# Ceramic Dm (final judgement posted, New Champion announced!)



## alsih2o (Jun 24, 2004)

The RULES for the first timers.

 1. No peeking! No looking at your opponents entry until yours is turned in.

 2. No editting! once you have submitted your story editting the post disqualifies you.

 3. Judges are judges, not debaters. There are lots of places you can complain to the judges and disrespect them. This isn't one of them.

 4. #3 applies to fellow players too.


Here is the first round breakdown, pairs are in order of sign-up-

  Carpe david vs.
 Piratecat

 Francisca vs.
 Bard Stephen Fox

 Berandor vs.
 Marauder X

 Macbeth vs.
 Morpheus

 Orchid blossom vs.
 Fieari

 Taladas vs.
Graywolf- ELM

 Arwink vs.
 Yanggnome

 Zhaneel vs.
 Rodrigo Istalindir

 In case of board outage or some other emergency email stories to- myscreename@midsouth.rr.com

Judge-Free commentary thread



*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 - Carpedavid vs Piratecat - Judgement

2 Pictures - Francisca vs BardStephenFox - Judgement

3 Pictures - Berandor vs MarauderX - Judgement

4 Pictures - Macbeth vs Morpheus - Judgement

5 Pictures - Orchid Blossom vs Fieari - Judgement

6 Pictures - Taladas vs Graywolf-ELM - Judgement

7 Pictures - RPGgirl vs Yanggnome - Judgement

8 Pictures - Noskov vs Rodrigo Istalindir - Judgement



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

1 Pictures - CarpeDavid vs BardStephenFox - Judgement

2 Pictures - Berandor vs Macbeth - Judgment

3 Pictures - Orchid Blossom vs Graywolf-ELM - Judgement

4 Pictures - RPGgirl vs Rodrigo Istalindir - Judgement 



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

1 Pictures - Carpe David vs Berandor - Judgment

2 Pictures - Orchid Blossom vs Rodrigo Istilandir - Judgement



*Final (Winners of Third Round competition)*

Pictures - Berandor vs Orchid Blossom



*Related Links:*

Subject to thread pruning/archiving

Previous Ceramic DM Contests

Ceramic DM - December 2002 (Won by Mirth)

Ceramic DM - January 2003 (Won by Mirth)

Ceramic DM - March 2003 (Won by Speaker)

Ceramic DM - April 2003 (Won by Barsoomcore)

Ceramic DM - June 2003 (Won by Nooneofconsequence)

Ceramic DM - August 2003 (Spycraft & Modern themed)

Ceramic DM - October 2003 (Won by Mythago)

Ceramic DM - January 2004 (Won by Sialia)

Ceramic DM - April 2004 (Won by Mythago)



Ceramic DM Inspired stories without the time limits.

Ceramic DM, the home version

Kiln-Fired Ceramic DM


----------



## carpedavid (Jun 24, 2004)

alsih2o said:
			
		

> Here is the first round breakdown, pairs are in order of sign-up-
> 
> Carpe david vs.
> Piratecat



Oh bloody hell...

Er, I mean... <smacktalk>Yer goin' down, kitty!</smacktalk>.


----------



## BSF (Jun 24, 2004)

Okey Dokey!  

Up against Francisca eh?  What can I say?  My opponent is nothing more than a hatchet job.  

*ducks*


----------



## alsih2o (Jun 24, 2004)

Round 1 Match 1- Berandor vs. MarauderX

 4 pictures, 72 hours, 5000 word limit.


----------



## Berandor (Jun 24, 2004)

*looks at "coolcar.jpg"*

There goes my medieval fantasy story.

*looks at "blackhole.jpg"*

There goes my brain

Just kidding. My brain was gone before 

ETA: I just remembered something I wasn't too clear about last time. We are allowed to regard black/white pictures as happening in reality (i.e., in color), or to treat a painting as if it was a real scene, aren't we?


----------



## Macbeth (Jun 24, 2004)

Ready and waiting. I'm about to make Mopheus's life a nightmare.


----------



## alsih2o (Jun 24, 2004)

Round 1 Match 2- Macbeth vs. Morpheus

 4 pictures, 72 hours, 5000 word limit.


----------



## alsih2o (Jun 24, 2004)

Round 1 Match 2- Carpe David vs. Piratecat

4 pictures, 72 hours, 5000 word limit.


----------



## Morpheus (Jun 24, 2004)

Macbeth said:
			
		

> Ready and waiting. I'm about to make Mopheus's life a nightmare.




Bring it...


----------



## Piratecat (Jun 24, 2004)

Well, I immediately had a perfect story for Round 1 Match 1. Unfortunately, I'm in Round 1 Match 3.  

Good photos! This is going to be fun.


----------



## Macbeth (Jun 24, 2004)

Wow. The first few minutes after getting the pics is always... mindbending.


----------



## Sialia (Jun 24, 2004)

whoa.  I know I've been out of it for a bit, but boy was I surprised to see this up today--and exicted to see what comes this time around.


Was there chatter before this thread that I missed?  I had no idea the competition was starting . . .. 
Best luck to all of you.  

Give me stories!!


----------



## alsih2o (Jun 24, 2004)

Sialia said:
			
		

> whoa.  I know I've been out of it for a bit, but boy was I surprised to see this up today--and exicted to see what comes this time around.
> 
> 
> Was there chatter before this thread that I missed?  I had no idea the competition was starting . . ..
> ...




 You are involved whether you know it or not, round 2 will be Siala-art rich


----------



## carpedavid (Jun 24, 2004)

<smacktalk>With pen as my sword and paper as my shield, I hastily march to the field of literary battle. As I prepare for the exchange of words and wit, I feel naught but sorrow for my foe, for it is with his blood that I shall wet my quill. The storms of sound rain metaphor and symbolism across the verdant field, filling my soul with joy. Woe be to Piratecat, for the hour of his doom draws nigh.</smacktalk>Or more appropriately - Eeep! Good luck PC!


----------



## barsoomcore (Jun 24, 2004)

Whoa. Now THEM'S fighting words.

Speaking as a judge, I approve of gratuitous smack-talk. Keep it up, folks, and lay it down.


----------



## Piratecat (Jun 24, 2004)

carpedavid said:
			
		

> <smacktalk>Woe be to Piratecat, for the hour of his doom draws nigh.</smacktalk>




If "carpe diem" means "seize the day," then carpedavid must mean... hmmm... 
 if I seize him, and then move that grapple into a stranglehold... this is worth some consideration.  Heh heh.

I'm off and running! Good luck, and have fun with this -- I know I am.


----------



## Taladas (Jun 24, 2004)

I'm ready for my close up, Mr. Clay. (leers bizarrely, while doing some strange, arthritic, dracula thing with his hands)


----------



## barsoomcore (Jun 24, 2004)

Piratecat said:
			
		

> if I seize him, and then move that grapple into a stranglehold... this is worth some consideration.



Don't forget, he's already got his quill out, so he gets an attack of opportunity as you move into his square.

Just trying to keep things bloody as heck.


----------



## Piratecat (Jun 24, 2004)

barsoomcore said:
			
		

> Don't forget, he's already got his quill out...




Oh, that's his _quill_? I _thought_ it looked larger than I expected.  

_*whistles innocently as he strolls away*_


----------



## arwink (Jun 25, 2004)

carpedavid said:
			
		

> <smacktalk>With pen as my sword and paper as my shield, I hastily march to the field of literary battle. As I prepare for the exchange of words and wit, I feel naught but sorrow for my foe, for it is with his blood that I shall wet my quill. The storms of sound rain metaphor and symbolism across the verdant field, filling my soul with joy. Woe be to Piratecat, for the hour of his doom draws nigh.</smacktalk>Or more appropriately - Eeep! Good luck PC!




No, dude, you need to smacktalk in rhyme 

Here:

With pen as my sword and paper as my sheild
standing fast on the bloody lit battlefield
with words, ready will and a rapier wit
For my foe, feel sorrow, should he fail to quit
I shall write with his blood, wet on my quill
His defeat, I admit, gives my soul a thrill
Amid the storming words, the pouring rain of metaphor
across the verdant fields of symbolism I do adore
Woe be to Piratecat, his doom draws nigh
For I'm here, no fear, to cause his death sigh
This smacktalk is coming, my muse is kicking
The piratecat is doomed, he's gonna take a licking.


----------



## yangnome (Jun 25, 2004)

arwink said:
			
		

> Friday next week would be the preference.  Any time before then, and I'm going to be borrowing other people's computers to check the boards.




Oh, I forgot to add, I wouldn't want to see you bleeding on someone else's keyboard


----------



## arwink (Jun 25, 2004)

yangnome said:
			
		

> I'm a guy (though there is only one 'g' in my name.  Yes, next Thursday is fine.  Let's shoot for 8:55PM your time, if that is OK with you and Arwink.  That will put it right around the time my wife and daughter are going to bed...




Yep, works for me.


----------



## Maldur (Jun 25, 2004)

I am very dissappointed I am not even warned of this, I might have wanted to judge!


----------



## alsih2o (Jun 25, 2004)

Bsf Vs franscisca monday morning-done


----------



## Graywolf-ELM (Jun 25, 2004)

Most any day will work for me.  All my writing time will be after the kids get to bed anyway.  Anywhere from Saturday on.

GW


----------



## Taladas (Jun 25, 2004)

Ready any time that you want schedule Greywolf’s and my match up. It ought to be fun.


----------



## Rodrigo Istalindir (Jun 25, 2004)

alsih2o said:
			
		

> It appears I only responded mentally.
> 
> Saturday night, after my game, possibly very late. Does that work? if not I can work with you.
> 
> (For now.. Mwu Ha Ha Ha!)




If Sunday morning makes it easier for you  and Zhaneel, we can start then, too.


----------



## Delgar (Jun 25, 2004)

Any chance of getting put on the alternate list?

Delgar


----------



## alsih2o (Jun 25, 2004)

Delgar said:
			
		

> Any chance of getting put on the alternate list?
> 
> Delgar




 done.

 We are giving it a day or two before starting more as to give the judges some breathing space. All should be up by next thursday night 

 Has anyone seen fieari since sign up?

 Zhaneel- our poster is in Central time zone.


----------



## Zhaneel (Jun 25, 2004)

alsih2o said:
			
		

> Zhaneel- our poster is in Central time zone.




Okay, then Sunday morning would work best.  That way I don't worry about what time Tuesday night to get it in.

Zhaneel


----------



## Kaleon Moonshae (Jun 25, 2004)

Hey all

I would love to get in on the next ceramic DM matchup, sounds like a good way to prove my worth to the boards Bout how often do you have these happen?

my three cents, I thought harder this time.


----------



## alsih2o (Jun 25, 2004)

Kaleon Moonshae said:
			
		

> Hey all
> 
> I would love to get in on the next ceramic DM matchup, sounds like a good way to prove my worth to the boards Bout how often do you have these happen?
> 
> my three cents, I thought harder this time.




They are seasonal. Picture picker and judges vary, within a loose core. Play a lot- you are in the core, win and you are core. 

 But it is all friendly like.


----------



## Kaleon Moonshae (Jun 25, 2004)

alsih2o said:
			
		

> They are seasonal. Picture picker and judges vary, within a loose core. Play a lot- you are in the core, win and you are core.
> 
> But it is all friendly like.




Sounds great, I miss having writing projects, one of the things about college I liked. It keeps me from being lazy and not doing anything, lol. I will keep my eyes open for the next one.


----------



## Zhaneel (Jun 25, 2004)

The thread this time filled up within 24 hours of posting.  Ya gotta be quick.

Look for one in the fall, and read this one while you are here so you can get an idea.

Zhaneel


----------



## alsih2o (Jun 25, 2004)

Kaleon Moonshae said:
			
		

> Sounds great, I miss having writing projects, one of the things about college I liked. It keeps me from being lazy and not doing anything, lol. I will keep my eyes open for the next one.




 I believe an Iron DM is set to begin soon. It is the precursor to Ceramic DM, you are given concepts instead of pictures and the judging can be a little more harsh. 

 But it is the original, and is quite a challenge.


----------



## Kaleon Moonshae (Jun 25, 2004)

See, the sad thing is, I saw the thread a while back and was curious but I resisted the temptation to sate that curiosity and take a look until today. I think the term is I snoozed. Will keep an eye out for the Iron DM too, thanks.


----------



## BSF (Jun 25, 2004)

If you are looking for interim writing projects, I suggest that you might be interested in the Kiln-Fired Ceramic DM thread as well.  Stories without the timeframe, or polished stories after the tourney.


----------



## Fieari (Jun 26, 2004)

Checking in.  I could do tommorow (Saturday)... not sunday, but probably monday.


----------



## orchid blossom (Jun 26, 2004)

Fieari said:
			
		

> Checking in.  I could do tommorow (Saturday)... not sunday, but probably monday.




Whatever works for you, works for me.  I would consider it a bonus to get a weekend day in there, but it's not essential.


----------



## Piratecat (Jun 26, 2004)

If the judges want, a moderator can delete the scheduling posts later when everything is worked out. 

Since I won't be home for most of the evening, I'm going to post my entry for Match 3 now. The original photos are here.  Carpedavid, no peeking!


----------



## Piratecat (Jun 26, 2004)

*Summer 2004 Ceramic DM
Round 1, Match 3 – Carpedavid vs. Piratecat*


*The Arranger*

He looked at me with worried, watery eyes. “Snulap Kpog?”  He blinked rapidly as flashbulbs went off behind us. “Nick, why am I paying you for Snulap Kpog?”

I slapped him on the back and put a companionable arm around his slumped shoulders. “You’re not, Ben. You’re paying me for a million dollar multiple entry advertising campaign that’s going to win awards and _catapult_ your company into the Fortune 500.” My voice caught fire with infectious enthusiasm, and I gestured emphatically towards our young models. “You’re paying me to gain you customers as you expand your business into Russia. This is what I’m good at. I’m an expert at branding, as you should damn well know from all the catchy marketing jingles I’ve written for you. Trust me, Ben, people will notice Snulap Kpogyk clothing – you’ll see that extra ‘yk’ at the end of the word  once the front two cheerleaders turn towards us – and they’ll each want their own wardrobe of Americana, a little piece of neo-retro sensibility that assuredly won’t come cheap. They’ll each want to wear a little piece of _you._ And they’ll pay you handsomely for that privilege.”

More blinking. “If you’re sure...?” he asked doubtfully over the delighted laughter of the imported Russian models. They were trying to sing one of my advertising jingles in English, the little minxes, and they were making quite a hash of it. “It is an awful lot of money, and we spoke about the risk, and the company has never. . .”

“Ben.” My voice was firm, reassuring. I could almost see Ben’s spine straighten and his shoulders square as he regained his slipping confidence. “I wouldn’t steer you wrong, because _I’m_ never wrong. The point is that right now ‘Snulap Kpogyk’ doesn’t mean _anything_ in Moscow. It’s a symbolic blank, baby, an empty set, a cipher. With these cheerleaders and these ads, that’s about to change forever. Three months from now it’s going to mean ‘the hottest trend in foreign clothing.’ You’re going to _define_ Russian fashion, my friend. You’ll see. You’ll be more successful than you ever dreamed possible.”  I lit a good cigar for him with a flick of my lighter, turned back to the girls and the cameras, and smiled widely in satisfaction. I liked my job.

That night I stood alone on my balcony looking down towards the lights of Los Angeles, two of the Russian girls asleep in the bedroom behind me. I was naked under my light robe and I shivered in the sea breeze. Southern California just wasn’t as warm as I’d really like it to be, and I’d had to kindle a blaze in the tiny gas fireplace in my penthouse. The result was fundamentally unsatisfying. I took a sip of my drink, and savored the taste of the bitter gin. Not bad, I thought. Out came the cell phone.

 “Snulap, my dearest friend,” I said in flawless Russian into the receiver and up into a satellite and eventually down into the ear of a part-time mobster some six thousand miles away. He sounded closer than that. “Go make a bet with your drinking partners. I’ve done my part. Pretty soon everyone in Russia will be seeing your name, and you’re going to be famous. You’ll just need to sit back and enjoy it.” I listened for a minute. “Exactly. The payment will be as we agreed?” The heavy, disbelieving voice crackled across the miles. “I’m sure you will. Snulap Kpogyk, no one in Russia is ever going to forget your name again, just like you asked. I’m an expert at this sort of thing. Wait and see.”

I sat in the dark for a long time that night, listening to the wind and thinking about myself.

What I am is an arranger. I make things happen. You want to be seen with Michael Jackson or the Olsen twins? I’d arrange it. You want to be _ with_ Michael Jackson and the Olsen twins? That’s a lot tougher. But I could work miracles when I put my mind to it, just like I’d gotten Ben’s crappy little clothing company out of a hole-in-the-wall in New York City and catapulted them straight into the international fashion circuit.  Like Ben and Snulap, I tried to let my clients quietly help one another.  I’d done dozens of similar jobs, hundreds, and the challenge made every day a delight. I worked solely by word of mouth, only helping those who’d ask me to, but I kept quite busy. Lots of irons in the fire. Customers were seldom left wanting, even with the high prices I was able to command. I tried to live up to my reputation. So I was more than a little put out when eight months later, Snulap informed me that he wanted to renegotiate.

Renegotiate? To hell with that. Renegotiation wasn’t how I did business.

This required personal attention, so I postponed my little pal Macaulay’s comeback and flew out to Russia myself. The trip was a bore. I personally knew which of my colleagues had designed most of Russia’s transit systems, and he was prominent in my thoughts as I spent hours chasing my own tail and waiting for flights that never arrived. America’s not really any better, truth be told, but at least the terminal facilities have been upgraded a bit. I whiled away the hours with some idle conversation about religion, some petty gambling, sketching out a few new ‘environmental’ bills for a political client of mine, and teaching some young passengers a new trick. One of them was even wearing a Snulap Kpogyk dress; very fashionable, I thought.  Whether you’re teaching a new language or a new hobby, kids learn best when they’re young, and it’s always delightful seeing the fresh innocence of youth embrace your lessons.

I finally caught up with Snulap Kpogyk in the Russian city of Rybinsk, perched on the edge of the sea. When I did, he didn’t seem at all pleased to see me. Ingrate. I was splayed lazily across his living room sofa when he came home late from the theater. It was near midnight, and greasy rain pounded down in the darkness outside.  Droplets still pattered off of his stained raincoat as the stale smell of cheap cigarettes reached my nose.  “Your phone has rung seventeen different times,” I told him matter-of-factly. “You’re a popular guy. You should buy an answering machine.”

“How did you get in here?” he blustered, dark eyes bulging slightly. “The door was locked!” I made a dismissive gesture. His heavy brow furrowed. “Of course the phone has rung seventeen times, you American bastard. It never stops. Never. Always different people. I have unlisted my number, and still it rings. I have unplugged the phone from the wall, and still it rings! Make it stop!”  As if on cue, the phone began to ring. He picked it up and flung it across the room into a hallway. It kept ringing.

I clucked my tongue, something that I’m exceptionally good at. It’s the physiology, of course. “You’re famous, Snulap. People want to talk to you. People want to be near you.”

“I’m not the one who’s famous!” he bellowed as he wheeled around the room. “That clothing is! It’s ruined my life, and I don’t get one kopek from it!”

I cocked my head and did a pretty fair imitation of what he first told me nine months before. “I want my name to be on everyone’s tongue,” I mimicked, and Snulap’s face went first white and then a fiery, dangerous red. I liked the look.  “C’mon, man. It’s not like arranging this was easy. And you’re not even wearing the clothes!”

“You. . .” He sounded strangled. “Get. . . get out!  I’m not going to pay you for having ruined my privacy, ruined my marriage!”

“Sure you will,” I said easily as I swung myself up off the couch. “I did what you asked, Snulap. It’s pretty straightforward. The fact that you regret your request...” I saw that he was about to explode. His fists were clenching, the knuckles white. “Tell you what, we’ll sleep on it. Let’s talk tomorrow. I’m staying in a boarding house down the street, so we can have lunch together.” I chucked him lightly on the shoulder with my fist as I headed out the door. “Looking forward to it, my friend!” Then he was standing mutely behind me, swaying slightly, and I was past him down the stairs and out into the rain. The downpour hissed as it hammered into me in silvery sheets.

“Excuse me?” asked a bedraggled group of teenagers who obviously didn’t have enough sense to get inside out of the rain. “Does Snulap Kpogyk really live here? The famous one?”

“He sure does, sweetie,” I said with a smile as I held the door open for them. “Third floor front. Head on up.” When I left to walk down the street, one of them was holding the door while the other was calling her friends to tell them the good news. Ah, sweet celebrity.

It was just after three in the morning when they jumped me. I was sound asleep at the time. Before I knew it I was hogtied with my head in a rancid gunny sack. They thrust me onto the floor of an ancient sedan, and someone kept a gun barrel pressed into my spine during the short trip. The blows to the head hurt. The blows to the groin hurt more. I could feel a rib grate every time I breathed, and I was pretty sure they’d broken my tailbone. Apparently, Snulap wasn’t so famous that he had given up all of his old mobster friends. It’s nice to see people stick to their roots.

I was dragged into a dry and dusty basement before they pulled the hood off of my head. Snulap’s paunchy face was the first thing I saw. “Bastard,” he spit. He turned to the others and grunted. “Get him down on the table.”  As the three hooligans manhandled me onto a tilted operating table, I recognized the designer clothing brand on one of them.

“Hey, I like your shirt.”

“Shut up!” Snulap roared, hitting me again. He opened a drawer and displayed a transparent mask hand-decorated in the cheery colors of the local hockey team. http://www.enworld.org/forums/attachment.php?attachmentid=14749]Someone clearly had a sense of humor[/url], but I still noticed flecks of residual blood around its perimeter. Snulap held the mask up in front of his coarse features and grinned dangerously.

I looked at him dyspeptically. “You need a good dentist,” I suggested, and was rewarded for my comment by a blow to the nose. He shoved the transparent mask onto my own face with one hand and leaned forward to hold my head flat against the table. I smelled old blood, the familiar tang of sweat and fear. His cohorts silently bolted down the edges of the mask, and just like that I was pinned like an insect to the table. Then my wrists and ankles were shackled, the hired muscle left the room, and my client leaned over me once again. He tried an entertaining conversational gambit.

“Your body will wriggle but your head will stay put within that mask, and you will scream and scream and scream.”

I just looked at him patiently and whistled the theme to “Cheers.” He didn’t get it, and his eyes were hard.

 “My wife has left me, Nick, telling me she can not be married to someone as famous as me when she is just a nothing. Now she lays with another man instead. My job fired me for being distracting, and no one else will hire me because they think I am too rich and famous – not even that damned American clothing company, who is suing me because they claim I stole their name!  My life has fallen apart since we made our deal. Fame is not what I thought it would be.”

I couldn’t help smiling. “It never is. I was a little surprised when you hired me for it, to tell you the truth, but I relish a challenge.”

A vein began to pulse in Snulap’s forehead. He probably wasn’t used to people who weren’t scared of him. His voice was a low growl. “You are going to undo whatever it is you have done to me. If you won’t undo it, I will torture and kill you. If you can’t undo it, I will torture and kill you. Since you won’t be moving your head, I’ll start by putting out your eyes one by one. Then I’ll move on to your tongue. I’m sure,” and he took a shudderingly deep breath, “that you’d much rather renegotiate our deal?”

“Sorry,” I said jauntily, “no can do. You and I made a contract that I lived up to, Snulap. Now you owe me payment. It’s very simple. I think it’s also worth noting that killing me _isn’t_ part of that payment.” I winked. “If you didn’t like your name being famous, why didn’t you just change your name?”

“I tried!” Snulap bellowed, slamming one fist into the nearby wall. “Time after time! And every time they lost the paperwork. One time the whole office burned to the ground. It’s as if someone is sabotaging me. As if I’m not allowed to!”  He wasn’t, of course; that was part of the fine print. But I wasn’t going to remind him of that.

“Are you _sure_ you want to kill me?” I asked teasingly. “I’m not anonymous or unknown, you know. I’m Carrot Top’s agent.  I arranged for Microsoft’s Clippy, the Office Assistant. I’m very involved with email mass marketing. You can’t expect to simply make me disappear.”

 He looked baffled. “Who. . what?”

I moved on with a shake of my head. “Never mind. My point is that killing me will have consequences. You really, really don’t want to face those consequences. If you hurt me again, I’m going to officially hold you in breach of our contract. I doubt you remember the details, but you aren’t going to like the result.”

“You can’t threaten me,” he blustered, ignoring the obvious fact that in my own way I _was_ threatening him. “You’re my prisoner! I’m the one in control!”

“Of course you are,” I said in a placating tone. I rolled my eyes under the bolted down mask. “Look, Snulap, I arranged for cheerleaders to spell out your name on billboards and television across Russia. Your name is in magazines, in newspapers, and plastered across a hundred thousand peoples’ bodies. It’s tough luck you don’t like it, but that’s what you asked for.” My tone was brisk. “Now then. I’ve got an appointment in New York tomorrow that I’d rather not reschedule. You need to settle your account with me, my friend, because I’m not reversing _anything_.”  

I was looking into his eyes as he finally snapped. He made an inarticulate noise. Both of his huge hands locked on my exposed throat underneath that mask, and I felt him squeeze.  The windpipe went first, then the neck itself gave way. I felt everything. He was shaking me at this point, almost ripping my head from my shoulders in his fury. It hurt quite a bit. Amateur.

Well, there went _that_ body, damn it. It would take me some time before I could arrange to rebuild more flesh by myself. With a squelch, I sat up and left the meatsuit behind. 

Snulap gagged from the sudden burst of brimstone in the air. “Is it my breath?” I asked sympathetically. The air felt frigid. My hooves ignited the floorboards, which helped a little, and then I had the forked tip of my tail under Snulap’s throat as I stalked towards him and he backed away while gibbering in pure terror. “Our contract is terminated, Snulap Kpogyk,” I rasped in my most businesslike tones. “Pay up.”

He ran. I chased him, just slowly enough to let him think he had a chance.

The city of Rybinsk overlooks the sea. It was just after dawn when he finally collapsed on one of its beaches, winded and quivering with fear. “Ppppplease,” he pleaded. The surf hissed around my hooves as I stood over him and shook my head. 

“Some humans are _so_ impatient, Snulap. I was on your side, pal! You were a client. Another two weeks and everything was scheduled to turn around for you. You would have had fame, money, sex, and another thirty seven years of life before I showed up to bring your soul down to my boss. By then you’d be a happy and degenerate old crank, and probably Premier of all of Russia; you certainly had the name recognition. Too bad you decided to squander it.”  

He looked up at me, horrified. “Wwwhy didn’t you tell me?” he stuttered in disbelief. “That’s. . .”

“Evil?” I finished for him. “Yeah, there’s a shocker for you.”  I idly tapped one long nail on my goateed chin as I considered him. “Who was responsible for that mask?” I was actually curious. “Nice touch, that.” He just whimpered, and time was fleeting. I sighed and used two fingers to pick him up by the throat.

“A shame about my old body. I’ll need to eventually reshape your face into something a bit more attractive.” I ran a claw down his ribcage with a sound like a screaming zipper, and nearby gulls took to the air in panic. I breathed into the chest cavity and quickly scooped the steaming gray innards out onto the http://www.enworld.org/forums/attachment.php?attachmentid=14748]glistening sand[/url]. “You won’t be needing these, my friend,” I murmured in his ear as I plucked out his soul and stepped inside his empty flesh. It was the dawn of a glorious new day, and a world of opportunities lay open before me. My, I _do_ love my job. Experiences like this just remind me how much. “Bye bye. Have a nice trip, and tell everyone down there I say hello.”

I cast him out. The echo faded after a time, but the gulls just wouldn’t come back.

Now alone on the beach, I looked down at my new self. I still had a plane flight to arrange but first things first; the clothes I had on were irrevocably torn and stained. That was easily remedied, of course. If I had to pick up new clothes, I knew _just_ the brand. . . and I already liked their advertising. It suited me.

I strolled off down the beach to arrange for some shopping.

-- End --


----------



## Piratecat (Jun 26, 2004)

Darn it! That'll teach me to cut and paste from Word. The first bad link should be "Someone clearly had a sense of humor, but..."  The second bad link should be "onto the glistening sand."  Sorry about that; I'm not sure what happened, but I'm not about to edit my entry to find out.


----------



## alsih2o (Jun 26, 2004)

Piratecat said:
			
		

> If the judges want, a moderator can delete the scheduling posts later when everything is worked out.
> 
> Since I won't be home for most of the evening, I'm going to post my entry for Match 3 now. The original photos are here.  Carpedavid, no peeking!




 If you did that I might just start liking you again.


----------



## Fieari (Jun 26, 2004)

Oops, I'd kinda been hoping I would see pictures posted today.  Err... I'm ready any time now, really.  I mean, I won't have much time tommorow, but what with three days being available and all, you can go ahead and start it.

Unless it's not me that's the hang up, in which case... well, I'll still be waiting.


----------



## alsih2o (Jun 26, 2004)

Round 1 Match 4

Fieari Vs Orchid blossom

 4 pics, 72 hours, 5000 word limit.


----------



## alsih2o (Jun 26, 2004)

I miseread one there, sorry Fieari and OC, pics for you


----------



## orchid blossom (Jun 26, 2004)

Ummm, ouch?  This should be interesting.

I take it you meant 5,000 words?  Otherwise you're getting poetry.


----------



## Ao the Overkitty (Jun 26, 2004)

Clay, you are an evil, evil man.  How are those pictures going to go together at all....

Good luck, you poor, poor competitors.


----------



## alsih2o (Jun 26, 2004)

orchid blossom said:
			
		

> Ummm, ouch?  This should be interesting.
> 
> I take it you meant 5,000 words?  Otherwise you're getting poetry.




Yes. Pardon me today, please. I started my day with a broken waterline in the backyard and have not recovered from the "fun" yet.


----------



## orchid blossom (Jun 26, 2004)

Ants in the AC, broken waterlines....  You have the worst luck.  When does the plague of locusts arrive?


----------



## Macbeth (Jun 26, 2004)

Whew. Got my first draft done, and I still have over 12 hours... That was fun. Now to see how much I can improve it.


----------



## Macbeth (Jun 27, 2004)

_Round 1, Match 2, Macbeth vs. Morpheus_
*Art Memoir*
_by Sage “Macbeth” LaTorra_




I'm sorry. If your reading this, stop. It isn't worth your time. These are my confessions. These are my wrong doings. This is why, in about 15 minutes, there's going to be a police standoff outside of my house. And more then likely, I'll get shot. It's what I deserve.


I'm not crazy. Not most of the time. I think. 

They say that if you're sane enough to wonder if you're insane, you're not insane. Sometimes I wonder about that. Seems that I might be wondering if I'm insane just to cover up my insanity. To convince myself that I'm alright. But I'm not. The circular logic of sanity.

Crazy people are always charismatic in some odd, fascinating way. I'm crazy. I'm charismatic. There's always somebody looking for an original idea, and who has more original ideas than an insane artist? So there's always somebody to follow an insane artist, somewhere.

Yes, I'm an artist. Some would say that's my problem, some would say that's why I'm insane. I think that's why I'm sane. If I didn't let the insanity dribble out into my art I would be even crazier. Of course I lived in San Francisco. Where else could I get away with living like this?

Sanity goes with insanity. Insanity goes with art. Art goes with religion. And so I'm religious. Not in any specific Pope-Dalai-Lama-Anton-Levay way, just generally religious. And that was the start of it all.

Art attracts followers. Followers spark art. My art attracts followers, and my followers spark my sin. 

Maybe it was the type of art I created. My first work was meant to inflame. I didn't really care what it meant, I just wanted to see the right wing reaction when I made art out of a dead human body or two. And just because I didn't care what it meant, it meant too much. 
I robbed graves. I had to have my materials. I had to have two hands. They couldn't be fake hands, then nobody would care. So I had my real hands, and I set them in a jar, touching, like the Sistine Chapel Ceiling, with some water for effect(1). It was my connection to god, or something. It was also a set of human body parts. Every critic saw some larger statement in it, some symbolism, some meaning. Everybody thought I saw god's touch pulling us out of the water, or the creation of man, or the destruction of religion. I actually saw a pair of human hands I dug out of cheap, shallow graves. I reveled in the uproar when it went on display.

Instantly I had a following. People recognized me in the streets, spit on me or smiled at me, despised or delighted. Everybody knew me, arts students flocked to offer to help me. And so I had a following.

It was more then just a following, it was a lifestyle. We had a deserted house to live in. It belonged to one of the nameless artists who started worshiping me, and we all lived there. We were communists, but not in the Lenin-Stalin-Marx way, we just didn't have property.  And so we created art, trying to be insulting. We broke more laws then I had thought possible. We consumed more drugs then I had thought possible. Our kitchen looked like the trunk of that car in that movie, or like the car in that movie times ten. Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas. That's it.


Everybody found us objectionable. The free speech people were even starting to turn on us. We were becoming more and more sane as the art poured out, and we started to realize our mistake. We had lost our edge. We weren't novel anymore, we weren't the best new thing. But that was going to change.

I addressed my army of artists, my vanguard of violence, from the stairs in our deserted house. Even with us in it, it was still deserted. It was time for me to give us a new direction.

“Shut up.” The room became still. They knew this was big. “America loves the next big thing. It's never what is now, it's what is next. And, folks, we're no longer next. We're now, and now is gone. Dismembered hands, feces, vomit, perversions, intestines, bodies, torture, this is no longer art. That was today's art. Tomorrow's art has to be bigger. We made a stir with what we did before, now we make a difference. We're going to remake the world in our image.” And it was good.


Like I said, I'm religious. I'm sane enough to worry that I'm insane. But our art was god-given. And we were going to do more this time. This time we had god on our side.
I started carrying around a Bible at all times. Then I started carrying a Quran also. And a Book of Common Prayer, and on and on. Soon I was carrying a backpack full of books, but always with a Bible in my hand. I started going out more, always with my books, and I promoted our art. I hinted at what we were doing. But nobody caught on. Ignorance and Bliss in Las Vegas.

I started giving orders, in a general way, not Patton-Hitler-Moses commands, but more suggestions. And, being that I was the now anti-Christ of art, my helpers did what I asked. We started the greatest art project in the world. 

Art always had the potential to change the world, but we were going to take that potential and use it.


The first step was the boat. It had to be big. It had to be bigger. It had to be the kind of boat only a mountain could support. So we set about attaching every half worm-eaten board we could together, around the hull of an old house boat. All told it ended up being 450 feet long, 75 feet wide and 45 feet high. A ship of epic proportions. Biblical proportions. 

We didn't know how to make a ship. It was just a collection of wood, coated inside and out with pitch, barely water tight, with an old houseboat lost somewhere in it's bowels. But we thought it would float. It might have been the drugs, but we thought it would float. Hope and Drugs in Las Vegas.

We were alone for blocks. Our deserted house was part of a deserted neighborhood, and even with us there, it was still deserted. Nobody noticed a huge ship behind an old, pseudo-Victorian imitation mansion. It was going to be art. I was going to be an artist.


Art has always been associated with god. A god. Or two. But always with the divine. God created the Earth, and man, and water, and animals, and (in a move so politically incorrect I have to admire it) last of all, women, from man. And so we create. We were created, so we create. This may be why so many people don't like evolution: if we weren't created, why do we create? “We evolved, so we evolve” just isn't the same. 

And so I decided, if I was to be the artist of tomorrow, I would imitate god. A god. Maybe two gods. Cleanliness is next to godliness, but creativity is godliness.


The hardest part was the animals. Usually, I don't work with live animals. I do still life, and a living animal is not still. A dead animal, however, is. All of my art so far had involved dead animals. Especially a rather unusual ape that I like to use in art called Homo Sapien. Man the Wise. Know thyself.

But any animal becomes easy to deal with when you pump it full of enough drugs, and drugs were one thing we had plenty of. Sanity was what we were short on. Dopamine and Dope in Las Vegas.

So we did what we could on the animal front. Over a year of animal based art had given us some experience in getting animals. From zoos. From pet shops. From backyards. From life.

One of my followers had been a vet before I seduced him through art. He drugged every animal we brought in. I personally watched him work. I had to see how it happened. It was art. Little pins, dipped in an appropriate mix of drugs, and stuck in the right spot, and a vivid, life-filled beast became a sack of flesh, barely moving.

The lizard always stuck with me. Most of the animals struggled, fought, resisted. The lizard just settled down and waited. The look in his eyes, the resignation that he couldn't win. I wondered if the lizard had stopped wondering if he was crazy. I think I had. I think I may have been like the lizard. I knew what was coming, so I didn't fight it. 


We had the boat (if you could call it that), we had the animals (though a couple died, we had only 13 left), it was time. Let there be art. And there was. And it was good.

Floods are universal. Almost every culture has a myth of a great flood, usually a flood to cleanse the world of evil. This is what triggered my art. In Egypt only a few shepherds escaped the flood. In Greece Deucalion built an ark. The Hindu Manu built an ark.  Fa-He, the founder of Chinese civilization, escaped a flood. Druids held that a great patriarch built a strong ship and escaped the flood. The Polynesians had a better survival rate, eight escaped. Mexico had a man and his family escape the flood. A Peruvian man and women floated the flood out in a  box. Native Americans had one, three, maybe even eight survive. Greenland explained the flood as the world tilting over, after which the one man and one women that survived repopulated the earth. With all these people floating around, you'd think they'd have run into each other sometime.

The implications are staggering. Either there really was a flood, with a boat surviving, or the myth started in some shared culture, or the flood is so inculcated into the human psyche that every culture created their own myth. Whatever the reason, it was a truly universal experience. And that made it mine. The only art I could be sure would reach everybody.

I would imitate God. A god. Maybe two gods. I would make the artistic statement to be remembered, one that was already remembered. Sin and Flood in Las Vegas.


We rigged bombs on the water mains. We loaded animals into the boat, which, amazingly, held together as all 13 animals got in. Now it was time.

The flood was to cleanse the world of wickedness, and the most of wicked of all were my followers. And I couldn't really bring all of them along, after all, this was supposed to be an exclusive voyage.

So I took them into the bake yard and gave them all Cyanide laced wine. The Last Supper of the Damned. Wine and Bread in Las Vegas.

But I couldn't let they're sacrifice be in vain. So they're art now. Before they died I had them each carve a mask of themselves. A self portrait of how the thought they looked. And now they look like it. One last piece of art before the big one, each mask stuck on the outside of the ship, with its maker's head stuck inside. The faces of God.

And just to be fair, I made a mask for the animals that died, both of them. They had died for our art, now they are art.

And my ship was ready to sail. The doors were shut, and the water mains burst, and it rained. The rain was what was unusual. This wasn't the time of year for rain, but it poured, pounded, and flooded. I don't know why it rained. Maybe a god was on my side after all. The waters increased.

I was standing on the deck, watching my art, when I noticed a wayward follower. One of my flock had not taken his wine. He was standing next to a pay phone, shoulders deep in water, making a call. I'll always remember the look on his face. The look on the lizard's face. The question of sanity. He was calling the cops.


And now they're on they're way. They'll be here soon. They'll find me. Maybe I'll be dead. I don't want to confront them. But it's over now, I can see the rainbow, the promise. They'll find our art, the masks, the heads, the holy books with each page with a  square cut into the middle, to create an empty, concealed space, where I could keep my drugs. Each holy book concealing a stash. My Bible is not filled with stories of the patriarchs, of Jesus and the disciples, it is a repository of weed, speed, and dope. Dopamine and Dismay in Las Vegas.







Picture Usage:
(1) The narrator's first art, a pair of severed human hands in a glass.
(2) The druged lizard with his resigned gaze.
(3) Masks of the narrator's followers on the side of the ark, with their heads behind.
(4) One of the followers calling the police, looking at the narrator with the same gaze as the lizard.


----------



## Morpheus (Jun 27, 2004)

*Summer Ceramic DM 2004  Round 1, Match 2  MacBeth vs. Morpheus*

The Third Degree by Morpheus

				  Delta Green Eyes Only
  		                            <<< Top Secret>>>

				  USS Blue Ridge (LCC-19)
				  Yokosuka Navy Base, Japan

        Subject: Debriefing record of sole survivor of Timanii raid in Hong Kong 

	1. What follows is a transcription of the debriefing of Corporal John West, USMC
                 by Commander Eric C. Walters, USN of the events of 23-24May04 at the
                 Timanii building in Hong Kong.
	2. Op Dead Zone was an investigation by the NCIS to find a heroin smuggling 
                 ring that was using US tourists in Hong Kong.
	3. Op Dead Zone had been ongoing for 5 months when a tip was received that
 	     the main distribution center was located in the Timanii office building. The
	     following day, surveillance of the building noted a large number of armed
	     persons.
	4. On 23May04 at 2350 hrs, Lt. Barton Jones and his Force Recon platoon entered
	     the building and began a systematic search. Approximately 0005 on 24May04,
                 the building caught on fire. All lives were lost except for Corporal West.
	5. This interview is to record the sequence of events and to determine if further
                 action is necessary.


								Eric C. Walters
								Commander, USN
								NCIS


  The door to the cabin opened and a corpsman pushed a man in a wheelchair in. An IV bag was attached to the wheelchair and it looked like it had just been started. The corpsman set the wheelchair in front of the desk and then left, closing the door behind him.
  The man in the wheelchair looked to be about in his mid-40s and seemed to have an unfocused look about him. Commander Walters had to check the file to make sure this was Corporal West. The picture matched, but Corporal West definitely did not look the same. The file said he was 21.

Walters: Corporal West, my name is Commander Walters and I’m going to ask you some questions about the events on the 23rd and 24th of May. Do you remember the events leading up to the raid on the Timanii building?

  West’s eyes, which were unfocused and looking somewhere behind Walters’ desk, suddenly became clear at the mention of the Timanii building. His breath became more labored, as he seemed to struggle to speak.

West: I…remember. Oh god, do I remember.

Walters: Take your time. I’m going to ask you some questions and I want you to give me your honest-to-god answers. No matter how crazy it may seem, everything you say will be held in the strictest of confidence.

  Walters looked into his briefcase and grabbed an unmarked folder that had a small green triangle in the upper left corner. He opened it up and took out 2 pictures. Pic1 Pic2 There was no need to show the pictures to West.

Walters: Corporal, what can you tell me about the events on the 23rd of May when you were briefed on your mission?

  West paused and seemed to search inward for some inner strength that would allow him to speak.

West: Well…I…don’t remember everything. I guess I was on the ‘Okie’ (Note: Corporal West was stationed aboard the USS Okinawa which was in Hong Kong at the time) when my platoon sergeant, ‘Gunny’ Thomas, told us we had a platoon meeting at 1600 hrs in the briefing room. Yeah, that’s when I found out. Lt. Smith told us that there was a situation in Hong Kong where some Americans were being held and since were we close by, we were going to rescue them. I thought, “Hot damn! Some real action!” If I knew then, what I know now…

Walters: So, Lt. Smith briefed you on the mission. What happened next?

West: Well, the platoon was dismissed except for the squad leaders who had to meet to come up with an OpPlan. We went back to our cabins pretty excited.

Walters: When did you find out about the OpPlan?

West: My squad leader, Sgt. Harris, briefed us at 1830. He said that 2 squads would enter the building and 1 squad would stay in reserve outside. My squad was one of the squads that would be going in. I remember being pretty stoked at the time.

  West sat for a bit, seemingly sorting out things in his mind. His eyes got glazed over as if he was struggling with a thought so terrible, he had to retreat within himself to avoid it.

Walters: What happened next?

West: Well, we were going to chopper out at 2330 hrs, so Sgt. Harris told us to get some shut-eye. I had trouble sleeping; I guess…it was because I was so excited. I had never been on a mission before. And there was the strange dream…

Walters: Strange dream? Tell me about it.

West: Not much to tell. I can’t really…remember it much. I think it was a wall. But the wall wasn’t made of wood or brick. It was made of…Jesus, this sounds stupid.

Walters: Please continue. Anything you say will be held in the strictest confidence.

West: Well, the wall was made up of…masks. You know, like the African tribal masks. Masks Dream and…and…one of the masks looked like…it was speaking…

Walters: Speaking? Do you know what it said? This could be very important.

West: I…I…don’t know. If I did know, I can’t remember now.

Walters: That’s ok, Corporal. Maybe it will come to you later. Let’s pick it up from when you left the Okinawa.

  The 3 UH-60 Blackhawks lifted off the deck of the USS Okinawa at precisely 2330 hours. The flight to the Timanii building was low. So low, that West thought they might crash into a boat or something. The mission called for 3rd squad to land about a block away on an abandoned warehouse and then make their way to the building and take up positions around the perimeter. The other 2 squads would fast rope down onto the roof and enter the building. Standard rules of engagement were in effect. No shooting unless shot at.
  The crew chief held up his finger.
  “One minute!”
  West tightened his grip on his M-16. He thought he was going to throw up. This is it, he thought; time to become a real Marine.
  The Blackhawk slowed to a hover and 4 ropes were pushed out. West stepped out and using his hands and feet, slid down the rope…

West: Ugghhh!

Walters: Corporal West, what is it? What happened?

West: I forgot to brake properly. I hit the roof too fast and twisted my ankle.

  West rolled onto his side, clutching his ankle.
  “West, are you alright? Can you walk?”
  “Yeah, I’ll try.”
  PFC Williams helped West up and he put some weight on the ankle. It hurt like hell, but there was no way he was going to fall out now.
  “I’m alright! Let’s go!”
  The roof of the 4-story building had various air-conditioning ducts and vents, but only one door. There were fire escapes on the north and south sides of the building. 1st squad would go down the south fire escape and 2nd squad would go through the door.

Walters: And you were in 2nd squad?

West: Yeah, that’s right. We were going through the door.

Walters: Was there any light?

West: Nope, not a single light. We just flipped on our NVGs and went in.

  Smith jerked the door open and Williams went in. West could hear his heart beating for what seemed like an eternity.
  “Clear!”
  West and the others hurried into the room, which was little more than a landing with steps leading down. Williams took the point followed by West and the others. It’s damn quiet, West thought, as the Marines made their way silently down the steps. They came to a landing with a door.
  Sgt. Harris motioned for Williams to open the door as the rest of the squad took up firing positions. Williams jerked the door open. Nothing. The squad entered and broke up into their fire teams.

Walters: So you found nothing on the 4th floor?

West: Not a damn thing. Not even furniture.

Walters: What about the 3rd floor?

West: The same. Nada. It didn’t even look like the building was occupied. That was, until we reached the 2nd floor.

  Williams opened the door and the stench hit them immediately. It reminded West of the time when he had gone hunting with his Dad and they came upon a dead deer that had been dead for weeks. Only this was a thousand times stronger.
  Williams and West were the first to enter. West, trying to breathe through his mouth, took the right side of the door and Williams, the left. A quick scan showed that the entire floor was one big room and there were crates and boxes everywhere. No sign of where the smell was coming from, though. It just seemed to be everywhere.
  Sgt. Harris and the rest of the squad rushed past him and took up positions behind the nearest crates. Just as he turned to look for some cover, he heard shots.

Walters: Were they shots from your squad?

West: No, they came from down below. It was just a few, at first, and then it seemed as if the whole platoon had opened up. Sgt. Harris was talking on the radio when….

Walters: When what, Corporal? What happened then?

  The ground started to shake. Or, more like, the whole building shook. West grabbed a hold of a post that was next to him. Sgt. Harris wasn’t as lucky; he fell down and was hit by some falling debris. It was then that West heard it.

Walters: Heard what, Corporal? What was it that you heard?

West: I don’t know if I can put it to words. It was like a scream…a roar…of a thousand people all at once. It seemed like it was behind me, in front of me, underneath me, all around. Williams and some of the others dropped to the floor and just grabbed their ears. I just tied to yell louder than it.

Walters: Did you ever find out what caused the smell?

  West stopped yelling. His voice was raw and his eardrums pounded. Williams was rolling on the ground curled up in a ball. West ran over to him and kicked him.
  “Get up, Marine! We can’t be wetting our pants now! We have a mission to finish!”
  The shooting from below had stopped, but now was replaced by a different sound. West wasn’t sure, but he thought he could here some people crying out. It was then that West saw them.

Walters: What did you see? The source of the smell? What was it, Corporal?

  Lying in the middle of the room behind some crates were about 20 people. Or, at least, West thought they were people. He couldn’t really tell, but it seemed that chunks and pieces of the bodies had been torn away. The top halves of all their heads were gone. He went over and kicked a body. The missing pieces looked like bite marks. And they sure in the hell weren’t Americans.
  It looked to West like these people had been eaten. West turned and threw up. Jesus, this is about the worst thing I have ever seen.

West: Imagine that, Commander. People being eaten. Not just one or two, but like a couple dozen. You know what’s worse than that? I saw what did the eating! I saw it!

Walters: Corporal! Settle down! Relax for few minutes before we continue.

  West just turned his head and closed his eyes. He seemed to be reliving the whole thing again. Walters made a few notes in his folder.

Walters: Can you continue now?

West: Yeah, I think so. 

  West turned and ran. He wasn’t a coward, but this wasn’t in the playbook. He ran past Williams who was still on the ground; Sgt. Harris who was struggling to get out from under the debris; and he ran out the door and down the steps. He ran down to the 1st floor and then he wished he had never lived.

West: I…can’t. I…just…can’t.

Walters: Corporal West, you have to tell me what you saw. It might mean the difference of saving others’ lives. What is it that you saw?

  The 1st floor was entirely empty except for a big box in the middle. Standing next to the box was something out of his darkest nightmares, except his nightmares weren’t real. At first, West thought it was a trick played by his NVGs. Prolonged wearing of NVGs causes eyestrain. This wasn’t eyestrain.
  It was a woman. A Chinese woman and she looked familiar, if that was possible. She was holding a fan in front of her and seemed to be talking to another Marine. Except, she really wasn’t a woman. She looked to be about 7 feet tall and where she should have had arms, she had tentacles. All about her body were smaller tentacles and they were in the process of tearing a Marine to shreds. West just stood there.

Walters: What happened next, Corporal? What did you do next?

West: I really don’t remember. I…kind of remember a bright flash of light like a flare or something. Next thing I know I woke up in a bed.

Walters: Are you sure that’s all you can remember? It’s very important that you tell me everything.

West: You mean aside from the fact that she had friggin’ tentacles for arms!?! Or that she looked like the mask that was talking in my dream!?! What more do you want me to tell you?

Walters: Any little detail could be very important. Just think.

West: I can’t think anymore, goddammit! Just…just…leave me alone.

  West then lowered his head and began to sob. This debriefing is over, thought Walters. Maybe he’ll remember some more later. Walters buzzed the corpsman who entered the cabin and started to wheel West away.
  “Just tell me one thing, Commander. This thing, whatever it was, was destroyed in the fire. It’s gone, right?”
  “Of course. You and your platoon did their jobs. Thank you for all the help you have given.”
  Poor SOB, thought Walters. How could I tell him that we found no trace of anything, including his platoon, except for a pair of hands Hands  that did not go up in the fire.

Addendum: It is my recommendation that Corporal West be committed to a secure psychiatric unit to receive the care that he needs. Also, upon further investigation of the description that West had given me, I found this passage from Von Junzt’s Unaussprechlichen Kulten entitled “Goddess of the Black Fan” that seems to match the description given by West:

		Behind the black fan
		The soul-twister simpers,
		Snake-armed and slickened,
		Inflated with blood fat.
		The dragon-toothed feaster
		Gluts down gray lilies, the
		Gracious donation
		Of children left twitching…

  The passage refers to a particularly loathsome aspect of Nyarlathotep called the Bloated Woman. This particular aspect likes to eat the brains of live sacrifices. I can only hope that I am wrong about this. God help me if I’m not. God help us all.


							Eric C. Walters
							Commander USN
							NCIS


----------



## alsih2o (Jun 27, 2004)

orchid blossom said:
			
		

> Ants in the AC, broken waterlines....  You have the worst luck.  When does the plague of locusts arrive?




 I have normal luck, I just complain louder.


----------



## Zhaneel (Jun 27, 2004)

Pictures?

Zhaneel


----------



## alsih2o (Jun 27, 2004)

Round 1, Match 5, Zhaneel vs. Rodrigo Istalindir

 4 pics, 72 hours, 5000 word limit.


----------



## alsih2o (Jun 27, 2004)

Zhaneel said:
			
		

> Pictures?
> 
> Zhaneel




 You specifically requested Sunday morning. I assume if you wanted the middle of the night you would have been more specific.


----------



## mythago (Jun 27, 2004)

Be careful what you ask for...


----------



## MarauderX (Jun 27, 2004)

*Summer Ceramic DM 2004 Round 1, Match 1*

*Recruiting*

The eye was frozen  in a look that Jerrid thought of as astonishment, if their builders ever meant these short, four-legged automatons to appear that way.  His circuit-tracing sunglasses monitored the sluggish system, and while the unit still had power it wasn’t going to be moving anytime soon.  He pulled back from it and raised the thick sunglasses over his head.   He had seen this thing happen to a simpler automaton that the police used, and now Jerrid assumed the same techno-virus had made it to the corporate sector.  Jerrid felt the breeze pass as he stood near the entrance of the service bay.  He peered again into the eye, and tapped on it lightly, nearly irreverently.  

“What do you think the problem is, Mr. Dokken?” asked a languid voice.  
The voice came from Dr. Markus Tiflime, a man whose tone was self-assured from having money and control, neither in small measure.  Dr. Tiflime had succeeding in building the first acropolis in Neo York City ten years ago after mixed acceptance by the city’s inhabitants.  Three years following this accomplishment Dr. Tiflime succeeded in combining four of the largest manufacturing and distribution companies and melding them into cohesive force, called it Gilgamesh, and outsold nearly every other company in about one quarter of the entire market.  Dr. Tiflime was now the vice-president in charge of research and development within Neo York City.  Jerrid was looking at one of what was probably a fleet of new automatons.  

“Well, it looks as though you got a techno-bug, which will require some memory replacements before a reboot to the system,” said Jerrid as he tried to keep his explanation straightforward.  Sensing no immediate response Jerrid continued, “I can copy all of the unit’s settings and memory to upload back into it after replacing the memory chips so that you won’t lose a thing, but it will take a little bit to run some diagnostics to make sure no harm was done to the secondary systems.”  Jerrid knew this bug from before, and it wasn’t much of a problem to get around quickly if you had the cash to replace the memory chips.

“Anyone can replace the chips, we don't need him to do that,” interjected one of the dozen engineers surrounding Dr. Tiflime.
A solid look from Dr. Tiflime silenced him like a ton of bricks and the doctor stood from his makeshift seat on a desk and walked up to the machine.  “Is that the only way to rid the techno-bug?” he asked.  
“The best way, and usually the only way I recommend,” answered Jerrid.  

He was a little nervous now, as he had never worked for the private field before.  He had been sent at the request of his supervisor as the best-recommended tech to diagnose and fix a problem on any automaton.  Jerrid enjoyed his government job, but found out too late that being the best meant sacrificing promotion, as not many could do his job as well as he did.  He had been passed over to be a lead foreman twice, and now he was thinking of moving on, if only to earn more respect.  

Dr. Tiflime studied Jerrid for a moment before asking, “What would be another way, a way that someone else might do?”  
“Well,” Jerrid said, letting the pressure slide off of his mind to let it work freely, “I might try swapping memory fragments out, which is the fastest but I bet it wouldn’t do the job.  I could do the same thing using a scrubber program overlay, though it will take longer, and it might do the trick, though if I were to do that it might take five or six sweeps before getting it clean but by that time I could have replaced the memory chips twice, including diagnostics.  But…it’s your machine...”

Jerrid stopped and thought that somewhere along the line he had lost Dr. Tiflime.  They searched each other’s faces, and finally Dr. Tiflime opened his mouth to speak.  

“Let’s say we do this another way then.  We can learn a thing or two from you here since it’s said you are among the best around, and we would like you to join us for the rest of the week, perhaps even the next.  I would rather use that scrubbing technique you mentioned, as we are in the cutthroat business sector and can’t allow any loose memory chips to fall into our competitors’ hands somehow.  I know that you are top in your field for several government agencies, but I think I could swing a deal to lend us some of your time.  Do you think you’d be interested?”  

“Sure,” Jerrid replied, “as long as I’m clear with my boss.”
Dr. Tiflime said, “That’s not a problem, we are already set to work.  What would you like for lunch?  We have anything you wish for as long as you are here, but that doesn’t mean you get to work at half speed to extend you stay you know.  I’m sure you and my team will do a great job.  And…thanks.”  With that Dr. Tiflime turned his gaze across the room to the limousine that had carried Jerrid there and got in.  

Jerrid turned to the other techs and engineers, and watched them slink away until he was alone wondering how to order lunch.
Jerrid returned to the service bay to see it full of the techs once more.  He gathered that they had set up a continuous diagnostics run to keep track of updates as they happened.  Jerrid thought that strange and unnecessary at first as he explained the unit needed to be completely depowered, batteries included, to let the scrubbers charge only the memory segments they were working on.

“No, we can’t do that,” explained the first engineer.  “The unit needs to keep power to its systems, and we’ll have to work around a shut down.”  Now Jerrid understood why it might take a week to repair, and as they worked it was becoming clear that it would take much more than a week.  But they didn’t work normal hours; they sat hunched over screens and wiring until the tense late hours of the night.  

Jerrid arrived early on Saturday to reveal that the room had never emptied that night.  Four of the short security automations that had stood staunchly at the entrance gate had been added to the large room, and the techs and engineers didn’t seem to care.  But it made Jerrid nervous as they spent another day running through the systems.  It was difficult for them to chase the technobug as it replicated through the still-operating systems and Jerrid had picked up on a few of the engineers’ techniques to help trap it, and soon they were making progress.  That night Jerrid passed up plans to join several of his government coworkers and stayed late at the Gilgamesh headquarters.  
While the work was frustrating Jerrid and the others had cautiously earned each other’s trust and respect.  His sunglasses were usually over his eyes, and they highlighted the different circuits as they pulsed, and he used them to peel away the system connections to direct where they should next trap the bug.  They continued on into the night, often having to backtrack through memory segments they had just cleansed.  

It was one of these times when the bug succeeded in starting some of the routines in the machine.  The model number BNR-2112 blazed beneath its synthetic green skin before the entire unit faded in front of their eyes.   Jerrid raised his circuit-tracing glasses and stared at where it had been, and one of the engineers reached out towards where it had been.  His hand collided with the unit, and Jerrid jumped back, realizing what had happened.  The other techs buzzed and tapped on screens and switched wires, and soon the unit reappeared, red numbers first.  

Jerrid looked at the others and none of them would look him in the eye.
“Invisibility tech has been illegal for 60 years now,” said Jerrid.
“65,” corrected an engineer, “but it’s the best thing for quick security our industry has.”
“So, you use it anyway?” asked Jerrid.
Another tech defended. “We use it as a security measure, and have been for about three years.  No one uses it for any other purpose, and it’s programmed to deactivate whenever they move, which is part of the reason why we can’t just swap out memory chips.”

They looked Jerrid over as the silence grew.
“Look, I’m a tech, I work on the machines, and have seen modifications on police equipment that’s far from what even they would consider legal,” Jerrid said.  Again a nervous silence filled the room.  “Hey, I’m not going to run to the cops and tell them, ok?”
The engineers looked sidelong at one another.  “It’s not the cops we’re worried about, but we can’t expect you to realize that after working for the government.  You’ll be fine as long as what we do stays here.”

Jerrid nodded and sat down.  He turned back to the unit so they couldn’t see he eyes fluttering as he thought of the implications of what they were doing.  Invisibility had been illegal soon after its invention as it allowed the Crusaders to launch their second war on global mega-corporations.  That was long before Jerrid was even born, and he had only ‘seen’ invisibility in a museum as a child, and the public had been assured that invisibility would be impossible to defeat the modern sensing technologies that used heat and sound to find hidden units.  Jerrid immersed himself back into the work with the others, pretending to ignore the illegal ability that the unit had.  

At night Jerrid visited a police tech service center he had been at a month ago.  They remembered him and gave him a seat after he gave an explanation of needing to do research.  He pulled up the police tech files on invisibility detection and found that simple modifications were easy to make, and began incorporating as much as he could into his circuit-tracking sunglasses.

Several more days passed in much the same way, and unit BNR-2112 had turned invisible several more times, which Jerrid called an annoyance to ease his nerves as much as earn his teammates’ trust.  Jerrin changed spectrums on his sunglasses until they could outline the frame of the automaton when it turned invisible.  He looked around the room and saw the ghostly white wire frames of two more automatons as they stood in the rear corners of the room.  He forced himself to breath slowly and he returned to cleansing the system memory.

Then Jerrid started to take longer glimpses of the system files and realized that the unit had already been in operation for over nine months.  He had never seen this type of automaton before, and thought ‘why would I have see it, it can turn invisible’ as he smirked.  But it wasn’t like Dr. Tiflime’s high-profile company to hold onto something long without releasing it to make a profit.   Jerrid considered the unit itself was complex enough without the invisibility that they could have turned a handsome profit already. Jerrid wondered why and decided to dig a little deeper.

That night, Friday, Jerrid stayed late as usual, but with only two other techs in the room busy rechecking diagnostics, he began quick scans of the unit’s history as he used the scrubber program.  The night had passed quickly and the day started to glimpse into the bay as he looked through some of the video images in the unit’s life, flipping through monochrome images to stop at every twentieth or so.  Jerrid stopped on one and suddenly froze.  Jerrid looked up to see where the other techs were before studying the image on his tablet screen.

It told Jerrid more than he wanted to know.  He reversed back to see the complete recording, and Jerrid realized that by doing so he would be in jeopardy.  But he had to see what had happened, and now might be his only chance.  He tapped buttons on the tablet and the video skipped over a set of ability test runs.  It landed on the image of Dr. Tiflime and the engineers he was now working with, along with the woman.  She was on the opposite side of the room from them, and she looked down as if embarrassed.  Dr. Tiflime cleared the room except for the two of them and Jerrid read the nametag on her blouse – Dr. Marroquin.  There was no sound as she spoke and shook her head.  Then Dr. Tiflime was shouting, screaming at her and waving his arms wildly.  She suddenly slapped him hard and a look of astonishment crossed both of their faces as she backed away from him.

His face dropped all emotion and he stepped away to scoop up a control device from a service desk.  Dr. Marroquin’s nametag began to glow red on the automaton’s display, and the video angle moved as it lunged towards her.  She didn’t see it coming as it slammed into her chest, clearly aiming for the name badge.  She was hurled into a corner of the room, and lifted herself up on one leg, as something was wrong with the other.  She shouted now, desperately screaming as she steadied herself.

As the robot’s arm rose into view, Jerrid knew what came next.  He stopped the replay just as the cone-shaped black laser struck her.  He looked over his shoulder to check on the other techs.

“Look, we had hoped that you wouldn’t be so stupid,” the first said.  
“But I wasn’t-“ Jerrid said.  
“You weren’t and now you aren’t,” replied the second tech as he pulled two thin rods from behind the desk.  
Jerrid held up the tablet to look at Dr. Marroquin’s grim expression as unclipped his required nametag from his shirt.  Jerrid said, “So you knew, you were probably here, and you never said a word.”

The two techs looked at one another as they stood ten feet on either side of him now.  “Mr. Dokken, we aren’t techs.  Dr. Tiflime doesn’t hire slow techs.  He recruits young, fast ones like you.  And you’re supposed to do what you are told, and fix the problems that Dr. Marroquin left for us to deal with.  She’s the one that infected the thing to begin with, though it took far longer for the bug to take effect to prevent the thing from killing her.”
“It didn’t kill her, Tiflime did!” said Jerrid as he pressed the tablet with his thumb.  
“Yes, we thought you’d see it that way,” said the first tech, “and we can’t risk you not changing your mind.”

The second tech moved towards Jerrid, arms outspread cautiously.  The first circled around the automaton to flank Jerrid from behind before they started to close.  The letters BNR-2112 glowed as Jerrid worked the digital control tablet.  The automaton came to life and struck out with a metal limb at the nametag with a distinctive crack of bone to send the first tech sliding on his back into the desk.  Jerrid then directed the unit between him and the second would-be tech.  Jerrid worked the tablet controls rapidly but it moved sluggishly, lumbering to separate them.  Suddenly it stopped completely and they both watched it fade from sight.  Jerrid sprinted for the service entrance to the room and pulled down his sunglasses.  The automaton was still lumbering there, enough to crash into a service table, which had kept Jerrid’s pursuer at bay for only a moment.

Jerrid ran along the outside of the building instead of through the open park near them and heard footsteps and the whirring of automatons approaching.  Jerrid threw the tablet that he still had in his hand towards the park and it rolled and clattered on the manicured brick as he ran.

Jerrid darted around a corner and peered down the sloped street to the main gate when, through his sunglasses, he saw more of the invisible automatons headed towards him.  He realized they were trying to cut off his escape, and the picture of Dr. Marroquin’s fate popped into his head again.  Just then the gate began to swing open and Dr. Tiflime’s limousine eased through.  Jerrid bounded forward, running full speed down the sloped sidewalk.  He knew his timing needed to be perfect, and gathering all of his strength, he leapt through the air over the invisible automaton just as Dr. Tiflime looked out the limousine window to see him in mid-air, fully understanding why Jerrid was jumping over the ‘empty’ sidewalk.  Grimly he told the automated driver to go in reverse, full speed back to the gate.

Jerrid leapt over two more of the invisible machines, his foot catching on the latter to send him rolling down the pavement.  He felt his tech glasses slide from his head and skitter into the street.  The limousine engine loomed close and Jerrid snatched up his glasses and jumped up to land on the trunk of the limousine as it careened towards the closing gate.  Jerrid and Dr. Tiflime locked eyes through the tinted glass of the rear window, each in a panic of their own over what to do next.  Then Jerrid tried to hang on as the car skidded to a halt, but was thrown from it.  He rolled to land against the gate as it clanged closed. 

Dr. Tiflime leapt out of the car and began shouting orders to what seemed like no one, but Jerrid knew better and slipped his glasses on to see two automatons closing towards him, each lifting an arm carrying a black laser.  Jerrid watched the lasers gather strength as his mind raced.  The lasers fired, as Jerrid dived between the two machines. 

