# Ceramic DM -- Fall '06 ** yangnome wins!  **



## Rodrigo Istalindir (Aug 29, 2006)

Up to 16 contestants this time.  Proposed schedule below.  Here's a link to the FAQ for those that are new to Ceramic DM.  All are welcome -- don't worry if you've never played before, just jump in with both feet and your word processor of choice.  Please, though, don't sign up unless you are pretty sure you can spend the time.  I know things come up unexpectedly, but it's not fair to the other contestants and the judges when people drop out mid-round.   


*Round 1a*

1.  Wild Gazebo vs. Taladas -- Wild Gazebo advances
2.  Hellefire vs. NiTessine  -- NiTessine advances
3.  Halivar vs. Aris Dragonborn -- Halivar advances
4.  Paka vs. Deuce Traveller -- Paka advances

*Round 1b*
1.  tadk vs. Roger -- Roger advances
2.  Linderel vs. Mazlo -- Linderel advances
3.  Kassiopeia vs. yangnome -- yagnome advances
4.  rpjunkie vs. GuardianLurker -- Guardianlurker advances

*Round 2*

1.  WildGazebo vs. NiTessine -- NiTessine advances
2.  Halivar vs Paka -- both defaulted
3.  Roger vs Linderel -- Roger advances
4.  yangnome vs GuardianLurker -- yangnome advances

*Semi-Final*

1.  NiTessine vs Roger vs yangome -- Top 2 Advance to Finals

**** yangome wins !! *** *


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## Wild Gazebo (Aug 29, 2006)

Sounds like a larth.  I'm in.


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## Paka (Aug 29, 2006)

I just checked my syllabus for the semester and it really isn't a good idea.

My bad.

I am out.


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## Paka (Aug 29, 2006)

Paka said:
			
		

> I just checked my syllabus for the semester and it really isn't a good idea.
> 
> My bad.
> 
> I am out.




Eff it.

I am in.

Sounds like too much fun.


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## maxfieldjadenfox (Aug 29, 2006)

Well yeah, there is the school thing, but still, not a big. I'm in.


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## Hellefire (Aug 29, 2006)

*absolutely*

Sign me up (and can I hear a gasp of surprise from the arena) .

Aaron


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## NiTessine (Aug 29, 2006)

Count me in. 'Tis too long that I've neglected this arena.


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## Deuce Traveler (Aug 29, 2006)

I'm your huckleberry.  Bring it.


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## Aris Dragonborn (Aug 29, 2006)

I'm in.


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## Rodrigo Istalindir (Aug 29, 2006)

Updated. 

Sheesh.  Everyone knows you don't do anything the first month of school anyway.


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## Halivar (Aug 29, 2006)

ME!! MEE!!!! ME!!!!

Ooh, ooh! Pick me!!!


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## Rodrigo Istalindir (Aug 29, 2006)

You're in.  Maybe you'll get a chance to change your .sig!


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## Roger (Aug 29, 2006)

Alright -- sign me up.


Cheers,
Roger


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## Rodrigo Istalindir (Aug 29, 2006)

Roger said:
			
		

> Alright -- sign me up.
> 
> 
> Cheers,
> Roger




Roger, Roger.  What's the vector, Victor?


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## Hellefire (Aug 29, 2006)

*hm*

What's our clearance, Clarence?


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## yangnome (Aug 30, 2006)

I'm interested in writing too.  It'll be a good warmup for NaNoWriMo.  I'm still willing to judge if need be though.


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## Hellefire (Aug 30, 2006)

*contestants*

There must be some more victi....er...writers out there with a desire to meet my unmatchable writing fury in the ring (well, except for those two times. Oh wait, I've only competed twice). But this time it's different, cuz...well, it just is. I could tell you but I'd have to kill you! 

And remember, a mime is a terrible thing to waste.

Aaron


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## tadk (Aug 30, 2006)

You can count me in for CDM

Hey Yangnome I am already trying to plot out for NaNo. Got to do better this year than last year right.

Tad


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## Rodrigo Istalindir (Aug 30, 2006)

Berandor's gonna compete this time, so watch out!

5 spots left.  Come one, come all!


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## maxfieldjadenfox (Aug 30, 2006)

*NaNoWriMo*

It can't be a year since the last one, can it? Can it? Aaaargh!


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## yangnome (Aug 30, 2006)

I'm starting to knock around ideas.  Last year I hit the 50k mark in 10 days and was at 75k and complete by the end of hte month.  After reviewing it, I added another chapter, so it wound up at about 78k.  I don't know if I'll be as quick this year, but I do want to get somethign together.  

I recently heard a good idea for outlining--use powerpoint if you have it.  I'm not much for making preparations prior to writing, but the idea certainly has merit.


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## Paka (Aug 31, 2006)

In the FAQ it says:



> The judges then read the stories and adventures, compare them against each other and decide which contestant advances to the next round.




Adventures?

Every example I have read has been a short story.  Why does it say adventure in the FAQ?


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## Rodrigo Istalindir (Aug 31, 2006)

Holdover from the old days.  Ceramic DM was originally a spin-off of IronDM, which is an adventure writing competition.  It then evolved into a purely fiction-writing contest.


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## maxfieldjadenfox (Aug 31, 2006)

yangnome said:
			
		

> I'm starting to knock around ideas.  Last year I hit the 50k mark in 10 days and was at 75k and complete by the end of hte month.  After reviewing it, I added another chapter, so it wound up at about 78k.  I don't know if I'll be as quick this year, but I do want to get somethign together.
> 
> I recently heard a good idea for outlining--use powerpoint if you have it.  I'm not much for making preparations prior to writing, but the idea certainly has merit.




Last year I didn't even make 10K. Of course my life completely fell apart around that time, which may be why...  I may give it a shot againt this year, but it will be pretty demoralizing if I don't finish... An outline is a good idea. I never do them, but it is a good idea, none the less.


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## Berandor (Aug 31, 2006)

Once again, the arena fills with fresh blood for the reaping. Some sport the skin of a newborn baby, while others show the marks of vicious defeats and hair's-breadth survivals. Yet all of them look straight ahead, where the mighty Wall of Triumph and Despair (tm) looms. At the base of the wall is a list of all who fell in the service of the quill, where most of these hopeful will end up. Above it is where they aspire to: the small list of those who stood their ground and left the arena victorious, splattered with ink and scarred for life. Above still are the judges's seats.

There are four seats up there, one in the background and, as of yet, unoccupied. Three seats stand right at the edge of the wall, so the judges are able to observe every scene that may unfold, to discern every trick a competitor will levy against his or her opponent. Three judges have taken their seats: In the center, Rodrigo Istalindir, he who was robbed of his trophy by vicious thieves. To his right, Herreman the Wise, already scanning the crowd for a tasty sacrifice to Lady Death. To his left, two-time champion Berandor, who has taken up nomadic life, now almost a stranger to the city.

Eleven competitors have assembled so far. In his seat, Berandor leans forward with eager and nostalgic eyes, relishing in the anxiety and hope that fills the air. It has been a long time since he claimed his trophies, and except for a scar that aches before it rains, right on his index finger where he used to hold the pen, only memories remain of his victories. He has grown complacent since, mixed with the bitterness of the old and the cynicism of those who think themselves superior. Down in the arena, it is a new breed of writers, hungry, almost starving for something he accomplished long ago. And yet he is filled with yearning for the days gone by, and though he knows those days cannot be reclaimed, like an old boxer, he cannot but try.

Berandor steals a glance to his fellow judges, whom he promised to help out. Herreman only smiles, understanding too well, and Rodrigo nods in answer to Berandor's silent question. Berandor shakes their hands, and as his eyes meet Rodrigo's, the chief judge snarks,

"Don't think we'll treat you any different than the other guys. You enter the arena, you'll likely be carried out."

Without answering, Berandor turns and leaves the balcony, only to reappear without his judge's robe among the contestants, armed with a quill fashioned from a griffon's mane. He completes the dozen, but now one more judge's seat is vacant.


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## Berandor (Aug 31, 2006)

Oh, and let me just add I plan to be in the competition when my birthday comes around. Fittingly, my birthday is October 6th.


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## Rodrigo Istalindir (Sep 1, 2006)

Bump.


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## maxfieldjadenfox (Sep 1, 2006)

C'mon! There must be four more suckers...erm...competitors out there who aren't afraid to take us on. You know you want to.


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## Linderel (Sep 1, 2006)

Yo. Count me in. One of you recruited me, so I kind of registered here for the sake of this here thing. I was only going to shadow participate, but whaddayaknow, here I am after all.
Be kind to the new blood?


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## Kassiopeia (Sep 1, 2006)

I'm in - NiTessine made me do it!


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## Paka (Sep 2, 2006)

I will be outta town for a few days but will be back by Monday.


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## Hellefire (Sep 2, 2006)

*Berandor*

A shadow of a smile for an old opponent, then nothing but steel-hard detemination as the battle nears joining.

Welcome, old friend. It has been a while. For me as well. And may your wound not ache overly, for the festival is about to begin.


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## Halivar (Sep 3, 2006)

Only four more days, and two spots yet remain?

*WHO WILL CHALLENGE ME????*


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## maxfieldjadenfox (Sep 4, 2006)

I would, but I'm already challenging Hellefire... I think


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## Halivar (Sep 4, 2006)

Oh, don't worry, mfjf. We'll have our own throw-down in round 3. You bring the beer, I'll bring the pain.


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## maxfieldjadenfox (Sep 4, 2006)

Oh, no, no. I'll bring the pain. I insist.  (and maybe some fritos? Do you like fritos?)


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## Berandor (Sep 4, 2006)

I'll bring the beer. And the door. (This one's for the old ones)


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## Deuce Traveler (Sep 5, 2006)

Bump.

We need two more, folks!


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## Rpjunkie (Sep 5, 2006)

ok, so i have never done any writing really, but, what the heck, might as well add me..

RPJ


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## Mazlo (Sep 5, 2006)

Sign me up for a... first round elimination... contest... thing.   

-Mazlo


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## Hellefire (Sep 5, 2006)

*signups*

Note that the competitor field is full, but there are occasionally issues that come up requiring people to drop out before round 1. If anyone else interested wants to sign-up as an alternative in that eventuality, it may help in such a case. Of course, Rodrigo is the arbitrator of this, I am just offering a suggestion.

Aaron


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## Hellefire (Sep 5, 2006)

*judges*

By the way, I've been pushing and prodding this because I want to compete. However. In the event that we are one judge short as of 12-24 hours before game time, switch me to a judge position (if I am worthy, of course). I would rather be a judge than it not happen at all. But please consider this as a last alternative.

Aaron

p.s. as per my last post, there would certainly have to be at least one alternative competitor for this to be possible.


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## Rodrigo Istalindir (Sep 5, 2006)

Good catch, Hellefire.  Thread title amended to welcome alternates.  Although, with 16, I'm not sure anyone judging would mind a break


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## maxfieldjadenfox (Sep 5, 2006)

And they're off... Probably in more ways than one. Just guessing. 

Welcome to the jungle, RPJunkie and Mazlo!

(And, like Hellefire, I'm willing to make the supreme sacrifice to judge if nobody more qualified shows up...)


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## Hellefire (Sep 6, 2006)

*bump*

So, one day to show time - contestant slots full, but we still need (2?) judges.
We have 4 people competing who have offered to judge is necessary.
So, as far as I can tell we need 2 more people to sign up - as contestants, or judges, or 1 of each, or whatever.

Strange alternatives - 

1. Two of the current contestants who volunteered get converted to judges. That leaves 14 contestants. Then there are a couple options -
  1.a. 7x2 first round (7 contests with 2 competitors each), second round roll a die and give 1 person a bye and others 3x2, 3rd round 2x2, 4th round 1x2.
  1.b. Change two random contestants or last two sign-ups to alternatives, and run a 12-person competition (first round 4x3 - 4 contests with 3 competitors each, second round 2x2, 3rd round 1x2).

2. Convert all four of the contestants who volunteered to judges and have a 5-judge competition, with a 12-person contest (4x3, 2x2, 1x2).

I'd rather see two more people sign up and, if necessary, tap a couple contestants to be judges. Even powers of 2 make for a much for normal contest .

Aaron


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## Rodrigo Istalindir (Sep 6, 2006)

Let's see.  I think my preference would be to tap maxfieldjadenfox (since she's still competing in Alsih2o's interrupted competition, and she's gotten to compete in the past couple Ceramic DMs here) to judge with Herreman the Wise, with me breaking ties as necessary.  Based on past Ceramic DMs, there usually aren't too many split decisions.  That would give us 15, with a week to find another contestant to fill the slot, and if we don't, one person would get a 'bye'.  Not the ideal solution, but not unbearable.  How's that sound?

I really dislike 3-person rounds.  I found it far harder to write useful judgements, and I think it stacks the deck against those competitors with less experience, often knocking out two in the first match and not giving people as many opportunities to hone their skills for this type of event.


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## Hellefire (Sep 6, 2006)

*sounds good*

That sounds like a good suggestion. I don't like 3-person rounds either, turth be told, but I was looking for ways to make sure the competition hapens. Your suggestion is better than any of mine I think. Glad you're doing the organization thing .

Aaron


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## Rodrigo Istalindir (Sep 6, 2006)

First round rules and guidelines:

1.  I'll try to post the pictures for the first 8 competitors tomorrow as close to 12:00pm Eastern as I can.  That should give everyone a reasonable fair shake time-wise.  That means stories will be due by 12:00pm Eastern (give or take) Sunday.  If in doubt, check the timestamp of the post with the pictures -- it's 72 hours from that point.  If we have overseas participants that are seriously off from me time-wise, chime up now and we'll see what we can do to accomodate you. 

2.  First round will be three pictures, 5000 word max (no minimum).  

3.  Judges are free to use their own criteria, but IME things generally boil down to ideas, execution, and picture use.  Obviously, this is a creative writing competition, so go as wild as you want.  Spelling and grammar matter, as does puncutation.  Given the nature of the boards, formatting won't count against you, but please make some effort to keep it readable (breaks between paragraphs especially).  For picture use, you *cannot* use a picture as a picture (eg, "Dave wandered through the haunted mansion, and gasped when he saw the painting of the monster in the study").  Other than that, you're free to treat each picture as literally or as metaphorically as you think you can get away with   

4.  ALL POSTS ARE FINAL!  No editing -- once you post your story, you're done.  If you are unsure about how your stuff will cut and paste from Word or whatever, do a test post before we start.  Please don't post Word documents or .PDFs in the thread.

5.  If the boards are unavailable at the time the stories are due, or for some reason you will be unable to post by the deadline, you can email  stories to me at jckline at gmail dot com.   So long as I get the story before the deadline, you're good.  (Judges, please email me your preferred email address so I can forward stories on to you as necessary).

6.  No peeking at your competitor's story before you've posted yours.  We're on the honor system here, folks.

Did I forget anything?


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## maxfieldjadenfox (Sep 6, 2006)

Maxfield Jaden Fox, still stinging a bit from his defeat at the hands of Rodrigo Istalindir last year, looks up at the balcony. Rodrigo leans forward, and Max feels the judge's steely glance rest on him for a moment, sending a chill down his spine. Rodrigo turns and whispers something to Herreman, who sits silently, Lady Death resting nearby. Herreman looks toward the competitors in the arena and makes a dismissive gesture with his meaty hand. Rodrigo, somewhat agitated, points at Max. A short, but intense argument ensues. After long minutes, Rodrigo stands and walks to the edge of the balcony. He locks eyes with Max, and motions for him to come forward. Max takes a few halting steps and bows. What could the judges possibly want with him?

"You have been chosen. It is our hope that you are up to the task."

The steps to the balcony, cold grey stone, are steep and winding, worn by the tread of many feet. Max reaches the top, just a bit out of breath. Chosen for what? He bows again, first to Rodrigo and then to Herreman the Wise, who stands now with Lady Death thrumming insistently in his hand. For a moment, Max remembers the last time he met Lady Death. The swift stroke to his throat, the merciful blackness that followed, erasing the pain of his defeat. Were it not for the return of resurrection magick, and the good will of a cleric, he wouldn't be here now. But here he is. Herreman slaps him hard on the shoulder, and Max tries to remain standing. 

"Welcome, boy. Try to keep up." 

Rodrigo rises. Graceful, catlike, he comes toward Max, holding robes that are perhaps a touch too large. 

"Well, put them on. The contest is about to begin."


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## Hellefire (Sep 6, 2006)

*times n stuff*

1. I am on Euro-time (GMT +1)

2. Noon EST is 6pm my time is just fine .

3. For any spectators watching, the elevation of Max to judge means we need another competitor. Feel free to step up .

Aaron


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## Berandor (Sep 6, 2006)

I'm ashamed that I have to do this, but better now than during round one or two. At least you haven't started yet.

Yes, you guessed right: I'll have to drop out. University interfered in a really bad way, and with all the writing I suddenly have to do till September 30th (let alone the reading before the writing), there's no way I can do this contest. 

I'd rather write fiction, and I hate to prove unreliable this time. Good luck to those who remain standing, though, and have fun all of you. I'll try to drop in and read a few stories, so perhaps I can at least give some comments. But no promises there, either.

Sincerest apologies,
Berandor


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## Rodrigo Istalindir (Sep 6, 2006)

Ack!  Berandor!

Ah, at least you weren't set to judge.  Hope you can make it the next go-around.  I think your 'Cold Fish' story was one of the best Ceramic DM entries ever.

Ok, if we don't get any more signups before tomorrow, I'll put a bye in each of the two brackets (1-8,9-16) so everyone has a even shot at it and it won't screw up the timing.


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## maxfieldjadenfox (Sep 7, 2006)

Oh, Berandor! I was really looking forward to reading your stories. Next time? 

I know about the school stuff, fortunately I have some down time at work which is allowing me to take my first foray into judging. Good luck with the academic writing.


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## yangnome (Sep 7, 2006)

There is another option to putting byes in the competition.  Run the first round with the 14 contestants you have (two sets of 7 matches).  Second round, you'll have 4 matches, but only 7 competitors to draw from.  Judges pick their favorite story to fill the gap (I don't know how this would happen, perhaps behind the scenes each judge rates each story from 1-10 as they judge, highest overall scoring story goes on).  Third round is two matches, followed by finals.  

The benefit of this is it provides someone another opportunity to write instead of having people sit out from writing. I think each CDM competition has had at least one matchup of very strong competitors.  This would give a chance to help solve that problem by letting the strongest loser stay in the competition.

After my first CDM, I ran a very similar competition on another board I visit.  We didn't have enough for full brackets, so we did this and it worked out very well (though I actually let the competitors vote for the story that advanced).  The person actually wound up making it into the finals...quite a come back.


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## GuardianLurker (Sep 7, 2006)

And here I am about to undo all that 7&14 planning...

I'm a little nervous about this (especially if I end up in 1a 'because my weekend is already committed) but I'll give it my best shot. Here's seeing if all those "Once Upon a Time" games have been wasted....

In short, I'm in.


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## Rodrigo Istalindir (Sep 7, 2006)

GuardianLurker said:
			
		

> And here I am about to undo all that 7&14 planning...
> 
> I'm a little nervous about this (especially if I end up in 1a 'because my weekend is already committed) but I'll give it my best shot. Here's seeing if all those "Once Upon a Time" games have been wasted....
> 
> In short, I'm in.




No worries, I'll drop you in the 1b slot.  Welcome aboard, and good luck!


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## maxfieldjadenfox (Sep 7, 2006)

So, one more victim... I mean competitor slot left. Somebody? C'mon and play!


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## Taladas (Sep 7, 2006)

Well since you asked so nicely sure I'm in.


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## Rodrigo Istalindir (Sep 7, 2006)

Taladas said:
			
		

> Well since you asked so nicely sure I'm in.




You're in, but you're round starts today.  Hope that works for you.


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## Rodrigo Istalindir (Sep 7, 2006)

The round 1a and 1b pairings are set.  Pictures for round 1a go up today around noon.  Let the smack-talk commence!


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## Hellefire (Sep 7, 2006)

My pen is sharp
my mind is bright
if you can't harp
then run in fright

My mind is sharp
my pen is bright
if it can't LARP
my cat's not right

My pen is sharp
my mind can write
if you can't harp
then run or fight

My mind is sharp
my pen can write
run to your harp
it's time to fight

Four hours of sleep, don't ask 

Aaron


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## tadk (Sep 7, 2006)

roger

look on the bright side
paired vs me is like getting a bye, except you do have to write something

otherwise as good as a bye


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## Halivar (Sep 7, 2006)

*slaps Aris Dragonborn with a wet mackerel*

Sir, I demand satisfaction!


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## Rodrigo Istalindir (Sep 7, 2006)

FYI, the pairings were randomized.


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## Deuce Traveler (Sep 7, 2006)

I need not bother to talk smack amongst these apes.

<throws feces>


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## maxfieldjadenfox (Sep 7, 2006)

tadk said:
			
		

> roger
> 
> look on the bright side
> paired vs me is like getting a bye, except you do have to write something
> ...




No. This is an example of how NOT to do smack talk. Here is an example of good smack talk:

Your mother was a hamster and you smell of elderberries. 

Read and learn chillens.


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## Piratecat (Sep 7, 2006)

I'm watching with enthusiasm!

except Enthusiasm keep hogging all the nachos, and hasn't bathed. I may end up watching by myself instead.


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## Rodrigo Istalindir (Sep 7, 2006)

Just a couple notes, in case things weren't clear.

1.  Use the pictures in any order you wish.
2.  You don't need to link to the pictures in the text, but please put in a parenthetical notation in the paragraph (eg. see Picture 1, or see Picture of Burning Trees).  It's usually clear, but it does help the judges when evaluating picture use if they don't have to guess.
3.  Remember a maxiumum word count is in effect this round.


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## Rodrigo Istalindir (Sep 7, 2006)

Piratecat said:
			
		

> I'm watching with enthusiasm!
> 
> except Enthusiasm keep hogging all the nachos, and hasn't bathed. I may end up watching by myself instead.




Want to judge?


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## Piratecat (Sep 7, 2006)

Rodrigo Istalindir said:
			
		

> Want to judge?



I'm flattered, but the last time I judged was just about the time that my life all went to crap and I didn't live up to my judging obligations. I'm being cautious with how I spend my time now, and what I commit to!


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## Rodrigo Istalindir (Sep 7, 2006)

Piratecat said:
			
		

> I'm flattered, but the last time I judged was just about the time that my life all went to crap and I didn't live up to my judging obligations. I'm being cautious with how I spend my time now, and what I commit to!




Well, I wouldn't want that on my head -- I'd get lynched by your adoring fans   Comments are always welcome, though.  And I'd like to see you compete again, some day.  I fondly recall your 'snicker-snack' story from a while back.


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## Wild Gazebo (Sep 7, 2006)

Just be a guest judge...all of the judging numminess without the judiciary responsibility.


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## Rodrigo Istalindir (Sep 7, 2006)

*Round 1, Match 1 - Wild Gazebo v. Taladas*

5000 words max.

Pictures.  Judges, due time will be 12:15  for this match due to board issue.


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## Rodrigo Istalindir (Sep 7, 2006)

*Round 1, Match 2 - Hellefire v NiTessine*

5000 words max.

Pictures:


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## Rodrigo Istalindir (Sep 7, 2006)

*Round 1, Match 3 - Halivar v Aris Dragonborn*

5000 words max.

Pictures:


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## Rodrigo Istalindir (Sep 7, 2006)

*Round 1, Match 4 - Paka v Deuce Traveller*

5000 words max.

Pictures:


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## Rodrigo Istalindir (Sep 7, 2006)

Good luck, folks.  See you in 72 hours.

And, while you're gnashing your teeth, think of this -- the first round we go easy on you with the picture selection.


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## Hellefire (Sep 7, 2006)

*weeeeee*

Looks fun . See ya Sunday, putting this on ignore while I think of some ideas. BTW, I know youposted it nearby, but it's really helpful to post the word limits with the pics.

And awayyyyyy we go!

Aaron


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## NiTessine (Sep 7, 2006)

I have seen the pictures.

A story will be delivered, three days hence, accompanied by the severed heads of those who oppose me. On the noon of the third day, look to the north.


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## Deuce Traveler (Sep 7, 2006)

Haha!  Consider this won!  Victory is mine!


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## Berandor (Sep 7, 2006)

Thank god I dropped out! Urm... I mean, nice pictures 

A gazebo for Wild Gazebo? That's mean. 

Good luck to the competitors!



			
				Rodrigo Istalindir said:
			
		

> Well, I wouldn't want that on my head -- I'd get lynched by your adoring fans   Comments are always welcome, though.  And I'd like to see you compete again, some day.  I fondly recall your 'snicker-snack' story from a while back.



 You know how bad it was to be judging that one? It's still my favorite CDM story, ever. But how can you say that without compromising your judging impartiality? In the end, I think I said "screw impartiality", but it was no easy choice 

Man, that story was great. I even used it as a sig for some time. (not the whole story, mind you).


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## Rodrigo Istalindir (Sep 7, 2006)

Berandor said:
			
		

> Thank god I dropped out! Urm... I mean, nice pictures
> 
> A gazebo for Wild Gazebo? That's mean.




Heh...didn't even notice the 'gazebo' connection.  I had the first round pictures selected before I started the sign-ups.  Must be fate or something...


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## Taladas (Sep 7, 2006)

Bloody eyes and mouth, a nice gazebo, and children with balloons. Yeah, the ideas are just flowing.


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## Berandor (Sep 7, 2006)

Don't read if you're in match-up 1, it could influence your idea.


Spoiler



prospective title: "Strawberry ballons?"


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## Rodrigo Istalindir (Sep 7, 2006)

Taladas said:
			
		

> Bloody eyes and mouth, a nice gazebo, and children with balloons. Yeah, the ideas are just flowing.




God, it's fun being on the other side of this and getting to torture other people for a change


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## Aris Dragonborn (Sep 7, 2006)

Halivar said:
			
		

> *slaps Aris Dragonborn with a wet mackerel*
> 
> Sir, I demand satisfaction!




I accept your challenge, sir!


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## yangnome (Sep 8, 2006)

Really looking forward to next week now.


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## Rpjunkie (Sep 8, 2006)

"snicker-snack"? i would love to read it. Does anyone have the thread to that story?

RPJ


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## Rodrigo Istalindir (Sep 8, 2006)

Piratecat's Jabberwockies, December '04 Ceramic DM semi-final winner


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## Hellefire (Sep 8, 2006)

*reeeeeally*

"A story will be delivered, three days hence, accompanied by the severed heads of those who oppose me. On the noon of the third day, look to the north."

I guess that would depend on ilands facing North now, wouldn't it? 

Luckily, I have a stick-collar neckgaurd of non-decapitation. So, you'll jsut have to make other plans 

Aaron


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## Wild Gazebo (Sep 9, 2006)

Of Eloquence and Understanding:  To Wit


by Wild Gazebo







"Look mommy!  The balloons are flying to heaven!"

	That was my first clue.  It was a crisp fall day--just after mass.  The light 
bathing St. Anthony's was a solid white awash a blue sky--as only the withering nimbus of 
autumn can provide.  One by one, the rubbery red squeaks of balloon across young clutching
fingers echoed through the courtyard.  The ruby globes thrust upward, as if through some 
dire need, shunning an eternity of gravitational status quo.

Image 1​
	The wind you say?  No.  Not a stray strand of hair marred the bangs of a single 
witness.  Helium?  Sure.  But the urgency expressed by these bulbous menagery not only 
trifled the physics of rising gasses but scorned the ground with such an acceleration that 
three blinks took them from plain sight.  More was at play here.

	Amidst the throngs of milling and gawking people I went about my work.  After just 
finishing the winterization of the shrubberies along the back of the apse, I was scanning 
the grounds for any transient pieces of waste.  Garbage pick and bag in hand, I scoured the 
lawn.  A bit more diligently than I usually do.  In fact, I diligently examined the lawn 
until well past the turn of the shadows, well past the last dawdler mozied off, and well 
past Father Tacit dimmed the lights and shuttered the windows.

	"Don't forget to go home and eat now, Bunt."

	"I won't Father."

	"I don't want you wasting away.  Your mother would serve my head to Pilot!"  
Laughing at his glibness Father Tacit strolled down the back walk toward his board.

	"Good-night father.  And don't worry.  I don't think he is still alive anymore.  
And, and, I don't think Mother knows him...unless he plays bridge on Saturdays."  Father 
Tacit didn't turn:  he waved with the back of his hand as he continued his short stroll 
toward his small home.

	Over at the courtyard, the jagged pavement wove images of zig-zagging crosses that blurred attentive vision--if studied for long.  The ordinary darkness that descended upon the church-yard cloaked the mystery of the late morning leaving my solitary silhouette as an unwept exclamation point.  But my public punctuation shifted. 

	All of the hairs from the base of my wrist to the top of my arms began to rise.  
That coke-fizz sensation in my inards turned as if I were  tumbling down Old Reed's hill 
end-over-end.  The rest of my body hair took notice and began to lift from the rut below my 
shins to the nape of my neck...my hair was trying to tell me something--its verticallity 
alluding to a presence that commonly avoids the traffic of a well loved church.  That was my second clue.

	The fall evening snapped cold.  The warmth of crackling leaves and woolen weaves now rested within the homes of the after-supper domestic.  The breeze, dormant before, took up a desperate furry--fighting the warm glow of the cherry embers resting in the bottom of every well kept hearth.  The industry of the day, measured out in hours of perspiration and toil, blew across the deserted courtyard and up into the darkness beyond the confines of the consecrated grounds.  

	I scurried to recapture my efforts.  Grasping at the departing flyers, branches, and 
 wept leaves, I lapped the grounds like a crazed cat eager to chase down the expended hours.  As if the bramble and detritus were nothing but rushing rapids, my efforts were futile.  But that didn't stop me.  For my determination far outweighed this mystery's endurance. 

	Finally, after more than five layers of sweat had rolled down my neck and dried 
taunt on my dewy skin, the trifling spirits grew tired and stopped dead.  The murky silence 
roared through my red chapped ears.  The dusty grit tingled in the corners of my tear 
stricken eyes.  While my thin morning clothes shivered in the depths of the thick night.  And 
I felt alone:  like I've never felt alone before.

	"Now I have to clean all of this up again.  All over Mrs. Birch's new trellis and 
all across Mr. Browns freshly trimmed hedges.  Now there is twice as much work--our 
clippings probably went as far as the Smith's hobby farm."  My voice shattering the scenery 
like a concussive blast:  errant and barren.

	A new figure sifted through the shadows.  Walking like a folding shadow coming from the depths of what should have been a nine-foot iron-wrought fence, the figure drifted 
directly toward me.  With only the dim light of the street lamp down the lane the personage 
consisted of only silhouette and flutter.

	"Good evening Bunt.  A pleasant night for a little humble work, isn't it?"  The voice 
betrayed neither male nor female familiarity.  "A little quiet tonight...good for collecting 
thoughts, isn't it?"

	"Well, I do like to get my job done so I can go home before Mother worries."

	"Of course, you are a excellent son," the shadow leaned forward.  "But where is your Mother now?"

	"Oh, most likely watching the T.V. with her red wool and her knitting things--she 
likes to make sweaters for the babies.  All of the ladies at church say 'she has so much 
patience and understanding--poor old thing' and 'she gives her whole life' and such."

	"Yes, your mother is a saintly woman--always giving."  The dark strangers voice took  on a lilt of amusement.  "But what of you:  do you give?  Haven't you ever wanted more than just doing what your mother and Father Tacit tell you to do?"

	"Well.  I always kinda wished that the church's garden wasn't so boring.  What with the straight hedges, and trimmed grass, and straight rows of flowers...it just seems so 
ordinary."

	"Oh, well.  If you ask for it in the right way and to the right person your dreams 
could be a reality."

	"That would be nice."  Hunching over I swept up a stray leaf with my hands that had wandered back onto the courtyard.  "Have a nice evening."

	The figure didn't move.  It stood still--making me very uncomfortable.  I could feel 
its eyes studying me with what wasn't quite understanding.  His posture felt more like a 
command, in the way Mother would expect me to leave my video games for supper when I was a child.  "Did you want me to ask you?"

	The shadow settled into a reasonable shape.  "Of course I'll help you Bunt.  We must not all be slaves to the whims of our oppressors."

	"O.K."

	The figure leaned forward slightly, again.

	"Um, could you help me?"

	"I'm afraid I don't have that kind of time," snipped the stranger.  "I have other 
thing to attend to--good evening."  With that, the figure shifted and headed back from which he came:  melding with the shadows just past the western gate.

	"He certainly was a nice fellow, er lady."  Again, my words shattering a cold 
silence.  "Funny, my voice didn't do that when that other person was here."  Shrugging I 
wandered out on to the lawn--hoping to find any wind swept debris that I could pick-up before tomorrow morning.

	The leaves of grass on the northwest lawn began to turn.  Whipping into a spiral 
pattern on the ground, the lawn began to emit erie blue globes of light spinning around the 
outer edge of the shifting grass.  The silence parted like an opened music box lullabying the 
night into a dreamy pastoral scene.  A rose light bathed a sporadically overcast blue sky 
blurring the edges of my reason with cherry trees and serene mucronate mountains.  I was 
standing in the middle of a new place--far beyond the rigorous work of the churchyard.  That was my third clue.

Image 2​
	The ground was bereft of waste.  The cherry blossoms that languidly drifted off the trees simply disappeared as they touched the ground.  A majestic pastoral gazebo lay dormant waiting patiently for any creature to happen upon it so it may feed upon their worries and daily concerns.  The lush thick lawn extended toward the horizon in every direction scorning the trials of other lawns such as weeds, grazing cattle, and rambunctious children with their grabby little hands and their marring rough-housing.  

	It felt good.  I didn't feel it appropriate to speak.  "So, I probably shouldn't."  
The sound of my voice was muffled and distant like it could only be heard in the back of 
my head.  An uneasiness overcame me as I realized I didn't know the way back to Mother's or where any of my tools were.  Looking across the expanse of scenery, I didn't see any edge save for the ringing mountains and the elaborate baulistrade--that seemed so out of place upon a lawn--dividing the forever in half.

	A dry, wet, coppery tingling grappled the roof of my mouth.  My throat constricted 
as I felt dry tears welling beneath my cheeks and brows.  I was alone.  I had nothing to do 
or fix.  I had no place.  My self was dwindling and separating--stretching toward my new 
limitless horizon.  I balled my fists into puffy white clubs and struck out at the garden's 
only building.  I smashed at the smooth white marble with unhindered passion.  Feeling 
nothing but numbness creep up my arm I regrouped my tenacity and continued on with the 
determination of a glaciers decent.  

	The slick floor did not deter me.  As time went on I had to step closer to land my 
blows.  Sounding like wet towels whipped over hot dry rocks, my mind created a 
symphony of monotonous percussion--singing me home.  I was happy to be busy.

	As the cloud of exhaustion dripped over my weary eyes my blue sky turned to dark 
dampness.  A very familiar smell of people, lemon oil, and sensor smoke interrupted my cherry blossom and copper reality.  I slumped to the floor, devout to duty, hitting not gentle 
grass but rough carpet draped over stone.  My penitents to consumption found me at the foot of the Madonna--prostrated before her upturned face.

	Mary began to weep.  Her warm wooden likeness painted in a reverse trompe l'oeil 
fooling the eye with its simple layered paint.  In a verso pieta, her tears turned to thick 
globs of blood streaming from her every sculpted orafice thumbing its nose at any form of 
consistent reality displayed through the history of the church.  Mother Mary's loss of 
blood called upon the death throes of a tortured spirit yearning to be free or a mother 
freeing her child--both stretching an eternity.  

Image 3​
	That was my fourth clue.


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## Wild Gazebo (Sep 9, 2006)

Ok, I know I'm not allowed to edit my post; but, I'm not sure what happened to my formatting...it is all scattered with all the indenting gone.  And, I accidentally placed the wrong image for image one...it should obviously be the balloons infront of the church.  Can I get a pity edit from the judges?  I promise I won't alter the content/grammar of the text.  Not sure what to do.


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## Rodrigo Istalindir (Sep 9, 2006)

Don't worry about it.  The formatting is fine; the indenting always gets blown out.  The important thing is readability.  And mislabeling the picture isn't a problem -- I think the judges can figure it out well enough.


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## Wild Gazebo (Sep 9, 2006)

O.K.  But, you know the Gazebos now out-number the bloody face--I just don't want an unfair advantage.


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## maxfieldjadenfox (Sep 9, 2006)

Wild Gazebo said:
			
		

> Ok, I know I'm not allowed to edit my post; but, I'm not sure what happened to my formatting...it is all scattered with all the indenting gone.  And, I accidentally placed the wrong image for image one...it should obviously be the balloons infront of the church.  Can I get a pity edit from the judges?  I promise I won't alter the content/grammar of the text.  Not sure what to do.




I'm not likely to fault anyone on formatting, since my formatting problems are legendary (at least in my mind). And I'm a pretty smart fox. I think I can tell which picture goes where. Not to worry.


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## Wild Gazebo (Sep 9, 2006)

To be honest it grates more on my nerves than I am actually worried about a missunderstanding.  In fact, not being able to go back and fix it annoys me more than if I were to lose the round.  That's it...if I'm eliminated I'm going back and fixing it!


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## maxfieldjadenfox (Sep 9, 2006)

Wild Gazebo said:
			
		

> To be honest it grates more on my nerves than I am actually worried about a missunderstanding.  In fact, not being able to go back and fix it annoys me more than if I were to lose the round.  That's it...if I'm eliminated I'm going back and fixing it!




Spoken like a Virgo. Are you a Virgo? I'll bet you are...


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## Wild Gazebo (Sep 9, 2006)

I'd say something about Geminis but everbody knows that trying to peg one down is an exercise in futility.


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## Deuce Traveler (Sep 9, 2006)

*The 22nd Anniversary of a Homecoming*

"In other news, Delta Airlines Flight 237 took off from Atlanta today and had a near miss with a white, winged horse known as a pegasus.  After the pilot was forced to make an emergency landing, the airport was closed for most of the morning, as government officials attempted to follow the creature in order to tranquilize it.  After a two-hour chase, the frightened and exhausted pegasus finally touched down thirty miles north of Macon, where local police and wildlife officials were able to shoot it with horse tranquilizers.  Lucky, as the pegasus has been named, will be placed in a zoo where officials say it should be safe from danger, and also become a tourist attraction.  There was some unfound concern that Lucky may have been able to take back off into the air after being tranquilized, which would likely have resulted in his death from falling and possible severe property damage since he seemed to enjoy residential areas..."

	Coach sighed, pulling his face away from the television and back to his drink.  "I wish they'd turn that off," he said, taking a drink from his beer.

	I nodded in a sympathetic gesture that I didn't feel.  Emotions weren't an issue since I had just taken one of my pills that my psychiatrist prescribed me.  Using some psychobabble I picked up, I scolded the older man. "You just blame yourself for things you can't control.  It's better to just accept things as they are and move on with your life as best you can."  I took a sip of my orange juice.  Alcohol and my yellow pills are not to be mixed.

	He just smiled at that, the scar tissue on his jaw flexing like leather.  "No Robert.  I guess I'm more upset that you and I are the only ones that showed up."  His gaze fell upon the four empty chairs at the table and the banner that read 'Happy Twenty-Second Anniversary!'  "I guess I at least expected to see your sister."

	I just shrugged.  "They didn't show up last year, and she was the only one to come the time before that.  I don't know why you thought that would change.  Should we give them another hour?"

	"No.  Let's just each take a piece of the cake and go," he said in a defeated voice.  He looked at the frosted dessert beside us, then at the stump that used to be his right arm, and asked, "Ummm... Robert.  Would you mind?"

	"Not a problem," I answered with a smile.  I had already cut his steak for him earlier.  I enjoyed helping Coach.  I felt like I was giving something back to a man who treated me as an older brother.  Or a father.  After cutting out two slices, I ate mine in numb bliss.  He only ate half of his, lacking my appetite.  Then it was time to pay the bartender and leave.

	Coach moved out from the table, his cane supporting the weight for his mangled leg.  He was still in shape for a 40-year old, although I was by far the larger of the two of us, and my body still young at only thirty-two years of wear and tear.  As he gained his balance, he looked at me and smiled.  "Thanks for being here, Robert.  It means a lot to me that at least someone still makes our get-togethers.  How much do you owe this year?"

	Despite my medication, I sputtered, then exclaimed, "Coach!  C'mon!  I don't come here for money!"

	"No, but that doesn't mean you don't need it, Robert.  How much this year?"
	I grimaced, and had a mind to storm away from him.  But he was right.  I was about to have the electricity and phone cut off.  "Two thousand," I answered, my eyes downcast.  "I'm trying, Coach.  I really am.  If it wasn't for the medication, I'd break even this year."

	He just smiled at me, tucked his cane under the armpit of his stub, and patted me gently on the shoulder.  "If it wasn't for the medication, it's likely you wouldn't have a job.  I'm proud of you, Robert.  I really am.  I'll bring the money by later," he said and walked away, whistling to himself.

	I stared at him until he turned a corner and disappeared from my sight.  I lied to myself, saying that I wouldn't take the money from him.  Not from Coach.  I began to feel my hands clench from agitation and anger.  I wanted to hit something.  I scrambled for my bottle of pills, popped it open, grabbed a yellow pill that looked more for a horse, and swallowed it down.  I began to walk home, and did some counting exercises to help myself relax.  Along the way I thought of Coach.

	Ironically, no one called him Coach until after he had lost his arm and then taken his current athletics job at the local high school.  Before that, he considered himself a hero, trying to seal the portals that were opening between our world and another where magic was reality.  In hindsight, he was naive.  There were special forces for that sort of thing and no reason for people like us to get involved.  Well, no reason except a sense of guilt, I suppose.

	I still remember seeing his last fight after I had gotten home one spring day from high school.  Portals between our world and the next open regularly, but usually for only a very brief amount of time.  Normally, the people of Earth avoid entering one when it opens.  Creatures from the other side are a bit more adventurous, however, and usually make the leap through.  This time, two fiendish canines called hellhounds had entered one and ended up inside a nearby mall.  Coach somehow knew a portal would open there and was ready, actually tackling a hellhound as it jumped at a small girl.  The mall cameras showed one of the hellhounds breathing flame at his feet, which melted his skin and mangled his left leg.  The other creature bit deep into his right arm, partially severing it.  A lesser man would have gone into shock and died.  Coach instead pulled out the .38 he always carried and shot them through their eyes with his off-hand.  He never was one to miss with a ranged attack.  No one thought that he would survive, but a charity fund was developed in his honor, and a surprising amount of donated money helped pave his way to a speedy recovery.  But his hero days were over.  He took a coaching job, and insisted we call him 'Coach' ever since.  It was his way of accepting the death of his old identity and embracing his new, crippled life.  Out of all of us, I think my sister took his new handicap the hardest.

	I pushed it out of my mind.  It looked as if I would have my own concerns.  Two Buicks were parked outside my small house, sparkling with a newness that clashed with the wreck that was my neighborhood.  Several men wearing expensive suits and sunglasses stood outside on my sorry excuse for a lawn.  One tall, white hair man stood watching me patiently, his hands clasped in front of him.  The other four were shorter than a normal man, but also wider, with bluish skin and pale-yellow hair.  Derro.  I calculated that the rest of my day wasn't going to enjoyable.

	A small clan of derro once came through a portal that lasted longer than most, and had run off the old mafia here in New Jersey.  From bits and pieces of what I had heard, they've also been trying to get a foothold into New York with mixed results.  Their dominance in the criminal racket stemmed from a natural cunning and ruthlessness.  They had intimidated just about anyone active in the underworld important enough to attract their notice.  Their favorite technique involved kneecapping, which the derro enjoyed with a sadistic vigor.  Most people are afraid of being shot.  Every sane person is terrified of being brought down from a strike to the knee by a twisted, pupilless dwarf with a skin condition and a baseball bat.  It was said they had a particular dislike for taller humans.  Since I am standing a few inches over six feet, I should have quickly walked back to the restaurant.  Thanks to Mr. Yellow Pill, I decided to walk up to them and see what they wanted.

	The tall human came up to me with a dour expression, but a pleasant half-smile.  Shaking my hand, he said in a gruff, but educated voice, "Mister Robert Davies, so good to see you.  My name is Dontello, and I represent a client that would like to speak to you for a moment inside your home."

	"What if I'm busy?"

	"I assure you it's a one time offer you can't refuse."

	I looked at him for a moment, then at one of the derro who was fingering the handle of a baseball bat and decided I would like to have company.  "Sure, but the place is a mess right now," I said in all seriousness.  A voice inside of me screamed that I really should stop the medication.  

	Dontello translated my words to the rest of his group and the derro took out a wheelchair, while the drivers of both cars came out to help an elderly derro into it, along with his dialysis machine.  This older derro looked sickly, his frail hands gripping hard to the controls of his machine, and his head wore a helm with two horns that no longer properly fit his shriveled frame.  A wooden baseball bat with the word 'Louisville' was strapped to the side of his wheelchair.  I made the assumption that this was their clan chief, and I allowed his entourage to push my new guest of honor in first.  I only had a few chairs inside the house, but I grabbed the most comfortable one before anyone else could.  I was king of this castle, after all.

	Dontello grabbed a stool, sat across from me, and got right to business.  "Nice place you got here.  Real nice place, Robbie."

	"Robert."

	He continued as if he didn't hear me.  "Now Bobby, we have need of your services.  You're in the repossession business, from what we understand, and there is something that is ours that we would like repossessed from someone that took it."

	I blinked in surprise.  They wanted to hire me, not pummel me for some previous slight.  "Well, repossession is a tricky business.  You have to be sure the law is on your side and all your paperwork processed before I can just walk in and take away someone's property.  That property can only be taken if it was used for collateral in an agreement before you and the other individual," I explained.

	The elder derro took a breath of oxygen from a canister next to him and grumbled at Dontello in a guttural language.  Dontello nodded and said, "The boss here says not to worry about the legalities of the situation.  Do this for us, and we promise to keep the city off your back.  We've got most of it on our payroll anyway.  Also, the boss wants to let you know that he's willing to pay you well for this.  Three thousand dollars up front, and seven thousand more when you recover our property."

	My heart skipped a beat in excitement.  With that kind of money, I wouldn't need charity from Coach.  I might even be able to pay back some of the money he's given me over the years.  "Tell me more."

	The dour man nodded while the derro smiled.  "Look here, Robbie," he said, handing me a newspaper clipping.  It showed a picture of a fat man named Steven Ray holding up what looked to be a heart carved from a rock.  "This man found something that the boss here says is his.  It must have fallen into our world through a portal.  We approached the man at his work and he says that he doesn't have it anymore, and that he sold it to some collector who didn't give him a name.  We have a feeling that he might not like the derro or those that work for them," Dontello said sadly.  "We could break Mr. Ray's legs, but the man doesn't get off of work for another five hours, and we would rather not make a public spectacle.  Perhaps you can approach him and track down both the collector and the item."

	"What if Mr. Ray doesn't help me, either," I asked.

	Dontello shrugged.  "Then we'll wait for him to get off from work and break his kneecaps."  The elder derro snickered.  "Sometimes, people don't respond as well to pain.  They sometimes lie just to make it stop.  In this one case, we'll let you work your way and hope for a truthful answer."

	I was beginning not to like this.  "Let me get this straight.  You want me to recover this heart made of rock."

	Dontello shook his head.  "It's a heartstone.  We want you to quest for the heartstone."

	"It sounds like there are plenty of other men who could do the same job for you.  So why me?"

	"Why, Bobby?  The boss here appreciates your work.  You're a legend in the underworld of this city.  Everyone knows your exploits.  Do you remember Bosnia?"

	I tried not to.  I had joined the military shortly after high school.  "Yes, I remember Bosnia.  Some local warlords kept having their boys take potshots at us.  We knew where they hung out, but were unable to do anything about it since we only had no hard evidence.  I was able to bring five of the bastards in after I cracked some heads, which kept the remnants of their group quiet for some time."

	"The direct approach is often the best approach."

	"Yes, but I jumped the security fence and went into town on my own free time to bring them in.  I ended up wrecking the bar they were drinking at and seven vehicles.  I was kicked out of the military for that one."

	"With an honorable discharge."

	"I was still let go.  They would have court-martialled me if it weren't for the fact that one of my prisoners was wanted on trial for war crimes."

	Dontello sighed.  "No appreciation for talent."  The elder derro mumbled something else.  "The boss also heard about that time you took up boxing."

	"Let go by my manager after I couldn't remember to stop fighting after the bell signaled it was time to go to my corner."

	"You were a taxi driver for awhile."

	"Fired for speeding."

	"Pizza delivery man."

	"Same."

	"Joined the XFL."

	"Fired for unnecessary roughness."

	Dontello smiled like a shark.  "Bouncer at Club Reds."

	"That was my job before this one.  I got fired when the club was overly damaged after I got into a fight with a few guys who were trying to add another nostril to the bartender.  These guys were a nasty sort.  They were a pack of derro who had..." my voice trailed off, and the elder derro gave another nasty snicker.  "Friends of yours," I asked.

	"Not a friend.  The boss' great-great-great nephew," Dontello explained.

	"So this isn't really about the job.  You've come here to get revenge," I stated, my temper beginning to return.

	The elder derro said some more guttural words for his spokesman to translate.  "No, no, no.  Please understand.  The boss holds you in the highest regards.  He feels that you taught his relative a very important lesson.  One that will matter greatly if he ever has to fight to the death.  But something must be done about you.  Now if the boss gets you to work for him, he can say he co-opted you into the clan and everything can be forgotten about.  It's actually quite merciful."

	"And if I say no?  Or fail to recover this item of yours?  What happens?  Do I get my kneecaps busted up?"

	The elder derro said something short, but direct.  Dontello translated once more.  "I'm afraid we only do that when we are annoyed.  No, in the case of a refusal we would feel forced to have to deal with you using concrete shoes and a deep body of water.  The derro learned a few things from the Italians.  But if he had to resort to this, the boss would be as sad as a derro could be.  Death would be wasted on a man of your ability to cause destruction.  In case we have to kill you, please understand that it's just business."

	I reached in my pocket for another yellow pill.

* * *

	After being three thousand dollars richer, I followed Dontello's directions to Steven Ray's place of work, a water treatment plant outside of the city.  I stopped my car inside a recreational park outside of the facility, put on a hard hat I brought with me, grabbed a clipboard, and walked inside the fenced area without being stopped.  No one ever stops a man with a clipboard.  I asked around for Mr. Ray and someone pointed him out to me, working at the top of one of the giant flow pumps.  It took me a bit of climbing, but I finally reached the portly gentleman, who turned to face me (see Picture of Chubby Blonde Man).  "Mister Steven Ray," I asked.

