# Ceramic DM- The Renewal ( Final judgement posted)



## alsih2o (Jan 28, 2005)

We have timestamps and I believe we are "Ready to rumble!"

 Let's get everyone on our list to check in and give me start time, with the earliest being Monday morning. Hopefully we can get the whole first round up by the following Sunday.

 WE ARE BACK!


 IF the boards are down or very slow you can email your entry to me at myscreenname@midsouth.rr.com. Just replace "myscreenname" with my screen name. 

All menu/linkie things courtesy of Bard Stephen Fox, my personal hero. 

*Things to remember*


Alsih2o is in Central US Time (GMT -6)

Your stories must be posted within 72 hours of when the pictures are posted

Never, ever edit your story once you have posted it.	Editing is grounds for disqualification.	See the FAQ for more details.

Don't read your opponent's story before you post yours

*Have Fun!* It's a tough competition but have fun with it.  




*Quicklinks to Photos, Stories and Judgements:*

Use these to avoiding wading through smack-talk and scheduling discussions between stories.


*First Round* - 4 pictures, 5000 words max

1 Pictures - Firelance vs NiTessine - Judgement

2 Pictures - Hellefire vs Orchid Blossom - Judgement + Judgement comments

3 Pictures - CarpeDavid vs Mythago <== CarpeDavid had to unexpectedly drop out.

4 Pictures - Big Tom vs Eeralai - Judgement

5 Pictures - Thorod Ashstaff vs Rodrigo Istalindir - Judgement

6 Pictures - Macbeth vs Ruined - Judgement 

7 Pictures - Maddman75 vs Sigurd <== Missed Deadline  Judge Commentary

8 Pictures - MarauderX vs Taladas - Judgement



*Second Round (Winners of First Round competitions)* - 5 pictures, 6000 words max

1 Pictures - Eeralai vs Mythago - Judgement

2 Pictures - Macbeth vs Maddman75 - Judgement

3 Pictures - Thorod Ashstaff vs MarauderX - Judgement

4 Pictures - Orchid Blossom vs Firelance - Judgement 



*Third Round (Winners of the Second Round)* - 5 pictures, 6000 words max

1 Pictures - Thorod Ashstaff vs Mythago - Judgement

2 Pictures - Maddman75 vs Orchid Blossom <== Maddman75 dropped out.  Maldur's Commentary Alsih2o's commentary



*Final Round* - ? pictures

Pictures - Mythago vs Orchid Blossom - Judgement


----------



## Piratecat (Jan 28, 2005)

Reaaaady. . . to. . . rummmmble!


----------



## Rodrigo Istalindir (Jan 29, 2005)

Ready.  I'd prefer a Tuesday or Wed. start.


----------



## Taladas (Jan 29, 2005)

Ready anytime. You post I write.


----------



## Eeralai (Jan 29, 2005)

Just wanted to put my name in as an alternate if someone can't do it now.


----------



## Hellefire (Jan 29, 2005)

*competition link*

Can someone post a link to the competition description? The one posted is a dead link, from the server move I guess.

Aaron Blair
Foren Star
Seward, AK, USA
currently Poznan, Poland


----------



## BSF (Jan 29, 2005)

Certainly!

Ceramic DM FAQ for Fiction


----------



## Macbeth (Jan 29, 2005)

I'm back and ready to go.


----------



## Hellefire (Jan 29, 2005)

*got to the FAQ*

I got to the FAQ, but all links off that are 404s. I posted on the 404 thread, besides that I will wait and see. Thanks for the link, and I will look for further developments. One day I may want to compete in this, but in Poland at the moment (GMT+1) and not sure if that will affect things. Anyway, thanks again and I look forward to watching or participating in this!

Aaron Blair
Foren Star


----------



## BSF (Jan 29, 2005)

Doh!

Of course they are all broken.  Thanks for pointing it out.  It will definitely take me a few days to get that straightened out though.  Being in Poland won't affect anything unless it impacts your ability to participate.  The pics are posted and you have 72 hours from that time to post your story.  Everyone get's the same 72 hours, so the only advantage is if the posting time fits better into your personal schedule than your opponents.  For me, I find it makes little difference when the pics are posted.  I will lose the same amount of sleep banging my head on the desk regardless of when that process starts and finishes.  

Edit:  Actually, the process probably isn't that bad.  My preferred tools for making that change are at work, but I bet I can make do at home.  Let me see if I can at least get the author/story cross-links fixed before I head out for a few hours.

Edit #2:  I edited the author/story crosslinks.  I suspect there will be problems with linked pictures within stories, but there is little I can do about that.  I didn't post them, I can't edit them.  Besides, editing is a no-no.     The individual contest links, pics, judgements and all that won't be too much mess to correct, but it wil need to wait until I am at home again.  Probably not today.  I really should cros-link all the stories from the last contest as well.  

I hope that helps.  And if anyone has ideas on how I an make the pictures for stories accessible without becoming unwieldy, let me know.

Now, back to your regularly scheduled Ceramic DM contest.


----------



## orchid blossom (Jan 30, 2005)

Checking in and still up for it!

As for schedules, things are pretty free now.  Late Wednesday and anytime thereafter are good for me.


----------



## MarauderX (Jan 30, 2005)

Hey, I'm ready to go now, sooner the better.  I must have our pictures by Tuesday latest in order for me to even have 24 hours chance.  How about now?  I will be gone for an extended weekend, and will be back next Tuesday, so unless we want to wait let's start now.  Are you ready Taladas, because, y'know, now is good for me.


----------



## mythago (Jan 30, 2005)

Thursday+ works for me.


----------



## alsih2o (Jan 30, 2005)

*MarauderX Vs. Taladas*

Round 1 MarauderX Vs. Taladas

 4 pictures, 5000 word limit, 72 hours limit, sugar free.


----------



## alsih2o (Jan 30, 2005)

Wow, but that is quick and easy with the sparkly new server!


----------



## Piratecat (Jan 30, 2005)

What great pictures. I've emailed our contestants letting them know the photos are up.


----------



## BigTom (Jan 30, 2005)

I am ready, just bring it!


----------



## BSF (Jan 30, 2005)

Oh yes, subscriptions now work again.

I would encourage our contestants to sign yourselves up with subscriptions if you are worried about missing a crucial post.


----------



## alsih2o (Jan 30, 2005)

Piratecat said:
			
		

> What great pictures. I've emailed our contestants letting them know the photos are up.




 So did I!   

 It is like having a new bicycle, everyone wants to run to the store!


----------



## Maldur (Jan 30, 2005)

Here we go!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!


----------



## Ruined (Jan 30, 2005)

Just checking in. Probably won't be able to do anything tonight, but tomorrow morning and onwards should be fine.


----------



## Macbeth (Jan 30, 2005)

Ruined said:
			
		

> Just checking in. Probably won't be able to do anything tonight, but tomorrow morning and onwards should be fine.



Sounds fine for me too.


----------



## MarauderX (Jan 31, 2005)

Holy... ok, I asked for it.  Thanks for posting early for me.


----------



## Taladas (Jan 31, 2005)

Uhhh....OK. Here I was thinking Monday but cool. I just have to write my kiester off after I figure out what I am going to do with these pics. 

I hope you don't mind MarauderX but I'm too panicked to smack talk.


----------



## Sigurd (Jan 31, 2005)

*Ready when you are.*

Fire at will grizzly!


Sigurd


----------



## alsih2o (Jan 31, 2005)

Round 1 Macbeth Vs. Ruined

4 pictures, 5000 word limit, 72 hours limit, Low in carbs.


----------



## carpedavid (Jan 31, 2005)

Ok. I'm in. Friday+ would be best for me.


----------



## Macbeth (Jan 31, 2005)

Got 'em. I liked the last set better, but I'll get something done...


----------



## Berandor (Jan 31, 2005)

I've only got *very* sporadic internet access at the moment, which will continue into next week. So I'll have to bow out.

I'm sorry, it happened out of the blue, but I figure it's better to give someone else the chance to enter than not deliver anything, or too late.

Sorry.


----------



## Ruined (Jan 31, 2005)

Pics received. Best of luck, Macbeth!


----------



## Macbeth (Jan 31, 2005)

Best of luck to you as well, Ruined.


----------



## alsih2o (Jan 31, 2005)

Berandor said:
			
		

> I've only got *very* sporadic internet access at the moment, which will continue into next week. So I'll have to bow out.
> 
> I'm sorry, it happened out of the blue, but I figure it's better to give someone else the chance to enter than not deliver anything, or too late.
> 
> Sorry.




 Sorry for your diffivulties Berandor, but you are handling it the classy way. 

 Thanks.


----------



## BSF (Feb 1, 2005)

Does that mean Eeralai is back in?


----------



## alsih2o (Feb 1, 2005)

BardStephenFox said:
			
		

> Does that mean Eeralai is back in?




 Yeah, I tried to PM her, but it didn't work. Can you contact her?


----------



## Eeralai (Feb 1, 2005)

Cool!  If this means I'm going up against Orchid Blossom, I can do Wednesday afternoon or anytime after like she requested.  If  I am up against someone else, I can start anytime.  Thanks!


----------



## Eeralai (Feb 1, 2005)

PS.  Sorry you can't compete Berandor.  You know I always enjoy your stories.  We will probably do this odd dance now where if you can compete I can't etc, and never will our pens cross


----------



## reveal (Feb 1, 2005)

BigTom said:
			
		

> I am ready, just bring it!




Bring it on BigBoy... er... Tom!


----------



## alsih2o (Feb 1, 2005)

Round 1 Big Tom Vs. Eeralai

4 pictures, 5000 word limit, 72 hours limit, Free of Genetically Modified Organisms.


----------



## alsih2o (Feb 1, 2005)

Hey kids,


 If you know a previous participant who hasn't checked in, drop them a line. 

 Edit: Lotuseater, Arabwel, NiTessine, Maddman


----------



## maddman75 (Feb 1, 2005)

Hey!  Pkitty was nice enough to PM me on TDA.  I'm still up for it, ready to go whenever you are.

While I'm waiting for my entry, can anyone link me to some old Ceramic DM threads?  I've never played one before and would like some idea of the formatting, conventions, etc. that people use.


----------



## reveal (Feb 1, 2005)

I hate to do this but I need to pull out. Something came up and I will not be able to commit as much time as I would like to this. I'm sure there's someone who can take my place.


----------



## Eeralai (Feb 1, 2005)

If it would make things easier, I could take reveals place now.  Big Tom already had his pictures pulled once because of the upgrade.  My schedule is flexible unless my kiddos get sick so I could start writing now with a ruling from alsih2o.


----------



## Piratecat (Feb 1, 2005)

Eeralai, I normally don't want to speak for Alsih2o, but I'd say that'd be just fine. You take Reveal's place with the posted pictures, and we'll find one more person to cover for Berandor.

Thanks!


----------



## Piratecat (Feb 1, 2005)

maddman75 said:
			
		

> While I'm waiting for my entry, can anyone link me to some old Ceramic DM threads?  I've never played one before and would like some idea of the formatting, conventions, etc. that people use.




Here's the scoop:  http://www.enworld.org/showthread.php?t=98651


----------



## Eeralai (Feb 1, 2005)

Will do.


----------



## BSF (Feb 1, 2005)

Go Eeralai!  

Piratecat, you were in the initial listing as well weren't you?  Would that bring you up as an alternate?  

I suppose we could have problems with Arabwel and NiTessine as well.  Anybody else out in audience land that wants to throw a hat in the ring as a possible alternate?


----------



## Piratecat (Feb 1, 2005)

BardStephenFox said:
			
		

> Go Eeralai!
> 
> Piratecat, you were in the initial listing as well weren't you?  Would that bring you up as an alternate?




Yes, but now I'm judging. Let's get one more person to compete!


----------



## BSF (Feb 1, 2005)

Doh!  That's right.  I forgot that you changed seats.


----------



## Macbeth (Feb 1, 2005)

One more person to compete, huh? I'm looking at you, Bard Stephen Fox.


----------



## BSF (Feb 2, 2005)

Nah.  I will be trying to watch the little ones long enough for Eeralai to write a story.  It's only fair for the number of times she kept them out of my hair when I was ready to pull it out.


----------



## Hellefire (Feb 2, 2005)

I saw at least one other person post as a possible alternative. Should there be any other open spots, I will throw my hat in the ring and give it a shot. If not, there's always later . A clarification on the rules and where to post would be appreciated.


Aaron Blair
Foren Star


----------



## alsih2o (Feb 2, 2005)

Thanks to P-kitty for taking care of business. I had to be at school. You can fall back on any of the judges people. Things are pretty laid back here sicne that thing that ate all the officers.

 Hellefire, looks like you are in.  Welcome to your first round, facing off against Orchid Blossom. 

  You post your story in this thread. Hopefully my man Bard Stephen Fox will start emailing me links again soon and making me look good. 

The rules are pretty simple- 
 1. Write a story as if the the pictures given were the illustrations. 

 2. You will have 72 hours from the time the pics are posted(check out that timestamp, courtesy of Michael Morris!). 

 3. Once you post your story you cannot edit it. (We don't care what you fixed, fix nothing. This will get you disqualified.)

 4. Do not read your opponents story until yours is posted.

  Have fun and build on your skills. Soon, someone will start a "Judges Free" Thread where you can comment on the stories, but we ask that you keep your commentary on any story out of this thread until the judgements are in. This helps prevent even the appearance of swaying judgements.


----------



## alsih2o (Feb 2, 2005)

Round 1 Maddman75 Vs. Sigurd

4 pictures, 5000 word limit, 72 hours limit, now with reduced Sodium.


----------



## NiTessine (Feb 2, 2005)

Checking in, after my 30-hour World of Warcraft binge. Arabwel's computer is still dead, though.


----------



## Taladas (Feb 2, 2005)

Taladas vs. MarauderX

Charon Calls

Buzz. Buzz. Buzz. Buzz. Buzz. Buzz. Buzz. Buzz. Buzz. Buzz. Buzz. Slap. Clunk. The clock/radio/alarm hits the floor. The flailing arm falls limp. Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz…

	Ring. Ring. Ring. Ring. Click. You have reached the residence of Larry Fender. Please leave a message after the beep. Beep. Larry where are you? Why aren’t you at work? Listen, Linda says that she is going to fire you if you don’t get in today. So you better get here Dude. Click. 

	Larry’s eyes open. Larry utters a few choice expletives. He gets out of bed and grabs the clock/radio/alarm. He sees that the clock face is unlit. He sees that the cord has been pulled from the plug. Larry utters a few more choice expletives and tosses the clock/radio/alarm. 

	Larry races to the bathroom and quickly brushes his teeth. Larry quickly goes through his hygiene regimen sans the shower. He decides to cologne it instead. 

	Reeking of cheap cologne Larry grabs his clothes and throws them on with abandon. Rushing out the door, Larry barely zips up before he bumps in to a boy, a paperboy. 

	“Two dollars, you owe me two dollars for the paper this week.” 

	“Look, I’m late for work. I’ll catch you later.”

	“ Two dollars. Not later I want my two dollars now, sir”

	“Fine.” Larry pulls out a bill from his wallet. “I’ve only got a twenty. Can you make change?”

	“Thanks!” The paperboy yanks the bill from Larry’s hand and races away. 

	“Hey, you little twerp!” Larry rushes after the paperboy and nimbly dodges around the car. At least that was the plan. Thud. 

	“Ow.”  He gets up slowly and examines himself. Brushing off some mud he gets into his car and leaves. 

	His job at Pearson’s Department Store may not be much but unlike his other work it means a steady paycheck. So Larry races through Saturday morning traffic, dodging in and out of lanes. Zipping past cars and grudgingly stopping at red lights, well most of the red lights. 

	Turning a corner he sees that the light in the distance has just turned yellow. Gunning it he tries to make it before it turns red. Then suddenly he feels a falling sensation. Aaahh!  Wham! Sudden cut to black. 

	Larry picks himself off of the jungle floor, spitting out various bits of dirt and flora. “Great late for work and now this. Well I better find my fare or I’ll never get out of here.” 

	Larry then starts walking like a man confidant that he will find what he is looking for and of course he will. Although it will take him longer than he thinks. 

	“How long is this going to take?” thinks Larry. Sweating from exertion he climbs up the side of a hill covered in jungle canopy. He then sees the spot that he needs to get to. There is no physical sign to see but he knows that is the place. It’s only two miles away through heavy jungle growth and across a large stream. 

	Larry breathes heavy trying to catch his breath. “Man, these things can be such jerks.” 

	After long journey Larry arrives at where he is going. Larry looks up into the tree before him and sees  his fare.

	“You know I think that I really do look thoroughly stunning up here with the light just so. I really do think it was worth your effort to get here. You must feel grateful for the chance to see me in such glory.”

	“Are you my fare?”

	“Of course, are you not a Charon?” 

	“Yes.”

	“Are not Charons charged with bringing spirits from one plane of reality to the Charon’s own plane of reality? Have I not summoned you here and are you not charged with bringing me to you own dimension.”

	“Well, you do have to pay.”

	“Of course, my dear fellow. Do you not see the “sawbucks” as you kind calls it hanging from my pocket? One thousand of your dollars a bit more than two old coins I dare say. Heh, heh. “

	“That will do.” Larry snatches the money up and puts it in his wallet. 

	“Are you ready to go?

	“At once, mylad, at once.” The creature leaps down from the tree and on to Larry’s shoulder. 

	“You should ride in my coat. The shift can have a deleterious effect on spirits and it will protect you.”

	“As you think best, my good sir.” Larry then places the creature inside his coat. Then Larry recites the incantation he learned at that three-day seminar in Orlando. When he finishes the world collapses in on its self and Bam!

	“Are you alright? Can you hear me?”

	“Huh” Larry slowly turns to look at who is making that sound. He sees a fireman. He looks around and sees that his airbag has deployed and that he appears to be in a very large hole. 

	“Oh.”

	“Look the paramedics are on their way. Just stay still and try to relax.” 

	Larry is soon taken to the hospital, checked out and released. When he leaves the hospital he is asked such thoughtful questions from the press as “What does it feel like driving into a sinkhole?” and “Are you planning to sue the city/county/state?”

	Larry walks into his apartment and hangs his coat up on the rack. He looks at the coat and smiles.

	“You’re going to bring me a lot of money. The thousand dollars may pay for my medical bills but you’re worth ten thousand on the magic market. My coat’s protective wards will keep you there.”

Larry then goes to his answering machine and plays the messages. Message one “Blah.” Message two “Blah, Blah.” Message three “Blah, Blah, Blah.” Message four “Dude, you fell into a hole. Ha, this is Cummings! Linda was so P.O.ed that you didn’t make it to work until she heard you fell into a hole. This is so awesome you fell into a hole, too bad about your car though. Listen Linda said that you need to come into work tomorrow. She said, “He’s healthy look at him run from the reporters.” So I can give you a ride if you need.”

Larry calls Cummings and gets a ride for the morning. Larry then plugs in his clock/radio/alarm and sets the time and alarm. He then makes himself dinner and turns on the television and watches SINKHOLE 2005 footage. After he finishes dinner he goes to bed. 

Bam, Bam, Bam! Come on, Larry! Time to go to work!

Larry wakes with a start. 

“Alright, alright! I’ll be there in a minute!” 

Larry stumbles to the door and opens it. 

“Dude, you’re not even dressed. Come on we’ve got to go the sinkhole has backed up traffic for a mile or more.” 

“Just let me freshen up and get dressed and we can go.” 

“Well hurry up. If you didn’t fall in that sinkhole yesterday I swear I would just leave you.”

Larry quickly gets ready. As he does he sees that his alarm doesn’t go off for another half-hour. 

“Cummings I don’t have to be at work until 9:00, so why are you here at 7:13 in the morning?”

“Cause I have to be at work at 7:30.”

“Why didn’t you tell me that yesterday?”

“Forgot, chop chop we got to go.”

Larry grabs his coat on the way out. 

When they arrive at the store Larry heads for the breakroom. And hangs his coat on a rack. He grabs a cup of coffee and sits down to read the newspaper. 

Linda walks in and says, “So you made it in. Good, since all of your sick time is gone why don’t you start working now. I’m sure you could use the money to help pay for a new car. Your old one looked pretty totaled before you drove it into a hole. Afterwards it looked even more crumpled.”

	“Look, I didn’t just drive it into a hole. The sinkhole opened up under me as I was driving. Freak accident. But I’m fine thanks for asking.”

	“Then you won’t have any objection to working. Help Cummings stock the shelves.”

	“Yeah, I think I will, better company anyway.”

	As Larry storms out of the breakroom, Linda casually goes over to the cabinets and gets some vanilla wafers. A few moments later after she is sure that he is gone she goes over to his coat. She pulls out a small vial containing crack cocaine. 

	“This will get you out of here, jerk.”

	She reaches into Larry’s coat and puts the vial into the inside pocket. As she does so she starts and her eyes go real wide. 

	“Hello, my dear. Thank you so much for freeing me. But since my imprisonment I haven’t eaten anything, could you possibly help me?”

	Larry and Cummings are busily setting up a display of really ugly purses. 

	“Dude, they’ve already opened the store. We have to finish this before Linda comes over to yell at us. “

	“I couldn’t care less what she does. Besides we only have two more boxes and we’re done.”

	“So tell me Dude, what’s it like to fall in a sinkhole?”

	“The same sinking feeling that I get working here.”

	“Heh, funny dude.” Then Cummings gets a funny look on his face, O.K. funnier than normal. 

 “Psssst. Take a gander at that, Dude.” (Picture)

	Larry looks up and sees this horrible fur hat this woman is wearing. The disturbing thing is it seems to wink at him. Larry gets a real sinking feeling. 

	“Uh, look I have to take a leak, like right now. So finish up for me, bye.” Larry runs off towards the breakroom. 

	“Dude, you have the bladder of an infant.” 

	Larry rushes into the breakroom and sees Linda  dazed and stuffed.

	“Oh no, it’s loose. What am I going to do?”

	Larry spent the rest of the day fretting and working. Although he did have the fun of seeing Linda sent to the hospital for psychological evaluation. By the time Cummings took him home that night he had a plan. He gathered his folders of magic rites searched through them. Set up mystic wards around his home to detect and trap the spirit. These should work although he had never tried these spells before.  Besides the thing had spent most of its time in Larry’s coat. It would have no idea where Larry lived. Of course Larry might have to quit work and move away, if he didn’t catch it soon. But it would be O.K.

	Larry worked tirelessly on his wards and finished about 1:00 AM. Exhausted, he checked his alarm. Larry wanted to get up early to try a tracking spell he found in an old folder. With that and a binding spell he that he knew he felt he could capture it. Larry then collapsed into sleep. 

	Buzz. Buzz. Buzz. Buzz. Buzz. Buzz. Buzz. Buzz. Buzz. Buzz. Buzz Larry’s alarm drones on and on. It’s loud but it’s not loud enough to wake the dead.


----------



## Taladas (Feb 2, 2005)

Well here it is. The first story posted to Ceramic DM - The Renewal. Half the carbs and no MSG. 

P.S. don't hold it against me that vanilla wafers contain sugar.


----------



## BSF (Feb 2, 2005)

Congratulations to Taladas on being the first contestant to post a story!  

Now for those folks that want to comment, mosey on over to the Ceramic DM - Spectator Commentary thread


----------



## FireLance (Feb 2, 2005)

Well, I didn't want to sign up earlier because the contest started up just as I was heading into a busy period at work. Now that I'm heading out of it, I'm game.


----------



## Maldur (Feb 2, 2005)

Just to let you all know, my judgements will come when I get home, Work is hellishly busy at the moment. So no, fast, inbetween work judgements


----------



## alsih2o (Feb 2, 2005)

Welcome aboard Firelance.


----------



## MarauderX (Feb 2, 2005)

Taladas vs. MarauderX

*Jasper*

* * * * *
Marca had been fortunate enough to have kept her glasses on when she drove out to the project site on Tuesday. As an interior architect, she was headed there to inspect what the contractor had built.  Usually David, the contractor, got everything right, but for whatever reason the client wasn’t happy and Marca was going to see why.  Having seen her fair share of projects in Singapore, Marca had dealt with all types of picky clients. 

The sun was dazzling as her car pulled around the bend then screeched to a halt. A lock of hair fell over Marca’s eye as she gripped the wheel and watched the street in front of her begin to drop. The radius of the dropping circle increased at an alarming pace, and without looking behind her she slammed the gearshift into reverse and the car lurched backward to keep pace with the disappearing road. 

As soon as it had begun, the road had stopped sinking.  Marca looked around, expecting someone else to see what had just happened.  She crept towards the edge and peered across the hundred-yard depression in the earth.  In the middle of the pit sat a young woman, a few years younger than Marca, and her head pitched backward.  Their eyes met and it was clear to Marca that she was ill, her face drained of color.  Racing back to her car, Marca called the police and explained what had happened and to send help. 

Right after David called. “What happened to you? I thought you were going to meet us here.”
“I was,” Marca said as she monitored the woman in the pit, “but a sink hole nearly ended my day entirely.” 
“Wow, glad you’re alright. Well, ah, let’s meet in an hour?” David said. 
“Well, if you can wait I’ll be over there to wrap things up.  I just want to wait until the police gets here to make sure this woman is okay.” Marca said. 
“A woman? Is she in the sinkhole?” David asked. 
“Yeah.” Marca replied. 
“And she’s sick? How can you tell?” David said. 
“Well, her face is pretty pale, like nearly blue.” Marca replied. 
“Blue? How blue?” David asked.
“Like, I don’t know, like the blue of the tiles in the bathroom.” Marca answered, her brow furrowed.
“Um, yeah, we still have to talk about that.  But Marca, you need to leave before things get messed up.  You should head here, now, and I can tell you a bit more.” David said. 
“Like how in the world a sinkhole just happens in Singapore?  That would be good to know.” Marca said. 
“Sure, I can tell you all about it, just come over as soon as the police arrive.  And don’t go near that hole!” David said.
Marca sighed, “Of course not, and I’ll see you soon.”

Marca arrived at The Esplanade, a group of theaters on the bay, where she finally parked near the construction trailer.  David was at her car in a moment, opening her door. 

Marca greeted his kind action with a smirk. “I thought you’d be hiding on the job site somewhere trying to avoid me like usual.” 
“Well, not this time. We gotta talk, but not about the project right now.”  David said, a hint of worry adding to the heaviness of his words. 
Marca’s eyes searched his. “Sure. What’s wrong? Is it that bad?”
“It’s about that woman you saw,” David said as they began walking.
“Her? Why?” Marca said. 
“I don’t want this to sound as weird as it’s going to, but right now I need you to know something,” David said, “I believe there are monsters in this world, born from those among us to human parents.  Some are born with no arms or legs, or blind or deaf, but that doesn’t matter really.  And just as there are physical abnormalities, there can be mental ones too, right?  Y’know, like a child can be born without hearing, and another can be born without a conscious or a soul.  They’re accidents, and no one’s fault, but some become accidents on purpose, if that makes any sense.  They defile themselves to become a monster.  A man that lost his hearing has trouble adjusting, but one born deaf suffers from only those that find him disabled.” David said.
They had ascended to the studio on the 4th level and Marca peered at the work she had done for the building’s opening in 2002.  They moved to the stairs to continue up to the 6th level. 
“Ahh, I think you were starting to lose me with the monster thing.” Marca said. 
“Okay, um… a monkey has a tail that can grip things just like a hand, and we can imagine how it might be to have a tail like that, to be able to do the same.  But not to a monster.  To someone like that the norm might seem ridiculous, since everyone is normal to himself.  For the monster without a soul, those with a soul must seem to be ridiculous. Like for a pathological liar, honesty must seem foolish.  Also to a monster the normal is their monster.” David said. 
She didn’t understand what he was getting at, and his talking seemed to be getting off-course. She liked the man as he was honest and they both loved to trade jibes to keep work more fun than serious. 
He said, “I was saying be careful.  That woman, in the pit, she probably wasn’t…”
“Wasn’t? Wasn’t what?” Marca asked.
“Normal.  Our standard of normal anyway.” he said. 
“I don’t know what to say, besides that I think we need to talk about these finishes,” 
David seemed put out. He had tried, but knew that she didn’t understand and his face went red. He pursed his lips and ran his hand through his hair several times before letting the subject drift back to work. 

* * * * *

The next weeks passed, and Marca had forgotten the woman in the sinkhole to a degree. She hadn’t seen David since the The Esplanade and pushed the thought of his strange talk back into the recesses of her mind. 

Marca guided her car onto Orchard Road and looked for parking.  Finding a space, she hurried into the office of the Building and Construction Authority, where she hoped her visit would be short.  Marca walked by the front desk toward the permit office when she saw David coming the other way. 

“Hello stranger,” she said.
“Hello to you too,” he replied as they both slowed to talk. 
“Which permit are you going after?” she asked.
“Actually I just came from a seminar on green building and such.  We want to do our work better for the city.” he said. 
Marca smiled, “Are you sure it’s not just so you can stay competitive?  Or is this how you flirt with architects?”
David smiled back, “Yeah, it helps with that too.  Look, I have to get going or I’ll get a parking ticket for sure.  Catch ya later.”
“I’ll see you.” she said as she waved goodbye. 

Marca took the elevator up several floors, walked down the bright corridor and turned the corner toward the permit office.  She slammed hard into someone and jumped backward, startled. 
“I’m so sorry…” she started, and then she reflexively inhaled, shocked once again by who she saw.  It was the woman from the pit, whose eyes were desperate and pained.  But now those eyes were languid.  Marca looked into those eyes hoping for a hint of recognition, but the woman only gazed at her.  Marca beckoned the woman to the end of the deserted corridor and she followed.  At least she understood that much, and that’s a start, Marca thought. 

Marca gripped her hands and asked the woman her name, where she lived, and why she was here.  The girl just stared blankly.  Like a lightning bolt, the idea that she was deaf struck Marca.  No wonder she hadn’t answered her questions and didn’t speak, she couldn’t!  Annoyed with her own foolishness, Marca thought of how to communicate with her.  

Marca prattled on as the memory of that day popped into her head. “No wonder, I’m such a dunce sometimes. Well, perhaps you can’t hear me, but you can see me.  I know, I bet you can read, yes?  Just give me a moment to find a pen, and then you can write your name.” 

Movement caught Marca’s eye.  Something on the girl’s face was moving, her jaw dropping and something swirled out, and Marca thought at first it was her tongue. Pen in hand she looked up from her purse to see the woman, her mouth open, still staring at her. But there was no tongue. Instead there was a mass of carroty-orange sliding discs, and they slipped back and forth as they swelled in her mouth.  She vomitted them at Marca, and they spilled down her chest and to the bottle-green tile floor. The discs slipped over her clothes and somehow slid upward to her mouth, and she refused to scream to let them in.  Her legs propelled her down the corridor to the elevator as she swatted several of the discs from her neck and clothing, and she could feel those that had fallen on her feet work their way up her calf underneath her pants.  The elevator opened and Marca watched the girl vomit again, sending a second stream of discs cascading onto the floor. 

Marca fought the strange things the entire way to the ground floor.  She emerged squirming from the elevator to dance across the building lobby as everyone looked on. Outside she threw her blazer to the sidewalk and ran to her car, still feeling several of them crawl upward beneath her blouse.  Outside her car she found each of the remaining half-dozen discs and threw them to the ground.  Still shivering, she patted herself down to ensure that none remained as onlookers stopped to gauge whether she needed help.  With a quick huff Marca was in her car and speeding off. 

She replayed what had happened in her mind and thought to call David. He did say some unusual things before, and maybe he knows what it might mean.  The third time she called him he picked up.
“Hey, is this you Marca?” he said.
“Yes, yes, remember that girl that was in the sinkhole that you warned me about, it was her, that girl in the hole, she was there, and she was sick… do you know who I’m talking about?” She knew her voice was shaky and that she was rambling, but she couldn’t help it.  She was afraid, and David heard her voice rise as she talked.
“Yes, I remember, and you saw her at the permit office just now? What happened?” he said. 
“She, she was around the corner and I ran right into her.  I tried to talk to her, I thought she was deaf, David! Then she threw up all over me, with these orange things, like poker chips, but they moved and were warm, and they crawled all over me!” said Marca. 
“Are you ok?” he asked.
“Yeah, I think so, but-“
“Did you eat any of them?  Or swallow them?” he said, and now his voice was rising, and Marca began crying with fear. 
“No! No, I didn’t! David, I didn’t! What are they?  What is it, like a disease?” she said. 
“I’ve seen her before, and it was something like that. We should meet.  I’ll tell you what I know. Where are you now?” he said.
“I’m… turning onto Victoria, headed east - what do you know, David?” she said as she sobbed.
“I don’t know for sure, let’s just meet at the airport and we can talk there. Take the parkway, and I’ll see you soon. Remember the executive suite project that we did there? Meet me there.” 
“Okay, David you will be there, right?  Because you’ve got to tell me what’s going on,” she said.
He replied, “Yes, of course I’ll be there.” 

David was outside the suite and pulled her to one side as she approached. The force had surprised her and her eyes instantly were moist once again. Then David nodded his head towards the suite to indicate someone. 
“The woman with the fur hat.” he whispered.
Marca put on her glasses and instantly she saw who he was talking about.  When she came into focus her back was to them. Her fur hat hid her head and the tail of it flowed down her back as David pointed distressingly.   Marca looked back to David, anticipating that he would at least have an idea of what to do.  By the look on his face it was clear he didn’t. 

In a moment of clarity Marca slipped around a structural column and David followed. 
She asked him in a whisper, “Are you sure that’s her? She was just down on Orchard Road, and was sick all over, how could she get here?”
“It’s her, I saw her walk right by me. I know it’s her, alright!” David said. 
“Are we talking about the same woman?” Marca asked.
“Yes, I know it was her that was at the sinkhole.  I know it because… I dreamt it for a week, and know exactly what you saw, how you stood near the edge of the hole and peered in, how your eyes caught hers, I know how it happened because I saw it too! In my dream! That’s where I see things, in my dreams, and now you’re gonna think I’m as crazy as she is!” David said.
“No, David, no, I believe you, I do!  I understand what you were saying before, and that’s why I called you first.  I want to know what’s going on and, and…stop being scared, so let’s find an answer, ok?” Marca said. 
David spoke in controlled, hushed tones again. “Right, but the next dream, it was so horrific, I think you end up being overwhelmed by the things as she climbed on top and forced your mouth open, I saw it through your eyes in my dream, I saw your reflection in the window glass, again as if I was you!”
“Well, I’ll stay far away from her then.  Can you confront her?” Marca asked. 
David poked his head around the column to see her taking a seat facing toward the bay windows and the airplanes beyond. “Okay, I’ll go sit next to her and try to see if it’s like you said, and try to see if she’ll talk. But if something goes wrong, you have to promise me to go somewhere.  Just in case we get separated I want you to go here.”
Marca looked deep into his eyes and nodded as she took the plans from him. “David, don’t get too close, just try to see if she’s alive, like if she has a pulse or not. Just…”

She stopped and grabbed his jacket.  She didn’t want him to go now, she wanted him to stay there and make her feel secure again.  Sensing her fear, David pulled her close and they hugged each other tightly, the smell of his musky jacket blending with her sweet lilac perfume. 

David let go and said, “Just stay here, I only saw you in the dream, so no matter what happens don’t come to help, because I didn’t see me in the dream. And my dreams have always been right.  You’ll stay here, okay?”
She nodded and again tears began flowing down her cheeks. 

David walked up slowly, quietly moving between the aisles of chairs. He was certain the woman hadn’t heard him with the din of noise in the airport. He sat next to her and perched himself forward so he could easily leap away. 
“Nice weather we’re having, wouldn’t you say?” he asked. No response from the woman, her hat and coat hiding her face.  Strange, he thought, no one wears that much clothing in Singapore.
“Where are you headed to today? Is your flight going to be long?” Again no response and David leaned forward to see that her eyes were indeed open and that she was staring out the window. 
“Where are you from?  I’d say Europe, you don’t have enough of a tan to be from here.” David was closer, trying to discern whether her chest was rising to take in breaths.  It was then that David saw Marca’s reflection in the window, saw that she was safely thirty meters behind them, and knew that in his dream he wasn’t looking through her eyes, but his own. 

The woman caught David off guard as his mind raced to the conclusion of his dream, and she was on him, spewing orange discs into his disbelieving face.  He felt them swarm over him, filling his mouth and forcing their way down his gullet.  Marca watched David gag reflexively several times and she screamed out, taking a step in his direction.  His eyes rolled back in his head and he quivered until prone as several others nearby gasped and retreated away from him. 

David rose, his movements rigid and jerky.  Marca took a step backward.  The woman’s body was slumped in the seat, and the vacant look had turned to one of death, her pupils dull and her muscles relaxed.  David, the ghastly David, ambled toward her, slapping his shoes awkwardly on the tile.  Marca didn’t want to know if he could talk to her, she didn’t want to even try.  She gripped the plans in her arms and heard them crumple as she jogged away, tears streaming once again. 

* * * * *

Marca looked at where the plans would lead her.  The zoo.  It had to be a joke, she thought at first, but she had to follow it since it was the last thing David had given her.  She kept having to pull the glasses off to see the map of the zoo then put them back on as she drove to it.  Living in Singapore for seven years, Marca had considered the Singaporean Zoo as a great family place but had never been there.  

Marca parked her car and glanced over the plans that indicated which part of the zoo David had highlighted.  It was after sunset when she arrived, but Marca was able to get in during the Night Safari hours.  She made her way through the zoo and heard a howler monkey shouting somewhere close by.  By David’s notes in the plans, she needed to head to the open exhibit and look for something like a magical lemur. 

Marca moved around the walkways looking for what she thought would be a magical lemur when she heard a voice behind her. 
“And you are looking…for…me?” the voice said.
Marca turned her head then her body followed to face it. On the tree was a monkey of some type, with huge eyes, but it wore a top hat, cane and had wads of American dollars stuffed into a pouch along its side. This had to be what David was talking about. 
“Yes, I think so.” she said.
“I should think so too. You are much like he said, skeptical and sincere at the same time.” it said.
Marca held up the plans. “I was directed here to see you, by a man named David, do you happen to know him?” 
“I know those plans, I did everything but write them for him. Listen, dear woman, you must take me to him.” it said. 
“But, how do I get you out of here? Aren’t you trapped here? No, what I mean is, this is your home, and wouldn’t someone notice if you were missing?” she asked.
“No, no not really, I can’t think of anyone that would. My name is Jasper, and you must take me to David immediately. He finally figured out his dreams for himself, and it’s finally caught up to him. Come, fit me beneath your shirt.” it said. 

* * * * *

In the parking lot Jasper asked what had happened to David, and soon they were on their way to the airport to see if he was still there. Arriving at the same point near the executive suite, Marca’s mind raced with how to smuggle a talking lemur into the airport. She decided to use her large presentation case, a flat, wide leather case that would work, but the lemur would definitely make the sides bulge. 

Inside the airport Marca saw David from a distance. “Now what?” she asked.
Jasper rustled in the flat bag to get a look. “You have to make the orange discs appear once again, and then I can deal with them. You need to bait them into emerging. Can you do that?”
Marca’s knees went weak for a moment. The thought of risk had never occurred to her and she thought about dropping Jasper and running away. But she would have to do it. “Yes, I will, should you come with me?” she asked.
“Take me with you, but let me free when you get to him. Don’t let him see me!” Jasper said. 

They crossed the lobby to David as he sat in an uncomfortable position facing the bay window, the unmoving corpse of the unknown woman to his right.  Marca had given herself a pep talk before walking straight to him.  He saw her coming and struggled to stand by the time she got there.  They looked at each other, Marca’s puffy eyes meeting David’s blank gaze.  She grabbed David by the shoulder as his mouth began to peek open, revealing the sliding orange discs in his mouth.  Marca dropped the case to the floor and closed her eyes, waiting until the discs began washing over her, tugging at her mouth.  She waited and waited as she felt them swirling over her, bearing her down to the floor with their collective weight.  

Marca risked opening her eyes and brushing some away to see where Jasper had gone or what he was doing.  When she did she saw the blurry form of the lemur on the seat next to the woman, she could tell that he was watching, as if waiting.  Jasper saw her eyes on him for a moment and couldn’t resist talking to her.  

“Are you wondering why I’m just sitting here, hmm?” Jasper began.  “You see I found these pets in the zoo, where they inhabited a rhinoceros.”
Marca struggled to hold her mouth shut against the discs and tried to clasp her hands over her mouth.  When she did she felt a snap, like static electricity, hit her hands and arms.  
Jasper continued, “They are an amazing parasite, don’t you think?  Now that you’ve helped me thwart David’s clairvoyance I can try to escape this damned city-nation for holding me captive for so long.”
Marca could no longer resist.  She felt the first disc enter her mouth as she struggled on the floor, electrical pulses causing her body to spasm.  She bit into the thing, hard, hoping to feel the hard carapace give between her teeth, but it only held her jaw open wide enough for the next one to slide into her mouth.  
“Sinkhole by sinkhole I would have made this place the next Atlantis…but now that I’m free we’ll see if anyone can stop us.”  
Marca felt them slide down her throat one by one, electrical zaps coursing through her body, and she felt herself giving in.  
“Come, let’s find ourselves a nice flight out of this place.” Jasper said as he climbed onto Marca’s shoulder, tipping his hat at the few onlookers who had witnessed what had happened but questioned themselves if they had really seen what had occurred.   
Marca was in a dream now, a terrible one, where she saw herself ambling down the wide corridor and could do nothing.  

* * * * *


----------



## Piratecat (Feb 2, 2005)

Cool! I'll work on my judgment tonight. 

A brief word from your beloved judges: please *put hard line breaks between paragraphs.* _Jasper _has it in some sections but not in others, and it makes it much more difficult to read. Microsoft Word doesn't do it automatically; what looks good in word may be the result of formatting that doesn't carry over here.

Not to worry, formatting doesn't make an overt difference in the judging (so it won't be counted for or against anyone), but it's best to make stories as easy to read as possible.

Thanks!


----------



## Maldur (Feb 2, 2005)

Piratecat said:
			
		

> Eeralai, I normally don't want to speak for Alsih2o, but I'd say that'd be just fine.




Not speaking for AlSiH2O!!

First time you two did meet you were finishing each other sentences, it was uncanny .


----------



## MarauderX (Feb 2, 2005)

Piratecat said:
			
		

> Cool! I'll work on my judgment tonight.
> 
> A brief word from your beloved judges: please *put hard line breaks between paragraphs.* _Jasper _has it in some sections but not in others, and it makes it much more difficult to read. Microsoft Word doesn't do it automatically; what looks good in word may be the result of formatting that doesn't carry over here.
> 
> ...




Thanks for the tip, it looks as though I got a forshadowing of judgement already, so I'll try to remember for the next competition.


----------



## BSF (Feb 2, 2005)

MarauderX - How so?  I haven't seen anything indicating that you will or will not move on to the next round.  I haven't had a chance to read your story, so I don't have an opinion either way.  Even if I did, it wouldn't mean much, I'm not a judge.    Formatting just makes it easier to read.  But the judges, in my experience, don't judge based on formatting.  Heck, if they did, I would have been doomed several times over.  

So I would say don't sweat it and just keep it in mind for your next story posting.  Whether that is next round, or in a future competion.


----------



## Piratecat (Feb 2, 2005)

MarauderX said:
			
		

> Thanks for the tip, it looks as though I got a forshadowing of judgement already, so I'll try to remember for the next competition.




I specifically said that it won't make a difference so that you WOULDN'T have that reaction, you big goober.  

I meant what I said: it doesn't have an impact on the quality of the writing, so it doesn't have an impact on the judging. It just makes our job easier.


----------



## alsih2o (Feb 2, 2005)

Round 1 Hellefire Vs. Orchid Blossom

4 pictures, 5000 word limit, 72 hours limit, Full of Fiber!


----------



## Ao the Overkitty (Feb 2, 2005)

very surreal pictures this time around.


----------



## orchid blossom (Feb 3, 2005)

Got 'em.  This should be interesting.

I guess I'll have to wait for my rematch with Berandor till next time.  

Good luck Hellefire.


----------



## Macbeth (Feb 3, 2005)

_The Clown of God_
as retold by Sage LaTorra

Rodion lived in the streets, dressed in rags, and begged for his daily bread. From the timid Russian summers to the frigid Moscow winters, he lived on only the kindness of others, without a mother or father to provide for him.

Rodion didn't remember much of his father or his mother, which was for the best. He didn't remember the beatings, the fights, the vodka-drenched nights and vomit-mornings. He couldn't remember the way his mother would wash her pain medicine down with a cup full of cheap Southern Comfort, or how his father would bring another women home and make his mother sleep on the couch. He only remembered their love.

There were more boys on the streets of Moscow than the government would ever admit. Rodion was only one of many, and he couldn't even stand out among the other street urchins. He would run with a gang for a day, only to be left behind or betrayed the next morning. He was trodden on by the downtrodden, he was sold out for crusts of bread and spoiled milk. Other children might be strong enough or smart enough or brave enough to stand out, but Rodion didn't have any talents.

Then it all changed.

One night Rodion went to sleep beneath a rough blue blanket stolen from a street vendor, and awoke under a red blanket. Amazed at the change, Rodion jumped backwards, striking a trash can as he went.

The trash can turned green at his touch.

With hours and days Rodion controlled his talent. Just like the man in the stories told by the street preachers, Rodion could perform miracles. Just by thinking about a color, he could make anything nearby change to that color. With a little work he could even make things glow like a light bulb.

This made him popular.

Rodion was the king of graffiti, able to mark his gang's territory indelibly, without paint or brush. All the other children wanted him in their gang. He was seen as a symbol of status, something to be proud of in the humble life on the street.

And it was because of his talent that Rodion was caught. Late one night while drawing an simple design on the back of a theater, the emergency exit opened and exposed the theater manager, who had seen Rodion and his gang about their work.

“Get away from my wall, you filthy mongrels” the manager yelled as he sprinted into the alleyway to grab the boys.

“Run” screamed the leader of Rodion's gang.

Rodion tried to run, but he wasn't as fast as the other boys. The manager caught him by the collar.

“Now what do you think you're doing here?” The manager growled as he held Rodion off the ground with one hand.

“Please comrad, I'll make it go away, please don't hurt me!” 

“Go away? That much paint will take a day's work and a gallon of paint to remove.”

“No, please, if I can make it go away here and now, will you let me go?”

“Ha!” chortled the manager, happy with the boy's stupidity. “Of course! If you can clean it all up before sun up, I will not only let you go, I will buy you breakfast.” he said with a knowing smile on his face. “But if you do not, you must work for me, without pay, for the rest of the week.”

“Yes, yes!” Rodion cried. And with a thought and a glance the wall changed back to it's red brick facade.

“Mother of God! Did you do that?” The manger said as he dropped Rodion to the ground in surprise.

“Yes I did. And now I believe you owe me breakfast.”

And so the manager took him to breakfast, and let him order whatever he wanted. But the manager, who introduced himself as Dmitry, was a sly man.

“I want to make you an offer, boy.” He said over breakfast.

“Will it involve more food?”

“It will involve all the food you can eat for the rest of your life.”

Rodion's eyes grew big at the thought of endless food, as Dmitry continued: “If you will perform at my theater, once at the matinée, once at the dinner showing, and once in the evening, every day, I will give you three meals every day.”

While Rodion wasn't smart, he wasn't stupid enough to take the first offer. “I want money too” he said through a mouth full of half chewed potatoes.

“Fine. I will give you one ruble out of every 10 that I  make at the shows that you perform. I will tell you that you will make at least 150 rubles per show.”

For Rodion, even a 30 rubles seemed like a fortune. “Done.” Rodion said with a smile. “But what will I do? Just making things change color is hardly worth watching.”

“Then you will juggle.”

“But I don't know how.”

“You will learn. I will teach you the basics today, and tomorrow you will start.”

Rodion and Dmitry shook hands on the deal, and Rodion spent the rest of the day learning to juggle. Rodion had never been very good at anything, but he found that he was good at juggling, and the next day, at the matinée, he put on his show for the first time.

His show would go like this:

First he would juggle bowling pins.

Then he would take out hoops, and juggle them.

Then he would spin plates through the air, juggling them too.

And finally would come the balls.

He would start with the balls at his feet, all 7 of them. First he would take two balls, and as he juggled them, he would turn one ball red, and one ball orange.

Then he would pick up another ball, and it would turn yellow.

Then a ball would turn green.

Then another would turn blue.

And finally one would turn purple.

And Rodion would do this for while, with the 6 rainbow balls flying through the air, and then he would juggle them higher and higher, faster and faster, until it seemed like they would burst through the roof and fly into the sky. 

And then, with all the balls flying together in a blur of color, he would pick up the last ball, and toss it high into the air, higher and faster then any of the other balls it would fly. And then he would proclaim “And now for the Sun in the Heavens!” and he would make the last ball turn a rich gold, and burst into a bright glow.

And the crowd would clap and cheer and throw money onto the stage. Then the audience would watch the show they had came to see, and then go home and tell their friends of the magnificent juggling boy they had seen at the theater.

Word traveled quickly. Soon people would come just to see Rodion juggle. And his act would always be the same. First the pins, then the hoops, then the plates, and finally the balls. First the red and orange, then the yellow, then the green, the blue, the purple. And finally, with a flair, he would proclaim “And now for the sun in the heavens!” and the ball would fly higher then all the others, and burst into a shimmering golden glow.

Soon Dmitry decided that the show needed more. He thought for a long time, searching for anybody who could be amazing enough to take the stage before Rodion. Then one dark winters day, almost a year after he had started letting Rodion perform, he saw a man sitting a park chair, reading a paper, while wearing no shoes. The man was otherwise reasonably (if simply) dressed, but his feet were completely uncovered.

Knowing that anyone who would brave a Moscow winter without shoes must be either insane or incredible (and that either way people would pay to see him), Dmitry approached the man.

Dmitry didn't know how to address a crazy man, so he said “Sir, you aren't wearing any shoes.”

“Don't need 'em.”

“Don't need them? How can that be? The snow is all over.”

“Look for yourself.”

And that's when Dmitry looked at the man's feet.  The bottoms looked like rubber tires, thick and strong, with ridges to keep him from slipping.

Dmitry knew that this might draw crowds. “Sir, what else can you do with such marvelous feet?”

The man finally put down his newspaper. “Nothing too important. The government said it was as miraculous as the virgin birth, but that having feet that cling to walls isn't enough in and of itself to get hired as a spy or a solider.” Dmitry could see that the man was out of shape, and that he would never make a good spy or solider, but that did not mean he could not draw a crowd.

“So the government would not give you work? Then would you be willing to work for me?”

“Doing what? I've already told people that I will not fix their lights.”

“All you have to do is go on stage before a little boy who juggles every day. Three shows, and I will give you 1 ruble out of every 10 I make at each show.”

“But what would I do? I have no skills.”

“You can run and jump from the walls. It need not be anything amazing, I just need you to make sure the audience really wants to see the boy.”

The man considered this for a while. “Well, I have no better work to do. My name is Lukinanov, and I will be your opening act.”

And so Lukinanov put together a simple show, nothing so spectacular as Rodion's, but it kept the crowds coming, and many of people who had already seen Rodion would come back to see him again just to see Lukinanov's part of the show.

And another year passed, and Rodion and Lukinanov changed bits of their acts, but the core of Rodion's always remained the same: First the pins, hoops, and plates, then finally the balls. First the red and orange would fly through the air, followed by the yellow, then the green, the blue, the purple. And finally, in a voice like the voice of God, he would proclaim “And now for the Sun in the Heavens!” and the ball would fly higher then all the others, and burst into a shimmering golden glow.

Rodion started coloring his face before every show, making himself look like a simple clown, with one half of his face red and the other white. With each little change, the crowds would come again, to see what new the magnificent juggling boy could do.

But Rodion wanted more. He wanted more like himself and Lukinanov to joint he show. So he took a month without shows (the longest he had gone without performing since he had first juggled before Dmitry's matinée) to go search for more like himself.

And he found them. Most were simple people, and Rodion (who now had a significant amount of money in a little bank account) would pay them to learn to perform, and would split the money with them. Out of every 10 rubles made, Rodion (who was clearly the star) got 2, Dmitry got 2 (since it was his theater), Lukinanov got 1, and the rest was split equally among the other performers. During his trip Rodion gathered 10 more performers who could do miraculous things. One could hover off the ground, one could stretch his arms to awesome lengths, one could jump as high as the ceiling, and the others had similar tricks. None of them were special enough (or bright enough, or strong enough) to be anything more then entertainment, but they would at least make people smile.

It was on the way back that Rodion found his last companion. He had stopped in a small town, and while there the headmaster of the local school convinced him to perform for the students. Nobody knew Rodion's age, but he couldn't have been much older then the students he performed for, but he looked twice their age.

He did his show as always: pins, hoops, plates, red, orange, yellow, green, blue, purple, then “The Sun in the Heavens!” It was after his show, as he walked to find a restroom, that he saw withing one of the computer rooms a boy that would change him.

Rodion saw the boy sitting in a chair far too small for him (for he was quite tall), with arcs of lightening crackling between his fingertips. The boy's face showed a glee that Rodion had never know except while he was on the stage.

“How do you do that?” Rodion asked as he stepped into the classroom.

“I don't know, I've just always been able to do it.”

“And you can do it whenever you want to?”

“Yes.”

“Could you do it on stage?”

“I guess...”

“Would you do it for money?”

“Of course!”

“Fine, then I want you to come with me. I want you to perform with me in Moscow, on the stage, for a portion of every ruble we earn.”

The boy didn't even take a minute to think. “Yes.”

“Then I'll need to know your name.”

“My name is Phillip, but everybody calls my Philka.”

And that was it. The show was complete. Rodion, Lukinanov and Philka, and the 10 others made the largest mark on the theater scene in Moscow ever. Rodion Lukinanov and Philka were always the finale. All three of them would be on stage together, then Lukinanov and Philka would leave and Rodion would do his act: pins, hoops, plates, red, orange, yellow, green, blue, purple, “And Now for the Sun in the heavens!”

But Philka had bigger ideas. He pushed Rodion and Lukinanov to greater things. It started as a parade through a different neighborhood every Sunday. Just as people left mass they would see Philka, Rodion and Lukinanov leading their motley, mask-wearing troupe through the streets, doing tricks and stunts as they went. Everybody would do their little gimmick, and they would parade through a neighborhood all morning. The crowds would laugh and smile as the clowns lit up the morning. Eventually the parade would lead back to the theater, and there would be a great show, with every seat filled. This made them into a city wide phenomenon, with everybody making a pilgrimage to the theater to watch the show.

But Philka still wanted more. “We can do more then this” he would say.

“But why? We have hundreds of people smiling, laughing, and living because of us every day.” Rodion would reply.

“And we get plenty of money.” Lukinanov would add.

“Because we're meant for greater things, we can do so much more then just make people smile. We could make so much more money.” Philka would say. Somehow Philka would always win the debate, the they would go with his plan.

Before long Philka gave them a name: Rodion's Clowns. 

Then Philka got them on TV, doing a show every Sunday in place of their parade. 

Rodion didn't like the TV show. “But I want to be able to see the people I make smile.” he would tell Philka.

“Well isn't that selfish of you” would always be Philka's response. “This way you can make more people laugh and smile, isn't that more important then your needs?”

Rodion could never argue with that. Somehow Philka was always right.

So Rodion's Clowns were on TV. Then in the movies. Then everywhere.

Philka worked the Clowns into a role in every mass media outlet around the world. They were everywhere, on every magazine cover, their songs on the charts, their movies setting records. Everyone wanted them. They performed for Kings and Queens, Presidents and Prim Ministers, and every other dignitary around the world. Rodion and Philka grew into strapping young men on a diet of fame, and were then coddled into middle age with honor. Rodion would still put on his red and white colored face for every audience, great or small, from paupers to princes. He would do the same show: pin hoop plate red orange yellow green blue purple “And now for the Sun in the Heavens!” 

But then one day, on a crowded street in Moscow, as Rodion all 12 (including Lukinanov and Philka) Clowns made their way to a talk show appearance, Rodion heard something he had never heard before. Usually as the Clowns were always the center of attention on any street, with people talking about them everywhere. But Rodion heard a man tell his wife “Oh, it just that Rodion and his clowns, with their tired old act. He was better as a boy.”

This was the first time Rodion had heard anybody who thought the Clowns were boring. Even those who didn't like them thought they were original. There was nobody else like them. Rodion decided that it was nothing, that one person's opinion doesn't matter.

But Rodion couldn't escape time. After 30 years of relentless fame, it was his time to go.

He fell quickly. Philka went on to manage a boy band, Lukinanov got a job as a spokesperson for the army, and the other Clowns went on to their own jobs. Every one of them continued to make quite a good but of money for any sane person, but Rodion could never get work again. Every time he went on stage he would be laughed at: “Look, it's the old clown with his boring act! Why don't you learn some new tricks! We've seen these before.”

Every night Rodion would go to sleep cursing Philka. He thought that if he had merely kept performing a little show in Dmitry's theater he could have had a new audience every night for the rest of his life. He could go to new theaters, every night he would make new people smile. But instead, people he had never seen had already grown tired of him, and he had nothing left to give.

Rodion went for years without a ruble of profit. He lived off his savings, eventually running out and falling from high society back to his old streets.

He never put on his red and white face. He never juggled.

He had nothing left to his name except his old juggling kit, and he traveled begging for handouts with his same tired old act. Pinshoopsplatesredorangeyellowgreenbluepurple“AndnowfortheSunintheHeavens!”

Nobody would even give him spare change for his act.

With nowhere left to go, Rodion left Moscow for the country. He wandered through the summer and fall, and found himself huddled in the ruins of a church on an evening exactly 50 years after he had first been caught behind Dmitry's theater. 

Huddled down in what might have once been the catacombs of the old Cathedral, Rodion stared into the wreckage. This was finally it, he had no food, he had no money, he had only the one thing he couldn't sell: his juggling kit.

Rodion waited for death, and as he did he thought he saw a face in the ruined church, finally someone he could imagine would see him as just a person. Not Rodion, of Rodion's Clowns, but just a poor old man was what he imagined the stone face saw.

And with nothing left to do, he spoke to the face.

“Why?”

He paused for a raspy breath.

“Why can't I make them smile anymore? You know, that's all I wanted. That's all I really wanted. Philka can have his fame, Lukinanov his money. All I want is to make laughter. It's the only thing I really did right, and now I cant even do that.”

And Rodion coughed a dry cough.

“I'm over. I can't do anything. I've been whittled down to a nothing, and I can't even make people laugh. If only I had one last audience, oh how I'd make them laugh...”

And Rodion fell asleep.

And when he had been asleep for a while, the face he thought he saw might have said “Get up, your audience is waiting.” Maybe he just dreamed it, but it is quite possible it was really said.

Rodion awoke with a start. His catacomb shelter had become more light since he feel asleep. He remembered the voice from the face, but he wasn't sure if he had really heard it, or if it had just been a dream. Assuming it was day again, since it was light, Rodion stiffly climbed up out of the catacombs.

When he was out, he saw a large, white tent just outside his catacombs. The tent was lit from inside, and it was bright as day. The moon and stars were still out, and as near as Rodion could tell, it was just about midnight, but the light cast out by the tent made it like day.

With nothing better to do, Rodion snuck under the hem of the tent, and into the light within. 

What was inside astounded him. The tent covered the part of the ruined church that must have been the chapel, and within the warmth and light of the tent it was like the church was still there. Fancy benches had been brought in, there was a gilded alter and hundreds of candles. Inside the tent was miraculously warm with the snow outside, and the floor had been cleared of snow. There was a service going on in the tent, a high mass that must have been for some special feast. All the people attending were dressed in their best clothes, and most of them appeared to be very rich. It was only when Rodion noticed the poinsettia that he realized this was the Christmas midnight mass.

And then his eyes fell upon the centerpiece of the tent. Behind the altar there was a statue, bigger then life, of a women and her child. The women was prettier then any women Rodion had ever seen (and he had seen quite a good many), and her son sat on her knee. Both of them had their hands out in a funny way (which Rodion presumed must have meant something, but it just looked strange to him), and golden rings adorned their heads. But it was the child's face that held Rodion's stare. This child, on the knee of the most beautiful women in the world, the most powerful woman, the complete woman, he was frowning.

Or perhaps he wasn't frowning so much as just being unhappy. Rodion could see no reason for a sculptor to make such a child so unhappy.

It took Rodion a minute to realize that this was the blessed Virgin and her child, since he had never attended a church, but when he realized who he was looking at, he was even more dumbfounded. Why should the son of man be so unhappy?

As the mass continued all of the rich people walked forward and left gifts at the foot of the statue. This seemed odd to Rodion, after all, why did the Virgin and her son need money or expensive perfume or flowers? But Rodion still wanted to be part of this group. All his life he had been outside of the churches, waiting for mass to let out for people to join his parades, but now he was inside, and he wanted to be part of this life before he died.

So when the mass finished, and everyone began to leave, Rodion waited until he was alone in the main part of the tent, and he went before the statue, and he set down the thin blanket he had been sleeping on. With a thought and a cough Rodion applied his talent to his wrinkled face, turning one side a crimson red and the other an immaculate white. He dumped out his juggling kit, arranged all of his props, and bowed low. 

“My most blessed lady, My savior. This is my gift to you.”

And with that, Rodion began with the bowling pins, spinning them through the air.

Then he moved on to the hoops, juggling them with deft movements and practiced skill.

The plates took flight, jumping from hand to hand, spinning and flying with all of Rodion's skill.

While Rodion was juggling, one of the clergy who had been cleaning the outside of the tent walked back inside and saw Rodion juggling before the statue. Without a word, the clergyman ran back outside to find the bishop to deal with Rodion.

Finally, it was time for the balls.

Rodion began with two white balls in his hands, which quickly changed into a red ball and an orange ball. Higher and faster the balls soared, and Rodion added another white ball, which was quickly turned yellow.

Higher and faster, higher and faster the three balls flew, and another white on was added, only to turn green a second later.

Each ball arced higher then the last, becoming a blur of color in Rodion's hands but appearing frozen at the apex of their flight.

A white ball was added again, and it was soon blue. Higher and faster they went.

Yet another white ball was added, and in Rodion's grasp it became a purple ball.

They all blurred together, flying higher and rising faster then any rocket, with more grace then any angel dancing on a pin. Rodion moved his hands with an artful certainty that came from years of practice and a love of what he was doing.

And finally, with a raspy sigh and a deep breath, Rodion shed a tear down his crimson and white face, and, in a voice that could bring down walls or call the dead, Rodion proclaimed that it was time: “And now, for the Sun in the Heavens!”

The ball shot up out of Rodion's hands, and, at its apex, it burst into a brilliant golden glow brighter then the dreams of a thousand misers. It truly shined like the sun on a clear day.

In the light of the dazzling golden ball, Rodion smiled, let out a tear, and died.

The balls all fell down, red, orange, yellow, green, blue, purple, and finally, the sun in the heavens. The all clattered onto Rodion's tattered blanket, next to where Rodion had fallen.

The clergyman came back with the bishop, the find Rodion laying on his blanket.

Seeing Rodion's scruffy body, the clergyman rushed over and checked for Rodion's pulse. “He is dead, bishop.”

But the bishop was not listening. He was staring at the statue. The blessed child still sat upon Mary's knee, but he was smiling. 

















Postscript:

The story you have just read is based on the folk tale known as "The Clown of God." While the basic plot is the same, I have remade it, and I feel it is now, in a way, my own.

The Clown of God is, at its heart, a Christmas story. For as long as I can remember there has been a copy of Tomie dePaola's excellent retelling in my parent's house. Every year, sometime around my birthday (3 weeks before Christmas), my mother will take all of our Christmas books out and put them somewhere clearly visible for reading by anybody and everybody. In recent years I've never really bothered with them for any other reason then to read them to my siblings. It was only this past year that I realized the only Christmas book I really still enjoy as more then a holiday work is dePaola's Clown of God. I think this story has a profound depth that makes it one of my favorites, and the only children's book that I read (to myself, and to my siblings) for any reason other then nostalgia.

Just as Mr. dePaola retold the Clown of God in his art, I wanted to tell it in my own style. I'm sincerly greatful that I got a chance to do that. This story wouldn't be the same without the pictures and the pictures wouldn't be the same without the story, and I wouldn't have it any other way.


----------



## Ruined (Feb 3, 2005)

As an aside, I'll note that I chose to begin my World of Warcraft addiction in the time between the original contest and this one. I'm really proud to say that I put down the game for a while and churned this story out. I say that, looking at the time stamp, dreading the morning to come...  Oh, and this is my first attempt at anything remotely humorous. We'll see how it is when I reread it.


***

*Working for the Weekend*

“You shouldn’t be here,” Gavin said, furtively looking around the office. “I am trying to work.”  He puffed up his chest with self-importance. 

Tinsdale found himself envious of his friend’s job. Even with his position in litigation, he found himself with only sixty hours of work a week. But Gavin, in his lucrative programming job, easily clocked eighty hours a week. Even with the nice suits he had acquired, Tinsdale paled in his friend’s shadow.

“I’m sorry Gavin. I just had an odd premonition this morning. You do know what day it is…”

“Sure I do. It’s Samhain. But that doesn’t mean anything to us anymore.”

“Of course it does…”  Tinsdale poked out his bottom lip and set down a snow globe he had been examining. He would have to get one of those for his office. Gavin always had the best trinkets.

“Please Tinsdale. You’re probably just spooked because of all the children dressing up.”

He could feel his cheeks color. He had sensed ill tidings on the wind this morning while polishing his silverware. Yet Gavin was right: the imagery associated with Halloween had probably enhanced those feelings as the day pressed on. So many children reveling in worship of ghost and goblins were unnerving.

There was a rustling by the door to Gavin’s office. The glass was opaque, so you could only see shadows of those outside. A tentative knock sounded at the door, interrupting their conversation.

“Curse you Tinsdale, that’s probably my supervisor. I can’t be seen socializing on company time!  She probably has more _projects_ for me.” A dreamy look appeared in Gavin's eyes at the thought. He turned upon Tinsdale, pushing him towards another door. “In the server closet, now!”

Tinsdale found himself rushed into a cramped room dominated by a rack of whirring computers. He watched as Gavin pushed the door close behind him, failing to close it completely. His friend had nothing to worry about – Tinsdale would never jeopardize his job (unless he could take it for himself). He squirmed in the closet, as there wasn’t much room beside the noisy computers.

“Come in.” he heard Gavin say, followed by an exclamation of “Moinker!” That sparked Tinsdale’s attention. Why would Gavin curse in their native language? He leaned against the doorjamb, trying to catch a peek through the crack in the door. Three figures stood in the room with their backs to him. Each wore an oddly familiar white suit.

“I’ll not go back, you know. I have work to do!”  There was a rough sound, and Tinsdale could finally see Gavin as he was shoved into his chair. He looked worried.

“You face the Face, faerie!”  The voice was deep and raspy. Tinsdale strained forward, bracing himself against the racks, hoping to get a better glance at the strangers. This time it paid off, as one of the trio turned to examine the room. It had a monstrously large orange head with shaggy brown hair. As the creature’s gaze passed over the closet door, Tinsdale clamped his hand over his mouth to stifle a scream. If only he could have stopped his bladder as well…

“I think not, hobgoblin!”  More words ushered from his mouth, but these were not the dialect of their home, but instead were drawn from the arcane tongue. Bluish sparks of energy formed between Gavin’s fingers as two of the monsters closed in on him. Then there was a loud crack and the pair was hurled across the room.

“Run, Tinsdale!”  Gavin screamed. Tinsdale faltered, still unsure if he should reveal himself. It wouldn’t be so bad to hide here. He still had half an hour before his deposition…  “Run!” 

The last plea shook Tinsdale from his stupor. He threw the door open and looked about the room. The two hobgoblins struck by the blast were on the floor with thin trails of black smoke rising from their chests. They were groaning, as the blast had only stunned them. Gavin was struggling with the third assailant, yet Tinsdale knew there was nothing he could do to help. He was, after all, only a lawyer. Taking his friend’s advice, he fled from the room and abandoned him to his fate.

Emerging onto the street in a blind panic, he ran down the sidewalk with his arms waving frantically in the air. People stepped to the side to avoid him. He knew he needed to get away from the hobgoblins, who probably wanted nothing less than to roast his head on a spit. They knew where to find Gavin at his job, so they might know to find him at the firm, or even worse, at the courts. Tinsdale doubted if citations of contempt would slow them down.

As he reached an intersection of roads, he saw something that could potentially save him. Off to his left, barricades blocked traffic access to 9th Street. Beyond he could see people marching to the tunes of a poorly choreographed parade. There would be a number of people there, offering a great place to hide.

Tinsdale slowed to a walk and moved through the barricades, nodding briefly to the police officers stationed there. He considered beseeching them for aid, but decided against it. They looked hard at work watching for wrongdoers, and if there’s one thing Tinsdale could respect, it was hard work. He had briefly pondered a career as a policeman, but that whole prospect of danger strongly went against his beliefs.

“Nope. The one thing I don’t need is danger. Not me…”  He took a glance to his rear hoping to see Gavin sprinting to catch up with him, but there were only the policemen standing idly in the street. He let loose a sigh and moved into a crowd currently entranced by a series of fire trucks crawling past.

People were dressed for the occasion, no few of which gave Tinsdale pause. Little boys in masks and cowls. Little girls with butterfly wings. Large girls wearing fishnets… oh, perhaps they weren’t in costume. Tinsdale did his best to blend in with the masses. This was an enjoyable distraction, although the nagging voices in his head reminded him that not only was he on the run from vicious assailants, but also he would be late for his deposition this afternoon. Judge O’Rourke was not known for her patience.

“Look at the funny man, mommy!” the girl with the translucent wings said in a screeching voice that carried above the crowd. Tinsdale winced, knowing that she was pointing to him. How appropriate that a girl dressed as an insect would laugh at him. Some things never changed.

To his relief, Tinsdale noted that she was pointing out into the street where the procession continued. 

To his horror, he saw that she was pointing to an orange-faced man wearing a white jumpsuit decorated with bizarre caricatures.

A hobgoblin.

And there were at least five of them, each searching among the spectators as they walked. As horrible as their appearance was, not one of the oblivious crowd participants noted their presence. They blended perfectly with all of the other costumed freaks.

Tinsdale willed himself to be still as the bestial gaze of the hunters passed over him. If he could only act disinterested, like one of the crowd, then these hobgoblins would miss him. Sure, they had found Gavin with ease, but that was Gavin. He had probably announced his presence on the Internet or in one of those computer games he worked on. Tinsdale however, was a modest, mousy type, and knew how to not draw attention to himself. As he continued the mantra in his head, the patrol of hobgoblins moved past his spot.

A peal of laughter erupted from Little Miss Butterfly beside him. “Look Mommy! That man wet himself!”  She pointed directly at him, drawing laughter from nearby patrons, _and_ the attention of the hobgoblins. As he watched with horror, one of the nearby creatures looked directly at him and pointed.

“I hope a witch flies in your room and turns you into a frog tonight!” Tinsdale sneered at the little girl, and then bolted off into the crowd. The mass of humanity seemed to congeal around him, slowing his pace to a crawl. He could only hope that this would also slow his pursuers, for he dared not look behind him. People shoved and complained as he moved past, the air moist with the heat of hundreds of bodies. Were he not running for his life, he knew he would pass out from the stench.