A gaping hole was formed in the gate, formed from the two conical lasers that had missed their target.  Jerrid pulled himself up off of the pavement and dove through the opening.  Dr. Tiflime’s screams and threats faded as the gate began to open again.  Jerrid wasted no time jumping through alleyways and slipping into buildings and underground connections to avoid being seen.  Jerrid had sprained his ankle, probably from the limousine ride he thought, but didn’t start feeling the pain until twenty streets were behind him. 

He thought about what to do next, and decided that the best might be to head to the police tech service center he had been at a few nights ago.  They knew him there, and might be able to look up any history on Dr. Tiflime, the Gilgamesh mega-corporation, and any connections they had to invisibility.  It was a short trip and might be the best place to gather his thoughts and ask for help.

Jerrid made it to the police service entrance half an hour later, slowed down by his throbbing ankle.   He kept his sunglasses on as he peered around anxiously like a mouse in an open field with nowhere to hide.  He started spilling what had happened to him to the other techs and soon an audience of police had gathered.  Before long the lieutenants were questioning him about what had happened, and Jerrid’s nerves began to settle.  He retold what he had seen and cursed for having thrown the tablet into the park.  He wasn’t thinking at the moment, as he hoped to distract his pursuers.  He thought, but all I really have to do is convince the police that Gilgamesh is using invisibility and they will be able to go in and see for themselves, and again Jerrid smirked.  He would let it be their problem now as he enjoyed the lavish breakfast that was presented to him.  

There was a snap and Jerrid knew it was the door being locked.  He was locked into the police’s little interrogation room.  Sure he had worked for the police these many years, but his eyes were finally opened.  Gilgamesh was the manufacturer of a majority of the police automatons, which had protected and kept the human police from many dangerous situations.  One phone call from Dr. Tiflime could probably spin everything end over end for him.  The police might have even known about the invisibility the entire time, and purposefully looked the other way.  Jerrid pushed away from the table and stopped eating his vast breakfast.  The pastries, eggs, and sausage were consistent with the rich food he had had at Gilgamesh, not fitting with the profile of a police headquarters. 

Jerrid paced in the diminutive room for an hour, wondering if they were studying him and deciding his fate.  Would they hand him over to Dr. Tiflime?  Would they protect him? Would the police instead charge him with something on behalf of Gilgamesh, like terrorism and destruction of property?  These thoughts of his doom wrestled inside his head when unexpectedly the lights went out. 

Jerrid heard the lackadaisical voices of annoyance for the delay, and Jerrid’s sunglasses automatically switched to low-light vision.  Jerrid thought this was the perfect opportunity for one of those invisible automatons to make their way in without possible police invisibility detection devices sensing it, and he had to use the same opportunity for freedom.  He threw himself at the door and it tossed him back onto the floor without flinching.  Jerrid looked at the one-way mirror interrogation window and swung his chair into it.  Again and again he struck and left spider web blows on the glass.  Eventually it began to give, and Jerrid started to rip it like a thick curtain to allow him through.

The room was empty, except for a few pieces of recording and viewing equipment, and a door hung open at the end.  A man appeared and disappeared from the doorway, as if he was looking for a device of some kind.  Jerrid looked beyond and saw that many had similar low-light glasses and were walking up and down the stuffy corridor.  Jerrid decided to bluff it.  If they had the same low-light glasses he did, they wouldn’t be able to discern the color of uniform that he had on and might be considered an officer himself.  Ignoring the pain in his ankle, Jerrid walked confidently down the corridor, furrowing his brow and hustling to give the facade of doing something important.  He made it to the front lobby before the lights kicked back on.

No one seemed to notice or care as he made the last fifty steps towards the door, but as soon as he left the building he heard the trigger of alarms.  A detection system had read his fingerprints on the door as he had pushed it open, and cursed himself for not remembering as he had once fixed the system himself.  He crossed the street and turned a corner, but he was sure he wouldn’t be able to run much further.  He heard police automatons clamber out into the street to begin canvassing for him and Jerrid hobbled to the next block.  What he saw stopped him cold, and made him want to flee back to the police station for protection, no matter what they did to him after that. 

His glasses outlined a sleek invisible car  right in front of him.  He stammered and fell as he tried to reverse his momentum on his bad ankle.  The door to the car opened and a woman in slimming business attire grinned and asked if he needed a ride.  Jerrid was too scared to reply as she skipped over to him.  
“I’m not with who you think, I’m a friend of Dr. Marroquin’s,” she said, “We worked together until recently.  My name is Sayta and I’m a friend.”
Jerrid took her hand and she pulled him up and towards the car.  Again he stammered and she looked at the police automatons over his shoulder.
“You have a choice right now.  You can get dragged in by the police, tortured and made an example of by them,” she then replied, “or you can come and work for us.  It’s your choice.”

Jerrid collapsed into the back seat of the car as it sped off, dodging the traffic that couldn’t see the car and before long they were cruising on the shoulder of the cross-town highway and Jerrid slept. 

Sayta helped Jerrid out and it took him several minutes to gather his wits.  He looked around and was stunned to see everything as he had left it hours ago.  A desk was wrecked.  Tables overturned.  In the park he saw the sunlight glint off of a control tablet.  And his glasses picked out the BNR-2112 on the chest of the ghostly automaton to the rear of the room as it approached.  Dr. Tiflime worked the tablet and its arm extended the black laser towards him.  

“I think we have an understanding now, don’t you Mr. Dokken?” the doctor asked.  “You see, you’re a wanted man now.  You work for me and even if you do escape, where would you go?  What would you say that anyone would believe?  You’re the best tech out there, and we’d be grateful to have you on board here at Gilgamesh.  Do you think you might want to work here?”
Jerrid looked around the room at the others.  They were all ashamed, waiting for the same answer that they had given, and he saw Sayta weeping silently.  Quietly he nodded agreement.  Not today, maybe not tomorrow or next week, but one day Jerrid promised that the world would know about Gilgamesh.


----------



## Berandor (Jun 27, 2004)

I don't think I've ever slaved as much over a story as I did over this one. Well, here goes!

Ceramic DM, Round 1-1: MarauderX vs. _Berandor_

*Robert I.*

He awoke with a start. As he opened his eyes, he found himself lying on a metal bier in a futuristic hospital room. Neon lights doused the windowless cell in cold brightness. Tall machines adorned the walls, bleeping in an undecipherable code, cables interconnecting between them. Some of the cables ran towards him, bundling into a crown of green and red plastic adorning his brow, where he could feel the weight of a metal band clasping around his head. 

He lifted his hands to his forehead. The cables seemed to end in the band. He wondered whether the contraption recorded his brain activity, or subdued it. The band slid effortlessly from his brow as he tried to lift it off. Freed from its influence, he immediately wondered where he was. The last thing he remembered was - he couldn't remember anything! 

He sat up and swung his legs down from the bier, standing carefully and waiting for the rush of sickness that usually accompanied a sudden movement after long periods of lying around. It never came. He couldn't have lain on the bier for long.

He closed his eyes for a moment, drawing a deep breath, concentrating. His name was... nothing. He couldn't remember anything. No, that wasn't true. As he thought about it, he retained a lot of his general education. He could name presidents, date wars, knew how to drive a car or cook an omelet - but he couldn't remember actually driving or cooking.

Maybe he had been the victim of an accident? He looked for any signs of injury, and for the first time noticed that he was fully clothed. He wore a grey long-sleeved shirt, pants of the same indistinct color, and black boots. From the breast pocket of his shirt dangled a pair of sunglasses - and fastened to the shirt was a name badge! He turned the badge around so he could read it: "Robert I." 

So his name was Robert! Robert... Ivanovic? Robert Ince? He said the names aloud, startled to hear his own voice for the first time. Listening closely, he seemed to detect a slight accent in the warm baritone, a tendency to pronounce the words a little too hard. Maybe he was German? He tried to think of German names.
"Robert Igel. Robert Irrstein. Robert Insel?" Nothing. Come to think of it, he didn't even know how to speak German - but perhaps he had forgotten it, along with his identity? 

Suddenly, dizziness overcame him. His mind reeled, and his footing slipped. He looked around for the door to the bathroom. There was only one door leading from the room. He stumbled forward and turned the doorknob.

The door opened into a lit hallway, completely empty, walls painted white and riddled with doors similar to the one he just came through. He started to randomly walk to the right, but stopped himself to go back and close the door to his room. His eyes fell on the walls adjoining the door; he had expected to see a room number, or anything else to signal its function, but there was nothing. Where was he? If this was a hospital, it was the strangest hospital he had ever heard of.

He crossed the floor, looking for a bathroom. The hallway stretched for what seemed like an eternity, and all he saw were identical, nondescript doors lining the walls, and something warned him from opening them. Finally, he approached a turn in the hallway. He stopped as he detected voices from around the corner, but despite him stopping, the voices grew louder, along with the sound of footfalls. 

"So, they're still asleep?" A female voice, confident - bossy.

"Not all of them, no," a male voice answered deferentially, "but I checked on those who are awake. There were no problems with the transfer."

They had almost reached the corner, and were obviously speaking about him, and other like him! What would happen if they saw him sneaking around? Would they try to help him, to explain everything? Instinctively, he knew they would not. But where should he hide? There was no way he could open a door without them noticing it, and the hall was empty! He had no chance to escape detection. Following a hunch, he took the sunglasses out of his breast pocket, and put them on.

They came around the corner. The woman was tall, with a slim figure, her black hair a boyish cut. She wore a simple costume, grey skirt, and a white blouse. The man was smaller than her, with wild hair blossoming in all directions, grey twigs among hazel branches. He was dressed in a white coat over simple clothes. Both froze in their tracks as they spotted him.

"What are you doing down here," the women asked? Her eyes narrowed suspiciously, but he could see the intelligence behind. She wore a name badge similar to his own, reading "Dr. Mavel Flint". He could not answer.

"Well? Don't just stand around, get back!" He head tilted into the direction they had come from. He couldn't believe it - she had taken him for someone else! 

"Yes, Dr. Flint," he said and quickly rounded the corner before she noticed her mistake.

"Martin should really be more careful," he could hear her voice receding. Her companion's answer was already lost in the distance. 

His luck seemed to hold on, though, because this hallway wasn't nearly as long as the one he came from. It ended in a large double door about thirty yards away. A large window was set into the wall right next to the door. The only other doors he could see belonged to an elevator, a correctly labeled staircase - and a bathroom.

He entered the bathroom, but he no longer felt sick, only confused. His eyes fell upon his reflection in the wide mirror hanging on the wall behind the basins, and he saw himself for what seemed like the first time.

He was of average height - he'd noticed that already upon meeting Dr. Flint -, maybe 5'6''. His face had a certain movie star quality, flashing a roguish smile. He considered taking off the sunglasses, but decided against it. They had brought him luck. Instead, he took his short off and was satisfied with the muscled body underneath. He really could be proud of his looks. At last, he could connect a face to his name; he finally knew what Robert I. looked like. If only he knew what lay beneath this dazzling surface. 

Why did he have no memory? Why couldn't he remember anything, not even his name? The cabled crown from his room came to his mind again. Had they deleted his memory? What had that man said? He had spoken of a "transfer" - a memory transfer? Did that even make sense? And if it did. why would someone want to steal his memories? Perhaps he was an assassin, or a spy, and he would be inserted with a cover identity?

For a moment, this outrageous line of thoughts made Robert smile. Memory loss was the kind of contrived plot writers resorted to when they couldn't think of something. The thought had come unbidden, but he relished in it. Had he been a writer, or a critic? Perhaps his memory was slowly returning! But then, who would erase the memory of a critic? No, that didn't make sense, either.

Whatever the truth, he wouldn't be able to find it in this bathroom. Robert put his shirt back on, checked himself in the mirror again, and headed back into the hallway, straight for the window next to the double door, determined to find the truth.

His determination evaporated when he looked into the laboratory beyond the window, and saw himself. He blinked, thinking of a strange visual trick, but nothing changed. The laboratory was cluttered with electronic gadgets and machinery. Men and women in lab coats moved about, checking here, turning a lever there. And standing in the center of it all, Robert saw himself, with the same clothes, the same movie star qualities, the same sunglasses. Dr. Flint hadn't mistaken him for someone else - she had mistaken him for his... twin? No, it wasn't his twin; it was more like a way figure of him, standing too rigid to be alive.

Suddenly, the wax figure moved. It turned sideways, and Robert could see that the skin on it neck had been removed, and cables plugged into the electronic circuits visible beneath. This copy was a machine! Robert was so startled that he bumped against the glass. Lab workers turned their heads towards him. He was discovered!

Robert took two steps backwards, thinking quickly. He had to get out! The elevator - no, the stairs. He swung open the door and hesitated for a moment. The staircase went both up and down from here. 

"Secret Labs are underground," he said to himself, and ran upwards.

---

It still seemed like a miracle to Robert that he had escaped. The stairs had led him into a big entrance hall, huge marble letters in the center of it. The letters had read "Gerodyne - Design for the future". Robert had taken a deep breath and quickly crossed the crowded hallway, trying to blend in among the tourists and business-men. It had worked.

Afterwards, he had aimlessly walked the city beyond the building. Newspapers proclaimed it to be San Francisco, but Robert had no idea whether he'd ever been here, or not. Somehow, he had ended up at a cheap hotel called "Sunset Stripes". In the reception hall, sickly yellow light flowed over the worn furniture, and the floor tried to prevent Robert from approaching the night clerk behind his counter, sticking to his every step. The clerk watched him with a mixture of amusement and surprise, the look of a car salesman before closing a favorable deal. The clerk's smile did not belong to a salesman, however, his teeth dark and rotten and his breath stinking of tobacco and alcohol. 
"'Night. Whadda ya want?"
"A room."
"Gee, wouldn't have guessed that. Ya want hourly rates, or for the night?"
"Oh. For the whole night, please."
"No prob." The clerk laid a torn book on the table, along with a pen.
"Sign yer name here."
Robert hesitated. The clerk just smiled even broader and put the book away again.
"It's alright. Most people don't want to give their names are couples, but I don't care what keeps ya. I only care for the money. Eighteen bucks, then."
Robert closed his eyes. He hadn't even checked if he had any money, but as he did so now, he already knew the outcome.
"I'm sorry, I don't have any money." Before the clerk could answer, Robert added, "Please, Sir, let me stay. Only for a night - I don't know where I should go!"
The clerk seemed to consider.
"Tell me what I have to do to let me stay," Robert said. The clerk's eyes lit up.
"I got an idea. Tell me, ya know how ta clean?"
Robert answered emphatically that yes, he knew how to clean.
"Alright, then. I'm Stan, by the way, and I'll show ya what ya can do ta earn your rent." 

So he had cleaned the kitchen, vacuumed the hallways, and taken out the trash. He had worked stoically, unfazed by cockroaches and moldy food. When Stan had told him he'd earned his stay, Robert had tried to rest, but sleep wouldn't come, so he had continued working. It had given him time to think, if nothing else. He had come to the conclusion that he had two choices: he could go to the police or try to find out who he was by himself. He felt wary of the police; as long as he didn't know anything about himself or Gerodyne, he couldn't be sure whose side they were on. Maybe Gerodyne was working for the government, or maybe he was a criminal. And how was he to prove his story? No, he would have to keep away from the police for now.

So how to find out his identity? Robert wasn't such an uncommon name. He had entered "Robert I." into an Internet search, but had been put off by 302,000 results and no guarantee that he was even among them. No, he would have to get information from Gerodyne itself. His Internet search for Dr. Flint had been more successful. She was a renowned expert for robotic design; she had even counseled the government once or twice. Robert had been impressed by her biography. He had also found out that Dr. Flint lived in an exclusive apartment complex. The same apartment complex he was now standing in front of.

The complex consisted of a pair of tall buildings and a series of smaller apartment houses. An iron fence with a gate manned by a muscled officer protected it. Robert had circled the area and discovered a tree overlooking the fence. He waited until sunset, then climbed the fence. Soon he stood in front of one of the tower buildings studying the listed addresses.
"Can I help you, Sir?"
Another security officer had appeared in the doorway. He was built like a football player, and not like a quarterback, either. His hand rested casually on a long-gripped flashlight. Robert reminded himself that the officer couldn't know he had trespassed, and smiled defensively.
"Yes, thank you. I am looking for a friend of mine, Dr. Mavel Flint. Do you know where she lives?"
The officer untensed and nodded. 
"Yes, Sir. Dr. Flint lives on the third floor. I'm afraid she isn't home, however. I don't know why Tommy didn't tell you at the gate."
"Maybe he forgot to check. It's all right, though. I think I'll come back later, then."
"I hope it's not too much of a problem for you, Sir."
"Not at all. Good bye."
"Good bye, Sir."

Robert made his way back towards the fence. He found a shadowy spot where he could watch the gate, and waited for the arrival of Dr. Flint. The thought crossed his mind that he hadn't eaten anything since he had fled Gerodyne. Still, he wasn't hungry at the moment, lost in his quest for his identity and in the tension of the moment. 

He had waited for about an hour as a small car approached the gate. Looking closely, Robert could see Dr. Flint behind the wheel as she stopped and talked to Tommy, the gatekeeper.  A few moments later, the gate opened and Dr. Flint drove through. She didn't turn towards the tower, however, but to the right of it.

Slightly worried, Robert left the shadows and silently followed the car. He came to a ramp leading down into a parking garage. Expecting Dr. Flint to enter the building through the garage, Robert made his way back to the entrance and the security officer he had met earlier. He entered the building and approached the man.
"Good evening. Tommy told me that Mavel has arrived."
"Dr. Flint's just in, Sir. Take the elevator to the third floor. It's the left apartment."
"Thank you."

He took the elevator as he had been told. The third floor consisted of a short hallway and two apartment doors, one to the right, the other to the left. Steeling his resolve, Robert knocked on the left door. He could hear classical music behind the door, and soft footsteps approaching. 

Dr. Flint opened the door, and her inviting smile froze into fear as she saw Robert. He pushed through the door and closed it behind it.
"Don't scream," he said. She shook her head in agreement, taking two steps back at the same time. She still wore her business outfit, only she'd taken off her shoes and her name tag.
"Please, I... don't hurt me."
"I won't - if you answer my questions."
Dr. Flint seemed confused. 
"Questions?"
Robert grew impatient. He was close to getting some answers, and now she had to play dumb!
"Yes, questions. For example, why did you steal my memory?"
For a moment, Dr. Flint seemed to forget her fear.
"Steal your memory? We didn't -"
"Don't lie to me!" 
He grabbed her and pushed her against the wall. That stupid woman! Robert's head started to hurt. It was too much.
"But we didn't steal your memory! Don't you -"
"Quit lying!" He let go of her and took a step backwards, rubbing his temples with his right.
"You must... tell me... the truth." Dr. Flint just stood there, eyes wide.
"Tell me!" He took a step forward and lifted his hand to strike her, to shake some sense into her, but the pain in his head intensified. His vision blurred, and a black hole spread out from the center of it. He saw Dr. Flint recoiling in fear, and then darkness claimed him.

---

He was almost instantly awake again. He lay on the floor of the living room, arms bound behind his back, feet bound together by clothesline. Robert could hear Dr. Flint entering the room, and lay still. She was talking on the phone.
"He doesn't know." A pause, as she listened. 
"No, I didn't tell him! Why do you think I - yes, he's still here. Wait a minute," she said and came over to where Robert lay. He tried to keep as motionless as possible.
After a moment, Dr. Flint spoke again.
"He's still down."
It took a while for the person on the other side of the conversation to finish speaking, and Robert used the time to carefully test the strengths of his bindings. He felt he could wriggle free, but not while Dr. Flint was on the phone. He had to wait.

"Yes, I understand. I'm coming over immediately. I'll use the cover."
Coming over? She probably wanted to go back to Gerodyne. Robert couldn't let that happen. She knew the answers.
"I'll tell Tommy to leave the gate open for the next half hour, and take a break. You want have any problems getting in. Come through the garage. Bye."

She hung up, and left the room. From somewhere in the apartment, he could hear her speaking to Tommy. Robert tensed his muscles and pulled against the clothesline, and then wriggled his hands. It took a short while, then his right hand was free. He sat up to untie the binding at his feet, when he heard the apartment door shut close. Dr. flint had left.

Robert pulled the clothesline from his left wrist as he left Dr. Flint's apartment. He saw the elevator doors close. He would have to take the stairs, and be faster than the elevator was. Robert sprang into motion, threw open the door to the stairwell, and ran down.

The stairs didn't go to the garage, but ended on the ground floor. Robert left and quickly crossed the entrance hall, almost running past the guard.
"Is everything all right, Sir? Sir?" The guard got up, but Robert was out of the building already, not caring whether the man followed him or not.

Robert ran down the road towards the garage. He might still stop her. As he made his way down the ramp, he heard a car approach, then screeching to a halt. He couldn't see the car, but he was sure it was the Doctor's. He would only have to wait until she came in sight.

He heard the gears shift right in front of him. But there was nothing! He could only see the dark entrance to the garage looming in front of him. Still, he got the distinct impression that something was there, he simply could not see it.

Suddenly, the engine came to life with a roar. Robert could hear the car speeding towards him, but still he saw nothing. How could that be? He didn't have time to ponder, as he felt rather than saw the vehicle closing in. He had to trust his instincts. Robert took a small step, and leapt into the air.

He could feel the car rushing along under him. His lower leg brushed against the hood of the car, but he kept his balance. As he landed down the ramp, he could hear the car speeding away. It had been her. Dr. Flint had an invisible car!

Remembering that Dr. Flint had called Tommy away, Robert ran into the garage to look for a vehicle to pursue her. He chose a BMW motorcycle standing close to the entrance. Thinking for a moment, he found that he knew how to repair such a bike, and how to short-circuit it. A moment later, the BMW shot up the entrance and out the gate. Robert didn't try looking for Dr. Flint; she was invisible, and he knew where she was going. His only hope was for him to be there faster than she was.

---

He had sat himself on the fountain near the entrance to Gerodyne. If the company also had a parking garage, or an employee's entrance, he would have no choice to intercept Dr. Flint. He studied the crowd carefully, watching for any sign of her. A slight commotion near the street caught his attention. A bike messenger had fallen down and was looking confusedly at the space in front of him. Robert stood and walked closer.

As he was about fifty feet away, he knew his instinct had proven right. Out of thin air, Dr. Flint's car appeared. An electrical grid appeared first, forming the outline of the car, and then color spread throughout. The street was relatively empty, but quite a few people stopped and gawked at the car. Nobody watched the woman who stepped out; all attention was focused on the wondrous machine. 

Robert used the commotion and snuck up behind Dr. Flint. He grabbed her arm and jerked her away from the entrance. He put his other hand over her mouth.
"You're coming with me." He pulled her away, towards the motorcycle. His head began to ache again.
"Sit down!" Not waiting for her to comply, he pushed her on the seat and sat himself behind her. He started, and rode off towards the "Sunset Stripes".

---

"Whoa! What're ya doin?" Stan's eyes were wide in shock at the sight of Robert carrying Dr. Flint into the hotel.
"Don't worry Stan. I'm not going to hurt her."
"Hey, that's not what I mean. Take the back entrance next time. Sheesh! What'f someone called the cops?" Stan shook his head in amazement and went back to watching TV. Dr. Flint started sobbing.
"Better be quiet," Stan said as Robert carried her upstairs to his room.

He threw her on the bed, and immediately had to hold his head in pain. His vision was blurring again, but he fought it back.
"Now, tell me! Tell me who I am!"
Dr. Flint had stopped sobbing and had calmed down remarkably. She shook her head.
"You wouldn't believe me."
"Nonsens," he shouted. The pain intensified again. "Tell me, or I'll make you!"
"You can't hurt me. That's where the pain is coming from."
"What's that supposed to mean? Is that some psychological trick?"
"No, it's not. It's the truth."

Robert paced the room like a caged animal. He roared, picked up a lamp, and threw it against the wall. It shattered with a smash. Dr. Flint recoiled in shock. Robert turned back to her and asked calmly,
"Who. Am. I?"
"You're Robert One."
"Robert One?"
"I'll show you."

Dr. Flint stood up and, carefully watching him for any signs of disapproval, opened the door to the bathroom.
"Look at yourself," she said.
Robert turned and looked at the mirror. He still looked good.
"So?"
"Take off the glasses. Look closely."

He took off the sunglasses. He had blue eyes. Baby blue. But something seemed wrong with them. Instinctively he looked away.
"Look," Dr. Flint said.

He forced himself to look. He walked close to the mirror in looked right into his eye. And then he saw it: tiny electronic circuits, turning around as he focused on them. This was no human eye. He was no human. He was...
"Robot One?"

---

Dr. Flint heard him whisper something she could not understand, and then he went still. She walked over to the telephone and called Gerodyne. Dr. Martin Hunter answered, as she had hoped he would.
"It's me, Mavel."
"Mavel? Where are you?"
"He took me to a hotel. Sunset Stripes, somewhere near the freeway."
"What about him?" Hunter's voice grew concerned. Mavel had longe since accepted that he felt more protective of his "children" than of his colleagues.

"He's down for good."
"Jesus, Mavel, you told him?"
"I showed him. You know telling does not work. It would be to easy to shut them off."
"Why did you do that?"
"Martin, he was rebelling against the directives. He nearly killed me with a lamp he threw around!"
"That's impossible."
"I've been here, Martin, I've seen it." She tried to regain her posture.

"Do we know what went wrong with him?"
"Not yet. He was rebelling against his directives, you say?"
"Yes."
"Do you think it will hurt the project? Do we have to delay the production?"
Dr. Mavel Flint pondered the question. The rogue robot hadn't seriously hurt her. He might have been able to, but she had acted out of fear as much as out of calculation. The advertising was to begin next month; in six months, she would be one of the most prominent scientists of the world - and one of the richest, too. But what if more robots went rogue?

"Well, Mavel," Dr. Hunter repeated, "do we have a problem?"
"No," she said. "I don't think we do."


----------



## Zhaneel (Jun 27, 2004)

alsih2o said:
			
		

> You specifically requested Sunday morning. I assume if you wanted the middle of the night you would have been more specific.




Brain tired.  Thought I had agreed to late Saturday so I was obsessively checking.  

And can I just say: Huh what now!

Zhaneel


----------



## carpedavid (Jun 27, 2004)

Match 1-3: Carpedavid vs Piratecat

*Strange Little Loops*

Kat watched the smoke rise through the hazy air, curling and swirling in on itself to form strange little loops. Gordian knots tied and unraveled themselves within the span of a breath, as ripples of air passed by. She pursed her lips and blew, clearing the canvas that hung in front of her, then waited for Beth to light another cigarette.
"I still can't believe they made me black…" Sharon said, staring at her arms.

Sharon had been something of a skinhead, Kat recalled as she leaned back in the pew, watching the smoke as it began to dance again.

"…and a girl!" Sharon continued, the frustration evident in her voice.

She had also been a man, and was having a bit of trouble adjusting. Kat looked around at the others - their four and five-year-old bodies had been somewhat of a shock to them all at first. Some had adjusted smoothly, while others, like Jimmy, who kept killing himself in wildly creative ways (this was his fourth body in as many months), were taking a bit longer.

Most were talking or playing cards - though there really wasn't much else to do. None of them knew why they were here, and none of the people who ran this place - whatever it was, with its high, barbed-wire fences - were talking. There were rumors, of course, as happens in any information-deprived group: Pam, the preacher, declared that this was heaven, and they were all now cherubim; Ron, the conspiracy theorist, quietly suggested that they had all been abducted by aliens; Starfish, as she insisted on being called, offered the theory that they were all part of a consensual hallucination caused by massive doses of LSD which had been administered by the CIA. Kat had her own theory, but she wasn't sure anyone else would have understood, so she kept it to herself.

She looked over at Beth's cigarette, sighed, and plucked it from her mouth. Placing it to her lips and inhaling deeply, she smiled bitterly. If it hadn't been for the cigarettes, she wouldn't be here now.

***​Hoffman turned the mask over in his hands. As the chair of the Institute for Advanced Artificial Intelligence, he had been responsible for its design, both inside and out. From the outside, it looked vaguely Incan (the study of said culture being a favorite pastime of his), and was made of a translucent, blue polymer that gave it the appearance of being carved from ice. That the polymer had the ability to gently mold itself to the wearer's face in order to maximize comfort was an added plus.

Inside, the mask was laced with a series of circuits that acted as a fractal antenna. When initialized, those looping, twisting fibers would emit a signal that would create a sympathetic resonance in the synaptic pathways responsible for the interpretation of external stimuli. Any change in either the mask or brain's signal would trigger an identical change in the other.

The special wideband connection and fractal compression that enabled the transmission of the massive amounts of data necessary to accurately recreate the sensation of sight, sound, smell, taste, and touch in the human brain was his design as well. The massively parallel computing cluster that generated the artificial stimuli wasn't of his design, but had been donated by the government - something to which he initially objected. With the news he had received recently, though, he was secretly thankful - he would be years behind now without it.

***​When the cancer came, it did so quickly and decisively. Kat remembered walking down the beach, after visiting the doctor and hearing the news. In the middle of the afternoon, on a cloudy, April Thursday, the beach had been deserted. The gulls that cried in the distance were her only companions, which was fitting, she thought, for someone who had done so little with her life. The waves lapped methodically at her bare feet, washing grains of sand from between her toes and depositing others. A gentle breeze tousled her hair and tickled her skin, causing her to shiver involuntarily.

After a moment, she began to cry; beginning softly, but increasing in intensity until her whole body was sobbing. Every muscle contracted with each breath, as she gulped lungfuls of sea-salt air. The thought of dying, of ending, of ceasing to be, was overwhelming. A terrible cold gripped her, sending ice water rushing through her veins, freezing her to the very core. She shuddered.

The thought of all the things she had never done assaulted her all at once. She had never ridden a mechanical bull, been to New York, been married, had children, run a marathon, gambled in Vegas, had sex in the back of a car, owned a dog, or had a chili cheese dog from that little shop down the street that was owned by the old Greek guy with the B.O. and the mustache.

She had gone straight from high school to college, where she had majored in math, then to grad school, where she studied fractal geometry, then to a Ph.D. program at Berkeley where she spent four laborious years as a teaching assistant, then to a research position, all because that's what everyone else told her she was supposed to do. Go to school, go to more school, go to even more school, get a job, get a better job, get an even better job - she had never even f---ing been to Peru!

She screamed, and fell to the sand, and screamed some more. When she finished screaming, she opened her eyes. The gulls were quiet, the wind was quiet - even the waves were quiet, in that moment when she looked up and saw the sand sculpture.

Whether someone had sculpted it, and left it there, or whether nature had lovingly crafted it, she couldn't tell, but there it sat, atop its own little sand dune. Spirals of sand curled in on themselves, connecting internally and externally, to form a pyramid, of sorts. Running through and around, with no beginning and no end in sight, the whole sculpture formed a strange little loop; each grain of sand playing its part in the eternal, unending, whole.

The tears subsided as she rolled over on her back and stared at the sky. The clouds, the waves, even the beach itself were each a reflection of both themselves and the whole. In that moment, she could see everything, the whole of the infinite, in that sand sculpture, in the beach, in the clouds and waves and gulls and sky, and she whimpered. She was still afraid.

***​"Are you going in, doctor?" a voice interrupted his reverie. His assistant, a slim woman in her mid-thirties, whose voice had grown steadily weaker over the past month, looked expectantly at him.

"Oh, yes. Yes," he replied. He leaned back in the chair and placed the mask over his face, while his assistant dimmed the lights and put on a collection of Bach. "Yes," he smiled, "I think we're getting very close now."

"I've been reading your synopses at night," she replied wearily, "the progress that you're making is astounding."

_Ah, if only you knew_, he thought to himself_, just how close we are_. He had been making observations for months, tracking the progress of his artificial subjects. _Soon it would be time_, he thought, as the mask synchronized itself to the activity in his brain. His office faded out, replaced with an entirely different scene, as the new reality took hold. _I just hope that it's soon enough_, he thought.

***​Kat was 15 when she first started smoking. When she was in high school, she had joined the dance team her sophomore year, to try and fit in with the other girls. They all wore letters on their uniforms, and part of their act was to spell out words at different points. She wore an "O," so she ended up in a lot of the formations, and at the end of their routine, she was the one who kneeled in the center. Her friend Jenny, who wore a "P," kneeled to her right, while Kim, who wore a "G," and who she despised, kneeled to her left. JJ and Leah sat in front of them while the rest of the girls leaned in behind them. It was a great finish, and people always clapped wildly, even though they didn't actually spell anything at that point.

After rehearsal one rainy day, while Jenny was driving her home (she was a year older, and passed her driving test on the third try), they pulled into a gas station. "Wait here," Jenny said, and hopped out of the car. Kat passed the time drawing on the fogged-up passenger side window with her finger.

"Want one?" Jenny said after returning and pulling the package of Marlboros out of her pocket. Kat wasn't sure what to say. She knew they were bad for you, but she really liked Jenny, and didn't want her to think she was uncool.

"Sure," she replied a bit dazedly, taking the cigarette and putting it to her lips.

Jenny lit her own cigarette, took a drag, and coughed violently. She looked over at Kat, "Oh, these are a different brand, so, uh, I'm not used to them."

Kat nodded, and lit her own cigarette. She took a long drag, and, much to her surprise, didn't cough. In fact, it felt entirely natural, like she had done it before, a long, long time ago. Jenny looked at her in surprise. Kat just shrugged. Something tugged at the back of her mind, but she shoved it out of the way, and took another puff. She watched the smoke float gently up through the air, curling in on itself and forming strange little loops, and sighed.

***​Finally! Someone was actually going to talk to her. The guard had been very curt in giving the order to follow him, but since it was the first time any of them had been talked to by the guards, she hastily followed. Beth and Sharon stared in amazement as she dropped the cigarette - stamping it out as she stood up - and followed the man. He led her down a long, hospital white, tiled hallway. They passed door after door, though she wasn't tall enough in this body to see through any of the windows, until they came to the end. The guard opened the door and motioned for her to continue in ahead of him.

The sounds of Bach's "Air on the G String" floated out into the air as she entered the room. A middle aged man in a tweed jacket sat in a leather chair in the middle of what looked like a psychologist's office. Bookcases lined the wall, a desk sat to one side of the room, and a sofa sat across from the man's chair.

"Hello Katherine," the man said, motioning to the sofa.

"Kat," she replied, "I prefer to be called Kat."

"Oh yes," he smiled, "that's right. My mistake."

She looked at him for a second before hopping up onto the couch.

"Do you know why you're here?" the man asked.

"Do you mean practically or metaphysically?" she replied.

He chucked. "Both."

Kat shrugged, "Practically, I don't know. I'd say you're doing research on something, but I'm not sure what."

He raised an eyebrow, "Go on."

"Metaphysically, I'd say that each individual is part of a whole. A giant, infinite fractal, if you will. I think you're tapping into that to bring us back when we die. I just don't know why or how you're doing it."

"Interesting," he said. He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes, "care for one?" Kat accepted his offer, and leaned back on the sofa. "How much do you remember?" he asked.

"Of my previous life? A lot. But not all of it - there are still some blanks." She paused for a moment, "I remember the cancer. I remember the feeling of helplessness, of failure, though I don't remember actually dying."

The man paused for a moment. "How would you like another chance? To live your life over again - to create new memories?"

"I'd like that more than anything," she said, beginning to cry.

_I think it's time_, he thought to himself. "You wait here," he said, as he stood up from the chair. He opened the door to the office, and then turned to her, "Someone will be along shortly." He stepped through, closing the door behind him, and was gone.

***​"Katherine," Hoffman called to his assistant as he removed the mask.

"Kat," she corrected him.

"Oh yes," he smiled, "that's right. My mistake." He stood up from the chair and motioned for her to sit down.

"Oh, no doctor," she replied, although sitting sounded incredibly appealing right now, "I'm ok, really."

"No, no," he waved his hand dismissively, "I want you to try the mask this time."

Kat was shocked - he had never let anyone use the mask, not even the men from the government who had funded the project. "Are you sure, doctor?" she asked.

"Yes, absolutely," he motioned to the chair.

He helped her lower herself into the plush leather seat. "I'm sorry, but this is going to get in the way," he said as he removed her wig - the result of her recent chemotherapy.

"Doctor," she said, embarrassed, reaching for the wig.

"It's ok," he said reassuringly as he placed it on the table next to her, "it's just me."

He handed her the mask, and she took it with trembling hands. She gently placed it on her face, and was surprised to feel it fit so comfortably. "Just relax," he said, as the lights dimmed, and the sound of Bach floated through the air. She took a deep breath, as Hoffman worked the controls, gradually fading out this existence and fading in the artificial one.

As soon as the mask had taken effect, and she could no longer sense him, Hoffman opened Kat's purse, and began searching for the syringe and morphine he knew she kept, in case the pain got too bad.

***​Kat looked out at the office through four-year-old eyes. She held a cigarette in her hand, and took a puff as she felt an unexpected pain in her right arm. The world began to blur for a moment as the sounds of Bach faded from the background. Then, reality reemerged with a bright clarity, and the realization of what had happened overwhelmed her as two sets of memories merged.

She fought back tears, her lips quivering, as the office in front of her faded away, replaced with the ancient Incan capitol Machu Picchu. Gasping, she looked at the mountains and boulders and stones around her, each part of the unending whole. Smoke drifted up into the air, curing in on itself, forming those strange little loops. She smiled, and, dropping her cigarette, stamped it out. _This time_, she thought, _I'm going to do it right._


----------



## Berandor (Jun 27, 2004)

I just wanted to say sorry for all the little errors that slipped through. I got a little nervous and didn't read it over closely. I hope you're able to decipher most of it, though


----------



## alsih2o (Jun 27, 2004)

Zhaneel said:
			
		

> Brain tired.
> 
> Zhaneel




 Had a chronic case myself lately


----------



## alsih2o (Jun 28, 2004)

Judgement- Macbeth vs. Morpheus

 Barsoomcore-

Macbeth "Art Memoir"

Wow. I really, really liked this story. Absolutely fresh and original, with a couple of nice recurring phrases to hold it together. Confessional stories are hard to get right because the voice has to be completely authentic or else it comes off like a cheap trick (which it is, but hey, a cheap trick is sometimes just what you need). This voice takes a couple of paragraphs to really get up to speed, and you probably could have edited that opening a little, but I was grooving on it.

"I'm crazy. I'm charismatic." Now I'm starting to get a feel for this character. And when we get to "Pope-Dalai-Lama-Anton-Levay way" I'm starting to like this character. And when THAT little trick pays off with the later hyphenated lists, and then the "Fear and Loathing" repeats, I feel like I'm in the hands of someone who knows what they're doing. Did you really just combine Patton, Hitler and Moses? Yes you did. Props for balls.

The hands and the lizard pictures are beautifully integrated into the story. The masks are a little bit of a stretch, unfortunately, and if I had to pick the point where this story just doesn't quite reach its potential, it's in the last picture, of the guy on the phone.

If this guy calling the cops were the turning point of the story, this would be solid gold. Problem is, with all the build-up, a couple of burst water mains feels a little... anti-climactic. I was preparing myself for an honest-to-God (or maybe two) Great Flood, so there was a certain amount of let-down at the end. And the fact that the cops are coming doesn't seem like such a big deal, so the guy on the phone feels a little tacked on.

If we'd had a little more set-up on the cops and their efforts to get at our narrator, this would have turned that picture into a critical plot point and there's a Ceramic triumph.

You got me ready for a tale of "Biblical proportions" -- you need to either deliver, or make a point of NOT delivering.

Still, I really loved this story. Very unusual and a gripping read. Great stuff!


Morpheus "The Third Degree"

I loved the gritty details and especially the opening -- the "official document" idea is a good gambit if you can fill in the right details, and that opening bit is very nice. Fills me with anticipation for the tale to come and gives me a sense of where we're going -- which lets me hang on for the ride, if you know what I mean.

I think, though, that you made a miscalculation in blending the "official document" feel with the more traditional narrative material. Keeping to the official document -- making your story nothing more or less than a military operational report and interview record, would have made this story a lot stronger, I think.

When the first narrative bit starts up, with the entrance of Corporal West, I'm okay with it. The "report" was the introduction and now I'm getting a story. Fair enough. But then you go back to the "transcript" feel and I start getting distracted. I start looking for a pattern in the switches between one narrative style and the other, and I don't see one. So I start wondering why the switches are happening -- which is distracting me from the story itself. I get a further distraction when suddenly, towards the end, the narrative voice goes into Walters' head and I get his thoughts, as well.

Cthulhu stories have a long tradition of being told through "reports" -- "The Thing On The Doorstep" purports to be the written testimony of the narrator, "The Haunter of the Dark" reads like an investigative article, and of course "Pickman's Model" ends with the classic "But by god, Eliot, _it was a photograph from life_." So you've chosen a good model, and updating it as a military record is a great new twist. I feel like you didn't really have faith in that approach, however, and added in the narrative sections to get across details you didn't think would come through in the interview. If you were to rewrite this, I'd say, have faith.

The final comment concerns the pictures, which don't really get used in the story. The primary images of the story are the helicopters, the guy in the wheelchair and the Bloated Woman. All fine images, but the pictures provided don't seem to fit in very "holisitically". And I have to say that the first two pictures don't seem to be part of the story at all -- you could have left them out with no impact on the story, which is a problem for a Ceramic DM entry.


Decision: Macbeth

 Mythago-

First let me say that I'm happy I don't get to beat on you guys for 
silly spelling and grammar errors. That aside, this is going to be a 
grumpy review, because I was a little disappointed in both of the stories.

ART MEMOIR (Macbeth)

A lot of good ideas that read like a rough draft. It's the first round, 
so somewhat to be expected, but I found the flow and development of the 
story impeded by the bumps.

First is the "show, don't tell". The narrator is telling us a story 
about the events leading up to the climax. It makes sense in this 
context, but unbroken by much dialogue or description means it's easy to 
skip over instead of hanging on and following the text. There were also 
parts where the narrative skipped around--first the artist gave his 
followers poisoned wine, but then mentions that before they died he had 
them carve masks. Now, presumably they weren't doing it WHILE poisoned, 
but the structure makes the reader stop and say "Wait....oh, okay, he 
must mean before he gave them the poison in the first place."

There was also, honestly, a suspension-of-disbelief problem. Nobody did 
anything about the guy using body parts? Nobody noticed a colony of 
drug-using, law-breaking corpse-robbers in the middle of San Francisco, 
even though they had enormous publicity and "even the free speech 
people" knew about them and hated them?

The repetition of the "Las Vegas" phrase was clever (although it might 
have worked better if they were *in* Vegas), and the last paragraph 
really captures the narrator's off-kilter mind. Extend that back through 
the whole story and it would be very much improved.

Use of the pictures was very steady, especially given their, er, 
eclectic nature.


THE THIRD DEGREE (Morpheus)

The biggest problem with this story is that it doesn't pick a single 
narrative style; it's a mismash of a "report," an interview, and 
narrative description. A transcript of a report wouldn't contain a 
paragraph explaining Corporal Walters's point of view in watching 
Corporal West brought into the room, and the descriptions of the event 
need to be set off somehow if they're 'flashbacks' of what West is 
describing. This made it very hard to follow along.

There's a Ceramic DM tradition that it's a no-no to use a picture *as* a 
picture, but I didn't ding you on that becaues it wasn't emphasized in 
the rules. The problem is that I couldn't figure out where in the story 
they *were* supposed to be; Walters pulls them out of the folder and 
that's the last we hear of them.

The story centers around an interesting incident, but that's about all 
it is--an incident. We don't learn how West got out, or who the Black 
Fan was other than something icky; why is Walters so afraid? What was 
the point of the mission in the first place?

Judgment for this round goes to MACBETH.

 Alsih2o-

Macbeth- Starts off with one of those comic book indulgences of a characters running monologue. I always liked that, some of us are reared on Shakespeare, some of us on Frank Miller. There are lots of echoes in the writing and while I enjoyed the rhythm they created it sometimes made it hard for me to catch what was being said, “it meant, it meant.” I did enjoy the fun Macbeth was having in giving the character the rambling sense by the use of the something-another thing- something sing song descriptive style.

  The character chafed me with his language and in how everything he did was consciously derivative, but I give Macbeth credit for that because I think it was intentional. Even the pounding of the Hunter title entertained me.

  I just wish something more had happened. Something more in line with what the mood implied.

 The picture use was good without really being surprising ever.

 Morpheus- At first I was excited by the formal tone, a really challenging way to tell a story, but soon there seems to be a mish-mosh of styles, and I found it distracting. This may have worked with jumping editing in a movie, but was stilting in a story.

 But where do the first two pictures come in? I feel maybe there was an err here. I like how tied in the masks are, but the hands are mostly just added in and the “man on phone” and “monitor lizard” pictures are just pictures.

 Unfortunately I know how hard these thinga are to blend, I got my tuckus handed to em last time trying it. J

  Judgement for Macbeth.

 Winner, Macbeth 3-0. Thanks for joining us Morpheus, come back again. J


----------



## Macbeth (Jun 28, 2004)

alsih2o said:
			
		

> Winner, Macbeth 3-1. Thanks for joining us Morpheus, come back again. J



Not to be picky, but therte were only three judges, so it' 3-0, not 3-1, I think.

Thanks for the feedback, and a big thank you to my worthy opponent. I'll try to put together some cohesive feedback on the feedback when I've got some sleep.


----------



## Zhaneel (Jun 28, 2004)

I'm sorry.

Too much stuff has come up in my life, stuff which I'm going to be paid to do or am paying to go do.  I unfortunately don't have unlimited time.  I respectfully withdraw and cede my place to one of the alternates.

I'm very sorry, and to my opponent I apologize profusely.

Zhaneel


----------



## BSF (Jun 28, 2004)

Congrats to Macbeth!  I'm falling behind in stories already so my feedback is lacking over in the other thread.  

Ack!  Zhaneel needs to withdraw.  Major bummer.  Still, if real bill-paying life rears up and says you have to pay attention, well then you have to pay attention.  Zhaneel, good luck with the stuff you have to do.  I have been kind of crossing my fingers hoping we would go head to head in one of the rounds.  It would be great fun.  Perhaps another time though.


----------



## alsih2o (Jun 28, 2004)

Zhaneel said:
			
		

> I'm sorry.
> 
> Too much stuff has come up in my life, stuff which I'm going to be paid to do or am paying to go do.  I unfortunately don't have unlimited time.  I respectfully withdraw and cede my place to one of the alternates.
> 
> ...




 Wow, Well thank goodness it is all good stuff.  Beats quitting over bad stuff.

P-Kitty can you email Noskov for us? And can someone kind please move my alternate list form the non-judge thread to here? Without this mornings polite email form BSF I may have been lost.


----------



## Piratecat (Jun 28, 2004)

alsih2o said:
			
		

> P-Kitty can you email Noskov for us?




On it. I've sent you an email with his address. You know, I should have thought of that last night.


----------



## alsih2o (Jun 28, 2004)

Piratecat said:
			
		

> On it. I've sent you an email with his address. You know, I should have thought of that last night.




 And I should have thought of it 3-4 days ago 

 Ceramic DM- player participation extrordinaire!


----------



## Noskov (Jun 28, 2004)

*Still need and alternate?*

I'm here.  Don't know if you still need me, but I'm here.


----------



## alsih2o (Jun 28, 2004)

Noskov said:
			
		

> I'm here.  Don't know if you still need me, but I'm here.




 We do, we had an unfortunate drop-out, and you seem to eb the target, er, I mean alternate..so look out.

 I will look for posts by Rodrigo and yourself as to posting time for your photos.


----------



## Noskov (Jun 28, 2004)

alsih2o said:
			
		

> We do, we had an unfortunate drop-out, and you seem to eb the target, er, I mean alternate..so look out.
> 
> I will look for posts by Rodrigo and yourself as to posting time for your photos.





If it's today, around 3 or 4 pm, est, would be best for me.  I'll try and check back all day though.


----------



## Rodrigo Istalindir (Jun 28, 2004)

alsih2o said:
			
		

> We do, we had an unfortunate drop-out, and you seem to eb the target, er, I mean alternate..so look out.
> 
> I will look for posts by Rodrigo and yourself as to posting time for your photos.




Whenever you want is Ok, but I'd like to be done with this round (not that I expect to be competing in later rounds  ) no later than Friday night -- holiday weekend and all.


----------



## alsih2o (Jun 28, 2004)

O.k., posting pics for the two of you now-


----------



## alsih2o (Jun 28, 2004)

Round 1, Alt match of Rodrigo istalindir vs. Noskov

 4 pics, 72 hours, 5000 word limit.


----------



## Zhaneel (Jun 28, 2004)

BardStephenFox said:
			
		

> Ack!  Zhaneel needs to withdraw.  Major bummer.  Still, if real bill-paying life rears up and says you have to pay attention, well then you have to pay attention.  Zhaneel, good luck with the stuff you have to do.  I have been kind of crossing my fingers hoping we would go head to head in one of the rounds.  It would be great fun.  Perhaps another time though.




Thanks for the compliment.  I very much hope to do this again sometime.

Basically, I spent all of Sunday working on an "on spec" assignment for a magazine and it isn't done yet.  I have a deadline there, and I want to be respected for meeting deadlines.  Beyond that, I have my normal day job, a workshop that I'm prepping for (Strange Horizons workshop for fiction), a novel proposal to do, a story to edit and send out [personal deadline], and a husband/home that does deserve some of my attention.  Oh yeah, and sleeping. ;-)

Thanks to my opponent for letting me change up and I'm very sorry if you were already started on a story.

Thanks to Clay for picking up quickly.  And thanks to Noskov for stepping in!

Zhaneel


----------



## francisca (Jun 28, 2004)

alsih2o said:
			
		

> Bsf Vs franscisca monday morning-done



 Busy morning, Clay?  Seriously, no hurry.  BSF is gonna whoop my can anyway  :\


----------



## Rodrigo Istalindir (Jun 28, 2004)

Zhaneel said:
			
		

> Thanks to my opponent for letting me change up and I'm very sorry if you were already started on a story.
> Zhaneel




No problem - you'd have mopped the floor with me anyway.  Besides, ideas are never wasted, they recycle better than aluminum.


----------



## Noskov (Jun 28, 2004)

Zhaneel said:
			
		

> Thanks for the compliment.  I very much hope to do this again sometime.
> 
> Basically, I spent all of Sunday working on an "on spec" assignment for a magazine and it isn't done yet.  I have a deadline there, and I want to be respected for meeting deadlines.  Beyond that, I have my normal day job, a workshop that I'm prepping for (Strange Horizons workshop for fiction), a novel proposal to do, a story to edit and send out [personal deadline], and a husband/home that does deserve some of my attention.  Oh yeah, and sleeping. ;-)
> 
> ...




Not a problem.  I only hope I can do you some justice and make a presentable piece.  Seeing as how you are much more of a writer then I am, I doubt I will come close to the quality of work you would have submitted, but I will do my best.....or go down in flames.


----------



## Zhaneel (Jun 28, 2004)

Blah... all of you people offerring compliments like roses when I didn't give you anything.  Compliment MacBeth & Morpheus & PC & CarpeDavid.  At least they gave you something interesting to read.  ;-)

Thanks, though, I do appreciate the compliments and hope to do them justice, later.

Zhaneel


----------



## BSF (Jun 28, 2004)

Zhaneel, wow!  You sound busy.  That's cool and I really hope it all works out well for you.  

Clay, um, it's Monday morning.  Not to nag or anything, and I am sure it was a bit of a scramble to switch in Noskov for Zhaneel, but pics please?  I need to see if my muse is home and willing to help out.  

Also, there is a question coming from the non-judge thread that has coime up.  OK, I am the one that brought it up and it has been suggested that thoughts from the Judges would be most welcome.  Since the judges aren't allowed in the other thread, maybe I need to move the question over here.  

_What is the general consensus on family/friend review? I tend to get typing a story so fast that a decent editing run through it would be a boon. Not that I generally finish a story in time to get a good editing, but if I did, would it be considered poor form to have somebody read/edit it before posting?_

Oh, and it looks like Delgar is the remaining alternate, fromthis thread, post #28 or so.


----------



## francisca (Jun 28, 2004)

BardStephenFox said:
			
		

> _What is the general consensus on family/friend review? I tend to get typing a story so fast that a decent editing run through it would be a boon. Not that I generally finish a story in time to get a good editing, but if I did, would it be considered poor form to have somebody read/edit it before posting?_



On a personal note, since we are facing off in the first round, I would not consider it bad form at all.


----------



## alsih2o (Jun 28, 2004)

Round 1, Bard Stephen Fox Vs. Francisca (late with my apologies  )

 4 pics, 72 hours, 5000 word limit.


----------



## alsih2o (Jun 28, 2004)

BardStephenFox said:
			
		

> _What is the general consensus on family/friend review? I tend to get typing a story so fast that a decent editing run through it would be a boon. Not that I generally finish a story in time to get a good editing, but if I did, would it be considered poor form to have somebody read/edit it before posting?_




 I think "review and edit" is a perfectly acceptable thing. Poor verb tense and spelling errors spellcheck cannot catch are great to weed out with help, BUT please limit it to that. Cowriting would be a cardinal sin inmy opinion. 

 All ideas, content and context should be the writers own.

 If you feel differently or see some angle I have forgotten (like that is hard   ) please email me, rather than us boggin up a thread with rules blech.


----------



## francisca (Jun 28, 2004)

alsih2o said:
			
		

> Round 1, Bard Stephen Fox Vs. Francisca (late with my apologies  )
> 
> 4 pics, 72 hours, 5000 word limit.



 No apology needed!

BSF: I raise my ax in salute! Let it begin!


----------



## BSF (Jun 28, 2004)

Weird!  There are elements in those pics that are suggestive of some of my campaigns.  I'm not quite sure I want to run with that though since I am not sure I can construct a follow-through.  Still, maybe that is a message from my muse.  "Here, remember that stuff we talked about a year or two ago?  You can use that for this pic, and use this element for this pic.  Now, go make me some salsa and I will tell you how to tie the whole thing together."

Clay, I am perfectly fine with the "review and edit" aspect.  I keep getting dinged for editing errors, especially the elusive it's/its error.  I think I managed to figure out what I am doing with that just the other night.    :\ 

Francisca, may your muse be kind, helpful and present.


----------



## Graywolf-ELM (Jun 29, 2004)

Any Chance of starting Friday Morning/Afternoon this week?  No Gaming this Friday, and I have the full evening to myself to write.

GW


----------



## mythago (Jun 29, 2004)

_Besides, ideas are never wasted, they recycle better than aluminum._

  "This bench we're sitting on? Made entirely out of recycled ideas. Watch out for the Sartre, there, it'll snag your pantyhose."


----------



## orchid blossom (Jun 29, 2004)

Round 1 Match 4    orchid blossom vs. Fieari

Journeys

by: orchid blossom


I watched in fascination as Lynn used her teeth to slowly pull back on the syringe.  I somehow expected to see small, squirmy things in the yellowish liquid that rushed in to fill the space, even though I knew they were far too small.  She held the snake far from its head, to avoid the teeth, she'd said.

     "They're really in there?" I asked.  

    "Absolutely.  Thousands of the most advanced technologically and magically enhanced nanites ever seen, and when Brendan’s ready to do some more of his voodoo on them, they're going right in you sweetie."

     "Aren't I the lucky girl?" I snorted.  

     Lynn waited a moment.  "Not sure about this, Jeanelle?"

     I took a deep breath.  "I'm ready.  I just don't love the idea of all those little robots floating around in my blood for the rest of my life.  I can't even see them.  I trust the magic, it's the technology that makes me nervous."  An uncomfortable chuckle escaped me.  "Look at the bright side, I got these nifty new tattoos in the bargain."

     I actually rather liked the tattoos, although I won't say I enjoyed the process of getting them.  It's damn hard to keep your focus on a spell when someone is repeatedly sticking you with needles.  Snakes now twined around each wrist and ankle and encircled my waist.  Any moment I expected them to begin slithering across my skin, darting their tongues in and out as they tasted the air.  I grinned then.  "I think I'm going to start attracting the wrong sort of guy with these."

    Lynn turned back from placing the snake in its enclosure and pushed her gray-blonde hair back from her face.  "Speaking of," she began suggestively, "are you going to be alright seeing Devon again?"

     The scar on my neck began to warm as I thought about it.  "I forgave him even before the fire was out, Lynn.  I don't have any problems with him, and I know that's not what you meant," I added as I saw Lynn purse her lips.  " He left all of us, not just me.  And maybe it was the right thing.  I don't know.  I just hope he hasn't become so magic-phobic that he won't accept our offer."

     "There won't be an offer if Brendan doesn't get in here to finish those incantations."  Lynn tapped the test tube that now held the yellowish liquid that had come from the snake.  "We want you ready to go by high tide. "

     "Maybe we should," I began, "ah, speak of the devil, here he comes now."

    "Been missing me ladies?" he said as he slid into the room.  A short, stocky young man, Brendan didn't look much like you would expect a magician to look.  Not tall or skinny, no long beard or pointy hat.  His nose was even straight.  Of course, I didn't know any magician who did look like that.  It's funny how some people thought magicians should walk around in robes wearing 'Hello my name is' badges.  Not so funny how some thought we should all be registered as armed and dangerous.

     Brendan was waving his hand in my face.  "Jeanelle?  You in there?"

     "Yeah, sorry.  I was just thinking about my trip into the big bad world."

     "Aren't we all?  Have a seat girl.  Lynn, I need the serums in five shots, and then I need the snakes they came from."  I took a few deep breaths and concentrated on relaxing my muscles.  Shots were not my favorite thing in the world, and the more tense you were the more they hurt.

     "Don't warn me when you're ready, just do it."

     Brendan mumbled something that was probably agreement, and I felt the moist chill of antiseptic swabs run over where the head of each snake tattoo was.  Shortly afterward there was prick after prick, until all five syringes had been emptied.  "Stand up and hold very still now girl," Brendan said quietly.  

     I rose and opened my eyes as Brendan began the incantation.  The five snakes slithered across the floor toward my bare feet, each from a different direction.  Their long, sinuous bodies curled around my legs where the first two wrapped themselves around the tattoos.  The other three continued their climb, wrapping themselves around their ink counterparts.  They began to push themselves into my skin, sliding underneath as if it gave no more resistance than water.  I could feel panic rising in my throat.  Brendan raised a hand to me, unable to stop his incantation.  I focused on that hand as the reptiles writhed under my skin.  A few forever moments later they swam back up through my skin and flowed back down my body.  I felt as though I should be covered in blood, but everything was as it should be.  I sat weakly back in the chair.

     "You alright?" Brendan asked intently.

     "Yes, just....strange.  I don't know yet if I recommend having snakes under your skin.  Very, very strange feeling."

     Brendan laughed.  "I don't think I want to find out.  Think you'll be ready to go in a few minutes?  The tide’s starting to turn."

     By the time we got to shore the water was already starting to cover over the walkway.  I'd gotten used to the sight of the ship sitting out of the water on its jutting rock.  Our harbor was too shallow for ships to come all the way to shore, and we liked it that way.  It seemed safer that no one who did not know the trick of balancing the ship on that rock could approach our island by sea.  By air was another story of course, but at least your random magic haters couldn't just get in their pleasure cruisers and land on our shores.

     The path looked tricky but was actually quite flat, and in a matter of moments my bags were up the gangplank and I was ready to go.  "Give Devon our love," Lynn said with a wink as she hugged me, "come back soon."

     Brendan squeezed my hand.  "Do the best you can."

     I nodded.  "Next time you offer me a free vacation, warn me about the snakes first, will ya?"

     He laughed as I got aboard, then he and Lynn hurried back to shore before the walkway was covered over.  I settled in to wait for the tide to turn.

*                      *                       *

     I rode along in one of the last jeeps, clenching my teeth together to keep them from rattling as we arrived at the research facility. It was a sprawling compound, obviously renovated from a preexisting complex.  We passed through the gates onto a street that reminded me uncomfortably of an institution with its sea foam green tile walls and harsh lighting.  The caravan stopped and I lifted my hand to shade my eyes.

     "Good morning, Gentlemen!  It's a pleasure to see you all here.  Welcome to Richfield Technologies!  I'd like to offer you all a chance to rest a bit and have some refreshment before we begin our tour.  I believe you'll be impressed with what we've achieved here.  I'm Devon Richfield, I hope I’ll have the opportunity to speak with each of you personally before the day is out.  The drivers will take you to your rooms, and I'll see you again shortly."

     With that the caravan started back up again, but at a much slower pace as the people who seemed to populate this outer perimeter moved out of the way.  It was a few moments before I could see Devon clearly, but he was unmistakable.  Certainly older, more confident, but still Devon.  There was no missing the jaunty posture, the wide smile, or that hair so black that it looked nearly blue under the fluorescent light.  He was walking along the slow moving caravan shaking hands with each possible investor in turn.  I wiped my palms on my dusty thighs and closed my eyes, taking a few deep breaths.

     A moment later a familiar voice spoke at my elbow.  "Those are new," Devon said, waving toward the snakes circling my wrists..

     I opened my eyes and smiled.  "Yes, as are these," I gestured toward my ankles, "and one you're not allowed to see.  I didn't expect to see you at the gate."

     "I like to be the first person my investors see.  We don't look terribly impressive out here and I want them to see something besides an old school for juvenile offenders."

     "Is that what this place was?"

     Devon nodded.  "This part anyway."  He paused for an uncomfortable moment.  "Look, don't think I'm not glad to see you, but why are you here, Jeanelle?"

     "For the same reasons these others are, to see if we want to invest with you."

      The other jeeps were far ahead now and rounding the corner.  The populace began to move into the street again, but one particular man caught my eye.  He stepped almost right in front of the jeep, his jacket spread wide and staring straight at me.  Then he nodded to Devon and stepped out of the way.  "Umm, what was that about?"

     Devon looked away.  "It was a signal.  He's been watching all the jeeps go by and he recognized you."

     I waited for him to turn back to me.  "You didn't know I was coming, did you?"

    He finally caught on to the side of the jeep and climbed in.  "Not you in particular.  He can recognize people who have magical talent.  He lets me know when anyone new in the compound has the gift."

     "I thought you disapproved of magic, why would you want to know who has the gift and who hasn't?”  I waited.  “Or maybe you just like to know who's dangerous and who's not in your little city here," I finished with more venom than I really felt.

     "It's not like that, Jeanelle," he said taking my hand.  I remembered that look.  It always made him look like a child, with his eyes open wide and his eyebrows lifted, begging for understanding.  "I know what it's like to have magic you can't control.  I identify them so I can get them where they need to be.  I have a couple people right here who can teach control, and I offer transport to a colony that will teach them more if that's what they want.  Just because I don't use magic anymore doesn't mean I hate it."  He pushed the hair back from my neck to expose the large burn scar there. "That looks a lot better, by the way."

     "Modern medicine, magic, and time can do a lot."

     "Yes, time," he said quietly.  "Umm, I should go, I have a tour this afternoon.  I think you'll impressed."  He jumped out the jeep.  "I think I'm glad you're here."

*        *        *     

     I admit, most of the tour was over my head.  I wasn't sent there because I had great knowledge of technology; I can barely remember not to put tin foil in the microwave.  But I didn't mind getting the tattoos, so I got the job.  Most of the areas that dealt with computer hardware and the advanced software were beyond me.  The robot however, was truly impressive.  I've never seen much use for robots myself, but I think that's just a lack of imagination.  Whoever built this thing lacked none.

     The first thing that caught my eye, aside from the size, were the tires sticking out from the shoulders.  I had no idea what the thing was meant to do, beside showcase what Richfield Technologies could do with the proper funding.  I think every man in that room turned into a ten-year-old when the demonstrations began and the robot folded in on itself, reconfiguring until it no longer looked like a robot at all, but like a very odd but passable car.  All I could do was wonder what you would do with a car that turned into a robot.  I mean, the car is useful, but what would you do with that huge robot?

So I stood there later that night, staring at the monstrosity with Devon by my side.  He'd agreed, albeit reluctantly, to let me demonstrate what the islanders had to offer as investors. 

     "We've been branching out," I began.  "We know that we can't ignore technology, and we shouldn't.  But the world also can't ignore magic.  It's also out there, and it's a force.  You know yourself it isn't really any more dangerous than technology."

     "Do I?"  Devon jumped in.  "I didn't give you that scar with technology.  I did it with magic.  Magic that I couldn't control.  Technology can be controlled, safeguarded."

     "Technology in the hands of the wrong user is far more dangerous than magic.  A magician tires herself out before too long.  She can cause some impressive damage, but it's nothing compared to what a man with a machine gun can do."  I stopped and took a deep breath.  "Listen, I'm not here to convince you to go back to using magic yourself.  We both know that a person who doubts himself has no business practicing.  What we want is your help in opening the world's eyes to the possibilities magic brings.”

I removed the light jacket I was wearing, leaving only the cropped shirt and shorts I'd worn underneath.  The snake tattoos glittered in the dim light that reflected off the mammoth piece of machinery in front of me.  "We've developed a highly sophisticated nanite using not only science but magic as well.  Two days ago they were injected into my bloodstream.  Watch."

     I leaned forward until my fingers touched the cool metal floor.  The incantation came easily under my breath.  Devon tensed up behind me as magical vibrations rippled through the air.  I could feel his body respond even as he kept it under the tightest control.  The undercurrent of fear was something I wasn't used to.  It hadn't been present in his magic when we'd been together, but after the accident....

     I pushed away the extraneous feelings and poured everything into the tattoos.  Moments later, as I has always felt they should do, they writhed and pulled themselves free of my skin, sliding down my body and along the floor to the robot.  I lost sight of their shadowy forms as they blended into the machine, but I could feel it as the nanites made their connections.  "What is it programmed to do, Devon?"

     "Not much yet," he answered, breathless.  "Just the transformation."

     "The way I understand this is, the nanites still in my body can communicate with those now in the robot.  I can command it to do anything.  If it doesn't know how, I can show it how.  It's as if we share one thought now.  Watch."  I wasn't sure what the machine should be capable of, so I started with it just walking a circle around us.  "It can still do the things I can't, complex calculations and the like, things that a computer can do far better.  It wouldn't matter how far away I was now, I could control this robot from the other side of the Earth.  That's what the magic offers."  The robot was now doing the Hokey Pokey, putting it's left arm in and taking it's left arm out.  I laughed.  "Sorry, that's not very dignified, is it?"  I walked it back to its spot against the wall and muttered the return incantation.  The snakes slithered back out of the machine, making their slow, sinuous way back to again become nothing more than ink pictures on my skin.