	"Oh hell, what did I do wrong now," he asked, noticing my clipboard.

	"Nothing at all," I said, smiling at him and moving forward to shake his hand.  "I was allowed on the site because I'm a collector.  I was hoping to buy that stone you found recently."

	"Oh, that," Steven said with a smile.  "Did you know I found it laying in my backyard of all things?  I guess some portal opened up there.  You're out of luck, though.  I sold it last night to a different collector.  She offered me a hundred thousand dollars for it if I agreed to accept cash and to give it to her at that very moment.  It was a lot of money, and I've been thinking of putting in my two weeks notice and retiring early."

	"Congratulations," I said with more happiness than I felt.  He wasn't giving me much to go on.  "Maybe I can track her down and buy it from her.  What did she look like?  Do you know how I can get in touch with her?"

	Steven scratched his chin for a moment and considered me.  Finally he said, "You seem like an honest enough fellow, so I'll tell you what I know.  She was a redhead, and a looker, too.  I'd say she was in her mid-thirties.  I have her phone number, since it showed up on my cellphone," he said, as he scrambled in his pocket for the device.  Taking it out, he showed me her number on the display and allowed me to copy it down.  "I don't mind telling you this, since I'm hoping you can pass a message onto her if things go well.  Tell her that Steve...errr... me... that I'd like to take her out sometime with that money she gave me.  Oh, and be careful with who you give that number to.  She seemed like a nice girl, and there were some derro that swung by here earlier and took an unhealthy interest in the heart thing.  Made me glad to be rid of it."

	I promised to pass the message, and waved to him a goodbye as I left to return to the parking lot, feeling guilty for lying to him.  I decided against jumping in my car and returning home, opting instead to take a long walk in the nearby recreational park and think.  Coach always told me that I needed to use my head before jumping into things recklessly.  There seemed to be some kind of fair going on underneath the shade of some trees.  Curious, I began to move my way over there when my cellphone rang from a number I didn't recognize.

	"Hello," I said into the receiver.

	Dontello's voice was on the other line.  "Hello Robbie.  Everything going alright with Mr. Ray or will we need to coerce him later?"

	I considered lying, then I considered concrete shoes and Steven Ray's kneecaps.  "Please tell your boss that everything's fine.  He gave me the number of the woman that purchased the heartstone, and I'll be calling her shortly to arrange a meeting.  I plan to negotiate a price with her and let you know how reasonable she is."

	"That's excellent news.  I can see why the boss thought to place his confidence in you.  Bobby, please remember to give us that lady's number when next we meet, and do keep in touch with us."

	The connection was broken as Dontello hung up.  I sighed and wondered if my day could get any more stressful, when I noticed that I had reached the outside of the fair.  It was a bit morbid, with booths that displayed videos and pictures of creatures from the other world being tortured or kept in captivity.  I could hear a woman yelling from a stage about the rights of stirges, and the unjust pesticides being created in laboratories to exterminate them.  Above her was a sign that read PETPC - People for the Ethical Treatment of Portal Creatures.  Next to me were two goofy-looking people, bouncing a pissed off looking homunculus on a blanket (see Picture of two happy, shiny people bouncing a ...thing on a blanket).  They looked like they were having fun.  The homunculus... not so much.  I reached for my pill bottle.  There was only so much stupidity I could take in a day.

	As I took out the bottle, the yellow homunculus leapt out of the blanket with fangs and teeth bared at me.  I panicked, since such a creature is normally poisonous, and dropped my bottle.  The creature landed at my feet, snagged the bottle, and took off into the woods before I had a chance to move.  "My pills...," I whispered in shock.  I wondered what final task some crazy wizard left for the insane creature to make it act like that.

	The woman dropped her corner of the blanket and ran up to me.  "Are you ok," she asked with concern.  "Oh, I'm afraid that Bashful has misbehaved again.  We've been trying to reform him, but he seems to have a thing for small containers."

	My mouth stayed hung open, as I was still in shock.  Finally I asked slowly, "You call that thing Bashful?"

	"It's not a thing," the man came up to me and yelled angrily.  "Portal creatures have feelings, too, you know.  What if Bashful heard you?"

	I tried to do my counting exercises and closed my eyes for a moment.  "When will... Bashful... come back with my pills?"

	"He won't," the lady answered.  "We never can find anything once he hides it in the woods.  Heck, we sometimes don't find him for months once he runs away, but we put out ads in the paper and around town, and someone always seems to locate him again.  Never with the items he takes, though, that little rascal."  Her smile disappeared when she saw my concerned face.  "Oh dear.  I hope that medicine wasn't anything important."

* * *

	I could feel my temper returning, which meant that I'd have to end this case soon before my emotions took over.  I had a tendency to act before thinking and to destroy things when my emotions took over.  I decided it was time to call the collector.

	After three rings a strangely familiar voice said, "Hello, DM's collectibles."

	"Hi," I started hesitatingly.  "I'm looking for the woman who bought the heartstone.  I'd like to buy it from her."

	There was a slight pause, followed by a question I didn't expect.  "Is this Robert Davies?"

	"Ummm...yes," I answered.

	I heard a grunt of anger on the other side, "Damn it, Robert, you don't have the money or interest to buy something like this.  Who are you working for?"

	"I can't tell you who I'm working for," I admitted.  "Do I know you?  Who is this?"

	There was a long silence, broken by her asking, "Can you meet me in the playground next to Anthony Wayne Middle School?  In half an hour?"

	"Yes," I admitted.  "I can get there in less time than that if you..."  I was interrupted by a click and a flat tone.

	"That was rude," I hissed and thought about tossing my cellphone across the parking lot.  So far I had been feeling as if I was being railroaded, and I didn't much like the thought of not being in control of my own life.  Jumping in my car, I drove my little Mitsubishi like a bat out of hell in order to blow some steam.  I made the twenty-mile drive through the city in the same amount of minutes, which included five stops at traffic lights.

	I parked at the school and walked into the playground that I had spent my middle school years at (see Picture of the Metal Slide).  I leaned the nape of my neck against the slide, which looked tiny to me now that I was an adult, its cold metal feeling good against my angry, hot skin.  I waited another five minutes, impatiently singing the tune to Gilligan's Island for the sixth time before I saw a redheaded woman walking furiously towards me.  It took me only a second later for me to recognize her.

	"Sis, what are you doing here," I asked dumbly.

	SMACK!  My face stung as her hand lashed out to slap me.  "What do you think you're doing working for the derro, Robert," she demanded.  She went to slap me again, but I caught her wrist.  She saw the look in my eyes and said simply with angry undertones, "You haven't been taking your pills."

	I let her hand go gently.  I couldn't stay angry at friends or family.  "No, I lost them when I was trying to track you down, Sheila.  I'm on a limited schedule, since the derro are planning to knock off the gentleman who sold you the heartstone in the first place.  They're also threatening my own safety if I don't locate it.  I figured I could save the man's life if I played ball.  I didn't know that I was going to involve you, too."

	Sheila looked at me sadly, "Robert, I'll give you the heartstone.  I tried to get it away from them, but once we use the magic stored inside of it, it won't matter.  The derro want the stone because it can restore the health of a crippled or diseased person who touches it.  I got the blue heartstone for Coach.  Once he's restored, we can give them the empty heartstone."

	"They're not going to be happy about that," I said, officially becoming the master of the obvious.

	"But you'll still be honoring their contract.  It will be better than their chief being restored back to health instead of Coach.  We got to take the chance, Robert," she begged me.  "We owe Coach."

	"We do," I agreed and she visibly relaxed.  "Let's go to Coach's house and afterwards I'll face them with the empty stone."

	"We'll face them," she said with a smile.  "You, Coach, and I.  Just like before we returned home those decades ago."

	I started smiling from the thought, her mood contagious.  "Well, we'd be missing the other three, but..."  I stopped as my cellphone rang and I moved to answer it.

	"Mr. Davies, do you have the heartstone in your possession yet," Dontello asked.
	"Ummm... no, I'm still working on it," I admitted.  "I'm going to need some more time."

	"I understand.  But just in case you have a change of heart, I just want to tell you that we picked up an acquaintance of yours that happened to come by your house before we drove off.  We expect another sign of your success shortly, Bobby, or else your friend, Hank Brown, is going to join you in your swim."

	"Who is that," Sheila asked in concern.

	Placing my hand over the cellphone I whispered to her, "It's the derro.  They have Coach."

	The look of despair on her face was enough to make me want to weep.  This led quickly to other strong emotions.  I suddenly had a barbaric desire to smash derro heads.


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## Deuce Traveler (Sep 9, 2006)

I'm done with mine... <happy dance>


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## Berandor (Sep 10, 2006)

Formatting tips:

Preview. Absolutely do a preview screen to make sure it's all set.

Piratecat had a nice trick, though: Take one of your old posts (half a year or older). Edit that post (copy the original content somewhere) with your story. Post it, see if it's all right, change everything as needed. Then take the correct format and post it in this thread, re-edit the old content in the test post, and you're set.

Word will especially screw up the format, especially if you write board code into the file (like linking the pictures).


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## maxfieldjadenfox (Sep 10, 2006)

Wild Gazebo said:
			
		

> I'd say something about Geminis but everbody knows that trying to peg one down is an exercise in futility.




Oh clever you... I didn't think to look at your profile. Well til just now. Virgo.


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## tadk (Sep 10, 2006)

*Hampsters*



			
				maxfieldjadenfox said:
			
		

> No. This is an example of how NOT to do smack talk. Here is an example of good smack talk:
> 
> Your mother was a hamster and you smell of elderberries.
> 
> Read and learn chillens.





I like Hapmsters
they are cute
even on the bathroom floor flat on their back hissing at the chow who is just staring at the little  escapee....doing nothing the fuzzy coward


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## yangnome (Sep 10, 2006)

Hello, I know this is off topic, but I want to share and figure people interested would be in this thread anyway:

I thought I'd drop a line to share some exciting news. I went to a writer's conference today, which offered five minute pitch sessions with ageents. While there, I met with a couple different agents, all of whom were very interested in my novel.

I had a pitch session with one agent who said the work sounded fresh and she hadn't heard of anything like it on the market--she asked me to send her 10 pages and a query. During lunch though, she and her partner sat at my table. Her partner started asking alot of questions about my book and asked if I had a sample with me. He read the first page or two of my novel and said "It's obvious that you can write well, forget the 10 pages, send in the full manuscript for an exclusive look." Needless to say, that made me pretty giddy. It's one thing to get compliments from friends and family, but to have a pro who has been in the business longer than I've been alive....

I met with another agent--just in case the first doesn't pan out (not to mention practicing my pitch skills). She too was really interested in it. She asked for a partial, the first 50 pages. The sad thing is I'll have to send her an email this week and tell her another agency asked for an exclusive look. Oh well, if things don't work out with the first, at least I have an in with another.

Needless to say, I'm floating on cloud 9. It is also getting me excited about this year's upcoming NaNo. Sorry for rambling so long, but I wanted to share it with people that would understand my excitement.

If anyone is interested in reading this novel, let me know and I'll send a copy. I have until mid-October to submit my novel to the first agency--they'll be on vacation until then. I need to go through this thing and polish it. Any feedback would be more than welcome.


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## Wild Gazebo (Sep 10, 2006)

Congrats!!!!!!!

That is always very exciting.  But, and this is a big but, many, many, many manuscripts don't make it past the first screening...so ground yourself..and embrace rejection where ever you can find it.  Rejection makes your writing stronger and your objectivity more acute.  Every author has many more rejections than successes.  Again, congrats.


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## yangnome (Sep 10, 2006)

Thanks. I'm ready for rejection if it comes--though it will still suck, I'm sure.  One positive thing is that this agency likes to work with new writers.  Hopefully there's enough promise in my manuscript that they decide to work with me.


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## Halivar (Sep 10, 2006)

*Billy's Reckoning*

*Billy's Reckoning*
by Halivar

Billy sat in his rockin' chair on the porch, idling by another lazy summer Sunday. Vern had cooked him up yet another fine meal of biscuits and gravy, and he was in the mood for thinkin' on things. Good food turned a man into a philosopher, he reckoned. Vern sat in the rocking chair next to him as she worked on her knitting.

Billy usually sat silent as he rocked, but today he had had an inspiration. An veritable epiphany, even. “Vern,” he said, turning to his wife, “you know Star Trek?”

Vern stopped rocking and looked up. She replied, “you mean that science-fictional show come on after Nascar?”

Billy nodded. “Yeah, that's the one.”

Vern said, “Well, then yes; I know Star Trek.”

Billy stroked his stubbly chin. “Whatcha' think the future's gon' be like?”

Vern sat perplexed for a while, before replying, “Well, I image that'll be science-fictiony, too.”

Billy glowered. “Dammit, woman. That's evadin' the question.”

Vern sighed and looked down at her knitting. “Well, Pa, I imagine in the future they might have little robot things that do crochet.”

Billy sat back and continued rocking. “Know what I think? I reckon the future will be a place of marvelous wonders. Cars that drive themselves; washin' machines that talk to ya; no cancer...”

“Will they clone Elvis?” Vern asked.

Billy was incredulous. “Dammit, woman. This is my grand vision of the future you're interrupting. And yes, they'll clone Elvis. Hell, I reckon that'd be one the first folks they would. Him n' General Robert E. Lee. Make one helluva president, I reckon.” Vern nodded as she went back to her crochet.

“The future...” Billy trailed off, deep in thought. Cicadas filled the silence between them as they continued rocking. It was a short time later that Billy stopped rocking. He stared out across the yard (PICTURE 2), as if an angel of the lord had descended and smacked him upside the head. “Vern,” he said, “I just had a reckoning.”

Billy often “reckoned” things. When Billy reckoned something, it was gospel truth, and that was that. There was no questioning a reckoning. The preacher-man, the apostle Paul, and all the angels of heaven couldn't deny one of Billy's reckonings. They were divine inspiration; or so Vern thought. “What is it?” Vern asked.

Billy looked at her proudly, with a fire behind his eyes. “Woman,” he replied, “I'm gon' build me a time machine.”

Vern blinked. “Billy, how you gon' make a time machine?”

Billy guffawed, pointing at the junk in the yard. “You blind? I got all I need right here. I got two engines, a drill press, three of your old sewing machines...”

“They're all rusted up,” replied Vern.

“I got me a shed out back with plenty more,” said Billy. He would not be deterred.

Vern went back to crocheting. “Ok,” she said, “but I don't think you'll finish before bedtime.”

“Well,” said Billy, “this is a big job. Ain't nobody ever built a time machine before, and it's gon' take time. I reckon it'll prol'ly take me all night.”

Vern stood up. “Well, I'm gon' clean up the kitchen. You need any help with your little science experiment?”

Billy glowered. “Woman, you know science is men's work. You can help by bringin' me a beer.”

***

It took Billy longer than he thought. Late into the night, we welded, hammered, sawed, drilled, spliced, cut, and, in short, worked his mechanical magic on a brand new time machine. Billy reckoned there was not a mechanical device in the world he could not pull apart and put back together, including cars, refrigerators, sinks, and toilets. A time machine, however, was new territory for him. He'd never pulled one apart, and had never seen a real, operational one before. He was forced, therefore, to work from his working memory of what time machines were like in “Back to the Future”, “Time After Time,” and “Bill and Ted's Excellent Adventure.”

The work continued well into the dawn, and did not cease until noon Monday (thank heaven for retirement). He entered the kitchen, where Vern was cooking lunch. He was exhausted. “It's finished,” he said as he slumped into one of the dining chairs. Vern turned around and placed a steak and cold beer in front of him.

“I knew you'd finish,” she said as she kissed him on the forehead. “So, you try it yet?”

Billy looked at her as if she were crazy. “Dammit, woman. You really think I'm gon' leave my lovely ol' ball-and-chain behind and run off to the future? Ain't no way.”

Vern was confused. “So,” she said, “you're not gon' use it?”

“Of course, woman. You're comin' with me.”

***

Vern squealed with delight as Billy led her into the shed. They were wearing futuristic clothes Vern had picked up at Goodwill. Vern, in a sudden fit of genius, suggested to Billy that in the future people would only wear polyester jumpsuits. Since no one made those yet, she picked up matching purple jogging outfits instead. As Billy would say, “close enough for gov'ment work.” Billy had trouble fitting into his, so his belly button poked out from under his top.

In the shed was a collection of ramshackle devices, with cables connecting them at various places. It took Billy a half-hour to power everything up and “configurate” it. When everything was finally ready, he called her over to the switch, a reconfigured stamping machine with a candy-red handle (PICTURE 3).

“Okay, Vern, you ready to make history?” he asked as he placed his hand on the handle.

Vern tittered. “Don't you mean, 'Ready to make future?'”

Billy guffawed with laughter. “Damn, woman, that was good. I didn't know you were funny. Well, here goes!” Billy pulled the lever.

The devices started humming loudly. The room crackled with energy. Light began cascading from the top of the switch. “Pa,” shouted Vern over the humming, “where do you tell it how far to go?”

Billy sat frozen for a moment. “Aw, Gaw'dammit. I knew I forgot something.”

Everything went white.

***

Billy and Vern finally emerged from the forest into a small clearing. Billy was just getting over the diarrhea he contracted from eating that fruit back in the forest. He was in a sour mood. So far, they had found no civilization, nor any trace that one had previously existed. Just having built a time machine wasn't enough. Without a cloned Elvis, it was a hollow accomplishment.

The clearing was next to a river on their left, with a wide, sloping hill on their right. To their surprise, blankets covered the clearing, both laying on the ground and propped up as a shield against the sun. More amazingly, hundreds of young, beautiful people wearing white, silky robes were lying on the blankets. Billy shrunk back. “Dammit,” he said, “I shoulda' brought my shotgun.”

Vern, however, was excited. “Ooh, ooh! Let's meet them!”

Billy looked at her incredulously. “Woman, don't be foolish. This is prol'ly so far into the future, they don't even speak our language.”

Just then, a group of the young people waved, and shouted, “Hello, strangers! Welcome to our land!”

Billy and Vern looked at each other. Vern said, “Billy, you didn't reckon it, so I forgive you for being wrong.” Billy sighed and hung his head. Vern led Billy by the hand out into the clearing.

Some of the young people began to congregate around Billy and Vern. Most, however, didn't even bother to glance. It was then that Billy noticed that everyone had blond hair and blue eyes.

“Greetings, stranger,” said one of the young girls, “Please make yourself at home.” The youths escorted them to blankets to lie on. Billy was very uncomfortable, but Vern was smiling broadly. Some of the youths brought porcelain bowls with a variety of fruit.

“Excuse me,” said Billy, “but can I have a beer?”

The girl looked confused. “Beer?”

“Yeah,” said Billy, “Coors, Bud Light, Michelob. C'mon, I gotta know who won the beer wars. Was it the King? Was it the King of Beers?” He was almost pleading.

The girl cringed a bit from Billy. “We do not know of this 'beer' you speak of. We have olives, though!” She grinned broadly.

Billy sighed. “Okay, no beer. What about some steak. You got steak?” She sat perplexed, and did not answer. Billy said, “You know, meat?”

The girl's eyes grew as large as saucers, and a terrified look came over her face. “Meat!” she cried and she stood up and ran away. The others surrounding them were backing away with terror-stricken looks on their faces.

Billy began to understand. “Oh, no,” he said. “Oh, no.”

“What?” asked Vern, clinging fearfully to his arm.

Billy sat up on his knees, raising his fists to the sky and shouting, “The democrats won! They took over! They took my steak and beer! Damn you! Damn you all to hell!” He lowered his face into his hands, and began sobbing profusely. Vern tried to console him, to no avail. The youths, now more terrified than ever, gave them a wide berth. Many went back to their blankets, trying to forget about the newcomers. Billy and Vern sat there for some hours as he cried.

Suddenly, a loud horn pierced the air. Vern thought it sounded like an old air raid siren. The youths began looking around, some clinging to one another. Billy looked up. “Dammit, I'm having a moment. Who the hell is interrupting my moment?”

Suddenly, dozens of yellow balls, about the size of a man each, began bouncing into the clearing from over the hill. Billy stared in horrific recognition. They were the giant, man-capturing bouncy-balls from “The Prisoner” TV show. “Oh,” he said, “I should have known.” The balls attacked people, rolling over them, but leaving nothing behind. From inside the balls, people's faces and hands pressed out in futile attempts to escape. As they grabbed people, they began bouncing back up the hill from whence they came. “Don't move,” Billy told Vern, “they only go after people who run.”

Vern stared bug-eyed at the balls. “How do you know?”

“Well, I reckon it because I saw--” Billy's statement was cut short as a yellow ball bounced over the blanket wall propped up to keep the sun out. It jumped high over head and landed directly on Billy, with Vern just nearly jumping out of the way. Vern shrieked in horror as Billy, inside the ball, pressed desperately against its skin (PICTURE 1). Vern ran away, but in her confusion and lack of familiarity with the area, could not find escape. Several balls began following her. She evaded them with some trouble. Soon, however, she found herself cornered at the river. Five of the balls were advancing towards her, and the river was her only way out. Unfortunately, she couldn't swim. Whimpering, she sat on the ground and covered her face, waiting for the bitter end.

***

“Vern, wake your lazy rear up. This is no time for sleepin'.”

Vern came to in a dark, dank room, lit only with a torch on the wall. There was an iron door beside the torch. Dozens of blonde-haired youths sat in the room with Billy and Vern, docilely sitting and staring at their own feet. Billy was sitting over her with a concerned look on his face. “Where are we?” she asked.

Billy shrugged. “I got no clue, but these kids're acting like it's the end of the world or something.”

Just then, the iron door rattled with the sound of keys. The door squealed open, and a large, brutish, blue-furred creature, somewhat like a man, but mostly like an ape entered the room. Its eyes glowed an evil red. “Hey! Dinner!” it said as it entered the room, “Get your asses up! It's your turn to feed us for a change.” He was banging a spoon on a large pot. The youths stood in accordance. The ape-man grinned, until it noticed Billy and Vern. It's eyes glowed brighter and angrier. His grin twisted into a foul grimace. “Dammit, Silas! What is this?”

Another blue-furred ape-man entered the room. “What is it, Clem?” He looked Billy and Vern.

Clem slapped him on the back of the head. “Can't you see, plain as day, these fine folks are Morloks? What in the hell you go catchin' Morloks with the huntin' balls for?”

Silas hung his head and replied, “Well, shoot, Clem. I figured if they was out there, they had to be food-people.”

Clem shook his head, and spoke to Billy and Vern. “Forgive my boy, folks, he ain't too swift.” He leaned in and whispered conspiratorially, “He gets it from his ma's side of the family.” He stood up and asked aloud, “Now, you folks from the Grishnak clan, or somethin'? Ain't seen ya 'round here before.”

Billy, dumbstruck up until this point, says, “Well... I reckon we are from Grishnak. Yes, sir.”

Clem laughed. “Haw! Knew it! Tell ya what, what's say I get you a cold one and we forget this whole thing ever happened.”

Billy asked, “Beer? You'll get me a beer?”

Clem nodded. “Sure will. Any kind you want. Long as the only kind you want is the King of Beers.” 

Billy wept openly.

***

Billy and Vern made their way back to the time machine. It had, all in all, turned out to be a glorious day. Billy had a good buzz, and his belly was full of the best steak he had ever had in his life (Billy reckoned that, in the future, they probably found some advanced new method of breeding cattle). Vern asked for the recipe, but she doubted she could find anything as exotic as “Weena meat” back home, whatever that was.

Billy's shed still stood where they had left it. This time, Billy had to power up the gas generators for good hour before he could power up the equipment.

“Well, ready to 'make history?'” Billy said to Vern, with a proud smile on his face.

“Sure am,” Vern replied, hugging Billy tightly. Billy flipped the switch, and the shack filled with humming once more. Vern looked up at Billy and asked, “Where do you tell it to go back instead of forward?”

Billy froze. “Gaw'dammit,” he cried, “I knew I forgot something else!”

Everything went white.


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## Wild Gazebo (Sep 10, 2006)

LOL!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!11

I almost started crying when I read:


“The democrats won! They took over! They took my steak and beer! Damn you! Damn you all to hell!”


Great work!


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## maxfieldjadenfox (Sep 10, 2006)

Congrats, Yangnome! I'll keep my fingers crossed for you.


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## Taladas (Sep 10, 2006)

Sanctuary​
I couldn’t save her. That thought resurfaces over and over in my head. 

I got up early or rather I stopped tossing and turning and got up. Exhausted I thought a brisk walk would wake me and frankly I needed to get out. Bundled up for the cold I left my dark chambers and entered the rising dawn. 

The traffic was thin being Saturday and I waved to passing motorists. Most of them waved back. 

Making my way down the road and then a left at the second light brought me to The Mulberry Café. Just open the place was near empty only a scattered few people. 

“Hello Rev. Willis, what can I get for you?” Jean was one of those people that can be cheerful at the crack of dawn. 

“Hello Jean, just coffee for me.”

“Righto.”

I found a table away from anyone and in a moment she brought my coffee. 

“Thank you, Jean.”

“The Volunteer Fair is this afternoon isn’t it? I bet you have loads to do.”

“Yes, still some preparation.” 

“Oh I bet there is. And you, you poor thing you look exhausted. I bet you could do with some help. You know what I’ll send my son Jason over there to give you a hand.”

“That’s not necessary.” 

“Reverend I insist. It would do you some good and him some good by keeping him away from trouble.”

Then she smiled that smile that tells you the argument is over. 

“Thank you, Jean.”

I finished my coffee and Jean came by and refilled it. A few more idle sips and the morning crowd started to pick up. More and more people made eye contact, waved, or said “Hello” and I decided to go. 

The traffic was much heavier now and I avoided the road and cut across the field. Lost in my own misery I didn’t really think about where I was going. But I looked up and saw it, the gazebo. (pic # 2) It looked beautiful. And then I looked at the green grass, the fence, and the cherry blossoms. I wondered if the cold snap would kill them off but I knew what I was doing. Distracting my self from the gazebo. 

It was were we met, where she told me. She called me out of the blue saying that she had heard things about me, that I fixed these kinds of problems. 

I had decided to meet at the gazebo because it was bright and airy. Also people were in and out of the church all the time and I thought it would be more private. 

She came scared, gripping herself tightly. We talked for some time. The details came slow and she really didn’t want to face it. 

It was a possession. She lost control at night. She gave me all the details but none of that matters. What matters is that I failed her. 
(Pic #1) Her head bent back in an inhuman howl. Blood pouring from her mouth and eyes. That foul thing left her but it tore it’s way out. She was dead before I reached her. Horror etched on her flesh. 

I spent some time crying at the gazebo. 

“Rev. Willis, are you OK?”

“What, oh, uh yes, yes I’m fine?” 

“Well, my mom said for me to come help you.’

“Yes, thank you Jason. If you could go to the reception hall, I will meet you there in a moment.”

“Righto”

I saw him takeoff towards the church and I pulled myself together. I had always thought of the gazebo as a refuge from the church. A little quiet place to collect my thoughts and regain my resolve. Now that thing and my failure had robbed me of that. I walked towards the church. 

I found Jason and started him filling the balloons. They were red for the blood drive that was going to happen at the fair. All I could see was her blood mocking me. I thank Jason for his help and go get chairs. 

Soon we are unfolding tables and other people are showing up. Some of the ladies brought by lunch. I was hungrier than I thought.  I sat and watched as people busied about. When I finished eating, I got back to work. 

Of course more people talked to me making chitchat. I responded but I wasn’t really engaged, and I found reasons to run somewhere else. Eventually I found myself outside. I could see the gazebo out there lurking. Waiting for me, ready to remind me. 

“Rev. Willis, They’re looking for you inside.” 

“Thank you, Jason. Let’s go in.”

I gave a short speech about giving to the community and serving your fellow man. I had written it yesterday. I managed to remember most of it. And I looked out and saw the people of this church who I love. Thanked them for all they had done. 

I went outside again. The van from the blood bank was in the parking lot. I went to give blood. A part of me felt it was defiance. This blood wouldn’t be wasted it would bring life. 

I exited the vehicle a little dizzy. I looked and saw children and their mothers with the balloons in front of the church. (Pic #3) Some of the balloons had come loose and were rising to the sky. I saw the balloons rise away and I felt her loss again. I looked back to the children and mothers. I realized that these people are still here. The pain of her loss is powerful but it is not more important than the other people I serve. The truth is that this church is my sanctuary. These people that I love support and sustain me. 

I couldn’t save her but these people give me the strength to go on and save others.


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## Halivar (Sep 10, 2006)

Thanks, Wild Gazebo! I don't really care about winning. If I made you laugh, I did what I came here to do.


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## Aris Dragonborn (Sep 10, 2006)

Well, I just discovered I had a major brainfart.

What was that? you ask.

Simple. I wrote my story based on the pictures for the Wild Gazebo vs. Taladas match, rather than for the pictures for my match against Halivar. :headdesk:

Oops.

Considering the trouble I had writing this story (I finally finished at 6:55 this morning), and the fact that I have to work later today, I'm afraid there is no way for me to possibly write a story using the correct pictures.

Sorry folks. Looks like I have to concede this one to Halivar.

EDIT: I blame Piture #1. It haunts my dreams.


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## Paka (Sep 10, 2006)

Almost...done.


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## Paka (Sep 10, 2006)

*The First Baby Step Towards the World’s End*

*Part I*
_In which there is a plumbing problem._
(picture of man near pipes)

I am what they call an arch-angel and with fiery sword in hand, I traverse creation, setting it right.

From the Gates of Heaven, everything below looked perfect.  It was almost like you could look below and see His plan and every little piece, no matter how mundane seemed like a divine cog, turning precisely as it should.  But then my flight took lower, not earth-side but a place just behind, just sideways, just alongside earth-side, the back-stage, where great pipes containing dreams, love, spite, faith, hope and all manner of humanity’s glories and failings were contained and distributed.

If I wanted to sound official, glorious, and holy I could tell you that the flow of growth and responsibility had become problematic, causing unforeseen complications in the earthly realms.  But that would be hubris, wouldn’t it?  The truth is, some pipes were backed up; it was a plumbing problem, no matter how epic the plumbing.

He was a wingless cherub in working gear, not looking up at me so he wouldn’t be blinded by Heaven’s Gates, always directly above me, right between my snow white wings.  He stood over the tremendous pipes with his gear strapped to his limbs.

Limbs, such an affectation.  I wonder why this one enjoyed the look of an earth handyman and not a jellyfish or a floating ball of light?

“Lines are gummed up good,” he said, apparently enjoying the speech patterns of his kind as well.  Sometimes the work these blue collar angels took on rubbed them in strange directions, humanity took root in them.  His form and speech reminded me all the more that this was no epic struggle between good and evil nor a conflict among the fundamental forces of humanity but a clogged pipe.

I tried to imagine what the cherub/handyman saw looking up at me, standing on this broken pipe that ran from one side of reality to another, from the moment He created light to the last sputter of a dead sun with me, a floating angel, wings of white, flaming sword in hand, presence still exuberant from having bathed in His Glory during the first seven days.

“Open the pipe, cherub.”

He shook his head.  “This is raw adulthood, running right into creation’s veins.  This here is bad id-“

“Open the pipe.”

He sighed and turned valves so the pressure on the nearest hatch could be opened.

“Close it after me; I want nothing following.”

“But how will you get out?”

Taking one last look at the Gates, I said, “I’m sure there is a plan for my exit if my exit is to be.”

He snorted and I descended feet first into the pipes, still damp with the elemental forces within that had stopped flowing.

The cherub clamped shut the hatch and thought I couldn’t hear him as he muttered, “Stupid snob angel…white winged…flaming sword…fop.”

The smell of adulthood was overpowering.  Duty, responsibility, focus, and choice sobered me to my purpose, to correct the wrong.  

And there was only ever one thing wrong with creation; I wondered how the wrong would manifest this time while flying towards the clog in the pipes.

*Part II * 
_In which there is a two employees from different corporations talk shop._
(picture of adults playing)

I am an earth-side angel, nudging the mundane world towards holiness, recording and reporting.

On earth-side, you can’t exactly see Heaven.  You can feel its pull, like magnetic north but you can’t see the gates.  That can be unnerving but I have been serving earth-side, seeing that the Pact is kept and watching over those who need an angel’s breath here and there.

The accounting firm of Carson and Webster had a meeting on the first Monday of the month to discuss projects, talk hard numbers and look upon the various computer aided slide show presentations with bar graphs and the occasional inspirational quote.  The angel watching them had noted that none of the quotes had ever come from a holy book of any kind.  Dilbert doesn’t count, he reckoned.

Perhaps that lack of holy guidance had some hand in the events he was watching unfold.  They had decided in their meeting that their jobs sucked and it was time to cut the meeting short, go outside and play.  He was floating just above the ground with his record keeping apparatus, a simple note pad and feather pen, watching the Vice President of Human Resources and the newest partner holding a blanket between them, flinging a dolly in the air.

“If we fling it high enough, the dolly will go to heaven!” the V.P. exclaimed, giggling shamelessly.

“Hardly,” slithered a reply from behind the angel’s shoulder.  The humans couldn’t hear it but I could.  One needs a special sort of hearing to directly hear the sarcastic wit of the fallen angels.

“Bub, seems like I haven’t seen you since the Fall.  How long has it been?”  I’d show him that devils and demons aren’t the only ones with sarcasm and wit.

“Please, you watched me deficate on the boardroom table when the firm helped that man declare bankruptcy to avoid paying child support to his ex-wife.” he responded, taking a kerchief to his long blank horns.

A curt sniff was my only reply.

“Good times,” he said back, smiling a grin that fully showed his poor dental hygene since his descent.  A look of disdain came over his face.  “What is this rubbish about?” he said, pointing to the cavorting accountants, playing, skipping, crying and such all over the playground that was just a block away from their office building.

“It looks like a group of people basking in God’s glory and enjoying his creation to the fullest.”

The building custodian sprinted between them, not knowing the forces he was walking among and the company president followed him in fast pursuit, tie flapping in the wind.  “No fair, no tag-backs, that was established as the game began.  No tag-backs!”

Bub smiled, showing his the contests of his foul mouth again.  “Please.   You earth-side angels are even more pathetic when you attempt to get a rise out of my kind.  Exiled from his holy presence and so you hope to gain a holy nod back into the gates by finding one of us breaking the Pact.

“This doesn’t look like anything holy to me,” Bub waived his hand at the accountants, administrators and staff, “This is downright disturbing and you of all beings should understand what it takes to accomplish that.”

Bub continued, “Something’s wrong.  The machinery is broken.  All of those things you were filing under mysterious ways were actually mistakes, errors, profound miscalculations, problems with the divine plan.”

I was holding the pen too hard and the feather, one from my own wings, snapped.

“Your blasphemy is pathetic,” I whispered.

Bub nodded, “Only as pathetic as your faith.  Call it upstairs, earth-sider, see what they will report back down the chain.”

“That isn’t the way it works.”

Bub turned, looking over a few of the ladies in data entry who were making a cat’s cradle between them.  “I know.  Funny thing, I had lunch with the Morningstar just last week, basked in his presence, close your eyes and you could forget that it isn’t the Creator, himself.”

“I am here to give you a last chance to come to us.  You are earth-side anyway, close enough.  It is one small step towards us.  Put your wings on the ground, leave your pen and paper here and never file a pathetic earth-side report again.”

I managed to make a noise that meant no and when I opened my eyes, he was gone and the adults were standing in the playground, looking puzzled.  Something had happened, something tremendous and this playground was but a ripple.

While the accountants filed back towards their offices, I looked up, foolishly hoping to see Heaven, feeling its pull a little less.

*Part III*
_In which the arch-angel speaks to the Devil, also known as the Morningstar._

Of course it was the Devil standing in the pipe.  Adulthood, raw and unfiltered, was flowing into a clumsily made diversion in the works, sending it downwards, towards the realm carved from the impact of 666 angels falling from Heaven.

“You have clogged the pipe,” I said to the Morningstar, feeling weak, not having seen Him…I mean seen him since his departure.

He had a hard-hat on, little white horns sticking out underneath it.  His wings were glorious and fiery with raptor-like claws at the tips.

“Who else could it be, old friend?  When there is a problem with the world, there is always someone to blame, such is the genius of my former boss’ plan.”

I gripped my sword tight.  “He is still your boss, Morningstar, still your Creator.”

The rush of adulthood going down this break in the pipes was a whisper beside our voices.  This juncture was like a cathedral ceiling, vaulted and complicated, beautiful really.  It would be a grand place to put my sword to the Morningstar.  This would be a fine place to cease to be.

“I am not going to kill you,” Morningstar said.  “Don’t bother denying it, you sword angels are predictable.  But the problem with this pipe has roots in my realm.  There is liquid adulthood, making a mess of my home.”

“You will not trick me into going to Hell, creature,” I spit.

“I didn’t trick you into anything.  You were sent to rectify the problem; the problem is in Hell.  Now what?”

I looked into the pipe for myself to see the problem.  The truth of it was the pipe was fixable but only from beneath it.  Sealing it would also seal me in the Morningstar’s infernal realm. 

I flew into the gaping hole and using my word, fixed the wound in the pipes.  The pipe’s contents began to flow correctly and all was right with creation again.

Except Heaven’s Gates was no longer directly above me.  Or perhaps it was but if so, I could no longer feel its pull, hear its song, all I could hear was the flapping of my own wings, taking me deeper into hell as adulthood rushed through the pipes above me.

*Part IV*
_In which the flow of adulthood’s pressure is too strong before it levels out._
(the picture of the blue slide)

The lovely blue slide in the park as usually busy with children sliding down, children climbing up, children hanging off of the side.  

But not today.

Today, they decided the slide was foolish, useless and trite.

Oddly, that day they went home and balanced their parent’s checkbooks, did their laundry, cleaned their rooms and made concrete plans with concrete goals.  Perhaps they were just feeling more responsible and adult or perhaps they just knew that there was one less angel in the world.


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## Rodrigo Istalindir (Sep 10, 2006)

Aris Dragonborn said:
			
		

> Well, I just discovered I had a major brainfart.
> 
> What was that? you ask.
> 
> ...




Ack!

That is, as far as I know, a first for Ceramic DM.  We may have to name a prize after you   

Oh, well.  Hope you enjoyed the process, anyway.  And post the story -- even if the pictures are wrong, we'd like to read it, and hopefully the judges can post some comments.


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## Halivar (Sep 10, 2006)

Aris, you won't get away so easily! You hear? No, come back here! What... no...

I'll bite your ankles off!


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## NiTessine (Sep 10, 2006)

*The Cure*​
The golden disk of the sun crawled with painstaking slowness over the distant line of the horizon. Thanks to the strategic placements of window, bed, and pillow, it shone directly into Alambur’s eyes, promptly dragging him up from the blissful depths of sleep and into the waking world. As he rose to a sitting position, the temple’s resident rooster screamed in terror at the sun’s sudden and unexpected appearance and hid behind the outhouse. (Picture 1)

He rubbed his red-rimmed eyes with spindly, yellow hands, and swung himself out of the bed. After a few shaky steps, he gained his balance, and disappeared behind a dressing screen.

A few minutes later, clad in his blue and gold robes, the former Taskmage Lieutenant Alambur Saracalegus of the Resplendent Flame walked out of the room, leaning on a staff of black ebon shod with silver and carved with eldritch runes.

With his other hand, Alambur took support of the wall. All the walls in the temple were light blue, and were inlaid in a two-foot grid with the holy symbols of Hereloke, the god of physicians.

The clergy of Hereloke was a cold, detached lot, more warriors against disease and illness than actual healers. Still, Alambur preferred their care to that of those who venerated the various healing goddesses. The latter tended to be annoyingly friendly, pacifistic and dutifully considerate. A Herelokian, on the other hand, wasn’t afraid to tell you to your face that you had the mental faculties of a diseased turnip, or to give you a good beating should you deserve it. Alambur respected that.

The wizard walked through the receiving room at the temple entrance, dropping a small bag of coin on the desk without slowing down. The Herelokians had been unable to help with his ailment, but that was nothing new. Since his had been afflicted with the magical illness a year ago, among the parching sands of the Anvil of Kerak, he had aged over two decades. His research on the foul curse laid by the snake priests had been for naught, as had every cure, potion and healer he had sought out. Twice he had managed a Subei tribal ritual to steal the strength and vitality of a slain enemy, but the key part was defeating a foe in honourable single combat, which soon became impossible as the disease progressed.

After all the medicine and magic available to him had failed, he sought out those not available. From the blind diviners of the Silver Peaks to the weird Oracles of the Four Winds he had travelled, journeying three continents and five seas in his quest and expending a great deal of magic to hasten his progress.

Finally, he had come here, to an old friend, in Zalwyn.

At the temple gates, Alambur called into being a small horse, and rode it towards the sun. It had not yet reached its zenith when he saw his destination.

Rising abruptly from the flat grasslands of Zalwyn, there is a large cluster of buildings. The cluster is not as large as a city, yet the buildings themselves would conduct themselves well as any kingdom’s seats of power.

They were over a dozen of the great, imposing palaces. They were monolithic in their construction, all fashioned of a grey rock Alambur knew to be as hard as adamantine. The proximity of the place set his magically attuned senses abuzz.

Alambur had been here before, a long time ago. He did not come to the Colleges of Spellcraft lightly, for the journey was long, and his induction into the circles arcane had been in the old way, as an apprentice to an archwizard.

The mage rode, exhausted, to the cluster of buildings. They were encircled by no visible fence or wall, nor guarded by anything corporeal, yet had he not been recognised as an ally and a fellow wizard, he would have been slain a mile from the spot. No people wandered the courtyards or traversed the paved network of pathways that networked the schools. A man not acquainted with the ways of the Colleges of Spellcraft would have assumed the place abandoned.

From the shadow of what Alambur knew to be the Most Beguiling College of Enchanters and Charmcrafters emerged a young man clad in plain, functional leathers.
“Shall I take care of your horse, sir?” the young wizard asked.
“The horse takes care of itself, pupil, but you may send word to the Archwizard Crimban,” Alambur said as he dismounted the horse that dissolved into mist and blew away. “Tell him that the Resplendent Flame has arrived.”

*  *  *​
“Hail, Alambur!” the portly, grey-clad wizard exclaimed as Alambur stepped into the foyer of the College of Puissant Summoners and Conjurers. Though the colleges were all of grey rock on the outside, what lay within varied from school to wondrous school. The conjurers’ entry hall was resplendent in blue-veined marble and polished gold.
“Hail, Crimban,” Alambur answered, smiling.
“You look like crap,” Crimban said.
“It is why I came here. You have arranged what I requested in my sendings?”
“Yes, follow me,” Crimban said, turning around. “It was not easy to get access to it. The diviners are fairly jealous of what they’ve got. They’re renting the dungeons from the conjurers, though, since their own can’t handle the damn thing. I called in a favour with High Corpsecaller Kelgore to arrange this,” Crimban explained, as he led them down a corridor and to a heavy door of adamantine, set with iron hinges and a lock of silver into a doorframe of byeshk. Crimban glanced at Alambur and continued: “He must really like you. I didn’t think he’d do it,” and pushed the door open.

Beyond, there was a deep, black corridor that sloped and curved into the earth. Before entering, Crimban produced a sunrod from his voluminous robes and struck it on a wall, bringing forth a bright, steady light.

They stepped through, and shut the door behind them. As the sunrod’s alchemically produced illumination played over the dark, stones, carved with an unbroken network of runes Alambur felt a leaden weighs settle on his brain. The runes deadened all magic in the passageway. It was but one of the safety precautions taken by the wizards when constructing the vast network of caverns that they occasionally had need of in their otherworldly workings.

“There is a group of alchemists and artificers down there already. They have been whining to get access to the creature for a long time, and now that we’re breaching the seals, they figured that they might just as well get their business done at the same time.”

The mages hustled down the passageway for half an hour, stopping occasionally that Alambur could rest his feeble legs, and every now and then passing strong vault doors made of rare materials and sealed with runes and spells. Here lay imprisoned a score of Dukes of Hell, an archdemon of pain and hatred, a fallen hound archon, a white slaad, and, some said, even a nameless demigod.

Finally, they stopped to a door of black adamantine. The lock was open, and Crimban merely had to pull it open.

The chamber they entered was large. The ceiling, from which hundreds of chains, strange tubes and ropes hung, disappeared into the shadows above. The walls were lined with strange apparatuses, where sparks jumped between copper wands, and gauges monitored the pressure in great containers of viscous, greenish fluid that bubbled occasionally.

They were greeted by a man in heavy work robes, his face obscured by a breathing mask and goggles. In his hand he carried a long, two-pronged spear.
“We have been expecting you. I am the Artificer Vyach,” he spoke curtly, his voice distorted and robbed of any tone or colour by the mask. “You will need to conclude your business with the Gzemnidai first. It will not be able to answer any questions for some time once we have had our way with it.” 
“This suits me fine. Where is it?”
“They are just bringing it in,” the man – if it was a man – replied, gesturing with a hand hidden by a heavy work glove at the far wall.

A door of metal slightly less bulky than the previous one was pushed open, and two alchemists scurried in, kicking aside tubes and pipes that littered the floor. Then, the other shouted back into the doorway:
“Clear! Bring it in!”

From the doorway emerged first two men, pulling heavy chains behind them. The chain were attached to a metal rig on the floor, moving on oiled rails and itself trailing even heavier chains that trailed, taut, into the doorway. The robed men pulled the rig to a spot in the floor that was marked by deep depressions next to the rails, and then pulled down long levers on the rig, locking it firmly in place.

Then, the creature was brought in. It was chained to the rigs on the floor, yet it floated a good two feet above the oily stones. Its bulbous body, nearly fifteen feet across, was held in check by the two-pronged spears stuck in it by four alchemists in similar heavy-duty work robes.

Though Alambur knew the creature’s true nature, it took him a moment to recognise it for what it was. Its eyestalks had been pinned down against its body and fitted with metal covers. A metallic cage enveloped its entire body, keeping it weighed down. What little of its carapace and flesh could be seen was in poor condition, mottled with age and covered in pus. It reeked of a carcass three weeks dead, a sickly odour that mixed with the iron and oil of the chamber and nearly made the wizards retch.

A second chain rig was pushed in and locked into place, anchoring the monster low above the floor with little room to move. The spearmen drew back, but kept their weapons trained on the monster.

The Artificer Vyach gestured Alambur forward, indicating he could now ask his questions. The creature had been brought in back first, and the wizard had to circle around it to see its face.

Drool dribbled from a metal grate locked in front of its wide mouth that Alambur knew to be filled with long, razor-sharp teeth. Above the grate was the creature’s single eye. The bars of the cage kept its eyelids open. A copper slab, charged with a low current, extended from the cage to the eye obscured the creature’s pupil and locked it in place. It was slick with fluid. (Picture 2)

“What do you want of my perfection, inferior worm?” the creature demanded, spittle spraying from the grate.
“I seek information, Gzemnidi. Answer my questions without duplicity, lest we resort to force. I know it was you that broke the Imperial Host of the Gaelyn on the sands of Kerak. You were long the ally of the snake cults of the desert, and you know their fell rituals and curses. This I request – tell me how I may break the Sevenfold Curse of the Drought of Flesh?”
“The curse ends when your body rots. There is no cure, worm.”
“He is lying,” one of the alchemists stated flatly, examining a steel wand with a soft, red glow.

In response, two of the men with spears stepped forth and jabbed their blades into the Gzemnidi’s diseased flesh. It let out an inhuman scream of rage that quickly turned to pain when bright arcs of lightning raced up the spears’ iron shafts and struck the beast. The stench of burning flesh spread into the room, and the spears were withdrawn.
“I shall have your entrails to feats on, pitiful maggots and cattle creatures! You dare lay hand on the favoured servant of the Gas Giant! An endless _diohurr_ on you! I –“ it was cut off as the alchemists moved forth again, delivering a second, longer jolt.

Smoke rose from the panting Gzemnidi when they withdrew, and it was quiet for a long time.

“Very well, food. To break the curse, taste of the vampiric fruit. Its location I know not. Begone, now.”

Alambur nodded, and stepped back.
“I have what I require. You may attend to your business, Artificer Vyach. I thank for your assistance.”
The robed figure nodded.
“You may stay to watch and learn, if you wish,” the artificer said.
“Very well. What is it that you seek with the Gzemnidi?” Alambur asked, as a lower-ranking apprentice drew forth a great syringe of iron and glass.
“We will extract its vitreous fluid. It is a most potent reagent, especially from such a powerful and aged specimen.”
The Gzemnidi was forced low and immobilised by the spearmen with carefully moderated jolts of lightning, and a fifth man then slowly pushed the needle inside the creature’s central eye, withdrawing a full pint of pale, milky liquid from the enormous ocular.

“Interesting,” Alambur said.

*  *  *​
As Alambur and Crimban walked up the dark passage some minutes later, the portly mage spoke:
“The Gzeminidi was being rather obtuse. Are you sure you know what it is that you now seek?”
“Yes, quite sure. The fruit it spoke of is the apple of the Gulthias Tree, that grew from a green stake stuck into the heart of a powerful vampire, deep in the heart of a fortress sunk into the earth centuries ago. I also know that the Tree was uprooted and planted again in a different place.”
“Where, and by whom, if I may be so bold as to inquire?”
“In the Spawnscale Castle, by none other than the Dragonlord himself.” Alambur paused to catch his breath. “It’s a good thing he owes me a favour.”

*  *  *​
A week had passed since his encounter with the Gzemnidi, as the noonday sun found Alambur on a different continent.

He had tied himself firmly to the mule’s back to prevent falling off on the narrow mountain trails. Though he had an enspelled orichalcum ring that kept the biting chill from affecting him, the thin air of the high peaks he could not counter, and he kept physical exertion to a minimum, controlling the animal by the power of a spell of telepathy.

Slumped on the back of the animal, he glanced forward and up. Though the sun reflecting off the ice-capped peaks stung his eyes, he could already see the high gates of his destination looming above him.

A pair of short, reptilian guardsmen approached. Their hide was reddish-brown, flecked with metallic overtones. One of them addressed him in the ancient speech of dragons.
“Is the warmblood lost? What does he wish with the Dragonlord’s nests?”
“I am Alambur of the Resplendent Flame,” the wizard wheezed out, weakly. “Tell your lord and master that I am come.” The language of dragons was also the language of magic, and rare indeed was the civilised mage who was not fluent in it.

The other guard left, while the other stayed to keep an eye on him. Minutes passed, and he was admitted into the fortress. His mule, this time an animal of real flesh and blood, was taken to the stables by another short lizard man, this one clad in heavy furs. Alambur guessed the gatekeepers had a touch of the silver dragon in them, letting them ignore cold, but obviously, not all the reptilians in the castle were thus endowed.