As soon as he found an accessible side street, Tinsdale broke from the crowd as fast as possible. His mind raced, trying to think of who he could call for help. Sadly, his only real friend was Gavin, and calling him was no option. If he were still alive, Tinsdale doubted he would want to talk to him. He wouldn't want to talk to Gavin were roles reversed. Even though it made complete sense at the time, he had abandoned Gavin in his hour of need. The man would likely carry a grudge.

Two hobgoblins emerged from the mouth of the alley in perfect time for Tinsdale to run straight into their arms. The foul odor of the crowd was nothing compared to the stench wafting from this pair. There was no escape from their clutches, and Tinsdale had never studied witchcraft like Gavin. Poor Gavin…

“Fellows, can’t we be reasonable about this?”

A dull clang heralded his descent into darkness. 


***


Searing pain woke Tinsdale from his concussion-induced sleep. He immediately sat up, realizing the pain was not at his head, but instead at his feet. He couldn’t reach them, as his hands were bound together. So were his ankles, now that he examined them. His feet didn’t look to be on fire from this angle, but they sure felt like it. He tried to scrape the soles against the wood he sat upon, but it helped none. All he could see was that there was some kind of blackness along the soles. He dearly hoped it wasn’t his skin turned to ash, not that he could do anything to stop that.

After a few minutes and a good amount of tears on his part, the pain in his feet lessened. Only then was he able to take stock of his surroundings. He was in the bed of a pickup truck speeding under dimming skies. How long had he been unconscious? He wasn’t alone, as there were two hobgoblins and his friend Gavin, tied up the same way he was.

“Gavin! You’re alive! I was so worried…”  Gavin shot him a foul look and remained silent. “Oh please Gavin; it was a horrible, stressful situation…”

“You left me!”

“You told me to run.”  Tinsdale tried to raise his hands in protest, forgetting that they were securely tied.

“I didn’t mean it!”  Gavin said. There was an uncomfortable silence, which brought Tinsdale’s mind back to his throbbing feet. He looked and noted that Gavin’s feet were also covered with a tarry black substance. Small zigzagged lines marked the bottom as if they were crude approximations of commercial sneakers.

“What’s on our feet?”  Tinsdale asked.

“Some kind of tar and magic runes. I believe they did it to prevent me from casting spells of lightning.”

“But I can’t cast lightning. Why’d they do it to me?”  Tinsdale turned to get the attention of one of the hobgoblins. “I can’t cast lightning, see?”  His captor snorted, blowing his fetid breath into Tinsdale’s face. 

The drive continued for upwards of an hour, taking them away from the city and off into the hills. Passing cars became fewer and fewer as they moved away from civilization. Tinsdale vaguely seemed to recall this area, although he rarely chose to leave the city.

“Where do you think they’re taking us?” he asked, not expecting an answer from his sullen friend.

“I’d imagine we’ll do what they said. Face the face.”

“You don’t mean…”

“Yeah,” Gavin said, his lips curling down into a frown. “The Face.”


***

If Tinsdale had thought the initial pain of his tar-covered feet was bad, he had not considered the agony of walking on them. The only benefit to the covering was that he did not feel each miniscule pebbles that blanketed the path they walked upon. Otherwise, the march was one of pure misery, randomly punctuated by shoves from their guards. 

They had driven into a rugged area of stony hills sparsely populated with brown grass. The sun had begun its descent to the accompaniment of an insectile chorus. Ideas of rescue or escape took on a humorous tone in Tinsdale’s mind. He considered yelling for help, wondering how the echoes would sound. No, he knew this area, and he knew what awaited them below.

They were prodded down a path to a series of buildings that had suffered great erosion over the years. Masonry had fallen apart, leaving chimneys with no rooms to heat. Small sections of walls acted as cemetery markers where palatial buildings had once stood. As they navigated through the ruins, they approached one central structure that possessed more integrity than any others. Tinsdale could feel the ruin for what it truly was – a holy place.

As they entered the building, both he and Gavin were pushed to their knees. The ceiling of this structure was only half there, allowing the light to stream down upon the features of the walls. Two passageways flanked the opposing wall, rounded by arches formed from brick. Below the two archways was a yawning portal that led into the depths of the earth. The effect was that of a giant face formed from broken masonry. Yet the pair knew it was much more than that.

“FOOLISH CHANGELINGS!” a voice boomed out amid a backdrop of grinding stone. As it spoke, the passageway-eyes seemed to light with every word. “DID YOU THINK YOU COULD HIDE FOREVER?”

“Well, yes…” Tinsdale began, receiving a blow to the head from an unseen hobgoblin hand. “No,” he corrected. “No, your… eminence.” How did one properly address an immortal spirit that manifested itself as a giant stone face? It could probably kill them both with a solitary breath. He hoped he hadn’t offended it.

“YOU CHOSE TO ABANDON THE WILD HUNT AND LIVE IN THE WORLD OF MEN? DO YOU THINK YOURSELVES CLEVER?”

“Well…” Gavin began, earning them both clouts on the head. “No, no. We were foolish, Lord… Face?”  

In truth, they had been clever. They had volunteered to go with the Wild Hunt as it ran its yearly journey across the mortal world, but it was a ruse on their parts. When their Sidhe brethren had been distracted by their hunting, the two of them had stolen off to hide in the glorious city. Once the night of Samhain had ended, the barrier between worlds strengthened, trapping them in the present world.

Contemplating their current predicament, Tinsdale mused that moving to a different city would have been _truly_ clever.

“OUR KIND CANNOT STAY IN THIS DREARY REALM. WHY RISK ALL, ABANDONING OUR CAREFREE WORLD?”

Tinsdale stole a look at Gavin, wondering how to explain it. No good excuse came to mind, and so they spoke the truth, in unison.

“We wanted to work.”

“WHAT?” the voice of the Face boomed out. Tinsdale imagined he could hear grunts of disgust come from the hobgoblins behind them.

“We wanted jobs like the man-folk,” Tinsdale began. “We’ve been loafing for centuries, and we wanted the change. Our lives were so boring. You can’t imagine how many days I spent lounging by streams, hoping for something to do.” He stuck out his tongue as the horrible thought.

“OUR KIND DOES NOT WORK! THAT IS THE PROVINCE OF MEN. YOU SHALL BE TAUGHT A LESSON THAT WILL NEVER BE FORGOTTEN.”

This was better than Tinsdale had hoped for. The year he spent working in the courtrooms could finally pay off.

“What horrible, yet justly deserved punishment will we receive, oh Great Face?”  In response, the rocks around them rumbled as if in deep thought.

“Might I suggest years of toil in the Mines of Boria?”

“NO…” the voice said in a distracted voice.

“Perhaps tending to the Endless Orchards day in and day out?”  Gavin suggested. Tinsdale nodded, mouthing the words ‘good one’ to him.

“NO…”

“If I may suggest…” Tinsdale began.

“SILENCE, CHANGELING!”  Mollified, Tinsdale clamped his mouth shut. 

“YOU ARE CLEVER ONES, I SEE THIS NOW,” the Face announced. “YOUR PUNISHMENT IS THUS: YOU SHALL FOREVER RESIDE IN THE FROLICKING GLADES.”

They waited, ready for the twist that would make it unbearable. When the Face remained silent, Tinsdale prompted it. “And…?”

“AND NOTHING!" 

It dawned on them that this was the very thing they had sought to escape. A life surrounded by the laziest of the lazy, with no tasks to be done, and no responsibilities to attend to. It was a life without meaning!

“HOBGOBLINS, TAKE THEM AWAY!”  The Face said, with its eyes dimming as it settled into silence.

“Please reconsider, Great Face! Perhaps we could de-thorn roses for a century or two?”

“How about mucking the Great Stables?”

“Anything but this…”


----------



## Hellefire (Feb 3, 2005)

Good luck to your Orchid!


Aaron Blair
Foren Star


----------



## Maldur (Feb 3, 2005)

First two judgements send, Im a bit short, but my mind is overflowing with....stuff.


----------



## Ruined (Feb 3, 2005)

A bump for goodness! And for those who are a bit punchy after staying up late into the night, working on entries!


----------



## Piratecat (Feb 4, 2005)

My round 1-1 judgment sent to Alsih2o. I'll do 1-2 tomorrow.

Thank you, authors - this is fun!


----------



## maddman75 (Feb 4, 2005)

Madddman vs Sigurd

Let me tell you about the worst day of my life.

It began in a most humiliating way.  The night before, I'd spend the evening at an all-you-can-eat crab shack, throwing back beers and crab legs like there was no tomorrow.  We closed the place down, and I managed to stumble home.  

Now naturally, I was quite hung over and slept until almost noon.  I had collapsed on the couch, rather than sleeping in my room with the door closed.  Now why might you ask do I always make sure my door is closed?  Because of Brutus.  Brutus is my bulldog, and he's a heck of a dog, but he ain't right.  Let me tell you about Brutus.

Brutus is almost fourteen years old.  He's as loyal as can be and smart as a tack.  Literally.  A thumbtack could outsmart him on a good day.  He's usually not the freshest dog in the neighborhood, given his propensity to sniff out the foulest smelling stuff he can and roll in it.  I end up giving him a bath at least once a week, more than that if he gets into a funk.  

One more thing about Brutus.  He LOVES seafood.

So I awake, hung over and belly aching from last night's binge.  Not only is my old smelly dog laying on me, but he's licking the inside of my mouth.  I guess the smell of seafood was too tempting to him and he was trying to get him a taste.

Anyway, I go to yell 'YALLGEEOUNDOUN' at him.  I don't know what it means, but but father said it, his father said it, and so on.  Its the only phrase guaranteed to get a dog's attention.  When I go to yell though, a deep rumbling in my belly tells me something is amiss.  A horrendous belch erupts into my mouth, and therefore Brutus's mouth.

I pushed him off me and ran to the bathroom to rinse my mouth out.  Obviously Brutus disliked the taste of twelve hour old used beer, he was just as disgusted as as I was.Picture #1

I had thought that was the worst of it, but it had just begun.  I went into my hall closet to get my 'special friend'.  Now I'm a pretty lonely guy, but I'm pretty handy with tools and electronics.  So, as all young geeks dream I built myself a girlfriend robot.  She was not quite complete, all I had managed to get her to do so far was complain that I didn't buy her enough stuff and ask me 'What's wrong?' any time I'm not talking.

Appearantly when I had stumbled in the night before I'd walked into my closet door.  She was there, but had fallen apart!  I would need to get some new screws to hold her together.  That would mean I had to go to Radio Shack.  I hate radio shack.

So I bagged the pieces up and hauled it out to my car.  My neighbor gave me a weird look.  I wonder what his problem was.  Like he'd never seen someone haul a girl-bot off in a sack before. Picture #2

I managed to get her into the car and drove off toward Radio Shack.  Traffic was unusually bad, there had to be something going on.  As I turned a corner, I realized why there was so much traffic.  This was the day that the Reenactment Society was having a battle!  They were reenacting Lawrence of Arabia or something.  Picture #3

I finally managed to make it past the mounted drunken reenactors and wheeled into Radio Shack.  I walked in and asked the clerk if he had any screws.  I was in luck, and managed to get the last pack.  Triumphant, I returned to my car to return home and re-assemble Robo-Girl.

Just when I thought things couldn't get any worse, I turned the key and heard nothing.  The car was utterly dead.  If I was going to salvage this day, I'd have to hike back to my house.  So I threw Robo-Girl on my back and started huffing down the street.

It wasn't long before I got back to the Re-enactors.  They were completely blocking the street, there was appearanlty some kind of disagreement.  It seems that at the end of whatever battle they were playing out, the end had to involve a pair of elephants, one from each army meeting and mating in the middle of the battlefield.  They had the two elephants (don't ask me where the got them – I don't want to know!) but the magic wasn't happening.  If I were going to get Robo-Girl home and back together, these elephants would have to hear music.

Now I know a thing or two about elephants.  I spent a semester working at the zoo, and I had to feed the things every day.  The thing about elephants is that they are very particular about mating.  The crowd didn't help anything, and they weren't doing the dance.  You see, when one elephant loves another elephant very much they start a special dance, wrapping their trunks around each other and looking into the other's eyes.  Only then, can the magic happen.  And these elephants didn't look like they were in the dancing mood.

I got one of the re-enactors and gave him some direction.  Told him to just keep her steady and I'd guide the other elephant into place.  With a little patience we might just make it happen.

It was going great.  I mean they were cautious at first, but when they got up close and started wrapping their trunks around each other I thought we were in business.  Picture #4

Then, my fortune turned south again.  Just as when I had awoken, I felt a great disturbance in my guts.  I could tell it would coming up and I was utterly powerless to stop it.  The belch was loud and clear in the crisp air, audible for nearly a mile.  The bull elephant I was riding trumpeted in surprise at the disturbance and pulled to the side.  So quickly, in fact that I slid off his back and landed right on mine.

The female was both shocked and offended at the male's reaction, and bolted.  She didn't trample any of the re-en actors.  No.  She ran at the only open spot that had opened up, the one where I had walked in.  The one where I had sat down Robo-Girl's sack.  Her huge foot mashed Robo-girl into a million pieces.  She then took off down the street.  

The re-enactors started trying to calm the now enraged bull,to little effect.  As the cause of all the commotion, I managed to slip away and return home, dejected.  I was still hung over, my Robo-Girl was destroyed, and my feet were killing me.  At least it couldn't get any worse.

As I traveled home, I noticed that the female had headed toward my place.  Its pretty easy to track an elephant, especially through a suburb.  I soon arrived home and found the perfect end to the worst day of my life.  The elephant had dropped a nice little (and by little I mean freakin huge) pile right in my front lawn.  It would probably take me hours to clean up.

And Brutus had rolled in it.

_Moral of the story kids?  If you drink to excess your dog will lick the inside of your mouth and an elephant will stomp on your robot girlfriend.  So be good!_


----------



## Eeralai (Feb 4, 2005)

*Bilboian Trek*

The car skid across the pavement, shrieking like a wounded cat.  Liza sighed in relief as she barely missed the snail sliding across the street. (1)

“What the Hell, Liza?” yelled Ryan.

“There was a snail.”

“A snail?  Who cares about a snail?  This is a race, Liza.  I’d rather see snail entrails and stay in the lead than come in second again.”  

“It reminded me of _The Grapes of Wrath_.  I couldn’t hurt it.”

“The Grapes of who?”

“_The Grapes of Wrath_.  It’s a mundane book with a chapter about a turtle in it struggling to cross the street.  A truck hits the turtle and flips it over, but it still makes it across.  I wanted the snail to get across too.”

“They devoted a whole frickin’ chapter to a turtle crossing the street?  No wonder they’re called mundane books.  What the Hell does “grapes of wrath” mean anyway?  Was it a growth spell gone out of control?”

“No, it was from a hymn.”

“A what?”

“Before the Magic Revival, people used to sing hymns to a god.  I think it’s the god that started Christmas. You should read more mundane novels.”

“Why? Any time spent reading something other than a magic book is a waste. It’s my magic that’s going to win us this race.”

“Except for the times magic isn’t allowed,” muttered Liza.

“What?” snapped Ryan.

Liza bit her lip and refrained from arguing further.  She felt the eyes of the camera elf boring into her and squirmed in her seat.  He was perpetually silent, which Liza always translated as disapproval.  She turned her thoughts back to the snail and wondered if it would have an easier time crossing the road than she would crossing the country with her husband.

The race had seemed like a good idea at the start.  They both needed a vacation from work, and the prize would open up new possibilities for Ryan’s magic.  Requirements for the team were one human sorcerer and one human mundane.  The race was to cross America in a mundane car with strict rules guiding when magic could be used and when it couldn’t.  The camera elf not only filmed the couple, but watched for any rule breaking. 

They had fought so much during the audition that Liza was sure they wouldn’t be accepted.  However, the letter arrived welcoming them to the Bilboian Trek, and Ryan had begun his plans for when he won the prized Arkenstone.  They started with 9 other teams, and had managed to stay in while four others had been eliminated.  Each round had a magical prize to help the winning team on the rest of the race. Ryan steamed with anger every time they missed first place, which was four times.  Now, they drove along with a comfortable lead, heading toward New Orleans.

“There’s the clue!” shouted Liza.  “It’s on the broken ‘Welcome to New Orleans’ sign.”  She began slowing down the car as they approached the sign.

“Don’t slow down!” shouted Ryan.  “Are you stupid or just crazy?”

“What do you mean?  We have to get the clue!”  exclaimed Liza, continuing to slow the car.

“I’ll use telekinesis.  Don’t stop!”

Liza floored the accelerator as Ryan rolled down the window.  She watched in the rearview mirror as he threw some sort of dust out, snapped his fingers and slowly pulled them in while the clue floated to him.

“When did you learn how to do that?”

“I’ve been reading my magic books.  Not your stupid little novels.”

“Well, how was I supposed to know you could do that?”

“You could ask.  Hey, slow down the car, the clue can’t catch up.”

In the rearview mirror, she saw the clue tailing behind the car like it was flying on a kite string.  She slowed down, but the clue seemed to slow down with the car.  She slowed down more, but still the clue didn’t go through the window to Ryan.

“What the Hell?  Stop the car idiot and let me get the clue.”

Liza slammed on the breaks causing Ryan to fly forward and bump the camera elf.  He always refused to wear his seat belt.

“Are you trying to kill me?’

“You said stop the car.”

Ryan jumped out, grabbed the clue, jumped in and Liza floored the accelerator once again.  He ripped open the clue and read, “Elevensies: Nuts or Doughnuts?  Choose to travel to a candy factory and make a batch of pralines to send to a candy store or serve beignet to hungry hobbits until you are tipped with the clue.  Magic is forbidden in both places.”

“Let’s do the pralines,” said Liza.  “With that one, there’s a definite ending point.”

“You are stupid.  Remember?  I’m allergic to peanuts.  We have to serve the hobbits.”

“You don’t eat the nuts.  You mix ‘em in with the chocolate.”

“What if I get the oil on my hands?  We have to do the doughnuts.”

“But we might have to serve a hundred hobbits before we’re tipped with the clue.”

“It’ll probably only be like a dozen.  Here’re the directions.”  Ryan read the directions to the famous beignet café, after which ensued yelling about the way Liza was driving and how they were going to get there last if she kept it up.  Liza gripped the steering wheel tightly.  Beads of sweat broke out on her forehead as his shouting grew in volume.  

Finally she parked the car and said through gritted teeth, “We have to walk the rest of the way.”

“No, we run.  Chris and Alex have probably caught up by now after your spectacular display of ineptness.”

“Why don’t you drive?”

“I don’t drive mundane cars.  I still don’t understand why that’s what we have to use.  The elves made them illegal years ago.”

“You could’ve learned when I did for the show.  I’m sure we’re using them because all the mundane roads are out of use, and they don’t have to worry so much about accidents happening with outsiders on the Trek.”

“This way,” pointed Ryan, running around the corner.  They were dodging through crowds of people, elves and hobbits seeing the sights of the French Quarter in New Orleans.

Liza followed, and soon they arrived at the café.  Fifty years ago the café would’ve been filled with people enjoying the famous beignet, but since the Revival, hobbits had been the main consumer.  They were fast and small, and whenever a human went to sit down, they found themselves on top of a hobbit who would claim he had been there the whole time.  Usually the human would walk away embarrassed, but occasionally one would start a row and find himself gasping for air amidst rings of pipe smoke.

Liza and Ryan were welcomed by a stout, red faced, female hobbit wearing an apron.  “Welcome to our café.  We certainly can use your help today.  Take an apron and start handing out the beignets and coffee.  The ones with the clues have been here the longest and will be here all afternoon.  You might have to serve them a couple of times before they relinquish the clue.”

“What?  That’s absurd,” said Ryan.  “This is a race.  Do you understand what a race is?  We can’t wait around for a silly hobbit to make us serve him over and over.”

“Ryan!  Don’t be rude!” exclaimed Liza.

“I have half a mind to refuse your help,” said the owner.  “You treat my customers that way and I’ll kick you out.  Clue or no clue.”

“He’ll behave,” said Liza pulling him away.  “You can’t treat people that way.  She’ll kick us out and then we’ll have to do the pralines.”

“Stupid hobbits.  They would be much more productive if they did things other than eat.”

“Come on, Ryan.”  Liza put on her apron and loaded a tray with coffee and doughnuts.  She had been a waitress once and smoothly wove her way through tables, handing out doughnuts and collecting money as if she had worked there for years. She didn’t mind not getting the clue right away because she was earning much needed money through tips.  The Trek gave them only a small allowance to get by on each round, and her tips might be enough for a magic taxi when they had to go places the mundane car wasn’t allowed.  She could sense Ryan’s agitation, however, and wished they had been able to do the pralines.  She was sure most of the other teams were at the factory by now, and knew it would be another close run to the finish for this round.

“Just give me the clue!” yelled Ryan.  “I can see it in your pocket!”

“I don’t like the way you’ve been servin’ me.  Bugger off.”

“Why---“

“Let it go Ryan.  Go sit down and I’ll get the clue.”  Red faced, Ryan stormed off and let Liza continue the work.

“If you weren’t so good, I’d make the both of you leave now,” said the owner when Liza went back for more coffee.  “But all your customers have been praising you, so just don’t let that one back in.”

“I’m sorry ma'am,” said Liza.  “He’s a bit out of sorts today.”

“How many times have you made that excuse?”

Flushed, Liza continued serving until one of the female hobbits said, “Here ye go, lassie.  You’ve earned it, and thanks for the service.”

“Thank you, “ said Liza bowing.  She scurried back to the kitchen and thanked the owner before showing Ryan the clue.  

“About time. I thought you’d never get it.  Did you have to talk to every freaking hobbit about the weather?”

Liza tore open the clue and said, “We have to go to the Mardi Gras museum.  It’s the checkpoint.  Let’s go!”

Ryan whipped the map out of his backpack and started shouting directions as they ran through the streets.  As the museum came into view, they saw Chris and Alex stepping off the podium.

“Damn it, Liza!” exclaimed Ryan as he threw his map to the ground.  Liza continued running, fearing other couples were close behind.  She arrived at the podium and had to wait a minute before Ryan arrived and a woman next to the elf Glofindel acknowledged them.  “Welcome to New Orleans,” she said, throwing beads over their heads.

“Thank you,” said Liza.

“Liza and Ryan,” said Glofindel.  “You are team number two.”

“That’s good,” said Liza.  “I was worried we were last.”

“We would’ve been first,” exploded Ryan, “except you had to pass the time with every hobbit in the café!”

“Thank you, Glofindel,” said Liza stepping away from the podium.  He always made her uncomfortable with his penetrating eyes, and Ryan always embarrassed her with his pouty scenes.  They went towards the tent where they had the mandatory interview before their twenty-four hour rest started.  She heard Ryan yelling but didn’t listen to the words.  

After refreshing herself and being made up for the camera, Liza sat next to Ryan for the interview.  Ryan went on about how the race was a real growing experience and he was so glad to be sharing it with his loving wife.  He was frustrated about coming in second again, but he was sure they would be first next time.

Liza said less than usual.  She tried to say how Ryan was really strong and she was inspired by his forceful personality, but it seemed hollow this time. As if their relationship was puffed up like one of the beignets she had served with nothing inside.  She left the tent after the interview without waiting for Ryan.

“Baby!” she heard him calling to her.  “Baby, wait up!  Is something wrong?”

“What do you think is wrong?” asked Liza, feeling a surge of freedom away from the camera.  “You’ve been yelling at me for three days straight.”

“Ah, baby, you know that’s just for the cameras.  They chose us to be the fighting couple. They want us to behave like that.”  Ryan put his hands on her shoulders and pulled her to him.  She wanted to resist, but found herself relinquishing as usual.

“But what does it matter how we act for the camera?  We’re not one of the couples trying to land a screen roll.  We just want the Arkenstone.”  He gently pushed her head on his shoulder and she felt the tension of tears brimming on her eyelids.

“But I want people to remember me.  I want them to recognize my name because I’m going to be the most powerful human sorcerer around.”

You want them to remember you as a jerk?  she thought to herself, but, instead, said aloud, “I need to go for a walk.  I’m not ready to sleep yet.”

“I’ll come with you.”

“No, I want to go alone.  Go back to the hotel.”  She felt his eyes watching her and knew he wouldn’t follow.  Sleep time was too valuable to him.

She wandered aimlessly through the French Quarter seeing snatches of life but mainly thinking about her own.  Ryan always had an excuse for yelling at her from a bad day at work to acting for the camera.  He pushed her to the verge of break down and then was the most romantic husband ever for a few days after.  When they were first married, it had been all romance.  Then, over time, she found herself excusing his shouting by saying things like, “What other husband has hot paraffin and massage oil waiting for his wife when she gets home from work?” 

The words, “Original _Silmarillions_” caught her eye as she walked by an antique bookstore.  She had been told that when the elves first took over, original _Silmarillions_ would sometimes go for $1000 a piece.  It had turned out that most of _The Lord of the Rings_ was true, and those that knew their elven histories were ahead of the rest of society when it came to dealing with the elves.  The elves had actually apologized for the _Silmarillion_ saying that after teaching Tolkien how to write _The Lord of the Rings_, his elven tutor had thought he could handle the other stuff on his own.  She didn’t realize he would revert to his dry professor ways. They rewrote the Silmarillion, which became a best seller as all elvish books did, and the old _Silmarillion_ didn’t hold its value.

Much like me, thought Liza.  What value do I have anymore?

After several hours of wandering and eating, she made her way back to the hotel room and found Ryan asleep.  Choosing the empty bed, she flopped down and stared blankly at the floor until sleep overtook her hours later.

“Guess what?” asked Ryan, shaking Liza to alertness.  “Terry and Donna were eliminated!  One less team we have to worry about!”

“Oh, that’s too bad.  I liked them.”

“There’s no room for sentiment.  This is a race.  We need to gather our stuff, eat and get going.  You’ve been sleeping for hours.”

Feeling like she had only slept one hour, she dragged her body off the bed to take a shower.  After gathering new equipment and eating, they left for the next round of the race.  Ryan ripped open the clue and read, “’Travel to Amarillo for your next clue.’  Amarillo?  That’s a long ways from here.  What’s the deal?”

“That’s the deal,” said Liza pointing to the money.  “They only gave us $100.  At the price the elves are charging us for gas, there’s no way we can make it to Amarillo.  The challenge is to get more money.”

“But that’s ridiculous!  They barely gave us enough money for the last round!  What are we supposed to do?  Beg on the streets like the poor kids?”

Liza fished into her pocket and pulled out her tip earnings.  “Where did you get that?” asked Ryan, amazed.

“Tips,” said Liza simply.

“You’re beautiful!” exclaimed Ryan.  He planted a kiss on her forehead and they started their mad dash to the car.

At least, thought Liza with the camera rolling behind her, I should get a reprieve from yelling for awhile.

It was tight, but the tip money got them to Amarillo.  Liza was exhausted from driving, but Ryan was fresh from sleeping in the back most of the time.  His telekinesis spell was successful this time, and the clue came flying into the car from the Welcome sign.  “Serve it with a Smile,” he read after opening the clue.  “The orcs are tired of frying burgers and fries.  They want to become managers at Elronalds.  One of you must train an orc to smile at three customers as he serves them their meal.  Magic may be used.”

“Great,” said Liza.  “This should be easy for you.  You do an excellent charm spell.”  She looked in the rearview mirror and saw Ryan’s race looking like a glob of dough.

“I-I can’t do this one,” stuttered Ryan.

“What?” yelled Liza.  “This is your time.  You’re always saying your magic is going to win the race!”

Ryan suddenly sat up straight and said, “If I do a charm spell, I’ll lose valuable components for other spells which might cost us the game.  You’ll have to train him.”

“Me?  But I’m exhausted.  If you’re not going to use your magic, fine, but this one has to be your challenge.  Your fresh and I’m dead.  I’ll be double dead if I try to talk to an orc!”

“I’m sure it’s completely safe.  Look how you handled the hobbits.  They loved you!  The orc will love you too.”

“I’m not doing it,” said Liza.  “It’s your turn.  I had to serve the hobbits by myself because you made them mad.  You get to do the orc.”

“Well look whose not being a team player.  I’m carrying this team alone while your wandering around and then sleeping way late so we barely start on time today.  Now you’re refusing to do a task that is clearly better suited for you. You’re just going to have to do it because I’m tired of carrying this team by myself.  Show a little spunk and quit being such a loser.”

Liza saw out of the corner of her eye the camera turning towards her.  She felt blood trickling down her chin from biting her lip so hard.  Silently she drove to Elronalds, parked the car and wiped the blood off her chin so she wouldn’t give the orc any ideas.  All fast food chains, except for one, had been shut down by the elves. When they found out that the orcs actually preferred the taste of burgers and fries to human flesh, the orcs had all been put to work in the Elronalds as cooks.

Ignoring Ryan’s calls of “You can do this, baby.  It’ll be easy,” she walked through the entrance.

“Where’ve you been?  We thought the first contestants would be here hours ago,” said a tall woman.  “Feermor is getting anxious and causing trouble in the back.  It’s not good to make orcs wait.”

“It was a long drive,” said Liza.  She followed the woman back amidst roars of impatience.  Humans shot out of their chairs and out the doors, fearing the orc might come out to the dining room.  As she walked into the kitchen, she saw a fat, black orc with hollow yellow eyes standing in mustard and pickles. (2)

“You train?” he asked.

“Yes,” said Liza.

“Finally!  Start now!”

“Uh, let’s wash up first.”

“No! Serve first!’

“Well, customers prefer their mustard on the burger and not on the server.”  Liza’s voice was thin and quivery. 

“I prefer the mustard in me.”

She stared blankly at him for a minute and then suggested, “Why don’t you just lick it off your arm then?”

“Umm, yeah.”  The orc turned his yellow eyes to his arm and licked it clean.

“You missed a spot on your apron,” said Liza, trying to by more time.

“Huh?” he bent his head down and cleaned off his apron.  “Serve now.”

“Okay,” said Liza more confidently.  “How’s your smile?”

“What?” growled the orc.

“Your smile,” said Liza.  “Like this.”  She grinned tightly but the orc just stared.

“I don’t smile.”

“Um, but you have to when you serve.”

“I don’t smile.”

“But if you want to be a manager, you have to smile.”

“I don’t smile!” roared the orc.

Liza felt her hands shaking.  Ryan would already be done with this task by now, and she didn’t even know where to begin.  She thought about stories she had read in the paper about orcs taunting hobbits whenever they could.  “Um, how do you feel when you find a hobbit without anyone else around and you pick him up and shake him until all his pipe weed and snacks fall to the ground?”

“That feel good!” said the orc, baring his teeth and narrowing his eyes to a slit.

“That’s it!  That’s the look,” exclaimed Liza.  “Think about shaking a hobbit when you ask ‘May I help you?’ And again when you say ‘Have a nice day.’”

“Hobbits funny fellows,” said the orc going out to the cash register.  At least I didn’t have to train him to read, thought Liza.  

It took six customers before he served three with a smile.  He ended up roaring at the three others when they couldn’t make up their minds.  With relief, Liza took the next clue and headed for the car.

“See baby, you did it no problem,” said Ryan.

Ignoring Ryan, she got into the car and ripped open the clue.  She read it to herself and then started the car.

“Where are we going?  What’s the clue?”

“We’re going to Clovis.”  She pulled out of the parking lot without giving Ryan the rest of the clue.  Eventually he grabbed it and read it to himself.  He started making up excuses about not being able to do the next task, but Liza just ignored him.  As she drove, her eyes began to droop.  They were going to fall behind because she couldn’t drive anymore and Ryan didn’t know how.  She rolled down the window and danced in her seat, but her eyes kept getting narrower and narrower.  Finally she pulled over.

“What the Hell, Liza?” yelled Ryan.

“I can’t drive anymore.  If you want to, be my guest, but I have to rest.”

“The other teams will catch up.”

“I’d rather that than be dead on the side of the road.  I’m sure our camera elf agrees.”

“You can’t do this to me, Liza!”

Liza looked out the window, ignoring his rant.  The sun was setting, and the heat was shimmering with an orange glow, causing the desert to look like a sea.  A tree with white leaves caught her eye (3), and she stepped out of the car.  She could hear Ryan yelling in the background, but kept walking toward the tree.  A door opened and closed, but still she kept heading for the tree.  She stood under it, basking in the beauty of the blossoms.  It was mid-summer, and she’d never seen a tree blossoming in the summer.  “This is beautiful,” she said.

“We are rebuilding Lothlorien.”  Liza whipped around and saw the camera elf standing with the camera held down at his side.

Startled because he had not said a word since the trip began, she stuttered out, “In the middle of a desert?”

“The climates are changing.  Partly because of what humans have done, but partly through the natural way of the world.  Why do you stay with him?”

“Well, he can be funny and romantic,” said Liza automatically defensive.

“I didn’t ask why you joined him, I asked why you stay with him.”

Liza stared at the tree.  She imagined the blossoms falling to the ground like snow, but the tree remaining unchanged.  “I guess change frightens me.  It’s easier to stay with him than to think about finding someone new.”

“Must there be someone?  This tree is alone now.  One day it will have many neighbors, but for now it is growing strong by itself.”

Liza had never imagined her life alone.  As a child she had had her family and as an adult she had Ryan, straight out of high school.

“You don’t need Ryan or anyone else to identify yourself.  The orc liked you.  The hobbits liked you.  They didn’t like you and Ryan.  They liked you.”

Liza turned from the tree to the camera elf.  He had never even given them his name. But then, she realized, they had never asked.

“A question for the audience,” he said before she could ask.  He lifted up the camera and said, “Why are you on the race?”

“To win the Arkenstone.”

“That’s why Ryan is here.  Why are you here?”

“I-I don’t know.”  She turned toward the car and climbed back in, suddenly no longer tired.

“Finally,” said Ryan.  “Let’s get going.”

Numbly, Liza started the car, wondering why she was in the race, wondering why she did anything.  It was all for Ryan, she realized.  She had a job so Ryan could have a big house.  She had no kids so that Ryan could have peace.  She was on this race so that Ryan could become a better sorcerer.  When was she going to do something for herself?

The car spun through the miles faster as Liza spun through her life.  She heard Ryan saying something about contestants passing them, but she didn’t see them.  Clovis approached, and she saw Shelly and Dillon stopped before her, trying to figure out which way to go.  She slammed on the brakes but Ryan said, “Keep going, idiot.  I’m going to fly the car over them.”

“No, Ryan.  We’ll be disqualified.  You can’t use magic on the car.”

“You can’t use magic on the mechanics of the car if it breaks down. It doesn’t say anything about enchanting it.”

“Yes it does.  You can’t do this!”

“We’ll buy off the elves.  I’m not going to be second again.  I’m going to be first for once.”

“But this isn’t even---“ her words ceased as the car began to float over the other contestants cars.  Ryan yelled at her to keep steering because she still had control of the direction.  Too late, she went to turn as the car hit electrical wires.  She heard a pop and saw the camera elf cast a spell at Ryan and then the car swung gently down, hanging from the wires. (4)  Ryan rolled back into the rear window since he didn’t have his seat belt on.  The camera elf floated out and opened the door for Liza and floated her to the ground.  Ryan was screaming and beating on the window for someone to let him out.

“What are you going to do now?” asked the camera elf.

“Are we disqualified?”

The camera elf nodded.
“I liked serving doughnuts.  Maybe I’ll go back there.”

“Alone?”

Liza looked up at her husband and nodded.

“Glofindel will find that satisfactory.  Good luck.”

“Thanks,” said Liza, smiling.  Walking away, she felt a surge of independence.  She wondered if the snail had made it across the road as she finally had.  She had certainly been flipped upside down, but it was Ryan who was left spinning in his shell.  Maybe someday he would make it to the other side, too.


(1) Why did the snail cross the road
(2) You want a hotdog with that?
(3) New U2 album
(4) Hangin around


----------



## Eeralai (Feb 4, 2005)

Well, that was the swift kick in the butt I needed to get me writing again.  Thanks for the opportunity!  It was fun!


----------



## Maldur (Feb 4, 2005)

Who says your done yet 

Judgement first


----------



## BigTom (Feb 4, 2005)

*Big Toms Entry!*

Finals Week

	"Elsorae Magnae Tannas Elvor Massus Mazai!"

	Trent had just enough time to see the look of horror cross Jack’s face before the magic took effect.  That was not the expression Trent expected or wanted.  Trent had been working hard on his transformation spells.  Finals were just three days away and he had to get a good transformation grade if he wanted to be a senior next year.  That was why he had turned to Jack.  Jack was the top transformation mage in this year’s senior class.  Jack was also broke and willing to tutor for reasonable rates.  They had spent several hours working on a simple transformation.  The goal had been to give the target wings.  A simple spell that would get Trent past his requirements.  Yet something had gone wrong.  As he watched, Jack began to melt.  His entire body seemed to turn into a thick liquid and melt down before his eyes.  Jack tried to say something, but his mouth was too far-gone to form understandable words.  Then things began to happen rapidly.  The thick liquid began to steam.  Trent knew what this meant.  Jack was shrinking.  The water steaming off was extra essence dispersing.  Trent desperately wanted to stop it, but things were happening too fast and he was too confused.  Finally, the steam cleared, leaving a liquid residue on the ground.  Trent looked in horror at the result of his mage craft.

Jack was now a very large and lively snail.

	Several thoughts raced through Trent’s mind.  The first was that he was definitely going to fail transformation.  The second was that Jack was going to exact a very high price for this screw up.  The third was that he had to turn Jack back to Jack without any of the teachers finding out.  If the teachers knew he had muffed a transformation spell this badly they probably wouldn’t even let him take the tests out of fear for their own safety.  This was the thought that stuck.  First, Trent tried to reason through the spell.  If he could find the error, he might be able to reverse it.  Unfortunately, he really had no idea of what he had done wrong.  He chuckled slightly at the irony that the one person who could have easily told him no longer had a mouth because of him.  Finally Trent conceded to himself that he would need help.  He had a few other friends in the senior class who might be able to bail him out.  He just hoped he could get to them quickly.  Scooping up Jack, he headed back to the dorms.

	His first stop was Bertol’s room.  Bertol was both a clever mage and a nice guy.  Trent figured Bertol might be willing to help him out for friendships sake.  If not, he hoped he still had a few bucks left for bribery.  His frenzied knock brought Bertol to the door.
	“Trent, you look terrible.  What’s wrong?”
	“Bert, I just had a little screw up with a spell, I am hoping you can help me reverse it.”
	“Sure thing, what kind of spell?”
	“Transformation.”
	“Well Trent, I can’t imagine any of your transformations would be too tough to reverse.”
	Trent winced at the jab.  Normally he would have taken such a joke in stride.  But today he was a bit frazzled.
	“Bert, please, this is really serious.  Look!”
	Trent held out the snail for Bertol to look at.  Bertol studied it carefully for a few seconds, trying to sense out the magic.
	“Wow, nice spell craft.  I can’t read anything on that.  What was that snail originally?”
	“Jack!”
	Bertol’s face dropped at that.  He’d assumed that Trent had grabbed a lab animal and couldn’t fix it.  He had thought that human transformation would be well beyond Trent’s abilities.  The realization of how serious the situation was and how much trouble his young friend was in hit him hard.
	“Trent, you have to take him to professor Higgins right now.  One more screw up in this situation and Jack could be beyond recovery.”
	“Bert, I know that.  But if they find out I did a human transformation like this and screwed it up they will flunk me for sure!  My mom sacrificed for 15 years to send me here.  I can’t get thrown out.  Please, you have to help me turn him back before anyone notices!”

	Trent wasn’t exaggerating.  His father had left when he was a baby, and his mother had worked two jobs to make ends meet.  When he had been ruled gifted at nine years old, his mother had sworn that she would get him into The Oxley School, where he could get a mages pedigree that would guarantee his future.  She had done it by working 16 hours a day, 6 days a week and praying for him every Sunday morning.  Now all of her work and sacrifice was about to come crashing down unless he could somehow save Jack himself.  Trent couldn’t face his mom if he failed.  He couldn’t reverse his spell.  Now it was becoming clear he couldn’t get Bertol to save him either.  He did the only thing he could.  Trent began to cry.

	“Oh, Trent, I’m really sorry man.  I want to help you, but I just don’t see how.  I can’t tell what you did, man.  The spell is just really knotted together well.  I can’t read it.  You can’t tell me what you did.  But there may be one way out for you.  We both know there is one guy around here who specializes in screwball magic.  Maybe he can sort it out for you.”

	Trent immediately knew whom Bertol was talking about.  Mackenzie.  Mackenzie was something of a legend at the school.  He had arrived here on a full scholarship because his mana ratings were the highest ever registered in a child his age.  A lot of folks speculated that the increased amount of mana had also warped his mind.  Certainly Mackenzie was a strange sort.  Mackenzie was perhaps the most random person Trent had ever encountered.  The man seemed to have no impulse control whatsoever.  Add to that the fact he had both the magic and skill to make things happen, and you had a walking field of surrealism on campus.  But, Trent had to concede that if there was anyone who could undo a screwball spell, it was Mackenzie.  The real trick was convincing him he wanted to do it.  Mackenzie neither asked for nor gave favors.  If you wanted something from him, you had to find a way to make him want to do it.  Otherwise, you were on your own.

	Mackenzie had his own senior cabin.  More correctly, he had a small laboratory he lived in and no one on the faculty was willing to move him out.  Trent approached the door with a deep sense of dread.  He almost turned and went to the professors.  Almost.  Then deep in his head, he heard the disappointed voice of his mother.  Mackenzie was scary, but a devastated mother was terrifying.  He opened the door and went in.

	Trent expected to see many things when he went into Mackenzie’s room.  He never expected the sight before him.  Mackenzie was wearing some sort of strange Ape costume.  It appeared he had just spread his lunch all over the floor.  Several freshmen cowered against the walls, trying to stay out of his way.  Mackenzie seemed to be in the middle of a long stream of extremely imaginative epithets when he noticed Trent.  Trent was afraid Mackenzie’s rage would be turned on him.  Yet Mackenzie suddenly got very calm.  He quietly stared at Trent through his monkey mask for a few moments, and then spoke quietly and seriously.

	“Trent, I need for you to answer a question for me.  Do I look like a real gorilla?”

	Trent stammered for a few seconds, suddenly at a loss for words.  It wasn’t that he didn’t know the actual answer.  Mackenzie looked like a geek in a rental costume.  However, Trent was not sure what would happen if he actually gave that answer.  If Mackenzie thought he was supposed to look like a real gorilla and Trent naysayed him, Mackenzie might be sore at him for weeks.  Trent didn’t have weeks.  Luckily for Trent, his stammering seemed to be an adequate response as Mackenzie spoke again.

	“Of course I don’t.  This is obviously a costume, and not a very good one.  The problem is, that shouldn’t be obvious.  I put one bad mama jama of an illusion on this thing, and it just fizzled out the minute it was challenged.  See, you can’t eat through this mask because the mouth is closed.  I postulate that if you make a strong enough illusion, however, you can actually defy reality.  My test of this was to try to make this outlandish costume so real; I would fool myself and eat my sandwich.  As you can see, that didn’t work.  It’s too bad, because that was a really good sandwich and I am really hungry.  I don’t suppose you have any food on you?”

	Trent saw an opening and decided to try and get on Mackenzie’s good side with sympathy.

	“Sorry man, I didn’t bring a lunch today.  I planned on hitting the cafeteria.  It’s Meatloaf day.  It really sucks about your sandwich.  Too bad there isn’t some magic to put it back together.”

	Mackenzie stared at him for a few moments, and then slapped his forehead with a big, furry paw.  He laughed slightly and tapped his forehead a few more times before speaking.

	“Trent, that’s why I like you.  You may be a pathetic mage, but you have a real knack for pointing out the obvious.  And that’s just what I needed right now.  Stand back and watch some real magic at work!”

	At this, two freshmen bolted for the door.  Trent wanted to follow them, but he knew he was getting a positive response from Mackenzie and that meant he still had a chance to save Jack and his high school career, so he gritted his teeth and remained.  Mackenzie began weaving some sort of spell.  Trent could not tell what Mackenzie was doing.  It literally sounded like he was casting in another language.  Magic had its own language, and even if you couldn’t handle the particulars, you could usually get the general idea of what another mage was doing if you could hear the spell.  Trent could not understand a single syllable of this magic.  He could, however, sense the immense power that Mackenzie was building up.  Suddenly the entire room seemed to bend and twist, and Trent had a sick feeling in his stomach.  It felt like he had ridden a roller coaster 10 times in two seconds.  He closed his eyes to try and fight the disorientation.  When he felt that the magic was subsiding, he opened his eyes.  The sight he beheld was truly awesome.

	Mackenzie was now a real Gorilla.  More, he was some sort of infernal gorilla with flaming eyes.  Trent was frozen with fear at the sight of this awesome beast.  The gorilla looked at him and smiled.  Then it raised a huge sandwich in one great paw and bellowed.  It thrust the sandwich towards its mouth with a great sweep of its arm.  In the next instant, Mackenzie was a man in a bad ape suit and there was a sandwich tossed all over the floor.

	“Gee, Mac, I guess that spell didn’t quite do what you expected it to do.  I mean, it didn’t really fix your sandwich.”
	“Nonsense, Trent.  The spell fixed my sandwich perfectly well.  I just got lost in my own illusion and made the same mistake.  I just turned back time on that action to before when I tossed the sandwich.  I forgot that doing so would also turn back the illusion on the suit.”
	“Oh, I see,” said Trent, “instead of repairing the sandwich, you altered time so that the sandwich never was destroyed.  That is really amazing.”
	“Actually Trent, it isn’t that hard.  Too hard for you probably, but not that hard.  I have saved more lab equipment that way.”

	And Trent knew the answer to his problem.

	“Look, Mac, I screwed up a spell earlier today.  If you will reverse that spell for me, I will personally get you two meatloaf dinners and deliver them to your room.  That will solve your food problem without dealing with the sandwich and the illusion.”

	Mackenzie seemed to ponder this for some time.  He finally looked at Trent and removed the mask.  He was smiling beneath the mask.  The smile slowly turned into a laugh.

	“What the heck did you do that has you so worried?”

	Trent decided honesty was the best policy at this point.  Slowly, he opened his hands and showed the snail.

	“What’s that?” Mackenzie asked.

	“Jack.  I told you, I screwed up.”

	Mackenzie’s laugh grew stronger and stronger until he dropped to his knees, helpless with mirth. It took him some time to recover enough to speak.

	“Ok, let me guess, you have no idea how you did that, and Jack is the only one you know who could undo it.  So you come to Mackenzie the magnificent hoping for a miracle.  Well, Trent, today is your lucky day.  I have one miracle left, and the asking price is two meatloaf dinners and the best laugh I have had this semester.”

	Mackenzie again chanted, and again Trent felt the magic.  Then everything seemed to reverse.  Black was white, white was black, and the colors were all over.  He had a strange sense of motion and realized he was returning to the point where he cast the transformation.  He floated by the old wizards Oak, and the sight of it in this strange twilight place was had to describe.  It appeared that everything but the Oak existed, and the Oak was a bright light of non-existence, while strange energies crackled all around.  Then, as suddenly as it had started, it ended.  Trent was standing by the road with Jack and heard himself chanting.

	“Elsorae Magnae Tannas Elvor…”

	He realized he only had a second to fix the spell and no idea how to do it.  In desperation, he tried to twist the final word so that the spell would fizzle out.

	“…Massus Mackenzie!”

	Jack stared at him.  Then he shook his head sadly.

	“Trent, that wasn’t even close.”

	Trent knew it wasn’t close and was grateful for it.  He didn’t want to tell Jack that though.  He just wanted to rest from a very harrowing day.

	“Yeah Jack, I know.  Listen, I am just tired.  Let me rest and maybe I can do this on a smaller scale later.”
	Jack and Trent turned to go back to the dorms, and stopped in their tracks.  They stood slack jawed for a few moments.  Finally, Jack found words.

	“Well Trent, your transformations may be sub standard, but apparently you are making great strides in teleportations.”

Hanging from the power cables was the Principals car.  Suddenly expulsion didn’t seem like such a bad fate to Trent.  But he sucked it up as best he could.

	“Jack, we are going to return to the dorm.  And we will never speak of this day again.”


----------



## alsih2o (Feb 4, 2005)

Round 1: Taladas vs. MarauderX

Piratecat-

Taladas’s _Charon Calls_

I thoroughly enjoyed some of the imagery in this story, but a number of
elements didn’t ring true for me.

The writing style of this piece really captured me, as the rhythm and
redundant phrasing give it the feel of a movie or a screenplay. I loved the
quiet humor that weaves through the story.

The style shifts during the piece, though, and that ends up diluting its
impact. This seems to me to be to be a really hard style to pull off, and
Taladas doesn’t quite nail it.  There’s also a distracting lack of
punctuation (especially commas) throughout that really interfered with my
enjoyment.

Note that the second half of the tale has a “point of view” shift from Larry
to Linda that seems out of place, and a change from present to past tense.
Everything else in the story is from Larry’s point of view until Linda tries
to frame him.

Some of the motivations and character actions were erratic or unexplained.
Can Larry only travel between worlds when he’s unconscious? Asleep? In a
sinkhole? What we think is a hallucination turns out to be real, but Larry
doesn’t even stop to consider his captive the next morning. The act of
kidnapping the passenger seems out of character. Linda’s clumsy attempt to
frame Larry seems unnecessary. We never get any idea what makes the
monkey-thing tick, or why it wanted to come into our world, or why it ended
up killing Larry.  I can’t believe that if it got worse, he’d go home and go
to bed while hoping to deal with it in the morning. Even the “Better Off
Dead” newsboy stealing Larry’s $20 seemed odd, yanking me out of the story
without adding anything.

Ultimately I think that this piece could be improved by adding more back
story of Larry’s “second job” – what it entails, what he does, why he does
it – and by seeing more of his “passenger.” You may have to cut back on the
stylistic choices to do this, but I think it would result in a stronger
story.

Photo use varies. The sinkhole launched the fun “dream” sequence, but is
ultimately a random event not tied into the rest of the plot. I liked the
use of the fare and tying him in to the fur hat, but the rest of this scene
was underutilized. . . instead of a fun scene chasing the thing around the
store, we switch to a “time passes.” Finally, I thought the girl with the
stuffed mouth was a throwaway picture, since we never learned why the
creature might act like that to her after she rescued him.

-- o --

MarauderX’s _Jasper_

I would not have guessed that anyone was writing a horror story with these
pictures!

It’s a good one, too. MarauderX makes good use of color, visual imagery and
body language. His conversation flows pretty well, too, although a few
things sound stilted. We’re carried along in the story long enough for the
pace to pick up and for things to get spooky. MarauderX managed to make
little orange disks scary, and I wouldn’t have thought that was possible. He
may have gotten greater visceral impact if he had made them insect egg pods
or something similar, but his description of the disks trying to clamber up
Marca’s skirt and blouse was very effective.

The tale loses momentum in a few places, though. For instance, I noticed the
pace slackening between the initial attack on Marca and her trip to the
airport. Sure, she was creeped out, but there was no continuing threat to
her, and that diluted the tension somewhat.

This story would have been better if it ended with David’s “death” in the
airport. Instead, we go from a nice and relatively taut horror piece to one
with talking monkeys in a top hat. I’ve got it admit, that inclusion seemed
strained to me. I really liked Jasper’s betrayal of Marca at the end, but
his very appearance strained suspension of disbelief. Foreshadowing may have
helped there. I think that if David’s fate was left a little more in doubt,
the second half of the story would have felt less tacked on.

Note that there was some awkward phrasing in the first paragraph, the last
line seemed a little awkward, and there was at least one word misuse
(“conscious” for “conscience.”) I also think the story could use some
trimming of verbiage, especially in the beginning. There’s too many words
for what the story is trying to accomplish.

Photo use was mixed. Excellent use of the stuffed mouth, good use of the
sinkhole, okay use of the fur hat and the monkey.

It’s never fun being first; good job, both of you!  My judgment goes to
[sblock]MarauderX. His horror tale held together better than Taladas’s
humorous account of a store mage. Both stories had interesting ideas behind
them, but MarauderX did a better job of getting his ideas down on paper and
sustaining a mood.[/sblock]

Maldur-

Taladas vs. MarauderX
Sinkholes, gates to different worlds, weird little magical creatures.

My vote for MarauderX

Alsih2o-

 Taladas-This story relies strongly on rhythms. Buzz, buzz, Larry, Larry, Larry. Ring, ring, click, buzz, buzz. 

 The pictures aren’t made to do anything but function as what they are, we see no real stretches. As a contrast to the picture use the story telling style stretches itself. The idea of a Charon, the constant rhythms. 

 I enjoyed the main characters predicament and our view into his world (blah blah). However, I think the repetition and the character were grafted on to the pictures rather than meeting them halfway.

 Very interesting, I would like to see what you would have done with more than 72 hours, and that is a good sign. 

 MarauderX- Picture use is a little stronger for MarauderX, mostly because of how important he has made a few ‘Nilla Wafers.  (except for David running his hand through his hair several times, only to be bald in a later picture, but this is minor)

 MarauderX gives a strong sense of panic at a couple of points on the story and those drew me in. The part about David leaving specific instructions to a bad guy left me confused. Why would this supposed hero guide her directly to her doom?

 Summation- Both of these stories had some serious strengths, but MarauderX took my vote from a more solid sense of where he was going. 

 JUDGEMENT- MarauderX wins 3-0, see you next round.


----------



## Piratecat (Feb 4, 2005)

alsih2o said:
			
		

> The part about David leaving specific instructions to a bad guy left me confused. Why would this supposed hero guide her directly to her doom?




Good point, and something I meant to mention. The plans themselves came out of nowhere, and I couldn't figure out why they led to someone who would kill her.  

Anyways, congratulations!


----------



## Maldur (Feb 4, 2005)

Do we have a story overdue?

Just asking, I lost the ability to read the time ages ago!


----------



## Taladas (Feb 4, 2005)

Congradulations MarauderX. The judging isn't done until the judges post and now they have. 
Good luck on your next story.


----------



## mythago (Feb 4, 2005)

Today or tomorrow for pics is good for me.


----------



## alsih2o (Feb 5, 2005)

Round 1 Carpe David Vs. Mythago

4 pictures, 5000 word limit, 72 hours limit, 20% more (packed by weight, not volume).


----------



## carpedavid (Feb 5, 2005)

You are a mean, mean man.


----------



## Piratecat (Feb 5, 2005)

Clay, I thought you were going to post _hard_ pictures.


----------



## mythago (Feb 5, 2005)

Got 'em.


----------



## BSF (Feb 5, 2005)

Maldur said:
			
		

> Do we have a story overdue?
> 
> Just asking, I lost the ability to read the time ages ago!




Indeed there is a story overdue.  Looks to me like Maddman75 advances due to a story default.  Of course, that is really up to our esteemed judges.

I would still make an appeal on Maddman75's behalf for an official judges opinion to be posted.  That way Maddman75 can review the story and improve for the next round.  For that matter, I still encourage spectators to post in the spectator thread.  I will try to do so this weekend.


----------



## BSF (Feb 5, 2005)

We still need a contestant to go up against Rodrigo Istalindir.  Surely there are some folks out there willing to test sanity and endure the Ceramic DM contest?  Previous contestants?  New contestants?  We welcome any of you if you are willing to commit to having your story posted withn 72 hours of pictures.


----------



## Hellefire (Feb 5, 2005)

*Damned God*

'It's not the end of the world!' Beth told me, a little exasperated.

Hah. Easy for her to say. She didn't have to work on Labor Day weekend. Here it was, TGIF and all that, and I had to scrap my plans to set up the Christmas display at the mall. Christmas display! I don't know they don't just leave it up year-round and save me the trouble. They couldn't even find the mannequins from last year. My day job sucks.

Disgusted with my response to her response to my response to my life, if you follow me, I walked out of the bathroom still brushing my teeth. And suddenly, as if my day could get any worse, it got worse. There was Thor, waiting for me, looking thoughtful [picture 1]. After suppressing a heart attack, I tried to decide if walking away or spitting toothpaste on him would be the best response.

'Whasha wan?' I asked, letting some of the toothpaste fly out of my mouth as I talked.

Thor refused to rise to the bait. 'Finish with your teeth and we'll talk, and bring Beth.' he instructed calmly. 

Beth had apparently heard us. As I was retreating into the bathroom she came out and gave Thor a breath-taking smile. How could she flirt with a guy looking like that, even if he really was a god? 'Hey hammer-man! Didn't expect to see you so soon!' she exclaimed with a wink. Bah. I rinsed my mouth out and was back in about half a second.

'So, what DO you want, oh fearless leader?' I asked, casually sitting between Thor and Beth on the bed.

Thor continued to look thoughtful. 'We're coming to visit Earth. All of us. It's Odin and Frigga's 25th millennium anniversary, so they're having a party. Heimdall will still be at the Bridge, but everyone else will be loose in your world. I assume Lokii is planning something. It would be a good idea to keep track of everyone, not just Lokii. Don't worry about me, though. I'll contact you if I need you.'

'Um, I hate to say this big guy...' I began. I wondered how to finish that thought. I could tell a god that I had work to do. Work that was more important than his father's 25,000-year anniversary. Or not. 'But we'd be happy to!' I finished lamely. Bah. My weekend job sucks too.

I guess you might wonder how I got a weekend job for a god. It apparently comes down from my great-great-great-uncle Franz or something like that. Sometime a long, long time ago, Thor appeared to some mortals and organized them to help him watch Lokii. They pledged an oath that they AND their descendents would help Thor. So really I had no choice. I wonder if the U.S. Supreme Court could overturn that decision?

We call ourselves the Lok-ators. There are four of us: Mary, Beth, Tori and myself. Our duty is to watch the movements of Lokii. You might know him as Loki, but he thought it would look more chic with an extra 'i'. I do not understand gods.

Thor has always been our contact man. He let's us know when Lokii takes a trip to Earth. We normally get a call around the holidays, and occasionally during the summer. Of course, Thor doesn't actually call. He just shows up in his avatar costume. It's pretty creepy really, walking into your bedroom after a shower and there's an old, naked guy with fake angel wings sitting on your bed. In case I didn't mention it, I do not understand gods.

My day job is much easier to explain. A bachelors in marketing, a couple interviews and voila, terrible weekends.

I guess I wasn't the only one. 'Why not Heimdall? I mean to humans the Bridge just looks like a normal way over a creek. We can't pass through anyway. So why does he get stuck missing the party for work duty?'

'Because he has to open the Bridge for us to pass through to get back. If any of us dies in human form, our spirit has to return to Asgard before we can come back. And if he's not there, we can't return to Asgard. And that would be. Bad.' 

Wow. Someone has a job even crappier than mine. Poor god.

As it turns, there are a lot of things humans don't register. For example, Fenris likes to steal single socks out of dryers. It's a little twisted.

'What do you mean by "bad"? On a one to 10 scale?' I asked.

'Hm. One to 10 scale? About a billion,' he replied. What the helle did that mean? I asked.

'Besides a few neutral planes of existence,' he begin, 'which do not cause problems with anyone’s physiology, there is a stress caused by being in a different plane. The limit is about a week. Even us being here releases some energy caused by that, celestial friction we'll call it. You think global warming is really due to gasses?' Actually I had, but nodded to show I understood and for him to continue. 'Well, if that time is exceeded, the celestial friction goes supernova. But worse. It depends on the power of the being involved, and how much of him is native to that plane. The same thing happens when a god's true form dies on another plane, or when a bastard offspring dies in either plane. A normal mortal would just die. A mortal with even a percent of a percent of gods blood in him would at least spontaneously combust. More than that and it gets, explosive.'

I pondered a moment, then decided what the helle, I had started the questions, I may as well finish them. 'I need a Thor dictionary. Could you give me your definition of "explosive" please?'

'I'll give you a couple of examples. Remember Chernobyl? They had shut down the nuclear plant 3 years earlier, but because they were Russian and didn't want to look weak they didn't tell anybody. A man who was about 10 generations removed from a demigod ancestor died there. Being about 99.9% human he only caused a little boom. The dinosaurs? A demigod's grandson from another plane decided it would be good sport to hunt them, and lost. So did they. That quarter-god was the most powerful that has ever died in this plane, except for Nazzen. He was a pantheon unto himself. His death created your universe. Any more questions?'

'Just one. Who is coming here tonight?'

'About a dozen greater gods, about a dozen lesser gods and a couple score demigods. Plus dates.' For the first time in my life, I had no words.

'We come down at midnight tonight, be ready!’ warned Thor. 'I am going to go back to Asgard to prepare. This will be Hel's first trip out, and I have to warn her about the size and time change.' In Asgard, the gods are about 20 times the size of your average human, and I guess the transformation is a little disorienting. Also, apparently, they are on Australia time and suffer from jet lag. Poor gods.

Thor smiled at Beth and walked out the front door. I always expect him to fly with those fake wings. Apparently they lose most of their powers in human form. But I was still too pissed about the morning and that parting smile to care.

I decided to go to work. After gods got done playing human for the weekend I still needed a paycheck. I threw on some clothes and left before I got in a fight with Beth. Why add to my irritation?

Work was actually the highlight of my day. Everything went smoothly. Except they still couldn't find those mannequins and I didn't know where to rush-order any. Well, maybe we could hire some mimes. I could get Beth a job as one. Then she couldn't talk.

Beth had cooked me steak dinner, with red wine and all the side dishes I could possibly eat. I suppose I felt like an ass. But, her being nice made me mad at myself which made me mad and then I got mad at her for making me mad. If you follow me. I decided to stop stressing and get drunk instead.

I was just about to pass out when my hand-held rang. It's how we Lok-ators keep in touch. Thor has helped down through the centuries with various MAGEC devices. That's both MAGnetic/ElectroniC, and actual magic. I guess in the old days they used crystal balls or something, then radios and televisions. These days, we have these spiffy little hand-held computers that use satellite imaging to pick out avatars. We get an image of the avatar with a ghost-like overlay image of the god, as well as some surrounding area and a kind of GPS locator. OK, so I don't exactly understand it, but at least it's a neat toy. We can even do video calls. Oops. Forgot about work tonight. I splashed some cold water on my face and tried to look awake and sober. 

'Hello, jhish *cough* this is me, is jhi *cough* this you?' I thought it was terrifically funny and was trying not to giggle.

'Um, this is Tori. They're supposed to be here in about half an hour. Are you...feeling ok?'

'Shoor thang Tori, I feels grand. Bad day at work's'all. Ya know how that goes.'

'Hey Tori, this is Beth. We're just getting ready. Mary, are you on?' Silence. Guess Mary was busy washing her mop, er, hair. I let a little giggle out.

Beth glared at me and said, 'OK, call again in 20 minutes. Beth out.'

'Tori out.'

'Meesh ooot.'

The rest of the night went downhill.

First I was drunk. Then I was subjected to a cold 15-minute shower. I tried to explain the Beth that a shower doesn't make you sober, just drunk and awake. She said we should find out. Blue is not my color.

Midnight arrived and still no word from Mary. I was a bit anxious about that; none of us ever missed a work assignment, and this was a special one. I didn't even know her regular phone number so there wasn't much I could do. Maybe she just had a hot date. Or something.

The gods started popping down. Lokii and Thor both came down as ordinary looking men with cowboy hats in Texas. Frey and Freya came down as professional wrestlers in California. Skadi came down as a dogsled musher in Alaska. Hel was some kind of Goth girl in Michigan. Odin and Frigga came down as Bill Gates and his wife. Etc, etc. Nobody really did anything, boring bastards.

At about 5a.m. I'd had enough. 'Wake me if you need me,' I told Beth as I crawled into bed. She grunted which meant she heard but didn't really want to talk to me. I suppose I should act unhappy about that, but my acting sucks.

Beth shook me awake about 2 eye-blinks later, though according to the clock it was about 3 hours. THUD, THUD, THUD. What the helle was that?? Oh. My head. With all the excitement I forgot any hangover precautions, and wine hangovers are my personal devil. 'Wataa,' I drawled, still mostly asleep. 

Beth sounded concerned. 'Still no word from Mary. Tori is afraid Lokii found out about her or something.' Hm, if a god can find her, he could find... I was suddenly awake.
'What are the gods doing? Where's Lokii?' I inquired, a little nervously.

'They are all still asleep actually. Weird that gods have to sleep, huh? Though Lokii and Thor are awake. They are both in cowboy hats. Both in pickup trucks driving in roughly the same place. And both look happy.' Lokii looking happy was not the best of news.

'Tori?' I asked into my hand-held.

'Yeah?'

'You should get some sleep. I'm up for the morning shift.'

'Maybe later. Honestly, I'm worried about Mary. I don't know exactly what to do about it.'

'OK. Well I'm here if you need me. You see what's going on with Thor and Lokii?'

'Yeah. It looks like they are pulling into an arena of some sort. Lokii is right behind Thor. I wonder why Thor told Lokii who he was going to be? I really don't get gods sometimes.' I almost laughed.

'Well, call if you need me. Or if anyone else wakes up. I'm going to make some popcorn and watch the halftime show. Out.'

'Tori out.'

What the helle was Lokii doing following Thor? He could kill him I suppose. But Thor would be back within an hour and know who did it. It would just piss him off. There must be some other angle; I just couldn't figure it out.

Beth and I sat and watched. Thor parked by a large outdoor arena and walked over to a group of men, all wearing cowboy hats and spitting tobacco. It's too bad we only get audio on calls; we could find out a lot more. Lokii parked on the other side of the arena and went in a small wooden house where a few other men were sitting. We were still both baffled by what was going on until a crowd started showing up and events started. It was a rodeo. Thor was a competitor. Lokii followed the other men from the building up into the stands, to an area marked “Judges Only.” I started laughing.

Beth told me it wasn't nearly as funny as I seemed to think it was. She thought it was a rather cruel joke to play on Thor, who was brave and honest and blah-blah-blah. I thought it served him right for competing in mortal's sports. And for flirting with my woman. I wished I could meet Sif and talk to her about that.

So we watched until Thor's turn came. He was competing in the Bucking Bronco contest. I was almost eager to see how Lokii was going to disgrace him in front of humans. I could imagine, a score of one out of 10 or however they scored these things. I grinned. Thor climbed onto the horse and got ready. The crowd waited with anticipation, and so did I. It wasn't until the horse jumped straight out of the shoot that I realized something was wrong.

Beth gasped. 'Does it look to you like that horse has eight legs??'

I looked harder. 'Look again, it's an overlay. That's Odin's horse, Sleipnir! I thought only Odin could ride him?' 

Apparently Sleipnir thought so too. After a few minutes of confusion when he was trying to fly, Sleipnir decided to do the next best thing. He jumped straight up in the air, flipped backwards, and landed directly on top of Thor [picture 3]. The crowd "ahhhed" then hushed. People started shouting and running into the arena from all sides. Sleipnir got up and kept trying to fly. Men and medics surrounded the man that Thor had possessed, checking for any signs of life. Beth and I already knew. We had seen Thor's overlay jump out of the man a split second after he landed, and it didn't look voluntary.

After sitting in stunned silence for a moment, Beth started to cry. 'I can't believe it.'

I wasn't upset with the event; I was upset with Beth's reaction to it. 'Believe what? Some guy died 'cause the gods were playing humans playing gods. Thor will be back within an hour and somehow find Lokii. Or maybe he'll chalk one up for revenge later. It's not that big of a deal.' I had asked Thor once why he needed us. He said that the lessening of their powers made it impossible for them to locate each other with any other means besides pre-arrangement, and Lokii wasn't really big on sharing his plans with anybody. So I'm not sure how Thor would find Lokii, but he was a god, for god's sake!

'Thor's not a vengeful kind of a god,' insisted Beth, 'he doesn't wait for later to address issues. He's thoughtful and decent.'

So she was defending him? What was he, a boy scout?

Just then Tori came on. 'Did you see that? That was terrible!'

Good grief! 'Give me a break, I'm going out for breakfast. Be back in an hour.' I walked out.

I was sitting at the counter in Denny's and munching my pancakes when someone turned the T.V. up to full volume. Dan Rathers looked serious.

'We have live coverage of a press conference being held regarding the health of Pope John Paul II. We take you now to Vatican City.'

Several very serious-looking church officials with very large hats were standing in front of a microphone on a small stage. One hesitantly began. 'We are grieved to inform you that Pope John Paul II passed into God's hands this afternoon at about 3p.m. Vatican time. We still have not learned what caused the explosion that demolished most of Vatican City yesterday. That is all. There will be a mass at 6p.m., after which we will be holding another press conference at 8p.m.' He crossed himself or the microphone or the world, I'm not sure which, and walked away from the podium, ignoring the questions pouring from the reporters.

Several people in Denny's started crying. I wasn't sure what to do, so I paid for my meal and went home.

I walked into our apartment, which seemed empty. I did a quick search and found Beth asleep on the bed, fully-dressed and sprawled like an eagle taking flight. I picked up my hand-held and called Tori.

'This is Tori. How's Beth?'

'Passed out. Did you hear about the Pope?'

'The Pope??' Worry was evident in her voice and face. She chose to be Catholic even though she knew about other gods. She had decided one loving god was better than a hundred quarreling ones. She gave us the cross we hung over our bed, though we were decidedly not Catholic. Mary thought there might be something there and had gone to investigate. Come to think of it, she's supposed to be there now. Did they say, "Demolished most of Vatican city"? I suddenly got a panic attack.

'Listen, Tori. Turn on your TV. I'm sure it's been all over the news, but I've been kinda drunk and not-really-here, if you know what I mean. Basically, someone detonated a bomb in Vatican City. Maybe a small nuclear one, they said that most of the city was demolished. Isn't Mary supposed to be there this week investigating the Church?'

Tori looked confused for a minute, as she processed this. Then she collapsed. I spent 15 minutes trying to get her attention before she picked up her hand-held and seemed semi-cognizant.

'Tori! You okay? Tori, we don't know if she was actually in the city, or what.' After a second I added, 'Actually I think she was supposed to be visiting the Pope's summer chalet for the last couple of days,' though I had no such knowledge. I just wanted to not be alone in this.

'What if, what if, what if she's dead? Like really dead?' Tori paused a minute. 'Do you think she'll go to heaven?'

Sigh. Okay, maybe I was terminally alone. 'I'm sure she did. Er, will. Er, would. Wait a second Tori, I need to wake Beth up.'

Beth kicked at me as I tried to wake her gently, so I yelled at her to wake up. 'WHAT!?!' she demanded.

'Vatican City was blown up yesterday. Mary might have been there. Any ideas if she was in the city or around it somewhere?'

Beth's eyes went from smoldering anger to intense thoughtfulness to tearful realization in about five seconds. 'Oh, god. No wonder she didn't call.'

'Talk to Tori a minute, Beth, I need to think.' I handed her her hand-held and went into the bathroom, where I do my most intense thinking anyway.

Thor was killed, but would be back by now, probably hunting Lokii. Someone had nuked Vatican City. Maybe the Muslims? Maybe the Chinese? Maybe Ronald McDonald? Who knows, I try to stay out of politics. But in this case, a friend of mine and a quarter of our elite members might have been killed. Maybe Lokii had found out about us? No, it would be easier to kill us than removing a city from the map. Beth would think so though; she had all kinds of conspiracy theories about Lokii. And about the church, the government, Ronald McDonald, and probably me. But what to do now?

