries it through.  My only real complaint would be that I wished more had been explained.  As it is, the details seem a little too sketchy.

Picture use is pretty good.  Atkins' sunglasses are referenced several times throughout the story, making the picture (and the eyes motif) more important (although ignoring the reflected image in the picture hurts a bit).  Tiago's bound form over the altar is a strong image, and really strengthens that whole scene.  The piles of snow as tombs for the snow-beasts is decent (and "snow-limned grotesquerie" is great).  The peacock statue plays a critical role in the story, and is also key to the recurring 'eyes' theme.  The demonic Atkins is largely descriptive but works well.  You almost blew it big-time with the symbols over the forest (using a picture as a picture is a no-no), but the reappearance of the symbols at the end redeems it, barely.

Sialia -- Sweet Remembrances, Inc

A charming, quirky little story.  The style, an internal conversation between a party planner and his deceased wife, is a clever approach.  The tone of voice is dead-on, so to speak, and it lets the personality of the narrator coalesce on its own.  His observations on death and grieving alternate between sincere and jaded, which is far more believeable than all one way or the other.  

I really liked the way the wife's urn was a constant presence.  It provides the emotional underpinning that makes the narrator's ruminations integral to the character rather than just making him a mouthpiece for the author.  The bits about the security check at the airport was wonderful.  

With no real plot, there is nothing to resolve, so the ending has to rely on emotion and ideas rather than action or what have you.  At this, the story fails, I think.  Right where it should be getting introspective ("We shoulda had kids, Sal") it veers outward ("No point in bringing a kid into all that").  Everything prior was pointing to some revelation about his past, or perhaps an epiphany that lets him finally stop carrying the urn around, or something.  Instead, there's a mini-lecture on the state of the environment.  Very jarring, and for me it nearly ruined flow and emotion of the story.

Picture use is decent.  The twisted wreck reflected in the sunglasses housing the remains of a cake was a clever twist.  The gargoyle as a costume is pretty bland, as is the tumbler doing a handstand.  The piles of snow is merely descriptive, but the text ("like the middle digits of the mountain upraised in salute to the memory of the dearly departed") makes is stronger.  The symbols-and-trees as decorations on a cake is a neat approach -- that was a hard picture for everyone, but finding a concrete way to use it and providing some context was well done.  The peacock urn is essential to the story, and by far the best picture use.

Judgement:

Maxfieldjadenfox starts off strong, but the story doesn't really come together well, and the picture use is pretty weak.  Spacemonkey does a good job of setting a scene and creating some tension, puts together a strong ending, and the picture use is fairly strong.  Sialia puts forth a nice introspective look at death and memories, but takes a misstep when it comes to the payoff.  I think this one comes down to picture use, and while Sialia's peacock is great, Spacemonkey's 'eyes' motif ties a couple pictures together and is consistent throughout the story.

[sblock]Judgement for Spacemonkey.[/sblock]


*BardStephenFox*

*Spacemonkey - Sight*

This is a nice story with a somewhat Lovecraftian feel to it.  

There is some great work here.  There are still some areas where the story can be strengthened, but it is a fine story overall.  

There are a few places where character voice doesn't quite ring true to me.  This may be an individual preference though.  I would encourage you to read through the story again and if you are happpy with character voice, don't worry about it.  

I think the weakest parts of the story come from trying to shoehorn the pictures in.  You have obviously used the pictures for good inspiration, but they don't quite match the descriptions and the usage.  Admittedly, Ceramic DM does not always produce easy to integrate pictures.  But that is the point of the contest.  

Other than picture use though, I have very little to criticize.  There are a few places where I might have chosen a different turn of phrase, or perhaps approached something a little differently.  But that is a matter of stylistic differences and not a legitimate weakness to the story.  It was an interesting read and you have done a fine job, thanks.

Picture use:
_Witness[/u] You have focused on the mirrored shades, but placed Atkins across a fire from Tiago.  It is unfortunate that the reflections in the sunglasses appear to be firefighters at a car accident.  

Sciencesky  This one is used as drawings in the dirt.  There is quite a difference between the picture and the usage.  Still, it is a challenging picture and a cop out would have been using it as a picture.  You didn't quite do that.  