The courtyard was wide and open, as could be expected. He was led across it, and inside the main keep, a blocky and graceless building. He could hear the sound of picks and hammers deeper in the fortress. The castle was not yet finished.

As he entered the keep, Alambur noticed he could suddenly breathe easier, and the sensation of coolness was gone. Spells had been laid in the rocks already, though the castle was still being built.

The keep was small, and he was soon in the main hall, where four men stood guard. Two of them were dwarves, one of them human, and the last one a short, scaled one. The room was dominated by a stony throne, with its back carved in the form of a rearing dragon. Upon the throne sat the Dragonlord.

“I greet you as an ally, Alambur, the Resplendent Flame,” the creature said, fixing him with a red-eyed stare and rising from his seat of power. His white scalemail, worn over his own red scales, clinked as he moved. “It has been years, but not so many. Humans age fast, but not that fast. Something ails you.”
“I greet you as well, respected Dragonlord,” Alambur replied. “My condition is why I am here. It is a curse that you have the means of breaking.”
“I do?” the Dragonlord asked. Alambur thought that had he been capable of reading its draconic features, he would have seen surprise.
“The Gulthias Tree and its fruit. I know you and Gorgoldand dug out the citadel and moved the tree here. Eating the apple will break my curse.”
“The fruit cures any ailment, illness, disease or poison, wizard. It is a powerful asset for me. Why should I give of it to you?” The Dragonlord laid a hand on the pommel of its short sword as it spoke.

“You owe me, Dragonlord. Were it not for me and my companions, you’d still be guarding your dress of mail as the kicking boy of the tribe, or more likely been killed by goblins or fed to your ward. Remember who it was that told you of the tree in the first place and killed the tribe of Durnn,” Alambur spoke, stepping forward and his staff striking sparks from the floor. A harsh edge appeared in his thin voice. “The Tree bears fruit every year. You are not even giving away anything irreplaceable.”

The Dragonlord fixed him with a long, inscrutable stare.
“Very well, Alambur of the Resplendent Flame. I owe you this, I admit, and afterwards, we are even. Come.”

They walked out of the hall, and down stairs, deep into the earth. The Gulthias Tree, grown of a vampire, could not survive sunlight.

“I cannot show you the way to the Tree, but we keep the apple here, when it is ripe,” the Dragonlord stated, pushing open a wooden door.

There lay the objective of his year-long quest – a perfect, green apple, held in a ceremonial cup carved of turquoise by the blind craftsmen of the Eastern Isles, set on a small altar decorated with vines and painted with the strange, angular runes of the dwarven script. Torchlight made its smooth, shiny skin seem like it was carved of gold, and no blemish or scar marked its surface.

Shrugging, Alambur stepped forward and took the apple.

It was delicious.


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## NiTessine (Sep 10, 2006)

And here's Hellefire's noggin on a stick, too. Sorry, couldn't find a silver platter.

I seem to have made some errors in the picture placement. Picture 1 should be Picture 3 and I forgot to mention where Picture 1 makes an appearance, but I hope the judges can figure that one out themselves.


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## Deuce Traveler (Sep 10, 2006)

I just wanted to say, that if I win, I demand a victory parade.  Or at least a picture of one.


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## Hellefire (Sep 10, 2006)

*Long Live the King?*

Long Live the King?

Esid slowly ended his trance, ready for another day cycle. As always, his first cognizant feeling was one  of loss and despair. Six years, and still the death of the King ached inside him. Esid began his daily  ritual of brain-storming in the usual way - trying to convince himself he was still sane.

"The King died. They broadcast a holo-image to the entire fleet."

"Holo-images can be faked. They never released the death pictures."

"If they had released the death pictures, it would have detracted from the majesty of the High Court."

"That's propaganda. Like the burial in space. We haven't had a burial in space in a few millenniums, since  the discovery of other sentient life. Bad for the intra-solar environment."

"It *IS* bad for the intra-solar environment. But you have to admit, the King is a special case."

Indeed, the King was a special case. In almost every way possible. That is how he came to be King, even as  a third-stage life form. Just thinking about his melodious voice helped bring Esid's chaotic mind into  harmony. His voice had so contrasted with the monotone language used by the Travelers.

Esid let his dominant side take control of his mental functions. He wondered if that meant that the  conspiracy-theorist side of him had won the conversation. It was never easy being a split-personality. Of  course, he wasn't technically split-personality. Like all Travelers, he had been incubated along with his  twin. In some freak occurrence that nobody had been able to explain, the twins had joined. Both had been  fused into a single Traveler, physically. Mentally, Esid was able to have discussions with himself.  Sometimes it helped give him perspective. Sometimes it just made him feel nuts.

Esid absorbed his morning nutrient supplement in his private quarters, as always. Interaction with other  Travelers was kept to a minimum as they approached planet X12-03. It was the sixth planet they had visited  which was home to third-stage life forms. All third-stage life forms looked basically the same, with mostly  external features and small eyes. Their molecular make-up and the components of their individual planets  differed, however. Each new planet required alterations to Esid's appearance and data-gathering sensors. It  took most of his time to adjust to the changes, and minimal contact with other Travelers was vital for him  to complete the transformation.

Esid sometimes missed his natural Traveler's body, with its internal features, simple streamlined shape and  large eyes. His normal eyes allowed for better collection of data from the various spectrums. Thinking of  his eyes made him wince. They were completing his eye transformation today, and he hated that part most.

"You could just accept that the King is dead and not do this anymore," suggested his twin.

"Shhhh," Esid thought to himself/his twin, again bringing the King's voice to mind to steady himself.

After morning nutrients, Esid looked around his elegantly utilitarian room with his natural eyes. "See you  in about a month," he thought to his room, and made his way down the private hallway to the reconstructive  surgery room. He refused to think about the possibility of not 'seeing' things normally within a month.

The surgeon, one of the two Travelers Esid was allowed contact with this close to planet fall, greeted him  in the same monotone way he always did. "Lie down and remain still."

Esid did as he was told. The Travelers society was built for efficiency. Their technology, their bodies,  their thought patterns, even their speech had evolved into the most effective way to assimilate and  communicate information. Emotions in all their myriad form had been removed to allow information to flow  without blockage. That was ideal. Or at least, that had seemed ideal, until the King had come. Esid caught  himself and suspended this new thought-path in order to pay attention to the surgeon.

"We are almost complete with adapting your body to its latest third-stage level," the surgeon was saying.  "I will be testing a new procedure today. We may be able to keep some of your fifth-stage functionality,  even inside your degraded body."

Esid almost moved. Keep his functionality? He felt a surge of happiness. "And that," he mentally told his  internal twin, "is a good example of why emotions are important."

"Of course," the surgeon continued, "this is a test procedure. It will also be less comfortable than the  normal operation."

Esid felt a twinge of apprehension. 'Comfortable' was never a term he associated with this step. A voice  came inside his mind, unbidden. "And that was a good example of what?"

"Shut up," Esid told himself, and began his meditations. He survived these surgeries by keeping his mind  focused on the data regarding his mission.

Fact: The King came to the Traveler Fleet 29 years ago.
Question: Where did he come from?

Fact: The King arrived in an unidentified spacecraft of intra-solar design, obviously built by some  fifth-stage civilization.
Question: Who built the craft?
Question: How did a third-stage life form get to be on board?
Question: Why was the third-stage life form alone when it reached them?
Question: How and why was the craft navigated toward the Fleet?

Fact: Information flow is most vital.
Fact: Emotions cause fluctuations and lessening of information flow.
Fact: Therefore, emotions are undesirable.
Observation: When combined with a certain spectrum wavelength, produced by emotions, information flow is  heightened exponentially and achieves new dimensionality.
Observation: The King induced emotions in the correct wavelength to improve information flow in over 90% of  the Travelers. Those that were not affected did not lose any informational faculties.
Conclusion: Emotion can be useful and highly beneficial.
Question: How did the King produce and radiate the correct emotions?
Question: How were these emotions received and used by others?
Question: How can this effect be reproduced?
Question: Can there be any harmful effects?

Fact: The King reportedly died of 'natural causes' six years ago.
Fact: The King's body was discovered by members of the High Court.
Fact: The King's death holos were never shown to the public.
Question: Did the King actually die?
Question: Did the King actually die of 'natural causes'?
Question: What were the 'natural causes' for his civilization?

The questions always added up faster than the facts.

Fact: The King's funeral was highly unortha-***OOOOOOOUCH***!!!!

Esid was ripped from his meditation by a fiery pain in his right eye. [Picture 2]. His natural eye had been  removed, and a third-stage eye implanted. The surgeon had clamped the new eye open and somehow re-attached  some of the fifth-stage sensors to it. Esid though this would be ideal, but now he could sense all that was  happening with his full fifth-stage abilities.

In a monumental effort of will, Esid managed to stay still. He couldn't even move to tell the surgeon what  was happening. His mind spiraled toward madness, as voices from both his halves screamed in pain. Somewhere  inside, the voice of the King came. The screaming became more focused and controlled. Then everything went  black.

Waking up in the surgery room, Esid felt his entire being was on fire. The pain slowly concentrated onto  his face, then specifically to his eyes. The surgeon's voice came from the space next to him. "The  discomfort will go away in two days, and you will be able to use your new eyes then. Until that time, you  will remain here and I will monitor your progress."

Esid heard the emotionless tone of the surgeons voice, and deeply wished he could project an image of his  pain into the surgeons head. Unfortunately, in this form he could not. Again wondering about the merits and  detriments of emotions, Esid lapsed back into unconsciousness.

After two days of passing in and out of lucidity, Esid's condition did indeed stabilize. The cost had been  extreme, but his ability to use his full functions inside this new form was unbelievably empowering. While  he certainly looked different on the outside, the familiar incoming senses made Esid feel able, in control,  and even hopeful. "Maybe this is a sign," he told himself. There was no answer.

"Hello," he thought, "anybody home?"

No answer.

Esid began to feel panicked. He felt completely alone. "Surgeon!!"

"Yes?" came the flat reply.

"I cannot hear, er, find, er...my twin is missing!"

The surgeon calmly came to Esid and attached some monitoring devices. He watched his monitors for about 20  minutes, then shrugged. "I cannot come to any definitive conclusions. Continue preparing for your mission,  and let me know if anything changes."

If anything changes?? Everything had changed! Esid made his way back down the corridor to his room. The  rest of the week he spent reviewing and re-reviewing facts and ideas about the King. He constantly listened  for his twin, but there was nothing.

Two changes occurred in Esid. First, he began to feel trapped and alone in his own mind. There was nobody  else there, and there was no way out. Second, he found new conviction in his belief that there was  information missing about the death of the King. The King was either murdered or still alive. He knew it!

Esid awoke the morning of the day he would make planet fall. He had not been able to enter trance, only  finding some reprieve in sleep. Lack of trance was starting to take effect; he was worn thin and worried  about his twin. [Picture 1]. Trying to resolve these conflicts, Esid sat and contemplated the coming day.

The TR-12, their ship, would come out of intra-space later in the morning. They would be in orbit around  X12-03, and he would make planet fall by early afternoon. If they could find a trace of the King's funeral  ship from orbit, it would make his job much easier. Of course, nobody had been able to trace the funeral  ship in six years. Esid thought, "That would definitely be a sign!" Still, no reply. He slowly stood up and  entered the public corridor for the first time in over a week.

The crew of the TR-12 wished Esid success as he made his way to the teleport room. They each sent their  individual information regarding the King, so that he could assimilate any knew knowledge that might help  in his mission. He entered the teleport room, which sealed with a light 'clang', and he was again alone.  Esid sat on the teleport pad and waited.

A light on the ceiling blinked red. The ship was coming out of intra-space. A few seconds after arriving,  communication sensors would come back online. This was always the point that Esid held his breathe in hope  and anticipation.

Esid waited and counted. 30 seconds. 60 seconds. 120 seconds. Then the voice came through the ships comm  system. "I have it. The voice of the King! Streaming now!"

Through the comm system came the voice. The voice of the King! It was unmistakable. It was unique. It  contained the emotional spectrum that had changed the Travelers. But, it was also intermittent. There were  other voices in the background. Other emotions. Some emotions Esid had never experienced. He felt  information going in every different direction at once, and it rather hurt. Then, silence.

"The voice of the King is here," stated the comm system, "but we do not know if it is live or  re-transmitted. There are also many other voices, which are affecting us adversely. We have to block them  all out in order to function. We have also traced the funeral ship!" 

Esid's mind went into overdrive. "The funeral ship! We've found it! Answers, at last!" The King was here,  and apparently alive!

"Because of the informational shift of the voices, the trace is only approximate. You will be placed in the  proximity we have for the ship, but we do not have a precise location. Prepare for planet fall."

Esid stood up and went to the middle of the teleport pad. Hardly able to contain his good emotions, and  still confused by the new emotions which he did not know how to filter, Esid was having trouble thinking  clearly. He meditated on the voice of the King, and awaited planet fall.

The teleport was instantaneous. It always was, but the change in center-of-gravity always made Esid stumble  when he arrived. Luckily in this case, because a large object passed through the space he had landed in a  fraction of a second after he fell out of its way. A life form inside the object said something loudly and  with unpleasant emotions, as the object continued on its path.

Esid backed away from similar moving objects, and inspected his surroundings. There were third-stage life  forms around him, all walking and talking at the same time. Their voices were a strange mixture of monotone  and emotional inflection. They certainly did not project the same emotions as the King, but they just as  certainly projected some kinds of emotions. A couple were pleasant, but mostly they were confusing and  somewhat painful.

Taking a deep breathe, Esid filtered out the emotions as much as possible and surveyed other objects. There  were primitive (and highly emotional) dwellings and commissary-type buildings. The civilization appeared to  use entirely land-based transportation without much management or reasoning. Esid wondered why the King  would come here? Or if maybe somebody forced him to come here? The life forms could certainly use some  harmonious emotions.

Esid began walking with the local life forms and checking for useful information. The emotions present were  almost overpowering, and Esid wished that he could filter his fifth-stage sensors. In addition to visual  and oral form, Esid found information in printed form. While he knew that some civilizations restricted  their information flow by capturing it inside little prisons, he had never actually seen it. There were  apparently thousands of these little knowledge cells, and Esid wondered how he would free enough of it to  find the King and the funeral ship.

Esid began investigating written information. How strange these little jails were. Apparently information  was not only captured, it was also hidden from some life forms! While inspecting one of them, a life form  approached and began speaking with extremely negative emotions about 'buying' it. So information was held  and only offered in limited form, for a certain value. At another location, a life form physically removed  the prison from Esid's hands. Approaching physical contact! The arrangement was so incomprehensible to Esid  that he was at a loss as to how to proceed.

Esid transmitted this information to the TR-12 in his hourly report. He filtered out as much emotion as he  could from the data, because he knew that too many emotions would corrupt that data.

Sitting down on an object being used similarly by local life forms, Esid glanced into the commissary-type  buildings near him. Suddenly he felt a surge of hope as he saw it. One of the little prisons, with a  picture of the King on the top! Esid had found that they were designed to indicate their prisoners on the  cover. Was it possible, that the King was inside that prison? Esid ran into the building to find out.

Opening the prison, Esid found information only regarding the King! It even had his name in it! Absorbing  the information further, Esid found that the King had been here prior to coming to the Travelers Fleet. His  heart dropped a bit, because there was no indication of the King being here now. There were, however, some  oddly-familiar ideas. 

It seemed that the King had been here for 42 years. He had been with the Travelers for 24 years. That  looked like an interesting re-arrangement of digits. Searching further, Esid saw another re-arrangement.  This one was using the Kings name, and indicated that the King may be alive! With these thoughts still in  his head, Esid re-arranged other numbers and words. When he came to his own name, he though of his twin and  felt an extreme sorrow. Deciding, or maybe hoping, that coincidence played a part in some of the meanings,  he stepped back outside.

As he glanced around, Esid found many examples of captive information. In front of one building was the  word 'Greyhound.' In front of another was 'Ho Que's Chinese Restaurant.' Why would anybody capture  information in a non-mobile form? As Esid was trying to understand the logic involved, one of the large  objects that were part of the primitive transportation system moved. Esid gasped.

There it was! The King's funeral ship! It was upside down, where it had possibly crash-landed, and had  filled with water. But there it was! He had found it! [Picture 3].

Hastily pulling out his hand comm device, Esid sent an emergency signal to the TR-12 to open a  communication channel. He sent it twice, to indicate a non-life-threatening emergency, but do it NOW!  Seconds later, a confirmation blip came out.

"I found it!" Esid said into his comm. He was trying to shout or add emotion, so that the data would not be  corrupted. "I found the King's funeral ship! I have no definitive proof yet, but our hypothesis may be  true! King Elvis may be alive, and may have been abducted by these aliens!"


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## maxfieldjadenfox (Sep 10, 2006)

Rodrigo Istalindir said:
			
		

> Ack!
> 
> That is, as far as I know, a first for Ceramic DM.  We may have to name a prize after you
> 
> Oh, well.  Hope you enjoyed the process, anyway.  And post the story -- even if the pictures are wrong, we'd like to read it, and hopefully the judges can post some comments.




The Aris Dragonborn Brain Fart Prize? Has a nice ring to it... And yeah, since you went to the trouble of writing it, might as well post it.


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## Hellefire (Sep 10, 2006)

Actually nice story NiTess. It flowed really well and was easy to read. My stories are always based around more abstract ideas (not sure if that is a good or bad thing), and it's almost impossible for me to judge the readability of my own work. 

Though as far as my head, I am still wearing the collar - so you still need another idea for disposing of me .

I am watching South as everyone else is watching North, being the untrusting soul I am .

Aaron


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## NiTessine (Sep 10, 2006)

Hellefire said:
			
		

> Actually nice story NiTess. It flowed really well and was easy to read. My stories are always based around more abstract ideas (not sure if that is a good or bad thing), and it's almost impossible for me to judge the readability of my own work.



Thanks. I liked yours, too. Reminds me, in part, of Robert Silverberg's short story "Dancers in the Time-Flux". This, I think, is a good thing.

Now, I just hope someone can spot and appreciate all the references to D&D mythology that I put there to amuse myself.


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## Aris Dragonborn (Sep 10, 2006)

Ok, since you all asked so nicely...  
Be warned; it's a long one.


*The Sacrifice*


It was a bright, sunny day at St. Stephen’s Church of the Martyr. Spring had finally arrived, accompanied by the sound of children playing outdoors after being cooped up inside during the winter. 

On this particular Sunday, the children were especially energetic as they came through the doors of the church. Sunday school had been more fun than normal, as one of the other children had celebrated his seventh birthday. There was, of course, plenty of cake and ice cream, punch, and balloons for everyone. 

The parents waiting outside groaned good-naturedly as their kids ran around the steps in a sugar-induced fit of hyperactivity. The balloons bobbed in the air, dancing in time with the children’s play. Screams of delight mingled with laughter kept the parents from being too surly about the whole affair. After all, this was the first day the kids had a chance to play outside. So they stood about and chatted with each other, talking about the news, the weather, and anything else that came to mind.  

“So, Amy, how has your little girl been feeling lately?” asked Mrs. Morris. 

“Well, she’s still feeling a little under the weather,” Amy replied, “but she’s been able to keep her food down, so she’ll probably be back to normal in no time.”

“Isn’t it amazing how kids seem to bounce right back from these things? Stephen was the same way, but no time he was running around the house and driving me crazy,” said Mrs. Morris. 

Amy laughed at that, and then looked at her watch. “Well, it’s almost noon, so I guess I need to round the little monster up and feed her some lunch. It’s been nice talking to you, Genni.” Amy turned around, but the children were nowhere to be seen. 

She called out to one of the other parents. “Hey Nick? Did you see where the kids went?”

“Yeah, they ran around the corner just a few seconds ago,” he said, pointing.

“Ok. Thanks.” 

Amy walked toward the corner of the building, trying to decide what to make for lunch. Soup or sandwiches? she thought. What the hell. I’ll make both. She needs to eat some real food, anyway…

She rounded the corner and stopped dead. The children were gathered in a circle. They were holding hands, and their heads were bowed. She moved a little closer, and thought she heard them muttering. How cute, she thought. They’re praying together. She was about to run and get the other parents when the children’s voices grew a little louder. Her amusement turned to unease when she heard what they were saying.

	“From the darkness he rises,
	The Lord of All and Nothing.
	The Prince of Fire on blackened wings
	Spreads his shadow across the earth.”

She couldn’t believe that the children would say something like this, and on church grounds! She walked quickly towards them, intent on breaking up their little gathering. 

“That’s enough of that,” she said. “This isn’t the least bit funny, and I’ll be telling your parents about this.” She reached out and grabbed her daughter by the shoulder. “As for you, little miss,” she began.

She stumbled back in shock and horror as Ashley turned around. Her eyes had turned completely red, as had the other children’s. They began chanting louder, their voices flat and devoid of humanity.

She started screaming when the children began to weep blood.




	3 Days Later.

	Father O’Riley was sitting in the front pew of St. Stephen’s, deep in prayer, when he heard the door open. Turning around, he watched as a man and a woman entered and began walking down the aisle. The man was tall, wide-shouldered and narrow-waisted, which spoke of time spent exercising. The woman was slight, willowy even, and moved with a grace one associated with a ballet dancer. 

He stood up as the pair approached him and said, “I’m Father Timothy O’Riley. How can I help you?”

The man held out his hand and replied “Father, I’m Thomas Summers. We spoke on the phone a few days ago.”

“Thank you for coming so quickly,” Father Tim said, shaking hands. “And who is this?”

“My name is Rachel Lewis, Father. I’m a friend of Thomas’s and here at his request.” 

Father Tim looked at Thomas, who said, “She’s Magi, Father, and may know more about this then you or I.” He looked around. “Is there somewhere we can talk?”

“Yes. We’ll go to my office.”

A short walk later, they were seated in Father Tim’s office.

“I’m not sure where to begin,” said Father Tim.

“You were reluctant to tell me over the phone exactly what had happened. Why don’t you start there?’’ Thomas said.

“All right,” said Father Tim. “It was three days ago, Sunday school had just finished and the parents were waiting outside to pick their kids up. There had been a birthday party, and the children were somewhat wound up, so the parents decided to let them run some of the energy off while they talked.”

“Everything was all right up to that point,” he continued. “One of the parents, Amy Williams, decided to collect her daughter and take her home. She found them around the side of the building, and when she first spotted them, she thought they were praying.”

“What made her think that?” asked Rachel.

“They were standing in a circle, holding hands, and their heads were bowed. Amy heard them muttering, and thought they were praying quietly, so she didn’t disturb them right away. She was on the verge of telling the other parents about it when their voices grew louder, and she could understand what they were saying.”

“What were they saying?” Thomas asked. 

“When Amy told me, I wrote it down, so as not to forget.” He opened a desk drawer, then handed Thomas a slip of paper. 

Thomas read the paper, and then wordlessly handed it to Rachel, whose face went pale. They were silent for a moment, and then Rachel asked, “What else happened? There’s more, I take it?”

Father Tim nodded. “Yes, I’m afraid there is, and it’s the primary reason I called you. According to Amy, the children’s eyes were blood red. They started chanting louder, and began to weep blood. When she told me this, I knew that I was dealing with something out of the ordinary.”

When neither Thomas nor Rachel said anything, Father Tim asked, “What do you think happened here?”

Thomas exchanged a surreptitious glance with Rachel, then looked at Father Tim. “I’m not quite sure yet. Tell me, where are the children now? Has there been any repeats of them chanting or weeping blood?”

“They’re at the hospital right now. They’ve gone into a catatonic state, I’ve been told. There has been no chanting or bleeding since Sunday, thankfully.”

“Well Father, I think the next step is to look in on the kids and speak to the parents. Which reminds me, have you had any new parishioners lately? Within, say, the last six months?” Thomas asked.

“No, we haven’t,” replied Father Tim. “And nothing’s happened out of the ordinary.”

“I see.” said Thomas. The three of them rose from their chairs, and handshakes were exchanged. “Thank you for your time, Father. We’ll keep you posted on our progress.”

“Thank you for coming. I wasn’t sure what to expect.”

“Father, Rachel and I have been serving the church for over ten years as investigators,” Thomas began. “We have a great deal of experience in these matters, so please try not to worry. We’ll find the answer.” They exchange one more handshake, and then they left.

	As they pulled into the hospital parking lot, Thomas turned to Rachel and said, “Ok, you’ve had some time to mull it over. What do you think?”

“It sounds like a classic case of possession, but…”

“But what?”

“The chanting. It sounds like a prophecy, as if they were foretelling a future event.”

Thomas thought for a moment, and then nodded. “Yeah, that bothered me too. The problem is, what were they foretelling?”

Rachel looked away for a moment, and then turned back. “I believe they were foretelling the coming of a demon. A powerful one from the sound of it.”

“I was afraid you were going to say that. So now what?”

“First, we examine the children, then we talk to the parents. After that, we’ll have to transmit the prophecy back to Rome and see what they come up with.”

“Sounds like a plan. Let’s go,”

There was a little bit of trouble at the receptionist’s desk, but a call to Father Tim cleared it up and soon they found themselves in the children’s ward. They examined the children, and talked to the attending doctors, who were perplexed at the children’s condition. They were all healthy, other than recovering from a slight cold, with no symptoms of any illness that might explain their current state. The parents were equally baffled, and understandably frightened. Thomas and Rachel conferred about their findings.

“Well, that was informative,” said Thomas.

“At least we can rule out illness as the cause of the bleeding,” replied Rachel. She was silent for a moment, and then continued. “I think we’re missing something.”

"We’ve interviewed all the parents. What more can we do?”

“We haven’t talked to all of them Amy Williams. Her husband sent her home to get some sleep. He said that she’d been here since her daughter was first brought in. We need to talk to her.”

“What are we waiting for?”


They talked to Mr. Williams and received his reluctant permission to speak to his wife. Following his directions, they arrived in short order at their house. After knocking, they had to wait only a few short moments for the door to be opened. The woman who answered the door appeared to be in her early thirties, though the stress of recent events had temporarily aged her. She looked as though she had slept little, and her eyes were red and puffy from crying.

“Yes?” she said.

Rachel stepped forward. “Amy Williams? My name is Rachel Lewis, and this is my friend Thomas Summers. We’re here at the request of Father Tim and the church. May we speak to you?”

Amy seemed to hesitate, then nodded. “Yes. Please, come in.”

She led them into the living room, and when they all had been seated, Rachel said, “Ma’am, we need to ask you a few questions. Have you noticed any strangers hanging around outside your home, anyone who might have taken an interest in your daughter?”

“No. I haven’t seen anyone strange. I drive her to school, so as far as I know no one has been around. Please, is my daughter going to be all right?” she asked, near tears.

“Mrs. Williams, we’re not quite sure yet,” Thomas began. “Right now, we’re looking for any clue to help us determine what happened Sunday. Now, the doctors told us the children were all healthy, but they had been suffering from a cold.”

“Yes. Children always seem to get sick when the weather changes. They probably caught it when they were playing out back last week.”

“In your backyard? Could we take a look, please?” asked Rachel.

“Certainly. This way.”

The backyard was large, with several trees, a swing set and teeter-totter, a sandbox, and a weathered gazebo by the back fence. 

Thomas began looking around the yard, while Rachel went straight to the gazebo. Up close, it didn’t appear weathered so much as old. 

“This is a lovely gazebo, Mrs. Williams. How long have you had it?” Rachel asked.

“Only a few months. My husband gave it to me as an anniversary gift.”

Rachel leaned in for a closer look at the posts, noting that the stone had yet to chip or even crack. Then she noticed something else on the posts, and it took her a full minute to realize what she was seeing. She stood mouth agape, and then quickly examined the other posts, finding the same curiosity on each one. She looked around, and saw that Mrs. Williams was in deep conversation with Thomas. She took a digital camera from her pocket and began taking pictures. Thomas and Mrs. Williams walked up just as she was finishing the last shot.

“What did you find?” Thomas asked.

Rachel pointed to one of the posts and said, “There appear to be runes on these posts, Thomas.” Then she looked at Mrs. Williams. “Ma’am, do you know from where you’re husband purchased this gazebo?”

“No. He never told me, and I didn’t think it was important.”

“You said that the children were playing in the yard last week. Were they near the gazebo?” Thomas asked. 

“Yes. I checked up on them, to make sure they were all right, and they were running around it,” she replied. “They were laughing,” she added brokenly.

“Thank you. Could you call your husband, and find out where he got the gazebo? It could be important.” 

“All right.” She turned and walked back toward the house.

“Thomas, are you sensing anything?” Rachel asked.

“Nothing specific, but I think the gazebo is definitely part of this. It’s evil, whatever it is.”

“I’ll get this to Rome. Hopefully they’ll be able to tell us just what the runes mean.”


They pulled up to the Planter’s Box, a gardening shop on the outskirts of town. It was an old, weathered building that had stood for thirty years. Rachel stopped as they neared the entrance.

“What’s wrong?” Thomas asked.

“I’m not sure,” she answered. “Something about this place feels wrong. But I can’t put my finger on it.”

Thomas looked around. “I feel it too. Keep your eyes open. Be ready.” With that he opened the door and they stepped inside. Immediately, their sense of wrongness was magnified. Uneasy, they approached the counter, but no one was there. Thomas rang the bell. “Hello? Anyone here?” he called.

A voice came from the back, sending shivers up their spines. “I’ll be with you in a moment.” A few moments passed, then they heard the sound of running feet and a door slamming shut. 

Thomas and Rachel sped to the back of the store, ripped open the back door and saw a man running away into a field behind the store. They gave chase, finally cornering him in an abandoned barn. 

They entered warily. Thomas had called his sword to his hand, and held it in high guard. Rachel had her magic at the ready, prepared for anything. 

“You might as well come out. You’ve nowhere to run.” Rachel called.

When no answer was forthcoming, they began searching the stalls, but found nothing. Thomas then climbed the ladder into the loft, while Rachel covered him from the ground. Still, they could find no trace of him. Finally, they found an open door at the back of the barn.

Thomas swore. “Now what?”

“We go back and search his business. Maybe something will turn up. In the meantime, we’ll watch for him, and keep and eye on the children. Who knows what he’s planning.”

They returned to the Planter’s Box, but found nothing. Disappointed, they returned to hospital to check on the children and warn the parents about what they had found. With that done, and no clear direction, they returned to the hotel to get some rest.


When the phone rang, Thomas was up in a flash. Rachel woke up only a moment later, in time to here the conversation.

“Hello? Yes this is he. What? When? And there’s no sign of them? Ok, have hospital security check the surveillance cameras. We’ll be right there.” He hung up the phone and began pulling his clothes on. 

A feeling of dread in her stomach, Rachel asked. “Who was it? What’s wrong?”

Thomas paused only long enough to take a deep breath and answered, “That was Father Tim. The parents called him a few minutes ago. The children are missing from the hospital.” Rachel stared at him for a moment, and then began dressing hurriedly.

A short drive later, they walked into the hospital and were met by Father Tim. 

“What happened, Father?” Thomas asked.

“We’re still not sure. Surveillance cameras show them leaving about half an hour ago, but nobody remembers seeing them leave.” Father Tim rubbed wearily at his eyes, and asked “Do you have any idea where they might have gone?”

Thomas gently squeezed the priest’s shoulder. “We have a couple of ideas where they might be, Father. Don’t worry. We’ll find them.” He looked at the worried priest and added, “Stay with the parents. Comfort them, do whatever you can to keep them calm. We’ll let you know what we find.” Father Tim nodded, and walked off towards the waiting room. 

Rachel looked at Thomas. “Do we have any idea where to look?”

He nodded. “First, we’ll check out the gazebo. Then, we’re going back to the barn. I have a feeling we’re missing something.” 

	They stopped by the Williams’s house, but the gazebo was unchanged. On their way to the barn, Rachel’s phone rang. “Hello?” she said. She listened for a few minutes, and then said “Thanks. We’ll keep you posted.” She was silent for another minute before saying, “That was Rome. The prophecy the children were chanting was just that – a prophecy. They found mention in the archives of ‘The Prince of Fire’ and ‘The Lord of All and Nothing’. It refers to an ancient demon that plagued the earth three thousand years ago. He was known as Abaddon.”

Thomas gripped the wheel tighter. “And the runes?”

Rachel said, “The runes indicate the gazebo is actually a thousand years old, and was used by demon worshippers for two purposes. Summoning and binding of demonic spirits, and the binding of wills.”

“Binding of wills?” Thomas asked.

“It means that whoever uses the gazebo can bind others to his will. They will do whatever he tells them to do.” Rachel remained silent for a heartbeat, and then said, “We have to find those children.”

“I know. And I think I know where to look.”


Ten minutes later, they were standing in the barn, flashlights in hand. 

“We’ve already searched the stables and the loft, Thomas.” Rachel said.

“Yes, but we haven’t searched the floor,” he replied.

“The floor? You’re looking for a trap door in a barn?” she asked.

“Have you got any better ideas?”

They continued their search, and to Rachel’s surprise they found the trapdoor in the last stable on the north wall, buried beneath some moldy hay. Thomas flashed her a look, then quietly opened the door. 

Thomas descended first, and then called his sword to his hand at the bottom. He kept lookout while Rachel descended, waited for her to ready her magic, then led the way down the dirt tunnel.

“How did you know?” Rachel whispered.

“I didn’t,” he answered. “I just had a hunch.”

It seemed they had walked for miles when they heard the sounds of chanting, a deep guttural voice speaking in an unknown language. They approached carefully, quietly, hoping to keep their presence hidden until they were ready to strike. 

The tunnel eventually opened up into a series of chambers, lit by flickering torches. Thomas examined the floor, and then pointed.

Rachel knelt down for a closer look. In the dirt, she could make out a series of footprints, made by someone small and barefoot. She looked up to Thomas for confirmation and got an answering nod in response. 

They followed the chanting until it led them into a large chamber. On the far wall, they saw a lone figure standing before an altar, his back to them. In the center of the floor was a pentagram, and at each point lay a child, their feet pointing towards the center. They took a quick look around the room, and seeing no one, began to make their way quietly across the chamber. As they passed the children, the figure spoke without turning. “I was wondering when you were going to arrive.”

Thomas and Rachel froze, eyeing the figure warily.

He turned around, and gave them a chilling smile. “Come now. You don’t honestly think you can stop me from completing this ritual and awakening Abaddon, do you?”

“You’re outnumbered,” Thomas began. “Surrender now and you won’t be harmed.”

“How amusing. However, I hardly think I’m outnumbered, not when I can do…this!” He thrust both hands out before him, and Thomas and Rachel found themselves hurtling through the air. They landed hard on the ground by the entrance, and spent a long moment gathering themselves. 

“He’s powerful,” Rachel observed.

“True, but there’s still two of us. We can take him.” 

When they got to their feet, they saw that the man was chanting again, but this time he was facing them. Before they could act, he finished his chanting and thrust one hand at the ground between them.

The ground began to writhe and tremble, and out of the disturbance rose a huge form, seemingly made of rock, but possessed of a malevolent intelligence. It looked at them once, and with a roar charged. 

Thomas barely got out of the way in time. Rachel did not, and took a blow that slammed her back into the wall. She fell to the floor dazed and spitting blood. Thomas roared his defiance and caught the monster off balance with a charge of his own. His blade sang through the air and bit deep into the upraised arm of the creature. Thomas was showered with rock and dirt as the beast screamed in pain. 

Dancing back from an overhand blow, Thomas circled the monster, while trying to rouse Rachel. “Rachel, get up! You have to reach him before he completes the ritual!” Rachel was still reeling from the creature’s initial blow, and was near senseless.

Thomas cursed as the creature aimed a kick at him, spinning away just in time, and landed a blow that did little damage. He lunged, driving the point of his sword into the back of its leg, but wasn’t quick enough to avoid being caught in the creatures grasp. 

His breath was driven from his lungs as the creature began to squeeze, intent on crushing his foe against his body. Thomas’s vision blackened, and he knew that he was dead.

Inexplicably, the creature released him, and he dropped limply to the ground and began to gulp down air, grateful for the reprieve. He looked up, and saw the creature burning. Rachel stood nearby, blood trickling out of her mouth and nose, arms extended as she held her flame on the monster. The creature, blinded by agony, dropped to his knees in front of Thomas. Wasting no time, he gripped his sword with both hands and drove it point first into the top of the creature’s head. With a pitiful moan, the creature dropped face down on the floor, and seemed to melt back into the dirt that spawned him.

Thomas rushed over to Rachel, who had collapsed moaning onto the floor. She coughed weakly, spattering blood onto the floor. 

“Thomas, there’s no time,” she gasped. “You have to stop him before he completes the ritual.”

“You’re hurt.”

“I’ll be ok. Don’t worry about me. Just stop the ritual.”

Thomas laid her gently down upon the ground, stood, and sprinted for the far side of the chamber. The chanting was growing louder, more intense, and he pushed himself harder, beyond the pain he felt in his body. He reached the steps and took them two at a time. When he got to the top, he used his momentum to drive his sword up to the hilts in the back of his enemy. The body stiffened, and began to tremble. He kicked the body off the blade, sending it reeling onto the altar. The demonist hung there briefly, and then slid limply to the ground, leaving the altar covered in his blood. 

Breathing heavily, Thomas stood there and waited for his enemy to die.

“It’s over. You have lost. Abaddon will not return.”

The demonist laughed weakly, a wet gurgling sound. “Fool. My death has ensured his return! The blood of the servant is required to complete the ritual, blood willingly given. And in doing so, I have guaranteed my place in the Kingdom he will establish on this earth!” He laughed once more, his mouth locked into a hideous grin, and then died.

Thomas, stared at the body for a moment, then turned and ran back to where Rachel lay.

He found her sitting against the wall, on arm held tightly against her side, blood trickling more freely from her mouth. “Did you stop the ritual?” she asked.

Numb, Thomas shook his head. “No. In killing him, I completed the ritual. Abaddon will return, and there’s nothing we can do about it.” He knelt by her side, over come with grief.

“No. We can still stop it. But you have to do exactly as I say. No questions.”

Mutely, he nodded.

“Carry me over to the children, and set me down in the center of the pentagram. Then you must step back beyond the circle. You cannot re-enter the pentagram, or all is lost.”

Thomas gathered Rachel into his arms, and quickly carried her over to the pentagram, set her gently in the center, then backed away. He knelt on the floor, and waited.

Rachel lay there unmoving, her breath coming in gasps. 

A light appeared on the ceiling of the chamber, a sooty red glow that began to swirl. It grew larger and larger until it was the exact size of the pentagram. Thomas stared at it in mute horror, then looked back at Rachel.

Struggling to her feet, Rachel fought to stand erect in the center of the circle. She stared defiantly up into the maelstrom, waiting.

Without warning, a shaft of red light shot from the center of the swirling energy, and engulfed Rachel in its hellish light. She stiffened, and cried out in agony. Blood began to run freely from her mouth. She raised her arms towards the ceiling, and began to pray.

Thomas leaped to his feet and would have entered the circle, but Rachel stopped him with an upraised hand and a stern look.

“As the servant was required to give his life to complete the ritual, so must I give my life to stop it. There is no other way.”

Thomas looked on, tears streaming down his cheeks. 

Blood flowed like water from her mouth now, and she wept blood. Despite the pain, she continued to pray. She knew that she was dying, and yet she never faltered, never wavered from what had to be done. 

Thomas watched as Rachel began rising into the air, her arms and head thrown back. It seemed to him that she grew transparent, and saw a small white spark appear within her translucent form. The spark grew, until it filled her entire being, leaving only a faint outline. Then it began pushing against the red light, forcing it upward until the light that was Rachel touched the vortex.

In a brilliant flash of light and sound, both were gone, leaving only a few motes of light.

Thomas was still gazing upwards, weeping openly, when he heard the first of the children begin to cry. He went to them as they awoke, comforting them as best he could, soothing their fears, until at last their tears had ceased. 

He took a small girl into his arms, and, with the rest of them following, led them out of the chamber and took them home.


----------



## Rodrigo Istalindir (Sep 10, 2006)

Hmm... Herremann seems to have disappeared and I can't email him from here.


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## Piratecat (Sep 10, 2006)

I'll email him for you!


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## Rodrigo Istalindir (Sep 10, 2006)

Piratecat said:
			
		

> I'll email him for you!




Thanks, PC.  Reading back through the planning threads, I noticed he hadn't posted there in a while.  I'm hoping he's still up for judging.


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## Piratecat (Sep 10, 2006)

Piratecat said:
			
		

> I'll email him for you!



By which I mean "the email we have for him is old, and bounced."  Sorry - and yes, looks like he hasn't been on in a few days.


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## tadk (Sep 10, 2006)

insane.....totally insane pics and stories....i am so in so much trouuble.......i aint gonna get a chance to see round two unless the entire internet crashes and posts a fake story for me......wow.....awesome all of them......sheesh some of those should be in books i paid money for to get to read.....


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## Berandor (Sep 10, 2006)

I wrote him a mail to the address I still have from the "lost" Ceramic DM contest. We'll see what will happen.

ETA: "him" refers to the Wise Herreman, since tadk intercepted my follow-up post 

Post-script: 10 minutes later, the email didn't bounce.


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## Rodrigo Istalindir (Sep 11, 2006)

Thanks, Piratecat and Berandor.


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## maxfieldjadenfox (Sep 11, 2006)

I was wondering where Herreman was. I hope he's still up for judging, I am counting on he and Rodrigo for mentoring...


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## Wild Gazebo (Sep 11, 2006)

> I am counting on he and Rodrigo for mentoring...




I say if all else fails....vote for the gazebo.


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## maxfieldjadenfox (Sep 11, 2006)

Wild Gazebo said:
			
		

> I say if all else fails....vote for the gazebo.



Of course you do. (pats Wild Gazebo's head).


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## Berandor (Sep 11, 2006)

From Herreman:


> Hi [Berandor],
> 
> I sent an email to Morrus to find out what the problem was with my account
> but have not received anything back.
> ...




As it stands, I would be willing to emergency judge, but don't expect too detailed a judgement from me (think Maldur +50% ), at least until the ISP issues have been cleared up. I've already read 4 of the stories.

I'll mail Rodrigo (with Herreman's mail addresss), so we'll see what he decides.


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## Rodrigo Istalindir (Sep 11, 2006)

I just emailed Herremann and offered him to email the stories and post his judgements if he was still willing to judge.  For Round 1a we have some slack, since we'd still have to do 1b before we get to Round 2.

If I don't hear back from him by tomorrow night, or if he thinks he's lost too much time to get back into it, I'll step in as second judge, and Berandor can break any ties.  Sound good?


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## maxfieldjadenfox (Sep 11, 2006)

Rodrigo Istalindir said:
			
		

> I just emailed Herremann and offered him to email the stories and post his judgements if he was still willing to judge.  For Round 1a we have some slack, since we'd still have to do 1b before we get to Round 2.
> 
> If I don't hear back from him by tomorrow night, or if he thinks he's lost too much time to get back into it, I'll step in as second judge, and Berandor can break any ties.  Sound good?




Works for me. 
In view of this most recent unexplained event, I'm wondering...Is there some sort of curse on CDM? Do we need to get out the sage and do some kind of virtual clearing ritual? Sheesh.


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## Hellefire (Sep 11, 2006)

Sounds good to me. Any plan sounds good . 
Nightmare flashbacks to my first cdm - something happened to one of the judges or his connection or something, and it took like 2 weeks for a judgement. My wife watched me sit at the computers for hours a day hitting refresh. Twitch. Twitch. 
Yes, as long as we have a plan and the contestants are informed, I'm all groovy. And thanks more than I can tell you for keeping us all up on what's up.

Aaron


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## Piratecat (Sep 11, 2006)

Berandor, please ask Herremann to email me at kevin dot kulp at gmail dot com. I'm troubleshooting this same problem for two other people, too.


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## Berandor (Sep 11, 2006)

D-one


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## Hellefire (Sep 12, 2006)

Just relaxing in the eye of the storm, waiting for the other half to hit me.
Still wearing the collar though, just in case 

Aaron


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## Aris Dragonborn (Sep 13, 2006)

Rodrigo Istalindir said:
			
		

> Ack!
> 
> That is, as far as I know, a first for Ceramic DM. We may have to name a prize after you
> 
> Oh, well. Hope you enjoyed the process, anyway. And post the story -- even if the pictures are wrong, we'd like to read it, and hopefully the judges can post some comments.




Well, at least I was first at something!   

Despite the fact that I had some trouble coming up with an idea (including several false starts), once I got going, it was a blast. Even though I took myself out of the competition, I hope that I'll be able to learn something from this, and carry it over into NaNoWriMo.


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## Hellefire (Sep 13, 2006)

*eek*

There seems to be a time stamp issue. Trying to track it down - can anyone tell me if the timestamp from the previous post (by Aris Dragonborn) is 2:32am for anyone else?

Thanks!
Aaron

edit - or this post as 8:24am for that matter


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## Taladas (Sep 13, 2006)

those are the times I see Hellefire.


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## Hellefire (Sep 13, 2006)

*whew*

At least I'm not losing my mind . Now, to track down why.

Thanks for letting me know Taladas!
Aaron


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## Berandor (Sep 13, 2006)

Deuce Traveler said:
			
		

> I just wanted to say, that if I win, I demand a victory parade.  Or at least a picture of one.









Did you know that I went to University in Trier, back in 1998?


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## Rodrigo Istalindir (Sep 14, 2006)

Good news, everybody!

I just heard from Herreman, and I've emailed the Round 1a stories off to him.  Plus, we have bonus judgings from Berandor in the finest Herreman the Wise tradition.  It'll take a couple extra days before we get everything back on track, so thanks for your patience.  Round 1b starts tomorrow as scheduled.


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## maxfieldjadenfox (Sep 14, 2006)

I'll have judgements sent tomorrow...


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## Deuce Traveler (Sep 14, 2006)

Berandor said:
			
		

> Did you know that I went to University in Trier, back in 1998?




No, I didn't.  It's a nice university, I think, although the history section of the library is almost non-existant.  And Trier is a special place, I think.  One of the best places in Germany to live.


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## Berandor (Sep 14, 2006)

How should you know? 

But yeah, I was so happy in Trier (the city) that I totally neglected my law studies in favor of frühschoppen.


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## Halivar (Sep 14, 2006)

Berandor said:
			
		

> But yeah, I was so happy in Trier (the city) that I totally neglected my law studies in favor of frühschoppen.



Beer. It's not just for breakfast, anymore.


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## Deuce Traveler (Sep 14, 2006)

Yep.  The Christmas Market and the Alt Stadt Fests are the best times to be in Trier.  I suggest to people to check out the Roman museum, also, when they visit.


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## Halivar (Sep 14, 2006)

Deuce Traveler said:
			
		

> Yep.  The Christmas Market and the Alt Stadt Fests are the best times to be in Trier.



Christmas markets! I can't believe I forgot about those. My most favorite moments of my young life were going through the market, buying cheap plastic toys for a couple pfennings each, and then going to an imbiss and eating a over-sized bratwurst in a little tiny brochen. Man, how I miss Germany at Christmas time. You can't imagine what a wonderland of candy, ice cream and sausage meat Germany is for an American kid at that age.


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## Hellefire (Sep 14, 2006)

I was wondering if that word meant beer, girls or parties .

Where is Trier?

I am in Poland, and considering the amount of members in Germany I was considering trying to make a road (maybe rail) trip sometime.

Aaron


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## Halivar (Sep 14, 2006)

Hellefire said:
			
		

> I was wondering if that word meant beer, girls or parties .



In America, _frühschoppen_ is essentially this: after church on Sunday, when it's still morning, my friends and I head down the block to a pub.

It's my understanding, though, that _frühschoppen_ can refer to any early-morning alcoholic imbibement.


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## Roger (Sep 14, 2006)

Do we have an ETA on the Round 1B images?



Cheers,
Roger


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## Rodrigo Istalindir (Sep 14, 2006)

As close to noon EDT as I can.


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## Roger (Sep 14, 2006)

Excellent and perfect; thanks, Rodrigo.


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## Deuce Traveler (Sep 14, 2006)

Hellefire said:
			
		

> I was wondering if that word meant beer, girls or parties .
> 
> Where is Trier?
> Aaron




It's on the western border to Luxembourg.  The girls are pretty in the summer, when they are off from the university, but it can be hit and miss otherwise.  The girls in Luxemberg and Cologne (Koln) are prettier and also close by.  This is because more of the college girls go to those places to study.

Trier was built by the Romans, and is the oldest city of Germany.


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## Rodrigo Istalindir (Sep 14, 2006)

*Round 1b, Match 5 - tadk v. Roger*

Round 1b, Match 5 - tadk v. Roger

Pictures posted at 15:55 GMT 5000 word max


----------



## Rodrigo Istalindir (Sep 14, 2006)

*Round 1b, Match 6 - Linderel v. Mazlo*

Round 1b, Match 6 - Linderel v. Mazlo

Pictures posted at 15:57 GMT 5000 word max


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## Rodrigo Istalindir (Sep 14, 2006)

*Round 1b, Match 7 - Kassiopeia v. yangnome*

Round 1b, Match 7 - Kassiopeia v. yangnome

Pictures posted at 15:58 GMT.  5000 word max


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## Rodrigo Istalindir (Sep 14, 2006)

*Round 1b, Match 8 - rpjunkie v. GuardianLurker*

Round 1b, Match 8 - rpjunkie v. GuardianLurker

Pictures posted at 15:59 GMT.  5000 word max.


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## Roger (Sep 14, 2006)

Thanks, Rodrigo.  Looks to be sufficiently tortuous.


Cheers,
Roger


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## Deuce Traveler (Sep 14, 2006)

Not envying RPJunkie and Guadrian Lurker right now...


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## yangnome (Sep 14, 2006)

ok, got pics. will write.


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## Rodrigo Istalindir (Sep 14, 2006)

Deuce Traveler said:
			
		

> Not envying RPJunkie and Guadrian Lurker right now...




Huh.  I looked at those again after I posted and thought they got the easy set.


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## Berandor (Sep 14, 2006)

Yeah, their story practically writes itself: 



Spoiler



Attack of the killer bubblegum


.


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## Kassiopeia (Sep 14, 2006)

Ah, what marvellous images! Will angst, then scribble, then whine, and finally write.


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## tadk (Sep 14, 2006)

space cadet...how long do we have to write again...


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## Rodrigo Istalindir (Sep 14, 2006)

72 hours from the time the pics were posted.


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## tadk (Sep 15, 2006)

thank you...total space cadet today...


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## tadk (Sep 15, 2006)

we got the sweet pics.......


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## Rpjunkie (Sep 15, 2006)

Yay, I like my set. Don't think it will be too difficult. I think first rounders got it harder..


RPJ


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## GuardianLurker (Sep 15, 2006)

Berandor said:
			
		

> Yeah, their story practically writes itself:
> 
> 
> 
> ...




I like my idea better.