We could try to contact one of the other gods through a phone or getting on a plane. It would be easier if we could just call on our hand-held, but we are under strict orders not to. I asked Thor once why he needed us. He said that the lessening of their powers made it impossible for them to locate each other with any other means besides pre-arrangement. And I guess the other gods were kept in the dark about the hand-helds and us. Some kind of god power play or something. What do I know? But I guess if they don't know about us, we risk pissing off Thor in a major way if we go announce ourselves. So that blows that idea. Unless, of course, we go talk to Thor himself. Duh!

I went back into the bedroom and saw the girls' sobbing had diminished to whimpering. 'We need to talk to Thor,' I announced.

'He's not here,' Beth replied.

Where was Thor, after he had been had, after he had been humiliated and killed? Tomorrow was the ceremony for Odin and Frigga's anniversary; maybe he was getting them matching gold watches?

'Well, he has to be there tomorrow, of course. We should keep a watch out until he comes back and try to get to him as soon as we can. And we should keep an eye on the news and see if anything develops in Italy. Three of us can cover those shifts and take turns sleeping. Beth, you take first sleep shift. I'll keep looking for Thor. Tori, keep watching CNN. And maybe leave your hand-held on Lokii.'

I spent the next 8 hours watching nothing new. Beth eventually got up. I let Tori take the next rest break. Who said chivalry was dead? Finally, at about 2 in the morning, I crawled into bed, exhausted.

When I woke up I felt a little better. I asked Beth how it was going.

'Nothing on Thor. Nothing on Mary. Lokii disappeared. And Tori went to try to talk to Heimdall.'

Huh? How could Lokii just disappear? Why would Tori go try to talk to another god? Just then my hand-held rang. I snatched it off the bed. 'Yes!?!' It was Tori, and she was using video. She looked scared.

'Have Beth pick up too.' Beth did. 'I don't know what this means. But I'm guessing this is, was, Heimdall.' She turned the hand-held and gave us a view of the Bridge, as it appears to humans [picture 2]. Beth and I both gasped. We had never seen Heimdall before, but who else could be at, er on, er in the Bridge? I was wondered what Helle I would find myself in soon when Tori, still out of the picture, screamed and the call was disconnected.

Beth and I looked at each other with horror. It was Lokii. It must be. And he was coming after us.

'Where can we go?' Beth almost screamed. Asgard maybe? Just then, the hand-held rang again. I didn't want to answer it, but I couldn't help it. When I saw his face, I almost fainted from relief. Thor's normal avatar was staring back at me.

'THOR! Oh god, am I glad to see you. You wouldn't believe everything that's been happening. We saw you die, the Vatican got firebombed, Mary is missing,' I began babbling, but here he interrupted me.

'I know. Lokii has a crazy scheme going and I just figured it out. I saved Tori from him, but he might come for you next. I will meet you in four or five hours. Say at your mall. Turn OFF your hand-helds! He can trace them! But keep them with you! See you about three.' He hung up.

Beth and I both switched off our hand-helds as if they might be bombs. Which they were in a figurative sense. 'There's a cinema open near the mall, let's go watch a movie and lose ourselves in the crowd.' It seemed like an inane idea, but it was the best I could come up with.

We ended up watching two movies and grabbing some burgers at Wendy's before we headed to the mall, calmer but still shaking a bit. I unlocked the door and we slipped into the food court. We walked down to my Christmas display. I had forgotten all about it. There was a mannequin from somewhere. Standing in the middle of the display was Thor, smiling but urgent. 'Hurry,' he said 'turn on your hand-helds.' He looked at me. 'You look for Odin, Beth look for Frigga.'

I didn't understand this, but I searched for Odin. There was Bill Gates, smiling in his billionaire-ish way. Suddenly I found I couldn't move. I couldn't even blink. I could lick my lips, but that was about it. I heard a chuckle in front of me.

'So here we are, the Lok-ators, my finest achievement. All but Mary, who has pieces in many places but none here.'

Trying to look around, I found that I could see all around me, but not exactly with my eyes. What I saw was Odin's avatar standing in front of us, smiling. I saw a mannequin beside me that looked like Beth. The other looked like Tori. They were both dressed for Christmas. Then Odin's avatar shimmered, and turned into Lokii. My blood turned to ice.

'I left you your mouth to use, in case you have any questions. First I will give you the Scooby Doo ending. Then you can ask questions if you want. But, the magic is enacted and spent. I have no more power until I recharge. And you have about three minutes until you can't move anything.'

'I am telling you all this for two reasons. One, I want you to suffer. And two, it's in the contract. The Norns wouldn't allow me to destroy your realm without there being some chance of it being saved. They are very dramatic,' he said dryly. 'So first, I want you to know that you have always been dealing with me. As did your father. And his father. And his father. On up to what was my half-son. You see, you are all my progeny. I guess that would make you and dear Beth here incestuous. Not that I have any room to talk.' He grinned knowingly and evilly. I would have choked him then and there if I could.

He walked over and patted Beth's belly. 'It's been fun. Even if you did call me Thor in bed. And this little-over-half-god will make quite a boom himself. More than Mary did.' Then he turned and winked at me.

'So most of the plan was, I kill Heimdall and stuff him in the Bridge behind me to close access to Asgard forever. I kill Thor cause it's fun. I had to use most of my power to remain hidden from you, change you all into dolls, and keep my disguise. All worth the trick though. Now, what can you do to stop this, you wonder? Well, every offspring of a god has some power. Of course, you have to figure out how to use that power. Which is nearly impossible unless you are trained. But, I don't have time for that, so you're on your own. But hey, maybe you can figure out how to reverse the transformation by Friday. Any questions?'

'Won't you die too?'

'Ah, no. I have a deal with a member of another pantheon to get me out of here before then. Anything else?'

'Who?'

'He asked to remain anonymous. And I watch enough T.V. to know not to tell you everything before your universe blips out of existence.'

'Why kill Mary?'

'I needed one of these hand-held devices I designed for you to keep track of the others. I flipped a 4-sided coin. She lost. I never liked spaghetti anyway.'

'Will the stupid extra "i" die with you?'

This got his attention, for a second. He laughed and said 'Probably,' then looked at Mary's hand-held. 'Let's see what Frey's doing for his last week in existence. I'm going to leave your hand-helds so the masses can see how billionaires piss before you all die.'

I had been a little, let's say upset, for the last two or three decades. I didn't know what I could do. I didn't know if I believed him. But I had to try. I looked at us. I looked at him. I concentrated all of my anger, my hate, my hurt at that one being. I let go of all the anger I had inside me in one, last, mental-emotional willed force wave, straight into his heart. He looked shocked for a second before he, too, changed into a mannequin and just smiled. I wonder what the shoppers will think of my display [picture 4] Monday?

I guess all that anger was useful. But I had used it all. Well, maybe not ALL, all. I knew Beth could hear me, at least while I could speak for a few more seconds. And I certainly had to get in the last word.

'You were wrong, slut. It is the end of the world.'


----------



## orchid blossom (Feb 5, 2005)

Round 1 orchid blossom vs. Hellefire


Redeployment


The match scraped across the seat of the bench and flared to life.  Harold put the cigarette to his lips and breathed in, the orange flame flickering across his face as the end of the paper roll lit and smoldered.  He breathed out a puff of white smoke and leaned back on the park bench.  A young couple passed him, the woman waving her hand in front of her face and squinting her eyes at him.  Harold just took another long draw and sighed as he released it.

Retirement suited him.  Traveling all over the world was a tiring way to make a living, especially when you didn't travel alone.  The others would still be out there following their orders.  Cover a war here, a famine there.  The occasional plague.  Of course, Richard was busy wherever they went, but lately his years had been showing too.  It could be morbid work and Harold was pretty certain that Rich would follow his example in a couple more years.

It had been an interesting life, he couldn't deny that.  But this bench was a good thing too.  And he knew exactly where he'd be and what he'd be doing an hour, two hours, two days from now.   Get up in the morning, eat, walk in the park, watch some TV, go to the store.  Smoke plenty of cigarettes.  Not very exciting, but he liked it that way.

.........................................

Richard pulled up on the reins and looked at his two companions.  "Anyone see him?"

Earl's sunken eyes scanned the wide meadow and the trees beyond.  "Naw, and I lost the trail."  He rubbed his chin with an emaciated hand.  "Was I this bad?"

The third man nudged his horse forward.  "I know I wasn't," he said in a drawling accent.  

Rich nodded.  "You were fine once we convinced you that it was a good idea to keep the weapons hidden.  I swear Colin, you got...."  He stopped as a pressure formed at the back of his mind.  "Damn it."

"Got a bead on him?" Colin asked.

"Yeah, he's fading fast.  That way."

They nudged their horses into a trot and passed quickly through the meadow and into the trees.  "That barn there," Rich pointed to a ramshackle structure across the clearing they entered a few minutes later.  "He's dim."

"In more ways than one," Colin said dryly as they crossed the intervening space.

Rich sighed.  "No need to hurry now.  He's still in there, what's left of him anyway."

"Got yourself some work to do," Earl said in his parched voice that always made Rich want to offer the man a glass of water.

The three reached the barn and tied their horses outside before entering the crumbling structure.  

Colin tilted his head looking down at the pile of horse and man in the dirt.  "Do people really bend that way?"

"Apparently, but it doesn't appear to be good for your health," Rich said.  "Let's get Genevieve up.  She never did like Bruce there, did she?"  After the horse was up again, Rich knelt down next to his short-lived comrade.  He laid his own age-spotted hand on the young man's chest and waited for the soul to float up.  He turned his hand over and looked at the flickering light above it.  "You know the way, go on then."  Rich began to close his fist and the light dimmed and disappeared.

"So what next?" Colin asked.

'We find the nearest portal and greet his replacement."

..................................................

Harold put his hands down on the mattress and pushed himself up until he was sitting slumped on the edge of the bed.  He scratched his stomach and yawned, then reached over his shoulders to rub his neck.  The soft down of feathers ticked his arm as he pulled it back and turned to toss the pillows back to the edge of the bed.

Feathers.

"Oh no.  No, no, no."  He turned one way and then the other, trying to at least get a peek at what was protruding from his back.  Seeing them from his angle was impossible.  Bones creaked as he stood and looked in the mirror.  Lately he had just been seeing an aging, balding, beer-bellied old man, and he liked it that way.

Harold looked toward the cross on the wall accusingly.  "You promised!"

_I did, but you know how this works._

"So my replacement?"

_It happens sometimes.  We choose the horsemen carefully, but every once in a while one gets drunk on power and goes on a binge.  He got himself crushed by his horse and we hadn't tapped a replacement for him yet.  It'll only be a few days._

The old man sat down on the bed with a harrumph.  "I seem to remember you saying that to me when I took the job."

_Well, we liked you.  And no one ever said complete disclosure was part of your contract.  It won't be hard work, I'm not planning apocalypses for the next few months._

"But the kid left a mess, right?"

_Opened a portal, used an interesting disease he found on the other side to paralyze some people.  He said something about how it was like the Joker in the first Batman movie._

"Teach you to choose comic book fans as  horsemen."  Harold pulled a cigarette out of his nearly empty pack on the bedside table.  "So what do I have to do?" he asked.

...........................................

Harold rubbed his backside.  "Come on Genny girl, take it easy on me."

"You haven't been gone that long, already lost your seat for the saddle?" Rich asked.

"Already lost a lot.  Including those wings, thankfully."

"He thinks it's funny.  We all get them when we're first called.  Good thing they figured out it was hard to be inconspicuous with wings on your back."

"Turns out it's hard even when you don't have them.  I knew I should have gone into hiding when I retired."

"He'd have found you anyway," Rich chuckled.

"Yeah, but at least I'd have tried.  You know how this is, after a few years you lose the lust for it.  It becomes just another job.  A disgusting, dirty job that you hate yourself for.  At least my job this time is to cure instead of inflict."

"I don't hate myself," Rich started slowly.  "I collect the dead, I don't cause their deaths.  But yeah, I'm tired.  I remember a long time ago, before I was called, when I saw people happy.  Now everywhere I go there's grief.  And if it wasn't already there, those two up there bring it."

"So did I.  I think you got the best of this gig at least, Rich.  People start their own wars, but Colin there gets right in the thick of it when he gets the orders.  Earl blights the land and brings starvation.  And I bring the sickness and the pain.  You get the part where you send them to the better place."

"It is, you know.  A better place.  In the end the suffering here doesn't matter."

"Try telling that to someone you just infected with smallpox."  Harold pulled out a cigarette and lit it.  "Where's that damn portal anyway?"

"We're almost there.  A bridge another mile or so up the road."

They rode in silence for that last mile until Harold saw a red covered bridge spanning a quiet stream.  An idyllic place; not where one would expect a disfiguring disease to come from.  "All right, let's get this damn thing over with."

Harold rode alone toward the bridge, stopping about thirty feet from the opening.  He began to mutter under his breath in a language so old it even sounded dusty.  He repeated the chant once, then again, and waited.  Just when he thought he'd been so rusty he'd gotten it wrong, a face began to push its way through the opening.  It took up the entire opening for just a moment until it popped all the way out and a normal-sized man came tumbling out onto the grass.

"You're not Bruce!" he said, scrambling to his feet.

"No, I'm not.  I'm smarter than he was."

"You know, I don't think I want to be here, I think I'll just go..."

Harold waved his hand and the portal closed with a sucking sound.  "Where was that you were thinking of going?"

"Ah, nowhere.  Why would I want to leave you gentlemen?  So, where is my friend Bruce?"

Harold glanced up at the sky.

"Ah.  Well, why don't we get down to business then.  How can I help you?"

"Bruce came round here looking for something interesting.  I want it."

The man seemed to shrink a bit.  "Blunt aren't you?"

"It saves time."

"Bruce came here, but I didn't give him anything.  You know how it goes sometimes with a new horseman.  He finds out he can go all sorts of places, starts having himself a good time.  You got a problem with that?"

Harold stepped forward until he was almost nose to nose with the man.  "I got a problem with freelancers, and it seems you and Bruce were doing a little outside work."

"Nope, nothing.  Not me.  I know better.  Bruce too."

"You know, Bruce isn't coming back here to give you a hard time about telling us anything.  But my friends Colin, Earl, and Rich over there; they have years of experience in giving people a hard time.  And I have more than any of them."

"What do they do?" he asked in a shaky voice.

"Come on.  You know who Bruce was, you must know the other three.  I'm betting you're starting to feel talkative.  Rich hasn't made quota yet today."

The gulp was audible as the man considered that.  "Under quota, huh?"

"Way under," Rich said from behind Harold.

"Way under," the stranger repeated.  A moment later the words began to tumble out.

........................................

The modern world just wasn't set up for horses.  Instead the four horsemen arrived at the mall on motorcycles.  The horses were faster, but conspicuous. like wings.  ‘You might want to consider that,’ Harold thought, directing it toward the sky.

They strode through the mall and the holiday shoppers that thronged the corridors all made from for the group in motorcycle leathers.  It only took a few minutes to reach the anchor store.  All four stopped and stared at what the shoppers took for a display.  There were three women and one man, apparently mannequins.  The grotesquely distorted mouths and jaws didn't bother the shoppers who seemed to think they were expressions of delight with the newest techno toy they held.

Harold shook his head.  "He hated perfume girls that much?"

"He was allergic," Colin said, weaving his way through the paralyzed people.  "So what do you do now?"

Harold waited until Colin was close again and kept his voice low.  "The cure is easy.  We just need to get them out of here so they can wake up without witnesses.  Earl, think you can make everyone go away?"

"I can thin the crowd out some.  Everyone's on a diet these days, some of them will just ignore hunger."

"Do what you can.  Then we act like thugs and steal something."

They waited as Earl's eyes seemed to sink even farther in and his form became more emaciated.  Most of the shoppers began muttering to each other about being hungry and started off down the corridor.

"The kids who work in the food court aren't going to be happy," Colin chuckled.

"Ok, I'm not going to be able to run," Harold warned them.  "At least not far.  I think I can make it to the bikes, but I may need you guys to cover me on the way out.  Ready?  Everybody grab and go.  Now."

The four each snatched up one of the mannequins and took off down the corridor.  It was mostly deserted with the crowds huddled around the intersecting corridor where the food court was.  Colin took a look behind them.  “Mall security, my department."  He slowed down for a minute and focused on the men running up behind them.  A moment later one tripped and crashed into the other, knocking him on the head with his walkie-talkie in the process.  Pursuit stopped as the men wrestled on the floor throwing punches.

"It shouldn't be that easy," Colin said as he caught up to the others.  "Let's get the hell out of here."

................................

Harold hadn't lied when he said the cure was the easy part.  The freelancer at the portal had told him what he needed, and any disease caused by a horseman could be cured by a horseman.  The right horseman, anyway.  

The victims slept immediately after they were cured.  On the outside they had only been standing still, but fighting disease was exhausting.  Especially when you were losing.

Harold went outside the shed where they had brought the victims.  ‘OK?’ he thought up to the sky, not really expecting a reply.

................................

"They're doing fine, you did good work," Rich said as he brought in Harold's mail and tossed it on the TV tray.

Harold took another drag off his cigarette.  "Good to hear.  Don't imagine they're going to want to smile again for a while though."

"Probably not," Rich laughed and sat down on the sofa.  

"How's the new kid working out?"

"Steady, much better than Bruce.  He was studying to be a doctor.  Ironic, huh?  Seems to work though.  He looks at the whole Pestilence thing in a kind of clinical way."

"You have to, otherwise you couldn't do it.  When it starts to bother you it's time to retire."

Rich looked around the plain, smoke-filled room.  "Yeah.  You really like this?"

"It's starting to get a bit dull, but I do like it.  I think I might go out and find something to do soon though.  Volunteer stuff maybe."

Rich nodded as Harold looked at the smoldering cigarette in his hand.  "Those things'll kill you, you know."

“Yeah, I know," he said and crushed the half smoked cigarette on the ashtray.


----------



## alsih2o (Feb 6, 2005)

Still need one player if anyone is up to it!


----------



## mythago (Feb 6, 2005)

*Princess*


Jem was finishing his stretch in Atascadero State Prison when his dad's ticker gave out. They let him out early for the funeral. He wore his least faded black pants and a black jacket zipped all the way up so the rips in his T-shirt wouldn't show. He slumped at the far end of the family's pew next to Michael Junior and pretended he didn't notice his aunts glaring at him and hissing to each other in Slovenian. When the mass was over, he slipped outside to wait for his brothers. He walked slow laps around the parking lot until Peter came out and spotted him. They got into Peter's new Lincoln Navigator and drove to the cemetery without exchanging a word. 

	Jem stood uncomfortably near the open grave at the service. He knew nobody really wanted to see him there and he hadn't exactly been the best son, but he thought he should at least put out the effort. And he really missed his dad.

	The ride back with Peter was just as uncomfortable and silent as the ride to the cemetery had been. To Jem's surprise, Peter didn't head back to Mike's house for the reception. He drove straight to their father's business. Mike's Jaguar pulled in behind them. Jem got out and looked athe sign while Mike fiddled with the burglar bars. The wooden sign over the door still proclaimed DEVIC'S JEWELRY AND LOAN, no different now than eight years ago, when Jem had last seen it from the back window of a police car. Peter caught him staring at it and he turned away. When Mike got the door open they both went in ahead of him. He trailed after them as they unlocked the door to the shop's tiny office. The inside of the pawnshop looked different. There were computers he didn't recognize lining the electronics shelves.

	Mike sat down behind the big desk--his dad's desk--and Peter pulled up a chair to one side. Jem sat across from them, feeling uncomfortably like he was in the principal's office. Peter pulled out the smallest phone Jem had ever seen and doodled around with the buttons. Mike unlocked one of the drawers and pulled out a flat blue bag. He slid it over the desk to Jem.

	"Six hundred dollars, cash," he said. "That's what was in the till when I locked up last night, and that's your share of the business as far as I'm concerned."

	Jem picked up the bag and stuffed it into his jacket pocket. He knew better than to count it in front of Mike. "Where am I going to stay?"

	"That's your problem," Mike said. "You've got enough to rent a room in a fleabag hotel somewhere. Get a job. Use whatever you saved from stamping out license plates, I don't care."

	"I sent all that money to Monica, to help take care of Princess."

	Mike turned uncomprehendingly to Peter, who didn't even glance up from whatever he was doing with his phone. "His girlfriend," Peter explained.

	"Who's Princess? Her dog?"

	"My daughter," Jem said. "Your niece." He had wondered if his family had taken his baby girl in, helped protect her from whatever craziness Monica was up to. The thought that they had forgotten all about her made his stomach knot.

	"Not mine. You didn't marry her, she's not family, far as I'm concerned. What kind of bimbo names a kid 'Princess,' anyway?"

	"The kind who'd go to bed with Jem," Peter said, and his brothers snorted with laughter. Jem stood up, ready to walk out, and Mike waved him back to his chair.

	"Chill, little bro. Look, you're too much of a screwup to run the business. You just spent eight years in jail because you took the fall for a buddy, which is very stand-up of you, but stupid. Take your money, get a job, maybe see if your crazy girlfriend is still around, all right?"

	Jem got up to leave for real this time. There was nothing here for him; his brothers had their father's business, he had no idea where his daughter was, and he had nothing but the clothes on his back and six hundred dollars in twenties. He put his hand on the doorknob and Peter said, "Michael. Give him the snake."

	He turned to stare at his brother. "Snake?"

	"Jem was always good with animals," Peter reminded Mike, as though Jem hadn't said anything. "You were just going to drown it anyway."

	"Jem, man, you'll love this. We had some crackhead bring in this freaky rattlesnake in a cage, wanted to pawn it for twenty bucks. We kicked him out and called the police, but he left the snake. Peter's right, I was just going to throw the whole thing into the slough, but hey, maybe a pet would cheer you up."

#

	Jem sat on the floor of his residential hotel room, listening to the drunks outside his window yelling at each other. It had been pretty tough to get a cab that would give a ride to a guy with a rattlesnake in an aquarium, and he had to pay the guy extra. He thought about just leaving the aquarium outside his dad's--no, his brothers'--pawn shop, but he couldn't do it. The thought of the snake struggling to get out while its cage sank into a stream of sewage water was unbearable. And the snake had been abused enough. Whoever caught it in the first place either found it without a rattle, or cut its rattle off, and superglued a child's toy rattle on the end of its tail. Jem wondered if pulling that stupid joke had actually hurt the snake.

	He leaned his head back on the edge of the stained mattress and closed his eyes, too weary to actually climb up into the bed and get some sleep. He dozed and started awake at the noise of the snake's rattle. It was a cheerful sound, a little kid's sound, and it reminded him of Princess. Tears blurred his vision.

	"Hold, lad," somebody whispered. "Wherefore this sorrow?"

	Jem blinked and sat up. The walls here were paper-thin; maybe it had been the TV in one of the rooms next to his. The snake was awake and had raised its head to look at him. Its tail vibrated and it made that cheerful rattling noise again.

	"Bet you're hungry, huh?" he said. "I'll go to the pet store tomorrow and get you something to eat. This is pretty bad. I'm talking to a snake."

	"Aye, and I waste my breath talking to a young man too foolish to seize what fortune has been given him," the snake said.

	Jem slowly scooted back and up until he was sitting on the bed with his back pressed against the wall. The snake's head, unblinking, tracked his movement.

	"You know," he said to nobody in particular, "I never did drugs. I never even really drank. And now I'm sitting in a dirtbag hotel hallucinating that a rattlesnake is talking to me."

	Jem could have sworn the snake let out an irritated sigh. "Lad," it said patiently, "If you choose to think yourself gone mad, so be it. It is of no matter to me. Yet consider this: have you any thing to lose by believing me?"

	"I guess not."

	"Well said, lad! Now, open this cage, if you please. Speaking to you from this distance strains my voice greatly."

	"And you won't bite me?"

	"You're hardly of a size to make a meal. And magic I have, but thanks to my former and unkindly master, venom I lack."

	Jem slowly approached the cage. The snake sat patiently while he lifted the lid. It shot out of the aquarium and scooted under the old radiator, curling itself up and rattling happily.

	"Sleep, lad," it said. "There are vermin enough in this place that I can catch my supper. Tomorrow, when the sun sets, we'll find the treasure you seek."

#

	Jem slept the whole night and well into the next day. He felt strange and off-balance when he woke up. He was used to getting up early in prison, and he had a moment of panic when he realized he'd slept in, before he realized nobody cared anymore how long he stayed in bed. The snake was still curled up under the radiator. He couldn't tell if it was awake or not, since its eyes looked open. He took a shower, using up all the hot water just because he could. He got out and looked at his ripped T-shirt and faded pants, and didn't particularly want to put them on his clean body.

	The snake rattled a greeting. "Dress in your rags, lad, and shed no tears. We'll soon have you in finery. You are my master now, and as you prosper, so do I. But you must follow my instructions exactly, without question or quibble. Do you understand?"

	"Sure," Jem said. He was starting to get used to the idea of a talking rattlesnake. He'd always talked to animals, anyway. It was just the first time one of them had really talked back.

	"Very good. Go and find yourself breakfast. Get a decent meal and do not worry about the weight of your purse. Bring me back the last thing your serving girl leaves at your table. When you return to this inn, walk three times around the building, and say this charm as you walk: 'Beans and bananas, butterflies and bread.' Then fetch the first living thing you see and bring it to me straightaway."

	Jem found a Denny's three blocks over. He didn't think in his current state of dress that anywhere fancier would let him in. He forced himself to go slow, savoring every bite of Moons Over My Hammy, reminding himself that nobody here was watching a clock and nobody would make him get up and leave his food uneaten. The coffee, by his standards, was heavenly. 

	The waitress cleared his empty plate and silverware, even scooping up his crumpled napkin. She reached for the sugar holder, then looked down at her full tray, and went back to the kitchen. Jem scooped up the sugar holder and slipped it into his jacket pocket. Feeling guilty, he left three twenties on the table and quickly left the restaurant, hoping nobody would stop and ask about the strange bulge in his pocket. Nobody did.

	Jem hesitated outside of the hotel. He couldn't remember if the snake had told him to go clockwise or counter-clockwise, and wasn't sure it mattered. He was afraid that something would go wrong if he went up and asked, so he just picked a direction and started walking. "Beans and bananas, butterflies and bread," he said uncertainly. Nothing strange happened. He kept walking and reciting the strange phrase. People passing by quickened their pace and avoided his gaze. Jem realized that there was nothing magic about the words; it just convinced people he was nuts, so they didn't look at him. Go around the crazy guy. _It's an invisibility charm_, he thought. By the time he made the third lap around the hotel he was almost shouting.

	He looked around for something living. No people near him, which was a relief, because he wasn't sure how he'd persuade somebody to come up to his room, and anyway he was a little nervous about what the snake had planned. Movement caught Jem's eye. He bent down over a growth of bushy weeds. On the underside of one of the leaves was a tiny slug. He broke off the leaf and carried it up to his room.

	The snake had somehow gotten up onto his bed. It had a sleek, well-fed look that suggested it had found its own breakfast. It dipped the child's rattle in greeting.

	"I found, um, a slug," Jem offered. "It was the first living thing I saw. I hope that okay."

	"Excellent," the snake said. "Put it there, on the side table. And did you follow my direction as to the conclusion of your meal?"

	Jem pulled the sugar container out of his pocket. "Sugar," he said, "but I don't see how that helps us."

	The snake couldn't smile, but something about the way it tipped its head implied a smirk. "Taste it."

	Jem tenatively touched the opening of the sugar container to his tongue. He blinked. "Salt? That's why she wanted to take it away, it was filled with--"

	"A coincidence, is it not? One might almost call it miraculous. Now, we create a charm around yon slug. Draw a line there, and one crosswise. Yes, just so."

	Jem did as the snake directed. It looked like a simple maze to him, but the snake was very insistent. Twice it ordered Jem to remove a line and start again. The slug stirred. As Jem poured the final line at the snake's direction, its movements became frantic. It bumped into a line of salt, recoiled, turned, and found itself trapped. The snake, now perched on the side table watched with interest until its movements subsided into quivering.

	"Roger of Lothian," the snake hissed. "It has been a while, has it not?"

	"Fie! Trapped!" the slug squeaked. Jem sat down hard on the edge of the bed. A talking snake, all right, but now a talking slug? He was going crazy, just like Monica. Maybe he'd caught it from her. Did it take eight years to go crazy?

	"Great bravado in the face of death," the snake said. It rattled dramatically. "All I need do to send you to your next incarnation is ask this good lad to empty the rest of the salt. Shall I, sirrah?"

	"No!" the slug cried. "Damn your eyes, Stephen Gaunt! My powers in this form are small and weak. You well know that I can do little to stave off my next death."

	"Cease your poor-mouthing. We seek the mother of my good master's daughter. If you cannot provide that answer, only speak, and you will be sent on your way."

	"A drop of blood, then," said the slug. The snake nodded its head at Jem. He looked around for something sharp. There was no knife, and he didn't want to break a window. He finally settled on the sharp metal corner of the bedframe and dragged his finger over the edge, hoping his tetanus shot was still good. He squeezed out a single drop of blood in the middle of the salt maze. The slug lowered its eyestalks and seemed to consider for a long moment. 

	"The mother is at the Old Orchard Theater," he said. "The child is moving, I cannot fix her place. Talk to the mother. Now, will you let me go?"

	"Toss him out the window," the snake said. "Aim for the shrubbery. Having no bones, his landing will be unpleasant but whole."

	"You have not heard the last of me, Stephen Gaunt," the slug warned, just before Jem gingerly dropped him out the second-story window.

	Jem looked at the snake, who was erasing the salt maze with flicks of its tail. "You know that guy? Uh, slug?"

	"We've met," the snake said casually. "T'is a long story, with tales of evil sorcerors, long curses, the love of an innocent maiden, and a bloody and well-earned revenge at the end of an era, and we have not time for it. I will hide beneath your jacket and we shall go to this Old Orchard Theater, to find your lady love."

	"She's not my lady love," Jem said. "She used to be. Then I found out she was insane."

	"Details, my lad, rarely make for a stirring tale. Be a hero, not a critic."

#

	Jem remembered the Old Orchard Theater from community plays there as a little kid, playing Mr. Raincloud in a kindergarten show about the weather, or fidgeting in his seat next to his dad while Peter's high-school drama club did a clumsy version of Romeo and Juliet. He recalled it as a little shabby, maybe in need of some renovation, but nothing like it was now. A CONDEMNED sign was nailed to the front door. Yellow caution tape webbed the broken windows. Half-assembled scaffolding, flaked with rust, clung to the facade.

	Jem walked around the alleyway to the stage door. He gave the metal handle a hard pull and it scraped open. He waited for the snake under his coat to say something, but it remained silent. Jem shrugged and cautiously moved down toward the back of the stage. The damp smell of mildew permeated the painted cementblock hallway. He saw a few slivers of light ahead, as though they shined through tatters in a curtain. Jem realized the lights in the front of the theater were on. He pushed heavy, moldy curtains out of the way and emerged onto the stage, blinded by the brightness of the stage lights. He tripped over an open light pit and fell flat on his face. The snake quickly slithered out from under him. Jem winced looked up, squinting through the bright lights. Somebody was out there, in the seats.

	"Monica?" he called. "Is that you?"

	There was a high, thin giggle in reply. Jem felt cold. It was a sick version of Monica's girly laugh, back when they were first going out. Before he found out she was crazy. Before she had Princess.

His eyes were more used to the light now and he could see her. She looked pasty and bloated, her pretty blonde hair gone lank, her blue eyes hidden behind thick, ugly glasses. She looked up at the trompe l'oeil ceiling with an empty smile. "Hi, Jem," she said. Her eyes never left the ceiling.

	"Hey, Monica," he said. He tried to keep his voice friendly. "What are you doing here? This place is falling apart."

	"I like the ceiling," she said. She waved up at the faded cherubs and the picture of Zeus that looked a lot like Harry Truman. "The pictures are pretty."

	"Oh," Jem said. He looked around for the snake but didn't see it. He worried that he had fatally injured it when he fell.

	"So...how's Princess?"

	Monica made that razor-wire giggle again. "She's okay. She's with my stepmom. I'm losing my custody so my stepmom can take her wherever she wants."

	"Losing your custody?"

	"Yeah. Because I'm, you know, coo-coo. So my stepmom asked a judge to let Princess be her mom now."

	There was a soft rattle near Jem's ear. The snake bumped his head with its dry nose. "Your beloved's stepmother has the child?"

	"Yeah, she...oh, geez," said Jem, because he suddenly realized who Monica meant. "Noreen, right? The one who owns the casino."

	"Noreen," Monica said, and burst into tears.

	"That's bad," Jem told the snake. "Very bad. Noreen hates kids. If she wants Princess there must be money involved somehow."

	"Pardon, milady," the snake called. Its voice projected to every corner of the theater. Monica, as startled as Jem, looked up in mid-sob. "Might I trouble you as to where this foul witch has absconded with your daughter?"

	"Oh...the Gym-O-Roo," Monica said. "They have a balance beam there. Princess likes the balance beam. Over by the mall."

	"You'll have to hire a cab," the snake said grimly. "We've no time to lose."

#

	Jem slouched into his jacket. He hoped nobody noticed the snake, hoped nobody gave him any funny looks for being a man alone at a children's playplace, hoped he could find Princess. He hadn't seen her since she was a baby. Monica never wrote him in prison, never sent him any pictures. The place was full of eight-year-old girls, most of them in sweatpants or leotards, bouncing from video games to the balance beam to a pit full of foam cubes. Little kids rolled around in a pit full of plastic balls. Surly waistaff hustled lukewarm pizzas and pitchers full of sticky soft drinks around the room. It was loud and the flashing neon was beginning to make Jem feel really disoriented.

	The snake slithered down one of Jem's pant legs and vanished. Jem hoped he was up to something. He scanned the room vainly for someone who might be Princess. Instead, he saw Noreen, sitting at a table against the wall under a NO SMOKING sign, a lit cigarette with an inch of ash between her fingers. Her gaze skipped right over Jem. He thought she was pretending not to see him, then realized she probably had no idea who he was.

	Jem went straight to her table and stood over her. He tried to be intimidating, the way he'd seen guys like Bull or Jiffy do in prison, where they just projected mean and people twice their size got out of their way. Noreen looked up at him, unimpressed. "You're blocking my sun, kiddo."

	"I'm Jem Devic," he said. He forced his voice to stay even.

	"That's nice. Am I supposed to care who you are?"

	"I'm Princess's father. Monica told me there was a custody issue."

	"Ah, yes," Noreen said. She took a long drag on her cigarette, then tapped the ash into a paper Coke cup. A mother at the next table looked up from coaxing a toddler to stare disapprovingly. "You were in jail for, what was it, car theft? I don't think Princess even missed you."

	Jem wanted to hit Noreen more than he had ever wanted to hurt another human being in his life. He had been angry at Javier for framing him on the car theft, miserable when he realized Monica didn't care about him anymore, but it wasn't about him now. It was about Princess. He hung onto that thought, because he knew that if he got in trouble now, his chances of ever seeing Princess again were zero, magic snake or no magic snake.

	"What's going on, Noreen? You hate kids. Monica's mom left her a trust fund or something?"

	"Something like that," Noreen agreed. "Does it matter? The court doesn't know you exist because I told them you were deceased. What are you going to do about it? You wouldn't even know Princess if she was a foot away from you."

	"Mommy!" a child shrieked. Noreen flinched. A kid who looked about four or five ran full-tilt up to the woman at the next able over. "Mommymommymommy there's a snake in the ball pit!"

	"Now, Emma," the woman soothed, "that's just an urban legend, honey."

	"Mommymommy--" Emma insisted, and then the toddler corner exploded into screams and running children, and Jem ran for the ball pit. Parents scooped up their children and ran the other way. Jem fought past them, knowing something had gone terribly wrong with the snake, and he had to get it out of the ball pit and get out of the Gym-O-Roo before Noreen could somehow pin this on him and he'd lose Princess forever. He reached the toddler corner and saw the snake rearing up out of the ball pit, rattling furiously. He reached for it and a plastic ball rolled under his foot, tripping him. He wheeled his arms for balance and fell flat on his back into the pit, scattering plastic balls into the air in a plume. Jem had knocked all the air out of his lungs and he lay, stunned, until he could breathe again. He groaned and pulled himself up, expecting security or even the police to be ready to drag him out.

	Nobody was looking at Jem. The room was silent. The plastic balls Jem had scattered were floating in the air around a little girl who stood on the balance beam, frozen in surprise. The balls whipped around her in the shape of a double helix.

	The snake slithered back up under Jem's jacket. "The very shape of DNA, to mark your daughter as truly of your blood," it whispered.

	Jem was too stunned to reply. The snake gave a brief rattle that sounded like disgust. "Again, my wit is cast as pearls before swine," it grumbled, and subsided.

	Jem got up and walked to the balance beam. "Princess?" he said. His throat was tight and it was hard to get the words out. "Baby?"

	The girl looked at him with Monica's eyes, his father's hair, his mother's cheekbones. "Daddy?" she said. 

	Jem scooped her off the balance beam and hugged her as hard as he could. He figured the snake was smart enough to get out of the way all on its own.

-----

rattledsnake - the mysterious talking serpent
hell - a magic charm to dampen the power of the snake's mortal enemy
packedhouse - the lovers' bittersweet reunion
diribonucleicgoodacid - the lost princess found


----------



## mythago (Feb 6, 2005)

Posted early because I'm leavin' on a jet plane, don't know when I'll be able to get online again.


----------



## carpedavid (Feb 7, 2005)

I'm very sorry to have to do this at such a late point in time, but I must regretfully withdraw, for personal reasons. My apologies to the judges and especially to my very esteemed opponent. Good luck to all of the contestants throughout the rest of the competition.


----------



## MarauderX (Feb 7, 2005)

Taladas said:
			
		

> Congradulations MarauderX. The judging isn't done until the judges post and now they have.
> Good luck on your next story.




Thanks, that was a tough set of pictures to deal with and I thought your first showing was great.  



			
				alsih20 said:
			
		

> (except for David running his hand through his hair several times, only to be bald in a later picture, but this is minor)




Yeah, editing would really help... 



			
				Piratecat said:
			
		

> <<Quote:
> Originally Posted by alsih2o
> The part about David leaving specific instructions to a bad guy left me confused. Why would this supposed hero guide her directly to her doom?>>
> Good point, and something I meant to mention. The plans themselves came out of nowhere, and I couldn't figure out why they led to someone who would kill her.
> Anyways, congratulations!




I had wanted to go into the monkey-top hat thing a bit more, but didn't have the time and felt it wouldn't have added too much anyway.  Basically David would have had dreams about the monkey who had caused the sinkholes and was seduced by the monkey's cash and power, only to also be betrayed.  

Thanks for the great input, it's always nice to see where I should focus more.  And thanks for the chance to move up to round 2.


----------



## Piratecat (Feb 7, 2005)

Arrgh! CarpeDavid, I hope everything is okay at home.

We'll figure out a revised ladder. The people who have written stories only to have their opponents drop out will not have to write again for round one.

In the mean time, I'll have my comments for posted stories in to Alsih2o by tonight.


----------



## Thorod Ashstaff (Feb 7, 2005)

*Help for a newbie?*

Format test.


----------



## Rodrigo Istalindir (Feb 7, 2005)

Thorod Ashstaff said:
			
		

> Just got registered, from what I can gather you're one short on the latest Ceramic DM, but I'm having trouble with disabled links. Would love to try my hand at this, how can I join in, compete, write, look at pictures, etc., etc.?




This link should be working, and the links (to my stories, anyway) are working as well.

Judges -- I'm itching to compete, but if its gonna screw up the brackets, I'll sit this one out.  No sense holding up the rest of the folks.


----------



## BSF (Feb 7, 2005)

I believe you will be paired off against Rodrigo Istalindir.  

Disabled Links?  Can you be more specific?  The first post in this thread should contain links to individual posts.  Post #86, up toward the top of this page, show the pics for Mythago vs Carpedavid.  Are you seeing those?  

BTW-Welcome to EN World.


----------



## BSF (Feb 7, 2005)

Pshaw Rodrigo!  Eeralai and I have been hunting for a possible competitor for you.    I _think_  Thorod might be somebody I know.  Either that or we just got lucky!


----------



## Ruined (Feb 7, 2005)

Quick, someone check Thorod's name for anagrams!  Make sure he's not Monte Cook or Tad Williams in disguise!   

Seriously, welcome to the fold Thorod. I'm eager to see how the stories and judgements pan out.


----------



## Maldur (Feb 7, 2005)

I think it would be cool, if monty or Tad played


----------



## Thorod Ashstaff (Feb 7, 2005)

*Thanks*

Thanks all, Rodrigo for the link, BardSF for the FAQ, I think I've got it now. Rodrigo, I'd be happy to throw something together fast, to keep you in and keep everyone else from waiting. Send me your pics, or a link to them, and a deadline, and I'll see what I can come up with. Maldur, no anagrams, no credits, no fame, no talent...but maybe some free time.


----------



## BSF (Feb 7, 2005)

Our esteemed host and lead judge, Alsih2o will drop you into the rotation and I am sure he will be happy to provide some devious pics for you to write around.  However, he has been a bit busier some days lately.  

Rodrigo & Thorod, what days/times look good for you?  What will give you a close approximation at 72 hours of writing time?


----------



## Rodrigo Istalindir (Feb 7, 2005)

BardStephenFox said:
			
		

> Our esteemed host and lead judge, Alsih2o will drop you into the rotation and I am sure he will be happy to provide some devious pics for you to write around.  However, he has been a bit busier some days lately.
> 
> Rodrigo & Thorod, what days/times look good for you?  What will give you a close approximation at 72 hours of writing time?




You may fire when ready, Gridley.


----------



## Thorod Ashstaff (Feb 7, 2005)

Hey, I'm just the new guy.  Whatever the Honorable Alsih2o gives me, I will work with, unless it's something like "by 3am tomorrow."


----------



## BSF (Feb 7, 2005)

A quick who's who in Ceramic DM

*Alsih2o* - Ceramic DM founder, Lead Judge and devious pic picker.
*Maldur* - Longtime Judge from across the pond, all around good guy.
*PirateCat* - Sometime Judge, occasional pic picker (When Alsih2o has competed), Ceramic DM winner.

Veteran Competitors
NiTessine
Mythago <= Holds multiple Ceramic DM crowns.
Orchid Blossom
Rodrigo Istalindir
Macbeth
MarauderX
Taladas
Firelance
BigTom

Newcomers
Eeralai
Hellefire
Thorod Ashstaff
Ruined
Maddman75

What other sorts of useless trivia is everyone interested in for Ceramic DM?


----------



## alsih2o (Feb 7, 2005)

Round 1  Thorod Ashstaff Vs. Rodrigo Istalindir

 4 pics, 72 hours, 5000 word limit, less filling.


----------



## BSF (Feb 7, 2005)

Ask and ye shall receive.  

Did I miss the pics for Firelance & NiTessine or are we waiting for their time slot still?


----------



## alsih2o (Feb 7, 2005)

Round 1 Firelance Vs. NiTessine

 4 pics, 72 hours, 5000 word limit, tastes great.


----------



## BSF (Feb 7, 2005)

Oh my!  Two on top of each other.  

OK, Alsih2o, I will get you an update for the front menu tonight sometime.  

So contestants, now that you have seen your pictures, how about a little smack talk?


----------



## FireLance (Feb 8, 2005)

OKaaay, I have the pictures. [muffled comment]


----------



## Piratecat (Feb 8, 2005)

Extenuating circumstances have pushed my judgments until Tuesday mid-day. Sorry for the wait.


----------



## Macbeth (Feb 8, 2005)

Well, at least now I can stop wearing down my mouse hitting the refresh button. Thanks for doing this, PC, and I hope things aren't too hectic for you.


----------



## NiTessine (Feb 8, 2005)

Alsih2o, you're an evil man.

But I shall prevail, and my opposition will fall before me as the wheat falls before the scythe, and I shall take the the championship title, as is my right by fate.   

It's gonna take a lot more caffeine, though.


----------



## Berandor (Feb 8, 2005)

Maldur said:
			
		

> I think it would be cool, if monty or Tad played



 ... and got swept in round one 0-3


----------



## FireLance (Feb 8, 2005)

Hey, I just noticed - it's a battle of two one-word usernames made up of two capitalized words: FireLance vs NiTessine.

Oh, and, er... I just hope to do better than I did the last time .

Back to the story!


----------



## Piratecat (Feb 8, 2005)

My judgment for Macbeth vs Ruined has been sent to Clay.

Likewise, my commentary on Maddman's story. Eeralai and BigTom may have to wait until tomorrow. Sorry for the wait!


----------



## Ruined (Feb 8, 2005)

Yay!  Much like Macbeth, I've turned into a chronic refresher.


----------



## Piratecat (Feb 8, 2005)

Ruined said:
			
		

> Yay!  Much like Macbeth, I've turned into a chronic refresher.




I have no idea how your match will turn out; it was _very_ close for me as a judge. I imagine Clay will post them later today.


----------



## Hellefire (Feb 8, 2005)

Intentionally left blank as realization dawns.

Aaron Blair
Foren Star


----------



## Maldur (Feb 8, 2005)

Im just lazy


----------



## alsih2o (Feb 8, 2005)

I have recieved two judgements form P-kitty and two from Maldur, unfortunately they are for 4 seperate stories. 

 Soon, soon, you will know your fates.


----------



## BSF (Feb 8, 2005)

Heh - That's classic.


----------



## Maldur (Feb 8, 2005)

I did send 2 x 2 judgements


----------



## Piratecat (Feb 9, 2005)

Okay, I've sent Clay my judgment for:

- Macbeth vs Ruined
- Maddman75
- BigTom vs Eeralai

Next will be Hellefire vs Orchid Blossom.


----------



## alsih2o (Feb 9, 2005)

I have a major critique tomorrow morning, with 32 pages due on figurative sculpture, judgements will be up before I go to bed tomorrow.


----------



## Thorod Ashstaff (Feb 10, 2005)

*Here it is, judges.*

The Ending of Worlds

John laughed. Frank’s expression was definitely worth the price of lunch.

“You have got to be kidding me!”

“Nope, dead serious,” John said. Frank groaned. “Sorry, couldn’t resist that one. But no joke, tomorrow’s connect is for the universe of ‘Night of the Living Dead.’”

“I can’t believe there’s enough George Romero fans to pull in that universe.”

“Have you heard the research from Princeton? Philmont’s saying the threshold should be lowered to 12 million.12 million minds wanting the same world to exist, and that world’s membrane will be pulled close enough for a connect.”

“So there’s 12 million nutcases out there who want to be trapped in a farmhouse by flesh-eating ghouls?”

“It doesn’t work like that. All you need is a suspension of disbelief, even for an hour, and the real membrane that matches the fictional world will shift in the multiverse froth, getting closer to our own. After that it’s just a matter of the calculations.”

“Sure John, just the calculations. Out of the ten billion people on Earth, how many of them are smart enough to understand the math behind membrane universe connections. Fifteen?”

“More like thirty. Six here at Stanford Linear, Philmont and Ortega at Princeton, another dozen at CERN, who knows how many in China. And Dr. Kelin herself, who started it all back in ’13, though she’s gone incognito.”

“I heard she’s gone completely wacko.” The old rumor again, padded cells for the multiverse mathematicians. Some of it was even true.

“How goes the divorce?” Frank asked, and for once John was grateful to talk about something else.

“Not good, she’s convinced the judge that mathematicians make lousy fathers, and she’s getting custody. Vicki’s coming to stay with me for a week though, next month.”

A young woman approached their table. She was dressed in black, with a pink badge that identified her as a private courier.

“Dr. John Florian?” the girl asked.

“Yes?”

“Private download for you, priority, coded for isolated systems only, from Dr. Angela Ortega. Sign here please.” She held out a reader, and John slipped his finger in to be pricked. She handed him a minidisk, and walked out of the cafe.

John stood up. “Gotta go, Frank, I’ve spent too long talking. I need to get back to the lab for the state-mandated orientation, give my spiel to the paying customers.” He didn’t mention the disk, and Frank didn’t ask. Angela Ortega, John thought. What did she need to say to him on an isolated system? Ortega was the only person John knew, other than Dr. Kelin herself, who was as good at Alterworld mathematics as he was, and she’d dropped out of sight just two weeks ago; the padded-cell rumors were already in the air.

“Tell me, John, how many people are rich and crazy enough to drop two million euros for a one-way trip to a world full of flesh-eating ghouls?”

“Four. There are actually four people out there who think they’d rather live in Romero’s freak show than on Earth.”

Frank laughed, and walked out of the cafe shaking his head.

Theories of the multiverse froth had been around since the turn of the century, but it wasn’t until 2015, when Dr. Faith Kelin’s Unified String Theory was verified at CERN, that people accepted a universe of universes. The theory even gave a number, 10 to the 128th, approximately. That was a lot of universes. Two years later, Kelin published her general multiverse theory, and membrane mathematics entered the real world. Soon people were making the leap to alternate Earths.

Alterworld Eden was the first. Then there was Alt-Jurassic; people loved their dinosaurs. Then Alt-Middle Earth, of course, and Alt-Faerun. By 2025 there had been 97 connects, to two-dozen unique universes, and over three thousand people had passed through. It was a one-way trip, no return ticket, and it wasn’t cheap, the power required to make a connect was enormous. The people who put their two million euros on the table knew what they were doing, but John still had to give a safety lecture to everyone. Even four nuts who wanted to live out the rest of their likely very short lives in a world of flesh-eating ghouls.

The lecture was painful, [classlessons.jpg] but, like always, they signed the bottom line at the end of the day. Alterworldcorp was ten million euros richer, and by tomorrow afternoon the world would have four fewer millionaires.

When John was finally able to get away, he went straight to his office and slipped Angela’s disk into his palmreader. Angela popped up, a three-inch hologram.

“Hello Dr. Florian,” the miniature Angela said, “I trust you are well. I need you to think something through for me, a seismic matter. Remember Reykjavik? Decisions? Philmont’s reservations? I want you to think about .03 seconds, and then I want you to think about butterflies, dead ones. I need to meet with you, Saturday. I’ll be with an old lady of your acquaintance, who you will want to see. Two o’clock, across from Chin’s, in the city. Please come alone.”

‘Seismic,’ John thought, ‘Earth shaking?’ Some of it was obvious, the Reykjavik conference was where Alterworldcorp had decided to allow connects to other universes at whatever time-stamp the customer wanted, Philmont had objected on moral grounds. Connects had started out cautious, only allowing a connect to Alt-Middle Earth after the ring was destroyed, say, or before it was made. But the restriction was dropped at Reykjavik. The rest of the message was harder; .03 seconds was how long operators like John could see into the connected universe, a brief glimpse that could not be recorded, thanks to quantum fluctuations. But dead butterflies? John was at a loss.

But he’d already decided to go, because of the last part. Dr. Faith Kelin had always called herself “the old woman,” so had her students. John and Angela had studied under Faith when they were at Cambridge, so it must be her. If this was big enough for the most brilliant mind since Einstein to break her self-imposed exile, then there was no way in hell John wasn’t going to be there. John went home, but when he finally fell asleep he still hadn’t figured it out.

Two hours later he was up. He’d dreamt of hunting dinosaurs, with a modern rifle, and stepping on a butterfly. As soon as he was awake he knew he had it, a story he’d read. He connected his wristpilot to the net, and a few keystrokes later he was re-reading the story. Bradbury, time travel, the old plot about small changes making a big difference. But travel to other universes wasn’t time travel, and except for Alterworldcorp getting rich, it wasn’t changing the world. At least not this one. Lord, he though, is it that?

The connect to Alt-Romero went off without a hitch, and John caught a .03 second glimpse of an old farmhouse in the distance as the four travelers vanished from the accelerator platform. He shivered, partly for the nutcases who wanted to live in a world of zombies, partly in anticipation of Saturday.

By Saturday John was getting worried. The day before, two execs had shown up at the lab. They wanted to know if John had heard from Dr. Ortega. More disturbing, they reminded him of the contract he’d signed with Alterworldcorp after Reykjavik, the one where he’d sold his soul in exchange for a truly obscene salary.

He was early, but there they were, standing in front of a dress shop across from Chin’s. [thecoolkids.jpg] Angela was leaning against the shop window, she had a wary look. The old woman was there too, smoking as always, and of course carrying her thermos of spiked espresso.

When she saw John, Faith hugged him. “Thank god,” she said. “I’m so glad you came. We tried to get Lowther as well, but I think our message to him got intercepted. Come on, let’s take a walk.”

“Good to see you too, old woman, and you, Angela,” John said. “I thought all the cloak and dagger stuff was just a joke, until two corporate execs in black suits walked into my lab yesterday. What’s this about?”

“You know Philmont’s theory,” Faith began, “that there’s no guarantee that the universe will still match after contact?”

“I remember. He was adamant, but I thought his math was shaky at best. And we’ll never know, will we? There’s no way to record the glimpse we get of the other universe, and there’s no way to come back. You taught me that, remember?”

“I taught you that, but I was wrong. Dr. Ortega and her colleagues have managed to make images of a connect, though Alterworldcorp clamped down on them as soon as they saw the pictures. That’s when she decided to disappear.”

“How did you get around the quantum fluctuations?” John asked Angela.

“We phase-matched the peak-trough functions of each photon. But we have bigger matters to discuss.”

“Indeed,” Faith said, “much bigger. Here, take a look at this.” Faith opened a plastic sandwich box and took out two holograms, handing one to John. The hologram was a shot of Hogwarts School, shining and huge, seen from across a dark lake. John recognized it at once.

“This is from Alterworld Potter,” John said. “I made this connect once myself, and I was almost tempted to follow the customers through when I saw this. It’s beautiful!”

“Was beautiful,” Faith said. “That shot was the first one taken at a connect by Dr. Ortega’s team in Europe, back in January. You know how popular Alt-Potter is, top of the list. They did two Alt-Potter connects this year at CERN, and took images of both. Here, take a look.”

Faith handed John the second hologram, and he stared at it in silence, not wanting to believe it. Hogwarts was a smoking ruin, and black birds flew above the remains of the building. The lake was gone, replaced by a swamp littered with decomposing bodies, giant serpents, and even a few heads stuck on pikes. It was a nightmare.

“But this is impossible!” John said. “Nowhere in Rowling’s universe does this happen, it looks like Voldemort’s won and killed everybody. How many did we send through on this connect?”

“Seventeen,” Faith said. “Seventeen people who were expecting Hogwarts, and got this. No doubt they are already dead, and two of them were teenagers.”

“Let’s go back to my house,” John said. You can both stay there until we get this figured out.”

They were silent on the way back; John had a lot to think about. At the house the made espresso, and John looked at the two holograms again.

“But who did this?” he said.

“We did, John. You and I and Dr. Ortega, and all our colleagues who went mad figuring it all out. My theory, your math, Alterworldcorp’s greed. We sent people back at whatever time stamp they, and their money, demanded, and this is the result. Somebody we sent through must have tried to help, or got captured and gave away something about Alt-Potter’s timeline, and changed it all. We destroyed a world, John, an entire world.”

“What else?” John asked. “Have you imaged any other worlds?”

“No, Alterworldcorp shut Dr. Ortega’s team down right after this image was released. I don’t even want to think about Alt-Middle Earth, that whole timeline was on a knife-edge anyway. That’s why Angela hunted me down, because we have to stop them. Alterworldcorp’s profits are based on a promise to their customers that is no longer true, does it surprise you that they want to keep this secret?”

“Are we sure? Maybe CERN made a connect with the wrong membrane.”

“Maybe. Every day I hope that’s what happened, but every morning I wake up from nightmares. That’s why we contacted you, John. We knew we could trust you, and we need to test this. We need to know for sure. We want you to go through a connect, an unofficial connect, and check things out.”

“A one-way trip? And how exactly would that help us?”

“I think there’s a way for you to come back.”

From any other person in the world, even Angela or Dr. Philmont, he would have dismissed the idea as impossible. But this was the old woman, this was Dr. Faith Kelin. If she said there was a way, there was a way.

“Okay, I’m listening,” John said. “How?”

“It involves quantum super symmetry, taking a whole and creating a duality, a symmetrical, opposite being at the moment of connection. The two beings will enter the connect, but both membrane universes will resist it, and one of the beings will be spat back into our universe. The multiverse froth will force the issue, trying to maintain its own symmetry.”

“So this person,” John said, trying to absorb the concept, “goes through…I go through the connect as two of me, and then one comes back out? How long would I, or at least one of me, have?”


“I can’t tell,” Faith said. “More than an hour, less than three.”

“We have to try, John,” Angela said. “If these holograms are true, we aren’t just mathematicians anymore, we’re mass murderers. Destroyers of worlds. I’d do it, but if I set foot anywhere near CERN I’ll be arrested. We need someone with access to an accelerator, with the mind to do the final calculations, and someone Alterworldcorp still trusts. That pretty much narrows it down to two men, and it looks like the corporation execs got to Dr. Lowther first, which leaves you. Dr. John Florian.”

“Great, that makes me feel so much better,” John said. “This is real, isn’t it, this is really happening?”

“Yes,” Faith said, “I’m afraid so. Will you do it?”

“I’ll do it.”

“Good. I never had any doubt. You know there’s a chance I’m wrong, don’t you Johnnie? That it will be a one-way trip after all.”

“Thanks for bringing that up so delicately, old woman. I’ll accept the risk; one life against the lives of whole worlds seems like a small enough price. If I say no I’ll be having my own nightmares every night. Do I need to connect with Alt-Potter?”

“Doesn’t have to be. Any universe we’ve connected to more than once will work, as long as you know it well enough to see if we’re doing damage.”

“Then I’m going to Alt-Jurassic, I’ve made that connect three times. Besides, if it doesn’t work, at least I’ll get a chance to see a dinosaur before I die. I’ll have the numbers ready by Monday night, but I’ll need one of you working the machine, I can’t think of anybody else here I could trust.”

“How about both of us?” Angela asked. “After all, it was our proposal.”

“Both, good, then it can’t fail.”

The three made their plans, staying at John’s house and trying to keep out of sight, and by Monday night they were ready. John had the access codes, but he knew they would need to pass the night guard, a grad student named Lee.

“Why don’t we try the direct approach?” asked Faith. “It beats shooting him.”

“The direct approach?” John asked.

“Sure. He’s a physics student, and I’m a Legend, remember?”

Two hours later they were walking through the front doors of Stanford Linear, acting as if they had every reason in the world to be there. Faith had been right, as soon as Lee saw who was walking up to his desk, his jaw dropped, and he spilled his soda scrambling to stand up.

“You’re…you’re Doctor….oh my god…” he stammered. He never got a chance to finish the thought, because Angela had walked behind him and clocked him with her handbag, loaded with rolls of quarters. They left Lee sleeping in a pool of Dr. Pepper, and headed inside.

 “Too easy,” Faith said, “after tonight there will be Marines at that door.”

They time-stamped the Alt-Jurassic connect to several centuries after the last one, to make sure, and input the calculations.

“If I don’t come back,” John said, “there’s a letter for Vicki on my wristpilot. And I want you to show her those two holograms, maybe then she’ll understand. She loves Rowling’s universe almost as much as she loves Monte’s universe.”

“Shush, Johnnie,” Faith said. “You’ll be back in an hour.” She hit the button.

John looked up. John looked up.

“And I thought quantum math was weird!” he/they said, not quite simultaneously. He/they laughed, a little farther apart this time around. “Jinx!” he/they said, pointing at each other, and the words were almost half a second apart this time. Soon he had become they.

“Okay, let’s do this,” John said. “Yes,” John said, “we might not have much time.”

The two Johns looked around, and realized that things were definitely not okay.

“No ferns,” John said. “No trees,” John responded. “Definitely no dinosaurs, or people either, for that matter,” John replied. “And it’s cold,” John answered, “too cold.” “Way too cold for this universe,” John said.

They headed inland, trying to find something that looked right. Half an hour later they came across the first bones, and picked a large breastbone out of the sand.

“Dinosaur?” John asked. “What else,” John answered. The bone snapped, though they were holding it gently. [wishupona…jpg]

“It’s falling apart!” John exclaimed. “What could make a bone this brittle?” John asked. “Radiation,” both Johns said, back in sync.

They began hiking again, almost running. Eventually they came across the ruins of a town, or a city, though with what was left it was hard to tell. There was smoke here, coming from the center of the ruins, and John and John headed for it. They found a campsite, twenty people dressed in thin leather skins. The people took one look at the two Johns and ran off, screaming. All except one very old man.

“Yu ar twins? Whar do yu com frumm, yu lookk lek de ancesstorss!” the old man said. English, but changed.

John and John sat with the old man, and he told them. The ancestors had come to this world, where people and dinosaurs lived side by side, and at first they joined easily with the human tribes. They said they were from another universe, and had traveled here to live with the dinosaurs. Then one came who wanted to teach the ways of his universe, so everyone, dinosaurs and humans both, could live better. He taught everything, even about energy that was far more powerful than the black powder the raptors used. The humans didn’t have the technology to mine for his radioactive ores, or convert them to power, but the raptors did. Soon the raptor cities glowed with light, and they thought of using their new power to make ships that could travel in space. But war came first, war between raptor cities on opposite sides of the world.

The war destroyed the world, and only a few humans survived. The old man remembered, and his description of the poisonous clouds made John and John even colder than the air. Suddenly John stood up.

“I feel strange,” John said, “I think it might be me.” “I don’t want to die here,” John replied. “We did this,” John answered, “we did all this.” “I know,” John said, but his voice sounded faint, “you have to stop it, you have to!” “I will.”

And then he was back, standing on the platform, and he was crying, sobbing, falling to his knees. Angela was there, her hand on his shoulder.

“I’m going to die there,” he cried, “and I didn’t even say goodbye.”

“What?” Angela said, confused.

“I never thought much about what it would be like if it worked. I’m back there, and it’s awful, everything we feared. A world destroyed, a nuclear wasteland. And I have to live out, I mean he, he has to live out the rest of his days in that hell!”

“It’s almost dawn,” Faith said. “Lets get you home. I’m sure they’ve registered the power drain by now, and the police are probably on their way.”

They made it back to John’s house, and somehow managed to stay out of jail. As far as Alterworldcorp knew, Dr. Ortega was still missing, and Dr. Kelin was just a mad recluse somewhere. John was under investigation, but word of Dr. Ortega’s holograms had leaked out in Europe, and CERN was a hornet’s nest. Several of the top mathematicians were refusing to make connects until the public was told the truth, and the corporate execs knew they were running out of minds that could handle the computations.

In less than a week, John went from being suspect to being their prized genius. Alterworldcorp offered stock options, on the condition that he would do the calculations for the Stanford connects, and stay silent on the rumors coming out of CERN.

Each night, back at his house, the three conspirators discussed what they could do. Faith was willing to go to the press, but they feared Alterworldcorp would stop her before her story ever made it out. Angela and John were thinking of more drastic measures.

Then they were out of time. Alterworldcorp had moved a CERN connect to California, telling the media that CERN was down for upgrades. John was told to make the calculations, and the connect was scheduled in two days. It was Alt-Monte, a universe second only to Alt-Potter in popularity. The Manguel Monte fantasies had come out in 2012, and were still on the best-seller lists. His world was full of Brazilian magic and love, and adventure, with no technology and no evil wizards. It was a natural for Alterworldcorp, and this would be the third connect.

“You know I can’t do it,” John said that night. “Not knowing what we know. I won’t be party to destroying another world, especially not this one. I read those books to my daughter when she was little, they’re incredible!”

“Of course not,” Faith said. “We have to stop them now, and it has to be in a way that they can’t recover from, ever.”

“We need something big,” John said, “so let’s give them something big. Let’s blow the accelerator.”

They fell silent, though no one was shocked at the idea. Finally Faith said, “Okay, let’s do it. It may be the only thing that will get the world’s attention, and bring Alterworldcorp down. I just wish one of us didn’t have to die doing it.”

“Nobody is going to die,” John said. “I have an idea on that…” There was a click, and the front door opened. They all jumped, thinking that Alterworldcorp had discovered them at last. But at the door was just a little girl holding a suitcase, and wearing one of those ‘new style’ red hats that John found so hideous.

“Vicki!” John said, running to embrace his daughter. “I thought I was picking you up at the airport next week?”

“I left, dad, I’m sorry. I had to leave. Mom’s new boyfriend, he tried to…he wanted to touch me, so I ran. I used your credit code, and took the ballistic from New York.” Vicki started crying, and John just held her until she stopped. Faith and Angela let them have their space.

John wanted to go kill his ex’s boyfriend, but for Vicki’s sake he pushed the feeling aside. “Don’t be sorry, Pumpkin,” he said, “don’t ever be sorry for something somebody else did. Are you okay?”

“I am now, now that I’m here. But I’m not going back, I don’t care what the judge says.”

“No, you’re not going back. Nobody would make you go back now.”

“But mom’s going to be so mad, and I just jumped in on you. I should have called from the ballistic, I didn’t know you’d have people here.”

“It’s okay, we can deal with your mom later. Vicki, this is Dr. Ortega, and my old teacher Dr. Kelin. Faith, Angela, this is my daughter.”

“Dr. Kelin?” Vicki asked, her eyes wide. “Dr. Kelin the genius, who figured out all the billions of universes and then disappeared?”

“Yes, dear,” Faith said, “that’s me. But don’t call me ‘the genius,’ call me Faith, I’d like that better.”

“John,” Angela said, “you and your daughter have a lot to talk about, but the Alt-Monte connect is the day after tomorrow, and you said you had an idea about our situation?”

“Yes, I do. But you both need to know that I’ve made a promise that I would never keep anything from my daughter, anything. Our ‘situation’ is going to be hot news soon, no matter what happens, and I’d rather she hear about it from us than from the newsvids.”

“I can’t argue with that,” Faith said. “Little one, how much has your dad taught you about what he does at Stanford Linear?”

“A lot. I can’t do any of the string math or the membrane stuff, but I’m the best in my school at quantum electrodynamic equations!”

“Well,” Faith said, laughing, “I can see this won’t be so hard to explain after all. Let’s make some espresso; it’s going to be a long night. Vicki, do you drink coffee yet?”

“Yes, Dr. Kelin, I mean Faith. I’ll have one.”

“Good for you Vicki, I’m liking you more by the minute.”

It was a long night. Vicki told them about her mom’s boyfriend, and then Faith told Vicki about what they’d discovered. Afterwards she sat for a long time, staring at the two holograms from Alt-Potter.

“I’ll help you,” Vicki said suddenly, “I’ll help you blow the place up! This is terrible, this is like what mom’s boyfriend tried to do to me, except we did it to a world full of people, a whole universe!”

“Yes,” Faith said sadly, “to at least two worlds, maybe more. John, your daughter has guts, but we need a plan. You said you had an idea?”

“We know that to blow the accelerator, you just change one variable in the calculations, but the calculations have to be made from inside, it’s an isolated system. It’s the input point that’s our stumbling block. But what if someone made the calculations from the platform itself? Then they would go through, exactly .03 seconds before the accelerator blew.”

“I’ll do it,” Angela said, “if we can figure out a way to get me inside. Your daughter needs you now, and my kids are grown.”

“But they’ve got the lab locked up tight,” John said. “I can still get in, but we can’t just knock out a grad student this time, we’re talking lots of men, with guns.”

“Dad, do you think they’d let me in with you?” Vicki asked.

“I imagine they would, Pumpkin, but how would that help?”

“Dad,” she said, “I think you and I should both run away, really far away.”

Faith smiled, and Vicki grinned, and then they were all laughing.

By the next night everything was set. On their way to the lab John and Vicki stopped and bought a new wristpilot, one that no Alterworldcorp exec had touched. At the lab John told the guards he needed to make some final checks on the Alt-Monte connect, and wanted to show his daughter where he worked. It got them inside.

John found enough cable, and soon he, Vicki, and one computer console were safely on the platform. He made the calculations, including the one variable that would destroy it all. He put a finger over the accelerator button, and called the police, connecting with the corporate offices of Alterworldcorp and six top news stations at the same time.

“This is Dr. John Florian,” he said. “I am at Stanford Linear, and unless my demands are met I am going to blow up the building. Look at your screens; you can see I have a hostage. If you make an attempt at coming in here, my finger will hit this button. Unless your SWAT teams are good enough to shoot me in less than .03 seconds, I suggest you cooperate.”

Vicki screamed, “Help, my dad’s gone crazy, he’s going to kill us!” She was enjoying this.

“First, you will evacuate the building,” John continued, “and set up a perimeter at fifty yards. Second, the journalists who are listening will send crews to my house, where the esteemed Dr. Faith Kelin will make a statement, to be broadcast live, I repeat live, on all six stations. When I see the broadcast, I will open the door. That is all.”

There was a lot of arguing, but in the end they met his demands. John watched as the news feed appeared on his wristpilot. Dr. Kelin told the world everything, and copies of the Alt-Potter holograms were downloaded to millions of homes. When Faith was done, John broke the connection.

“Shall we run away, Pumpkin?” he asked.

“Let’s do it!” she said. They pushed the button together.

The two suns of Gonzalvia, one huge and red, one small and white, shone above them in a green-tinged sky. They stood on the shore of a silver lake that reflected the sky, and on the other side of the lake were the golden walls and tall towers of a city.

“Not ruined,” said John, letting his breath out with a sigh. “It’s not ruined.”

“Dad,” Vicki shouted, “I’ll race you to the city!”

“Across the lake?”

“Come on dad, don’t you remember the books at all? This is Gonzalvia, not Earth. Just say the magic word “Sanvinio,” and you can walk on water!”

They raced, laughing all the way. John let his daughter win. [thataintice.jpg]


----------



## Thorod Ashstaff (Feb 10, 2005)

My Ceramic Dm submission seems to be invisible. Anybody out there know why? (I did a simple cut and paste from MS Word).


----------



## Eeralai (Feb 10, 2005)

*???*

I have no idea what you did, but I can view it if I do a select all.


----------



## Macbeth (Feb 10, 2005)

Seems when you copied and pasted from MS word, it kept the text color, so everything is black, which looks fine on a white background, but doesn't show on the EN World black.


----------



## Piratecat (Feb 10, 2005)

Yikes! Okay, new rule: if you cut-n-paste from Word, don't do it into the enhanced WYSIWYG editor.  Who knew? Not me!

If Alsih2o gives me the okay, I'll go in and strip out the formatting that is making it invisible. In the mean time, Thorod, don't worry; it'll be simple for me to fix.


----------



## BSF (Feb 10, 2005)

Oops.  That's an interesting one.  I think I might want to do an entire post in the FAQ discussing the various ways to post your entries.  I know I can snarf some of it from Piratecat in a previous contest.  

Thorod, it's not a big deal.  It can be viewed as it is, it just isn't obvious.  It can also be corrected.  Either through a direct edit of the post from Piratecat, or by quoting the story and correcting the formatting in the quote.  

Huh, I had no idea that the WYSIWYG editor would reinterpret like that.  Pretty funky!