Peacock  Used literally as a statue of a peacock.  That it is later an object of unknown danger is a nice twist and lifts this completely out of a throwaway or mundane usage.  

Highsnow  Snow formations hiding something potentially dangerous.  I would have liked to have seen a little more relevance with this picture.  Something to further hint at identity, without giving identity?  If that makes any sense...

Toot  The flute player of some bizarre ritual.  OK, more specifically, as Atkins's true form.  Nice little twist there.  

Inverted  Tiago, being pulled toward the vortex.  Nicely integrated, but not quite critical.  

Your picture use, overall, is good. Some of the pictures contained details that wouldn't fit in the story well.  Some worked quite nicely.

*MaxfieldJadenFox - Topsy Turvy*

Yes, done definitely counts for something!

This is an interesting little story.  I think there is some good potential here.  But it still needs some work to strengthen it.

I'm going to digress a bit first though.  This is one of the stories that doesn't have any of the pictures marked.  That can work at times.  Especially if you have done a good job describing the elements.  But in this case, it hurts the story from the perspective of a Ceramic DM judgement.  Without the annotations, I am left to guess where the author intends to place the picture.  If I don't recognize the intended placement, my ability to provide constructive feedback is hindered.  Worse, if I don't recognize the elements at all, I might think the picture is missing entirely.  This is why annotating pictures, in some form, is a good idea.  

Back to the story.  There is good description here, but there are also too many long sentences.  There is one sentence weighing in at a hefty 41 words.  The sentence following it is 32 words.  Sadly, these two sentences broke the continuity of the story for me.  This is a short story  at 1315 words.  These two sentences need to be broken down so they flow better.  

Speaking of flow, the story doesn't have a strong flow to it.  I understand it is supposed to be about the death experience for Jacob.  But it is too disparate not to feel like the pictures have been thrust into the story because they had to be.  As an example, the peacock music box doesn't appear to hold any particular value to Jacob, or to Julie.  It is just there.  Kind of like Neville.  He is just there to affect Jacob.  I think I would have appreciated the story more if I felt there was some sort of cause and effect occurring.  

Picture Use:
Witness[/u] Presumably this is the trooper?  But I am not sure if it is when he is first introduced or at the end of the story.  Still, aside from asking where the music is coming from, he doesn't really play an important part in the story.  

Sciencesky  Something floating in the sky as Jacob moves to the next picture.  

Peacock  The music box that was Julie's and is mysteriously at the accident scene.  

Highsnow  Not sure on this one.  Perhaps when Neville makes everything look like icy marble?

Toot  Neville taking the time to provide a serenade just for Jacob.  There is good description here, but the impact is lessened because I never get a feeling for why Neville is behaving like this.  

Inverted Jacob on the plinth.  A memorable scene with some links to the helplessness of death.  

The pictures are not particularly strong here.  Perhaps because four of them are used within a single paragraph?  I am left with the feeling that this story was inspired by the pictures, but once that inspiration hit the pictures almost became a hindrance.  

*Sialia - Sweet Remembrances, Inc.*

Um Sialia, where did you come up with this?  What a wacky, wacky story.  It is odd and kinda morbid, but not in a bad way.  It grows on me.  

You have done a good job taking the improbable and making it readable.  The internal dialog is pretty good.  One problem is that using this narrative style kind of ties your hands in some ways.  To be sure your audience 'gets it', you need to explain what the premise is.  But why would the narrator need to explain the premise through self-dialog?  OK, yes the protagonist is really engaging in a conversation, sort of.  The point remains though.  It is difficult to explain the premise without acting somewhat out of character.  

There is good characterization here.  Especially considering how little is external to the narrator.  I feel like I have a good grasp of who the narrator is, even though I don't know his name.  

Picture Use:
Witness You have chosen to focus on the action caught within the reflection.  Interesting call to lead the story off with this one.  It works as a good lead in though.

Sciencesky  Oh my, you have used this one quite literally.  Maybe not 100% correctly, but literally.  That you tie it to a scientists memorial from having hit a juniper is amusing.  

Peacock  The urn containing the other person in the conversation.  You drag this picture all through the story.  Heck, you even mention a matching one for the narrator.  