     "It's amazing.  We're decades away from that kind of sophistication through technology alone."  He paused for a moment.  "Can people without talent use it?"

     "If you're willing to make a permanent connection, yes.  We can set the spells to be permanent, but then you're binding someone to that machine forever.  Those who can control the spells themselves can create or break a connection as they see fit."

     I could see him wavering as fear and excitement warred inside him. "It's not possible without the technology, Devon.  The magic is only communication magic.  The only accidents it can cause are in allowing a flawed human mind to control the machine."

     He walked over and touched my scar again.  As his fingers trailed over it I could feel him relaxing some of that iron control and allowing the last vestiges of the magic to reverberate through his body.  Suddenly he grinned.  "Why snakes?"

   I shrugged.  "I like snakes."


----------



## orchid blossom (Jun 29, 2004)

And now I'm off to work, relieved that it's done and posted.  Good luck to everyone!


----------



## Fieari (Jun 29, 2004)

"Patterns, sir.  It's all about patterns, and engineering of course.  Science isn't anything beyond the reach of you, or any person on the street.  It just takes time, and an ability to notice pattern."

"Of course, if you can't notice patterns, there are schools that can help you, right?"

"Of course sir."

Truce looked around the room, trying to figure out what the most impressive thing he could show his sponcer would be.  Science was easy, getting someone to pay for it was hard.  Just three months ago, he had secured a grant from a government agency though, and now they were sending men to make sure he was finding things.  The problem was, his research _wasn't_ flashy.

That is to say, it involved no pretty pictures of distant stars you could put in magazines and make people say "How amazing!  How pretty!"  There were no fractal graphs.  Nothing had blown up!  There was a machine, and yes, the machine was built on three whole acres of land, but there were some particle accelerators that were larger by far!  No, it wasn't flashy.  And there had been no results yet.

But it was interesting.  He just had to convey that interest to the person paying his bills... keeping his son housed, in school, and well fed.  No mother, unfortunately.  Being a widower was hard, but the research was enough to keep his mind occupied.

He was studying a... a ripple.  The scientific journals occasionally had articles about them, but few studied the things.  They didn't do much... they were just there.  The machine here had been built on top of this ripple though, completely by accident, which made it unusable for more standard quantum research, but absolutely perfect for his own.

Truce decided on the output processing computer.  It showed graphs and reports that could be filled with various colors.

"If you'll look this way sir... you can see todays data coming in.  Right now, we're just recording the polarity of the atoms we're pushing through the ripple."

"What does that mean?"

"Well, you've heard that quantum mechanics is extremely precise?  That was can calculate things to thousands of decimal places?  Well we can.  Except, not for any specific atom.  We can predict probability.  If we send seven trillion atoms through the pipe, we can predict how many will do one thing, and how many will do another.  But not which will do what.  Just how many.

Here sir.  These are the numbers for a standard run, anywhere else in the world.

These are the numbers for our ripple."

"They don't look anything alike, I notice."

"Good eye for patterns sir!  You'd make a wonderful scientist.  Of course, the reason you are paying me, is that not only have I noticed the numbers are different, I've noticed that the numbers here don't match any model at all.  Not any theoretically possible model, if you consider that the model doesn't change.  I call this a volatile system... a system that changes.  We haven't been able to find out what changes the system, that's why we're collecting data."

"Very good!  Very good.  Good to hear it.  Do you have any idea when you'll actually discover what changes things here?"

"No sir.  Could be next month, could be ten years from now.  But as long as your organization... or any organization, will foot the bill, we'll keep trying."

"Well, see that you don't go elsewhere.  We'll keep you on the payroll a while longer it seems."

"Thank you sir."

The man in the business suit stood, shook hands with Truce, and walked out the door.  Truce loosened his tie.  He really wasn't comfortable in these fancy clothes.  It wasn't long before he had ditched the shoes as well, and unbuttoned the top few buttons, with a sigh of relief.

There were two lab assistants, one who made sure the computers didn't break down, and the other who maintained the machine... not that it needed much help.  With the government paying, the structure had been decked out with all the latest technology, and part of that included a self repairing function.  The three of them were the only ones working on the project, which meant that nearly all of the incoming money could be siphoned into equipment.  There was little left over.

So when the computer made beeping noises, only he and the computer technician were there to take a look.  Phil, the machinist, was drinking coffee and lounging in a chair across the room.  The computer wasn't complaining about an error though, it was pointing out that it had discovered a pattern... if only briefly.

===========================================

Over the next few weeks, when the pattern was reproducible on command to certain specific stimulants, real progress was made.  For one thing, it was hard to call the ripple a ripple anymore.  It was now what appeared to be a localized black hole.  A _massless_ localized black hole.  Particles could be shot around it, but entering into it meant they never came back.  The hole never evidenced any further energy returning.  It was as if the laws of thermodynamics were just going to be ignored here, and energy was destroyed.  Nothing did that.  Which meant that this... this thing, had to be a gateway.  A portal of some sort.  And each time the experiment was repeated, it got larger.  Exponentially larger.  Soon, it would be large enough to toss a rock into it, instead of just atoms and such.  Any larger, and at the rate of growth, it would quickly expand to engulf the entire city or more.

"You will send something through."  The business man was telling Truce, over the phone after receiving the last report.

"Such as?" Truce retorted, although politely, to the man footing the bills.  It paid, quite literally, to be diplomatic.  "Nothing comes out of it, not even gravity.  What would be the point?"

"Just send something, anything through."

Truce sighed.  And he set up the next experiment.  Operation: Rock Throw.  The results were as expected.  Nothing returned from the black thing.  Nothing at all.

============================================

"Let me get this straight.  You have new technology that will let us... do anything we want?"

Allow me to set the new scene.  It is a relatively clean alleyway filled with people in vaguely ethnic garb.  They speak with funny accents.  They are dirty, but they command great respect and perhaps just a little bit of fear from the well dressed man speaking to them, offering them their wildest dreams come true.

"Yes."  is the simple reply.  

The ethnic man scowls, and spreads his arms out.  (Picture)  "Do you take us for fools?  And you're asking for how much?"

"3.2 billion."

"And you expect us to believe your fantastical claims without the merest demonstration?"  The vaguely ethnic people are now beginning to loom, somewhat threateningly.  Which was the entire point of having them along.

"No.  I offer you a demonstration.  A free sample, if you wish."  And he pulled out a small, vaguely ethnic looking lamp.  It wouldn't have been out of place in Arabian Nights, but it certainly was out of place coming from the inner coat pocket of a three piece suit.  He rubbed it.  The onlookers laughed for a moment.  The laughing quickly faded.

============================================

"You want WHAT?" This time, diplomacy wasn't on Truce's mind.  His employer was now simply asking for the impossible.

"Truce, you have to do this for me.  We need to have the hole, or what ever it is, made mobile, and it has to be done immediately."

"Look, I don't think it's even possible.  For everything I've seen about this anomaly, this hole, it doesn't move.  At all.  It can grow, but it's center remains fixed.  It has always remained fixed as far as I can tell!"

"It must be done now."  The phone went click.  Truce swore forcefully, and with conviction.  This wasn't possible.  Why the unreasonable demand all of a sudden, out of the blue?  He growled, and to take his mind off of things, turned on the small television the techs kept in the break room.  He could use a few moments of not having to think.  The blastedness of it all.

---------

"The confirmed death toll around Hawaii and California continues to mount even now as the reports continue to come in, and estimations suggest that the numbers may now be in excess of seven hundred and fifty.  We go now live to the shoreline.  Jim?"

The television switched from the somewhat attractive female anchor woman to scene which suggested that of a hurricane at Niagara falls.  Wind was roaring fiercely, water poured through the air, but clouds were not in evidence.  An ocean of water poured over what appeared to be a massive cliff.  The camera pulled back slightly, and two oceans of water are shown to pour into what must be the worlds most massive canyon.  A veritable parting of the red sea, as seen from the sea's surface.  The reporter then comes into focus, and begins to shout above the rushing winds about the damage in California this had been causing already, especially to shipping lines.  Robot rescue teams would be sent in to help further survivors at the bottom of the crevasse, and helicopters were being dispatched to pick up those trapped in boats that had fortunately been stranded on the rocks.  Scenes of both the rescue robots and the stranded ships are displayed.  (Picture Picture)

---------

The logo on the rescue bots looked familiar to Truce.  He phoned back his employer immediately.  "Does your need to have this... this hole made portable have anything to do with the disaster striking California right now?" he demanded.  "I see your company is helping out with the rescue operations."

There was a considerable pause before Truce's employer gave any kind of a reply.

"This isn't a natural disaster." he finally admitted.

"What are you talking about?"

"The government recently contacted us about the use of our robotics department due to this event.  But the purpose isn't for rescue.  It seems that this is a terrorist attack with some kind of new weapon an arms dealer came about.  The information is sketchy, but it is believed that the weapon must be destroyed in order to stop the disasters.  The government hoped our robots could do it.  The media picked up on their deployment, and we've made a good cover story about them being used to rescue those who are almost certainly dead already.  Fortunately, we haven't had to cover up the fact that every single one of the robots sent to the location of the terrorists has been utterly annihilated.  But that hole of yours should be able to stop this weapon.  We need it movable, and we need it movable now."

"I'm sorry, but it just can't be done.  It isn't the sort of thing that <i>can</i> be moved!"

"Find a way, Truce.  Find it now.  The military has been powerless.  We need something new, and you have that."

============================================

The disaster continued on for days, the sea being split open and pouring into a crevice leading straight to the center of the earth for all anyone could tell.  The weather this sprouted, and the effects on currents, and the winds, and the earthquakes, it was all causing untold millions in damages, and more and more people were dying.  And Truce was continually badgered to make the hole move.  But nothing would make it budge.  Nothing at all. The particle accelerator had even been deconstructed around the anomaly, in order to gain a more physical grasp on it, but the fact remained that anything crossing the event horizon STAYED crossed, and nothing moved it even a micrometer.

But something new was discovered.

While testing the effects of magnetic fields on the thing, Truce found that the things that went into the hole were not destroyed after all.  They were merely moved, instantaneously, somewhere else.  Pushing a steel rod through the hole while under super strong magnetic forces caused the other end of the rod appear fifty feet away, sheered off cleanly at the point the rod stopped entering the hole.  He had intended to test whether or not the magnetic influence would cause the hole to solidify.  But this was something else entirely.

"I still can't move it sir, but I may have something better.  We can move anything we need to anywhere we want, as long as the thing is small enough."

"Is that so?  It may just have to do.  How much can you move?"

"Very little.  But I'm sure that I can direct it anywhere we could need to put something."

"We're sending you a package and some coordinates."

============================================

The "package" turned out to be a small white hollow sphere and a number of spare parts, which happened to include plutonium.  The worlds smallest atomic bomb had been shipped to Truce by FedEx, in a convenient Build-it At Home kit.  Shaking slightly from the sheer weight of the responsibility, he did what anyone would do in that situation.  He delegated.  Giving the kit to one of the techs to assemble (Picture), Truce began to perform the calculations of exactly how strong the magnet must be in order to place the package exactly where it was needed to go.

The news droned on in the background, bringing up something about a new development.  Truce didn't want to hear about it.  He had his job to do.  This action right here might very well be able to put an end to the suffering, right now.

Soon, although after what felt like ages, the bomb was assembled and the magnetic math was completed.  All that was necessary would be to arm the device, and toss it through the hole.  It seemed like such an anticlimactic thing to do.  He couldn't even remember the appropriate poetic quote for moments like these.  He ended up with something simple.  "Ah, screw it."  and dropped the bomb into the hole.

The news would pick up the explosion soon.  It would be visible from Los Angeles.  Sure enough, it was.  Sure enough, the terrorists were instantly vaporized by the explosion, and the weapon was disabled.  The sea returned to normal, and all was soon calm once more.  Truce turned off the television.  Sighed to himself, and went home to go to bed.  He hadn't had nearly enough sleep in such a long, long time.

============================================

"Well Mr. President..." Truce's employer began.

"It seems they might not have been terrorists after all.

"Oh, they were killing hundreds, thousands, yes.  But as far as we can tell, they didn't intend to.  They just came across a little bit more power than they knew what to do with.  Quite a bit more power, to put it frankly, and yet, somehow, not enough in the end.

"It seems that they just wanted to understand women.  A reasonable request, you might think.

"We've recovered the lamp.  It hasn't been touched.  Our analysts have been working hard translating the strange script engraved on the outside.  We believe it to be the last thing the Genie, or Efreet, or whatever it was, had said."  He slipped a piece of paper across the desk of the Oval Office.

The President sat and stared at it for the longest time.  Finally, a smile cracked on his face.  And then he began to chuckle, and escalated into a full belly laugh.  The kind of horrible, desperate laugh you make when you finally get the joke, but know it wasn't funny anyway.

"Yes Mr President.  We... uh... felt kindof the same way.  At least it's over now.  As a matter of fact, it's a pity we blew it up before it had time to finish.

"No, I don't know what we're going to do with a 4 lane expressway bridge between California and Hawaii that's only three quarters finished either.  Perhaps find some engineers worthy of finishing it?"


----------



## alsih2o (Jun 29, 2004)

Barsoomcore-

Piratecat "The Arranger"

Great use of the cheerleader picture -- I love it when a story seizes on some detail in a picture and makes it the focus of the entire story. "All the catchy marketing jingles I've written" nicely pays off on a second pass through the story. Also nice -- the coldness of Southern California. Very well set up. The story is full of those moments and it's very rewarding to pick them up as you go along.

It may have gotten overplayed, however. By "Snulap's face went first white and then a fiery, dangerous red. I liked the look." I've got a pretty good guess as to what's going on. And as soon as our narrator says, "'I did what you asked.'" the big ol' lightbulb comes on and I know this is Faust I'm reading.

Which is fine, but there's not really a final twist here to give me a last moment of delight. The taking over of Snulap's body isn't a pay off for any earlier set up, so it comes across as window-dressing rather than anything significant.

I liked the gulls, though. Nice touch. And the new clothes gag.

How does he shake his head under that mask, by the way? I wondered.

In the final analysis -- a fine tale with lots of nice turns of phrase, rewards for careful readers, and a very clear story. It hooks up the pictures in a reasonably even-handed manner, although one might accuse it of nearly cheating on the little girls. That bit is awfully funny, though, and the whole story is really a long list of Satan gags, so it's a fair use.

I enjoyed reading it. And enjoyed it more the second time. Very well done.


carpedavid "Strange Little Loops"

Little girls with the cigarette: essential to the story
The mask: essential to the story
The beach: essential to the story
The cheerleaders: Oh, not quite essential to the story

Still, very impressive use of the pictures.

Now, as to the story itself: This is really remarkable, carpedavid. I'm not 100% certain it hangs together with complete authority, but there's a lot going on here and you've managed your complicated elements really well. It could use a good edit -- the opening series of shockers "I can't believe they made me black" and "And a girl" don't quite hit with the impact they should, but it still sucks me in so you're not hurting yourself here. It just could have been even better, I guess.

Kat's moment on the beach teeters on the edge of being overwrought -- a little tightening here would have been welcome -- but it is a real emotional moment and has enough careful details to feel authentic. The metaphysical production of the sand makes the picture (in a sequence you might otherwise say was uneccessary) the core of the whole story. Nicely done, that.

You try it again with the cheerleader sequence and now I know you're setting something up. And you reward me for that at the end of the story -- which makes me feel smart. And making your reader feel smart is a good thing to do.

Your style is simple, easy-to-parse sentences and terse descriptions -- though I think the narrator gets a little didactic at times: "Kat was shocked" -- can you SHOW me her shock instead of TELLING me about it? And finally, your plot doesn't get filled out quite enough. I don't really know what the relationship is between Hoffman, Kat the assistant and Kat the little girl. But I get a sense of it, and that's almost enough for me.

This is a story well worth taking another shot at and seeing what you come up with. I'd love to see a rewrite.


Decision: carpedavid in a VERY tough call


 Mythago-

 THE ARRANGER (Piratecat)

Let's not pretend this was a tough set of pictures, even for a master. I 
was impressed that Piratecat tackled perhaps the must "HUH?!"-worthy 
picture first and used that as a centerpiece, instead of shuffling it 
off somehow.

I liked the little details that didn't make much sense (SoCal isn't hot 
enough? Why is he telling this guy where he lives?) made perfect sense 
by the end of the story, not to mention the little comments about 
Russia's transit system. The one thing that tripped up the narrative was 
a lot of action being compressed; eight months go by and we're told that 
Snulap wanted to renegotiate, but not really how; I was expecting to 
hear that Snulap sent some kind of message or something that would 
otherwise explain why this was one-way.

I felt that the kids-smoking picture wasn't very well-used; it wasn't 
blown, but the other three were used strongly enough that it felt a bit 
weak. It does bring out the narrator's character a bit, but somehow I 
felt that kids smoking in Russia wasn't so much corruption of youth as a 
symptom of, well, degeneracy in Russia.

Small point--there were a lot of uses of speaking verbs and modifiers 
(blustered, looked up horrified, stuttered in disbelief) that I think 
would have been better eliminated, either because stronger verbs/words 
could have been used or because the description was well-done enough 
that they seemed superfluous.

Otherwise, Piratecat took what could have been a very tired plot and 
made it a highly entertaining story.

'"Evil?” I finished for him. "Yeah, there’s a shocker for you."' 
*bwahahahaha*


STRANGE LITTLE LOOPS (carpedavid)

Interesting that both contestants chose one picture as the narrative 
center of the story, but chose very different images.

Good use of the full set of pictures here. I enjoyed this story--very 
interesting theme, and an uncertain ending without being unresolved or 
feeling like the author just hadn't finished. I admit that I still found 
it a little puzzling where AI-Kat and real-world Kat meshed, and the 
relationship between the doctor and Katherine, which seems very distant 
and short-term, yet close enough that he is willing to bring her into 
the imaginary world. ('Assistant' also makes it sound as though she's a 
sort of glorified bottle-washer, or grad student, but it's suggested 
that she's a PhD at least in the virtual world; the reason for the 
difference isn't entirely clear.)

JUDGMENT: It was an extremely tough choice, darn it. On the strength of 
overall picture use and a more difficult theme, I gave the round to 
carpedavid.


 Alsih2o

 Carpe david hooks me hard in the first few paragraphs. What a use of the smoking kid pic. Then come the cluster where he describes the mask, full of blustering words and psuedoscience. I gave him a lot of credit here because I believe it is difficult to write with all the terminology and not sound WAY out like you are making it up.

 I like Kat too, I like her for mentioning the greek guy with BO as she mentions her missed desires.  Altho The use of the worms picture did not warm my heart. It does echo the looping and curling statements, but as far as inventiveness I was left a little wanting.

  The mask too, is just a mask when it comes down to it, and the cheerleaders aren’t exactly used brilliantly.

 And I still love this story.

 Maybe it is the lack of deviousness. Perhaps I have grown used to waiting for the bad guy to strike, I mea, we are gamers who write, right? But the humanity of the doctor, the sureness of Kat in her decisions, the sharpness of her mind and the the utter shock of a lack of betrayal!

 Wow.


 Piratecat sucks me in right away by getting right to the cheerleaders, and taking them pretty literally. P-kitty has once again crafted a character that it is easy to feel you know, even after the characters awful secret is revealed (a little too early).

   I do not think the smoking pic was handled to creatively, but was still handled well. The intent of our main character can change a lot. Same for the worms, not the wildest handling, but made sweeter by our main character.

  The mask was kind of just there. I like the idea of the torture scene but feel it needed more or less.

  Over all there are some really great moments- The surf hissing on hooves, the fact that he knows snulap has 37 years left, when he calls snulap an amateur. I liked all these moments.


 Judgement- But the moments were not enough. I fear the pictures may have been too easy, as we always get a little more from the tough pics. This is a tough round for me, the raw entertainment value of p-kitty vs. the shock and strong repetition of Carpedavid. I have to go with carpe david, but not by a lot. If p-kitty had held off me figuring out his catch a few more paragraphs things could have been very different.

 DECISION- Carpe David- 3-0 unanimous decision.


----------



## Piratecat (Jun 29, 2004)

Boom, out in the first round! Congratulations, Carpedavid; you aimed for something more serious than I did, and you nailed it beautifully. I'm very, very pleased you're advancing.

Now I get to sit back and enjoy.


----------



## dravot (Jun 29, 2004)

Piratecat said:
			
		

> Boom, out in the first round! Congratulations, Carpedavid; you aimed for something more serious than I did, and you nailed it beautifully. I'm very, very pleased you're advancing.
> 
> Now I get to sit back and enjoy.



 ...and continue working on your storyhour!


----------



## carpedavid (Jun 29, 2004)

Wow.

Double wow.

Thanks again for the kind words PC - you are a great and worthy competitor, and I'm sorry that I won't have the pleasure of seeing what you'd come up with in the future rounds.

Judges - that was great and accurate critique - just what I need to improve the story. Thanks to all!

Now I get to be all stressed out waiting for the next round


----------



## Ao the Overkitty (Jun 29, 2004)

dravot said:
			
		

> ...and continue working on your storyhour!




And another fairy dies.

Congrats carpedavid.  You smacked down the cat.  Quite impressive for your first time.


----------



## alsih2o (Jun 29, 2004)

carpedavid said:
			
		

> Wow.
> 
> Double wow.




 Someone remind me again of the problem of being the fastest draw?

 Hmmm?


----------



## carpedavid (Jun 29, 2004)

Thanks Ao - it was a tough fight, and PC's a great writer, which makes the victory that much sweeter.



			
				alsih2o said:
			
		

> Someone remind me again of the problem of being the fastest draw?
> 
> Hmmm?



Oh, no problem. Just amazed delight


----------



## alsih2o (Jun 29, 2004)

carpedavid said:
			
		

> Thanks Ao - it was a tough fight, and PC's a great writer, which makes the victory that much sweeter.
> 
> 
> Oh, no problem. Just amazed delight




 Oh, but there is a problem, fastest draw always has all the young gunfighters out to prove themselves against you.

 Never sleep restfully again


----------



## Zhaneel (Jun 29, 2004)

Wow... I haven't had time to read CarpeDavid's story, but to take out PC is the first round.  Congrats.  Quite the upset as I had a betting pool going for PC to make it to the finals.

Zhaneel


----------



## Zhaneel (Jun 29, 2004)

Reposted from Other Thread, per PC's suggestion:

(I found some down time & it was a quick read)

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

Okay, now having read CarpeDavid's story, I have to say I go against the judges here. Which is not surprising as all 3 were borderline and I just fell on the other side of the border.

That said:

Neat use of the kids smoking. But I really wanted more. Who are those kids? What relation do they have to the doctor in RL?

I loved the list of things Kat hadn't done, but at the end I wondered who's memories we were seeing: AI-Kat or RL-Kat, or did RL-Kat's memories somehow get into AI-Kat? Very confused.

I think that's why I fell to PC's story. While both are EXCELLENT stories and make great use of pictures, I felt I understood what was going on in PC's story where as I felt wanted for CarpeDavid's Story.

Regardless, Congrats to CarpeDavid and I look forward to more of your stuff.

Zhaneel


----------



## dravot (Jun 29, 2004)

Ao the Overkitty said:
			
		

> And another fairy dies.
> 
> Congrats carpedavid.  You smacked down the cat.  Quite impressive for your first time.



 Oooh noooo!  I'm sorry fairy!  :\

 In all seriousness, I want to pay my thanks to the participants and the judges.  All of the stories have been great, and I don't envy the judges' task.


----------



## carpedavid (Jun 29, 2004)

alsih2o said:
			
		

> Oh, but there is a problem, fastest draw always has all the young gunfighters out to prove themselves against you.
> 
> Never sleep restfully again



Ruh roh.


----------



## carpedavid (Jun 29, 2004)

Zhaneel said:
			
		

> Reposted from Other Thread, per PC's suggestion:
> 
> (I found some down time & it was a quick read)
> 
> ...



Thanks for the kind words, Zhaneel. All of your comments are vey good - and seem to fit into what others have said as well. Based upon the feedback that I'm getting from both the judges and contestants and other readers, I think I'm going to revise the story and post it in the Kiln-fired thread after the contest is over.

Specifically, it looks like I need to better define and expand the relationship between Kat and the doctor, better explain whose memories are being related at any given point, and better flesh out some of the background. I want to maintain some ambiguity in certain places, but I think I can do that and make it intelligible to people who don't have the benefit of living inside my head.

One of the goals of writing this was to make the whole thing a strange little loop that wraps in on itself, but it looks like I have some work to do to reach that goal. Thanks to all so far for the comments - the more I get, the better I can make the story!


----------



## Berandor (Jun 29, 2004)

Commentary copied from other thread, and yes, I use that many smilies
---

(ACK! Commentary to unjudged story! Deleted now, though)


Piratecat: First off, I am a big fan of your literary voice. So it comes as no big surprise that I totally loved your story! The only thing I thought when you incorporated "Snulap Kpogyk" the way you did was, "I'm not worthy!" 
Also, the sarcastic narrator really drove me to laughter more than once. Whistling the tune to "Cheers", indeed 

Macbeth: Excellent story! The "in Las Vegas" comments were cool, but I think I would have liked one or two less of them, especially since you repeated Dopamine 

And the Ending... well, you know - what can I do when Sialia and PCat agree, expect agreeing as well? 
I loved that the narrator (do we even get to know his/her gender?) tried to built an arc, and that there's a real flood pouring down then. Certainly shines a different light on Noah 

Morpheus: The story was cool; I liked the switch between action and "play", but I think I would have liked it better if you'd put the flashbacks in italics or something. Also, I think the first two pics were throw-aways. What was their function in the story? I probably didn't get it, though 
A good story, nevertheless. Poor marine! 
ETA: Did you make up the poem from Unaussprechliche Kulte, or is it real?That was a great touch!

(ETA: Morpheus already answered that the quote was indeed a quote)

Carpedavid: I'm at a loss for words right now. Really, the story just blew me away. And a hopeful finish to boot! Great, great, great! Of course, I don't smoke, so that helped 

As last time, I feel honored to have written a story among these great artists.

(ETA: And I will feel even more honored once I rule supreme )


----------



## mythago (Jun 29, 2004)

_And another fairy dies._

Wow, this is easier than shooting 'em in the chest!

I made a big boo-boo. I meant to say "Let's not pretend this was OTHER THAN a tough set of pictures," and the typo gave the exact opposite meaning. Sorry about that, guys. I was trying to applaud you for working with a tough set, not tsk at you for having gotten an easy bunch.

I mean, it's not like your round had the pic of hands in it.


----------



## alsih2o (Jun 30, 2004)

mythago said:
			
		

> Wow, this is easier than shooting 'em in the chest!




 Is this in reference to the writers or fairies?


----------



## mythago (Jun 30, 2004)

Yes.


----------



## BSF (Jun 30, 2004)

*Piratecat's - The Arranger*

OK, I have re-read the story.  I still liked it the second time.   

Still, there are some things worth commenting on in the story.  As has been previously mentioned, I would have liked to have been shown the message from Snulap when he wants to "renegotiate".  A letter, a voicemail, an email, something.  Nick shakes his head while being bolted to the table and that makes me pause and wonder how tight the mask is when Snulap has already said Nick won't be able to move.  Leaving the meatsuit behind made me laugh, but it did break the stride of the story for me.  How did Nick sit up out of the meatsuit?  Was he just reforming?  Did he come out of the chest?  How did that work?  A niggling detail, but when the competition is tight, those details add up.  I would have liked to hear a bit about the chase.  Nick chases Snulap until just after dawn.  What kind of area of town was Snulap running through that nobody noticed the chase?  Or, was nobody else able to see Nick?  The drama of catching Snulap was over just a little too quickly for my tastes.  No gloating from Nick?  No more salt to rub into the wounds?  I wanted Snulap's fear to be tangible.  I wanted to taste it.  It was close, but I wasn't quite able to wrap myself up in it and relish the horror that Snulap should have felt.  

I liked the pics of the cheerleaders.  Very cleverly used!  The rest of the pics were nicely integrated.  The kids made a nice character statement.  The entrails on the beach were a decent integration, but I go back and forth on the mask.  You made the mask a good focal point, but I wouldn't say it was something vitally important to the story.  I think it needed to be more important to Snulap.  His hook for getting at people.  Perhaps it would have been interesting for him to gloat over how many people he has tortured with it as he tries to scare Nick?  That might have brought it home better.  It would have also been fun if Nick had decided to bring it along and taunt Snulap with it.  Probably not enough to leave any marks on Snulap's face, after all, Nick needed the meatsuit for his next appointment.  But, Snulap hardly knew that and it might have helped bring in that horror of realizing you sold your soul that Snulap surely felt.  

Please, don't get me wrong, it was a fun story.  But, I have received very useful feedback from Piratecat in the past and I am trying to toss out ideas on how The Arranger might be tightened up a bit.


----------



## BSF (Jun 30, 2004)

*Macbeth's Art Memoir*

Whoo!  Interesting little story Macbeth.  To be honest though, I didn't think it was terrific.  Great ideas, interesting characterization and a bold statement.  Still, I got tired of the delivery mechanism.  I think the repetitiveness is a bold move.  It will either be met enthusiastically, or less so.  In my case, I got tired of it.  Which is odd since I used the word Meat over and over and over again in my first story in the last competition.  Go figure.  

However, I appreciate the usage.  You were trying to make a statement and I think that is cool.  Perhaps it would have been better if I had seen Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas?  In any case, the building around that phrase began to wear on me.  I think the story could have stood just as strongly without so much usage.  

The pic use for the lizard and for the phone call didn't quite ring true for me.  Otherwise, I really liked the concepts behind the story. Unlike some of the other comments, I think it is fine to have some pipes and water mains busted.  It leaves me feeling like there was a BIG and NOBLE goal with flawed execution.  It kind of matches the haphazard arc.  I think it shows an underlying flaw in the artist that perhaps he has become so dope addled that he cannot conceive the big followthrough that would be needed to reach his goal.  It also says to me that he is striving for that elusive godliness that is clearly out of his reach.  In the end, man's creations are but poor replicas of what the divine has created.  But, maybe I am reading too much into it.


----------



## Piratecat (Jun 30, 2004)

*Self-analysis and deconstruction of "The Arranger."*

(Judgment here for quick reference.)

Interestingly enough, some of the things I've been dinged on were conscious choices - which, I suppose, is a good thing. I'd rather take criticism for a deliberate decision that people didn't like than for inadvertent mistakes like the narrator shaking his head while in the mask.

For instance, I specifically didn't try to make Nick's true nature into a big "gotcha" secret. He's the narrator, and way too in love with himself (and his own cleverness) to have that much patience. More importantly, I considered the possibility that the story was more accessable once you knew that something was up. So I tried to write in Nick's own voice and add snide comments where he would. I was especially amused by his own description as an expert in branding. No one specified "marketing"....

The problem is that some of these (his "little pal Macaulay" Culkin's career revival, for instance) don't necessarily make sense during the first read-through. So if people are going to have to read the damn thing twice, why not make all of them more subtle in the first place? That might make for a stronger story. I'm torn, because deliberately disguising his nature seems in odds with his personality.

Another case where a conscious decision got me dinged was my use of the smoking picture "juvie." I really liked working it into the text off-handedly because it provided the first glimpse that the narrator was a really nasty piece of work who did evil on a whim -- and that what he says can't necessarily be trusted. I wanted people to wonder what he was talking about, click on the photo link, and say "What kind of a bastard would do that?"  While the actual scene isn't a centerpiece of the story, the picture use provides an integral insight, so I figured it's a good use. Heck, it may even have been my favorite photo use in the story, so I was caught off guard when opinions about its use were divided. If it dragged me down, though, I'm okay with that; I think that untraditional picture linkages are probably a good thing, and that means taking some chances.

The mask was the hardest photo to work into the story. My first pass through made it truly superfluous. In editing I tried to increase its importance and the fact that it left the narrator physically helpless. I think it ended up being decent, but it was _much_ better than the first version.  

Going under the theory that "an illustration that can be excised without affecting the story is a bad use of the photo," I think the sand castings on the beach is my weakest photo use. It's okay, I guess, and the pile of viscera makes a nice image -- but essential? Nah.

Mythago also had an interesting point about my use of speaking verbs and modifiers. I'm doing some experimenting on how I write and how I differentiate vocal tones when I'm just typing on a computer. I think a lesson is that "less is sometimes more."

Anyways, I'm glad that the cheerleader photo and "Snulap Kpog" made me think of Russia. I loved "The Master and the Margarita" by Mikhail Bulgakov, a story of the devil visiting Russia, and it was fun considering that theme. As always I learn by doing, and this was both useful and fun.


----------



## alsih2o (Jun 30, 2004)

2 out of 3 judgements in for two more matches, they should be posted soon.


----------



## MarauderX (Jun 30, 2004)

Reading the comments and re-reading story passages is starting to get me worried, as I know I could pick apart my own story with ease.  It makes me anxious for feedback, even though it may be a 'you suck and here's why'.  

Realizing what kind of writer your opponent is, does anyone gage that and change what they write to out-perform their opponent?  Like fighting fire with fire when writing against MacBeth's aggressive style?  Or do you just focus and write the best story you know how with what you have, and let the decision fall where it may?


----------



## mythago (Jun 30, 2004)

The latter is what I always did. You can't really 'know' what the other person is going to write, even if you're familiar with their writing style. In the end it's better picture use and better narrative.


----------



## BSF (Jun 30, 2004)

MarauderX - I can only speak from having competed twice.  the first time, I was up against Sialia in the first round.  The second time, I made it to the semi-finals, so that gives me a little more experience.

It is very difficult to predict what your opponenet might throw out there.  If anything, I devour the judges comments on the things that have dinged other people.  I could make all the same mistakes myself, but when I can read the mistakes that somebody else made, I can try to avoid those pitfalls on my own.  I keep telling myself "Show, don't tell".  Remain consistent in the style you choose.  If you are going to attempt a literary technique, it is much more helpful if you were consciously trying to achieve that rather than being subconsciously imitative.  As Piratecat says in his self-analysis, it is much better to know you were trying to achieve something and have people not like it.  The contest is still subjective.  Sooner or later, it comes down to like/dislike.  If you tried a technique that you pulled off well, but was disliked, you know that you wrote to the wrong audience.  If you tried to pull off a technique and failed, you know that you tried to write beyond your current capabilities.  It is important to understand the difference and you can only do that if you know what you were aiming at.


----------



## Berandor (Jun 30, 2004)

MarauderX said:
			
		

> Reading the comments and re-reading story passages is starting to get me worried, as I know I could pick apart my own story with ease.  It makes me anxious for feedback, even though it may be a 'you suck and here's why'.



Ditto. 


> Realizing what kind of writer your opponent is, does anyone gage that and change what they write to out-perform their opponent?  Like fighting fire with fire when writing against MacBeth's aggressive style?  Or do you just focus and write the best story you know how with what you have, and let the decision fall where it may?



Even if you knew what your opponent writes, I would't think that's a good idea. After all, you would be emulating her style, would try to be better at something that she does naturally, and you only with deliberation. SO I'd think such a match would be skewed from the get-go.


----------



## Macbeth (Jun 30, 2004)

Well, I've had some time to think about my story, and I think I want to make some responses to the judges' comments, just so you can see where I'm coming from.



			
				Barsoomcore said:
			
		

> Did you really just combine Patton, Hitler and Moses? Yes you did. Props for balls.



I knew I  might piss people off with that one, but I thought it sounded good comming from the author, and they were the three most influental leaders that immediately came to mind.



			
				Barsoomcore said:
			
		

> The hands and the lizard pictures are beautifully integrated into the story. The masks are a little bit of a stretch, unfortunately, and if I had to pick the point where this story just doesn't quite reach its potential, it's in the last picture, of the guy on the phone.



The opinions of the Lizard pic varied quite a bit. I liked it, just because I think the lizards eyes are slightly... erie. I wanted to make a point of focusing on the lizard, no the man. Depending on who you listen to, it even worked.
It seems fairly unanimous that the phone pic was badly used, which is too bad. I think the story might have been stronger if this was not a nameless follower, but somebody who was mentioned earlier. I actually liked my use of the pic, and it was part of what inspired the story.



			
				Barsoomcore said:
			
		

> I was preparing myself for an honest-to-God (or maybe two) Great Flood, so there was a certain amount of let-down at the end. And the fact that the cops are coming doesn't seem like such a big deal, so the guy on the phone feels a little tacked on.



Hmmm, this part is a little harder. I really didn't want the flood to be too climactic, the narrator is crazy, but not nessecarily the most capable person. I'm not sure if he could pul of anything more complex then a few water mains. I agree that maybe the police weren't climatic enough. The narrator has been dodging the police for some time, so them finally getting him doesn't seem like that big a deal. Maybe if I made a bigger deal of him avoiding the police in the past...



			
				Mythago said:
			
		

> A lot of good ideas that read like a rough draft. It's the first round,
> so somewhat to be expected, but I found the flow and development of the
> story impeded by the bumps.
> 
> First is the "show, don't tell"



Oddly enough, I wanted it to be rough. I wanted it to be a bit rambling, a bit insane. I didn't want perfect sentences and smooth pacing, I wanted things a little choppy and weird.
I think I may have more "Show, not tell" then you allow me. Really, the point of the story (or at least the intended point) is the narrator's dementia, not the events themselves. I think I showed the author's mental state, but showed the story. In my plan (not sure how well it comes across) it was okay to tell the story, since that was more backdrop to showing the narrator's mind.



			
				Mythago said:
			
		

> There were also
> parts where the narrative skipped around--first the artist gave his
> followers poisoned wine, but then mentions that before they died he had
> them carve masks.



My bad. I should have caught that. 



			
				Mythago said:
			
		

> There was also, honestly, a suspension-of-disbelief problem. Nobody did
> anything about the guy using body parts? Nobody noticed a colony of
> drug-using, law-breaking corpse-robbers in the middle of San Francisco,
> even though they had enormous publicity and "even the free speech
> people" knew about them and hated them?



I can see what you mean. First, I didn't want the story to be absolutely literal. Again, I was really trying to explore the narrator, not just show what happened to him. Second, in my mind i had made it clearer that he had got in trouble, that he had been arrested and gone to court, but that he always got off light, through technicalities and such. The Free Speech people still defended his rights, even if they hated him. But that's what was in my mind, not what made it onto the page.



			
				alsih2o said:
			
		

> Starts off with one of those comic book indulgences of a characters running monologue. I always liked that, some of us are reared on Shakespeare, some of us on Frank Miller.



And some of us grew up reading both...



			
				alsih2o said:
			
		

> The character chafed me with his language and in how everything he did was consciously derivative, but I give Macbeth credit for that because I think it was intentional.



Definately. The narrator was supposed to be uncomfortably insane. This was not a nice guy. Glad that it came across that I ment him to be an ass.

Thanks to the judges, and I can't wait for the next round.


----------



## alsih2o (Jun 30, 2004)

Macbeth said:
			
		

> And some of us grew up reading both....




 To clarify, in case I came across wrong. _I_ came up on Frank Miller, I still have as yet to read anything by Willie all the way through.

 Heck, I see Franks influence in my pots.  I also have a signed _Legends of the Dark Knight_ that is about to need duct tape it has been so read and reread.


----------



## Sialia (Jun 30, 2004)

I always wrote _to_ my opponent. I work better when it's deeply personal.

I wrote to the judges as well, and random members of the audience that I like.  

I'd like people reading my stories to hit moments when they recognize some special "Easter Egg" I've left for them. 

My stories were long partly because I am always trying to tell three or more stories at once, but also because there were specific things I wanted to say to certain people in the reading pool. If you were the target, you might come to a moment when you realized that you were being specifically spoken to, or about. If you weren't, it was my hope that you would either miss the reference entirely, or be left with a subtle feeling that there was more to this story, if you could just figure out the key. I love stories that itch with barely told secrets and subtexts.

This is the sort of thing that made Piratecat's spoof of the Iconics great, whereas his Snulap Kpog was just ok. The Iconics, in addition to being funny and fast-paced and well-written (as most of Piratecat's writing is), was full of really personal things. Snulap was all pleasant surface, without much going on as a personal agenda underneath. 

I can't tell you _how_ I manage to keep track of my story and a subtext at the same time, excpet that picking a particular member of the audience to tell my story to helps me know how to phrase things. Imagine the difference in how I'd tell the story of the three bears to my daughter versus telling it to Mythago. To my daughter, I'd try to keep it funny, simple, and fairly classic.  To Mythago, I'd feel the need to twist the story somehow to make it more interesting and surprising--perhaps Goldilocks would be More Than She Seems, or something. When I know who I'm talking to, it changes what version of the tale I'm going to tell.

So _who_ my opponent is mattered very much. Because no one, not even the judges, will read a story more carefully than someone else who has just had to work the same set of pictures, and is waiting around trying to figure out whether my story is better than his.

I like to make sure the waiting is something of an agony.

I enjoy that.


----------



## mythago (Jun 30, 2004)

alsih2o said:
			
		

> To clarify, in case I came across wrong. _I_ came up on Frank Miller, I still have as yet to read anything by Willie all the way through.



_Othello_'s good. 

Sialia, I'm impressed that you have that kind of control over the tone and flow of your story. I can sometimes get a story to lean one way or another when I edit, but unfortunately for me, my muse is not one of the gentle, nurturing sorts. The story's there, and I can push it a little, but I can no more tell it to a listener in a particular way than I could turn a bonsai pine into a rosebush.

Macbeth, I got that the guy was supposed to be a creep, and that came across. The rambling, though, sounded less like rambling and more like exposition.


----------



## BSF (Jun 30, 2004)

Sialia said:
			
		

> I always wrote _to_ my opponent. I work better when it's deeply personal.
> 
> I wrote to the judges as well, and random members of the audience that I like.
> 
> I'd like people reading my stories to hit moments when they recognize some special "Easter Egg" I've left for them.




Well, that is just a little different than writing to out-perform your competitor.  Obviously, you want to write better than your competitor, but it sounds like MarauderX is referring more to attacking a competing writing style.  That said, you touch on a wonderful little topic Sialia!  

Writing to the opponent, or to other (potential) readers, is something I might do as well.  I don't always do it, because I am not good enough to always pull it off.  When I do pull it off, it makes the story much more satisfying for me.  Rainmaker was written with the hopes that a few specific people would read it, and hopefully enjoy it.  There were a few things that were intentionally imitative in style in that story.  There were a few elements that directly drew from little aspects of people I know.  There might have even been some language flow that I thought would pique some interest.  It was a deeply personal story, but personal in a manner that most people wouldn't readily identify with me.  

In the case of that story, it was down to the semi-finals.  My first round story was pretty good and there was more of an underlying message that made it satisfying to write.  My second round story was more geared toward decent action.  It read a bit like a game session, which is what I ended up going for.  But, the only real personal aspect of it was the inclusion red chili and the delicious addictive qualities it has.  I like red chili!  (If you live in New Mexico, you are familiar with the common quandry:  Red or Green.  If you aren't familiar with it, feel free to ask.  If you are ever out here in Albuquerque, drop me a message and I will introduce you to the quandry.)  For Rainmaker, I knew it was the semi-finals and I was running out of angles to use in that tourney.  If I were going to go head-to-head with Macbeth, then I had to dig deep.  I went personal and pulled in many elements that would turn the story into something deep for me, and perhaps very enjoyable for others.  *shrug*  So I lost to Macbeth.  No big deal.  I have a goodly amount of respect for him.  He probably didn't appreciate some of the deeper aspects of that story, but then again, they weren't aimed at him.  I wanted him to enjoy the contextual layer of the characters and their environments.  I have to think he has met people like Jake and Little Bird.  I know some of the readers can envision those characters.  And, perhaps, some of the readers can envision Auntie and Papa as well.  

So yes, I do write to specific people.  It can be very satisfying.  It is something that you demonstrated to me!  In Rojo, I did a little satirical tip of my hat to Piratecat, but there was no subtlety involved with it, just a little laugh.  The third round story was much more subtle and was not geared toward a laugh.  It was a respectful nod to people I wanted to try to touch.


----------



## Sialia (Jun 30, 2004)

mythago said:
			
		

> _Othello_'s good.
> 
> Sialia, I'm impressed that you have that kind of control over the tone and flow of your story. I can sometimes get a story to lean one way or another when I edit, but unfortunately for me, my muse is not one of the gentle, nurturing sorts. The story's there, and I can push it a little, but I can no more tell it to a listener in a particular way than I could turn a bonsai pine into a rosebush.



Think of it as the difference between how you would explain to your boss how a whole pot of coffee accidentally wound up inside the fax machine, and how you would tell your drinking buddies about the incident years later.

The events are the same. Whether or not they are funny is a matter of the telling. And the reason the telling is different is because the different audiences want different things from you.

The nice thing about choosing several specific, real people to write to is the distance one gets between the "just the facts" version of what happened, and the myriad ways there are of presenting the good/bad news. 

I loved your story with the giraffe because of the disjunction between the narrator's version and what the reader could plainly see was happening. That lovely space between the narrator's voice and the author's voice is a beautiful place to be. The audience the narrator was speaking to was not the same audience that the author was writing to.


----------



## MarauderX (Jun 30, 2004)

BardStephenFox said:
			
		

> ... but it sounds like MarauderX is referring more to attacking a competing writing style.  ...




Well, not really, I was getting at writing in a reactionary style to what your opponent would be doing, not to attack it necessarily.  Would you try for something wilder than your competitor or try something more sly or with insinuation?  First person dialogue of a personality or third person tale from a distance?  Would you try to out-perform your competitor apples to apples or write an orange to give the judges more flavor?  That's more of what I was getting at as opposed to attacking a competitor's writing style.  

I got to thinking after reading the past competitions that I might change how I tell the story I want depending on who I might be against.  Not that the overall events in the story would change, but how I might tell it would vary.

Thanks for the responses so far, it's just good to know, as I haven't read all the other Ceramic DM threads thoroughly.


----------



## mythago (Jun 30, 2004)

If the story is good, it won't matter. Besides which, you're taking a gamble--what if this is the one time your opponent got tired of writing about apples, and (like you) wrote about oranges?



			
				Sialia said:
			
		

> Think of it as the difference between how you would explain to your boss how a whole pot of coffee accidentally wound up inside the fax machine, and how you would tell your drinking buddies about the incident years later.



Oh, I understand it; I just can't _do_ it very well. It's a good thing my boss doesn't ask me to write fiction, because I might turn in a drinking-buddy-suitable story instead of a nice, bland narrative about the copy machine.

The story with the giraffe in it--there were a few times when I thought it wasn't going to work, because of the question of exactly who the narrator was talking _to_. But a) he was nuts, so maybe he was talking to himself, and b) he wouldn't shut up anyway, so I went with it.


----------



## Zhaneel (Jun 30, 2004)

I really like Sialia's explanation.  I have a hard time controlling the tone/voice/style of story.  I generally manage to force a 3rd person close POV, but that's 'cause I'm anal.

I'll have to keep in mind the comparisons.  I don't think about my stories that way.  But then, I'm generally writing with the intent to "sell" the piece and that requires a wide audience that I don't know very well.  OTOH, maybe I need to choose the audience and that will improve my stories.

Something to ponder.

Zhaneel


----------



## orchid blossom (Jun 30, 2004)

Good grief people, it's all I can do to get those pictures together, much less worry about my opponets style.  With my story unjudged I don't want to get into things too much, but I can say that I don't worry about the opponent.  I'll write my story, they'll write theirs.  They may be similar or wildly different.  I do look forward to seeing how my opponent deals with the same set of pictures I've been struggling with.  Not to see if they did it better, but to see how they did it different.


----------



## Noskov (Jul 1, 2004)

alsih2o said:
			
		

> Round 1, Alt match of Rodrigo istalindir vs. Noskov
> 
> 4 pics, 72 hours, 5000 word limit.




The Penitent Man

The waves that morning were some of the best that beach has ever seen.  A big storm was heading our way that day and I was not about to miss the good surf that preceded it.

As usual, the beach itself was cluttered with trash and debris from years of neglect.  It had been abandoned long ago because of its poor location and conditions.  Not too many people come out this way.  The water was cold, the surf bad and the hazards plentiful….It was my favorite beach.  I came here a lot not only to surf, but also read, swim, or just plain hang out.  The lack of people made it the perfect of place for me.  Here I could be alone…and alone was my favorite state of being.

The day had started bright and sunny, with fairly large wind gusts.  The weather people had been talking about the storm for days now and I woke up early hoping to find some nice waves on my beach.  I was not to be disappointed.  By the time I arrived at the beach, the surf was perfect.  I swam out and caught a mammoth and rode it all the way to the shore.  After going non stop for about two hours, my stomach started showing signs of discontent.  I looked out to the see and saw the glower of the storm approaching fast and decided I should head in after then next wave.

I prepared myself for the next ride as the water started surging up.  I moved into position and was about to pick up the wave when I saw large silhouette in the water.  I had already stood up on my board before I made out what I was looking at.  The sudden realization that an 8ft-10ft shark was directly below me threw me off my board and into the now deadly, swirling water.  Cursing my bad luck and debating whether becoming religious for the next few minutes would violate my personal convictions; I began to try and swim back to the shore.

The undertow was hard and the current strong.  I don’t remember the swim back to shore, but I do remember waking up with my face in the dirty sand of the beach.  I now question whether I just didn’t see him earlier, or if he just appeared, but when I looked up I found a man standing in front of me.

He was very well dressed for someone strolling along a beach before a storm…particularly this beach and before this storm.

Most sensible people would have left the beaches by now.  
The gale had started rolling in faster then before and would be on top of us within the hour.  The wind was picking up and I was starting to realize that the long walk back to my house was not going to be fun in this weather.

The man looked at me inquisitively, as though trying to figure out if he had met me before.  I got up and made for my belongings and began to strip my wetsuit off.  He approached, squinting at me to keep the blowing sand out of his eyes.  He was wearing dress shoes and a very fine, silk robe over a white button up shirt and pleated dress pants.  The wind was blowing his robe so hard it looked as though it was going to rip right away from his shoulders.  His salt and pepper hair was cut short except where he had combed it over his large bald spot.  The look of his hair blowing in the wind would probably have been funny if he was not catering such a serious look about him.

“You should come with me.”  He said.

I thought for a minute and wondered if I knew him.  I even considered that I may be on some reality prank show, or that maybe this guy was some kind of pervert trying to get his kicks in for the day…but something was odd about him.  He was very serious and grim.  He seemed so old and frail that the wind would carry him away, but he stood there, motionless, like a statue, against it, his clothes flapping so violently I wondered how much longer the stitches were going to hold.

“I’m not interested.”  I said flatly, standing up to leave.

“I can answer your questions.”  He retorted.

“I don’t have any questions that you can answer, old man.”  I laughed back.

“I can tell you that it was a dolphin and not a shark that scared you into the water.”

“So,” I shrugged.  “Look you crazy bastard, I’m getting the hell out of here and you should too.  This storm is about to come down on us and when it does, I’m not going to be saving your ass.  Now…”  I could feel the rage boiling up inside me.

“What if I told you that I know that you have murdered thirteen people.”

Now he had my attention.

I was four when I moved here with my father.  My mom had gained custody of us after their divorce, but dad could never be one-upped.  He stole me and my brother away to this wretched town where we tried to start new lives.  It didn’t take long after getting here and my father was right back where he left off.  He jumped from job to job and what little money he made, he spent on drugs and hookers.  On rare occasion, he would bring some food home and my brother and I made due on our own.  Sometimes we would go for weeks without ever seeing our father.

I shouldn’t really say my brother and I made due.  Really, it was just me.  Lonnie was retarded.  He had been beaten several times by my father as an infant and the doctors even thought at one point that he wasn’t going to survive.  I don’t know how I managed to get through without the same problems, I surely wasn’t spared the beatings, but I did.

It was during one of my father’s longer romps with an out of town whore that I killed Lonnie.

For days he had been running through the house, yelling about his stomach hurting and being hungry.  I had told him that dad should be home shortly and to chew on the leather shoe I gave him in the meantime.  Lonnie hated that damn shoe, but he’d sit there and chew on it just the same, just to try and curb the hunger.

After finally calming Lonnie down a bit, I snuck away to eat one of the cans of tuna I stashed for myself.  Using the can opener I found in the dump, I proceeded to remove the top and prepared for my feast.

The wind must have been against me that day because Lonnie smelled what I was eating.  Like a mad bull he stomped into my room and started screaming frantically.  I could not understand a word he was saying but he was definitely going for my tuna.  I tried to stop him and tell him that the tuna was mine, but he would not listen.  He grabbed the can from me and turned to start eating it, telling me “bad brother, bad.  You share.”

Poor Lonnie, it wasn’t really his fault.  He just didn’t understand

The rage came over me like fire over a dry hayfield.  A haze of anger and bloodlust fogged my vision as I instinctively grabbed the tuna lid and began to thrash at Lonnie with it.  The first slash cut him deep on his back over his shoulder blade.  He turned, looking at me like a puppy being disciplined for the first time as I cut him again, this time slicing open his face.  The swings came faster and easier.  He was screaming for me to stop, but I would not tolerate his incompetence and selfishness anymore.  He needed to die.  It was survival of the species and he was at the back of the pack.  I cut, sliced and slashed until my arms were too tired to go on.  Lonnie had been quiet for a while and I figured he was dead.  I leaned down to try and hear if he was breathing and to my surprise, he spoke to me.

“Why you hurt me, brother?”

I took the tuna lid, held his mouth and cut his throat.

The cuts on my hand from the tuna lid were starting to burn.  I began to tear away some of Lonnie’s clothes to bandage them when I heard the door slam.  Dad was home.

I knew dad would be pretty mad about Lonnie, so I jumped to action.  Not wanting to cut up my hands anymore on the tuna lid, I grabbed the can opener.  The handles doubled as bottle openers and should be able to do some damage as long as I could get the drop on him.

As my father drunkenly rampaged through the house, I hid under the moldy mattress near the door and waited for him to find the body.  When he entered the room, he screamed out Lonnie’s name and ran to the body.  He was yelling and screaming trying to get Lonnie to respond as I snuck up behind him.  I studied him for a second and wondered if I should really go through with it.  Then I thought about Lonnie.

It was his fault Lonnie was retarded and was too stupid to live.  He deserved to die for what he made me do to Lonnie.

As he sat there holding Lonnie to him, I suddenly yelled out behind him.

“DAD!”  I yelled.

He spun around and looked at me with wide eyed curiosity.  His drunken state made him a little slow to notice my arm swinging back.  It was as I was coming down on him that he finally started to yell.

Too late.

The can opener handles entered his eye sockets and penetrated into his brain.  He screamed for a second and lunged at me, but could only thrash about on the floor the next few minutes while I pounded on him with his lunch box until he died.

After my brother and my dad, the killings got a lot easier….even fun.  I decided it was my job to trim the fat of the world.  I didn’t do this actively, mind you, just if I deemed someone I met and who was around me a lot not worthy of living.

A sudden flash of lightning and roar of thunder shook me out of my euphoric reverie.

The old man stood there, grim and serious.  I smiled and said to him.

“Okay, old man, I’ll play your game.  What do you want?”

“First,” he said, “we need to get out of this weather.”

He walked towards the woods at the top of the beach and motioned for me to follow.  I grabbed my backpack and started in the direction he headed.

The old man talked to me the whole time we walked in the woods.  Most of his conversations were about my victims and the murders I had committed.  I ran through the details with him openly, knowing I was going to kill him soon too anyway.  He was very curious about my brother and what had happened to him, which was a subject I was not particularly happy to talk about.  Lonnie was probably the only person I killed that I thought got a bum wrap.  He was only stupid because my dad made him that way.  I didn’t feel remorse or guilt about killing him, but I did think it unfair that he had to die without truly knowing why.

I was rattling off questions to the man’s unstoppable questions and thinking about which of my knives I was going to use to cut the old man up when it suddenly occurred to me that I had never, in all my years living here and coming to this beach, been in this woods until now.

I considered for a moment if the old man had some kind of trap in store for me.  In all my years of killing people, I had never even been questioned by the police or anyone about my victims.  The fact the old man knew so much about me and had better knowledge of the terrain and where we were made worry a bit.  I decided it was time to kill him.

We were deep into the woods for when the old man finally slowed down.  The storm that was coming on so strong before seemed unable to penetrate the dense woods.  Truly, by the time we had stopped, you would have thought it was a nice day.

“I know its right around here.  Just wait, I’ll be right back,”

The old man wandered off mumbling to himself about landmarks and directions as I took my pack off my back.  I opened it up to find the blade I had decided upon earlier when I heard the man yell.

“Yes, I’ve found it! Come quick!”

I held the knife behind my back and walked to where the old man called from.  When I got there I saw an immense hole in the ground.  There were two repelling ropes leading into the hole and a harness lying on the ground.

“Quickly!”  I heard from inside the cavern.

The old man was already strapped in a harness and on his way down the first rope.  The thought crossed my mind to just cut his rope and get out of here, but it was not my style.  This guy knew a lot about me and I wanted to make sure he was dead….and I was going to enjoy doing it.

I strapped on the harness and started down the rope after the old man.  I tried to keep up with him, but he was moving faster then I thought possible.  When I finally reached the bottom he was already heading off, deeper into the cave toward a cavern that clanged with the sound of metal striking rock.

Having reached the limit of my patience, I yelled to him.  “I’ve had enough old man.  I am going to leave if you don’t tell me why you brought me here.”

There was no response, just the rhythmic clanging coming from down the corridor.

Knowing that the old man knew too much and that I could not leave until I killed him, I headed down the cavern toward the noise.

As I rounded a corner of the cavern I saw the old man, standing on the far side of an enormous, hollowed out tunnel.  The tunnel was dotted with hundreds of piles of rocks all rounded into perfect spheres  of all different sizes.  Near the old man was a much larger pile of stones.  These ones had not been chiseled.  They were of all shapes and sizes and must have numbered in the hundreds or thousands, if not millions.  Sitting in a wooden chair in front of the old man was the source of the clamor.  There, a teenaged boy sat with a rock hammer in one hand and a large stone in the other.  He was chipping away at the stone, rounding it out and chiseling it into a sphere.

I moved in closer to corner the old man when the boy looked up at me.

I dropped my knife.

“Lonnie?”

There in the chair sat Lonnie.  His face and body were scarred from the tuna can lid I used so long ago to murder him.  He was ghostly pale and looked the same age he did the day I killed him.

Lonnie looked at me and smiled in the sheepish way he always did.  It was the smile of an innocent, the kind of smile that knows no evil.

The old man interjected.  “Lonnie has been waiting for you.”

The old man’s voice shook me back to my senses.  I quickly grabbed the knife from the ground and held it menacingly.

“What is this?”  I asked, my voice sounding much more frantic then I would have liked it to.

“This is your penance.”  The old man said.  

He patted Lonnie softly on the shoulder.

“For sixteen years your brother has sat here chiseling away at these rocks.  He did it because he wanted you to be with him.”

“However, in order to spare a heart as foul and contemptuous as yours, he had to serve penance.”

My head began to swim.  What was going on?

I decided it was time to get the hell out of here.  I’ll have to worry about killing the old man later.  Right now, it was time to beat a hasty retreat.  I swiftly turned to run out of the cavern and began to run when I was viciously pulled backward.  The violence of the pull had forced my feet out in front of me and I landed on the cavern floor with a thud.

“Lonnie’s penance for saving a murderous savage like you was to carve these stones into perfect spheres, each sphere representing just one of the tears he cried as you viciously butchered him.”

“What are you talking about?”  I screamed.  “Lonnie is dead!”

“So are you.”

“What!”  Obviously, I must be having a nightmare, I thought.

“When you fell into that water, you drowned sir.  You are dead and now you must pay your penance.”

“You can’t make me!”  I shouted.

“Certainly not, but seeing as how you have eternity to spare, you will not have much better to do.  Lonnie has done his part and given you the choice to stay with him, or return to where you were supposed to go.  That choice is now up to you, but you must first serve your penance.  Once you serve your penance, you may make your decision.  Until then, you will sit here, in this chair.”

I thrust my face into my hands and rubbed violently, this can’t be real.  As I looked back up, I saw Lonnie and the old man standing where I once was.  Around my wrists are shackles and I’m not sitting in the chair that Lonnie was in when I arrived.

Exhaustion came over me and I decided that if I were not going to wake anytime soon, I may as well play along.

“Okay,” I said “and how many spheres do I need to carve?”

“One for each drop of blood you’ve spilled.”

“That’s insane!  That would take forever!”  I exclaimed.

“No, not forever, but certainly a long time.”

“Good bye.”

The old man turned on his heel and began walking away.  After a few steps, he stopped and said softly “Come on Lonnie.”

Lonnie had been sitting on one of the piles of spheres he carved eating voraciously.  At the old man’s beckon, he jumped up and dropped what he was eating.  After a few seconds, the two disappeared into the darkness of the cavern.

I sat there and tried to process everything that just happened.  As I contemplated the things I was going to do to the old man once I figured out how to get out of here, a strong, familiar scent struck me.

“What is that?”  I wondered as I strained to see what it was that Lonnie had dropped on the floor when he left.

On the floor sat a can of tuna.


----------



## Rodrigo Istalindir (Jul 1, 2004)

*Rodrigo -- Round 1*

Images and a .pdf attached.  Never tried formatting a post this big, so we'll see what I get.  
----------------------------

*Sacrifice*​

      The girl scrambled up the beach, racing ahead of her father who trudged slowly behind.   Although he was by all appearances a young man, he moved slowly,  and keeping up with his daughter was draining what little strength he had left.  Not that it wouldn't have been exhausting anyway, he thought, if the other parents in the tiny sea-side village were any indication.  The energy  possessed by children was as limitless as the ocean.

      "Daddy! Daddy!"

      Simon's head whipped up, reflexively scanning the beach for danger.  He caught sight of his daughter near the shoreline.  She waved excitedly to him before turning her attention back to something buried in the sand.  He kept his steady pace, wondering what she had found.

      "Careful, careful, don't step on them. They are not as tough as they look." He admonished. 

      Just above the high-tide mark, a small pit had been dug in the sand.  Inside, partially buried, lay dozens of sea turtle eggs, each the size of his fist.  Their thick shells were still slightly flexible.  Another hour and they'd harden, but if they were handled carelessly now they'd tear.  He opened the sack he'd been carrying and gently started filling it with eggs.   (See picture #1)

      "Only half, right, father?" she asked.  "So that next year there will be more turtles."

      "That's right, Sarenne.  Even if all of these eggs hatched, most of the baby turtles would never live to be grown-up turtles."

      He knew that leaving half the eggs behind was the right thing to do, but still he hesitated.  The sea's bounty had been withheld from the village these last few weeks, and already there were fearful murmurs of famine and starvation.  He stood with a sigh, and cradled the egg-filled bundle in his arms.

      "Take the shovel and cover them up.  Others will find them if we don't, and they'll not leave any for next year"

      Simon turned and headed back up the beach.  Sarenne quickly covered the eggs with warm sand, and camouflaged the nest with seaweed.  She then sprinted after her father, catching him before he'd gotten back to the edge of the jungle.​•​

      That night, stomachs full on fried turtle eggs, father and daughter sat outside their small wooden shack and listened to the nearby surf.  The night was clear, the moon a day past full, the sand on the beach looking almost like snow in the moonlight.  Sarenne yawned, the long day finally catching up with her.

      "Tell me about my mother again," she asked her father.

      Her father smiled wistfully.  Sarenne asked about her mother often, not knowing how much sadness it caused him.  

      "She was the most beautiful woman anyone had ever seen," he began, "and the fastest swimmer in the village.  A fine fisher, too; she could almost talk the fish into jumping into her nets."

      "I couldn't believe my fortune, when she chose me to be her husband.  All the other men in the village were jealous.  We built our home hear, as near the ocean as we could be, and we fished and swam and were very happy.  We thought things couldn't get any better, and then you came along.   We were blessed, but such joy cannot last forever, and often commands a high price when it departs"

      "Your mother never feared the ocean, but the one thing you must never do is forget how cruel and merciless the sea can be.  One day, she took our small skiff out to try and catch some fish that were running ahead of a storm.  The squall moved more quickly than I'd ever seen.  It caught her far from shore, and the little boat never stood a chance.  The next day bits of it washed up on shore, but I never saw your mother again."

      He looked over at his daughter.  Some nights when he told this story she would cry, some nights she would become angry and curse the ocean for taking her mother away.  Tonight, however, she slept.​•​
	Simon half-regretted leaving so many of those turtle eggs behind.  It was becoming harder and harder to find food.   The weather refused to cooperate with the fishermen.  One day the storms would sweep to certain death anyone foolish enough to put to sea, the next winds so still that the sails of the skiffs dangled lifelessly.  What had begun as good-natured grumbling about the fickleness of Mother Ocean turned to first to half-heard curses and now to the first stirrings of genuine fear.   Agriculture was all but impossible on the sandy island, and the fruit-bearing trees and bushes were being stripped clean.

       He and Sarenne had eaten well enough, but now the turtle eggs were nearly gone.  He sent Sarenne to forage among the trees along the beach.  Her small size allowed her to reach the topmost branches.    Hopefully she would find something edible that had been overlooked by the older, heavier villagers.   While she climbed, he floated in the water astride a board, spear in hand.  A small cantalo fish, barely a foot long, swum into view.  In better times it wouldn't have merited the effort required to spear it, but it was food, and that was all that mattered.   He raised his spear to strike, careful not to move his legs and spook the fish.  It circled just out of reach, unsure if his partially submerged body was a threat, or merely an interesting form of plant life.   It edged forward, almost close enough.

      A sudden splashing sound startled the cantalo as he lunged with the spear.  He looked up to see what had caused the noise, and was stunned to see a large patch of roiling water.  It was a ways off, but moving rapidly towards him.  He froze, unsure if he should flee the water or wait to see what the disturbance was.  As it approached he realized it was dozens, maybe hundreds of cantalo fish leaping and splashing, the entire mass moving as one towards the shallows where he fished.