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## Rpjunkie (Sep 15, 2006)

Ok here goes, first ever story!	



*Mission Improbable*

It has been many years since I traveled to this world. You tend to forget what it was like last time you were there. Dimensional travel is a novelty now, and few remember how dangerous it can be. You never know what kind of trouble you are likely to get into while on your journey.

This trip started rather like any other. I gathered up my belongings and put on my bandoleer. I looked over at my mate Krenishee and striking a pose said, “Don’t I look dashing?” (Picture 1) 

She laughed at me and returned with, “Oh, my hearts stopped beating for a moment there. You make me swoon!” She smiled at me and my hearts soared. I love her more than anything in this or any other world. 

“Do be careful, please?” she said. “You must come back to me in one piece.”

“I will do the best I can”, I replied. “You know there is always a small chance of trouble when we do this.”

I finished my preparations and moved over to the mages waiting in the wings. The platform was there, polished to a high shine by all who have stood on it before. The mages were the best the kingdom had to offer. This trip was important and the best were required. They gathered like a flock of grilar waiting for a handout. 

The group looked each other over making sure all equipment was ready. And I saw much fear in several of the team’s eyes. 

“Do not fear. The unknown is but unknown until you have experience it. Then it is Life!” I stated calmly hoping to cheer them up. 

The item we seek is only known to me, for I have held it. It will protect the king in the coming war and we must not fail. The humans of old made it when the earth was young and magic flowed like water in a raging river. I hope it still has the power to do what it must.

I nodded to the high mage, “it is time.” 

The platform showed my face and that of the others as I entered the circle. We either would succeed or not return. We all knew it. The answers awaited on the other side.

As the mages started the casting, I noticed my youngest touching a talisman to his lips. His eyes met mine and I smiled. Soon we will be there. A colored globe sprang over the platform and a deep hum like a waterfall in the distance began around us. The room turned dark and we could no longer see our friends and home. It seems an eternity, but I know it is just a few seconds. Then it was over.

The air was humid and I brought out my bow quickly to access the situation. We were in a clearing and the trees were around us circling like a guardian. The sky was blue, but not as I once had seen it. 

“Clear!” said Tomel, as he maneuvered around the group. “No hostiles in sight”

“Ok, let us get to business.” I stated as I pulled out the map.

I laid the map out on the ground, and they all gathered to look closer. I could tell that things have changed since last I visited. The trees were less dense, like every other one had been plucked from its place by a giant hand. 

“I am going up for a look. Stay here” I commanded. 

I unfurled my wings and leapt into the air. I rose above the treetops and hovered so that I might see things more clearly. My hearts skipped a beat as I realized how much this world had changed. There are buildings off to the east that were not like any I had ever seen. They were larger than most, although the golden fields surrounding them showed the location to probably be a farmstead. A strange ribbon of grey wound its way across the hills as well, and after a moment I noticed a small moving thing. Fast it came over the hills and it looked to be made of some type of metal. Magic! I watched it as it continued on into the distance.

As I lowered myself, I decided on our course of action. Settling to the ground, I spoke to Tomel, “we will go in the dark. We have superior vision to those of this world and the object in question is near a farmstead to the east.  We must be careful; the magic in this world is far different than I remember it.”

They all nodded in agreement, and we settled down to wait. Darkness seemed to take an eternity to arrive and a few of our group decided to play a little clawbones. Laughter drifted over to me from the group and I smiled. At least they are no longer frightened.

With darkness as our friend, we launched into the air. The night was beautifully filled with wild sounds and strange insects. The air was not as sweet as back home, but it felt good on my feathers. It only took a small amount of time to reach the farmstead. There were strange machines all around. I was unsure of what they all did, but I paid little mind. We need to get the Shield if we are to return home. 

I pulled out the finder I was given and whispered the words that would activate it. A slight glow and barely audible whish were all that happened when I turned it on. I felt the pull of the Shield like a magnet on the finder. I could tell the object we were looking for was in the house. I set up guards and slowly walked over to the window that I felt most drawn to. I peered through the glass and inside was unlike anything I have ever seen. Paintings and objects I could not recognize, along with swords, spears and other weapons of wonderful design. This person may know what he has and it could make it difficult. 

I noticed that the owner was asleep on a bed inside and decided the best approach would be a direct one. I tapped on the glass and awaited a response. This took several taps, including one that almost broke the glass. The owner slowly awoke and moved to the window. 

He opened it rather quickly and yelled “What the heck is going on?”

As he saw me standing there he screamed! It startled me and I screamed too! This of course does not make friends very easily. The human ran to the desk inside and grabbed something that made a tinkling sound and ran from the room. My men were alerted and had weapons drawn as the human burst out of the side door running for the barn. 

“Wait!” I yelled, hoping to stop the human from running off for he had the shield with him somehow. 

Upon entering the barn I heard an angry roar and out burst one of those metal monsters I saw earlier. It had the human inside! Magic carriage I presumed and yelled for my men to chase it down. We flew at top speed and barely kept the transport in sight. This went on for most of the night and eventually the human slowed and we eventually caught up to him. 

He had turned into a big field that was filled with these metal cages on wheels. We lost sight of him and started over the hill to see if he ran that way. We came across a huge gathering of humans with fires going. An army!

“Down!” I shouted over the wind. “There are too many humans to deal with there.  We must find a different way.”  

We landed amidst some overgrowth and thought over what we should do. I decided that I would go up the next day, high in the clouds and see if I could spot him from the air. I can fly longer than the others and my eyesight is better.  I know it will take time, but it will also be possible. 

When daylight arrived I immediately went into the air. It took a lot less time than I thought to find him though. For in the middle of a crowd of roaring yelling humans was the one. The shield surrounded him in magic and he was being help up by the others. (picture 2) This will be easy. I dove down toward the human and I could hear people screaming as they saw me diving. I reached out and with the artifact in my hand touched the sphere. It stuck there like a bubble on the end of a child’s wand. And I accelerated upwards away from the panicked crowd. 

The human inside must have fainted for he didn’t move inside. I knew that we had to get far away. This world has changed more than I ever could have imagined and it was too dangerous to stay here. 	

I signaled my people and they met me in the air. I remember a place that I used to fish when I was young near a village of this world. The Shield will take time to come down and that seemed like a familiar safe place. 

“We go to the sea!” I yelled over the howling wind.

My men will follow me anywhere without questions asked. They are good men and that is hard to find. I will always be safe with them by my side. 

We were far away from the ocean, but I knew how to get there. It took several days and eventually we arrived. I think the Shield must have done something to the human inside because he never woke while on the journey. Perhaps it is for the best. 

The place I remember had changed more than I thought. There were strange buildings and more of those carriages. We arrived at night and there were lights all around. The smell of the ocean swept over me and memories flooded back into my mind. 

The Shield finally dropped from the human and I removed the rock from his hand. It was attached to some strange things by a small chain. I will not question it as it still shows its powers. I felt bad for leaving the human here, but my kingdom is more important. I gathered the men around me and touched the stone around my neck. The world left us again as we traveled back to our home.---

I woke up with the biggest headache I have ever had and was just thinking to myself, “what a strange dream”, when I opened my eyes and looked out past the lighthouse and the ocean beyond. (picture 3)


RPJ


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## Rodrigo Istalindir (Sep 15, 2006)

That might be the fastest story ever.  You did know you had three days, right?


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## Rpjunkie (Sep 15, 2006)

I didnt want to procrastinate 


Do I get my own award for the fastest story? LOL  

RPJ


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## Hellefire (Sep 15, 2006)

*time*

I see a time of 10 hours 28 minutes from pictures to story.
Not bad at all .

Did I mention how nice it is to sit back and watch this half-round 

Aaron


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## Rpjunkie (Sep 15, 2006)

Part of the reason it took so long is that pictures were posted during my work hours, so i had to wait to get home to start writing.  It was fun, and it made me write my first story ever. A good thing i think.

RPJ


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## GuardianLurker (Sep 16, 2006)

I'm not as fast as my opponent, but I'm done now too. I'm going to give it one more night so I can do a final proof tomorrow.


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## Hellefire (Sep 16, 2006)

1:30am come and gone. Off to bed for me, will come back to clicking refresh tomorrow 
Looking forward to a new round of stories, and I'm going to try to get my own critiques written for all the stories.

Aaron

edit - ok, I'm bluffing. Past 2am and still here. And its the weekend. And I'm up to Dogma in the un-holy-double-trilogy. So, guess I'll be up a couple more hours.


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## GuardianLurker (Sep 16, 2006)

*The Case of the Missing Beacon*

*The Case of the Missing Beacon*

The shores of Celestia are home to thousands of lighthouses. Set among scenes of natural beauty that could bring joy to one of the shades of Hades, surrounded by carefully groomed grounds that even a modron could admire, each lighthouse contains a beacon shining with the divine light of the Good to guide the worthy to its shores. They shine day and night, beckoning and comforting to all who see them.

Except this one. And that's why I'm here. Sometimes, usually due to outside influences, things go wrong, even here. That's when they call me, or one of my kind. Some of us get the easy jobs - repelling demon hordes. Other of us get the hard jobs - a leaf that isn't as green as it should be. Me, I get the weird things - like missing beacons. My name is Pade Shammer, and I'm an investigator for the Good. I'm not an Angel or an Archon, just someone who needs to contribute, and this is what I do.

Much like the tower guard who was approaching me. Obviously on edge, he had his bow readied as he flew down from the top of the tower, and his yellow hawk eyes glared at me over his beak. And I don't mean that in any figurative sense, either. He was an actual hawkman from one of the nearby mountain-hills. Not the Great Mountains of the center, just some echoes along the shore. "You Shammer?"

Well, that was a surprise - my hawkman was a hawkwoman. If I had been familiar with her species' colorations I would have known that. Even though I'm not a hawkman myself, I suspect she was a beauty of their kind. In Celestia, everything is. "Yes. Pade Shammer, Investigator. It's good to meet you. What are you called?"

"I am called Willa Arroweye." Even if you've never read one of these reports before, you know the procedure - it's a fairly obvious one after all. Aside from her name, I established that this was her first time guarding any of the lighthouses her Nest was responsible for, that she considered it a great honor, and that she was really worried. According to Willa, early in her shift she had heard the sound of a surging crowd coming from the shoreline. Generally, souls needing guidance don't arrive in surging crowds so she left the lighthouse to determine what it was. When she arrived at the beach a few minutes later, there was nothing to be seen. She searched the beach for any signs of intrusion, and only found a single set of footprints in the sand on the tide line. Willa claimed that the prints had been filled with a black sticky substance. She also told me that as soon as she had discovered the prints, the beacon light went out. She raced back to the tower, but the beacon light itself was gone, and the only other trace were some more of the tarry tracks around the beacon housing.

I asked her to show me the tracks, and she gestured with her wings to indicate yes. I was both too big, and too heavy for her to carry the hundred feet to the top, so I opened the door and walked up the long flight of stairs. One of the benefits of Celestia is that your neighbors are trustworthy; closeable doors are for privacy and cleanliness, the latter in this case.

At the top of the stairs, I entered the beacon room. Spartan, functional, and elegant, the mess of tarry footprints stood out. Indeed, it seemed like the polished granite floor was trying to push the prints away from its otherwise pristine surface. I knelt and examined the prints. Each print was a little longer in length than my hand and about as narrow. They were also made by bare human-style feet that ended in small claws or talons. I double-checked at that point - Willa's feet were more bird-like and ended in large talons, which is what I expected, trustworthy neighbors after all, but it never hurts to make sure. I also recognized the smell - the tarry substance was actually a mixture of thick black mud, bile, blood, and filth. It also registered as alien and wrong to all of my senses, indicating that it was probably from one of the abyssal plains.

My examination wasn't done, though. I examined the beacon housing, expecting to see the corrosion a fiend's touch would leave on the shining celestial steel, but all I found were the oily residue of fingerprints, and a few scratch marks. None of the scratch marks indicated the beacon had been dragged out of its housing, however. It seemed to have been lifted straight up and out without ever scraping against the housing's side. This implied that the thief had been both extremely strong (a beacon weighs in excess of a quarter ton) and careful. The identity of the thief was puzzling; the clues weren't adding up as I was expecting. Not quite as puzzling as the case where I dealt with a sentient pile of murderous used bubblegum, but not the usual open and shut case either.

But in all ways, I knew where I had to go next. I thanked Willa, and transported myself to the Layered Hall on the Astral. If my destination was what I suspected I didn't want to leave from Celestia anyway. Once there, as always, I was greeted by the Recordkeeper, and as always, he handed me a book without asking. Or letting me into the hall for that matter. It was Roldigold's Survey of the Abyss. I had never heard of it, but as always it proved to be exactly what I needed. Well, except for that one time with the bubblegum, but that was an aberration on many levels and issues. This time, the Recordkeeper's gift did not fail me. I had been thinking of the Abyssal Layer of Filth and its Lord. I've encountered his/hers/its minions before; it regards the celestial cleanliness as both a challenge and affront. A minor nuisance usually. But this time, the Filth Lord appeared to be uninvolved. The determining factor was the crowd noise. Together with the mud mixture, it directed me to the domain of Legion.

I was not happy about this. Though originally a minor fiend, Legion has survived for aeons. And that means it has grown in power too. Legion was not a fiend I wanted to confront. But I must do as my duty compels me. So I transported myself to the color pool that lead to Legion's realm, formed a Sphere of Celestial Invulnerability around myself, and stepped through.

And learned how Legion had survived. As a master of subtle and mundane tricks that are hard to compensate for. In this case, the pool opened a small distance above Legion's body. The Sphere, and I, fell. Far enough that when Legion's waiting arms caught the Sphere, I was knocked off my feet, giving it time to carry me towards its core.

Legion was angry, and its core assaulted me with questions in a choral voice. Most particular, Legion desired to know why my agents had stolen its precious Torch of Black Fire. When it said that, everything fell in place, and I knew what had happened. Without replying I immediately transported back to the Astral Plane, and then to Celestia, and Willa's lighthouse.

She was a little surprised to see me, but greeted my appearance cheerfully. I smiled at her, and ran up the stairs to the beacon's room. Once there, I carefully examined all the prints, and found the final telling clue. A small scale, as if from some draconian creature. A scale from the thief itself.

With this, the case was almost over. I told Willa I'd return with the beacon, and travelled to the nearest divining pool. With the aid of the scale, I scryed the thief. Everything was as I suspected.

But I think the half-dragon wizard was more than a little surprised when I interrupted his ritual attempt to replicate Daoud's Wondrous Lanthorn and reclaimed the beacon. At any rate, he was surprised enough that I escaped with the beacon before he could even act.

The beacon's back in place now. Willa was demoted , and is currently serving on the border patrols. A much more wary guard has replaced her, and all of the lighthouse guards have been alerted. For my part, I have new case. A gorgeous angel just walked into my office and told me she wants my help in finding her husband.


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## Roger (Sep 16, 2006)

[SIZE=+2]Be Not Afraid[/SIZE]
[SIZE=+1]by Roger Carbol[/SIZE]


Jack Zarko was sitting alone in his apartment when the phone rang.  Jack looked over to it from his position on the couch, a bead of sweat running down the back of his neck.  He let it ring.  Finally the answering machine kicked in.  A disembodied voice leaving a message was broadcast through the empty apartment.

"Hello.  This is a message for Jack Zarko.  Jack, if this is still your number, this is Alexander Blackwood.  Hope you're doing well.  Hey, I'm in town for the next couple days, getting some locations shot for this movie I'm working on.  Anyway, give me a ring if you want to get together and reminisce about the old days.  Take care, Jack."

Jack rolled over.  The good old days.  Back before Alex had become a director; back when he was just the stunt coordinator.  Back when he was Jack's boss.  He was there when the accident happened.  Five years ago.  It seemed like yesterday.

It'd be good to see Alex again, Jack thought, but he knew he was fooling himself.  He wouldn't go out to see Alex.  He wouldn't go back out into the great wide world with its crushing mobs of humanity and death lurking around every corner.  The very thought of it set Jack's hands shaking; it took him ten minutes just to calm down enough to pick up the phone.

He dialed a long international number.  It was late evening in France, but not too late to call Sara.  He had a brief conversation, and then returned to the couch to prepare himself.

He hadn't left his apartment in five years, but he'd been abroad by other means.

* * *

Jack opened his eyes.  He was in a place of swirling pastel colors and soft ethereal music.  It was Sara's astral home plane.  She was there, standing nearby.  Her astral body was that of a young teenage girl, with a precocious pigtail of blonde hair.  A silvery cord of energy ribboned off behind her.

"Hello, Jack.  It is so good to see you again."  She hugged him; the touch of her body was warm and yielding.  She looked into his eyes.  "Is there something wrong, my friend?" she asked.

"It's good to see you too, Sara.  I just got a call from an old coworker.  He was there when... when the accident happened," he said.  He involuntarily glanced down.  His astral body was that of a young boy, but his body ended at the waist.  Below was a wheelchair, ornately constructed of leather and brass.

"You should stay in touch with your friends in the physical world, Jack.  I worry about you.  It has been a long time.  Perhaps it is time to move on," Sara said.

"I can't, Sara.  I just can't.  I don't know what happened.  One moment I was the best stunt double in the business.  Fearless.  Now I can't even open my front door without being paralyzed by dread.  I want to, Sara; Lord knows I want to.  But I can't."  He'd had this conversation with her before.  It always ended the same.

Sara looked thoughtful.  "There's an old friend of the family I'd like you to meet.  Very old.  My grandmother knew him when she was young.  He's very wise."

Jack's hands tightened around the wheel grips of his chair.  He was safe here.  With a thought he could be back in his apartment.  Slowly, he nodded.

Sara grinned.  "I think you will like him, Jack.  Kokabiel, are you there?  Come in, please," announced Sara.  A moment passed, and then she looked over Jack's shoulder.

He turned.  Kokabiel appeared to be a young boy of perhaps eight, but with perfectly-white hair.  The newcomer bowed to Jack slightly.  "Jacob Zarko, it is a pleasure to meet you.  Sarina Constatin has told me much about you."  His voice was deep and resonant.

Sara stepped beside them.  "Jack, this is Kokabiel.  I've known him a very long time.  He knows many things."

"You know many things, do you, Kokabiel?  That's just great.  Do you know why I'm here?  Do you know why I've only got half a body?  Do you know why I've been cowering in my room for the last five years?  Do you?" he asked, with increasing anger.  "I don't need this aggravation.  Not today," said Jack, and he shut his eyes.  He willed himself to return to the physical world.  When he opened his eyes, he still saw Sara and Kokabiel, regarding him.

Sara began to speak, but Kokabiel silenced her with a look.  "I know many things, but I no longer interfere in the affairs of mortals.  Yet, in this place, all causes and all effects are revealed," he replied.  "You wish to return to your body, yet you cannot.  This is caused by your fear.  Your desire to leave can no longer overcome it.  Although time has little meaning in this place, eventually your physical body will wither away, and you will die here."

"You have asked me many questions, Jacob Zarko.  The answers already lie within your grasp.  Permit me to ask you a question:  how did you come to obtain that object in which you are seated?" Kokabiel asked, gesturing towards Jack's wheelchair.

"What?  This thing?  I've no idea.  It was here when I woke up -- when I woke up the first time," said Jack, looking to Sara.  She said, "Yes, that is true; when I found Jack drifting out there, alone, he was in it then."

"Every thing here has a cause, Sarina Constantin; I thought you had learned at least that much from me.  Can you not, even now, see its cause?" he asked.  Sara peered at the wheelchair intently, but finally shook her head.

"You, of all people, Jacob Zamko, should see the truth in it."  Quicker than thought, Kokabiel's hand shot out and touched Jack lightly between the eyes.  His touch was cold and hard as frozen steel, thought Jack, before a new sensation drove the thought from his mind.  He could feel something _opening_ inside his head, unfurling like a hibernating animal awakened by the spring.

Jack blinked, and his gaze was drawn down to his wheelchair.  Faintly but clearly, he could see a silver cord issuing from it, stretching far off into the distance.  Causes and effects, he thought.  Instinctively he reached out to touch it.  The cord snapped at his touching, recoiling away from the chair.

He reached out for it, but Kokabiel was far quicker once again.  He had grabbed the cord before Jack had even comprehended that it was broken.  "I can hold this," he said, "but not for long. You must come with me now, if you wish to find the answers you seek."

Sara grabbed Jack by the shoulders.  "We must go with him, Jack.  You have waited so long for this.  Trust him.  Trust me, at least," she pleaded.  Almost imperceptibly, Jack nodded.  She had earned enough of his trust for that.

Kokabiel took his hand.  It was so cold Jack began to feel an ache.  "Whatever happens, remember: do not let go."{1}

And then they were off.  Sara's world of pastels disappeared in a blur of color.  They were moving at an unthinkable velocity, dragged through the astral plane by the retracting cord.  Jack's instincts told him to flee, to escape, but there was no escape from either Kokabiel's grasp or Sara's clinging.  After an indeterminate time they abruptly stopped.  Jack had the fleeting impression of the clear blue sky, and looked into the eyes of the man to whom the cord had returned.  The last thing he remembered was screaming.  He recognized that man.

* * *

Jack opened his eyes.  He was back in his apartment.  In an instant he remembered everything.

"That _bastard_," he said aloud.  His own voice sounded strange in his ears; he could not remember the last time he had spoken anything louder than a whisper.  "I trusted him... I trusted him with everything," he said.

He stood, and strode to the front door.  His keys were still on the table by the door, just where he had left them, though now they were covered in dust.  He knew where he had to go.

He opened the door.  The apartment hallway stretched before him.  An all-too-familiar tang of panic and fear filled his mouth.  He walked through it and closed the door behind him.  There was a new emotion filling him now, smothering the fear and almost all his rational thought.  He was filled with rage.

* * *

It wasn't hard to find.  The cab driver knew where the film was being shot, and after twenty minutes of driving, Jack was there.

He knew security wouldn't just let him stroll onto the set.  Maybe, years ago, when he still had friends in the business, he would have been able to talk his way in, but not now; especially not looking the way he must have: unkempt, rumpled, eyes squinting against an unfamiliar sun.  He was angry enough to be tempted to bully his way past the security guards, but even now he didn't want innocent people getting hurt.  The way he had been hurt, once: an innocent victim.  

He surveyed the surroundings.  There -- a restaurant with a roof-top patio, right across the block.  That would be close enough.  Soon he was sitting down at his table and cursorily glancing at the menu.  He had managed to get the perfect spot, with a good view of the set.  He looked down at it: some sort of outdoor establishing shot, he figured.{2}  There, in the director's chair, sat Alexander Blackwood.  Perhaps feeling Jack's gaze upon him at that moment, Alex looked up and stared straight at Jack, with his terrible and familiar eyes.

* * *

Jack blinked.  He was seated in his wheelchair, in an astral plane which appeared to be a grassy field in summer.  He hadn't known he could be brought, summoned, into the astral by someone else like this.

He didn't have time to think it over.  Nearby, a man was standing quietly, turned towards the warm sun, eyes closed to its warmth on his face.{3}  Jack gasped.  The man -- Alex's astral body, surely -- looked less than human.  His skin was the color of white ash, flaking away in the breeze.  He looks like a zombie, Jack thought.  He looks just like the zombies in that movie --

"Yes, Jack.  _The Dead Among Us_.  It's easy to direct a horror movie when all you need to do is look into the mirror for inspiration," Alex said, his voice a dry croak.  He opened his eyes languidly.  "But, of course, I have you to thank for all of that.  I'm glad you came, Jack.  I must admit, I didn't think you would," he said, a smile revealing his jagged teeth.

"Damn you, Alex.  I trusted you.  I trusted you with my life.   I trusted you when you were there beside my hospital bed, explaining how the pyrotechnics had gone off wrong," Jack said, struggling to maintain an even tone in his voice.  Alex just laughed at him, a horrible, reverberating sound.

"Of course you did, Jack.  I was counting on it.  You were the bravest man I've ever met.  I knew you'd agree to do the stunt.  I knew you'd survive the explosion, if just barely.  And I knew you'd survive the surgery," he said.  Alex opened his hand and there was a knife in it, a wicked thing of engraved brass.  The edge carried a thin sheen of frost.

"I needed it, Jack.  I needed your bravery, your courage.  I was dying inside, working every day as a lousy stunt coordinator.  Surely you, of all people, must have seen that.  And so when I was offered a deal, I took it.  I had to.  There was a price, of course.  But it has been worth it," he said, strolling towards Jack as he spoke.

"Alas, all good things come to an end," he said with a smile.  "I didn't think you'd ever show up to bother me again.  But here you are.  So, before we part ways," he said, bringing the knife against Jack's throat, "let me ask you one thing.  How did you do it?  How does a man ruled by fear bring himself to confront his enemy?"

Jack moved at the speed of thought.  He drove his hand like a blade into Alex's soft belly.  His insides felt dry as summer grass, until Jack felt the touch of something familiar.  The touch of something that had been part of him, once.

"Hatred, Alex.  Pure hatred.  I hate what you did to me, and I hate what I've become."  He felt Alex's body go limp, his eyes rolling to the back of his head.  Jack took the knife from Alex's weakening grasp.  "Rot in Hell, you bastard," he said, as brought the blade down and severed Alex's silver cord.

* * *

Several months later, Jack had almost finished packing his apartment.  He was moving back to Los Angeles.  He had already lined up several job offers, mostly from agencies who remembered just how good he used to be.  He'd show them he was as good as ever.

Just one last loose end to wrap up, Jack thought.  He called Sara, and arranged a meeting.

Jack smiled when he saw Sara again, among her pastel colors.  He relished the look of shock on her face when he walked up to her on his own two legs.  "My God, Jack, you're alive!  And you're whole!  I'd thought we'd lost you there forever, when Kokabiel lost his grip on you."

"Takes more than that to keep an old stuntie down, Sara.  Say, speaking of Kokabiel, is he around?  I'd like to thank him for all his help," he said, easily.  He wasn't quite lying.

"Of course, Jack; he's always around, somewhere.  I'm calling for him now.  My, Jack," she said, taking in the full sight of him, "if I were a younger woman, I might already be on a plane to America."

Jack shrugged amiably.  "Another lifetime, perhaps.  Ah, there's Kokabiel," he said, seeing a new astral body materializing.  "Kokabiel, I suppose you already know how things turned out," he said.

"Indeed, I am aware of what has transpired.  It warms my heart to see that you are whole again, and that perhaps I have helped set things right," replied Kokabiel.

"Perhaps.  I'm sure I owe you much.  I suppose I should return this to you," he said, and the knife appeared in his hand, not exactly pointed towards Kokabiel.  "I thought you said you didn't meddle in the affairs of mortals."

Sara involuntarily took several steps back.  Kokabiel's smile faltered slightly.  "I see you have taken the lesson of cause and effect to heart, Jacob Zarko.  To be fair, I said I _no longer_ meddle in your affairs.  You have taught me that such things are fraught with peril.  For that lesson I am in your debt," he said.  Jack thought he seemed to be retreating, although he couldn't discern the act of movement.

"Let us agree that all debts between us are repaid, Kokabiel.  Go on, take it," said Jack, offering the knife again to Kokabiel.  The words had barely left his lips before his hand was empty and the knife gone.  "There was a time, perhaps, when I would have taken my revenge on you.  But I've grown to appreciate small kindnesses.  If you had not provided me with a wheelchair," he said, Kokabiel's eyebrows rising slightly, "perhaps this would have played out differently.  But I'm willing to call it even, now.  There's been enough violence."

"I think you should go now," Sara said, with an uncharacteristic hardness in her voice.  Kokabiel looked at Jack a moment longer, and then bowed slightly.  He was gone.

"Jack," she said, "I'm so sorry.  I shouldn't have trusted him.  And now, I don't think I can forgive him.  How can you, after all that's happened?"

Jack was thoughtful.  "All it takes, babe," he said at last, "is courage."


THE END

* * *

Ceramic DM -- Fall 2006 -- Round 1b (1. tadk v. Roger)
Written 14-17 September, 2006.  Word Count: 2700.

Illustrations:

[1]  http://www.enworld.org/attachment.php?attachmentid=25894
[2]  http://www.enworld.org/attachment.php?attachmentid=25892
[3]  http://www.enworld.org/attachment.php?attachmentid=25893


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## tadk (Sep 17, 2006)

*Forever lasts too long for those in love CDM for Tadk*

Forever lasts too long for those in love

CDM Fall 06  Round 1b
© 2006 CW Kelson III (Tad) All Rights Reserved

http://www.myspace.com/ludorock
www.ludorock.com



Openings:
Look at these people hiding from the red raindrops
while earthquakes shake the broken timber of this burning town.
There's poison in the water, the ocean's blood that's turned to slime and gotten hard
All the fish and whales are corpses on the scab
In the darkness soldiers gnaw their tongues in pain, you see
So help me God, at the end of time they're screaming on their knees!
Oh let them die! Oh let them die!

“Broken Bride Part III: The Lamb and the Dragon”
 Ludo
Words by Andrew Volpe Music by Andrew Volpe and Tim Ferrell


Up on the stage, solo spot trained on her face, the lead singer of the small house style band that was playing that night, sits down gratefully in the stool someone had put up there. She sat down, put her feet up on a speaker pointing back towards her and started to sing another song. It had been a long set and odds are this was the last song in it.


"There is no end to misery
No end to pain, sorrow, suffering, death and devastation
There is no end to the torments we inflict upon ourselves and each other
Unless we are touching
Then it can all go away
Slowly, gently, easily
Drift away slowly into no where
The dance is made
Dancers taking their time
Wafting slowly from love to love
Drifting on the tides of right now
Endless weeping of two to one to three to one to two all back over again"

The two guys up there with her, lead and percussion, joined in with the chorus,

"There is no tomorrow, there is no yesterday, there is no now, there is only you and I and the what could be, There is no past, there is no future, there is no present, there is only the you and I and the right this second. There is nothing unconnected, all is tied together, with knots and lives, With knots and lives."

 Then she takes back over again, tears almost streaming down her face in the harsh actinic lighting,

 "What ever is left to hope for, lies in your hands and in my very own ones, wrapped up all together into a series, Gordian is always right, but not right now,
Knots and lives are the glue, holding you and I together
Knots and lives are all we really have
To tie us one to the other together, together, together."



A small little riff and the song is over. Sad, haunting, the fragile echoes die away in the nearly silent establishment.

"Ok that was almost a let down, new song off the next CD we make. Drop a note leaving your thoughts on it." She paused once more, since the song was over, and continued once more,
"Thank you again, we are taking a break now, feel free to leave change in the guitar case. We are Pyrrhic Muses and after wetting our whistles, will be back on stage."


The lovely lithe woman, her voice husky like a NYC Siren gone folk with a flogged background, all decked out in black jeans, lavender muscle-shirt with the head of a canid emblazoned on it leaves the stage. Her band mates follow, guitarist and drummer, heading to the restrooms and bar while canned crud for pop is blared out of dj sounding speakers. The lights come up and Vik takes a long slow look around. Rumor had it these were the latest bomb, but they sounded like they had been playing together longer than they had been alive.

There were three CDs for sale on a stand to the side, the lead singer heading over there with water and lemon in hand, to take cash only the little hand calligraphied sign said.

"That last track is off the next cd, did you like it?" She holds out her hand,

"Cat A Strophe, like catastrophe but cuter."


"Hi my name is Vik, really digging the set so far." What a dork comment to make, even if she is young enough to be your daughter damn near.

"Digging the set, what an odd turn, not heard that in like forever. So you like our style, a little retro for lots of folks."
"Nope not heard a thing like it before, that one song sleeping dogs or something, that really about teared me up," Vik admits while the two of them wander to the bar.
"Yeah one of our oldest songs, been with the three of us since the start. Sometimes it brings the house down, sometimes not."
She pauses, "Ice water with lemon please."
The bartender hands it over to her, she slugs some of it down,
"Well almost time to head back up there, I got a solitary question for you though hun."
Looking her over once more, Vik grunts, "Sure fire away."
 "Like the man says, the endless search for self, has it led you to here or this just a place to kick back a few whiskeys?" The perky lady with eyes that look a lot older than her shape would suggest, asks in all seriousness while the guitarist works to check the tuning of his rig.
"I am pretty comfortable with me, but I am looking for the right one, wanna be the right now to find out if you are the right one or not?"
Gotta take a stab at it, short, cute, quick and creative, all fine elements in a relationship.
"Gonna think on it while we play, stick around, you might be surprised." She leans in and pecks his cheek, reaching up on toes and almost against him but not quite, but the impression on the fabric of life carries her image across the remaining distance to his sense of touch.
Then she wanders back up to the small stage, dwarfed with the sheer energy of the trio of a band.

Couple of hours later, when it is the next day and the second set is over, not a single cover song that he can tell, they have material for at least a marathon session, the lady comes down to him as he sat there nursing the final drink, past last call, while Pyrrhic Muses broke down their gear.

Shortly later it was off for a night of coffee the two of them all alone with her hand in his.


 Intersections:
"What are you thinking lover?" Cat asked out loud from the kitchenette where they were staying for the night on the road, hitting all of the small towns and smaller cities around the central larger one where Vik had met her.

“Just about tonight, the gig, how we are on the road all the time, learning the ins and outs of the road, without ever learning a real thing.”

“Well dear, we are learning how to live and love and make money the old fashioned way, with hard work.” Cat strolls into the kitchen, snagging her first cup of coffee as dressed as the day she met her mother. 
“ Also we are learning all about these lovely hick towns with no clue about good music. I think it will be a snoozer session tonight. Gonna be a slow one here, got the feeling it will be about fifty years before it is a happening town. 
“Well get dressed, time to head into town and see if there is a music shop anywhere close and score some indie tracks to get inspiration from.” She walks back into the bed room, to dress and drink her morning coffee.
“You want to get married?” Vik spouts out of the blue.
“Hurricane love, not in this life no I don’t, no matter how perfect a man might seem, never in this life.”
“Ok just wanted to ask, why hurricane though.” He asks back.
“Because you are causing stormy waves in my heart, and the tide is coming in I fear.” With a little black top, jeans and sneakers on her feet, the two of them head out into the daylight. 

Death came too swiftly, it came with the speed of a bullet nearly, but none the less lethal for that slight lack. It came with kinetic finality, dropping down from forever to cut short a life made long in retrospect, taken one that should not have ever been lost. Death came falling out of the sky to crush the life from the one man she thought she could ever love, and would never love again. But that does not happen for a few more minutes at least. 

“Hey V, look over there, what is that?”
“Don’t know love, not sure about it.” Vik responded back. 
It looked like a column of mud, standing there in the sunlight there that early pre-noon morning in a small sleepy town in the almost rural, almost suburban, almost urban part of the country where nothing happens to speak of. 
It was just standing there, without moving, nothing happening to it in the slightest bit. 

A screeching from the sky came hurting down, heat searing and blasting the area close to where the couple was standing. Something impacted in a small building close by, flames and bricks flying in all directions, scattering shrapnel in all directions. Something had impacted onto the site of this small town, close to where the two lovers had been walking, causing despair and destruction all around it. Bodies suddenly were lying on the ground, already the sound of sirens in the near distance could be heard. 

Cat looked down at her body, nothing was hurt, no blood showed, and she looked over at V who she called Hurricane cause he was making a storm of her entire life, and she stared.  Cat stood there, staring at what had just happened. The coating of mud that flowed up and over Vik covering him in a light brown suit from head to toe, watching it harden all over his flesh, somehow tossed or moved in the force of the explosion of the meteor or what ever it was that had destroyed the small office building there so close yet forever away from them both.

“I cant move love.” Vik said with an odd tone in his voice.
“Huhh, what do you mean, other than the mud you look fine love.” Cat wonders out loud in a way.

“All cold inside Cat, all cold inside, and I cant move my body.” The plaintive tone is clear in his voice.
[pic2]

“It is going to be alright V, I know it will be,” But the doubt was there, “Everything will be just fine. We got a gig to play tonight and you need to be there. Tonight and every other night that we play.” Cat cries ever so softly as she can see the light leaving his eyes, standing there encased in a suit of mud thrown up in an impossible situation to murder the only man she might ever have loved. 

The fire, police, and ambulances all arrive to take away the inexplicable bodies, along with Vik’s, sealed solid in a casket of mud with a young lady crying on her knees reaching out to hold his hand but not able to hold it. 
They arrive to take away all the bodies except for the one she is closest too. 
[pic 1] 

Outcome:
[pic 3]
The three of them climbed and climbed up the singular lines and fabric, farther and farther towards infinite light. The weight of the wheelchair hindering Cint less and less with each pull of his hands, dragging the belted conveyance higher and higher.
FG's long hair blowing in the winds coming off of the dancing primaries all about them. Higher and higher the three of them climbed, heading towards an uncertain destination. But a place better than where they had just come from filled with death and the end of love for more than one of them.
They climbed the ropes that held all of the past and future together for the sakes of Cat A Strophe, as well has their own selves. They climb these ropes leading towards a future far away from home, for the sake of the children that should have been carried by Cat sired by Vik who were their predecessors. 
There was no real reason for it to end this way, three total strangers thrown together at the end of time, climbing literal robes towards light streaming down from thousands of stars all compacted into a single solar system, the ending of all time for this go around of the universe, waiting for the next expansion to occur, the natural contraction having come to an end here in the forever distant future, where two men and one woman is all that remains of a century so far in the past, there is not even a number for it. The time spent in between the eons of eons of eons flicker by in the stress of the climb, towards the light at the end, of this go around at reality.




Sleeping Dogs
by
Pyrrhic Muses    copyright     2054 The Night Breathes Music


Stillness, the silence of the grave.
Quiet now, the dead to be are sleeping.
Let this quiet reign thru out the night, 
and Sleeping Dogs, be still in sight.

refrain    The Silent Dogs, Restless and torn, 
	   Move in their dreams, in search of bones.

           The Sleeping Dogs, Restless and torn,
           Writhe in their dreams, searching for homes.                     


Darkened pasts echo our futures, the now to be in soon.
Sounds of thunders, distant and close punctuate the room.
Lie still my Beauties, rest in peace.
Chase the rats, and be at peace.



Howl and Growl, Snap and Whine,
Whir of gears do define.
The angles of Life, boundaries fine
Do rest in YOUr sleep, my hounds My Hounds.
Peaceful dreams, I wish, Abound.


refrain    The Silent Dogs, Restless and torn, 
	   Move in their dreams, in search of bones.

           The Sleeping Dogs, Restless and torn,
           Writhe in their dreams, searching for homes.                     



Sleeping Dogs
They do Whine
Sleeping Dogs
I've defined
Sleeping Dogs
Still whine and snap
Sleeping Dogs
Can still crack
Can Still Crack, Can still crack

refrain    The Silent Dogs, Restless and torn, 
	   Move in their dreams, in search of bones.

           The Sleeping Dogs, Restless and torn,
           Writhe in their dreams, searching for homes.                     


Silent no more, my Dogs are awake.
The hunting now they will make.
I, wish to offer my grief
That Sleeping Dogs, are, not, still, allowed, to,   , sleep.

(all the more I can do in the time limit)


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## yangnome (Sep 17, 2006)

To whom it may concern:

By the time you see this, I imagine everything has already happened.  I doubt you will ever understand why I did what I did, but hopefully this letter will give you some insight into my reasoning.

Others have always treated me like an outsider.  Growing up, other kids used to laugh at me and tease me because I looked different.  I tried doing everything I could to fit in.  I bought the right clothes, tried to listen to the right music, watch the right movies and TV shows, but it did no good.  

My Mother always told me that this happened because kids were mean.  She said that once people grow up and start moving on with their lives, people would accept me for who I am rather that what I look like.   

That was bullcrap.

The fact of the matter is, unless you fit in, people will treat you like crap because they can.  It makes them feel better about themselves.  If a group of people agree that you ok bad, they must be normal.  I’ve dealt with it all my life.  Frankly I’m sick of putting up with it.

All my life people have pointed and laughed at me-- people have made jokes about the way I look. I’ve had little kids on the bus cry when they see me.  The fact that they cry doesn’t get to me so much, but when their parents try to shield them from me...

When I was in grade school, kids used to call me Alien.  The name stuck with me through junior high and high school, but the teasing got worse.  Anal probes, cattle mutilation, abductions they teased me constantly.  As if I’d think it was funny that I was born with a defect.  I learned to stop fighting against it though, that only made it worse.  I used to break down in tears, but that only made it worse.  They’d attack me harder.  Later, I learned to laugh along with them.  It didn’t stop the jokes, but they weren’t as nasty about what they’d say.   Of course, to them it was funny that I laughed and joked along with them—like the retarded kid who laughs when people call him stupid.  

I filled a niche as the butt of their jokes.  Like the time the Homecoming Queen, Tina Richards, pretended she had a crush on me.  It started with notes left in my locker.  From the start, I knew it wasn’t true.  I knew that she’d never see anything of worth in a beast like me.  Over time though, I did start to believe—or at least I wanted to.  She kept sending me notes. I’d rush to my locker between each period to see if another one had come.  I’d read them during class, picturing her walking down the hallway with me—that’d show those other bastards.  

I sat behind her in my math class.  She didn’t talk to me much, before the notes, but after she started sending them, she’d occasionally say ‘hi’, and give me that coy smile.  That mocking smile as I later found out.  I loved the sweet smell of her perfume.  Its scent also wafted from the notes she left for me.  ‘Did others know how she felt about me’ I used to wonder.  Of course they did—they were all in on the joke I found out later.  

One day, before I found out it was all a cruel hoax, I was sitting behind her in class and I noticed a hair had fallen from her head onto my desktop.  I took it between my fingers and twirled it around.  At the end of class I carefully tucked it between the pages of my book.  I began to look for her hairs every day.  I had a small collection inside my algebra book.  

I digress though.  This whore had me convinced that she truly saw through my exterior and was able to see who I was on the inside.  It wasn’t to be though.  In one of her notes to me, Tina invited me to the Winter Formal with her.  I was nervous about going, but excited nonetheless.  My mother took me to have a suit made—I’ve never really been able to buy clothes off the rack with my physique.  I bought a corsage for her, a nice one with five white roses.  I even rented a limo to pick her up—I used money I had been saving since Elementary school.  Anyway, I show up at her house and Brad is there with a bunch of their friends—you know, the cool kids; the ones who’ve teased me all my life.  I was surprised to see them all there, but foolish me, I thought here was my chance to show them—I had a date with the most beautiful girl in the school.  

That’s when they tossed their punch line at me.  They all got a good laugh from it.  I had been fool enough to believe that a girl—the girl—could be attracted to me.  She of course went to the dance with Brad.  I’m sure they laughed about it all night.  Meanwhile, I couldn’t bear to bring myself to school for the next week.  

I always allowed myself to find comfort in my mother’s advice.  ‘They were only doing it because they were insecure teenagers’.  “When I get older”, I’d tell myself, “they’ll appreciate me for who I am.”  It didn’t happen.

I anxiously looked forward to high school graduation—my chance to escape.  It didn’t really lead anywhere though.  My folks didn’t have much money, so I wasn’t able to escape off to college—not that it would have done me any good.  I went to the local community college with the same losers that had teased me through high school.  New campus, same bullcrap.

I started off trying to get an English major.  The problem with that is that English professors at the junior college level really suck—at leas the ones I had did.  I had my fill of it when we studied the elephant Man.  The pretentious bastard had the nerve to tell me I couldn’t understand the meaning behind Merrick’s struggle. 

The class did open up new gateways for me.  The bastards that shared the class with me had a new nickname for me, and a few new lines they could use to jeer me.  

With that, I decided to give up on college. Instead, I tried to focus on learning skills I could use to make money.  Why try to study to gain a deeper understanding of human society when it was all so foul on the surface?

I began learning how to work on aircraft.  I spent the next six months learning the skills I needed to become a crewman at the local airport.  Union wages would provide enough for me to get by and enough security that I wouldn’t have to worry about finding another job in the future.

Even with this new turn of events, I wasn’t able to escape my past though.  Some of the same dimwits who followed me through school attended my technical school and eventually worked along side me.  My mother was wrong.  The teasing never really stopped.  It may not have been as frequent, but it still persisted nonetheless.     

They even tried rehashing the old joke that Tina played on me.  A girl at work, Pam, began expressing interest in me, but by then, I was too jaded to fall for it all—not to mention, she wasn’t anywhere near as convincing as Tina.  She had asked me out on a date following work, but I knew better this time.  I turned her down.  Of course, she blew it off and confessed she hadn’t been serious all along.  She told others about it,  and even teased me on a daily basis about it.

I told myself that I refused to open myself up to them again.  I’d just do my work and not let their taunting bother me.  

By now, you’ve got to be asking how things wound up as they did.  I’m getting there.  I realize this is probably longer than you’d expect, but it does help explain my decision, please be patient.

 Well, Pam was upset that she wasn’t getting a reaction out of me.  Instead of dropping it, she decided to take things personal.  Today, she went to the boss and told him I had been coming on to her, and despite her frequent requests to stop, I kept asking bothering her.  

Of course, I denied all of this to my boss.  He wrote me up though and threatened to fire me.  He didn’t believe me that the bitch was making this crap up.  I told him to stick his job up his ass if he didn’t believe me.  

I couldn’t believe the bastards would cost me my job just because I look different from them.  As I left work, only one solution seemed available to me.  I came home here and gave it thought.  I stood in my bathroom, looking at myself in the mirror.  I tried to squint my eyes, I even tried to look through the cracks between my fingers.  None of it could make me look beautiful.  They were right, I looked like an alien.  There was no way I could fit in with them, ever.  They were right, I looked like an alien.  There was no way they, or you could understand the pain this caused me. It was a pain that could not, would not heal.  The solution was clear.  I have to try to make them understand—make you understand.  I know how to do this.  I am committed to helping you understand.  

When I finish this letter—bear with me, I am close to the end, I am going to get dressed and head down town.  Today happens to be homecoming.  The school is having a parade down Main Street this afternoon.  Today, I will show you my pain.  If you are reading this, it is because I have shared it with you.  I hope that you can feel it.

If you are reading this, you already know that when the float with the Homecoming court passed today, I shot the Homecoming Queen.  It was nothing personal. I did not know her .  I just hoped that it would make me feel better.  I wanted to share this pain with you.  I am sure that you and others in this town will not be able to understand why I did this.  Have comfort in the fact that I too now am gone.  If I was successful, I took my own life as well.  If I didn’t succeed in that, I’m sure I’ll get the chair.  

If anyone learns anything from the events that transpired today, I hope they learn to look beyond a person’s exterior and try to find the beauty within.

Respectfully Yours,

Jonathan Grey


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## Kassiopeia (Sep 17, 2006)

*After Shock*
by Antti Helin

He woke up to the thumping of the veins in his head. He listened to it for a while, but it didn't offer him any real relief. He sat up on the bed, sighed and rubbed his temples. He opened his eyes, and wondered what time of day it was. Everything was covered in a purple haze. (Picture 3) Some limbs weren't where they were supposed to be or what they were supposed to be. He considered that he was dreaming - he wasn't sure since it had been so long since he had dreamed. This realization made him particularly depressed.

He carefully lifted himself from the bed and the world started to flow back into its usual shape and colour. The thumping in his head accelerated slightly. He switched the lights on and walked to the kitchen. He had piled all his kettles and pans on the counter before going to bed. He pushed them down to the floor and smiled. He was very proud of his powerful sound system, and he turned it on, full volume. Someone stomped their feet upstairs in protest but he ignored it. He chugged down a couple of aspirins in a robotic motion. He knew it was useless, but he'd promised he'd take them.

It was noon. He had business in the city - Nori wanted him to have another shot at this new treatment he'd found on the net - so he found the least dirty clothes he could. Out on the street a Farewell parade was going on. (Picture 1) A tractor with a platform full of children in tow was driving down the main street. He loved children. They were so chaotic and noisy. He had always considered a career in education or daycare, but you couldn't do much of that anymore if you were Shocked. That's why the Farewell parades were being held - the kids on the platform were seven. They'd have to leave before they'd grow up too much and be in danger of getting Shocked too.

Besides, he wasn't the bookish type. He had been a baker. He loved kneading the dough and the smell of fresh bread. Machine-made bread was nothing like it, but nowadays you didn't have a choice. He had virii and bacteria and all sorts of poisons wafting off his body, they'd explained to him. Besides, bread was full of carbohydrates, and you didn't want too many of those in your diet. 

He baked in secret every now and then, but don't tell them. He had lost a friend to obesity too, but a loaf once in a while? 

He was reluctant to leave the parade and the children, but he had a bus to catch. He found a seat right above the engine.

It's so strange, he thought. They can design an entire state exclusively for the Shocked alone, with good old fashioned buses, houses and everything. They live on Mars or put their soul into a computer, and they can only die if they want to, and many other things they had not dared to tell him. But they had not been able to find an MP3 player, or a portable CD player, or even a Walkman, or at least a pair of ear phones. "The only way we can help you with your problem," they had told him, "would also drive you insane." Maybe it wasn't such a bad idea after all. At least they had promised to find him something more secluded than a flat in a block. He had already gotten a couple of notices for the loud noise in the late hours. Maybe Nori could prescribe him some sleeping pills too.

The bus stop was a couple blocks' walk away from Nori's clinic. The city was pretty quiet, he wondered if it was actually a Sunday. Not that it mattered, Nori was always available and the buses always ran. He didn't want to know how. He believed the rumour that the drivers didn't really drive them, and that was enough.

The appointment with Nori was uneventful. Nori explained to him once again that his condition was most likely psychological, and most certainly a byproduct of his Shock. He had done some reading, though, and argued that no other Shocked one had ever had something like this. Nori ponted out that the Shock was not well known by modern psychology - after all, they had not even found a way to cure the Shock yet, let alone all its symptoms. Why else would they go through the trouble of isolating and furnishing forty thousand square miles for the Shocked alone?

The new therapy method Nori had found was also uneventful. He was strapped to a chair inside a big machine - an MRI, he was told, it allowed them to look at his brain - and some electrodes were planted on his scalp. He sat there still for fifteen minutes as electric impulses were shot through his cortex, but the headache went nowhere. Nori wasn't too talkative after the session, but did give him the sleeping pills. Nori also promised him again that they'd try to find him a more secluded apartment. He responded again that yes, it was a good idea and they should hurry. Some people at the Institute of Antiquated Electronics were also working on a replica portable music player based on some blueprints and photographs, which sounded even better.

He headed back to the bus stop. He missed the sounds of a city. A real city, not this copy. It was pretty good but not the real thing. Not far enough cars, because they gave you the other deadly carbosomething. He was sad that the true sound of a city was probably lost forever. His generation would take it to the grave with it. He wondered what Chicago was like nowadays. 