Highsnow  Snow covered trees.  Not particularly relevant, but you do get a little humor out of them.  Especially since their salute to the scientist would match nicely with his thesis.

Toot  A costume for the narrator at a different memorial.  

Inverted One of the celebrants at the Chicago memorial.

Your picture use isn't particularly strong here.  Each picture is a nice little workhorse piece, but they don't particularly drive the story along.  They just work nicely.  

*Judgement:*

[sblock]
OK, my commentary is a bit light this time.  Sorry about that folks, I'm just juggling too much.  Jaden's story has a lot of potential, but it needs some real polish to bring that potential forth. Sialia's story has some good humor and narrative to carry it through.  But Spacemonkey really has the better polished story here.  It is just a little stronger story and it has better picture use.  I vote for Spacemonkey in this round.[/sblock]

There are some great stories here and I really appreciate the work that each author has put into them.  Thanks for everyone's efforts!_


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## Sialia (Dec 2, 2005)

Congratulations Spacemonkey!

I think you win the Haiku prize too for that last one.


----------



## Sialia (Dec 2, 2005)

In answer to the question "where did you come up with this?"

1. Staring at the pictures and banging my head on the keyboard, of course.

2. I figured I'd written enough depressing stuff this season, and tasked myself with producing comedy. Since I wasn't feeling comedic, I decided to imagine how Piratecat would have written the voice of the guy in the sunglasses. It cheered me up immensely to hear him talk. After I got him talking, I just set him down in the world and let him go.

3. The comment about "nice balloon" "beats the alternative" "yeah with the alternative you don't get a balloon" I lifted verbatim from something I overheard through a cube wall in my office recently. 

4. I watch too much FoodTV, and this was the sort of business they'd have done a spot on.

5. Most of this story was written while sitting at an extremely noisy birthday party my daughter the Scampering Chaos was attending. The posting time for this set could not have been worse for me. 

6. When I found out what the picture of the trees was about, I derailed completely, and almost didn't finish. I would have needed several more hours to prune back from where that train of thought went.

Bandeeto gave me two other comments about the story that I thought were helpful but didn't have any time to work on. The first was that he really wanted to know _how _ the wife died. If I'd had time to explore that, there probably would have been enough development to make this thing count as an actual story (as in, oh now I understand how we got here, or, oh now I understand what's going to happen next.) 

His second comment was that this seemed like an opening monologue to a much longer novel. It's a set up to something, but just what we don't know yet.

Which gives me three pretty consistent views of the thing. Thank you for your insights. I liked this piece enough, it might be worth revisiting at some point.


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## spacemonkey (Dec 2, 2005)

Wow... just wow.  Color me flabbergasted (seriously, I'd like to see how that would work). 

I'm actually very surprised, not being the type to compete (or win) things the majority of the time. 



Comments on the comments (from the judges):
Rodrigo - I had to go back and look at the trooper/sunglasses pic again - yup, there sure is a reflection there.  I guess I was too intent on the concept to actually check the details on that one!  I think I did the opposite with the peacock (examine until I could find something to latch onto - in that case the eye-like feathers).  

I'm glad you liked "snow-limned grotesquerie" - that was one I really had fun with.

The symbols/forest (sciencesky) image was particularly difficult.  I added the drawing by the natives to give it a little credence (just having it pop up at the end seemed a little too rushed/unexplained to me), not really realizing that I was doing the 'using the picture as a picture' Ceramic DM no-no.  If I had it to do again, I would probably have had tiago see the symbols over the fire as he was falling asleep, spewing from the mouths of the natives or somesuch, then chock it up to sleepiness/seeing things (until later of course) 

BardStephenFox - Your comment on writing voice was interesting.  Not something I usually think about, but not something I have gotten many comments on before (maybe I usually do a better job instinctively, I'm not sure).  Ceramic DM is a bit of a wedge between me and my usual style, which may have something to do with it.  That's probably a good thing though, as it gets me considering things I usually take for granted, so thanks for pointing it out.

I agree with your comments on the pic usage, mostly.  Time and picture randomness were, of course, against me - but that's the fun of it.  