      Clearly a large predator was driving the fish towards the beach.  Where he floated the water wasn't very deep; it was unlikely that anything big enough to make the cantalo react that way would swim this close to shore.  He readied his spear as the school approached, silently cursing that he'd brought the spear instead of the net.  

      "Sarenne!" he called out, "Come quick."

      Sarenne heard her father shout, and quickly lept from the tree she'd been climbing.  She tumbled nimbly as she hit the ground, and sprinted towards the shore. She could tell by the tone of his voice that he wasn't in danger, so he must have found something interesting, she reasoned.  She could see him in the water, spear held high,  a large, wriggling fish impaled on the end.  Her father saw her running towards the water, and he flipped the fish off of the spear so Sarenne could drag it to the beach.  Working frantically, he speared fish after fish, tossing them  to Sarenne in one smooth motion, then seeking out his next target.  All too quickly, the school turned parallel to the beach and sped away.  He snagged one last straggler, then, exhausted by the sudden burst of activity, he moved towards land.  There were at dozen fish in a pile on the sand, some still feebly flipping and flopping about.  

      Simon shook the last fish off of the end of his spear, then turned and looked at the cantalo as they moved up the beach.  A moment later, all signs of the school disappeared, the fish scattering in all directions.   He turned his gaze back to the sea, and saw what had been pursuing the school.   (See picture #2)

      "Run back to the house, Sarenne, and bring the net.  We'll fill it with the fish and drag them back in one trip."​•​
      An hour later, Simon walked along the trail that led from his home to the village.  He carried a sturdy pole across his shoulders, six of the largest cantalo hanging from it, strings running through their gills.   He'd left Sarenne back home to salt the rest of the fish.  If they were careful, the fish, remaining turtle eggs, and the fruit his daughter had picked from the trees would feed them both for a couple of weeks.  Maybe the others had been as fortunate as he, and everyone could stop worrying about their next meal.  Fisherfolk were a superstitious lot, and the recent bad times had them looking for something or someone to blame.  

      He heard the crowd before he saw them.  The men of the village were gathered close together in the center of the village, their wives looking on from doorways.  The voices of the men were raised in anger.  Simon stopped a short distance away, not quite hiding, but not announcing his presence.  The good mood he'd felt from being able to share the morning's catch turned sour, and he started to worry.  Clearly the others had not had the same luck, and his gift might not be well received.

      "It's a monster," he heard, "not a normal shark.  No one has ever seen one that big.  It has been eating all our fish."

      "Nonsense" one of the other men replied, "Even that beast couldn't eat all the fish in the sea. "

      "Maybe, maybe not, but it would certainly scare away what it didn't eat."

      "But why has it stayed so long?  Why hasn't it followed the big schools, and moved on?" said one of the older men.  "It's been weeks since the fish disappeared."

      "It's a curse."

      All talk ceased abruptly as the village elder approached.  At the mention of a curse, several of the more superstitious villagers sketched a symbol in the air, attempting to ward off whatever evil might have been nearby.  The elder looked at each man in turn, though several lowered their gaze.  Simon slowly backed away, hoping no one would notice him or his brace of fish.

      "Simon?  Where are you going?" the elder inquired, his tone level but laden with accusation.  "And how, pray tell, did you manage to catch so many fish when the entire village came home empty handed?"

      The gaze of the crowd upon him, Simon stopped in his tracks.

      "I caught them on the north beach."  he said. "Something spooked the school, made them run at the shore.  I speared all I could, and brought these to share."

      Simon hoped the elder would leave it at that, but he was soon disappointed.

      "And how many did you catch?" the elder asked.

      "A dozen." Simon replied.

      "A dozen.  And you keep half for two to eat, but expect the other half to feed the rest of us?"

      "Half is fair."  Simon was starting to get angry.  He was bringing them a gift, and yet he was being accused as if he were a thief stealing food.  "I've a child to feed, same as many of you.  Would you have her starve?"

      The elder ignored his question.  "And what exactly scared the fish into your arms?  Why does Mother Ocean favor you, while she spurns the rest of us?"

      Simon handed the brace of fish to one of the women standing nearby.

      "I brought these to share with you all, and I'd hoped that you had the good fortune that I did.  As I have always done, I will share what I can.  But I cannot starve my own child, nor can I explain why these fish chose to swim to me.  Do not let fear and superstition take hold here."

      Simon turned and headed back towards home.   Behind him, the men resumed arguing, but he couldn't tell what they were saying.  Another few steps, and their voices faded completely.​•​
      That night, after Sarenne had gone to sleep, Simon walked the short distance from their home to the beach.  He sat just above the waterline, letting his bare feet be teased by the approaching and retreating surf.  The moon was near full again, and it reflected upon the ocean like a lightning bolt frozen in time.  He had lied to the villagers earlier, when he'd said he didn't know why the fish swam towards him.  The fact that the shark had chased the fish towards him could have been coincidence, but if it was scaring the fish away from everyone else...

      A loud splash shook him from his reverie.  He looked up in time to see a large fin break the water, silhouetted against the silvery moonlight.  It was huge; he had only ever seen one shark with a dorsal fin almost as tall as a man.  And with a chill, he knew why the fish were fleeing from all save him.    He stood, waded without hesitation into the water until it reached his chest, and then swam out to deeper water..

      A fast object moving nearby nudged him closer to shore, and he flinched despite himself.   Still, tread water and waited.  Twice more the beast swam by, twice more he was pushed back, until he could almost touch bottom.  Finally, it approached directly, this time swimming near the surface before diving.  A moment later, a human head, a woman's head, broke the water in front of him.

      "Calliya" he breathed.  "You've come back."​•​
      They sat on the shore, Simon's arm around his wife, her head resting on his shoulder.  

      "I know I shouldn't have come back so soon.  I just couldn't wait any longer.  I've missed you and Sarenne so much." Calliya whispered.

      "And I've missed you, every day.  Not being able to tell Sarenne why you left has made me miserable.  But you can't stay.   You are scaring away all the fish.  The village is on the verge of starvation."  Simon said.

      "But I've brought you food.  I made sure you would find those turtle eggs, and the cantalo.  I tried to herd a school towards the boats, but they panicked as soon as they saw me and fled."

      "I know, and I'm grateful.  But you know how these people are.  They are suspicious.  I doubt they'd ever guess the truth, but when they saw those fish today, half of them were ready to make a sacrifice of me."

      "Wouldn't they be in for a surprise if they tried!" she laughed.  "We adaru don't sacrifice easily."

      "No, but think of Sarenne.   She won't be safe until she's older."

      The mere thought of anything happening to their daughter quieted them.  A female were-shark couldn't conceive from a human male, but should she become pregnant by another adaru while in human form, she was stuck that way until she gave birth.   The offspring would be indistinguishable from a pure human until puberty.

      "Soon, though, she will.  I'll be in the sea, waiting to welcome her and celebrate with her the first time she changes." Calliya said.  "And welcome you back as well.  I hope you know how much I appreciate what you've done for me, and for Sarenne."

      "I do know, and I've never regretted it.  Someone had to stay with here until it was time.  If we'd both stayed, we'd have both been miserable.  Not to mention twice as likely to be discovered."

      Simon sighed.  "You should go.  It wouldn't do me any good to have someone see me talking to a ghost.  Especially now."

      "Can I see her, before I go?  Just for a moment."  Calliya asked.

      "Just for a moment.  Let me make sure she's still asleep first."

      Simon went into his house while Calliya waited in the shadows.  A moment later, Simon beckoned her inside.  Calliya stood silently, gazing upon the daughter she had not seen for many years.  

      A few minutes later, Simon and Calliya left the hut and walked back to the water's edge.  The embraced, each drawing strength from the other and the knowledge that they would someday reunite.   Calliya turned and ran into the sea, diving into the breakers and disappearing beneath the waves.  Simon watched until he saw a fin slice the surface, then walked back up the beach and went inside.  The tall figure watching from the shadows stood motionless for several minutes before it too vanished.​•​
      Simon awoke to the sound of Sarenne screaming.  He leapt to his feet and was almost overcome by an acrid smoke that seared his lungs and burned his eyes.  He dropped to all fours and scrambled towards the sound of his daughter's voice.  The walls were engulfed in flames, and the roof was starting to catch as well.  He grabbed Sarenne, wrapped his arms around her, and charged towards the door.  It shattered into flaming fragments.  Strong hands pulled him to his feet and he felt Sarenne being ripped from his grasp.

      "Adaru! Adaru!"  a multitude of voices cried out, and for the first time, Simon was truly afraid.  

      He tensed, calling upon the strength and savagery of his other form for the first time in years.  He shook off the men restraining him and started towards those holding the girl.  He felt a something strike his back, a knife blade deflected by his thickening skin.  The village elder stepped in front of Sarenne, hand raised to strike.  Simon smiled, the elder blanching when he saw the razor sharp teeth that filled the father's mouth.  The elder's hand slashed towards Simon's face.  

      Simon realized a moment too late why the elder struck with his fist instead of a blade.  As the fist sped towards his face, Simon saw that it was entwined in leather thongs, and studded with sharp, silver spikes.   The cruel cestus raked his cheek, tearing his flesh like paper.  Blood coursed from his ruined face, and he fell to one knee.  A second strike to the back of the head felled him, and he saw Sarenne being dragged into the jungle as the darkness took him.  (See picture 3)

      When he regained consciousness, the clearing was empty, and his home still burned brightly.  He staggered to his feet, the pain from the ragged furrows in his face nearly unbearable.  Only his fear for his daughter's life kept him upright.  He staggered across the beach and dove into the ocean.  The cool saltwater eased the burning, and in a flash he completed the transformation he'd started earlier.  Where moments before there had been a wounded man now swam a leviathan, a beast nearly unmatched in power and ferocity.    He sensed a giant sea turtle nearby, perhaps the same one that had laid the eggs that he and Sarenne had feasted upon.  With a powerful swipe of his tail, he sped towards it.  The doomed turtle sensed his approach too late, and with a motion made crueler by its casual nature, tore the hapless animal in half.  Its blood stained the sea, and he circled, the turtle twitching in its death throes and slowly sinking to the bottom.   He didn't have to wait long.  Within minutes, drawn by the blood, Calliya appeared.  Husband and wife transformed again and tread water on the surface.  

      "You must come.  They've taken Sarenne."

      Calliya could tell that Simon was in great pain, and in the light coming from the rising sun she could see the terrible wounds inflicted upon him.  As one, the pair hurried ashore and into the jungle.

      With no regard for caution or stealth, they charged along the path towards the village.  They got there expecting a mob, but it was deserted.  

      "I know where they've taken her.  There is a pit deeper into the jungle.  In times past, they've thrown criminals in there, and deformed children, and the bodies of those who died in disgrace and were deemed unworthy of being returned to Mother Ocean.  We must hurry."

      Running into the jungle, Simon hoped he could remember the way.  It had been several years since anyone had been thrown in the pit, and even then he had just followed the others.  Fortunately, it was easy to follow the broken branches and trampled underbrush left by the villagers.  They heard the mob before they saw it, and finally reason returned to them.  They crept forward cautiously.  The crowd was moving back down the path, heading home.  Simon and Calliya hid and waited for them to pass.  Sarenne was not with them.

      As soon as the coast was clear, the pair moved on.  They approached the edge of the pit and peered over the edge.  It was dark this deep in the jungle, and the light that filtered through the trees didn't penetrate far into the gaping maw in the ground.  Working quickly, they fashioned rope out of vines, and descended into the depths.  They knew that the only way Sarenne could have survived being thrown in the pit was if her adaru blood had started to awaken.  (See picture #4)

      Down they went, passing the skeletal remains of bodies that had been impaled on rocky outcroppings.  They reached the bottom of the pit, and peered into the darkness.  Simon felt a brief moment of hope, for the bottom of the pit was filled waist-deep with water.  Salt water, he realized. 

      Calliya saw her first, and her cries of despair echoed throughout the abyss.  Simon went to his wife, and wept when he saw the body of his daughter, floating, face turned skyward, gazing sightlessly at the small patch of sky visible through the trees.

      They stood for what seemed like hours, unable to believe what had happened.  Finally, Simon picked up the small child's body and gently tied one of the vine ropes around her.

      "We'll climb up and pull Sarenne to the surface.  We'll take her back to the ocean." Simon whispered.

      Shadows moved across the water.  Simon looked up, and saw the village elder crouching near the edge of the pit.  Raged flooded his veins, and Simon began climbing the rope hand-over-hand.  The elder watched for a moment, and then with a single motion slashed the vines holding Simon and Sarenne.  He saw the splash as Simon hit the water, then stood and walked back into the jungle without a word.

      Simon surfaced, and returned to his wife.  Calliya knelt in the water, cradling Sarenne.

      "What will we do?" she asked.  "How will we get out?"

      Simon paused for a moment, his enhanced senses feeling the ebb and flow of the water, tasting the salinity.

      "This is saltwater, and I can feel the tide coming in.  There must be a passage to the ocean."

      Simon waded to the far side of the pit, the water getting deeper until it was nearly up to his chin.  Without a word dipped below the surface and shifted.  Calliya waited, knowing that if there was a way out, Simon would find it.  She sensed his return, and then she too changed, and gently grasped took Sarenne's body with her mouth.  She followed Simon down the tunnel he had found.

      A few minutes later, they could feel the ocean surging up the tunnel, and they struggled for a moment against the current.  Then they were clear, the claustrophobic confines of the tunnel left behind for the vast deep.  They swam out to a shipwreck, a schooner that had sunk in hurricane years ago, and Calliya gently pushed Sarenne's body through a gaping hole in the side.  They knew it wouldn't be long before the denizens of the sea discovered her, but they couldn't bear to just let her float away.

      Having done what little they could, the two giant sharks cruised slowly through the water.  In the distance, Simon felt the frantic motion of a large school of fish.  With one obsidian orb, he looked at Calliya, and she knew what he was thinking.  Almost as one, they sped towards the mass of fish, driving it towards the island.  The fish would be coming back to the island, and where the fish went, the fishermen and their boats would soon appear.​


----------



## Piratecat (Jul 1, 2004)

Hey, a purely technical note from your friendly admin - please don't repost pictures as attached files. It unnecessarily bloats the database.

Thanks!


----------



## Rodrigo Istalindir (Jul 1, 2004)

Piratecat said:
			
		

> Hey, a purely technical note from your friendly admin - please don't repost pictures as attached files. It unnecessarily bloats the database.
> 
> Thanks!




Sorry -- didn't know how to do it, and since the rules forbid editing, I didn't want to screw up.  Probably should have played in the meta forum first.  Feel free to excercise mod-powers and remove the attachments.


----------



## arwink (Jul 1, 2004)

Well, after six hours of waiting without anyone showing up I've just been informed that someone made an error in the booking process and it's going to take another few weeks for another appointment to come up, which means my internet connection is far, far away.

Sadly, this means I'm out of this - I'm not going to be online reliably enough to compete.


----------



## alsih2o (Jul 1, 2004)

Barsoomcore-

Berandor "Robert I."

First things first: never, and I mean NEVER, use an exclamation point in a piece of fiction. Unless you're deliberately trying to do something in a cheeseball pulp vein, don't do it. Never never never.

Okay, got that off my chest.

Reasonably good use of the pictures -- but I'm forced to wonder what the invisible car has to do with anything. There isn't a thread that ties the pictures together -- they're just random moments from the story. None of the uses feel like throwaways, but I'm left thinking you could have left all but the one out and the story would have been largely the same. Which is a bit of a problem.

The narrative position wanders around a little and that weakens things for you. For example -- in the first paragraph our hero is looking around the room, and we're pretty much getting told what he sees. Which is fine until the last sentence of that paragraph, where we get told that the plastic on his brow is green and red. Since he can't see it, I start wondering what's going on. It would have been smoother and more consistent if you had delayed describing the appearance of the "crown" until he'd taken it off and could look at it.

Choose your point of view and stick with it.

The beginning, up to Robert's confrontation with Dr. Flint at her apartment, is WAY too long. We don't need very much of this. The story doesn't really get going until that confrontation anyway, so get us there faster. The stuff in the hotel especially isn't adding anything -- I'd just turf it. The story could probably be about half as long as it is now and be much better.

Five foot six is quite a ways off average height for a white male, by the way. 

And just to be a nit-picky jerk, I get 12,500,000 results on Google for "Robert I."

The conversations with the guards don't move the story along. We don't care. It's the conversation with Dr. Flint that we need to hear so ditch the long explanations as to how he gets into the apartment complex. Doesn't matter -- unless it matters. Like if he's able to jump a ten-foot fence or something, then we need to know. But he doesn't do anything in all this that gives me clues as to what's going on, so leave it all out.

Overall, the story suffers from a lack of urgency. We don't see any particular reason for this guy to move quickly or to take any risks in order to solve his problem, and so we're not very worried. We need to see some threat to him implicit in what's going on to give the story the juice it really needs.



MarauderX "Recruiting"

Definitely very solid use of the pictures. All four are neatly integrated and if not essential to the story, at least illustrate key ideas in the story. Well done.

The story itself, however, is at least twice as long as it needs to be. Those big, meaty paragraphs aren't carrying much information and you could lose most of the sentences in each and not be missing much of the story.

The plot takes too long to get moving. In a story of this length, if the story hasn't kicked in by the third or fourth sentence, my attention's starting to wander, and here it doesn't get going for paragraphs and paragraphs. Not until he discovers the invisibility field is there any sense of urgency.

Too much explaining. Does it really matter that Tiflime built the first acropolis? I don't care. I don't have any reason to care. He's a rich guy. Got it, moving on.

"Silenced him like a ton of bricks." -- how does a ton of bricks silence someone, anyway? Seems to me that a ton of bricks might actually be pretty noisy, if you dropped it on somebody. Come up with your own metaphor, or if you're going to use a cliched one, make sure you give a very very good reason why you're using that cliche.

The character of Sayta appears somewhat out of nowhere -- the story would have felt more complete if this had been a return rather than an introduction. There wasn't much reason for our hero to trust this complete stranger, so I was a little disappointed that he did. It also robs the twist at the end -- he's back at the lab -- of any power it might have. I'm not surprised that he's back at the lab because I haven't had a chance to believe that Sayta might represent a different concern. This is really a general problem in the story -- the first time we learn that Dr. Marroquin created the virus is the first time she's introduced, which is also when we discover she was murdered by our hero's co-workers. We learn that invisibility is illegal at the moment we discover Gilgamesh is using it. Surprise depends on the reader understanding the initial conditions so that they can be surprised by a sudden reversal. 

Read Gibson's short stories like "New Rose Hotel" or "Johnny Mnemonic" and pay attention to how few words he actually uses and how fast his stories move. How much happens from one paragraph to the next. How many times our understanding of what's happening flips as one betrayal after another turns things inside out.

The invisibility idea is used well, and the dilemna of the technician who's stumbled on a secret is a fine source of plot, but the story is far too long and the surprises are not set up sufficiently.



Decision: MarauderX, for superior picture use.


 Mythago-

 RECRUITING (MarauderX)

I like the use of the glasses as a plot device, and the pictures are 
very nicely integrated with the theme of the invisibility device--I 
particularly liked Jerrid leaping over the automaton, and the black hole 
picture was a good tie-in to the use of the tablet.

Unfortunately, the rest of the story doesn't work as well. The 
descriptions are choppy and awkward in places (silenced like a ton of 
bricks?) and the characterizations are thin; the nameless, faceless 
engineers don't do much but fill in plot holes, and Dr. Tiflime comes 
across as a stereotypical Rich Guy. I also had a hard time believing 
that invisibility could be kept under wraps by just about everyone 
simply by making it illegal--for sixty-five years? Not gonna happen.

The ending is not abrupt, but it does make the story sound more like a 
prologue than a stand-alone.


ROBERT I (Berandor)

There are two different ways to run an "amnesiac discovers his true 
identity" story: have the reader in the dark too, or have it obvious to 
everyone but the amnesiac. The story here takes the latter path, but 
seems to be trying to take the other.

I had some credibility problems with some of the plotlines: scientists 
assuming Robert I (who is, after all, wearing a name tag) being let past 
when confronted, the truly awful security at Dr. Flint's home, and 
getting a description of Robert by having himself look in a mirror. 
(Plus, if he's seeing himself for the first time, we'd expect him to be 
looking very carefully and therefore notice the oddity Dr. Flint points 
out.) And the line about memory loss being contrived was, well, a little 
too cute.

On the other hand, the narrative was a tense, well-run storyline. We 
don't really know what Robert is going to do next; is he going to turn 
violent? What was he programmed for? Are more memories going to come 
back? What are they building these robots for, anyway? The answers 
aren't predictable.

The use of the pictures was strong, except for the 'invisible car'; we 
know that Dr. Flint has access to whiz-bang technology, but the car is 
used pretty much as a throwaway here. A more even integration into the 
narrative would have made a stronger story.

Judgment for this round goes to BERANDOR


Alsih2o-

 Berandor- We begin with a futuristic setting and a messianic overtone.

 2800 words into a 4300 word story before we ever see an illustration. The bad part means they are all stuffed in at last, the good part means Berandor has his hero cleaning in the second act of his own volition. I would give my left pinky to see Will Smith or Sly Stallone stop to clean up for a few minutes mid-adventure!

Speaking of Will Smith….I am not sure if writing a story where we are mislead (as far as I can tell) into thinking it is titled Robot “i” during a summer movie release of Asimov is bold or derivative.

  Dr. Flint recoiling is pretty good picture use. And I like how the leaping picture is handled, although I must admit I got stuck wondering how one droves an invisible car without being crushed. This made it feel like less of a good use of a pic and more like an out that wasn’t thoroughly thought through (what IS thoroughly thought through in 3days?) J The eye- if you knew the pic was coming you knew where it would fit.

 There are some little things that bother me, 5’6” ain’t avg., The way the doctor takes commands unthinkingly, even though she helped create the perfectly matching robot, the moron guard, but 2 of 3 of these seem standards of the genre. 

 MarauderX- Pretty good pic use. Strange that both writers made the car carved of ice into an invisible car! I am amused by how similarly the pictures were used in two different stories.

 It ends awfully abruptly, and I wish the final betrayal had as much attention payed to it as some of the other, less important details.

 I like the bulkiness of the story, and just wish some of it had been remioved for a little more description at the end. I also wish he had been given more of a choice. Screwed vs. screwed isn’t the best, seems a bit too dark for me.

 With a little less detail about Mr. Ricj and Powerful we may have had some more room for explanation, and this would have made a richer story form a rich one.

 Decision- This is a hard one for me. It comes down to two stories with some similar strengths, and some similar weaknesses. Reading them both multiple times I think I expect somewhat better things form Berandor, and have to side with him.


 Judgement- 2-1 for Berandor, who moves to the next round.


----------



## alsih2o (Jul 1, 2004)

arwink said:
			
		

> Well, after six hours of waiting without anyone showing up I've just been informed that someone made an error in the booking process and it's going to take another few weeks for another appointment to come up, which means my internet connection is far, far away.
> 
> Sadly, this means I'm out of this - I'm not going to be online reliably enough to compete.




 Crapsticks!

 Can someone look up who the other alt was in the first thread please?


----------



## Eeralai (Jul 1, 2004)

alsih2o said:
			
		

> Crapsticks!
> 
> Can someone look up who the other alt was in the first thread please?




It looks like Delgar asked to be put on the alternate list after the other thread was closed to judges.


----------



## Berandor (Jul 1, 2004)

Wow. Thanks. Just to be clear on one thing, though (I'm at work now and can't comment thoroughly): I typed in "Robert I." in Google as well, before writing down the number of results 
Perhaps I accidentally had it set to only search German pages...

Otherwise, kudos to MarauderX, who made this round as close as it was, and I'll definitely try to polish my next entry for both our sakes


----------



## Delgar (Jul 1, 2004)

Delgar here, it's actually my wife that will be participating, she doesn't have her own account. She is ready to go whenever!

Delgar


----------



## alsih2o (Jul 1, 2004)

Delgar said:
			
		

> Delgar here, it's actually my wife that will be participating, she doesn't have her own account. She is ready to go whenever!
> 
> Delgar




 You (her) vs, Yangnome, tomorrow morning.


----------



## Graywolf-ELM (Jul 1, 2004)

alsih2o said:
			
		

> You (her) vs, Yangnome, tomorrow morning.




Any chance that ours can start tomorrow morning as well?

GW


----------



## yangnome (Jul 1, 2004)

Arwink, sorry to hear you won't be able to participate. 

I thought it was vs. me tonight...I can start whenever though, I was just waiting for Arwink.  If Delgar's wife is ready to go, bring it on....


----------



## alsih2o (Jul 1, 2004)

Graywolf-ELM said:
			
		

> Any chance that ours can start tomorrow morning as well?
> 
> GW




 *hides emberassment at forgettign to respond before* Um, yes, tomorrow morning works


----------



## RPGgirl (Jul 1, 2004)

This is Delgar's wife ... and I can start tonight as well.  At the moment, I am a little swamped with editting something, but that will be done this afternoon.


----------



## alsih2o (Jul 1, 2004)

RPGgirl said:
			
		

> This is Delgar's wife ... and I can start tonight as well.  At the moment, I am a little swamped with editting something, but that will be done this afternoon.




 I am amazed that screename was available.


----------



## Zhaneel (Jul 1, 2004)

*Congrats*

To Berandor, Congrats for moving on.

Reposted from the other thread (my comments):

*Berandor*

Interesting story. I am left feeling a little confused. Basically, I got very early on that Robert was either a clone or a Robot. I'm a loss as to how he misunderstood his name tag and as to what his truly programming was supposed to accomplish. There were several miscellaneous things that jolted me out of the story [how can something be futuristic if we don’t know what the present is like?, it hard to be bossy while asking a question, rough transition from the Motel to the Apartments, can't ride/drive a motorcycle with someone in front of you & the laws around motorcycles, etc.].

The picture use was pretty good, in my opinion. I loved the eye and the car photos. The leaping photo was a pretty visual, but not something I thought was essential to the story. As for the black dot picture, given how tough it was I give you major props for having it be a recurring image.

Brief nit pick: Dialogue punctuation is as follows:

"What are you saying?" asked Rose. 

The stuff inside gets the question mark, no comma, and the end of the sentence gets a period.

The ending was chilly, but at the same time I felt a little sudden. We didn't see Robot/Robert I go down and so the switch and being told [not shown] that the robot was down was a little odd.

The constant use of He early on grated, even though there was a good reason. I liked, however, that you didn't start using Robert until he knew what he looked like. Small smiles happened when you made reference to the writer's trick of the main character not knowing his identity. Another old hat trick, however, is the use of the mirror for description, just FYI.

All in all good story. Some room for improvement, but there always is for Ceramic DM.


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

* MarauderX – Recruiting*

Very interesting. You & Berandor both picked a chilly theme in the future. Interesting.

I liked the main character early on. He was easy to relate to and I thought I understood his motivations. I liked him being bright enough to want to learn about the various technologies and attempting to do so in a careful way. I foresaw the discovery of his actions. I cursed him going to the police. I found the invisible car suspect, especially the line "we used to work together until recently." Great foreshadowing.

Quibbles: Why didn't the techs remove the name tags so the automotron couldn’t focus on them? Or, since they were proven "loyal", why did they have targettable name tags in the first place? And why did they try to kill him, only to "give up" so that they could hire him? I would have expected the rays to be non-lethal, or some other give-aways that they weren't *really* trying to kill him. It did (belatedly) explain how he was able to easily get away.

I didn't understand what the big deal was about not shutting down the machine, but that is technical crap that I maybe just didn't understand.

I found the picture use pretty strong. The Eye one was okay as a good, but didn't really have a major role to play. The leap was a good use of explanation. The Car was chilly thing and predictable given the invisible nature of the machines. And the woman/spot thing was essential.

Zhaneel


----------



## RPGgirl (Jul 1, 2004)

alsih2o said:
			
		

> I am amazed that screename was available.




So was I ... I actually signed up back in December, but didn't really post anything (I just read what everyone else had to say).

This will be my first ceramic DM contest, and it sounds like a lot of fun.


----------



## mythago (Jul 1, 2004)

Rodrigo Istalindir said:
			
		

> Sorry -- didn't know how to do it, and since the rules forbid editing, I didn't want to screw up. Probably should have played in the meta forum first. Feel free to excercise mod-powers and remove the attachments.



The very easiest way to link to pictures is to footnote them--just put a number in brackets in the story and then list them at the bottom. Example:

"If I knew that you were coming," Sialia told the dragon, "I would have baked a cake."[1]

THE END

[1] kitchenofthegods.jpg​


----------



## BSF (Jul 1, 2004)

Ceramic DM - Summer 2004
Round 1, Match 2
Francisca vs BardStephenFox AKA David Moore

*Delusional*

Dr. Clayton waited in the small conference room.  He had been frisked by the guards and signed off on the release forms nearly half an hour ago.  He had to admit that it was likely his patient would have to go through more hallways filled with steel gates than he did, but Dr. Clayton did not like waiting, even if they were billable hours.  

He was here to evaluate the state of mind of Darren Yu, the murderer whom the coast guard had recently caught with dozens of plastic wrapped packages of human flesh in his boat.  He was dumping them overboard to the sharks.  This was the same man that had been identified by witnesses three days earlier as having killed and then taken the body of a festival entertainer.  There was little doubt in anyone's mind that Mr. Yu was the one that committed the murder, he had provided a full verbal confession, but the prosecutors wanted to counter any possible insanity plea.  The night previous, the lead prosecutor had been emphatic about what Dr. Clayton's role was in the case.  "All we need to know is if he understood the difference between right and wrong Doctor.  By the law, it doesn't matter what his reasons were, all we need to know is if he understood that killing that woman was wrong."  

Dr. Clayton sighed and then pulled out the tape recorder.  He put new batteries, and a new tape, in it and ran through a test.  At least the tape recorder was working correctly.  Minutes ticked by before he saw a cluster of guards outside the door.  Finally, the door opened and a short man walked in.  The guard looked in, nodded reassuringly to the doctor, and said, "If you need us, give us a signal."  The door closed and Dr. Clayton was left with his patient.

Darren Yu stood roughly 5'9" tall, with short black hair and darker skin.  Dr. Clayton tried to decide if he was of Chinese or Japanese descent, maybe Korean?  Darren smiled as the doctor looked him over.

"The proper term is Asian American, doc.  My family has been in America for generations.  Hell, my grandparents were put in one of the internment camps in New Mexico during World War II."  Darren's voice was strong and smooth.

Dr. Clayton nodded absently and filed that information away for later reference.  "Of course."  Gesturing to the chair across the small table, he continued, "Please sit down.  I am Doctor Clayton and I have been asked to make a psychiatric evaluation of you."

Darren pulled the chair out casually and sat down.  Dr. Clayton noted that he was wearing jeans and a white polo shirt instead of the orange jumper that he had expected the patient to wear.  

 "Of course you are doc.  I'm sure the prosecutor wants to be sure I am sane.  He probably told you that he just wants to be sure that I can tell right from wrong.  Let me assure you doc, I can."  Darren smiled again and gestured to his clothes.  "These?  They always give me time to change out of my prison uniform.  Something about not creating a bias against the accused and all that."

The two men sat in the room for a few moments, silence hanging before them.  Finally, Darren nodded toward the tape recorder.  

"You gonna turn that thing on or what?"

Dr. Clayton relaxed a bit.  The young man had ceded control of the conversation back to him.  This was good.  Maybe he would be able to learn something.  "That depends.  If you are not comfortable with me taping our conversation, then I will leave it turned off."

Darren shrugged.  "Whatever works for you doc, it's not like the thing will work anyway."

"Why not Mr. Yu?"

"Well, Lou makes sure that nothing permanent is recorded about me.  Little things like video tapes and tape recorders just don't work near him.  Computer records get mysteriously deleted and even when you try to take notes things will happen."

Dr. Clayton reached forward and turned the tape recorder on.  Reaching for his paper tablet, he pulled out his pen.  This might be interesting.  If the patient really believed that nothing would be recorded about him, it might make it much easier to get him to open up and speak.  

"OK Mr. Yu, who is Lou?"  The little wheels in the tape recorder slowly pulled the tape through the recording heads.

Darren laughed.  "Call me Darren.  As for Lou, he is ..." The young man trailed off as he considered.  "I'm not sure you would understand yet.  So, let's call him my shadow."

Doctor Clayton's pen scratched across the surface of the paper, but no ink ran onto the page.  Surely he wasn't out of ink, he had replaced the cartridge just a couple of days ago.  He tried again and only got scratches from the pen.  Reaching into his briefcase, he pulled out a pencil, and then noticed that the tip was broken.  Darren sat there, smiling, while the doctor rummaged through his briefcase looking for a pencil sharpener.  Finally, the doctor gave up.  He still had his tape recorder.  His memory would have to suffice for any other details. 

"Well Darren, I guess I just won't make any notes right now.  But, that's OK, we can still talk about whatever you want to talk about."

Darren shrugged again.  "Whatever works for you doc.  What do you want to hear?"

Dr. Clayton leaned forward.  "Why don't you tell me your story, in your own words?"

"Sure doc, why not?  Where to begin?  You ever seen death doc?  I mean, really seen death.  Looked it in the eye and understood it for the horror and the beauty it represents?  Tell you what, there is a town northeast of Amarillo called Pampa.  Nothing really in the town because the chemical plant there blew up a while back.  They rebuilt the plant, but the company bought up all the damaged buildings in the town.  They claimed it was some sort of industrial accident and promised all sorts of improved safety features."  Darren leaned forward.  "It wasn't an accident, it was a Druid."

Dr. Clayton looked at Darren quizzically, urging him to continue.

"See doc, the Druids didn't like the chemicals the plant was pouring out.  So, they blew it up.  But, most people don't know magic when they see it.  Just like you think that your pencil breaking and your pen running out of ink are coincidence instead of the work of Lou.  Anyway, if you drive up through Pampa, stop and take a look at that Druid.  She is still there.  Lou and I killed her a year or two ago.  As you drive up from Amarillo, you will see the chemical plant there.  Take the road past the turn off.  About another mile further down, you will see a side road.  Take that for about a quarter mile and stop.  On the fence there, you will see what looks like a bird, hanging on a barbed wire fence.  Stop there and just gaze at that bird. When the sun is behind it just right, when the clouds are roiling in the background, it almost looks like an angel hanging there.  That's the Druid that blew up Pampa.  She won't bother nobody anymore."

The silence between the two men grew.  The little whirring sound of gears in the tape recorder was the only thing that broke the silence.  Finally, Dr. Clayton asked, "What does this have to do with the woman you murdered last month?"

Darren looked incredulous.  "They were both Druids!  That woman was a Druid, changed into the shape of a giraffe.  She knew that Lou and I were looking for her and she was trying to hide out."

Dr. Clayton leaned forward and with a placating tone said, "Come now Darren, you can tell me the truth.  She was an entertainer in a suit that looked somewhat like a giraffe.  Several people saw you shoot her and then take her body.  You know as well as I do that she was just wearing a costume.  What did she do to upset you enough to kill her?"

Darren's eye narrowed and his fists clenched.  "Listen doc, I ain't the one with an axe to grind here.  You said you wanted to hear my story, in my own words, right?"

Dr. Clayton sat back.  The young man was alarmed and it would be better to let him tell his story before pushing him for the truth.  "I'm sorry Darren.  Of course I want to hear your story. But, if this woman was a Druid what did she do to deserve death?  Why didn't anybody else see her as you did?"

Mollified, Darren leaned back in his chair.  "Look doc, what does July 16, 1945 mean to you?"

Dr. Clayton shrugged.  "The date sounds vaguely familiar.  That would have been during World War II, so probably something to do with the war."  The doctor was beginning to think that perhaps there was some sort of deep-seated resentment about the internment camps that his grandparents were put in.

Darren looked dumbfounded.  "Something to do with the war?  That's all?  Trinity?  White Sands?  The Manhatten project?  Do these things mean anything to you?"

Dr. Clayton nodded in surprise.  "Oh, of course, the beginning of the nuclear age.  Ah!  I see, these Druids change shape so they must be mutants, like in the comic books?"

Darren looked at him disdainfully.  "Yes, the beginning of the nuclear age.  But, that's not all it was.  It was the return of the age of magic!  The Druids are not mutants, they are magic wielders.  Magic exists in the world doc.  There are people who are quietly using it to help humanity and then there are the Druids who are against using it if it 'harms the environment'.  There is a war going on Doc!  On one side are the people I work for who want to use magic to bring rain to places in drought and keep crop production maximized.  Then there are the Druids that think that nature should take it's course and if people die, then they die.  The Druids think that technology and magic should be stopped.  They demonize the little magical outsiders like Lou that try to help us.  You tell me doc, am I wrong for killing them when they try to kill the rest of us?  Tell me doc, who is more evil?  I want to see drought ended.  The Druids have that power, as do others.  The Druids refuse to use it to help.  What's worse, they counter the efforts of those people willing to use their magic to help others.  If I kill a Druid and it allows other to make rain and end drought, and that helps crops to grow, and hunger disappears, am I evil?"

Darren was beginning to get himself worked up, but it sounded more like rationalization.  A story that was just a bit too clear-cut and convenient.  "Please calm down Darren.  Think about this from my perspective for a moment.  An hour ago, I didn't know anything about magic being in the world and now you are telling me that there is a magical war with the stakes of ending world hunger.  You have to admit, it does sound a bit fanciful."

With a nod of his head, Darren agreed.  "Yeah, I suppose it probably does to you.  I just get tired of all you psychiatrists asking me questions.  You're the fourth one this week.  But, Lou says your OK.  The woman yesterday kept trying to figure out how to write a book about me.  Lou and I didn't like her much."

The young man was talking about his shadow again.  Maybe it was worthwhile to look into that aspect of his personality.  "Darren, would you like to tell me about Lou?"

Darren shrugged. "What's there to say?  He is what most people would call a demon.  Hell, he even has the horns and all that.  He watches my back and helps by cutting off the Druid magic.  He made sure the ink in your pen dried up, broke that pencil, and hid your sharpener.  Oh, he also reads minds.  He says you will find the pencil sharpener in your car later today.  He also has funny jokes and likes old TV commercials.  He's a good guy and I like him."

"You say he cuts off the Druid magic. What do you mean?"  

"Well, like with that lady that you think was an entertainer, he stopped her from changing all the way back.  She was hiding out at the festival as a giraffe.  But, Lou and I tracked her down.  Well, mostly Lou did.  We were walking along and I was mad at him because we hadn't found the Druid yet.  He's holding this pack of cigs right?  He's lighting one up and he nudges me in the arm and says 'I'd walk a mile for a camel.'  Then he points at this giraffe.  At first, I didn't get it.  Then the Druid saw us.  Anyone that has magic can see Lou, so she started to change back out of her disguise.  Once I saw that, I realized he was trying to make a joke, see.  I punched him in the arm and said 'Lou, that's a giraffe, not a camel.'  Lou just shrugged and snuffed that cig out in his hand.  The Druid, she stopped changing back. It was great 'cause she couldn't cast any spells like that.  It made the job easy.  He does stuff like that to the Druids all the time, see?"

Dr. Clayton just shook his head, the young man was clearly projecting and suffering from delusions.  "But Darren, nobody saw the lady change from being a giraffe.  Don't you think somebody would have noticed?"

Darren paused.  "Here is what I think happened.  See, nobody seemed to think it was a lady in a suit until afterward.  I think they all saw what they wanted to see.  When she started to change back, they all decided that it was somebody in a costume, not somebody changing shapes.  People see what they want to see and then create a reality based on that."

"Like you are Darren?  Is that what you are doing?  Are you creating a reality to fit what you want to see?  Or are you just trying to fake like you are insane?  I think you liked killing that woman."

"No doc, she was just a job.  I ain't the one who is delusional here.  Why do you think we had to toss so much meat to the sharks?"

That caught Dr. Clayton off guard.  He had heard the prosecutor talking with a detective about the flesh in the boat.  There had been much more than would have been in a human body.  They still hadn't found any identity for the woman either.  Dr. Clayton shook the doubt out of his head.  What the man was saying didn't make any sense.  "You tell me Darren.  Why did you have to cut that poor woman up and try to feed her to the sharks?"

Darren paused, if listening to somebody else say something, then chuckled.  "I do make sense doc, if you can accept that there is magic in the world.  And that Druids can change shape.  As for the lady, well that is a little complicated.  See doc, we are winning.  The Druids are losing.  So, they are starting to try to bring their fallen back from the dead.  It's not enough to kill them anymore.  We need to get rid of the bodies so they can be brought back.  No body, no reincarnate spells."  Darren leaned back in his chair.  "That one was tough though.  Since Lou stopped the change part way through, there was a lot of body to get rid of.  It took me two days of hacking and chopping to get that part giraffe down to manageable pieces.  Boy, you should have seen the pile in the boat when we got done!  It was huge.  When the Coast Guard found us, it was quite a bit smaller.  We had tossed some fish on the pile to make people think that we just had some cut-up fish.  It didn't quite work though.  I think the Druids finally got somebody in the police force to believe them.  When I was being cuffed and taken to a car, I saw one of the cops pick up one of the bags and put it in his coat pocket.  I think that Druid will be back.  That's OK though, I'll be free once the trial is over."

Dr. Clayton looked at Darren with disgust.  His time was nearly up and he thought he could make an assessment for the prosecutor.

"No Darren, I don't think you will be free at all.  I think you are making the whole story up and trying to concoct an insanity defense.  Sure, you are not sane in a conventional sense.  You need help.  But, you are sane enough to know right from wrong and you are sane enough to go to trial."  

Dr. Clayton turned off the tape recorder and started putting everything back into his briefcase.  Standing up, he rapped on the door of the conference room.  Darren called out from behind him.

"You don't understand doc, this trial will go through.  They will convict me.  In a few months, I will suffer a tragic prison accident and my body will be burned beyond recognition.  I'll be free, and soon rain will come whenever we want.  This isn't the first time I've been caught killing Druids.  It's just the first time in Texas."  Darren laughed as the Doctor walked out the room and down the hall.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

The doctor rewound the tape as he walked out to his car.  The parking lot was near the recreational area for the county lock-up and he could see Darren already walking the exercise yard.  He hadn't been a bad patient.  Perhaps after his conviction, he would be able to get some help.  Perhaps Dr. Clayton would even be involved?  

Sitting down in the car, the doctor immediately saw the small little pencil sharpener sitting on the passenger seat.  It must have fallen out of his briefcase when he got out of the car.  The tape finally finished rewinding and Dr. Clayton pressed Play.  Dr. Clayton's voice came from the small speaker as he ran through the test sequence, then silence.  He turned the volume up, but still nothing.  He hit the fast forward button, let it run a little bit and then pressed Play again, but still nothing.  The tape recorder must have malfunctioned.  What the hell happened?

Dr. Clayton could see Darren walking around the yard.  He was laughing, as if he were talking to somebody, but all the other prisoners avoided him.  Dr. Clayton stood up and walked over to take a look at exercise yard.  Darren was walking by himself, but there were two shadows on the ground.  One was smaller, and had horns.  Impossible he told himself and purged the image from his memory.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Even without notes, or tape recordings, all four psychiatrists testified that Darren Yu was criminally sane.  He could tell the difference between right and wrong.  While delusional, they all agreed that he was also competent to plead Guilty.  Darren's public defender protested, but the judge allowed the plea to stand and sentenced Darren to life in prison. His pretrial paperwork was lost twice and the transfer order to the prison was mistakenly sent to the women's prison in the next county. Though there was talk of a book about him, it never came to fruition.  For whatever reason, nobody was ever able to get the words on paper.  Several months later, Dr. Clayton was driving through Amarillo when he heard on the radio that there had been a boiler explosion at one of the prisons.  Darren Yu had been the only prisoner working in the area at the time and his body had been burned beyond recognition.  Pulling to the side of the road, Dr. Clayton got out a map.  There it was, Pampa Texas.  It would be a little out of the way, but Dr. Clayton was curious.  

Soon, he was passing the sign for the city of Pampa.  It didn't look like anybody lived here any longer, but he could see a huge plant of some sort in the distance.  He passed the sign for the chemical plant just as a news reporter announced the dramatic press release for a new company that promised they could deliver rain on demand, wherever it was needed.  The farmers association of Amarillo was the first customer.  Though the weather forecast called for another week of record high temperatures, rain was supposedly going to fall that afternoon.  A mile later, Dr. Clayton pulled down a dirt road, running next to a barbed wire fence.  A quarter mile after that, he saw the bird hanging on the fence.  Getting out of his car, he sat down to look at it.  Clouds were rolling in, toward Amarillo.  The sun and clouds created a stark silhouette of the dead bird.  Dr. Clayton thought back to Darren's words "When the sun is behind it just right, when the clouds are roiling in the background, it almost looks like an angel hanging there"  Dr. Clayton had to agree, it did look like an angel.  An angel of death.


----------



## BSF (Jul 1, 2004)

Wow!  Congrats to Berandor.  Good luck to RPGgirl.  I will miss not seeing a story from Arwink though.  

Francisca, just under an hour left!


----------



## Berandor (Jul 1, 2004)

Comments from other thread, more soon 



			
				Zhaneel said:
			
		

> Berandor
> 
> Interesting story.  I am left feeling a little confused.  Basically, I got very early on that Robert was either a clone or a Robot.  I'm a loss as to how he misunderstood his name tag and as to what his truly programming was supposed to accomplish.



Well, he was originally designed as a household helper. He knows how to drive, how to repair, how to clean, how to cook, etc. 
As to his misunderstanding of the tag, I should have included it in the story that he was designed not to know that he was a robot, and when faced with evidence he'd shut down. Sort of a fail-safe measure. That's why he kept wearing the glasses (the eyes being a weak spot), didn't wonder about not sleeping, not eating, etc.
In the end, there were a couple of things I would have liked to include (such as a little more explanation in the epilogue as to the robots' and the car's background), but time ran too short and I simply didn't think of it. As it is, with 4730 words, I probably couldn't have included evrything, anyway 



> There were several miscellaneous things that jolted me out of the story [how can something be futuristic if we don’t know what the present is like?, it hard to be bossy while asking a question, rough transition from the Motel to the Apartments, can't ride/drive a motorcycle with someone in front of you & the laws around motorcycles, etc.].



While I didn't know about the motorcycles, I have regretted that I didn't really flesh out when the story was set (basically, 2005).



> The picture use was pretty good, in my opinion.  I loved the eye and the car photos.  The leaping photo was a pretty visual, but not something I thought was essential to the story.  As for the black dot picture, given how tough it was I give you major props for having it be a recurring image.



Thanks


> Brief nit pick: Dialogue punctuation is as follows:
> 
> "What are you saying?" asked Rose.
> 
> The stuff inside gets the question mark, no comma, and the end of the sentence gets a period.



Well, I had read at grammarbook.com:


> "Is it almost over?" he  asked?



, but even then I did it wrong, didn't I? Thanks, it didn't look right, either 


> The ending was chilly, but at the same time I felt a little sudden.



Well, one hour left, 300 words left, and still you're right. 



> The constant use of He early on grated, even though there was a good reason.  I liked, however, that you didn't start using Robert until he knew what he looked like.  Small smiles happened when you made reference to the writer's trick of the main character not knowing his identity.  Another old hat trick, however, is the use of the mirror for description, just FYI.



Yeah, the "He" grated on me, too. But writing "the man" didn't seem right, either.
I used the mirror mainly for two reasons: I needed Robert to know what he looked like so he recognized his "clone", and it sort of framed the story with him looking into the mirror at the end again.

All in all good story.  Some room for improvement, but there always is for Ceramic DM.[/QUOTE]
Well, thanks again. "Good" is better than I feared, and I will use that room for improvement if I advance to the next round


----------



## francisca (Jul 1, 2004)

*Ceramic DM*

The continuing adventures of Agent Keady…..

It’s been six months since Keady’s bizarre adventure in Greenland.  In that time, Rumfield, his Section Chief and one-time greatest antagonist, had become a supporter -- and paid for it.  Two months ago, Rumfield had been put on indefinite administrative leave, and nobody around the office had heard from him during the last 3 weeks.  Nobody dared ask the reasoning behind his “reassignment”.  Nonetheless, Keady was quickly back to pariah status.  Often his only contact with fellow agents were quickly hushed conversations, dirty looks, shakes of the head followed by nigh silent utterances, and blank, poker-faced stares.  

At least his latest assignment would get him out of the office for a bit.  Sitting in the travel office, waiting for his tickets to print, he was flipping through the case file photos, when one in particular  stood out at him.  Each of the crime scenes not only featured a horribly mangled victim, always a healthy adult male, 23 to 28 years, and some sort of dead animal.  Usually, these animals were a small mammal: rats, squirrels, rabbits.  This latest murder, the 25th, featured the carcass of a hawk, hanging on the fence over the body.  



Seated on the plane, while on the approach to Dallas-Ft. Worth, Keady was still wrestling with the image of the raptor poised over the body of the latest victim.  What did it mean?  The big concern was the symbolism of it all.  The killer had stepped up from marking his handiwork with prey to a predator.  This could mean that the killer was feeling more empowered by his slayings, and was in fact, moving up the food chain.

After an uneventful landing, Keady picked up his luggage and followed his normal procedure of picking up as many local newspapers he could find.  He then checked in with the local FBI office and headed to his hotel.  After a late in-room dinner, while searching through the papers for coverage of the murder and any other fragment of information, he noticed an ad for the Adria-Rica Circus.  He recalled seeing a similar ad a few other times while looking through newspapers from other cities.  Hooking up his laptop, Keady was soon viewing the Adria-Rica Circus website.  It seems that they were a long running circus in Romania, who had come to the US a few years ago, and were now based out of Houston.  Looking at their schedule, Keady was immediately struck by the similarity of the Circus’s touring schedule and the string of murders.  Picking up the maps which showed the locations of the murders, he quickly confirmed that it was true.  Each murder happened within a 30 mile radius of a place the circus had been.  Further, the timing of the murders was such that each occurred the while the circus was in town, the day before, or the day after.  Quickly snatching up the current ad, he saw that today was the last day of the circuses visit to Dallas, with the last murder being the night before it had opened, four nights ago.


The next morning, Keady found the site where the circus had been deserted.  They had apparently pulled up stakes and left in the night.  Looking at the schedule he had printed out, he saw that after a 3 day break, the circus was due to open in Houston for a week, then close up for the season.  An hour later, while heading down I-45, he placed a call to the Houston office and asked for them to set up surveillance around the circus site, and to contact the office of the circus and start doing background checks on employees.

Arriving in Houston late in the afternoon, Keady went straight to the FBI office.  What he found was not very helpful.  The background checks had turned up a few DUIs and two guys with previous breaking and entering convictions, certainly nothing that would lead Keady to believe they would be involved in ritualized murder and mutilation.  The one bit of good news was that the owner of the circus had called to inquire why the FBI was asking questions.  The owner, one Radu Rica, had promised to meet with an agent the next morning and cooperate in anyway.  Further, he invited the agent to come to his office in the morning.


The next morning at 9:00AM, Keady entered the office of the Adria-Rica circus and asked to see Mr. Rica.  Shortly afterward, a short, swarthy man who looked to be in his early 60’s, accompanied by a tall, thin, and beautiful woman in her mid 20s, came out to meet him.

“Greetings, Agent Keady!”, Radu said in a thick Romanian accent.  “It seems we have a scheduling conflict, I fear!”, he continued, “I have promised my daughter here, Atanasia, that I would take her fishing today, before the show starts up again, the day after tomorrow.”

“Oh father, why can’t we simply invite the good agent to share in our expedition!”, Atanasia asked, with a slight pout.  With a sigh, Radu quickly conceded to his daughter’s request.  Keady go the feeling that this was commonplace, and that Atanasia often got what she wanted.

Soon, they were aboard a charter boat headed out to sea for a day of shark fishing.  Queasily, Keady eyed the  pile of chum  near the stern of the boat.  Standing up and walking over to the chum, Atanasia turned to Keady and asked, “What’s the matter, not a fan of sushi?”

“It all depends on how it’s prepared.”, he answered.

“I see.”, she said.  Picking up a bait knife, she bent over sliced a sliver of meat out of one of the mackerels.  Standing back up and looking at Keady, she tossed her head back and swallowed the sliver of fish.  Looking back at Keady, with the ocean breeze blowing back her hair, she licked he lips, and said, “Would you like to try some of mine?”, and placed her hands on her hips, trying to get the maximum effect of the sunlight striking her tanned, bikini-clad body.  While she was simply gorgeous, incredibly alluring, and projected an aura of incredibly confident sexuality, Keady wasn’t buying it.

“Atanasia!  Please!”, exclaimed Radu.

“I’m sorry father.”, she replied in a naughty-little-girl sort of way.  “I was simply trying to show some southern hospitality to our guest.”, she said, in a hokey Texas accent.

Incidents like this continued all afternoon.  Keady played it close to the vest, citing the charter boat crew as why he did not go into what sort of specific crimes he was investigating.  He continually prodded Radu and his daughter for any info on circus workers who might be acting suspiciously.  In the end, the day was a bust, as Radu was simply clueless about his employees.  Despite the fact that Radu said Atanasia was being groomed to take over the family business, she too was of no help, playing the flirtatious tart all day long.

On the other hand, the fishing was excellent.  What surprised Keady was the pure physical power of Atanasia.  Despite her thinly built frame, she possessed incredible strength and endurance, easily landing 300-400lb tiger sharks, whereas a 200lb shark nearly drained Keady.  Radu attributed this to her training as a circus performer.  At the end of the day, despite his knowing better, Keady could not help but be extremely attracted to Atanasia.


Back at his hotel room, Keady made contact with the local authorities.  No leads, but no murders yet.  A canvas of police bulletins state-wide showed no other murders similar to the ones he was investigating.

The next day started early for Keady at the site of the circus.  He was surprised to see so many performers in costume, practicing their routines, even though the show was a few days away.  Sitting on a bench, his heart jumped when some shadows  passed in front of him.  The horned helmet made him shudder as his experience in Greenland came flooding back.  Shaking, sweating, and lost in thought, he heard his voice being called from far away.  Snapping to, her turned and saw Atanasia in a spectacular costume .  He was struck dumb by the grace she exhibited in such an elaborate getup.  There was simply something feral about the way she moved, something forbidden, yet incredibly charismatic.

“I have some information for you, Agent Keady”, she said.  “But there is a cost.”

“And what would that be?”, choked Keady.

“You must be my dinner guest tonight, at my favorite restaurant!  I’ll send a car to pick you up at 7:00PM.”  With that, Atanasia bounded off at incredible speed on her prosthetic limbs.

The day was very frustrating for Keady.  It seemed that Radu had brought over many workers from Romania, and most spoke no English.  The only lead he got was from a Mexican migrant worker who went on and on about the Chupacabra.  Keady mused to himself that if this guy only knew what he knew, he’d never leave his house.  At any rate, despite his best efforts, he could not get Atanasia out of his mind.


At 7:00Pm sharp, as promised, a limousine pulled up to Keady’s hotel.  The driver exited the car and came around to the passenger side.

“Mr. Keady?”, he asked with a thick Romanian accent.

“Yes.”, said Keady.

The driver opened the door for Keady, and revealed the shapely crossed legs of Atanasia.  She was dressed in the proverbial little black dress, with her hair pulled up.  She didn’t move, but rather patted the seat on the other side, forcing Keady to climb past her.  In this awkward position, Keady felt vulnerable to her for the first time.  Sitting next to her, she turned sideways and placed her long legs across his lap.  She then started running her fingers through the hair on the back of his neck.

“Please stop.”, Keady said weakly.  “I’m here on an investigation.”

Sensing that she had her quarry hemmed into a corner Atanasia asked, “Does the bureau demand that you do not mix business and pleasure?”

Keady was done.  “Put a fork in me.”, he said to himself.

When seated, the waiter brought out their drinks and silverware.

“Reuben!”, she said angrily, obviously knowing this waiter.  “You know I don’t use your knives and forks!  Please them away at once, or I’ll call my father!”

This puzzled Keady.  The silverware was just that, very expensive silver knives and forks.  What put him off even more was the look of pure hatred in Atanasia’s eyes when she berated the waiter.

Reuben bowed, apologized, and hastily took her place setting back to the kitchen.
Composing herself, Atanasia nervously laughed.  “I had an uncle die of food poisoning from a dirty fork he ate with at a restaurant.  I always bring my own, even to the best restaurants.”, she dismissively explained.  “Please excuse me, I must go powder my nose.”

Keady had not seen her lose her composure before.  This momentarily snapped him out of his fascination with her.  For some reason, though he had never stolen anything in his life, he slipped a fork into his pocket.

When Atanasia came back, she was her sultry self again.  Now, she pulled out all of the stops.  Slipping her shoes off, she slid her stocking covered feet up and down Keady’s leg.  It got to the point that Keady needed to excuse himself and go to the men’s room to recompose.  When he came back, he found she had ordered him another drink.

The evening continued on in a similar fashion, with Atanasia’s advanced becoming more and more brazen.   Her power over him was such that he simply forgot about the information she supposedly had for him.  The night wound on, the last thing Keady remembered was Atanasia paying the bill and the passenger door of the limo closing, with him inside.


Keady awoke to Atanasia’s voice and a brisk slap on the face.  It was then he noticed his torso was tied to a round wooden fence post, and his hands were tied to the barbed wire  which stretched between the posts on other side of him.

Rolling his head back, he opened his eyes to find Atanasia standing before him, stark naked in the light of the full moon.  They were on a windswept prairie, who knows where in the middle of Texas.

“What did you do to me?”, he asked.  

“The same I do to all foolish men!”, she barked, “I used your own biology against you.  Well, and slipped a little something into your drink.  At any rate, you are now my desert!”

With that, her body started to contort.  She let out a wail which Keady couldn’t tell was pleasure or pain.  Brownish hair started to sprout from her body as her jaws began to extend and ears sprouted from the top of her head.  Her limbs started to lengthen and shift shape.  Slowly, but surely, she started to assume a bipedal, canine form.

Energized with terror, Keady started heaving his body against his bonds.  At the same time, he started to pull his bound wrists back and forth against the barbed wire.  He got lucky.  The cords caught on a barb and started to fray. Looking back, he could see Atanasia rise up full on her hind legs, her transformation complete.  Before him was a six foot tall, gaunt abomination, half wolf, half woman.  Despite his disgust, even now she had an allure about her.  That ended when she let out a terrible howl.

The cords binding Keady’s right wrist gave way, frantically reaching into his pocket, he pulled out the silver fork.  

Atanasia lept at him, her jaws gaping open, seeking his throat.  With a swift stroked, Keady plunged the fork into her neck.  Finding purchase in her jugular, a shriek of pain rolled across the otherwise silent prairie.  Falling, she started to revert back to human form.

Untying himself, Keady stood over her body.  She was now all human again.  With her last gasp of breath, she looked up at Keady and said, “You had no idea what a bitch I really was, did you?”  Then all was silent.


----------



## francisca (Jul 1, 2004)

Crap!

forgot to list the round in my post.

also, it took forever to post, and now I'm late.

my bad.  waited too dang long to get started.

My muse was not present or kind, despite your wishes, BSF.


----------



## alsih2o (Jul 1, 2004)

The crowd falls hush as Francisca shows up late. All their eyes sweep towards Bard Stephen Fox as they await his thumbs up or thumbs down...will he allow the late entry or clal for the sacrificing of all Franciscas previous edition books....


----------



## francisca (Jul 1, 2004)

alsih2o said:
			
		

> The crowd falls hush as Francisca shows up late. All their eyes sweep towards Bard Stephen Fox as they await his thumbs up or thumbs down...will he allow the late entry or clal for the sacrificing of all Franciscas previous edition books....



I'll say uncle an conceed.  I was late, that's the bottom line.  No excuses.  He would have beaten me fair and square anyway.

And you can have my 1E books when you pry them from my cold, dead fingers.


----------



## BSF (Jul 1, 2004)

Mark,
before you ask, I am fine with the story being 5 minutes late in posting.  

Francisca, I doubt that the judges absolutely need the round information.  When I have the time, I like to show off that I know my vbulletin codes.


----------



## BSF (Jul 1, 2004)

alsih2o said:
			
		

> The crowd falls hush as Francisca shows up late. All their eyes sweep towards Bard Stephen Fox as they await his thumbs up or thumbs down...will he allow the late entry or clal for the sacrificing of all Franciscas previous edition books....




*laugh*  OK, after you ask then.  But, when I started the post you hadn't asked yet.    

Francisca, not that easy!  We are going to get judged fair and square.


----------



## francisca (Jul 1, 2004)

BardStephenFox said:
			
		

> *laugh*  OK, after you ask then.  But, when I started the post you hadn't asked yet.
> 
> Francisca, not that easy!  We are going to get judged fair and square.



Alright then.  You're a gracious man, BSF.

But *don't* even think about touching me 1E books.......


----------



## BSF (Jul 1, 2004)

You got any good 1e books that I am missing?


----------



## alsih2o (Jul 1, 2004)

I would never blame a competitor for sticking to the rules (and if someone was WAY late I ould enforce them myself).

 But I love the fact that we all seem to have a little give. 

 Judgemnts forthcoming, as well as more pics tomorrow.


----------



## BSF (Jul 1, 2004)

5 minutes in the middle of what might be a work day?  Nah, not worth being agitated over.  This morning, I had a moment of panic.  My ISP was having problems and could not authenticate me.      OK, I can just post it from work.  Heck, the story was on my laptop.  I get into work and I immediately have network problems.  Major Nifty.  Fortunately, that is something I can fix, since it is my job.  I was just glad we didn't have a major work crisis come up that would have prevented me from having time to post at work.  So, 5 minutes for somebody that might not have access at work or school?  No big deal.


----------



## Berandor (Jul 1, 2004)

That's how I see it, as well. I'd rather lose to a better entry than advance just because my opponent was a few minutes late... of course, that doesn't mean my opponent next round will get 4 days to write


----------



## Macbeth (Jul 1, 2004)

How are the second round pairings going to be done? Will it be <atch 1 winner vs. Match 2 Winner (i.e. CarpeDavid vs. Me) or will it be randomly chosen, as PC did last time around?


----------



## BSF (Jul 1, 2004)

Ack!  I just realized a small piece of inane trivia.  Out of the first three judgements, the winners were the first of the pair of competitors listed.

OK, I pick up inane trivia and sometimes I see mundane patterns in places where there really aren't any.  Probably, I am a little more anxious than I would care to admit.    But, here is to hoping that I can help break that pattern!


----------



## alsih2o (Jul 2, 2004)

Macbeth said:
			
		

> How are the second round pairings going to be done? Will it be <atch 1 winner vs. Match 2 Winner (i.e. CarpeDavid vs. Me) or will it be randomly chosen, as PC did last time around?





 I like random, it seems more..._cruel._ 

 Don't you think?


----------



## mythago (Jul 2, 2004)

It certainly makes them more nervous.


----------



## Zhaneel (Jul 2, 2004)

I vote for random.  That way it is not just on the basis of who had time near each other.

Zhaneel


----------



## Macbeth (Jul 2, 2004)

alsih2o said:
			
		

> I like random, it seems more..._cruel._
> 
> Don't you think?



I definately like random. It means there's at least a chance I won't be up against CarpeDavid.


----------



## Berandor (Jul 2, 2004)

Random is good... as long as my name is drawn first  Seems like a sure-fire way to win.


----------



## yangnome (Jul 2, 2004)

pictures?


----------



## alsih2o (Jul 2, 2004)

Round 1, Match 7, Yangnome Vs RPGgirl

 4 pictures, 72 hours, 5000 word limit.


----------



## alsih2o (Jul 2, 2004)

Round 1, Match 8, Taladas vs, Graywolf-ELM'

 4 pictures, 72 hours, 5000 words.


----------



## alsih2o (Jul 2, 2004)

yangnome said:
			
		

> pictures?




 At 1 AM?


----------



## carpedavid (Jul 2, 2004)

Macbeth said:
			
		

> I definately like random. It means there's at least a chance I won't be up against CarpeDavid.



I inspire fear? Er, I mean... Ha ha! Tremble before the might of my glorious quill!

Or something like that


----------



## Berandor (Jul 2, 2004)

carpedavid said:
			
		

> I inspire fear? Er, I mean... Ha ha! Tremble before the might of my glorious quill!



*blushes*


----------



## Ao the Overkitty (Jul 2, 2004)

Ooooh.  Nice sets of pictures.  I especially like Uglyfish.


----------



## alsih2o (Jul 2, 2004)

Ao the Overkitty said:
			
		

> Ooooh.  Nice sets of pictures.  I especially like Uglyfish.




 I cannot tell you the thrill I got when I found that pic, it resonates more than one idea, and those are harder to find.


----------



## alsih2o (Jul 2, 2004)

I can hear crickets!

 Nothing from the competitors?


----------



## Ao the Overkitty (Jul 2, 2004)

Maybe they're at work?

Do you have an estimate as to when the next judgements are going up, Clay?


----------



## alsih2o (Jul 2, 2004)

Ao the Overkitty said:
			
		

> Maybe they're at work?
> 
> Do you have an estimate as to when the next judgements are going up, Clay?




 Nope, as they come in I post them. Sometimes it si fast, sometimes slow. I forgive slow, as it is usually a sign of deep thought.  i hope.


----------



## Ao the Overkitty (Jul 2, 2004)

Just checking.

Besides, it is fun to watch orchid squirm.


----------



## Graywolf-ELM (Jul 2, 2004)

alsih2o said:
			
		

> Round 1, Match 8, Taladas vs, Graywolf-ELM'
> 
> 4 pictures, 72 hours, 5000 words.




Ouch... "Be careful what you ask for..."  I can do something with this.  If it will be good, that remains to be seen.

My Thanks,
GW

Afterthought:  I was working a network upgrade til 3 this morning, and didn't make it back in to work until 8:30 or I would have posted at least at 06:30 that the images are received. I think I have a story framework building already.  Thanks again for getting us started.


----------



## mythago (Jul 2, 2004)

I've got a couple more to send in tonight.

One job, two pro bono cases, three kids. Li'l busy.


----------



## Zhaneel (Jul 2, 2004)

You're so cute when you have excuses!  ;-)

*hugs*

Zhaneel


----------



## orchid blossom (Jul 2, 2004)

When did you find time to write stories, Mythago?