He heard a rumbling, penetrating sound from somewhere far. It was familiar. He walked in its direction and found its source: a construction site. He suddenly recognized the sound, it was a jackhammer. He felt the headache slowly fading away. He got closer and closer and found a bunch of workers. He knew what nanomachines were, but it was probably safer to build things the old way. Knowing what they were and seeing what they can do were two entirely different things, he reasoned.

The one with the jackhammer was a cute girl with red hair. He watched her drill for a while and wrapped himself in the sound. She noticed him and stopped.

She wiped her brow. "Hello, can I help you?" (Picture 2)

"Uh, uh, no. Just... keep on doing whatever it was you were doing." 

She looked puzzled but smiled. He smiled right back.


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## Linderel (Sep 17, 2006)

*Untitled*

"That's a really, uhm... cute lizard. Critter. Thing. So-- what was that you needed help with, again?"

The green, scaly creature lounging on the desk (picture 2), seemingly innocuous, made Robin really nervous. Not that she would ever admit to it in a million years. No, sirree! There was nothing that could faze Robin Farrel, and the rest of the world could damn well keep thinking just that if she had any say in the matter. Not even if said lizard looked like it wanted to eat something with a little more substance than whatever it was that Annie fed it.

Either way, she didn't really want to _know_ what it was, exactly, since it didn't look like a normal lizard at all. She didn't even want to think about it. Everyone knew Annie hung out with some very strange people, not to mention she had a bit of a mad scientist in her.

Poking a vial half filled with a bubbling green liquid-- "Don't touch them! They're very fragile," Annie rushed to say-- she followed the girl through a vast expanse of room after room that the other called a house, absently wondering where the parental units were. She'd met them the previous time she had come here, and they seemed nice people, although unnervingly resemblant to their daughter in terms of geekiness.

Robin sometimes idly entertained the thought that maybe they had produced the girl in a test tube for all her perfection. Then again, maybe not. That was the stuff of science fiction stories... yet. 

They arrived at a flight of stairs, winding deep underground and lit only by the occasional lamp imbedded to the wall here and there. Giving an incredulous stare at her host's back as she started descending, she followed suit.

"Let me get this straight. You have..." she started and shook her head bemusedly as the other turned to blink at her. "You have another laboratory? In the basement?"

"Sure. My own room only has space for about a third of my equipment, and if I screw something up, I won't be causing any harm to the furniture. Or Gojira-- the lizard."

"... Right." Trust Annie to give a name like that to a pet. She was just too weird sometimes.

Why Robin was agreeing to help her classmate was beyond her, really. It wasn't like she wanted to get involved in any shady business. Besides, trekking all the way up here was beyond troublesome. How Annie managed to travel to campus and back every single day was a complete and utter mystery. Not only did the huge building stand on a cliff, looking down over a valley (picture 1), it was also a fair distance away from the rest of the town. She felt slightly woozy every time she walked to the terrace, unable to forget there was practically nothing more than a thick wood floor between her and a very long fall.

Then again, Annie didn't leave her excellence at passing all academic courses with flying colours. Who knew how she had time for it, but the girl was also an athlete. Trust her not to be bothered about a little trip of, oh, fifteen miles every single morning, or a drop that to Robin seemed only a little shorter.

Not that she envied her. It was always amusing to hear the girl go on about her newest project, though, so maybe she didn't mind that much after all.

"Now, what is this thing exactly, then?" she asked, leaning over the table to look at the current project.




"Mushrooms." Her voice was flat, and Annie cringed, just a little, seeming to brace herself for the inevitable explosion. Robin was rather infamous for her short temper, being known for being sometimes able to go off for twenty minutes straight about one or the other. Usually, the people on the receiving end of her fury merely opted for looking suitably chagrined, deciding to try and ignore the onslaught of expletives, insults and inane spluttering. She was a great person to hang out with, after all, if you just could deal with the temper.

The thought was not always that comforting, though. Like in the present case, where the girl looked very much like she wanted to cause someone - or something - bodily harm.

"After all of that," she ground out, her voice dropping about an octave and then beginning to rise again, reaching a crescendo at the end, "you're trying to tell me this whole thing is about _mushrooms_?!"

Annie nodded, timidly, and pointed to the large glass container sitting on the windowsill. True enough, there was a group of blue mushrooms (picture 3) in one corner of the container, all innocent and happily unaware of how close they were to becoming the object of the wrath of one Robin Farrel. Beside her, she could hear her classmate let out a frightened squeak.

By this point glaring at everything and anything that her eyes landed on, she advanced on the container, the quiet 'eep' sound from behind being strangely gratifying. Not that she truly intended to harm the contents, even though the thought was very tempting. Annie would be devastated if all her hard work went down the drain.

Of course, she didn't see how these mushrooms were special, but logically they must have been. The girl never got quite that excited over nothing. And judging from the way she was now squeeing in delight and clapping her hands, this was something big indeed.

Squinting, Robin trained her attention on the container once more. She rather regretted that after a while, as she witnessed the little blue mushrooms stir and pop open a round pair of bright eyes each.

Blink. Blink.

The fertiliser Annie had been giving them had to have been pretty damn potent. She didn't quite get why they had spent a dozen vials and caused some sort of explosion while apparently trying to develop an even more efficient mix, but nevermind.

Watching the contents of the container detach from the dirt and hop around, blinking at the world in general, she decided she didn't want to know.

Feeling slightly hysterical, Robin hoped they wouldn't suddenly sprout arms and legs and start jigging. That would have been way over the line. She felt like she might faint were that to happen. Hell, at this point anything could make her jump.

As the laws of universe went, that was exactly what happened next. Or something very near to it. She was too flabbergasted to process most of the images being sent to her brain.

This was it. She was never going to come to this house again. Ever. While Annie cooed over her new... pets... ? she turned tail and got out of the room.

Too. Freaking. Weird.

She could apologise later.




Stumbling to her tiny apartment practically on the other side of town, Robin had distinct trouble paying attention to her surroundings, resulting in more near-crashes with lamp posts she cared to count. Through the stupor, she thought she might have almost walked under a car, but she wasn't entirely sure.

She definitely needed a long, long bath. Preferably accompanied by a glass of something slightly stronger than water. Oh, _yes_. Fishing around in her bag for the ever-elusive keys, Robin froze when her fingers brushed something cool and dry but very much alive.

Out and up her arm skittered the very same lizard she had been shooting suspicious looks at just a few hours prior.

She considered fainting as an option, or maybe screaming at the top of her lungs. That sounded like a pretty good idea. Nevertheless, she merely ended up letting a strange, slightly choked sound, feeling light-headed and edging past hysteria.

_Well, drat._


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## Linderel (Sep 17, 2006)

And there was my attempt at a story. It's weird.


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## tadk (Sep 17, 2006)

everybody needs to check out rogers web site...dang it is sweet....and his stuff on it rocks.....this is serious, it rocks...cool Roger...gl on round 2b


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## Roger (Sep 17, 2006)

tadk said:
			
		

> everybody needs to check out rogers web site...dang it is sweet....and his stuff on it rocks.....this is serious, it rocks...cool Roger...gl on round 2b




Hey, thanks, man.  I try my best.  Good luck with Round 2b to you too.



Cheers,
Roger


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## maxfieldjadenfox (Sep 18, 2006)

Looks like Mazlo missed the deadline...


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## Hellefire (Sep 18, 2006)

*Speaking of deadlines*

Did the Round 1a judgements get posted somewhere and I missed it?
Not the I would ever badger the judges. 

Aaron


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## maxfieldjadenfox (Sep 18, 2006)

I sent mine in... Pithy, but done.


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## Rodrigo Istalindir (Sep 18, 2006)

Still waiting to hear from Herremann on the first batch.  Sent the second off to him this morning.

Sorry for the delay, guys.


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## Taladas (Sep 18, 2006)

Rodrigo Istalindir said:
			
		

> Still waiting to hear from Herremann on the first batch.  Sent the second off to him this morning.
> 
> Sorry for the delay, guys.




No problem, after all it wouldn't be Ceramic DM without some delays, confusion and chaos.


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## Hellefire (Sep 18, 2006)

Not a problem! Refresh button isn't quite worn out yet .
Considering, I'm lucky to even be clicking refresh at this point.
Here, I'll do it again *click*

I have to apologize toe veryone for not getting my critiques up yet. Just finished my school term today though, so I have a week and a half free - going to try to catch up now.

Aaron


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## Berandor (Sep 18, 2006)

Taladas said:
			
		

> No problem, after all it wouldn't be Ceramic DM without some delays, confusion and chaos.



 So that's why mine was deleted 

But I mean no disrespect: Who could have known Herreman would be shut out of EnWorld? And my sudden backoff wasn't that orderly, either.


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## Roger (Sep 18, 2006)

*Mini-Reviews for Round 1*

While we're waiting for Judgment, here are a few of my comments on the stories so far.  I've used spoiler-blocks to help the judges (and anyone else) avoid my mini-reviews, as well as hide my guesses as to who will win each round.


*Round 1a, Match 1 - Wild Gazebo v. Taladas*
[sblock]

Of Eloquence and Understanding: To Wit
by Wild Gazebo
Posted: 09-09-06, 12:58 PM
Elapsed time: 51 hours
POV: First-person
Word count: 1770

Review:  The prose is is somewhat laboured.  Use of the pictures is pretty solid.  It starts off alright, but then just sorta stops for no apparent reason.  Fragmentary.


Sanctuary
by Taladas
Posted: 09-10-06, 03:14 AM
Elapsed time: 65 hours
POV: First-person
Word count: 980

Review:  A few grammatical problems.  Generally works as a character sketch, but not really a story as such.  The interesting story has already occured.  Picture use is fine.


My pick to win: 



Spoiler



Wild Gazebo


[/sblock]

*Round 1a, Match 2 - Hellefire v NiTessine*
[sblock]

Long Live the King?
by Hellefire
Posted: 09-10-06, 10:41 AM 
Elapsed time: 72 hours.
POV: Third-person
Word count: 2870

Review:  Promising.  The 'meditation' info-dump is tiresome.  Excessive exclamation mark usage.  The twist ending is not really worth it.  Picture use is fine. 


The Cure
by NiTessine
Posted: 09-10-06, 10:06 AM 
Elapsed time: 72 hours
POV: Third-person
Word count: 3140

Review:  A bit flowery.  And heavy.  But it has a compelling nature to it.  It runs the risk of being merely fan fiction, cleaving as closely as it does to established D&D canon.  Not a bad story, but the central conflict is not developed enough.  It all seems a bit too easy.  Picture use is a bit strained but otherwise pretty good.


My pick to win: 



Spoiler



NiTessine


[/sblock]

*Round 1a, Match 3 - Halivar v Aris Dragonborn*
[sblock]

Billy's Reckoning
by Halivar
Posted: 09-09-06, 10:15 PM 
Elapsed time: 60 hours
POV: Third-person
Word count: 2400

Review:  Comedy is hard, but it works well here.  'Vern' is a somewhat strange name for a woman.  This is a complete story, with a beginning, middle, and end.  Well done.  Pictures integrate well.


The Sacrifice
by Aris Dragonborn
Posted: 09-10-06, 02:57 PM 
Elapsed time: 77 hours.
POV: Third-person
Word count: 4600

Review:  Aris accidentally wrote a story using the wrong set of pictures (!) but, after repeated requests, posted it eventually.  The events are gripping, but eventually take slightly ludicrous turn.  The recounting of the events leads to a bit of a pacing problem.  It's a complete story, though.  Picture use, such as it was, was good.


My pick to win:  



Spoiler



Halivar (by default)


[/sblock]

*Round 1a, Match 4 - Paka v Deuce Traveller*
[sblock]

The First Baby Step Towards the World’s End
by Paka
Posted: 09-10-06, 08:29 AM 
Elapsed time: 70 hours
POV: First-person
Word count: 1830

Review:  More character sketches, more or less.  Generally well-written.  Pretty close to being a story.  The viewpoint character wasn't really developed enough to be sympathetic or to give us a sense of the conflict.  Picture usage was fine.


The 22nd Anniversary of a Homecoming
by Deuce Traveler
Posted: 09-09-06, 04:34 PM 
Elapsed time: 54 hours
POV: First-person
Word count: 4780

Review:  Pretty good, all in all.  But it's a fragment at this point.  It doesn't end at a natural point in the story.  But it's well-written for all that.  Picture use was a bit shaky but forgivable.


My pick to win: 



Spoiler



Deuce Traveler


[/sblock]

*Round 1b, Match 5 - tadk v. Roger*
[sblock]

Forever lasts too long for those in love
by tadk
Posted: 09-16-06, 08:49 PM
Elapsed time: 59 hours
POV: Third-person
Word Count: 2450

Review:  I had a hard time getting a handle on this.  All in all, more of a character sketch than a real story.  Picture use is okay.


Be Not Afraid
by Roger
Posted: 09-16-06, 02:54 PM 
Elapsed time: 53 hours
POV: Third-person
Word Count: 2700


Review: Well, I wrote it, so rather than reviewing myself, I'll use this space for a "design diary" of sorts.  

I started, naturally enough, with taking look at the pictures.  Picture #1 implied pretty strongly that I'd be using a modern-day setting.  Picture #2 got me thinking about zombies or something of that ilk, but I wasn't immediately married to the idea.  Picture #3 seemed to be the problematic one.  Pretty abstract, didn't really immediately seem to relate to the other two.

Then I started studying the pictures more closely.  #1 appears to be a movie set, which is something I didn't realize at first.  And a couple of the parking stalls are marked as handicapped, which ties into picture #3.  As I studied #2, I thought this might be a person covered in mud, or maybe a statue of some sort.  And #3 was still giving me problems.  The shadows of three people, so that implied at least three characters.  One of whom was in a wheelchair.  Not to mention some crazy colours, and ropes all over the place.

At some point, I had a flash of inspiration:  picture #3 is a picture of astral projection.  That explains the ropes and the colours.  Once I had that piece in place, the rest of the story started to come together.

I had a movie set to work in there somehow.  I wrote myself a short list of 'people you might find on a movie set' and was quickly drawn to the idea of a stuntman (or stunt double, as it turned out.)  A stuntman and astral projection led me to the idea of a near-death out-of-body experience, and everything else pretty much shook out of that.

I wrote up some very brief character sketches and outlined a plot.  All of this took me to the end of Day 1.  I was at work, so it wasn't like I spent 12 hours straight at it.  The next day was the weekend, which made the writing easier.  To get to the final draft took me about six hours, but I think only about half of that was actually spent in writing and editing -- the rest was drinking coffee, staring out the window, etc.
[/sblock]

*Round 1b, Match 6 - Linderel v. Mazlo*
[sblock]

Untitled
by Linderel
Posted: 09-17-06, 05:05 AM 
Elapsed time: 67 hours
POV: Third-person
Word count: 1300

Review:  The start of a story, but not really a story.  "Person sees strange things, then carries on with life, unchanged" is not a story.  Amputated.  Picture use is good.


My pick to win: 



Spoiler



Linderel (default)


[/sblock]

*Round 1b, Match 7 - Kassiopeia v. yangnome*
[sblock]

To whom it may concern
by yangnome
Posted: 09-17-06, 01:57 AM
Elapsed time: 64 hours
POV: First-person
Word count: 1840

Review:  Ah, the old 'written letter' framing device.  Tried and true.  This is yet another character sketch.  Compelling enough, but not really a story.


After Shock
by Kassiopeia
Posted: 09-17-06, 04:45 AM
Elapsed time: 67 hours
POV: Third-person
Word count: 1130

Review: Another character sketch, but at least there's a hint of conflict in this.  Feels amputated at this length, though.  Picture use is a bit strained.


My pick to win: 



Spoiler



Kassiopeia


[/sblock]


*Round 1b, Match 8 - rpjunkie v. GuardianLurker*
[sblock]

Mission Improbable
by Rpjunkie
Posted: 09-14-06, 08:27 PM 
Elapsed time: 10.5 hours
POV: First-person
Word count: 1800

Review:  The writing isn't bad, but it's been a long time since I saw a story ending with "and it was all a dream!" that I liked.  Picture use is fine.  


The Case of the Missing Beacon
by GuardianLurker
Posted: 09-16-06, 09:49 AM 
Elapsed time: 48 hours
POV: First-person
Word count: 1450

Review: Well-written, but I think we get short-changed in the climax.  And the denoument is extremely short.  Again, there's the sense that "Hero is presented with a minor puzzle, figures it out in short order, and then everything works out fine."  Picture use is strong.


My pick to win: 



Spoiler



GuardianLurker


[/sblock]



Cheers,
Roger


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## Rpjunkie (Sep 19, 2006)

BTw it wasnt a dream, that was the human waking up not remembering anything and not knowing how the heck he got there....


RPJ


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## GuardianLurker (Sep 19, 2006)

Roger said:
			
		

> The Case of the Missing Beacon
> by GuardianLurker
> Posted: 09-16-06, 09:49 AM
> Elapsed time: 48 hours
> ...




Thanks for the compliments. As for the denoument, well, _Commune_, _Scry_, and _Teleport_ make short work of puzzles like this. But, yeah, I wasn't wholly satisfied with it; I just didn't see an alternative with the time I had left available (about 2 hours due to prior commitments). Now, of course, I see a few more ways to approach the end. But it's on to the next. I hope.


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## Hellefire (Sep 19, 2006)

Our judges are good people, and I don't think this has ever been a problem.
But to be sure, people are asked to hide their personal judgements so judges arent influenced, which Roger did.
Quoting his thoughts, which he hid as per the rules, without hiding them, kinda defeats the purpose of him hiding them in the first place.

Again, I don't think it's ever been a problem, I just wanted to mention it and hope it never becomes one.

Aaron


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## Aris Dragonborn (Sep 19, 2006)

Roger said:
			
		

> [sblock]The Sacrifice
> by Aris Dragonborn
> Posted: 09-10-06, 02:57 PM
> Elapsed time: 77 hours.
> ...




I had all sorts of problems writing this sucker. I spent the majority of the time trying to come up with a story that made sense while incorporating the pictures. By the time I had a workable idea, it was early in the A.M. and the story was coming due. 

I guess there's always next time. I appreciate the comments, Roger.


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## Berandor (Sep 19, 2006)

Thanks to Roger for the sblock layout I'll appropriate  I'm not making any guesses as to who'll win a round, though.

First off, some general observations, especially good for newbies.
Picture Use
I know a lot of judges prefer getting some detail with the picture. I know you shouldn't use a picture as a picture, but it's also that you fare better if you describe the picture in the context of your story, instead of just writing, for example, "someone looked at him (picture of man in funny bird suit). Tim turned his head and ran away."

Note that there are exceptions to this rule, especially when you want to twist expectations or surprise with the actual picture.

Story Design
Okay, this is a personal opinion. Even though it says, "Ceramic DM Writing Competition" (I guess that's what it says, but I could be wrong), Rodrigo's sig says "Ceramic DM _Story_ Writing Competition", and that's most assuredly where the focus lies. That doesn't mean you can't try any kind of writing you like, but it does mean that stories are favored.

And for a story, you need conflict. Conflict means tension, overcoming obstacles, the possibility of change or a return to status quo. For a story, it means right to exist. In other words: Why are you telling the story that you are telling? What's the important thing that happens here, and why is it so interesting that we'd want to know? Conflict doesn't need to be fighting, or killing. But it means the protagonist is faced with obstacles, obstacles he needs to overcome. Why does he need to overcome them? Motivation, element two. If you know what the protagonist wants to do, then you'll probably come up with some obstacles easily enough. 

"Jim wants to cook breakfast for his fiancée but oh! – he ate the last egg yesterday morning, and Jenny loves omelettes. And now he has to drive to a store that's already open, hoping he'll be back in time to surprise her with his cooking. And then the car runs out of gas. What to do? Call a cab? Look for a store around here, or a gas station? Sneak up to the truck over there and steal some gas, hoping the burly driver doesn't notice? Where to get a rubber funnel?"

Also important: dialogue. It is possible to write a story with little or no dialogue, and of course a lot of literature does it. But if you write a thrilling genre story (or try to, at least), then dialogue means life. It's always good when you have at least some moment where people talk. Plus, a handy trick I use for dialogue (when I have the time, which can be a problem in CDM): Think of what the person wants to say, literally. You could use this, but that's bad dialogue. Now think of a means to convey the meaning of what's to be said, but saying something else, and fitting for the character who says it.

For example, a waiter spills wine over a man's shirt. The man wants to say, "My shirt is wet, perhaps ruined. You idiot!" He might say, "I always thought waiters mustn't be blind." or "You know, that shirt costs more than you make in a week." or even "I don't think the color of the wine suits my eyes, do you?". Perhaps "My, candid camera has really lost is touch.", "Actually, I wanted to drink it" or "To my best knowledge, it's milk you bath in, not wine." "Doesn't matter. Just tell the manager to fire you." "Who sent you? The Mazzeroni family?"

Finally, dialogue is a very easy way of lengthening your story if you feel it needs fleshing out.

Anyway, here's some quick comments on the entries.

*Forever lasts too long for those in love (by tadk) *
[sblock]
I liked it. There are many shi*F*ts (bad spelling mistake!) in narrative time, though, and I'm not sure it was intentional. I also thought until the end that Cat was actually a bringer of catastrophes, a mythical being, and by extension that she'd intentionally kill Vik. The death, by the way, is totally X-File-worthy. Others may see it as far-fetched; not me. Pics were alright: The death stare was good, the catastrophy scene mediocre, and I couldn't wrap my head around the epilogue, so I can't really say anything about the final pic with the wheelchair.
[/sblock]

*Be Not Afraid (by Roger)*
[sblock]
Nice, really nice. The final sentence is too hokey; at least delete the "babe", since it's the first time it's used, anyhow. It just rings false. Other than that, quite nice, though Jack handles his hate eruption very well. Plus: is he disfigured? From "exploding fireworks" I thought he probably was, and I'm also not sure about the demony thing's actions: It grants Alex power in exchange for rigging up a possibly-lethal accident, and then it feels bad because it never considered the other end? Picture use was fine, though not spectacular. The wheelchair pic is great, the film set pic is random window dressing that may have inspired you where to set the story, but takes no important part in the story, itself. The zombie face is nice.
[/sblock]

*Untitled (by Linderel) *
[sblock]
Congratulations for advancing to round 2 
I'm not sure about this story. It's got a nice idea grounding it, but I'm left feeling confused. What's happened here that you want to tell us? "The day Robin stole Gojira"? It's not even a magically miniaturized Gojira that will grow to normal size now that it's out of the house. Don't get me wrong: I really like the house on the cliffs, where the mad scientists live. But why did Annie need Robin's help? The mushrooms were already alive, weren't they? So I don't know why Annie had Robin come over, what Robin wants or needs to do, there's no change in the story, no real conflict, but a nice setting. The pics are alright; Gojira doesn't have an important role other than to introduce us to the scientist girl, the house fits, but in the end, they could be anywhere. The mushrooms are a nice centerpiece, but other than the idea of living shrooms, they also have no purpose.
[/sblock]

*To whom it may concern (by yangnome) *
[sblock]
This was too obvious to me, I just wasn't entirely sure Jonathan wouldn't simply kill himself. It's a nice story, and a nice (if not new) idea. But to me, any point you may have made was blocked out by the final two paragraphs. I don't need to be told that Jonathan doesn't know the beauty queen – it's a beauty contest, after all. I don't need to be told thrice that all he wants is for us to understand. That goes without saying, or he wouldn't have written the letter. And the closing is like taking a hammer and hitting me over the head until my brain's in my feet. I get it. But it's nicely written. And I really liked you didn't come out and clear up Pam's actions. Did she convert to teasing him to protect herself? Or was she really that mean from the beginning? Pics were good. I hadn't even noticed the "L" on Pam's forehead before you used the pic. The beauty contest is late in the story and not really in the story, but a foreshadowing, but it fits thematically. The picture of Jonathan is an example of when you [general you, the writers] needn't describe too much. At this point, I was anticipating to see how he looked, and how ugly and alien-y he was, that words wouldn't have been able to convey it as much as the picture did. Nice one. Now, if you had a conflict or something like that, or some dialogue...
[/sblock]

*After Shock (by Kassiopeia) *
[sblock]
I'm confused. This reads like a small chapter from a much longer story, and, like yangnome, it doesn't really have any dialogue (except for the very end) or real conflict. Yeah, "he" wants to get rid of his aftershock-effects, but we don't really know who he is, where he is, what the shock is or what his after-effects are – so why should we care? And a little respite for "him" comes at the end, simply by chance. There's a lot going on, some Matrix-like environment, sort of as if this was how people who took the blue pill and then got back into the Matrix might see it. But that's in the background. Flesh out the central story, make this thing bigger, and you'll make it better. Picture use is shaky. Does "he" really look like that, or is it his perception? Why does the drill help him? These two pictures feel like they are at the right place, I just don't know why. Give me more. The parade is off-hand, and is just there to get the pic into the story somehow, anyhow.
[/sblock]

*Mission Improbable (by Rpjunkie) *
[sblock]
A nice idea of making the winged creature our protagonist. But I'm confused. Do they all go to our world, or is there still magic, and the fleeing man knows why the strike team has come? Is the bubble truly magic, or simply some rock concert effect misinterpreted? And is the end when the bubbled man wakes up, or was it truly just a dream? For a first story, there's definitely promise here. It just needs some fine-tuning. The pics are mixed. As I said, I liked making the creature our hero, even though we never get his name. The bubble guy is confusing because I'm not sure which way to interpret it, but at least it *is* the quest item MacGuffin. The lighthouse... well, there's a lighthouse at the end. That's all.
[/sblock]

*The Case of the Missing Beacon (by GuardianLurker)*
[sblock]
Start with the end: The final sentence is a nice idea, but to truly work this story would have had to be much darker in tone, more cynical. Still, a Hammett-nod is appreciated.  Sadly, this story is just a course of events, not very tense. The detective finds traces of Legion, goes there, is caught, teleports easily out, solves the mystery by a combination of wild guesses (when Legion claims it lost something, too) and divination spells, the end. Even the clue-finding is quite easy. What you did was show perfectly well why certain D&D spells can make crafting a challenging adventure difficult. The pics were shaky, too. The lighthouse is alright, because I can follow Celestia having these things, and it's the place where the beacon was kept. The guard... she's there, but she doesn't really add anything to the story except be demoted. And the Celestial Globe of Protection – well, it seems like it'd end up somewhere, but after a mere sentence or two of dialogue, Pade plane shifts away.
[/sblock]


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## Linderel (Sep 19, 2006)

Thanks to both Roger and Berandor for the comments. I'm aware of the weaknesses in my story, and I know why they're there. I stressed too much, and I ran out of time, resulting in a pretty poorly written attempt even for me. I can only hope that I'll get a better one hashed out on the second round. <_<


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## Rpjunkie (Sep 19, 2006)

Thanks for all the comments everyone! When this is the first story you have ever written, it seems you never know how your writing will turn out.

RPJ


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## Rodrigo Istalindir (Sep 19, 2006)

Rpjunkie said:
			
		

> Thanks for all the comments everyone! When this is the first story you have ever written, it seems you never know how your writing will turn out.
> 
> RPJ




That's what makes Ceramic DM so great.  Not only is it fun to read the stories, it can jumpstart the creative processes.  I hadn't written any fiction for years before getting into this.  It taught how to deal with criticism better than I had before, and the insights provided have made me better (or at least I hope they have).


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## Roger (Sep 19, 2006)

That's some good advice, Berandor.  I think the best advice I saw about picture usage is actually in the FAQ:



> Remember that the general rule is that the pictures should be the illustrations for your story. Step away and think about that for just a moment. If an editor were publishing your story and wanted to include illustrations, what would be illustrated? Illustrations tend to be of significant aspects of the story. If you have an event in the story that is significant enough to use a picture for it, describe the event.




That helped me work with the pictures a lot.



Cheers,
Roger


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## Rodrigo Istalindir (Sep 19, 2006)

For me, the best tips on got on picture use were re-reading old Ceramic DM judgements and finding out what worked and what didn't for the judges.  Early on, I wrestled with how much artistic license I could take with a picture.  For example, in my second story, I used a burned out car as a ruined wagon -- metaphorically it worked, but if the judges were too literal-minded, it wouldn't have.

Now I'm more critical of how important the picture and it's accompanying scene are to the overall story, and I'm pretty forgiving of the artistic interpretation.

I'm still bitter about getting dinged over the relative size of a crashing plane, though


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## Berandor (Sep 19, 2006)

I'm of the more literal-minded judges. Some pictures lend themselves well to abstract uses, but I mostly prefer concretes.


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## Deuce Traveler (Sep 19, 2006)

Roger, I aplogize for the point that it ended, but I thought I'd wrap up the loose ends in the next story, if I win.  There wasn't enough fat for me to cut in order to end it better, unfortunately.

I noticed I got dinged on picture usage, but I thought my use of two of those pictures (the interviewed man and the creature in the blanket) was smartly used.  Can you give more details on your own expectations when it comes to pictures?


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## tadk (Sep 19, 2006)

Berandor said:
			
		

> Thanks to Roger for the sblock layout I'll appropriate  I'm not making any guesses as to who'll win a round, though.
> 
> 
> thanks for the comments....i have no clue how to do spoiler things....i ended up trying to do too much in too short a time....the pics suggested a story but i was not able to execute it is my personal issue. BUt I did enjoy the writing of it none the less and plan to expand the story..when i have more energy...but as always i liked it


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## Roger (Sep 19, 2006)

Deuce Traveler said:
			
		

> I noticed I got dinged on picture usage, but I thought my use of two of those pictures (the interviewed man and the creature in the blanket) was smartly used.  Can you give more details on your own expectations when it comes to pictures?




Well, it's not like I'm a judge or anything, but I can expand a bit on what I was talking about.

[sblock]
What I mean, I suppose, is that it didn't really feel like any of the pictures felt like natural illustrations for the story.  They're in there, sure; no doubt about it.  But the scenes in which they occur are not really climatic or pressingly vital to your story, if you see what I mean.

Having your hero meet his sister by a playground slide is fine, but it's not really _integral_ to the story -- it could have been pretty much anywhere.

If I were talking to a friend about your story, I wouldn't say "It's about this guy who is attacked by this weird thing bouncing on a blanket, then he talks to a guy on a pipe, and then he goes to a playground slide!"

Actually, the homunculus _is_ a pretty good use of the illustration, so I won't complain too much about that.

Another way of thinking about it:  If I were an editor, and I wanted to use an illustration on the front cover of my magazine to entice readers into reading your story, would I have used any of those three?  Maybe not.

I'm reminded of numerous Iron Chef judge comments where they say something like "This dish is really fabulously good, but swan tongue (or whatever the special ingredient is) is not really the star of the show."  That's sorta where I am.  I liked your story, and the use of the ingredients didn't _detract_ from your story, but I didn't come away from it feeling like your story was _about_ any of those images in an integral way.

So, in my humble opinion as just another plebe who reads stories sometimes, achieving that level of integration would kick it up to the next level for you.  Anyway, hope that helps, or at least clarifies what I'm talking about.
[/sblock]


Cheers,
Roger


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## Berandor (Sep 19, 2006)

tadk said:
			
		

> Berandor said:
> 
> 
> 
> ...


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## tadk (Sep 19, 2006)

Lyrics..
yes I did...Pyrhhic Muses is a set of NPCs for my Shadowrun/Cyberpunk 2020  games...have about 3 albums worth of lyrics....Sleeping Dogs is from the first batch....Cat A Strophe is the lead singer of the band...I would be happy to share more lyrics if you want them btw...and no music i cant write it....just lyrics.....


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## Deuce Traveler (Sep 20, 2006)

Roger, it's understood.  Thanks!


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## Roger (Sep 20, 2006)

*Other writing resources*

Here's some other links to things that may help Ceramic writers.  None of these are really gospel per se, of course, but folks might find one or two things in them that resonate.

http://www.sfwa.org/writing/turkeycity.html
The Turkey City Lexicon

http://tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pmwiki.php/Main/Tropes
Lists of common TV tropes, plots, characters, etc.

http://www.cthreepo.com/cliche/
A big big list of SF cliches.

http://amethyst-angel.com/cliche.html
A big big list of fantasy cliches.

http://atrocities.primaryerror.net/rpgcliches.html
A big big list of RPG cliches.  Not actually too applicable to Ceramic DM, but still pretty amusing.


The only thing I will ask of posters is to please please _please_ *please* not clutter up the Ceramic DM thread by replying with a post about the merits or lack thereof in any of the above lists.  Posting a link to some writerly resources you think are useful is fine.  So is posting a link to a new thread that discusses one of these lists.


Cheers,
Roger


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## Hellefire (Sep 20, 2006)

Random question..is round 2 still tentatively planned to start on friday?

Aaron


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## Rodrigo Istalindir (Sep 21, 2006)

I haven't heard back from Herremann yet.  I'm ready to go on a moment's notice, though, so I can be as flexible as you all want.


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## Halivar (Sep 22, 2006)

Ick. Do we need to change the schedule?


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## Rodrigo Istalindir (Sep 22, 2006)

Round 2 postponed till next Thursday (9/28).  Sorry, guys.   I'll try to get this back on track.


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## Hellefire (Sep 22, 2006)

Any clue when judgements for round 1 or 2 will be in?

Aaron


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## Hellefire (Sep 25, 2006)

/bump


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## Berandor (Sep 25, 2006)

Hellefire said:
			
		

> Any clue when judgements for round 1 or 2 will be in?
> 
> Aaron



 bedump


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## NiTessine (Sep 26, 2006)

Bumpity bump, though I'm kinda starting to lose hope.


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## Rodrigo Istalindir (Sep 26, 2006)

Just got a bunch of stuff from maxfieldjadenfox.  Still nothing from Herremann, but I think I've got enough now to resolve round 1.  Look for something tonight after I get back from work.


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## maxfieldjadenfox (Sep 26, 2006)

Rodrigo Istalindir said:
			
		

> Just got a bunch of stuff from maxfieldjadenfox.  Still nothing from Herremann, but I think I've got enough now to resolve round 1.  Look for something tonight after I get back from work.





I sent in round 1A a couple of weeks ago, but had a bunch of real life crises that kept me from being able to deal with round 1B til yesterday. Sorry guys. I thought the groups would be done separately, so I wasn't pushing as hard to get 1B judged since it was later... Hope we can get back on track.


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## Hellefire (Sep 26, 2006)

Oooh..tonight. Hm, Home at 6 or 7, time difference + 6 hours = 12 or 1 my time, plus a couple hours for dinner and family time and to get comfy in front of the computer and format the post = 2 or 3, maybe 4. On my way to the store for some Dew .

Aaron


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## Rodrigo Istalindir (Sep 27, 2006)

*Round 1a -- Judgements from maxfieldjadenfox*

*Judgements from maxfieldjadenfox*

*Hellefire vs NiTessine*
The Cure
NiTessine

Nicely articulated world. While there isn't a lot of dialogue, each character comes across as an individual. The beholder is especially well written.

Picture Use: I thought the picture use was relatively strong, and being the D&D geek I am, I especially liked the Beholder and the Gulthias fruit. Nice twisted use of the images. The picture of the odd man was kind of a toss off, but did fit Alambur's illness pretty well.

I appreciated the sense of a complete story, with a beginning, middle and end, which sometimes doesn't happen with CDM. Nice description without getting overwrought.

Picky stuff:  The clergy of Hereloke were, not was. "The lock was open, and Crimban merely had to pull it open" is redundant. What about, "The door was unlocked"?

All in all, a readable and enjoyable tale.


Long Live the King?
Hellefire

This was an interesting concept. I hope I'm getting this as a reference to Elvis' twin who died at birth? I'm guessing the name Esid is a reference to something but I wasn't able to rearrange the letters to anything but dies. 

Picture Use: The funeral ship is an OK use of the photo, but I would have liked a bit more description. The photo of the odd man, as in NiTessine's piece, was a bit of a toss off. That being said, I'm not sure what more either of you could have done with it. The eyeball photo was used literally, as a surgery.

I thought Esid looking for "the King" and ultimately coming to the conclusion that he might be alive was really fun, but the twin muddied the waters. Actually, I had a hard time pinning the story down. It was an amusing concept, with some cool imagery  going for it, but overall it felt incomplete. Maybe if I hadn't read Halivar's entry first and already figured the "King" in the story was Elvis, the O'Henry twist at the end would have worked better for me.

[sblock]Judgment for NiTessine. [/sblock]

*Taladas vs WildGazebo*

Sanctuary
Taladas

This is a very short story. A vignette, really. And yet, it has a beginning, a middle and an end. I like the red and the blood imagery repeating over and over. It was implied by the photos, but was used nicely in this concise piece.

Picture Use: The gazebo as a menacing reminder of a past incident, as well as a frequently visited place, works well for me and doesn't feel contrived. The bloody eyes piece is described well for the possession. The balloons picture use is not as strong, but serviceable.

All in all, I feel like this piece tells a story. There isn't much to it and I would be happier if it were fleshed out, but at the same time it does have resolution.


Of Eloquence and Understanding: To Wit
Wild Gazebo

This story has some really evocative images, and a dreamy, melancholy mood. That being said, I really was never sure what it was about. Maybe I am too concrete, but I don't believe so. I don't mind a meandering story, but I want a pay off and I didn't get one here. If the last line had been something about running home to find Mother, or something like that, I would have a clue what the whole thing was leading up to.

Picture Use: The description of the pictures is lovely here, and trying to tie them together as clues is admirable. But they don't necessarily need to be in the story. Even the gazebo feels extraneous and it is part of the garden.

Maybe the problem is, while I am a lover of words, I feel like this piece uses too many big ones. There are some neat turns of phrase, but lots of misuses and misspellings.
Example- Pilot for Pilate, furry for fury, penitents for penitence. (tell me if that's a European spelling) They are minor but they add up. I never understood the attack on the gazebo, or why Bunt ended up back at the Madonna statue, or what the clues actually were leading to, because they felt disparate. Confusing bits: "He certainly was a nice fellow, er lady" How was this person nice? And why penitence to consumption? I don't really see evidence of Bunt being a conspicuous consumer, just a diligent worker... Maybe I missed the point. I appreciate the overall Lovecraftian mood of the piece, but I would encourage you to think more about the story you're telling and less about the tricky turns of phrase.

[sblock]Judgement for Taladas[/sblock]

*Paka vs DeuceTraveller*

First Baby Step Toward the World's End
Paka

I really liked this concept. It's witty and well executed.

Picture Use: Man near pipes. This photo sets up the whole story. The doll in the blanket furthers the story and the slide ends it nicely. Overall, I think the picture use is pretty strong here.

The story is charming. The characters are nicely defined and well written. This is an example of how a short story should work, it's clear and concise, gives me a real sense of character and place and follows through.


The 22nd Anniversary of a Homecoming
Deuce Traveler

I always enjoy stories of some magical realm intersecting with ours. PETPC Made me laugh.

Picture Use: The homunculus in the blanket was funny and did advance the story. The slide and pipes pictures really were throw aways, just fixtures at locations that weren't really important to the story.

The idea of the Derro as crime lords is an interesting one, and Robert the repo man is a sympathetic character. I'd like to see what you could do with this story without the picture restrictions. Feels like part of a longer piece.

[sblock]Vote for Paka[/sblock]

*Halivar vs Aris Dragonborn*

Billy's Reckoning
Halivar

I got a huge kick out of Billy's Reckoning. I thought the characters were well done and I about wet myself over the "the democrats won" line.

Picture Use: The house photo was kind of a toss off, but it did establish a sense of place for these folk. The machine was obviously the time machine and is very important to the plot, and the  star kid photo was used in an interesting way.

Billy and Vern are great characters. The setting and plot worked well. I think they should have spent a bit more time in the future as everything after they were fed beer and steak seemed a bit rushed. All in all though, a fun and nicely crafted tale.

Default to Halivar


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## Rodrigo Istalindir (Sep 27, 2006)

*Round 1a -- Judgements from Berandor*

"Hello?" I asked. Nobody answered. Slowly, I crept into the house.

The door had been leaning open when I arrived, sent by Rodrigo Istalindir to find out what happened to Herreman the Wise. It was foolish to enter the house unbidden, but I couldn't return without some kind of information on the missing judge.

The hallway lay silent and dark. Beyond, I could see flickering light shine beneath a set of double doors leading into what I surmised was the living room. There was noise coming from that door, as if someone was watching TV too loudly. I shook my head in relief. Probably, Herreman hadn't heard the bell. I strode towards the door and opened it.

Beyond was a large room, bereft of most furtiniture. There was a giant TV screen at the wall, showing what seemed like a match of Mortal Kombat. Under the screen was a small alter made from plastic fashioned to look like human bones, with candles sitting atop plastic skulls. At least, I hoped it was plastic. Two skeletal hands protuded from the altar, holding a scythe made from ivory, its blade shining dark and hungry.

But that was at the other end of the room. The way to the altar was flanked by eight wooden pedestals on either side. Four on either side were empty. A few sheets of vellum lay on each of the other eight, tiny letters cratched upon them.

That was everything, as far as furniture went. And then, there were the gnupfs. Herreman had told me about them, but we'd both been drunk, and frankly, I didn't much believe in tiny, four-inch tall goblinoid beings unless I saw them myself. Until I saw them myself. There were about eleven gnupfs clustered in front of the altar. Two groups of five were handling a game controller, each, with the ninth gnupf commenting the Mortal Kombat like a TV reporter. One gnupf each pullled at the control sticks, one gnupf was responsible for the front buttons, and a last one had to press the side buttons.

"Excuse me?" I announced my arrival. The gnupfs stopped playing, and two of them hurried off behind the altar. The others simply looked at me, saying nothing. It was the scythe that spoke.

"You're not the usual one." Its – her voice was cold and sent a chill down my spine.

"Herreman? No. Actually – I was looking for him. I guess he's not here, then? Oh, well. I'll leave him a note."

The door swung shut behind me. I pulled, but it wouldn't budge. Just then, the image on the TV changed to show me, backed up against the double doors of Herreman's living room. One of the gnupfs held a tiny camera, and a second one was monitoring the feed, giving a thumbs up.

"You'll do," said the scythe. What had Herreman called her? Lady something unpleasant. Death? Rejection? Deadline? Lady Deadline. That was it.

"Umm, listen, my– Mylady," I began. "I don't actually have time to-"

"I'm hungry. And bored."

Suddenly two gnupfs were standing on the pedestals, pointing at the texts next to them, while four others had grabbed my shoelaces and pulled me towards the altar. I stumbled forward, grabbed the first set of texts as I went, and looked them over. They were contest entries, alright.

"Choose the sacrifice," Lady Deadline demanded. Actually, I believe her name was Lady Death. But demand she did.

"Choose. Choose. Choose," came a tiny chorus from the assembled gnupfs. They had climbed the alter with surprising agility. One of them grabbed at a text and tried to pull it from my fingers.

"Hey!" I shouted. "At least let me read these things."

"But hurry," said the scythe. She needn't have to worry. Hurry I would. The sooner I'd get out of here, the sooner I could find an open bar and drown my memory in a bittersweet flood of alcohol.

"Okay, let's see. This is *Wild Gazebo vs. Taladas*. Hmm... Wild Gazebo impressed me with his vocabulary and flowery style, whereas Taladas's tale was plainer. But also, it was simple to understand, whereas I felt Wild Gazebo went overboard with metaphors and adjectives and similes and whatnot, so that every sentence was its own jungle, with no clear path leading through the vegetation. Honestly, I don't know that I understood everything, and I'm still a little unclear about what it all meant. But it sounded good."

Three gnupfs seemed impressed by this first part of my judgement, and 2 went over to Taladas, while 1 stood on Wild Gazebo's side.

"I liked the idea of Taladas's story, about a man that finds redemption in helping others. Very nice. But it's the implementation that counts, and it failed to impress me. This reads like a vignette, like a small part of a much larger story, not like a story in its own right. We need some sort of conflict here, and what little there is amounts to nothing. The priest's epiphany at the end comes without a cost, without tension, it just happens. So "Sanctuary" left me rather cold.

"Reading "Of Eloquence and Understanding: to Wit" was more interesting, definitely. There were the signs which kept my focus high. Signs for what? And how were the balloons signs? Unfortunately, we never really find out. The protagonist is banished (or banishes himself) into an infinite garden, but to what end? And in the end, he's dead beneath Mary's statue (or is he alive), while said statue begins to weep blood. And that's the fourth sign. It seems I lack the Eloquence for Understanding."

The gnupfs discussed among themselves for some time, until finally, a second gnupf walked over on Wild Gazebo's side. The rest remained standing in the middle.

"It comes to the pictures to decide this." The TV screen image changed again, showing the three pictures with me in the fourth corner.

"The bloody face: Taladas gave us a nice little excorcism. Do these things ever go well? I mean, ever? It's creepy, and it's fitting, and at least it's nothing with peas in it. Wild Gazebo had the Mary cry blood, and I really enjoy that idea and imagery. I think that Taladas's use is more important to the story, however, which could be dependent on my understanding of Mary's tears (or lack thereof)."

One gnupf casually walked over to Taladas's side.

"The gazebo: Here's where the preacher met the woman he couldn't save. There's no real reason it's a gazebo, or anything, but it's somewhat important simply for its function. With Wild Gazebo, he does it better, perhaps he has an affinity for these structures. This gazebo is a beguilingly idyllic creature in the middle of an endless garden, a torment by being so peaceful. I wouldn't want to be sent there, either."

One gnupf went over to Wild Gazebo, and the groups made noses at each other.

"Finally, the church with ballons: Here's where Taladas drops the ball. He tries to make the picture into the very thing that changes the priest's outlook, but it comes out of the blue, both that change and the importance of the church fest. Oh, hey, there's a mother, I guess I better stay. But I admire the idea, which only enabled him to drop the ball that much. On the other hand, this is Wild Gazebo's first sign. I smiled at the time warp effect of baloons escaping to the sky, but we never find out what the sign is for, and since I don't really think the narrator saw and interpreted the sign correctly, I'm not sure that counts for much."

The three gnupfs in the middle looked at me. They did not move.

"In the end, I'd say Taladas had the better idea, but the worse implementation. It's hard to decide upon this, because without any ideas, you can't write anything, and often contestants get better in round two. But on the other hand, I can't judge what could have been, only what is. And in that case, I think Wild Gazebo did a slightly better job."

I held the vellum pages aloft. "Uhm, what do I do now?"

"Put it on my blade," said Lady Death. It was then I realized she didn't really speak, as in out loud. Her words simply formed in my head.

I did as I was told. The pages slid down the curved blade, and as they did, the vellum blackened, until it was reduced to ashes.

"Fatality!" the gnupfs cried happily. Then they rushed off to hand me the second pair of texts.

"Uh... *Hellefire vs. NiTessine*," I read. Flipping the pages, I could feel the gnupfs stare at me, fidgeting impatiently.

"Hellefire really had a wonderful story here, complete with rising tension and climax. Of course, it's a slightly twisty climax, almost a Ceramic DM prerequisite. I did found out who the King was before I was told, but it was still late in the story. Very nice. And alien, it was a very alien story. It's difficult to write a familiar experience in unfamiliar terms without sounding trite or confusing.

"NiTessine had a wholly different story, and he managed the difficult task of incorporating real-world pictures into a fantasy environment.  I didn't really want Alambur to be saved, in the end. What they did to the beholder was just mean! Also a very nice story, even though I enjoyed the alien-ness of Hellefire's a smidgen more. The reason being that "The Cure" didn't really have any conflict. It was just a summary of how Alambut got cured. He goes that way, and tortures a beholder, and then he goes the other way and calls in a favor. That's not very dramatic."

This time, 4 gnupfs went over to Hellefire right away, and 3 went to NiTessine. It seemed the gnupfs had enjoyed reading as much as I had.

"The pictures, then. The sphinctery thing: Don't tell me what it really is. I don't want to know. Hellefire makes this the subject of an iris operation, a particularly painful one. I don't know why the protagonist loses his second half during the operation, other than maybe Hellefire lost interest in using the second voice. NiTessine shows us a beholder being tortured in a really, really bad way. So much so that I didn't know whether Alamber was supposed to be cured in the end, because I hate that guy now. It may have even harmed the narrative, but any picture that provokes an emotional reponse like this one did gets my vote.

"Merry-go-round: Hellefire's use was very nice, making a merry-go-round (or is it a fountain? I have no idea) into an alien spaceship crashed head-first into the ground. NiTessine ignored the background and changed scale (I hope, unless it's a really big apple) to show us Alamber's cure. For both stories, this picture is the quest item and goal of the plot. I just don't like changing a picture too much, and while I enjoyed the apple as real, leaving the city out of the desciption just makes this seem a little weaker than Hellefire's."

The sitting man: Or, picture 1, as both of you called it. I don't know which use is weaker. NiTessine shows us the protagonist waking up. He's ill. That's it. Hellefire uses the picture similarly, but here at least I learn for sure that Esid is disguised as human. So by that count, this is Hellefire's pic."

That made 6 gnupfs to 3 for Hellefire. The gnupfs rejoiced. "Fatality!"

I was hardly finished pinning the vellum on Lady Death when the gnupfs held the next two stories up.

"I need a break", I said. The gnupfs continued holding the pages up.

"A beer? At least some coffee?"

Lady Death shook her head. Yeah, I know that sounds impossible, but she didn't say anything, and still I knew my requests had been denied.

"Fine." I grabbed the stories, quick enough to catch one gnupf unawares and send him over the altar's edge. The gnupf plummeted down and landed with a satisfying splat, but it seemed unhurt. It stood up, rubbed its backside and fixed me with a malevolent stare. I ignored it.

"So what do we have here? *Halivar vs. Aris Dragonborn*." I flipped through the pages. "Alright. I was enthralled by Halivar's story. Was it pre-written? Because coing up with that in three days is quite a feat. There were numerous shout-outs to equally as numerous sci-fi programming. This story contained the best elements of a farce, constantly raising the absurdity a notch, until even eating Weena meat doesn't seem that gross (talking about Republicans, of course ). And the end was just right, inevitable and still surprising. Wonderful story, more of that and Halivar might just win this thing altogether."

4 gnupfs quickly made their way over to Halivar's side, but the one that had fallen went to Aris Dragonborn's side, sticking its tongue out at me.

"Aris Dragonborn's story had a few places where I felt we got redundant information, but here it's not only coming up with the story, but writing it. It's almost a novella, and true to D&D, too – except the Christian part, since D&D = devil. (Or our scythes would be much more friendly) I enjoyed this one, too, but since its dialogue and sequence of events wasn't as polished as Halivar's was, I'd consider it slightly weaker."

3 gnupfs went over to Aris, with the Fallen Gnupf still standing there, evening the score, whistling innocently.

"To the pictures." I reviews the stories. And then I noticed it. "Aris used the wrong pictures? Why do you make me read these two, then? I don't have time for this."