I want to thank all the judges for their comments.  I can't say I know personally, but that must be a difficult job as well.  The comments are definitely helpful, with each judge having a little different take (and judging style).  This probably helped my writing more than anything else I've done in the last few years.  I'm not a pro writer by any stretch, but I like to improve as I go nonetheless - if just for my own gratification.

A big thanks to all my fellow competitors as well, especially Sialia and Maxfieldjadenfox (aka Saucy Minx Inc.)  Without knowing how thoroughly you would trounce me should I do anything but my best, I'm sure I'd have worse stories to show for it. 



PS -> Haiku-wise, I think I liked maxfieldjadenfox's from the 23rd, but Sialia deserves the credit for getting the ball rolling I believe.


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## BSF (Dec 2, 2005)

I know Jaden is currently out of town.  Not sure if she will have access to EN World for a bit here.  

Sialia - My opening comment is mostly tongue in cheek.  It was just a really strange idea to me, given the pictures.  I also like hearing where your inspiration comes from.  I do wonder if finding out what the picture was about placed artificial constraints on your creativity.  But that was a really tough picture to use.  Leave it to Mythago...

Spacemonkey - Character voice is not always a high priority except when somebody is trying to emulate a specific vernacular.  Many times this can come across flat, but it can work.  However this is not the specific voice I am referring to for your story.  Most people I know have a speech and writing habit.  I can sometimes tell my friends apart simply by their manner of communication even when I don't have a voice or other specific cue on the communicator.  Abrupt or terse statements vs lengthy statements. Common use of otherwise uncommon terms.  That sort of thing.

Tiago contemplates writing a paper on the linguistic origins of the strangely accented companions of Atkins.  Perhaps this is what helped push character voice up in my mind?  In any event, I have a stronger feel for the character voice of Carlos than I do Tiago.  It isn't enough to pull me out of the story.  But there might be ways you can imply deeper character by consciously adopting a slightly different speech pattern, vocabulary, sentence structure, or whatever for Tiago.  Enough similarities that you can sense how Tiago and Carlos are similar, but have slightly different backgrounds.  I didn't quite get that from the story.  

But as I said, don't fret over it.  It is one idea on how you might be able to polish up the story a bit more.  It might be the wrong idea for you.  I only offer it because I thought about it and noticed it.  Not because I thought you had a particularly gross failing in that regard.  In the end, you didn't leave many other ways for me to offer feedback on how to improve the story.  You did a fine job with the story.


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## maxfieldjadenfox (Dec 3, 2005)

Excellent work, both Spacemonkey and Sialia. While I felt that Sialia's story was very inventive and lots of fun, I really thought Spacemonkey wrote the strongest "story"...  Way to go Spacemonkey! It was neat competing with the two of you. I especially loved the Haikus... We must do more. 

As far as the comments go, BSF, maybe next time we play, you can show me how to insert links to the pictures, because I'm clueless.  You should know from the way I talk that I would write run-on sentences! 
I know the story could use more clarifications and connections, and as is so often the case, some things showed up without me really knowing where they came from or what to do with them. I was rushed, which meant I didn't go back and insert Julie and her music box at the beginning, or give you enough background on Neville. I just pressed "send". >g< 
Thanks BSF and Rodrigo for your comments, and taking the time to judge when I know you're busy! 

XXMJF (saucy minx  to all of you...)

PS You should have seen the contortions I had to go through to find this link from this computer in Hollywood! Sheesh. No technophobe should be put through such things!


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## BSF (Dec 5, 2005)

Check that out!  Macbeth and Mythago both have birthday's today. 

Happy Birthday to both of you!


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## spacemonkey (Dec 5, 2005)

Yes indeed, Happy B-day to both!


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## maxfieldjadenfox (Dec 5, 2005)

Yes, have a happy!


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## maxfieldjadenfox (Dec 9, 2005)

So, will there be a winter Ceramic DM? Just wondering...


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## BSF (Dec 9, 2005)

If there is, I will be happy to be a spectator.  It's too silly to make everyone wait for my schedule.  

Right now, with the project in a nosedive, it does not look like I will be free with my time for a while.  I would not be surprised if it continues for another year.


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## Hellefire (Aug 19, 2006)

*hey all*

Well BSF, we're still lamost 4 months shy of that year, but hows your schedule? 

Aaron


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