----------



## Taladas (Jul 2, 2004)

Oh my, what am I going to do with these pictures? Well off to work on this.


----------



## mythago (Jul 2, 2004)

orchid blossom said:
			
		

> When did you find time to write stories, Mythago?



Pulled an all-nighter* or two.

No, no, Zhaneel, the excuse would be that I was reading Eberron. Work is the explanation. Big difference. 


*At my age, "all-nighter" is defined as "staying up until 2 a.m. when you have to be at work by 8."


----------



## RPGgirl (Jul 2, 2004)

I was worried about this last night, that I layed awake until 5:00am this morning.  Anywho, neat pictures ... I have some ideas, but I don't know how relevant they are to the pics.


----------



## orchid blossom (Jul 2, 2004)

mythago said:
			
		

> *At my age, "all-nighter" is defined as "staying up until 2 a.m. when you have to be at work by 8."




That's where I am too.  Staying up till midnight is late for me these days.  Luckily I have few demands on my time, so I don't have to stay up late to find time to write.


----------



## Zhaneel (Jul 2, 2004)

mythago said:
			
		

> No, no, Zhaneel, the excuse would be that I was reading Eberron. Work is the explanation. Big difference.




Hey, I wasn't the one who outed you.  And I'm glad you are.  Then you can write that novel we're all dying to read.

Zhaneel


----------



## BSF (Jul 2, 2004)

mythago said:
			
		

> Pulled an all-nighter* or two.
> 
> No, no, Zhaneel, the excuse would be that I was reading Eberron. Work is the explanation. Big difference.
> 
> ...




I am *supposed* to be at work at 9:00, but I have a flexible schedule type thing.  I am often up until midnight, 1:00, 2:00, er or later.  Sometimes it is because I am just getting home then (which doesn't happen very often anymore) and sometimes I am relaxing until then.  Oddly enough, I still consider Ceramic DM relaxing.  Though, my latest story was more a go-to-bed-early-cause-it-is-10:30-and-you-can-no-longer-concentrate type thing.  I got up earlier and wrote the story that morning, then came to work to post it.


----------



## mythago (Jul 2, 2004)

What, the C.S. Forrester/Pat Califia crossover? I don't think Eric's grandma would like that....


----------



## yangnome (Jul 2, 2004)

alsih2o said:
			
		

> At 1 AM?



 No, Arwink and I had agreed to have them posted at 8pm last night.


----------



## alsih2o (Jul 2, 2004)

yangnome said:
			
		

> No, Arwink and I had agreed to have them posted at 8pm last night.




 Blast, then you have my utmost apologies, I could have sworn it was Friday morning.

 EDIT: Yep, went back and foudn it as a Quote in Arwinks post. I am really sorry.


----------



## Graywolf-ELM (Jul 2, 2004)

alsih2o said:
			
		

> Round 1, Match 8, Taladas vs, Graywolf-ELM'
> 
> 4 pictures, 72 hours, 5000 words.




Mine should be up later tonight.  I think I'm in a groove.

GW


----------



## BSF (Jul 3, 2004)

Graywolf-ELM said:
			
		

> Mine should be up later tonight.  I think I'm in a groove.
> 
> GW




Woot!  Go Greywolf!


----------



## Graywolf-ELM (Jul 3, 2004)

*Retract my last statement*

Ok, I am ready, but my wife smacked me on the nose with a rolled up paper and told me not to be so eager as to post the story as soon as I have it written.  She's right, I should proof it after having slept on it overnight, and post it tomorrow.  Now where is that pesky story hour update that needs completion.

GW


----------



## alsih2o (Jul 4, 2004)

Barsoomcore-

orchid blossom "Journeys"

"I trust the magic, it's the technology that makes me nervous. " -- key line that tells me about the kind of story I'm about to read.

"the people who seemed to populate this outer perimeter " -- the people who populated it or the people who seemed to -- weird distinction.

This story has nearly everything it needs. The writing is simple but precise: "the moist chill of antiseptic swabs" -- "every man in the room turned into a ten-year-old". Nice and neat. The characters are well-sketched and distinct -- you'd never mistake Devon for Brendan. The ideas are fun and presented with a minimum of expositorial clumsiness.

But it's like a car with fine detailing and comfortable seat that doesn't have an engine under the hood. Looks good, but it won't get you anywhere. Your plot has no tension, no urgency and requires no effort on the part of your heroine. She doesn't have to struggle to accomplish anything, she doesn't have to give anything up, and so there's no oomph to the tale.

The use of pictures is pretty good, although both the ship and the man are really extended throwaways. They don't feel like throwaways at first but by the end of the story one is left asking, "Who cares how they dock their ship?" "What difference does it make that the fellow identified her as a magician?"

There's good writing here, but a lack of story-telling. My playwriting instructor talked a lot about creating tension in scenes -- he said that every scene must include one character trying to accomplish a goal in the face of some resistance. The more important the goal, and the stronger the resistance, the more exciting the scene. Short stories aren't quite like plays that way, and you can get away with less rigorous displays of tension, but the principle is a good one.

We don't know what Jeanelle is trying to accomplish, which is a bit of a problem because it makes it hard for us to judge how important it is AND to evaluate what obstacles are presenting themselves. We can judge from her behaviour and discussion with Brendan and Lynn that whatever she's about to do is pretty important, but in the course of the story she's not presented with any resistance to doing it at all. If we knew what she was doing, AND if we saw her overcome (or fail to overcome) some obstacles to doing it, this story would provide a much more exciting ride.



Fieari "Patterns"

This story suffers from extremely poor copyediting. Please check your usage. I've listed some of the more egregious errors below:

"Sponcer" = sponsor
"Science was easy, getting someone to pay for it was hard." -- comma splice
"todays data" -- today's data
"The scientific journals occasionally had articles about them, but few studied the things. They didn't do much... they were just there." -- "they" might refer to the journals, the things or the few who study them.
"The machine here had been built on top of this ripple though, completely by accident, which made it unusable for more standard quantum research, but absolutely perfect for his own." -- missing comma before "though", and run-on sentence. Break into two.
"That was can calculate things to thousands of decimal places? Well we can. Except, not for any specific atom. " -- ? Even if "was" is supposed to be "we" this doesn't make sense. Should that be "we can't" rather than "was can"?
"stimulants" should be "stimulus" or more likely, "stimuli"
"The camera pulled back slightly, and two oceans of water are shown" Tense problems. This paragraph suddenly turns into present tense. Why?

All these errors have the cumulative effect of annoying me to the point that I'm hardly paying attention to the story anymore. Further things that drove me crazy included:

Exclamation points. Please, I beg you to stop. No exclamation points. Ever.

Problem was, his research _wasn't_ flashy. -- The only reason to emphasize "wasn't" is to draw a distinction between something that had been previously described using the form "was flashy" -- you're using the emphasis to draw the reader's attention to the different state of the "to be" verb in this case. Since there is no preceding element of that form, the emphasis here is needless.

"Allow me to set the scene." Wait a minute? Allow _who_ to set the scene? (note the use of emphasis) Who's this suddenly talking to me? And where does he go after this sequence? If you're going to introduce an intrusive narrator, do it for a reason and let your reader know what the reason is. This whole sequence is problematic, largely due to the unspecific terminology: "vaguely ethnic", "funny accents", "ethnic", "vaguely ethnic", "vaguely ethnic" -- EVERYONE is "ethnic" according the primary definition in the American Heritage Dictionary : "Of or relating to a sizable group of people sharing a common and distinctive racial, national, religious, linguistic, or cultural heritage." The word can also be used to refer to non-Christian or non-Jewish people -- "heathens." In either case, it is a very imprecise description. Do you mean Arabic? Muslim? IndoChinese? To whom do their accents seem funny? To our suddenly intrusive narrator? To the well-dressed man who is apparently NOT ethnic (is he Jewish or Christian, I wonder)?

Be specific. Your accent is probably pretty funny to someone.

Overall, the story lacked a plot and our hero never seemed to struggle to accomplish anything. Does it matter that he has a son? If not, then why bring it up? The picture use, as well, is spotty -- it takes too long to get to any pictures at all, and the boat and robot pictures are definitely throwaways. And as for the "assembling the atomic bomb" picture, I would find it worthy of comment that an atom bomb kit included a live snake that needed some fluid extracted from it. I would definitely find that worthy of comment.

Less development on the early stuff, less exposition, and more on the parallel tracks of the guy with the lamp and the guy with the black hole. Connect them somehow.

Decision: orchid blossom


 Mythago-

 JOURNEYS (orchid blossom)

Good picture use overall, though the picture of the man opening his 
jacket was a bit forced in an otherwise smooth narrative flow. The very 
matter-of-fact combination of magic and technology was well-handled, and 
the burns and Devon's hesitancy about magic were explained without any 
unnecessary exposition or blather. The same goes for the background--we 
get that magic is matter-of-fact, but not everybody likes it much, so 
they take precautions.

So it was frustrating to see such an intriguing story run smack into a 
wall. The ending was very abrupt--what happens now? Did we resolve 
anything? Where did "I like snakes" come from?--and the tension with 
Devon isn't entirely explained; there's something going on other than 
his fear of magic, but we never get much into it. I wondered if orchid 
blossom had accidentally cut off a paragraph or two at the end.


UNTITLED (Fieari)

There's a good narrative in here....more than one, which is unfortunate. 
We start off with a good scientific premise that turns into a problem 
with a djinn to a disaster--there are a lot of pieces that aren't woven 
together well enough to fit, and the use of the ship picture was very 
weak. The story also jumped around in narrative style; sometimes 
descriptive, sometimes the scene is set by an authorial voice.

There are good parts here, but they feel like puzzle pieces jammed 
together, blocking the narrative flow.


Judgment for this round to ORCHID BLOSSOM.

 Alsih2o-

 Orchid blossom- First picture use rocks. I like how tech and magic are mixed together. This whole scene is well done.

 Second picture feels a bit like an out. But a lot of Ceramic DM is finding a good out. This one at least reinforces an underlying theme- the predjudice against magicians. Good effort, but not the strongest pic use. Although I have to admit that I was thrilled and entertained by the idea of sitting in a boat, just waiting for the tide to come in. 

 The next scene is a little confusing, with me wondering about the moving jeep, Devon at her elbow, then getting in. This was a little distracting, but a good use of the picture. I also liked the visual of the clenched jaw at the beginning. 

 The last picture, the robot (made completely from Cooper Mini parts IRL) is integral to the story, but then we find out it isn’t a story! I was kind of shocked to see the bottom of the page coming.  Here I was grooving on the world, digging the cool characters and wild possibilities and then it was over. I hate to reference comics twice in one round but if I am gonna read all of Issue 1 I wanna see a fight. J

 Darned good picture use, a real way with words. I would like to think that with more than 3 days and 5000 words this would have kicked butt…but Ceramic DM is about stories and adventures (I think) and less about just establishing concepts.

 Fieari- This is very confusing. There is a very interesting premise surrounding a ripple, and then I am lost. Our writer seems much more comfortable with discussions of the technology than the people. I really think there is something in here, but it obviously needs a lot more time to come out.

  Judgement- orchid blossom

 Decision- 3-0 for orchid blossom who moves on.


----------



## orchid blossom (Jul 4, 2004)

alsih2o said:
			
		

> Barsoomcore-
> 
> But it's like a car with fine detailing and comfortable seat that doesn't have an engine under the hood. Looks good, but it won't get you anywhere. Your plot has no tension, no urgency and requires no effort on the part of your heroine. She doesn't have to struggle to accomplish anything, she doesn't have to give anything up, and so there's no oomph to the tale.




I agree.  As I was writing it, I was afraid of getting too melodramatic.  Consequently I ended up leaving out a lot of what would have created the tension.  Also, I realized as I was writing that it wasn't Jeanelle that had something to accomplish, it was Devon.  In retrospect, I think I would have changed to his point of view in the second section.



			
				alsih2o said:
			
		

> Barsoomcore-  There's good writing here, but a lack of story-telling. My playwriting instructor talked a lot about creating tension in scenes -- he said that every scene must include one character trying to accomplish a goal in the face of some resistance. The more important the goal, and the stronger the resistance, the more exciting the scene. Short stories aren't quite like plays that way, and you can get away with less rigorous displays of tension, but the principle is a good one.




I'll have to add that to my list of writing rules.  Right behind #1, No preaching.  (I'll post comments from the other list after this, see them for rule #1.)  Sounds like a good solid rule to me.




			
				alsih2o said:
			
		

> Mythago-
> 
> So it was frustrating to see such an intriguing story run smack into a
> wall. The ending was very abrupt--what happens now? Did we resolve
> ...




I hate that ending too.  Honestly, I had no idea what happens next.  Still don't.  As in not getting into the tension with Devon, same as above in not wanting to get melodramitic with the ex-romantic relationship angle.  I definitely need to reconsider that one, I think.




			
				alsih2o said:
			
		

> Alsih2o-
> 
> The last picture, the robot (made completely from Cooper Mini parts IRL) is integral to the story, but then we find out it isn’t a story! I was kind of shocked to see the bottom of the page coming.  Here I was grooving on the world, digging the cool characters and wild possibilities and then it was over. I hate to reference comics twice in one round but if I am gonna read all of Issue 1 I wanna see a fight. J




This is where my weakness is in writing, especially in a forum like Ceramic DM.  Even sitting here now not one wild possibility has popped into my head.  Hopefully with more experience I'll be able to see the wilder ones more clearly.

Thanks to the judges for thier valuable comments, and thanks to Fieari for a story filled with ideas that never crossed _my_ mind.

(Apologies if my comments are a bit confusing.  We had a nice, long day out at the Ren Faire and my brain is a bit sun-scrambled.)


----------



## orchid blossom (Jul 4, 2004)

Reposted from the other thread.  I hope BardStephenFox doesn't mind.



			
				BardStephenFox said:
			
		

> Wow, nifty little story.  I enjoyed it quite a bit.
> 
> I thought the picture use was pretty good.  The one that struck me as most incongruous was the man stepping in front of the jeep.  However, you integrated that pic well.  It was just the presentation and posture of the pic that made it seem a little incongruous.  At the same time, I am not sure you would have had the character at all if it weren't for the pic.




I agree here. Yes, the guy would not be there at all if not for the pic. I originally had some very different ideas where that pic was more important. However, when my brain finally flashed on the final idea it didn't fit as well. I had a hard time working it in smoothly (which I don't feel I did, and now of course I just thought of a way to make that smoother if not more important. lol) In end I hoped that the occurence being a catalyst for Jeanelle to show the hurt side would make it at least notable if not as important as it should be.



			
				BardStephenFox said:
			
		

> I know you said you had a tough time with the robot.  I still liked the feel of it though.  It came across as a wacky little project that was used to impress potential investors so they could get working on the real stuff they wanted to do.





The thing I end up doing with the pictures I just can't seem to integrate is try to turn it around and base the story on them. I was laughing when I saw the tires at the shoulders. I couldn't think of any reason for them to be there unless it was..... A Transformer! And who doesn't love a transformer?




			
				BardStephenFox said:
			
		

> I can't help but feel a little cheated. I wanted more story. You have an easy tone that I am able to sit down and get comfortable with quickly. It would be quite easy to read a lot more depth without it feeling forced. In fact, I feel like I am reading a prologue to how techno-magic robots suddenly became a big industry. This feels like the "how it started" type thing. Implied histories and implied futures that could be woven into a larger story down the road. As a result, the end of the story seems artificially short to me. This might be a reflection on the 72 hour time limit. However, if you ever said you were writing a novel and this had been the prologue, I would be eagerly awaiting the real story that was coming down the line.




The implied histories was done completely on purpose. I have a tendency to meander in writing and to want to preach (i.e. explain everything) to the reader. It makes for long, boring stories. So when I signed up for this, I made my first rule "No Preaching!" It's a handy rule, and it's tightened up my writing considerably. Plus it forces me to slide in the necessary information without a lot of author's exposition.

I agree about the end as well. I was finishing up on Monday night (ok, I started and finished on Monday night, lol) and I didn't like that ending. I knew that the goal of the story had been accomplished. Devon just took the first all important step to forgiving himself and accepting the whole messy world. Now I had to get out of this story. The no preaching rule said no expounding on the moral/theme. I was stuck with the abrupt ending, which I didn't like, and anything a bit longer I tried to write seemed totally unecessary. I haven't solved that one yet.


----------



## Graywolf-ELM (Jul 4, 2004)

*Magic Fades*

*Ceramic DM – Summer 2004
Round 1, Match 8, Taladas vs, Graywolf-ELM'

Magic Fades*

Fildon ForgeHammer stared at the piles of reports covering his desk, his face a picture of mute disbelief.  The pot-bellied and grizzle-faced mage stroked his braided beard and ornamental beard hammer absently.  The desk was hand carved from green granite with elbow grooves, and flagon holders inset.  Fildon’s chair was also hand carved, this from stout Oak with four solid posts, with concave fittings at each base allowing it to rest on smooth round stones. An old battered shield hung, on the wall behind the desk, in quiet representation of an early and long stint at Seeking, in the Hammer’s younger days.  He grumbled his displeasure at the crystal globe mounted in the center of the ceiling.  It emitted a soft white light throughout the room and clearly illuminated the accursed stacks of reports. 

Fildon glanced at the door, expecting his assistant to come rushing in with a new batch of reports and complaints at any minute. Giro XornBite was not your typical Forge-Mage’s assistant.  At a young age his left foot was grabbed and phased into solid rock by an angry Xorn.  Giro’s friends managed to hold him from being pulled further under, but he’d lost the foot.  Giro and his friends had been mining all of the gems in the Xorn’s favorite snack supply.

With a resolute harrumph, the old Dwarf released his beard, and snatched up a letter for examination.  It was written on parchment, of obvious human make, with dibble-berry ink laid down by quill.  The hand was strong and purposeful; it began:

My dear Master Fildon ForgeHammer,

It is with great sorrow that I must write this letter to you.  If you recall, our town commissioned a work of magic from your esteemed family of Forge Mages.  If you recall, we are a small town and saved the earnings of all our divers for many years to pay for your services.  Everything worked fine until Three days ago.  The diving apparatus that we desperately needed to harvest the giant clams and deep-water delicacies has failed during an expedition to claim pearls.  The young woman Ellistia Waterstil perished in the accident.

Fildon paused for a moment, remembering the  young woman who was testing the diving apparatus.  Fildon has insisted on being there when the magical suit was tested the first time.  Three human men  were instructed from the shoreline in the proper procedure for donning of the suit.  The brave look in her eyes and the tender touch exchanged between her and the other diver, her heartbound.  The poor woman, she was a brave one.

He shook his head to clear the thoughts, and continued on with the letter.

The apparatus was found with Ellistia inside, using the old diver’s bell.  Testing has determined that all traces of magic have stopped working.  We understood that the magic was to be permanent for the benefit of the entire town.  The only way we have been able to compete with the other towns is through the use of this suit.  

The letter went on to request repair of the suit, and wergild for the remaining heartbound man.  Fildon made notes to have the wergild sent, and the apparatus returned for examination.  Parting with the gold would be difficult, but this had to be investigated, all of these would need investigation.

Flipping the letter over into the depressingly-small completed pile, he reached for another one.  This one was penned with a Dwarvish quill of never-ending ink.  By the color and texture it was made by clan SilverHand.  The wood-pulp material was made by the same artificers, but non-magical.  This author was somewhat less levelheaded than the previous.  In a swift, determined, and angry hand,

ForgeHammer,
I Delacy ni Calendess, declare undying hatred for you and your clan.

Fildon sat back in his chair, eyes wide at the war invoking nature of the letter.  Allowing himself to calm down a little, he returned to the letter.  Grief could make a man say or write things he would regret later.

My beloved Benicia is dead because of you.  She loved the dancing assistant you devised for her, not knowing the pain and sorrow it would cause.  You stood in my very home, and watched her first performance with that horrid device.  Guiding her through dance steps, balancing her during flips and spins.  She was gorgeous that day in makeup and silks;  your eyes should be plucked from their skull for what you have done. The last you saw of her, she was standing in front of your creation.  My last sight of her, was the crushed and mangled body being pulled from that monstrosity.  It crushed her in the middle of a performance, with hundreds of people watching.  She may yet be raised from the dead.  I am petitioning all of the good churches in the city.  Though it leaves me coinless, I am hiring a champion to seek you out and carry out my vengeance.  You have been warned!  The writing trailed off at this point, only to be followed by a tirade about the Dwarven quill failing, this in a different ink.

Having read enough, Fildon wrote some comments for Giro to have the construct tracked down for study. It would not do for this thing to kill others and bring more shame to the ForgeHammer name.

Fildon set the paper aside and looked at the incoming stack of letters, “Something is horribly wrong with even my most potent Runes.”  Making a decision, the dwarf pushed back against the table, his chair easily sliding on the its’ stone feet.  Easing himself down to the floor he reached up under the desk, and tripped a hidden trigger.  A Forge Hammer fell into his hand with a familiar smack of flesh on leather-bound handle.  The head of the hammer was squared, angling down from the haft to a business area of 3in x 3in square.  Runes adorned the haft and both sides and top of the ancient Hammer.  It was old when Fildon ForgeHammer was still young.  The aura radiating from the old magical forger of weapons was still strong after centuries of use.  Hefting the welcome weight up to his shoulder, Fildon heads out the door, only to find Giro rushing towards him.

“Master ForgeHammer, there is a problem in the secondary workshop, something is terribly wrong.”  Every other step is made with the soft thud of a solid mithral foot, the lack of a metallic echo due to the Xorn hide affixed to the bottom.  “Please this way sir.”  Giro leads the way to the leatherworking shop to show Fildon what sent him in such a hurry.  “The hats of disguise, of charm, and of change.  Master, none of them work.  All their magic is non functional.”  The Dwarves working here look up from their shoes and hats.  “What has happened?” Giro is on his way to a frenzy at this point.

Ignoring the frantic state of his assistant, Fildon waves to his assistant. “Come along Giro, I go to the forge to seek answers.”

Climbing down stairs, opening hidden doors, with no visible seams when shut, and across a rope bridge, the pair finally arrive at the forge.  The sacred clan forge had been handed down generation to generation, for nearly three thousand years.  There were improvements to the bellows, back in the time of Gilly ForgeHammer, and a new anvil just a generation ago by Fildon’s Father.  So well built, are the dwarven forges, that they rarely need repairs from normal use.  Fildon directed Giro to the bellows. “I need a four beat-er Giro, no more, no less.”  Fildon raked the coals, and set the hammer down to load up the forge with fresh coal. After several shovels full, Fildon picks up the hammer and points it at the coal. “*HADAREN*”. The Dwarven word for fire is spoken, a rune flares on the side of the hammer, and fire leaps up to light the coals.  Reaching over, Fildon grabs an iron rod and stabs it into the coals to heat up. Giro dutifully and rhythmically pulls on the bellows to heat the coals in the Forge.

Soon the coals and iron rod are white hot.  Fildon slides on the gauntlets hanging by the forge, and brings the rod around to the anvil.  He takes up the hammer and begins tapping out an even rhythm on the rod and anvil.  Some say Dwarven Rune Magic is like any other, a call upon the weave with the right runes, similar to a call using bits of diamond or animal parts for spell components.  Others know the truth of it.  A melding of Arcane and Divine magic with strength of will to gather them together is a more accurate depiction.  The runes help focus the will and the magic.

Fildon begins chanting along with his hammering.  Sometimes louder, at others lower, and never deviating from the rhythm of the hammering and the bellows blowing air.  The chanting continues in a deep dwarven rumble and runes flare up as their powers are called upon.  He could cast the spells himself, but the aid of a good bellows man made it much easier.

“_Gods of Fire and Light
Gods of Earth and Dark
Vessel worthy to Mold
Bring me out from Cold

I forge weapons to fight
Bringing forth your spark
Vessel worthy to Mold
Bring me out from Cold

Hammer made of centuries
Deliver me answers please
Vessel worthy to Mold
Bring me out from Cold

Hammer made of centuries
Deliver me answers please._”

Giro watches the old mage continuing to hammer, and reheat the iron when needed, his casting never stopping.  The old Dwarf goes into a trance, and with all outward appearances of forging, begins communicating with the hammer that holds the spirit of his family.

“*WHAT WOULD YOU HAVE OF ME FILDON, LAST OF THE FORGEHAMMERS?*” 

“Gilmtor ForgeHammer and ancestor, I seek a boon.  What is happening to my magic?  Help me to find the reason behind my failure.”

“*EASY ENOUGH FILDON.  THE ANSWER IS IN YOUR PAST AND YOUR WILL.*”

“How so ForgeHammer? I have led a long life of Seeking when my goals did not match those of my family.  I returned with new ideas, and brought prosperity to the guild.”

“*YOU LOST YOUR WILL IN THE CAVES OF ILL MUIR.  YOU STRUCK A BARGAIN THERE, WITH A  MONSTER IN HUMAN GUISE.” AND NOW YOU USE FORGEHAMMER TO MAKE TRINKETS TO SELL.  I WAS CREATED FOR CRAFTING WEAPONS NOT THIS IGNOBLE FATE. *

“What?  How is that possible? I did not know.  That was two hundred and fifty years ago. Trinkets?  I craft wondrous items with you.”

The memories start flooding back, to a time when the Dwarf was off adventuring with humans in the Caves of Ill Muir.  Falling down a well-disguised chute, the dwarf landed in an inhabited cave.  He looked like an old human shaman of some kind, sucking on a pigs knuckle, and he spoke to Fildon in perfect Dwarvish. “I see you dwarf, falling in my cave.  Will you die today, or shall we strike a mutual bargain?”  The presence behind the eyes filled the stout dwarf with dread.  Some time later Fildon was pulled from the chute with the aid of a rope, his friends none the wiser about his encounter.

“*YOU TRADED SOME OF YOUR WILL, LATER IN LIFE, FOR BUSINESS KNOWLEDGE, TO BRING HOME FOR YOUR CLAN. NOT MUCH, BUT JUST ENOUGH TO AFFECT THE FINAL BINDINGS OF YOUR RUNES. *”

“I didn’t know.  This has ruined my honor, and the reputation of my clan. How do I regain my will, and my honor if I can.”

“*YOU MUST TRAVEL TO THAT CAVE AGAIN, AND REMEMBER WHAT IT MEANS TO BE A DWARF. YOU MAY NEVER USE FORGEHAMMER TO MAKE TRINKETS AGAIN. *”

With that pronouncement in his mind, the next blow of the hammer leaves it cracked in half like a ripe melon on rock, the sound in the forge, like that of two Iron Golems trading hits.  The dwarf comes quickly out of his trance with pain and shame evident in his eyes and etched upon his face.

“Giro, prepare my armor, and the old shield.  I have something I must do.”  As he stalks by the shaken assistant, four words startle the dwarf even further. “The Forge is yours.”


----------



## BSF (Jul 4, 2004)

Congratulations Orchid Blossom!

Heh - I was thinking I should post my comments, but she already posted my comments with her reply.  Thanks!  

It's been an interesting round so far.  We still have stories, and judgements coming too.  I've got to say, I love Ceramic DM.


----------



## Berandor (Jul 4, 2004)

Congratulations Orchid Blossom!

From the other thread:


			
				orchid blossom said:
			
		

> In the end, I really just wanted the story to end with a feeling of healing, and I think I got that.



hat's what I felt, too. There was no twist, no espionage, no explosions - it was "just" a good story. Well-written, touching, with a nice ending. I thought the "FlashAhhh"-pic was a little thrown away, and I would have preferred to see the boat ending up on the rocks, not already being there, but that wasn't really a weak use to me. And the other two pics were used expertly, to me.


----------



## RPGgirl (Jul 5, 2004)

A revised and updated version will be posted at a later date.


----------



## Taladas (Jul 5, 2004)

Round 1

	Taladas vs. Greywolf-ELM


The sun is shining and the birds are singing and here I am in a dreary dank trailer reading the police report on Jared Mills. Shot six times with a shotgun. Medical Examiner’s cause of death: Suicide. 

I guess he really wanted to die. 

Perhaps it was the deaths of his three friends. They died in an accident involving diving equipment. The report doesn’t explain very well what happened just that the three were in a shack by the lake that they frequently dived in. One of the air tanks was dropped and ruptured and causes several other tanks to rupture. The chain reaction of exploding air tanks causes the shack and its occupants to be torn apart and thrown about the immediate landscape. Funnily enough their deaths were barely an hour before his. 

It’s not even a very good cover-up. But this is not why I am in this dank little records trailer examining moldy old reports. No, I’m here for her, Becky Mellor. I’m here to find out what happened to her.

Her brother recently came in to some money and wanted to find out what really happened to his sister. He said that the authorities stonewalled any investigation and told his family to “drop it”. And now years later after he won the lotto he came to me.

“I just have to know, Mr. Bader, all these years.” He looked right at me. “Please, just find out.” 

What I knew wasn’t much. She disappeared in the summer of ’66. The same day that Mills and his friends died. Jared was a family friend, who took Becky out to swim and dive at the lake. I decided to check out the records of the time. I found out from the county clerk that most of the older records were stored in “temporary” buildings. The county was having hard times and was taking all sorts of cost cutting measures, including emptying storehouses of all “unnecessary” items. Fortunately the records were still considered necessary. 

Normally now would be the time I would be getting nervous. Cover-ups and murders are never good things for private eyes to stumble in on. However, everyone that worked on this case is long retired, dead or in prison. The mayor had a big embezzlement scandal that involved hookers and drugs. The sheriff was cleared of charged but voted out in the following election. I didn’t have anything to worry about. Besides I wasn’t getting any bad vibes, except a general dread about Becky Mellor. I expected that she died that same day in the summer of ’66. Her ghost probably floating around or something.

Most people would have little hope of finding a woman who disappeared 38 years ago but I have a little edge. You see I’m psychic. Yeah, I know Derrick Bader, the Psychic Detective. Totally cornball but also totally true. My particular specialty is psychometry. Reading the psychic residue left on objects by people and events. And sometimes that residue can leave a trail for me to follow. It’s very useful in the missing person’s biz but all to often all I find is a dead body and a jangle of images that make it almost impossible to identify who did it. But sometimes I find the person and/or catch the kidnapper. And those times it makes it worthwhile. 

Anyway I’m in this trailer looking through these records hoping to find something with a psychic charge. And finding really bizarre stuff like this. (hatsoff picture) Apparently Jered Mills collected hats, a lot of hats, over 200 according to the report. Freaky, like he was the Imelda Marcos of Hats. 

As I put down that creepy picture, I found one of Becky Mellor, Jared Mills, and two of the three of Jared’s deceased friends. The third was probably taking the picture. (dunked picture) And when I pull the picture up for a closer look my world fell apart. Everything was black or white, not black and white like an Andy Griffith Show rerun but black or white. Then the fear hits and to my surprise defiance. She resisted her attacker and fought back. Woah, color is back and I see a shack blowing up. Then Jared Mills dying as shotgun blast after blast hits him. A quick look at the lake and then running. 
I start to relax. I can follow the trail now. She traveled very far. She traveled across the ocean to a foreign land, someplace with a crush of people, someplace with a name. A place with a name that is a mouthful of syllables, she’s in India. 

She’s alive and me I go outside to throw-up. I get the shakes and dry heave for awhile but she’s alive. Still that black or white thing was just creepy. 

Three days later I’m in India. I am walking around the streets, alternately enjoying the sights and smells and not enjoying the sights and smells. The crowd is working to give me a monster headache. The hustle and bustle of a busy city and crowded street are not conducive to the comfort of a psychic sensitive. But I still am able to follow her trail. And under a little tent, I find her. I think. (Hairextra Picture) She was green, skin and hair. But it was she, I could tell. She looks up at me and smiles. The teeth have seen better days. 

“Come sit down Mr. Bader. May I call you Derrick?”

“Please do Ms. Mellor. May I call you Becky?” I didn’t bother to ask her how she knew my name. I‘ve been in this business long enough to know they never give you a useful answer.

“Yes, you can call me Becky. Are you centered and ready to face the darkness and the light?”

“Uh, maybe in a minute. Becky, your brother sent me to find you. And to find out what happened to you since you disappeared. Could you tell me? Or perhaps you would rather talk to your brother directly?”

“I can show you but you must be centered and ready to face the darkness and the light.”

Crap

“Well I guess I am ready as I can be.”

She stares at me with piercing eyes. 

“You must be sure.”

“Yeah, Yeah I’m sure. Let’s do this.”

She grabs the cup from the ground and hands it to me. 

“Drink this. It will help protect you.” 

It looks like a spit cup for dip. I force myself to drink it. I almost don’t make it, nearly vomiting right there. I don’t even know what this is supposed to protect me from. I put the cup down. 

“Remember that you must be centered and strong. The potion will help some but you must be ready. I ask again are you ready?”

“Yes, I am ready.”

She then tosses a handful of powder into my face. It goes into my mouth and nose starting a dry retching cough. I struggle to get up, about ready to strangle Becky when I am hit with euphoria. I feel like I am floating. I see Becky and she is smiling. She looks so serene but I see a faint trace of fear in her eyes. 

Then boom a splash of cold water and we’re in the lake, at least I believe it’s the lake. Becky points down and ahead and we go forward. Not really swimming but just forward motion. We go deeper and deeper and the light from the surface gets dimmer and dimmer. After several more minutes it becomes completely dark. 

Fear and panic began to ebb up from the back of my mind. I want to surface really badly, in fact it seems insane not to. I start to turn around and I see Becky. It’s pitch black and I see Becky. She motions me to go back, to keep going. I really want to tell her to do something rude but resist. First because of  my Grandmother, who always taught me to be polite in even extreme situations and secondly I knew there was something down here and she wasn’t going to let me go until I saw it. 

I breathed deeply (even though I was under a lake and over 10,000 miles away from here) and relaxed. I gathered my courage (It didn’t take long, there wasn’t that much to begin with) and went deeper. 

And there it was, nice to look at but totally wrong. (abirdinthehand picture)  She (more probably it) was draped against a much larger detached hand. 

“We can only see her in symbols.” Becky speaks in to my head. “Its true form is  incomprehensible to people. Our minds create the images from what our true sense detects.”

I was drawn to the figure in front of me. She/it was moving in a strange alluring way. It was moving in a fascinating dance. She/it almost moved like a puppet on strings, then I saw the strings. The detached hand had little nigh-invisible strings that moved the figure. It was moving the figure, controlling the figure.

Snap. Suddenly I am in the little tent in India. And I am very glad I am 10,000 miles from that thing. Then Becky starts talking. 

“It wants to control us, to control everyone. But it is limited, it can only control what it has a connection to. Derrick, you must stop it.”

“Stop it, She, It, whatever it is is at the bottom of the lake. It’s not going anywhere.”

“Derrick the signs do not lie, it will rise soon if you do not stop it. The seeds that were sown long ago are about to sprout.”

“What seeds? You just said it needed a connection. What is it going to conquer the world with a crop of rutabagas?”

“It only needs simple talisman, Derrick. Really anything will do.”

“And what does it have access to down at the bottom of a lake, catfish? I mean … the hats. (hatsoff picture) All those hats that Mills had those are the talismans. I bet the county is going release them from storage, probably even sell them.” 

“Soon.” Something in Becky’s voice tells me that I don’t have time for a fast plane. 

Twenty minutes later I find a working phone. I will never say anything bad about telecommunication companies ever again. 

“Yes, I said that I will buy those hats for $10,000. But my conditions are that they are to be left in storage until I get there and they are under no circumstances to be touched. I don’t care if it’s fire or flood you are not to disturb those hats. Are we clear?”

She verifies my credit card account number and the world is saved. 

Man, I really hope Becky’s brother covers my expense bill. No, I really hope nobody takes a hat.


----------



## yangnome (Jul 5, 2004)

Round 1, Match 7, Yangnome vs. RPGgirl

Mother Knows Best

I suppose I’d normally start this sort of thing off by telling you who I am.  To be honest with you though, I’m still trying to figure all that out.  I suppose that’s why I’m writing this now.  I guess you’ll have to bear with me for a couple minutes.

I woke up this morning.  It was dark, as if it were the middle of the night; only it felt like I had slept for ages.  To be completely honest with you, I couldn’t remember when I went to bed, or even where I was.  I lay in bed for a few moments, searching my thoughts, unable to move.  I couldn’t remember much of anything.  There was a nagging feeling that I should be able to, but nothing came to mind.  My mind felt as paralyzed as my body.

I lay there for an eternity, trying to grab hold of some memory; something that would remind me that I was alive…_Am I alive?  Perhaps that was it; I had died and was now in heaven, hell, purgatory, or maybe I was awaiting reincarnation.  Maybe that was why I didn’t remember anything…my mind and my past life had been wiped completely bank._ 

That thought comforted me a bit.  I lay there content with the thought that I was awaiting reincarnation…it had to be.  If it were heaven or hell, I’d at least have some memory.  That doesn’t really explain the numb pain in my chest though.  Oh, I guess I forgot to mention that.  Yeah, I awoke with a numb pain in my chest; it was nothing major, in fact, I didn’t really realize it until after I had figured out where I was; just a dull pain in my chest, in my whole body actually.

I began to wonder how long I’d have to wait until I received my new body.  Would it be long? Would I be cognizant the entire time?  Strangely enough, I wasn’t sad about it all.  Perhaps if I had some memory about my past life, a family left behind or something like that I might have feelings…but it was just me for all I could remember.  Nothing to be sad about really, I was right here.

I lay there content for a bit.  Everything felt right.  Then my thoughts started bugging me.  _If I were here waiting reincarnation, why is it I have no memory? You’d think they’d leave me unconscious until I am granted my new life.  Will I be able to remember this once I do get to wherever it is I’m going?  It would seem strange if I did.  If I am to sit here and ponder things for a while before reaching my new life, why not leave me with memories and thoughts to ponder.  I guess I could ponder my existence, but isn’t enough life already wasted on that?  No sense in wasting the afterlife on it._

Tired from the confusion over my present circumstances, I close my eyes once again and drifted back off to sleep.  I awoke again later, who knows how long it had been.  I still couldn’t recall my past…well, most of my past.   I could recall my most of my thoughts from the last time I awoke.  I slowly opened my eyes.  The room was a bit brighter this time.  Light poured into the room to my right, from somewhere in the direction of my feet.  The light was almost painful to my eyes. I tried once again to move my body, but with little success.  I still felt the numb pain in my chest and abdomen.  I couldn’t figure that out.

I lay there again, searching my mind for answers.  Nothing came to me.  My joints ached and a cold crept through my bones from the bed under me.  Maybe I was in hell…but all accounts of I’ve heard of that place was that it is hot.

I stared up at the holes in the ceiling.  You know the kind of ceiling I’m talking about…the tiled ceiling with all of the holes in them.  The kind they have in schools when you were a kid. _ I used to throw pencils up into the ceiling, and they’d just stick there.  Wait! That was a memory…something from my life.  OK, maybe it was just something I had to work for.  Had I been in an accident? _ 

I lay there and tried to latch on to any other memory that existed inside my head.  It’s strange that that would be the first recollection I’d have…assuming I would have others as well.  You’d think a wife or child, or perhaps fond childhood memories would sit front in my mind.  No, not me, I remember the pencils I threw in the ceiling in middle school.
_Had one of them fallen from the ceiling and poked me in the eye.  Maybe that was why I was here.  No, it seemed so long ago, even in my memory.  I doubt that is it._

I felt the need to recall something more important than that.  After all, if I had memories to call on (and apparently I did), there had to be more than that.  I wasn’t sure what I wanted to remember though.  _Should I remember my kids; my wife; my first lay, the cheerleader I banged at homecoming? _ None of those were actual memories, just things that you’d think would be important enough that I’d have some sort of recollection of them, or at least something similar.

Nothing came though.  Not a thought.  Let me tell you, lying there not certain of what memories I should have in my head was frustrating.  After all, not being able to remember something when you try is bad enough.  Try not being able to remember anything and at the same time not being sure of what you are trying to remember…except for those damned pencils!

I searched my mind for things that I should be able to remember, things that anyone in their right mind should be able to.  Then it hit me; _My Mother!  I should be able to remember my mother!  After all, everyone has one, right?_  This, this would be the first memory I would work towards; who was my mother and what can I remember about her.  After all, if I couldn’t remember anything about her, what does that have to say for Hallmark’s marketing strategy?

I lay there for a couple hours, but still to no avail.  The memory of my mother, now apparently lost to me only intensified the dull pain in my chest.  I must find this answer before anything else.  There must be a clue somewhere as to who she is.  I had to get up out of bed to look around for clues.

I tried once again to move my feet, or even my toes.  No luck.  The same happened with my hands and fingers.  My body felt paralyzed, like when you are in that state between sleeping and waking.  I tried as hard as I could to move, but I just couldn’t do it.  I then tried to move my head. With some thought and some effort, I was finally able to do that.  On a table next to me stood a pile of books (1), something about an Electrical City, An Engineer is Human, The Social History of the Machine Gun, The Industrial Woman and a few others. _ From the looks of the titles, I guess I’m either an engineering student or a history student.  Why else would someone have such a collection? _ I also determined that I’m not awaiting reincarnation.  _Why would books like these be sitting in a waiting room while my soul awaits transport into its next host?  If that were the case, you’d think they’d at least lay out something relevant to the subject, like a Barron’s guide to wherever it is I’m gonna be born or a copy of a local newspaper._

No, I was most definitely still alive.  But I didn’t recognize where I was. _ You’d think in a situation like this that I might wake up in a hospital room with loved ones surrounding me.  If that were the case, there’d be a good chance that I could figure out who my mother is.  Unfortunately, I don’t appear to be in a hospital.  No, they wouldn’t allow such reading material in a hospital; it’d just bore the patient to death.  I don’t think I’m in my own room though.  It’s funny; I can’t remember a damned thing about my life, aside form the pencils, but I’m certain I wouldn’t borrow these books from the library….that and the board on the back wall; not something I’d have in my house.  No, it looks to me like it’s more of a classroom or an office, definitely not the décor that I’d have in my place._

I laid there for what seemed an eternity, trying to get my arms and legs to work.  As I focused on this, the dull pain in my body grew more intense.  My lungs ached, and when I coughed it felt like the phlegm I hacked up was filled with sand.  I focused first on my right arm.  I tried just moving the fingers; they were bent so I tried to straighten them.  As I tried to straighten my index finger, it only bent further, so I tried to bend it; it straightened.  The joints in my finger screamed at me.  _Maybe I had arthritis or carpal tunnel syndrome.  _After moving the first fingers you’d think the others would come a bit quicker and easier.  No, that wasn’t the case.  I had to work just as hard on each one of them.  Each one of them did the opposite of what I told it to do; each one ached just as bad as the first. Once I had my fingers and arms working, I focused on my toes.  By now, the room was pitch-dark again.


I continued to work on gaining control over my body and by the time I was able to control my legs, the light had entered the room again.  I wanted to begin my search for answers, my search for my mother, but I was too exhausted.  I worried that sleeping again would cause me to surrender the control I had manage to gain over my limbs.  I laid there worrying about it and accidentally fell asleep.  When I woke, the room was still bright, but the light was coming from above now instead of from the direction of my feet.  Worried, I first tried to move my fingers; I still had control of them.  I let out a sigh of relief; despite the pain moving them had caused me.  I then took a look around the room.  It was still empty.  The pile of books on the table to my right was still there, though some of them were missing now.  A book also lay open on top of the table.  It then occurred to me that I hadn’t really looked at anything else in the room, just the books and the damned ceiling tiles.  

I then looked over to my left. On that side, there was some equipment, some of it looked like medical equipment, and some of it looked like tools you’d use on your car.  Behind the tools stood a fish tank with a large fish inside the tank; it wasn’t an attractive fish, you know something tropical or colorful that people usually put on display.  No, it was an ugly fish.  Despite being ugly, the fish was the first sign of life I had seen in the room beside myself, so I figured I’d start looking there.  I swung my legs off of the bed and tried to sit up.  My efforts proved to be pretty clumsy and instead of getting up from the bed, I fell to the floor.  

I lay there in a heap for a moment, pain coursing through my joints and my chest.  I didn’t want to quit now though, so I concentrated on getting up.  My efforts seemed to be futile, so I tried to use my arms to drag myself over to the fish tank; eventually I reached it.  I then used my arms to pull myself up so that I could look inside the tank.  I managed to get my nose level with the base of the tank and peered inside at the fish sitting on the rocks.  _What an ugly fish, who’d want to keep something like that in their house…or their office, or wherever it is I am.  Maybe the fish is awaiting reincarnation as well.  No, I’ve already ruled that one out._

I continued staring at the fish for a while, but then remembered that I had to find my answers.  The fish after all, wasn’t going to be the one to provide them.  It was as I was beginning to turn and move away from the tank that my eye caught something, the reflection.(2) _ My God, is that me? _I couldn’t believe what I saw.  My skin was desiccated and I had a large incision down my chest that had been sewn together, _I look like something the cat had drug from the grave.  _I chuckled at that comment.  I think my chuckle though was only to bury the horror that filled my thoughts. _ Certainly this can’t be what I’ve always looked like.  I can’t remember much, but if that were what I’ve always been, it wouldn’t have taken me by such surprise to see myself._

After getting over the initial horror of seeing myself, I decided I needed more than ever to search for the answers to my question. Who am I and who is my mother.  _Dealing with my looks would have to wait.  After all, if I am supposed to look like this, it won’t matter.  If not, it isn’t something that some plastic surgery can’t fix.  Maybe I can get onto one of those reality shows where they can make me look like some star.  _Yet another strange memory to have pop into my head!  I never even used to watch those shows; not that I can remember at least.

I drug myself away from the fish tank and over to the other side of the bed.  I had trouble navigating around some of the equipment; I even knocked over one tall thin machine.  _They should know better than to make that so top heavy.  At least I didn’t break it.  _After getting untangled from the machine I had knocked over, I tried again to stand.  This time I was more successful than the first.  I managed to stand with the aid of the bed; it helped me keep my balance.  At the foot of the bed, I noticed a small metal table.  On top of the table were various knifes and clamps and such.  Obviously, someone had used them to operate on me.  _what a strange location for surgery ._ 

I moved my way along the bed and over to the desk; one of the machines dragged along behind me.  It wasn’t until the catheter pulled out of my hand that I realized I had been connected to it.  Oh well.  I grabbed a rag from the table and wrapped it around my hand to stop the bleeding.  

I then pushed myself over towards the desk.  Lying on the desk, beside the piles of books was an open journal, a couple pictures in frames and a bright red container, one of those you use for storing dirty needles. _Strange that they’d have something like that here in a place that isn’t a hospital._

I pondered that thought for a few moments.  There was something about the container that seemed familiar to me.  Then, it sparked my memory.  It wasn’t the container, but the color of it.  It reminded me of something from my past; something a little more important to me than the pencils.  I had joined an organization in college.  It was kind of like a fraternity, a secret brotherhood.  On the front, the organization claimed to support the furthering of African American ideals.  It was more than a fraternity though, more than a group offering scholarships to kids.  The group became a lifestyle, almost a religion.  My mother had warned me against joining such a group.  She said things weren’t always what they seemed.  She had heard rumors from friends whose kids had joined, rumors of sick practices.  I of course didn’t believe her, not until it was too late anyway.

To be quite honest with you, even once I learned the truth, it didn’t bother me much. Our leader was a very charismatic and persuasive man.  He spoke from his heart and kept our needs as a community at the forefront of our practices.  Initiates of course weren’t exposed to all the rituals right away of course.  In fact, myself along with most members often never realized the practices existed until later, after graduation, after they had progressed through the ranks.

The brotherhood became a focal point of our lives though.  The brotherhood cared for us, watched out for us, and saw that our needs as human beings were met.  We dressed in traditional robes, not the trappings that the white man had forced on our people.  We associated with the brotherhood and only the brotherhood.  The brotherhood was our life.  Our goal as members was to help make the world a better place for our people.

Membership in the brotherhood was much more than a fraternity.  We did much more than just drink beer and party.  In fact, thinking back, I don’t even think the school recognized the brotherhood.  Membership in the brotherhood was a lifetime commitment.  After college, I had continued to support the brotherhood.  As time went by, I was slowly introduced to the rituals we used to further our causes.  It began with candles and light spells; curses on those that oppressed us.  At every step though, we were exposed to more, blood rituals, sacrifices and the like.  None of it bothered me though; everything we did was for the betterment of our lives and those like us.  To be quite honest with you, I was happy to be included in the rituals, to be allowed to help perform them.

We had special gowns we used when conducting our sacrifices, bright red satin gowns, the same color of the sharps box, which covered our traditional attire.  I remember the first time I was allowed to don the gown, I was so happy to be taking part in an event that would make such an impact on the world.   My friends and I all coursed with excitement over the proceedings that were to take place that night; my grin stretched from ear to ear as my friend helped wrap my headdress.(3)

This memory also seemed much more recent to me, more recent than the pencils at least.  I began searching for other clues on the desk that might further help me discover what had happened to me, who I am.  

I glanced at the pictures on the desk.  No, it’s not what you think.  It was a picture of an Asian boy and his father.  The boy must be about 16 in the picture.  I did recognize them though.  The man owned a local butcher shop and a Chinese restaurant, a Korean guy.  This picture must be from years ago.  His son is much older now, in college if I remember correctly.  His son is only a couple years younger than I am.  

One of my brothers had worked for his father in the butcher shop while we were in school.  It gave him a job and a place to get rid of components for our rituals.  He said that the man worked hard for his family, saving every penny to put his son David through school.  I remember that David used to argue with him.  David had wanted to be an engineer, but his father insisted on medical school.  “David “, he’d say, “people will always get sick and need doctor.”

His son conceded to his demands, but always complained about it.  That fat bastard was ungrateful.  He even complained about helping his dad with the family businesses.  His father needed someone to help deliver orders, carry take out on their delivery bike, a big pink pig attached to a motorcycle.  It was hilarious watching him ride though town on that thing.   “A pig on a hog”(4) we used to say.  

I glanced from the picture, down to the journal.  Inside the pages, was the answer I was looking for, how I came to be here and what had happened to me.  Inside the pages were the combined rantings of a mad man and precise descriptions of a medical practice infused with technological tinkering.  It appears David was never settled with his father’s desires to attend medical school.  No, he wanted to build robots or cyborgs, to help advance technology.  

_Christ, what an arrogant bastard!_  my mind swam as the realization swept over me. Did he really think he could play with someone’s life like this?  My life?  That still doesn’t answer how I wound up here though.  _Why me?_ 

I flipped to the beginning of his journal.  It was full of ramblings, ranting about his demanding father.  I skimmed through the book until I came upon what it was I was looking for.  _He had found my body along with others in the butcher store_  Apparently, his father continued to help out the brotherhood after my friend left.  _If that is the case though, that means that they betrayed me!_  A cold chill swept through my body as the realization swept over me.  That night, that was my last memory.  They killed me; I was their sacrifice.  And this fat arrogant bastard here took me to use me as a toy.  In doing so, he has denied me my heaven, hell or reincarnation…whatever it is that awaits me.  My mind swam as the realization came over me.  

I reached up and felt my face, the horrible visage I had witnesses earlier reflected in my mind.  There is no way I could live me life like this.  Not even my mother would accept me as her son now.  She had warned me about my associations, but I’m sure that this even far surpassed her greatest fears.  I looked down at the rough stitching in my chest, the string that held me together.  Frantic, I began tearing at it, ripping it out of my body; ripping my chest open.  My chest parted and parts fell to the table and floor in front of me.  Organs and electronics, infused together fell out of my chest and I slumped over on the table.

Now, I sit here waiting, pondering my future, wondering what lies before me: heaven, hell or reincarnation.

The End; or Perhaps a New Beginning.


Picture Order (In case links don’t work):
(1) bookworm.jpg
(2) uglyfish.jpg
(3) commies.jpg
(4) hogrider.jpg


----------



## Berandor (Jul 6, 2004)

bump for judgement


----------



## alsih2o (Jul 6, 2004)

Barsoomcore-

Noskov  "The Penitent Man"

Okay, a "bad guy gets his comeuppance" story. I'm a sucker for these and this one's not too bad at all. A couple of general comments first:

These stories are short -- get to the point quickly. It takes too long to get to "he's a bad guy".
The penitence doesn't feel bad enough to justify the story I just read. Sure, chipping stone balls is tedious, but as penance for a serial killer?

Okay, now let's get our hands dirty.

There's a lot of typos in this story. Please check your work before you submit it:
"I swam out and caught a mammoth and rode it" -- he caught a mammoth? Wow, is this Surfin' Pellucidar?  
"I looked out to the see"
"I should head in after then next wave"

Those are all in one paragraph. You don't do yourself any favours with errors like these.

Your style is simple, which is good, and reasonably terse, which is also good. Like many Ceramic entries, your beginning is flabby and your ending slightly underdone. It takes a long time to get to the revelation that our hero is a murderer, and then there's a long period of discussion on his childhood that finally leads into Lonnie's death.
THAT scene is very well done, however, and that's where this story really takes off. We have some sympathy for the narrator and his situation, but of course his actions are horrible. You do need to watch out for cliched phrasing: "Like a mad bull," "like fire over a dry hayfield." Use metaphors sparingly and make each one count. Otherwise, just choose the correct word.
I think you could have given us more on our narrator's reaction to the deaths of his brother and his father. A clear reaction here would provide us with insight into why he kept killing. Did he enjoy the experience? Why? What part of it did he enjoy?

Plot issue: The storm seems very important in the early stages of the story, but it then just disappears. If it's important, it should be important. If it's not, why include it in the first place?

"Around my wrists are shackles and I?m not sitting in the chair that Lonnie was in when I arrived." -- Why is this suddenly in present tense? And if he's not sitting in the chair, where is he? This is very confusing.
"the piles of spheres he carved eating voraciously" -- He carved spheres that ate voraciously?

In the end, this story satisfies. This is a strong Ceramic DM entry, for all its errors and typos. The pictures are used very well, without any throwaways, although getting from the first reference to the second is a bit of a slog. You need to get away from hackneyed phraseology, you need to be more rigorous in your usage and copyediting, and you need to be more ruthless in your cutting. Don't go easy on yourself. You've got a knack for storytelling. Develop it.

Thanks for this story.



Rodrigo Istalindir  "Sacrifice"

Whew. There's some real emotion going on in here. The story is simple, a slightly twisted family done wrong by xenophobic neighbors. It builds and resolves nicely, and there's not a lot of fat one these here bones.

The opening paragraph needs a little work, though. This -- "Although he was by all appearances a young man" -- is intriguing, but this -- "draining what little strength he had left" -- begs to explain WHY he has little strength left. And this -- "Not that it wouldn't have been exhausting anyway" -- makes me wonder what "it" is, and finally, this -- "if the other parents in the tiny sea-side village were any indication" -- makes me confused as to what they might be indicating. I don't disagree with the closing assertion on children's energy levels, but I'm left wondering what that has to do with anything else.

For an opening paragraph, you need to do better than this.

After that, however, things settle down nicely. The beach is well-evoked and I am able to picture your scenes clearly. I like the specific use of "cantalo" rather than "fish" -- of course fishermen would never just talk about "fish".

The scene in the village could use some enrichening. A little more detail here would be welcome. What does it look like? What does it smell like? More specific choices here would help set up the final moments better.

The reunion of Simon and Calliya is touching, though the exposition on were-sharks is a little clumsy. I know she's a were-shark. I just saw her change form, so I figured that out. Your problem is to communicate A) that Simon is just like her, and B) that when Sarenne grows up, she'll be like them, too. It's a lot of information to communicate -- trying to do it all in one paragraph is maybe a little too ambitious.

The final scenes play out in a properly fevered rush -- Sarenne's kidnapping, the race to save her, the stranding in the pit and then, at the end, the understanding of impending vengeance. I do feel that you needed a bit of a break after their escape -- let them grieve and feel the death of their daughter -- it will give greater weight to their decision to wreak vengeance on their enemies.

This is a very strong story, Rodrigo. It needs more specific details like the "cantalo" to really elevate it to something special, but a very good Ceramic DM entry indeed.

Very good picture use. The turtle eggs were a creative choice for that picture.

I enjoyed reading this. Thank you.


Decision: Rodrigo Istalindir


Mythago-

THE PENITENT MAN (Noskov)

A good story thread, a good beginning, a great ending, and a somewhat 
muddled middle.

I loved the abrupt transition from a surfer story to something with 
higher stakes (though I wondered, if the narrator drowned, why the whole 
dolphin/shark thing mattered). The problem was that it sort of lost its 
way trying to get to the end. The whole discussion with the old man was 
hand-waved--why is the guy asking him things he already knows about? Why 
isn't the narrator asking questions back, like "Who the hell are you and 
how do you know about those murders?"

While we get that the narrator is more than a few pixels short of a 
screenshot, after the seminal killings of his brother and father, we 
have no idea about the other eleven. People who looked like his dad? 
People who got him mad? He follows a stranger down into a cave because 
letting him drop to his death is "not my style," but we have no idea 
what the narrator's style is. (It's also a little implausible that he'd 
never have been so much as questioned in the deaths of his father and 
brother, unless he's been a fugitive, but the story implies he's just 
never been caught rather than actively evading a manhunt.)

The word "penance" could be used less at the end--the repetition takes 
out some of the punch.

Excellent use of the rock picture. I was disappointed by the shark; it 
seemed important but then we find out the narrator drowned; his death 
had nothing to do with the shark at all.


SACRIFICE (Rodrigo Istalindir)

A very powerful story, an interesting ending without being a standard 
"happy ending." Very good tie-in of all four pictures to the narrative; 
I particularly liked the use of the face picture to emphasize Simon's 
non-human aspect, and bringing the sea turtles back in again; nice 
contrast between Simon's care of the eggs as a human and his casual 
destruction as a shark.

I was a bit put off by the "blow to the back of the head and our hero 
wakes up alone" sequence--surely if the elders were smart enough to kill 
Sarenne and trap her parents in the pit, they'd have made darn sure 
Simon was dead before leaving him alone on the beach.


Judgment this round for RODRIGO

Alsih2o-

 Rodrigo- Wow.

 Good pic use, straight down the line. The story really maintained my interest without feeling it was overstretched to fit the visuals. There are a couple of misspellings and a few clumsy phrases that I am sure will melt away when you polish this for us post-contest.

 I like how we get a strong sense of the powers without a need to over-explain them, one of the luxuries of picking your audience. J An environmentalist monster- we need to see this stuff more often.

Noskov- Wow.

  The pic use on the round stones is some of the best pic use I have seen. There are several jarring moments in this story “Now he had my attention.” Is the first and I wondered if the wait was worth it. Then everything got darker.

 I like the darker. There are a few clumsy moments- you have made a great show of getting me to sympathize with the killer except his motivation to keep following into the woods and down the hole. Something needs to add to his reasoning for me to not be distracted there.

 The Lonnie pic was really good, the shark pic was alright and the pit pic was the weakest.

 But wow did that rock pic work well.

Judgement- This one is a very tough call for me.. Really strong round- I usually have my decisions ready when I receive the other judges emails, but this one took me a long while. I think Noskovs highs are higher, but I have to side with the consistently good writing of Rodrigo

 Decision- 3-0 for Rodrigo, thanks to you both


----------



## Macbeth (Jul 6, 2004)

Congrats, Rodrigo! 

How many more judgements/matches left before the final round?


----------



## BSF (Jul 6, 2004)

Three more judgements for this round (Sending an updated link menu to alsih2o in a short bit.).

Round two has 4 pairings - 8 competitors.
Round three will have 2 pairings - 4 competitors
Round four is the big showdown.

So, 14 stories left to read.  Once we have judgements, we will know who is competing in the second round.


----------



## Macbeth (Jul 6, 2004)

Ooops, I ment to say "next round," I know the finals are a long way off.


----------



## BSF (Jul 6, 2004)

Macbeth said:
			
		

> Ooops, I ment to say "next round," I know the finals are a long way off.




Yeah, yeah, yeah.  I know you, you are just rubbing it in that you beat me out in the semi-finals last time to compete in the finals.  A little success goes straight to your head.  I see how you are.


----------



## Macbeth (Jul 7, 2004)

BardStephenFox said:
			
		

> Yeah, yeah, yeah.  I know you, you are just rubbing it in that you beat me out in the semi-finals last time to compete in the finals.  A little success goes straight to your head.  I see how you are.



Yep. 

But not really, our match last time was dang close.


----------



## Macbeth (Jul 7, 2004)

And I assume your not really mad, right? It's kind of hard to understand sarcasm on the internet...


----------



## alsih2o (Jul 7, 2004)

Macbeth said:
			
		

> And I assume your not really mad, right? It's kind of hard to understand sarcasm on the internet...




 The REAL drawback to the internet.

 Mad for real doesn't sound like the trash-talking bsf I know....


----------



## BSF (Jul 7, 2004)

alsih2o said:
			
		

> The REAL drawback to the internet.
> 
> Mad for real doesn't sound like the trash-talking bsf I know....




*laugh*

Thanks Mark!

Macbeth, maybe I should have used more smilies?  No, I'm not really mad.  Hell, I was happy to make it to the semi-finals.
If I were really mad, I probably wouldn't post anything at all.  I try to be good about that.  But really, what is there to be mad about in a Ceramic DM?  Good banter and tough pics to write some wacky stories around make for some fun posting.


----------



## Berandor (Jul 7, 2004)

Congrats, Rodrigo!

*Copy from other thread*

Noskov: I don't really know what to think of this story. I like the idea, but somehow it didn't click with me (yes, I would be a great editor. Kidding!  ) I think something about it lies in the flashback part of the story. When writing in first person, you really have the chance to characterize your hero in the way he describes things. Look at "the Arranger" by Piratecat for a good example of it (but many of the stories here will do). The flashback just falls flat for me because, other than his explicit thoughts ("poor Lonnie"), we don't really know how he perceives things. 

What did it feel like when he slashed open his brother? What kind of noise did the can opener make when it entered his father's eye? Was it icky, delightful? Is he a sadist, or does he dislike the voilence he dishes out, but caught in his anger, deems it necessary? Does he break down after murdering, or does he relish in his actions?

I alos would have liked to have a small conversation between Lonnie and his brother. Maybe Lonnie rushing up to him to embrace him, and how the main character reacts to it?
Imo picture use was o.k. The fact that he descends before being sentenced to his penance is a nice touch. The shark could have been excised without much ado, I think. I can't really comment on the "face-pic" because I know where it's from, and that likely changes my perception.
A good story, but it could be even better, if only you wouldn't have had to write it in 72 hours. As Zhaneel said, that's the fate of Ceramic DM entries.

Rodrigo Istalindir, Sacrifice:
Generally, I really liked the story. I always like it when fantastical elements and the "real world" are mixed, so the appearance of a were-shark was a cool surprise. Picture use was fine, I think. The rocks/turtle eggs could have been excised from the story without much ado, but the other pics were used better. The shark and the cave were especially central.
In the end, I would have liked a more "Hollywood" ending better, so that the little girl comes to life again when brought into the sea, but that's alright. At least the sharks go hunting. 
ETA: after the judges pointed out the symmetry of the turtle eggs and the turtle being eaten at the end, I might have to retract my opinion of that pic's use.


----------



## Piratecat (Jul 7, 2004)

BardStephenFox said:
			
		

> If I were really mad, I probably wouldn't post anything at all.




Don't believe him. I just got fourteen pizzas delivered to my email account, AND a load of fertilizer dumped on my desktop. Watch out for this guy!


----------



## alsih2o (Jul 7, 2004)

I realize this is tkaing a while, but I promise we are judging our little fingers to the bone! 

 Soon, my pretties, soon.


----------



## Graywolf-ELM (Jul 7, 2004)

alsih2o said:
			
		

> I realize this is tkaing a while, but I promise we are judging our little fingers to the bone!
> 
> Soon, my pretties, soon.




The effort is appreciated.  This will be the first critical evaluation of my writing since High School.  It never happened in college for me.  All I am doing these days is Story Hours and creating adventures.  I'm a big boy don't hold back.

GW


----------



## BSF (Jul 7, 2004)

Piratecat said:
			
		

> Don't believe him. I just got fourteen pizzas delivered to my email account, AND a load of fertilizer dumped on my desktop. Watch out for this guy!




Wasn't me!  Nobody saw me do it.  Can't prove a thing.

Besides, your desktop could use a little greening up.


----------



## Noskov (Jul 7, 2004)

Okay, to start off, I just want to say that I agree with the judges in their decision and back it 100%.  Below I have some answers and retorts to the opinions.




			
				alsih2o said:
			
		

> Barsoomcore-
> 
> Noskov  "The Penitent Man"
> 
> ...




Not that I disagree, but the point was that Lonnie's sacrifice was what allowed him to be saved.  In keeping with the theme of what Lonnie had to do, I had him serve the same penance.  I also wanted the correlation to the rocks pic to be strong.




			
				alsih2o said:
			
		

> Okay, now let's get our hands dirty.
> 
> There's a lot of typos in this story. Please check your work before you submit it:
> "I swam out and caught a mammoth and rode it" -- he caught a mammoth? Wow, is this Surfin' Pellucidar?
> ...




I was formatting as I typed the story.




			
				alsih2o said:
			
		

> Your style is simple, which is good, and reasonably terse, which is also good. Like many Ceramic entries, your beginning is flabby and your ending slightly underdone. It takes a long time to get to the revelation that our hero is a murderer, and then there's a long period of discussion on his childhood that finally leads into Lonnie's death.




I guess it's nice to hear I have a 'style'.  I am an extremely poor and inexperienced writer.  It's good to know I'm not quite as bad at is as I think I am.  I have no idea what terse means.




			
				alsih2o said:
			
		

> THAT scene is very well done, however, and that's where this story really takes off.




I wanted so much more depth for this part of the story.  I just don't know what else to say for this.




			
				alsih2o said:
			
		

> We have some sympathy for the narrator and his situation, but of course his actions are horrible.




I'm really glad the sympathy for the narrator came through.  I wanted him to be despised for being the degenerate he was, but I also wanted it to be somewhat ambiguous if he were truly 'evil'.  I wanted to bring up the question of was it really his fault because of his childhood, or did it even matter because of how brutal, selfish and uncaring he was.




			
				alsih2o said:
			
		

> You do need to watch out for cliched phrasing: "Like a mad bull," "like fire over a dry hayfield." Use metaphors sparingly and make each one count. Otherwise, just choose the correct word.