The gnupfs laughed heartily at my annoyance, and the camera gnupf zoomed right into my nose. I could count my nostrils as they flared in anger.

"Alright, since I already read this, let's make it quick. The drill press, the yellow freeform dance of death, these pics were used very well in Halivar's story, driving the narrative. The shed, not so much, since it's the patio of Billy's home, and not the time traveling shed (from what I gathered). Still, 2 of 3 very good."

"Aris, I missed a really great use of pics. The weeping one was nice, but up until then I thought one of the weeping kids at the beginning had been that pic. Other than that, good choice. The church and the gazebo weren't that important (especially the church), since afterwards there was this whole dungeon adventure following. Maybe if he had the gazebo open up into the dungeon, or placed it at the church or something, it would have been better. And really, _Why did nobody have the gazebo attack someone?_. Come on! If I were to judge, I'd give a totally deliberate 2-1 to Halivar."

The fell gnupf rushed across the altar, punched its remaining fellow and then, while it was reeling from the punch, dragged it into Aris's corner. It cackled madly.

"I don't care," I said. "Aris didn't even use the right pics!" I took Aris's story and pinned it on Lady Death, who quickly consumed it.

The gnupfs booed.

Still, they brought me the final paring – for now.

"*Paka vs. Deuce Traveler*," I read. "Well, I must say Paka's story hit me somewhat out of the blue. It was somewhat irreverend,  but also quite serious. If there's anything I would have liked it to be fleshed out more, better explained. Especially the second part – while I like the idea of adults behaving irresponsible, I didn't really understand what Bub's tempting offer had to do with the rest of the story. Also, it's here I felt the dialogue could have used the most polish, it lacked grip. This story is also not too dramatic, with everything pretty much going as planned (despite the arch-angel stranding in hell). The final scene was a very nice idea, if a bit  heavy-hitting. Still, it came full circle.

"Deuce Traveler's story was very entertaining. It was a serious story set in a somewhat whimsical universe. I really enjoyed the barbaric outbursts threatening to overcome the hero, and him having to take pills to quell them. There was also the magnificient "I felt like being railroaded". Still, for a barbarian, Robert was quite good at bluffing and, uh, thinking. And then you take his medecine away, and I want to see him punch someone. But I don't get to see that. Plus, the final sentence is a letdown, because it looks as if you didn't trust us to connect the dots ourselves, telling us explicitly about "barbaric desire"."

The gnupfs stared at me, expectantly.

"Yes, I'm done," I said. "Make up your own mind."

Shrugging, 3 gnupfs each went to Paka and Deuce Traveler. That left one for each pic.

"Man on Windwheel: I guess it should be "man on pump". Anyway, Deuce Traveler has the man set the story in motion, because he finds the heartstone and sells it to Robert's surprisingly well-off sister who wants to find a cure for a man she doesn't even visit anymore. Or something. Paka gives us a "wingless cherub in working gear", which on the idea alone gives him a good start. The cherub guards the pipe of responsibility, which is what the story is about – just like the heartstone. But cherub beats friendly worker.

"The tossed cthulhu puppet: Here, Paka gives us an out-of-the-blue use. Sure it's a cool tie-in to the responsibility theme, and this alone makes the picture a moderately good one, but why do these suits decide to play blanket-toss? Because it's in a picture, that's why. Deuce Traveler makes the picture important by introducing PETPC, a probable development for his fantasy world, and two people tossing a lovable little homunculus that steals Robert's pills. Good idea, but the loss of pills has no effect whatsoever on the story. Robert doesn't lose his temper. Mayhaps you ran out of time, but I really expected something to come off it."

"The slide of evil: Again, Deuce Traveler doesn't really grab me with his use. So he and his sister meet on a playground, and the slide's cool metal calms Robert a little. Alright. But the slide's not important, and Robert can't stay angry at his family, anyway. Paka ties the slide neatly into the story, having responsible kids forego sliding for a day. By its existence, this use also bolsters the second picture, since this is somewhat of a mirror image to the playing adults. All in all, very nice picture use, Paka."

The three gnupfs all made their way over to the same side.

"Yeah. Two very nice stories, one consistently better picture use."

I flung Deuce Traveler's story onto the blade, and it slid down with a curiously wet sound. The gnupfs were out of their minds.

"Fatality!"

"Sure," I said. "But can I please have a beer?"


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## Rodrigo Istalindir (Sep 27, 2006)

So, Paka advances 2-0, and Halivar advances by default.  WildGazebo and Taladas are split 1-1, as are NiTessine and Hellefire.

Tiebreaker to follow.....


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## Halivar (Sep 27, 2006)

Little did Aris know, I intentionally swapped his pictures with the rich taste of Folger's Crystals! For the win!


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## Rodrigo Istalindir (Sep 27, 2006)

Tiebreaker – WildGazebo vs Taladas

WildGazebo – Some very powerful and evocative imagery, but almost too much.  The narrative thread that should anchor everything together isn’t strong enough to hold, and instead of feeling something concrete at the end, I’m left thinking ‘Huh?’.  This is one of those times, I think, where the short timeframe for Ceramic DM really hurts – I think if the writer had gotten an outside  opinion before submitting, they might have filled in some of the blanks.  Picture use is pretty good, especially the bleeding Mary at the climax.  

Taladas – This story had an intriguing beginning – I’m a sucker for stories with foreshadowing.   Unfortunately, for foreshadowing to work, you need some space between the portents and their realization, some time for the sense of dread and the reader’s investment in the characters to develop.  Still, the scene with the demon leaving the body was jarring and well executed.  I think, though, that the story would have been better had the reason for the Reverend’s depression been revealed at the end.  Use the other scenes to hint and tease and then *blammo*.  The picture use is solid, and like WildGazebo’s story the bloody scream is the most dramatic and effective.

This is a tough call.  I think picture use is roughly even.  WildGazebo does slightly better on per-picture basis, but the overall flow of the story dilutes their impact.  Both make excellent use of the one picture, though.  Had Taladas re-worked the structure to deliver the payoff at the end, he’d have won, but this one goes to WildGazebo by a hair.

WildGazebo advances, 2-1. 

Tiebreaker – NiTessine vs Hellefire

NiTessine --  A marvelous little story.  An interesting character at its center, one that would be welcome to appear again.  The prose overflows with little touches that give the story weight and presence and a sense of place and time that makes it feel like part of a more expansive work.  The names and titles and so forth are an exceptional touch.  The final third of the story and the denouement are a bit of a letdown, but that’s partly a result of how strong the setup and scene with the beholder were.  The picture is is very good – the establishing shot of the protagonist is solid, and by working the illness into the picture, it gives it an impact that carries through the story.  The torturing of the beholder is superb, essential to the story, and a perfect example of story use in Ceramic DM.  The apple stretches things to the breaking point, though.  Poetic license is ok, but you always run the risk of losing any relevance of the real picture to the story.

Hellefire --  An interesting approach, and well-executed.  The  story drops you right into an alien encounter with little exposition, letting the reader’s initial ignorance enhance the alien flavor.  The ETs are truly non-human, but there is enough in common to not totally alienate (  ) the reader from the protagonist.  The use of Elvis as a civilization-altering envoy is clever, although I tweaked to it earlier than the author probably intended, lessening the impact of the revelation at the end.  The scenes on the alien spaceship are solid and detailed; the scenes on Earth are a little too pat, though, and seem a little forced.  Still, an excellent little story.  The picture use is solid, but lacked any single image that really tied the story together.  The crashed spaceship, though, was clever, and a better example of how to take liberties with a picture and still keep it consistent with the rest of the setting.

Two solid entries, both chock-full of little details that really make their respective stories come alive and feel three-dimensional.  NiTessine’s picture use was a little stronger, though, and the beholder scene was near-perfect Ceramic DM.

NiTessine advances, 2-1.

Congratulations and thanks to all the competitors.  This was an exceptional Ceramic DM round.


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## Berandor (Sep 27, 2006)

Congrats *to* those who advanced.


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## NiTessine (Sep 27, 2006)

Excellent. Thank you for your critique and observations. I liked the beholder scene quite a bit myself. I feel similarly about the ending, but I was running out of time. I blame most of the typos, grammatical errors, and tautologisms on the same problem.

So, anyone figure out the real name of the Dragonlord?


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## Wild Gazebo (Sep 27, 2006)

"Example- Pilot for Pilate, furry for fury, penitents for penitence. (tell me if that's a European spelling)"

No.  It most certainly isn't.  In order of error...idiocy...typo...miss-edit.

Antiquated use of consumption:  wasting of the body.   Derived from it being a synonym for tuberculosis.  The real question is why 'penitence'.

Thanks for the readover.


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## Taladas (Sep 27, 2006)

Congrats  to Wild Gazebo and everyone else that advanced.


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## maxfieldjadenfox (Sep 27, 2006)

Wild Gazebo said:
			
		

> "Example- Pilot for Pilate, furry for fury, penitents for penitence. (tell me if that's a European spelling)"
> 
> No.  It most certainly isn't.  In order of error...idiocy...typo...miss-edit.
> 
> ...




Hmmm. I hadn't thought of consumption in the tuburcular mode, I think the conspicuous descriptor threw me off...

Congrats to all of the winners, I sent in my round 1B judgements so we must be waiting for Lady Death again.


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## Hellefire (Sep 27, 2006)

Congrats to those who won!

Now, could someone kindly remove this pole from my neck and help me find my body? 

Aaron


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## Deuce Traveler (Sep 27, 2006)

Congrats to Paka.  Sorry, but my story was going to be a two-parter, since I was hoping to advance.  I see that I should have done one complete story at a time now.

Anyway, did anyone figure out who Robert, Sheila, and Coach Hank were and why they feel responsible for the world being as it was?


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## Deuce Traveler (Sep 27, 2006)

NiTessine said:
			
		

> Excellent. Thank you for your critique and observations. I liked the beholder scene quite a bit myself. I feel similarly about the ending, but I was running out of time. I blame most of the typos, grammatical errors, and tautologisms on the same problem.
> 
> So, anyone figure out the real name of the Dragonlord?




I honestly have to admit that it rang a bell, but I couldn't figure it out.  Was I mistaken in seeing a little lore from the Tomb of Horrors in there?


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## NiTessine (Sep 27, 2006)

Deuce Traveler said:
			
		

> I honestly have to admit that it rang a bell, but I couldn't figure it out.  Was I mistaken in seeing a little lore from the Tomb of Horrors in there?



Heh. You'll groan when you find out. I know I did when I figured out who Coach Hank, Robert, and Sheila were.

I didn't consciously reference _Tomb of Horrors_ in there, I think, but it's possible something slipped in. I know there are references to at least two adventure modules and some of the beholder stuff I studied from _Monstrous Arcana: I, Tyrant_. There's also a nod to Eberron, which is probably the most obvious of them all, and a couple of other things.


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## Deuce Traveler (Sep 27, 2006)

NiTessine said:
			
		

> Heh. You'll groan when you find out. I know I did when I figured out who Coach Hank, Robert, and Sheila were.
> 
> I didn't consciously reference _Tomb of Horrors_ in there, I think, but it's possible something slipped in. I know there are references to at least two adventure modules and some of the beholder stuff I studied from _Monstrous Arcana: I, Tyrant_. There's also a nod to Eberron, which is probably the most obvious of them all, and a couple of other things.




I also did a nod to an old module that some will remember for the old DnD characters like "Warduke", called _Quest for the Heartstone_, where different heartstones did different things.  The heartstone that Sheila has is one that fully heals a character in the module, so Hank was meant to get it after he was tossed into a glass window of a sporting goods store during the attempt to rescue him... a store with composite bows and arrows...


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## Berandor (Sep 27, 2006)

So Hank = Green Arrow? Robert = Hulk (though the name doesn't fit)? I got no idea. Please spoiler the secret names of modern hero and ancient dragonlord for those who are too dumb to find out.


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## NiTessine (Sep 27, 2006)

The Dragonlord is... 



Spoiler



Meepo from _The Sunless Citadel_. He gained the "Dragonlord" appellation in _Fantastic Locations: Dragondown Grotto_ and _War of the Dragon Queen_. I'll let Deuce tell you his heroes' names, but I can tell you that you're on the totally wrong track and will likely groan when you find out.


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## Aris Dragonborn (Sep 27, 2006)

Halivar said:
			
		

> Little did Aris know, I intentionally swapped his pictures with the rich taste of Folger's Crystals! For the win!




 
Good luck in round 2, dude, and good luck to everyone else who advanced.


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## Deuce Traveler (Sep 27, 2006)

Berandor said:
			
		

> So Hank = Green Arrow? Robert = Hulk (though the name doesn't fit)? I got no idea. Please spoiler the secret names of modern hero and ancient dragonlord for those who are too dumb to find out.




Spoiler:
They are the kids from the dungeons and dragons cartoon that ran 22 years ago.  When they returned, the portal didn't close properly and transportation between the worlds became more randomized as portals opened and closed at different spots.  Hank got crippled trying to stop hellhounds from coming in through one portal that he was informed about.  Robert (Bobby) has been trying to keep his cool ever since returning.  Think of how much rage you'd have as an adult if you were an easily angered, barbarian kid before puberty.


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## Berandor (Sep 27, 2006)

*groan*

Heh.


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## Rodrigo Istalindir (Sep 27, 2006)

Some of us had mercifully managed to suppress memories of that cartoon.  Thanks for bringing them back


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## Rodrigo Istalindir (Sep 27, 2006)

*Judgment for Round 1b, Match 8 - Rpjunkie vs GuardianLurker*

*maxfieldjadenfox*
Guardian Lurker Vs RPJunkie

Mission Improbable
RPJunkie

First I think your description of the griffin-man was very well done. I like the idea of multiple hearts, and the beginnings of the world are pretty cool as well.

Picture use:
Griffin pic is well used. It sets us in an alien landscape immediately. The bubble as shield is a good idea, but I would have liked the execution better if it had somehow tied to the method of transport since you already set it up. The lighthouse is kind of a toss off. It doesn't need to be in the story.

A huge pet peeve of mine is changing tenses. We all do it accidentally, but I try to be diligent about picking one and making sure it matches throughout the story when I edit. It's one of the most disconcerting grammar errors and it pulls me right out of the story when it happens, and it happened a lot in this story. The story started off strong but grew jumbled once the players were on earth. The "it was just a dream" ending always feels like a cop out to me.


The Case of the Missing Beacon
Guardian Lurker

A story from the Celestial Plane. With a detective. Intriguing.

Picture use:
The lighthouse was central to the story and was well used. I also liked the use of the griffin as hawk-woman. That being said, I would have liked it if you did more with her. She was young and inept. It could have been more fun if she had been shirking her duties in some way, or in on the heist... The Sphere of Celestial Invulnerability would appeal to us gamers, and was an original usage of the bubble picture.

The ritual the dragon man was doing was also appealing to the gamer in me. I liked the main character, you don't often find a hard bitten, gumshoe angel. I am totally "gumophobic", so the bubblegum incident cracked me up.


Both stories presented neat worlds and I enjoyed reading them. Decision to Guardian Lurker.

*Rodrigo Istalindir*
Rpjunkie vs GuardianLurker

*Rpjunkie* – Here we have a quick little action story with a non-human protagonist.  The idea of a plane-shifting strike team is intriguing, more so when our world is on the receiving end.  There are some tantalizing hints of visits past, but unfortunately this never progress beyond a sketch.  Obviously these beings served as the source of terrestrial legends, but maybe a brief flashback to the origin of one of the legends would have fleshed that out some.

The pacing of the story is swift, and conveys the sense of urgency that a commando raid would have.  Maybe a little too swift, though, as aside from the introduction, we don’t get a sense of the players in the story – not even names for most.  A little detail to gild the story is always welcome.  Names of people and places, brief backstories for characters, these go a long way to giving the story some heft.  The hard thing about short stories is that they aren’t long enough to immerse the reader the way a novel does; this is especially true of stories set outside the real world.  The more three-dimensional you can make things (within the time and length constraints), the better off you are.

The prose is workman-like and efficient, but lacking in polish.  There are some awkward shifts in tense, and some of the paragraph breaks aren’t as clean as they should be, which throws off the pacing a little.  Care should be taken to separate the thoughts of the actor from the narrative.  For example:  

_As he saw me standing there he screamed! It startled me and I screamed too! This of course does not make friends very easily. The human ran to the desk inside and grabbed something that made a tinkling sound and ran from the room. My men were alerted and had weapons drawn as the human burst out of the side door running for the barn._

It shifts from action ( “he screamed” ) to the thoughts of the character ( “This of course” ) and back to action.  Nothing unforgiveably wrong, from a technical perspective (aside from the ‘!’s), but maybe better like this:

_He saw me standing there and screamed.  Startled, I screamed too.

“This isn’t a good way to make friends,” I thought to myself.

The human ran to the desk, grabbed something that tinkled like wind-chimes, and ran from the room._

By breaking things up, and putting the reader into the head of the protagonist, you can improve the flow of the story and help the reader identify with the characters.

Picture use is ok.  Using the gryphon as the hero was a nice touch, but it might have been better used a bit later in the story ( “I unfurled my wings and leapt into the air.” ) rather than right off.  Let the reader start off thinking he’s dealing with normal humans and then hit him with the surprise.  

I hope you don’t think I’m beating up on you   This is a good first entry for someone new to Ceramic DM, more so if it’s your first story ever.  Take some time to read the other stories, and especially to read the judgments, to see what sets one story apart from another.  Take more time next time, too – I tend to write my stories in a single sitting also, and I *always* benefit from a second read-through when the dust has settled.  It’s easy to get into the groove of putting words on paper and not notice that what sounds good while you are writing it doesn’t flow as well when you read it.  Reading it out loud to yourself works well for me – it helps me identify pacing problems and awkward phrasings, and also to see if I’m overusing certain phrasings or sentence structures.   Thanks for competing, and I hope to see you in the next competition.

*GuardianLurker* –  This story is an interesting blend, a planar romp with Chandleresque overtones.  The second paragraph has some nice teasers that hint at a larger world outside the scope of the story.  The investigation is intriguing, but a little dry.  More dialogue with Willa would have been welcome, and interspersed with the various discoveries would have made each seem more important.  

While things got off to a good start, the second half seemed rushed, in particular the protagonist’s deductions.  The bing-bang-boom planehopping  doesn’t help, not so much because of the change of scenery, but in how its written.  While it does a nice job of establishing Shammer’s abilities and reinforces the ‘seen it all’ hard-boiled detective bit, as written it came across as perfunctory rather than casual.   The resolution is a little unclear – the confrontation with the half-dragon (what is it with half-dragons this go-around?) could have used some of the exposition common to the detective genre to wrap things up.

Picture use is pretty good.  The lighthouses as astral beacons is good, and results in some nice mental pictures of the surrounding area.  The ‘hawkwoman’ guardian fits in seamlessly.  Using the ‘bubbleman’ as part of an integral action sequence was a good choice.

Rpjunkie made an admirable effort, but lacked the polish and intangibles that will come with practice and experience.  Guardianlurker’s story starts off strong, but can’t sustain itself.  Still, with better technique and stronger picture use, this judgment goes to GuardianLurker. 

GuardianLurker advances, 2-0.


----------



## Rodrigo Istalindir (Sep 27, 2006)

*maxfieldjadenfox's comments on Aris Dragonborn and Linderel's entries*

The Sacrifice
Aris Dragonborne

Wowee. I really liked this one! Good, page turning story and neat picture use. The balloon pic at the beginning wasn't the strongest use I've ever seen, but it worked. The gazebo and the bleeding eyes pic were recurring thematic elements and the way you used them pleased me. I'm sorry they weren't your pictures to write to. Looking forward to seeing your work again in the future though.


Linderel Vs Mazlo

Untitled
Linderel

Girl mad scientist. Neat idea, some nice language use.

Picture use:
The picture use was OK here. The weird lizard picture started the story off and I like that it shows up again at the end. You used the mushrooms and the house on the hill reasonably well too, but abandoned the images too quickly.

The main problem I had with this story is it's lack of emotion. You set yourself up by stating that "nothing could faze Robin Farrell" in the first paragraph. By the end, she is obviously fazed, but there is lots of telling and no showing. You used some funny descriptive bits, like her thinking she might have walked under a car, but I never saw Robin's temper, or Annie's perfection. When you started referring to "the girl" it muddied the waters even more. The characters seemed interchangable, and I was confused that someone with Annie's power would appear to be timid. I also got confused about which girl was who during the mushroom conversation. The point of view did a kind of precarious shift. Keep it in mind for the next round.

Round goes to Linderel by default.


----------



## Rodrigo Istalindir (Sep 27, 2006)

*Judgment for Round 1b, Match 7 - yangnome vs Kassiopeia*

*maxfieldjadenfox*
Kassiopeia Vs Yangnome

Aftershock

This is an interesting concept, post apocalypse of some kind, or merely the slow descent into madness that we've already started? I enjoyed the tone, and the execution was good, but there's just not much "there" there, if you know what I mean.

Picture use:
I think the picture use is weak here. The alien guy pic was kind of a toss off, didn't really end up showing up anywhere after the first bit. Unfortunately, I felt the same way about the parade and jackhammer pictures. The jackhammer use was clever in the context of the story, but the girl's gesture is so clear that writing that she was wiping her brow instead of making a loser sign robs it of it's importance. The parade happens and is a chance to explain that the children are leaving, but not much else. Truly effective picture use winds through the story in some meaningful way.

All in all, a good effort, with some lovely funny, ironic bits, but a little sparse and too quickly wrapped up for my taste.

Yangnome

A dramatic entry. I thought the format was a good way to tell a CDM story, and the voice was strong. I wish the ending had been just a bit less random. Had he killed the girl who tormented him, it would have felt more symmetrical to me, but that being said, it would have also been more formulaic, so points for originality.

Picture use: The alien picture was well used. It set up the whole story and was an integral part of it. The other two didn't work as well, although the homecoming float was the inciting incident (used at the end of the story. interesting). The loser girl seemed kind of shoe horned into the story, but it was a good attempt.

This was well written and the bitter edge of the character is apparent, especially in the Elephant Man line. I would have preferred the word bitch to whore, since whore didn't really fit the girl's actions, but that's just me.

Both outsider stories, but I think this time the stronger one is Yangnome's. 

*Rodrigo Istalindir*

*Yangnome – *

A grim story, full of foreshadowing and foreboding.  Some stories try to hide their ending for shock value; some reveal it early to the same effect.  The main characters monologue is dark and depressing and very well executed, hindered only by some typos and a couple awkward tense shifts and transitions.  Still, very well done.  This story strikes a chord, I suspect, in pretty much everyone.  I’ve learned in the years since high-school that some of the people I thought had  it all together and everything going for them had the same issues and problems as the rest of us; even the popular kids can feel alienated and disaffected.

Picture use is good all around.   The ‘L for Loser’ was a creative use, and integral to the story.  The ‘Prom parade’ was an effective and inevitable conclusion.  Saving the ‘alien’ photo for the end is a wise choice, much better than tipping your hand early.

*Kassiopeia –*

Wow, what a tantalizing story.  I love it when I get dumped into a strange environment and have to puzzle things out from hints and indirect references.  The beginning is especially strong, veering from normal to weird.  Very well executed.  There is so much here that I want to know more about.

The payoff doesn’t live up to the set-up, though.  You do a wonderful job of laying the groundwork for something, well, shocking, and unfortunately things seem to taper off without enough resolution or explanation to satisfy.  There is the core of something really cool here, something that I’d like to see revisited in a more substantial work.

Picture use is mixed.  The ‘alien’ photo is kind of a throw-away; I’m not sure if it was purely the protagonist’s imagination or a real effect of his affliction.  The ‘Farewell’ parade is intriguing; more details in the story would have been welcome, but there is a synergy there that gives it a nice creepy air.  The ‘woman with the jackhammer’ seems a bit weak; the picture is clearly important to the ending, but the setup isn’t there.

Kassiopeia has the threads of a really neat story, but they dangle just out of reach.  Yangnome’s story is a tad conventional and predictable, but is well executed, and with stronger picture use.  Judgement for yangnome.

Yangnome advances 2-0.


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## Rodrigo Istalindir (Sep 27, 2006)

Waiting to hear back from Berandor on tadk vs Roger.


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## Rodrigo Istalindir (Sep 27, 2006)

maxfieldjadenfox said:
			
		

> I would have preferred the word bitch to whore, since whore didn't really fit the girl's actions..




Like the old joke -- What's the difference between a bitch and a whore?  A whore sleeps with everybody; a bitch sleeps with everybody but me.


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## Rodrigo Istalindir (Sep 27, 2006)

*Judgment for Round 1, Match 5, tadk vs Roger*

*Berandor*

So I've been asked to do a formal decision for *tadk* vs *Roger*. I've
already given a few comments, now let's compare both stories.

I think in picture use, both entries are similar. Roger's movie set is
easily beaten by tadk's carnage place, whereas tadk's wheelchair saw me
confused and is overrolled by Roger's astral adventure. The third pic
was equally well-used, so I must say the off-color death described by
tadk was a smidgen more to my tastes.

But ultimately, it's the story which must decide. First off, tadk
switches between present and past tense. Roger's writing is cleaner.
I'm impressed by the work tadk invested here, including lyrics into the
story, making it once more a somewhat poetically-inclined entry.

In the end, "Forever lasts too long for those in love" is more like a
song itself, in that it describes a love story (and a tragic one, at
that), but doesn't hold much conflict in it. There are stanzas, between
which time advances, and which themselves then show the new status quo.
It's once more very atmospheric, but other than the atmosphere of
tragic love there's not so much happening here. Vik's death stands out
because it doesn't really seem to fit this real-world affair, but then
again I liked it probably just because of that.

"Be not afraid", on the other hand, feels more complete, in that we
start with a situation that is wrong, and a protagonist who strives and
succeeds to return to the rightful status quo, leaving some of his
bitterness behind in the process. There's a progression here, an order
of events that lead to a final confrontation. However, conflict isn't
too strong here, either. Jack meets Kokabiel, and goes instantly with
him. He is pulled by Alex into the Astral, but there he quickly plunges
the knife into his former friend come foe. And as I said, Kokabiel's
remorse wasn't too well explained, and I sort of was expecting Jack to
doom himself to a life of hate, maybe in prison, due to the demon's
machinations. And some dialogue is klunky, most of all the "babe" at
the end.

As always, I find it hard to evaluate tadk's entry because of the
poetic qualities he often brings to his work. I really think a Poetry
DM would play to his strengths. In this competition, though, I'll give
my vote to the more complete *story*. and thus to Roger.

*maxfieldjadenfox*
TadK Vs Roger

Be Not Afraid
Roger

I like the planar travel, and the main character is intriguing.

Picture use:
The wheelchair picture is the set up for the story and works well. I also like the mudman as damaged goods on the astral plane. The "establishing shot" with the ambulance isn't necessary, but it's servicable.

The astral plane is a great way to allow us to see what the characters "really" look like. Interesting twist to have Jack be damaged more in his mind than he is in reality, and the bad guy stealing his courage on the astral plane is pretty cool too.  All in all most enjoyable..

Forever Lasts Too Long For Those In Love
TadK

Tad, your style always intrigues me. It reminds me a lot of Ishmael Reed. It creates a mood more than tells a story, although there is a story here.

Picture use:
The pictures occur in a clump at the back of the story. They aren't really integral and I think the story would have been better if you hadn't had to use them. The wheelchair pic is used effectively, and imaginatively. The mudman and the ambulance seem to come out of nowhere, and don't seem terribly important to the story.

The dreamy mood of this piece is best carried by the song's poetry. I like the conversational bits between Cat and Vic too, but as I told RPJunkie, I HATE it when a story randomly changes tenses. Are they or were they? I really want to be clear about time unless there's a compelling reason for it to shift. The rhythm and the characters are strong, but the story isn't quite strong enough to hold them.


I love the feel of TadK's piece, but strictly speaking, I feel that Roger's is the stronger CDM entry. Decision Roger.

Roger advances, 2-0.


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## Berandor (Sep 27, 2006)

Rodrigo Istalindir said:
			
		

> Waiting to hear back from Berandor on tadk vs Roger.



 *heard back*


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## Deuce Traveler (Sep 27, 2006)

Rodrigo Istalindir said:
			
		

> Some of us had mercifully managed to suppress memories of that cartoon.  Thanks for bringing them back




It's a cruel, cruel world.  At least it was better than the movie.


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## Rodrigo Istalindir (Sep 27, 2006)

Round 2 masochists, I mean, Round 2 contestants -- Do you want to start Thursday or Friday?


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## Roger (Sep 27, 2006)

Thanks to the judges for their comments, and thanks to my most worthy and honourable opponent.

My vote for the start of Round 2 is Thursday, but I'm not especially angsty about it.  Friday would be fine too.



Cheers,
Roger


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## NiTessine (Sep 27, 2006)

Personally, I'd prefer Friday. Gives me more free time to work on the story.


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## tadk (Sep 27, 2006)

*thank you for the comments and judgements*

Good Day to one and all,

thank you for the kind judgements.
Funny how everyone reads something and it is totally different than what was going on in my head.

Not real specifics here, unless I think of them.
Poetry DM, I am better there i think. My lack of strong sense of time and tense does not hinder me so much

Pics
Gahh had no clue what to do with the last wheelchair pic. I mean I wanted to keep the story to 1 or 2 characters (per other advice I have been given which makes sense) but there are clearly 3 people. I didnt have the time nor energy to develop the 3 of them into the story, it being then a post singularity piece and that is the 3 characters all descendents of Cat a Strophe in some literal or figurative sense as they climb the strings of all reality to look down on past / present / future all at once. I obviously did not make it there.

Vic is a re-used version of a NPC Character Hurricane V (V cause that is what my wife called me, hurricance cause it is always a storm around me) who as a NPC in various genres is mostly a hunter of monsters. Cat is the lead singer of a band I made for Shadowrun and also CP2020. So his name is Vic. Simple there.
As an NPC a lot of his motivation is the death of his wife at the hands of "monsters" (pertinent to the genre), but that element does not fit since Cat is from a time later than his. So there I am trying to merge these elements and so I tried to stay timeless but that ends up confused tense and costs me points .
That gave me people to work with with already made motives and actions that influenced the story and perhaps not for the best vice brand new characters instead of alterations of what i have had before. 

I would do a lot better with fewer pics actually, because then there is more leeway for me, to do the writing.

To be honest as I was working on the piece I knew it was going to fall short, too much ground too hard to cover what came into my mind so I totally agree with the judgement and want to publicly thank all who read it and commented on it.

A last huge element to the story is / was the CD I had recently gotten and was listening to more than once a day. Group called Ludo their Broken Bride CD which had potentially too much influence on the life and death of the characters in the story as well as what in the back of my mind was going on. 


TK


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## yangnome (Sep 27, 2006)

Thanks to the judges.  

As for round 2, I'd prefer a Friday start as I work Thursday, Friday and Saturday.  A Friday start would give me at least one day off to work on the story.  That said, whatever we do, I'll procrastinate and write it at the last minute, using only an hour or two of time anyway--Thursday would be fine too.  So preference is Friday, Thursday is ok.


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## Paka (Sep 27, 2006)

Deuce Traveler said:
			
		

> Congrats to Paka.  Sorry, but my story was going to be a two-parter, since I was hoping to advance.  I see that I should have done one complete story at a time now.
> 
> Anyway, did anyone figure out who Robert, Sheila, and Coach Hank were and why they feel responsible for the world being as it was?




Thanks.

Thanks to the judges for taking the time to read these stories.


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## Paka (Sep 27, 2006)

yangnome said:
			
		

> Thanks to the judges.
> 
> As for round 2, I'd prefer a Friday start as I work Thursday, Friday and Saturday.  A Friday start would give me at least one day off to work on the story.  That said, whatever we do, I'll procrastinate and write it at the last minute, using only an hour or two of time anyway--Thursday would be fine too.  So preference is Friday, Thursday is ok.




So, the pictures are unveiled on Friday, we'd have to give the story on Monday or Tuesday?

I'd rather more time, as I have Monday and Tuesday off from work.


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## maxfieldjadenfox (Sep 27, 2006)

Rodrigo Istalindir said:
			
		

> Like the old joke -- What's the difference between a bitch and a whore?  A whore sleeps with everybody; a bitch sleeps with everybody but me.



Exactly my point!


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## GuardianLurker (Sep 28, 2006)

Rodrigo Istalindir said:
			
		

> Round 2 masochists, I mean, Round 2 contestants -- Do you want to start Thursday or Friday?



Either works for me.

And thanks to all the judges for their comments. They helped, and the next one will be better (I hope). Of course, it has to be. I'm looking forward, with both anticipation and trepidation, to the next round.


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## Rodrigo Istalindir (Sep 28, 2006)

Paka said:
			
		

> So, the pictures are unveiled on Friday, we'd have to give the story on Monday or Tuesday?
> 
> I'd rather more time, as I have Monday and Tuesday off from work.




Friday noon start would give you till Monday noon.  We can be flexible with these later rounds -- if you and your opponent can come up with a mutually agreeable start time (within reason -- I can't promise to get up at 4am to post pictures  ) it's cool with me.  That goes for all the contestants.


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## yangnome (Sep 28, 2006)

GuardianLurker said:
			
		

> I'm looking forward, with both anticipation and trepidation, to the next round.




In your case, that ratio should be about .5% anticipation, 49.5% trepidation and 50% desperation.  I look forward to redecorating the forum with your blood and entrails.


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## Rodrigo Istalindir (Sep 28, 2006)

yangnome said:
			
		

> In your case, that ratio should be about .5% anticipation, 49.5% trepidation and 50% desperation.  I look forward to redecorating the forum with your blood and entrails.




<Looks at Yangnome's avatar>

Um, did you *see* what happened to the beholder in the last round?     Maybe I should have matched you with NiTessine!


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## Roger (Sep 28, 2006)

Rodrigo Istalindir said:
			
		

> We can be flexible with the later rounds -- if you and your opponent can come up with a mutually agreeable start time (within reason -- I can't promise to get up at 4am to post pictures  ) it's cool with me.  That goes for all the contestants.




Do we / should we know the matchups for Round 2 already?


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## Rodrigo Istalindir (Sep 28, 2006)

I posted 'em on the front page.  Here they are again:

Round 2

1. WildGazebo vs. NiTessine
2. Halivar vs Paka
3. Roger vs Linderel
4. yangnome vs GuardianLurker


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## GuardianLurker (Sep 28, 2006)

yangnome said:
			
		

> In your case, that ratio should be about .5% anticipation, 49.5% trepidation and 50% desperation.  I look forward to redecorating the forum with your blood and entrails.




Hah. When you're in a superior position, there is no need for desperation. Unlike those low to the ground who must constantly fear being stepped on by the true giants. As for your decorating scheme - I like mine better. The wails and cries of my inferiors are so soothing. Or if, by chance, those phrasings are unclear, let me restate my position in a vernacular you are most undoubtedly more familiar and more comfortable with:

You want some? Come get it, bee***h!


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## maxfieldjadenfox (Sep 28, 2006)

Oooh! Loving the smack talk!


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## Rodrigo Istalindir (Sep 28, 2006)

Ok, looks like Round 2 starts tomorrow, noon-ish.  Linderel, if you and Roger can both start today, let me know and I'll jumpstart you guys early.  If any other pairs want to agree on a different start time, post here and I'll see what I can do.

Look for some special guest-pictures this round.


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## Rpjunkie (Sep 28, 2006)

Thanks for all the comments, I do have to say though, it wasnt a dream. The guy at the end was the human waking up not where he was last and not knowing how he got there. I guess i should have tried to make that more clear. Being my first story ever. From comments i guess i have the promise of getting better LOL

Good luck to all the round 2 contestants and congrats to Guardianlurker for the win.

RPJ


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## Rodrigo Istalindir (Sep 28, 2006)

Rpjunkie said:
			
		

> Thanks for all the comments, I do have to say though, it wasnt a dream. The guy at the end was the human waking up not where he was last and not knowing how he got there. I guess i should have tried to make that more clear. Being my first story ever. From comments i guess i have the promise of getting better LOL
> 
> Good luck to all the round 2 contestants and congrats to Guardianlurker for the win.
> 
> RPJ




Definitely hope you try again.

A piece of advice from one of my early rounds (I think it was from Mythago) was to "dance with the point-of-view character what brung you."  Switching point of view can be done effectively, but it really requires care to make sure you don't drop the reader in the process.  It's one of those things where getting someone else to read your story really helps, since they'll be reading the story cold.


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## Linderel (Sep 28, 2006)

Tomorrow actually suits me better than today, too, so if Roger doesn't have a problem with that, I'd like to start at the planned time.


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## Roger (Sep 28, 2006)

Fine with me.


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## Rodrigo Istalindir (Sep 29, 2006)

You know, it's a darn good thing this competition is run over the Internet.  You guys are gonna want to kill me when you see the next batch of pictures.


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## GuardianLurker (Sep 29, 2006)

Hey as long as they aren't... On second thought, I'll keep my mouth shut. Never give the GM ideas....


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## maxfieldjadenfox (Sep 29, 2006)

Rpjunkie said:
			
		

> Thanks for all the comments, I do have to say though, it wasnt a dream. The guy at the end was the human waking up not where he was last and not knowing how he got there. I guess i should have tried to make that more clear. Being my first story ever. From comments i guess i have the promise of getting better LOL
> 
> Good luck to all the round 2 contestants and congrats to Guardianlurker for the win.
> 
> RPJ




I understand that it wasn't a dream, but it was definitely confusing. You don't necessarily have to beat your readers over the head with your point, but sometimes you have to hold their hands, or stand next to them and point at what you want them to see. Don't be in any way discouraged, as a first story it really was very good. Don't know if you saw Herremann's crits of my stories in last year's CDM, but let me tell you, I still have the welts. That being said, the crits are always helpful and I love to write for CDM because of the combination of having to stretch myself to write fast, often on subjects I would never touch, and because after, I can count on feedback. Sometimes stinging feedback, but feedback. Keep writing! If you're interested, Bird By Bird by Anne Lamott, Steven King's On Writing,  and Steering the Craft by Ursula LeGuin are excellent books for new (and old) writers.


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## Rodrigo Istalindir (Sep 29, 2006)

Slight delay, folks.  Pictures won't be up till later this afternoon.  I got called out to a client on short notice and forgot to copy the pictures to my laptop.

Sorry for the inconvenience.  I'll scoot home as soon as I can.


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## yangnome (Sep 29, 2006)

Cool, thanks.  The delay actually works better for me anyway.


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## Linderel (Sep 29, 2006)

Mmkay. I hope I won't be sleeping by the time they're in.


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## Rodrigo Istalindir (Sep 29, 2006)

*Round 2, Match 1 -- WildGazebo vs NiTessine*

4 Pictures, No Word Limit.  Pictures posted at 8:20pm, GMT.  The first picture is courtesy of Sialia.

Pictures:


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## Rodrigo Istalindir (Sep 29, 2006)

*Round 2, Match 2 -- Halivar vs Paka*

4 Pictures, No Word Limit. Pictures posted at 8:20pm, GMT. The first picture is courtesy of Sialia.

Pictures:


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## Rodrigo Istalindir (Sep 29, 2006)

*Round 2, Match 3 - Roger vs Linderel*

4 Pictures, No Word Limit. Pictures posted at 8:20pm, GMT. The first picture is courtesy of Sialia.

Pictures:


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## Rodrigo Istalindir (Sep 29, 2006)

*Round 2, Match 4 - yangnome vs GuardianLurker*

4 Pictures, No Word Limit. Pictures posted at 8:20pm, GMT. The first picture is courtesy of Sialia.

Pictures:


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## yangnome (Sep 29, 2006)

glad to see Sialia's art again.


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## Linderel (Sep 29, 2006)

Ahahaha. Shrooms! That's a really sadistic bunch of pictures... Ransacking and subsequent breaking of brain shall commence.


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## maxfieldjadenfox (Oct 1, 2006)

Let the bloodletting... Er, I mean, let the games begin! (and hey, try not to write stories that are too long, we have 8 of them to read...)


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## GuardianLurker (Oct 2, 2006)

*Dye Job (Round 2: Match 4)*

*Dye Job*

Like every other day for the past few weeks of her vacation, Melissa woke up in her featherbed comfortably rested. As always, the Indian breakfast she was served was absolutely delicious, if a little different from what her American-bred tastes were used to. Today was a beach day for Melissa. 

When she had arrived at the resort, she had done all the touristy things in the area, running around busily, with a sense that this couldn't last. After all, whoever plans on winning the lottery? She had, and though she still couldn't believe it sometimes, Melissa had come to accept that her dream vacation would end only when she wanted it to. So she had settled into a semi-routine. Some days were market days, some days were tourist days, some were hiking days, and some, like today, were beach days. It was an idyllic life, a far cry from the stressed rat-race she had been living. If that could have been called living. She felt more alive now after having left her old life behind.

Melissa almost always woke up thinking about this, and like always, she resolved to put it away, and focus on relaxing. Today was a beach day. The breeze was a little strong, so she wouldn't be sunbathing, but with a tank-top, shorts, sandals, and drink, she could relax with a good book. She dressed, and left to go to the beach. She passed people in the hallways, but noone acknowledged each other for more than a brief smile - privacy was an overwhelming priority at the resort, and one of the reasons Melissa had selected it.

The beach, as always, was absolutely gorgeous. But today, something was different. Very different. A penguin was walking on the beach, right towards Melissa. Penguins do not belong on South Indian beaches, so Melissa was very curious. As it approached, she squatted down to examine it more closely, other people walking behind her to set up their beach umbrellas and chairs. The penguin advanced a little more, then cocked its head at her and said quite distinctly - "You Me Seen. Doors Cliffs Argo." And then it exploded into a fine mist that soaked Melissa from head to toe. In the mist, she briefly saw a misty, glowing figure of a man holding a sword across his body, looking at a marble slab that she also knew was a mirror, though she saw nothing reflected in it. It scared her. Exploding penguins and mysterious visions are prone to do that. So she tried to wake up. It was the first nightmare she had had at the resort, but she had had many nightmares in her other life. Melissa concentrated hard, willing that peculiar sense of detachment and calm that would free her from the nightmare.

But it didn't work. Annoyed for the first time in her idyllic vacation, Melissa stormed off to the concierge. It took her a great deal of doing, annoying her even more, but she finally managed to catch the attention of him.

"You have a problem. I don't know what was wrong with my food this morning - either something spoiled, or someone decided it'd be fun to put a hallucinogen in it. I just saw a talking exploding penguin. I'll be in my room, send me a doctor. I want to be sure nothing's wrong with me. And fix whatever the problem is!" The somewhat startled concierge just nodded his head.

"I'm sorry for your trouble, ma'am. I'll make sure the problem is taken care of. Please don't let this minor incident mar your stay here. I'll send the doctor up as soon he arrives."

Melissa growled acknowledgement, and stalked off to her room, intending to change her clothes. As she stepped into her room from the empty hallway, she noticed her clothes were completely dry. A little sticky in some spots, but even those vanished as she was examining them. Still, her beach day was now ruined. Melissa decided to make the day a hiking day instead. Maybe some exercise would work off some of her anger. She changed into a fresh tank top, jeans, and sneakers, clothes she would never have dared to wear over in the States, back in her old life. The armor always had to be up, she always had to be lady-like in both attitude and dress, she always had to look her best. But here, she could relax, all those pressures behind her.

Besides, she had an urgent need to get out and do things. Exploding penguins aside, she felt great. However, better to be safe and sure. She'd just drink a little water and wait for the doctor. Unfortunately, she was out of ice, so she'd have to go to the ice machine to get some. As she was filling the ice bucket, she heard the elevator doors ding, followed by the fading sound of footsteps marching in unison. Curious, she peeked around the corner, filled ice bucket in hand. 

Three tall men wearing black suits, black shoes, and black fedoras were approaching her door. As she watched, two took position to either side of her doorway, their dark eyeshades gleaming in the fluorescent lighting. Somehow, when all three pulled guns with long barrels from under their jackets, she wasn't surprised. Nor was she surprised when the third man in black kicked her door down, and all three charged into her room. Melissa dropped the ice bucket and ran to the stairwell.

She yanked open the stairwell door, and flew down the stairs, leaping entire flights at a time. As she yanked the bottom door open, she heard the door above her crash into the wall. Without pausing, she ran through the empty lobby. Instead of hiking through the empty countryside, she'd have to run to the market and hide in the crowds there. 

But the market was empty. She had forgotten that today was a religious holiday, and the market shut down. It was one of the reasons she had decided on a beach day. She stopped and looked around. Without the stalls and people, there was very little cover. Everything that had been hidden was revealed, even the old mural saying "See Argo Cliffs and Experience Adventure!" Off in the distance, she could she the dust plume of a car. Then she caught a whiff of chemicals. It wasn't what she would have preferred, but it was probably her only choice for places to hide. 

Melissa ran up one of the many alleys, following the smell as she had before. Eventually, she came to the dye vats. There were three people working on dying the cloth, but they hadn't seemed to have noticed her. Looking around, she didn't see anyplace to hide. There was a small pile of cloth, but the workers would definitely notice her if she tried to hide in the pile. As they would if she tried to hide in the dye vats themselves, which were too small and shallow anyway. Her mind racing, Melissa realized that only left one of the large preparation and soaking tubs. She eased herself into an otherwise empty one, hugging the tub wall under one of the platforms the workers stood on when stirring the cloth.

Her heartbeat pounding in her ears, Melissa wondered if she had managed to lose her pursuers. She knew that they had seen her run into the alleyway. But there were so many twists and turns that she could have lost them. How long should she wait? 5 minutes? 10? Could she wait in the chemical vat that long? Then she heard the sound of feet, all running in unison. She couldn't see them emerge from the alleyway, but she could see five of the men in black advance to the far side of the enclosure and take up guard positions. Behind her, she could hear others do the same. One man in black went to talk to the workers.

Melissa couldn't hear what was said, but when the worker standing in the dye vat started gesturing wildly and pointing her way, she ducked her head underwater, leaving only her nostrils above, one of her favorite childhood tricks. She waited, and heard the one in charge come over. Tensely, she waited longer, and longer, having trouble keeping her breath light and even. Eventually, the men in black left, and she raised her head out of the water. Melissa listened a little more closely, not moving. After another seeming eternity she heard something move behind her, and saw one of the workers wave goodbye to the man in black who had been hiding, trying to ambush her.

Shortly after that, one of the workers came over with a long pole and stood on the platform, stirring the chemicals in the tub. "You Them Waited Out. That Good Is. Perseverance Shows. Cliffs East Are. Alley Large Follow, Edge Town Road Right. You Luck Have." With that the worker stepped off the platform, and all three vanished. Melissa climbed out of the tub, and ran up the alleyway the worker had told her about. It led her out of the town quickly, and met up with a road. She turned right, and east, with the early afternoon sun behind her, and settled into her long distance jog.

As her feet pounded the dusty and overgrown road, Melissa thought about everything that had happened since she woke up that morning. She felt better, despite the chemical bath which she was sure had bleached her hair blonde. Questions ran through her mind - Why did the penguin talk the same way the worker did? Who did the men in black work for? Why did they want to kill or kidnap her? What was the glowing man in the vision? What were the Argo Cliffs, and why were they special?

She kept running, and kept running the questions through her mind. But she didn't have any answers, nor discover any. As she ran, she climbed higher and higher into the hills surrounding the town. The road twisted and turned its way up and over the hillsides. Eventually, it led her to a small outcropping of rock that thrust its way out over a deep, dark river hundreds of feet below at the bottom of a chasm-like ravine. At one end of the bare spot that must have once been a parking area, stood a rusty scaffolding surrounded by scrawny trees. The scaffolding supported a pulley on two steel cables that ran over the ravine and to a spot on the opposing cliffs of the ravine wall. Looking closely, there seemed to be a ledge, with a path up to the top of the cliff. The path apparently lead to an old shack, probably a gift shop. There was also a harness with a rope attached to it. The other end of the rope was wound around a winch. Melissa tugged on the rope, and more of it unwound from the winch, which turned freely.

As she finished her inspection, Melissa wiped her forehead; the back of her hand came away covered with a thick sticky fluid, not normal sweat. She had another vision, but this time she could make out that the man was kneeling, holding a bouquet of her favorite flowers, while a child hugged him. Melissa would have sworn the vision didn't last long, but when it ended, the sun was beginning to set, and she could see the plume of the men in black's car starting to make the next to last turn.

There wasn't much option; the cable slide was the only way out. Melissa scrambled into the harness, snapping the buckles together and tightening the straps. As she tightened the last one, the car pulled up, and the original trio of men in black got out. The leader called out. 

"You Stop! You Us Come! You Restplace Stay!"

But Melissa didn't listen, and ran forward, leaping off the cliff. As she whirred down the cable, escaping to the ledge on the other side, another vision, even clearer, came to her. The man was black-haired with tears streaming from his familiar face, holding the bouquet in his left hand where a wedding band caught the light. His right hand was hugging a small 5-year old boy who was crying as well. The marble slab was a gravestone. A fancy one with a picture mounted behind some glass. At first Melissa couldn't make out the picture. But then she realized she knew whose face was shown. How could she have forgotten her own husband and son? Sobbing, tears clouding her vision, Melissa could make out the end of the cable.

The ledge was a spot of miscolored moss on the cliff wall.


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## Roger (Oct 2, 2006)

*Cardinal Sins*
by Roger Carbol

Shane Edwards awoke to familiar sounds:  the steady beep of a heart monitor, the quiet hum of air filtration, distant footsteps on a tile floor.

The door to his room opened.  A woman walked in, wearing a white lab coat and some sort of magnifier glasses.{2}  A doctor or a lab technician, he thought.

"Mister Edwards, you're awake.  Good.  My name is Doctor Shelby.  You're in a hospital," she said, looking at him over her glasses.

"Yeah, I kinda figured that out on my own.  Why am I here?" he asked.

"We're hoping you could tell us.  There are some unusual substances in your blood.  Why don't you tell us what happened, from the beginning?" she asked, taking a seat.

The beginning, Shane thought.


It all began with Bill, of course.  But I suppose I should back up a bit further.  There's three of us, as I'm sure you're already aware.  Linda, Bill, and myself.  About a year ago we decided to experience as much of life as we could, and for us, that meant doing as much and as many drugs as we could lay our hands on.

Bill was a dentist who got zapped by some sort of equipment malfunction.  Ate enough x-rays to make him glow in the dark.  So he had about a year left before the cancers got him. 

I've got a tumour in my brain the size of a tennis ball -- it should all be there on my chart.  Probably won't kill me for a while, but I won't be doing much more than drooling.

Linda found us.  Daughter of some Canadian tobacco tycoon.  Billionaire.  She's just in it for the kicks.  But she pays all the bills and makes all our legal problems go away, so we're happy to have her.