EDIT:  For clarity - Do not edit your stories when they are posted.  In a situation such as this, just let the story sit.  Piratecat, as a board Administrator, can correct things if given the green light by Alsih2o, but you shouldn't do it yourself.  I know it looks bad when you can't see your text, but don't worry about fixing it yourself.


----------



## Maldur (Feb 10, 2005)

Is the name of the story: "enjoy the silence"?


----------



## Ruined (Feb 10, 2005)

The best advice to a  new competitor you gave, BardStephenFox, was to go to an old post of yours and edit it, pasting in your story, working out your links, etc.  I know that saved me great amounts of hassle. That and the Preview Your Post button.


----------



## Thorod Ashstaff (Feb 10, 2005)

Thanks, good things to know on the wysiwyg issue. I won't touch it, but PirateCat, you're welcome to mess with it if our esteemed judge allows. Meanwhile, the 'select all' button seems to make it appear.

Okay, Sir Istalinder, the glove is at your feet!


----------



## maxfieldjadenfox (Feb 10, 2005)

Not that I have any computer accumen at all, as Bardstephenfox, Erelai and Thorod know... It looks like you posted in black font on a black background... Is that possible? Looking forward to reading it.


----------



## FireLance (Feb 10, 2005)

*Winter 2005 Ceramic DM Round 1: FireLance vs. NiTessine *

*Life's Illusions*

Victoria felt somewhat guilty as she knocked on the door of her uncle Neil's house. It had been a month since her last visit. She'd put off visiting him, partly because she was busy at work, and partly because he got on her nerves. Still, she felt somewhat responsible for him, since he was the only family she had left, and he took care of her after her parents were killed in the War. Victoria took all her responsibilities seriously.

The door opened, and Victoria's uncle Neil peered out. A broad smile creased his bearded face and his eyes twinkled in delight. "Victoria! How good to see you," he said. "Please, come on in. How are you getting on in the Evocation Research Department?"

"Rather well, thank you. We're currently working on the problem of flight, and making quite good headway," she said. We've worked out how to get people into the air, she thought, moving them in the right direction and getting them down safely is another matter.

"Flight?" he asked, looking bemused. "Whatever for? The Transmutation chaps worked that out several years ago. It helped win the War for us, you know."

"It's for the times that you don't have a Transmuter around, of course. Once we perfect it, an Evoker will be able to provide flight capability as well." Or an Evoker and a parachute, if we don't manage to get it right, she thought gloomily, or perhaps we should try developing an Evocation variant of Feather Fall. "So, what have you been working on yourself?" she asked.

Uncle Neil smiled. "I've been tweaking the Mirror Image spell a little," he said, "Watch." He spoke a word and spread open his hands, palms facing up. A tiny image of himself appeared on each palm, and even smaller images of himself appeared on the palms of those. This went on for as far as Victoria could see. (1) It made her eyes water. "Ta-daa! Fractal Image! Great if you want to masquerade as a chaos theory gnome."

Victoria was not impressed. "Are there any such things as chaos theory gnomes, uncle?" she asked.

Uncle Neil sighed, shook his head and dismissed the spell with a wave. "No, there aren't. It was a joke, Victoria."

"In other words, it's another spell with no practical use whatsoever," she said.

"Only to someone with no sense of humor whatsoever," he shot back.

There was an uncomfortable silence for several moments.

Victoria spoke first. "Look, I'm sorry, Uncle Neil. I didn't mean to say that. It's just that..."

"...You think I'm wasting my time on Illusion. I know. We've had this discussion many times before. Usually, just before you decide not to visit me for a month," he said drily.

Victoria smiled weakly. "Okay, I promise to see you more frequently."

"So you'll be there later? At Erwin's birthday?" he asked.

Victoria grimaced. She had a major field test scheduled, and the main reason why she decided to call on her uncle today was to let him know that she might be too busy to attend that event. But she didn't have the heart to disappoint him now. "I'll be there," she said.

* * * * *

Harmon's Home for Retired Familiars was set up after the War, and catered to familiars who were no longer able to function effectively because of physical injury or psychological trauma. Uncle Neil's familiar, a black and white cat named Erwin, was one of those. An Explosive Runes trap had claimed his right front paw and ended his career, but apparently, had given him a favorite joke in return. Victoria thought it was a dreadfully poor bargain.

"A cat that good, you don't eat it all at once," Erwin said to his audience of disabled creatures of all varieties. Victoria had heard that punch line at least four times since she had arrived at the Home, and found it less amusing with every repetition. It had not been a good day. The field tests of Evoker's Fly had showed that it was even more difficult to control the direction of travel and the pace of descent than originally anticipated. They would be trying it out again in the afternoon, this time with the crash test dummy wearing a specially designed glider suit. However, instead of spending her lunch hour re-checking the parameters of the spell, she was at a birthday party. Right on cue, one of the staff of the Home carried a large birthday cake decorated with a cat made of grey cream into the room. And Uncle Neil had not made an appearance. So much for wanting to see me more often, she thought.

Victoria felt a touch on her leg. It was Erwin. "Victoria," he said, his tone strangely tense and serious, "Look at the cake. Tell me what you see." Victoria looked. "It's just a cake," she said.

"Right," he said, "I'm going to try something. It might work because you're Neil's only surviving relative. I'm going link with you so that you can see through my eyes. When I've done so, look at the cake again, but don't make any sudden moves." He touched Victoria's leg with a paw, and her eyes tingled. "What do you see?" he asked.

Victoria looked at the cake again. The grey cream cat was nothing but a transparent outline surrounding another shape perched on top of the cake. It was a small, horned humanoid with a bloated, sparkling red belly. "A blast imp," Victoria said softly, "What is it doing here?" She had never seen one before, but she had read about them. They were used as assassins in the War because they were able change their shape to appear harmless, and then explode with enough magical energy to destroy a small building when their target approached. Even attacking a blast imp was dangerous, as they exploded when they were killed.

"I have a hunch," Erwin said. "Since it hasn't detonated itself yet, it must be waiting for something. Don't make any sudden moves. If it thinks it's been discovered, it might just decide to blow itself up early. Come with me."

"What about the other familiars? Will they be able to see it?" she asked, as she followed him out of the room and into the corridor.

"I doubt it. Neil had me enhanced with a permanent True Seeing, and he was one of the few mages who had the power to do so." He stopped outside an open doorway. "This is my room. Go inside and look under my sleeping basket." Victoria lifted the basket and saw a dagger with a dull black blade. "Your Uncle Neil's old dagger, the one he carried during the War," Erwin said, "He left it with me, because he hated the War and anything that reminded him of it. Sometimes, I think that was the real reason why he had me retired." Erwin paused gloomily for a moment. "Anyway, it's an absorbing dagger. Touch the blast imp with it, and it'll be sucked inside. He won't be able to harm anyone in there."

"But if the imp sees us coming with the dagger, won't it blow up? How can we get close enough to touch it?" Victoria asked.

"Two things. First, a little bit of glamer. You can't help picking up a trick or two from hanging around the finest Illusionist in the War," Erwin said. He murmured an incantation, and the dagger shimmered and suddenly resembled an ordinary kitchen knife. "Next, I have a hunch who the blast imp is after, and I'm guessing it isn't you. The blast imp isn't going to blow up unless its target is nearby, or it is discovered, so we'll just have to act naturally. And what could be more natural than someone helping a poor, disabled, retired familiar who has lost the use of his right front paw to cut his birthday cake?"

"Yes, that just might work," Victoria said. She picked up Erwin and the absorbing dagger, and returned to the party. Slowly and carefully, she approached the cake, holding the glamered dagger and Erwin's right front leg in her right hand, and supporting Erwin with her left. (2) Using the True Seeing she had from her link with Erwin, she watched the blast imp nervously. Was it suspicious? Would it give any hint before it exploded?

The blast imp's beady eyes looked around the room, as if it was searching for someone or something. As Victoria got close to the cake, it stared into her face and their gazes locked for an instant, before its eyes widened in shock. Immediately, Victoria realized her mistake. She had been looking directly at the blast imp! Desperately, she lunged forward, slashing with her dagger. The dagger blade bit into the blast imp's arm, and it suddenly vanished. Dropping the dagger, Victoria backed away, heaving a huge sigh of relief.

"It's not over yet," Erwin said, solemnly. "That blast imp was on that cake for a reason. Since nobody would bother sending one after an old, crippled familiar, the logical conclusion is that its target was the familiar's former master, who might be expected to help him cut the cake. I think Neil is in danger. You have to go warn him."

"But why would anyone want to kill Uncle Neil?" Victoria asked.

"Neil never told you what he did during the War, did he?" Erwin observed. "You can ask him after you warn him. Don't just stand there wasting time, go!"

Victoria ran out of the Home. Visions of her uncle lying dead in a pile of rubble danced through her mind. She needed to get halfway across the town as quickly as possible. Why was there never a Conjurer or a Transmuter around when you needed one? A sudden flash of inspiration struck her, and she ran for the Evocation Research Department. 

Once she got there, she quickly changed into a flight suit and strapped a parachute to her back. The crash test dummy with the glider suit had already been set up in the field test site. Grabbing hold of it tightly, she invoked her spell.

Evocation magic deals with damaging energies, great forces and massive explosions. The power unleashed by Victoria's spell blasted the dummy into the air, leaving behind only a trail of smoke to mark its passage. If she had cast it on herself, it would probably have broken every bone in her body. As it was, her arms felt as if they were almost ripped from their sockets simply from holding on to the rapidly-moving dummy. Victoria was gratified to note that the glider suit worn by the dummy did slow her fall somewhat, and allowed her to bank slightly so that she was headed towards her uncle's house. When she thought that she was close enough, she jumped off the dummy and released her parachute (3). Her judgement was accurate, and she landed safely in front of her uncle's house.

Releasing her parachute, she ran to the door and hammered on it. "Uncle Neil, are you home?" she yelled. There was no answer. Cautiously, she tried the door. It was unlocked. She opened it and peered inside. "Uncle Neil, where are you?" she asked.

Apart from the absence of her uncle, the living room was the same as she recalled from that morning. There was no sign of violence or destruction anywhere. Staying alert for danger, she crossed the living room and opened the door to her uncle's bedroom. The bedroom was slightly messy and disorganized, but there was nothing out of the ordinary to be seen. She was about to search the other rooms of the house when she noticed a framed picture at the far end of the room, turned to face the wall and leaning against it. Curious, she walked to it and turned it over. It was a black and white photograph of some men in uniforms that dated to the War, but it was terribly out of focus. What a strange thing to have around, she thought.

As she put down the picture, she was suddenly aware of a cold wind blowing. As she looked for the source of the breeze, she was startled to note that her vision was blurring, and colors of the room around her were fading, until all she could see was a swirling cloud of grey. Then, the shapes around her sharpened and she found herself in what seemed to be a desolate, black and white landscape, facing the blurred shapes she had previously seen in the photograph.

A voice behind her said, "All right, chaps, we've got the shot, you Blur Berets can refocus now." One of the blurred shapes in front of her quickly sharpened into the image of a rugged, muscular man. (4) The rest soon followed suit.

The first man walked away from the others, sat by himself on a handy rock. He was soon joined by another. "I wonder why they bothered to do that. So that we can remember everyone who gets killed tonight?" the second man said. The first man said nothing.

The second man sighed. "You've been to see the Doc?" The first man nodded. "It's not good?" the second man asked. The first man shook his head. "Doc says the blast nearly killed him. He may not pull through." The second man mumbled something under his breath. "But look, man," he said, "We have the chance to get back at them, okay? Tonight, we make them pay." The first man smiled grimly. "Yeah, tonight, we'll make them pay."

And suddenly, it was night, in the thick of a battle. The air was filled with the sound of explosions and the moans of the dying. Blurred shapes dodged blasts of energy and engaged those who threw them in melee combat. A jet of flame streamed from the fingers of one man and engulfed one of the blurred shapes. It fell to the floor and lay still. "No!" someone screamed, and Victoria recognized the voice as that of the first man. One of the blurred shapes suddenly disappeared, and seconds later, the man that had cast the jet of flame collapsed, clutching at the slash wound that had mysteriously appeared in his throat. Then, another man collapsed, his stomach cut open, and then a third, bleeding profusely from stab wounds in his back. Before Victoria's eyes, death after gruesome death occurred, then the scene blurred again, the colors returned, and she found herself in her uncle's bedroom again. Uncle Neil was standing in the door leading to the living room.

"So now you know," he said simply. "I discovered Invisibility, one of the other factors that helped win the War for us. And after the War, after my discovery had resulted in countless deaths, I decided that I would never again create something that could be used for harm. I would devote my life to causing laughter and joy rather than sorrow and pain." Uncle Neil sighed, "I hope you understand, Victoria. I've lost so many things in my life, mostly because of the War. I don't want to lose you, too."

Victoria stepped forward and hugged him. "Uncle Neil, I do understand, and you're not going to lose me. You could have just told me. You didn't have to go through such elaborate lengths."

"Elaborate lengths?"

"You set up the scene in the Home, didn't you? And the blast imp was just an illusion, wasn't it?"

Uncle Neil smiled sheepishly. "Yes, I did, and yes, it was. Everything in the photographic illusion was real, though."

"Even if it wasn't, it doesn't matter. War hero or not, impractical joker or not, even though you made me sick with worry and very nearly made me break my neck trying to get to you on an experimental spell, you made me realize today that I do care for you, even if I don't agree with you. And if Illusion magic can do that, maybe it isn't such a waste of time after all."

And Victoria and her Uncle Neil smiled, the first time they had done so together in a long time.

(1) Uncle Neil's Fractal Image spell
(2) The attack on the blast imp
(3) Victoria's Evoker's Fly spell
(4) The Blur Berets


----------



## Rodrigo Istalindir (Feb 10, 2005)

*Winter 2005 Ceramic DM Round 1 - Rodrigo Istalindir vs Thorod Ashstaff*

“I’d like to begin by welcoming our new employees and those of you here for your semi-annual referesher training,” the speaker in the preppy sweater said.  “ Here at Savini Services, we believe that a well-trained work force is the key to success.”

	Glen Turnbull immediately tuned out the droning voice.  He’d been employed at Savini’s for two years, and these presentations were always boring as hell.  Three hours of stupid HR crap and cookie-cutter Powerpoint presentations did nothing to prepare you for the realities of the job.  At least the donuts were good.

	His mind wandered to his conversation with Becky that morning.  Argument, really.  The same argument they’d had almost every morning for the past month.  Becky’s nagging about his job had become incessant despite the fact that he spent every Sunday morning combing the classifieds looking for a new one.  Glen was good at his job, but the skills he’d perfected at Savini’s weren’t terribly useful elsewhere.  Becky didn’t care.  She kept pushing him to get a better paying job doing white-collar work. Apparently, all she cared about anymore was herself and where her next meal was coming from. 

	Glen knew he had to end the relationship, but they’d been together since high school.  They’d stayed together even though she’d gone off to college while he served a stint in the Army.  His tour ended, she graduated, and it was if they had been together every day instead of the odd week here and there.  It was over, there was no doubt about that.  But it was still hard to pull the trigger, so to speak.

	“So you can see, it doesn’t really matter how much trauma is inflicted on the target.  Incapacitation can only be achieved by interrupting the signals from the brain to the body.  Here at Savini’s, we have a saying:  ‘Kill the brain, kill the ghoul’” (Picture 1)

	The smattering of polite applause snapped Glen from his reverie.  The other attendees were standing, heading out of the small conference room to go to the bathroom or grab a smoke.  He stood and started to head to the employee lounge to grab a cup of coffee when someone grabbed his arm.

	“Glen, got a minute” asked Trip Walker, junior VP for Internal Process Compliance (Washington Office).

	“I notice you’ve been slacking off, Glen.  You’re a week behind on your Termination and Protective Services reports.”  Trip said with insincere smile.

	“Uh, yeah, Trip.  I was on assignment until Friday.  Today’s Monday.”

	“Right.  Your reports were due last week.  It’s this week.  They’re a week late.”

	“Right.  I’ll get on those as soon as the class is over.”

	“Great, Glen.  I knew I could count on you.  Now that I’m a VP, I need you guys to make me look good!”  

	“You’ve got that right, Trip” Glen replied, inwardly laughing as the smug grin on Trip’s face gave way to puzzlement as he tried to figure out whether he’d been insulted.

	“And by the way, Trip.  I’ve been meaning to congratulate you on your promotion.  Junior V.P. is a heck of an accomplishment.  One of only 12 in the office.” A office consisting of 30 people, Glen thought.

	Trip’s smile returned.

	“Hey, thanks Glen.  You’ll be up here too, someday.”

	“I can’t wait, Trip.  I can’t wait.”  Glen said, as he joined the rest of the herd returning to the classroom.

*

	The commute home sucked.  Some moron downloaded a virus onto the network, so the system was down half the day, keeping him there till after 6 to finish the reports for Trip.  The delay threw his whole schedule off, making him miss the bus that took him to the Metro, which made him miss the 6:30 train and the 7:00 bus from the station to his apartment.

	Glen slammed the door behind him and dumped his backpack on the floor.  The apartment was dark save for the ghostly flickering of the television.   Becky had been burning some Oriental incense constantly of late, and the air was thick with the smell.

	Becky must’ve gone out and forgotten to turn the TV off, he thought, as he wandered into the living room and turned on a light.

	“Jesus, Glen, are you trying to blind me?”  Becky shouted from the couch.

	Glen’s heart skipped.

	“What are you doing sitting here in the dark? “

	“Watching TV.  You’re late.”

	“I had some paperwork to catch up on.”

	“Damn it,  when are you going to ditch that job.  That’s all you ever do.  Work, work, work.  We never do anything fun anymore.”

	“Can we not have this discussion again.   I hate that job as much as you do, but it’s better than nothing.”

	He could tell by the way her jaw clenched that she was getting ready to launch into another tirade.  He cut her off.

	“Look, have you eaten?  Let’s go out somewhere nice for dinner.”

	“I already ate.”  As soon as she said it, Glen saw the remnants of ribs and napkins covered in barbecue sauce strewn on the coffee table.

	“And didn’t save me any.  Thanks a bunch.”

	Glen turned and went into the kitchen.  He rummaged through the refrigerator, grabbed a soggy container with Chinese food left over from the weekend, and then headed for the second bedroom he used as a study.  

*

Glen awoke when he felt Becky slip into bed beside him.  Through slitted eyes, he looked at the alarm clock on the dresser.  Three-thirty in the morning, he thought.  She’d left the apartment at some point while he was playing on the computer.  No ‘goodbye’, no note, nothing.  And now she sneaks in, reeking of cigarette smoke and too much perfume.  

	He closed his eyes and went back to sleep.

*

	She was still dead to the world when he awoke in the morning.  He tried to rouse her, but she just pushed him away.

	“Becky, you’re going to be late for work.”

	“I’m off today.  Gonna sleep in.” she mumbled.

	“Oh.  Have a nice day, then.  I’ll see you tonight.”

	Glen left the apartment and started walking to the bus stop.  He approached just in time to see the bus pull away.  He looked at his watch, then at the departing bus, back at his watch.  

	“Son of a bitch!”  he shouted.  He was on time, but the bus was leaving early.

	Now he was looking at another commute from hell.  Probably be yelled at your being late, too.

	Screw it, he thought, and pulled out his cell phone.

	“Savini Services, how can I help you?” 

	“Hey, Carol, it’s Glen.  I’m gonna be out sick today.  Think I picked up a cold on that stakeout last week.”

	“Oh, that’s too bad, Glen.  You get some rest.”

	“Thanks.  I’ll see you tomorrow.”

	He turned and started walking back to the apartment complex.   He was a block away when he saw Becky run out of the apartment.  She hurried to the street where her car was parked, hopped into her car, and peeled away.

*

The next morning, Glen called in sick again.  He left for work as he usually did, but this time, he headed for the parking lot when he got to the Metro station.  He looked around, then spotted the Zipcar section.  He walked up and used the smartcard he’d gotten from them yesterday to unlock the car. 

He drove back to his apartment, parked a block away, and waited.

Ten minutes after he arrived, he watched as Becky, dressed in black and carrying her red coat, drove off towards the city.  He started the car and followed her downtown.  He suspicions rose as she drove past the 12th street exit she normally took to work.   She kept driving till she exited at 16th.  She pulled up to the parking garage for the mall.

Glen drove around the block for several minutes, then returned to the shopping center.   He grabbed a ticket from the parking machine and drove down into the garage.  He cruised slowly, looking around until he spotted Becky’s car.   He turned the corner and parked.

He took the elevator to the street.  He looked around, then saw her bright red coat heading east.  Keeping a safe distance, he followed her.  After a couple of blocks, he realized she was heading towards her office.  

He knew that the company she worked for paid for her parking.  He couldn’t understand why she’d park 4 blocks away when there was a garage below the office building.  He was even more puzzled when instead of going into the lobby, she leaned against the wall next to one of the window displays.  

He slipped into the Starbucks across the street and watched her through the window.  A few minutes later, an old woman exited the building and stood on the street trying to hail a cab. (Picture 2)  Becky walked up behind her and leaned in close.  It looked like she whispered something, but he couldn’t tell for sure.   

The old woman turned and began walking up the street, back towards where Glen and Becky had parked.  Becky stayed close to her, one hand gripping her arm as she steered her along the sidewalk.  The street was nearly empty – the mid-morning smoke and coffee breaks over, and lunch still an hour or more away.

Glen slipped out of the coffee shop and resumed his surveillance.  The pair returned to the garage, and got into the elevator.  Glen rushed forward as soon as the doors closed, and watched the numbers overhead change as the elevator descended.  He expected to see them stop at P2 where their cars were, but the blinking lights continued to move, finally stopping on P5.  

Glen pushed the call button, and hurried aboard the empty car when it arrived.  He pressed ‘P5’ and waited.  When the doors opened, he cautiously peered around the corner, then scuttled behind a pillar.

	This level of the garage was deserted.  He could hear whispers, urgent, angry, but the empty space echoed, making the words indistinct.   He picked a direction, then flitted from pillar to pillar, looking more like John Belushi than James Bond.

The voices grew louder and more clear.  He realized that there were several people speaking.  He came to a corner, and peeked around.  

In a shadowed corner of the garage, he saw a several young men and Becky crowded around the old woman.  The woman looked terrified; the mob gleeful.  With no warning, one of the men swung his fist, striking her in the back of  the head and knocking her to her knees.  As if one, the others began hitting and clawing at her.  She collapsed completely, feebly struggling to get away.

Stunned, Glen reached into his pocket for his cell phone.  He pulled back out of sight around the corner, and dialed ‘911’.  Putting the phone to his ear, he heard nothing.  He looked at the display, and realized he had no signal.

He was about to run back to the elevator when the sound of Becky’s laughter caught his ear.  He peered around the corner again, and nearly vomited.    No matter how many times he’d seen it, the sight of a pack of ghouls feeding was never pleasant.

Becky was kneeling over the woman, face covered in red as she gnawed at a fistful of torn flesh.  The victim still twitched as the men pulled chunks of meat from her legs and back.

He turned his back on the carnage and sprinted for the elevator.  He banged on the button, and hurried to enter as soon as the doors parted.  He was nearly bowled over by two men in trenchcoats.

“Dave?  Stan?”

“Glen?”

The two men stared at him.

“They said you were out sick, bud.  Must’ve been a snafu at dispatch.  So, where are they?”  Dave said.

“Uh, back there, around the corner.” Glen stammered.

“Cool.  Let’s go get them.”

Dave pulled a Mossberg 500 bullpup shotgun out from his coat, and headed into the garage.  Stan followed close behind, a .357 in each fist.  Glen hurried after them.  

Dave and Stan charged forwards.  Their sudden arrival surprised the pack, and one was dropped by a shotgun blast to the head before it had a chance to move.  The rest scattered.   Glen lost sight of Becky in the darkness. 

“Stan, you get  those three.  Glen and I will go after the bigger group.”

“We shouldn’t split up.  You know the rules.”  Stan argued.

“Wuss.  There’s three of us.  We’ll be fine.”  Dave called back over his shoulder as he rushed off in pursuit.

“This is a bad idea.” Stan said, and then ran off after the rest.

Looking around wildly, Glen spotted the bloody prints of a woman’s shoe heading off in the direction that Stan had gone.   He hesitated for a moment, then sprinted after Stan.

Glen had a hard time keeping up.  Someone, presumably the ghouls, had shattered most of the light bulbs overhead, plunging large sections of the garage into deep darkness.  Stan and Dave had their night vision gear, but he was almost blind, and he nearly knocked himself senseless several times glancing off cement pillars as he ran.

The garage echoed with the sounds of gunfire, but whether or not the shots were hitting their mark, he couldn’t tell.  The parasite thought to be responsible for Bodoff-Ensai Disease rendered its hosts almost immune to pain, and possessed of rather remarkable recuperative powers.  The pharmaceutical industry was engaged in their own version of the Manhattan Project, racing to perfect a way to harness the benefits of the disease without the rather unfortunate side-effect of turning the victim into a rational but psychopathic cannibal.

Glen tripped over a body and fell.  He scrambled to his feet, glancing at the corpse long enough to see it was one of the ghouls and not his co-worker.  Muzzle flashes ahead of him momentarily revealed Stan, legs spread, revolvers blazing at an unseen target.  

The strobe effect also illuminated one of the ghouls as it crawled from beneath an abandoned car and lunged towards Stan.

“Look out!”  Glen shouted.

The warning came too late.  The ghoul latched onto Stan before he had a chance to turn around.  The gunman’s loud cry turned into a gurgle as the monster bit through his throat.

Dashing forward, Glen grabbed one the revolvers from the ground.  Praying that it wasn’t empty, he grabbed the ghoul by the hair.  Yanking its head back, he shoved the pistol in its mouth and pulled the trigger.

The report, though somewhat muffled by the deranged creature’s skull, still nearly deafened him.   He pushed the corpse away, and knelt to look at Stan.

There was nothing he could do.  The bite had severed the jugular, and blood rushed over his fingers as he fought to staunch the flow.  In moments, Stan was dead.

Wiping his hands on the dead man’s coat, Glen stood.  He had to find Becky before Dave or another Savini’s employee did.  He tucked the gun in his coat pocket.  Looking around, he saw bloody footprints leading to an emergency stairwell.   He pushed open the door and followed the trail upwards.

The alarm on the emergency door was blaring as Glen stepped onto the street.  The parking garage filled the entire city block, and it took him a moment to get his bearings.  He realized he was on the opposite side of where they had come in, close to the Natural History Museum that had been the latest attempt to revitalize the tourism industry.

The trail was almost invisible now, as the blood on her shoes dried.  Still, it looked as if she was heading towards the museum.  

That makes sense, he thought.  It’s doubtful Dave got a good look at her.  If she ditches the coat and cleans up, she could lose herself in the crowd.

Glen rushed towards the entrance.  He was careful to keep his bloody hands in his pockets.   He didn’t want a panic, and if someone called the police, the dispatcher at Savini’s would pick it up on the scanner and notify Dave.

He asked the ticket-taker where the restrooms were, and headed calmly towards them.  Taking a quick look about, he made sure no one was looking at him before ducking into the ladies room.

Quietly, he peered into the waste bin and saw piles of bloody paper towels.  He held the gun in his right hand and pushed the stall doors open with his left.  Empty, save for a red coat hanging on the back of the middle door.

He left the bathroom and returned to the main floor of the museum.  Although there were a number of people in attendance, they were clumped here and there looking at the exhibits, giving the impression that the place was mostly empty.

Glen wandered from group to group, looking for Becky.  He found her hanging at the back of a tour group looking at the dinosaur exhibit.

“Becky?”

Her head whipped around, and for a moment he saw the bloodlust that simmered in her eyes.  It disappeared beneath the surface once she recognized him, but he had seen the monster lurking there.

“Glen?  Wow, what are you doing…” she started.  Her voice trailed off as she realized that he knew her secret.  She edged away from the tour group, towards an unattended exhibit.

“Glen, please.  I know you hunt people like me, hunt us down and kill us.  But you don’t know the whole story.  Your bosses don’t want you to know.”

“Are you kidding me?  I saw you and your friends rip that woman to pieces.  What else is there to know?”

“She wanted us to, honey.  She worked in my office.  Somehow she found out about me, and asked me to infect her.”

“She had cancer, lung cancer.  She was going to die.  She thought that if she got infected with BE, it would cure her.”

“How was eating her going to cure her?”  Glen stared at her in horror.

“It wasn’t supposed to be like that.  I thought I could control the pack.  But they went wild when they smelled the blood.  I did too.  I’m sorry, I didn’t mean for this to happen.”

“You’ve got to believe me.  This was the first time we ever attacked a person.  We’d managed to control the hunger by feeding off of each other, or animals.”


For the first time since he’d started working at Savini’s, Glen was unsure.  He knew the company line, that once turned the ghouls couldn’t be cured, couldn’t control their hunger.  But what if that was just a way to protect their business?  Savini’s made millions in government contracts.  And if Becky couldn’t control her hunger, why hadn’t she attacked him?

“Stand clear, Glen”  

Glen turned, and saw Dave standing on the other side of the exhibit, ten yards away.  The shotgun was once again concealed beneath his coat.

Glen turned back to Becky

“Get ready to run.” He whispered.

Glen backed away from Becky, then charged fossilized leg supporting the immense creature that towered above them.  He hard Becky’s footsteps as she ran away, heard Dave curse as the shotgun got tangled in his coat.

Loud creaking gave way to the sounds of ancient bones shattering as the dinosaur toppled.  With a crash, it knocked Dave to the ground and pinned him beneath its shattered ribcage.

Looking back over his shoulder, Glen saw  Becky dash through the door and out onto the Mall.  There was a stampede behind her as the rest of the crowd fled.  The lone security guard was nearly trampled by the tide.

He rushed to Dave’s side.  He hoped he wasn’t hurt.  Dave was just doing his job.

He pulled the bones away and helped Dave to his feet.  The shotgun lay on the ground, its strap tangled in the mess.

“You shouldn’t have done that, Glen.  You know there will be consequences.”

“Yeah, well, I’d been looking for a new job anyway.  I couldn’t keep working for a place that would promote Trip to VP.”

“You’re going to lose more than your job, pal.  I heard what she said to you, and I can tell you believed her.  No way is old man Savini going to let you live.”

Dave bent and began trying to free the shotgun from the rubble.

Glen nearly turned to run, but his training took over.  He grabbed the three-foot long breastbone, still miraculously intact, and swung it at Dave.

At the last second, Dave sensed something.  He released the shotgun, twisted and stopped the wishbone inches from his face.  The men began struggling for possession of the artifact.   With a loud crack, the ages-old bone cracked in two.   

For a long, drawn-out moment, the two men stared at the fragments in their hand.  (Picture 3) With a roar, Dave raised the larger half over his head, intent on smashing Glen’s brains out.   Glen lunged forward, driving the splintered end of the smaller fragment into Dave’s chest.  Dave dropped his bone mid-swing and collapsed.

Guess you didn’t get your wish, Glen thought, as he stepped over Dave’s body and headed out the main entrance.  

He ran out the same door through which Becky had fled.  The crowd had gathered a fair distance back.  Police cars had blocked the end of the street, and uniformed cops were trying to establish a perimeter.

He ran up to the nearest cop and flash his company ID.  

“Keep the perimeter secure until my colleagues arrive.  The ghoul already took out one hunter.  Don’t put your men at risk.”

The cop gulped and nodded, and began issuing orders to the other cops.

Glen disappeared into the crowd and began trying to spot Becky.  He saw her off in the distance, heading across the park towards the river.  The cold weather kept the tourists hurrying from museum to museum, so no one was dawdling outside.  He began running in her direction.

He had almost reached her when a car screeched to a halt in front of him.  A man stepped out wearing a Savini uniform.  

Becky had looked back when she heard the car brakes squeal, then turned and kept running when she saw the agent step out.  Glen saw her reach the edge of river and climb over the rail.

“This one’s mine.” he yelled at the agent, “She killed Dave.”

He resumed his pursuit.  He reached the guard rail, and hopped over.  

The river was mostly frozen, with a inch or so of sun-melted water covering the surface.  Becky was still fleeing, slipping and sliding.  (Picture 4)

A loud crack shattered the air, and Glen’s stomach flip-flopped when he saw Becky fall to the ground.  He looked back, expecting to see a Savini agent with a rifle, but the man in the car was looking at the river and speaking into a cell phone.

Glen ran towards where Becky had fallen, and saw that she had broken through the ice.  She was soaked, struggling to pull herself back above water.

“Becky,” he said. 

She stopped struggling and looked up.  Glen stood a few feet away, pistol aimed at her head.

“I love you, ”  he said, and pulled the trigger.

*

Hours later, after an exhaustive debriefing at the office, Glen returned home.  He had managed to convince him that he had taken off from work to do some Christmas shopping downtown, and had run into Dave and Stan.   They had no reason to disbelieve his story.  He was the hero that had taken down the ghoul pack that had killed two agents.

They even talked of promoting him.   Glen wasn’t sure he could continue to work there, but what better place to learn the truth about the ghouls than from within the company paid to exterminate them?

	Well, there is one better place, he thought, as he entered his apartment.  He could hear the shower running, and steam filled the air.  He pushed open the door to the bathroom.    Becky stood beneath the scalding spray.

	“Damn, that water was cold,” she said. 

	“Cold enough that no one wanted to send for divers to look for your body, anyway.  I wasn’t sure how long ghouls could go without oxygen.”

	“Neither was I.  And we don’t like the word ‘ghouls’, honey.  We prefer ‘undead American’”

	Glen was nonplussed.  “You’re kidding, right?”

	“Of course I’m kidding, you goof,” she laughed as she pulled him fully-clothed into the shower.


----------



## NiTessine (Feb 10, 2005)

*Determinism*

Will had known it was going to get weird the moment he saw the black-robed man flying towards him at 500 feet, apparently under his own power (3), but he never anticipated how weird. As he had dangled from his parachute, gently descending and looking at the rapidly disappearing man, it had occurred to him that perhaps he’d accidentally jumped into a military test zone for hi-tech toys, and there’d be men in black waiting on the ground to take him away. Why one such would be located where he was parachuting every week was beyond him, but it had been the only rational explanation his mind could formulate.

Once his ‘chute had been cut off and he had been grabbed from behind in midair, he had come to the inevitable conclusion that rationality was out of the game.

With his helmet and the disconcertingly high speed, he’d been unable to take a look at his assailant, and resigned to trying to pinpoint where he was being taken. Whatever power he had been flown under was apparently soundless. They’d dropped in altitude to nearly brush the treetops, and Will had lost sense of where they were headed.

Now, he was sitting on a cold, smooth stone floor in a cave where he’d been dropped. It was a hole in the sheer cliff face, with a drop of hundreds of feet into a river. He could not remember a place like that anywhere nearby the airfield, or in the whole state for that matter. The man who’d dropped him had flown away, leaving a cloud of brimstone-smelling smoke that dissipated soon. Will had only been able to glimpse his kidnapper before he flew off, but he’d seen the man wore the same black robe as the first flier he’d observed.

The cave was small, with smooth, round walls that curved into the ceiling just above Will’s head. It was too even, too smooth to be natural. It was man-made, and he was starting to like it less and less. For the sake of experiment, he walked to the edge of the opening and shouted at the top of his lungs:
“HELP!”

“It’s not going to work, you know,” said a calm voice from behind him. Startled, Will turned around. There was an old, short man with a neat white moustache, clad in black robes like a monk. The ghost of a smile played around the corners of his mouth. Behind him was a dark opening in the wall that hadn’t been there moments before.
“Who are you? What are you going to do to me?” Will requested.
“I am Edgar. I… We will show you something. Worry not, you will not be harmed,” the old man replied in a reassuring manner. Will thought he detected the hint of an English accent. “Please, follow me, and you will receive your explanations in due time, William.”
“How do you know my name? Is this some sort of sick joke that my friends put you up to?”
“I would be surprised indeed if your friends had access to resources such as ours,” Edgar replied and turned around, disappearing into the dark doorway. After a moment’s hesitation, Will followed.

There was a lightless tunnel that went on for many minutes. A glow emanated from something held by Edgar, silhouetting his shape with pale luminescence and casting a weak light upon the stone walls. Finally, it terminated into a dead end, a smooth stone wall. Edgar spoke words in a language that Will could not comprehend, and a way opened, but not in a way he had ever seen a door open. No slab of rock slid away to let them pass, no door swung open in front of them. Rather, the rock itself contracted, reminiscent of a flexing muscle, and a hole opened in it, expanding to let he two men pass.

“How did that..?” Will started once they were through, but Edgar cut him off:
“It is the weakest of the things you will see here today and learn to do tomorrow.”
“Learn to do? What was that?”
“It’s easiest to think of it as magic,” Edgar replied nonchalantly. “The author Philip K. Dick once said that any technology sufficiently advanced is indistinguishable from magic.”
“And I suppose you’re a wizard?”
“I prefer the term _magus_, plural _magi_, but ‘wizard’ does capture the essence of it, though in a tacky manner.”
“This is just like that Harry Potter movie, right? You’re gonna teach me magic?”

Will couldn’t see Edgar’s face, but somehow he could tell the old man winced.
“Yes, that is essentially it. This was so much easier before that Rowling woman made magic popular. As for why we picked you, it’s because a) you can be trained, it’s in your genes, and b) you are single, have no living family and virtually no social contact outside of your workplace, landlord and parachuting instructor.”
“And all this time, they thought it was the government who’s spying on us.”
“Oh, they’re doing it too. We’re just better.”
“Hey, do tinfoil hats really work against mind control rays?”
“Not really, but then, one would need a mind to be controlled.”

The tunnel widened into a chamber, this one with actual furniture and small glowing bulbs on the walls shedding light into the room. There was a cushioned chair and a small table upon which lay a book. What first attracted Will’s notice, though was the man standing near the wall. He was bearded, had a bit of a gut, and in his both hands he held miniature versions of himself, cut off at the waist. The miniature men in turn held smaller versions of themselves who held even smaller ones, and so on. (1)
“Take a seat, William, I’ll be along shortly,” Edgar said, paying no mind to the strange man.
“Who’s he?”
“Not ‘who’, ‘what’. Not ‘he’, ‘it’. To tell you the truth, we’re a bit confused about it. From what we’ve been able to tell, it’s the first actually functioning perpetual motion machine. It keeps replicating those handheld mini-men, drawing power from the process to fuel the process itself. It’s paradoxical in so many ways it makes my brain hurt if I think of it for too long. Theoretically, it’s an eternal power source. Theoretically, it also has an infinite surface, thus fusing it with the very fabric of reality and all that sort of thing. We never figured out any practical use for it, so we put it here. One of the older members of our order created it before he passed away several years ago. Now, wait.”

Obediently, Will sat down, as Edgar departed via another strangely opening hole in the wall. He was vaguely aware he was trapped, but somehow Edgar gave off a reassuring feeling, which in itself was disconcerting. Pushing it away from his mind, he turned his attention to the book.

The cover was red leather, and bore the gold-embossed title “William Guildenstern”.

He was not surprised. He opened the book and leafed through it. There was a detailed chapter on his family tree, his school years, his first job as a park ranger – here he paused to glance at a peculiar photograph. It was a sepia-toned group shot from his ranger days, with all others blurred away. He remembered the photo, had it back home in a photo album, but in colour with all the other rangers in it. Will frowned, just as Edgar returned.

“What did you do to this photo?” Will asked him.
“PhotoShop. I needed the practice. Come, you are going to meet some people.”
“Who?”
“Fellow _magi_.”
Incredulously, Will followed.

They passed through another short tunnel and came to a door. It was a white, wooden one, with a brass handle. Edgar opened it.

The room beyond was very ordinary, and as such, so very out of place in the cavern network they’d just passed through. It looked like a normal middle-class home, with a rug on the floor, mildly kitschy porcelain animals on the windowsill, and Ikea furniture. From the window he saw a well-kept yard, a white picket fence, and the kind of normal, mould-cast suburb that people love to make fun of.

In the room were two women, holding small pets. One, whom Edgar went on to introduce as Katherine, held a small dog that wouldn’t have looked out of place in the end of a broomstick and the other a cat with a hat. This one was introduced as Maria. They were smiling, but strangely quiet. Then the cat spoke.
“Welcome, William. We have been expecting you.”

Will blinked a few times, then recollected himself. He was beginning to get ready to believe anything.
“Hello…”
“We messed up an experiment, okay? We don’t like to talk about it, especially not on my birthday.”
“Err… congratulations.”
“Thanks,” the cat answered as the woman took her to a table where stood a cake. It had a marzipan cat on it. “Technically, it’s the cat’s birthday, but I celebrate it anyway. When you’re stuck in a body without opposable thumbs, you use every excuse to party.”

The woman held the cat in one hand, and picked up a knife in the other. Then, holding the cat’s paw over the knife’s handle, she cut the cake. (2)

Will shot a questioning glance at Edgar, who merely shrugged.
“Here, sit down, have some cake,” the cat invited. “And then we shall discuss your future.”


----------



## alsih2o (Feb 10, 2005)

Piratecat said:
			
		

> Yikes! Okay, new rule: if you cut-n-paste from Word, don't do it into the enhanced WYSIWYG editor.  Who knew? Not me!
> 
> If Alsih2o gives me the okay, I'll go in and strip out the formatting that is making it invisible. In the mean time, Thorod, don't worry; it'll be simple for me to fix.




 Wow, I mean, wow. After a few weeks of wacky art school types that seems like a statement.

 Of course twist it back right, P-kitty. Please.


----------



## alsih2o (Feb 11, 2005)

Big Tom Vs. Eeralai Judgement-

 Alsih2o-

  Big Tom- Wow. What a strange tale.

  I enjoyed MOST of the world you have here. I empathized with the main character, believed the other characters and felt like you created a cohesive environment for a story. What I didn’t like was the ending. 

 Part of the problem is that it is a BAM kind of punchline ending and it isn’t as strong as other parts of the story. Some of which are really strong. 

 The tree picture seems to have been stretched a bit. OK, more than a bit. Maybe a previous reference would have helped?

 The ape costume pic is a bit stretched, but you pulled it off better. The conversation about magic gets a bit screwball and hard to follow, but it seems appropriate given the scene you have created for it. 

 The snail is fine, that is a moment that would get illustrated. The car is funny, but a bit forced it seems.

 Overall I find the story darned strong. I would like to see it reworked and polished without the three day limit.

 Eeralai- Wow. A really original twist wrapped around a strong story. Reality TV and Tolkien and fast food jokes. Believable characters, tight conversations and very few moments that didn’t maintain the complete strength.

 I really liked how central to the story the snail pic was. The orc pic was great, the white tree was handled beautifully and the car was foretold well.

 Great story.

[sblock] Judgement- Big Tom wrote a really god and interesting story, but Eeralai presented an exceptional story. My vote goes to Eeralai. [/sblock]


Piratecat’s commentary on BigTom vs Eeralai

BigTom’s _Finals Week_

This fun story makes me think of Harry Potter-esque magic academies. That
means it’s setting itself up for comparison to J.K. Rowling!

My one complaint is that BigTom is in the habit of telling, not showing. I
think the story would be much more powerful if he trusts readers to figure
out conclusions on their own, and just gives them the clues that they need
to make those conclusions. For instance, don’t tell me that Trent’s been
working hard on his transformation spells, show me the debris and crawling
creatures resulting from his practice. Don’t tell me that Mackenzie has no
impulse control, show me. This flaw undermines an otherwise solid story,
making it less engaging than it could be.

The more Ceramic DM I do, the more I’m convinced that you need to weave
images into major plot roles that make sense in context in order to make
them avoid feeling strained. BigTom did a great job of doing this with the
monkey suit, because it tied intimately into the “reverse time” solution to
Trent’s problem.  Although using the snail image as the main plot driver was
a fun idea, I felt like the other two photos were dragging along the plot.
They didn’t really feel like they needed to be there; in particular, I think
the ending could have been much more effective if he hadn’t randomly
teleported the car, a conclusion that hadn’t been foreshadowed at all.

Nevertheless, I liked the premise of a flubbed transformation. The addition
of more whimsy (everyone likes talking snails!) and less explicit “telling”
would make it even stronger than it is now.


Eeralai’s _Bilboian Trek_

Original concept? Check.
Engaging story? Check.
Relevant literary analogy? Check.
Realistic and consistent back story? Check.
Smoothly integrated photos? Check.
Well-written conversation? Check.
Emotional payoff? Check.

It’s difficult to write a tight story in a small amount of space, especially
when you have to work in improbable photographs that aren’t thematically
linked. It’s particularly hard to do one that’s relatively original, fresh
and can stand on its own as a work of fiction. That’s what we’ve got here.
It isn't perfect, but I think it's darned good.

Liza’s emotional epiphany and the use of the Tolkien imagery are especially
strong. That’s the twist that elevates this above the usual; the humorous
and surreal are made to feel absolutely normal within the context of the
world. Eeralai gets additional credit for not over-explaining the world up
front. By waiting until mid-story before describing how the world changed,
she had me hooked.

There are a few nit picks. Ryan’s whining got old and unrealistically
shrill, and he wanted to win so badly that his cheating – especially in
front of observers – seems badly out of character. He effectively became
dehumanized part way through the story; by Eeralai not showing us any of his
positive aspects whatsoever, he eventually borders on a parody of
“emotionally abusive husband” instead of coming off as a three dimensional
character that he needs to be. I actually hated him and wanted him to get
his just desserts _earlier_ in the piece because he seemed more like a
realistic person at that point. For that same reason, the climax with the
upside-down car wasn’t as strong as it could have been. Ryan bringing on his
own defeat seemed inevitable and somewhat staged.

I also think that Eeralai's style has to limber up a little bit. Sentences
generally have the same cadence, and there aren't many stylistic risks;
there's also some "telling, not showing."

Those are the only negative points I can make about an otherwise outstanding
story. Nice work.

[sblock]I really liked BigTom’s story, but he was up against some difficult
competition this time. My judgment goes to Eeralai. [/sblock]

 Maldur- 

Big Tom vs Eeralai

 Snails, cars, shapechanging and donut eating Halflings

[sblock]My vote for Eeralai, I kinda like the car race revisited[/sblock]

Decision-  [sblock]Vote is 3-0 with Eeralai advancing to the next round![/sblock]


----------



## alsih2o (Feb 11, 2005)

Maldur-

MacBeth vs Ruined
clowns, succes, escape and judgement, How different the stories, and still
the same.
MacBeth's is stronger but "borrowed", and ruined's was FUNNY.

[sblock]My Vote for Macbeth[/sblock]

 Alsih2o-

 First a comment to both authors and the other writers: Please drop the in-post commentary. I appreciate the honesty from Macbeth and the humble intro (and game-time sacrifice J ) from Ruined, but let’s try to keep these things to posts that are not entries. I think we get a better and fairer game with no in-post commentary form the authors )(Macbeths IS an odd case) and if we don’t draw a line somewhere, well, you know the rest. J


 Macbeth-  I kept thinking all throughout that this sounded just like some folk tale. I was amazed at the classic sense of the story. What do you know? It is.

 Now, I haven’t read that story and I feel I have dealt with Macbeth enough to trust him that he changed it, but I am still uncomfortable with this. As an artist I know the value of working form the base left by other artists but still… Something about it makes me itch.

 The pictures are integrated well and I felt this was a hard set to deal with. The writing is strong, despite some typos/misspellings, but I am left wondering how much of that comes form the mood of the original piece.

 Ruined- Here we have a good solid story with an interesting twist. 

 The pictures are used well, but not in an outstanding way. The face and the tarry feet are handled pretty well, and the face is OK. The hobgoblins picture was used with a decent creative bent as well, but I would have liked to see at least one of them become more of a focus.

 Judgement- [sblock] A hard one, two good stories, man I love this competition.Iit is close and I have to go with Ruined for the all-original story.[/sblock]


Piratecat-

 Okay, I’ll start by saying that *both* the stories deserve to advance.
They’re both well-written, fun to read, and awfully impressive. We can only
advance one, though, so let’s see how they stack up. . .


Macbeth’s The Clown of God

I’m a little uncomfortable having Ceramic DM stories be reinterpretations of
other peoples’ work. That’s not because there’s no art or skill in retelling
a classic story – far from it – but because without the original work we
have no way of telling how much of the story is original and how much isn’t.
My research into the original _Clown of God_ indicates that Macbeth
has, in fact, made the story his own.

I’ve batted this back and forth, and I think that ultimately a story has to
stand on its own merits. We’re trusting people to not plagiarize and do
original writing anyways. That being said, I suspect that works which are
not wholly original will start with a strike against them; be warned!

I’ll start off by talking about what I didn’t like. Typos! There’s quite a
few punctuation errors, spelling mistakes and simple typing goofs. This
remains an area where Macbeth needs to tighten up his standards; good
writing can be scuttled by poor editing. Only one logical error that I could
see; Rodion’s parents would almost certainly be drinking vodka instead of
Southern Comfort.

There’s a lot more aspects of the story that I did like. I loved the story
itself, and I find it very interesting how well the writing and the pictures
supported one another. This is a good example of a story with tightly
integrated images. None of the illustrations were obviously tossed in just
to include it in the tale; the use of the images flowed smoothly out of the
text, and that’s the best way to handle it in Ceramic DM. In fact, the big
failing is that there is no image of Rodion juggling as one of the mandatory
illustrations! Macbeth couldn’t add that, of course, but the image of the
juggling balls is so powerful that the story seems weaker without it.

The writing itself was very strong. Rhythm, tone, and imagery worked well
together. I half expected Macbeth to go off on a tangent that he studiously
avoided; it occurred to me that what we had in Dmitry’s theater was a
burgeoning superhero team, of all things. Talk about mixing genres. . . but
yet, the fact that it didn’t seem absurd to me says something about the
strength of the writing. Instead we went towards the original story’s lesson
of religious epiphany and the lesson that you can succeed by doing your best
and pleasing yourself. I’d like to see how this story might have evolved if
Macbeth hadn’t been retelling the original fable.

-- o --

Ruined’s Working for the Weekend

My first impression when starting this story is that Ruined needs to trust
his subtlety and avoid over-writing. Things are a bit too spelled out; Gavin
doesn’t just puff out his chest, he puffs it out in self-importance. When he
goes through and does the classic “remove 10% of the words” editing pass,
that’s the sort of thing that should go.  Luckily, this isn’t a trend that
continues. I noticed a few typos, incidentally.

The concept of this story is a wonderful one. I like the idea of the faeries
wanting nothing more than to work. It creates a great framework to write
around, and Ruined carries it off nicely. I think this aspect could have
been stressed a little more because there’s some nice humor implicit in the
idea of Gavin and Tinsdale competing to be the most over-worked, especially
when the humans around them don’t necessarily feel this way.

Photo use is equally strong. The hobgoblins in parade is one of the best
uses, and the others are good as well. The tar on the feet felt a little
disjointed; more than any other picture, this felt inserted only for the
story. Otherwise, I was pleased with how well the photos fit.

Ultimately, Ruined’s story would be better with another editing pass. I
think that the tighter it becomes, the stronger it would be. I loved the
conversation between characters, and would like to see more of that.

-- o --

Both stories are good for a first round, and it’s a tough decision to make.
Macbeth’s seems a little better written to me, but Ruined has a more
original concept. Frankly, both authors should be proud of themselves.

[sblock]I give my vote to Macbeth to a hair. Even considering that he is
reinterpreting an existing story, the strength of his writing and photo
integration combined with a weightier theme to push the balance slightly in
his favor. [/sblock]

 Decision- [sblock]Macbeth advances by split decision, 2-1[/sblock]


----------



## BSF (Feb 11, 2005)

I haven't had much chance to read the stories yet.  HEck, the commentary thread is a bit light so far this contest.  

But from the little bits I have seen, I have to agree on two points:
There is some great writing here.
I love the Ceramic DM contests.

Alsih2o, thanks for setting these up to begin with.

I will try to get updated menu links to you this evening.  Probably late this evening.  So maybe look for them if you have time in the morning.


----------



## Macbeth (Feb 11, 2005)

Okay, first, my thanks to the judges and my opponent. That was fun!

Second, onto the biggest issue here: by reinterpreting the story I mean 'almost completely rewriting' and I should have made this clearer. I think this story is just about as derivative as if somebody retold Cinderella in Kuwait with a fairy god-camel that demands favors in return for viscious pains inflicted on her sisters. Obviously, this isn't the original story (but now that I've written the outline, I kind of like it), it has both cosmetic, thematic, and (persumably) grammatical differences. It has the same basic plot points, but it is a different beast.

To fend off any fears that this story was too derivative, let me (very briefly) retell the original story, or at least the version from the book I remember from my childhood:

A young boy, Giovanni (the story was set in Renassance Italy), lives on the streets, but can juggle quite well. He finds a bit of work with a travelling troupe of actors/clowns, and develops into a prodigy, becoming a star in and of himself. He has a set act, ending with the rainbow balls and 'the sun in the heavens.' He sets out on his own, performing for kings and queens, lords and ladies. There's a biref scene that I always felt was a little out of place where Giovanni speaks with some monks who share his food while he travels to his next act (most of the story is told in a very fast, third person view, but this scene had dialogue and slowed quite a bit). He grows in fame until eventually people don't care anymore, and he becomes poor again, sleeping on the streets and so on. One cold night he decides to sleep in the back corner of a church, only toi be awoken by a midnight mass for christmas. He sees the ritch people leaving presents at the foot of a statue, and gives it the only gift he knows: a performance. He dies, the statue smiles, the end.

Really, my story (without the monks, with the troupe, with the supporting characters, with the modern setting, with the fantastic powers, with the face beneath the church) is quite a bit different.

But now I'm sounding too defensive. I knew I was taking a risk reworking a classic tale, but I wanted to do it anyway. Glad it turned out alright. I don't think I'm goign to try that again, but I'm glad I did it once.

I have to say, seeing the comment that it 'sounded like a folk tale' is one of the best things I could have heard. I wanted it to be clear that it was a folk tale, but not loose my own vboice, and not hit the reader over the head with it.

Overall, thanks to everybody. I'm ready for the second round, the sooner the better.


----------



## Ruined (Feb 11, 2005)

Good reviews. Thanks to the judges for taking the time to read and review all of these. It's almost a relief not winning so I don't have to take time out of my schedule worrying about this.

Best of luck in the next round(s) Macbeth!


----------



## Eeralai (Feb 11, 2005)

I'm stunned.  Thanks to all the judges for their time and comments.  I really liked Big Tom's story and was disatisfied with the end of mine because, as Piratecat pointed out, Ryan wouldn't have been so blantant in disregarding the rules.  But I couldn't wrap my mind around any other ending within the constraints of  the contest.  I am looking forward to reworking it and really glad I gave the contest a try.

I liked PC's comment about my cadence being repetitive.  That's never been said about my writing before and I think it was on target.  It will be something that will take a long time to change, and probably won't be noticeably changed in the next round, but I will keep it in mind. 

Thanks again, and I am looking forward to the next round.  As before, I can start anytime.


----------



## BigTom (Feb 11, 2005)

Eeralai said:
			
		

> I'm stunned.  Thanks to all the judges for their time and comments.  I really liked Big Tom's story and was disatisfied with the end of mine because, as Piratecat pointed out, Ryan wouldn't have been so blantant in disregarding the rules.  But I couldn't wrap my mind around any other ending within the constraints of  the contest.  I am looking forward to reworking it and really glad I gave the contest a try.
> 
> I liked PC's comment about my cadence being repetitive.  That's never been said about my writing before and I think it was on target.  It will be something that will take a long time to change, and probably won't be noticeably changed in the next round, but I will keep it in mind.
> 
> Thanks again, and I am looking forward to the next round.  As before, I can start anytime.




I wasn't surprised at all.  Although there were 72 hours in the contest, thanks to life happening I only had 24 to do the story, so I had to go with a first draft.  I agree that the ending on mine was weak.  After I read Eerelai's story I knew there would not be a second round for me.  Frankly, even with a solid rewrite I doubt there would have been a second round for me.  

Congratulations Eerelai on an excellent story and good luck in future rounds.


----------



## Piratecat (Feb 11, 2005)

I'm unlikely to be able to finish the rest of my judgments until Monday. I'm really sorry about that, but I'm traveling this weekend and crazy-busy today.

If I can do it before then I will, but please don't wear out your refresh key until then. As we always say about gorillons, forewarned is four armed.

 - Kevin


----------



## mythago (Feb 12, 2005)

Hope carpedavid's OK. I'm starting to feel like Connor Macloud in the first _Highlander_.

If judges are up to posting comments about my story, that'd be swell.

I am ready for pics anytime between now and, oh, Sunday.


----------



## carpedavid (Feb 12, 2005)

mythago said:
			
		

> Hope carpedavid's OK. I'm starting to feel like Connor Macloud in the first _Highlander_.
> 
> If judges are up to posting comments about my story, that'd be swell.
> 
> I am ready for pics anytime between now and, oh, Sunday.




I'm ok now that things have settled down. Thanks for wondering . Good luck in the rest of the competition - I'll be rooting for you


----------



## alsih2o (Feb 12, 2005)

Round 2

 Eeralai Vs. Mythago

 5 pics, 7000 word limit, 72 hours.


----------



## Hellefire (Feb 12, 2005)

By the way, syntax error = link to Maddman75's story actually goes to ruined's story.

Aaron


----------



## Eeralai (Feb 13, 2005)

Yipes!  I meant I was ready to go after you had already paired somebody else with Mythago


----------



## Maldur (Feb 14, 2005)

last of the round one judgements send, sorry for the delay.

good luck on the next round!


----------



## Piratecat (Feb 14, 2005)

I'll have the rest of my Round One judgments (including commentary on Mythago's story) to Alsih2o by tonight.


----------



## Eeralai (Feb 15, 2005)

*The Other Side*

The tinny sound of the tuning A ricocheted through the band shell and wafted out to the audience melting in the sun. Carol stood with her eyes closed, listening in her mind to the performance about to unfold.  It would have sounded better in the dining hall, but the camp’s yearly repairs after Labor Day had already started, forcing them to perform outside.  The A died.  Carol sighed at the strings still out of tune, pulled her shoulders back, and swept her way to the small podium followed by applause.  

Poised to give the starting beat, sweat broke out on her palms.  Her heart beat accelerated.  Her breath caught in her throat.  Her recurring dream enveloped her.  She was no longer in front of her high school students, but in a car.  The garage door was up with the wind blowing in snow.  She had a destination, but she merely sat in the car.  What if she didn’t go?  What would happen if she just sat there? The wind rocked the car gently and snow began sticking to the back.  Where did she have to go?  What if she just ignored the destination and stayed in the car?  Snow whirled around the car as the thought of giving up whirled in her brain.  She looked through the side window when the storm stopped and saw the other cars in the garage covered in snow and ice (1).  She should at least hit the remote and shut the door.  But did it matter?  What if she never moved again?  The cold crept through her head and began freezing her blood.  Her neck no longer moved.  Her legs, numb.  Her arms, stiff.  Only her fingertips had warmth.  

A glimmer of curiosity pecked at her.  Could she still move her fingers?  Slowly, she moved a finger down.

Earthy cello sounds resonated near Carol.  Her eyes refocused and she saw her orchestra before her again.   Violas had joined the cellos now in their soulful melody that drew warmth out of her heart.  Coldness in her chest parted to make way for breathing.  The full orchestra drew their bows over their strings in the sullen first movement of Shostakovich’s String Quartet #8.  Harsh tones and jagged melodies in the second movement shattered the remaining ice in her body, and she was in full control of herself.   The out of tune players in the back of the orchestra reminded her of all the work still ahead of them and she could not let the coldness come so close to overtaking her again.  The macabre waltz of the third movement swirled its way to the paranoid fourth movement and at last, the first movement remembered in the last: desperation and acceptance.

Again, applause.  She motioned the orchestra to rise, turned, and bowed.

“We did it, Ms. Carter,” said the bubbly concertmistress.  “I guess everyone really thought about the piece while you paused for so long.  Is that why you paused, so we could remember how it sounds?”

“Of course,” smiled Carol.  “Always hear the notes before you play them.”

“Wonderful,” said Dr. Wu.  “I’m always amazed at what the kids can do in a few days.  My quartet played this long ago, and I’m glad they arranged it for a string orchestra.  Is this your festival piece this year?”

“Yes,” smiled Carol.  She sighed as the warmth of the real students and parents melted the remaining dream coldness. Congratulations, thanks, and hopes for the coming year were followed by the sounds of trunks opening and closing, car doors slamming and gravel scraping against tires.

“Geez Carol,” said a slender man named Greg.  “What took you so long to start the piece?

“I wanted them to really hear it,” replied Carol, going with her concertmistress’ excuse.

“Not that crap about hearing it before you play it again,” said another Greg, equally slender but taller.  “Who are you?  The music man?  His think system was just as much a sham as you.”

“Get over the Tanglewood application already,” replied Carol.  They had been sniping at each other for three days, and Carol knew it was because she had succeeded where he hadn't’  “I got to teach there, you didn’t. Move on and quit harassing me.”

“Who’d you sleep with this time to get the gig?”

Carol’s hands shook and her cheeks flared red.

“Why don’t you two Dregs go pack your bags?  Your auras are fogging up this beautiful day,” said a woman named Tanya, coming through the audience benches.  Sunlight gleamed off a pentacle charm hanging around her neck.

“Gladly,” they said in unison with a smirk toward Carol.

“Don’t let them spoil the weekend.  Not many kids can play that piece and not many teachers can get kids together on it so fast.”

“Thanks,” said Carol, watching the two Gregs walk away.  “I hate asking them up, but they teach almost all the violins and violas in my class and I hate their constant phone calls when I have somebody else do the sectionals.  ‘Who designed this bowing?  What were they thinking putting a crescendo there?  Oh, you put the crescendo there?  That’s just stupid,’ What?  Why are you looking at me like that?”

“I never seen you looking so bad my funky one,” replied Tanya.

“What?” asked Carol again.

“Steely Dan. A youngster like you probably never heard it.”

“It’s actually one of my favorite songs by them.  I’m just surprised you quoted it to me.”

“Why?  You look terrible and your aura’s all knotted up. You didn’t even look this bad before your audition for principal bass. You need to refresh yourself in the swimming hole.”

“I can’t.  I need to get home and do my own practicing.  If I get there by four I can still get in eight hours.”

“You’re not practicin’ tonight.  We’re going swimming and then to Santa Fe where you’re gonna drink, I’m gonna get sloshed and we’ll make our way home tomorrow afternoon when the hangovers subside.”

“I can’t do that.  I have to teach tomorrow.”

“I called you in sick,” said Tanya.  She took Carols’ arm and began leading her toward their dormitory.

“You called me in sick?  You can’t do that.  I’ve got new music for them to start tomorrow and an audition for myself coming up.  I can’t go to Santa Fe.”

“Let’s just get to the swimming hole for now and you can tell me why you froze up at the podium.  Then we’ll discuss Santa Fe.”

“I didn’t freeze up.”

“You were standing there, and I saw snow blowing around you.  Let’s go.”

Carol followed the older woman back to the dorm.  There were about five rooms in the dorm, but Carol and Tanya had had to share one because the rest were rented out to a church group on a retreat.  Their room was scattered with Tanya’s tarot cards, half- burned candles, and incense stubs.  It had the pleasant smell of a new age store.  Tanya’s clothes were strewn across the floor and her sleeping bag lay part way open on her cot.  The only thing neatly put away on Tanya’s side was her cello in the corner.  Carol’s bag was packed and her sleeping bag was rolled neatly with a pair of dirty tennis shoes sitting on top.  She quickly found her swimming suit, dressed and put the filthy shoes on when Tanya said, “Oh, there’s my swimming suit.”  

While she waited for Tanya, she found her Steely Dan’s Greatest Hits tape and put it in the tape player.  They sauntered to the river while lyrics filtered in and out of her head. “On the other side of no tomorrow” struck her curiosity, and she wondered what that would feel like.  Pine tree’s combed her hair and pebbles fought their way into her shoes.  Carol tried to see endless days with no auditions, no concerts, no students.  Tanya started talking, but even the song lyrics were drowning in the sea of emptiness Carol was picturing.  

The swimming hole sat as it always did: serenity surrounded by bubbles of water flowing in and flowing out.  “Perhaps the swimming hole holds no tomorrow,” thought Carol.  She waded out with the cold water biting at each new piece of skin submerging.  She stepped off the sandy bottom into the deep water and felt her body sinking slowly.  The mesmerizing melody of Saint-Saens’ “Aquarium” from Carnival of the Animals floated in and out of her ears.  The murky water wrapped around her eyes.  “Is this emptiness?”  thought Carol.  “If I stayed here, would the music stop?”  She moved her head around to see if the darkness was complete.  Above her, she saw light and the shadow of a bird landing on the water.  The “Aquarium” had almost faded completely when “The Swan” began to play in her head.  “My favorite,” thought Carol.  The bird stuck his head under water and the two looked at each other.  (2) She saw the bird open its mouth and the melody grew louder.  Her body began to rise, but an arm reached down and jerked her to the surface.

“What the Hell is wrong with you?” shouted Tanya as Carol spluttered and gasped.

“Where’s the swan?” asked Carol when she could speak.

“What swan?  Are you trying to kill yourself?”

“The swan that was on the surface.  I was coming up to see it.”

“You must’ve been slipping to the other side.  There was no swan.”

“What’re you talking about?  I wasn’t down there that long.  Where’s the swan.  It was so beautiful.”

“Carol!  We’re in the Jemez Mountains.  No swans migrate over here.”

“Why are you yelling at me?”

“Because you disappeared in the water and I couldn’t find you!  Why are you trying to kill yourself?”

“I’m not trying to kill myself.  I was just…trying to make the music stop.”

“Oh, is that the euphemism you’re using for it?” 

Sweat broke out on Carol’s palms.  Her heart beat accelerated.  Her breath caught in her throat.

“Hey, now,” said Tanya.  “Breathe.  This is what you were doing at the concert.  Snap out of it and breathe.”

Carol started breathing, but too rapidly.  Her whole body trembled.

“C’mon Carol.  Relax.  Here’s a towel.”  Carol felt Tanya wrapping a towel tightly around her shoulders and making her sit in the dirt.  “That’s it.  Relax.  What’s going on with you?”

“I-I don’t know.  I keep having this dream where I’m in a car and a snowstorm is blowing but I won’t start the car or go back inside.  I just sit there, freezing.”

“And what happened just now?”

“Well, we were listening to that song from “Katy Lied” and I just wondered what the other side of no tomorrow looked like.  The water was so black except for where the swan landed.”

“Okay, we weren’t listening to Steely Dan.  You were having your own private concert going on in your head.  And there was no swan.”

“But I put the tape in before we left.”

“And left it there.”

Carol looked around.  Sure enough, there was no tape player and no music.  The river gurgled continuously.  The breeze blew gently.  “I feel like my brain is constantly telling me to do things I would never do, but I’m starting to do them.”

“What did you do all summer?” asked Tanya.

“Taught and practiced and performed.  You know how it is.”

“My ‘how it is’ and your ‘how it is’ are completely different.  Did you ever take the time to go into Boston?”

“For the gigs I happened to land.” 

“When was the last time you had a vacation?” asked Tanya.

“A year ago and I had a headache the whole time until I threw up all day on the last day.”

“And you thought this was normal?”

“I just thought my body didn’t like vacations anymore.”

“Carol!  Everybody needs vacations.  Did you get laid at least up there?  That’s like a mini-vacation if you’re with the right one.”

“No.”

“How long has it been?”

“How long has it been since when?”

“Since you’ve had sex?”

“I don’t even remember.”

“Don’t tell me it was your infamous affair the Dregs are always bringing up.”

Carol finally cracked a smile.  “The infamous affair I never had?  I think once since then.”  She lay back, not caring about the dirt in her hair.  Her muscles relaxed under the sun, and she quit shaking completely.  The affair was funny when friends like Tanya brought it up.  Shortly after graduating from college, she found out that a professor she had refused to sleep with had begun a rumor that she was sleeping with her private teacher.  All of her awards and scholarships came under scrutiny, but nothing was ever proven.  People like the Dregs who had already been jealous of her used it to nettle her when she was down.  Tanya could find the humor in it.

“It’s too bad you never did him because he’s got it going on.”

“I admit to my moments of lust, but that would’ve been a bad situation.  You should do him.”

“His girlfriend sits behind me in the symphony or I would.  I think she would stab me in the back with her bow if I did.  Look, I’m not a shrink, but you need some sort of help.  You’re pushing yourself too hard.  You teach all day and practice all night when you’re not performing.  You’ve been doing this for years. You’re breaking.  Take tomorrow off and come with me to Santa Fe. The burning will do you good. As will a few drinks.”

“The burning?  Oh!  It’s time for Zozobra.  I don’t want to do that.  Too many people, too much angst.”

“You have enough angst for all of Santa Fe right now.  That’s what the burning’s for, to get rid of it.”

Carol searched the sky for the swan.  Clear blue stretched before her unbroken by any birds.  Imaginary fowl and freezing pipes.  “All right,” said Carol.  “But I’m not drinking.”

“It’s a start,” said Tanya.

When they arrived in the dorm, Carol noticed that Steely Dan had played through one side.  She flipped it over and let it play while she showered.  Tanya showered next as Carol dressed, and the song Carol had quoted earlier came on.  “When the demon is at your door,” played as a knock sounded outside.  “Must be the two Dregs with an intro like that,” thought Carol.  She went out to the foyer and saw a man she didn’t know looking in through the door.  He grinned at her and beckoned her to open the door. (3)

“Can I help you?” asked Carol as she opened the door.

“Yes, have you seen Tara, a member of my church?”

“I haven’t seen anyone in here, but I’ve been gone all day.  You may knock on their doors if you like.”

The man turned his head and looked at the doors.  When he turned back, his hair was stark gray.  “No one there.  They must be preparing for tonight.  Oh, and it looks like you will be joining us.”

“What?” asked Carol absently.  Her eyes were wide and her jaw was slack.  “Oh, no.  I’m going to Santa Fe tonight.”

“As I said, you will be joining us.  Remember, do not laugh at the natives.  Good day.”

“Good…day.”  The words died in her mouth as the man turned and left.

“Who’re you talking to?” shouted Tanya.

Carol walked back into the room and said slowly, “This guy looking for a church member.  It was the weirdest thing.  I swear his hair was brown when I first saw him and then it suddenly changed gray.”

Tanya looked at Carol a full minute before saying, “I’m driving.”

“Don’t be silly.  I drove up here fine.  I’ve traveled this road dozens of times.”

“You’re seeing things from the afterlife and I don’t want you heading off a cliff with me in the car because you suddenly see that swan again or some man with gray hair.”

“But the bird was really there.”

“I’m sure it was to you, but not to me.”

Carol pondered Tanya.  In light of having freaked out twice that day, she decided maybe Tanya had a point.  “All right.  You drive.  What’s the name of the church group here anyway?  He said I was going to be joining them soon.”

Tanya’s eyes widened slightly before she turned and started throwing things into her bag.  “Oh, just some group.  You know they’re all the same to me.”

“What’s wrong?  Why’re you so intent on packing all of a sudden?”

“I’m just ready to leave, is all.”

“What’s the name of the church?”