I actually left these parts blank until I finished the story, trying to figure out what best to put there.  By the time I got done, I had to post it, so I just put the easiest and first things that came to mind....Probably a mistake, but I felt that I needed metaphores at this point in the story to convey the emotion of the situation.




			
				alsih2o said:
			
		

> I think you could have given us more on our narrator's reaction to the deaths of his brother and his father. A clear reaction here would provide us with insight into why he kept killing. Did he enjoy the experience? Why? What part of it did he enjoy?




I wanted to...so very very badly.  Problem was, I knew exactly how much time I had to complete this story and I knew if I went further, I wouldn't finish.  I had to leave some things out.




			
				alsih2o said:
			
		

> Plot issue: The storm seems very important in the early stages of the story, but it then just disappears. If it's important, it should be important. If it's not, why include it in the first place?




This is very interesting because I originally was intending for the storm to be important.  I wrote this story, for the most part, from the beginning on and made it up as I went.  I had no idea of what I wanted it to be when I started it....It actually started as an effort to come up with a use for the surfing pic (more on that later) and go from there.

As the story evolved, I woud come back and make changes as I thought necessary, based on how much time I had.  I still considered the storm important, because that is altimately what kills the narrator.




			
				alsih2o said:
			
		

> "Around my wrists are shackles and I?m not sitting in the chair that Lonnie was in when I arrived." -- Why is this suddenly in present tense? And if he's not sitting in the chair, where is he? This is very confusing.
> "the piles of spheres he carved eating voraciously" -- He carved spheres that ate voraciously?




Cramming for time at the end of the story.  The fact that English is not a strong suit for me didn't help either.  Tense is a major problem for me too, I struggle with it constantly.




			
				alsih2o said:
			
		

> In the end, this story satisfies. This is a strong Ceramic DM entry, for all its errors and typos. The pictures are used very well, without any throwaways, although getting from the first reference to the second is a bit of a slog. You need to get away from hackneyed phraseology, you need to be more rigorous in your usage and copyediting, and you need to be more ruthless in your cutting. Don't go easy on yourself. You've got a knack for storytelling. Develop it.
> 
> Thanks for this story.




Assuming you are not just being nice to me, I'm very happy that you liked the story.  I thought it was overall mediocre at best.  I liked the story and pic usage, but not how I related the story and ideas to the reader....If that makes any sense.






			
				alsih2o said:
			
		

> Mythago-
> 
> THE PENITENT MAN (Noskov)
> 
> ...




The bane of my Ceramic DM experience.  The pic of the surfer was a complete block for me.  It just so happened that I saw that very picture on the internet a day or two before it was posted in Ceramic DM.  The picture itself is a real picture, but the shape is a dolphin.  For whatever reason, I could not bring myself to call it a shark.

I did, however, leave the dolphin/shark thing in there on purpose.  I knew it seemed pointless at the time, but I thought it was interesting when you came to the end and realized the guy is drowned in the water because he thought he saw a shark in the water and it scared him off his board.  Kind of weak, but I thought slightly ironic.




			
				alsih2o said:
			
		

> The problem was that it sort of lost its
> way trying to get to the end. The whole discussion with the old man was
> hand-waved--why is the guy asking him things he already knows about? Why
> isn't the narrator asking questions back, like "Who the hell are you and
> how do you know about those murders?"




One of, in my opinion, the story's biggest weaknesses.  I had wondered to myself as to his lack of questioning and what not and my basic answer was that he didn't care.  This guy was already a victim in his mind and nothing else mattered.  That being said....If I had the time, the relationship and dialoge between these two would have been much different.




			
				alsih2o said:
			
		

> While we get that the narrator is more than a few pixels short of a
> screenshot, after the seminal killings of his brother and father, we
> have no idea about the other eleven. People who looked like his dad?
> People who got him mad? He follows a stranger down into a cave because
> ...




I wanted to get into the other murders more and his reasons and the emotions and feelings all of it brought to him, but didn't have time.

The narrator's style is hands on brutality.  It was never expressed, but I tried to imply it.  If I had gone further into this scene, I think I would have done a better job of that.

His father stole them away from their mother.  They were already hiding out and away from other people.  They never interacted with anyone except for the father, who's only contact was hookers and junkies.  No one really knew about them and the few that did, didn't care.  Again, I tried to imply that, but certainly could have done a better job of it.




			
				alsih2o said:
			
		

> The word "penance" could be used less at the end--the repetition takes
> out some of the punch.




Agreed.  In my rush to get the entry done the thesaurus had been closed at this point.




			
				alsih2o said:
			
		

> Excellent use of the rock picture. I was disappointed by the shark; it
> seemed important but then we find out the narrator drowned; his death
> had nothing to do with the shark at all.




I still thought it was important because it was the reason he fell into the water in the first place.





			
				alsih2o said:
			
		

> Noskov- Wow.
> 
> The pic use on the round stones is some of the best pic use I have seen. There are several jarring moments in this story “Now he had my attention.” Is the first and I wondered if the wait was worth it. Then everything got darker.
> 
> ...




I will kind of skip this one because I think I've more or less addressed all of these comments.  I thank you for your enthusiasm for my pic use.  The one thing I really thought was good about the story was the pic use.




Thank you everyone for your comments and (very unexpected) praise.  I'm truly sorry I couldn't put forth a better effort.  When I was put in as an alternate, I never expected to actually play, so I didn't put any time aside in case it did come up.  Excuses aside, it was fun and I thank everyone for the experience.


----------



## Rodrigo Istalindir (Jul 7, 2004)

*Response to feedback*



			
				barsoomcore said:
			
		

> This -- "Although he was by all appearances a young man" -- is intriguing, but this -- "draining what little strength he had left" -- begs to explain WHY he has little strength left.




A (clumsy) attempt at foreshadowing.  I was hoping that when Simon's nature was revealed the reader would get some sense that there was a physical price the father was paying to remain on land as a human.  You're right, it doesn't belong in the opening, as it asks questions that don't really get answered.  It also indicates that something isn't as it seems when what  I'm trying to establish -- the father-daughter relationship -- *is* as it appears.



			
				barsoomcore said:
			
		

> I like the specific use of "cantalo" rather than "fish" -- of course fishermen would never just talk about "fish".




Thanks. I like little details like that in the stuff I read.  It's a little harder to include in a short story, where space is tight and you want to avoid unneccesary exposition.  It's a made up word (so far as I know), but since I'd borrowed 'adaro' from a Polynesian man-shark legend, I thought 'cantalo' sounded sufficiently Oceanic.



> The reunion of Simon and Calliya is touching, though the exposition on were-sharks is a little clumsy. I know she's a were-shark. I just saw her change form, so I figured that out. Your problem is to communicate A) that Simon is just like her, and B) that when Sarenne grows up, she'll be like them, too. It's a lot of information to communicate -- trying to do it all in one paragraph is maybe a little too ambitious.




Agreed.  That was by far the hardest part to write.  Everything up to then sort of flowed, and the conclusion went very quickly.  I didn't want to assume the reader would make the were-shark connection.  Everyone on ENWorld would (heck, I was worried that the 'tired' line in the first paragraph would give it away), but someone whose only exposure to lycanthropy was Lon Chaney might not get it.   I tried to split the difference between assuming an audience would need the connection between Simon, Sarenne and Calliya explicitly spelled out, and one that would immediately understand and be bored by lengthy explanations.  This is absolutely the first part I would re-write.  Suggestions welcome.



			
				mythago said:
			
		

> A very powerful story, an interesting ending without being a standard   "happy ending."




Thanks.  I'm a sucker for a dark ending myself, sometimes.  



			
				mythago said:
			
		

> ... nice contrast between Simon's care of the eggs as a human and his casual destruction as a shark.




That was intended to work several ways.  One was to add additional justification to the turtle picture, which I felt wasn't used as well as it could have been.  Another was to accentuate the nature of the were-sharks -- loving, nurturing on the one hand (Calliya providing the eggs, Simon conserving them) and yet still savage, apex predators on the others.  It also served to provide a little taste of the conclusion.  With their potential for violence understood, I could end with their revenge on the fishermen imminent.  I felt ending with a sense of impending violence was more satisfying than a bunch of prose detailing the actual attack.



			
				mythago said:
			
		

> I was a bit put off by the "blow to the back of the head and our hero   wakes up alone" sequence




Me, too.  I had intended for a more drawn out section with them inflicting a lot more damage, torturing Simon and then almost killing him, with Calliya finding him nearly dead and returning him to the sea.  I was starting to worry about length, and I also wanted to focus on the threat to Sarenne and thought that an extended action sequence would detract from that.



			
				alsih20 said:
			
		

> I like how we get a strong sense of the powers without a need to over-explain them, one of the luxuries of picking your audience. J An environmentalist monster- we need to see this stuff more often.




As I mentioned above, I got a little paralyzed by trying *not* to write to the audience too much.  And Simon's insistence on saving half of the eggs wasn't done to illustrate any particular environmentalist sentiment on my part, but to demonstrate that Simon considered himself a part of the community and had adopted their ways and concerns.

Thanks for all the feedback (Berandor, too).  It's been a long time since I wrote any fiction (or finished any, actually), and I've always had a hard time with it.  I tend to write the story in my head and get bored putting it down on paper since I already know how it's going to end   The Ceramic DM contest is a nice antidote to my lassitude.  I'm just sorry to have waited so long to try and participate.  When this is over I'm looking forward to going back and reading all the past contests' entries.

The bones of the story came together pretty quickly, with the combination of the shark picture and the face with it's silvery scars.  The surfer-shark picture was so ominous, I really wanted to turn the expectations it set around.  The eggs came next, as I tried to set up that Calliya was still looking out for her family.  The cave picture came last, and to me felt the most tacked on, since the essence of the scene was the death of Sarenne; the location was picked to serve the picture. 

Finally, I've got to learn to read the directions more carefully -- I got it stuck in my head that round one had a 4000 word limit, and had to do some last minute hatchet work.   Oh, and thanks for not holding it against me that I ignored the fact that it's a dolphin in the picture, not a shark.  I wasn't too sure how much liberty we could take with the photos.  I figured it was safe to ignore anything terribly anachronistic (ie the wetsuit).


----------



## barsoomcore (Jul 8, 2004)

Sorry to the very-patiently-waiting contestants -- I feel very bad that my judgements are taking so long. 

And, of course, hoping that mythago and alsih2o are just as late as me and I'm not the one holding things up.

I am working my way through these entries, but I know you folks worked hard and I really want to give each story the attention it warrants.

As a general observation, based on many writing courses, workshops and hard-bitten discussions with other writers, editors and so on: be careful with responding to criticisms of your stories. The only REQUIRED response to anyone's opinion of your work is "Thank you for taking the time to think about it." When you respond in other ways, when you explain WHY you did something one way or the other, you put a foot on the path of justifying yourself. Which is death.

You want to prove you learned your lesson? Write another story. When you justify yourself, you lift from your shoulders the burden of proving yourself.

WHY statements can lead to interesting discussions, and out of those discussions you can learn a great deal, but be cautious. Those who spend most of their time TALKING about some activity are usually not those who spend most of their time actually DOING it. And it's easy to fool yourself that the one is the same as the other.

I'm not trying to dog on anyone, or kill conversation, but I know myself how easy it can be.


----------



## orchid blossom (Jul 8, 2004)

barsoomcore said:
			
		

> Sorry to the very-patiently-waiting contestants -- I feel very bad that my judgements are taking so long.




No worries.  I'd rather have a well thought out judgement than a quick one.  With all the feedback I've had someplace to start with revisions.  I can live with the wait for the benefit.


----------



## alsih2o (Jul 8, 2004)

Francisca Vs. BSF

 Barsoomcore-

 Francisca  "The continuing adventures of Agent Keady"

I'm always up for a little hard-boiled detective action. A Ceramic DM 
mystery is quite an ambitious project -- mysteries live or die on the 
presentation of clues and it's tough to get that right in such little 
time.

But then this isn't really a mystery, is it? We know it's the 
very-strangely-behaving Atanasia pretty much from the first second we 
see her, so really the story is about why is she killing people, what's 
up with the animals, and will our hero escape her hairy clutches? 
Unfortunately, we only get an answer to the last of those questions, 
unless she's just killing people because she's a werewolf.

On that note, you really need to be careful with the spellings of 
"desert" and "dessert". Nothing kills a climactic moment like an 
unintentional pun.

Usage: You use weak modifiers like "simply" and "quickly" and 
"incredibly" -- words like this accomplish the opposite of what you 
want them to accomplish -- they make things LESS impressive. Find the 
right word and use it. Simply.  

Look at a sentence like: "At the end of the day, despite his knowing 
better, Keady could not help but be extremely attracted to Atanasia." 
The only information in this is sentence is "Atanasia attracted Keady." 
Everything else is just empty verbage that doesn't move the story or 
reveal anything about these characters. And big sentences in passive 
voice -- you should always watch out for those. A big sentence needs an 
active verb to propel the reader, to give them a point of focus as they 
make their way along. Passive voice is almost always a bad idea, and 
it's definitely a bad idea in a sentence like this.

The plot moves fast enough and the story is nicely paced. But the 
characters never come off the page. Agent Keady has no personality I 
can discern, and Atanasia is so bizarre you start wondering why she 
hasn't been locked up long ago. Her motives (and his) are unfathomable 
-- why does she decide to kill Keady, given that she clearly comes into 
contact with all sorts of men? Why Keady rather than some other random 
guy? What's up with the animals?

Picture usage is a problem here as well. The shadow picture, the bait 
and even the costume are all pretty much throwaways, having nothing to 
do with the plot of the story.

Overall, the story, while moving through the plot speedily enough, 
doesn't draw me in with interesting characters, nor entertain me with 
deft language.


BardStephenFox  "Delusional"

Half the fun of reading a good Ceramic DM entry is waiting for the 
pictures to come, hoping they'll be key to the story, and being pleased 
when they are.

Terrific picture use like this can lift just about any story up in my 
estimation, and when a story is as inventive and well-paced as this 
one, well, it's a real pleasure.

It suffers, though, from too many words. Whenever you write a paragraph 
that's more than, say, five sentences long, reconsider what you're 
doing. You've probably got more than you really need to get your point 
across. Be especially cautious with regards to long stretches of 
dialogue where one character just goes on and on.

Break it up, even if you have to keep all the words. It feels more like 
conversation if my eye can take a break every now and then. But you 
probably don't have to keep all the words.

"Dr. Clayton did not like waiting, even if they were billable hours." 
The grammar's a bit imprecise (they? who are they?) but I like this 
moment. It gives us a bit of an in to our "point-of-view" character, 
and gives us a reference for whose eyes we're going to be seeing things 
through.

Seeing Clayton react to Yu is much more important than reading 
narratorial description of Yu. I think your story would be better 
served if you gave us more of Clayton's _behaviour_ rather than 
his state of mind.

"This might be interesting." -- watch out for stuff like this. Are you 
writing first-person or third-person? If you don't know what your point 
of view is, your reader doesn't know. And if your reader doesn't know 
what "lens is on the camera", the reader doesn't know what he's looking 
at. If you see what I mean.

Too much explanation about Druids and magic and all that. She's a 
Druid, he kills Druids, good enough. Move on. There's a lot of details 
in this story that seem unnecessary. Why do we care that Yu's 
grandparents were in the internment camps? What's the big deal with his 
"non-prison" attire?

I'm complaining a lot about a story I generally liked quite a bit. But 
spend some time with a good grammar text, and work hard to cut your 
writing as much as you can. Be precise. Watch your grammar:

"Dr. Clayton had to agree, it did look like an angel." -- comma splice
"Mr. Yu was the one that committed the murder, he had provided a full 
verbal confession" -- comma splice

Comma splices are a basic grammatical error. They occur when two full 
sentences are joined by a comma -- which is incorrect usage. Separate 
full sentences with either a period or, if you must, a semi-colon. 
Simple errors like this keep your story from feeling 100% competent.


Decision: BardStephenFox


 Mythago-

 DELUSIONAL (BardStephenFox)

Lovely use of the pictures; they fit right in and moved the story along. I
believe Sialia once said that a pitfall of Ceramic DM is the temptation to
treat it like an amusement-park ride: you go around the circle, stop at
each picture along the way, and move on to the end. That's definitely not
the case here. Re-use isn't necessary, of course, but the bird first being
described by Darren and then physically viewed by Dr. Clayton--confirming
Darren's story in some way--is masterful.

The problem here is that the story itself bumps along in the way the
pictures don't. The narrative flow is fine, but the details tend to grate.
I'm going to set aside the "real world" issues about how insanity is
determined and what a psychiatrist would do and so forth in the interests
of not being a pedantic twit. However--if Lou can make Dr. clayton's pen
dry up, why is Darren in jail at all? It's no harder to screw up a booking
record than a prison transfer, so Lou could easily have given Darren the
equivalent of a get-out-of-jail-free card. (Or done the same with any
other paperwork; the indictment, the police report, etcera.)

Darren's speech is uneven. Sometimes he sounds uneducated and colloquial,
sometimes he's eloquent. There's also a tendency to throw meaningless
little actions into the dialogue--head-nodding, shrugging--more than is
necessary, and feelings told to us rather than shown.

I sensed that the story was trying to create tension between Darren's
being nuts and his telling the truth. That's pretty clearly resolved in
Darren's favor at the end. I'd prefer to have seen it way the other way at
the beginning, or have the ending more ambiguous.



THE CONTINUING ADVENTURES OF AGENT KEADY (francisca)

The story takes an awfully long time to get going. Much of the first
section is a description of Keady getting to where he's going, picking up
his luggage, and so forth; it sounds like a third-person version of a
report. It drags down the narrative to the point where Keady stumbling
across a clue was easy to overlook.

It's hinted that Keady is a lone wolf with an eye to the occult, not just
a random Fed, but that isn't explained. (If he is a random Fed, his
procedure is way sloppy. If he's an occult investigator, that explains his
following the Ricis around and his wondering about the circus.)

The most difficult picture--the giraffe--was nicely integrated, and the
boat chum was a good anchor for the scene on the boat. Unfortunately, the
shadows picture was barely mentioned at all.

Overall I wish the story had either pumped up the humorous, B-movie aspect
more or dropped it in favor of straight horror.


Judgement for BARDSTEPHENFOX


Alsih2o-

 Francisca starts us off with a picture as a picture. I hate that. J I will give him some credit for making it a “Real” scene though.

 All of the pictures here are used as what they really are. Now, it is difficult, but I like it when someone surprises me with something from the pics.

 And someone tell me what happened in Greenland!

 The whole story feels a little hurried, but I usually forgive that as it si just 3 days.

 The real high point- killing a werewolf with a pieve of silverware (which I LOVED) would have been stronger if he had taken the silverware with a reason, I am slightly bothered by him taking it and not knowing why.

BSF- A few flaws here. But just a few.

 The pic use is really good. Everything that is in the pics is included, plus that twist I love to see.  The shadow pic is pretty straitforward, but the additions of the fish just hiding bodies and the transforming druid rock.

 The double use of the dead bird works well, and I like the “feel” of the world.

 Great stuff.

 Judgement- Bard Stephen Fox.

 Decision- 3-0 For BSF


----------



## mythago (Jul 8, 2004)

barsoomcore said:
			
		

> or, if you must, a semi-colon



Hey. Don't you be dissin' semicolons. 

I am out of town Friday through Monday, so any entries over the weekend likely won't get read by me until Tuesday.


----------



## Macbeth (Jul 8, 2004)

Way to go, BSF! (Any chance of salsa as a celebration this Friday?  Only kidding...)


----------



## BSF (Jul 8, 2004)

Whoa!  Judgements posted like 3 1/2 hours ago and I somehow missed it.  Yipes!

First off, thank you for the story Francisca!  Werewolves are fun and I think Agent Keady encountering one makes for a good story idea.  

For the judges:  Wow, thanks for the kind words on the story.  

I am very pleased that you enjoyed the dual use for the angel picture.  I decided I was taking a chance on that one, since it would be unusual to have an illustration used twice for a story, but it felt right.  

I was expecting to get nailed for a few things and I am oddly pleased that I did.  I say pleased because I know my writing skills need polish and I enjoy the feedback.  

Barsoomcore - I have been thinking that I really need to take a brush-up course on grammar.  While I always loved reading, I despised grammar classes in school.  Looking back on it, and contrasting my scholastic experiences with people I know, I did not have the most dynamic teachers.  It's really not a good excuse, and it is one that I think I need to correct.  Any advice on good books providing a strong overview of grammar would be appreciated.  

I do suffer from verbosity.  I even cut stuff out of the story and it still had too much verbosity.  Tighten my stories and improve my grammar is the message I am hearing.  

Mythago - What can I say?  Doh!  *bangs head on desk*  You are, of course, correct.  It would be an easy thing for a demon with Lou's talents to find some way for Darren to be free.  What a plot hole!  I actually knew that I would have a little more difficulty with some of the details with you in the "audience", but I chose to take the risk.  This was the third story my muse tried to feed me and I was running out of time.  The other two didn't have anywhere to go.  

Darren's style is a bit jumbled.  I had difficulty finding his voice and his style as I was writing.  I need to make a decision on his style, or better explain why it is erratic.  

I am very pleased that you all thought the story stood on it's own.  The story my muse handed me, as a final option, was really just a prelude to another story I have written.  (Rainmaker)  I wanted people who have read both stories to see some of the potential links, but I needed this one to stand alone if you hadn't read the other.  

Thank you for the feedback!  If anyone else has any desire to throw their thoughts out there, I would certainly welcome them!  Either in this thread, or in the Judge Free Commentary thread.  Though, since my story has been judged, you do not need to worry about biasing judgements, so this thread is fine.


----------



## BSF (Jul 8, 2004)

Macbeth said:
			
		

> Way to go, BSF! (Any chance of salsa as a celebration this Friday?  Only kidding...)




*laugh*  Possibly.  The salsa garden is still maturing so it wouldn't be garden fresh.  But, I like salsa and it might not be a bad idea to placate my muse ahead of time.


----------



## barsoomcore (Jul 8, 2004)

mythago said:
			
		

> Hey. Don't you be dissin' semicolons.



I'm a fan of a well-placed semi-colon. I advise their use with caution, however, because so few people know how to use them properly.

A semi-colon is like champagne -- you wouldn't want it every day, but when it's the right thing, it is SO the right thing.

Better now?  

BSF: Grammatical inexactitude (man, I'm so pleased with that phrase) is one of the easiest ways to distinguish amateur writers. Grammar is one of your two basic toolkits -- the other being vocabulary. Develop both. If you were learning carpentry, you'd spend a lot of time figuring out the differences between cross-cut and rip saws, ballpeen and claw hammers and so on. As a writer, if you take your craft seriously, you have to spend a lot of time learning the tools at your disposal.

Here's a GREAT resource: Bartleby.com -- lots of classic texts on usage.

Learn, love, live.

"Grammatical inexactitude"  how often do you get to use a phrase like that?


----------



## Berandor (Jul 8, 2004)

First, Congratulations to BSF!

Second, a deserved praise for the judges; alle three of you give off great feedback! And barsoomcore even used "grammatical inexactitude", a great phrase if I ever heard one!

Third, with regards to answering to judgements/commentary by non-judges: I am kind of torn on that issue; on the one hand I must agree with barsoomcore that it easily dissolves into justification if you're not careful, on the other hand the commentator (is that an English word?) has spent time on my story and the commentary, and I feel somewhat obliged to address her concerns.

Fourth, copied from the judge-free thread:
BardStephenFox, Delusional: A fine entry imo, and a stab at environmentalists  I wasn't too clear about the correlation between Yu dying and the weather company opening, but otherwise I liked what you did with the pictures. It seems that save for the "shadow-horns", you put a different spin on each of them.
Having the meat be human meat with some fish thrown in as cover was great, and the "Angel of Death" was a cool use for a cool pic. It's fortunate the body was dead for too long, so the druids left it hanging in the fence 
I enjoyed the relationship between the killer and the demon; it was nice how Yu reacted to some things the Dr. only thought. In the end, I was left wondering whether Darren was a good guy or a bad guy; I think that's what you tried to achieve, so my hat's off - that's a difficult thing to achieve in three days.

Francisca, Agent Keady:
I can't help but feel a little let down by this story. For one, I thought the fight/finale was over a little too quick; even though her final words were fine (inspired by a Meta thread? ), it all ended in three very short paragraphs, so it wasn't really a tense moment for me.
Otherwise, the story is fine. So why am I feeling let down? I think the pictures weren't used very good, that's why. I think none of the pictures were used really well. It almost seemed as if you'd just ported a story over to a circus environment to make them fit.
"After the beatles": That could have been a good use, but the killer's employ of animals at the killing site isn't brought up again. Maybe Atanasia could have ripped apart an animal before jumping at Keady? That would have resolved that issue as well as given him more time to escape his bounds.
"Dinner": This pic is just in because they go fishing. Why do they go fishing? I don't know. They just go fishing, and there happens to be a pile of chum lying around.
"me and my shadow": this pic is really just a throwaway. I liked that you tied your story in with former works, but to a reader of this story, the horned shadow isn't really important. And you seem to realize it, too, because you forget the pic as soon as you used it. Perhaps you could have focused on it for a paragraph or two, with a more detailed flashback to Keady's former experiences? Have time stretch, and the moment before Keady recognizes the helmet for what it is might become a tense moment in the story.
"taall women": Atanasia wears a costume. For about one paragraph, she is half woman, half giraffe. And then, she's wearing a short black dress, and the costume's forgotten.
I really liked the story, but I fear the pictures weren't your forte, this time. 

ETA: O.k., after re-reading my comments on Francisca's story, I hope they're not too harsh. I just know you can do better, is all. 

Fifth: I couldn't help but use semi-colons at the beginning, just as I am awfully tempted to write a story with a humongous load of exclamation marks next round


----------



## Macbeth (Jul 8, 2004)

BardStephenFox said:
			
		

> *laugh*  Possibly.  The salsa garden is still maturing so it wouldn't be garden fresh.  But, I like salsa and it might not be a bad idea to placate my muse ahead of time.



And it would definately add to the festival atmosphere... And it would give everybody something to munch on while watching Li beat Keldorn in the duel...

But seriously, don't feel pressured, I only ment it as a joke.


----------



## Graywolf-ELM (Jul 9, 2004)

BardStephenFox said:
			
		

> *laugh*  Possibly.  The salsa garden is still maturing so it wouldn't be garden fresh.  But, I like salsa and it might not be a bad idea to placate my muse ahead of time.




Now I need to find the salsa and chips, thanks for passing the munchies on to me.  

GW

PS: If you guys are in the area, and are short a player, send me a note.  It would be interesting to see what kind of game you throw down.


----------



## alsih2o (Jul 10, 2004)

Just awaiting a couple of more judgements. Soon!


----------



## Taladas (Jul 10, 2004)

Well you could let me finish up the judgements but there is a slight conflict of interest.


----------



## BSF (Jul 12, 2004)

_Posting some commentary/response from the non-judge thread.  The judges will no longer be come "biased" by anything said about my story and they might be interested in what was said._



			
				Zhaneel said:
			
		

> BSF's story
> 
> Very interesting.  I have notes about the story and now realize I didn't note much about the picture usage.  Which means, to me, they were so well integrated that I didn't think about them.  Let's see, the bird pic was excellently used.  Very morbid, very well done.  Loved the multiple useage.



Thanks!  The bird was my primary "issue".  Seeing it, I couldn't get the image of an angel out of my mind.  I tried three different ways to work a story in with that image.  I took a chance on the multiple usage.  Normally I would say it twice, but use it once.  But, using the image twice just felt "right".  In this case I decided to go with my gut.



> The giraffe pic was essential to the story and well done.  Umm... the meat/fish pic was okay.  Not really essential, but an established series of events.  The shadows was almost a throw-away, though I'm sure it was responsible for spawning the story.  It was just so incidental and the Dr. immediately forgot it.



*nod*  Good point.  I was trying to work the doctor's refusal to acknowledge Lou as part of the story - Delusional.  Maybe I tried to be too light with it?  I will definitely give that some thought.



> Okay, picture commentary done.  I thought this was a little slow in gearing up.  The interesting character isn't the doctor, who we learn almost nothing about, but Darren Yu.  I wanted Darren there sooner.



Guilty!  You should have seen the dreck I cut out to get Darren there as soon as I did.    Unfortunately, I needed to do the writing to get my state of mind where it needed to be.  But, more editing might have allowed story flow to come sooner.



> Hot Button Alert: I'm a chemist.  So seeing chemical accidents reference will get my ire up.  Pampa did happen, but from what I could learn on a quick Google search was that the explosion didn't cause any deaths, which is at odds with the town being deserted.  It seemed to me on my searching that the town was still alive and well.  Maybe that is incorrect (you live closer) but if it is true that the town is still there, I would suggest being more careful in the description 'cause the story as it stands could piss off any chemists in the area or who were involved.  There was a seperate suit against a chemical firm there for toxic waste leakage, in the 90s, but I don't think that is what you are referencing.  Okay, soapbox being return to storage.




  Fair enough.  I will make a little commentary just because.  

I've been through Pampa on my way to the Celanese plant there.  We had a location in the plant that I had to cut-over a network connection for.  Very odd place for me.  I had to go through all the safety videos, I had to wear a hard hat, I had to have long pants and steel-toed boots.  I learned the sirens they use for the different emergencies.  It's been over a year, so I would need to take a refresher safety course if I were ever to go back.  This was odd to me.  Keeping in mind that my father worked for Sandia National Labs, on Kirtland Air Force base, it wasn't as if I never had to think about things like that.  It was just so different.  

Part of that difference was driving through the town of Pampa.  It was spooky because I was expecting to find a few buildings.  Maybe a general store or a gas station.  Maybe a little cafe.  But, there was nothing.  I asked the guy I was working with about it and he told me about the explosion and how all the structures were damaged and Celanese just bought the structures and the land.  Inside the plant, they have a little wall with some information on it.  It was an interesting read.  I'm sure there are still people living there.  I think they still have a post office building.  But the only landmarks I saw from the time I entered Pampa to the time I left was the Celanese plant, the stop sign on the road out of the Celanese plant, and a grain silo.  Weird!

Then I got back to Albuquerque and I decided to look it up on the net the next day.  Nothing!  I could talk to people that remembered the event.  I talked to people that remembered hearing about the explosion.  But, I couldn't find very much on the net.  I could find other related explosions that seemed to be on the same scale, but nothing substantial about Pampa.  It kind of bothered me.  Maybe there was something subconscious for a story there?

As I recall, there were two people that died in that explosion.  It was a Sunday afternoon and there weren't many people working that day.  Overall, it was a "good" accident because there was very little loss of life.



> The Druid/rain thing reminded me of the rainmaker story from the last contest, which I think was one of your stories, IIRC. Was that on purpose?




Yes it was.  Very much so in fact.  It was the third idea that came to me.  Se below for more of my thoughts on that. 



> I really think the Dr. came across stupid.  He should have cared more about the mind reading.  He should have guessed the nuke test, not WWII since most educated Americans [especially someone of that age] should know 1945 was the year of the bomb, even if they don't know if it was the test or the dropping.




I think the doctor came across as flat and not the brightest bulb out there.  I realized it as I finished the story and it wasn't entirely my intent.  Though, Darren is certainly not the smartest character out there either.  

Oddly enough, I did an informal poll after I posted the story.  Most of my co-workers remembered that WWII was happening then.  None of them could peg that July 16, 1945 was when we first tested the bomb.  I am beginning to wonder if there is some social commentary to be had here.  For the record, I had to lookup what day we tested the bomb.  So, I am no better.    (Or maybe it is a commentary on public education in New Mexico?)



> I really wanted more direct info on Lou.  I think this would be much better told from Darren's POV than the Dr.'s.  Then we could see and interact with Lou.




Really?  Cool, I will keep that in mind.  It would be a different direction for me to explore.



> A chilly ending [what is with you guys and the deadly bad stuff this round!?!?] and nice use of the connection.  I do wonder how the magic of his death from beyond the grave or whatever worked.
> 
> Zhaneel




Huh - I hadn't even considered that as part of the story.  Now you are making me think I didn't go far enough.  Interesting.

I wanted a kind of a dueling perspective on what is real and who is deluding themselves.  I wanted the reader to get done and maybe ponder whether Darren was right, or whether he was just a wack case who strung together disparate circumstances to make a big, magical conspiracy.  (The Doctor certainly went with that theory.)  I wanted a moral question if you accept that there are people using magic that could end drought.  If you killed those that opposed such a noble goal, are you evil?  Is there a relative morality?  And if you saw the links to Rainmaker, you might see how even a noble goal might be twisted to serve base greed.  There are definitely ties to Rainmaker in Delusional!  The two stories are very much related, but I am hoping that maybe Delusional has enough to stand on it's own.  

As for the morbid tone, I blame the pile of meat and the bird corpse.  It's hard not to look at those two pics and not feel somewhat morbid.  Before the pics came out, I was wondering if I could write a decent story dealing with the human experience of Love.  Not anything very romantic/erotic, just something that kind of had that feel good feeling with a very human story.  That would be a different type of story for me to write.


----------



## BSF (Jul 12, 2004)

_And my response to Berandor's comments_



			
				Berandor said:
			
		

> BardStephenFox, Delusional: A fine entry imo, and a stab at environmentalists  I wasn't too clear about the correlation between Yu dying and the weather company opening, but otherwise I liked what you did with the pictures. It seems that save for the "shadow-horns", you put a different spin on each of them.
> Having the meat be human meat with some fish thrown in as cover was great, and the "Angel of Death" was a cool use for a cool pic. It's fortunate the body was dead for too long, so the druids left it hanging in the fence
> I enjoyed the relationship between the killer and the demon; it was nice how Yu reacted to some things the Dr. only thought. In the end, I was left wondering whether Darren was a good guy or a bad guy; I think that's what you tried to achieve, so my hat's off - that's a difficult thing to achieve in three days.




Thanks!  I am finding it most interesting to read the comments because it is really showing me where I left things open to interpretation.  I dig that you are not sure if Darren is a good guy or a bad guy.  I wanted that to be something the reader could decide.  There are things in the story that I wasn't sure I wanted to write answers to.  I wasn't sure if I should, or not.  It is something I am keenly pondering. 

I am also glad you liked the pic usage.  I remember reading the first Ceramic DM I stumbled across, last October.  I especially remember watching Piratecat get nailed for a weak pic usage.  (I also remember watching Mythago take down our furry friend in that last showdown.)  I decided that if I were going to give it a shot, I wanted to try to find strong pic usage every single time.  

Not that I always succeed, but it is always high in my mind.  It's tough because sometimes the pics are so far out there and your mind just won't wrap itself around it.  It is one of the things I enjoy about Ceramic DM, trying to find a story in those disparate suggestions.  It is always fun to see how somebody else wove the pics into a story, and I think knowing that somebody else is also trying to wrap their minds around the same pics you are makes it easier to keep going when you feel stuck.


----------



## Piratecat (Jul 12, 2004)

Well, at least I can serve as a bad example.


----------



## BSF (Jul 12, 2004)

*Raises eyebrow at Piratecat*

At least you can serve as a bad example?  As I recall, you still won that round (Services Rendered) and it it was a very enjoyable story.  Sure, you served as a bit of an object lesson, but that is hardly a bad example.  You are supportive of everyone that tries their hand at Ceramic DM, and you offer great feedback.  Hardly a bad example at all.


----------



## BSF (Jul 12, 2004)

OK, so far we have the following folks in Round Two.

CarpeDavid - Taking down our feline pirate friend
BardStephenFox - That's me 
Berandor - He who mocks Whisperfoot!  
Macbeth - Previous semi-finalist who has never won against Mythago (Lucky for him she is judging this time.)
Orchid Blossom - Wannabe underdog hoping we all forgot about her entry last Ceramic DM
Rodrigo Istalindir - For whom I do not have anything really snappy to say.  

That leaves us two unknowns for competitors.  We still have the tension of the random draw to see what the pair-offs will be.  (Hopefully I will avoid pairing off against Macbeth on the second round.)  We still have a lot of smack talk to post.  And we have the moment of thinking "Where did Mark get that picture?" as well as the moment of "How the hell am I supposed to write around that?"  

I don't know about you, but I am looking forward to it.


----------



## alsih2o (Jul 12, 2004)

I am excited too.

 Waiting patiently on 2 more judgements, hopefully soon.


----------



## orchid blossom (Jul 13, 2004)

BardStephenFox said:
			
		

> Orchid Blossom - Wannabe underdog hoping we all forgot about her entry last Ceramic DM




Come on, who wouldn't wanna be this cute little guy?  He's a hero!

Underdog


----------



## Berandor (Jul 13, 2004)

BardStephenFox said:
			
		

> OK, so far we have the following folks in Round Two.
> 
> CarpeDavid - Taking down our feline pirate friend
> BardStephenFox - That's me
> ...



 Nicely said.

I am looking forward to handing out defeats soon!


----------



## Macbeth (Jul 13, 2004)

Can't wait to see kick some serious ass in the next round(s).


----------



## Piratecat (Jul 13, 2004)

BardStephenFox said:
			
		

> *Raises eyebrow at Piratecat*




Goodness, David, I wasn't offended; that was me trying to be funny. If I can't laugh at myself, who can? I've done plenty of stories I really like, and a couple I don't. No worries.


----------



## alsih2o (Jul 13, 2004)

Barsoomcore-

 Taladas  "Jared Mills"

Great first paragraph. It's like buckling up your seatbelt -- you can 
hear the strap go tight on "Cause of death: Suicide," and you feel it 
lock into place on "I guess he really wanted to die."

Unfortunately, the unending grammatical errors strip this story of what 
power it might have. The tense keeps shifting and your sentences lack 
proper structure and punctuation so that I have to re-read them in 
order to figure out what you're saying. Some examples:

"One of the air tanks was dropped and ruptured and causes several other 
tanks to rupture." -- tense shift

"What is it going to conquer the world with a crop of rutabagas?" -- 
Are you saying it's going to conquer both the world and a crop of 
rutabagas? I know you're not, but this sentence isn't making it clear 
enough.

The narrative flows along speedily enough -- review the picture, find 
the girl, get the insight, buy the hats. Too much is left unexplained, 
however -- why is Becky green and in India? Why were the deaths covered 
up? What DID happen to Jared Mills? You make a lot of promises early on 
that you never end up delivering on.

"It’s not even a very good cover-up." -- here's an example promise. 
You're promising to tell me why it's not a very good cover-up. You're 
promising to tell me why it was covered up. You don't tell me either, 
so at the end of the story I feel let down.

A story is a kind of a negotiation between the reader and the writer. 
The writer lays out the opening of the story like a salesman lays out 
the offer. The reader looks it over and decides if she wants to 
participate based on that opening. If the writer fails to deliver on 
the promise of the opening, the reader is going to feel unsatisfied.

Always review your opening. What promises are you making that your 
reader is going to want fulfilled? This is why getting someone to edit 
your work is so important -- they'll be able better than you to notice 
promises getting made and then forgotten.

There's a good story in here, Taladas, that's worth working on. But it 
feels like it lacks enough care and attention to detail to be worthy of 
my time. Why should I labour over a story you weren't willing to?

I know that's untrue, but a couple of things give me that feeling.

First, there's the multitude of basic errors discussed above.

Second, there's a number of moments that aren't communicated clearly 
enough. For example: "Everything was black or white, not black and 
white like an Andy Griffith Show rerun but black or white." -- this 
means nothing to me. I mean, either it's black and white or it's not 
black and white. What are you distinguishing the Andy Griffith Show 
rerun from? Reruns of I Love Lucy?

Third, there's just some laziness in the language that ends up being 
confusing: "I find her. I think." -- "But it was she, I could tell." 
Which is it? Is he sure or not? It feels like you changed your mind as 
to his reaction while you were writing, and never bothered to line 
things up with each other.

Picture use is generally good -- I thought you'd thrown away the hats 
but those came back nicely.

I hope it's clear why I felt unsatisfied with this story. But thank you 
for it.



Graywolf-ELM  "Magic Fades"

Hm. What have we here? Dwarf with problem. Dwarf seeks answer to 
problem. Dwarf receives answer to problem. Dwart sets out to solve 
problem.

There's a problem. Dwarf doesn't have to struggle or sacrifice anything 
in order to accomplish dwarf's goal. This might be a good intro to the 
ACTUAL story, which is old Fildon's efforts to track down the shaman 
and restore his clan's honour. But it definitely lacks any sort of 
urgency or effort on the part of our hero.

That said, your usage is strong and confident, and your details are for 
the most part evocative. Watch out for using too many adjectives: "The 
pot-bellied and grizzle-faced mage stroked his braided beard and 
ornamental beard hammer absently." You spend a lot of time describing 
furnishings that never play a role in the story -- if it were clearer 
that they represented something important (say, Fildon's wealth 
acquired through the sale of items) then I wouldn't mind spending so 
much time on them.

Likewise the long story of Giro's maiming. Do we need to know this?

Very few short stories (and even fewer Ceramic DM stories) can afford 
to spend even a sentence on something that doesn't contribute to the 
overall effect. If this were the opening of a novel it wouldn't matter. 
Such details need to pile up over a couple of hundred pages before one 
can really judge if they're accomplishing anything or not. But in these 
very tight tales, you're just spinning your wheels.

Picture use is a bit iffy. All of the pictures are references to past 
events and none really contribute to the story itself. None form key 
images in the story except for the shaman.

You need to pay more attention to finding "the telling detail" (to use 
Hitchcock's expression) -- rather than blindly describe everything in 
the room, describe those items that will tell us what we absolutely 
need to know. Describe them in terms that tell us WHY they're important 
and HOW they relate to what's HAPPENING in the story.

Strunk and White said it best: "Omit needless words." That includes 
rich description that halts the story -- unless halting the story is 
what you want to do.

Thanks for this story.


Decision: Graywolf-ELM

 Mythago-

 Note to both: punctuation needed to be better, and both did a lot of
"tense shifting"--switching from the story happening in the past tense
to describing it in the present tense and back again. Very basic
writing errors--you should be catching this at the proofreading stage.

UNTITLED (Taladas)

There's the start of an interesting story in here and it just trickles
away. We have a psychic PI, a decades-old disappearance, and a bizarre
hat collection, and it turns into a world-destroying threat that's
taken care of in a handful of paragraphs. (Why did Becky sit around
passively waiting for somebody else to deal with the threat,
especially when she knew it needed a 'talisman'?)

There isn't much characterization. Derrick is a PI, and the short
sentences help give a sense of the gritty pulp detective. But we don't
get much more. He's psychic, he has an attitude problem, that's about
it. Becky isn't much more than a plot ticket, and her brother is a
walk on; the Threat to All Of Us isn't terribly threatening. Just
being told "it's weird and it will destroy humanity" doesn't create a
sense of threat in the reader.

All in all, it reads like a promising first draft.


MAGIC FADES (Graywolf-TLM)

An intriguing story that sounds like a first chapter. That can be
done--witness Sialia's "Salt, Clay" Ceramic DM story--but the chapter
has to stand alone. That is, you may know something happened before,
and you know the characters are going on to further adventures, but
the events of THIS story are complete. Here they aren't.

I liked the unusual setting; no dungeon, no battlefield, the main
action is a dwarf sitting at his desk and then going to his workshop. 
I would have liked to see the workshop described better instead of
just being told that they were sturdy and dwarven.

The voice of the forge and the narrator's voice seem uneven; "ignoble
fate," combined with colloquialisms like "easy enough," grates.  I
admit I'm also not a fan of the Sudden Explanation scene: at the end,
we learn about Fildon's bargain with the shaman, but there was no
foreshadowing, no hint that this very strange bargain might have
dawned on him as being related to the current problem. It feels very
wedged-in, especially since we get no sense of why Fildon was so
terrified or what the point of the bargain was--business knowledge?

Judgment this round for GRAYWOLF-TLM


 Alsih2o-

 Taladas. I like the “black or white” bit. But some of the language is confusing  and a couple of times I wasn’t sure if I should be laughing or not- “someplace with a name”.

 There is some really funny stuff here, but it is mixed in with some confusing narrative. For instance “she/it”, I got the confusion from the first use, after that you should choose.

 Sentences like “The detached hand had little nigh-invisible strings that moved the figure. It was moving the figure, controlling the figure.” Gain some strength from repetition and then give it up from too much repetition and this happens more than once in the story. I get the feeling the author is about to discover something about his/her writing style but hasn’t quite.

 The ending wraps way too quickly for me. I think there is the core of a really strong story in here and I would like to see it if Taladas can finish it later.

 Graywolf-ELM doesn’t so much give us a story as an interesting prelude. All the picture usages are good. Good but not great. 

 I REALLY like the main character and his screwed up foot. The cause of it, the office, the thoughts of this formerly noble dwarf all wrap me up and make me want more. That is the first step to success. But where is my second step? The more? 

 Good pic use, strong intro, but I feel even if you make a continuing story each section should stand on its own.

 Judgement- Graywolf-ELM

 Decision- Graywolf-ELM 3-0


----------



## Piratecat (Jul 13, 2004)

Congrats, Greywolf!


----------



## alsih2o (Jul 13, 2004)

Barsoomcore-

 RPGgirl  "20090 Upanga Road"

First off, I really enjoyed this story. A seemingly effortless glide 
from one picture to the next -- which is what Ceramic DM is all about. 
You couldn't tell this story without the pictures, and that's exactly 
how it should be. The images of Derek on his little pig bike and Ngai 
in the fish tank are central to the story, and even the books, which 
might be considered a throwaway, are so emotionally charged that you 
get away with it just fine.

Very well told. So now I'm going to tear it to little bits. That's what 
you signed up for, isn't it?

You suffer from unclear descriptions. I can't always see what's going 
on -- or rather, once you've set the scene, you seem to violate what 
you just said and so I get confused.

Take Derek's first arrival at the enkang. He looks in, sees no one but  
some kids, calls out and turns away. A voice calls "from the recesses 
of the biggest hut." Derek turns back "to face a seven foot Maasai 
warrior wrapped in bright red silk." This is confusing. Did the seven 
foot tall Maasai emerge from the hut? Did he materialize behind Derek? 
Suddenly you're changing my impression of what the scene is, and so I 
start to doubt my initial impression, and I get confused and you lose 
the evocation of the scene you originally had.

Another: at the end of the conversation with the Maasai, we see Derek, 
"jumping astride the bike and peddling back Dar as fast as he could." 
Which is fine, except that after Derek has evidently returned to Dar, 
the Maasai calls out to him. "Oh, I see," says your reader, "He didn't 
peddle back TO Dar, he peddled back TOWARDS Dar. I get it now." But by 
now your reader is no longer engrossed in the story.

This sort of thing is common throughout the story.

"Still skeptical, Derek returned to the elder’s hut. Entering, he was 
surprised by the enkang shaman waiting just inside the door." Why was 
he surprised? Was she doing something strange? Was she hovering at the 
doorway? Painted blue?

Okay, enough about that. You get the idea. Let's talk about structure. 
Derek's problem (I think) is that he's kind of lazy. He got himself 
into this rather interesting mess (delivering pork in Dar Es Salaam) 
because he didn't apply himself thoroughly enough, and his uncle is 
forever drilling the lesson of industry into his head. I'd like to have 
seen more made of this. Maybe what we needed to see more clearly was 
Derek's laziness early on, in order to contrast it with what he does 
for Ngai. Though then I'm wondering why Ngai gets the hard-working 
Derek...

You spend too much time explaining what needs to be done to restore 
Ngai. It feels like you don't think I'll believe you unless you provide 
lots of context. Keep in mind that Ngai is basically a MaGuffin, and as 
such, you don't want to spend any more time on it than absolutely 
necessary. Once the audience has it, move on. It's the LEAST important 
part of your story. What matters isn't who Ngai is or why Derek has to 
be the one to free him. What matters is what happens to Derek.

Very fine story indeed, RPGgirl. A real pleasure.


yangnome  "Mother Knows Best"

If you're going to build your story out of big blocky paragraphs, you'd 
better be supplying some energetic, poetically muscular prose to power 
your readers through those great big undigested chunks. To be honest, 
this was a hard story to get through. I kept skimming rather than 
reading, because of those big paragraphs.

Hemingway can do it. But even Hemingway breaks it up and delivers some 
one-line paragraphs to build a rhythm with the reader. And not many 
people can write like ol' Ernest.

If your story is going to be based on the slow recovering of memory, 
there'd better be some urgency to that recovery. It needs to MATTER if 
our hero figures out the truth now or later, otherwise, who cares?

THIS story doesn't get started until the "brotherhood" enters the 
scene. And even then it's not until we learn that the brotherhood 
harbours some dark secret that we see any reason to even be interested 
-- and by this time your story's nearly over.

You need to cut about 75% of this story out. Seriously, this is a 
1,000-word story.

There's also a problem with point of view. Is this the thoughts of our 
hero as he discovers the truth? The first paragraph ("I guess you'll 
have to bear with me for a couple minutes") suggests that but then why 
is the whole thing in past tense? And what's up with the italicized 
bits? They're not clearly differentiated from the rest of the story. I 
know what they're supposed to be: our hero's "quoted" thoughts. But 
then you get lines like, "There is no way I could live me life like 
this," which ought to be italicized but aren't. And these sorts of 
inconsistencies really make it hard for me to embrace the story and 
lose myself in it.

The story as I see it is of a fellow who joined up with an unsavoury 
group, didn't take their evil seriously, and got betrayed by them. But 
this story is hard to find behind an unnecessary set of contrivances 
like the memory loss and the discussions of reincarnation, and the end 
result is that the story itself is robbed of its strength.

Betrayal only means something if we care about the people involved. And 
the only way to get us to care about these people is make them the 
center of the story. I feel like you're shying away from the actual 
emotional core of your story -- which is a betrayal of a friend -- and 
giving me a lot of smoke and mirrors that I don't care about. Show me 
the friendship and THEN turn it into a bitter act of cold-hearted 
betrayal. NOW you've got a story.


Decision: RPGgirl


 Mythago-

 20090 UPANGA ROAD (RPGgirl)

The biggest believability hurdle is Derek getting sent to Africa to live 
with his uncle--a foster home, or a residential foster care place, would 
be far more likely than placing him in Africa unless his uncle jumped 
through all the hoops to get him there. I'd trim the details about all 
the other options closed to him.

The rest of the story hangs together quite nicely. Why does Derek have 
to do this task? Magic reasons; he's a foreigner. Is he saving the 
world? No, but he's helping a lot of people who couldn't otherwise be 
saved through normal means. I'd leave out the stuff about 'child of 
Africa'--it just sounds off. And it would be better to actually hear 
Erasto speak to Derek, rather than giving us the summary version of Ngai 
and his imprisonment.

I very much like that Derek, while a likeable kid, is still a kid and 
not the Hero Reborn. The Masai admit that they weren't exactly expecting 
him (though they are kind about it), and he has normal-person problems 
getting in and freeing Ngai. However--I know that it's tricky to get 
Derek from freeing Ngai to back out of the aquarium in a narratively 
interesting fashion, but "it all went black and then he woke up in his 
own bed" is a little too much of the easy way out.

Very good use of the pictures. The books, while briefly shown, tied into 
the emotional theme of Derek's loss of his father and his future.


MOTHER KNOWS BEST (yanggnome)

Small credibility point: if the narrator is eviscerated and waiting to 
die, how is he writing all this down? (He tells us he's writing.) Either 
he's not dying, in which case he's probably figured out an afterlife is 
not in the cards, or he's dying and would be unlikely to carefully write 
all this out.

The Uglyfish photo, highlighting the most dramatic moment of the story, 
was nicely used. The book and bicycle photos, unfortunately, were pretty 
much throwaways. (I'm also not sure why our narrator would be in an 
unfamiliar place alone with a stack of his books.)

I liked the way the story started out, with the single, irrelevant 
memory of throwing pencils into the ceiling, and the narrator's 
frustration at remembering one useless, frustrating memory. The problem 
is that the memories that explain it all come in a long rush, after he 
sees the sharps container. After seeing himself in the tank it's kind of 
anticlimactic, and it feels forced. Bits and pieces slowly building to a 
conclusion, or one huge rush when he sees what he really is: either 
would work, but the long tale about the fraternity feels kind of tacked on.

Judgment this round for RPGGIRL


 Alsih2o-

 RPGgirl gives us a cute, interesting, quirky little tale. It has some wording and language problems but they fall aside for em as the pictures work smoothly into the text and the images provided by them and by the author work harmoniously to drag me along through the story.

 There area s I said, some bumps. The push to industry by the uncle followed by him sending the hero to bed, things like that can be distracting but they washed away for me under the weight of the interesting characters and the cool use of pictures.

 Yangnome- To be honest I am made a little uncomfortable by the opening text. The whole part about being unable to move and in pain and not knowing where you are doesn’t lean towards the almost casual writing style of the narrator.

 I really did like most of the picture usage, the Uglygfish pic especially. Unexpected use always gets extra points from me. But I still feel there is a large hole here. Like two stories are being told and the author hasn’t realy dedicated to one over the other.

 Good pic use, but some failure in…cohesiveness?

 Judgement: RPGgirl

 Decision: RPGgirl 3-0


----------



## alsih2o (Jul 13, 2004)

Piratecat said:
			
		

> If I can't laugh at myself, who can?





 OOOOH, me! Me, me, me!


----------



## alsih2o (Jul 13, 2004)

The new bracket for round 2 will be posted in the morning...

 Get ready kids!


----------



## Berandor (Jul 13, 2004)

Congrats, Greywolf!

---From the other thread:

Greywolf ELM, Magic Fades:
I somehow got the feeling you weren't telling the real story; it was more like a prologue (or perhaps epilogue) to the really important events. That said, the story was well-written, and serves as a great entry into your world; it would also make a cool plot hook for an adventure.
What I'm not sure about was the use of the pictures. On the one hand, you use all of them quite expertly, and I liked the hand as a dancing machine. However, the pics are simply specific magic items that went bad; it didn't really matter whether a dancing machine broke down, or a magic fridge. In that regard, you had total freedom to shape the items to the pics. It worked well, I'm just not sure wether it will be regarded as a good use of them (or at least three of them). However, I liked the image of these clan having a room full of hats of disguise and change 
Still, it is a rather static story; for the most part, the main character just reads letters about magic items failing. Once the pace starts to quicken up, and his dark secret is touched upon, the story ends quickly. At least I would have wanted to read more about the dwarf's meeting with the "devil". I haven't counted the words, however, so maybe it's a space constraint?

Taladas:
I really, really liked the idea behind your story. The psychic investigator reminded me of a Trinity character (sorry), and I loved it  Funny, too, that both you and Greywolf use the diving pic as a memory 
That said, you really have to look out for tenses. You frequently jump between past and present. Just one example (_past tense_ / *present tense*):


> One of the air tanks _was dropped_ and _ruptured_ and *causes* several other tanks to rupture. The chain reaction of exploding air tanks *causes* the shack and its occupants to be torn apart and thrown about the immediate landscape. Funnily enough their deaths _were_ barely an hour before his.



These mistakes jolted me out of the story several times, and that really hurt the narrative for me.
On the other hand, you had some really great off-hand comments: "the Imelda Marcus of Hats", "I guess he really wanted to die", etc. They almost made up for it again 
Picture use was good. Even though you use the diving pic as a picture, by having the PI (Psychic Eye ) live through the memory, you elevate it from that status. The hats first seemed like a throwaway, but you came back to it and improved upon its use enormously. The picture of the emciated man was a little jarring at first, but I gues it could be a really skinny woman as well.
If I felt that something was missing in the story, it was a clear resolution of the events leading up to Beth's disappearance. Did she see the monster below the lake? What happened to the men? Why did she flee to India instead of trying to find help? If she went crazy, I would have liked that to be clearer, because her "crazy talk" just walked the line mostly due to her really possessing powers to take the PI on an astral jaunt.

---
ETA: Wow, that was quick!

Congrats RPGGirl!

My comments:

---
RPGgirl, 90210 Upanga Road: 
Sorry for mangling the title, but that's what I first thought of when I read the title - a high school romance/drama  Luckily (?), you proved me wrong. I liked how you integrated the hog-rider into the story, making him more than just a delivery boy by building the prophecy around him. I liked that, especially since it was the kind of prophecy that I like: totally open to interpretation 
The books were difficult to include, because let's face it, they're books. However, you made them Derek's father's books. That was a nice touch that gave the pic a little more significance than it would otherwise have had.
The "commies"-pic was a little thrown away, I felt. It fit into the story, but didn't really have an important place in it.
The wrinkled face, on the other hand, was an integral part of the story. I also liked it because I hadn't thought of the face being _inside_ the tank - a nice variation.
There are some things I didn't like that much. First is Derek's uncle. Why does he speak in "Pidgin Asian"? I assume that he and Derek talk in their native tongue? If not, I would have liked to see that clarified, because as it stands now, that's how I imagin the uncle speaking when he's in full command of the language; I don't want to imaging how he speaks English or Afrikaans 
Also, the hog rider is a little heavy. Not fat by all means, but also not the typical swimmer's built. I would have liked that to be addressed when Derek's breaking in; swinging himself over a grate, climbing a narrow ledge, squeezing through a window would all have given ample opportunity for a little comment, I think.
Otherwise, a nice mythological story that I enjoyed a lot.

Yangnome, Mother knows best (yes, I'm tackling all stories at once ):
A man without memories? come on, that has been done to death already!  (at least you did better than I did in that regard, I think).
Your description of the main character lying on that table, with day and night looming over him, was really great, also how he managed to gain control over his body.
Picture use was fine; as with Greywolf, I think a pile of books is just that, eh? Especially when the titles are visible. The other pics really could have used a little more detail, I think. They weren't really weak uses, per se, but they could have been a lot stronger still. Why is the character's skin so veiny and scarred - is it just the state of his body, or did David pump his blood out?
The hog rider, even though David is an important part in the story, felt not really good, either. Especially consodering David's role, I would have liked a little more insight into him. (see below) However, "pig on a hog" is a pretty strong image. 
The "commies" was, I think, better integrated into the story, or could have been, than with Greywolf. However, you simply present it in an off-hand comment. If you'd described the process of putting them on before the ritual in greater detail, it would have given the pic a little more weight, I think.
Finally, I felt the end to come too soon. I was left with too many questions. Why didn't David come in during the two days the protagonist was awake? Why was David doing this? Just because he wanted to built robots? Here's where I really felt something lacked. Instead of just writing about the rants in David's notes, I would have loved to read the rants, themselves. It would have given us information as well as really shown us the deranged mind of the hog-pig. 
That said, I liked the very ending for its spiritualness. Not a bad entry, at all, but one that imo could have been polished into a really great one - somehting it has in common with the other stories in this post, and with a lot of stories in Ceramic DM as a whole.


----------



## Berandor (Jul 13, 2004)

alsih2o said:
			
		

> The new bracket for round 2 will be posted in the morning...
> 
> Get ready kids!



 Bring it on!


----------



## Graywolf-ELM (Jul 13, 2004)

Thank you for the feedback.  It ended up being a prologue type of submission, and I ended it there, so that I would not leave the encounter with the Shaman/Outsider unfinished due to word limits.  Thank you to the others who made comments of the writing as well.  I hope I can take what was written here in judgement, into the next story.

For scheduling the next round, I will be out of town from the 23rd, through the 4th of August.  Scheduling for Friday this week would work out best for me, if my competitor agrees.  I was not sure how long the competition would last, and I am quite sure I will not have Internet access for the two weeks.  I don't expect the competition to wait around for me, so I'll understand a summary judgement against me as well.

Thanks again, it has been fun to participate in the competition.  The commentary on different stories from judges and others, is interesting to read.

GW


----------



## Rodrigo Istalindir (Jul 13, 2004)

FWIW, I will also be on vacation, from Friday 16th to Monday the 24th.  I'll have occasional internet/computer access from the 19th onwards.


----------



## Delgar (Jul 13, 2004)

Congratulations to Greywolf-ELM and RPGgirl for advancing to the next round!


I know RPGgirl has been waiting on pins and needles for the judgement, so I had to call her and wake her up to tell her the news. She really enjoyed writing her first entry, and I think she only bit my head off two or three times during the process  .

Congrats to all the competitors for a job well done!

Delgar


----------



## BSF (Jul 13, 2004)

Congratulations to Greywolf-ELM and to RPGgirl!

Woot!  Count them up folks, that is three people from New Mexico continuing to round two.  (No offense to our esteemed opponents is intended.)  New Mexico is a little more than chile plants and wide open spaces.  

My scheduling is open except for August 10-13.  I will be on the road and while I will have net access, I will also be putting in very long days.  The only other scheduling conflict that might occur is if the new baby arrives early.  The due date is August 26, so I should be OK with that for a little while.  

Shout out to Maldur:  Hey, was there still a possibility you would be in the area in August?  If so, be sure to drop me a line.  It would be great to meet you.

PS - Piratecat, I was hoping you were joking.


----------



## RPGgirl (Jul 13, 2004)

Thanks for the comments, and I agree. As a first time competitor, I didn't realize how difficult it was going to be to write under such a short time frame. To make matters worse, when I said I was good to go anytime, I forgot that it was the fourth of July weekend, and I had plans on Friday.  On top of that I live on the westcoast, so got the pictures at 445am on Friday, was busy with a forgotten previous engagement until midnight that night, started working on the story on Saturday, and had to have it posted before I went to bed on Sunday (or get up at 400am on Monday). I am not complaining, but the timing added a little stress to an already pressure laden activity - entirely my own fault.

Anyway, thanks to the judges for all their time and effort commenting on all the stories. As a writer, I have learned alot that I can use to make my work stronger.

I look forward to the next round.

As far as scheduling goes, my calendar is pretty open except from August 25th to September 15th. I can work around my competitor's schedule.


----------



## Macbeth (Jul 13, 2004)

I should have internet access for a while. I may have more touble getting online when i go home after the summer semester, but that's a few weeks away, I'm good for the next round.


----------



## barsoomcore (Jul 13, 2004)

Piratecat said:
			
		

> If I can't laugh at myself, who can?



Is that a trick question?


----------



## Taladas (Jul 13, 2004)

Congratulations Greywold-ELM! 

Thank you Judges for your fine critiques. I appreciate your candor and advice. 

I am looking forward to seeing the next entries.


----------



## Graywolf-ELM (Jul 13, 2004)

Taladas said:
			
		

> Congratulations Greywold-ELM!
> 
> Thank you Judges for your fine critiques. I appreciate your candor and advice.
> 
> I am looking forward to seeing the next entries.




Thank you Taladas, This has been fun to try.  I am enjoying everyones' stories so far.  I'll be headed for the regular threads for this type of thing, to hone my skills, after I am out of competition.

GW


----------



## alsih2o (Jul 13, 2004)

I thought maybe I would randomize the pairings for the next round but we seem to have a bracket working so here are the pair-ups-

 Carpe david vs.
Bard Stephen Fox

Berandor vs.
Macbeth 

Orchid blossom vs.
Graywolf- ELM

RPGgirl vs. 
Rodrigo Istalindir

 Holler about availability, let me know. It gets tougher form here (hopefully). Each pairing in the next round will have to deal with some Art by our very own Siala.


----------



## orchid blossom (Jul 13, 2004)

Congrats to Greywolf-ELM and RPGirl.  One kind of wait ends, another begins.

I'm out of town this weekend (July 17-18), although a Sunday afternoon or evening posting would be alright.  Otherwise I'm free.


----------



## Graywolf-ELM (Jul 13, 2004)

orchid blossom said:
			
		

> Congrats to Greywolf-ELM and RPGirl.  One kind of wait ends, another begins.
> 
> I'm out of town this weekend (July 17-18), although a Sunday afternoon or evening posting would be alright.  Otherwise I'm free.




<tip of the hat to orchid blossom for her first round entry>

"For scheduling the next round, I will be out of town from the 23rd, through the 4th of August."

It looks like right away, today or tomorrow, or late this weekend Sunday, between the two of us, between our schedules.  Is either of these too soon?  

I'll understand if we can't wait until after th 5th of August when I return.  

GW


----------



## orchid blossom (Jul 13, 2004)

Graywolf-ELM said:
			
		

> <tip of the hat to orchid blossom for her first round entry>
> 
> "For scheduling the next round, I will be out of town from the 23rd, through the 4th of August."
> 
> ...




Thank you, sir.

Unless they went up right now, starting before the weekend would be tough for me.  Sounds like a Sunday night start works for both of us.

I'll save the gratuitous smack-talk for later and just say good luck for now.


----------



## BSF (Jul 13, 2004)

alsih2o said:
			
		

> I thought maybe I would randomize the pairings for the next round but we seem to have a bracket working so here are the pair-ups-
> 
> Carpe david vs.
> Bard Stephen Fox
> ...




Mark,
Is the second round going to be 5 pics 6000 words?  I will get the pair-ups listed and the link menu ready.  

I'm going up against CarpeDavid eh?  Two David's going toe-to-toe might be amusing.  I can be ready to go pretty much anytime, but if it works out that we have some time on the weekend (Saturday and Sunday) I would appreciate it.  I haven't had the luxury of a weekend to write for a Ceramic DM and I am wondering if I could do any better a job with my story if I didn't have so much pesky work time in the way.   

Let the smacktalk begin!


----------



## RPGgirl (Jul 13, 2004)

BardStephenFox said:
			
		

> Mark,
> Is the second round going to be 5 pics 6000 words? I will get the pair-ups listed and the link menu ready.
> 
> I'm going up against CarpeDavid eh? Two David's going toe-to-toe might be amusing. I can be ready to go pretty much anytime, but if it works out that we have some time on the weekend (Saturday and Sunday) I would appreciate it. I haven't had the luxury of a weekend to write for a Ceramic DM and I am wondering if I could do any better a job with my story if I didn't have so much pesky work time in the way.
> ...



I'm free to start anytime after Sunday night, with sooner being better than later.


----------



## carpedavid (Jul 13, 2004)

I'm free to start whenever, though I second BSF's desire for weekend time. Really, though, I'm good to go at any point.