Anyway, it was fun for a while.  Funny how fast you can get jaded to this sort of thing, though.  Pretty soon we were off smoking cacti in Sedona, licking toads in New Zealand, whatever we could get our hands on.  Old Bill's the man -- he's got a list as long as his arm of stuff we haven't tried yet.

This one was different, though.  Bill's eyes just light up when he's really excited about something.  Redbird, he called it.  Some crazy mushroom found on only one tiny island in Bermuda.  Old native tales about it letting you talk to gods and demons, he said.

That was enough for us.  We flew into Bermuda the next day.  Spent a week or so just bumming around, seeing the sights.  We were in a rush because we're dying, see, but we weren't in a _rush_.  Bill was scoping out boat rentals, keeping an eye on the weather, that sort of thing.  Linda hit the beach and got a horrible sunburn.  Hadn't quite figured out that those bronzing creams didn't actually do anything other than dye your skin orange.

Then we set off.  Nonsuch Island, Bill called it.  Some big wildlife sanctuary, off-limits to the public.  With Linda around we had figured out that nothing's off-limits if you have enough money to drop on the right people.  We took the Zodiac around to the north side, found a nice looking beach, and pulled in.

The beach was deserted -- I'm talking totally pristine.{3}  We pulled the boat up above the tide line and unpacked.  Linda got a fire going -- handy with a flare gun, she is -- and Bill and I set off to find the redbird.

Bill knew what he was looking for better than I did: damp rotting vegetation in the shade, that sort of thing.  He was in a talkative mood.  Said the Europeans introduced cardinals -- the birds, not the priests -- to Bermuda back a couple hundred years ago.  Natives generally called them redbirds.  These particular mushrooms had red spots on them -- cardinal red, is where he was going with it.  I just kept looking.

After a couple hours of strolling around tropical paradise, we hit gold.  Big patch of them, poking out of some rotting leaves.{4}  Bill didn't really have a good grip on what the effective dose would be, so we carried away all we could.

The fire was good and hot by the time we got back, and the sun was starting to set.  Good time to get stoned, right around sunset.  Tends to bring on a nice trip.  We got settled in, beer and snacks close to hand, and Bill figured that one shroom each was probably a good start.

Tasted like burning, they did, but nothing worse than licking a toad.  We started to get pretty mellow.  The waves crashing on the beach became a heartbeat, like we were sitting on the chest of the entire world.

I could feel the trip starting to sour, the way they do sometimes.  Nothing you can do about it, of course, but I could feel it turning ugly inside my chest.  Linda's sunburn started to glow like a neon sign, and pretty soon she was a devil.  The cartoon sort, with red horns and a pitchfork.  I think she was saying something, but the words turned into red birds that flew from her mouth.{1}  After that things started to get _really_ strange.  I think.  It's all a bit blurry now.  Bill and Linda might be able to fill in the blanks, though.  They've got a better memory for this sort of thing than I do.  I blame the tumour, but maybe I've always been this way.  Hard to remember if you're forgetful, know what I mean?  Anyway, that's pretty much the way it went down.


The doctor stopped taking notes.  Shane hadn't noticed her start, but she must have been writing for some time.  She stood.

"I'm afraid we can't do that, Mister Edwards.  We estimate you were on that island for at least a month -- maybe two.  All we found of your friends were some gnawed bones.  We're still waiting on the DNA matches."  Shane closed his eyes.  Two months?  It wasn't possible.

"I'm with the United States Navy, Mister Edwards.  I'm afraid we'll be holding you indefinitely, at least until we can figure out what happened on the island and what happened to you," the doctor said, walking towards to door.

Shane laughed, but it became a cough halfway through.  "So?  You can't threaten me.  I'll be dead, or close enough, in two months.  I don't mind spending them in a hospital bed," he replied.

"We examined you thoroughly, Mister Edwards.  There's nothing at all wrong with your brain.  Not anymore," she said, as she closed the door behind her.


THE END

* * *

Ceramic DM -- Fall 2006 -- Round 2c (Roger vs Linderel)
Written 29-30 September, 2006. Word Count: 1110.

Illustrations:

[1] http://www.enworld.org/attachment.php?attachmentid=26105
[2] http://www.enworld.org/attachment.php?attachmentid=26106
[3] http://www.enworld.org/attachment.php?attachmentid=26107
[4] http://www.enworld.org/attachment.php?attachmentid=26108


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## Rodrigo Istalindir (Oct 2, 2006)

tick-tock, tick-tock


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## yangnome (Oct 2, 2006)

*Cat Fight*

Real spy work is nothing like the pictures Hollywood paints.  It isn’t glamorous or sexy and our tools aren’t that cool.  Most of us in the business are fine with that—after all, nothing like a job with sex appeal.  Mick though, well Mick grew up watching too many spy flicks.  He doesn’t get the fact there’s a difference between real life and what’s on the big screen.  Mick is my runner—he’s my point of contact with the agency, and the one that gets me the tools and the information I need to do my job and stay alive.  I’m sure you can imagine the problems this has caused since Mick started working with me a few months ago.

Take for instance the last job I worked.  I got a message that I needed to pick up a drop with my new assignment.  Now, he could have mailed me a dossier, or even put it in a normal drop location—under a park bench, inside the lip of a trashcan, you get the idea.  Instead, I’m told to look for a guy in a tux at the zoo.

If you’re anything like me, you’re figuring that a guy in a tuxedo at a zoo is going to look really out of place.  That is until you see what he’s cooked up this time—a penguin.  An effin’ penguin.  How the hell am I supposed to get a message from a penguin?  

So I crouch down and try to call the penguin over to me.  The damn thing waddles over to me and I notice something under the penguin’s wing—or is it a flipper?  I give it a little piece of a Snicker’s bar I had been munching on and try to retrieve my message. There’s a small electronic device under the penguin’s wing.  I place my finger over it and a recorded message begins to play:



> Agent XXL,
> 
> Rebels in Canukistan, are preparing for an attempt to assassinate The Queen.  You need to infiltrate the rebel alliance and prevent the attack.  This penguin will self destruct in 10 seconds.




He can’t be serious.  Then I notice that the ticking. He is.  PETA isn’t going to be happy about this.  I get out of the areas as soon as possible.
---

Now, it’s been a number of years since I’ve been to Canukistan and I don’t have a whole lot of information to work with.  I knew that there were a number of groups upset at The Queen, but which one is doing the plotting, I have no clue.  I do have a few contacts inside Canukistan and I figure it’d be a good time to make use of them—I have no idea how much time we have before they make this attempt on The Queen.

I decide to meet up with Jorge first.  Jorge isn’t in the business any longer; he’s retired— well as retired as you can get in this business without being dead.  Jorge’s a unique fellow, a flamboyant gent who’s always remarkably dressed and one hell of a shot.  Jorge keeps his ears to the ground and his information is usually quite reliable.  If there were any groups talking about a job like this, he’d know about it.  I also knew where Jorge usually hung out—he usually played chess down by the river in Bay City.  

Sure enough, that’s where Jorge was.  He didn’t have an opponent at the moment, so I sat down next across from him.  

“Nice weather today isn’t it?” I said.

“Devine.  We’ll probably only have one or two weeks before the storms start rolling in.  I haven’t seen you around in awhile.” Jorge replied.

“Business has kept me away.  You mind if I play?” I move a pawn forward two squares. 

“You know I’m always more than willing to let you play with me.” Jorge replied, winking at me as he moved his rook.

Innuendo, Jorge was famous for it.  I didn’t have time to play though. 

“Do you know anyone getting ready to make a move on The Queen?” I asked.

“It’s still a bit early in the game, are you talking about the chess piece, or are you asking about my love life?” Jorge asked.  He picked up his wine glass and took a sip.

“Neither,” I said. “I’m talking about work.  I’ve heard someone is getting ready to make a move on The Queen and I need to find out who, I thought maybe you’d know.”

“I haven’t heard anything.” Jorge said.  “The Queen’s pissed off enough people though.  It wouldn’t surprise me.”

“You haven’t heard anything specific though?”

“No.  I’m retired.  I haven’t even heard any rumors.”

“Do you know anywhere I could find some more information?  I don’t know when they’re going to make their move.”

“You could try Ari’s place.  He’s usually got his ear to the ground.”

Ari owned a dye shop. He died fabrics that are used in high end garments.  It was a cover operation though.  He also worked as a place to dump bodies.  He’d store them in the dye vats.  Not only were the bodies impossible to see in the vats, but they added vibrant color to the crimsons.  At night he’d fill the vats with acids that would eat the remains away.  No evidence, no smell, all taken care of nice and clean.

“Do you think he’d know anything about this?”
“I’m not sure,” Jorge said. “But he’s a good place to start with.  He keeps his ear to the ground about anything going on in the industry.”

“Thanks, I’ll give it a try.”

“Checkmate.” He’s got me between his queen and his knight.

“Ok, thanks for the game.”  I’ll see you around.

I get up and head for the subway.

--- 

Thirty minutes later, I step off the subway and I head through some back alleys.  A beggar sits in the alley way next to a door, but I know who he really is.  Under his robes, he’s holding an MP5, or some similar weapon, ready to gun down anyone who doesn’t belong.  I flash him a sign and he nods at me.  I go through the door and step out into a courtyard.  

In the far corner of the courtyard, two men are haggling over the price of something.  I only pick up bits and pieces of their conversation.  Another man works in the vats.  The courtyard between us is filled with a bunch of vats, different colors, mostly browns and reds—it’s what’s hot this season.

They look up at me and I nod.  I wait for them to finish their business—it’d be rude to interrupt.  Once they’re done one of the men walks around the vats and exits out a different door.  I walk over and shake Ari’s hand.  

“Ari, it looks like you’ve been busy.”

“It’s been a long time since I’ve seen you.”

“Yeah, I haven’t had any needs of your services.” I tell him.  A large pile of cloth lies on top of a table next to Ari.  I lift up the top of the first couple pieces of fabric and sure enough, there’s a body under it—probably just dropped off by the man that left.  Ari hasn’t had time to put him in a vat yet.  The face is familiar.

 “Alas, poor Yorick.” I said.

“You knew him?” Ari asked.

“I knew him well.”

“I am sorry.” He said.

“Don’t worry, it’s a part of the business,” I tell him. “I know it too well unfortunately.”

“What can I do for you today?” Ari asks. “Arranging for a delivery?”

Ari, Always the business man. 

“I’m actually here to get some information.” I tell him.

“You know I don’t talk about who my customers are, or what business I do with them.”

“It isn’t like that Ari.  I’m looking for rumors.  I hear someone is going to make an attempt on The Queen.  I was just wondering if you’d heard anything.  Any idea who’d be doing this?”

“Well, there are a lot of people who don’t like her.”

“Yeah, but who would act on something like that.”

“Ah hell, I’ve always liked The Queen.  I tell you what.  You didn’t get this information from me, but Lady Daffodil and her crew have been talking about a job coming up.  Saturday night at the show, and The Queen is supposed to be there.”

“Thanks, I appreciate it.  Saturday, that doesn’t give me much time.”

“Good luck, my friend.”

---

I was familiar with Lady Daffodil and her bunch.  They were small time players, but I wouldn’t put this job past them.  I also had contact with someone on their team.  I knew I could meet up with StacyQ at a bar she went to almost every night, the ‘Why not?’.  

I had brought some decent clothing with me, so I went back to my hotel room, took a short nap and then changed to go out.  Sure enough, I found StacyQ on her usual barstool, chatting up the others in the place.  StacyQ was pretty popular and everyone knew that after a few drinks, you could get her talking.

I started buying her drinks—Midori, Malibu and orange juice.  It wasn’t strong, but it didn’t take much to get her going.  She always had a thing for me anyway.  The feeling wasn’t reciprocal—I don’t like to mix business and pleasure.  StacyQ was fun to look at, but there was too much baggage that came with any relationship in this business.

It wasn’t long before I got StacyQ talking.  I just mentioned The Queen and she practically started telling me the whole thing.  She was angry that The Queen had held her title so long, and lady daffodil’s group felt that they’d been cheated.  They wanted to retire The Queen for good so someone else would have a chance.
“We’re going to make it public, and we’re going to make it embarrassing,” StacyQ told me. 

“How?”

“Lady D’s got the details,” she said. “She’s been practicing for this one.”

“Do you know anything about it?”

“Markus keeps a safe up in his office.  He’s agreed to help.  When The Queen’s out on the stage, Lady D’s gonna grab a rifle from the safe and shot the bitch in front of everyone.” 

“Isn’t that a little drastic,” I ask.

 “We’re tired of that bitch.”

“Well, good luck with it all.” I tell her. “I’ll have to be careful about where I sit during the show.”      

“You’re gonna come see me sweetie?”

“I’m going to try.  I have to run now though.  I have someone to meet.”

A big, fake pout spread across StacyQ’s face.  As soon as I was out the door though, she was practically in someone else’s lap.

--- 

Saturday I got to the show early.  The show always took place at Club Trance. It was a neat place. Saturdays at midnight, they’d have the show.  The rest of the week, the place was a nightclub with dancing and such.  The walls were decorated with large murals. On one wall, a desert scene, on the other an ocean scene.  The front and back walls had mirrors.  There was a stage with a catwalk and a pole out at the end.  The pictures were painted so well, that when the lights were flashing, depending which way you were looking, it’d seem almost like you were outside with a crowd of people, not in a building.  

I hadn’t been to this show in a few years. There were still a lot of familiar faces.  I almost didn’t recognize Markus—he’d had more surgery done since I’d last seen him.  As I was looking at him, Lady Daffodil walked up behind him and patted him on the ass.  He winked at me before disappearing up a stairwell with her.  A few minutes later, they all came back down.  I had to get up into the office and put a stop to this whole thing.

After the two of them walked into the main theater area, I slipped up the stairwell.  Upstairs there were two doors.  I tried the one in front of me, but it was just a closet.  I tried the one to the right, but the door handle was locked.  No worries.  I pulled a hairpin out and went to work on the lock.  

*click* The pins in the cylinder lined up and I turned the handle.  I quickly closed the door behind me.     The room was pitch black, but I didn’t dare turn on a light.  I knew his office had a window that overlooked the theater and I didn’t want to alert them to my presence.  I took a small pair of night vision goggles out of my pocket and placed them on my head.  The room lit up green.  I tried to work at the safe, but I wasn’t as lucky with it as I had been with the door.

Below me, the show had started; I could hear the music reverberating through the floor.  Then, I heard someone coming up the stairway.  I quickly moved back into the corner, making as little noise as possible.  

A key turned in the doorknob and the door to the office opened.  The light outside blinded me for a second, but the person closed the door almost all the way shut.  They didn’t turn a light on either, but came across towards the safe.  Even through the night vision goggles, I could tell it was Lady Daffodil—I’d recognize her bald head anywhere.  She quickly turned the combination on the safe door and pulled a rifle out.  

As she started to assemble the rifle’s upper and lower receivers I made my move.   I jumped up and knocked the rifle out of her hands.  I grabbed for her neck, but she moved away just in time.  She let out a loud shriek, but the music below was playing too loud for anyone to hear.  She came at me, fingernails trying to gouge out my eyes.  I fended off her attack and struck a blow to her ribs—breasts, she’d had her operation, I noticed.

It was then we heard the music outside.  Barbie Girl, The Queen’s theme song. Lady D slipped out of my grip and made a move towards the window.  Before I could stop her, she jumped out the window, head first, grabbing onto a zipline Markus had installed to make a fabulous entrance into the club from his office a few years ago—it was made to look like a large bird perch.  Lady D had dove onto the perch and was now heading straight for the stage where The Queen was doing her bit.  

Before I could even react Lady D had bowled over The Queen and had her hands around her throat.  I had to act quickly.  I took a towel from Markus’ makeup stand and wrapped it over the line.  I then jumped out the window, on a path towards the catwalk where Lady D and the Queen were rolled up in a ball together with others in the audience rushing to get involved.      

I came down into the fray and kicked Lady D off of The Queen.   Instead of fight Lady D, I tried to pull The Queen back to safety.  With Markus and the others in on this, I knew I had to get her out of the building.  We fought our way through the crowd and once we got out on the street I called a taxi.  I’d have to take care of Lady D later. 

Once we got into the taxi, The Queen thanked me.  I’d completed my mission, and gotten her out safe.  I don’t know if she’ll be able to retain her title, but that wasn’t my concern.  I’d done my job.  

Why am I protecting drag queens on the government dime?  Don’t ask, don’t tell.  I bet you’d have never guessed that the politics in the world of drag queen competitions were this serious.  There’s a lot going on behind the scenes that you don’t know about, stuff that even Hollywood couldn’t make up.


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## yangnome (Oct 2, 2006)

[sblock]
ok, I find it interesting that both of us decided to blow up the penguin.  I'm kind of curious about how you came about that idea GL. 

 Mine came to me as an inspiration for the whole story.  Usually when looking at CDM pictures, one or two images will spark ideas immediately and all but maybe one will fit the story idea.  Here, none of the pictures really spoke to me.  I let them sit in the back of my mind for awhile, then later (Friday night, about 8-10 hours after I saw the pictures) a line came into my head _this penguin will self destruct in 10 seconds._ After that, all the pictures seemed to fall in line with the story.  I don't think there were any where I really had to use a crowbar to make it fit.
[/sblock]


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## NiTessine (Oct 2, 2006)

*Destruction*​

In the months that followed eating the Gulthias apple, Alambur recovered well. He had wintered in the Spawnscale Castle, regaining the strength of his muscles and putting on a healthy weight. Whatever the possible side effects of eating an apple grown of a vampire tree, Alambur could spot none. Once the snows melted and the passes cleared, he returned south, taking up again the staff of a taskmage.

He sat at his desk, a bulky thing hidden beneath scrolls, parchments, tomes and the obligatory skull with a candle mounted atop it. Presently, the candle was lit, and a rivulet of tallow dribbled down the white bone, to disappear within a black eyesocket. Alambur was crouched over a large book, bound in the skin of beings close to humans, but at the same time both terrifyingly and fortunately very distant. Possession of the book would have been punishable by death in three of the countries Alambur had visited in the last year, and mere knowledge of its existence in one. The wizard Zashnichar hadn’t been a popular man when he lived.

The wizard nodded, nearly napping, when suddenly he heard a tapping, snapping him out of his drowsy state. The noise persisted, apparently originating in the dark adjacent room. Nobody but he was supposed to be in the rooms.

Slowly, Alambur stood up, grasping his staff. As he approached the door, he coaxed a magical charge out of the staff that he could channel and into one of a variety of spells. The staff felt alive in his hands as he sidled up to the doorway. Tap tap tap.

Alambur kicked the door open, brandishing his staff before him, and shouted 
“BOO!” as a bright light flashed from the tip of his staff, illuminating the room in a stark white glow.
“Not quite. Do I look like a hamster?” a cultured voice asked him from somewhere near the ceiling. “And could you turn that light down? It is hurting my eyes.”

It took the wizard a moment to see the speaker, which presently occupied the chandelier. It was a winged squirrel. (Picture 1)

He lowered the staff, the light fading to a more comfortable level.
“What does your master want with me, homunculus?” Alambur asked. In truth, he was not certain whether the creature was a homunculus, a familiar, or a kercpa of Arborean heritage, but it had accompanied the Taskmage Colonel Kelgore for the better part of three decades.

“Kelgore wants you to tap your network of informants to find out what the wizard Bargle is up to. He has been missing since the fall of the Black Eagle Barony, and there are rumblings that he is preparing a retributive strike. You are to begin immediately.”
“Very well. What is known of his last location, and do we possess anything of his that may be utilised for a lead?”
“He has not been reliably identified since the Barony fell, but rumours say he is still in Imperial lands. We’ve got nothing.”
“I shall go to the oracles, then. Go back to your master. I am handling the case.”

After the squirrel thing had departed, Alambur put away the blasphemous tome he had perused, hiding it inside a vault that sealed invisibly into the outer wall the building, and in fact existed mostly on a different plane of existence. From the same vault, he withdrew a small leather bag before closing it.

Satisfied that he had all that he needed, he twisted the dark staff in his hands, and was gone.

*  *  *​
Five hours later, Alambur arrived to the mouth of a cave. While dawn was rising where he had left, the night here was still pitch black. He disliked it and tried to avoid it to the last, but deep down he’d known that he could not avoid coming here. Of all the taskmages employed by the Emperor, Alambur had the most widespread and trustworthy network of clairsentients, information gatherers, sybils, snitches, seers, farseers, diviners, oracles, weirds and withinlookmen. He had leaned heavily on the network in the past year and enlarged it in his travels, and he knew the capabilities and requirements of all.

The oracle Templeton, though helpful, had found his divinations blocked, as Alambur had predicted. A mage of Bargle’s calibre would not have left himself unshielded against scrying. And thus, where the direct means of mortals failed, Alambur had to rely on the obtuse ways of an immortal.

Leaving his staff unlit, Alambur stepped forth into the blackness of the unlit cave.
“Horkha, living rock! I, Alambur, call you!” he called out, striking his staff into the floor. There was no answer. After waiting a moment, he repeated this in the language of those who dwell inside the earth.

A slow rumble emerged from the darkness. Alambur could not see, but he knew that it was because somewhere before him, mud and rocks roiled on the cave floor.
“Speak, Alambur of the Resplendent Flame,” a voice spoke out from the lightless cave. The voice was low, but undeniably female.
“I come to learn of Bargle the wizard, formerly of the Barony of the Black Eagle, presently a fugitive. Can you help me in this?”

For a time, the only sound was the grinding of rock and stone. Then, the being in the cave replied:
“I can, but it costs, Alambur of the Resplendent Flame.”
In reply, the wizard produced the small leather bag from his robes, and emptied it on his palm. It was heavy, cool and smooth in his hand.
“A flawless beljuril in return for your sooth.”
“This is acceptable.”
Alambur threw the stone to where he approximated the speaker to be, and did not hear it land. Again, the grinding and bubbling was the only thing that filled the silence.

After a while, Alambur’s eyes went to another place. He saw a plain, with forested hills in the distance and a shallow river running through it. At the bank of the river, there was a blue cross. As he watched, a man’s face emerged from the middle. Brown hair, high cheekbones, thin moustache and a pointy beard – Bargle was as Alambur remembered him, from a passing meeting some years ago. (Picture 3)
“He who now serves none but greed and hate is hiding from all, and prepares a doom for a city, for his master desires this. The towers and temples will be reversed, and two and forty hundred score people perish. The traitor will seek you out, but his treason is not against you.”

The vision blinked away, and Alambur was back in darkness. The oracle spoke no more, and slowly the sounds of moving earth faded away, casting the cave in silence. X had marked the spot. 

*  *  *​
When morning rose over the mountain peaks, Alambur was back in the Imperial capital, perusing over a map and a tome in a library, cursing the lacking census data of the outlying provinces. The geography defined the area as the southern plains. The lands were fertile and populous, and the Brinding River that ran through them had accumulated a wealth of cities and towns on its banks over the centuries. Any number of them could have four and a half thousand inhabitants. Alambur reasoned that the destruction Bargle was plotting would be thorough and complete, and the oracle’s death toll would match the population numbers closely. The problem was that all population numbers were aged at least a century.

A man sat in the chair next to Alambur. The wizard glanced at him. The newcomer was dressed entirely in heavy, black leather robes. The man’s head was bald, but he sported impressive muttonchop whiskers, and strong, dark eyebrows.
“Greetings,” the man said, in accented Imperial.
“Greetings,” Alambur replied, tonelessly.
“I am Günther. I know you seek Bargle the Mammonite. He is there,” he said, and jabbed a leather-covered finger into a black spot on the map, titled Brindingford.
“How do you know this?”
“I know who you are and what you do by my contacts in the taskmages. I know Bargle the Mammonite because in the past, I had a… close relationship with his master.”
“Whom you betrayed.”
“Yes, how did you know?” Günther asked, his thick eyebrows rising in surprise. “Worry not, I do not truck with evil any more.”
“A rock told me. Do you know what Bargle is planning?”
“Not specifically, but I know where he resides. We should be on our way, by the way,” Günther said and rose up.

After Alambur had deposited them on a riverbank some miles south of the walled town of Brindinford, he continued:
“A wood elf of the Empty Wood is keeping an eye on Bargle’s hideout. It is across the river, in the forest up the hillside. Bargle has henchmen, but nothing we cannot take care of. It is the wizard himself that poses the true threat and has prevented us from taking action sooner. He is preparing something big, or he would have spotted us spying on him already.”

*  *  *​
The arcanists met with the wood elf Anderiel a good half an hour’s walk later, in a tree on the hillside overlooking a small house of good construction. A mile distant, across the Brinding River, they could see the bustling trading city of Brindinford. 

The wood elf was typical of her people. She wore hunting leathers, kept her coppery hair braided with wooden pearls, and carried a long bow on her back and a pair of axes at her belt. Her skin was deeply tanned by a lifetime spent under the sun.

Between the tree Anderiel had used for spying and the wooden house were some three hundred yards of dense woodland on a downwards-sloping hillside. The yard was more open, and was occupied by eight people, humans by the look of them, in scant clothing. Mostly, they were sitting in a cluster. A well stood nearby.

“We should move immediately,” Anderiel advised. “A man on a horse brought a package to Bargle yesterday and departed afterwards. He broke his neck when he fell off the horse, so I do not know what was in the package, but the guards are no longer guarding. Seems they’re just waiting for something.”

“Very well. Bargle is mine,” Alambur said. 

*  *  *​
The Mammonite cultists were sitting around in the yard. There was not much to do in the place anymore. They would be leaving the place swiftly, and soon, so there was no point in doing the chores to keep the place fit for living, and they knew nothing could stop their plan at this point. Nobody knew they were there, and soon it would be too late.

They sat around in a circle, talking about the wealth and riches they would find when they looted the city. It was a hot day, and the air was still. One of them splashed some water on his face from a bucket. 

Then, the wind momentarily picked up, and strangely, deposited a slip of parchment in the midst of their circle. (Picture 4) Warily, they looked at each other and glanced at the woods. One of them grabbed the folded parchment, and they clustered around him to see its contents when he unfolded it and read aloud:
“Guess what spell I prepared this morning?”

*  *  *​
Bargle was focusing on a glass. The glass, made of the purest crystals from the very core of Elemental Mineral, was filled with an amber liquid, the mentally charged sap of a venerable amber dragon. Beyond the table that the glass stood on was the city of Brindinford, with its temples, towers and tombs and river docks. When seen through the glass, the rounded glass and the liquid within twisted light so that the city seemed to be upside down. (Picture 2)

The ritual spell Bargle worked on would change the illusion of reality _into_ that reality, and Brindinford would soon be rubble as its buildings attempted to stand on their pointed spires and thatched roofs.

Such was his concentration that the explosion out on the yard did not penetrate his consciousness. Neither did he react to his personal guards toppling off the balcony, one with an elven arrow his heart, the other blasted down by raw spell power.

The spell and his concentration were both broken, however, when the taskmage Alambur picked his way through the splinters that used to be a doorway, took the glass, and poured its contents on Bargle’s head. They were soon followed by something very heavy, accompanied on its descent by darkness a moment later.


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## yangnome (Oct 2, 2006)

Are we going to get any more entries?  Time's running down.


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## NiTessine (Oct 2, 2006)

Hopefully. I would hate to win by default.


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## yangnome (Oct 2, 2006)

Looks like GL and I were the only pair to both get theirs turned in.  Have there been problems with the boards?


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## NiTessine (Oct 2, 2006)

None that I am aware of.


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## GuardianLurker (Oct 3, 2006)

It's going to be a quick jump to the finals then, I guess.

{trash}They are obviously so completely intimidated by my superiority that they realized the ultimate futility of their efforts. Kudos to my short opponent for having the courage to offer his composition against such overwhleming odds.{/trash} 

[sblock]
For me, the exploding penguin was a way to explain picture #1. Why I linked those two, I have no idea. Honestly, it was the dyd vats that gave me the most trouble. Where did you get the idea for Secret Agent Drag Queen?
[/sblock]


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## Rodrigo Istalindir (Oct 3, 2006)

Sure takes the burden off the judges.


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## maxfieldjadenfox (Oct 3, 2006)

Wow, kids, what happened to the rest of you?


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## yangnome (Oct 3, 2006)

GuardianLurker said:
			
		

> It's going to be a quick jump to the finals then, I guess.
> 
> {trash}They are obviously so completely intimidated by my superiority that they realized the ultimate futility of their efforts. Kudos to my short opponent for having the courage to offer his composition against such overwhleming odds.{/trash}
> 
> ...



 Yep, my thought too.  The judges have it easy this time around.  

[sblock]Well, 'the penguin will self destruct in 10 seconds' line set the tone for a spy spoof story.  I've been wanting to write something with humorous for practice since I want to write a humorous novel for this year's NaNo.  Whether this one was humorous or not, I guess I'll have to leave it up to you.  anyway, I had the spy story going, but after the self destructing penguin line, things didn't seem as funny.  I also was getting tired of talking about the queen and at some point mid-story, I decided to use a little wordplay and make the story about a drag queen rather than a royal queen.  I thik this inspiration came around the conversation with the chess player.  Anyway, it sort of evolved from there.  my intent (and granted it wasn't well planned, and I don't know how effective it was) was to gradually give hints to the fact that it was a drag queen instead of real royalty, changing from a political plot to comething more ridiculous.  Liek I said, I don't know how successful it was.  I hope it provided a laugh or two (or at least a smile) for the reader though.  [/sblock]


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## Linderel (Oct 3, 2006)

I am late. And probably not fashionably, either, but what the heck. I made it anyways. I almost gave up when I passed the time limit, but my evil friends wouldn't let me. So, hopefully this still counts. Roger, you're not winning by default at least.
I'm sucky and can't come up with a title this time around, either.
---

<u>Untitled</u>

"So, what are them glasses for, and the binoculars? You look weird."

Shelly smiled wearily at the boy standing in her doorway. It had to be admitted, she probably did look a bit funny with the huge glasses sitting on her face, especially with the small pair of binoculars attached to them(2).

"I'm going to the opera tonight, Roy. And if I want to see anything," she said, pointing to the combination, "I need to wear these. I was trying them out to see if they're alright."

His mouth opened in a small 'o' of understanding, and he raised the bag in his right hand for her to take.

Seeing her inquisitive look, he shrugged. "I got you some groceries, since I heard from Mary you've been stuck in here with a cold. You probably didn't have anything decent to eat, so..."

A thankful smile flitted across her face, and she patted the boy on his head, taking the plastic bag from him. Getting in a quick glance at his watch, she then frowned.

"You need to be getting home, young man. Shoo, shoo! I'll be seeing you tomorrow."

Grinning sheepishly, Roy left to run the stairs down and out to the street. Sighing, she stared at the empty hallway. She would have wanted to run after him, to ask him to come back and stay for a while, and she knew he would have obliged without a question.

She knew he sensed how lonely she sometimes could get, and that he'd do just about anything to help her. However, the boy had a little sister to take care of, his parents working long days and often going out of town on business. She'd feel guilty for holding him at her apartment.

Closing the door and moving to the couch, full of old magazines and used dishes, she sat down heavily and looked to the ceiling, taking the glasses off. Shelly knew from experience that if she stayed here for more than a few minutes, she'd lose sense of time and just sit there, lost in the deep dark pits of her mind. She would forget to leave for the opera, and wake up the next morning, aching all over, having fallen asleep in the most uncomfortable of positions.

She had been like that for a while. How long, exactly, she couldn't say. It seemed that lately, the only things anchoring her to reality were the semi-regular visits of her friends, especially Roy, going to the grocery shop next door when she realised she had nothing to eat, and her excursions to the opera.

_My only joy._

She had a feeling it had been months, and her friends were probably getting worried. Shelly knew she was occasionally alarmed to notice how thin and pale she looked in the mirror, but then the dull feeling returned, and it didn't matter.

She sometimes thought that maybe she ought to get a job, but then again, money had never been a problem. She'd been wired money by some distant, super rich relative since the day she turned eighteen. The reasons for that had never been quite clear to her, but she wasn't complaining.

It really made staying home in her tiny apartment and wasting her life away that much easier. At least she didn't have to deal with people.

Dragging her knees up to her chin, she scooted back on the couch, laid her head on top of her crossed hands, and did her best to block the tiniest hints of the rest of the world out.

All be damned, she wasn't moving anywhere tonight.



In her dream, she was a bird, perhaps a pigeon, flying in the dark. She could see very little, yet all that she saw was tinted in red. For how long she flew, or where to, she didn't know, but at some point, something appeared before her. Strangely, she was calm, even though she would soon collide with the red, horned creature(1). Only at the very last second did she swerve to avoid it, and then there was nothing.

Shelly awoke with a start to the door crashing open, hitting the clothes rack and being slammed back shut. Before she could realise what was going on, she'd been efficiently captured by a ragged-looking man whose worn leather jacket reeked of cigarettes. She strained to get loose, but his grip on her arms was painfully tight.

"What the--mmph!" She was silenced by his palm and dragged out of the apartment, out of the house, and into a van. Her brain caught up with the situation, and her first impulse was to bite down on the hand blocking her mouth. Hard.

The precise level of smartness in following that impulse was found out a moment later, when the man punched her lights out. She thought she might have heard him say, "Good night, princess."

When she came to, she had to squint in the dim light, grasping her head as a dull ache cheerfully made itself known. As far as she could tell, she was in a large warehouse of some sort, surrounded by wooden boxes and quite a lot of dust. Quickly enough her gaze zeroed in on the man leaning on one of the boxes across from her with a smirk on his face. She considered summoning up the energy to glare, but before she could decide whether it was worth the effort, he'd walked to her and snatched the messy ponytail of her hair.

He grinned down at her. "Morning, princess. You certainly like sleeping, I thought you were gonna be out of it for two days straight. You missed the mark by a couple of hours..."

Somewhere, Shelly found the strength to bristle, twisting away from his touch and snapping her teeth at him for good measure. He only laughed, and patted her shoulder, squatting down before her. The smell of cigarettes was stronger than before, and she turned away.

"Now there, I think you might be wondering what the hell it is that I want from you. Money, sex? The answer is: nothing. Absolutely nothing."

Frowning at the words, she involuntarily turned to look at him, receiving another smirk at the action.

"That makes no sense, the princess thinks. Oh, but it makes perfect sense. Other people would love to see you naked and do unspeakable things to your body, or demand a fortune for your freedom, but me-- me, I simply want to watch you suffer. There's no grudge, just the wish to see you sink down to the deepest pits and then die.

"Don't you just love the sound of that? And what's even better, no one will miss you."

When she merely stared at him, feelings of indignity and rage and confusion battling for dominion and then overcome by an overwhelming sense of apathy, he stood up and turned sideways, preparing to walk away.

"Think about it. Would anyone really miss you if you simply disappeared, with no clues whatsoever of what happened to you? Would anyone care? Eh?"

She stared at him blankly, not responding, too tired to even defy him.

_If you want to kill me, go ahead. It would be a win-win situation, because I just don't care anymore._

The man let out a snort riddled with contempt, and spat at her. "You're pathetic."


Days passed slowly, as she slipped in and out of consciousness. There was always the presence of the man pressing down on her, and if he hit her or did something else, she couldn't have said afterwards, but somehow, she had deep scratches on her arms and legs. He brought just enough food and water to keep her alive, but she had a feeling she usually threw it up immediately afterwards.

At some point, she noticed she didn't have anything on but her underwear, and the warehouse had been cold even with proper clothes. Shivering, she stared at the tiny bowl of mushroom soup on the floor and pondered if maybe the man could go inside her head and was mocking her. Dimly she acknowledged that this probably wasn't possible, but it felt like it could be.

She remembered the time she'd gone wandering in a forest after running away from home. It'd been the year she was eight, and that had been only one of her many rebellious attempts to leave the house, being highly disapproving of the fights between her parents. In her viewpoint, the adults had been very stupid indeed, and did not deserve to have a daughter until they came to their senses.

She had got lost, and feeling very miserable, curled up under a tree and fell asleep. Upon waking, sometime in the evening when it was already fairly dark, she noted that running away without any food had been a bad idea. Then she noticed the group of very cute, yellow mushrooms, dotted with red(4), sticking out from under fallen leaves, and, her stomach growling, decided they were her dinner.

After that, Shelly had sworn she'd never eat mushrooms again. She chuckled at the memory now, thinking how usually the only edible thing in her fridge was the box of shroom stew in the freezer section, being regularly provided to her by one of her friends who liked to cook and always cooked too much. Funny, that.

She picked at a scab on the back of her left hand, absently wondering whether she'd ever get out of here. Maybe not, or at least not before it was too late and she died of something. Her friends were already used to her withdrawing into a shell and not contacting anyone, sometimes for weeks at a time. At least she thought they were. She wasn't really sure.

They might have been. It probably didn't matter anyway, since no one could connect her disappearance to anything.

She'd just rot away in this warehouse. Nodding to herself, she curled up on the floor and tried to sleep despite the cold. It was as good a fate as any, as far as she was concerned.


The desert stretched out all around her, the sun glaring down, blisteringly hot and merciless. Off in the distance, she thought she might be seeing the ocean, but the horizon was far away, and she couldn't be sure(3). She felt oddly light, as if she was floating, and it might have been a dream. The place felt familiar, though, and with a jolt she realised she was looking at the image of her own soul.

_There's an ocean?_


Once again, Shelly woke up to the sound of a door crashing open, and for a second she thought that she should hide before she was taken again. Then someone was shaking her shoulder insistently, telling her to come to her senses and get up. Opening her eyes, she saw that the someone - a police officer - had a friendly, if rough, and a slightly worried face.

Even though only some hours ago she had been nearly indifferent, she felt relief flooding her with such power it would have made her knees weak, had she been standing.

It was over. She didn't know how, she didn't know why, but it was over, and she could spare just enough time to smile radiantly and than the officer before passing out.


Sinking low in the bathtub, Shelly hissed slightly in pain as the hot water stung at the scrapes on her arms and legs. She would have to put disinfectant and some salve into the biggest ones later, but for now, she was intent on enjoying her first bath after what felt like aeons. And when she was done with that, she was seriously going to stay in bed for a week.

Poking at a bruise, she thought on this idea. It seemed like a very good one, except that if she recalled correctly, she was all out of groceries that would actually still be edible.

"Damn," she muttered to herself. "There goes that plan. Ah well, I don't really feel like lazying around this pigsty." Shuddering at the image of her apartment, dancing quite unsummoned in her mind, Shelly resolved to get the place cleaned. Soon.

But first, the bath. And a good night's sleep.

Her thoughts were interrupted by the phone ringing, and while she valiantly attempted to ignore the device, whoever was on the other end of the line was clearly very insistent. Sighing, she rose from the tub, tugged at the plug, and, without so much as grabbing a towel, the sound of water gurgling down to the drain accompanying her, zoomed to the phone to pick up.

"Shelly speaking."

"Where the hell have you been? Everyone's been worried sick something might have happened, are you okay?"

She blinked. Roy.

There was a hint of panic in the boy's voice. No doubt he was telling the truth. She was willing to bet he'd been biting his fingernails with fervour these past few days, like he always did when he was nervous. She found it, above anything else, endearing.

After trying to convince him that yes, she was perfectly alright, just a bit tired, and finally succeeding, he flung another barrage of questions at her, mainly concerning her whereabouts, and why hadn't she told anyone anything?

Shelly took a deep breath, hesitated a moment, and smiled to herself.

"Here and there. It's nothing exciting, really. You'd be bored to death by the story. Now, would you like to come to the opera with me tomorrow? It's more fun if I have company."

Fingering the binocular-glasses sitting on the table while finishing up the call, she resolved to try and keep the whole incident to herself. She didn't want her friends to know. They didn't need to, for this day and every day after would be beautiful and full of hope.

Only the future was left.


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## Linderel (Oct 3, 2006)

And again I mixed HMTL with the other code. Bah. Oh well.


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## Roger (Oct 3, 2006)

If my vote means anything, I'd like Linderel's entry to count, if possible.


Cheers,
Roger


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## maxfieldjadenfox (Oct 3, 2006)

Roger said:
			
		

> If my vote means anything, I'd like Linderel's entry to count, if possible.
> 
> 
> Cheers,
> Roger




That would be OK with me...


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## Berandor (Oct 3, 2006)

No! We cannot have more than one round to judge!

Will it be a three-way final, then?

(Man, I kind of feel like I started the trend)


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## Rodrigo Istalindir (Oct 3, 2006)

Roger said:
			
		

> If my vote means anything, I'd like Linderel's entry to count, if possible.
> 
> 
> Cheers,
> Roger




I wouldn't ask someone to give their opponent a waiver -- I think it puts them in an awkward position -- but since you offered unsolicited, it's ok with me.


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## NiTessine (Oct 3, 2006)

Rodrigo Istalindir said:
			
		

> I wouldn't ask someone to give their opponent a waiver -- I think it puts them in an awkward position -- but since you offered unsolicited, it's ok with me.



Yeah... last time this happened, they asked me if I wanted to give my opponent a chance after he ran late.

I said yes and lost the round.


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## Hellefire (Oct 3, 2006)

Is it me or are there 3 stories missing?

Aaron


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## NiTessine (Oct 3, 2006)

Hellefire said:
			
		

> Is it me or are there 3 stories missing?
> 
> Aaron



Yeah. Halivar, WildGazebo and Paka seem to have disappeared.


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## maxfieldjadenfox (Oct 3, 2006)

Berandor said:
			
		

> Will it be a three-way final, then?




Is it me or does that sound... Oh, wait. Nothing to see here, move along.


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## Wild Gazebo (Oct 3, 2006)

Sorry guys!  Life reared its ugly head.


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## Berandor (Oct 3, 2006)

maxfieldjadenfox said:
			
		

> Is it me or does that sound... Oh, wait. Nothing to see here, move along.



 On my way to albuqurquee right now!


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## Rodrigo Istalindir (Oct 3, 2006)

The good thing about three-ways is it doesn't matter if one of the participant's finishes early.


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## maxfieldjadenfox (Oct 3, 2006)

Rodrigo Istalindir said:
			
		

> The good thing about three-ways is it doesn't matter if one of the participant's finishes early.



 So, you me and Berandor... we can um... judge the entries...


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## Rodrigo Istalindir (Oct 5, 2006)

Comments for NiTessine:

Ah, the continuing adventures of Alambur of the Resplendent Flame.  There are perils involved in using a recurring character in the same edition of Ceramic DM.  First, you run the risk of mentally pre-writing your story before you see the pictures, and then trying to shoehorn them in.  Second, and most deadly, you end up competing not only with your opponent, but with your previous entry.  Much as the judges try to treat each story on its own merits, it's impossible to not at least subconsciouslly compare the two.

The writing style in this entry is very strong, again filled with the little touches and descriptives that bring the world and character to life.  The 'Boo' bit had me snorting soda on the keyboard -- bravo, I didn't see that coming!

Picture use is a mixed bag.  I was disappointed that the 'face in the blue cross' didn't have a more concrete and creative part.  The winged squirrel as a familiar was interesting, but occurred to early and was gone, leaving little impact.  The 'glass' picture was stronger and figures prominently.  Making use of the inverted image as a material component was clever.

Overall, though, this story felt a little forced, and lack a central scene to really bring things together.  A solid entry, but it suffers in comparison with its prequel.


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## Berandor (Oct 5, 2006)

So, anyway... am I supposed to judge? Or not? Or... what?


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## Rodrigo Istalindir (Oct 5, 2006)

Your feedback is always welcome, Berandor!  I've got my done; max said she'd have hers to me by tonight.  Why don't you send me your choice for winner in case we need a tie-breaker.

I'm still uncertain as to what to do for the next round.  Anyone have any ideas?

* We could just jump to a three-way final.
* We could advance the three winners and the best of the losers and continue to a semi-final round
* If there's a tie, we could advance both to a semi-final round.

What's everyone think?  Oh, and when would you all want/be ready to start?


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## GuardianLurker (Oct 5, 2006)

Well, I lose all of this weekend. Next week is better for me. I'm fine with any of the competition alternatives.


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## yangnome (Oct 5, 2006)

I'd personally prefer options two or three Rodrigo.  Whatever keeps more people writing seems to be a good option IMO.  That and I'm not too fond of the 3-way round, especially when it comes to a final.

Oh, and I'll be reday to go whenever.  Friday, Saturday or Sunday start times work best for me though.


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## Berandor (Oct 5, 2006)

I sent my comments. NiTessine, I'm frakking tired, and tomorrow's kind of a hard day (birthday and all), so I'll give you my comments sometime saturday or sunday, alright?


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## Rodrigo Istalindir (Oct 5, 2006)

Berandor said:
			
		

> I sent my comments. NiTessine, I'm frakking tired, and tomorrow's kind of a hard day (birthday and all), so I'll give you my comments sometime saturday or sunday, alright?




Happy Birthday, Berandor!  Birthday on a Friday -- so can we assume you'll be out of it till Monday?


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## NiTessine (Oct 5, 2006)

Berandor said:
			
		

> I sent my comments. NiTessine, I'm frakking tired, and tomorrow's kind of a hard day (birthday and all), so I'll give you my comments sometime saturday or sunday, alright?



Yah, no hurry.

And since it's been Friday over here for nearly 45 minutes now... Happy Birthday, Berandor!


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## maxfieldjadenfox (Oct 5, 2006)

Berandor said:
			
		

> I sent my comments. NiTessine, I'm frakking tired, and tomorrow's kind of a hard day (birthday and all), so I'll give you my comments sometime saturday or sunday, alright?




Ooooh. Is this the big 3-0? Happy birthday! I'm sending my judgements to Rodrigo as we speak...


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## yangnome (Oct 5, 2006)

Happy Birthday, Berandor.


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## Rodrigo Istalindir (Oct 5, 2006)

I've not gotten any email from max or Berandor.  Maybe gmail's getting pissy today.  Can you resend to jkline at ventechnologies dot com ?  Thanks.


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## GuardianLurker (Oct 6, 2006)

One more well-wisher for a happy Bday Berandor.


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## Rodrigo Istalindir (Oct 6, 2006)

*Round 2 Judgements*

*maxfieldjadenfox*

Yangnome
Cat Fight

A hard-bitten detective story, with a RuPaul twist.

Picture Use:

The penguin as drop location is a great use of the picture. Quite ingenious! (although I’m with PETA on this one…) The dye vats, well used, but not necessary to the story. Could have as easily been a foundry or a sewage treatment plant. And I do wish Ari’s name had been Horatio…Sialia’s picture is amorphous, but you did a good job convincing me that it was Lady D, a safe, and a rifle through night vision goggles. The leap through space stretched a bit for me, but since you had set it up before with your description of the murals, I’ll take it. All in all, damned strong picture use in my opinion. 

OK, I figured out that we were talking drag queens as soon as we got to the club. Of course I actually sang at a drag funeral (ask me about it sometime) so I’m probably pretty aware of such things. It was funny, and silly. Canukistan made me laugh too.(I love our neighbors to the north!)  I am not at all sure why Mick is in the story. Well, OK, to set up the penguin joke, sure, but then he’s gone. I think it would have been more effective to have him as a recurring character. There were a lot of characters for such a short story. I don’t know that they were necessary either, but you did an admirable job giving them individual voices. A few typos, and some redundant bits, but a fun read.

Guardian Lurker

Dye Job

Exploding penguins, the lottery, and men in black.

Picture Use:

Another exploding penguin. That’s just…weird. I’ll give you the penguin because it might or might not be a vision, but the man with a sword and a marble slab is kind of antithetical to CDM since it’s described as a vision. The dye vats picture use is OK, but once again, it played no part in the story beyond giving her a place to hide. The cable slide picture was a bit better, as there was a reason for it. 

The story is strange, but the idea is really neat. I had to read it a second time before I got that she’s dead, and that this is some sort of purgatory type place (or heaven). But the men in black with guns didn’t make sense to me. Had she done something wrong in life and gotten sent to heaven accidentally? I’m all for tales that require active participation from the reader, and I don’t need to be spoon-fed, but I would have liked a bit more guidance here, reasons, whatever. It seems like if she had some flashes that were clearer through the course of the story, the pay off would have been more satisfying. As it was, I kind of went, huh? 

Both of these stories had things to recommend them, but Yangnome’s picture use was stronger and his story held together better. Judgement for Yangnome.

*Rodrigo Istalindir*

Yangnome

This was a neat story.  It grabbed me early and had me smiling to myself throughout.  The penguin scene is beautiful and totally unexpected.  The overall style has a kind of Joe Friday staccato rhythm that really works and keeps the pace brisk.  You do a good job of keeping your cards close to your chest and not revealing things until the dramatically appropriate moment.

A couple minor quibbles.  There are a number of awkward phrasings and grammatical errors that detract from the overall quality of the writing, mistakes that I'm sure would have been caught were it not for the time limit.  Little things like reusing a phrase twice in rapid succession ("ear to the ground"), or leaving out quotes for dialogue, nothing major.

Picture use is superb.  The penguin is perfect Ceramic DM -- clever, unexpected, and it creates a memorable scene.  The dye vats, too, worked out very well.  It helped to establish the Ari character while riffing on the spy and fashion themes.  The 'night vision' use was clever as well, going for something a little less obvious than a ghost or specter but not stretching things beyond the point of credibility, and also working in some of the less obvious elements (the block as the safe, for example).  The zip-line was solid, but perhaps would have been better served being a picture of the hero instead of the villain, first because you had already specified Lady Daffodil as bald, second because showing a picture of the main character enhances the overall story.  Also, there was a little confusion on my part as to the gender of the main character (was that intentional?) and setting things up one way and then revealing the truth in the picture would have worked very well.

GuardianLurker

Ok, what is it with exploding penguins? Did I not get the memo?

Here we have a eerie, ambiguous story.  The main character is sketched with thoughts and memories, making her seem somewhat ephemeral -- appropriate, given the conclusion.  There are some nice touches, like the pidgin-English in the vision and at the dye shop, that increase the sense of unease.

The pace is a little too break-neck, I think.  We never get into Melissa's head, don't get enough time with her for her to come alive as a character.  The nature of the hallucinations seems a bit off, too.  What's the old adage -- "If you doubt your sanity, then you must be sane" ?  Melissa recognizes the penguin for what it is, but doesn't with the men in black.  If this is a sign she's getting worse, it progresses too quickly, I think.  And is the ledge that's really a spot of moss another hallucination, or an honest mistake?

There are all the makings of a great story here, but I think it needs another pass to tighten it up and make the transition from normality to lunacy a little more subtle.