Tanya stood up and looked at her friend again before saying, “It’s not really a church.  That’s what they say sometimes so people don’t know.  It’s a group that believes in suicide at eighty before they deteriorate anymore.”

“Well why would he think I’d be joining them.  I’m far from eighty,” said Carol shrilly.  Tanya answered her with silence and began packing again.


Carol was glad Tanya had decided to drive.  She slumped in the passenger seat and let her body feel the curves of the mountain road.  Enya filled the car with her dreamscape music.  The trees whipped by continuously and monotonously, allowing Carol’s brain to escape to the dreamy alpha waves.  A sign drew closer and Carol’s eyes lazily read it.  “Warning to tourists.  Do not make fun of the Natives.” (4)

“What was that?” asked Carol, suddenly alert.

“What was what?” asked Tanya.

“That sign.  I’ve never seen it before.”

“What sign?”

“The sign that said “Don’t make fun of the Natives.  That man told me that today before he left.”

“I didn’t see that sign and that’s something I’d remember.”

“Maybe you were looking the other way.”

“Maybe.”  Tanya began to laugh.  “Maybe all the pretentious people in Santa Fe got tired of the jokes about them.”

“But the sign looked old and busted up.  I can’t believe I’ve never seen it before.”

“You said that guy said that to you?”

“Yeah.”

“Huh.”

Unease kept Carol from slipping back into comfort.  They soon had to slow for traffic rolling into Santa Fe for Zozobra.  An hour later, they walked into Tanya’s favorite restaurant.  Bright ribbons decorated the ceiling in anticipation of the days of fiestas following the burning.  The dim lighting contrasted with the colors, giving a surreal ambience.  The owner waved happily to Tanya and motioned them over to a table she had reserved for them.  As they were passing through the crowd, a cold, sickly hand grabbed Carol’s arm.

“So glad to see you here,” said the man Carol had spoken to in the dorm. Carol yanked her arm away and gasped.  His hair was not only gray, but also his face was wrinkled and shrunk.  He started laughing as his skin turned gray to match his hair and his eyes became lifeless.  He sat down as his lips pulled together tightly and his eyes rolled back into his head.  (5)

“Nice ‘Old Man Gloom’ this year, Diedra,” said Carol to the owner.

“Thanks.  A little on the ghoulish side.  I thought the brains were a nice touch since he’s supposed to eat all our fears.”

“That’s not a real person?” asked Carol.

“Oh no.  But thanks for thinking so.  Bob will be thrilled.  He worked on that thing for a month.  What can I get you to drink?”

Carol mumbled something to Diedra, but sat staring at Old Man Gloom.  “Hey,” said Tanya when Diedra had left.  “You’re not breathing again.”

“Oh, sorry.  That ghoul is creeping me out.”

“Then don’t look at it.”

They made small talk throughout drinks and their dinner.  Carol thought it best not to bring up the ghoul talking to her.  She tried to keep her eyes averted from him, but it seemed like that just made her look at him more.  As desert arrived, a man started pointing to Old Man Gloom and making jokes about him and his brain.  Carol saw a white spirit swoop down from the ceiling and pass right through the man.  He began silently choking on his food.  Fortunately his friend gave him the Heimlich and he was okay.

“Did you see that?” asked Carol.

“Yeah, I’m glad he’s okay.”   

“No, did you see the spirit pass through him when he was making fun of Old Man Gloom?”

“No, did you?”

“I don’t want to do this anymore.  Let’s just go.”  Carol pushed her chair back and stood up.  Tears were brimming on her eyelids as she pulled out a handful of money and left it on the table.

“Carol, wait.  There’s no way we are getting out of town right now.  The burning’s about to start.  We might as well stay and watch it.”

“I’m leaving.  I’ll come back and pick you up in the morning.”  Carol tripped over people and tables as she tried to run out the door.  Outside, throngs of people stood by the road.

“Are you ready then?” asked the ghoul.

“No!” screamed Carol as he pulled her arm.  She pulled back, trying to escape, but his grip was solid and he drove her into the crowd.  The blackness of the night felt like it was suffocating her.  The crowds pushed mercilessly at her.  Ahead, a giant Old Man Gloom, or Zozobra, moaned and creaked his way towards the crowd.  Carol saw little old women carrying it as if they were Olympic weight lifters.  Flares of fire shot into Zozobra, and his face and torso began to burn.

“I must go.  It is your turn too.  Give into your callings and come with me.  There the music will stop,” said Zozobra.

Carol was about to protest again, but stopped at the thought of no more music.  Silence was all she wanted.  No more auditions.  No more performances.  No more students squeaking their way through orchestra.

As she paused, he said, “’You can run but you can’t hide from what’s inside of you.’”

Carol moved slowly toward the burning man.  The old women carrying him were now spirits.  He loomed over her, beckoning.  The shouts of the crowd thundered in her head, pushing her quicker to the sound of silence.  Somewhere in the shouts a quiet tune emerged.

“What is that?” Carol thought to herself.  She paused to listen, feeling the ghoul pulling her harder.  The simple melody floated this way and that.  Carol identified it as a Native American flute.  It sounded so simple so pure.  She searched for the performer trying to pull her arm away from the ghoul.

“Silence,” he hissed at her.

But the sweetness and simplicity of it had her intrigued.  She continued searching.  Finally she spied a man in a brown hat, torn shirt and torn jeans.  He was playing as if no one else was around.  As if the only person he was playing for was himself.  The melody was so pure that Carol felt her soul reaching out to join with the music.

“Come!  No more music!” insisted Old Man Gloom.

“No,” said Carol yanking her arm away.  “I had lost what music was.  I found it again so I won’t be joining you.”

Zozobra nodded and floated backwards toward the giant Zozobra.  The spirit joined the mockery, and Carol watched it burn into ashes.


“Wake up!” said Tanya, gently nudging Carol.  “I thought you weren’t going to drink tonight.  I’m glad you didn’t make it back to your car because obviously you weren’t fit for driving.”

“Huh?” asked Carol groggily.  She felt hard wood against her back and realized she was sitting in the door jam of the restaurant.

“It was quite a burning this time.  Too bad you missed it.”

“Maybe I’ll see it next year.  Can we head to the hotel now?  I need to sleep…for a few days I think.”

They picked their way through the crowd and found the car.  As they waited to leave, Tanya pushed in a Steely Dan tape.

“When the demon is at your door, in the morning he won’t be there no more,” sang from the speakers.  Carol sighed in relief as they pulled out of the crowd.


----------



## Eeralai (Feb 15, 2005)

*oops*

I'm sorry.  I notated the numbers for each picture in the story, but I forgot to put at the bottom what each number was.  Can I do a seperate post with that, or is that against the rules?


----------



## Maldur (Feb 15, 2005)

seperate post is fine


----------



## Eeralai (Feb 15, 2005)

*Other Side picture reference*

Thanks!

1: time for the scraper

2:  peek

3:  peek too

4:  good advice

5:  snacking


----------



## mythago (Feb 15, 2005)

The Jeep bounced over the rough new pavement and passed through a gap in a chain-link fence. A metal sign on the right half of the fence cautioned visitors, in Thai, to show identification when approaching or they risked being shot at by guards. Or it asked everyone to please extinguish all smoking materials before continuing. Jordan had no idea; he didn't read Thai.

The next fence had a sign in English. As they passed, Jordan pointed at it awkwardly, the
restraints connecting his wrists and ankles making grand gestures difficult. "Please tell me that sign says what I think it said?" he asked.

Sendip laughed. She had been Jordan's guard and supervising nurse for most of the trip
from the mainland, and she was always in a good humor. Jordan suspected that he was not the first of her patients to dredge up ridiculous terms like "jolly" to describe her. Along with
"deadly". She young enough to be a hostess in Patpong and was ranked fourth in the world
among women muy thai fighters. Jordan guessed if you were capable of instantly killing anyone who looked at you funny, it tended to keep you in a happy frame of mind.

"No, really. 'Do not laugh at the natives'? Does that mean us patients or is this some problem with the locals?"

"Mistranslation," she said. "An admonition to treat the residents kindly. It is left over from when this was not a secure facility. I think the signpainter they hired was not very fluent in English."

"Why not take it down?"

"The Thai sign, the first one, is correct," she said. "And this one is funny."

The Jeep wove through gaps in fences now topped with concertina wire and punctuated by guard shacks. Jordan was surprised to see that the building was so small; he'd been expecting something like a hospital and this was more like a clinic. Armed guards wandered around the grounds, talking into headseats seated in their helmets. Far beyond them, and the wire, Jordan could see the ocean.

They pulled up outside of a loading dock. Sendip nudged him with her elbow. He got out, acutely aware that a little more speed on that elbow and the doctors would be pulling pieces of rib out of his lungs with tweezers. He shuffled along as best as his restraints would let him. When they were halfway down the hallway he realized why they'd come in the back way. Sendip paused outside a set of swinging double doors with a somber plaque to one side.

"The morgue," she translated.

"I know," Jordan said. "I can hear them."

"Even from the hallway?" Sendip asked. "What are they saying?"

"No idea. I don't speak Thai."

Sendip laughed and gestured for him to move on. Jolly, Jordan thought bitterly. Easy for
her to laugh. She couldn't hear the idiot chatter of the dead. It was as if they knew he was there; the noise level rising as he walked past, like a cocktail party where somebody famous enters the room. He ignored them and kept walking.

There were more hallways, a ride in an elevator big enough to move a guerney, and then they were finally somewhere familiar. This floor looked like every other mental hospital ward Jordan had ever stayed in. The doors swung open easily; he guessed they'd lock electronically if they had to, but there wasn't any need to worry. Anyone who got funny about trying to get out had to get past the guards, and if they made that, there was a fifty-mile swim through the Pacific Ocean to get back to Thailand proper.

They'd walked into a common room. This, too, was familiar. The handful of men sitting around the television wore regular clothes, not hospital garb. A television in the center of the room was turned to a soccer game. Two very large, very serious-faced male nurses exchanged a few words in Thai with Sendip. As they unfastened his restraints, Jordan turned to Sendip. "Now what?"

"Now, you stay here. The nurses will assign you a bed. You can go for walks on the grounds, with advance notice. Make friends with these people. They are here for reasons similar to yours. One week, you get a special visitor."

"That would be somebody from the government?"

"No," she said. "Somebody from your government." She gave him a little wave and walked through the ward doors.

An elderly man with glasses that might have been fitted with lenses from the Hubble Space Telescope turned to watch her go. "Nice legs," he said. "She from the..." He silently mouthed the letters C-I-A. 

"Dunno," Jordan said. "I was afraid if I asked her I wouldn't get to keep breathing."

#

It was actually ten days later when the only white guy who wasn't a patient turned up and
knocked on the doors of Jordan's room. Jordan looked up, irritated; Ray had gotten him a lank
New York Times crossword puzzle and he'd been in the middle of it.

"Jordan?" the man called. He had a big, fake grin. Jordan hated him already. He reminded Jordan of the lawyer he'd had back in Ithaca, the one who showed up unprepared for his ninety-day review and left him stuck in the maximum security wing for six months. Knowing the guy was partly responsible for keeping him here didn't help.

The CIA guy tried pushing the door open; it didn't budge. "Jordan -- Mr. Williams. Would you please unlock the door for me."

"Not locked," he said. "Shayne had a little accident and it's glued shut."

The man withdrew, no doubt to get an orderly to use solvent on the solid mass. Jordan had expected they'd notice eventually and let him out, once they were done scrubbing the hallway of Shayne's panic attack. Jordan liked Shayne a lot, and felt more than a little sorry for him. Having to listen to the dead blabber was bad, but vomiting up superepoxy was well beyond bad and into territory where Jordan wondered why the guy didn't just run out and commit suicide by guard.

Of course, then they'd make Jordan talk to him. 

It took about an hour to get the clear stuff dissolved enough to let one of Jordan's doors swing open. He slipped out reluctantly and had to submit to a painful handshake from the white guy, who introduced himself as Special Agent Foster. Jordan followed him to one of the
interview rooms, the kind he was used to using for chats with a shrink at a regular mental
hospital. Plastic chairs, door that didn't lock, Plexiglass window, check. He sat in the least beat-up looking of the chairs. 

Special Agent Foster made with the fake grin again. "Well. How are the surroundings?"

"I've been in worse," Jordan said. "The food's not bad. Nice tropical weather. Why not Gitmo or one of those other bases, though? Or the U.S.? It's not like anybody cares what you do to me."

"Oh, there's always some do-gooder bozo whining about the rights of prisoners," Foster said. The grin was gone. "Even for you. The Mutilator."

"Don't call me that," Jordan snapped.

"Why not? They do. How are you finding your fellow inmates?"

"They're actually a good bunch," he said. "I like these guys. I'm not sure why you have Shayne here, though. He's not really crazy, he just....vomits that weird super-epoxy stuff when he gets stressed. Mike and his thing with water, I'd like to see that, but the guards get upset if he goes out near the ocean. I'd be a little scared of Ray if he wasn't sedated all the time."

"They're here for the same reason you're here," Foster said. "You all have...abilities that might be useful to your country, if we can figure out how to control them. You all are really crazy, by the way. I've seen your files."

"You'd be crazy, too, if corpses talked to you."

"Fair enough, fair enough," Foster said, and the fake smile was creeping back. It made Jordan instantly wary. "Well, why don't you give me a demonstration? We've got a subject downstairs who has, had, information crucial to national security. He killed some guards, escaped, tried to get out of the country through Mexico. Didn't do so well in the desert."

"I really don't want to. I don't like listening to dead people."

"You think you have a choice."

"Well, yeah," Jordan said. "What are you going to do, kill me? Before you figure out what makes me tick?"

"I'm pretty sure one thing I know that makes you tick. You don't like to listen to dead people. We could move your bed next to the morgue." Foster's smile spread across his face like an oil slick on water. "That sound good to you, Williams? The nurses get paid well. They don't care. They'd be just as happy to lock you to a bed downstairs, where you can listen to a bunch of
corpses for conversation. Up to you and how cooperative you want to be."

He waited, and Jordan would have gone across the table at him if he'd thought it would do any good. He took a deep breath and got up. "Fine, I'll talk to your dead guy," he said. "This time."

"I knew you'd see reason," Foster said. He opened the door. Sendip was waiting to lead Jordan to the morgue.

#

Jordan expected to pull out a drawer and listen to somebody...something...on a morgue tray. He didn't expect to see a corpse sitting at a table like a prop in a bad Halloween show.
Somebody had put a fake plastic brain in front of the corpse and tied a bib around its neck
advertising a restaurant for zombies.

Sendip frowned for what was, in Jordan's experience, the first time ever. "What is this? This is disrespectful of the dead."

"Oh, hell, I'm sorry," Foster said, sounding not at all sorry. "A couple of the Marines must have done that. Your reputation precedes you, Mr. Williams."

Sendip looked at Jordan oddly. He wondered how much they'd told her about his
reputation Stateside, whether she knew he'd been tagged "the Mutilator" by the cops. He had gone a little crazy when his ability had first appeared and he'd tried to get the dead to shut up and leave him alone.

"Whatever," he said. "I have to talk to a dead criminal, a lame joke isn't going to bother
me." He pulled up a metal folding chair and sat across from the corpse. The voices of the other dead were a murmur in his ears; he ignored them, listening to the dead man who looked him in the eye.

_water water dry oh mother where is water so hot_

The usual babble, the last thoughts of the dying bouncing around like pachinko balls. Jordan sat patiently, a guest at a dinner party waiting for the windbag dead guy to get to the point.
And eventually the dead man turned his head not physically, but in some way shifting his
attention to Jordan. 

_your friend with the water go to him water coming in soon coming the ocean over you all_
_of you drown get to the water kill the guards kill the agents death to the evil ones_

and a dry chuckle from somewhere unimaginably far away, yet close enough for him to
touch 

_or you will be speaking from this side too_

Jordan pushed away from the table in a blind panic. The plastic brain rolled off and disappeared somewhere under the dead man's chair. Sendip was on her feet, whether to help him or put him down, Jordan couldn't tell. Foster looked up at him with interest.

"He say anything good?"

Jordan licked his lips. "No."

"I have a few questions to ask him, when you're ready."

"It doesn't work that way," Jordan said. "I listen. I can't talk to them. They don't...they don't hear, not the way living people do. If he was thinking about whatever it is you wanted to know about, I could tell you that. I can't talk back. It's one-way. Death is always one-way."

Foster stood up and gave Jordan a long look. Then his mood broke and he shrugged as if the dead man's secrets were completely unimportant. "You're still getting settled here, Jordan. I
imagine you're a little disoriented. This guy was small potatoes anyway. Few more weeks, we'll bring you some bigger fish. I'll bet they have something better to tell you."

Jordan nodded but his mind was elsewhere. The water. He had to talk to Mike. He hated
talking to the dead, he'd never had one tell him something that was going to happen, but he knew that they never lied.

#

"No, it has to be today," Gary said. He glanced over at the nurses, who were sitting at their station filling out paperwork. Mike had turned the television to a loud Thai soap opera to drown out their voices. Jordan wasn't sure that had been such a great idea; they had to lean in close to hear each other, which he thought looked pretty suspicious. 

Gary took off his Coke-bottle glasses and wiped them clean with the edge of his shirt.
Without his glasses his eyes looked very tiny. "If we wait," he continued, "they'll find out. Don't ask me how, it always happens. Even if nobody rats. Do we know when this 'water' is coming?"

Jordan shook his head no. "Is it monsoon season soon?"

"Nope. Which is why I don't know what your dead guy is talking about, but I'm notarguing. This is our chance."

Mike looked uncomfortable. He'd tried to talk them into warning the staff, to get the island evacuated, but he was the only one. First, Jordan wasn't sure they'd believe him Mutilator
or no, he'd never been told what was going to happen. Besides, if they were evacuated, they'd just be moved to some other offshore looney bin. This was their one chance for escape.

"How's Ray?" Shayne asked nervously. The other men edged away from him involuntarily. 

"Think he's coming out of the drugs," Gary said. "I got at the nurse's tray when he wasn't
looking and switched out one of his pills. He won't be as dopey as usual."

They watched TV or paced the halls while they waited for Ray's glazed look to ebb. It was half an hour before Gary took him aside and whispered to him urgently. Jordan hung back. It
was kind of scary to see Ray's eyes taking in what was going on around him. He was afraid of what would happen if Ray didn't recognize him as a friend.

Ray put his arm around Gary and gave him a bear hug that looked painful. Then he walked to the nurse's station in the middle of the ward floor. The men looked up, surprised to see Ray lucid, and he killed them before they could raise an alarm. Jordan turned away and tried not
to be sick. He needed to get out before the dead nurses figured out they were dead and tried totalk to him.

Ray pulled his shirt off and wiped the blood from his hands. "Move it out," he said. It was
the longest sentence Jordan had ever heard him speak. They moved.

The men avoided hospital staff as much as possible. The armed guards were mostly outside with Ray permanently a vegetable there apparently hadn't been much concern about the rest of them. They ran into one guard coming out of the men's room and Ray killed him before he could zip up his fly. He had a pistol, something boxy and European, and Gary took it. Ray didn't need it.

Jordan guided them down to the loading dock, getting lost once before finding the right hallway. They'd agreed the back way would be less conspicuous. Jordan objected and was 
outvoted. He didn't want to go past the morgue again. He pressed himself against the far hallway. The others, deaf to what he could hear, followed him. The voices were loud and excited.

_water water deep in the earth soon company's coming_

and then they were out. They looked away while Ray killed four armed men before they could scream. Lacking a shirt, Ray shook his hands like a man who's just discovered the hot-air hand dryer in the restroom is broken.

"Garage over there," Gary said, pointing toward the ocean. Towards the beach was a white wooden house shaded by palm trees. "Residence for visitors. Foster probably stays there when he's visiting. They'll have cars. Ready?"

They made a break for it, keeping low. There were guards, of course, and Ray jumped up on to the porch and then there were no guards. Ray collected their rifles while Shayne and Jordan worked on the garage door. It came open easily and revealed a couple of ordinary American cars. Why Foster wanted these here instead of military vehicles, Jordan had no idea.

"Heads up," Ray called. Something flew through the air and Jordan caught it without thinking: a rifle. He'd never fired a gun in his life. Ray turned to Shayne and held up the other rifle. "Come take this one. It's still loaded." 

_Ray doesn't know,_ he thought, _he's always been sedated, he doesn't know Shayne was in Baghdad,_ and opened his mouth but it was too late, because Shayne was already hyperventilating at the sight of Ray offering him a rifle and opening his mouth, and Jordan dove out of the way just in time to avoid getting splattered. He covered his ears to block out the thick, liquid noises.

He wondered if it were some kind of Agent Orange thing that made Shayne into a human glue factory. It went on for a long time, and then there was a thud as Shayne collapsed.

They moved into to look at the damage. Ray swore. Shayne had been facing into the garage and heaved all over the cars. The epoxy was already drying as hard as diamond, and there were chemicals that would cut through it eventually but they didn't have any.

In a fury, Ray dragged Shayne to his feet. Gary grabbed him to pull him off and Ray waved his arm, like he was swatting at a mosquito, and Gary plumed red and died.

"Did you hear something?" Mike asked.

"Don't tell me you can hear them too," Jordan said.

"No, not the dead," said Mike, and then Jordan heard it too, a rumble like a very large freight train, getting louder, and they looked toward the ocean and saw the water rising up to blot out the sun.

They ran. They knew it would never work, but they ran anyway, unable to override instinct and make their legs stop running. The water roared and Ray, ahead, turned to look over his shoulder and Jordan saw his face and knew what was behind them, and he jumped on Mike and wrapped his arms and legs tight around the other man.

The wall of water slammed down.

Ray died, Jordan was sure of it. He didn't think he was dead, he felt dazed and something hurt deep, maybe a broken rib. Mike stirred and Jordan gripped him harder. He overcame his panic and took an experimental breath. Air. Mike was unconscious, but alive, turning the water around them into a little bubble of air, and they wouldn't drown. Die of injuries, maybe, but they could breathe.

Jordan wondered how long before the water flowed back to the ocean. Or were they in the ocean? He looked up at where he thought the sky should be. Something swam past them, near the surface, some kind of fish that breathed water as easily as they were breathing air right now. Jordan watched it as it swam peacefully past them, and then he realized whatever it was doing, it was swimming to the ocean. Away from shore. He turned the other direction and struggled through the water, and then Mike was swimming and pulling them along, and they were on the beach.

His rib had stopped hurting. He was going to ask Mike if he was okay, and Mike was giving him the strangest look, like something was very wrong with him.

"Jordan...oh, no...." He rolled Jordan over and looked at something. Jordan realized he didn't feel anything and thought maybe he was paralyzed, some debris had struck his back or his neck and his body was completely numb. He asked Mike what was the matter with his back, what Mike had seen when he had rolled him over, and Mike reached up and closed Jordan's eyes.

He lay on the beach a long time, listening hard but hearing no one, not even the dead. He supposed he was too far from the clinic to hear much. He had no idea how much time passed
before he heard footsteps and words. His ears felt like they were full of...of something, itwas
hard to make out sounds, and he could feel nothing. There was excited talk in what sounded like Thai, and a woman Sendip? laughing, or crying. It was hard to tell which. Then some English, in a voice he didn't recognize, and he could make out a few words in snatches.
_Aid...survivors...report back...mass grave..._

He would have smiled if he had been alive. A mass grave. He wouldn't be alone here, on this beach, any longer. And he would get to talk back.


----------



## mythago (Feb 15, 2005)

Apologies for formatting and link errors--I am working under extremely primitive Internet conditions right now.


Oh, and the title should be "Company."


----------



## Hellefire (Feb 15, 2005)

I'm new to this so please forgive me if I ask dumb questions. 10 days after my opponent and I posted our stories and round 2 is going on, and I still can't find judgements for ours. Am I looking in the wrong place?

Aaron


----------



## Hellefire (Feb 15, 2005)

Another probably dumb question...I just listed pictures as [picture 1] etc in my story, but reading the last few posts, should I put a list at the bottom of exactly what picture 1, etc is? I just numbered them in the order they were when they were posted.


Aaron


----------



## Rodrigo Istalindir (Feb 15, 2005)

Hellefire said:
			
		

> I'm new to this so please forgive me if I ask dumb questions. 10 days after my opponent and I posted our stories and round 2 is going on, and I still can't find judgements for ours. Am I looking in the wrong place?
> 
> Aaron




The front-page summary indicates a judgement, but if it's been posted, I can't find it.  

Patience   I know first-hand how hard it is to sit and wait.  First rounds are always the worst -- there are a lot of stories for the judges to go though, and the stories aren't always posted at a time when the judges can spare the necessary effort.    The same with scheduling Round 2 matches before Round 1 is finished.  Best to move things along as you can, so that you can afford the competitors some flexibility in scheduling.

As far as the pictures, after screwing my first posting last summer, I've just referenced Picture 1, Picture 3, etc in subsequent competitions.  The judges know what the pictures look like, and if they can't quickly discern which one you mean, then you've got more problems than formatting


----------



## BSF (Feb 15, 2005)

OK, Finally getting some time to sort of catch up.  

Hellefire, thanks for caching the bad link to Maddman75's story.  I hate it when I mis-link like that!  Alas, I do occasionally make errors.

Speaking of which, just to be clear, I am handling the menu links for Alsih2o.  It is my intent to do that so it is easier for people to read the stories.  A while back, I was going through a Ceramic DM thread and it was hunting and pecking to match up stories, pics and judgements.  I made the menu links to make it easier for myself and then shared.    Last contest I was gone for a while and Mythago had to do the links herself.  But  I prefer to do it so the judges don't have to.  Through the course of a contest, they are slated to read 30 stories and provide feedback on those stories.  All without neglecting other things in life.  Doing menu links is easy for me.  Story feedback is hard.  Judging between stories to advance to the next round would be even harder.  By doing menu links, I fel like I am giving back in some small way.  So whenever there is a problem with menu links, please notify me.  You can PM me, email me or even post it.  

Now one thing I didn't do in this contest was notate _Judgement Pending_ correctly.  Sorry about that folks.  When the first story rolls in, I drop in another field for a judgement.  Normally I put _Judgment Pending_ but this time I left off the _Pending_.  Oops.  I didn't mean to imply that a Judgement had been posted with that.  I am correcting that with my latest version of menu links for Alsih2o.

Picture notations can be done however you are most comfortable with.  When I have the time (rarely) I try to inline link them.  It's a little showy, but hardly necessary.  Footnotes are fine.  Brackets/braces are fine.  However works best for you. As Rodrigo noted, if the judges can't figure it out, then you probably have other issues with the story.  

Patience is a tough answer to swallow.  Trust me I know how anxious you can get.  But I assure you that the judges aren't trying to increase your stress.  What they are trying to do is make sure they give each story a fair assessment.  Sometimes a fair assessment takes time and sometimes other life things take precedence.  I will see what sotry commentary I can drum up in the other thread to help make the waiting a little more bearable.


----------



## Hellefire (Feb 16, 2005)

OK, patience I have. Just thought maybe there was another thread for judgements somewhere and I couldn't find it. Also, I didn't realize it would be 2 weeks per round, and that might end up being an issue...I lose net connection on feb 27 and get on a plane for the states feb 28th. I'll be en route for about a week, then have to find a net cafe in Lyons, KS. Anybody from around there?  Anyway, that is all assuming I pass round one let alone still be in the running then.

Aaron


----------



## Piratecat (Feb 16, 2005)

I got clobbered by life, and I'm sorry about the delay. Working on judgments now!


----------



## Piratecat (Feb 16, 2005)

My judgment for Orchid Blossom vs Hellefire sent to Clay.


----------



## alsih2o (Feb 16, 2005)

Alsih2o:

 Hellefire- Good story. The mood fluctuates a bit for my taste, but I think you have some pretty strong picture use. The mannequins shot is excellent, the horse is strong. The Thor is good, but mostly from writing, not from actual picture use. But that bridge pic is right up there with the mannequins. Good stuff.

 The story IS rather bitter, but I like that. I would have liked a little more Mary though, something to attach me to her before she dies. 

 Our narrator is interesting, and that means a lot. The writing is solid, but interrupted by a few small errs that bothered me. All around, a really string story.

 Orchid Blossom-  This partial-exposure story style is hard to pull off well. There is at least one moment I had to read a couple of times trying to make sense, but for the most part you pulled it off.

 The horse pic is a fantastic interpretation, the mannequins are alright. The guy with the wings is impeccable. The bridge is…Ok. I like the bridge handling, I would just like more.

 OB writes with confidence and grace, I expect each time I see her writing (judging or competing) that she is one of those “ones to beat.” Good story, strong material, greta theme, good dialogue.

 [sblock] I really like OB’s story, but I think I have to give this one to Hellefire. [/sblock]

Piratecat:

Orchid Blossom vs Hellefire

Orchid Blossom:

It’s nice to see the main character being Pestilence; Death is overdone.
Orchid Blossom is a talented writer and it shows in both the story hook and
the language usage. She paints an eloquent picture of Harold as a retired
Horseman, and its one that stays with you.

Things I didn’t like? The freelancer angle seemed weak, although I enjoyed
the actual discussion with him. I also would have liked to see more of the
group in action. . . they just didn’t seem very powerful or experienced at
what they did. That’s a refreshing change from normal, but it wasn’t
entirely consistent with who they were or what they did.

I love it when pictures are used in multiple ways. Setting up the horseman
as one of the Four Horsemen works quite well, and using both the old man
with wings and the cross on the wall strengthens the story’s connection to
the illustration. On the other hand, having the giant face turn into a
normal sized man struck me as something of a copout.

Hellefire:

Okay, it’s implausible. . . but it’s funny.

Good imagination, here. I liked the consistent unusual spellings, the
revelations about the Norse Gods, the bad pun for the organization. This is
a good example of a story that would be better if it had fewer words. I
think you could knock 10-20% of the verbiage out and end up with something
just as clever and even more effective.

I think the story is undermined by the fact that it changes from a comedy to
a drama as it goes along. Things stop being funny and start becoming deadly
serious. That’s not inherently bad, but as the story’s pace slows down the
seriousness clashes with the initial style and weakens the story as a whole.
I would have preferred to see this stay humorous throughout.

Overall, two strong entries that were both fun to read. My judgment goes to.
. .

[sblock]. . . Orchid Blossom. Her story was less complex, but it was
consistent in tone throughout and maintained momentum. That made the
difference in this case. [/sblock]

Maldur:

orchid blossom vs. Hellefire

Horseman, gods, horseman, gods, I have a sneaking suspicion you two read to
much Gaiman 

But my vote goes to orchid, her use of the pictures was more....smooth,
intergrated.

 Decision- [sblock] Orchid Blossom takes this in a split decision, 2-1.[/sblock]


----------



## Hellefire (Feb 16, 2005)

Congrats OB!

I feel pretty good about my first try in a writing competition really. Going to practice some more for next time though .

Aaron


----------



## Piratecat (Feb 16, 2005)

Aaron, you did a great job. It wasn't an easy judgment, as evidenced by the split decision.


----------



## alsih2o (Feb 16, 2005)

Hellefire said:
			
		

> Congrats OB!
> 
> I feel pretty good about my first try in a writing competition really. Going to practice some more for next time though .
> 
> Aaron




 You held your own against a known heavyweight. That is impressive.

 Sorry if we left you waiting. 3 judges in 3 times zones on 2 continents with lives gets messy. I hope you enjoyed it, and look forward to seeing you continue to comment on this one and play with us again.


----------



## Hellefire (Feb 16, 2005)

What a day! I must tell somebody this, so it's going here. First I had something personal come up that made me take my second-to-last day off work. I had to go on a little trip that ended up at some relatives of my girlfriend, one of whom I can't stand. To make things better, while I was changing my daughter's diaper, in the 0.02 seconds she was undiapered, she decided to hug me and pee on my shirt and pants. So there I am, over an hour from home, wet, trying to politely leave (in Poland there are strict rules of hospitality, from both sides). So, I get home, immediately change, and after much ado and refreshing get my judgement. Ok, I lost, and yeah I would have been happier to win, but I was relieved to at least KNOW and I really do feel good about the whole thing. So I finally open the bottle my girlfriend and I have been saving for the occasion, pour 3 glasses of red wine (she had a friend over, and those hospitality rules again) and carried them to the living room, where she and her friend were trying to put our daughter to sleep. I tried to hand her one, but since the room was dark I misjudged which glass she had and let go of the wrong one. It fell straight down, did not break, and spewed wine straight up....on to me. So there I was, drenched....again. I took my daughter and sang her to sleep, chuckling the whole time. And now, I go to bed to prepare for both my last day at work for the next 7 months, and my entrance into a new age category for the ENWorld age poll (33...shhhh, dont tell anybody). Damn but life is fun sometimes .

Aaron


----------



## Piratecat (Feb 17, 2005)

Now THAT'S a day.  

Commentary for Mythago sent. I'm editing the formatting from Thorod's story now; BSF had sent me a version, but a little too much formatting got cut out of his version.


----------



## Eeralai (Feb 17, 2005)

Fun stuff!  I wonder what the average age for the ceramic DM participants is.


----------



## Piratecat (Feb 17, 2005)

Thorod's post is edited so it's visible!

http://www.enworld.org/showthread.php?p=2023556#post2023556


----------



## alsih2o (Feb 17, 2005)

Maddman75 Vs. Sigurd

 Piratecat-

 Maddman75 vs Sigurd (who never posted a story)

Okay, a little editorializing here. I _hate_ it when people drop out
partway through a competition. Sometimes there are extenuating circumstances
(such as in CarpeDavid’s case), and we understand those; we also appreciate
it when a competitor apologizes for having to withdraw. Saying “Okay, ready
to roll!” and then not showing up again isn’t fair or kind to your
competitors.

Moral of story: please don’t sign up to compete unless you’re willing to
*make* time to write, and if you sign up do *everything* you can
to write a story -- even if it’s one you aren’t happy with. That’s the
nature of the beast.

That being said, let’s discuss Maddman’s story.

-- o --

This is a funny piece. I like how it’s told, as if over a beer in a dark
bar. The style is informal, the tone humorous.  There’s a few typos (“but
but”), but not a lot of them. The biggest strength of this story is that
Maddman does a good job of describing and expanding on the absurd. That’s a
style I really like. Unfortunately, this also ties into the piece’s
weakness.

I think the story weaves a lot of photo-inspired disparate threads that then
never entirely connect. The result is surreal. I think it may have been best
as a bad day that gets slowly more and more surreal, but the inclusion of
the robot girlfriend (!) right away strains credibility a little too soon
for my liking. With the bulldog, we had a funny and believable scene; the
robot girlfriend made me pull back and say “huh?”

Likewise with the re-enactors and the elephants. The description and
interaction with these were funny, playing to one of Maddman’s strengths as
a writer. They didn’t connect very well to the rest of the story, though,
and that makes the whole thing less likely to hang together.  Interestingly,
I think the explicit moral of the story weakens it. I kind of liked the
ending with Brutus rolling in the elephant poop; bringing it back around to
the dog is a step in the right direction.

All in all a fun story. I’m looking forward to seeing Maddman’s entry in
round 2.

 Alsih20-

 What strikes me right up front here is the strong picture use. Everything is tied together, each picture becomes a major point in the story. But it seems to be ALL about the pictures. 

 I think there is a good basis here but I think it could be stronger by wrapping the story together as tightly as the pics are used. If you have a robo-girl I want to see something else in the setting that gives me a tech-frame or time-frame.

 I am encouraged to see your next round story based on this one.

 Maddman advances.


----------



## Macbeth (Feb 17, 2005)

I'm ready for my round 2 match up any time, though Friday 2-5 p.m. my time (Mountain Time, that is) would be best. I'd really like to get the pictures sometime between Friday at 2 and Saturday night, if at all possible. After that my schedule gets a little messy.


----------



## BSF (Feb 17, 2005)

Piratecat said:
			
		

> BSF had sent me a version, but a little too much formatting got cut out of his version.




Really?  Wacky!  When I tested it with a Preview button it looked good.  If you got a couple of minutes, drop me an email so I can figure out what went wrong and keep it in mind for future reference.


----------



## Berandor (Feb 17, 2005)

alsih2o said:
			
		

> You held your own against a known heavyweight. That is impressive.
> 
> Sorry if we left you waiting. 3 judges in 3 times zones on 2 continents with lives gets messy. I hope you enjoyed it, and look forward to seeing you continue to comment on this one and play with us again.



continents with lives? Cool.


----------



## orchid blossom (Feb 17, 2005)

alsih2o said:
			
		

> You held your own against a known heavyweight. That is impressive.




Has someone been sending you pictures??  Seriously, this reputation I have still confounds me.    But hey, I'll take it.  It's nice to be good at something beside data entry.

Hellefire, you did great!  The first time is always the hardest, and the waiting is the worst part.  I hope we'll see you next time!

As for scheduling, Thursday nights are the best time to get pics for me, (as they probably are for a lot of people as that leaves the whole weekend.)  Tuesdays are the worst.  (I have games on Wednesday and Friday nights.)  I'm getting into the point where I'm having a lot of wedding planning appointments, but those shouldn't interefere too much.

In other words, anytime but Tuesdays is doable.


----------



## alsih2o (Feb 17, 2005)

Macbeth said:
			
		

> I'm ready for my round 2 match up any time, though Friday 2-5 p.m. my time (Mountain Time, that is) would be best. I'd really like to get the pictures sometime between Friday at 2 and Saturday night, if at all possible. After that my schedule gets a little messy.




 The only problem here is that you have no opponent yet. 

 Let's see when those judgements roll in and I will see what I can do.


----------



## MarauderX (Feb 17, 2005)

alsih2o said:
			
		

> The only problem here is that you have no opponent yet.
> 
> Let's see when those judgements roll in and I will see what I can do.




I think I'm ready... though to be matched up against anyone who is left is akin to hitting my hand with a hammer because it feels so good when I stop.  This next round won't be pretty.  

Oh, and I'm not calling anyone out anyone in particular... consider my readiness as 'take all comers' - I'm calling everyone out!  Grrr!


----------



## Maldur (Feb 17, 2005)

MarauderX, the man with no fear, and no feelin in his hand


----------



## Maldur (Feb 17, 2005)

First round two judgement send


----------



## Rodrigo Istalindir (Feb 17, 2005)

*whimper*


----------



## Piratecat (Feb 18, 2005)

I'll have the rest of my round one updates in by noon tomorrow - and then the waiting ends! For some of you.


----------



## Macbeth (Feb 18, 2005)

Any idea on round 2 match ups? I would really prefer a Friday afternoon pic posting, if possible, and it looks like we've got another round 2 contestant (or two) now...


----------



## BSF (Feb 18, 2005)

orchid blossom said:
			
		

> Has someone been sending you pictures??  Seriously, this reputation I have still confounds me.




You keep saying this, but you also consistently put together good stories.  Yeah, maybe you haven't won a Ceramic DM title, yet.   But you have been in the finals.  Which is more than I can say actually.  

I will get to your story soon and comment in the Spectator's thread.


----------



## Eeralai (Feb 18, 2005)

*much wailing and gnashing of teeth*

Why do I find it easier to string random pictures together in a story than to do a chapter summary of my novel?!?!  Sorry.  Just a bit frustrated with myself.  The deadline is looming for the WoTC novel open call.

As a nod to the judges, no matter how long it takes to get judgements posted, it is still shorter than waiting to hear from a publisher.  And it is somehow more satisfying to refresh the screen all the time than to wait for a phone call


----------



## Maldur (Feb 18, 2005)

Seems a email I sent from work is missing, soIll have to redo some judging


----------



## Maldur (Feb 18, 2005)

And I did, in the shortest way yet


----------



## Piratecat (Feb 18, 2005)

I've sent in Thorod vs Rodrigo. Do I get to make a movie about either of these concepts?  

I'll finish Nitessine vs Firelance tonight.


----------



## Thorod Ashstaff (Feb 18, 2005)

Piratecat said:
			
		

> Do I get to make a movie about either of these concepts?




Can't speak for Rodrigo, but you can have my movie rights!


----------



## Rodrigo Istalindir (Feb 18, 2005)

Piratecat said:
			
		

> I've sent in Thorod vs Rodrigo. Do I get to make a movie about either of these concepts?




Depends on your vote!


----------



## alsih2o (Feb 18, 2005)

Bazz- 

Thorod Ashstaff Vs. Rodrigo Istalindir

Thorod Ashstaff gets my vote for destroying Hogwarts 

 Piratecat-

 Thorod Ashstaff Vs. Rodrigo Istalindir

I apologize for this being a little shorter than normal. I thought I’d
rather err on the side of brevity instead of making you wait any longer.
It's been that kind of week.

Thorod Ashstaff:

I’ll start by pointing out the one logical flaw that could have been easily
resolved: right after Angela claims that she can’t pass into another
universe because she’ll be arrested if she shows up at CERN, she goes to
CERN and runs the process. That’s the kind of logic hole that drives fans of
sci-fi movies _nuts._

You may want to try integrating verbal tics into your characters’
conversations to help liven up the speech. It came across as somewhat flat
and a little bit stilted, with no unique rhythm for the different
characters.  This was especially noticeable in the middle section when Vicki
arrives and the story goes into a lull from which it never quite recovers.

Other than that, the story was excellent. Imaginative use of photos, a very
creative concept, and a good ending twist. Vicki needs a little more
integration into the earlier part of the story, as does the concept of
Alt-Monte. Nevertheless, it’s an interesting idea that ends up being
executed with flair.

Rodrigo Istalindir:

Another good story. I liked the conversation, the concept, and the imagery.
Glen is a believable character, and his ennui with the job is a nice
counterpoint to the action that happens later in the piece.

The ending seemed slightly unbelievable; it’s hard to believe that Becky and
Glen can get away with what happened, especially in a world with video
cameras in museums that would certainly be checked. The surprise ending is a
nice touch, though.

Judgment:

[sblock]Although Thorod’s story was extremely good for anyone, never mind a
first-time competitor, my judgment goes to Rodrigo. His basic concept of
ghoulism isn’t quite as inspired as Thorod’s alternate-world time travel,
but the pace of the story and the way in which it’s told slightly pushes it
past the finish line.[/sblock]

 Alsih2o-

 Thorod Ashstaff: Wow! All that conversation, several characters, lots of tech speak and you pulled it off without making me wince once.

 [DarthVaderVoice] Impressive, most impressive[/DVV]

 I like the idea of the story, I relate to the main character, I was bullied into believing the techno-babble. Now many weaknesses here. 

The picture scenes each just come up once, but you have still managed to make each one seem very important. I am very impressed.

 Rodrigo Istalandir: Wow! Another great one. This is a really string story with a bit too quick and ending maybe. The company seems believeable, the characters are relatable and the conversations go off amazingly smoothly. 

 Judgement- [sblock] Did anyone else notice the “Savini” to Savinio” connection? I found it odd. These are 2 powerful and interesting stories, both deserve to advance. The problem is only one can and I have to give my vote ot the newcomer Thorod, for slightly stronger pic use.[/sblock]

 Decision: [sblock] Thorod Ashstaff pulls off a surprise and takes down Rodrigo ‘The Veteran’ Istalindir in a split decision![/sblock]


----------



## Macbeth (Feb 18, 2005)

Not to sound like a broken record, but any updates on round 2 match ups/posting times?


----------



## alsih2o (Feb 18, 2005)

Round 2

 Macbeth Vs. Maddman

 5 pics, 72 hours, 6000 word limit.


----------



## Rodrigo Istalindir (Feb 18, 2005)

Well done, Thorod.  An excellent story.  Good luck in the next round!


----------



## Macbeth (Feb 18, 2005)

Ooooohhh, thanks. SOrry ot be so annoying, but this was a real good time for me to start.


----------



## Thorod Ashstaff (Feb 18, 2005)

Wow, thanks for all the great critique (especially Piratecat, whose negative points I agree with, except that Angela doesn't go back to CERN, chalk that one up to unclear phrasing rather than a logic flaw). I really liked Rodrigo's ghouls, I'll chalk this one up to beginner's luck.

I am ready for Round Two, whenever!


----------



## BSF (Feb 19, 2005)

OK, I am slowly catching up with the stories.  Alsih2o, I will try to get you an updated menu soon-ish.  One query for the judges:  I am commenting on stories in the Spectator's Thread.  But you folks aren't allowed in that thread.  Would you like copies of posts in this thread as well or would you rather wait until the contest is complete to look at the Spectator thread?


----------



## Piratecat (Feb 19, 2005)

Thorod Ashstaff said:
			
		

> Wow, thanks for all the great critique (especially Piratecat, whose negative points I agree with, except that Angela doesn't go back to CERN, chalk that one up to unclear phrasing rather than a logic flaw).




I'm sure I missed something - but after explaining why she can't go through herself (she'll get arrested), why doesn't Angela go through instead of John after they break into the lab?  Other than self-preservation, I mean.  

I'm not trying to pick nits by asking; it was a great story, and you deserve to advance. I'm just really curious.


----------



## Thorod Ashstaff (Feb 19, 2005)

Piratecat said:
			
		

> why doesn't Angela go through instead of John after they break into the lab?




Um, 'cause I'd been writing for thirteen straight hours and was brain dead? Good catch, if I expand this one (which I'm leaning towards doing) I will fix that.


----------



## Maldur (Feb 19, 2005)

Macbeth said:
			
		

> Ooooohhh, thanks. SOrry ot be so annoying, but this was a real good time for me to start.




Dont worry, we will just remember that , while judging

(ok, we wont)


----------



## Piratecat (Feb 19, 2005)

In order to get the matchups moving, I have sent Alsih2o my judgment for Firelance vs Nitessine but not my commentary. I'm going to edit that in on Sunday. I didn't want you to wait any more but I'm not near a computer for very long, so this seemed like the best method for keeping things moving. Firelance and Nitessine, please check back in later for my comments.

Thanks!


----------



## alsih2o (Feb 19, 2005)

Maldur:

 Firelance Vs. NiTessine

Firelance gets my vote as he gives a complete story not just an intro 

 Piratecat votes for Firelance, with a promise of forthcoming comments.

 Alsih2o:

 Firelance- Straight off I like the idea of the tow specialist. Magic is usually treated as some mysterious force or over described. I like the immediate mood created by the opening exchange. This extends into the familiars conversation with a livng relative of the original mage. Cool.

 Then she invokes a evocation. Techno-babble and magic speak drive me crazy, they are hard to do well and glare when a mis-step is taken. I am not sure on correct usage here, but that jump made me itch. J

 LOVED the parachute pic usage. Loved it.

  The battle scene gets a little hard to keep up with, but comes through strong. 

 I just wish there was more to the ending. It is a really strong story that gets tied together in what seems to be a rush. 

 All around, this is a good story. I like the picture usage. This is one of those I wish I could read when more than three days of effort went into it.

 NiTessine- Hmm. This screams game. It seems like something that maybe is the first chapter of a larger context. 

 The picture usage is semi-solid. I like the idea of the perpetual motion man, but not the fact that he is just there. The parachute is pretty strong, the cat makes me want more.

 I think if this went somewhere I would be forced to consider it as a real winner. I have tried this type of story myself, and I didn’t make it work. I don’t think NiT did either.

 NiT is usually a very strong writer, maybe he is suffering form my high expectations?

 Judgement- Firelance provided more, and did it more strongly. He gets my vote.


 Decision: Firelance advances in a unanimous decision.


----------



## alsih2o (Feb 19, 2005)

Who is ready for pics?

 Anyone?


----------



## Thorod Ashstaff (Feb 19, 2005)

alsih2o said:
			
		

> Who is ready for pics? Anyone?




Ready, willing and (hopefully) able!  Fire away, oh Aqueous One.


----------



## BSF (Feb 19, 2005)

It looks like we have Thorod, Firelance, MarauderX and Orchid Blossom to go match up.  Thorod has said he is ready to go, so the next available contestant should be able to kick off a round.  

Hmm, Orchid Blossom prefers Thursday, but she did say anytime except Tuesday would work.  That might be a pair off right there?  Alsih2o what are you thinking?

Maybe a quick check-in is in order?  

I know Macbeth has his pictures.  I think Maddman75 has them as well.  Can we confirm?

Thorod says anytime is good.  
MarauderX, what is a good time?
Firelance, how about you?  (Isn't Firelance in Singapore?  That's GMT +8.  I wonder when Firelance checks EN World?)
Orchid Blossom, what about you?  (It seems like Orchid Blossom hits the boards in the mornings and evening.  Maybe she will check later today?)

OK folks, how about that smack talk?  I have really missed Mythago's smack talk between stories.  Just because I link around it for future ease of reference doesn't mean I don't like reading it!  

While you are at it, go comment in the Spectator thread.  And for the readers, go cheer on your favorite story.


----------



## alsih2o (Feb 19, 2005)

BardStephenFox said:
			
		

> It looks like we have Thorod, Firelance, MarauderX and Orchid Blossom to go match up.  Thorod has said he is ready to go, so the next available contestant should be able to kick off a round.
> 
> Hmm, Orchid Blossom prefers Thursday, but she did say anytime except Tuesday would work.  That might be a pair off right there?  Alsih2o what are you thinking?
> 
> ...




 Yeah! What he said!


----------



## BSF (Feb 19, 2005)

Thorod Ashstaff said:
			
		

> Ready, willing and (hopefully) able!  Fire away, oh Aqueous One.




Thorod, just call him Clay.


----------



## MarauderX (Feb 19, 2005)

BardStephenFox said:
			
		

> MarauderX, what is a good time?




Hit me!  No time is especially good as I am upgrading the house, but it will give me a chance to think about the pics once they are posted.  Who am I matched up against?


----------



## orchid blossom (Feb 19, 2005)

I have monday off work, so tonight or sometime tomorrow would do quite well for me.


----------



## FireLance (Feb 19, 2005)

Any time this week should be fine. I'll be quite busy at work in the first week of March.


----------



## alsih2o (Feb 19, 2005)

Thorod Ashstaff Vs. Marauder X

 5 pics, 72 hours, 6000 word limit.


----------



## Thorod Ashstaff (Feb 19, 2005)

alsih2o said:
			
		

> 5 pics, 72 hours.




Oy! I picked the wrong week to give up smoking...in a dress...


----------



## NiTessine (Feb 19, 2005)

alsih2o said:
			
		

> I think if this went somewhere I would be forced to consider it as a real winner. I have tried this type of story myself, and I didn’t make it work. I don’t think NiT did either.
> 
> NiT is usually a very strong writer, maybe he is suffering form my high expectations?
> 
> ...




I'll point the accusing finger to World of Warcraft. Alas, there's nothing quite like one's first MMORPG addiction, nor the places where your mind goes when ailed by sleep deprivation, caffeine overdose and deadline stress. 

Congratulations, FireLance. You'd better go on to win this thing.


----------



## Macbeth (Feb 21, 2005)

_*Forget*_
By Sage

This is nothing like the island of Dr. Moreau. They wanted to be human, they tried to be noble, and they had an evil Doctor playing god.

We don't want to be human, we don't want to be noble, we just want to forget. 

Just like all the rest of you, we just want to forget.

Ever since Eve ate of the fruit, you've all been trying to forget the knowledge you gained. Trying to forget good and evil, or hide it. Drugs, entertainment, sex, lies, its all just ways of forgetting one bad meal.

And that's all we want too. We just want to forget what Dr. Groveger made us learn.

That's the problem. Groveger gave us knowledge, gave us good and evil, and now all we want to do is forget it.

We also want to get rid of the constant headache. Animal skulls were not meant to carry brains this large, and the result is living with a never-ending migraine.

It started like any creation, with a mad god. Dr. Groveger was a biologist, or a chemist, or a creationist, or something like that. He sat on the mountain top and toiled away with experiments that you can only get away with on deserted islands in international waters. He never told us how he got the money, how he payed for us, how he bought our souls. He just started working in his complex, and one day, he succeeded.

And like any other mad creation god, he had a sick sense of humor. He was well read, and thought of himself as a Moreau done right. We had no similarities to beasts, we never regressed, we were more like the pigs from Animal Farm then the animals of Dr. Moreau. And in the spirit of Dr. Moreau, he set us up on the other end of the island, living in a little village, living a 'perfect' life.

He even gave us history. A collage of images, all of them fakes, that give our little town a history. Like Rockwell with animals. A perfect history. Dog-men and frog-women having a sock hop, lizard children sledding on a snowy slope (as if it ever snowed here), the whole thing. A whole history of propaganda, images that always show the noble spirits of his man-beasts. Policemen-dogs watching over the children, a perfect image of our 'nobility.'

And that put us where we are now. In another endless meeting over how to make ourselves perfect. 

“But civil law should be free of religion.” That's Mr. Jefferson for you, his chipmunk cheeks and bushy tail conceal a dogmatic ideal modeled after the declaration of independence.

“And what of the positive values provided by religion?” And that's the inevitable responses from Father Gregor, the only one of us to consider himself a priest. I'm sure the Catholic church never ordained a crocodile-man, but he insists on his religious rights. 

The only problem with being so human, so non-Moreau, is that we have this burden. The burden of caring, the burden of being perfect. We just want to forget.

“And what do you think, Mr. Edgar?”

Great, now they want my opinion.

“I think we've come too far.”

Every pair of eyes in the meeting room turns to me. For dramatic effect I stand up and pace around the room, my hooves making a clopping sound on the finely polished hardwood floor.

“Have you ever thought about the outside world? How Groveger and his people live? I found this on the beach.” I pull out the advertisement, an image of two girls, their hair intertwined, but still as happy as we could never be. An image of the carefree life our knowledge had denied us.

The room drops to a silence as they all take it in.

Mr. Hever is the next to speak. He's one of the 'pures,' the creations that still look like animals, but have human level brains. Mr. Hever is a seagull with the brains of a high school graduate. “They... They all live like this. The people like... like Dr. Groveger, they don't care. They're not like us, they don't have to worry, they don't have the knowledge of good and evil. I flew to... to another island yesterday.” Mr. Hever's word elicit a response from the crowd. Leaving the island is strictly forbidden, but before anybody can object, Mr. Hever continues in his squawking voice. “There... there was a girl there. She didn't care, there were... animals around her, not like us, the dumb ones. And she looked so happy, so without worry. She didn't need to know if she was good or evil, if she was right or wrong, she just looked happy.”

The crowd burst into sound as Mr. Hever finished.

“But we're privileged by our knowledge...”

“Was she really that happy...”

“How?”

“Isn't leaving the island evil?”

With a stomp of my hooves on the ground I stop the discussion. “Gentlecreatures, I know this sounds odd, but Dr. Groveger has wronged us. We were simple, we were happy, and he gave us all of his problems. Our images of happiness come from children, from advertisements, from those with no worries of right and wrong. We have been forced to live a life of horrible choices, of a struggle between good and evil. Are not our more simple cousins, those untouched by Dr. Groveger, more happy? I ask you, who here has ever seen a sad animal? Not one of use, one of the trues beasts.”

The room is silent. 

“Exactly. An animal, even one in a desperate position, is never so sad as we are, they always have survival, not morals, on their minds. We should be the same.”

Father Gregor's voice leaks into the silence. “But we are blessed by the knowledge.”

“Blessed? Father Gregor, what is the story of original sin? And what has Dr. Groveger done to use?”

And with that, Father Gregor sits back down, silent.

“Gentlecreatures, we have a chance unique to ourselves. Eve and Adam could never purge the meal they ate, but we can. We are Dr. Groveger's creations, and so he can uncreate us. We can do what thousands of years of drugs and philosophy could not do for the outside world. We can become stupid again. Are you with me?”

Slowly, one after another, the heads in the room nod. We have united in our desire to become stupid again. We are the masses, and we demand our opiate.

“Good. We march tonight. Gather your families, and anything you could use as a weapon. Meet me in the square in an hour.”



Seeing the entire number of Dr. Groveger's creations at once is like seeing an explosion in a zoo. The square is a mess of cloven hooves, tails, wings and horns. 

“Are we ready?” I say, trying to conceal my terror and delight.

Every head nods in slow agreement.

“Then we march.” We are legion, a gestalt of dozens of men and dozens of animals in a slow march to the mountain.


As we approach the gates of Dr. Groveger's compound, the guards come into view. Dr. Groveger keeps all of the men we meet in strange dress, to obscure any facts about the outside world. The men at the gate wear orange and blue striped suits, and carry weapons that are intended to be used on animals. Two stand at either side, with an especially tall one in the middle ready for anything.

As we approach, the guard in the center steps out to great us. “What do you want, creatures?”

“We want to give back your 'gift' to us.”

“What?”

“Your knowledge, you can have it. We want to be free like the animals of the field.”

“I'm sorry we can't do that. You know now, and you always will.”

If we're going to be beasts, we may as well act like them. With a snort and a grunt, I lower my head, and charge the center guard.

My horns pierce him, and I twist my head, throwing him into the wall. And with that, our rise to our natural form starts. We may still know what we do is wrong, but we don't care, not now.

Like a firestorm of sulfur we rip through the complex, and we start loosing our numbers. By the time we reach the center office, it's only me. Every one else lays dead or dying in the hallways.

With a swoosh the door swings open, but he's not there. Moving to the desk, I find a note. He's out. We finally make our move, and Dr. Groveger is out collecting species for the next round of his experiments. 

It's down to me to kill him. As the sun comes up, I thrash through the forest, moving to the beach to find Dr. Groveger.

When I find him, he's knee deep in water, with the smoke from the complex rising in the distance. He looks into the bushes, and sees me thrashing forward, my hooves and horns covered in blood.

“I was wondering what happened at the complex. I guess it was you. Since you've probably come to kill me, can I ask you why?”

“Because you made us like you. Because now we have to deal with the knowledge you gave us. We never wanted this, we wanted to be simple. Now it's my turn: why did you start the experiment? Why make us into this?”

“Cause that's the way it is. Your simple life doesn't exist. I made you see the world the way it is.”

“And how do you change us back?”

“I don't. I can't. This is the way the world is, and I can't change it now that you know. Your in the same boat we're all in. Welcome to the human race.”

He's not right. He can't be. Rage fills my vision and so I level my  horns and charge. Fear flashes across his face just before my horns rip through his chest.

His blood runs red into the ocean, and I walk out to drown myself in the sea, in my sorrows. He may have been right, but now the only person who would know how to turn me back is gone, and I don't have anywhere else to go.

As I walk into the sea, I try to forget my knowledge, forget what I did to try to forget. In the end I could never forget.


----------



## maddman75 (Feb 21, 2005)

Journey into the Mountain of Fire

maddman


It was a bright and cheerful Tuesday morning when our group arrived at the Gentleman Explorer's Society.  This was an ancient institution, dedicated some five hundred years ago to exploring the unusual and unexplained in the world.  Though it was called the 'Gentleman' Explorer's Society, these days there were female members as well.  The club's founding was made in less enlightened times, but tradition keeps the old name.

It is fortunate for us, because one of our members is a young lady, and quite talented.  Cherish is quite knowledgeable about the natural world and its spiritual properties, having been raised by African Bushmen after a lion mauled her parents while on safari.  I had met her during one of my expeditions to try and find the Lost City of Klathu, when I was beset by an army of angry baboons.  This young girl made a few gestures and grunts at them and the beasts left me be.  I led her back to England to join the society and we've been fast friends ever since.

Some readers may doubt the veracity of my claims about Cherish's powers.  They should likely abandon this tale before I get to Klaus.  He was the victim of a Nazi experiment in the second world war, where the Third Reich was attempting to understand genetics and how they determined one's form.  He has the ability to transform himself into any manner of beast, or even Chimeric combinantions of part one thing, part another.  It has been a talent that has gotten him out of many rough spots before!

And the last of our merry band of explorers would be myself, Adrian Crown.  I've no special gifts like my two friends Cherish and Klaus I'm afraid.  Just my pistol and skills as a pilot to get us where we're going.  Its been said that of our team, Cherish is the heart, Klaus is the brains, and I'm the brawn.  

In any case, we walked up to the Society, eager to see what new missions the Elders may have cooked up for us.  The guards still wore their traditional uniforms, and Cherish can't help but giggle a little when she goes in.  Every time.  You'd think the joke would get old after awhile, but for the young everything always seems so fresh.

We entered the lush common room, where explorers of all varieties and nationalities sat reclined in rich leather funiture, sipping scotch, and in deep conversation about archeology across the globe.  I went up to Edward, the venerable Chairman who told us what was what.  "Hello Edward - I got your telegram.  What's the big mission?"

The stoic man cleared his throat and dropped a photograph onto the table.  "This is Dr. David Thorpe, an associate of the Society.  He's been studying the ruins at the base of the Manahana volcano in the South Pacific.  He'd sent a telegram indicating that he'd discovered the tomb of King Yellani, something that scientists had been searching out for ages.  He'd said he was worried that the volcano may become active before he could study the tomb.  I'd like your team to travel to the South Pacific to find Dr. Thorpe and see these ruins for yourself."

I took his maps and the photograph with a grin.  "Travel halfway around the world to find a missing professor inside a tomb at the base of an active volcano.  And I thought you were going to ask me something hard!"  Cherish giggles, and Klaus gave me a reprimanding look.  "I'll get the plane ready to go and plot our course.  Klaus, I'm used to hunting down lost treasures, not people.  Maybe you should talk with Fritz before we leave?"

"Excellent idea, Adrian.  I'll meet you back at the airport tonight!"  Fritz was a good friend of Klaus's, and had been part of the same experiments.  Fritz liked to play around with his powers, and the normally reserved Klaus would get in on the act with him.  I was glad I managed to snap a picture they day the two of them put on dog heads and started chasing birds in the park!  I don't think I'll ever let Klaus live that one down.

We got together later that night.  The plane was ready to go, Cherish had our bags packed, and Klaus had some good ideas from his buddy at Scotland Yard.  Fritz had suggested that Klaus don a bloodhound head as he had that day in the park.  He could then track the professor down like a bloodhound!

The plane took off, travelling from country to country until finally we set down in a field a small distance from Mt. Manahana.  Dr. Thorpe's camp was there, but no sign of the good professor.  Klaus gave some of the man's clothes a good sniffing, and immediately led us toward the volcano.  

We soon arrived at the base of the volcano right on the beach.  The trail led right behind a large boulder, there was no way we could move it.  Klaus thought maybe the professor was caught in a cave-in, but the bare footprints in the sand told a different story.  I was guessing that this is the entrance to the tomb and someone had trapped the professor inside.  We had to find a way around that boulder.

Cherish went over to the beach as sat down, pulling some bread out of her pack.  "If you're going to ask a favor, you have to do a favor first." she explained.  In no time at all, several birds landed in a circle around her.  She gave them each a bit of the bread, and looked them in the eye and made gentle chirping sounds.  Suddenly the entire flock took off and landed up the slope.  She started scampering up after the birds, with me and Klaus right behind her warning her to be careful.  Once we got up on the slope, we could see that the birds had landed on a small shaft that was not visible from the beach.  We had found a passage into the tomb!

I struck up a torch and we climbed down the passage to the ancient tomb.  There were carvings and inscriptions all along the walls.  It was pretty dark, but we could see that the passage led up to a large room that was lit, and we could hear and eerie chanting from there as well.  We slowly progressed forward, anxious to see what was happening in the torchlight up ahead.

It was a terrible sight.  I spotted Dr. Thorpe right away.  He was tied up on some kind of altar, right next to a skeleton!  A woman with a dark red robe on stood over him with a knife in hand while half a dozen people in black robes were doing the chanting.  Her voice rose to a crescendo in the rough-cut stone room, "King Yellani, Lord of Darkness, return to your people to crush your enemies and all defilers!"

I cried out - "I don't think so, sister!" and fired a single shot from my pistol, knocking the dagger from her hand.  The cult members turned on us with murder in their eyes.  But Klaus had other plans for them.  He rumbled past me in the form of a huge bear, and started batting the cultists down like flies.

The Woman In Red was furious that her little sacrifice was so rudely interrupted.  She uttered a dark and obscene sounding word and gestured toward Cherish.  The most bizzare thing happened next - I don't blame me if you don't believe this one.  I wouldn't believe it either except I saw it with my own eyes.  Cherish sort of split, like a reflection pulled itself out of her body.  First her arms, then her head and torso, and her ponytail last of all.  A perfect match, right down to the braces.  Her new twin was not as funloving as our Cherish, and wrapped its hands around her throat!  The two of them went down and started wrestling, the young girl fighting for her life.  I had my pistol out, but there was no way for me to tell which was the good Cherish and which was the evil one!

I turned toward the cult leader.  Maybe I could break her hex or whatever it is to save Cherish!  She'd ducked behind the altar and was digging for her dagger.  I ran across the room, decked one of the cult members who thought he'd stop me.  I got across the altar and put my gun in her face.  "Don't even think about it!"  She wisely dropped the dagger.  "Now take that hex off of Cherish!"  With a gesture, the magics faded and the evil Cherish was gone forever.

Klaus had herded the cultists into a corner, and I gestured their leader to join them.  I cut Dr. Thorpe free while Cherish tied the cultists up.  Dr. Thorpe quickly explained what happened.  He was exploring the tomb when the cult jumped him.  They'd been searching for it for ages, and revered Yellani as some kind of dark god.  They planned to sacrifice Thorpe to bring the old King back to life."

The cult leader was furious.  She cried out "Yellani needs blood to form new life, and blood he shall have!  She started chanting in indescipherable gibberish, while the cultists surrounded here.  Klaus started digging into find her, but it was too little too late.  We felt a deep rumble under our feet - the volcano was going to erupt!

We decided to leave the cult to its own devices and headed toward the entrance.  A huge rumble shook the entire corridor, and a look over my shoulder showed a river of lava heading right towards us.  Klaus said "There's no way we'll get up the shaft in time - we'll have to move that boulder!"  He shifted forms into a huge bull, lowered his head, and charged full tilt right into the boulder that blocked his way.  It was just enough, and the way was clear.  We all jumped up to high ground while Klaus changed into a bird.

We made our way back to the plane to return Dr. Thorpe to England.  "I'm ever so grateful to you and your group Adrian.  Its just so frustrating that I finally found the tomb of Yellani, but don't have anything to show for it."

Cherish pulled up her pack and said "while Klaus was wrestling with those cult guys I stuffed these old papers in my pack.  Will they help you out Professor?"

Dr. Thorpe looked at the ancient parchments and his eyes widened with excitement.  "My dear girl, these are the Scrolls of the Afterlife, detailing the religious beliefs of Yellani's people!  They are a most valuable piece of history.  I can't thank you enough."

I smiled at the two of them.  "Hey, we keep her around for a reason.  Now let's get back home!"


----------



## alsih2o (Feb 21, 2005)

Anybody else ready?


----------



## BSF (Feb 21, 2005)

Orchid Blossom and Firelance both indicated they were good earlier.


----------



## FireLance (Feb 21, 2005)

alsih2o said:
			
		

> Anybody else ready?



Meaning: me and orchid blossom, right? 
Yeah, I'm good to go.


----------



## orchid blossom (Feb 21, 2005)

Either this evening, or waiting until Wednesday evening.  Tuesday is just bad, bad, bad.


----------



## MarauderX (Feb 22, 2005)

Marauder X vs. Thorod Ashstaff 


*Sara McKernan*


”Why would we need to have a filter such as glasses to see things in the way that others want us to?  Is what is depicted on the screen not what the director wants us to see?  What if the universe needed a filter just like that?” Barry said.  We sat in the overgrown field and he turned to look at me with his dark-colored movie glasses.   His question was rhetorical as he was accustomed to asking, but made an impression and provoked contemplation, which he was probably really after.  

“What do you really see Barry?” I asked.  Barry was in his last year of study to receiving a bachelor’s degree in philosophy and I knew that asking him such an open ended question was an invite to let him talk for a while.  He led the way into the metaphysical world that I think he lived in all the time, and this is what I had always liked about him.  Barry had an honest appeal to most that was contagious and made others want to hang out with him if only to listen to some of his humorous interpretations of the world we live in.  

I studied accounting, which made for Barry and me to be strange bedfellows, but all I can say is that we were kindred spirits.  I was to graduate the following winter and join the accounting team of my father’s construction company.  Barry hated the necessity of money though perhaps he understood the principals of how it worked to change people and events more than I did.  He talked awhile and I lay down in the grass and closed my eyes to soak up his warm baritone voice.  

I liked accounting because it dealt with numbers, and with those numbers there was an absolute solution, a correct answer that I could find given a little time to follow all the rules.  Barry’s entire study was the antithesis to me, given that there were no numbers and no matter what the conclusion was, there was no absolute right answer.  It bothered me at first, not knowing, but Barry had made it so easy to endure once I understood the fundamentals of philosophy.  

I hadn’t said a word in half an hour, and repeatedly Barry eloquently led his discussion to support the interpretation of the world through various filters, likening each of our experiences to the cheap movie glasses in some way.  

“Want to get something to eat?” I asked when he paused.  He could tell that he had lost me a long time ago.  

“What are you thinking of getting?  I had tofu yesterday, but you know that, you were with me then.  I am thinking I want beef tips, or Chinese, perhaps Szechwan pork with a bowl of egg drop soup.  Oh, we order in and make the soup ourselves, its pretty fun actually.” 

What I didn’t like about Barry sometimes was his lack of brevity.  I had dated an accountant classmate once and now I know I took the long silences for granted.  It was easy enough to listen to, but the focus was sometimes lost in the all the talk.  

We made it back to Barry’s apartment to hear loud music playing through the open balcony door and we were pleasantly surprised to see Barry’s roommate Mike hosting an intimate party.  The apartment itself was bare, as both Barry and Mike considered their tenure brief and neither spent much time there.  Given that they were both students and the distant walk to campus, Mike stayed at his girlfriend’s often, and I stayed with Barry several nights of the week.  

Several of Barry’s close friends were standing in the open second floor apartment when we saw Mike.  I burst out laughing at seeing Mike dressed in a French maid’s outfit and smoking a cigarette.   Mike was the type of man that wasn’t threatened by embarrassment but could not stand to have his sexual reputation tarnished, and here he was acting in his same burly fashion.  

“What?” Mike asked, the cigarette jingling in his lips.

Barry had tears in his eyes from laughter, but it was apparent that it was not a complete surprise to him as it was to me.  “When you’re done with the windows, could you help me wax my knob?” he asked jokingly.  

“I thought that’s why you got a girlfriend!” Mike retorted.

“No, that’s why _you_ got a girlfriend!” Barry answered, “especially for the windows.  Everyone here knows you can do knobs yourself!”  The small group of people continued to take pictures of Mike’s red face.  

The two then explained that it was Barry’s birthday, and that since he didn’t celebrate holidays or birthdays, Mike still wanted to do something memorable for his long-time roommate.  Barry had asked if for once Mike could take out the trash and be his maid instead of the other way around.  

“Ask and ye shall receive, my friend.” said Mike, as he gave Barry a jovial hug, “and now you gotta drink like a fish!  Happy Birthday Barry!”  Everyone in the small apartment drank to that, and Barry made his way around to greet everyone.  I met some new faces of Barry’s I had heard him mention, several of which were graduate philosophy majors that Barry had befriended.  I had had no idea it was his birthday and was embarrassed to not even know he didn’t want gifts.  He had only requested chocolate cake, but I knew that was to please me.  