Besides, the blood level in my ink well is getting low. *pulls out quill*


----------



## BSF (Jul 13, 2004)

carpedavid said:
			
		

> I'm free to start whenever, though I second BSF's desire for weekend time. Really, though, I'm good to go at any point.
> 
> Besides, the blood level in my ink well is getting low. *pulls out quill*




*in my best Piratecat voice*
That's your quill?  Oh, that's why it's so small.  

But seriously, signing things in blood?  It's going to take more than selling your soul to get to round three.


----------



## Macbeth (Jul 13, 2004)

Any time works for me. Looks like I won't have to go to work on Thursday, giving me alot of time to write, and on Friday I've got a couple of tests, but I've also got a real easy day at work that should give me time to write. Having time on Saturday or Sunday would of course be the best. So post away, I'll be around.


----------



## Macbeth (Jul 13, 2004)

An Inspirational poster for Berandor, in the spirit of out next match.


----------



## BSF (Jul 14, 2004)

Macbeth said:
			
		

> An Inspirational poster for Berandor, in the spirit of out next match.




Dude, that is harsh.  That's coming from me and I managed to get a sideswipe in on Fransica in my story.


----------



## Macbeth (Jul 14, 2004)

Completely off topic butt:

As I was looking for good image trashtalk, I stumbled across Star Wars Macbeth. Uh... I'm at a loss, but I'm downloading it now...


----------



## Macbeth (Jul 14, 2004)

BardStephenFox said:
			
		

> Dude, that is harsh.  That's coming from me and I managed to get a sideswipe in on Fransica in my story.



You think that's bad, I found out that somebody made an illustration of our match. It amazed me, but somebody made a nice little gif based on how the match is going to go:


----------



## Macbeth (Jul 14, 2004)

I'm at a loss for words. I just saw Macbeth and Macduff hash it out with lightsabers...


----------



## Berandor (Jul 14, 2004)

Heh. I had a feeling I'd go up against Macbeth, and I promised myself to refrain from obvious puns. But with _that_ kind of provocation... I still won't. It hasn't done anyone any good (except maybe mythago), but I'll reserve the right to not wash my hands clean of your blood after I advanced. 

Btw, when looking for MacBeth, I found 





 ???

ETA: StarWars MacBeth is strange, yet strangely fun! 
Oh, and as long as we don't start Thursday, everything is fine with me. But I don't have time Thursday, nor Saturday, so doing it all on Friday evening would be tough. I'm six hours ahead of you, though, so keep that in mind. (Heh, I'm already ahead of Macbeth )


----------



## Macbeth (Jul 14, 2004)

Berandor said:
			
		

> Oh, and as long as we don't start Thursday, everything is fine with me. But I don't have time Thursday, nor Saturday, so doing it all on Friday evening would be tough. I'm six hours ahead of you, though, so keep that in mind. (Heh, I'm already ahead of Macbeth )



Great Pic!

So, would starting today work? It's not Thursday (I think).


----------



## Berandor (Jul 14, 2004)

it would. Even though Wednesday is my "work on your website"-day, I can postpone that easily 
However, the pics would have to be here in the next ~4 hours so I can start on it tonight and not in the morning, which would be Thursday morning, which would be... wait for it: Thursday 
For the record, it's now ~3:30 pm where I post.


----------



## alsih2o (Jul 14, 2004)

Round 2 Macbeth Vs. Berandor

 5 pics, 6000 words, 72 hours


----------



## Berandor (Jul 14, 2004)

Whoa! That was quick!

Great pics, btw!


----------



## alsih2o (Jul 14, 2004)

Berandor said:
			
		

> Whoa! That was quick!
> 
> Great pics, btw!




 In the "credit where credit is due" dept. Siala did the green artwork and Mythago sent me the first pic. 

 Siala and Mythago are busting their hump on this game all the time, not just when folks are playing. They are both a killer help with sent pics, art, behind the scenes hand-holding and general goodness.


----------



## Macbeth (Jul 14, 2004)

Whew, after considering about a dozen different plots during my Probability class, I think I haver something writeable, maybe. Probably.


----------



## carpedavid (Jul 14, 2004)

BSF - how about getting our pics sometime tonight or tomorrow night. That would put our deadline at eveningish on Saturday or Sunday, and would work well for me.


----------



## Piratecat (Jul 14, 2004)

alsih2o said:
			
		

> Mythago sent me the first pic.




Of course she did. It has hands in it. AND a stone globe. 

_Auggh! The hands! The terrible tapping of the telltale hands!_

Fantastic photo-and-art pairing for this round. I can't wait to read the stories.


----------



## BSF (Jul 14, 2004)

carpedavid said:
			
		

> BSF - how about getting our pics sometime tonight or tomorrow night. That would put our deadline at eveningish on Saturday or Sunday, and would work well for me.




I have my Thursday gaming night and my Friday gaming night so my optimum time would be late Thursday pics so I have time to think and then both weekend days to write.  I can do it earlier, or even later, so I can work with the schedule.  I'm generally pretty flexible about it, but if the time is open for you to where we can both get 1-2 weekend days to write, that would be great.


----------



## alsih2o (Jul 14, 2004)

BardStephenFox said:
			
		

> I have my Thursday gaming night and my Friday gaming night so my optimum time would be late Thursday pics so I have time to think and then both weekend days to write.  I can do it earlier, or even later, so I can work with the schedule.  I'm generally pretty flexible about it, but if the time is open for you to where we can both get 1-2 weekend days to write, that would be great.




 Tomorrow is a hell day for me, 16 hours stoking wood into a kiln, how is Friday morning?


----------



## BSF (Jul 14, 2004)

alsih2o said:
			
		

> Tomorrow is a hell day for me, 16 hours stoking wood into a kiln, how is Friday morning?




*whistles and hopes that Hong doesn't stroll by the thread*

Friday morning works fine for me.


----------



## carpedavid (Jul 14, 2004)

Friday morning works for me, too.


----------



## RPGgirl (Jul 14, 2004)

Has anyone heard from Rodrigo?  It looks like everyone else has spoke up about availibility, and I was wondering when he would like to start?


----------



## Rodrigo Istalindir (Jul 14, 2004)

RPGgirl said:
			
		

> Has anyone heard from Rodrigo?  It looks like everyone else has spoke up about availibility, and I was wondering when he would like to start?




I posted yesterday (actually, before anyone asked.  I'm psychotic.  Or something like that.)



			
				Rodrigo Istalindir said:
			
		

> FWIW, I will also be on vacation, from Friday 16th to Monday the 26th. I'll have occasional internet/computer access from the 19th onwards.




Friday, Sat and Sunday I'll have guests I'm expected to entertain 24/7.  Grr. A Sunday night start (or later) would be best for me.


----------



## RPGgirl (Jul 14, 2004)

Sorry, about that, I completely missed that post. 

Anyway, it looks like a Sunday night start then.


----------



## orchid blossom (Jul 14, 2004)

Greywolf-ELM, would sometime in the late evening (8 or 9 o'clock eastern,) Sunday work for you?  That would then give us some time on Wednesday night rather than losing the last 12 hours or so to work time.


----------



## Graywolf-ELM (Jul 15, 2004)

orchid blossom said:
			
		

> Greywolf-ELM, would sometime in the late evening (8 or 9 o'clock eastern,) Sunday work for you?  That would then give us some time on Wednesday night rather than losing the last 12 hours or so to work time.




Sure, well enough, that'll put it 10 or 11 here and I'll have some time that evening to think about it, and start on it the next night.  Good Luck to us both.
 

GW


----------



## Ao the Overkitty (Jul 15, 2004)

Graywolf-ELM said:
			
		

> Sure, well enough, that'll put it 10 or 11 here and I'll have some time that evening to think about it, and start on it the next night.  Good Luck to us both.
> 
> 
> GW



 Don't you mean it'll be 6 or 7 there?


----------



## BSF (Jul 15, 2004)

Umm, Greywolf, I know you already know this.  But, that is really 6-7 PM Mountain time.  Not much time after work, but more time right after the pics come out.


----------



## Graywolf-ELM (Jul 15, 2004)

Ok.  You both caught me, I have a disorder, Time Dyslexia.  I've been under treatment for a while.    Seriously, 8 or 9 Eastern , with the more proper 6 or 7 Mountain, is still fine with me.  It works out the same for me.  Get the little one to bed, chat with the wife, then get online and see what the damage is.

GW


----------



## alsih2o (Jul 15, 2004)

I am in Central. Can someone please post a central time for the potter?

 Really, the whole time zine thing completely makes my head swim


----------



## Ao the Overkitty (Jul 15, 2004)

Clay, that would be 7-8pm Central Time.

One hour behind eastern and one hour after mountain. 

And orchid curses not being able to post this responce from work, so she makes me do it.


----------



## BSF (Jul 15, 2004)

Ah, is Orchid Blossom one of those that has a no internet work policy?  That's good to keep in mind for scheduleing.


----------



## Ao the Overkitty (Jul 15, 2004)

Yup. She is.  She's been bending the rules lately by checking the ceramic thread.


----------



## Macbeth (Jul 16, 2004)

Ugh, these must be the hardest pics EVAR!


----------



## orchid blossom (Jul 16, 2004)

BardStephenFox said:
			
		

> Ah, is Orchid Blossom one of those that has a no internet work policy?  That's good to keep in mind for scheduleing.




Normally I'd be fishing for at least one weekend day, but since I'll be out of town this weekend and Greywolf-ELM the next, looks like during the week is our best time.  I don't have any real demands on my home time, so I should still have a good amount of time to work.


----------



## Graywolf-ELM (Jul 16, 2004)

orchid blossom said:
			
		

> Normally I'd be fishing for at least one weekend day, but since I'll be out of town this weekend and Greywolf-ELM the next, looks like during the week is our best time.  I don't have any real demands on my home time, so I should still have a good amount of time to work.




Yes weekends are much better, but the next two are spoken for, after this one for me, and as you say, this one is spent for you.  I'll be tired from long days, so I may not be much competition.

GW


----------



## carpedavid (Jul 16, 2004)

alsih2o said:
			
		

> Tomorrow is a hell day for me, 16 hours stoking wood into a kiln, how is Friday morning?



It's Friday, it's morning, and I'm ready and waiting


----------



## Sialia (Jul 16, 2004)

Macbeth said:
			
		

> Ugh, these must be the hardest pics EVAR!



But I sooo can't wait to see what you've done with them . . .


----------



## alsih2o (Jul 16, 2004)

Carpe David V.s Bard Stephen Fox

 5 pics, 72 hours, 6000 word limit.


----------



## carpedavid (Jul 16, 2004)

Got em.

Eeep.


----------



## Macbeth (Jul 16, 2004)

Sialia said:
			
		

> But I sooo can't wait to see what you've done with them . . .



Don't hope for too much, I think my entry, to put it nicely, sucks


----------



## Sialia (Jul 16, 2004)

Oh this  . . .this is going to be _goood_.


----------



## BSF (Jul 16, 2004)

Oh my!  Hmm, one of those pics looks like a previous use, so I think I need to set aside some of my existing thoughts on that.  I don't have a story idea yet (It's only been a minute since I looked at the pics), but my initial thought is that my wife will not want to read this story.

Hmm, what can I do with these pics?  Very interesting.  I love Sialia's art in there though.  Very evocative.  I need a story thread in there.  Time to see if my muse is awake.

Oh my, this might be a tremendous amount of fun.


----------



## alsih2o (Jul 16, 2004)

BardStephenFox said:
			
		

> Oh my!  Hmm, one of those pics looks like a previous use,.




 Ach! Did I foul, Did I reuse a pic? Oh, my. Which???


----------



## BSF (Jul 16, 2004)

*smile*  

I think needalight.jpg was used back in October.  It sure looks familiar for some reason.  I will see if I can dig up the reason.


----------



## BSF (Jul 16, 2004)

OK, a little bit ago, my muse fed me one possible story.  I had to laugh at the idea, but I need to figure out if I am clever enough to really pull it off first.  I might need to requisition a different story idea instead.  

The pic titled needalight.jpg was also used in the October Ceramic DM.  Round 2 and it was called hardday.jpg.  But, it wasn't!  That is to say it was posted up, but Sparky was busy that weekend and did not see the post.  So, the first pics were scrapped and a new set was posted.  So, I have seen the pic and it was almost used, but not quite.


----------



## Macbeth (Jul 16, 2004)

BardStephenFox said:
			
		

> I don't have a story idea yet (It's only been a minute since I looked at the pics), but my initial thought is that my wife will not want to read this story.
> 
> Oh my, this might be a tremendous amount of fun.



Have fun with it. I like your pics better then I like mine.

Having said that, expect to see my entry aroun 5:00-6:30 (my time) today. Not sure that I would be up early enough to post it tomorrow, so I'll post before I head off to BSF's for our game night.


----------



## BSF (Jul 16, 2004)

Heh - Quit being so hard on yourself.  I'm sure the story will still be fine and an interesting read.


----------



## barsoomcore (Jul 16, 2004)

Yo, Potter, is there a certain amount of chaos in the initial post, there? I note we have a couple of judgements posted for second round stories... Which seems kind of funny to me.


----------



## BSF (Jul 16, 2004)

Hmm, that might be my fault.  I put together some menu links for an older Ceramic DM and sent two emails to Mark with the current menu, and the one from October.  Given the way the text file is constructed with the URL links, it is not the easiest thing to read without posting.  I will re-send the correct links just in case I sent the wrong links earlier today.


----------



## mythago (Jul 16, 2004)

Piratecat said:
			
		

> Of course she did. It has hands in it. AND a stone globe.



But only one, alas. Perhaps Sialia could produce something more.....challenging.


----------



## alsih2o (Jul 16, 2004)

barsoomcore said:
			
		

> Yo, Potter, is there a certain amount of chaos in the initial post, there? I note we have a couple of judgements posted for second round stories... Which seems kind of funny to me.




 *whistles innocently* Nope, looks fine to me.

 OR

 BSF did it, get 'im!

 Whichever you prefer.


----------



## carpedavid (Jul 16, 2004)

Upon close inspection of the pictures, it appears that, once again, I will be unable to fulfill my goal of composing a Ceramic DM entry entirely in nonsense verse.

Looks like limmericks are out too.

Damn.


----------



## BSF (Jul 16, 2004)

carpedavid said:
			
		

> Upon close inspection of the pictures, it appears that, once again, I will be unable to fulfill my goal of composing a Ceramic DM entry entirely in nonsense verse.
> 
> Looks like limmericks are out too.
> 
> Damn.




Oh, c'mon, you just need to try harder.  You need to work hard to fulfill your goals.  

So, um what does your name mean?  As best as I can tell, it is some sort of amalgamation of carped and avid.  A quick copy/paste from dictionary.com shows the following.

*carp*    ( P )  Pronunciation Key  (kärp)
intr.v. carped, carp·ing, carps 
To find fault in a disagreeable way; complain fretfully. See Synonyms at quibble.

n. 
A fretful complaint.

*av·id*    ( P )  Pronunciation Key  (vd)
adj. 
Having an ardent desire or unbounded craving; greedy: avid for adventure. 
Marked by keen interest and enthusiasm: an avid sports fan. 

So, you are some sort of enthusiatic complainer?  I get it!  You are an art critic!


----------



## Sialia (Jul 16, 2004)

Sialia said:
			
		

> Oh this . . .this is going to be _goood_.



Clarification: the above comment referred to the set of pictures for CD and BSF, not Macbeth's as-yet-unveiled entry.

Which I expect will be better than he thinks, but that would still be "good" with only 2 o's and no italics.

The extra emphasis is solely for the delight in watching CD and BSF squirm.


----------



## Macbeth (Jul 16, 2004)

Hmmm... Following BSF's lead, I did a little thinking about my oponent's name:

Berandor

maybe...

Beer and door?


----------



## Sialia (Jul 16, 2004)

Sialia said:
			
		

> Clarification: the above comment referred to the set of pictures for CD and BSF, not Macbeth's as-yet-unveiled entry.
> 
> Which I expect will be better than he thinks, but that would still be "good" with only 2 o's and no italics.
> 
> The extra emphasis is solely for the delight in watching CD and BSF squirm.



Although actually--now that I think about it--by that criteria, Macbeth's current agony_  does_ qualify for the extra o and italics.


----------



## Macbeth (Jul 16, 2004)

_Round 2, Match 2: Macbeth vs. Berandor_
*Guilt*
_By Sage LaTorra, a.k.a. Macbeth_


“To sleep, Perchance to dream.” He was talking about death, you know. Hamlet. When he said “sleep” he meant “die.” I never understood that, until recently. But now I see what he meant.




I had the dream again. She was there again. I suffered again. And I still wake up every morning, still unforgiven. 12th night in a row I’ve had that dream. I think it may be driving me insane. Not medically insane, not DSM-IV insane, just not in my right mind.

It’s not depression. I checked DSm-IV, and I don’t have the symptoms. Depression feels better then this. I don’t have the symptoms of depression. I just have my pain. No depressed appetite, no difficulty concentrating, no inability to get up and do things, and no sleep disorder (unless you count the dreams). I’m just going insane.

Dostoyevsky had some interesting ideas on suffering. I never understood that, until recently. He suggested that you “accept suffering, and be redeemed by it.” I tried that. And I try it again every night. But I haven’t been redeemed.

I don’t know how to deal with the pain. The guilt. I need to let it out. I need an outlet. I need to show my pain to others.

Last night. Last night. Last night I was there again. The same dream. 

I was laying on my bed, eyes pointed to heaven, examining the cheap light fixture over head. The fake gold, the glass diamonds, the plastic crystals. All of it fake. The gilt hanging over me.

It was one of those dreams, the ones where you’re not sure you’re dreaming. I’m still not sure if I was, come to think of it.

My eyes had been closed for a while, my blinders to the world. I was safe inside my own head. Then she was there. Inside my eyelids, inside my head, a vision from what seemed like so long ago, I hoped I had forgotten it. The ephemeral shapes that danced across my closed eyes gathered, and she was there. Her face turned at me, her daughter hiding in the long folds of her dress. The last image of a place I’ll never visit again. She said something, something I couldn’t hear. She said it from too far away, too long ago.(1)

And she faded, and my dream began, if it was a dream. I was in the mountains again, on my way to Rapatna. But the trucks weren’t there, the meat wasn’t there, it was just me, carrying it all in my hands. Literally.

I held it all in my hands, a fragile egg, carrying the hope of it all. It was so small, not a thing with feathers, but a thin shell holding the yoke I had to carry, with names written on the shell. I had to look closely just to see the names, and with the logic of dreams, the words came into focus. A village by any other name. Every citizen, everything I was responsible for, all written on the shell that carried their salvation. The shell carried salvation, and I carried the shell. (2)

And so I walked. I walked because I had gone this way before, a long time ago. I heard once that dreams are just your brain organizing information, and I guess that’s why I was walking the same way I had gone before. It was all symbolic.

And so I walked, and hoped that I could carry the hope of others, the fragile shell that carried my yoke. The mountain crags, the barely cleared road, every rock, every stone was in my way. It was hard, because it had been hard before.

But it wasn’t the rocks, the stones, the mountain crags, that made me drop the egg, the hope, the yoke. The gentle indifference of the world, the laws of my own mind, meant that I dropped it. It was my fault. Maybe I didn’t hold it tight enough, and it fell, or maybe I held it too tight, and it cracked. I didn’t know why, I was just struck by the simple realization that it was broken. The viscous center, the thing without feathers, the hope of so many people, ran down my fingers, like the blood of innocents. I fell to my knees on the cold mountain road, and let the shattered hope from the egg bearing the names that I was responsible for mingle with my tears.

I woke up crying again.







I had the dream again. Always the same. Same. Same. Same. Never the same actions, but always the same meaning. 8th night in a row I’ve had it. Maybe I’m going insane.

But it’s not schizophrenia. I checked DSM-IV, and I don’t have the symptoms. I know I’m not hearing the voices. I know they aren’t out to get me. My thoughts are orderly. I’m just going insane.

I fell asleep quickly last night. First time I can remember that I fell asleep quickly. It was like I wanted to hurt, I wanted to suffer. Maybe my suffering will help.

It seems like I had barely closed my eyes, like I could still see the after-image of the gilt light fixture hanging over me, and she was there. She just appeared, her daughter behind her, looking across the river at me, leaving with the trucks. The long hem of her dress fell away, like a waterfall of tears, a memory of a place I can never be again. She said something to me, on the edge of hearing. If I could have been just a little closer, focused just a little more, I could have heard her.(1)

And then I was in the town again. I had only seen it across a river when I had been there, but I knew I was there. I knew this was the village. And it was empty. I knew it was the village after I left.

I wandered the street. I wandered the streets, knowing I was alone, knowing I wouldn’t find anybody.

They were all gone. They only left their bones.

And the city fell down around me. Around me. Because of me. They didn’t live here any more, so the city died with them. 

I ran. Not away from the buildings, but into them. I tried to die with them. I begged the collapsing buildings to take me with them; I wanted to die, like I should.    

They seemed to fall in slow motion. I tried to dive under every brick, tried to be crushed by every plank of wood, and I failed. Failure seems to be the only constant in my dreams.

The city finally stopped dying, and, even more then before I was alone, alone in my defeat. I cried. I tried to wash my hands in the streams of absolution running from my eyes, the tears of regret, but I couldn’t be clean. My ever-bloody hands.

The bones of the village, the bones of the villagers, the bones of my life, they all started to fade. I couldn’t let them fade. I couldn’t let them be forgotten. I moved to the nearest pile, and I started to build. I destroyed this, and I would rebuild it.

And I built. From the bones of the town, I remade it in my own image. From the simple huts, the wood and bricks, the village held together by clay and community, I created a modern town. With the speed of thought, scaffolding assembled, buildings were born, and among it all I built. In the darkness of my heart, in the darkness of my dream I rebuilt it all. Rolling girders into place, turning the wreckage of a village into the skeleton of a town.(3)

And I rebuilt the people. Bone by bone, and of my own flesh, I brought them back to life. I was healed. I gave them my flesh, my blood, and I was healed. It was the first good dream I’ve had since I left the women on the other side of the river. I dream of a task worse then Sisyphus’ boulder, and it’s a good dream.

And then it all went wrong. I hadn’t built it right. With the instant knowledge you only find in dreams, I knew it wasn’t right. I had brought them back to life, but now they were all me. I had remade the village, but it wasn’t Rapatna anymore, it was some bland amalgam of pseudo-American architecture. It wasn’t the rose of India, it was the dregs of America.

I was in hell. I couldn’t stand being myself anymore, much less meeting myself. And now I was in the village of the damned. I stood helpless as my own flesh and blood, the villagers I had restored, the villagers who had cured me, brought the same doom on themselves as I had brought them. I couldn’t watch. I hid my eyes and cried.

I woke up crying again.







It’s odd. I’ve never had the same dream more then once. And now I’ve had the same dream for 3 nights in a row. Not the exact same, but the same events, the same feeling, just different imagery. I think it may be driving me crazy.

But it’s not obsessive-compulsive disorder. I checked DSM-IV. I don’t have the symptoms. I’m not obsessed with germs, or symmetry. I don’t care about mirrors. I don’t focus on sexual behavior. I don’t feel like I need to check things, or arrange things, or clean, or horde. I’m just going insane.

The woman has been there every time. She stands on the other side of the river, watching us leave, her daughter hiding in the folds of her dress, the armor of a parent. As we leave she class across the river, “You saved us. Thank You. We owe our lives to you.” Her voice is distant, but the irony is not lost on me. They owe their lives to me.(1) 

And then her image fades, and I’m standing in Rapatna. I’ve never been in the city, but I know that’s where I am. I know I’m in Rapatna. And Rapatna is alive. The dark skin of the Indians, walking about, doing business, living, is absolution for me. They aren’t dead, I was wrong, their still here. I didn’t kill them. I saved them. I saved them from starvation when China closed the trade road from Tibet. They’re all still here.

And then I see the thorns.

The people of Rapatna are still alive, but they’re not the same. They know that I shouldn’t be here. They know I’ll hurt them if I get too close. So they have thorns on their skin, to keep me away. The rose of India now has its thorns.

They have thorns to keep me away, but they still invite me in. Children run up to me in the street hugging my leg, praising me for bringing the gift of food. And with every hug, their thorns cut me, gouge me, pry off my skin. I walk through the streets of Rapatna, and I don’t care that, for some reason I’m naked. This isn’t a dream about going to school in your underwear. This is a nightmare, and being naked is the least of my worries.

It scares me, walking around the city I killed, seeing the dead walking. I know that I shouldn’t be here. I know they shouldn’t be here, anymore. But I’m happy they’re alive. I would let them cut me, slice me, wound me, as long as they’re alive.

And the girl from across the river, the one hiding in the safety of her mother’s robes, runs up to me. I know she’s saying thank you, and all I can do is cry. She jumps onto me hugging me, throwing her arms and one of her legs around me, embracing me in thanks for saving her.(4) And the cuts grow deeper. My eyes bleed and my wounds weep. 

I woke up crying again.






I slept well last night. I don’t remember my dreams.

The mountain air is sharp as the caravan winds its way through the mountains away from Rapatna. A few months ago the Chinese closed the main trade road running to this small Indian village. There are no major roads to Rapatna from the Indian side, and the village has been starving to death without supplies from China.

It took months just to get a simple road cleared. Even with modern technology, with explosives and computers and polymers and chemicals, it took months to turn a footpath into a road just wide enough to let the flatbed trucks through.

Up here, news from the outside world takes over a week to reach us. That turned out to be important.

We finally made it to Rapatna. We didn’t have time to bridge the river, but the villagers ferried the bricks of meat over on makeshift rafts. It was inspiring. The villagers came out to help take the food in. They don’t get much meat up here, so we made sure to bring a lot. Poultry mostly, to avoid religious issues. All of it tightly packed into little bricks of protein. The building blocks of a new life.(5)

The entire village waved at us from the banks, yelling thanks in languages I didn’t understand. It was like the choirs of heaven, singing my praises. They eventually left, one by one, until only a woman and her little girl were left, yelling at us from across the river. “You saved us. Thank You. We owe our lives to you.” Her voice meant more to me then she will ever know.(1)

And now we’re heading back. It’s been 3 days since my little rescue mission left Rapatna. We’re just now getting in touch with civilization again. Cell phones buzz to life as we finally regain communication.

I got a call the moment my cell phone was in touch with the nearest tower.

It was the man who financed the humanitarian mission at Rapatna.

He said the meat was diseased.

Some kind of disease he said, make sure they don’t get the meat he said. I said nothing.

I couldn’t say anything.

Hello, he said.

Is there anybody there, he said.

It was shock. I know that now. My thoughts had just frozen, I couldn’t act.

Hello, he said.

I knew then. Rapatna was gone. Not physically gone, but gone, nonetheless. Everybody would be dead. 

I sent a truck back to check, to find survivors, to save what they could. It came back empty handed.

They had all died painful, vomiting, convulsing, deaths. And it was my fault. I should have known. I should have checked the meat. Those bricks of meat had built a city of the dead.

With this on my mind, I think last night was my last good sleep for a while.

So now, on my way home, I try to avoid drifting off. I try to avoid falling asleep. Because I’m not sure what my mind holds for me.

I don’t know how I can cope with this grief, this guilt, this shattered responsibility. Maybe I’ll take up art. Something to provoke in others the same pain that I feel. Something to inflame. Something for the dead. Maybe something of the dead.

“To sleep, perchance to dream.” I’ve never really thought about that line before. What the hell is that supposed to mean? Anything to avoid thinking about the dead…

“To Sleep, Perchance to dream.”






(1)	The memory of the women from Rapatna, seen across the river, as the narrator is leaving.
(2)	The egg from the dream, with the names of the villagers carved on it, holding their hope, being held in the narrator’s hands.
(3)	Rebuilding Rapatna in the narrator’s dream.
(4)	The girl from across the river, hugging the narrator, with her thorns digging into his flesh.
(5)	Villagers of Rapatna carrying the bricks of meat across the river.


----------



## Macbeth (Jul 16, 2004)

Well, that's it. I'm not to happy with it, I had a hard time with the pics, but this is it.

And in my 1,600th post too!


----------



## Berandor (Jul 17, 2004)

_Ceramic DM, Round 2 - Match 1: Macbeth vs. *Berandor*_

Rememberance

"Violet? I'm home."
Jason Gardiner closed the door. Exhausted, he took off his identity badge and put it on the small table, next to his keys. It had been another long day at the National Initiative for Control and Examination. Working for NICE was time-consuming, but very rewarding. His superior officer had already mentioned him favorably in a report, and Jason could hope to be promoted within the next year. At 22, he would be the youngest senior officer at NICE.

Forcing all work-related thoughts from his mind, Jason entered the living room. He was surprised to see his wife and his daughter sitting at the kitchen table. Violet had a glass of wine in front of her, in front of Rose stood a glass of milk. Rose had been examining her Degenerative Effect Blocker. Both looked up when Jason entered. Rose rushed forward to embrace him, her golden hair flying behind her, but Jason stopped her.

"Honey? Your d-blocker." He could see Violet's eyes clouding for a moment, or at least thought he could.

Rose turned around and grabbed the small ball from the table, then came back towards him. Jason dropped to his knees and took her in his arms. She rested her face on his shoulder.

"Isn't it a little too late for you to be still awake, young lady?" he asked.
"We've been waiting for you," his wife answered. "You haven't seen her the whole week."

Jason grimaced. 
"Could we not talk about this now?" he asked. "I've just come home to my wonderful daughter and wife, and I've had a very hard day."
"Of course. Let's just pretend everything is fine. Let's just not talk about it." Violet said sarcastically. Jason closed his eyes. Not tonight, he thought.
"How many glasses of wine have you had, Violet?"  He felt bad immediately after saying it, but he didn't apologize, either.

"Mommy, daddy," Rose said, "please don't argue." Violet didn't heed her.
"You should be grateful that I drink, so that I forget how my own, loving," she almost spat the word, "husband can't bear touching me without me being blocked."
"Violet," he began.
"Or how he wouldn't even touch my daughter, our daughter, without being blocked, either."
"Honey..." 
She had tears in her eyes now, and her voice broke.
"You despise us, don't you?"

Jason didn't know what to answer. He loved his wife, and he adored his daughter. But when their mutation wasn't blocked, when they didn't use the d-blocker they'd gotten from the black market, the thought of touching them made his skin crawl. Violet's mutation wasn't even that obvious. He'd tried to overcome his feelings once, but when he felt the roots she had for feet snaking tendrils around his legs, his stomach had turned. He'd run off into the bathroom, and when he came out, Violet had held the d-blocker in her hand. 
He hated himself for it, but he couldn't change his feelings.

His silence was answer enough for Violet.
"I knew it." She took the glass of wine and emptied it in one gulp.
"Vi, you know I love you," he said weakly, but his voice was almost drowned by the sound of a helicopter flying low above the house. For a moment, Jason wondered where it was headed. Violet ignored the noise as she ignored her husband.

"I'll bring Rose to bed, and then we'll talk." He took his daughter's hand and turned towards the door. The helicopter was still droning above them. A knot began to form in Jason's gut.
"Don't forget to bring the d-blocker with you."
He sighed and walked towards the door, pulling Rose behind him. Before he could reach it, however, he could hear the front door burst open, and booted feet rushing into the hallway.

Rose gasped, and dropped the d-blocker. Jason felt her thorns reappearing, burrowing through the skin on his hand. He cursed in pain and pulled his hand away from her, just as the door behind him was thrown open and what seemed like a dozen armed men swarmed into the room.

"MDU! Freeze!"
The men from the Mutant Detection Unit pointed their flashlight-mounted rifles at Jason and his family. Jason was too shocked to think. He mechanically lifted his hands above his head, blood dripping from his right palm, and then looked back towards his wife. Rose clung to her waist, and she was holding her daughter's head protectively. Violet's eyes, however, were rooted on Jason.

Two officers led Jason out of the house. The night sky was lit green by the helicopter's searchlight, its rotor churning dust. Two transporters marked "MDU" stood in the front yard. From behind windows, Jason could see neighbors watching.

One officer grabbed him and pulled him to the side. Violet and Rose were led out, guarded by four men. When the searchlight hit them, their skin began to glow, their mutated genes reacting with the light waves. 

Rose was crying, but Violet seemed calm. When she passed Jason, she took a step towards him. The officers didn't stop her. Jason stood, unmoving.

Violet lifted a hand and caressed his face. She smiled, then leaned forward and kissed him softly. 
"Remember us," she whispered, before they continued their march onto the yard.

"You're coming with us," the man holding him said, and began to pull him towards one of the transporters, away from his wife.
"Daddy!" screamed Rose. She held her thorny hand out to him, trying to reach him.
"Daddy!"
Jason looked at his hand. Blood was still flowing from the wounds. He let himself be dragged into the car.

As the door closed and the car moved forward, Jason looked back. The helicopter was descending slowly, preparing to land. Violet held Rose in a close embrace, dust blowing around her, skin glowing in the searchlight. 

---

"Sit down, Jason."
Marcus Green handed him a glass of whiskey and pointed at the couch. It was made of white leather, and crunched as Jason sat.
"You look terrible, do you know that?" he asked as he sat down in a matching armchair. "You've got rings under your eyes the size of watermelons." 
Jason smiled and rubbed his left hand over his beard. 
"That's what five years of prison will do to you, Marcus." His  former friend winced. "You're still thinner than I am, though."
Marcus laughed. "That's only because Tina doesn't cook for the prison, but she cooks for me."
"Where is she?" Jason asked. 
"She went to a friend of Timmy's," Marcus said, blushing. Jason understood. Marcus had sent his wife and son away when he'd called. So much for being friends. Jason took a sip of his whiskey.

"Well, how can I help you?" Marcus wrung his hands nervously. "Do you need money? I can lend you something..."
"Thank you, Marcus, but I've got some money."
"But I thought they took everything when they sentenced you?"
"They did." Jason slid his thumb over his right palm, feeling the slight depressions. Rose's scars. "I've worked the past five years, without a chance to spend the money," he said.
"I understand. Well, what is it, then?"

"Why didn't you visit me, Marcus?" Jason asked. 
"I did," he protested.
"Your last visit was three years ago, Marcus. What happened?" Jason didn't feel well about pressing the matter, but a guilt-ridden Marcus would be more likely to help him. Green tried to change the subject.

"Jason, you've just come out. Let's go downtown, party around. We can talk about that later. What do you say?"
"I can't pretend everything's fine, Marcus. Besides, I don't feel like partying. As you have noted, I haven't slept much recently."

It took another half hour before Jason felt he'd pushed enough buttons for Marcus to help him. He took another sip from his whiskey. It was still Jason's first drink; Marcus was already pouring his fourth.
"Do you still work for NICE?"

Marcus feigned a smile, grateful for the change in topic.
"You know what they say: I'm a NICE man."
Jason smiled as well.

The government-funded agency was widely regarded as the scientific sister of the MDU. While the Mutant Detection Unit located and prosecuted mutants who tried to live among humans, NICE examined the mutants themselves, searching for reasons for and protective measures against mutation. They had also developed the d-blocker that reversed a mutation's effect on the victim's DNA. Of course, access to these devices was severely restricted. It took about five years to apply for a d-blocker, and even then only about 5 % of all mutants were eligible.

"Then I need you to find out where my family is."
Marcus' smile froze. He drank some whiskey, and then coughed and spit it back out.
"Sorry." He coughed again. "Didn't you know? Your family's..."
"...dead," Jason finished, nodding grimly. "They told me. They even gave me this," he took the golden ball out of his pocket and placed it on the table between himself and Marcus.

Marcus leaned forward and took the ball in his hands. 
"That's a d-blocker," he said, astonished.
"That's their d-blocker," Jason added emphatically. "They disabled it. They even put a small inscription on it."
"Why would they give you that?"
Jason shrugged.
"It was the only thing left. The rest burned."
"Burned? Oh, my god. I had known they died. I didn't know..."
"They're not dead, Marcus. They're not dead."

His former colleague regarded him with wide eyes.
"What are you talking about?"
Jason stood up.
"Marcus, I think my family is still alive. I think they survived the accident, but something got messed up. I don't know. Maybe one of them died, maybe, but not both. I need to find them." His voice had grown louder as he talked, until he'd practically shouted the last words. "I need to save them."

Marcus swallowed. He emptied his whiskey. His face was red from the alcohol, his glasses fogged up.
"Let's just, for a moment, say they're alive. How should I be able to find them? We think they're dead, after all."
"I just want you to find out where they'd been originally sent."
"Is that all? Is that why you put on all that talk about not visiting you, not being a good friend, just so that I would look into old records for you? Jesus, Jason, you could have saved yourself half an hour of intimidating me."

"It's not all I ask you to do. I need you to access the MDU database."
"Well, then I suppose the guilt-trip was necessary." Marcus stood up.
"I need another drink before you tell me exactly what you want."

An hour later, Jason left Marcus' apartment. At the door, Marcus stopped him.
"How do you know they're still alive?" 
Jason locked gazes with Marcus.
"Because they've told me in my dreams."

---

Jason lay on the bed in the small room he'd rented for the night, listening to the cars driving by, watching a bug crawl up the wall in the light of the neon sign hanging outside the window.

Jason's legs hurt from propelling the walking wheel forward. It was harder than he remembered, but then he'd only been forced to wheel around for a few weeks before he'd bought his first car. He knew that before the oil wells ran dry in 2034, people had used bicycles for transportation, but without rubber tires to run on, the industry had switched to big iron wheels you could run in, much like a hamster's wheel. Walking wheels enhanced the walker's steps, protected him partially from accidents and bad weather, and they were cheap. Jason couldn't afford to buy a car; he might need all the money he'd saved for his family's rescue.

He lay on the bed, dead tired, but afraid to close his eyes. He knew they were waiting for him. Subconsciously rubbing his thumb over his right palm, Jason reflected on his meeting with Marcus. Marcus would get the information he wanted, needed. And then, he would find his family, and get them out of whatever mutant zone they lived in. Together, they'd flee to Canada, where they only imprisoned mutants that were proven to be dangerous. 

During his prison time, Jason had discovered how much he missed Violet, how much he loved Rose. He had taken their love for granted, he knew, but he wouldn't make the same mistake again. He didn't even care whether they used d-blockers, or not. He just wanted to see them again, to apologize.

The beetle reached the ceiling and began to march head first towards him. Jason yawned, and felt his scarred palm once more.

In his sleep, he saw Violet and Rose, glowing in the green light.
"Remember us."

---

Jason stopped his walking wheel in front of the decrepit building. The house had been built before the turn of the century. No elevator waited to take guests to the upper floors, no security camera watched for uninvited guests. It wasn't even built with dirt-repellant mortar. Jason had to admit the building fit right into the poor neighborhood Marcus had sent him to.

His friend had called this afternoon and told him what he had found out. Violet and Rose Gardiner had been sent to the Fire Island Colonies, a small group of islands roughly 6 miles from the coast. The islands were mostly rock and forest, though. From what Jason could find out, the mutants that were kept there had enough stone and wood to build anything, but not enough fertile ground to feed more than a handful of families. Some farmed pigs, but most were fetched every morning and worked on the mainland, earning their pay in food. There was even a small quarry on one of the islands, delivering boatloads of hewn stone each month.

Marcus had also told him about a man who could possibly help Jason locate his family if they were still alive. Arnold Webster had been suspected twice by the MDU for harboring fugitive mutants, but he'd never been convicted. He was said to have strong ties to the mutant communities as well as relations to the upper levels of society. 

"He has a hand in everything," Marcus had said. And now Jason stood before the abode of this notorious information-broker and wondered if he hadn't made a big mistake coming here. Whoever lived in the old building - if indeed someone made his home here - couldn't possibly be resourceful enough to locate someone in a mutant zone, let alone someone believed to be dead. Still, now that he'd come here, Jason would go up and see him, just to make sure.

Jason climbed the makeshift stairs on the outside of the building. The wooden construction swayed and groaned under his weight, but did not collapse. About thirty candles standing in front of a big round mirror illuminated the top floor. The mirror reflected the candlelight and enhanced it, dousing the top floor into bright, warm light.

Jason walked to the open doorway leading into the apartment, and knocked on the doorframe.

"Hello? Mr. Webster?"
The room beyond lay dark, but Jason could make out a wooden desk and a chair behind it. Piles of paper lay on the desk. The smell of cigars hung in the air, clinging to furniture and walls alike. Jason could make out another doorway looming across from him, leading further into the dark building. He thought he could hear someone move, but he didn't see anything.

"Mr. Webster, a friend of mine sent me here. He said you might be able help me. I am looking for my family."
No answer. Jason got impatient. Marcus had either played a joke on him, or simply been wrong. Still, he felt unable to leave without a final try.

"They live on Fire Island."
Jason wanted to turn around and leave, as a voice answered him. It was a dry voice, intermingled with clicking sounds as if someone would hit two forks together while speaking.
"Do you have detailed information?"

Jason pulled out the file Marcus had given him before sending him here. 
"Put it on the floor, and put five hundred dollars on the floor, as well."
Jason hesitated. He'd about two thousand dollars overall, and spending a quarter of it on a disembodied voice seemed risky. In the end, he had no choice. He lifted the folder, put the money in, and closed it again.
"Come back tomorrow, I will know something then."

Jason stepped away from the dark apartment and began his descend. As he tried not to fall down the wobbling structure, he wondered what Arnold Webster could find out in one day's time.

---

Jason gasped and sat right up. He was in his room, jolted awake from a bad dream. The sun had just begun to rise. 
He rubbed his eyes and yawned. He hoped Webster would be able to help him. When he closed his eyes, he could see the apparition. Hear her voice.
"Remember us."

---

The sun had gone down an hour ago, and the only light falling into Webster's apartment was the light from the candles in front of the mirror. Jason had returned as the mysterious man had bid. 

Once again, he could sense something move inside of the apartment, but he couldn't see anything. Even the cigar smell was the same. Slightly annoyed at Webster's attempt at secrecy, he knocked on the doorframe again.

"I am glad to see you've returned," Webster's voice rang through the room.
"Can I come in?" Jason asked, stepping inside.
"I'd rather you wouldn't." Jason stepped back outside, shaking his head in frustration.

"I am brokenhearted that I cannot offer you a more comfortable position, Mr. Gardiner, but I am willing to make more than up for it."
"Whatever. Have you found out something?"
"I haven't "found out something", Mr. Gardiner - may I call you Jason? - I have found your daughter."

Jason didn't react at first. He had been right. They were alive. They...
"My daughter? What about my wife?"
"What about her? I am afraid she died in the accident, as has been reported."

"No..." Jason dropped to his knees and held his face in his hands. It could not be. It must not be.  As he knelt in the doorway, his body shaking, despair trying to take root in him, Arnold Webster remained silent. 

Some time during his breakdown, Jason had sat himself against the wooden railing of the stairwell, his knees drawn up to his body. That's how he found himself as his sense returned. His shirt was wet with tears, his eyes burned, his stomach felt as if someone had punched a hole into it. He sniffled, and then tried to compose himself.

"Are you sure it's her?" Webster answered immediately, as if he'd only waited for him to ask. It seemed to Jason as if the voice came from right beyond the doorway, now.
"As sure as can be. I am afraid there is no infallible conviction in that matter. She is about the right age, however, and she has no parents. She has no birth records, either, which makes verifying her age impossible, but would fit with your daughter's history. She has the same deformity, which is to my knowledge not one of the most prominent mutations, though certainly not unique, either. And finally, though just a small detail but definitely completing the picture, her name is Rose."

Jason nodded.
"It's her." It had to be. Otherwise... he would not think about it.
"I want you to free her." If Webster was surprised, he did not let it on.
"That would be expensive. I don't know whether you are financially capable of such a transaction, Jason."

"I have one thousand five hundred dollars." 
The clicking intensified as Webster let out his version of laughter.
"That is not nearly enough, Jason."
Jason stood up. 
"Please. She is my daughter. I must find her."
"You have found her."
"But I need to see her." He walked towards the doorway.
"Do not come in, Mr. Gardiner," Webster said menacingly. Jason froze in his steps. 

"What would you do when I brought her to you, Mr. Gardiner? What would you do?"
"I would raise her. I am her father."
Webster laughed again, clicked again.
"I have read about your testimony, Mr. Gardiner. You could only bear your daughter with a d-blocker. What makes you think you could do better now?"
"I am her father."
"So? A lot of fathers should not be left alone with their children."
Jason rubbed his nose between thumb and forefinger. What did that man want to hear? He sighed.
"I love her."

Silence. Then Webster said, "Very well, Mr. Gardiner. I would agree to free your daughter, but there is still the monetary issue to discuss. I am afraid you don't have nearly enough resources for such an operation. We are not talking about a simply extradition, but about forged documents as well. I assume you would want to head north?"
Jason nodded. When Webster did not respond, he said, "Yes."
"That would make two passports, a forged history, perhaps even a job and an apartment to begin with. You cannot pay for this."

Jason shook with anger. 
"Then why are you telling me all this?" He clenched his hands, feeling the scars in his palm again.
"I want you to understand, Mr. Gardiner."

Suddenly, Jason had an idea. No. Not an idea. An epiphany. He pulled the disabled d-blocker out of his pocket and held it out.

"Would you accept this as payment?"
Silence followed, but this time, it was a surprised silence. 
"Is that..." There was hesitation in his voice now, and but a single click.
"It is a d-blocker, yes. It has been disabled, but it might be repaired." Jason smiled. "With access to the proper resources," he added.

Suddenly, Arnold Webster appeared in the doorway, accompanied with a sharp intake of breath from Jason.

Arnold Webster was a small, bloated man with wrinkled skin. Small, pudgy feet propelled his rotund body forward, and he used the lower pair of arms to support himself while walking. All in all, Arnold Webster had three pairs of spindly arms, eight limbs total, like a spider. Three hands grabbing the doorframe, he leaned forward and held the fourth hand out to Jason.
"Give it to me," he demanded. A pair of mandibles protruded from his mouth, rubbing together as he spoke, clicking rhythmically, glistening with spit. 

Jason stumbled backwards.
"You... you are a mutant," he stuttered.
"Really? You are quite the observer, Mr. Gardiner. Now give me the d-blocker."
"But how...?"
"How I can live among humans? Subterfuge, caution, bribery, and things you don't want to know about." Jason shook his head. He could not believe it.
"Now. Hand. Me. The. Blocker."

Jason handed it over. Webster grabbed it and disappeared in the apartment, only to reappear at the window closest to the candle-mirror. He had grabbed a glass lens and held the d-blocker with two hands, the lens with another pair, examining the device.

Jason could see Webster's eyes gleam as he held the d-blocker in front of him. He could only imagine what such a device meant for the mutant. He took two steps towards him.
"Can you repair it?"

Webster looked up as if he had forgotten about Jason.
"Yes, Jason. I most definitely can." Greed shone in his eyes, and satisfaction.
"Then will you accept it as payment? Is it enough?"
Webster smiled. It was a hungry smile.
"I will not only accept it, Jason; for this d-blocker, I will even get you a car."

---

Jason stood on the beach, and waited. It had been two weeks since Arnold Webster had agreed to free Rose, and finally the day had come. At first, Jason had been apprehensive when Webster had explained the details of the plan to him.

"What am I supposed to say if someone asks why I am there?" he had asked.
"I don't know, Jason," Webster had answered, already a little annoyed at Jason's eleventh hour panic. "Pretend you're sunbathing, or swimming."
"In April?" he had retorted, but Webster had just shrugged with his shoulders - all of them.

And now, Jason stood on the beach, and was cold. He was dressed in his bathing suit, and April winds chilled his blood and blew sand against his calves. He'd tried to swim, but the water was icy, and he'd brought just a small towel with him, stolen from his hotel room.

The car Webster had provided him with waited on a parking lot a hundred feet away. Webster had put a pair of suitcases in the trunk, filled with clothing for him and Rose. Indeed, the spider-mutant had been very generous, buying a small house in Vancouver for the Gardiner's, as well as procuring a job at a major health company. All that was missing now was Rose.

Jason stood on the beach, and imagined her departure from Fire Island. They would smuggle her among the bricks in their monthly delivery. He could see her huddled in a small crawlspace, salt water lapping at her from below, tons of bricks sheltering her from above. He could see the workmen with their paddles, the small floats they used casting off, nearly sinking under the weight of their cargo, but staying afloat. It took them roughly an hour to reach the shore again, sometimes a little longer. 

Today, they would need longer, but only because they would take a small detour, dropping Rose off on the way, delivering her to Jason. He fetl his heart pumping fast. His hands were sweaty. Still, he saw no sign of the floats.

It took another half hour before he saw them. Three floats, drifting along about a hundred feet off shore. He waved his arm.
"Ahoi! Why are you fishing for stones?" he shouted the pre-arranged question.
"Because the fish are simply inedible!" came the correct answer.

Jason felt butterflies in his stomach. Now, he knew, they would signal Rose. She would squeeze through a narrow opening in the bottom of the float, and then hopefully swim to the shore. Jason looked for any sign of her, so that he might swim towards her.

There she was. She was a little off, perhaps fifty feet farther down the beach, but she made good way for a little girl. Jason ran forward, rushing along the beach, splashing into the water, standing knee-deep when she felt ground below her, and stood up as well.

"Rose?" She wiped the salt water from her face and looked at him.
"Daddy?" her hopeful voice asked.
He froze. The Rose standing in front of him was not his daughter. He saw the thorns in her skin, but he also saw her dark, short hair. His daughter was blond. 

Had been blond. 

The MDU had been right; he had been wrong. His family was dead. He realized he'd used his family to shield him from his guilt, but now reality had caught up. They were dead.

"Daddy? You're crying," the other Rose said. "Is something wrong?"
Jason looked at her, blinking away the tears. She was younger than the real Rose, maybe eight or nine years old. She stood trembling in front of him, icy water running down her body. Webster had said she had no family. Doe-like eyes watched him, watched his every move, searching for acceptance, expecting rejection. Her name was Rose.

Jason shook his head.
"No, honey. Everything is all right. I am just so happy to see you, is all."
He opened his arms, and Rose threw herself at him, slung her arms, her legs around him. Her thorns pricked his skin, but it did not hurt him much. He stroked her hair, and carried her out of the water.
"Come on," he said, "let's go home."


----------



## Berandor (Jul 17, 2004)

Phew. I am quite happy with the story, especially compared to my other CeramicDM entries. Now, I'm gonna take a break and enjoy the day. And see - it's raining outside! Isn't that wonderful? 

Good luck, Macbeth, I'll read your story sometime tomorrow, probably 

P.S.: Look at my Custom Title


----------



## Berandor (Jul 17, 2004)

Macbeth said:
			
		

> Hmmm... Following BSF's lead, I did a little thinking about my oponent's name:
> 
> Berandor
> 
> ...



 Actually, it'd be more "bear and door", "bear run door", "bear under" or something like that  

But beer is fine.

ETA: What is it with these pics? (BSF/carpedavid) Looking at pics 1-4: "Wow, that's really a very cool ghost/horror story building up here!"
Looking at pic 5: 
"Skyscraper. Damn!"

Is this EN-d20modern-World or what?

(The above is not meant to be a disparaging comment re: judges, but just a small colorful commentary for my own amusement. So there!)


----------



## Sialia (Jul 17, 2004)

[Unbiasing commentary of equal praise to both competitors, so I'm not moving it to the other thread. So there.]

Eeeee! 

Many thanks to both of you for your excellent stories. It makes me so happy to see pictures get used like this. Wow. Poing poing poing. What a great set.

I'm so glad I don't have to judge this one.


----------



## Macbeth (Jul 17, 2004)

Sialia said:
			
		

> [Unbiasing commentary of equal praise to both competitors, so I'm not moving it to the other thread. So there.]
> 
> Eeeee!
> 
> ...



And thank you for the excelent art, Sialia. That pic was the one thing that I couldn't fit into any other idea I came up with, and it became the center piece of my final draft. Nice piece. It inspired the story (that and the bricks).


----------



## alsih2o (Jul 19, 2004)

Rpggirl vs. Rodrigo istilandir

 5 pics, 6000 words, 72 hours


----------



## alsih2o (Jul 19, 2004)

Graywolf-ELM vs. Orchid Blossom

 5 pics, 72 hours, 6000 words.


----------



## Macbeth (Jul 19, 2004)

Rpggirl and Rodrigo istilandir, you have my condolences.


----------



## Graywolf-ELM (Jul 19, 2004)

alsih2o said:
			
		

> Graywolf-ELM vs. Orchid Blossom
> 
> 5 pics, 72 hours, 6000 words.




Did I wrong you in a past life, alsh2o?  Um, this will be interesting.

GW


----------



## Ao the Overkitty (Jul 19, 2004)

alsih2o said:
			
		

> Graywolf-ELM vs. Orchid Blossom
> 
> 5 pics, 72 hours, 6000 words.



 Ummm.... oh my....  those are interesting pictures.

kinda sad I won't see orchid's face when she sees them in the morning.  Was a long ride back from the Mass gameday.

I do think her responce is going to be, "Why couldn't I get Rpggirl & Rodrigo's pictures???"


----------



## carpedavid (Jul 19, 2004)

*Round 2, Match 1: CarpeDavid vs BardStephenFox*

*The Strange Tale of Arthur Peddington*

Dear Charles,

I write to you this evening, in the hope that, once you regain the use of your faculties, you will be able to verify my account of the dreadful circumstances surrounding the loss of our expeditionary party. As the only other survivor of the voyage, you are in a unique position to confirm the veracity of events that, in any other circumstance, would be considered the work of one of those dreadful pulp authors that are so popular these days.

You may ask why I must commit these words to paper, when there is the greatest possibility that you may never emerge from your current state. To answer you, I must begin by relating the events that occurred this very evening, in the same room from which I am now writing.

I was sitting in my study, enjoying a cup of gunpowder tea, when I heard a knock on our front door. As my legs are still weak, and walking is sometimes painful, my wife answered the door in my stead, returning after only a minute with a parcel wrapped in brown paper and bound with twine. She then bid me goodnight and retired for the evening, leaving me to my paperwork.

Using the metal shears that I keep for the opening of packages, I snipped the twine and unwrapped the paper. Without much thought, I lifted the lid and placed it to the side, but when I looked down in the box, I did not find a sheaf of academic papers to be read. Indeed what was in the box defies logic and reason, and I sat for more than an hour with my mouth agape before I could force myself to comprehend it. In the bottom of the box, pinned to whiteboard like a butterfly or moth, was a human face - complete and undamaged [faceoff.jpg].

But I write too much too quickly, for, in order for you to comprehend whose disembodied face stared back at me, you must remember the events that transpired on our excursion to Peru.

***​
It was at the end of August that you, Pickman, and I left Arkham with a group of eight graduate students. At the time, of course, I was delighted to have been selected, since we linguists don't get out into the field much. Pickman was eager to catalog the esoteric artwork of the ancient Incans, and so was as much delighted as I. Now of course, I wish I had never heard of the damned Incans, a sentiment I'm sure Pickman would share, were he still alive.

Again, though, I get ahead of myself. Let me state the facts as I know them. The eleven of us set sail from Boston on the 28th of August, and spent the next two weeks at sea, passing through the newly-built canal, then landing in Lima on the 11th of September. From there, we spent another week riding into the Peruvian Andes. Along the way, I spent time cataloging different dialects of Quechua, the language shared by the ancient Incans and the modern Andeans. 

Pickman spent his time making sketches of the native artwork. Because his artwork often possesses a grotesque quality, I was impressed at how accurately he was able to capture the beauty of Andean craftsmanship. Of all the information that we collected though, it was the tale that you recorded from the kite flyer that now seems most prescient.

The old fellow was attempting to launch a kite shaped like an enormous crow as you approached him, [battyoldman.jpg] and it snapped up into the air as a gust of wind came out of nowhere. When asked about the cultural significance of the kite, he told us of the Cusco, an ancient race of giant birds from the lands among the stars, who could take the forms of men, and possessed advanced knowledge. It was they who founded the Incan empire, who taught mankind how to build the pyramids, and who the Incan capitol was named after.

The Cusco, he claimed, still watched over the Andean people, and protected them from outsiders who wished to exploit them. They had the power, he warned, to know everything about you if they were able to collect even a single strand of your hair. Ah, Charles, if only we had heeded his warning, instead of chalking it up to a regional superstition, as we always do. Think of where we would be now.

At the end of the first week, we finally reached the unexplored jungle. Based on the maps provided by previous expeditions, you had mapped out a course that you believed would provide the greatest chance to find lost ruins. You lead the initial charge that first day, cutting a path with your machete, while Pickman kept showing me his sketches of flowers with giant, colorful blossoms. I was delighted to see him so enthralled with a subject that didn't have its origins in the realm of nightmare. The students did a commendable job of transporting our equipment along the difficult terrain, and I attempted to help whenever possible, even though I am not one accustomed to strenuous physical effort.

The first night sleeping in the wild was both exciting and frightening. The sounds of civilization had faded long ago, so the jungle noises were especially audible - we all slept fitfully that evening. After the second day, though, we were all tired enough to sleep soundly, blocking out the sound of the monkeys jumping through the trees.

The moon was waxing, which allowed some light to filter through the jungle canopy, and I awoke while it was near its apex after feeling something poke my head. I opened my eyes to see what looked like a man-sized bird standing over me. As I scrambled for my spectacles, though, the figure took flight - I could feel the wind generated by its wing against my face. By the time I was able to clearly see, it was gone, having flown up over the treetops at a rapid pace.

I could feel my heart pumping rapidly. What had I just seen? Without the benefit of my spectacles, I could not be sure even of its size. It had certainly seemed large, as I stared up at it, but it might have been a trick of perspective. I convinced myself that it was some form of native vulture, searching for a late-evening meal. When I mentioned it the next morning, and both you and Pickman related similar experiences and conclusions, I felt relieved.

By the afternoon of the fifth day, I was beginning to wish I had rejected your offer. The air, thick and humid, was taking a toll on my delicate New England constitution, and the mosquitoes, which were covering all of us in welts, weren't helping. I was about to suggest that we stop for a break when Pickman and I heard you yell. We pushed up the path, and discovered that the ground fell away. At first I thought you had fallen, but, looking down, I realized that you were rapidly descending of your own accord.

As I peered over your shoulder, I could see what had made you so excited: filling the valley below us was a vast, stone city [topofthemorning.jpg], proudly standing in defiance of centuries of disuse. I think we three were all giddy, as you, Pickman, and I scrambled down that cliff face. Surely this is how Bingham must have felt when he discovered Machu Picchu not three years ago! The prospect of discovering our own lost city made us reckless, and led to our first error.

Instead of instructing the students to find a more suitable course of descent, we ordered them to bring the supplies down using ropes and pulleys. It was during this activity that Martin Whately, of the Whateleys of Dunwich, slipped and fractured his femur. His screams of pain echoed through the stone corridors of that valley city, and it wasn't until we administered morphine that he was able to calm down.

Fearing that harm might befall more students, we left them to take care of Whately while we made a cursory examination of the ruins. At the time, we marveled that the jungle had not encroached on this city in the least. Bingham had spent months cutting back overgrowth at the Lost City of the Andes, but we had no need for even a cursory use of the machete.

I believe I saw the great pyramid first. I rounded a corner, and there it was, standing in the middle of a grand plaza. A grand staircase led from base to top, and nearly every inch was covered in carvings of birdlike creatures. Pickman gasped, while you, I recall, let out a squeal of glee. 

Pickman stayed behind to make drawings of the carvings while we climbed the ninety-one stairs to the top. From our new vantage point, we had a fantastic view of the city. The streets radiated out from the plaza like spokes from a wheel, with circular connecting passages. Behind us, the setting sun burned a bright gold-orange, causing the pyramid to cast a massive shadow that stretched the breadth of the plaza.

We remained at the top for a long while, I think, enjoying the magnificence of our discovery. When we finally climbed back down, the sun had nearly set, and Pickman had already lit his lantern. I lit a torch off of his lantern, and suggested that we return to the students, when Pickman informed us of a discovery he had made.

Leading us around the corner of the pyramid, he pointed to an opening in the base, sealed by a rectangular stone door. You should have seen your eyes at that moment. They were wide in wonder, and you reminded me of baby just discovering the world.

"Have you opened it?" you asked.

"I tried, but it's too heavy for me alone," Pickman replied.

"Well, then, let's the three of us take a crack," I suggested, and the three of us pressed our shoulders against it. With a hefty push, the door slid back, and we stumbled through. You, Charles, lit your own lantern and held it aloft. Oh, now, how I wish you hadn't, for we would never have known what was inside.

The lantern illuminated a large chamber that was lined with glass tubes, and each was filled with the body of a human. We crept around the edge of the chamber, peering at each of the figures as we passed. All of them possessed Andean features and skin color, though all ages seemed to be represented equally. There were more women than men, and each tube had a label affixed to it that appeared to be etched with a script I was unfamiliar with.

It wasn't until we had circumnavigated the entire chamber that we found the eleven bodies that were not of Andean appearance. Indeed, each was of a Caucasian male. They should not have existed, but there they were, mocking everything we knew about the natural world: perfect representations of our entire expedition party.

Pickman acted first, smashing the tubes and emptying his lantern oil on the bodies. I followed his action by applying my torch, setting the simulacrums alight. I know that, as a man of science, I should want to know why they were there, but I feel no remorse. Reality simply cannot abide that kind of abomination.

As we ran back through the streets of terrible city, I felt certain that we were being watched, that bird-shaped figures were moving in the shadows. We emerged from the city at a breakneck pace, and slowed only when we came within sight of our students. Retreat was paramount, that was obvious, but we could no longer return up the cliff, due to Whately's broken leg.

Fortunately, one of the enterprising students had fashioned a sedan from two young trees and a supply box. We gave him more morphine, handed him a lantern, and then hefted the entire contraption up onto our shoulders. You, Charles, kept a level head, and were able to visualize an alternate route back to our original path.

As we carried Whately away from the city, the clear night sky began to cloud over. We were an hour into the jungle when the heavens opened up, and the rain began to fall. The ground became muddy, and we almost dropped Whately twice before we came to the river. On the other side was freedom: the path we had cleared on our approach. In our way, however, was a river quickly swelling from the pouring rain.

We pushed forward, the sedan held high above our heads. The water roared past our chests as we struggled toward the other side. Suddenly, one student slipped, and the current ripped him away. After ten more feet, another one slipped, and disappeared beneath the surface, and the whole sedan dropped to one side.

Whately screamed as he slammed to one side, and then screamed again when the lantern broke, spilling oil everywhere. Suddenly the sedan and Whately were both in flames, as we struggled with all our might against the raging river [needalight.jpg]. We had no choice, but to give Whately up.

As the rest of the party collapsed on the other side of the river, I realized that this must have been the work of the bird-men. If they had the technology to make copies of men, what other terrible science did they possess? The ability to harness weather certainly seemed within their grasp.

We ran back through the jungle. It took us two days.

***​
I don't know why I had thought we'd be safe once aboard the ship. I guess I thought we'd outrun them. I remember that we spent the first two days in mute shock. Pickman kept to his room, while you sat on the deck, starting up at the sky.

Then on the third night, they found us again. A storm swept in from the south, pounding the ship with wind and rain. The sea became choppy, rocking the ship to and fro, which finally brought Pickman from his room. I remember that he said nothing to either of us as he lurched toward the rail.

The captain advised us to return to our rooms, but I don't think any of us were prepared to be alone at that point. The storm increased in intensity, and the power of the sea grew stronger. Waves broke over the bow, soaking the deck, and chilling me to my core.

In a flash of lightning, I saw our doom: a great, skeletal beast hovering over the ship [cold.jpg]. With one clawed limb it grabbed Pickman from his position at the rail, and tore him in half, tossing the remnants into the sea. I tried to scream, to warn the others, but the sound of thunder and crashing waves drowned me out.

Lighting lit the scene again, and I saw the boney beast grab the captain and snap him in two. It tore into the ship next, rending the hull with its claws. The sound of metal tearing pierced the air as the ship lurched to one side. I saw one of the students fall into the sea, and knew that he was gone.

I screamed and screamed, and fell into the sea.

***​
The doctors say that we were floating for a full week before the rescue vessel finally located us. We were dehydrated, starving, and baked from the sun. It took fourteen days before I regained consciousness, and I'm told that my wife sat by my side the whole time. It is only with her help that I have recently managed to return to my post at the University.

To return to the scenario that prompted my correspondence in the first place: surely the sight of a human face, removed from its host, and pinned to a board, would be enough to cause anyone to question his own sanity. In this case, however, this hideous encounter prompted exactly the opposite speculation. For the past month, I have been desperately clinging to the explanation that my recollection of our excursion had been delusional in nature, induced by the dehydration we suffered while adrift at sea. Indeed, I had nearly managed to push the events from my mind before tonight, but now I am sure that they occurred precisely as I remember them.

For you see, Charles, the face that arrived in the parcel this evening...it was mine!


----------



## Berandor (Jul 19, 2004)

Wow. Greywolf & Orchid Blossom: I'm really looking forward to any kind of story using these pics coherently


----------



## orchid blossom (Jul 19, 2004)

Ao the Overkitty said:
			
		

> Ummm.... oh my....  those are interesting pictures.
> 
> kinda sad I won't see orchid's face when she sees them in the morning.  Was a long ride back from the Mass gameday.
> 
> I do think her responce is going to be, "Why couldn't I get Rpggirl & Rodrigo's pictures???"




Well, if I was going to wish for someone else's set, I'd take Macbeth and Berandors.  I had a story for those almost immediately.  These will take more work, but a challenge is good.  (and if I repeat that over and over I might believe it.)

I couldn't believe it.  We get home from the gameday last night and the boards are down, on purpose!  But I think it's a good thing I didn't see these before I went to bed, I would have had weird, weird dreams.


----------



## alsih2o (Jul 19, 2004)

Berandor Vs. Macbeth

 From here on out I am gonna be mixing the order of judgements. J


Alsih2o- 

 Macbeth “The g(u)ilt hanging over me. Man, what a line. “All of it tightly packed into little bricks of protein. The building blocks of a new life.” I love this one too. I also like the repetition, I don’t particularly think it is great writing, but I do it myself and find it comforting…mostly.

 Take the DMS-IV, I would have liked to have been shown him looking through it rather than hearing him talk about it. The picture use is pretty solid, I like the brick interpretation a lot and the double layers in a lot of the meanings of words. 