The picture use doesn't help much.  As mentioned previously, hallucinations and dreams and such can weaken the effects of the pictures, because those states of mind lack any requirement for internal consistency.  A vision of a penguin on the beach is wierd but not especially hard to integrate -- it could have been a polar bear or reindeer or anything.  A real penguin on the beach tales more creativity to explain away convincingly.  Still, it was unexpected, and if I wasn't expecting one exploding penguin, I sure wasn't expecting two!  The ghost with the mirror/tombstone is much, much better, and a great way to both use a picture multiple places in the story, and to mitigate the negative aspects of dreams by making it possible to interpret multiple ways.  The zip-line as a means of death is effective, but it could have used a better set up earlier in the story.  Bonus points for setting up the change in hair-color with the dye vat scene.

Exploding penguins aside, we have two very different stories here.  I found GuardianLurker's story intriguing and kind of haunting, but ultimately unsatisfying.  yangome's story, while a little rough around the edges, had excellent picture use and good pacing that carries the day.

Judgement for yangnome, who advances 2-0


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## Rodrigo Istalindir (Oct 6, 2006)

Ok, maxfieldjadenfox and I read GuardianLurker's story *completely* differently.  I read it as Melissa winning the lottery, abandoning her family for a jet-set life, and going mad from guilt.

Of course, I still don't get 'Hills Like White Elephants' either.  Maybe I need remedial English Lit classes.


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## maxfieldjadenfox (Oct 6, 2006)

Rodrigo Istalindir said:
			
		

> Ok, maxfieldjadenfox and I read GuardianLurker's story *completely* differently.  I read it as Melissa winning the lottery, abandoning her family for a jet-set life, and going mad from guilt.
> 
> Of course, I still don't get 'Hills Like White Elephants' either.  Maybe I need remedial English Lit classes.



 Ain't it cool? I love the English language, it's so ambiguous. I'm curious to know what GuardianLurker really meant, but I think it's great that there's more than one possible interpretation...


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## Rodrigo Istalindir (Oct 6, 2006)

*Rodrigo Istalindir*

Roger:

This is an interesting story, short and sweet.  The framing around the flashback is economical but effective, and the ending unexpected.  That's hard to do in such a short story, but here it's very well done.  The conversational tone in the flashback fits well and the prose flows nicely. 

The real drawback here is the brevity.  There's little depth to the characters, and little reason for the reader to develop any emotional interest in the story.  Eliminate Linda, and give Bill and Shane a deeper history -- siblings, college roommate, something -- and you'd achieve a stronger impact with the conclusion.

Picture use is good.  The doctor in the beginning is kind of a throw-away, since the central element of the picture (the goggles) don't really play a part.  The mushrooms are a central element to the story, and using the color of the spots to tie in the name, etc., is a good touch.  The beach scene is off, though -- if the beach is 'pristine', what are the two umbrellas doing there?  The demon and bird use is clever.  You did a good job of setting up the hallucination with the story, and it doesn't feel forced, which is a common problem with dream type scenes in Ceramic DM.

Linderel:

Here we have an unlikely protagonist.  Shelly's lassitude is conveyed by the writing very effectively -- sitting heavily, smiles flitting, etc.  There is something about Shelly that strikes a chord - I think everyone has those days where they just want to lie on the sofa in their pajamas and ignore the world.   The setup is pretty good at establishing the characters.

The rest of the story doesn't pan out, though.  There are tantalizing bits, but just when you think something significant is going to happen, things jump forward.  The childhood scene with the mushrooms, for example.  I kept waiting for that to factor into later events.  The parts describing Shelly's kidnapping and the actions of her attacker are well done, but there seems to be no overall method to the madness, as it were, no sense of motive.

Picture use suffers from the same detachment, and an over-reliance on dreams.  Dreams, hallucinations, virtual reality, all these are permissible ways to use pictures in Ceramic DM, but they lack the impact of pictures that describe the here-and-now.  The glasses picture establishes Shelly's love of opera, but the rest of the story doesn't really make that important.  As mentioned, the mushroom picture and scene would have been more effective if there was some tie-in the present events.   The dream of the ocean and the demon-bird are throw-aways, with nothing to integrate it with the rest of the story.

Linderel's story has some potential, and I was looking forward to a seeing how Shelly progressed, but the story seemed disjointed, and the pictures didn't serve to propel things forward.  Roger has an interesting little story, albeit a little short,  with a nice twist, and very good picture use.

Judgment for Roger

*maxfieldjadenfox*

Roger
Cardinal Sins

A cure for cancer, and a drug trip gone horribly awry.

Picture Use:

Magnifying glasses, OK. Yes, they work in a n hospital setting, but I expected them to DO something. They are mentioned in passing but aren’t used. Beach, sets up the location, but once again, comes and goes quickly without having much impact. Mushrooms are the true inciting incident and I like to tie to the red bird picture. Red bird is used to good effect, comes up multiple times before the climax.

Cannibalism is creepy. I’m guessing it was the mushrooms, not the human flesh that cured the tumor though, right? Right? I liked the O’Henry twist at the end. Seems like lots of CDM entries do that, but this is done nicely. The story telling style flows well and keeps active. Pretty cool.

Linderel
Untitled

A depressed introvert, a kidnapping and a conversion.

Picture Use:

Picture use is pretty weak overall. The binoculars and their connection to opera were a good start, but I wanted more. Why did she love opera? Could it have shown up during her captivity? The red bird is used as a dream. A CDM no no. The mushrooms tie to the current mushroom soup, and in a longer story would be OK, but here they don’t advance the action or show much of Shelly’s character. The beach is also a dream or vision, which in the context of the story I could forgive if it tied to anything else… 

I think you missed some opportunities here. The story idea is a strong one, but the execution needed work. (Yes, I’m aware of the time constraints!) Shelly, as a character, grows, and that is good. I would have liked to see more about why she turned into this antisocial, apathetic person. The scene with the mushrooms would have been a good place to do this, and you started, but didn’t quite go far enough. Now, all that being said, I liked the overall flow of the story, and I was concerned with whether Shelly would get out, which means the character managed to be likeable despite her apathy. I think it has potential.

Yeah, this is all too convenient, but I liked both of these stories. Both had issues, but both also had merits. Roger’s picture use was slightly better overall.  Judgment to Roger by a hair.

Roger advances, 2-0.


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## GuardianLurker (Oct 6, 2006)

maxfieldjadenfox said:
			
		

> Ain't it cool? I love the English language, it's so ambiguous. I'm curious to know what GuardianLurker really meant, but I think it's great that there's more than one possible interpretation...



Well, let's see if I can satisfy that curiousity.

The key picture for me was the man with a sword and the marble slab. Despite the "No visions" thing for CDM, it was too abstract for me to think of it in any other way. The other complicator was the penguin. As I said in the story, penguins don't belong on beaches with people in shorts. Together, the two meant it wasn't going to be a straight-forward tale. Strangely enough, it was the dye vats that gave me the most trouble.

The story is set in some form of afterlife. The initial setup is Melissa's subconscious mind providing a rationalization for what would otherwise be a strange situation. As too what kind of afterlife, that's intentionally ambiguous - I myself don't know really. Inspiration was drawn heavily from the movie Jacob's Ladder and Connie Willis' book Passages.

Originally, the man was an Angel, the marble slab a door in the cliff, and it was a story about a woman's transition from life to the afterlife (heaven), with the penguin being a spirit guide. But that was predicated on the "angel" being last in the sequence (penguin, vats, slide, angel).  Originally, the slide was going to send Melissa through the door, where she'd meet the angel on the other side. But when I wrote the story, the angel ended up being a vision engendered by the exploding penguin. Which changed it around dramatically.

It's still a story of a transition. It's still set in a afterlife. There's still a metric load of symbology in there. The pacing is actually kind of intentional - from the moment the penguin explodes Melissa's running for her life, without time to think, and with no clues why. I also wanted to keep it ambiguous. So every time I thought I had settled on something definite, I made myself flip it to the other side. Is the penguin helpful, or a homocidal traitor? Are the men in black angels or devils? Is Melissa tricked into fleeing heaven, or are we just seeing the thoughts of a dying mind? I don't know, and I very carefully kept myself from knowing.

The only real answers I can provide is that in version two the ledge is illusory. It's not really there. And the thick fluid that Melissa wipes from her forehead (and never looks at) is blood.


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## maxfieldjadenfox (Oct 6, 2006)

I figured the thick fluid was blood, and I really enjoyed Passages. It's a big story to fit into just a few pages, huh? Thanks for the explanation, and a good read, Guardian Lurker.


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## Berandor (Oct 6, 2006)

I read the story totally different, as well. I resent my judgements right now.

Edit: Since the rounds are judged, I'll just post my judgements here.


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## Berandor (Oct 6, 2006)

The phone rang.

All the gnupfs turned to look at me as I turned to look at the phone. The phone rang again. It had a nice old-fashioned ring, and it stood on a small desk next to the altar. It rang again.

"Should I, you know, answer?"

The gnupfs just stared at me. Lady Death shimmered in the candlelight. I started to sweat. The phone rang again. I finally went over and picked it up.

"Hello?"

"Berandor? Is that you?" It was Herreman.

"Thank God," I said. "You must come home."

"Yeah," Herreman said. "I'll be home shortly. Until then, though... the contest's started, and I was hoping... you know."

"You were hoping someone else would sacrifice souls to Lady Death this time? Someone, maybe, who entered your home out of worry and got stuck with an evil scythe and her annoying minions?"

"Well... when you put it like that: yes."

I cursed. "I'm stuck here, Herreman. Come quickly. Please."

"I'll hurry," he said. "But if I don't make it in time for the finals–"

"You'll have to make it," I interrupted.

"Yeah, and I will. But if I won't – someone will come and pick up Lady Death."

"Who?"

"You'll know him when you see him."

"Listen–," I began. I heard a clicking sound. Herreman had hung up. Between the two of us, he really was the wise one.

I put the phone down and turned around. The gnupfs still stared at me.

"Oh, for frak's sake," I said. "Hand me the stories."

The first pair to land in my hands was *Roger vs. Linderel*.

"I'm always hesitant at latecomers. I mean, if you don't want to seem like something Erics Grandma wouldn't like to hear, you have little choice but to allow your opponent's to count. It's one thing if he's just a few minutes late, but almost a day? Still, here we are, so let's see whether Linderel used all the time he had."

The gnupfs listened intently, almost comically so. They were planning something, of that I was sure. Still, I continued.

"_Linderel'_s story does a marvelous thing. It begins with a sleepy woman, and it seems there's a mystery about her sleepiness, and about the guy who sends her money. And while I'm trying to fit the pictures into that idea, suddenly she's kidnapped, and the story takes a turn into darker and totally unrealated territory. Cool.

"It's still too easy. Shelly falls asleep, is punched out, wakes up in a cage. She sleeps. Some time later, she only wears underwear anymore. She sleeps. The police rescue her somehow. She takes a bath in the apartment she somehow gets the money for, and then you tell us she's starting new. If you really want to do this story, you have to make Shelly's kidnapping gruesome. It probably is, but we don't see it. Describe how she has to eat out of a dog's bowl. How she has to beg to be let go to the toilet. You don't have to go full torture on us, but we need a little more than a haze of half-remembered dreams to make us really care for her.

"In the end, don't tell me in a sentence why she keeps her kidnapping secret, and what she's planning to do. Show us. If, that is, you intend this to be a good ending. The way I see it, it's depressing as hell. Shelly wants to clean her apartment – tomorrow. She wants to live life to the fullest – by falling back on her trodden paths, going to the opera, taking a bath, napping. To me, even a kidnapping couldn't shake her out of her laziness. And that's sad, if realistic.

"_Roger._ A creepy tale, and it's very well constructed. I had guessed that the tumor would be gone in the end, but I thought perhaps the mushroom would simply work that way. I really enjoyed the narrative voice you employ there, it's disticntive and fun to read. A very nice idea of having two deadly ill people try and enjoy life. I suspected all the time that the tobacco girl had a hidden motive for her deeds, like finding a cure for cancer and making her father's company ultra-rich, or simply annoying Daddy by paying for cancer patients' vacations. It seems her generosity was as mysterious as the stranger's in Linderel's story.

"If there's anything I would criticise, it's pacing. It's over so quickly, we can't really get into the story enough to make us really feel the horror at the end. If we'd gotten to know the other two better, or if the shroom eating night was developed further, I think the story might be stronger for it. You don't really need dialogue the way you tell it, but I'd still want more. And I'd work to make the final sentence seperate from the penultimate one, to give us just one more pause before you hit us. He ate his buddies, and he's imprisoned. But hey – he's cured! The double meaning that he'll be kept locked up for a long time, and that he traded his health for his friends' lives would need a little more drama, I think."

Two gnupfs went over to Linderel's side, and three of the little buggers made their way to Roger's side.

"The pictures. Let me first say that I love Sialia's pictures, not only on their own merits, but also for what they do with the stories. Me, I tend to stick closely to the pics, but Sialia's images really allow me and other writers to interpret what they see, and use the pictures as they see fit. It's thus that I feel Sialia's pictures are often the strongest, most personal uses of an entry, but I also expect them to be.

"Here, we have the mushroom vision of a bedeviled Linda, and a somewhat prophetic dream. I liked the image of words becoming butterflies when spoken, very nice, especially since that's probably the least I'd expect to see from a devil. It's also the one image hinting at a dark turn, and maybe allowing us to see why Shane killed his friends. The eating - not so much, though. In Linderel's story, at first the dream struck me as random, but it's really Shelly seeing herself in her precious butterfly form encountering the devil and barely escaping – what happens later on. It also keeps her in butterfly form, which strengthens my interpretation that a few months from now, Shelly will be back to her old self. I think Linderel's use fuels the story more, if only on a second read. 

"The woman with glasses... Roger gives us the Navy girl, who frames the central story, but isn't really important. Linderel shows us his - well, we can't really say protagonist, because Shelly does nothing, really – ready to go to the opera. The glasses are, otherwise, unimportant, and the fact that Shelly likes opera doesn't hint at anything, either, as far as I can see. It's kind of a draw in weak use, perhaps a small point to Linderel. 

"The empty beach: To Roger, it's a paradisical place which will soon turn to Hell, and it's at once a nice twist in the imagery as well as it's important that the place is far-off so the story can unfolg unhindered. Linderel gives us another dream. It's alright to use dreams for pictures, but it's difficult to do right and easy to do it wrong. Here, I think the interpretation of Shelly's soul being a desert, but with the possibility of becoming a beach, is nice, but heavy-handed. It doesn't work, as such, which is why Linderel throws in a clear statement about what's going on, telling us directly. But knowing that it doesn't really work is no help. The idea is cool, but in execution, I think this picture is slightly weaker than Roger's. 

"Which brings us to the Shrooms. Roger makes them the center of his tale, at once devilish source of cannibalism and magical cure for cancer. I'd prefer to read a little more about their power (see above). On the other hand, the small story about cardinals ties to the title and is just one of a few minor details I really enjoyed. Linderel has Shelly be sort-of allergic to mushrooms since a bad childhood experience, but it's not clear the shrooms do anything else. It's his weakest use."

I breathed, and then I looked at the scoreboard. Roger: 5 gnupfs. Linderel: 4.

"Well," I said. "It was a close one, but this time it seems the early bird got the worm."

I pierced Linderel's story on the Lady's blade. The gnupfs high-fived each other. Then, they went silent. They looked at me – no, behind me. I turned, and there were two gnupfs, dragging a bottle of – German beer! I rushed over to those two heroic creatures and grabbed the bottle. It was slightly warm, but that wasn't important. The gnupfs had even opened the bottle for me. Sighing in anticipation, I–

Wait a minute. I regarded the gnupfs. They smiled. Even the one I'd pushed over the edge. Actually, his smile was the broadest. Warm beer, open bottle – these nasty buggers! I let my bebottled arm sink, and now it was my turn to smile.

"You almost got me. But you didn't. And from now on, things will be different around here. First off, bring me a new beer. Cold, unopened. And some snacks."

The gnupfs started to protest.

"If you don't, I'll spray you with whatever it is that is in this bottle."

The protest died down immediately.

"Good. Get going. Meanwhile, I'll grab myself a chair and start reading... *yangnome vs GuardianLurker*, it seems. Alright."

A good ten minutes later, I was finishing my beer and chewing on a tasty pretzel.

"So," I said, my mouth still full, "let's see.

"Both stories had a nice premise, and to me they're typical Ceramic DM entries because with a little more time, their flaws could have been ironed out, but then without Ceramic DM, who would write these?

"GuardianLurker, _die job_, I mean, _Dye Job_ yanked me around. The twist was totally unexpected, which is cool. But if you think about it... So Melissa didn't win the lottery, right? She died. And now she's – in Paradise? Maybe, but that doesn't matter. What matters is seemingly her regaining the knowledge of her death, and then... dying again? being resurrected? Going to hell? And the black guys are after her to help her, so that's why they storm her room armed with guns? And why do they all speak in crazy speech? And what the heck is with the penguin?

"The other possibility would be to take it at face value, so Melissa has premonitions of her death (induced by the penguin), and she still can't escape her death. She'd had the chance (the penguin warning her of the three lethal dangers), but she doesn't. If so: why do the people talk crazy? Why/how did she forget her husband and son? For that matter, how did she forget the holiday, not care about the chamicals she bathed in, or that people vanished right in front of her eyes? And what's with the exploding penguin, anyway?

"Either way I look at it, your story reads well and intrigues, until it ends with a twist, a splat and a nonsensical whole.

"yangnome, first off, there were several spelling mistakes in your story. These can spell the downfall for an entry, especially as you advance past round one and the matches get closer.  Here, we have a story that sounded good in your head, I'm sure, and I like the idea. But you don't sell it. You play coy with us by keeping all details away from us, yet spelling The Queen and making us note that something's wrong. I don't think the reveal is worth it. It would be better to set this thing into the world of drag queens right away, so we can enjoy the flamboyance without trying to catch hints at whether The Queen is a formian or a plant or what. Also, the final sentence is wodden as a barn.

"The story flows, of course, but there really isn't much tension or anything. Until SuzieQ, our protagonist just gets all the info she can get and needs, and getting SuzieQ to talk is done by telling us it's done. The only conflict is a literal one, and then the action is muddled and confusing, in part because you still don't want to tell us about the drag queens (though by then, the secret's pretty much out of the closet). I also wonder how Lady Daffodil opened the safe in darkness.

"Which brings us to some other questions. What's with the exploding penguin? Alright, here I can accept it somewhat as being part of a very silly story. But why a penguin? The explosion, alright, but penguins? And why go to a guy who takes care of bodies when you want to know about drag queens? What should he know about it? I guess Jorge might know because he's in the scene, but Ari?

"Anyway, your story is still the stronger one, on account of it retaining some sense on a second read. I really think both of you got hit by the time limit, and there is a good story in there, perhaps even a great one. Alas, next time, perhaps."

I looked at the gnupfs. Two of them were massaging my feet, and one was brushing little pieces of pretzel off my chest. Two more just returned with my second beer.

"What are you waiting for? Get to scoring!"

The practically jumped onto the altar and lined up, though I could hear some mumbling, and I even saw a tiny finger pointed at me behind another gnupf's back. I had to be careful. I'd give them a chance, and they'd rebel. After a short discussion among the gnupfs, two of them went over to GuardianLurker's side, and three sauntered over to yangnome.

"The pictures. That'll be difficult. Okay, start with the obvious: Why an exploding penguin? Why? With yangnome, at least I get the exploding part, whereas GuardianLurker just throws me for a loop. Sialia's art: It's Lady Daffodil, seen through night vision goggles. Nice one, and Daffodil is important. It's also a knight with a sword, nay, a man with flowers, nay, Melissa's husband with her son. This is something I liked about GL's story, because he uses different interpretations of the pic, but they all fit thanks to Sialia. Well done, and of course this pic is, either way, the motivation for Melissa's adventure. The dye vats... okay, the casks are a good way to hide. So judging by that admission, GuardianLurker wins this because Melissa has to hide, whereas yangnome's use might fit the idea of a spy story, but not the actual story itself. The cliffs: It's the end of Melissa's travels, that's for sure. On the other hand, it's Lady Daffodil railing alongside a nightclub painted to look like outside. I liked how yangnome mentioned the wall paintings a few paragraphs before the picture appeared, so it sort of came together to make sense (like it would have made sense to mention the holiday in GuardianLurker's story beforehand). It is, too, the climax of the story. In the end, because yangnome's protagonist rails down, too, and because the implementation was nicely done, I'd give this picture to yangnome. GuardianLurker's sudden ending with the moss didn't really fit with a cable rail fitted to that spot."

The gnupfs had shuffled over even while I was speaking, and it was a clear victory for yangnome, 5-4.

"Well done, yangnome, but whether next round's a final, or not, you'll have to put another log on the fire."

I took another pretzel and began chewing as I slid GuardianLurker's entry on Lady Death. While the gnupfs partied, I sat back down and pointed at my feet. Two gnupfs immediately started the massage again. Now that I thought about it, perhaps this judging thing wasn't so bad, after all?


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## Linderel (Oct 6, 2006)

Mmh. Thanks for the comments. I'm actually grateful for dropping, at least I don't have to write more utter crap like that. xD Well, not until Nanowrimo, anyway...

Oh, by the way, I'm a girl.


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## Berandor (Oct 6, 2006)

Sorry. Shall I edit my judgements?


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## Rodrigo Istalindir (Oct 6, 2006)

Linderel said:
			
		

> Mmh. Thanks for the comments. I'm actually grateful for dropping, at least I don't have to write more utter crap like that. xD Well, not until Nanowrimo, anyway...
> 
> Oh, by the way, I'm a girl.




I certainly didn't think it was crap.  Just maybe too big an idea to execute in the short time frame and still get the nuance you were shooting for.  OTOH, Berandor and max got it, so maybe I'm just slow.  I try hard when judging not to read things into the story that aren't there -- as a result I'll tend to err on the side of the obvious if I'm uncertain.  

The only 'crap' story I've ever seen in Ceramic DM was my second Kylo Krumboldt story.  Ick.


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## Rodrigo Istalindir (Oct 6, 2006)

I'm still not sure what to do for next round.  I don't like the three-way and we didn't have any ties.  I can't think of a round-robin scenario that would work, either.  :\


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## Gulla (Oct 6, 2006)

Rodrigo Istalindir said:
			
		

> I'm still not sure what to do for next round.  I don't like the three-way and we didn't have any ties.  I can't think of a round-robin scenario that would work, either.  :\



Pull out the dice and let two of them meet each other for the right to fight the last one in the final? I cannot see any other "fair" way of doing it unless you want a threeway or round-robin.

And since a round-robin is out this at least gives us 4 stories to read, and that is better than the 3 we get in a threeway final   

Håkon


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## GuardianLurker (Oct 6, 2006)

Interesting feedback, thanks Berandor.

Rodrigo, I'll offer a third alternative - a dummy partner. I'm getting good feedback/exercise, and I'd like to continue stretching my skills. OTOH, I'm not sure what the point would be for my (the dummy's) opponent - it's just more exercise, and a guaranteed win. On one foot (since I'm out of hands) it'd also give you all 6 stories to read, rather than 4.

But, eh. Whatever. It's been fun no matter what. 

Anyone have an idea when the next Iron DM will be?


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## Berandor (Oct 7, 2006)

maxfieldjadenfox said:
			
		

> Ooooh. Is this the big 3-0? Happy birthday! I'm sending my judgements to Rodrigo as we speak...



 Thanks for all the birthday wishes. It's late (early) right now, and I'm fatigued, but not tired... the "party high"  For the record, it's not the big 3-0. Do you think I'm that old? Come on! I'm only 29, that's a decade younger (or more).


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## maxfieldjadenfox (Oct 7, 2006)

Berandor said:
			
		

> Thanks for all the birthday wishes. It's late (early) right now, and I'm fatigued, but not tired... the "party high"  For the record, it's not the big 3-0. Do you think I'm that old? Come on! I'm only 29, that's a decade younger (or more).



 Forgive me. Math is not my strong suit... Happy 29! It's a good age. I've been it for a number of years now.


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## yangnome (Oct 7, 2006)

Thanks again to the judges for their hard work and to GL for the story.  Maxfieldjadenfox> I'd ove to hear teh story about the drag queen funeral.


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## Berandor (Oct 7, 2006)

I don't know whether you notice this, but I'm writing with my new ergonomic keyboard. It feels like learning to type all over 

*NiTessine*: I liked your story well enough; you certainly show a great amount of imagination, and you make me feel as if I knew your fictional world or, at least, as if it really might exist. However, just like the last story, I wasn't hooked. The prose flowed naturally, but it all was quite easy. Alambur doesn't really accomplish something extraordinary. He gets his mission, he approaches the earth elemental and pays a gem he already had with him, then he is himself approached by the traitor who leads him to the evil archmage. There's not really an opposition to Alambur's quest, no matter how well-written it is.

The picture use was fine; the flying squirrel wasn't really necessary, neither in form nor in function. The blue cross was a very nice imagery for a vision (x marks the spot ). The "guards" was a nice use; there had to be guards, it seemed realistic they might grow lax so close to their goal, and the explosive runes gag was very nice. The beer glass, too, was a cool way of incorporating it into the story, even though I'd have liked to have a little more warning what it was supposed to do (so I could relish the actual image without keeping up with the story), or to have its defusal be a little more spectacular than just drenching the bad guy, or both.

But it was still an accomplished story with a recurring character. Well done.


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## maxfieldjadenfox (Oct 7, 2006)

yangnome said:
			
		

> Thanks again to the judges for their hard work and to GL for the story.  Maxfieldjadenfox> I'd love to hear the story about the drag queen funeral.




Okay, but you asked...

My friend Larry "does" Cher. One of my fondest memories is of him standing in my living room at about 3 AM after a Halloween party, saying,"I'm done with this bitch" and dropping first the wig, then the falsies and other acoutrements on the floor. Looked like Cher had blown up...

A few months ago, his long-time partner was killed in an accident. Larry called me and asked me to sing at the memorial, which would be at the local gay social club. "Rick always loved to hear you sing." So, of course, I said yes. I got to the club early, and found out the accompanist had flaked, so I would be singing acapella...erk! I asked the bartender where Larry was and he pointed toward the back room. I composed myself, because I knew it would probably be an emotional scene. When I went around the corner, there was Larry, all done up as Cher. This was a surprise to me. Nobody told me it would be a drag memorial service. Next to him, helping with the wig stylage, was my friend PJ, also known as Fontana Divine, as Liza, resplendent in red sequins. Suddenly, I felt very underdressed in my velvet top and jeans. But, a real woman can never hope to compete with a drag queen in the glitz department, so why bother? Larry told me he was sorry about the accompanist, but was I still willing to sing? I said of course. He told me where to sit, when I would sing, and excused himself to finish preparing. I went out and sat in my assigned spot and prepared myself by drinking a beer. Through the course of the evening, drag kings and queens eulogized Rick in words and lip sync. My friends Wendy and Kari sang "Somewhere Over the Rainbow." When people were particularly moved, they walked up to the performer and gave him/her money. A custom perhaps unique to this area. The same $10-$15 probably just makes its way around the room through the course of the evening, but it's kind of an honor. It was finally my time to sing. I sang Sarah MacLachlan's Angel. About halfway through, I realized that the audience was singing with me. Nice. Then, the drag queens began to line up to give me money. I was so flummoxed I sang the end of the first verse twice. Guess nobody minded... Last, Larry came out and sang a duet with an Ernie (from Sesame Street) puppet singing the Peter Cetera part.

Well, here we are again
I guess it must be fate
We've tried it on our own
But deep inside we've known
We'd be back to set things straight
I still remember when
Your kiss was so brand new
Every memory repeats
Every step I take retreats
Every journey always brings me back to you

After All the stops and starts
We keep coming back to these two hearts
Two angels who've been rescued from the fall
After All that we've been through
It all comes down to me and you
I guess it's meant to be
Forever you and me, After All

When love is truly right
(This time it's truly right)
It lives from year to year
It changes as it goes
Oh, and on the way it grows
But it never disappears

After All the stops and starts
We keep coming back to these two hearts
Two angels who've been rescued from the fall
After All that we've been through
It all comes down to me and you
I guess it's meant to be
Forever you and me, After All
Always just beyond my touch
You know I needed you so much
After All, what else is livin' for?

After All the stops and starts
We keep coming back to these two hearts
Two angels who've been rescued from the fall
After All that we've been through
It all comes down to me and you
I guess it's meant to be
Forever you and me, After All  

Tears were running down his face as everyone lined up in front of the stage, which was littered with money by the end of the song. Turns out he wasn't going to be able to afford to fly to South Dakota (where Rick was from) for the funeral, but the drag queen donations (and mine ) made it possible. All in all, one of the most surreal and amazing experiences of my life.


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## maxfieldjadenfox (Oct 7, 2006)

Ni Tessine
Destruction

Part Two in the Alambur Saga. 

Picture Use:
The flying squirrel thing wasn't necessary to the plot and left rather quickly, never to be seen again. If it had accompanied Alambur on his quest or had been essential to him in some way I would have been happier. The blue cross with the face was well used for the scrying part. I liked the use of the glass, and the description of the scene. It was a stretch for me to see the archaeologists (or whatever they were) as guards, but hey, I'll go with it. The parchment worked for me.

Now. The writing is nicely crafted. Good, and not overboard with some lovely descriptive bits. I read somewhere that a good story requires knowing what your main character wants and not giving it to him. This story does the opposite. From the beginning, all Alambur has to do is ask, and it is given. There is no dramatic tension. Having written my share of D&D logs, that's what this feels like. I think the style is great, nice word usage, but I want that dramatic tension! Next round, don't give him what he wants too soon, OK?


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## maxfieldjadenfox (Oct 8, 2006)

Linderel said:
			
		

> Mmh. Thanks for the comments. I'm actually grateful for dropping, at least I don't have to write more utter crap like that. xD Well, not until Nanowrimo, anyway...
> 
> Oh, by the way, I'm a girl.




You know, Linderel, that your entry wasn't crap, don't you? Don't you? I think CDM can be discouraging, especially if you are newish to criticism. Which you may or may not be. (Since I don't know you beyond 10 posts, I'm not sure.) I look at it as an exercise. You have to write fast, with weird subject constraints. People are going to read what you write and judge it. I find it quite terrifying, and yet, I try to do most of the competitions. Why? For exactly the reasons mentioned above. CDM has stretched me, sometimes to breaking, and I always come away with some gem to use the next time I write something. I actually started off calling your competition a tie, but with CDM picture use is key and Roger did that a bit better. Still, I reread your comment this morning and it rubbed me the wrong way. Writing is art. Art is communication. You communicated. It's all good. 
And I knew you were a girl.


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## Linderel (Oct 8, 2006)

I have this funny way of thinking about my stories. They can be good, or so I'm told. Some people claim some of my stories are, in fact, very good stuff. But if they're not good, in my eyes, they're about the same as crap. Stupid and silly, I know, but let's not care about that, shall we? I _know_ they had some potential, and that they weren't utter crap. I'll just need to work on believing that. ^_^


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## Rodrigo Istalindir (Oct 9, 2006)

Here's what I want to do next:

Semifinal round:  Three-way contest between NiTessine, Roger and yangnome.  The top two advance to the finals.  Semi-final to begin this Thursday or Friday, finals the week after.  

I don't like the three-way rounds, but at least this way it's not for the win.  

Judges will provide the usual commentary, but will also give me a numeric ranking (1-3) for each story, 1 being best, 3 being, er, least-best.


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## maxfieldjadenfox (Oct 9, 2006)

Works for me. Deathless prose, anyone?


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## Sialia (Oct 9, 2006)

maxfieldjadenfox said:
			
		

> Okay, but you asked...
> 
> My friend Larry "does" Cher. One of my fondest memories is of him standing in my living room at about 3 AM after a Halloween party, saying,"I'm done with this bitch" and dropping first the wig, then the falsies and other acoutrements on the floor. Looked like Cher had blown up...




Oddly, this is my favorite piece of writing in this thread yet.

Thank you.


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## yangnome (Oct 9, 2006)

Sounds good to me.


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## maxfieldjadenfox (Oct 9, 2006)

Sialia said:
			
		

> Oddly, this is my favorite piece of writing in this thread yet.
> 
> Thank you.




Thank you! I'm glad you enjoyed it.


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## tadk (Oct 10, 2006)

max...thank you for sharing that very moving piece..thank you very much...
to the participants.....wow.....very impressive

Linderel....good luck with NaNo...this will be my 5th try.....


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## yangnome (Oct 10, 2006)

yeah, thanks for telling the story max.  i really enjoyed it.  Sialia's right.  That quote there is great.  i could see that being a really interesting start to a novel or story of some sort.

Tadk,  you need to approach NaNo with a more positive attitude.  This year will be a win for you. By saying it is a try, you are resigning yourself to defeat before you even start writing.  

I'm a bit anxious about this year's NaNo.  Last year, I entered with a very strong idea and breezed through it, ending with what I believe is a very strong novel.  this year, i don't have anything nearly as concrete.  i do have a few ideas though, one of which seems to be fronting the pack.  I still have a lot of thought to do before I can write it though.  Even then, I don't know how it will all turn out.


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## tadk (Oct 10, 2006)

Hey Yangnome....Last year i did break 20k words before it all, life, caught up with me...didnt have that strong a concept....year before was too ambitious, a real Tad story....like 2k total in ideas....year before was 52k and need to do another 12 to 14 to someday finish of my Steampunkish Descendant of Jack the RIpper in a Celtic out of space story...the year before nothing to speak of and the first year was a 25 some k story all complete..in about half the month...so i know i can do it....so far teh idea is Sidhe in Space....aliens landed and took all teh Sidhe and relatives to other worlds...thousands of years later, here is the story of a humble bookbinder earth fey on an alien world and his sudden adventures......


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## maxfieldjadenfox (Oct 10, 2006)

OK Yangnome, Linderel and TadK, I'll join you in NaNo even though I'll be starting a new job on the 16th and am costuming Waiting For Godot and acting in another play in November. What the hell, life is short, right?


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## yangnome (Oct 10, 2006)

Glad to have you on board, max.  May I suggest teh first line of your novel?



> My friend Larry "does" Cher. One of my fondest memories is of him standing in my living room at about 3 AM after a Halloween party, saying,"I'm done with this bitch" and dropping first the wig, then the falsies and other acoutrements on the floor. Looked like Cher had blown up...


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## NiTessine (Oct 10, 2006)

I'll be doing NaNo as well. Actually, I recruited both Linderel and Kassiopeia from a Finnish NaNoWriMo IRC channel.

It's now my fourth year, and it was my intention to actually finish this year. Currently, the top concept is political fantasy.


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## maxfieldjadenfox (Oct 10, 2006)

Cool! Lots of us on the ENWorld thread on NaNo again... I'll take your suggestion under advisement, Yangnome. I actually have a middle-grade kid's story that I've been wanting to tackle too. We'll see what inspires me then.


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## tadk (Oct 11, 2006)

staying on the NaNo topic I made a forum topic in the writing groups titled Enworld. So we can all talk together.....add me if you want tkelson also....


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## maxfieldjadenfox (Oct 11, 2006)

tadk said:
			
		

> staying on the NaNo topic I made a forum topic in the writing groups titled Enworld. So we can all talk together.....add me if you want tkelson also....




Oooh, yeah. Sorry to have hijacked the thread. CDM, anyone?


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## yangnome (Oct 12, 2006)

I assume we'll be starting this tomorrow?


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## Rodrigo Istalindir (Oct 12, 2006)

Yeah, tomorrow. 

I'm on a plane till 1pm or so, so I can either post them late tomorrow afternoon, or if she's willing, I could email the pictures to max and she could post for me.


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## yangnome (Oct 13, 2006)

You're probably off the plane now, but late afternoon is fine for me.  The later the better, really.


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## Rodrigo Istalindir (Oct 13, 2006)

You'd have thought I'd be off the plane.  I sure thought I would have thought so too.  But we were third in line to take off when the Air Force decided they were shutting down the airspace over DC so the goddamn Thunderbirds could practice for an hour and a half.    

So, without further ado, here they are:  4 pictures, no word limit, 72 hours.  Pictures posted at 7:15 pm GMT.


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## maxfieldjadenfox (Oct 13, 2006)

Rodrigo Istalindir said:
			
		

> You'd have thought I'd be off the plane.  I sure thought I would have thought so too.  But we were third in line to take off when the Air Force decided they were shutting down the airspace over DC so the goddamn Thunderbirds could practice for an hour and a half.
> 
> So, without further ado, here they are:  4 pictures, no word limit, 72 hours.  Pictures posted at 7:15 pm GMT.




I would have been glad to post them... I'm sorry you were trapped in the plane. 

OK everybody, let the smack talk resume...


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## Roger (Oct 13, 2006)

So... cruel...


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## yangnome (Oct 13, 2006)

I don't know if its good or bad that I had a story idea come instantly.  I got it with the first picture and as I clicked on each additional, they seemed to support the idea.


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## yangnome (Oct 16, 2006)

They are out there.  I know people dismiss it—the idea that there is life other than us—but they exist.  They know that we are here.  They are more advanced than us, which is why most people haven’t seen them.

I too was a skeptic like you at one point.  I thought the tales of cattle mutilations and anal probes were horseshit.  Hell, I didn’t even believe it once they began trying to contact me.  I immediately dismissed it as coincidence, then later as hallucinations brought on by stress.

It all started a couple days ago.  I came out to my car one winter morning and found a note on my car window, a flyer.  At the time I didn’t know what it was.  It said we’ll rendezvous with you at the annual Zabadoo Parade, Thanksgiving weekend.  There was some gibberish below it that I couldn’t understand.  I thought it might be some sort of guerilla marketing--either that, or kids in my apartment building screwing around.  The message left there at the time didn’t make sense to me. 

I dismissed the note and went to work like normal.  Work had been pretty crappy.  My boss was a grade-A prick that had his head so far up his ass he couldn’t tell night from day.  He runs the Information Security Department.  Well, on this day, he was chewing me up and down about an email I had sent the following day regarding the imperative use of secure passwords.    Apparently during morning meeting, a manager from another department had asked him about the protocol and he had no idea about the email, or what a secure password is—this guy has used his first name as a password as long as I can remember.  Anyway, he wound up looking like an ass in the meeting and decided to take it out on me for not briefing him on the email I sent out.  Apparently reading the email was out of the question since it contained too much technical information. 

So the boss is in the middle of dressing me down and I get this phone call.  I pick up the phone—just to piss my boss off really, he hates having to wait—and I get this message on the phone line that is similar to the one left on my car that morning, something about a rendezvous at the Zabadoo Parade.  After that, the phone starts playing this tone--some sort of encrypted code.  I listen to it for a few minutes (It is after all better than listening to my boss, plus its fu watching his face turn purple.)  The line soon goes dead.  I sit there with the receiver to my ear for another minute or two—why won’t the boss just lose patience and walk away—and then hang up.  

As the boss continues to lecture me, I start to wonder who’s playing a joke on me.  I rule out the neighborhood kids as they wouldn’t know my work number.  It had to be a friend from work, but none of them seem that creative.

Once the boss finishes, I figure its time to go get lunch.  I grab my buddy Chris and drag him out to Chili’s.  While there, I ask him if he’s behind the joke.  He had no clue though.  He was actually kind of intrigued by the whole thing.  Genuinely intrigued-- not intrigued by his own ingenuity.  

“How can you be sure it’s a prank?” he asked.
“I just assumed it was.” I told him. “I mean, who would contact me with some strange message like this out of the blue if it weren’t a prank?  I’m not Muslim.”

“Good point,” he said, “but this seems a bit elaborate for a joke.

“You might be right, who knows.”

After lunch, work was the same grind.  I sat playing solitaire for the last three hours.  I wanted to avoid getting in any trouble.

While waiting for 4:45 to come so I could slip out 15 minutes early, I went over to the vending machine to grab a Snicker’s bar.  Chris met me there.  

I took my bar out of the machine.  I peeled back the label to see if I’d won the million dollar prize.  Inside though, there was another note.  ‘We’re watching you.  You have great potential for our cause.’   I showed Chris.

“This is really starting to feaking freak me out.” I told him.  

“You and me both.  You don’t have any idea who is doing this?” 

I shrugged my shoulders.  

“I haven’t a clue.  Whoever it is has gone to great lengths though.  This looks like it was printed in the factory.”

“Heavy stuff man, you should report it.”

“To who?” I asked. “I’ve got no idea who is doing it and no idea what it means.  Who would I call? The cops? The FBI?”

“Good point.” He said.

“Hey, what are you doing tomorrow?” he asked.

“I don’t know, sitting around here trying to lay low.”

“Wanna o fishing with me?  Let’s call in sick and get out of the office for the day.  It’d do you good anyway.”

I figure it wounds like a good idea.  At least it would guarantee me a day where I wouldn’t have to deal with the boss.

“Sure, let’s do it.”

So the next morning, we load up in his SUV and head up to the lake.  We spend about 8 hours up there and a case of beer and hadn’t caught a thing.  Just as we’re about to pack it up to go home, I get a bite on my line.  I reel it in and it’s a nice rainbow trout.  I pull the hook out of its mouth and show Chris. As I’m doing that, the damn fish starts to talk to me.

Saturday, Beckinstown, behind the Wal-Mart before the Zabadoo parade.  They’ll meet you.” It said.

Needless to say I was shocked. I’d never heard a fish talk before and nether was Chris.  Looking back, it seems even stranger that it’d be able to enunciate so well without real lips.  

Anyhow, so back to the story.  I’m so shocked, I nearly crap my pants.  I drop the fish on the ground, pull out my knife and chop its head off.   In retrospect that was probably a dumb thing to do—a talking fish could bring millions. Look what that talent did for that big mouth bass.

“Are you going to go?” Chris asked.

“Where?”

“To meet them in Beckinstown?”

“I don’t know,” I told him. “I hadn’t given it any thought.”

“You know, it’s not too polite to kill the messenger” Chris said.

I flipped him off.

****
When we get to Chris’ truck, I’m still pretty freaked out by the incident.  I decide I’m going to report this to someone, even if they do think I’m crazy for listening to talking trout.  I pull out my laptop and start writing an email. Once we get back home, I can pop on the internet and find a place to send it.  I figure the local cops are definitely out.

Chris pulls off at a coffee shop so we can grab something to drink while I hop on the wireless LAN.  The only problem is as soon as I get connected, the laptop blows up.  I’m not kidding either.  The thing seriously caught on fire—ruined the whole thing.  Damn aliens.

I toss the laptop on the ground and stomp out the flames.  Chris and I then run out of the coffee shop. We don’t want to draw attention to ourselves and we don’t want to stay there like sitting ducks.  Somebody was obviously watching us.
“I don’t know who the hell is doing this,” I tell him, “but I’m going to find out.  We’re going to Beckinstown.”

*** 


So Saturday Chris and I decide to go to Beckinstown to meet up with these people, whoever they are. Beckinstown is about a two hour drive from where Chris and I live.  We get there early and head to the Wal-Mart.

Not long after that, three people come up in what look like costumes-- I later find out they aren't.  They’ve got blue skin, blue frizzy hair and it looked like they they were carrying accordions.  Their faces looked like skulls.  They didn't look a thing like the usual alien pictures you see.  One of them must have been handicapped because they were pushing him in a shopping cart.

“We need to speak with you.” One of them tells me ( I later find out he's +not).    

It turns out they weren’t holding accordions at all.  It was some sort of strange appendage and they used it to communicate.  They were speaking some strange language. Chris couldn’t understand what they were saying, but for some reason, I could.  It isn’t to surprising though, he failed high school Spanish and I got all A’s.  He never had a knack for language.

“What is it you want?” I ask them.

“We need something from you.”

“What?”

“Your boss’ computer password.”

This didn’t make sense.  Why would they want that?  Why would they need to talk to me to get it.  It was the easiest thing in the world to figure out, not to mention any kid with a script could figure it out in seconds.


It was a long and drawn out conversation, so I’ll sum it all up for you.  They tell me that they are from the Planet Zenon.  Their names were Q, +not (the handicap one) and U2.  They want his password so that they can access the medical databases we protect.  They need new candidates for anal probes, but are tired of using trial and error.  They know the traits they are looking for and they tell me there will be a lot less damage to human life if I cooperate with them.

I gave it some thought, and even asked Chris for his advice.  Chris thought it’d be good payback to the boss for the grief he gave me about the password email should it ever be tracked back to him.  I agreed and gave them the info.  They thanked me and left.  That’s when I reported the incident to the local authorities.

 Have I seen them again?  I haven’t seen them.  did leave a message for me this morning though--on my car again.  I assume it was one of them who left a message in the frost on my back window of my car ‘Q, +not and U were here, heart.

I’m not crazy, am I, Doc?


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## Linderel (Oct 16, 2006)

NiTessine tells me he hasn't had access to ENWorld from his computer the whole day. So, um, don't hold your breath for his entry.


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## yangnome (Oct 16, 2006)

um...wow.  Not exactly what I expected to see when I logged in.  EnWorld having problems today, or were Rodrigo's pics that tough?


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## NiTessine (Oct 17, 2006)

I couldn't access EN World from my computer until now, which contributed to my failure, but not nearly so much as being occupied the whole weekend and sleeping through most of Monday, except for the time spent at work.

Sorry.


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## maxfieldjadenfox (Oct 17, 2006)

Wowee. No Roger either? Looks like Yangnome wins by default, unless "So...Cruel" is Roger's very Zen entry.


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## yangnome (Oct 17, 2006)

Not really the way I'd like the win.  NiTessine, do you have any story at all?  Anyone know what happened to Roger?  It looks like he was on the boards this evening.


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## Rodrigo Istalindir (Oct 17, 2006)

I'd rather it not have ended that way, either, but yangnome did put together a nice run of stories, and is a worthy Ceramic DM champion.  Thanks to all the competitors, and especially to the judges for taking on the task.  It's fun reading the stories, but not so fun sometimes having to do the critiques.  I hope everyone had an enjoyable time, and hopefully also picked up some useful tips along the way.

See ya all next time, when I will attempt to regain my crown


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## Roger (Oct 17, 2006)

Indeed, yangnome -- very well done.  A well-deserved win.

I'm not sure what happened with my entry.  I just hit a wall.  Ah well.

Thanks to all the judges and my fellow competitors.



Cheers,
Roger
Ceramic DM Finalist


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## yangnome (Oct 17, 2006)

Before we all fade off into oblivion, when do we want to run the next one?  I haven't been visiting ENWorld as frequently lately and don't really want to miss it.  i only caught this one by chance.  If we set a target time frame, I'll know when to check back.  I'll even volunteer to judge (or even coordinate) the next one if need be.


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## maxfieldjadenfox (Oct 17, 2006)

I want to write next time. This judging thing is overrated... Besides, you have thrown the gauntlet, Rodrigo, and I will slap you with it. Ha ha!


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## Rodrigo Istalindir (Oct 17, 2006)

maxfieldjadenfox said:
			
		

> I want to write next time. This judging thing is overrated... Besides, you have thrown the gauntlet, Rodrigo, and I will slap you with it. Ha ha!




Bring it on, max.  You, and Berandor, too.  I've got this Ceramic DM thing figured out.   

As far as timing, it's traditionally been sort-of quarterly, but it mostly depends on when someone wants to step up and organize.  *nudge, nudge*

Oh, and here are some of the pictures for the final that didn't get used:


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## Hellefire (Oct 17, 2006)

I know I kind of dropped out of the light after losing, and I want to apologize for that and not posting my personal commentaries on stories. There were personal reasons, I won't bore you. I don't mind organizing, judging or competing. Really I want to compete (even though this was my 3rd CDM competition, and the third I lost in the first round 2-1 ), but I'd rather it happen at all - if that means I can't compete so be it. We seemed to have issues with judges and competitors this time around - which is never good.

I finish my bachelors in December, have a week of skiing in Austria and Xmas/New Years, then back to work but a bit of some freed up time from not having sutdying to do (not working on my masters for at least another 6 months - I need a break from wife/2 year old/work/college all at the same time ). So, anyway, I was thinking about January, when most people (in the states anyway) are just starting a new semester and shouldn't have too heavy of assignments yet. I'll start nudging people in December, and we can set it up for January, if that time frame works for people? I'll do again what I did this time = try to recruit people to organize and judge so I can compete. If it looks like I need to, I'll do the organizing or judging.

How's that work for everyone?

Aaron


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## Berandor (Oct 17, 2006)

January, when exams are coming up?


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## Rodrigo Istalindir (Oct 17, 2006)

Berandor said:
			
		

> January, when exams are coming up?




Sheesh.  You permanent students sicken me.  Get jobs, you punks!


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## Berandor (Oct 18, 2006)

I had a job; for three years, even. I went back to university because you first have to attend four years of nearly useless theoretizing before you can teach.


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## maxfieldjadenfox (Oct 18, 2006)

Rodrigo Istalindir said:
			
		

> Sheesh.  You permanent students sicken me.  Get jobs, you punks!



Try working full time and going to school full time... And trying to survive a divorce... Wimps! January? Bring it on!


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## yangnome (Oct 18, 2006)

OK, provided no major life changing issues come up between now and then: Sometime between Jan 15 and Jan 20th, I'll start signups for Winter 2007 NaNo. I'll organize and judge.  As I said before, after my first CDM, I organized and judged a similar contest on another site, so I have a pretty good idea what it requires.  Of course if anyone is dying to fill this position, I'll step aside and help out where I can.  Any issues with this?  If anyone has any questions or comments for me, you can reach me through my email myusername@myusername.com.  I'll also be around on the boards.  Now I'm off to find photos.  I've got three months to find the evilest photo collection you can imagine.


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## Hellefire (Oct 18, 2006)

Are we talking about NaNo or CDM? Now I'm confused .

I was going with an american time table, because in the states usually exams are done before Xmas break. Of course, I'm in Europe and my wife is finishing her masters this year, and has exams at the end of january/beginning of february, so I understand that time table too. I'm just happy I'll be finished in january . Now, if I can survive my anniversary this weekend, THAT will be an accomplishment.

Aaron


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## maxfieldjadenfox (Oct 18, 2006)

Works for me Yangnome... Rodrigo, will you send me an e-mail with a link when it starts to happen? I am a technotard as all of you know, so these things pass me by if someone doesn't tell me how to find them...  :\


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## Rodrigo Istalindir (Oct 18, 2006)

maxfieldjadenfox said:
			
		

> Works for me Yangnome... Rodrigo, will you send me an e-mail with a link when it starts to happen? I am a technotard as all of you know, so these things pass me by if someone doesn't tell me how to find them...  :\




Absolutely.  I'll not tolerate any 'Oh, I missed the signups' excuses!


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## tadk (Oct 19, 2006)

cool final pics...my first thought would get me slapped looking at those images.....I am over at the NaNo forums as well...some great words there..thanks for letting me play with ya all...tata


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## maxfieldjadenfox (Oct 19, 2006)

Rodrigo Istalindir said:
			
		

> Absolutely.  I'll not tolerate any 'Oh, I missed the signups' excuses!



Alrighty then. We're on!


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