As the night wore down we ended up playing the maid servant to Mike after he had passed out on his bed.  With everyone gone we watched Mike’s year-old half-puppy, half full grown dog Max chew on a plastic bottle.  Barry showed me how to make egg drop soup, constantly stirring the soup while the egg was slowly poured in.  It was salty and delicious and reminded me of the last time I had traveled.  

“Hey, I want to take a trip before I start working,” I said, “to someplace I haven’t been to or even heard about.”

Barry narrowed his eyes in thought.  “Then you will have to go to… well, I can’t tell you about it if you just asked me not to.  Ok, we’ll take a trip, to a place you have never been, and I am sure that you have never heard of.”  He smiled with a gleam in his eye and the promise of a new secret project for him alone to design.  

* * * * *

Barry had graduated and took a job as a tree trimmer, climbing and clipping limbs near overhead power lines and up to seventy feet in the air.  At first I was worried for him, but since he loved it and the crew that he was with, I grew numb to thinking how dangerous the job could be.  I was alone again on campus, not really knowing anyone well enough to spend my free time with.  I tried to concentrate on my schoolwork, but it was so easy to let my mind wander and dream of far away places that Barry could find to take me.  

I heard about Mike occasionally, mostly from Barry.  He had also graduated last spring and put his electrical engineering degree to use.  He moved to the small town of Endicott, New York, where Lockheed Martin had their headquarters, and he was soon to help out with the Marine-1 contract the company had just been awarded.  

The fall semester was over in a flash and my father was looking forward to the extra help in dealing with the end-of-year bonuses.  Barry drove down a few days early to see me before graduation and my father and brother met him for the first time when we all went to dinner together.   My brother talked a lot about his first semester at Penn State, laying out the vastness of the campus and the diversity of people and cultures that he had explored thus far.  Though my father was full of conversation too, Barry was strangely quiet, giving answers that seemed curt, and asked only a few in return.  

Desert came with a toast and a new bottle of wine for the four of us.  

My father spoke first.  “To my darling daughter, and her willingness to help out her old man.  And to Barry, a fine man that we’ve finally got to meet, and hope to know better.  Congratulations!”  Glasses clinked and Barry stood.  

“To all of us, and most especially to your daughter.” Barry began.  “We will be leaving in the morning, headed for a final trip that I had promised her.”  

My father’s question was written across his face and his eyes snapped to look at me for an explanation.  “You won’t be long, will you?  Where are you headed to, maybe I can help you out?” he said, keeping his voice lighthearted.  

“She doesn’t know,” Barry said quickly, “it’s a surprise that we had talked about last spring.  You see, she had asked that I take her to a place she had never been or even heard of, and that’s what I’ve planned.”

“And when will you be back?” my father asked again.  

Barry shifted his eyes to me before answering.  “Well, that’s still up in the air.  Let me say that it’s up to your daughter.”  

I was dumbfounded at that moment.  I didn’t know what to say, other than I knew I wanted to go on this trip more than anything.  I could see that my father was trying to be understanding, but the blood in his face showed that he was ready to blow his top at any moment.  

“I’ll be back, Dad,” I said, “it’s not as if I’m going to die.”  That’s all I could muster to try to stem the flood of emotion that was about to pour out of him.  

“To die?  Of course you’re not going to die, right?  But, I hate to be selfish here, but… but it’s not like we’re an S-company and exempt from government taxes sweetie!  Surely you understand that, that if we don’t zero-out by the end of the year we’ll have to pay, what, thirty cents every dollar to the government!”
“Forty.” I said.  
“Yes!  Exactly!  You gotta understand kiddo, this means a lot of money to be handled, and the work has got to be done!  You can take a vacation anytime, you’re my daughter, you would be working for me, you can come and go whenever you want!”

Just as my father took in a deep breath to continue, Barry interjected.  “Actually, this is the only moment that this will ever happen, ever.  It will never come again, and I’m sorry I had to cut it so close, but this is once-in-a-lifetime chance.”

Barry and my father stared at each other.  I knew this look; my father used it on subcontractors when they were trying to charge him too much or made up an excuse why their work wasn’t on time or under budget.  He had used it on my brother and me if we came home too late or fibbed about where we had gone.  Now Barry was getting that look, and he defiantly stared back into my father’s eyes, his face placid.  Suddenly my father’s eyes grew wide.

“You’re planning to elope!  That’s what your plan is, isn’t it boy!  Why, you want to take my daughter away somewhere and leave us behind!  You got some nerve!”  

Barry watched my father’s theatrics, watched him spring from his seat then sit down again.  Barry and I listened to the lecture about marrying too soon, about having kids before we’re ready, about stealing me away, and he finished with a few words on us being irresponsible kids.  My brother enjoyed his dessert and listened as if he were watching a TV soap opera.  

“No, sir, I am not planning to elope with your daughter.” Barry said finally.  “I want to show her the world, to see the ocean from a different coast, to let the moon shine down from another place, to let her see the sun rise and fall on different horizons.  I want her to experience other places and to know that when she returns she will be happy working for you.  That’s all.  I worked all summer and fall saving enough money to do this, and if she doesn’t want to come, then that’s her choice too, but this is will only happen once, and I only hoped that she would join me because I love her.”

Again I was stunned.  I had wanted to speak up, to put a stop to this much earlier, but now I’m glad I hadn’t.  I knew that Barry cared about me, and that I was the only one he was with, but had thought he was standoffish for a reason.  He was a free spirit, flitting from one thing to the next just for the experience of having tried it.  I had always thought Barry would tire of me, that I didn’t and couldn’t hold his interest forever, and lived each day as if the next would the one when he told me he had to move on.  Instead I hear about his feelings for me when he tells my father.  I pushed my untouched slice of chocolate on chocolate cake away. 

My father stammered for a second before his face hardened up and gave Barry the stare once more as he slammed through his cheesecake.  “So you’re going to take my daughter on a cruise or something, and it’s entirely up to her to go or not, correct?”

“Ultimately, yes.” said Barry.  

My father’s head swiveled to focus his stern gaze at me.  I unconsciously cowered.  “It’s up to you sweetie, whether you want to do this or not.  Barry here says that it’s a once-in-a-lifetime thing, which I think is a crock of drek, but you know him a lot better than I do.  It’s up to you sweetie, the job will be around whenever you get back, we’ll just have to make due if you don’t get back before the New Year.”

“Really?” I said.  I sounded so controlled, as if my father had just given me permission.  I realized that he was really hoping to guilt me into not going, but he was a man of his word and I knew he would hold to it and somehow make things work without paying an extra cent in taxes.  “I really want to go, dad, it’s one of the only chances I’ll have in my life to do something like this, and I trust Barry more than anyone.”

“Except you, sir.” Barry added for me, which forced a grin to break his hard face.  

“Yeah, well, whatever.  Look, you gave me your word Barry, you’re not going to elope, so don’t even think about it.  And keep her safe on this little trip or you’ll have to answer to me before I drag you hell myself.  Got it?”

“Of course, sir.”  Barry said.  

* * * * *

Barry woke me the next morning by placing a set of blue glasses on my face.  He said I had to wear them all day long so that I knew what it was to look through different filters on the world around me.  The blue made my room look distorted and dull at first but I had grown rather accustomed as we left for the airport.  

We took a plane the following morning to Tokyo.  It was the longest flight I had ever taken, and was my first out of the country.  Barry said we had a seven hour layover there, and insisted we explore the locality of Chiba via an express rail.  We ate wheat noodle dishes before venturing into the first of many department stores to do some light shopping.  

Angry rap music played lightly in the background as mothers tugged children onto escalators up and up into the building.  The sun-lit interior was beautiful, and Barry squeezed my hand as he commented that the department store was so similar but still so much different.  He lightly whistled the X-files theme as we ascended.  

Time flew, and I told Barry that we only had an hour left and should be getting back to catch our next flight.

“What flight?” he said as he looked at my watch and slipped a different pair of glasses over my eyes.  This pair was pink and cast everything in a pale rosy light.  

“Aren’t we catching another plane?” I asked.

“Nah, not anymore.  How does that make you feel?” he asked in return.

I replied honestly, “Well, nervous.  I thought we were on a schedule, and missing a flight like that has got to cost a lot of money.” 

“That’s exactly why I wanted to miss it.  So what if it was the cost of a plane ticket?  It wasn’t in this case, but so what if it was?  We could have simply rescheduled or switched to go back home, or even bought another one.  Why are you so worried about our schedule when you don’t even know what it is?” he asked.

“I just… get worried.  I thought you had everything planned out, like along a timeline or something.” I said.

He laughed.  “I know that’s what you thought.  That’s why I did it.”

I didn’t like him anymore.  Well, for at least that moment.  I mean, what was he thinking?  We were in another country, lost for all practical purposes, didn’t speak the language, didn’t know anyone, and didn’t have a plan.  I was annoyed that he had laughed at me, that he thought I was so predictable, and that he didn’t have clue about what he was doing.  He saw it on my face and grabbed my hand once again, this time towing me down a narrow corridor.  I protested, asked him where he thought he was going, and then he pointed outward when we reached the end of the corridor.  

Inside this building was a wood and rope walkway stretching from one side of an immense lobby to the other.  On each side were giant flat panel screens showing a landscape of bare deciduous trees mixed with a few conifers.  In the center of the lobby two tall maple trees grew, and their branches stretched out towards the bridge and filled the rest of the lobby between us and the bustling street outside.  

I took several steps towards the Japanese family that was in the center of the bridge and felt it sway.  Suddenly movement caught my eye and I saw the tops of all the trees on the screens bending slightly from a make-believe wind.  Then the branches of the two trees in the lobby fluttered and moved and I caught hold of the rail before vertigo overtook me.  

“Are you ok?  I didn’t think you were afraid of heights.” Barry said.  

“I’m not, it’s just so… amazing…” I said as I caught my bearings and moved to the middle of the bridge.  

“I’m glad you like it.  Did you see how the trees moved in time with the ones on the screens?  They keep the trees on the screens in season with the ones in the lobby to keep the continuity and have the HVAC fans blow on the trees to create the wind effects.” he said.  

“About not having a plan… Barry… I guess I was wrong and should just trust that you know what you are doing.” I said.

“How about just trust me.  I may not always know what I’m doing, but just trust me.”  He unsnapped my watch from my wrist.  “Let me worry about timing and money for once, ok?”

* * * * *

We stopped in Shinjuku and Shibuya next where we saw the equivalent of Marti Gras and Halloween on a typical Sunday.  Barry told me that we did indeed have another flight just as I was hoping we could find a place to spend the night.  Instead he insisted that we sleep on the plane to our next destination.  

We sat in the front row in the economy section of the plane and listened to an unhappy baby cry the entire flight from Tokyo to Bangkok.  Neither of us slept and I knew that Barry was just as tired as me for having stayed up well past twenty four hours, only I was getting cranky at him for again not planning ahead for such things.  But then how could he know that we wouldn’t get a nap on our ten hour flight?  

In Bangkok we talked to the only cab driver that would approach us and realized he was probably asking twice as much as he should, but we were too tired to care.  Barry whispered the location to the man and we arrived at a grand fifteen story hotel within minutes.  Once there I don’t think I even looked out the window before passing out on the bed.  

* * * * *

Barry woke me once more by placing a new set of glasses over my eyes.  These were the sleek dark kind, wrapping around my eyes to dim my peripheral vision but light enough not to get in the way.  They painted everything with a greenish tinge compared to the pink ones.  We made our way to the pool where I saw the hotel’s logo and I couldn’t help but think how expensive it must be to stay there per night.  My mind began working the numbers on how much Barry could have saved up from working for the last eight months and how this place must be truly hurting his wallet.  I tried not to let it worry me as Barry surely knows already how much it was per night and was willing to pay for it.  

My thoughts were interrupted when Barry asked if I was ready to go shopping.  We left in the afternoon and he insisted I get a sleek dress for the evening and then a diamond necklace to match.  But he didn’t have to, I kept thinking, he didn’t have to spend it on this, these extravagances, not for me.  He could have saved that money, started investing it or at least spent it more wisely.  

We took a cab back to the hotel and Barry asked if I could be ready by seven o’clock.  My brow furrowed and he commented that it was hard to see what I was thinking with the glasses on, and that she should put on a new pair for the evening.  He pulled a spectacles case from his jacket pocket and gave it to me before leaving.  

At seven I was not ready.  I had had a shoe emergency and ran down to the hotel to get another pair that worked better than the black flats that I had been carrying around.  Barry was waiting at our hotel room door when I emerged from the elevator, still wearing the pair of sleek black sunglasses.  He was dressed in a tuxedo, and for as much as I thought he hated it, he seemed comfortable and especially refined.  

“I’m glad to see you’re almost ready.” he said as he spotted the pair of shoes in my hand.  “Oh, did I forget to tell you?  I’m sorry, you won’t need any shoes for where we are going.  Wear your black ones, they’ll be perfect.”

I opened the case that housed the new glasses and saw that they were diminutive and clear.  When I slipped them on they rested lightly and tiny diamonds at the hinges matched the necklace Barry bought me earlier.  I shook my head, thinking that maybe Barry did have everything taken care of.  

We strolled out of the hotel and into an awaiting limousine.  The ride took us all around the city to see the sights as Barry told the histories of the monuments and buildings we passed.  The limo circled back to the airport and we made our way to another large building and stepped out onto a carpeted walkway.  

Inside the smell of cocoa permeated the air as Barry led me across the lobby and to the elevators.  A bellman guided us up two floors and when the doors parted a world of energy flooded me.  The smell of chocolate dwarfed all of my other senses, and looking around it was clear this was a chocolate convention of some fashion.  Sure enough, it was a conference of chocolate chefs featuring Tish Boyle of Chocolatier Magazine, Chef Sharon Wang, and Parisian chocolatier Michel Cluizel.  We made our way to our table in the large conference room and took each chocolate course of our meal in stride.  

Then we took the elevator to the top floor where a dance floor awaited us.  Lights swirled and the music was loud and fast, and dancing was the perfect remedy for the amount of sugar in my bloodstream.  We left the hotel to go to Club Red where we saw a traditional Mor Lam group play and dance before leaving for a walk under the moon lit streets of the downtown city.  

We talked about traveling more and Barry brought up how mad my father must have been.  I told Barry that no one had stood up to my father in the way he had.  I also told him how stressful it was for me to have to decide on the spot and never to do that again.  

Barry changed the subject as we approached the limo and told the driver to take us to the best bakery in town.  We walked up to the store, whose lights were on and at least three people were working inside.  I saw a wall clock: 4:48 AM.  A knock and a smile got them to open the door for Barry.  We got two loaves of bread and leapt back in the car.  

“We should have gotten butter, or jelly or something.” I said, feeling the warmth of the bread in my hands.

Barry nodded and tapped the seat, referring to the trunk.  “I think we have that covered.”

The limousine glided to a halt along the street.  We stepped out into the street and walked next to a gated wall.  At one of the entrances Barry pulled out a small set of keys and unlocked the door.  Inside, he punched a code in a keypad mounted on the wall and led me through the darkness to an opening on the other side.  

“Alright, now comes the tricky part.” he said.  “I am going to put a blindfold over your eyes.  Are you okay with that?”  I nodded and closed my eyes as he removed the clear glasses from my face.  The cloth was a soft silk and smelled faintly of chocolate.  

Barry lifted me over a railing and gently sat me down in a golf cart.  He climbed over himself and used another of his keys in the cart.  The electric motor hummed and we bounded over several hills on the golf course before coming to a halt.  

“Take off your shoes, if you would please.” he asked, so I complied.  “Good, now please step out.”  

I felt the grass and the dew that had collected on it on my sore feet.  It was soft and tingled and I couldn’t help but smile.  I must have walked several hundred paces holding his hand while blindfolded and could feel that Barry was carrying the picnic basket he had taken from the trunk of the limo.  He asked me to sit and I was surprised to find a blanket had been laid down beneath me.  I was turned to face him.

“You know why I did what I did with the glasses?  It was the filters, just like I had told you about months ago.  I wrote a fair number of papers on it, using glasses as a mechanism for reexamining the world.  I gave you the blue colored glasses to see the world in a drab manner, to see the average day in the way that you may live now.  The pink was to lighten what you saw around you, to add a warmth when you were feeling frumpy.  The green was to help you let go of how much you worry about money and the nature of income against cost of living.  The clear was to take you back to your normal senses and let you experience the world for what it was, letting your other senses of taste and smell also have a say in what you experience.  When you go back home, I want you to think about what responsibilities you have, how much money means to you and what it is to be free of all of it.  And now you can’t see at all, at that was to let you focus on your feet and how good they feel against the wet grass.  And now I want you to see the world in a new way, everyday, with me.” 

I felt him move beside me and untie the blindfold.  I looked up to see the sun rising over the horizon.  Rays of sunshine broke through the trees to warm us and in front of me I saw a gleaming diamond attached to a platinum ring.  Barry turned me to him.  

“Sara, I want to experience the world with you, with or without glasses.  I want to be with you no matter where we are or go.  I love you.  Will you marry me?”

“But, you told my father... Of course I will!  But you told my father before we left, that you wouldn’t ask?  I never thought you would…” I said.

“Your father only asked that we don’t elope.  He never said anything about proposing.” Barry said.  

I giggled.  “Oh, he will be so mad when we get home!  Barry, I love you!”

“Well, your father shouldn’t be mad, he’s known about the whole thing since we talked on that field.  And it makes it pretty easy to zero-out for the end of the year with a few plane tickets and several nights in one of the best hotels.  What does it mean to zero-out, anyway?” 

“Oh you brat!” I said as I tapped his chest with my clenched hand and laughing.  

We saw the dew rise slowly from the manicured golf course as we ate our fresh breakfast with jelly and steaming coffee. 

* * * * *

We had spent the rest of the day and that night sleeping and more at the hotel.  The following morning Barry told me that we didn’t have any flight schedule to get home, so there was no need to leave right away, and could stay as long as we liked.  

“There are a few people that I might owe a favor, so I’d like to visit them as well, okay?”  
Barry asked.  I was fine with that and want to go with him to explore the vast city of Bangkok.  

We stopped in a small merchant square and Barry took out his wallet.  He pulled out a 300 Baht note and walked towards one of the merchant stores.  I saw a dog out front, one that looked a lot like Mike’s dog Max.  Barry dropped the note into the bucket the dog held in its mouth before going inside the store.   I followed, thinking that 300 Baht must not be worth that much, maybe a dollar or two.  When I looked up I was startled to see Barry hugging Mike.  

“Why did ya give the money to the dog, he’s just gonna spend it on booze and women, y’know.” Mike said.  

“Which is why I had to give it to the responsible one.  At least he can find the women and hold his liquor.” Barry said.  

“Ah huh, looks like he’s not the only one.  And how are you girl?” Mike said as we hugged.  

I looked at him slyly.  “So you knew about this whole thing?”

“I did, I did.  After all Barry would have blackmailed me into it with those French maid pictures if I didn’t.” said Mike.  “Hey, I’m about to go meet that limo driver you got to pay him the rest that I owe him.  You want to come along?”

We accompanied Mike to a place known as the Snake Pit.  It was an open zoo that had snakes in one area, with covered pits to keep them cool.  During the day handlers brought the snakes out to perform shows of daring and skill.  As we entered a show was in progress and people had gathered to watch a man at the center release a king cobra.  

“Isn’t that our limo driver?” I asked.

“It is.” Mike answered.  

“You can see that far away?  Wow, you really don’t need any glasses.” Barry said.  

We walked down the steps and watched him from the railing as not one, but two king cobras flared their hoods at the man.  He was a handsome Thai man, and in a flick he distracted both snakes with one hand and caught first one then the other behind their heads.  Applause rang out as he smiled, bowed and gave thanks.

“Would you believe he’s also Lutheran minister?  This guy can do anything.” Mike said, a cigarette jarring his lips as he spoke.   

“Well then, let’s get married,” I said, “right here, in Bangkok.  It would mean that much more and would save so much money for us and my father.”

Barry looked at me sideways and took off his sunglasses.  “True, but your father would kill me.  And why do you want to get married so quickly?  Won’t you have to do that zero-sum thing again next year?  Don’t you trust me to arrange the honeymoon by now?”


----------



## alsih2o (Feb 22, 2005)

FireLance said:
			
		

> Meaning: me and orchid blossom, right?
> Yeah, I'm good to go.




 Well, last night got shot, my apologies. OB seems to prefer Wed. Eve. That OK with you?


----------



## Hellefire (Feb 22, 2005)

First a bunch of disclaimers:
I am new to Ceramic DM. I have about 3 weeks worth of experience, and am compiling information as I go. I don't know what is normal or what is expected. I also know that judges have a hard job, that they have lives, and that quality and fairness in judging is certainly more important than a day here or two. Lastly, I don't want to rub anyone thw wrong way or shoot myself in the foot for next time.

All that being said, someone ranted somewhere about contestants not signing up if they arent going to put the time into it, and I'd like to second that for judges. I know you have a job to do that I wouldn't want to do, and probably couldn't do both clinically correctly and fairly, and I understand it's probably hard to find good judges who people trust and who are willing to sign up for it at all. I know everybody to some degree or other feels the same as I do hitting refresh, and it's certainly faster than a mail-in contest. I have a few suggestions to possibly help some of the strain:

1. Get the organizers/judges together and talk about what is a general time span for judging each round, based on the number of contestants for the round, detail needed and a variable for unexpected circumstances.

2. Post that approximation somewhere. From what I have seen so far it takes 2-12 days from both stories being posted to a judgement being posted. I'd say still give a range, but maybe narrow it down some, for theory and in practice. Post it in the FAQ so newcomers know what to expect. I have more of an idea now, but there will be and should be new contestants.

3. Maybe set two stages to the judgements, as is kind of beeing done now due to time constraints. One is the posting of the decision, the second is the critique. The critique is definitely very valuable and important for the process and for each writer...but as long as it does eventually come, I think the judgement itself should be posted ASAP. It seems that there is a lot of delay over judges putting down their critiques in words and it's much faster to pass on the decision part. Though if the judges use critique as part of their decision-making and this would curtail that part of the process, I would say DON'T do it this way, because fairness and quality is most important.

Hope I don't ruffle any feathers. And maybe I'm just stating things everyone knows, or that is pointless to talk about. I'm not sure, being new . But now that the pressure is off and I feel these things from a clinical perspective, as opposed to a waiting, needing to know perspective, I thought I should bring them up. That or maybe I was just too scared to piss off a judge before they finished judging my story .

Aaron Blair
Foren Star


----------



## Thorod Ashstaff (Feb 22, 2005)

*Round 2 - Thorod vs Marauder X*

TOTAL ECLIPSE

I belonged on the streets of L.A., what in hell was I doing here?

It was all Chad’s fault, Chad and his cosmic ‘Fate.’ He said it was meant to be, that there was a purpose here that I couldn’t see. Bull. Yeah, maybe his boyfriend left him the same week my girl left me, and maybe I’d been complaining to him about being burned out just as he was deciding what to do with the tickets, so what? He calls it fate; I call it an unfortunate coincidence. I still can’t believe I said yes.

So here I was, a straight private investigator from L.A., sitting in a field in Thailand with Chad and eight gay new-agers, waiting for the sun to disappear. Go figure.

Not that these were bad guys or anything, and I’ve always had gay friends; this was 1995 after all, not the fifties. But spending two weeks with nine gay men on a ‘Spirit Tour’ to Thailand’s Chiang Mai temples was…well, it was not my usual Saturday night, if you know what I mean. But I was burned out, big time.

I used to love my job. Walking the streets of L.A., getting people to talk, figuring out the case, there was a thrill there I can hardly describe, like static electricity running through my spine. My job was who I was, and I was content. But lately, it was just one divorce case after another, enough to make me doubt myself, and believe me that was a new feeling. Five in a row, this last stretch, five cases in a row where I wasn’t solving anything, I was just pulling out the telephoto and sneaking around backyards taking pictures of cheating husbands and their soon to be cheated-on cheating girlfriends. I could barely remember the last time I’d had a real case.

“Where are you?” Chad asked. It was his new-age way of saying ‘penny for your thoughts.’ He was sitting across from me in the grass, legs crossed, a blissful smile on his face, and wearing his eclipse glasses just like the rest of us. [picture 1, cheapsunglasses]

“Huh?” I said. “Sorry, I was thinking about my last cases.”

“You should be with the moment, Merrick. This is a once in a lifetime experience, a total eclipse of the sun! It may touch your inner spirit.”

“My inner spirit needs a whiskey, neat,” I said. Chad looked hurt. “You’re right though,” I said quickly, “this is amazing, the sun looks like a crescent moon!”

“It gets better,” he said, the hurt look gone.

Rawee, our Thai guide, took my arm and pulled me aside a few minutes before totality.

“I could not avoid overhearing, Mr. Merrick,” he said, in near-perfect English. “You are not like the others? Not here for the cosmic moment of enlightenment?”

“No,” I grinned, “I’m just here with an old friend, why?”

“I have a favor to ask, since I heard you say you are an American investigator. But first, let me show you something magical. Take off your glasses, but please do not look at the sun until totality.”

I took the eclipse glasses off, and took a closer look at our guide. Part of me was expecting him to start spouting some new-age cosmic nonsense, but my instincts said otherwise. In my line of work you get good at reading people, or you don’t last long, and when I looked at Rawee’s face I knew he was sincere. He really did need my help, and he really did want to show me something magical.

“Look to the northwest,” he said, pointing.

“At what?”

“Wait, you will see.”

I waited, but not for long. It was incredible, even magical, though that’s a word I almost never use. A wave of darkness was approaching, climbing over the horizon like some huge thunderstorm on steroids. It rushed up at me, powerful and ominous, and then suddenly it was night. I looked up, and the eclipsed sun shone like a shimmering dress of white silk, wrapped around an eye of utter darkness. My jaw dropped, and I felt that electric tingle in my spine, that tingle I had not felt in a very long time.

“In the legends of my people an eclipse was a time when a great demon, or Asura, devoured the sun, which we called Surya of the twelve names,” Rawee told me. “It took a lot of prayer to bring Surya back. But some demons are not so easily vanquished.”

A strange thing to say, but I didn’t answer; I just wanted to look at that orb of blackness wrapped in white silk. Less than a minute later it was over, a stab of light burst out from the edge of blackness and I had to put the special glasses back on.

“Magical, yes?” Rawee asked.

“Amazing!” I said. “That was definitely worth fourteen hours on a jumbo jet.”

“I am an astronomer,” Rawee said, “and this is my third eclipse tour, and still I can scarcely believe the beauty of it. The wave of approaching night feels like magic every time.”

I laughed, something else I had not done in a long time. “Okay, Rawee, you came through. You showed a jaded American tourist some real magic. What’s your favor? I’m a P.I., sure, but I’m a stranger here, I don’t know if I can be of much help.”

“Real magic? No, I think that lies ahead of you, Mr. Merrick. This may feel magical, but it is just an astronomical phenomenon.

“It is because you are a stranger here that I am coming to you. It is only a stranger that can help me, or perhaps it is only a stranger that I can trust, I’m not sure myself. Your group is going to Chiang Mai next, is it not? To the Santithan Guest House?”

“That’s right, to practice ‘sacred meditation’ in the Buddhist temples.”

“But you, Mr. Merrick, you will not be meditating with your friends, I assume?”

“You got that right, I’m having fun tagging along, but I draw the line at staring at the wall. I was hoping to find a good bar in Chiang Mai, one that my friends probably wouldn’t be interested in.”

“I guessed correctly then,” Rawee said, “you are indeed the one who can help me. My people are being murdered, Mr. Merrick. This is no mystery for an American investigator; it is just politics and hatred. But something else has started, a new evil, and only a few of us are aware of what it might mean. I want you to take a message to someone, and, as fate would have it, she works at a good bar in Chiang Mai.”

There was that word again, fate. It was enough to make me start listening to Chad’s gobbledygook. The electric tingle in my spine was still there, and getting stronger, even though I was no longer watching the eclipse. 

“The Thai are being murdered?” I asked.

“I am not Thai, Mr. Merrick, I am Karen. I may be a Bangkok scientist by training, but in my heart I am still a hill tribesman of the north. We are a dying people, I’m afraid, and there is still prejudice and hatred for us here, and much more in Myanmar. That is why I have come to you. The Thailand police have no interest in tracking down Karen rumors, even when a Karen is murdered they do little more than fill out a report.”

“Okay, so what’s going on? What is the message you want me to deliver?”

“This,” he said, pulling out a folded-up piece of typing paper. “If you are willing, I would ask you to deliver this to Naa Kraisertmaklang, she is a waitress at a bar called Chaos City, in Chiang Mai. Please deliver it to no one else, or mention it to anyone, even your friends on the tour.”

“Easy enough, and a fair trade for a total eclipse of the sun. You got it, Rawee, though you better write that name down for me. Is that it, just deliver a letter?”

“When she reads this, she may need your help in other matters. If she asks for your help, I would be most grateful if you would listen to her, if you would help her.”

My practical side was saying stop it here, promise to deliver the letter and call it a day. But there was that tingle, and it had been a long time, after all. And there was also an earnestness in Rawee’s voice that my instinct told me was akin to desperation. What the hell.


“I give you my word,” I said, and held out my hand. He shook it, then suddenly pulled me hard to the side.

“You need to watch your feet in Thailand, Mr. Merrick,” he said, pointing down, “look.”

There were two green snakes in the grass where I’d been standing, entwined around each other. I shivered.

_


Chiang Mai was like much of northern Thailand, a curious mix of the ancient and the modern, the sacred and the profane. 300 temples, 300 bars. The Santithan Guest House was everything I feared, but I’d prepared myself, and once I got settled in it wasn’t so bad. If you’d asked me a month ago if a hotel that catered exclusively to gay new-agey Americans could thrive in the north of Thailand, I’d have told you to up your medication. But sometimes even a P.I. like me can be surprised.

I couldn’t find an excuse to get away from Chad and the others till the next evening, but no one was shocked when I gracefully bowed out of the ‘cross-cultural meditation and unity chant’ in favor of hunting down a few iced Singha’s. Chad told me to have fun, but be safe, and I was on my way.

I thought I’d seen it all when two gay Thai’s checked me into their hotel with a wave from an incense stick, I was wrong. Chaos City was a punk bar; there was actually a punk bar in Chiang Mai. It was like slipping back in time twenty years, a mass of barbed-wire over the entrance, music so loud I could feel it through my boots even out on the street, mohawks in every color of the rainbow. The band was playing a strange mix of punk and ska. The biggest surprise: They were really good.

I was back in my element, once I got over the retro-shock. I stood at the end of the bar, ordered a cold Singha from a British kid with bright blue, spiked hair, and started watching for waitresses. It was loud, smoky and packed, but I was good at this, and in no time I’d found who I was looking for. There were two waitresses making the rounds at Chaos City, one a skinny American girl, the other a skinny Thai girl (not Thai, I corrected myself, Karen). I waited till she was between customers, pushed through the crowd of kids until I reached her, and shouted “I’ve got a message for you Naa, from a friend, Rawee.” Same as a whisper in this noise.

The girl’s eyes went wide, and I knew immediately that I’d guessed right.

“Not now!” she shouted back in my ear, when I bent over. “After close, in back, three hour.”

I headed back to the bar. Three hours jamming to Thai punk? Hey, it sure beat staring at a wall and chanting. When there was a break in the music I asked the blue-haired Brit if by any wild chance he had a bottle of whiskey hidden away, the Singha was starting to taste as bad as Coors. He poured me three fingers of something he called ‘Chiang Choon’; it went down like fire, but it was better than the beer.

Sometime after midnight the band finally called it quits, and I closed out my tab. I hadn’t seen Naa for almost half an hour, but I figured she was in the back helping to close up. When the crowd of kids had mostly disappeared, I headed into the alley behind the bar, looking for Naa’s skinny figure in the darkness.

I found her.

People always talk about suddenly going stone cold sober, but unless they’ve found somebody in a back alley by almost slipping in a pool of blood, they’re talking through their nose. This was the second time in my life it had happened to me, and it didn’t get any easier with repetition.

I went over the body as carefully and quickly as I could in the dark. She’d been stabbed, and there was no purse, no ID. As soon as I knew I couldn’t learn anything more I high-tailed it out of there before the Thai police showed up. I thought I saw a figure standing at the end of the alley, but when I turned the corner there was no one in sight. I figured it was probably nerves, but filed the memory away just in case.

I made it back to the Santithan, and thankfully everyone was asleep, including Chad. I washed up quietly, then sat in one of the room’s chairs and lit a cigarette, trying to think about what to do next. I’d only spoken two sentences with the girl, but that didn’t make me feel any less guilty. In this business, if someone dies just before a back alley meeting, it is no coincidence. Maybe if I’d gone out earlier, waited for her. Yeah right, and maybe now there’d be two bodies in that alley. The question wasn’t what if, but what next. The only thing out of the question was doing nothing. I’d shaken a man’s hand.

I was sitting there, smoking in the dark, when I heard footsteps on the patio outside. My first instinct was to go for my gun, before I remembered that it was back in L.A., this was supposed to be a vacation. I grabbed the crystal ashtray, better than nothing, and stood up. There was a quiet tap on the patio door, and I set the ashtray down and unlocked it. If I’ve learned anything as a P.I., it’s that the bad guys rarely knock. I opened the patio door, which made a metallic screech loud enough for Chad to wake up. He sat up in his bed and turned on the light.

It was Clyde, one of the other members of the ‘Spirit Tour.’ I liked Clyde, he was more down to Earth than most of the group, but the little French maid’s outfit he was wearing was a bit of a shock at four in the morning. Especially after the night I’d had.

“What’s going on?” Chad asked, still half asleep and blinking in the light.

“Nothing, Chad,” Clyde said, “sorry to wake you. John and I just got back from that Halloween party we heard about at the chant, and I wanted to have a word with Merrick.”

Halloween, of course. No wonder Chaos City had been so packed. I’d completely forgotten.

“Oh, okay,” Chad said, rolling over and going back to sleep. Right now I envied his lack of curiosity, but there was a good reason Chad wasn’t in the P.I. business.

“Can I have a drag?” Clyde asked me, talking quietly.

“Sure,” I said, “you can have a whole one.” I lit a new smoke from mine, and handed it to him. [picture 2, whataman] He took a deep drag, then walked over and turned out the light.

“Let’s go out on the patio,” he said.

We went out, and I closed the door behind me, lifting it up this time so it wouldn’t scrape.

“What’s up, Clyde?” I asked, trying to sound surprised by his visit. I knew it must have something to do with tonight, that whole coincidence thing again.

“Well, it’s weird, weird enough to see if you were awake anyway. The party tonight was at a gay bar called the Parasol, mostly American tourists like us. John and I went as French maids.”

“That much I gathered,” I said.

“Yeah, we were a hit. Didn’t win best outfit though, there were a couple of professional drag queens there who won instead.”

“There’s no accounting for taste.”

Clyde laughed. “Anyway,” he said, “it was getting really late, and we were talking with some of the other tourists, and you came up.”

“Me?”

“Yeah, you know, the straight guy traveling with us ‘cause Chad’s man left him. We were talking about what that must be like, since we figured it must be pretty weird for you.”

“You have no idea,” I said, laughing.

“Well, while we were talking a Thai came up to our table, short guy, really old. ‘Do you speak of an American named Merrick?’ he asked us. ‘Yeah,’ I said, ‘do you know him?’ ‘No,’ he said, ‘but I have a message I would like you to deliver to him.’ ‘Sure,’ I said, ‘no problem.’ ‘Tell him that he must go with you the day after tomorrow, on the hike into Chiang Dao National Park.’ ‘That’s it?’ I asked. ‘He must go,’ he said, then he just walked out the door. It was weird.”

“I guess I’m going on a hike,” I said, after a long drag on my cigarette.

“So you know something about this?” Clyde asked. “I didn’t think you’d ever been to Thailand.

“I haven’t, and I don’t have any idea what he’s talking about. But I made a promise to that astronomer guide we had back in the south, and it probably has something to do with that.”

“Okay, friend, keep your secrets. I’ve delivered my message, and it’s really late, so I’m going to bed. See you on the hike.”

“Thanks, and could you do me a favor? Don’t mention anything to Chad, he worries about things too much.”

“Sure, that’s easy, since I have no idea what this is about anyway.” Clyde stomped out his cigarette, and headed back to his own patio. I went to bed.

I didn’t wake the next day until after noon, and when I did my head was pounding like the punk music from the night before. I groaned, and pressed my palms against my eyes.

“Rough night?” Chad asked. He was already up, showered, and ready for whatever cosmically enlightening experience the tour guides had scheduled.

“Yeah, you could say that,” I said. “Note for your guidebook, Chad. When in Thailand, avoid Chiang Choon at all costs.”

“What’s Chiang Choon?”

“Chinese whiskey, at least that’s what the bartender told me.”

“I guess this means you’re not coming to the bonding ritual?”

“No, you have fun. I think I’ll just take a walk through town. I’ve decided to go with you on the hike tomorrow though, that sounds interesting.”

“Oh good, I’m glad. We’re visiting a native village you know, people who are really in touch with the land!”

I almost responded that they were probably more in touch with American eco-tourist dollar signs, but I held the words back just in time. Chad headed for his ‘bonding,’ happy as a clam, and I rolled over for another hour of sleep.

It took a while, but I did make it into town. I headed straight for the punk bar; one of my rules when I was working a case was ‘start where it’s hairiest, even if the cops are there’. The cops were there. Two of them talking to the blue-haired bartender out front. I was in luck; since the bartender was a Brit the cops assumed he couldn’t speak Thai. I moved closer, acting the part of nosy American tourist.

“So that’s it,” one cop was saying, “a Yang hooker got stabbed in the alley, but there were no witnesses and she’s got no family in town?”

Blue-hair looked over at me, and immediately back at the Thai cops. I could tell he remembered me, and I could also tell that he wasn’t going to share that with these two. My kind of bartender.

“She wasn’t a hooker, I told you she was one of our waitresses,” the bartender said, not looking very happy about the Thai cop’s attitude.

“Well, we’ll fill out a report. We’ve had a lot of noise complaints about this place, adding a murder report isn’t going to look good when your licenses need to be renewed.”

I walked away, I’d seen enough bribe requests/threats in my time to know what was going on. I decided to talk to the blue-haired Brit in a day or so, when things had settled down. Rawee’s words about Thai cops not being able to help him were ringing in my head. I didn’t know what a ‘Yang’ was, but the way the cop said it sounded nasty.

After the scene in front of Chaos City I headed for the shopping district to see if I could pick up any information that would explain something, anything. All I got was a bunch of vendors desperate to sell me over-priced trinkets. Eventually I gave up, and went back to the Santithan. I was tempted to go find another bar that served Chiang Choon, but I resisted. Hiking was not my thing, and I figured tomorrow would be hard enough without another long night.

The hike wasn’t too bad; they jeeped us pretty deep into Chiang Dao National Park before we even started. The park was incredible, even for a city guy like me. Lush, green and very steep. On the way to the ‘native village,’ we crossed a bridge that was straight out of Indiana Jones, right down to the loose floorboards. [picture 3, overtroubledwater] The rest of the group was eating it up, but the P.I. in me couldn’t resist looking a little closer. I hung back, and unwound a bit of the tattered-looking rope. Yep, steel cable underneath, just more window-dressing for the eco-tourists.

Before we got to the village, the guide gave us a canned lecture about the Karen people, their intricate crafts and their primitive connection with the land. Lots of Chief Seattle mumbo jumbo, but I could see Chad was totally convinced, so I kept my mouth shut. So far I’d met two Karen, an astronomer and a waitress at a punk bar; yep, pretty primitive.

The native village was quaint, rustic and beautiful, as advertised. A few Karen tribesmen sat on their porches, weaving rope or carving native crafts. Magic, pure magic, right. I was sure I recognized one of the carvers; I’m good with faces. He was a man who’d tried to sell me a carved pagoda yesterday, in the shopping district of Chiang Mai. It was too much. I was about to tell Chad what I thought of the place when a woman’s voice said from right behind me “You don’t believe in magic, do you Mr. Merrick.”

“What?” I said, whipping around.

“I didn’t say anything dude,” Clyde said, “you okay?” There was no woman anywhere, nobody behind me but Clyde and his partner John.

“I’m fine,” I told Clyde. “I think it was just one of these damn jungle bugs buzzing in my ear.”

But I wasn’t fine, I was shaken, and that’s another feeling I’m not used to. The voice had been so clear, perfect English but with the same Karen accent as Rawee the astronomer. My imagination must be getting the better of me, I thought, not a good thing in my line of work.

We were headed out of the village, and I had convinced myself that the voice was straight out of my subconscious, when a Karen boy ran up to the guide. The boy was arguing with the guide, but not in English. I knew it was about me though, from the pointing. Then that voice again. “Go with the boy,” she said.

I turned around, couldn’t help myself, but I already knew there’d be nobody there, and I was right. The guide came over to me, looking apologetic.

“Mr. Merrick,” he said, “there is an elder of the village who would like to speak to you. Apparently she knows your name, though I promise you our tour company keeps such things confidential. The rest of the group and I are supposed to wait for you at the rope bridge, though the boy says that your friend Chad can come with you. Personally, I’d recommend that you refuse. I’ve run hundreds of these tours, and no villager has ever asked this before. It’s not according to the…I mean it’s against procedure.” I swear he was about to say ‘script.’

“I’ll go,” I said, “I may have a message for this Karen elder. Chad, want to tag along?”

“Talk with a Karen elder? Are you kidding? Of course I’ll come along!” Chad was so happy about getting a chance to talk directly with a Karen that the strangeness of the whole situation had gone completely over his head. A great guy, my friend Chad, but clueless.

“As long as you understand that this is your choice,” the guide said, “and that I advised against it.” He sounded more worried about lawsuits than he was about me.

The Karen boy led Chad and me to one of the village huts. There was a square hole in the roof that let in light, which I took as a good sign. I’ve been to too many meetings where it was so dark you couldn’t make out any faces. There was a Karen woman sitting on a low stool, and the boy pointed us to cushions on the floor in front of her before disappearing.

The woman was ancient, though she sat with her back straight. She had on a silky white blouse and her hair was pure white, long, and worn loose, the light from the hole in the roof made her hair almost glow. Her face was dark and wrinkled, and her eyes were black, like deep pools of black ink. She stared at me in silence for a moment, and I stared back at those black eyes. She looked familiar, and when I tried to place her it hit me, the eclipse. She looked like the eclipse, all deep mysterious darkness surrounded by a circle of glowing white.

“O soo o clay ker saw daw a?” she asked.

“I’m doing fine, thanks,” I said.

“You never told me you speak Thai!” Chad said, looking at me in surprise.

“I don’t,” I said. It was only then that I realized her question had not been in English, and weirder yet, my answer hadn’t been either.

The old lady laughed. “Neither English nor Thai, Chad,” she said. “That was S’gaw, the language of my people. But I think English will do for now. I am Nitta Kawbi, an elder of the Karen. Your names I already know. Mr. Merrick, I believe you have something for me?”

Rawee had said to give his message only to Naa, but Naa was dead. My spine was tingling like crazy, but every instinct I had told me I could trust this old woman. The kind of trust where I’d hand her a gun to cover my back, if you get my drift. I took the folded piece of paper out of my hip pocket and handed it to her.

The old woman opened the note, and while she read it I looked over at Chad. He was looking back and forth between me and the old woman as if he’d been dropped down the rabbit hole, his mouth was open, but he couldn’t seem to find words.

“It’s okay, Chad,” I said, “it doesn’t make sense to me either. I’ll explain about the note on our hike back.” Chad nodded, still unable to speak.

The old woman looked up at me. “Do not blame yourself, Mr. Merrick, you could not have saved her. I am sorry too, she was very young, but our people have had to deal with deaths like hers before.”

It was seriously creepy, the way she’d gotten inside my mind. I wondered if I needed to talk at all. Chad’s mouth had dropped open again, if the situation had been even a little less strange it would have made me laugh.

“I tried to read it, after Naa was killed,” I said. I figured keeping a secret from this woman was beyond futile. “But I couldn’t, I guess it’s in S’gaw too.”

“No, it’s in Thai. My people have no written language. Our stories tell us that we did once, but that our ancestors got lazy and let it die,” she laughed. “I’d like to believe those stories, they make for a good warning.

“The note is about our new enemy, but I’m afraid it came too late.”

“Your new enemy?” I asked.

“Yes, our new problem. It is why fate has brought us together, Mr. Merrick, fate or perhaps Vasuki, the wise snake god of our ancestors.”

There was that word again, fate. I’d never given it much thought before, but I sure was now. Coming from the old woman, it didn’t sound nearly as hokey as it did when Chad said it.

“The Karen are under attack from all sides. For years we have been a people without a country. We are despised, if tolerated, in Thailand. We are murdered in Myanmar. With every generation there are less of us left. That is a great evil, and we fight it, as we are able.

“But there is some new evil at work now, and we don’t know how to fight it because we don’t know, yet, what it is. Villagers are ending up dead, always stabbed, always without witnesses. Some are even talking about the demons of legend, saying that maybe they’re real, maybe they’ve come back. I prayed for someone who could unravel this new threat before too many more of us die. And then you came to Thailand, Mr. Merrick, to see an eclipse of the sun.”

“Fate,” I said, “yeah, I know, you don’t have to say it. But I don’t think I’m your man. My life is in L.A., and I have a plane ticket out of Chiang Mai tomorrow. I don’t know the language here, I don’t know the streets, how could I be the one to help you?”

“I am not sure. But I am very good at seeing who people really are, and you are an investigator, a searcher after truth. It is in your very marrow.

“Will you help us, Caduceus?”

I sat back, shocked. I hate my first name, had ever since grade school. The curse of having two history professor parents with strange senses of humor. From the moment I left my parents’ house, everyone just called me Merrick, and I changed my first name officially to Cal.

“Caduceus?” Chad asked, finally finding his voice.

“It’s my first name,” I told him, “the staff of Hermes, from Greek myth.”

“Two snakes, entwined around a rod,” the old woman added. “One symbolizing intellect, the other symbolizing perception. The Buddhist monks of these hills would add that the snakes are the negative and positive kundalini, wrapped around the spine in perfect balance. It is the staff of a seeker of knowledge, a thief of truth, and the name was well given.”

“Yeah, well, I always hated it,” I said, standing up. “Look, I’d like to help you, Ms. Kawbi, but I’m not your man, really. You need someone who knows these hills, who knows the streets of Chiang Mai, who knows the language. I’m sorry, but it’s not me. Come on, Chad, let’s go, our tour guide is probable getting nervous by now.”

The old woman looked up at me, dark face surrounded by white, and her hair stirred in the breeze from the hole in the roof.

“Goodbye, Caduceus,” she said calmly. She was smiling, and it was not comforting.


-


On the way back to the jeeps, Chad and I hung back from the others while I told him everything that had happened, even about Naa. He took it better than I would have thought.

My practical side was trying to take over, telling me to go find a bar in Chiang Mai, any bar but Chaos City, and get drunk, then take the plane to Bangkok in the morning. Go back to L.A., take a few more divorce cases, make some money. My world. Chad was not so sure.

“Surely even you believe something magical happened back there,” he said. “I heard you talking another language!”

“Parlor trick,” I said, “had to be. I could find a dozen hypnotists in L.A. who could do the same thing.”

Chad was not convinced. Hell, I hadn’t even convinced myself.

When we got back to Chiang Mai, there was a crowd waiting for us. Mostly Karen vendors trying to sell carvings to the eco-tourists still flush from their exotic adventure. A young boy caught me eye, he could have been the little brother of the boy who had brought us to Nitta Kawbi. He had a street mutt with him, trained to hold a collection bucket, and he wore a sign in both Thai and English that said ‘Help support the fight for Karen civil rights.’ [picture 4, fidough] A picture flashed in my mind, a skinny Karen girl lying dead in an alley, my boots in her blood.

I took out all the Thai money I had left, almost nine thousand Bhat, a little over two hundred dollars, and dropped it in the bucket. Down payment on guilt.

“Let’s go get drunk,” I said to Chad, “you shouldn’t leave Thailand without at least trying some Chiang Choon, it can’t all be about meditation rituals.” I didn’t think he would, but Chad agreed.

The next morning it took two minutes of Clyde pounding on the door to wake me up. I once thought that there was no hangover worse than one from Southern Comfort, but Chiang Choon now tops my list. Chad was still asleep, looking like something the cat had drug in and the dog wouldn’t eat. I felt a little guilty about that, but not much, Chad needed to taste life a little more.

I found tomato juice in the mini-fridge, and little bottles of vodka. God bless those two little gay Thai’s who ran the Santithan, this made up for the incense and then some! Chad and I made it to the Chiang Mai airport with an hour to spare, and went looking for breakfast.

There was a crowd gathered outside the airport, watching some street performer. I wanted to go find food, something hot and spicy to kill the last of the hangover, but Chad was curious, so we elbowed through the crowd.

It was a snake charmer, of course, had to be. Fate. [picture 5, twins!] He had two young king cobras, and he’d gotten them to weave in unison. I tried to turn around, go find breakfast, but Chad made me watch. The charmer was good; soon he had them twisted around each other, entwined.

I looked at Chad.

“You’re staying, aren’t you?” he said.

“Yeah,” I said. “I give already. Mulder wins this time.” It was an old joke between us; Chad said we were such good friends because the Scully inside of me balanced the Mulder inside of him.

“But what about what you told the old woman?” Chad asked. “I mean, you have no idea what this is all about. You don’t even know where to start.”

“You’re right, I have no idea what this is about, but I’m used to that, it’s what I do. It’s who I am. Besides, I do know where to start.”

“You do?”

“Sure, it’s one of my rules. Always start with the bartender!”

Chad laughed, and then he hugged me, hard.

“Goodbye, Merrick,” he said.

“Call me Caduceus.”


----------



## Eeralai (Feb 22, 2005)

*Contest Comments*

I think Hellefire makes a lot of good comments about the contest.  However, I would like to say that I would like to keep comments and judgements posted at the same time.  I think the comments are really useful to the contestant who goes onto the next round, and often cushion the blow of losing.  I also wonder at how silent this contest is.  One Ceramic DM that I observed had writers, readers and judges much more involved in conversations about the stories.  I miss that, and hope that the second round will spur more discussion than the first round.


----------



## mythago (Feb 23, 2005)

Hellefire said:
			
		

> All that being said, someone ranted somewhere about contestants not signing up if they arent going to put the time into it, and I'd like to second that for judges.




Actually, the rant was about contestants who sign up and then drop out after they've been given a round, as I recall. (Ceramic DM sometimes has alternates for people who sign up but then are forced to leave *before* their round starts.) Yeah, it's annoying when judges don't get around to judgment--life bites us all in the butt--but letting a round drop means a) your opponent strove to put on a good showing for naught, and b) you can't let somebody else step in and take your place for that round, since a whole set of pics is already up and your opponent may already have started (or finished!) writing.

That said, maybe it would be a good thing to say that judgments will be in X weekdays from the round's finish, so we aren't all hitting refresh before X days.


----------



## orchid blossom (Feb 23, 2005)

alsih2o said:
			
		

> Well, last night got shot, my apologies. OB seems to prefer Wed. Eve. That OK with you?




Sounds fine to me.    And no problem with the little wait, just means I get a Saturday in there.  Let the party commence!


----------



## FireLance (Feb 23, 2005)

orchid blossom said:
			
		

> alsih2o said:
> 
> 
> 
> ...



It's good for me, too. Wednesday evening means Thursday morning my time, which means I can pull an all-nighter on Saturday. I'll probably need the advantage .


----------



## alsih2o (Feb 23, 2005)

It IS a difficult position. I have been on both sides of the equation and neither is easy. 

 If we are to say X days for a judgement, how many is it to be? Does this remove the ability of the contestants to favor a start time? I have to wonder because when a set of pics goes out the judges have to produce 2 sets of critique. If 2 sets go out at similar times that means 1 story for each contestant, but 4 critiques to be produced. Tough one, huh?

 As for commentary, we used to have a lot more commentary in the threads but folks were posting in-depth analysis of stories before judges commnets were in. To keep any appearance of impropriety at bay we started a Judges Free thread. Then everyone quit posting almost anyting in the main thread. 

 Again, a quandry.

 Now, this has been the contest with the longest judging time I think. I apologize for that. But please do realize that the judges wish to give noone story a short shrift. (Is that a real word or a local thing?) 

 What do the participants feel is a reasonable time to read, critique and respond to 2 stories?


----------



## Eeralai (Feb 23, 2005)

alsih2o said:
			
		

> What do the participants feel is a reasonable time to read, critique and respond to 2 stories?




Since you ask...this is my first time participating, but I have enjoyed watching other Ceramic DM contests.  That first round has to be a killer for the judges because of so many stories.  It seems to me, though, that 5-7 days judging period wouldn't be unreasonable.  For the later rounds, a 3-4 day judging time seems reasonable.  Yes, the judges have to critique two stories per match, but the contestents have to write something original using unrelated pictures in three days.

I'm fairly content how things are, however.  As I have said before, waiting for the judges in this contest beats waiting for publishers who don't even send out critiques   

As far as the conversation in the thread, it has been fairly quiet over in the judge free thread.  But things picked up there today, so it's all good.


----------



## orchid blossom (Feb 23, 2005)

I don't have a big problem with the wait either, as long as I know there is going to be one.  Tell me it'll be a week, and I won't think about it for the next six days.  Now, if I have no idea when it's coming, that's harder.  

All I'd really want is a heads up as to when to start refreshing.


----------



## alsih2o (Feb 23, 2005)

Eeralai said:
			
		

> Since you ask...this is my first time participating, but I have enjoyed watching other Ceramic DM contests.  That first round has to be a killer for the judges because of so many stories.  It seems to me, though, that 5-7 days judging period wouldn't be unreasonable.  For the later rounds, a 3-4 day judging time seems reasonable.  Yes, the judges have to critique two stories per match, but the contestents have to write something original using unrelated pictures in three days.
> .




 So, if a writer misses a deadline they are booted form the competition. What do we do with a late judge?


----------



## Eeralai (Feb 23, 2005)

alsih2o said:
			
		

> So, if a writer misses a deadline they are booted form the competition. What do we do with a late judge?




Well, nothing...it's all volunteer.  It would just be a rough guidline so we would know, as Orchid Blossom said, when to start hitting the refresh button.


----------



## Thorod Ashstaff (Feb 23, 2005)

Eeralai said:
			
		

> a rough guidline so we would know, as Orchid Blossom said, when to start hitting the refresh button.




I agree with Eeralai and Orchid Blossom, a rough guideline would be great. I'd give it 7-8 days for the first round though, sixteen stories to judge must be a bear, and 5-6 for subsequent rounds. And I agree that critique should be included with judgments, the critique is the best part!
Hard to say from those of us who have never judged, what do former judges think?


----------



## alsih2o (Feb 23, 2005)

OK, been throwing pots while mulling this...and I may have an answer.

 What if the complexity goes up just a bit?

 5 judges. 1 person will pick pictures and give just a judgement, no critique.. We have the other 4 judges split the judgements up and write critique. This gives each judge more time and makes the one judge who manages the competition a position as a just a tie-breaker?

 Does this make sense?

I am not trying to be confrontational in asking questions. I sincerely WANT this to to be fun for EVERYONE. That is why I started it. This kind of feedback is important, and I appreciate everyones civil tone and realistic approaches.


----------



## Thorod Ashstaff (Feb 23, 2005)

alsih2o said:
			
		

> What if the complexity goes up just a bit?




I like it. Including the 'picture chooser' being the tie-breaker, but not doing critique. Makes sense.  (Though your critique has been great, and it already IS fun!)


----------



## BSF (Feb 23, 2005)

The Ceramic DM is definitely fun as a writer.  I think it isn't quite a fun as a spectator.  But I enjoy reading the stories anyway.  It is less stressful as a spectator.  I have no experience as a judge, but it is important to me that the judges have fun as well.  

That is where my largest area of concern really is.  We ask the judges to read and judge 30 stories during a Ceramic DM.  We ask them to judge each story based on it's merits and we expect them to be fair.  I have never felt slighted by the judges!  They always do a good job and I appreciate it.  I just want to make sure judging isn't seen as an arduous task that nobody wants to take on.  

I have considered what would happen with more judges.  Would it be possible to get 4 judges + a picture chooser?  What are the expectations of the writers?  The judges?  If we tried a change in judging format, I would suggest that we team up judges and assign to picture sets.  For the finals, perhaps all the judges decide?  

More ideas?


----------



## BSF (Feb 23, 2005)

Alsih2o,
I have another set of menu links for you, but I will hold off a little later until you have Orchid Blossom & Firelance's pics posted.


----------



## MarauderX (Feb 24, 2005)

Thought this subject would result in a separate thread, but let's just highjack this one...
I don't want to up the complexity of it at all.  I don't really care who judges or how long they take.  I'm not concerned if there are lengthy discussions or critiques of each story though I like that aspect of it a lot.  I think it is not unreasonable to _just be patient_.  

It's sometimes hard for me to make enough space to write something in the 72 hours, and we have plenty of control on when the pics are posted.  Why should we press the judges to finish reading two stories and posting up feedback within 7-8 days of _my_ deadline?  IMO, I believe asking for that is pushing too much.  Many in this group already know that writing and submitting nearly anywhere else takes longer, sometimes much longer.  As a result of a demanding deadline for the qualified judges, they will find better things to do with their time than be stressed out by judging this writing competition.  

And how about the reverse?  What if the judges just posted up the pics for each round every week on Sunday at 1:32 PM?  If the writers didn't make it on time or couldn't commit writing in that time frame, tough muffins.  The competition would be done in 4 or 5 weeks, and we would still see some quality work.  However, we are fortunate that we can choose our own deadlines.  

In the current format I think we have struck a balance.  This may be one of the longer Ceremic DM competitions with a 16 contestant tree, 5 rounds, and surviving a new server installation.  Sure we all want our judgements and waiting isn't easy.  But for the love of St. Cuthbert or whoever, see the other side of the gold piece, and give the judges all the breathing room they want.

Adding more judges would add more time to get the judgements organized and post a result.  In the writing competitions I judge there is no way someone should, nor would I, split up the story reading responsibilities.  The continuity and expectations of different judges is too broad to deal with.  Doing so here would be no different, especially with trying to divide responsibilities to get the job done faster.  

Hooked on phonics... again...


----------



## alsih2o (Feb 24, 2005)

Round 2

Firelance Vs. Orchid Blossom

 5 pics, 72 hours, 6000 word limit.


----------



## orchid blossom (Feb 24, 2005)

Ok, after I stop laughing hysterically, then manage to stop the weeping I'll get to work.

Clay, you are a cruel, cruel man.


----------



## Ao the Overkitty (Feb 24, 2005)

Clay is a bad, bad man.

I pity the contestants.  Good luck.


----------



## FireLance (Feb 24, 2005)

Ouch. Arrgh. Whimper. Sigh. Okay, moaning done. Can start thinking desperately now.


----------



## mythago (Feb 24, 2005)

I like the current three-judge panel  system fine.


----------



## Sialia (Feb 24, 2005)

I also vote for patience. I like the three judges, and I don't mind waiting, although a heads up when something will take unusually long is a nice courtesy.

And in cases where a critique is burdensome, I don't mind a judgement that's pretty brief.

Maldur usually manages to sum up his feelings in a line or two. It doesn't give a lot of fine detail, but it sure tells you whether the story mostly worked or mostly didn't.


----------



## Piratecat (Feb 24, 2005)

Firelance vs NiTessine commentary and Eeralai vs Mythago judgment sent to Alsih2o.  

I've definitely been the roadblock, and I apologize for that. I know how frustrating it is as a competitor to be waiting. My backlog isn't endemic, it's situational . . . not that that's any consolation to someone who has worn out their refresh button.  I'm trying to provide fairly detailed critiques, for what it's worth.

I think a pretty good rule of thumb is that judge decisions should be in within three days of the story being posted, preferably two.


----------



## Hellefire (Feb 24, 2005)

Maybe a note in the FAQ that judgements take 3-7 days to be compiled and posted, on average, with a disclaimer that situations sometimes arise that add to that estimate. Mainly for newcomers I suppose, but knowing is half the battle, and it could help this not be a recurring discussion.

Aaron


----------



## BSF (Feb 25, 2005)

I can do that.  Of course, it is a thread so anybody can do that.    But I could edit it into a post at the top.  (Of course, so could any moderator.  Including Piratecat.  So that isn't very special either.)

I will see if I can get a general guideline dropped into the FAQ thread and then we can worry about more details later.


----------



## Eeralai (Feb 25, 2005)

A rough estimate of how many weeks/months the contest usually lasts would be lovely too.


----------



## Hellefire (Feb 25, 2005)

Yes it would be lovely. As well as when the next one is...I want to try again . Though if I survive a first round it looks like I will get mauled in the second. Anyway, despite all of my technicalities, I really enjoy this!

Aaron


----------



## Piratecat (Feb 25, 2005)

Okay, ALL of my judgments are in to Clay. He'll most likely post them in the morning. Congratulations, everyone who advanced!


----------



## Maldur (Feb 25, 2005)

I sent in my last open judgement as well.

I'm sorry taht some of my judgement went late, I send it from work, typing in Clays email , without looking it up, so I might have fubared there 

In defense, this seems to be the most chaotic ceramic contest to date. Murphy is having a fieldday on this one.


----------



## alsih2o (Feb 25, 2005)

Lots of judgements in, will be spreading them through the afternoon. 

P-kitty sent his belated Firelance Vs. NiTessine judgement: 

 Firelance Vs. NiTessine

Firelance:

I have mixed feelings about this story. That’s partially because I dislike
translating “gamespeak” directly over into fiction, especially fiction set
in the modern day. Call it “Iquid’s mystical replicator” and I’m fine, call
it “mirror image” and I’m immediately yanked out of the story and forced to
think of it in game terms. The story itself never completely grips me as a
result.

On the other hands, aspects of the story were both funny and creative. I
love the home for retired familiars, and I loved the picture use of the cat
and the knife. Picture use in general was good.  I’m amused by the
meta-references to EN World – nice cat joke  – but they didn’t skew my
judgment one way or the other.

Ultimately, I don’t find the plot of the story or the resolution to be
tremendously satisfying. It seems driven by the pictures to a great extent,
and that’s always a tough barrier to get over.

NiTessine:

It starts wonderfully. It ends with a dull, questioning thud.

I’m guessing that NiTessine ran out of time. Based on the first half, this
is a story that deserves to be lovingly spun out and crafted. Instead it
just gets odd and surreal.  I think the quality of NiTessine’s writing is
slightly above Firelance’s in this case, but the story itself has no
resolution and isn’t complete. Likewise, the photo usage isn’t well
integrated.

Judgment goes to Firelance.


----------



## alsih2o (Feb 25, 2005)

Alsih2o:

 Eeralai- Is this college? Did I take something that didn’t agree with my head?

 The disconnectedness works here, but I am afraid it works a little too well. It can eb hard to find your way around in this story.  The beginning concert is a bit strained, maybe a bit wordy and complex. And then the conversation as they leave strains me further.

  But it all hooks me. Something tells me if we had left you with more than three days this would be some kind of successful “Twilight Zone” script.

 I am usually not fond of pictures being used as dream imagery, as it is too easy. However, here we have complexity piled on complexity with the dreamlike images. The surreal attitude with which they are handled can be very powerful, and could have been more powerful if we had experienced some of them more. The cold of the car scene returns, but the sign and the bird seem to just waggle in space, waiting for the reader to return to them. 

 These are not normal images. The reader already knows they are important. This should change how the writer faces them. Partial success to picture use. If they al;l were as strong as the car usage, or if the inherent magic of the friend came out more they may have been stronger.

 Mythago-  A few more typos and misspellings than I am used to from Mythago. These are VERY disturbing.

 O.K., they aren’t. But I have to criticize something, right? Frozen cars equal epoxy cars. Dead guy eating brains equals Marine joke. The bird pic is a little weak, everything else here is strong as the day is long. Is everyone watching? This is how it is done.

 From Pachinko ball thoughts to the abstracted way in which Ray kills. Man, oh, man. 

 I frequently feel at aloss critiquing some of the stronger work. And I am at a loss. 

 Judgement: [sblock] Mythago takes this one. Eeralai has been strong and deserves some credit but man did Mythago own her story.[/sblock]

Maldur:

Eeralai Vs. Mythago round 2

Great stuff! this why ceramic dm exists, two great stories.

My vote goes for Mythago, his story was more coherent, Eeralai's was good
but I got confused by the music in the end.

Piratecat:

Eeralai:

I think the best way to hook a reader is to start off with a memorable
paragraph. My first impression when starting _The Other Side_ is that
there are too many commas and complex sentences in the first paragraph.
There’s no rhythm yet, and having one would make the beginning stronger.
With this comes a tendency to tell and not show -  the ‘bubbly’
concertmistress – and a reliance on clumsy sentence construction. For
instance, compare “The out of tune players in the back of the orchestra
reminded her of all the work still ahead of them and she could not let the
coldness come so close to overtaking her again.” to something like “An out
of tune violin scraped across her nerves. She had to push the cold away.
She had to focus.” Short sentences are especially effective when writing
from a specific person’s point of view.

Once we’re away from the concert, the story grows momentum nicely and the
conversation turns much more realistic. I think one of Eeralai’s strengths
is in good conversation, and that’s a skill that most people lack. There are
good, creative concepts in this piece. I liked the way reality shifted
around Carol, and how the transitions were described. I found the ending to
be something of an anticlimax, though; it struck me as overly pat and
simplistic. I think the story may have been stronger with a more complex
ending, where Carol’s relief – and the fact that she could feel so
relieved – wasn’t so tangible.

Mythago:

One of Mythago’s skills is letting shreds of information leak out over the
course of the story. It was about the point when I got to “vomiting
super-epoxy” that I went back and reread what had come before. My
assumptions got a jolt, and the story shifted away from where I thought it
was headed. Her talent for describing a person’s personality through their
actions – “Foster's smile spread across his face like an oil slick on
 water.” – comes across very nicely in this tale.

There are a few more typos in the story than I would normally expect. Other
than that, though, the story is superb. It moves quickly, it contains superb
characterization, and it’s darned creepy. I’m still inordinately pleased
that the reason Ray was so dangerous was never explained.

Judgment: [sblock]Eeralai made a great showing for a first time competitor, but my
judgment goes to Mythago. Excellent photo use and a deft horror story
manages to sneak past Eeralai’s tale of a woman stuck between two worlds.
Well done, both of you.[/sblock]

 Decision: [sblock] Mythago takes this round 3-0 over an impressive newcomer.[/sblock]


----------



## Berandor (Feb 25, 2005)

On judging time:

I've been a judge once, in the last tournament. I don't know how helpful I was - I've been booted and replaced by PirateCat, after all 

But what I wanted to say is, I had pretty much spare time to judge, and it was still tough to do judgements within 2 days.  Now, reading a story and doing a judgement within 2 days doesn't sound too hard, does it? And it isn't. But most of the time, the rounds will happen at a similar time, so you get 16 stories in the first round all at once (more or less, since while you're doing judgement on the first two, four more will be posted), then 8 stories, and then 4.  And you don't want to shrothand people. So especially the later pairings will be delayed. 

Just an example: If I take 1 day per story, it'd still take me 16 days for the first round. And depending on what life brings you, 1 day per story might not work out. And that's without crazy situatins like the one forcing me off the computer most of the time recently. 

And round 1 and 2 are hardest. 

Maybe it's possible to go in bouts? Two pairings every three days or so? Then the first stories get posted, the second get pics, and when the second post and the third get pics, the first get a judgement. Is that clear in any way?


----------



## Piratecat (Feb 25, 2005)

Berandor said:
			
		

> I've been a judge once, in the last tournament. I don't know how helpful I was - I've been booted and replaced by PirateCat, after all




If it's any indication, when I write a judgment my goal is to write one that approaches how detailed yours and Arwink's were. Reading yours has helped my own writing a great deal in this regard. I remember when (not as a judge!) you analyzed my spy story and without being cruel or discouraging you nailed every flaw straight on; it was a delight to read.


----------



## alsih2o (Feb 25, 2005)

Piratecat said:
			
		

> If it's any indication, when I write a judgment my goal is to write one that approaches how detailed yours and Arwink's were. Reading yours has helped my own writing a great deal in this regard. I remember when (not as a judge!) you analyzed my spy story and without being cruel or discouraging you nailed every flaw straight on; it was a delight to read.





 It could have something to do with being an original, but Arwink is always the tops at the detailed and true critique for me. Berandor rocked hard as well, no two ways. 

 Different approaches bring a different insights and many of the judges have produced critique that has improved my critiquing as well as participating has improved my writing.


----------



## Eeralai (Feb 25, 2005)

*Thanks*

Thanks for the comments and pictures.  This piece was a big risk for me because it was way out of my normal writing style and genre.  I tried to break the rhythm of style that was commented on in my first story, but it looks I came up with something broken.  I was dissappointed I did not convey the picture use better.  The bird was really supposed to be a one time use in my mind with it symbolizing her possible impending swan song.  The sign I did come back to.  Would it have been better if Tanya had made fun of Zozobra or "the native" and been the one attacked by the spirits instead of it being a random person in the crowd?

Anyway, thanks for your time and thanks for having me.  Congrats to Mythago!


----------



## alsih2o (Feb 25, 2005)

Macbeth vs Maddman75

 Piratecat-

Macbeth:

I’ll start by pointing out that there’s always been a general prohibition
against using the photos as photos within the satory; here Macbeth does so
not once, but twice. The second time (the girls with entwined hair) is
especially egregious.  I don’t think this is in the (otherwise excellent)
FAQ, though, so I won’t penalize for it.  Photo use of the girls is weak
even if you discount that guideline. The rest of Macbeth’s photos range from
excellent (the pugs in uniform that inspire the story) to okay (the Dr, the
girl on the beach). I also noticed some typos, which start to count against
an author by the second round.

The story itself is very interesting in scope and theme.  I like the twist
on the classic story of man-monsters. Surprisingly, though, it wasn’t as
powerful as I expected it to be. I think that’s because there aren’t any
major revelations or any real character development for the fairly 2-D
narrator. I expected that at the end the narrator would realize that getting
all of his friends killed _and_ killing all the guards and the doctor
might have some ironic impact in his quest to become less human; that doesn’
t seem to have happened. I still really like the fact that the Dr had
complex motivations in his quest to make the animals human and let them cope
with the real world, and that this is what brought about his death.

All in all not Macbeth’s best work, but a solid story with an interesting
theme.


Maddman75:

Pulp! Pulp is a forgiving genre, because what might normally be considered
improbable or sloppy plotting – erupting volcanoes, ancient tombs – happen
to fit right into the typical pulp story.

The story starts off more slowly than it should, partially because too much
time is spent on backstory. This might be the sort of tale that is best
started in the middle of action, then heading back to cover who’s who in a
flashback or as it moves along. Almost half of the words occur before the
group ever leaves England. That shortchanges the heart of the story,
especially when we could be introduced to people on the fly.

This story doesn’t reach as far as Macbeth’s does, but it does a better job
achieving what it is reaching for. It’s trying to be a rollicking adventure,
and I think it handles that nicely. I would have liked to see more
conversation and more action.

Photo use was good, although nowhere is it explained why Klaus is in a photo
with another dog-creature.  I liked the use of the seagulls, and I really
liked the evil twin.  Again an illustration is used in the story as a photo;
we need to put that in the FAQ.  

Judgment:

[sblock]The two stories are quite dissimilar. That makes judging more difficult.
Although Maddman’s story wasn’t shooting for any theme as complex as Macbeth
’s, his photo use was better and he managed to capture the feel he was
looking for. Macbeth’s story didn’t resonate with me, and an ambitious story
like that needs to in order to achieve its goals. I award my vote to
Maddman.[/sblock]

 Alsih2o-

 Macbeth- I feel I am decently well read but I still don’t like reading things that insist or assume that I read certain other things. I know vaguely of Dr moreau, mostly through references in other writings. I have read Animal Farm but I don’t want to have had to read it to enjoy what you are giving me.

 Pictures as pictures is a no-no for me as well. If a picture is a picture it better have been something else as well. 

 And yet I like this story. I like the theme. I really enjoy it when you open the door just a bit more. The meeting strikes me as the strongest point.  But that door gets closed t me again at the storming of the compound. I wanted more than the charge at the door and then the action being summed up as everyone dying but our narrator.

 There is a lot of good stuff here to explore. You have left me feeling that I didn’t get quite enough without making it feel as if the tease was part of the thrill.

 Maddman- Pictures as pictures! Yargh! This one does lead into the story more but STOP IT!

 The standard Explorer/IndianaJones/KingSolomonsMine world here is solid. A little on the fantastic side, but look at where we are. J An intro of some minor action to explain everyone and their ‘powers’ may have worked a lot better, this stalls a little at the intro and sweeps a little too quickly through the ending. But it works. 

  I like the “Favor for a favor” bit, I would like to see that echo someplace else, it would really punch the story up a bit.

 Strong stuff Maddman, better than the first round.

 Judgement: [sblock] Macbeth and Maddman really went different directions here. The picture as picture thing gives me a rash, but I am forced to look past that as both of oyu did it. Maddman gets my vote this round.[/sblock]

Maldur-

 Maddman vs MacBeth 
Macbeth has the more "original" story(IMHO), but I like the potential interaction between the three characters in maddmans story.
Judgement: [sblock]My vote goes to macbeth, the story was stronger, but if maddman would leleborate a bit more, and create a "larger"story wtith this crew, it could be really nice.[/sblock]

 Decision- [sblock] Maddman advances in a split decision. 2-1[/sblock]


----------



## Macbeth (Feb 25, 2005)

Thanks to the judges, and good luck, maddman. I knew I had a weak story in many respects (though I had completely forgot about the picture as a picture violation), but I think I bit off more then I could chew with this theme. I really liked the idea, but the plot and the characters kind of escaped me.

Good luck maddman, and I'll be around for the next Cermaic DM


----------



## BSF (Feb 25, 2005)

OK, I thought I had warned about picture as picture use in the FAQ, but either I scrapped it, or it was unclear.  I remember Piratecat getting dinged for a picture as picture use in a story a few contests back.  That judgement gave me _very clear_ warning to avoid that in my stories.  I will try to convey the same admonishment that I remember seeing in that story.

As a general word of advice to folks:  Read the old judgements and put together a mental checklist of things to avoid for your stories.  It is OK to learn from other people's mistakes.  

Hmm, what value would there be in compiling some of that in the FAQ thread?  As always, I am open to ideas and posts in the FAQ thread to make it better.


----------



## alsih2o (Feb 25, 2005)

Thorod vs Marauder X 
 Maldur-
For some reason I feel that MarauderX's story need a Elton John soundtrack  
Thorod's story allthough a nifty idea, cant seem to grab me, and I need to wrestle with the words to read through it. 
[sblock]My vote MarauderX [/sblock]

Alsih2o-
 Thorod Ashstaff- Thorod has turned in just the first chapter of a bigger story, a technique tried by quite a few Ceramicers. The difference is that Thorod makes it complete, and this makes it work. 
 There is some kickbutt dialogue in here and the language is strong. The narrator is consistent even as he changes and the characters all ring true even in brief appearances. Strong stuff.
 The picture use is really strong. Every picture drives the story or sustains it. I never really felt a reach. If the bridge pic had been just a bridge it would have been OK, but it is used to reveal a bit of personality from our narrator, to fill him out a bit more. The snakes ring back several times, the Maid outfit reaches a bit, but by the time we get to it we are so consumed by the plot that it drives right through.
 Good stuff.

 Marauder X- Hmmm. This isn’t a fantasy story at all. Thinking about it, I guess we have never had a rule that you have to write fantasy, but I do believce this is the first time someone hasn’t!
 The story is solid with one jarring exception. I didn’t know our narrator was female until the dinner with her father. This was very jarring. 
 Despite this you have put together a solid story. The people strike me as knowable and the dialogue works well. The pictures, however, feel frequently tacked on. The dog, the snakes…these seem to be added. The bridge scene feels a bit tacked on but the writing and imagery were strong enough to distract me. 

 Judgement: [sblock] I am really weirded out over the double Thailand, double X-files references. Marauder X brings us a good story, but Thorod Ashstaff brings us a reall, really strong story. My vote goes to Thorod Ashstaff[/sblock]

 Piratecat-

 MarauderX:

This is a good story. It’d be better if it weren’t straining to include the
photos.

I’ll explain. Some stories aren’t great, and they suffer from desperately
trying to integrate the illustrations. Some stories are seamlessly wrapped
around the stories to such an extent that you wouldn’t even guess that the
images are an external constraint. And some stories are really good tales in
and of themselves, but are weakened as they try to include all the images.
This is one of the latter.

I really like the rich and descriptive writing style. Some strained phrasing
aside (the sentence “...which made for Barry and me to be strange
bedfellows, but all I can say is that we were kindred spirits,” made me
blink several times,) the story of Barry and Sara’s romance was a really
nice one. She learns to trust and give up some control, and they both learn
more about one another.

The problem is that other than the shot of Barry with his glasses, the
photos are generally incidental to the story. That doesn’t mean it’s a bad
story, but there’s a disconnect that happens every time the reader reaches
one of the photo scenes.  I’d love to read MarauderX’s version of this story
that didn’t include all the photos, just to see how he’d tweak it.

Thorod:

Thorod’s burned-out PI makes for an engaging narrator. He’s got the rhythm
just about right, has the correct voice for the character. I liked the
foreshadowing of the pictures, liked the plot, and liked the picture use.
Adding the complexity of Thailand improved the story by putting Merrick out
of his element. It was nice usage of an exotic location.

I don’t have many criticisms or suggestions here. This was a well-crafted
story, and one that I enjoyed. Nicely done.

Judgment:

[sblock]MarauderX wrote a very good story, but Thorod takes it with a complex and
evocative picture of Thailand’s back streets. My vote goes to Thorod.[/sblock]

 Decision: [sblock] Thorod Ashstaff takes a split decision into the semifinals, 2-1[/sblock]


----------



## Maldur (Feb 25, 2005)

Clay check your judgement, I think you made a mistake!!


----------



## alsih2o (Feb 25, 2005)

Maldur said:
			
		

> Clay check your judgement, I think you made a mistake!!




 whoops-a-daisy!

 Fixed, thanks.


----------



## Piratecat (Feb 25, 2005)

Hmm, Maldur's being the contrarian.


----------



## Maldur (Feb 25, 2005)

No Im not!


----------



## BSF (Feb 26, 2005)

I think Eeralai's story perhaps suffered from being a little too regional and possibly a little too music oriented.  That first paragraph is a little hard to get through, but then again I am the person that used "Meat" 10 times in an opening paragraph.  Who am I to criticize an opener that the author uses to try to hold the mental perspective of the main character?  

There are a lot of references to stuff that might not translate well outside of our localized region.  I think losing the context of those references really obscures the problem of the main character.  As well, if you aren't enough a Steely Dan fan to know the lyrics of their songs, there are hints that get missed in that context.  

Speaking as the spousal unit, I was really surprised by this story.  Eeralai usually avoids the subject of suicide like the plague.  It was a serious departure from her normal writings.  Stepping outside your comfort zone in writing can be risky, but it is a good opportunity to grow.  I think Eeralai would welcome more commentary if anybody felt like sharing.  Either in the Spectator thread, or possibly in this one if the judges don't mind.  (After all, the story is judged so there is no bias to be had now.)  Barring that, you can also email me and I will forward to Eeralai.  

Congrats to Mythago and to everyone else advancing to the next round.  It seems like we are getting a lot of varied stories in this contest with some very strong writing.  It is so much fun to watch and see what people are cranking out.


----------



## mythago (Feb 26, 2005)

> A few more typos and misspellings than I am used to from Mythago. These are VERY disturbing.




I....I am ashamed.

(I was also posting from a hotel dialup in rural Colorado.)

Eeralai, I don't think your story was broken. I don't much like that genre and I did enjoy your story.


----------



## MarauderX (Feb 26, 2005)

alsih2o said:
			
		

> Decision: [sblock] Thorod Ashstaff takes a split decision into the semifinals, 2-1[/sblock]




Awesome, I couldn't have lost to a better piece of writing.  Thorod, I think everyone here would like to see more of Merrik, as this time your style matched perfectly with his personality.  I will enjoy seeing more from you and let us know if you publish, I like what you have going here.  Keep going and win this thing!

Thanks again judges.  Maldur, thanks for the vote.  Alsih2o, I was glad for the picture set that let us get out of the modern sci-fi genre.  Eventhough the pics let me keep the story out of fantasy, I felt like I still had to push them into the story.  Nothing good can come out of them being forced into the story, but I had hoped Thorod wouldn't be so dang good.  Good point about the narrator being female, the title alone doesn't tell you.  Having someone read through it before posting would show that glaring error, but this is not a team effort, right?  PC, thanks for the input.  I know my story was straining to add the pictures and still come out with a straight forward fiction piece, and perhaps I'll go about tweaking it to exclude the pictures.  I was trying to get across that Barry did learn to organize his life and wanted to show her that as well as how to let go and understand his.  

Judges, competitors, thanks again.  I'll see you in the next CDM.


----------



## Thorod Ashstaff (Feb 26, 2005)

Thank you, judges! The competition in this thing is strong, and I never expected to make it to the semi-finals (the Final Four, Mythago, et al, okay, NOW I'm nervous). And thanks, Marauder X, for your comments, and your perception/reality tale. Yes, now that I've discovered Merrick, I have a feeling he will insist on more coverage in future writings, maybe a series of stories, Kolchak with an edge? Does anyone remember Kolchak?

Clay, I will accept pictures if someone else is available. You may fire when ready! (Hey, a potter, firing, does that mean we sixteen are all being tempered in the writing kiln?  Call us Shadrach).


----------



## FireLance (Feb 26, 2005)

*Winter 2005 Ceramic DM Round 2: FireLance vs. orchid blossom*

*Huntress*

The heat and the humidity felt oppressive as I made my way to the village centre. This was particularly so since I was enjoying a relatively cool and dry summer's day in Perth about twenty minutes ago. One of the downsides of the job, I guess.

"Where are we this time?" I whispered. 

_The Philippines_, Nethane'El thought back, _A village in the Davao region of the Mindanao Island, to be exact._ 

"Where is our target?"

_Close._

In the village centre, a circular arena had been set up. Two chickens pecked and clawed at each other in the arena while the villagers watched intently. (1) Apparently, this was what passed for entertainment in this part of the world.

"So which one is it?" I asked.

Angels were supposed to be eternally patient, but I felt a twinge of exasperation in his reply. _Use the Sight, Melissa. You know how._

"Oh yes. Right. The Sight. How could I have forgotten about that? Silly me," I said. I was perhaps feeling a little miffed. After all, I hadn't been doing this for very long. Surely he couldn't expect me to have all the procedures down pat yet?

I concentrated, and the world gradually acquired a reddish tinge as my eyes re-focused to see into the spiritual plane. I was now able to see Nethane'El to my right, his handsome face calm and unruffled as usual, despite the mildly annoyed tone of his thought.

The village centre appeared mostly unchanged to my enhanced vision, with one exception. One of the chickens in the arena had acquired bat wings and a lizard tail. As I watched, it pecked its opponent hard in the throat, killing it.

"The weird chicken?" I asked.

_Yes._

Money changed hands at the conclusion of the fight, and most of it seemed to end up in the pockets of one particular man, who I guessed had to be the owner of the chicken. I approached him after the crowd had dispersed and he had caged up his prize bird. Pointing to it, I asked, "How much?"

One brief bargaining session later, the man strode off with what must have seemed a small fortune to him, leaving me and the caged chicken in the village square.

"Right," I said, reaching for the cage, "Let's pick up the bird and get out of here."

_Wait!_ Nethane'El thought, _Wear your gloves first._

Right, I had forgotten. Ordinary human beings were purely physical creatures. As such, magical creatures could not affect them, at least, not until they had bonded with their hosts long enough to project their powers onto the physical world. My job was to catch them before they could do so. You see, I was blessed - or cursed - with a dual physical and magical nature, so I was able to see them. Unfortunately, it also meant that I could be affected by them. At least, that was what Nethane'El kept telling me, and that was why he always gave me something to protect myself whenever we went hunting for these creatures, such as the bridle I used to tame the horse with wings in Greece, or the harp I used to put the fire-breathing lizard to sleep in Italy, or the gloves that I had right now to protect me from the weird chicken.

I put on the gloves and picked up the cage. The chicken pecked at my hands and beat at them with its wings, but whatever the gloves did to protect me from the chicken must have worked because nothing happened. "Take us home, Nethane'El," I said.

The angel wrapped his arms around me and enfolded me with his wings (traveling was always the most fun part of the job) and suddenly we were back at my house in Perth. I always wondered how he could move me around the world.  As a purely spiritual being, he normally wasn't able to affect anything physical, which was why he needed me to actually capture the magical creatures that had bonded to a physical host and perform the ritual that would break the link and bind them in the spiritual plane. The one time I asked, he said something about how the gods were able to grant their servants some limited abilities to affect the physical world, and the extent of the ability given to him was to move hunters like me around. When I asked why his god hadn't given him the power to affect the physical hosts of the magical creatures directly, instead of involving me as the middle man (or woman), he just muttered something about ancient tradition and divine will and how all will be revealed when the time is right. It didn't sound very convincing to me.

So, back in the familiar comfort of home, I performed the ritual on the chicken. The spiritual aspect of the chicken, the one with bat wings and lizard tail, broke off from the physical body, and as I intoned the final words, something which looked like a glass bottle appeared around the spiritual form and encased it totally. Nethane'El walked over to the bottled chicken, spoke a few words, and some grey energy came out of the chicken and settled in his hand. He walked over to me and handed me two darts with grey feathers. _Use these well_, he thought, _In your hands, anything pierced by these darts will turn to stone._ Then, he walked back to the chicken, touched its bottle, and both of them vanished.

After he left, I went to the study to pack my latest acquisitions with the magical stuff I had obtained from my previous hunts: a feather from the horse which enabled me to fly, and teeth from the lizard which were supposed to grow into soldiers. The three thick books that Nethane'El had given to me for background reading, _Deities and Demigods_, _Monster Manual_ and _Fiend Folio_, were still lying untouched on my desk. I briefly considered looking through them before deciding that I was too hot and uncomfortable from my trip to the Philippines to be able to concentrate. I needed a dip in the pool.

I had fallen in love with the indoor pool, with its high ceiling and diving board, the first time that I saw it. It was still my favorite part of the house, even now, about one month after Nethane'El appeared in my cramped New York flat and told me (after I had stopped screaming, anyway) that I was the only relative of my long-lost aunt who had the ability to see magical creatures, and so I had inherited her house in Perth, her fortune and her job. I was feeling rather sick of waitressing, so I had jumped at the chance to try something new. Things seemed to be working out pretty well so far.

I had just changed into my swimming costume and was about to head for the pool when the doorbell rang. One of the disadvantages of the job was that I couldn't have any maids or butlers around to help, just in case anybody got suspicious at the way I seemed to appear and disappear. Grumbling to myself, I put on a bathrobe over my swimming costume and went to see who it was.

Peering through the eyehole of the door, I saw two children, a boy and a girl, wearing funny woolen masks that covered up almost the whole of their faces, leaving holes only for the eyes and mouth. (2) Curious, I opened the door. "Yes?" I asked.

"Trick or treat!" the children said.

"Is this some kind of joke?" I said, "It's not Halloween, you know."

"Is this not December, and is it not the tenth month?" the girl asked, "And is today not the Eve of All Hallows, when children go from door to door to receive presents?"

"It is December, but it's the twelfth month, and today is Christmas Eve, not Halloween. What's going on?" I asked suspiciously.

"Alas, it appears that the changes that have been made to the calendar have confused us," the boy said, with a glare at the girl that obviously meant, _I told you so_, "We had hoped that hordes of children coming to your door would aid us in our deception, but it appears that it is not to be."

"Deception? What are you taking about?" I said. Belatedly, I realized that if these children were bonded to some kind of magical creature, I had put myself in a very dangerous spot. Quickly, I focused my Sight. There was the barest hint of something strange, but the children appeared to be normal otherwise.

"Be at ease, Melissa, for we mean you no harm. In fact, we have come to bring you warning," the girl said, "Our... well, the relationship is somewhat complex, but for simplicity, let us call him our uncle. Our uncle has been most offended at your recent activities, for you have captured something dear to him, and he means to seek revenge. My brother here consorts with oracles, and their visions show that you will face three perils: the peril of water, the peril of flesh and the peril of earth. You must guard yourself, and command the magic that you possess, or you will perish."

"What? Who's trying to kill me? Who are you?"

"We dare not speak the name of our uncle," the boy said, "He is attuned to his name, and speaking it will surely draw his attention. We will not tell you ours as well, for he may hear our names and investigate."

"But know this, Melissa," the girl said, "Well are you named that, for though you work with one who serves Another, you are a maiden huntress, and you are mine. Be well." With that, both the children vanished.

I was stunned for a moment, than quickly slammed the door shut. "Nethane'El, I need you," I called, but there was no reply. A glance outside the window confirmed my worst fears. The sun had set, and it was Friday, so Nethane'El was observing the Shabbat or whatever he called it. I was on my own until Saturday night.

Well, if Nethane'El could not help me, perhaps the magical items that he made for me could. Quickly, I rushed back to the study, and grabbed hold of the feather, the teeth and the darts. Feeling slightly more assured now that I had magic to fight with, I thought a bit more about what the children had said. _The peril of water..._ With a sinking feeling, I went to investigate the pool.

It was dark by now, so I turned on the lights and focused my Sight, paying special attention to the water. The water, which had appeared crystal clear to my normal vision, seemed dark and oily in the spiritual plane. Without warning, a section of the water fountained out of the pool and hurled itself at me. I managed to dodge it, but it gathered into a great glob that caught hold of my bathrobe. Shrugging off the robe, I ran for the diving board. My only thought was to get away from the glob, and climbing seemed to be the best option. Surely something that looked and acted like living jelly wouldn't be able to get up a ladder.

I reached the top and was about to pause for a moment to catch my breath when the entire diving board shook violently. Looking down, I saw that the glob had surrounded the base of the ladder, and had slammed into it hard. Before I could react, it slammed into the ladder again, and I lost my balance. I managed to cling on to the very edge of the diving board, but I lost my grip on one of my precious darts, and it fell into the waters below. Immediately, the surface of the water, which had been shivering violently just a moment ago, stiffened and froze. The water had turned to stone.

I was still not out of danger yet. The blob continued to shake the ladder, and I was rapidly losing my grip. If I fell, dropping onto solid rock would kill me as surely as falling into whatever the water had been before. As the blob prepared itself for another assault on the ladder, I clung desperately to the diving board with one arm and flung my last dart at the blob with the other. The shaking stopped, and I managed to grab onto the diving board with both hands. A downward glance showed me that the blob had turned to stone, too. (3)

I climbed back on top of the diving board and lay there for what seemed like hours, frightened and exhausted from my near brush with death. Eventually, I managed to summon the strength to crawl down from the diving board and into bed, but it was a long time before I could get to sleep.

The next day, the sound of roaring and loud crashing jolted me awake. The house shook with each loud crash, as if a wrecking ball was hitting it repeatedly. 

I crept to the window and noted with relief that by the sun, it was late in the afternoon. Nethane'El's help was only a few short hours away. Then, I glanced towards the rest of the house and my relief vanished. A one-eyed giant, almost as tall as the house itself, was pounding on it with an enormous club. Already, there were gaping holes in the roof and the upper floors. _The peril of flesh_, I thought with a sinking feeling. At the rate that it was going, the giant would have destroyed the house, and probably me as well, before nightfall.

Frantically, I looked for an escape route from my bedroom on the second floor. Quickly improvising a scene that had been in countless movies, I ripped my bedsheet into shreds and turned it into a makeshift rope, which I tied to the window and used to climb down. With a single backward glance at my poor, abused house, I ran into the garden surrounding it. When I felt that I was a safe enough distance away, I stopped under a tree to catch my breath and consider my options.

I was all out of darts, and I could always use the feather to fly away as a last resort. If the lizard's teeth worked as I was told, perhaps the soldiers they produced would be able to drive the giant away.

I took the teeth and pressed them into the earth in neat rows. Then, I took a step back and waited. The results were gratifying. First, helmets appeared in the ground, and quickly rose to reveal heads, then muscular torsos, then arms bearing swords and large shields. Before long, a group of soldiers dressed in ancient armor stood before me. 

One of them approached me, arm raised in a salute. "Ave, mistress. What are your commands?" he asked.

I pointed in the direction of my house. "There is a one-eyed giant destroying a house over there," I said, "Drive it away."

"It shall be done," he said, and barked orders to the men. As one, they ran towards the house. I followed at a safe distance, eager to see whether they would win.

It was a long, terrible and bloody battle. The soldiers had the advantage of skill, tactics, and numbers, but the giant was incredibly strong and seemed to have a remarkably tough hide. The soldiers' swords barely scratched it. On the other hand, every time the giant's club connected with a soldier, he was smashed to pulp. One by one, the soldiers fell, until as the sun set, only the commander was left. He did not last much longer. When the last light faded from the skies, the giant's club came down on him with a decisive thud.

The giant looked around, its one eye oddly luminous in the darkness. Some instinct seemed to prompt it, and he swung around and faced me directly. Slowly, it lumbered towards me, swinging its club with an evil smile on its face.

"Nethane'El, where are you?" I whispered.

_Here_, came the reply. 

"Nethane'El!" I exclaimed, dizzy with relief. Focusing my Sight, I turned to my right and saw him there. In his hands, he held a spear.

_Take this spear_, he thought, _Throw it at the giant's eye._

Nodding, I grasped the weapon and faced the giant. It had obviously seen Nethane'El as well, for its pace had slowed and it was looking nervous.

"Take that," I said fiercely as I flung the spear.

"No! Not again!" the giant screamed as the spear pierced its eye, the first coherent words I had heard it speak. "Father! Help me!"

_Quick, Melissa, while it is blinded, bind it!_ Nethane'El thought.

I did not have to be told twice. I completed the ritual in half the time I normally took, and soon, the spiritual form of the one-eyed giant was locked in a bottle. Then, physically and emotionally drained, I collapsed in a heap on the ground.

_Melissa_, Nethane'El's thought came again, _Do not fear. The danger is over for now. Tell me what happened._

Wearily, I looked up and related to him the events of the past day. As he listened, his normally placid expression grew increasingly concerned.

_So you must still face one more peril, the peril of earth_, he thought. He appeared pensive, then seemed to make a decision. _No, I must do what I can to guard you from this peril. I must investigate this. But my investigations will take time, and it is too dangerous for you to stay here. Come, I will take you somewhere far from mountains and earthquakes. Perhaps you can avoid the peril there while I try and discover who is behind this._

He enfolded me in his wings again, and suddenly, we were on a beach. A tropical beach, from what I could feel of the temperature and the humidity. _Stay here until I come for you_, Nethane'El thought, and vanished.

A short distance away from where Nethane'El had left me was a hotel. "Poseidon Bungalows, Khao Lak, Thailand," I said softly to myself, reading the signboard. I shrugged. Nethane'El had been alerted now, and would surely keep careful watch. And there were worse places to be than on a beach in Thailand on Boxing Day.

. . . . .

(1) The coc^H^Hhicken fight in the village
(2) The twins, Artemis and Apollo
(3) Melissa clings onto the diving board after petrifying the blob
(4) The dragon teeth legionnaires
(5) The cyclops bound into a bottle


----------



## orchid blossom (Feb 26, 2005)

Round 2   orchid blossom vs. FireLance

Child's Play


"You two had better be in bed by the time I count ten!  One...two...three...four.."

"But Mom!"

The voice from the living room came louder.  "Five...six...seven..."

Bobby and Derek both dived for their beds as their mother's shadow crept up the hall.  

"Eight...Nine...Ten.  And tomorrow you're going to tell me where you got that figurine and return it."

"Mom, we already told you," Bobby said for the fourth time.

She put her hands on her hips and stared.  "You told me a story.  Tomorrow we try the truth."  The door shut with a quiet click leaving the brothers in the dark.

"We saved her," Derek said as he snapped on the bedside lamp.  He looked at the small lady hanging from the diving board.  "It's not our fault she doesn't know how to change back."

.......................................................

Earlier that day....

Derek and Bobby stood against the gray canvas wall off the tent.  Two sets of eyes scanned the fairgrounds, looking for anyone suspicious.  "This mask is itchy," Derek said, reaching underneath it to scratch his neck.  

"We're superheroes, we have to protect our secret identities.  Too bad if it's itchy."  Bobby turned back toward the tent opening and peeked inside.  There were sounds of shouting, and Bobby saw the ring where two roosters were fighting.  "I told you we were perfect for this job.  We can sneak right past those people and into the back where they're keeping The Morph.  C'mon."

Bobby walked confidently into the tent, Derek a step behind him.  "It only works at night, I thought.  With the full moon."

"Don't be stupid, that's wolves."

The brothers pushed their way through the adult bodies to a large canvas curtain the separated the arena from the private areas.  The roosters began to raise a cacophony when the boys entered the pens.  They dashed across the room between the crates of roosters to an actual wooden wall in the middle of the tent.

"I'll bet he's in here.  Why else would they have a real building inside a tent?"  Bobby tried the doorknob, but it was locked.

"Mr. Morph would turn into a key and open it."

"Yeah, well, he's in there, so that's not much help."

From inside the wooden walls they heard two voices.

"Better put on our good disguises," Bobby smiled.  He looked at his brother as they both began to shimmer, their forms shifting and blurring.  They shrank, feathers sprouting from their bodies, as their feet became claws and their noses stretched and hardened into beaks.

"No one here but us chickens," Derek thought to his brother, who immediately pecked him hard in the wing.   "What was that for?"

"Bad jokes.  Come on, this way."

"If we pecked them, would they be werehumans?" Derek wondered to Bobby.

"I don't know.  That's a weird question."

The voices were getting closer, and while Bobby waited by the door Derek went over to the nearest crate and pecked the rooster inside hard.  "Geez Derek, come on!"

The wooden door opened and two men walked out.  It was hard to tell how big they were from their spot on the ground, but they didn't seem to notice as two roosters slipped past them into the building just before the door shut.  They shimmered and changed again after they heard the voices fade away.

"I think they'd like to be werehumans," Derek said defensively.

"You would.  Come on, help me find him.  He'll be in his real form, so he shouldn't be very big."

Bobby and Derek began a thorough search of the room, finding any number of odd or interesting things.  A lot of the things were really old, and there were lots of musty old books too.  On the higher shelves were some figures that Derek guessed were toys.  Lots of them were of superheroes and villains, but there was one of a group of Roman soldiers, and up high one of a lady hanging onto a diving board.

Bobby opened the doors to a wardrobe and pushed back a red cloth.  Underneath was a large jar, and floating inside was Mr. Morph.  Bobby held back a victory whoop and tapped on the glass.  The single eye snapped open and Bobby jumped back.  "Smash the glass," a voice told him inside his head.

He reached inside but couldn't move the heavy jar by himself.  "Hey Derek, there a bat or something over there?"

"Is that him?"

"Yeah, but we have to break the glass to get him out."

Derek took a quick look around and spotted a set of golf clubs in the corner.  He grabbed one for him and one for Bobby, and on the count of three they both swung at the glass.  Liquid came pouring out and Mr. Morph wove the wave to the ground.  He immediately changed his form into a small dog.  "No one will suspect two boys and their dog," his thought came to both boys.  

"Now, one of you get up there and grab that statue of the lady on the diving board.  She used to be a superhero too, until they caught her."

As Derek climbed up her asked, "You mean the statue used to be her?  Why do they keep her like that?"

"Because that's how they caught her.  She had water powers, so they like the idea of her dangling from a diving board, never able to get to the water.  I might be able to change her back, but not right now.  Let's go."

The two boys and Mr. Morph slipped back out the door, through the rooster pens and into the arena.  As they pushed through the crowd Mr. Morph said, "I see the men who were in the room with me.  They're on their way back to the pens, we'd better hurry."

It only took a minute or two to work their way through the crowd and back out into the fresh air.  Over the shouting from the men watching the rooster fights they could hear louder, angrier screams and the breaking of glass.  Bobby and Derek looked wide-eyed at one another and ran.

Mr. Morph kept up, and they left the fairgrounds behind them in short order.  They were running through the parking when they heard the timed march of feet coming toward them.  Over the hill they saw a group of soldiers dressed in shining armor come down the road and block it.  They each had a big, rectangular shield, and all together they moved them until they looked like they were inside a little house.

Bobby and Derek looked at each other for a moment.  "Those men had a toy that looked like that, and Mr. Morph said maybe the lady could be brought back.  Those men must have sent the soldiers."

Mr. Morph began to change, the furry little dog disappearing into the enormous boulder that began to grow, looking almost as if it came up from the ground.  "Run after me boys, I'll clear the road."  Mr. Morph then began to roll forward like a bowling ball, and the soldiers flew out of the way like pins.  The boys ran laughing through the wreckage as each soldier turned back to a toy.  They kept laughing as they made their way home.

.........................................

The next morning....

Mom pulled the covers back over her head as she heard roosters crow.  "I thought we moved to the city to get away from roosters!" she muttered.  The noise kept up, and she finally gave up on getting back to sleep.  She pulled on her robe and wandered over to the window that looked out over the backyard.

She rubbed her eyes and looked again.  There were two roosters strutting around her backyard.  And why was there a woman in a bathing suit?  She closed her eyes and looked again.  A little brown dog was jumping around behind her as she waved to the roosters, then the woman and the dog disappeared through the hedge to the triumphant crows of the roosters.

She walked down the hallway to her boys' bedroom and looked inside.  The beds were still mussed and warm, but that figurine of the woman in the bathing suit was gone.  Mom shut the door, walked back to her room, lowered her window blinds and climbed back into bed, pulling the pillow over her head.


----------



## Eeralai (Feb 27, 2005)

mythago said:
			
		

> Eeralai, I don't think your story was broken. I don't much like that genre and I did enjoy your story.




Thanks, Mythago.  That makes me feel good.  Perhaps we will cross typos again in the distant future.  But I think BSF is itching to play after missing two competitions in a row.


----------



## Maldur (Feb 27, 2005)

Judgement for  orchid blossom vs. FireLance send.

You are making this harder on me, damn good stories


----------



## FireLance (Feb 28, 2005)

alsih2o said:
			
		

> I just wish there was more to the ending. It is a really strong story that gets tied together in what seems to be a rush.






			
				Piratecat said:
			
		

> Ultimately, I don’t find the plot of the story or the resolution to be
> tremendously satisfying. It seems driven by the pictures to a great extent,
> and that’s always a tough barrier to get over.




Thanks to the judges for the comments, and my apologies that I took so long to get round to saying so!

I have to admit that the ending of my story was a little rushed. It is a particular weakness for me. I think part of the problem was that I was playing around with too many themes: the horror of war, the protagonist's growing understanding and appreciation of her uncle, and the uses of illusion.

The bit about "the spells that won the War" (_fly_ and _invisibility_ were specifically named) and the presence of an evoker was an obscure tribute to all invisible, flying, fireballing mages out there - may your DMs always be able to come up with new and interesting challenges.


----------



## Piratecat (Feb 28, 2005)

FireLance said:
			
		

> I think part of the problem was that I was playing around with too many themes: the horror of war, the protagonist's growing understanding and appreciation of her uncle, and the uses of illusion.




It's tough to write about the horrors of war when you have the amusing image of retired familiars.


----------



## alsih2o (Feb 28, 2005)

When soemone besides Thorod is ready, feel free to speak up.


----------



## mythago (Feb 28, 2005)

Good to go.


----------



## alsih2o (Feb 28, 2005)

Mythago Vs. Thorod Ashstaff

 Semi-final round, time to get mean.

 5 pics, 72 hours, 6000 word limit.


----------



## Thorod Ashstaff (Mar 1, 2005)

Crackin' the knuckles, prayin' over the keyboard...


----------



## BSF (Mar 1, 2005)

Thorod, to make that proper smacktalk you need a little more phrasing.

Crackin' the knuckles, prayin' that the ink from my opponent's veins is sufficient sacrifice to appease the mighty Muse.

Or something like that.


----------



## alsih2o (Mar 3, 2005)

Bump cause we are expecting stories. 

 I just got an email, P-kitty has had a distraction, results soon.


----------



## Thorod Ashstaff (Mar 3, 2005)

*Round 3 - Thorod vs Mythago*

SUMMIT


‘So few,’ Dimble thought, looking out over the crowd.  He’d been hoping for twice as many, at least.  ‘So few, but maybe it will be enough.’


There was a merrow from Ireland, nude as always, red haired and as tall as a mortal; there were a handful of pale skoggra from the north, nearly as tall as the merrow and with hair so blond it was almost white; a group of tommy-knockers had come over from the Americas, barely twenty inches high and still carrying their mining gear; the leshii had traveled from Russia, two-footers like Dimble, with their long black and grey hair reaching almost to the ground; and a few dozen of the tiny Huldrefolk had come, with their hats in their belts so they were visible.  There was also the usual assortment of fairies and pixies that lived here in Brittany, and always came to the gathering.


Dimble cleared his throat, and jumped up on the stump of what had once been a huge oak.  His choice of podium was intentional, but would anybody get it?


“Welcome, gentlefairies,” Dimble began.  A few pixie children who had been playing flying tag stopped to hover and look down, but other than that Dimble might as well have been talking to the air.  The merrow in the back was playing her harp, which currently sounded and looked like an electric guitar, and her music had caused an impromptu circle dance amongst the skoggra.  The cantankerous tommy-knockers were trying to start a fight with the huldrefolk over nothing.  The leshii were half-drunk on ale, and two of them had transformed into huge mushrooms just to show off.  [picture 1, magicmushroom]  A typical October gathering.  Dimble sighed.


“Please, my friends,” Dimble said, nearly shouting, “listen!”  That got a few more of them looking his way, but not enough; it was time to resort to more drastic measures.  Dimble did some quick transformation magic, and now on the stump stood an eight-foot tall bridge troll with thick red hair and a resonant, deep voice as loud as Dimble could make it.


“Does it concern you at all that the immortals are DYING!” the transformed Dimble shouted.  The spell had worked well.  His voice swept over the gathering like a wave, and between the volume and his choice of words, he now had everyone’s stunned attention.


“That’s better,” Dimble said, shrinking down to his normal two-foot self.  The pixie children clapped, thinking he was just showing off like the two leshii, but the rest were staring at him in shock.


“You heard me right,” Dimble continued, “I said we are dying.  It’s a rude word, I know, but I make no apology for it.  It is time to wake up, my friends, and look around!”


“I’m looking around,” one of the leshii shouted up at him, “but all I see is a brownie who’s too drunk to know when he’s out of line!”


“Maybe I am out of line,” Dimble said, “but I’m a lot more sober than you, Ivanik.  I see a dozen of you leshii here tonight, a dozen.  How many of you were here a hundred years ago?”


“How dare you!” Ivanik said, getting truly angry.  “You know that’s one of the forbidden questions!”  His long hair was standing on end, making him look more like a puffball than a leshii, and Dimble started to think up a counter-curse, just in case.


“It is the way of things, Dimble,” a skoggra named Inga said, “why darken our joy?  What will that accomplish?”


“I know, I know,” Dimble said, “the eternal way.  The children of Lilith wax and wane with the passing ages, and we do not ask why.  But I am not talking about the natural way.  We are dying like we have never died before, in any cycle!  Will you answer the question, Inga, and ignore just this once that it is forbidden?  How many skoggra are left in your forest?  I only see seven of you here at the gathering.”


There was angry muttering from all directions now.  “Leave her alone!” one of the tommy-knockers shouted.  “You’re asking to be banished, brownie!” a pixie yelled, pulling his children away from the stump.  It was quickly getting ugly, but Dimble didn’t budge.


“How many?” Dimble asked again, quietly.  He kept staring at the blond skoggra, though by the hairs rising on the back of his neck he knew he was about to be blown clean off the stump by a leshii curse, or worse.  The whole crowd was closing in; they had not heard this kind of blasphemy in a hundred gatherings.


“Wait!” Inga said, holding up her pale arms in supplication.  The crowd stopped, curiosity balancing against outrage.  “Wait, hold your magic.  I will answer the question.”


“No, it is forbidden!” one of the other skoggra said, pushing through the crowd to reach Inga.


“I will answer!” Inga said again, her voice firm.  She walked to the stump and turned to face the crowd.  “How many of us have asked ourselves this same question, when we wake screaming from dreams of the mortal world?  Are we angry at Dimble because he speaks what is forbidden?  Or are we angry at him because he speaks what is in our hearts?”  She had their attention.  Curiosity - or recognition - was winning out over outrage.


“Three hundred,” Inga said.  “Three hundred skoggra are all that remain in what’s left of Europe’s forests.  That is why my dreams are black, though I still dance when the merrow plays.”


The merrow in the back nodded to the skoggra, acknowledging the truth of her words.  The merrow’s electric guitar was once again an Irish harp, and her look was serious.


“There were thousands of us a hundred years ago,” Inga went on, “twice as many two hundred years before that!  The brownie is right, this is no natural ebb and flow of the fey, no cycle of waning, this is real death.  My forests are being cut down, and the trees that are left are dying from the very rain itself!  It is not our way to discuss death, or to think about aught but the present, but does anyone else here remember who started this gathering?  Does anyone remember Avriel?”


“It is forbidden to discuss those who have passed over!” one of the older Huldrefolk said, but his own companions shut him up with a quick bit of magic.  Dimble knew that Inga had struck a chord, and the hairs on the back of his neck were lying flat again.  He was grateful that his choice of podium had been recognized by the skoggra.


A nixie popped into visibility, her green hair shedding water as she spoke.  “Avriel was my friend,” the nixie said, breaking one of the old laws by speaking of the dead.  “Her forest was a sacred place then.”


‘Good,’ Dimble thought, ‘that’s three already, this might actually work.’


“Avriel was my friend too,” the merrow added.  “She was the kindest, wisest and most beautiful dryad I’ve ever known.  When she started this gathering it was deep in the forest, remember?  Now we dance in an empty field, and Avriel is dead, her tree cut down with all the others that were here.  You speak to us while standing on her grave, brownie, why?”


“Because I must,” Dimble said.  “Because our old laws and our old ways are not enough to save us, not this time.  The mortal world is on a path of pillage; they are out of control like they have never been in fey memory.  It is time for the children of Lilith to rise up.  I call a summit to discuss our own destruction, and what we can do to stop it.  My name is Dimble, and I invoke Feymoot!”


There was a collective gasp from the crowd, though Dimble was pleased to see that it was surprise, not anger.  At some deep level, they all knew he was right.


“Feymoot has not been called in over two thousand years,” the old huldre said, finally shaking off his fellows’ silence spell.


“Yeah, and it didn’t work out very well!” a tommy-knocker answered.  “We reached a Consensus then alright.  Hide, disappear, retreat.  Look at us now, and see what that Consensus has done for us.  I’ll answer the brownie’s question, huldre.  I don’t think there’s a hundred knockers left in the Americas, and from the rumors I’ve heard there aren’t any left in Britain at all.  Dimble is right, it’s time to wake up.”  He raised his pickaxe high over his head and swung it in a circle.  “My name is Shevik, and I invoke Feymoot!”


‘Just one more,’ Dimble thought, sensing the momentum shifting his way.


“I will also answer,” the merrow in the back said, her voice shaking.  “I know of only three score of my kind who still live.”  Her voice firmed up.  “My name is Trishaelys, and I invoke Feymoot!”


There was a flash of light from the merrow’s harp, and it turned to ashes in her hands.


The merrow made a gesture with her fingers, and her lithe nude form was suddenly covered with coarse human clothing.  “No music,” she said, “no dancing.  No joy until there is a new Consensus!”


Suddenly they were all talking at once.  Three invocations, from three fey, said out loud.  They could all feel it deep in their bones, even the old huldre.  Feymoot had begun.


“My lake is full of petrol, and my hair is turning as yellow as a dying weed,” Dimble heard the green nixie say.  “And it’s too hot!” one of the tiny jacks-in-the-green answered, “we’ve all woken from wintersleep three weeks early these past years…”  Dimble heard the like from all quarters now, too many deaths, too much poison, too little forest.  He had burst the dam, and all the fey were speaking what they had kept buried in their hearts for too many gatherings.  What he didn’t hear were any ideas on what to do about it.  Invoking a new Feymoot had been easier than Dimble had thought, but he was sure that reaching a new Consensus would be much harder.  As it turned out, he was completely wrong about that.


Dimble stepped off the stump, now that he’d accomplished what he came here to do, and joined in the debate.  “What made you dare to risk banishment, Dimble?” Inga asked him.  “Are the brownies in trouble too?  You never told us how many of your kind were left.”


“One,” he said.


-


Once Feymoot had been invoked, word spread like wildfire.  They came from all over Europe, by crossroads, or by stone circle, or by shadow-walking.  A group of djinn came in by whirlwind, stirring up dust as they landed; they stirred up more than dust with their tales of the endless mortal wars in their lands, and the poisons that were being used in those wars.  Even the nisse came, flying from group to group and arguing passionately in their high, musical voices.


It took seven days, just seven days of debate to reach Consensus.  The last Feymoot had gone on for as many months.  A few had wanted to come out of hiding, confront the mortal world directly in battle, but wiser heads prevailed.  There were too few, they all knew that, too few to accomplish anything but their quick destruction with such a confrontation.  But they had other ideas, and the children of Lilith were remembering that they were not weak.


The new Consensus was simple, really, when it was reached.  Act.  Engage the mortal world.  Make every bit of magic be for the purpose of preservation, of life.  Reverse the damage, and show the mortals a different path.  No pranks, unless they furthered the cause.  No seductions, unless they distracted a land developer or industrial polluter from his ways.  No pots of gold, unless they went to mortals who fought the same fight.


It was going to be tough, and Dimble saw a long road in front of them.  Some of the fey could not do magic when steel was over their heads, and there was a lot of steel now in the mortal world.  Others could not act at all outside of their forests, or leave their ocean homes for more than a day or two.  But they also had some advantages; few mortals in these times knew the fey weaknesses anymore, and most of those that did dismissed such knowledge as legend instead of racial memory.  But their biggest advantage, now that Dimble had woken them up, was internal.  It was the advantage of desperation.


The fey broke up the gathering, and traveled back to their homes to begin the new work.  The mood was somber, but hopeful, and even as they left the field the various groups were coming up with new ideas and new plans.  Dimble himself was going to start small, with an industrial pig farm on the edge of his forest.  Ethry, the nixie from the gathering, decided to join him.


Two days later the two of them were approaching the farm.  It was twilight; the time when he felt his own magic was strongest.  There was a rope fence around the farm, and a human was walking by on the other side of the fence.  ‘At least it’s hemp,’ Dimble thought, ‘much easier than chain link.’  He waved his hand, and a hole opened in the fence, just big enough for him and Ethry to climb through.  [picture 2, theresahole]


The human looked over, hearing the hemp twist, and Ethry vanished in the blink of an eye.  Dimble could not vanish, but he blended into the grasses as only a brownie could.  The human was staring straight at Dimble, right through the hole in the fence, but saw nothing, and after a moment he continued his walk around the farm’s perimeter.  Dimble smiled, brownies had always known that humans were very good at seeing what they wanted to see, and very bad at seeing what they did not believe should be there.  Ethry reappeared, and the two of them climbed through the hole and headed for the largest building.


It was a big warehouse of cement block.  The main door was steel, with a complicated lock, but no lock could defeat a brownie for long, and a moment later there was a click and the big door swung open.  Once inside, Dimble and Ethry hid quickly behind a stack of pig feed, and looked around.  It was bright, clean, and sterile, and the smells were more chemical than natural.  And there were humans here, working still despite the late hour.  A far cry from the last farmhouse Dimble had dared to visit, decades before.


Dimble reached out with his senses, and in no time he knew what their target should be.  Another door stood directly across the room, and Dimble could smell what was stored beyond the door.  Nasty, industrial, artificial.  A hormone to make the pigs fatter.  He knew that smell from his forest; this stuff had leaked into one of his favorite streams, and the little fish that used to live in the stream were gone.  The frogs he’d had to kill himself, out of mercy.  He whispered to Ethry, telling her about the hormone.


“I’ll take it from here,” she whispered back.  There were no hiding places big enough for a brownie beyond the sacks of feed.  “Time for a little nixie magic,” she said, “but I need to get closer.”  She vanished again, and Dimble held his breath, watching the human workers.  Ethry was as silent as a breeze as she walked, but Dimble could see her trail as plain as day under the harsh lights.  With each step her tiny bare feet left a print of water on the warehouse floor, the old nixie weakness, but the humans did not notice.  [picture 3, getyourfeetwet]


The watery footprints reached the door and stopped, it was Dimble’s turn.  He cast his spell, and the lock on the door clicked quietly.  The door opened a few inches and then closed, and still the humans saw nothing.  It was almost an hour later when the door opened and closed again, and Dimble watched the tiny wet footprints cross back to him.  Ethry reappeared at his side, looking exhausted, and gestured silently for them to leave.  They ran for their hole in the fence, and made it out without any alarm being called out from the farm.  Ethry was stumbling, and Dimble had to help her through the fields.


By the time they reached Dimble’s forest Ethry was close to unconsciousness, and her bright emerald skin had gone a pale pistachio color.  Dimble carried her to the closest pond he knew, and slipped her limp body into the water.  He stood vigil through the rest of the night, worrying, but in the morning Ethry emerged from the pond with a smile on her face.  She looked exhausted, but her color was starting to come back.


“That was a good night’s work,” Ethry said, shaking the water from her green hair, “but I need to rest a day or two before we try something like that again!”


“What did you do?  I felt the magic, but couldn’t identify it.”


Ethry laughed.  “Every one of their precious vials of hormone is now full of pure spring water!” she said.  “They can inject those poor beasts all they want, and it will do absolutely nothing.  It was not easy though; there were a lot of vials.  I haven’t used that much magic in many a long year.”


“I’m sorry,” Dimble said.  “I’m sorry you had to use your magic on such a thing.  I’m sorry the essence of who we are is reduced to this.”


“Don’t be, it should have started a long time ago.  You should be proud, my friend.  Besides, it feels good, doing something so real with my magic.  Better than spooking the human children who come to swim in my lake.  Come on, sit with me and let’s talk about what we will do tomorrow night!”


-


And so it went.


Land developers in Europe were losing interest in their developments, and getting divorced.  The rumors said they would disappear every night, and come home in the morning haggard and too weak to work.  They spoke to their psychiatrists of pale-skinned women in the moonlight, and were diagnosed with stress-induced hallucinations.


Corporate lawyers and government lobbyists were getting the urge to go on hiking vacations in their country’s national parks, after having strange dreams.  Some came back changed, wanting to do something different with their lives.  Others didn’t come back at all.


Scientists who had been struggling to fund their studies of alternative energy sources were suddenly receiving huge contributions.  Sometimes the contributions were in pure gold coin, but the price of gold was high so the European banks did not question them too closely.


Coal miners in America were reporting strange tapping and creaking sounds deep in their mines, and as soon as the mines were evacuated for inspection they would collapse, no matter how strong the shorings had been.  A few of the oldest miners had their suspicions, but nobody wanted to be called crazy so they kept their mouths shut.


In the Middle East oil fires were being blown out by sudden unexplained whirlwinds, but when they tried to restart the wells the workers found their deep reserves of oil had vanished, and the pumps poured out only sand.  The wars of the area ground to a halt as equipment on both sides began to break down, always from freak dust storms.  Extremists left their bomb labs, following shimmering illusions of silk-clad maidens, and never returned.


Commercial fishing barges were having trouble finding schools of fish, despite constant upgrades to their high-tech sonar equipment.  When they did find fish, their steel net cables would be cut clean through, and the nets would disappear into the depths.  Accusations of international submarine warfare kept popping up, but there were no submarines to report on the sonar.  What the captains dared not report to their corporate owners were the sailor’s tales of bare-breasted women in the water, with flowing blue hair and shiny blue tails.


-


By the next April Dimble was still working with Ethry the nixie, a new mission every night.  Both of their magical abilities were getting stronger, despite, or maybe because of, the constant use.  And the air was cleaner, just a little.  Dimble’s powerful nose was beginning to sense it.  On one sunny day Dimble was sitting cross-legged on a beach in the west of Brittany, waiting for Ethry, who was in the ocean turning old syringes into seashells.  It was a new power for her, something she didn’t even know she could do until she’d tried.


Dimble was relaxed, for once there were no humans in sight to hide from, but suddenly the hairs on the back of his neck rose up.  ‘Magic,’ he thought, jumping up and looking around, ‘but not from the water.’  There was a swirl of white silk floating down from above, and as Dimble watched, the silk began to spin.  The spinning silk landed in front of him on the sand, and transformed into a tiny warrior, not much taller than Dimble.  He was pointing his long sword right at Dimble’s face, and his white silk robes blew out with the momentum of his spinning landing.  [picture 4, stayin’alive]


“You!” the warrior shouted.  “You are the invoker?”


Dimble could sense that the warrior was fey, one of the children of Lilith, but he did not recognize the type, though the fey’s power was clear.


“If you mean was I the first to call Feymoot, then yes,” Dimble said.  “I am Dimble, brownie of the Brittany forests.”


The tiny warrior sheathed his sword, and bowed deeply.  “I have found you at last,” he said, “after many months of searching.  I have never met one of your kind, and did not know what to look for in either appearance or aura.  I am Xuxuan, high shen of Mt. Heng, and I bring you a message from Madame White.”


Dimble had already guessed the fey was from the East, but the name of Madame White was a surprise.  She was only a rumor to the European fey, but tales spoke of her great age and powerful magic.  Dimble bowed back, trying to match the shen’s courtesy.


“What message does one of the legends of the East have for the likes of me?” Dimble asked.


“This,” the shen said.  “Madame White honors you for what you have started, and wishes to tell you that the Eastern fey have joined you.  The fox fairies will do their part, and the mountain fairies, and the shen.  The high shen of the five sacred mountains will fight tirelessly in this new war,” Xuxuan nodded slightly, “as will Madame White herself.  We have already caused the workers at Three Gorges to lay down their tools, and that is just the beginning. Madame White wishes for the fey of the East and the West to work together, as they have not done in centuries.”


“Your message is welcome indeed,” Dimble said, “and I will spread the word as quickly as I can.  Now I know that we will succeed, no matter how long the struggle may take.  Please tell Madame White that we are grateful, and will not forget.”


“There is more,” Xuxuan said, “a warning, and also a message for you alone.  The high shen of the five sacred mountains wish you to know that if you - if any fey of the West - dares to invoke another Feymoot, there must be at least one shen or fox fairy present.  Such powerful magic will not be called upon again without a representative from your Eastern brethren to bear witness.”


“That is a fair request, and I will honor it, as will my brothers and sisters in Europe.  You have my word, by Lilith.  But you said there was a message for me alone?”


“Yes.  Madame White says that you may find what you have long sought if you take the road to the forests of Siberia.”


Dimble caught the meaning of the cryptic message at once, though a part of him did not dare to hope that it might be true.  “That’s a very long road indeed,” Dimble said, “since I cannot fly through the air as a piece of white cloth, and must walk.”


“I suggest you try, nonetheless,” Xuxuan said.  “Madame White does not give advice lightly.”  The shen whipped his arms around, and his white robes began to spin, soon there was nothing in front of Dimble but a swath of spinning silk, which floated up on the breeze and was gone.


An hour later Dimble was still sitting on the beach, pondering the shen’s words, when Ethry walked out of the water.


“It is done,” she said, smiling, “this stretch of beach is pure again.”  She looked at Dimble.  “What is it, my friend, you look troubled.”


Dimble told Ethry of the shen’s visit, and repeated his messages from Madame White.  When he was done she sat in thought for a while, her emerald hair dripping on the sand.


“You must go, of course,” Ethry said at last, taking his small brown hands in her webbed green ones. “If there is any chance…”


“But what of the cause, the new Consensus?”


“That fight has a life of its own now, Dimble, the shen’s visit proves that.  It can go on without you for a while, though I will miss my partner.  Go in blessedness, Dimble, and may you find what you seek.”


“Look for me at the October gathering,” Dimble said.  “Whether I succeed or fail, I should be back by then.”


-


It was a long walk, and spring turned into summer as Dimble traveled east from one patch of forest to the next.  Everywhere there were signs of the Consensus, changes for fey and mortal both.  Loggers were no longer cutting into the old forests, and the mortals were finding other ways to satisfy their craving for wood.  Older oil refineries were shutting down, as the flow of crude turned into a trickle.  The air smelled sweeter with each passing month.


Always the local fey wanted to talk to Dimble, hear his tales of the fight and tell him their own.  There were many long nights talking by starlight, and drinking ale in hidden groves of oak trees.  Dimble found that he had become quite famous.  The one who had invoked Feymoot, the one who had dared to ask the forbidden questions.  The last brownie.


Eventually he grew impatient with the delays, and broke another old rule.  He hid in the baggage car of a human train, though it was forbidden for fey to ride in a steal machine.  In a week he had traveled through the rest of Europe and deep into Siberia, a journey that would have taken many months on foot.  The forests here were still thick, thicker than anything that remained back home, and late one moonlit night Dimble left his hiding place, walked past the sleeping human passengers, and climbed up to the top of the train car, just to smell the trees.  Or maybe from instinct.


He knew he should go back, dawn was coming soon and not everyone on the train was asleep; but something was holding him there, sitting cross-legged on the top of this great steel beast.  There was a feeling in these woods the train was rushing through, more than just the smell of healthy trees.  Then he sensed it, magic, from deep in the forest.  And he recognized the magic.  Dimble leaped.


-


The October gathering was one of the best in years, and one of the most crowded.  The field now had a few human houses, including a big brick mansion built right over where Avriel’s tree had once stood, but no one cared.  They just wove a few enchantment spells over the development and put all the humans to sleep, a very deep sleep.  This was where Avriel had started the gathering, after all, and where the first Feymoot in two thousand years had been called.  They weren’t about to move.


The reclusive nisse had come back, and were flying through the eaves of the brick mansion leaving garlands of glowing blue sparks that did not fade.  The desert djinn had cast a forest illusion, a new trick for them, and the field was now surrounded by a thick, if somewhat shimmery, grove of trees.  The tommy-knockers had brought their best ale, the stuff they usually kept for themselves, and were even sharing it with the huldrefolk.  A few fox fairies were there as well, and the fey that had never met their Eastern brethren were plying them with ale and demanding to hear every song and tale the poor fox fairies could remember.  Circle dances popped up at the least hint of suggestion, and harps and pipes were playing non-stop.


Everywhere there were the stories; this one about a successful raid on an oil refinery, that one about almost getting caught by an old human who still remembered some of the ancient tricks, another about a river where the fish had begun to return.  There were even some stories about the mortals who were fighting the same fight, now with new energy and hope, though they still had no idea who was fighting at their side.


Dimble and Veshika shouldered their way through the crowd, hand in hand, trying to reach the new brick mansion.  He ignored the shouts of recognition and the questions.  When he opened the door to the human house he was greeted by a warm fire, and old friends.  Ethry was there, her hair now as emerald green as her skin, with not a patch of yellow in sight.  There also were Shevik the tommy-knocker, and Inga of the skoggra, and half a dozen more from the last gathering.  And Trishaelys, naked again as was right and proper for her kind, even out of the water.  Her harp sat on the mantelpiece, and Dimble knew when he saw it that they’d been waiting for him.  They were all standing now, and clapping.  Dimble smiled, and when he looked at Veshika he saw that she was smiling too, though more shyly.


“My friends,” Dimble said, “I would like you to meet Veshika, last brownie of the Siberian forests, and my wife.”  There was a cheer, and then Ethry ran up and took both of them in a wide hug, getting them wet in the process.


“I was going to go for an Irish jig,” Trishaelys said, taking her harp down from the mantle, “but I think maybe something Russian would be more appropriate tonight!”  Her harp changed into an accordion, and she sat down and began to play.  [picture 5, polkanaked]


They all laughed, Veshika laughing along with the rest.  Dimble still held Veshika’s hand, and he squeezed it in pure joy.  Ethry took her other hand, and soon the group had formed a circle.  Trishaelys’ music was loud and fast, and it was filled with powerful merrow magic.


They danced.


----------



## mythago (Mar 3, 2005)

*Midnight Reel*

Red slammed the bellows of her melodeon until it blared, as if anyone in the house could hear her over the shouting at the dice table or the slurred arguments at the bar counter. Eleanor stopped fiddling. She lowered her bow and put her rouged lips next to Red's ear so her friend could hear her over the miners' hollering. 

 "These gents aren't paying us the least attention tonight," Caitlin said. "And you buck naked! If that don't do it, music won't. Take a rest."

 The two women shifted so that Red was now speaking into Eleanor's ear; a gold-wire earring bumped into Red's chin as Eleanor turned her head. "Madame'll see if we drop quiet," she shouted. "'Sides, this is the warmest seat in the house."

 Caitlin nodded and straightened up. Her bow skipped over the fiddle's strings and even out-of-tune as they were, Red could tell she was playing "Bold Donnelly." Red followed the lively jig as best she could on the melodeon, singing along, her voice catching as the song made her remember growing up in Connemara, her family's house in the green, green meadows, of lthe fairy rings that grew on every slope and hill and of lying on her back not for money, but just to watch the grass blow in the wind and to look for clouds in the clear summer sky.

       And of Johnny. Poor, lost Johnny.

 A miner reeking of gin spun by, one of the other girls in his arms. He yelled something that might have been "Cheer up, girlie!" and never noticed his dance partner picking his pockets. Red turned away from him and worked the keys on the melodeon, wishing he would go away, wishing the sun would come up so she could crawl under her wool blankets and sleep for a while and pretend she was anywhere but here.

   #

 Her good dress, the only one fit to be worn outside a whorehouse, was mostly dry when she woke up at noon-time. She woke Caitlin and they slipped out to find breakfast. One of the miners had liked her rendition of "The Boys of Ballymote" well enough to tip her four bits, enough to buy them half a rasher of bacon and two loaves of bread with fresh milk to drink.

 Red picked at her breakfast. Caitlin helped herself to three strips of Red's uneaten bacon. When Red didn't protest she frowned and waved her hand in front of Red's face. "You're mad for bacon," she said, "so something's wrong, that 's for sure. You can't keep thinking about Johnny."

 Red glared at her. "Why not?" she said. "Is it wrong to mourn the loss of my true love? I should have my heart's desire stolen from me by thieves and killers, and skip home after?"

 "No, Deidre, not at all," Caitlin said. Red looked around nervously, then remembered they were not at the gentlemen's house; there was nobody she knew here, other than her dear friend, who needed to be kept from her real name. Only Johnny and Caitlin ever called her Deirdre. Red was good enough for the Madame and for customers who cared only for the unusual color of the pretty girl's hair.

 Caitlin lowered her voice. "You'll waste away to a stick if you keep on like this. I know, it's not been long, but you can't turn to the Hounds for justice in this. He's gone, my love, perhaps to a better place than here."

 "I never had a chance to say good-bye!" Deirdre cried. Caitlin shushed her. "Shot and thrown into the Bay like a rabid dog. We were going to leave here, Caitlin, he was going to buy out my debt to Madame and we were to marry. He had a claim on a silver mine in Sacramento, he would have been rich, we would have been husband and wife," and then she was sobbing and didn't know or care who else in the inn could hear them.

 Caitlin gave her a cotton handkerchief perfumed with lilac. Red snuffled a thank-you and blotted at her face; she wasn't wearing face-paint here, outside of the gentlemen's house, but it by now it was habit.

       "Deirdre," Caitlin hissed. "Are you with Johnny's child?"

       "What?"

       "Have you had your time come on since Johnny died?"

       "No," Deirdre said, puzzled. "Why do you--"

     "Look," Caitlin said, and pointed at the blue cloth that covered the table. Deirdre's tears had pooled into two tiny footprints, the size and shape of a newborn baby's.

 Deirdre put out a trembling handand touched one of the shining footprints with the tip of a painted fingernail. They burst and soaked into the cloth like ordinary tears, leaving nothing but a wet stain to show they had ever been.

       "You have the Sight, do you?" Caitlin whispered.

       "My Gran did. I think I did, a little when I was a girl, but not since we left--"

       "Then see if you can call Johnny. There are no wise women in this devil's town to help you, mind."

 The thought came to Deirdre as though put there: the coolies. She'd heard the miners when they nattered on late at night--some of them really paid just so someone would listen, she often thought--and they talked about the Chinese magicians, the strange things they'd seen in the opium dens, or how Shanghai Billy or Jimmy Duck had put a strange Chinese curse on some white man who'd cheated him.

 She knew Caitlin wouldn't approve of such heathen magic, though, and she kept her mouth shut. She nodded and forced herself to eat the last strip of bacon. Her unborn child needed her to eat, to keep her strength so she could find her baby's father and speak to him. Or bring him back.

   #

 The hem of her good dress was ragged in several places by the time Deirdre staggered up the hill. Night after night of pasting on her brightest smile at the gentlemen's house while playing the melodeon had gotten her some real money, not enough to pay out Madame, perhaps enough to pay a Chinese magician to help her talk to her dead lover. Her belly was still flat but she tired easily now. She was clean out of breath by the time she got to the place she sought, high in the rough hills outside of the city.

 There was a noise behind her, as soft as a cat's footfall. She turned to see a Chinaman behind her, calmly pointing a strange sword at her throat. His left hand was extended upward in a manner that put her in mind of a benediction. She set her pack carefully on the ground and spread her hands to show she was unarmed.

       "Are you Tong Lee?" she asked. "I was told I could find him here. I have money."

       The man said nothing.

       "Do you speak English?"

     "Of course," the man said. His accent was strange, not like any Chinaman's she'd ever heard. "Do you speak Chinese? _Nihon?_"

       "Gaelic," Deirdre said.  

 The man smiled and slipped the sword into a sash around his waist. "So you, too, are a foreigner here. Very good. Please understand that not all Orientals are alike, any more than white men are. I am Ito Satoshi, honored bodyguard to Tong-san. Follow me."

 Ito had to stop and wait for Deidre several times as she struggled over the rocky hillside. The sole of her left shoe finally wore through to a hole; she knew that she would be limping back on the long walk home to the city. Finally Ito led her to a small cave in the hillside; cool air seemed to pour out of it and gentle the stifling California summer. He stopped her and made an apologetic smile, then quickly frisked her for weapons. It was a good deal more courteous than the attentions Deidre was used to, and she didn't mind when he removed a long pearl-headed hatpin from her skirts and tucked it into a fold of his outfit. He stood aside and nodded at her to go in.

 Deidre put her hands out and felt along the narrow cave walls. Her sun-accustomed eyes made her blind in this darkness. She felt damp, smooth stone under her fingers as she walked. After a few moments the cave took a bend and she saw that it ended in a small room lit by a single paper lantern. She squinted to see the face of the man who sat cross-legged behind it but could not make him out. 

       "Tong Lee?" Deidre said.

 The man stirred and motioned her to sit. The small cave was lined with carpets and hangings, brighter and more intricate than Deidre had ever seen, even in the Chinatown shops. The smoke from the lantern stung her eyes. She lowered herself to the floor.

 "I have money," she said, and emptied her purse. Small bags of gold dust, cut coins, even a few whole silver coins tumbled out onto the carpet, their bright jingling muffled as though they had hushed themselves in Tong Lee's presence. The Chinaman ignored them. He offered Deidre a tiny porcelain cup of tea. She took it, expecting his hands to be withered with age, and was surprised to see they were not. She looked into his smiling face and saw that he was quite young, perhaps not much older than she.

 "You have only heard half-truths from the white men who told you to come here," he said in flawless English. "I am a powerful sorcerer, yes, but this does not require one to be ancient and decrepit. Stamina is important to many of the spells I use. I am told that you are a sorceress yourself?"

     Deirdre blushed. "No, not at all," she said, and told Tong Lee about the Sight, her Gran being able to see the fair folk, about lying in the fairy rings herself hoping and failing to catch a glimpse of them, how she had come to America durng the Famine when her family died, how she had made her way to California and meeting Johnny and the teardrops that showed her she was to be the mother of their child. 

 She was embarassed when she finished, feeling she'd told Tong Lee a great deal more than he had asked and some of that rather private, but he only nodded as though it had been exactly what he expected to hear.

 "Natural talent is rare. Discipline and the practice to use that talent, rarer still. I will help you cross the barrier to the other lands, if that is what you wish to buy." He leaned across the lantern and took Deidre's hand in his, urgently, and Deidre almost laughed to think that Caitlin did the same thing when she wished to be sure she had Deirdre's attention.

 "The dead are not easily sent away. You are young. Your love for Johnny is very strong and your grief is fresh. You will be over this in time--"

 "I will never be over Johnny," she said. "Never. He was my true love and he was taken from me by a pack of ruffians, and I want him back."

 Tong Lee sighed and for a moment seemed a great deal older. He handed Deidre a little bag sewn of red silk, tied with a black braided cord. Deidre thought the cord felt unsettlingly like braided hair. "Open this bag only a little," he told her, "and put in a pinch of dirt from your lover's grave. Tie it tight and sleep with it under your pillow each night. It will call him to you, but know that it cannot send him back."

       "Why would I want to send him back?" Deidre asked.

 Tong Lee said nothing, only stood up to show that their meeting was over. Deirdre dropped the bag into her purse and left all her money lying on Tong Lee's soft floor. Johnny would come back to her, and he would claim his share of the silver mine, and they would never need for money again.

   #

 Deidre was so eager to see Johnny that she hardly got to sleep at all the first night, and then only as the sun was turning the sky gray. She was disappointed but not surprised that he never appeared. She thought of telling Caitlin, but she knew that her friend would be horrified at her turning to a Chinaman's magic. 

 The second night was silent and still as well. Deidre was beginning to think Tong Lee had cheated her. Then she heard the church bells tolling from the far side of the city and recalled that it was the Assumption of Mary, and even brash Johnny would be too respectful of Our Lady to rise from the dead on her day of solemnity.

 The night after that she fell asleep from sheer exhaustion, having played the melodeon as Caitlin fiddled all night, demurring to the customers who offered money for her company by claiming Madame wanted the music kept up all night. Madame had said no such thing, but Deidre felt it wouldn't be right to do otherwise, not while she waited for Johnny to come to her.

 Deirdre awoke in the from a nightmare that faded from memory as soon as her eyes flew open. The waxing moon spilled light through the narrow basement window she and Caitlin shared. Trembling, she pulled the scratchy blankets around her and went to the window. Through the rough-woven cloth that served as their curtain she saw a dim figure waiting in the empty street. She knew it was Johnny, but something abot the way he stood so still, staring at her through the gap in the cloth, made her hesitate. _He is dead_, she reminded herself, _and I have called him up_, and Johnny's return suddenly did not seem so welcome as it had been three nights ago.

 Then he was at the window, staring at her with dead, empty eyes, and Deidre was too frightened to try and stop him as he easily pried open the sash and let himself in.

 Deidre backed away from him and tripped over sleeping Caitlin. Her friend woke up with a groan and turned over to see Johnny standing over them. His lack of life seemed to fill the tiny room from ceiling to floor.

 Deidre struggled to her feet and took Johnny's hands in hers. They were as cold as if he had come from an icehouse. He looked back at her as if he could see through to her insides.

       "Caitlin," she said. "Play."

       Caitlin looked at Johnny with wide eyes and crossed herself. Johnny did not move.

      "_Play_," Deidre said again, louder. "Play the fiddle. Play us a jig, any you wish, something we might have danced to when he was alive. For the love of God, Caitlin, play!"

 Caitlin scrambled to the far corner of her room, where her fiddle and bow were wrapped in a clean cloth. Her hands shook as she put the fiddle to her chin and raised the bow. Hesitantly at first, then quicker as practice and habit took over, she played the first notes of "The Flaxen Broom." Deidre tugged at Johnny, pulling him into the dance. 

 His feet stayed rooted for a long moment, then he began to dance. His steps were not as quick as they had been at that first dance when he and Deidre met, where she had tied her hair with her best ribbons and he wore a new suit bought with the first gold dust he had ever mined. Deidre turned him this way and that as they danced to Caitlin's fiddle, as she finished "The Flaxen Broom" and then "Lady Montgomery" and "Lucky Penny", one bright, lively jig after another, as the dead man and his lover kicked and danced in the mean basement room as though it were the gaudiest dance hall in all of California.

 The last notes of "Shoemaker's Daughter" faded and Caitlin sank to the floor, exhausted. Deidre had never heard her play so well nor so long in all the long nights since they had come to the gentlemen's house. Deidre dipped her nightgown's skirt in a curtsey and Johnny, dear Johnny, gave a bow as courtly as he had ever given her in life.

 He tilted her chin up in one cold, rigid hand and kissed her full on the lips, and then a cold wind blew in through the open sash and he was gone to wherever it is that dead men go to rest.

 Deidre watched through the curtain to make sure he was gone and then shut the window. Caitlin rushed over to see. Not even a drunk or a stray dog moved in the street beyond.

 Caitlin opened her mouth to ask a hundred questions and Deidre interrupted. "Caitlin," she said, "ask me no questions and I'll tell you no lies, but you should know that Johnny left me a parting gift. We can leave Madame tomorrow." She reached into the bodice of her nightgown and pulled out a folded, dirt-stained paper. She opened it up and held it up to the moonlight for Caitlin to read.

 "'Registered Claim to the Aguila de Oro Mine'," she said. "I told you he had a mine claim and we'd be rich, and I would have been happy just to see him once more before he passed on to Heaven--"

 "But he brought back a way for you and the baby to be free," Caitlin said wonderingly. "He gave it to you while you were dancing."

 "Na," Deidre said. "It was hidden in his suit. The thugs who killed him for it never found it. I picked his pocket while we danced."

 The two friends laughed, and hugged, and danced, and there was no fiddle in Ireland or America that could have kept pace with their joy.


----------



## Maldur (Mar 3, 2005)

At home, sick, soIll have judgements shortly


----------



## mythago (Mar 3, 2005)

Oh look, an early typo! *sigh*


----------



## Maldur (Mar 3, 2005)

And judgement away


----------



## Piratecat (Mar 4, 2005)

Orchid Blossom and Firelance, I'm currently in CT away from a hooked up computer. The wife of one of my best friends died suddenly the night before last. I expect to be home Sunday, and I'll send in my judgment ASAP as soon as I am.


----------



## Maldur (Mar 4, 2005)

My condolences, strenght Kev


----------



## Berandor (Mar 8, 2005)

Arise, thread, and be aliiive!


----------



## Thorod Ashstaff (Mar 8, 2005)

Berandor said:
			
		

> Arise, thread, and be aliiive!




Aye, Berandor, I agree.  Just because the judges are out on life issues doesn't mean comments/posts need to stop!  Perhaps everyone had a hot weekend and is still recovering? (Though all I'm recovering from is weeding the jungle I call a back yard.)  Here's one for restart, based on some of your good suggestions in the other thread and on the Piratecat quote you're using as signature.  I think that for the next contest we should re-combine the threads and put the judges on an honor system of just not looking at comment posts if they don't wish to.  To use Piratecat's words, the judges are adults, they can ignore influencing opinions the old-fashioned way.  What does everyone else think?


----------



## alsih2o (Mar 8, 2005)

How about if we move all the commentary back in here and ask commentators to use the spoiler tag?

 just go {sblock} Commentary commentary commentary{/sblock}

 But use [ and ] instead of { and } .

 Cool?

 I think the appearance of being unbiased is important, but I think the thread is stronger and the game more fun when folks can do it all in one thread.


----------



## orchid blossom (Mar 8, 2005)

Agreed here.    There was a lot more commenting when it was all together.

(And my weekend was spent being sick.  And since I'm able to be online right now, I'm obviously still busy doing that and not at work.)


----------



## Thorod Ashstaff (Mar 8, 2005)

Spoiler coding for non-judge comments sounds great.  And one thread is a good thing for those of us in 56kLand.  


Feel better, Orchid Blossom.


----------



## maxfieldjadenfox (Mar 8, 2005)

Yay! After days of checking this thread and seeing no new posts, some new stuff to read!
I can only imagine how the contestants feel. I hope all of the real life troubles will be behind folks soon, so you can all get back to the serious business of posting things for my enjoyment...  
I think the spoiler flag idea is a good one.


----------



## mythago (Mar 10, 2005)

*bump*


----------



## alsih2o (Mar 11, 2005)

I got some judgements form P-kitty, expect a post by this afternoon. I am expecting possible investors in a few moments.


----------



## Maldur (Mar 11, 2005)

Im calling this the ceramics of doom

so much has gone wrong , its mighty dangerous judging CDM


----------



## alsih2o (Mar 11, 2005)

Firelance Vs. Orchid Blossom

 Firelance’s “Huntress” vs Orchid Blossom “Child’s Play”

 Piratecat: Okay, dragging myself out of the nasty little depression that my friend’s
death dumped me into. . . again, my apologies to the competitors.

I liked the concept for Firelance’s story. People hunting down magical
creations makes for nice story fodder. We’ve got some great action and some
interesting – if extremely surreal - horror.

I definitely felt like too much was explicitly explained, though. The
paragraph about “Ordinary human beings were purely physical creatures” is
one that turns out to be pure exposition. We’re told that normal humans can’
t interact with magical creatures, that traveling is fun, that the Gods give
the specific types of power. . . but all of this would be much more gripping
if we were shown it instead. Bits of this turn out drier than they need to
be as a result.

I’ll also mention that the conversations didn’t sound natural to me, even
the ones that were supposed to sound a bit odd. My rule of thumb (and this
is going to sound stupid) is that I read the conversations out loud and
decide if they sound like something that a person would really say. If they
don’t, that goes down as a place to work on in the future.

Overall, the story comes across as a little too disjointed for my personal
taste. I think that making it third person instead of first person might
help, but the mixture of modern and ancient elements is something I found
jarring.

Orchid Blossom’s “Child’s Play” starts very strongly: good and realistic
conversation, gripping mystery presented. The flashback doesn’t work as
well, though.

I think this story would be stronger if there was less of a demarcation
between “kids at home in bed” and “thrust into weirdness.” Where I wanted
the moment teased out and – you won’t hear me say this too often – more of a
background explanation, we’re introduced to the odd little kids who we don’t
really have any reason to care for or worry about. Without the emotional
connection, it’s harder for us to care about and figure out what’s happening
to them. The superhero angle is interesting, but it doesn’t really ring
true; without any of the normal superhero tropes, the word seems a little
bit misapplied here.

The end seemed abrupt. At less than 1400 words, I think the tale would
benefit from some additional expansion and explanation.

Judgment:

[sblock]I both liked and disliked elements of both stories, but my judgment
goes to Orchid Blossom for more coherent picture integration and a stronger
narrative.[/sblock]

 Maldur:

 orchid blossom vs. FireLance

hard choice this time

Firelance, I like this story, it has a sense of wonder, for the main
character and for the reader. And it leaves the story unfinished, one of the
cruelest things to do to a reader (but in a good way). One thing: she has
several magics at her disposal, but she does not use them all, and she gets
another (a spear) to finish the job.

Orchid: funny story, it brought a smile to my face. It was a bit short, it
felt like more. And the ending made me wonder how them kids do their stuff,
without their mother worrying or interfering.


My vote: [sblock]Firelance, Orchids story had less impact for me.[/sblock]

 Alsih2o:

 Firelance- Great picture use. The Cyclops in the jar, the soldiers, even the diving board. 

 But I want a finished story. We have had lots of competitors write “Parts” of stories and some have even boldly tried to write in installments through the competition (I love this, takes guts) but this one really made me believe it was gonna finish.

 Some of the paragraphs around the chicken fight get thick. I didn’t need to be told how she was special or different, I read this kind of stuff. I assume she is different. I would have preferred all that to come out in the story, rather than in a block.

 Good stuff.

 Orchid Blossom- OB really embraces fantasy. No worries here about whther you are keeping up or following along, no matter how fantastic the subject matter is it is taken in everyday stride.

  This allows all kinds of fantastic picture use, picture use that wouldn’t seem extraordinary because it is treated as everyday moments. And even fantasy is everyday to someone, yes?

 Good tale.

 Judgement: [sblock] Firleance did well. A strong story with a good theme and strong pic use. OB just did it all a little better and with an amazing conservation of words. My vote goes to Orchid Blossom.[/sblock]

 Decision: [sblock] Orchid Blossom takes it 2-1[/sblock]


----------



## orchid blossom (Mar 11, 2005)

[sblock]Thanks everyone, and thanks FireLance for a good run that certainly had me thinking I was done for this contest.[/sblock]

There are flaws o'plenty in my story, most of them due to writing the story in extreme haste.  It was due 8:00 my time, at at 3:00 the same day I still had no idea what I was going to write.  And staring at the blank screen for about 3 days wasn't helping.  For a moment I seriously considering getting drunk to see if it helped.  

Those pictures nearly kicked my butt.  I always felt the 2 roosters and the 2 kids had to be "the same".  I was going through every crazy idea in my head, and was laughing myself silly at wereroosters when I said "What the heck, I gotta write _something_."  Thankfully, once I decided to let myself roam in the land of the absurd, a story popped in fairly fully formed, so it was a race to get it down.  Then our internet connection got all crazy so I gave up the idea of revisions in favor of making sure it got posted.

Turns out all the hours staring at the blank screen weren't completely wasted, since I drew a lot of ideas from thoughts and false starts I'd had before.

[sblock]Anyway, thanks for the chance to keep going.  I can start the next round any time before Sunday afternoon.  After that, any evening except Tuesday would be fine.  (Daytime I'm at work and can't see anything that gets posted.)[/sblock]


----------



## FireLance (Mar 11, 2005)

Congrats, orchid blossom, and thanks to the judges for the comments.

Given the remarks about the story being unfinished, I guess I should have made the ending more explicit. I thought that leaving her on a beach in Thailand, just before the tsunami hit it, would be enough. As the tsunami was caused by an earthquake, that was "the trial of earth". Vague and misleading, yes, but she wouldn't have been left on a beach otherwise.

Anyway, it's been highly stressful but fun, as usual. I shall return!


----------



## Sialia (Mar 14, 2005)

bump?


----------



## alsih2o (Mar 14, 2005)

My apologies, I forgot I had 2 to post, rather than 1. 

 Alsih2o-

 Thorod Ashstaff- Wow. Tell me, was the use of “Steal” over Steel” purposeful? I cannot tell if it was a typo or a brilliantly sly gesture towards the story. J

 I like this. I like it despite the unfinished feel to it. I can really relate to the protagonist, the descriptions are strong and the story rings true.

 Picture use is pretty good. The wet footprints stand out. The Shen, and the net hole are alright. The mushroom left me wanting but the naked polka rocked. Ending with a pic can be tough, but this oen matched the joyful tone with a joyful pic and it rocked.

 Mythago- Wow. Beautiful stuff. I like the tone and feel of the place and the characters. The heroine is fully fleshed out and familiar, while still maintaining a few surprises. 

 The wet feet pic use really stands out. The net pic isn’t used wildly, but grabbed me by the throat with its strength. 

 Judgement: [sblock] This is the hardest decision so far this competition for me. Thorod really grabbed on to the fantasy aspect. I am not a big fan of fey…maybe because they rarely seem to be done that well. Mythago grabs me with a more realistic story, just edges of fantasy comparitavely.

 I have to give my vote to Thorod, based soley on the pics being tied more strongly to the story.[/sblock] 

 Maldur- 

Thorords tale of fairies and war, is great, the only thing that seems a bit out of place is the rather "short" trip to siberia, and the rather out of place eastern fairy.
Mythago, also has magic, and some thievery. Great magic, with a "pick pockety twist".

Judgement: [sblock]My vote goes to mythago, his pic use was more fluent into the story, the eastern fairy that thorod described was a bit out of place.[/sblock]

 Piratecat- 

 Thorod’s opening is great. He quickly sets the stage, establishes that
something important is going on, and establishes some ground rules by
detailing the attendees. The strength of the story is maintained throughout
using a consistent and coherent style. This is a story of both action and
hope, and it’s interesting because a lot of the Ceramic DM stories involve
horror or cruelty; what we have here is a self-aware piece against
industrialization that doesn’t end up bogging down in rhetoric. By framing
it from the feys’ point of view, the unusual tactics used to combat
pollution and the destruction of nature end up feeling quite fresh.
Lobbyists going hiking, indeed.

Good photo use, as well.


Midnight Reel:

Apropos of nothing, I can’t read the phrase “rouged lips” without thinking
that someone misspelled “rogue.” EN World has corrupted me.

Mythago has a rare talent for making people and places come alive. It’s in
the detail, I think; the proper vernacular, the songs that are played, the
accents of the people speaking, the taste of food. This story is not her
strongest but it’s still darned good. Even better, it’s consistently strong
throughout. My biggest complaint is that the inclusion of the Chinese man
seemed slightly strained. Not badly, though, and not enough to taint an
otherwise good story.

Judgment:

[sblock]Let’s be straightforward here: I thought both of these stories were
excellent, Thorod’s for tone and subject and Mythago’s for imagery and
pathos. I’m tossed this around for days, and I think that Mythago’s entry
has a slight edge due to the difficulty of a period piece. Thus Mythago has
my judgment, but both competitors have my praise. Nice work.[/sblock]

 Decision: [sblock] Looks like Mythago slides into the finals in a split decision, 2-1[/sblock]


----------



## alsih2o (Mar 14, 2005)

Maddman and Orchid Blossom, ready to go?


----------



## alsih2o (Mar 14, 2005)

Anyone?


----------



## Maldur (Mar 14, 2005)

I aint writing, so I aint replying


----------



## Thorod Ashstaff (Mar 14, 2005)

Congratulations Mythago!  Great story, and good luck in the final (though of course I fully intend to do my best to take you down in the next Ceramic DM).   Thanks to the judges for the critique, it is always useful, especially so for the post-contest reworking of these stories.

So, when does the next one start?


----------



## orchid blossom (Mar 14, 2005)

Hey, give me a break, I was at work, and internet at work is the big no-no.  Thus my request in my last post that pics don't go up during the daytime.  

I'm good any evening (the later the better) except Tuesday.  Tuesday is bad.


----------



## BSF (Mar 14, 2005)

That's a good question!  This one is taking a bit longer than most.  Much will depend on when potential competitors are ready to compete again, but I suspect early to mid spring will be a target for the next Ceramic DM.


----------



## maxfieldjadenfox (Mar 15, 2005)

I wouldn't have wanted to be the judge of Mythago and Thorod's stories... I was kind of hoping for a tie. Both were very nice, but Thorod's made me cry...


----------



## alsih2o (Mar 15, 2005)

Maddman appears ot be off for a bit of camping. Expect the OB-Maddman match-up pics Thursday evening.


----------



## orchid blossom (Mar 15, 2005)

alsih2o said:
			
		

> Maddman appears ot be off for a bit of camping. Expect the OB-Maddman match-up pics Thursday evening.




Oooh, Thursday is my favorite day.  Message recieved, I'll keep my eyes open.


----------



## mythago (Mar 15, 2005)

Thorod Ashstaff said:
			
		

> (though of course I fully intend to do my best to take you down in the next Ceramic DM).




FINALLY we get some smacktalk around here! 

Great story, Thorod. Glad to see you jumping in.


----------



## alsih2o (Mar 18, 2005)

Maddman vs Orchid blossom.

 5 pics, 72 hours, 6000 word limit.


----------



## orchid blossom (Mar 18, 2005)

Know where I spent all day Saturday?  Bridal boutiques looking for a dress.  Guess where I spent this evening?  You got it.... Bridal boutiques.

They follow me everywhere!!!


----------



## Eeralai (Mar 18, 2005)

orchid blossom said:
			
		

> Know where I spent all day Saturday?  Bridal boutiques looking for a dress.  Guess where I spent this evening?  You got it.... Bridal boutiques.
> 
> They follow me everywhere!!!




LOL!   And if you decide to have babies, they will follow you everywhere too.  I think the wedding and baby industries are where the monies at     I'm looking forward to these stories.


----------



## Maldur (Mar 18, 2005)

Good luck You two!!


----------



## alsih2o (Mar 18, 2005)

orchid blossom said:
			
		

> Know where I spent all day Saturday?  Bridal boutiques looking for a dress.  Guess where I spent this evening?  You got it.... Bridal boutiques.
> 
> They follow me everywhere!!!




 Anything I do to make a competitor slightly more paranoid or neurotic is...well, a pleasure.


----------



## alsih2o (Mar 21, 2005)

Expectant bump.


----------



## BSF (Mar 21, 2005)

Just a tad over two hours left.  I wonder how our authors are doing...


----------



## orchid blossom (Mar 21, 2005)

Round 3 Maddman vs. orchid blossom

The Witch Doctor

by: orchid blossom


Once he had a name, but it was lost.  Now he was only the witch doctor.  The power had diminished when the names were lost; when the pale woman came and changed them.  But the ancient names, the true names, could not be changed.  The power became as pale as the woman because the people believed her.  They remembered only the names she gave them.

The witch doctor knelt down in the drying earth.  The sun beat down hard; no more trees stood to shade his back or moisten the air.  Only bare stumps where children jumped from one to the next.  The world was a silent place with no birdsong or rustling of leaves.  His voice carried as he chanted over the drawing he made in the earth.

His finger dug down to mark a circle.  He then drew symbols not seen by any other eyes on earth, the ancient symbols of his people, the only writing they used.  A chill settled and the children ran to their mothers as mist began to rise from the bare stumps.  It swirled into a single dark mass, then split down the center.  Two forms emerged.  One a cloak wrapped woman, the other a man but not a man, showing traits of their simian brothers who had lived in the trees not so long ago.

He turned his hands palms up and spread his arms wide to the shadow people.  The chanting continued, rising until it boomed like thunder and the shadow forms shot away to the north.  The witch doctor slumped against a stump to wait.
__________________________________

It was a long journey to where the shadow form that was male felt the pale woman.  She was moving from one place to another, but not on the ground.  He must find one close to her.  The one who had bid him rise needed the hands of another to complete his ritual.  This other must be known to the pale woman, or there would be no power between them.  

The shadow-man stopped his wandering.  This was a loud place, full of harsh noises and machines which had gobbled up people who seemed content to be consumed.He felt her above, and when he saw the large bird above in the sky he knew she was inside it.  He launched his weightless body into the air and moved effortlessly inside.

People sat in cramped rows inside this strange bird that was not a bird.  The pale woman was ahead, so the shadow-man floated through the person he had entered when he entered this chamber and up toward the terminus of the thread that pulled him.  Her skin was pale and smooth, but she had a strange redness on her cheeks, and the lids of her eyes were blue.  Her dark hair was twisted behind her head, which moved in agitation as she talked to the thick-bodied man beside her.  Their hands were entwined with one another, and in his other hand he held a square object with symbols printed on it.  "Model turned bridal designer to open new facility," the man said as he shadow man slipped his form inside the pale woman's companion.  The voices continued in a pleased tone as the shadow-man made himself small inside and waited.
_______________________________________

The cloak wrapped shadow-woman followed the scent of where the pale one had been, rather than where she was.  Her psychic scent was strong in many places, but strongest in this building where women patiently plied needle and thread into billowing clouds of white cloth.  She slipped among them, following that scent through a door and into another room.

The clouds of fabric had been turned into clothes.  They must be clothes, for they were draped over headless feminine figures with no scent of life.  The shadow-woman slowly moved to one end of the room, drinking in the scent of the pale one, then turned and moved back.  She stopped in front of one of the dresses and pulled the scent in deep.  Her hand passed into the fabric and into her mind came images of the pale one clothed in this.  Something important had happened, something changed her outward name, but the impression of the true name was still strong.  The pale woman seemed to truly believe that names were a mutable thing.  

The shadow-woman felt the strength here and gathered her own.  Through her incorporeal form she pulled the power of the woman's true name as water through a straw.  She held it inside her until it the last puzzle piece fell into place and the name rested within her mind.  Then she lifted her face and sent it screaming across the earth to the one had brought her forth.
________________________________________

The witch doctor smiled as the scream that only he could hear reached him.  The essence of the shadow-woman dissipated back into the earth, where she went back to her rest.    An unwilling apprentice sat looking away as the witch doctor continued to decorate the statue of the god with shells and other adornments, including a shriveled head.  The apprentice did not understand, he could not learn until the names returned.  The witch-doctor took hold of the bulbous end of the god's head tail and waited for the shadow-man's gift.
____________________________________________

The pale woman rode away in what the man had referred to as a "car."  The house where the pale woman and the man lived was surrounded by stark grassland littered with large boulders.  It was a good place to complete the ritual. 

The man sat at a table with a steaming cup of dark, fragrant water and clothed only from the waist down.  The shadow man began to stretch his form, uncurling from the small space he had occupied to fill the entire body.  Slowly he let tendrils of mist seep into the mans brain until the body and voice obeyed his commands.

They walked outside to a pile of wood where they selected a long, crooked stick.  The man's body and brain protested, but the shadow-man kept moving them out among the stones.  There was a large formation far back on the land around the house.  They circled the formation first clockwise, then counter-clockwise.  With the pointed end of the stick they drew a circle in the earth that encompassed symbols that had never been seen in this part of the world.  Power poured up from the earth as the drawing connected with it's mate on the other side of the world, and they threw up their arms and danced until the shadow-man abandoned the man and left him curled on the ground with tears in his eyes.
____________________________________________

The shadow-man flew across the countryside to the city where the pale woman was standing, strangely dressed in bright red.  She was young and shapely, wearing a bright smile and gaudy colors on her face.  Her voice didn't match that smile.  "I don't understand why it had to be this costume," she said in a low, growling voice.  The shadow-man slipped into the ground below her, still vibrating with the connection to the witch doctor's power.  

A man was talking to the woman.  "You still have a contract with this costuming company, and you'll wear what they want to advertise.  The Amazon woman is a big thing this year."

"Let's get this over with," she groaned and found her mark, which placed her against the backdrop of a grand building.  The shadow-man followed and pushed his hand up into the pale woman's foot while letting parts of him dissipate through the earth back to the witch doctor.

The witch doctor felt that presence come to him and spoke the pale woman’s true name.

The witch doctor watched as the shriveled head in the god's arms filled out and again bore the semblance of youth.  On the other end of that connection the shadow-man saw the pale woman's skin wrinkle and droop, her slim body thicken, and her shoulders grow round.  The colors on her face grew even more garish, but she continued to pose for a moment before she realized her beauty was fading.  Then the screaming began.
___________________________________

The power connection to the shadow-man disappeared and the witch doctor stumbled outside.  The circle he had drawn in the earth was still there, but sharper.  The symbols glowed brightly, sinking into the earth one after the other, then rising again in their proper places.  The earth did not change yet, it would take years for the power to grow the trees and bring back their animal brothers.  Names began to rise out of the earth, of the rivers and streams, the trees and the birds, of the people and of the man who was no longer only the witch doctor.


----------



## orchid blossom (Mar 21, 2005)

BardStephenFox said:
			
		

> Just a tad over two hours left.  I wonder how our authors are doing...




Done actually.


----------



## BSF (Mar 21, 2005)

Well then, just a tad over an hour and a half left.  I wonder how Madmann75 is doing.


----------



## BSF (Mar 21, 2005)

Hmm, we have a slight problem here.  Madmann75 has missed his deadline.  but looking at his Last Seen time, he hasn't logged in since the 14th.  To me, it would seem that he never even saw his pictures since he hasn't logged in for 6 days.

Alsih2o, how do you want to proceed?


----------



## Maldur (Mar 21, 2005)

I would say Orchid wins by default, allthough it would be a bummer.
But our estimed Clay has the final word.


----------



## Berandor (Mar 21, 2005)

To be sure, I was a little worried since we hadn't heard from maddman, but I thought alsih20 had probably e-mailed him.

This is the Ceramic Dm Contest of Beta-testing, in which everything that can go wrong, does.

And I still haven't read the stories


----------



## orchid blossom (Mar 21, 2005)

Ao and I were talking about that yesterday when I sat down to do the lion's share of my work.  People don't always post when their pics go up, but most people do.  I was a little worried myself.


----------



## alsih2o (Mar 21, 2005)

orchid blossom said:
			
		

> Ao and I were talking about that yesterday when I sat down to do the lion's share of my work.  People don't always post when their pics go up, but most people do.  I was a little worried myself.




 Hmm, we had e-mailed...and he picked the date...


----------



## BSF (Mar 21, 2005)

*shrug*  If he emailed the date, then it sounds like fair game to me.  I hope he is doing well though.


----------



## alsih2o (Mar 21, 2005)

Well, I just got a PM and t appears he had to step back. OB, we will attempt to get you some feedback.

 Can we get OB and Mythago to settle a start date for the finals? I have FUN pics for the finals.


----------



## mythago (Mar 21, 2005)

"Let's play Volunteer for the Scary Pictures. You go first!"

I think Thursdays are better for orchidblossom, and that works for me too.


----------



## orchid blossom (Mar 21, 2005)

alsih2o said:
			
		

> Well, I just got a PM and t appears he had to step back. OB, we will attempt to get you some feedback.
> 
> Can we get OB and Mythago to settle a start date for the finals? I have FUN pics for the finals.




Fun for you!  I've been having a really hard time with the pictures this time around.  Don't fret about feedback, if there is some, cool.  If not, also fine.  

Mythago is right, Thursday is the best day for me, and if it works for her I think we're set.  They went up at a great time for me last round.


----------



## alsih2o (Mar 21, 2005)

Late Thursday it is then.

 Oh, I do believe I have me some goodly pics for the finalists.


----------



## Ao the Overkitty (Mar 21, 2005)

Should be interesting.

So the stories will be due late on Easter, huh?


----------



## alsih2o (Mar 22, 2005)

Ao the Overkitty said:
			
		

> Should be interesting.
> 
> So the stories will be due late on Easter, huh?




 Is that a problem for anyone involved?

 Thank goodness someone keeps track of these things.


----------



## mythago (Mar 22, 2005)

Not for me.


----------



## orchid blossom (Mar 22, 2005)

Not for me either.  We have dinner with Ao's parents that night, but that just means I'll have to avoid my usual "chicken with it's head cut off" last few hour sprint.  It still leaves the better part of an entire weekend.


----------



## Hellefire (Mar 24, 2005)

Watching the clock tick

Cant wait to see these pics!

Aaron


----------



## alsih2o (Mar 24, 2005)

Hellefire said:
			
		

> Watching the clock tick
> 
> Cant wait to see these pics!
> 
> Aaron




 I'm excited and nervous, as always. I usually go with somehting completely generic in the finals. Leaving it totally open to the writers. Mostly because I have foudn this can be paralyzing.

 This time I collected an almost themed set reminiscent of my favorite author. 

 A couple of more hours and I will post them. You can tell me what YOU think.


----------



## orchid blossom (Mar 25, 2005)

Mostly I think ARRRGGGHHHHHH!  lol  And that's _before_ the pics go up.

Even more so I think this is a like a strange episode of deja vu.  Last years spring competition is the first time I competed.  It was April, and in the first round I was up against Mythago.  And if I remember correctly, our stories were due on Easter Sunday.  I remember posting it and then going to Alex's parents for Easter Dinner.

So here I am, up against Mythago again, again due on Easter Sunday.  Only this time it's the final round instead of the first.  I hope it bodes well for another good story, as I still feel the first story I did for Ceramic DM is the best I've done.


----------



## BSF (Mar 25, 2005)

You won high acclaim for that first story.  It completely ruined your general underdog status.


----------



## alsih2o (Mar 25, 2005)

Mythago Vs. Orchid Blossom

 Finals.

 Five pictures, 72 hours, No Word Limit.


----------



## BSF (Mar 25, 2005)

Not 6 pictures?  You let them off easy this time around.


----------



## orchid blossom (Mar 25, 2005)

You did _see_ the pictures, right?


----------



## Macbeth (Mar 25, 2005)

alsih2o said:
			
		

> This time I collected an almost themed set reminiscent of my favorite author.



At some point, you're going to have to tell us who your favorite author is cause this is just plain weird... but really cool. Nice pics.


----------



## alsih2o (Mar 25, 2005)

BardStephenFox said:
			
		

> Not 6 pictures?  You let them off easy this time around.




 My original concept for Ceramic DM was that the contestant would get 4 pic and 48 hours to write. Then they would get a fifth pic with 24 hours left. First draft would be submitted at 48, final at 72 and both would be critiqued.

 I realized that was a lot of free time and it became this.


----------



## Rodrigo Istalindir (Mar 25, 2005)

alsih2o said:
			
		

> My original concept for Ceramic DM was that the contestant would get 4 pic and 48 hours to write. Then they would get a fifth pic with 24 hours left. First draft would be submitted at 48, final at 72 and both would be critiqued.
> 
> I realized that was a lot of free time and it became this.




Heh.  I was toying with suggestions for a 'once a year' Ceramic DM using variant rules, and that was one of my ideas.  Probably the kindest one, now that I think about it.


----------



## Sialia (Mar 25, 2005)

whimper.

pictures scary.

eyes bleeding now.

i go hide till this one is over.


----------



## Ao the Overkitty (Mar 25, 2005)

Man. I REALLY like those pics.  Very nice, Clay.  Should create some interesting stories.


----------



## Mirth (Mar 25, 2005)

[delurking]Heh. Good luck with _*those*_.[/delurk]


----------



## Piratecat (Mar 25, 2005)

I've been away from the computer all week, but am back - and will finish my part as soon as possible. Just wanted to bump this to apologize and say that there's an end in sight.


----------



## mythago (Mar 27, 2005)

> No Word Limit




*whew*


----------



## Maldur (Mar 27, 2005)

Question, when commenting on unopposed stories:
Do my intuative comments really add something?

Ill be happy to do it, but I tend to bounce stories of one another.

Greetz, Maldur aka Bazz


----------



## orchid blossom (Mar 27, 2005)

mythago said:
			
		

> *whew*




I fear the oppsite.  That someday Clay with put a "minimum" word count on and then I'll be up the creek!


----------



## orchid blossom (Mar 27, 2005)

Maldur said:
			
		

> Question, when commenting on unopposed stories:
> Do my intuative comments really add something?
> 
> Ill be happy to do it, but I tend to bounce stories of one another.
> ...




All comments are helpful, but don't bust your brain trying.  I've written enough stories at this point to have gotten a good feel for my stengths and weaknesses.


----------



## Berandor (Mar 27, 2005)

These pics are great!

I would love to write something off of them, but at the same time I'm glad I don't have to


----------



## Maldur (Mar 27, 2005)

OB's story is haunting, leaves a creepy aftertaste, but I do believe your stories are getting better.

It reminds me of the legend where getting your pcture taken eats away a part of your soul, and after a series of pictures a model dissapears.


----------



## orchid blossom (Mar 27, 2005)

Berandor said:
			
		

> These pics are great!
> 
> I would love to write something off of them, but at the same time I'm glad I don't have to




Nothing stopping you from using them!  And you wouldn't have that pesky time limit.  You could let them percolate through your brain for weeks, plenty of time for plotting and editing....

It's always easier when you don't _have_ to.  

Thanks for the comments Maldur.  I've been feeling my stories were getting worse.  But then, maybe I'm just getting pickier.


----------



## Maldur (Mar 27, 2005)

pickier is good, means you se a higher standard for yourself


----------



## Berandor (Mar 27, 2005)

orchid blossom said:
			
		

> Nothing stopping you from using them!  And you wouldn't have that pesky time limit.  You could let them percolate through your brain for weeks, plenty of time for plotting and editing....
> 
> It's always easier when you don't _have_ to.
> 
> Thanks for the comments Maldur.  I've been feeling my stories were getting worse.  But then, maybe I'm just getting pickier.



 get off of the internet and write!


----------



## alsih2o (Mar 27, 2005)

Orchid Blossom commentary-

 Awesome first pic use. The shadow jumping into the plane is fantastic. This makes the second pic use brilliant as well. I really feel strongly about this.

Actually, all the pics are really strong except for the witch doctor one. This is a very passive use (of a passive pic, yes) where all the others seem to be strong story moments.

 I like the disconnection of “Witch doctor” and male shadow and such at the beginning but I would have liked to have had some names by the end.

 The story is strong, and woven together pretty well EXCEPT for exactly what the womans crimes/changes were. Some more definition here would have easily drawn me over to the witch doctors side and made me care a bit more.


----------



## mythago (Mar 27, 2005)

*Otherworld*

The monitor under the seat of Llewellyn's wheelchair made a soothing, muffled beep, alerting him that another two milliliters of rexynol had been safely pumped into the base of his spinal column, numbing the nerves that ran to the warped stumps that had once been his legs. He directed the chair to roll smoothly along the architecturally impeccable hall of Building D, Eighth Floor, of the Carfax Institute. His institute, although he was careful to keep that knowledge confined as tightly as he could inside these walls, with the outside world seeing him merely as an eccentric, if laudably generous, benefactor who had turned to the sciences as a sort of hobby in his declining years. Llewellyn was careful to donate large sums to institutions seeking a cure for the disease that was eating him from the ground up, but in truth he paid little attention to whether his money was bringing them success. Stopping the slow destruction of his body was the least important use of his fortune.

 His chair gracefully turned to the left, and the door of Meeting Room 801 irised open to admit him. Llewellyn knew that it was an extravagant waste of money and maintenance time to have such doors, but if he couldn't have the jetpacks and sentient robots and rayguns he'd so loved reading about as a child, he could at least have doors that irised open. He'd even insisted the engineers design them to make a soft _whoosh_ sound when they opened. Unlike the architects, the engineers hadn't argued with him. They understood.

 The people waiting for him in 801 looked up and carefully rearranged their faces into professional, neutral expressions. They sat up straighter in their temperfoam chairs and waited for their benefactor to address them. 

      "You young people," Llewellyn said, "you think you invented love."

 They shifted uncomfortably. Llewellyn choked back a laugh. He knew they'd been gossiping about him while they waited, the best and the brightest of MIT and Stanford and Rand, speculating why an old man would pour money into bleeding-edge theoretical science for the sake of long-dead lovers.

_Not dead,_ he thought fiercely, _as long as we remember those we love they never truly die. Not when I can bring them back._

 Anthony Parilla, the thirty-year-old with two doctorates, pushed his chair back and stood up. The rest of them hastily did the same, and Llewellyn waved them to sit back down. Dr. Parilla stayed on his feet. Whatever he had to say, he was too excited to sit calmly in a chair and read a bullet-point animated slide off the holoscreen.

 "Mr. Davies," he said, "we've identified two, possibly three options that we think are finally viable. One of them is the MWI option that Dr. Haversham proposed in her tentative results last month." He nodded slightly toward the woman sitting two chairs to his right, the one who didn't look a day over seventeen, hired away from a senior research position at the Stanford Linear Accelerator Center. "The second are the cloning and bio-personality overlays. Cloning is more likely to be stable in the long term, but it--"

 "Could take years," Dr. Alexus broke in. Haversham rolled her eyes."Really, Mr. Davies, I think the overlay method would be quicker, and we can reinforce any leaks. The tests on volunteers have been very promising."

 "They're still in beta, if that," another scientist said, and they started bickering and interupting one another, letting off the excitement and tension that had built up around the idea that that their enormous salaries and endless hours of research would pay off for something real: crazy, but real.

 Llewellyn's monitor reminded him that another dose of rexynol had made it through. He cleared his throat, loudly, as only an old man with an old man's supply of ragged tissue and phlegm can do. The talking stopped as though he'd cut off their oxygen.

 "Let me remind you, again, that I don't have much time," he said quietly. "You will all get to try your your pet theories, and you will all get ridiculously large bonuses if they seem close to being right. Your papers will be published. What's important is that we bring Lily, Matt and Shawn back."

 They shuffled their papers and made noises of agreement. Llewellyn could see they were looking at him with pity and embarassment now, his mentioning Lily and Matthew and Shawn with such love reminding them that he was an old man driven by a passion and longing that they'd never imagined happening in anyone older than their parents. _You young people,_ he thought, and forced himself to concentrate on what Parilla was saying about options.

   #

     "What the hell is it with lanterns, anyway?" Matt asked. He flipped his head and part of the orange wig fanned his shoulder. Shawn, at his easel, frowned but kept sketching.

 "It's a standard puzzle," Llewellyn said. "An early meme. Colossal Cave was based on a real cave, and in real caves you need a light source. Torches go out down there; it's wet."

      "I cannot _believe_," Lily said, "that you two are still arguing about this. Anyway, I was talking about Plundered Hearts, not Zork. The only torch in that game is the one I'm carrying for the dashing pirate captain." .

       "You're kidding me. You're playing a PG-rated romantic game?"

 "I'm hoping there are some X-rated easter eggs. Which I am not going to be able to find if you two keep moving around, because Shawn will have to keep stopping to re-position you, and we'll be here all afternoon."

     "I'm not enough of a dashing pirate captain for you?" said Llewellyn. "Look, I even have an eyepatch."

       "Don't forget the phallic-looking trident," Matt added.

       "If you two don't settle down, I swear I am going to pick up this stuffed fish and whap you both."

       "Finished for now," Shawn called over his easel. "Pillow break."

       Matt immediately pulled the orange wig off his head and let it drop. "You mean lunch break, darling."

 "No, pillow break," Shawn said, "I found Lily to be very inspiring," and before Matt could open his mouth Shawn whomped him with a feather pillow, turned and made a lightning dash for the bedroom. 

     Matt chased after him, and the unmistakeable sounds of a no-holds-barred pillow fight came down the hallway.

       "Should we get lunch first or join them?"

       "I think it's too late to make that choice."

 "What do you mean?" Lily asked, a second too late, as Llewellyn tossed a throw pillow from the couch at her and ran like hell.

       "Oh, you'll pay for that," she shouted, running after him to the bedroom, "in _spades_," and then they were all thumping each other with pillows until they all were laughing and wheezing too hard to move, with nothing more to do on a warm, lazy Saturday afternoon than cuddle and talk and try to decide what takeout Chinese to get and whether they were going to study Comp Lit tonight or do some more modeling for Shawn.

   #

 Dr. Sandoval handed him the lantern. Llewellyn turned it over and over in his hands. It was almost a perfect replica of the one hanging on the back of his new wheelchair, the miniature lantern a gag gift he'd given Lily as Valentine's Day present. The one he'd brought with him when he'd moved out of their apartment, too numb to take anything but tokens of the woman and the two men he'd loved and had torn away from him in the blink of a drunk driver's eye.

 He blinked rapidly to stop himself from crying. Dr. Sandoval had stepped away after handing him the lantern, as though she thought him dangerous, or fragile. Llewellyn supposed he couldn't blame her. He'd dressed up in an old costume left over from one of Shawn's art assignments; he couldn't remember the name of the painting or whether it had ever gotten finished, only that it was one of the few things he had left from that time and so it was important to wear it today.

 "...you can think of it as a homing beacon," she was saying. He suddenly remembered that the woman's first name was Mercedes and that she was one of Haversham's protegés. He nodded sincerely as though he'd been listening all along.

 "Of course, that's not really an accurate description in terms of the physics, but it should generate a kind of Bloch shell, so that if the waveforms collapse, the complex path-sphere will snap you back to the original locus. Did that all make sense?"

       "Absolutely," he said. She smiled as though she believed him.

 He leaned forward slightly, and the gyroscopic engine of the wheelchair obeyed. Llewellyn stopped at the center of a huge red X marked on the floor with colored electrician's tape. He propped the big lantern on his lap and waited patiently as machines were adjusted, sensors fine-tuned, and large whirring devices with no apparent purpose other than to look impressive were aligned overhead.

     There was a silent flash of light that made Llewellyn duck his head away from the brightness, and then it was very dark.

 He pushed the sleeve of his jacket back and checked his Patek Phillipe watch. It had stopped. The lantern, though, had started to give off a cold, steady glow. "In for a penny, in for a pound," he said aloud. His words sounded oddly flat. There was an echo, but it was all wrong. This had to be the place; Haversham's team was sure that if any branching universe had some trace of Lily, Shawn or Matt, it was this one. He shifted his weight and urged his chair forward. The flat, undifferentiated ground got bumpier and rougher. Something tangled in the wheels. He looked down; brown, weedy grass was being flattened as he rolled along. Ahead of him, the darkness thinned out and differentiated into a plain of the same dead-looking grass and a dull ochre sky. The air was just warm enough to keep his breath from turning to vapor.

 He had been rolling for what seemed like hours when he realized the monitor hadn't beeped once. Electric-powered, it seemed to have died when whatever quirk of this universe also killed his watch. Llewellyn felt in his coat pocket for the emergency injectables. Enough rexynol for several hours was there, but after that? Even in the chill air, he started to sweat. Without the rexynol he wouldn't die. He'd just want to.

 There was a break in the endless level plain, an upright line that might have been a pillar or a tree. He urged the chair forward through grasses that grew to the seat of his wheelchair and now sported an occasional, lackluster flower. Quicker than he expected, the line resolved itself into the a wide, leafless tree with thin branches that stuck up like broken fingers.

 Children stood around the tree like sentinels. They faced away from Llewellyn. He leaned back and the chair bumped to a stop. He waited, whether for a friendly overture or an attack, he wasn't sure. The children, if they were really children, stood impassively.

 "Lily? Shawn? Matt?" he said. His voice had the same, strange flatness as before. The children didn't react at all, and he began to wonder if they were alive. Llewellyn rolled his chair to the nearest child, a young girl, and tapped her on the shoulder. She ignored him.

 Frustrated, Llewellyn gave her a gentle push. She swayed. Something about the way she had moved bothered him. He looked down again. She wore no shoes. Her legs ended in brown, twisting roots that burrowed down past the grassed and into the soil.

 Llewellyn rolled forward to the other side of the tree, the one that had faced away from him, knowing that he didn't want to see, unable to stop himself from going to look anyway. The trunk of the dying tree gaped open from some old and terrible would. Wedged into the tree was an enormous child, his eyes closed where the eyes of the other children, now facing Llewellyn, were open. He'd never seen pictures of Lily or Shawn as a child, but he recognized the boy in the tree trunk, his face the same as the one in a picture Matt had shown him, taken with his father before Matthew Senior was shipped off to Vietnam and never came home. Matt was smiling and happy in the photo, his eyes open, not closed like the boy's in the tree, but shape of his face and the cowlick in his chestnut hair were exactly the same.

 From here, Llewellyn could see the snaking roots that connected the scattered children to the trunk of the main tree. He wondered if it were reproducing or merely dying, like a fungus that sends out shoots and rots in the middle, and then he wondered if the children had somehow grown here or gotten tangled in the long grass and had no choice but to stay. He fumbled with the big lantern, looking for a switch or a button or anything that would get him away from this terrible place, and then there was light so brilliant that he threw up his hands to shield his eyes.

       The lantern slid off his lap and shattered on the laboratory floor.

   #

 "So when do you get to do actual painting?" Lily asked. "Oils and stuff. Or even watercolors. It's like they think you're a little kid, who has to do his homework in pencil because he can't be trusted with a pen."

 Shawn sighed. "It's not like that. Artists always sketch a painting to start with, anyway. I don't want to take a good sketch and just, just goop it up for the sake of painting if I'm going to do it wrong. You know? I want it to be right."

 "I modeled for that damn 'Modern Mariner' thing for so long I got a leg cramp," Matt said. "The only thing that saved me was that I could look down the front of Lily's costume. Hey! Ouch!"

     "My costume wasn't good enough for you?" Llewellyn said. "I thought I looked very dashing and, uh, nautical."

       "You did, you did. But boatneck crews just don't flatter your figure."

       "Arrr, I'll have you walking the plank, scurvy dog!"

 "It'll be finished when it's ready," Shawn said. "When I think I can do it justice...I'll paint it. It's not going anywhere, and neither am I."

   #

 Dr. Alexus was talking so fast that Llewellyn could barely understand what he was saying. Personality overlay, genetic infusion, of course this was only a test run and it wouldn't be permanent--

 "Overlay of what? Of people who already have personalities? I thought you started with a blank slate, a new clone of some kind."

 "This is the first stage," Alexus said. "Clones are still very difficult to get right and they take a long, long time, so we want to be sure the technology is perfect. These people are all volunteers, they've all been fully briefed. The overlay technology's been in development for a long time, licensed as you said you wanted, so plenty of other teams have had successes, this is just the first time we've had so much genetic material and data in the same subjects--"

 "Slow down," Llewellyn said. "You're making me wonder if having free coffee in the break rooms is such a good idea. They're volunteers, they've agreed to be genetically modified somehow? Isn't that dangerous?"

 "Sorry about that, Mr. Davies. It's not dangerous, it's a temporary genetic shift, their bodies will flush out the excess cells harmlessly over a few months, and they'll only have dim memories of the personality overlay, we've got one of them out already and he'll probably be ready to talk, the others are still being brought out of the procedure, would you like to see?"

       "Yes, yes, let's see, if they're up and ready. You have...you have three?"

      "Four, sir; Lily, Matthew, Shawn, and yourself."

       Llewellyn blinked. "You cloned me?"

 "As I said, Mr. Davies, it's not a clone situation exactly, we're still experimenting and we had four solid volunteers, so we thought it might be a problem if we duplicated one of the subjects, kind of an evil twin possibility, heh, so anyway let's go in the lab, I believe 'Shawn' has been walking around and talking to the technicians."

 There was a high, faint shriek. Llewellyn instinctively reached down and checked the monitor in his wheelchair for a malfunction. Alexus broke into a run and Llewellyn realized it was not a mechanical noise; it was a woman screaming in terror, somewhere down the hall. He urged his wheelchair forward and sped down the hallway after Alexus. The scientist nearly tripped over the bodies of three white-coated laboratory assistants that sprawled in front of a single door. A ragged pool of blood spread across the seamless white floor of the hallway. The door irised open and Llewellyn rolled through at Alexus's heels.

     The small room had been painted and textured in someone's attempt to make it decorative. Two sets of recovery tanks flanked a small painting by Syré. "Llewellyn" lay dead, the membrane of his tank shredded and gone, his support tube trailing from the tank to his corpse. "Lily" slumped against the side of her own tank, bleeding freely from a vicious wound between her neck and shoulder, the blood seeping over the sill of the tank's window. "Shawn," dressed in some kind of short hospital gown, clutched a long-handled axe made of scrap and wire. It looked as though he had torn open a mechanical repair station with his hands and made a weapon out of whatever he had put his hands on first. Alexus dived forward and grabbed the long wire shaft of the axe. "Shawn" yanked it away and cracked the flat of the axe blade against Alexus's head with a sound like a table leg snapping. Alexus collapsed on the sticky floor.

 "Matt" struggled to free himself from his support tubes. Shawn spun around and saw Llewellyn. The madman stared at him with the expression of a man who knows he's met someone before but is at a complete loss to remember their name.

     "Shawn," he said, "it's me. Llewellyn. You were a vegan. You never hurt a living thing in your life. What are you doing? "

       Shawn shook his head like a dog throwing off water. "We're _dead_," he howled. "Dead and this is not alive! We were killed and buried and that is not Lily! That is not Matt! False faces!" The lunatic heaved the axe and turned. Matt screamed in terror as the blade came up. Llewellyn hid his face in his hands and tried to stop his ears against the terrible sound.

 The armed guards arrived and got Llewellyn out before they did what they had to do. Llewellyn was taken to his private suites at Carfax Hospital, where he stayed for a month, resting and talking to no one and looking out his window with its beautiful garden view.

   #

 The sketch Shawn had done on the day of the pillow fight hung on the east wall of Llewellyn's private office. He'd had it framed and covered with UV-resistant glass, but it was hard to look at; it hung behind his desk, where he'd need to turn to see and be reminded of it.

 Llewellyn turned the wheelchair and tilted it back so that he could look up at the sketch, the quick pencil strokes and shade lines the same as the day Shawn had made them. "But not me," he said aloud. "I'm old, you three, and I'm dying, only it's taking me a lot longer than it took any of you. I thought I could buy enough brains to find you and follow you and bring you back, but I can't do that, can I?"

_Branching universe_, he thought, _alternate existences. The physicists' name for the Land of the Dead? How could I find you in the darkness? You need light or you fall down and die, or get killed by a monster. Matt always thought that rule was stupid. What if there were a puzzle where you _needed_ to be in the dark, where the light kept you from finding something that was right in front of you?_

 "Right in front of me," he said. He looked up at the sketch, and then down at the monitor. He took the letter opener from his desk and broke the plastic safety loop that kept the dosage indicator in place. The monitor beeped in alarm as he slid the dosage level all the way to the right. He knew the side effects of a rexynol overdose: numbness, loss of the ability to regulate core temperature, internal bleeding, death.

 He felt a chill, and wrapped his lap blanket around his shoulders and head. It didn't help; the cold got worse, then it faded. He tasted something like iron, far back in his throat. His lips felt numb and dry; he tried to lick his lips, but his tongue was thick and sluggish.

     Llewellyn looked up at the sketch. It was no longer a sketch, but a painting, watercolor or possibly even oil, but brilliant and fresh in its color as though Shawn had just stepped away from the easel. And it had changed. The ridiculous thrift-store wig blazed orange, but it was draped over Shawn's head. The backdrop, just a collection of curved lines in the pencil sketch, swam into focus with blues and greens and a dolphin that seemed to be swimming up to talk to them. Lily's feathery gray wrap was a goldenrod yellow against her skin. Matt, lithe and dark, stared challengingly at him, his right eye hidden by the eyepatch that Llewellyn had worn on the left.

      "You don't look any better in a boatneck crew than I did," he said, or tried to; it came out as a slurry of sounds that his lips and tongue couldn't manage. 

       The reality outside the painting collapsed and took him with it.


----------



## orchid blossom (Mar 27, 2005)

Mythago vs. orchid blossom  Final Round


Divine Hands

Nicolas stood just inside the door of the small club, trying to see through the haze of blue smoke.  He pulled the brim of his black hat further down over his eyes and adjusted his duster so it covered the revolver at his belt.  Then he tapped the ash off his own cigarette and worked his way over to a table.

This club was stranger every time he came in.  Today an accordionist was playing a lamenting kind of tune in a far off corner, but the main show seemed to be a human still life on the stage.  Nick coughed loudly and the androgynous figure in gold at the bottom turned his head and smiled.  With all the grace of his kind he rose and walked over to the table.  "Give us one of those, hmm?"

Nick pulled out a case and handed one of the slim white rolls to the muse.  "So this is art now?"

The muse shrugged.  "It's my version of the old adage, 'A fool and his money are soon parted.'"

"I never did understand art," Nick said, putting away the case.

"Neither do they, but they won't admit it.  Which is why they part with their money to see it."

Nick smiled his crooked smile and said, "That I understand."  He took a sip of the beer a waitress had just set in front of him.  "So Vic, you called me.  What's going on?'

Vic rubbed his hand against his smoothly slicked hair and dropped his voice.  "I'm not sure.  This little piece of art," he said motioning to the stage, "Is about the best I can inspire these days.  Even getting the call out to you was hard."

“So, there’s a problem at the giving or the receiving end.  Or you’ve pissed off the powers that be one too many times.”

Vic waved that last idea away like a bothersome fly.  “I don’t feel any different.  It’s kind of like those screens the gold miners use.  I still have the idea, the artists still have the desire, but something won’t let the gold through.”

“How long this been goin’ on?”

“The serious problems started a few months ago.  But thinking back, there have been little things for years.”

Nick tapped his finger against his chin.  "That explains a few things, Vic.  Last few years things have been slow.  Not much new, if you know what I mean.  Old music, old plays, not even any new inventions, and you know those were going like gangbusters."

"Science works on inspiration too," Vic added, puffing on his cigarette.

"So you want me to what?  Save the world from boredom?"

"It could be worse than that.  Without getting into the metaphysics of it, we agents of the divine all work out of the same source.  So whatever's affecting me could be affecting prophets, messengers, any of the hands of the divine on Earth.  And that leaves a hole for those with other powers to fill."

Nicolas threw back the rest of his beer.  "I'll look into it.  It's been a while, I'm not sure which of my contacts will still be friendly."

Vic stood up and crushed out his cigarette.  "I've got a place for you to start."

"Why don't you do it yourself then?"

"Can't.  I'm only allowed to deal with the living."

Nick's lips tightened.  "You know I hate dealing with the dead."

"You'll get over it."  Vic started back toward the stage with Nicolas following.  He briefly explained how to find the place where the veil was thin between the living and the dead.  He then lowered himself back onto the stage in the same tableau, flicking his finger at a little doll laying on the stage.  "Take that to call them."

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

Nicolas tied his horse to a tree a good distance from the one that sat alone in the middle of the grassy field.  He didn't relish the idea of being out here with no way to leave quickly if the horse got spooked and bolted.  He pulled the red rag doll from his saddlebag, took a deep breath, and started across the grass.

He was not, as Vic called them, one of the hands of the divine on Earth.  But he had always been what some called "sensitive."  Others passed through this field every day, feeling nothing more than a sense that it would be wrong for any farmer to clear it for a farm.  Nicolas could feel the veil, like a cobweb across his face.  His presence was like a bubble in water, moving in it but not through it.

He arrived at a tree with a trunk so wide three large men couldn't circle it with their arms and touch hands.  It had the kind of low branches children love, being easily reached for climbing.  Nicolas laid the red doll at the foot of the tree, unsure of what else to do.   He could feel rippling across the veil, as if another bubble were skittering along the surface on a collision course with his.

It began to pull apart, not ripping, but pulling its threads apart far enough to allow him to pass.  Nicolas stepped without moving his legs, the opening now behind him instead of in front.  A portion of the tree's bark began to morph and change until the face of a young girl replaced it.  Behind the tree, spirit after child-spirit rose from the ground.

The spirit in the tree opened her eyes.  "It's been a long time since we were left a gift."

"Most can’t cross the veil to do it." 

"There are other ways, but those who remembered us are long gone."  She closed her eyes again and he shivered as another presence briefly shared his mind.  "You come from the muse.  He is disturbed.  He wishes to know where the ocean has gone.  Why it runs as a river away from the hands of the divine."

"Um, something like that,” Nick answered, rubbing his arms.  “Sounded more like he thought there was a wall keeping him separated from his source.  Figured once the hands couldn’t do their jobs anymore, something else would take over."

"He is wiser than I thought," the tree spirit smiled.  "He usually seems more a child than we."

Nick actually smiled.  "He is a unique sort of person."

"Our eyes see more clearly than his.  The ocean is in many places at once, but cannot be seen on Earth.  There is one like you, able to feel but not control.  He has found a way to pull the power, to make it his."

"So power you compare to an ocean gets in the hands of one man, who wasn't suited to it in the first place.  Then he goes crazy with it.  I don't like where that could go."

"Crazy is the correct word.  One who seeks such power does so for selfish purposes.  And in his newfound insanity he will not be a kindly master."

The boy-spirit who stood closest to the tree stepped forward.  "This is Adam.  He will lead you to the river.  Follow it to the mad one.  When you have arrived we will part the veil for you."

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

The building where Adam parted the veil and let Nicholas back into the living, breathing world could only be called a mansion.  The river that led here left an afterimage in his eyes, as if now that he knew what to look for he could see that swirling ribbon of color flow through the walls and disappear.  He shook his shoulders, trying to rid himself of the feeling of clinging cobwebs.

Somehow Nicolas had expected to find the inside of the manse lit up like the river.  Instead it was black, despite the sunlight that should have been streaming in through the windows.  Psychic threads spun everywhere, crisscrossing the room with no pattern.  Nick took a few deep breaths, pushing them away as they tried to invade his mind.  He reached inside his pack and lit the lantern he kept there. .

Usually he would rely on that sixth sense that drew him toward places where one of the hands of the divine was working, but in this place that sense was overwhelmed.  Instead he began an exhaustive, room-by-room search. 

The building was unremarkable in and of itself.  The summer home of some rich merchant, most likely.  Rich, polished wooden furniture upholstered in luxurious fabrics.  Crystal lamps, fine art, lace table covers.  Rich people indeed.  The only odd thing was a bedroom set up on the first floor. 

The darkness pressed harder against the lamp in this simple yet still rich room.  A wide but low bed, a nightstand beside it, a full-length mirror, and a desk made up the furniture in the room.  He was surprised at the lack of chairs until he noticed the wheelchair against the wall.  A feeling of inspiration came from that chair, strong enough for Nicolas to pluck it out from among the cacophony.

He walked over and ran his hand along the back, then the arm.  He didn't know much about science, but it was obvious someone had been tinkering with this chair.  If he was understanding what he saw correctly, it would move on it's own.  Nick took a deep breath and sat down, holding the lamp before him.

The first inspiration he had given.  Nick could see the madman, using his stolen power to help a crippled man make his life easier.  Ah, a brother.  With more power he had found a way to heal his brother, and the chair sat here now, unused inspiration.  And worse, the power that drove the thief mad drove those he inspired down the same path.  

The two men were in this house.  Power swirled from the room to the upper floor.  Nick rose and followed the only threads strong enough to stand out. They flowed up the stairs, twisting around each other, sometimes appearing as one, sometimes pulling apart as if one tried to escape from the other.

Sooner than he would have liked, Nicolas stood before a heavy wooden door.  He had gone up two flights of stairs past the fine parts of the house to the attic.  The threads had grown darker and more sinister as he climbed, bearing the marks of madness.  Nicolas took his revolver out of his pocket, checked that it was loaded, and opened the door.

The first thing that hit him was the stench.  Old blood and new, rotting flesh.  Voices screamed, masculine and feminine, and beneath that was a satisfied groan, stifled as if the mouth that made it was blocked.  The threads split into two, and Nick's eye followed one over toward the wall.

He might have been a cripple before, but now he was a madman.  A cruel, long-handled ax was gripped in his hands, it's blade dark with blood.  The picture frames held hands of the divine, each wrapped in rope and screaming.  The woman’s scream was weak as she slumped, dying from the gash through her shoulder.  The brother glared insanely at Nicolas and bent his legs to lift the ax again.  Nick lifted his arm and shot.  The dark thread suddenly snapped and recoiled as the body fell to the floor.

His eye followed the remaining thread, now rippling with shock.  It lead past the bloodied form of a muse on the floor to a figure crouched behind it.  He lifted His face to the light and looked up at him with clear, sea-green eyes above a bloodied mouth.  Nick looked down and saw hunks of flesh torn from the dead body in the man's hands.

The tendril of power rippled and wrapped around Nicolas, and he slipped the revolver back into its holster.  Dark fingers ripped into his mind, pushing aside the resistance his own small power tried to put up.  He pulled off his hat and duster.  The lantern crashed to the floor as he rubbed his hands together and took hold of the ax handle.  Nick looked up at the last muse, still tied in his frame.  He reached out toward it, wanting to feel its pain as he struck.  Their eyes met and another mind touched his.  This one was like Vic's, brilliant and colorful.  It did not try to sway him from his craving for blood.  Nick bent his knees and swung the ax in a wide circle.  Those sea-green eyes kept staring at him as they flew across the room.

*************************
Nicolas staggered down the stairs with the muse.  Sun was pouring in through the windows now but the muse was blinded by the backlash of power rushing away from the house.  Nick felt it more strongly than he’d felt anything before and struggled against the undertow.

Hours later Nick opened his eyes.  The mansion was gone, a burnt cinder blown apart by a tidal wave of power.  The dark taint that had infected his mind was gone, and so was the bright light the muse had lent him.  He shook his head and tried to feel the muse.  Nothing.  The veil, the threads that were everywhere.  Nothing.

“Is everything back where it belongs?” Nick asked, pushing himself up in the grass.

“All back to normal,” the muse answered with a tired smile.

Nick rubbed his chin and smiled.  “Normal.  Normal is good.”


----------



## orchid blossom (Mar 27, 2005)

Well, there she is.  And Ao and I must be off to Easter Dinner soon.

[sblock]There was a lot left to do in this story.  The main character is woefully underdeveloped, and I had a hell of a time ending the story because of it.  But at least this time I had an idea before I only had a handful of hours left![/sblock]


----------



## Hellefire (Mar 28, 2005)

Great job guys!

Where'd the spectator thread go? Cant seem to find it..

Aaron


----------



## Sialia (Mar 28, 2005)

I think we diecided that it's ok to post commmetns here. If for any reason you think you hve a comment which is potentially judge-biasing, put it in spoilers with a warning.

I don't think my comments could possibkly be biasing at this point. In the first place I am gibbering. And in the second, I think I'm gibbering about equally.

Hell of a ride ladies.

And a remarkably grandma avoidant one. 

I do't think I could have done these without violating a grandma or two.

kudos all round.
brr.

bllbl. bllbl. blip.


----------



## Maldur (Mar 28, 2005)

Judgement send, great stuff kiddies

My personal appologies for the mess in this ceramics, rest assured we are making plans (and plans within plans) so the next ceramic will be much less....chaotic.

thank you all for your great stories.


----------



## Sigurd (Mar 28, 2005)

*Public Apology and Reason*

I'm embarrassed and tremendously sorry bout vanishing.

Morning very shortly after pictures were posted my wife had protracted problem with Gall Bladder. Emerg Ward at 2am -medical BS-12 hrs in Emerg - Surgery at 12:30am following morn. For a while I was staying at a place with no internet & no mind for games. Its taken 3 and 1/2 months to heal.

I even tried to find the post but I can't search and I didn't have the will to dig through pages of messages. I should have.

I've been trying to make 2 incomes and take care of my lady.

My apologies - I think its a great competition. This was not my intention.

S


----------



## Maldur (Mar 28, 2005)

I think I speak for all the judges :  we wish you and your lady, all the best.

We understand, concentrate on getting her through this 

Best wishes, Bazz aka Maldur


----------



## mythago (Mar 29, 2005)

Sigurd, was it really necessary to go to those extremes to compete for Best Reason to Skip Ceramic DM?



Glad your lady is on the mend. There'll be a next time.


----------



## alsih2o (Mar 29, 2005)

Sigurd said:
			
		

> Morning very shortly after pictures were posted my wife had protracted problem with Gall Bladder......




 Mang! How be she?


----------



## alsih2o (Mar 29, 2005)

Judgements soon.


----------



## orchid blossom (Apr 1, 2005)

alsih2o said:
			
		

> Judgements soon.




Main Entry: soon
Pronunciation: 'sün, esp New England 'sun
Function: adverb
Etymology: Middle English soone, from Old English sOna; akin to Old High German sAn immediately

1 a obsolete : at once : IMMEDIATELY b : before long : without undue time lapse <soon after sunrise>

2 : in a prompt manner : SPEEDILY <as soon as possible> <the sooner the better>

3 archaic : before the usual time

4 : in agreement with one's choice or preference : WILLINGLY <I'd just as soon walk as drive>


Ok, so I was bored tonight.  And I wanted to give the thread a little bump before I lost it.


----------



## alsih2o (Apr 1, 2005)

My apologies, this is what I have for now. I am sure we will have more soon. 

  Mythago Vs. Orchid Blossom- Final

 Alsih2o:

Mythago-

 This story is a bit disgusting and disturbing. And that ain’t easy to do. J

 The wheelchair bound man makes for great pic usage in another dimension, the pic frames as tanks is a nice touch as well.  Th group shot is used rather well, too. I am not the fondest of the bloody mouthed man, but it does work.

 The plot screams at you, obsession is always a great subject. Obsession mixed with madness is great IF the author can pull it off. I think Mythago did. 

 I couldn’t decide if the l;ast line was too terse or just snappy enough, but I am gonna have to go with just snappy enough. J


 Orchid Blossom-

 Was that accordionist supposed to be nude? I LOVE references to other rounds. (When I catch them)

 The muse pic on stage works well, lots of little bites in the commentary. The only pic that isn’t handled really well here is the tree pic. It feels a little tacked on, but the language surrounding it really disguises it. 

 Those green eyes staring at him after the axe blow really was a stellar moment. One of the big disadvantages that a writer in these competitions gets is a bunch of fantasy geeks as an audience. This can hurt if you tread too lightly and hurt of you press too hard. This was just enough.

 The threads resonate as a “playable” or “Real” world, strong stuff.

 Judgement- [sblock] Orchid Blossom just keeps getting better. Watching her improve as a writer has been a ball. However, Mythago is the elephant in the room. 

 OB could have taken her story through almost any round, but not against this particular Mythago tale. My vote goes to Mythago[/sblock]

 Maldur:

 Mythago vs Orchid Blossem

It seems Clay's pictures promote dark stories, I wonder what his favourite
writer is

Mythago, desperation seems to be the main emotion in your story, the failure
of the various scientists, and the inabilty of the main character to bring
back his friends. All make a very bleak story. And I too want irising doors,
with "whoosh" sounds.

Orchid, Your story is not bleak because everything goes wrong, but more in
the way the "enviroment"is presented, on a second reading, it is not as
dark. As the detective can solve the "problems" of the story, with only one
bullet, and one swipe of an axe.

Judgement- [sblock]My vote goes for Mythago, orchid story is not ready, While Mythago's story
felt "complete".[/sblock]

  Decision- [sblock] Mythago takes the finals2-0[/sblock]


----------



## Empress (Apr 1, 2005)

Seems I finished reading the two stories just in time for judgement! 

I've got a question, though: What if the judges had decided on different stories? Would there have been a draw? Sorry if this was addressed elsewhere, but just yesterday I became curious enough to read this thread. I read the first post or two to know what it's about, and then the stories.

Anyway, I enjoyed the stories, both of them. I think I liked "Divine Hands" a wee bit better, though, simply because the background of it captured my imagination. Inspiration gone wrong - so that's what happened to Hieronymus Bosch! Though "Otherworld" was much more dream-like, with its flashbacks and everything. 

Maybe I'll read some of the other stories, now, but just in case: When's the next contest going to be? 

Oh, and congratulations to the winner!


----------



## alsih2o (Apr 1, 2005)

Empress said:
			
		

> I've got a question, though: What if the judges had decided on different stories? Would there have been a draw?




 No draws aloud. 

 We USUALLY have 3 judges. We had some extenuating circumstances this last week or so. 

 Next one is whenever Bard Stephen Fox wishes. He is runnign it.


----------



## Mirth (Apr 1, 2005)

Congratulations mythago! This has to be the longest CDM on record, so well played all.


----------



## Macbeth (Apr 1, 2005)

BSF is running the next one? Now THIS should be interesting...  Any idea when?


----------



## alsih2o (Apr 1, 2005)

Macbeth said:
			
		

> BSF is running the next one? Now THIS should be interesting...  Any idea when?




 Nope, 100% his baby this time. I assume he will let the dust settle for at least 24 hours.


----------



## Maldur (Apr 1, 2005)

teehee

Thanks everyone!!


----------



## Hellefire (Apr 1, 2005)

Congrats Mythago!

And great job OB!

Please let me know where/when sign-ups for next one will be, when that is decided.
But for now I think Mythago should have a few minutes to bask in his win!

Aaron


----------



## BSF (Apr 1, 2005)

Hey folks!
Yeah, I am running the next one.  I do want to give some downtime between contests this time around.  I sense that many of us are a little tired and the downtime will be a good refresher.  I am predisposed to a May contest.  That will keep it in Spring, and give folks a month or so before even thinking about writing under pressure.

I want/need to rewrite some of the FAQ material.  There have already been some good suggestions in other threads that I will be trying to mine for ideas.  If anybody has more ideas, speak up.  I need to finish off some menus.  I need to create a freaky picture library.   

As far as exactly when the next Ceramic DM will kick off, I can't tell you yet.  But for everyone that wants to know, I strongly encourage you to check the Ceramic DM FAQ for Fiction thread.  I will announce about a week before sign-ups begin in that thread.  If you click on "Thread Tools" and choose to subscribe to the thread, then choose notifications daily or weekly, you will know when the sign-up thread will appear.  My plan is to give everyone around a week notice for sign-ups, then a few days or more during sign-ups before we actually begin.  

Any other questions or thoughts?  Feel free to share.


----------



## Macbeth (Apr 1, 2005)

Any idea who will judge the next contest? 

I have some pictures and sites that could easily be mined for CDM pictures, but I would feel bad using them if I'm a contestant. But then again, I'm not all that sure I would want to judge. Maybe I'll just sit the next one out and send BSF some pictures...


----------



## orchid blossom (Apr 1, 2005)

alsih2o said:
			
		

> My apologies, this is what I have for now. I am sure we will have more soon.




No apologies needed, now I feel bad, for I was just being silly.  

Congrats to Mythago!  Someday I'll catch you.  Sadly it won't likely be until at least next winter.  I'm going to be pretty busy planning a wedding.  But I'll still be reading.   

Now that you judges can go lift all the spoilers, I can say I knew the story wasn't done.  There was a lot left to do, but not time left to do it in, so that was that.  I turn in a lot of first drafts, it seems.

The accordianist was and was not a touch back to the accordianist pic.  I put it in because the guy in the striped shirt in one of the picks just made me think of those weird pseudo-French clubs you see in movies full of smoking beatniks and accordian players.  And then I remembered the accordian pic and thought that was cool.

I could swear there was another comment I wanted to respond to, but I can't remember.  Soi anyway, thanks to everyone for reading, competing and judging.


----------



## Piratecat (Apr 1, 2005)

I'm back online and glad the judgment got posted! I'll add my comments so the judging record is complete. Nice job, both of you; I'm tremendously impressed.


----------



## BSF (Apr 1, 2005)

Macbeth said:
			
		

> Any idea who will judge the next contest?




I suppose I would be considered a Judge.   
I leave it open to Maldur to see if he wants to Judge the next round.  
I do not currently have any other Judges.  There is a backchannel discussion on Ceramic DM in which we have been hashing out different ideas for the next round.  I have been avoiding asking anybody else to Judge until I know what parameters the contest will encompass.  That way, if we change any structure, I can explain it beforehand and a potential judge can decide from there.

What I do want is for any of you who wish to compete to have the opportunity to sign up and try to get involved in the contest.  I have no problem with folks sending me pictures, but if you do, please let me know your screenname.  I will try to keep track and avoid using those pics for you if you want to write.


----------



## Macbeth (Apr 1, 2005)

Well, I'll see how busy I am when the contest rolls around. I may just wait till I finally win a contest and get a chance to judge and use the pictures I've found  .


----------



## mythago (Apr 2, 2005)

Thanks to all, and congrats to orchid blossom on a tough round!

I would be happy to judge next time, if needed. Much as I love Ceramic DM, I don't really want to be the elephant in the room. I'm going to sit out for a while.


----------



## Hellefire (Apr 2, 2005)

I was off internet for about 2 weeks and missed what happened to the spectator thread. I liked it. I liked readign and judging stories, though the real judges almost always disagreed with me  so I might not be very good at it. But I think the spectator thread is a great idea. I posted all of my other ideas already, a month or so ago, mainly about more info in the FAQ on what to expect. Of course, writing is still new and exciting enough for me that I definitely want to participate again. But, again, I think Mythago deserves some time to bask in a victory. 

Aaron


----------



## BSF (Apr 2, 2005)

The Commentary thread is OK, but in previous contests where we did spectator commentary in-line with the stories, the conversation seemed a lot more lively.  There was more discussion on the writing process without the dosconnect from the judges, who also like to participate in that discussion.  The big concern has been that spectator commentary could be construed as building a bias for the judges.  I think for the next contest, we should keep all the commentary in with the regular thread and trust the judges not to read anything that might create a bias.  *shrug*  We trust writers not to read competitor's stories before posting so it doesn't seem like a stretch to trust the judges.

As for Mythago basking in her glory, I will just point out that by my recollection Mythago has never lost.  She has plenty of glory with three Ceramic DM titles for her belt.


----------



## Berandor (Apr 2, 2005)

Congrats, mythago!

My comments from the spectator thread still stand, BSF. If there's  something to add, I'll tell you.


----------



## Mirth (Apr 2, 2005)

BardStephenFox said:
			
		

> She has plenty of glory with *three* Ceramic DM titles for her belt.




Rub it in, why don't ya!?!  Seriously though, congrats to mythago for being the kick-wheeled, no-glazed, salt-fired Ceramic DM in relation the rest of us raku-quickie DMs. 

Either I'm drunk or that will make sense to alsih2o.


----------



## Berandor (Apr 2, 2005)

You're drunk.


----------



## alsih2o (Apr 2, 2005)

Or both.


----------



## Maldur (Apr 2, 2005)

It makes sense to me


----------



## BSF (Apr 2, 2005)

Made sense to me as well.  

Why don't you join in again Mirth?  Then you would have a chance of adding a third title to your belt as well.


----------



## Thorod Ashstaff (Apr 2, 2005)

Congratulations Mythago! Not only on the championship ring but on a fine series of stories as well.

Looking forward to the Spring Ceramic!


----------



## Mirth (Apr 3, 2005)

BardStephenFox said:
			
		

> Why don't you join in again Mirth?  Then you would have a chance of adding a third title to your belt as well.




I'm not as think as you drunk I was. Maybe I will... *clunk*


----------



## Hellefire (Apr 7, 2005)

/having a drink for Myth

Congrats again!

Aaron


----------



## mythago (Jun 2, 2005)

just checking over Subscribed Threads and noticed...er...well, can the menu get updated?


----------



## BSF (Jun 3, 2005)

I just sent an update to Alsih2o.  He should be able to update when he has some free time.


----------



## BSF (Jun 6, 2005)

Hey folks!
I have moved into the new house and have my broadband connection all setup and ready to go.  I am finally ready to kick off the next Ceramic DM.  The sign-up thread is posted in General RPG Discussion.  Stop by and sign up!


----------