 I really enjoyed this. The tension of the backwardness, the repeats. Nice story old man.


 Berandor Gives us a conflict in the first session I can really sink my teeth into, his disgust and love for those around him is really attention grabbing. 

 I really enjoyed the use of Sialas green pic, and the “Walker” . The d-blocker pic is an example of not good but fantastic pic use.

 The end slammed me, I expected more. But unlike most abrupt endings it slammed me in a good way. This is a strong, strong story and I hope it survives past this competition.

 Judgement- Berandor, Macbeth did a lot right, but Berandor did it all right.

 Barsoomcore- 

 Macbeth  "Guilt"

A backwards story. I'm not often a fan of these, because nine times out 
of ten the reason the story is backwards is because the story lacks 
tension and by telling it backwards the writer exchanges tension for 
mystery. Which is an inferior form of suspense.

This story is essentially a mystery about why our narrator has bad 
dreams. We read the story in order to get the explanation. If you'd 
told the story in the temporal order of events, there would be no 
mystery -- we'd know why he has bad dreams. There would also be no 
tension, and that's the primary problem with this story. No tension. 
Just mystery.

Here's what Rust Hills has to say about mystery: "The trouble with 
mystery as a structure is that the writer enters into competition with 
the reader instead of partnership."

(by the way, if you haven't read Rust Hills' book _On Writing in 
General and the Short Story in Particular_, you are missing one of 
best books ever written about writing stories)

The only reason for us to read this story is to discover the source of 
the narrator's bad dreams. Your goal, then, is to delay that revelation 
until the end of the story -- which puts you and your readers at odds. 
It turns your story into a game rather than an emotional experience. 
The reverse order of events reinforces that notion by forcing me to 
"meta-read" and put things together outside of the story.

As a general rule, if a story's not worth telling in "natural" order, 
it's probably not worth telling at all.

Another problem for me is the repeating dream. If you're going to 
structure a story around a repeating event, you need to make clear what 
effect each repetition has. Each one needs to provide a distinctive 
emotional transition and each one needs to build on the one previous. 
The individual dreams here don't seem to do that -- they just repeat 
the same themes over again. There appears to be no reason for them to 
be in the order they are in -- I think I could switch them around and 
the story wouldn't change any. That means they're unnecessary, and you 
should never make your readers read unnecessary words.

That said, it's an ambitious effort, the pictures are creatively used, 
and your writing is fine (though I wonder if you meant "yoke" or 
"yolk"). I'm questioning the nature of the story and the structure you 
chose to tell it, rather than the writing itself.

Thank you, though. I enjoyed reading it.


Berandor  "Rememberance"

Okay, a pretty straightforward "coward gets a second chance" story. 
Nothing wrong with that. It's pretty long -- the various conversations 
are all (especially the one with Marcus) quite a bit longer than they 
need to be. Indeed, I thought you could drop the entire scene with 
Marcus. Go from the bust to the meeting with Arnold Webster -- we'll 
fill in the gaps.

Some of the formatting is a little weird -- there's varying spaces 
between paragraphs that I don't get. If that was meant to communicate 
anything it slipped past me.

I like the family relationships established at the beginning. It's 
believable and cruel and mundane. Very engrossing. I wish that it had 
paid off a little more at the end, however. Likewise the characters of 
Marcus and Webster -- how do they serve the story?

This sentence: "He realised he'd used his family to shield him from his 
guilt" -- I don't think you really earn this sentence. I think that in 
order to get away with such a moralistic statement you need to have 
DEMONSTRATED it to us before we read it. We should read that sentence 
nodding to ourselves, thinking, "Yes, of course, that's exactly what's 
he's done." It should illuminate the story you've just told rather than 
provide us with new information about Jason's state of mind.

Picture use is pretty good except for the walking wheel -- that one's a 
bit of a throwaway. I'd also like to have seen a stronger use of the 
barge, but the girl and the "d-blocker" are both excellent and carry us 
right on through. Giving us a hint through the pictures themselves is 
also clever -- you make a point of saying Rose is blond, when anyone 
can see the little girl in the picture is dark. Nice.

All in all, the story is competent, though it skates over the emotional 
surfaces of things rather than diving right in and really shaking us 
up. It needs tightening, and it needs more attention paid to the 
relationships between events in the story, but this is a solid entry. I 
enjoyed it. Thanks.


Decision: Berandor

 Mythago-

 Both of the stories are diamonds in the rough.

GUILT (Macbeth)
The repetitive style was probably meant to show the narrator's
slipping sanity, but unfortunately it crossed the line from "weird" to
"annoying." There were times when I found myself skipping ahead
because the guy's mental dialogue just wasn't very interesting.

The idea of the dream, to the reality, to the shattered dream, was
confusing; was the guy seeing a vision sent by the village? Did he
have some kind of strange foresight? It's very vague and angsty and we
don't really see what's going on. The theme of the first picture was
nicely woven in with its re-appearances; the ball was nearly a
throwaway. The bricks = meat didn't make sense to me--why was the guy
supposed to have tested it (and how?) and, well duh, if you carry
slabs of meat around in hot, tropical air, they're going to go bad. I
like the idea you have behind the sequence, but not the execution

The line from Hamlet makes it sound as though the narrator is dying,
or at least that there's some connection between the beginning and the
end, but there really isn't other than the narrator having bad dreams.
He sounds pretty sane by the end.

So, there's a core of an interesting story in there, but the style and
the picture use feel like they've been very artificially sprayed on.


REMEMBERANCE (Berandor)
The story starts out, I'm sorry to say, in a very uninteresting
fashion. It screams "hi, I'm the author and I'm trying to frontload
information about this character." We get similar frontloading in the
description of the walking wheel.

I was also not understanding what was up with the wife and daughter
having the mutation. Is there a gene bomb? Surely if Gardiner is that
repulsed, he wouldn't have had a child with a woman he loathed; her
feelings about his repulsion didn't sprout overnight (sorry). And the
sudden appearance of the MDU is convenient.

The story doesn't pick up steam until after Gardiner gets out of jail.
Why he never suspects his contact is a mutant, I'm not sure, but at
least the interaction between the two is interesting. Now Gardiner is
the one trying to do right and the mutant is the one causing problems.
The climax of the story, with Gardiner accepting his family is dead
and making amends by caring for "Rose," is very powerful, and the use
of the picture is reasonable.

Judgment to BERANDOR for an overall more cohesive tale and better picture use.

 Decision, Berandor 3-0


----------



## alsih2o (Jul 19, 2004)

Graywolf-ELM said:
			
		

> Did I wrong you in a past life, alsh2o?  Um, this will be interesting.
> 
> GW




 The first round is a stretching exercise, to get you warmed up. 

 Now the sadism comes out.


----------



## mythago (Jul 19, 2004)

> Here's what Rust Hills has to say about mystery: "The trouble with
> mystery as a structure is that the writer enters into competition with
> the reader instead of partnership."



Interesting--it reminds me of Graham Nelson's essay "The Craft of Adventure," about interactive fiction being a 'crossword at war with a narrative'.


----------



## BSF (Jul 19, 2004)

alsih2o said:
			
		

> Carpe David V.s Bard Stephen Fox
> 
> 5 pics, 72 hours, 6000 word limit.



Quest for Mimir

Water splashed in Jack Lopt's mouth.  He spit it out, but the taste of salt remained.  He lifted the corner of the litter higher above the waves and shouted encouragement to the other men.

"C'mon!  Keep moving, we are almost to shore and we can't let the fire go out before it burns the phylactery.  It's our only chance."

The other three sailors, the only crew left of the Skidbladnir, merely grunted and continued wading through the waves carrying their blazing burden.  They had all been hired less than two weeks earlier to crew a private craft.  A beautiful ship with a strange name, the Skidbladnir.  Now, all they wanted to do was to be somewhere safe.  Carrying a burning litter, through chest deep water, in the dark, seemed safer than whatever waited for them back aboard the Skidbladnir.

Jack stumbled as another wave hit him in the face and almost lost his grip on the litter.  Panic washed over him before he regained his footing.  The pack on his back was slowing him down and he considered ditching it.  But, if he did that, he would have failed at the job.  He never failed at a job, once he took it, his pride would not let him get rid of his burden.  Especially when he was so close to his destination. The wound in his side stung from the salt water, but he couldn't ditch that.  Gritting his teeth, he plodded forward and tried to remember what his life had been like nine days ago.

Jack had been sitting in his office when he noticed the silhouette at the door.  The person stopped to read the name on the door.  Low Key Art Brokerage.  Jack heard a low laugh before the door opened and a large man, with a floppy-brimmed hat, walked in.  The man stepped forward, took off his hat and smiled at Jack.  "Good day, Mr. Lopt."  The hairs on the back of Jack's neck prickled upward.  He immediately felt some sort of tie and familiarity with this man, though he was sure he had never seen him before.  Jack stopped to greet the stranger.  As he did so his hand casually brushed across the small bag of eight runestones he kept in his pocket while mouthing their names.  He commanded a little magic and it seemed smart to call it forth now.

The man stood there, waiting for Jack to walk around his desk.  Jack couldn't shake the impression that the stranger knew the runes as well.  Something black fluttered at the window and Jacked turned quickly to look at it.  If this were a trap… No, it was just a large black bird landing on the sill.  A crow?  No, this bird was larger, a raven.  The raven looked back at Jack before the stranger spoke again.

"Mr. Lopt, I have a business proposition for you.  Are you interested?"

Jack blinked and turned his attention from the raven to the man inside his office.  He now noticed that the man had one clouded eye. Jack smiled and held out his hand.  

"Of course I am interested.  Why don't you have a seat and tell me about it Mr. …"

"Call me Mr. Godan for now.  Let us dispense with the formalities.  I know that you arrange for the transfer of ownership of certain pieces of art, whether the current owner wishes to part with them or not.  Some time ago a piece was taken from me, and now I want it back.  You will obtain it for me." 

Jack sat down and tried to look relaxed.  

"Assuming that what you say is correct Mr. Godan, What makes you think I will help you reacquire this piece?"

Godan smiled at Lopt.  "You will, of course, ask a fee.  We could haggle over this fee until you thought you had reached a high enough number, then you would agree.  But, we will not do that."

"Do not be so sure Mr. Godan."  Jack leaned forward to say more before he was cut off by a gesture from Godan.

"You will agree.  You will agree for three reasons."  Reaching into his hat, Godan pulled forth a rolled up skin of some sort.  Jack avoided commenting on the trick.  He had a pack with an extra-dimensional space himself and it was hardly an impressive magic trick.  Godan unrolled the skin on the desk between the two of them.  It was a large, beautiful otter skin.  Without meaning to, Jack gently ran his fingers across the pelt.  A small surge of energy coursed through his fingertips.  Godan leaned forward an in a low voice muttered, "Yes, very good, you feel a tug to this skin don't you?  Very good indeed."  Jack pulled his fingers away rapidly, but his denials died on his lips.  He had felt an attraction to the skin.  

Godan continued, "If you are successful, then I will cover this skin with gold.  Gold coins, jewelry, bullion, enough to cover the entire skin, including the last whisker.  That gold will be your payment.  That should light a fire in your soul, shouldn't it?"

Jack leaned back and he did feel a fire.  He could imagine the skin covered with gold, almost as the vision of a past life.  Greed swelled in his heart and he had a difficult time choking it down.  It was a fair price, but if Godan could afford that much, perhaps he could afford a little more.  But, Godan wasn't done speaking.

"The second reason is that you are the best there is.  Nobody else has the courage, the audacity, to attempt what I ask.  The job itself is not hard.  Surely, somebody such as you can arrange for it's completion simply.  Almost anyone else on this world would simply be too afraid.  You will take this job because nobody else will and you will refuse to be lumped together with the lessers in your profession."  Godan sat back with a laugh and watched the mixture of emotions play across Jack Lopt's face.  Greed and Pride were always effective ways to stir those of Lopt's blood.  

Jack sputtered.  It was true, that he was the best.  His pride would demand nothing less than acceptance of this job.  He felt like he was being manipulated and with sudden insight, he realized he was.  Godan had offered him more money than anyone else ever would, and he had touched Jack's pride.  Either offer alone would have made it difficult to turn down the job, but both offers together made it nearly impossible.  Mr. Godan knew what Jack wanted, and he had mentioned a third reason.  Reaching down to his pocket, Jack again brushed the runestones he carried.  A small wave of cool washed over him as he mouthed their names, pushing back the fire of greed.  Then, with a dry throat, he looked at Mr. Godan and asked, "The third reason?"

Godan smiled.  The man had regained his composure better than many of Lopt's descendants would.  "Ah yes, the third reason is that you only know eight of the secrets.  If you wish to know the ninth, you must complete this job, this quest, and bring the item to me before April 30 has passed."

Jack shot forward.  "The ninth secret!  You know of the ninth secret?"

Godan's voice was loud.  "I do not know of the ninth secret, I know the ninth secret!"  Then, in a quieter voice, "As will you if you complete this quest."  

Godan stood and tossed an envelope onto the otter skin.  "Inside is the information of where this item is, and where you must take it.  I have already hired men to crew the ship you will travel on.  Bring the skin so you may receive your payment."  Godan turned to leave.

"Wait!  What is this piece of art?"  Jack dropped the pretense that he would not accept the job.  Godan was right, there were three reasons why he would accept this job, whatever it might be.  "How will I know which one I am supposed to bring to you?"

Godan laughed.  "You will know Lopt.  If you have the courage to try, you will know what it is that you are there to retrieve."  

Jack's eyes fell to the otter skin, and the envelope.  Perhaps Godan was right.  He had until April 30 to complete the job, which gave him nine days.  Nine Days, only nine days!  "Mr. Godan, April 30 is only nine days away."

Godan opened the door and put his hat on.  Looking back to Lopt he smiled gruffly.  "Appropriate isn't it?"  The door closed, Godan was gone.  Jack's hand fell to his pocket.  He could feel the eight runestones within.  Nine days to learn the ninth secret.  A movement from the window caught his eye.  By the time he looked, the raven was gone.

A week later, Jack found himself at the top of a skyscraper.  It had taken him two days to find out who really owned the apartment at the address Godan had given him.  The answer set him in a cold sweat.  Queen of the Dead is what they called her on the street.  Hel is what the lease papers said.  The fact that she could get away with a single name was impressive.  All of Jack's contacts were able to confirm that she was a powerful necromancer.  The few contacts that Jack called friends told him he was crazy to try to steal anything from Hel.  Jack agreed, but the image of a gold covered otter skin burned inside of him.  Whiskey helped him keep his mind off of the job as he closed up his business and liquidated his assets.  After this job, he would need to disappear.  Whiskey helped, but the fire of the gold he would soon have drove him forward.

At the top of the skyscraper, he didn't have any whiskey.  He had bribed his way onto a construction job and decided on a mid-day break in.  For ten thousand, he had bribed a recent widow to schedule an appointment with Hel asking for her husband to be brought back from beyond the grave.  Jack hoped that the lunchtime appointment would keep Hel out of the apartment long enough for him to get in, and out.  http://www.enworld.org/forums/attachment.php?attachmentid=15274]Edging along one of the girders, Jack prepared to drop ten stories and break into Hel's apartment suite.[/url]  Just before he dropped, he felt the fear fade away.  He would be successful because Hel didn't keep much in the way of security.  Nobody wanted to cross the Queen of the Dead.  Hel knew that, relied upon that.  Jack would succeed because he was the only person with the courage and the audacity to try.

It took him ten minutes hanging there to bypass the building security, cut a hole in the window, and slip inside.  The interior of the apartment was sparsely furnished. A few chairs, a couch a table.  The entire place was painted in black and white.  Jack had heard that Hel preferred the two colors, but he wasn't quite ready for the entire apartment to be decorated in this way.  Jack slunk through the apartment, looking for any sort of artwork that Mr. Godan would want. There was nothing, nothing at all.  Until he reached the bedroom.

Directly across from the bed was the http://www.enworld.org/forums/attachment.php?attachmentid=15270]face of a man nailed to the wall.[/url]  It was creepy, the entire room smelled of dried herbs.  The walls were white and the bed was black and the only color was from this face, nailed to the wall.  For a moment, Jack thought he would be sick.  He tried to tell himself that this is not what Godan wanted, but somehow he knew that it was.  There certainly weren't many other choices.  Jack stood there for a moment before muttering to himself, "What am I supposed to do with this?"

The face spoke.  Jack didn't jump more than a foot when it happened.  

"Loki's brood does Wodan's bidding,
seeks Mimir's head for wisdom.
pulls from the safe, Lich's cup,
safe against the burning."

Jack looked at the face with morbid curiosity, but it had grown quiet again.  Loki's brood?  Wodan's bidding?  Mimir's head?  Wasn't Mimir's head something that Odin kept for wisdom?  Is that what this is supposed to be?  What in the hell is going on?  Hel, he had to be done before Hel returned!  Lich's cup.  That did sound like something a Queen of the Dead might have.  Where was the safe?  Jack looked in the closets.  Most rich folk kept their safes in the closet.  He couldn't find anything.  The other cliché place was behind a painting.  But, Hel didn't have any paintings, she only had this face on the wall.  Jack developed a bad feeling in the pit of his stomach.  

Gingerly, he pulled back the face.  Sure enough, there was the lock of a safe.  For a moment he wished he had some whiskey.  Then, he decided he didn't need whiskey.  He was Jack Lopt, an expert theif and the only person with enough courage to try to rip-off Hel.  He pulled the nails out of the skin and set the face on the bed.  After that, it only took a few minutes to open the safe. 

Inside, he found a wooden container filled.  The top was sealed and when he shook it, it sounded like something inside.  The wood was finely carved and Jack entertained the idea that this is what Godan was looking for.  The feeling in his stomach didn't change.  Looking back at the face, he knew that the container was not what he was looking for.  Lich's cup, isn't that what the face said?  With a flash of insight, it all made sense.  This was a lich's phylactery.  Hel would send a lich after him once she discovered the theft.  The container went into his magical pack, the pack with the otter skin inside it.  Jack turned to leave.  He reached the door to the apartment when he remembered the face on the bed.  The face fit in the pack too.  

He left by the front door and was walking out the lobby when he met her.  She was walking in and he almost bumped into her.  She looked beautiful, until she turned her head to look at him and he saw the other half of her face.  Life and death looked over him.  She smiled a terrible smile.  "Nice to meet you cousin."  She then walked past him and toward the elevator.  Jack hurried to a cab.  He had a plane to catch to Newfoundland where the Skidbladnir waited.  

Hel didn't catch up to him until he was almost to the ship.  More accurately, none of her minions caught up with him.  Jack was hustling down the beach, and a http://www.enworld.org/forums/attachment.php?attachmentid=15272]man was smiling as he flew his kite[/url].  Jack actually stopped to watch the kite when it detached and flew straight at him, like some sort of living shadow.  Jack was frozen for a moment.  Not like a living shadow, like an unliving shadow!  Panic almost overtook him. Instead his hands dropped to the runestones.  Shadows cannot move during the day, yet this shadow was.  The man controlling it must be shielding it from the sun, somehow, with magic.  Kill the necromancer, and the shadow would be helpless.  

Staggering backward, Jack struggled to pull out the pistol he had purchased in case the crew on the ship tried to betray him.  He ducked beneath the outstretched limbs of the shadow, rolled forward and began to pull the trigger.  It took three shots before he finally hit the man.  The man stepped forward, coughed up blood.  Jack was watching him when he felt a cold tingling course through his shoulder.  The shadow was upon him!  The man fell to the ground and dropped a small stone.  A runestone!  Running forward, Jack lunged for the stone.  His fingers closed on it and the shadow stopped.  Looking in his hand, he recognized a binding rune among all the other runes.  He could control the shadow!  Or, he could destroy it.  Shifting the rune to his other hand, Jack hefted the pistol.  With a smile, he dropped the rune to the sand and shot it.  Stone splinters shot in every direction and the shadow screeched before fading away in the sunlight.  

The crew of the Skidbladnir was nice enough.  They were all foreign men and they clearly loved the ship. They loved it from spars to sails to keel.  They showed Jack his quarters and were soon underway.  Jack lay down on the small bed and fell asleep.  He didn't wake up until dawn the next morning, April 30.

The crew had been paid to sail to a specific set of coordinates.  Jack asked the captain where they were going and the captain smiled.  Apparently, nowhere.  The charts were quite clear, there was nothing at the location Mr. Godan had given them.  But, he was paying well enough that the crews weren't asking questions.  They liked the ship, they liked the pay, what better way to live than to sail?  

The storm came up just before dark.  Jack had been growing increasingly nervous that the Skidbladnir would not make it to their destination before midnight.  He was pacing the deck when the rain started.  It was moments later when something dark, and evil, swooped down out of the night.  It was a skeletal dragon and Jack found himself thinking the name Fafnir.  The dragon flew through the rigging, pulling sailors with it.  Their screams were lost in the wind and rain.  Then, there was a grinding noise as the hull grated over something hard.  Jack was thrown forward onto the deck and heard more screams of dying men as the dragon flew back.  

The captain was there, helping Jack to his feet.  They had reached the coordinates that Godan had given them!  The captain was screaming about how Godan had doomed them all to death by sending a dracolich after them.  Dracolich?  Jack tried to get the captain's attention as the dracolich circled around once more.  It dove for the two men and Jack jumped back, trying to get out of the way.  He almost made it.  A claw pierced his side, the utter cold of the dracolich's touch seemed to drain him of vitality and life.  Jack pushed himself back toward the cabin.  Reaching into his pouch, he felt the otter fur.  Warmth flowed into him.  The warmth of greed for gold.  Then the memory of the wooden container reached him.  What did the Mimir say? "Pulls from the safe, Lich's cup, safe against the burning."  

Jack was in his feet and in the cabin.  It was the wrong cabin, it was the captain's cabin.  He could see a small palanquin.  He brushed everything out of it and set the container inside.  Calling on fehu's power, he soon had a fire.  Water lapped at his feet.  The ship was sinking.

Jack gathtered the remaining crew together.  They had to give the fire time to burn the phylactery so the dracolich would die.  The four men jumped into the water, carrying the palanquin and heading for the beach.  In the distance, Jack could see a silhouette on the beach.  A man with a floppy-brimmed hat.  

Blood was oozing from his side as he struggled forward.  Words came to his mind.  Godan, Wodan, Odin.  Low Key, Loki, Lopt.  The phylactery burned out, the dracolich disappeared.  Jack Lopt fell to the beach at Odins feet and the world passed into darkness.  Before his eyes burned  a ninth rune.  He reached for it, screamed.

Jack woke in a golden field.  In the distance, he could see an immene rainbow.  A one-eyed man sat nearby, two ravens at his shoulder. He was talking to something in his hand.  Jack sat up.  Odin looked at him.  

"Greeting's Loki, it is good to see you awake.  Thanks to you for bringing my Mimir back to me.  Now, we shall sip from the mead, as we always have."


----------



## BSF (Jul 19, 2004)

Ack!  Ran out of time.  I see I biffed three of the links.  I also see two errors in word usage or spelling.  Ah well.  The time limit killed me as my muse didn't have a good story for quite a while.  Still, I hope it is an interesting story.  I borrowed and bent some mythology.  

In a while, maybe I can read Carpe David's yarn and see what I think.  

Oh, and congratulations to Berandor!  Great story.


----------



## BSF (Jul 19, 2004)

OK, I see what happened with the links.  Wordwrap created some extra spacing.  URL linking hates extra spaces.  Here are the three sentences with corrected links, if you have trouble reading them.  


Edging along one of the girders, Jack prepared to drop ten stories and break into Hel's apartment suite.[/url]  

Directly across from the bed was the face of a man nailed to the wall. 

Jack was hustling down the beach, and a man was smiling as he flew his kite.


----------



## Macbeth (Jul 19, 2004)

Can't say I'm suprised. I was sure Berandor had the better story, mine was a hodge-podge of what I could think of to tie things together. Good luck Berandor, it only gets harder from here on out.

The interesting thinga bout the meat bricks is that, as we discussed in the other thread, both Berandor and I tried to turn then into something besides bricks. He wanted them to be bread at first, but his better sense prevailed.

I also agree that the backwards story isn't worth telling, but it was the only way I could think to tell it.

Thanks a lot to the judges. It was fun. 

And the yoke/yolk thing was very intentional.


----------



## Sialia (Jul 19, 2004)

Macbeth said:
			
		

> I also agree that the backwards story isn't worth telling, but it was the only way I could think to tell it.



Don't you believe it.


----------



## Berandor (Jul 19, 2004)

Wow. 


			
				clay in round 1 said:
			
		

> Reading them both multiple times I think I expect somewhat better things form Berandor, and have to side with him.




I really tried to do you justice this time. 
Thank you, Macbeth, for your story again.

I still can't believe I won. And I am already preparing mentally for the next round, because I need to get even better then. Macbeth said he stuggled a little with his story, which was probably my luck.

This is what I had to say on the other thread:


> I'm not nervous for the judging. I'm all right with my story, and while not flawless in any way I think I've done well enough so I won't shed a tear when I lose, just because "it could have been so much better". If that's clear, anyhow.
> 
> Mabeth: Guilt
> Interesting. I wanted to use the ferries for shipping bread, but couldn't make it work the way I wanted to. It almost seems as if using it for stones is boring
> ...




I just want to address one thing that the udges might comment on, if they like to:


			
				barsoomcore said:
			
		

> Some of the formatting is a little weird -- there's varying spaces
> between paragraphs that I don't get. If that was meant to communicate
> anything it slipped past me.



The reason for the formatting is that usually in message board posting, you leave out a line to make for easier reading. However, I think it looks weird when I write an extended conversation, and every line stands alone with space above and beneath. I also didn't want to post a whole chunk of conversation and get drilled on my illegible formatting. So I put a space in between every five lines or so.

How do you want it for the next story? Space after each line, or rather a long paragraph of talking?

Alright, now I am going to fall unconscious from surprise 

P.S.: Does somebody know a good way of getting blood off one's hands? I tried everything, but the damn spot won't fade!


----------



## BSF (Jul 19, 2004)

Berandor said:
			
		

> P.S.: Does somebody know a good way of getting blood off one's hands? I tried everything, but the damn spot won't fade!




I wouldn't even try.  Keep that spot as a badge of honor.  Mythago has two and it doesn't seem to bother her.


----------



## barsoomcore (Jul 19, 2004)

mythago said:
			
		

> Interesting--it reminds me of Graham Nelson's essay "The Craft of Adventure," about interactive fiction being a 'crossword at war with a narrative'.



When I was in university I fought a one-man war against the post-modernists who kept insisting that the real value of fiction was that it formed a "game". I said then, and maintain still, that the notion of a game is at odds with the notion of artistic vision -- and that attempting to combine the two only weakens both.

Keep your interactive out of my fiction!  

I got so mad at post-modern critical theory that I started writing my essays in heroic couplets. Graduated, too.


----------



## barsoomcore (Jul 19, 2004)

Berandor said:
			
		

> How do you want it for the next story? Space after each line, or rather a long paragraph of talking?



Just make it consistent, please. Standard web usage is a blank line after each paragraph. Standard print usage is an indent at each paragraph. Either way is fine -- it was the inconsistency that confused me.


----------



## mythago (Jul 19, 2004)

barsoomcore said:
			
		

> When I was in university I fought a one-man war against the post-modernists who kept insisting that the real value of fiction was that it formed a "game". I said then, and maintain still, that the notion of a game is at odds with the notion of artistic vision -- and that attempting to combine the two only weakens both.



You're both wrong, so, um, NYEAH!


----------



## Macbeth (Jul 19, 2004)

barsoomcore said:
			
		

> When I was in university I fought a one-man war against the post-modernists who kept insisting that the real value of fiction was that it formed a "game". I said then, and maintain still, that the notion of a game is at odds with the notion of artistic vision -- and that attempting to combine the two only weakens both.
> 
> Keep your interactive out of my fiction!
> 
> I got so mad at post-modern critical theory that I started writing my essays in heroic couplets. Graduated, too.



Sorry that my story went so contrary to your feelings. I didn't eman for it to be an "author vs. reader" situation, I ment it to be a "what's going to happen next?" sitaution. A lot of good fiction comes from the reader wanting to know what happens next. If a reader trying to guess the ending is an antagonistic realtionship, then a good part of great fiction falls into that category.

If this is a big problem, I'm a little suprised I didn't get nailed for it in my first story. there too, we start with the narrator talking about his past, with the reader in the dark as to why he is where he is. I can understand not wanting to make an antagonistic realtionship with the reader, but I really don't think I did that. It wasn't intended to be a mystery, it was ment to be a look at the narrator, and why he is who he is.

But I'm making a mountain out of a molehill, overall I agree with you completely. As soon as I read Berandor's story, looked at the pics, and immediately saw HIS usage, I knew he had a better story, usually I'm stuc with me own meaning, but Berandor was good enough now I see his story.


----------



## Berandor (Jul 19, 2004)

Thanks again, Macbeth 

Anyway, I just want to make sure you don't think it's ridiculous if my story looks like this:

"I need you," she said. Sam took her hand in his, and looked her in the eye.

"I know," he answered, his voice trailing off.

"But?" Mary bit her lip. The flesh turned white from the pressure.

"Why do you think there's a but?"

"I don't know. There is a but, though, isn't there?"

"Yes."

"So?" she asked.

"But I don't love you."

---

Doesn't that seem a little... funny?


----------



## barsoomcore (Jul 19, 2004)

Macbeth said:
			
		

> Sorry that my story went so contrary to your feelings.



Oh, no, Macbeth, PLEASE don't think that. Sorry, I got off on a tangent about post-modern critical theory that had NOTHING to do with your story. My deepest apologies.

Honestly, the fact that you wrote a mystery isn't a big deal. I brought it up in my critique because I felt it pointed up the primary weakness of the story and might hopefully give you something to think about in future work.

Please understand that NOTHING in the post you quoted has ANYTHING to do with your story.

Believe me, if I thought you'd been writing post-modernist claptrap, you'd've heard about it long ago. 

I'm very sorry you thought that, and I really really really want to emphasize that I wasn't talking about your story at all. At all. What I meant to say in my review was that it was a good story that fell short of real emotional involvement, and I think primarily because the story depends on the revelation of a mystery rather than the development of tension. Anything beyond that in my later posts is in no way shape or form reflective of or inspired by your story.

My apologies once again. I'm trying really hard in my critiques to make them USEFUL. To give writers feedback that they can make use of constructively in their following work, to give them things to think about and either discard because I'm obviously a moron, or try to put into practice next time. If I'm coming across as just picking on stuff because I don't like it, I don't feel like I'm doing my job. Please let me know if that's the case.

My basic criteria is, "If I were editor of Amazing Stories, and I had decided NOT to publish this, what would be my reasoning?" I try to zero in on what I think are the key problems in each story, and provide clear descriptions of each.


Berandor: that looks fine to me.


----------



## BSF (Jul 19, 2004)

Berandor,
I understand why you think it looks odd, but I think it looks good overall.


----------



## Berandor (Jul 19, 2004)

Alright, fine, I'm gonna do it better next time


----------



## Zhaneel (Jul 19, 2004)

Berandor, I think it looks great... but then I'm weird.

Zhaneel


----------



## mythago (Jul 19, 2004)

Macbeth said:
			
		

> If this is a big problem, I'm a little suprised I didn't get nailed for it in my first story. there too, we start with the narrator talking about his past, with the reader in the dark as to why he is where he is.



It worked better in the first story in the second. I don't think it's a bad technique by definition (hell, I've done it), but unlike a linear narrative, it's easy when you're playing with information and timelines to overshoot and leave the reader completely confused.


----------



## Sialia (Jul 19, 2004)

barsoomcore said:
			
		

> When I was in university I fought a one-man war against the post-modernists who kept insisting that the real value of fiction was that it formed a "game". I said then, and maintain still, that the notion of a game is at odds with the notion of artistic vision  . . .



Which precludes generating art while assembling five deliberately uncooperative pictures in 72 hours in order to pander to three other people's preconceived notions of literary theory in order to compete for a chance to advance to the next round of a tournament?


----------



## Macbeth (Jul 19, 2004)

Barsoomcore, no harm done, I didn't see it as an attack. Don't worry about it. I'm just glad for the feedback. I just wanted to explain my point of view.

And no, it wasn't post-modern. That would have been even weirder.


----------



## barsoomcore (Jul 19, 2004)

Sialia said:
			
		

> Which precludes generating art while assembling five deliberately uncooperative pictures in 72 hours in order to pander to three other people's preconceived notions of literary theory in order to compete for a chance to advance to the next round of a tournament?



Hey, if I'm supposed to be getting pandered to here, these contestants got a long way to go. Pandering that does not include peeled grapes and beautiful servants just doesn't make the mustard.



But to treat seriously what I'm not sure was meant to be (I have images turned off so I don't see smileys): Each story can represent an artistic vision, indeed the qualities of a successful Ceramic DM entry are exactly those of any good story. Artists placing conditions on themselves is standard practice -- writing a Ceramic DM entry is not any different in concept from writing, say, a sonnet. You've got strict boundaries you must operate within while you try to generate something new, something powerful, something entertaining.

And to try and nip in the bud any misplaced debate on the use of mystery -- it's a fine technique. I like mysteries. But the best mysteries ALSO employ such devices as conflict and tension, and thus grip me on multiple levels. A story that's JUST a mystery is less interesting than a story that possesses both mystery and tension.

Hope that's clear.


----------



## barsoomcore (Jul 20, 2004)

Macbeth said:
			
		

> I just wanted to explain my point of view.



Fair enough. And I'm glad you did.


			
				Macbeth said:
			
		

> And no, it wasn't post-modern. That would have been even weirder.



Almost by definition, I think. If it's not weird, it won't get called post-modern. Plus your story made sense, had a point and was based on correct grammar and punctuation. Definitely NOT post-modern.

Sorry, is that MY bias? Clumsy me.


----------



## Macbeth (Jul 20, 2004)

barsoomcore said:
			
		

> And to try and nip in the bud any misplaced debate on the use of mystery -- it's a fine technique. I like mysteries. But the best mysteries ALSO employ such devices as conflict and tension, and thus grip me on multiple levels. A story that's JUST a mystery is less interesting than a story that possesses both mystery and tension.
> 
> Hope that's clear.



I tried to create tension, and conflict, within the narrator. Eh, guess I didn't do a very good job of it. Oh well, that's what I'm here for: to have my weaknesses pointed out.

Thanks, Barsoomcore. You've been very insightfull.


----------



## barsoomcore (Jul 20, 2004)

Macbeth said:
			
		

> You've been very insightfull.



Hey, you are the guys doing all the hard work. Potter's definitely gotten more deranged and sadistic since the old days when *I* was in Ceramic DM. I'd be afraid to try and take on these picture sets.

Kudos to ALL the contestants.


----------



## alsih2o (Jul 20, 2004)

barsoomcore said:
			
		

> Hey, you are the guys doing all the hard work. Potter's definitely gotten more deranged and sadistic since the old days when *I* was in Ceramic DM. I'd be afraid to try and take on these picture sets.





  Hey, we are all getting better at what we do.


----------



## Graywolf-ELM (Jul 20, 2004)

*Chaos Gates*

*Round 2, Match 3: Orchid Blossom vs. Graywolf-ELM

Chaos Gates

By Graywolf-ELM*

“I’m an altered.  That’s what I am. That’s my profession.  The Chaos Gates made me this way.  Not directly, but the need to fight what comes through those gates, prompted the merging of technology and magic that created my kind and others to fight the encroaching Chaos.”  Glasses clink and the low hum of conversations can be heard nearby.  “My name is William Hurt.  I used to say that it was just a name, not an intention.” A low chuckle escapes Williams chest and into his throat before he can stop it.  “WILL – HURT, get it?  My dad thought it was funny, may his soul enjoy the afterlife.  Now I’ve been changed by need to live up to that name.”  A shadow passes across the table, and the soft pad of a pair of feet can be heard, as someone walks by.  

“I’m recording this message, so people will know what it is like to be altered, and what it takes to fight what comes through the Chaos Gates. This is an assignment from HQ, some claptrap about getting to know the Altered.  Whatever, it might be a hoot.  So, I volunteered for the program, soon after some form of choking creeper killed my parents. It came out of a temporary gate near our house in Statesville, Ohio.  With Chaos, it is hard to tell where they will appear and begin spewing out creatures of horror.  Against protocol, my parents slept with their force window open. ‘The window is barred’ they would tell me, when I tried to convince them to shut it, ‘Chaos creatures can’t get in, and we are quite far from the nearest Chaos Gate.’ The last words I ever heard from my parents, aside from the screaming, was ‘Now get to bed, and don’t worry, we’ll see you in the morning.’”  

Will reaches up to scratch an eyelid, seemingly to find something to change the subject, and a grin splits his face in what can only be described as mischievous contemplation.  He smiles big for the camera, and his eyes seem to bug – out.  The right eye comes floating out to rest in his hand.  He continues speaking to the camera, resting on the table “One of my modifications, this magic eye.” He hefts the eye up and shows it to the camera.  “It’s imbued with magic to allow me to see and track in the underlying fabric of magic.  Many of the horrors of the Gates, are made up of magic.”    Plopping it into his drink, Will chuckles again. “It can also be used as prop comedy.  Hey waitress.  Over here, there’s an Eye in my drink.”[eyesforyou.JPG]  The chuckle turns to a guffaw, as the waitress reacts to Will and his eyes.  The left one is still bugged – out in the socket.  Taking a drink from the Martini, Will continues on.  “My left eye is technology-based.  State of the art tracking and targeting, not to mention weaponry, powered by a small fusion reactor.”  Sucking the eyeball into his mouth, Will cleans the alcohol off, and returns the eye to its’ socket.  Both eyelids close back over the eyes to normal spacing.  “I can’t show you everything, but I did want to give you some examples of what magic and technology have been used for.  Combating Chaos spawn is demanding and difficult work, and I use every tool at my disposal.”  

Will waves to the waitress for his check, in the universal sign, of one hand flat, as if holding paper, and the other hand making a check mark on it.  “I need to get moving, I’m due in Yuma Arizona tomorrow morning, some spawn have escaped the Chaos Gate wardens, and I will track them down.  I always do.  Haven’t slipped up yet.”  Will reaches over and switches off the DVR.  After leaving his imprint and Altered # on the bill, he heads to the car. He looks at the fast red machine and thinks, “They’ll really want to see this.”  Switching the DVR back on, and holding the camera at arms length, Will begins the narration again.  So we Altered get the best weaponry known to human and fey-kind.”  Pointing at the car, “This is the newest thing out of HQ’s R&D department.  And people were so excited when hybrid gas and electric cars came out.  This baby is dual-powered by a fusion and elemental magic.  Again, you have to be careful, some Chaos spawn are unhurt by magic and high technology is required to take them down.”  Will clicks a button on his car remote, and two armament   clusters extend from the sides of the car.[nightridermya$$.JPG]  “These puppies are enough to bring down a Chaos dragon in flight.”  Will begins chuckling again.  “You never want to see one of those babies more than once.  You never know what kind of powers they’ll spit at you.  The last one even had some kind of withering eye blast.”  He pauses for a moment looking straight at the camera.  “Oh yeah, we were talking about the car.  It’s the YL-2310, best vehicle on the road, for speed, and fighting Chaos spawn.  The frame and body are strengthened with nanite polymers, and resistances to most forms of magic.  Well, I need to hit the road to Yuma, so I’ll say goodbye for now.”  

Will packs up the DVR and hops in the YL-2310.  What he did not mention is the small piece of himself, which was given to make the car respond to his thoughts.  The inertial dampers come online, and the road to Yuma is a peaceful and swift one.  There are special lanes on most roads these days.  They allow for quick movement and response to threat by the Altered and Chaos Gate wardens.  No one uses them after the first publicized accidents.  It is a privilege with a purpose.  Easy access to the Chaos spawn makes everyone safe.  

A few hours later, and Will is in Yuma, meeting with the wardens.  The town hasn’t fared too well, and many buildings have apparently been blown apart.  Will turns the DVR back on to record the day in his life.  “I’m an artificer at heart, and I think I worked out something while I was driving.”  Reaching for his left eye, Will’s eyes bug – out for the DVR again, and the left one floats out to land in his palm.  Small metal tendrils reach out from the eye to form a small landing platform.  Holding the eye and the DVR together and concentrating, the tendrils reach out and take control of the DVR.  The eye, with the camera attached, begins to hover in the air, pointing at Will.  “You can have a bird’s eye view of what I’ll be doing today.”  Dutifully the eye hovers along behind Will, as he goes in search of the head warden for this area.   Coming upon a couple of wardens[gnomemansland.JPG], Will stops and offers formal greeting, “May order prevail.  Morning gents, how is the Gate today?” 

“May order prevail, Altered.  Hey, you’re Hurt aren’t you?”

With a big grin Will responds, "No, but I WILL."  Waiting for them to get it, Will shakes his head.  "Never mind, that I am gents; I’m here to track down the errant Chaos spawn.  Where’s the head warden?”

“Umm, what’s that hovering up behind you?” the Fey soldier points up at the eye and DVR.

“Don’t worry about it my friend; HQ is requiring me to film what I do.  You can take my word for it.”  All know that the word of an altered is as good as law, especially in a combat zone.

“He’s up the road here,” pointing over his diminutive shoulder. “What’s left of it anyway, second building on the right.”

“Right thanks wardens, Order is our guide.”  Will turns down the road, almost forgetting the DVR and eye hovering behind him.  “Oh yes, as you may have noticed, Fey are in the ranks of the war against the Chaos Gates.  Some of these guys can go invisible, and that’s a benefit against most of the Chaos spawn.  Mostly we get Elves and Gnomes in the ranks of the wardens, Mages, or Technomancers.  The odd pixie can be found, but only rarely.”  Will makes his way to the head warden, and goes through the same greetings with the Elf.  A quick description of the Chaos spawn, and a resonance to track, and Will is off into the scrublands.  The DVR continues to record

 “So, we have a description of 5 large bears with spider heads.  They were seen to have spinnerets as well.  So these may be able to make webbing.”  With inhuman speed, Will makes his way through the scrublands with ease.  Stopping to peer around with the remaining right eye, Will talks to the DVR again.  “As you can see, I’ve been imbued with speed.  So far only that last dragon was able to outpace me.  The YL-2310 made up for that.”

After an hour and a half of running, stopping for bearings, and continuing on, Will pulls up in a small clearing.  “I would have expected to see some webbing by now, as big as these things are.  The resonance shows one of the spawn to be right around …” As Will point around the clearing, a large flap of earth flies open, and the Bear-Spider[precious.JPG] pounces on him, mandibles clacking and jabbing into his torso.  As he’s pinned to the ground, the camera moves in for a closer shot.  Will, trapped on the ground, looks up at the DVR, and grins.  A blast of plasma, shoots past the DVR, very close, and blasts a hole big enough to step through, into the creatures side.  The Chaos spawn topples over, and Will extricates himself from the creature’s grasp.  “Now that’s my fusion powered eye working overtime.  This explains why there were no telltales for the Bear-Spider.  They’re a trapdoor variety.  Thank the lords of order my poison immunities are up to date.”

With the nature of the spawn clear now, Will has no problem finishing off the other four, and making sure there are no egg sacs to contend with.  “I’ve tagged each one, so they can be retrieved for investigation.  Each will be teleported back to HQ after I check in.”  

Will quickly makes the long journey back to his vehicle, and prepares for transport, shutting down the DVR and reclaiming his eye.  Returning to HQ is one of the few times travel by way of teleport is used.  No Chaos Gates are able to open within 20 square miles of HQ.  There is not enough power to spread this field throughout the world, or it would have been done.

Upon arriving at HQ, Will is debriefed and asked to visit Dr. Enliky for another assignment.  This is strange, as the enforcement branch, not the R&D department, usually hands out assignments.  A short transit to the special development lab, and Will is brought to a window looking in upon the laboratory's crèche.  Dr. Enliky is removing something from one of the incubation chambers.  The room is darkened, but a soft glow emanates from the creature in the Technomancers hand.  A light towel is used to clean excess fluid from what appears to be a fish.[inhand.jpg]  But this fish is not in labored breathing for lack of water to extract oxygen from.  Will turns on the DVR, “You’ll want to see this, I think it will be my next mission.”  The DVR focuses in on the glowing fish and hand.  The darkened room only highlights the fact that the fish is giving off a soft glow.

The Technomancer walks over to an intercom on the wall.  “Altered Will Hurt.  We have a mission that will likely kill you.  Do you accept?”

Will thinks on this for a moment, while the DVR looks on.  “Sure Doc. I’ve got nothing holding me here.”  The DVR is switched off, for the briefing.

Shortly, a contingent of Technomancers, Mages, and a lone altered is teleporting to the nearest Chaos Gate.  Chaos Gate wardens greet and welcome the contingent from HQ.  Will removes his eye as before, and attaches the DVR to it, activating recording.  “Well, it looks like this will be goodbye.  I’m headed into the Chaos Gate.  They say the glowing fish will eat chaos, and spawn more of itself.  I don’t pretend to understand it, but being close to the gate, the thing seems to be eating Chaos out of the air.  I’m leaving the DVR and my eye behind to record what happens when I step through.  I’ll try coming back through the Gate, but I’m not sure if it will be possible.”

With these last words to the DVR, Will turns to one of the waiting Technomancers, and scoops up the Fish of Order, and starts walking for the gate.  The DVR records the process, and the eye watches on, passively.  There is a delay of a few seconds after Will steps into the curtain of Chaos, and he winks out entirely.  Still recording, the DVR displays the assembled team taking readings, and watching for a spike on the meters that tells of incoming Chaos.  After 30 minutes, everyone begins packing up.  Wait, there’s a spike on one of the meters, something is coming through the Gate.


< The payload is released, and the fish swims through the air eating Chaos at a rapid pace.  Will is confused, turning to step back through the Gate, his skin begins to itch, and scalp begins to crawl.  Hunger is swiftly becoming overwhelming. >  

With a flash, the DVR records the return of Will Hurt, or at least, what has become of Will Hurt.  With mouths sprouting all over his body, Will begins eating, as soon as he comes through the portal.

< Why are the wardens shooting at me, I’m just a little hungry.  Oh, don’t run away, I need you here. I'm very hungry. >

Still recording, the DVR sees the flash of weaponry and magic, which does little to affect the creature Will has become.  He continues to eat, and balance is achieved.


----------



## Graywolf-ELM (Jul 20, 2004)

For better or worse, I needed to get this submitted.  My hands are full up until Friday when I leave for vacation.  It could have used more editing and more fleshing out, but then again what doesn't.  Every novel I have ever read, has had at least one word use error, that spell checkers pass through as valid words, but do not fit the sentence.  I hope it's not a Neo-post natal story that Barsoomcore seems to not enjoy, but I didn't have many options with these pics, sadism indeed.  

GW


----------



## BSF (Jul 20, 2004)

Ack!  You already finished?  Man, I feel so slow compared to some people.  That is really wacky since all of us have to be done in 72 hours.  How do you feel slow with that kind of limitation?  

I'm sure it will be a good read.  I'll try to check it out sometime today.


----------



## BSF (Jul 20, 2004)

MarauderX, 
I must apologize!  When I setup the menu links that alsih2o uses on the first post, I accidentally listed Morhpeous' story twice.  Once under his name, once under yours.  I just caught the error and I am sending alsih2o a corrected version of the links.  Let me assure you that no slight was intended.  It was just typical boneheadedness and confusion on what I was copy/pasting.


----------



## RPGgirl (Jul 21, 2004)

Pulled for editting ... ​


----------



## Rodrigo Istalindir (Jul 21, 2004)

*Round 2 - Rodrigo Istalindir*

“Caveat Emptor” by Rodrigo Istalindir

     The tropical heat had moved beyond oppressive into debilitating.  The birds sat motionless in the canopy, their fiery plumage giving the illusion that the treetops were bursting into flame.    An indolent slot hung from a branch dozens of feet from the ground, its once-mocked lassitude now mimicked by the other denizens of the jungle.  The catcalls of the monkeys had fallen silent, and the leaves were unstirred by breath of wind or beast.  

     Into this painted tableaux wandered a solitary figure.  The diminutive creature walked upright, unlike its distant relatives that scampered along on all fours when not swinging from the branches.  The little girl wandered aimlessly, here and there stopping to add a blossom to the rainbow bouquet she carried.  

     Pirmet knew she wasn’t supposed to go into the jungle alone, but the unrelenting heat had driven most of the adults indoors.  The children from the small town seemed unaffected by the temperature, and often used the adults’ siesta as an opportunity to explore unhampered by grown-up supervision.

     She stopped and sniffed the air.  A strange scent slithered among the permanent and pervasive smell of rotting vegetation.   It was a musky smell, and it reminded Pirmet of how the family dog smelled when it was cooped up inside the house during the rainy season.  Unafraid, she headed towards where the odor seemed strongest.

     As she moved towards the source of the pungent aroma, Pirmet noticed a low rumbling noise whose volume slowly rose and fell.   A few yards away, the foliage shook in time to the sound.  The child crept forward and slowly pulled back a leafy branch.

     “Eeek!” she shrieked, startled by the sight of an immense tusked beast slumbering in the underbrush.

     A large blue eye snapped open at the sound of her cry.  The beast staggered to its feet and snorted.  The gust of wind, redolent of earth and flowers, knocked Pirmet to the ground.  The gentle repose of the jungle shattered as the local residents flew, scurried and slithered for safety.

     Pirmet sat motionless, afraid to even blink.  The giant boar swung its head left and right, seeking a threat more dangerous than a little girl.   Deciding that there was nothing else nearby, the creature leaned forward, its cavernous snout just inches from the child.  It inhaled deeply, breathing in the aroma of the bouquet still clutched in Pirmet’s hand.

     Gathering her courage, Pirmet stood and stared at the boar.  Trembling, she slowly raised the bunch of flowers.   With gentleness surprising for its size, the animal took the blooms in its teeth.  Pirmet let go, and the boar’s mouth chewed once and then swallowed the fragrant offering. (Picture #1)

     Suddenly, the boar raised its head, testing the wind.  It snorted again, then turned and lumbered off through the jungle, tearing a wide path through the brush.  Moments later, Pirmet heard her mother calling her name.  With a last glance at the receding beast, she turned and headed towards the approaching townsfolk, making her own small path through the vegetation. 

•

Kylo Krumboldt was starting to worry.  He wasn’t sure which would run out first, his money or his luck, and he wasn’t in any hurry to answer that particular question.  If this next town didn’t provide sufficient opportunity for a man of his many talents, he might be forced to take up honest work, or, God forbid, engage in manual labor.

“Tick-tick” he called out, and shook the reins of the two nags pulling his carriage.  The tired beasts of burden ignored him, and continued plodding forward at a pace only a snail would have envied.   

Kylo’s spirits sank as the carriage rounded the bend and the town came into view.  He hadn’t hoped for much; this far from civilization he didn’t expect shiny modern buildings or gold-paved streets.  Even still, the run-down shacks and muddy streets were a disappointment.  It was doubtful that there was enough coin in this backwater burg to revive his flagging fortune.

With a sigh, Kylo pulled a lever at his side, activating a spring-powered calliope.  The tune that sprang forth from the mechanical musician was loud and tinny, but immediately recognizable to any child or adult.   Every traveling caravan had its own signature sound, but nearly all had adopted a traditional children’s song.  The children soon learned to associate the songs with the excitement that accompanied the wandering merchants, and even when adults their hearts would quicken when they heard the calliope.

Although he kept his eyes looking straight ahead, Kylo spotted curtains moving aside as townsfolk began peering out from the clapboard houses that lined the main road into town.  Word of his arrival would travel faster than he did, and he knew that by the time he reached the town square that a large crowd would be waiting.   He could tell without looking that he was also attracting a following, the children prancing behind forming an impromptu parade.

Minutes later, the carriage came to a stop at the center of the town.  Kylo, a smile stretching from ear to ear, leapt atop the roof of the carriage.

“Greetings and salutations!  Hail and well-met!  Fair skies and following seas!” Kylo bellowed, the expressions on the faces in the crowd turning from joy to confusion at the last, the traditional nautical greeting well out of place in this inland community.

     “Allow me to present myself.  I am your humble servant, Kylo Krumboldt, impresario extraordinaire, merchant of medicines and memories, salesman of spices and stories, courier of collectibles and candies!” 

     The children cheered at the mention of candy, and Kylo was grateful he was out of reach of their grasping paws.

     “I bring to you tales to share, goods to trade, and coin to spend” he continued.  “No matter what you crave, no matter what affliction ails you, old Kylo’s got the cure.”

Kylo tugged on a rope, and with a clatter, the sides of the carriage sprung open, nearly braining several of the more aggressive children.   The crowd gasped at the dazzling array of goods crammed within, and Kylo began to hope that maybe this town wouldn’t be a washout after all.

Hours later, as the sun began to set, Kylo finally began closing up his wagon.  It hadn’t been the best day he’d ever had, but it had been far better than he’d hoped.  He gathered from talking with the townsfolk that it had been some time since any of the traveling merchants had come to this town, and he was more than happy to satisfy any pent-up demand for commercial activity.

Kylo figured he’d spend another few days here.  Although he suspected that he’d already acquired most of the disposable cash possessed by the locals, there were always the stragglers who’d take some time to convince themselves they couldn’t live without some particular trinket, or the ones who thought themselves more crafty than Kylo, who would wait until the last possible moment in the hopes of obtaining a better bargain.  Then, too, there were those who had no coin, but would barter precious stones or carvings of rare wood.  Often the yokels were unaware of the true value of what they had, and once Kylo had traded a metal pail for a large unfinished diamond.

“Excuse me, Master Krumboldt.  May we have a few minutes of your time?”

Kylo jumped, startled out his dreams of impending wealth.  Without turning, he said, “At your service as always, gentle sirs, but perhaps it could wait a bit.   I’ve not eaten all day, and I’m about to expire from hunger.”

“Come and hear us out.  We’ll see to it that your stomach is full when we’re done, and perhaps your purse as well.”

The mention of a full purse banished all thoughts of food from Kylo’s head.  Smiling once more, he turned to face his inquisitors and was intrigued to see several distinguished gentlemen, their bearing and clothing setting them apart from the ill-kempt rabble that he’d been dealing with all day.

With a nod and a gesture that they should lead the way, Kylo fell in behind the group as they headed across the town square and into a two-story stone building.  Kylo assumed that this must be the center of whatever passed for a government in the town, as it was the only structure he had seen not made of wood.  He guess was soon borne out.

“Thank you for granting us a few moments of your time, sir.  I am Eldon Haranic, mayor of this town, and I have a business proposition for you.”

“Music to my ears, good sir.  How can this humble merchant be of service?”

“We are being bedeviled, Master Krumboldt, by a beast.  An enormous creature, spawned by who-knows-what, and come from the depths of the jungle to destroy our crops and devour our children.  Please, tell me true, does that wondrous wagon of your possess the means of dealing with such a monster?”

Kylo’s heart soared.  The mayor’s unease was plain, and few things boosted the bottom line like desperation.  

“Perhaps, sir, perhaps.  But the monsters of the jungle aren’t to be trifled with, and a charm that might send a brumble-beast stampeding in fear would only attact a giant slithersnake.  What do you know of this creature?”  Krumboldt stalled as the wheels in his head churned to life.  

“It is immense, as I said, as tall as two men at least.  It has tusks the size of trees, sharp and pointy, that leave great furrows in the ground.  Wherever it goes it leaves a trail of uprooted plants, and in a single night it can devour the produce of an entire farm. “ the mayor said.

“And worse, it is a man-eater.  It nearly devoured a little girl, and would have had her parents not startled it.  It has become bolder since, coming closer to town.  It is only a matter of time before it exhausts the fruit of our labor and turns its attention to us,” Haranic finished.

“Hmmm.  That sounds suspiciously like a vile-boar, as foul a creature as walks the land.  Why, just this year past, I heard of an entire village destroyed by such a beast, and not a single survivor to be found.”  Krumboldt said.

“I may have such things as to discourage the beast, mayhap even kill it, but they are hard-won by me, and not to be parted with lightly.”

“We are not a rich community,” the mayor began, “but we must be rid of this affliction.  Please, I beg you, take mercy upon us.”

“I can see you are indeed in dire straits, good sir, and I am not unmoved by your predicament.  I will offer you my services at cost, as I am fond of this town and its folk.  And, too, a trader must have customers to earn his living.  I’d not be well-served should this creature prevail.” Krumboldt replied.

“Thank you, thank you.  You have our utmost gratitude.  Please, take your refreshment at the inn, and worry not about the cost.  Let me know on the morrow what you will require, and how you plan to proceed,” the mayor said.  “Please excuse us, as we must start collecting your fee.”

With a bow, the mayor turned and left the building, followed by the other men.   Krumboldt stared after them, mentally calculating how much he could extract from the town.  With a newfound spring in his step, he headed towards the inn, where he planned on eating and drinking until he passed out.  Time enough tomorrow, he figured, to come up with a plan.

•

The following morning, the mayor and his entourage found Kylo at his wagon.

“Good day to you” the merchant called out.  “We are most fortunate.”

“Please, tell me you’ve found something to ward this creature,” Eldon Haranic said.

“I have just the thing, right here.  It is a potent mix of rare herbs and spices, gathered from the far corners of the world.  It has powers most puissant against beasts natural and not.  Combined in the proper proportions, it will prevent any four-legged being from approaching.  Simply scatter a small amount in each of your fields and the monster will be forced to seek out greener pastures.”

     The mayor reached for the sack, but Krumboldt quickly moved it out of his reach. 

     “There is the small matter of payment, of course. “ Krumboldt said.  “I promised you my services at cost, and I will honor that oath.  For this bag of magical powder, I ask the absurdly low sum of 1000 pieces of gold.”

     The mayor cringed.  One thousand gold would drain the town, and take nearly every piece of currency in the treasury.  

     “A deal was struck and it will be honored,” he sighed.  “You will have your gold.”

     An hour later, they mayor and his men returned bearing several large sacks that clinked and clattered as they were dropped at Kylo’s feat.

“Thank you, kind sirs.  And as promised, here is the concoction.”  Krumboldt gestured to the sack sitting on the tailgate of his wagon.  “Spread a bucket-full around the perimeter of each field.”

The mayor gestured to a large, muscle-bound man, who stepped forward and shouldered the heavy sack.  The group immediately headed towards the edge of town.

•
An hour later, and the fields closest to town had been protected by the spicy mixture.  The next farm was near the edge of the jungle, and the men apprehensively eyed the undergrowth.

With a grunt, the man carrying the sack dropped it upon the ground.  Two others stepped forward, and began filling small buckets from the half-full sack.  A loud crack emanating from the jungle froze them all in their tracks.  Although there wasn’t a bit of wind, the tops of the trees shook   

With a roar, the giant beast burst out from the trees.  The mayor stood stock-still, too terrified to move.  The other men from the town screamed in fear, and ran away in all directions save towards the giant boar.

The animal lumbered towards the mayor, snout snuffling.  The enticing aroma of the spices caught its attention, and it pawed at the sack, spilling the expensive mixture on the ground.  The creature buried its nose in the pungent powder, and it inhaled deeply.  

For a moment it stood motionless, eyes bulging.  Then, with a tremendous bellow, it reared back, shaking its head.  It inhaled deeply, and then let forth with an earth-shaking sneeze, covering the hapless mayor in slimy mucous.   The sudden dousing shook the mayor from his paralysis, and he sprinted towards town.

Behind him, the boar pranced about, shaking its head trying to relieve the burning sensation that tormented it.  Mad with pain, and nearly blinded with tears running from its eyes, it charged along the same path taken by the terrified mayor.  Heedless of the destruction it caused, the massive beast tore a swath of destruction, rampaging through the center of town.  Buildings splintered into toothpicks, carts were overturned, and the townsfolk scattered for safety.  

When the sound of the rampaging animal finally receded into the distance, the frightened populace timidly crept back into the open.  There was no sign of the boar, but the path it had taken couldn’t have been more obvious.  A bloodstained smear near the edge of town was the only sign of the Eldon Haranic.  (Picture #2)

•

The next morning, as the townsfolk began picking up the pieces, the town council (less one) approached Krumboldt’s wagon.

“Wake up, merchant,” Jero Constaro, the mayor-elect, shouted, pounding on the wooden door with a large stick.  

Kylo cautiously poked his head out of a trapdoor built into the top of the wagon.  

“Gentle sirs, how may I be of service this morning?”  he enquired.

“Get down here, Krumboldt.  Your so-called solution caused the beast to destroy half the town.”

“I assure you it was no fault of the mixture.  If mixed with the wine and applied properly, it is guaranteed effective,” the salesman stated.

“What do you mean, ‘mixed with wine’?  You said no such thing.  You told us to spread the spices around the field.”

“But, it must be mixed with wine to properly blend the mix.  I’m sure I mentioned that….” Krumboldt stammered.

The trio of remaining council members glared at him.  

“My most profound apologies.  I am so very, very sorry.  My mind is so full of legends and lore that sometimes the little details elude my recall.”

“Then you will make us another batch of the powder, and this time we will mix it with wine before spreading it on the fields.  Or are there any other ‘little details’ that have suddenly recalled?”  Constaro enquired.

“Of course, of course, I would be more than happy to make another batch.  But I’m afraid I’ve no more.  I used all I had in making the first sack-full.”

“Then return our money.”

“If you wish, I will do so.  But I burned a candle deep into the night, seeking a more potent ward against this creature.  Truth be told, it is much larger than any other I’ve heard of, and the powders may not have worked in any case.  And I believe I have succeeded.  I will of course count the thousand gold you have already given me against the cost of this powerful magic.”

The council retreated a few yards to discuss this new turn of events.  Their exchange was heated, but Kylo couldn’t make out what they were saying.  Minutes later, Constaro returned alone.

“Agreed.  You may keep the money, but we will pay you nothing more until after you have rid us of this beast.”

Kylo sensed it would be pointless to press the issue.  The destruction wrought by the beast, plus the death of the mayor, had nearly turned the town against him.  Only the mystique that typically surrounded the traveling salesmen had kept him safe.

“Agreed, that is most fair.  But I will need your assistance.  Have you heard of a golem?”

•

     Kylo sat atop his wagon, watching as the townsfolk assembled a huge humanoid figure of  wood and vines.  Constaro sat on the roof as well, and had not left Krumboldt’s side all day.  (Picture #5)

     “Tell me again of this ‘golem’ you are having us construct,” he said.

     “It is a magic from the deserts far to the east.  Legends say the folk of the region used to construct mighty war machines in the form of a man.  These golems were made of stone, and were impervious to sword or fire.  The only way they could be defeated was to topple them and then break them apart with hammer and chisel.”

     “With stone scarce around here, we’ll have to make do with wood.  But this is no fire-breathing beast, so that should be sufficient.  Did you acquire the materials I require?”

     Constaro removed a pouch from his belt, and offered it to Krumboldt.  Inside were two rough emeralds the size of a fist.

     “Excellent.  These will do perfectly.  They will serve as the eyes of the golem, so that it may hunt the boar on its own.  Without them, someone would have to ride astride the golem and direct it.” Krumboldt said.

     “Let us go and place the gems in the eye-sockets,” Krumboldt said, opening the trap door and motioning Constaro inside.  “After you.”

     Constaro dropped down and exited the wagon.  A few moments later, Krumboldt followed.  The two men made their way to where the golem was being assembled.  Kylo borrowed a ladder from one of the workers, and placed it against the front of the wood golem.  He climbed to the top, and inserted the two chunks of greenish glass he’d pocketed when Constaro’s back was turned.  He also secreted a pouch of the spice mixture in the golem’s head.

     “What a bunch of rubes,” he whispered under his breath.  The two emeralds were almost priceless, and combined with the thousand gold, would allow him to retire in style.

     Kylo climbed down the ladder and returned to where Constaro watched.

     “That should do it.  We’ll perform the ceremony tonight.  We don’t have the rare metals necessary to power the golem at full strength, so we’ll set it to guard mode.  It will awaken as soon as the beast approaches and kill it.”

     “Gather as many fruits and vegetables as you can, and scatter then around the golem.  It will attract the creature.  The sooner it is defeated, the better.”

     At sunset, Kylo performed an impromptu golem-activation ceremony, spouting gibberish in a half-dozen tounges and dancing around the base of the fake man.    The townsfolk retreated to their homes, and Kylo was heading towards his wagon when a steel grip seized his arm.

     “We will watch from the bushes, merchant.” Constaro said.

     The pair waited.  Constaro seemed unaffected by the bugs and lingering heat, but Kylo was miserable.  He hoped the creature would come tonight.  The thought of repeating this surveillance every night was unbearable.

     As if the gods had answered his prayers, the sound of heavy footsteps echoed through the night.  The two men huddled in silence.

     Out of the darkness the boar appeared, snout twitching as it sought the source of the enticing food.  It approached the golem, and then roared as it smelled the same noxious mixture that had tormented it the day before.  It reared back, tusks swinging back and forth.

     “Why is the golem not waking?” Constaro hissed.

     “Patience.  Patience.  The creature knows it for an enemy.  When it gets close, the golem will strike.”

     Infuriated that the golem did not flee, the boar charged, running its tusks straight through the construct.  The giant spear that had been bound to the golem’s hand fell forward when the wicker man was struck, and it pierced the beast’s side.  

     Bellowing in pain, the boar went berserk, tossing its massive tusks and trampling the ground.  In minutes, all that remained of the wooden golem was tangled vines and splinters.  Thinking its foe defeated, the creature quickly devoured the bait that had lured it from the jungle.  Hunger temporarily satiated, the boar stopped and again sniffed the air.

     With a rumbling growl, it began pacing towards the center of town, where Kylo’s wagon, and the remainder of the spice mix, waited.  

     Sensing the threat to his every worldly possession, Krumboldt broke from cover and ran as fast as he could.  He reached the wagon ahead of the boar, and began frantically trying to harness the horses.   The nags caught the scent of the approaching monster and panicked.  They broke free from Kylo’s grasp and bolted away.

     Krumboldt began chasing the errant horses, but quickly realized that they would run until they were exhausted.  If he was lucky, they’d come wandering back in the morning.  He turned around, and froze as he saw the giant boar, yards away from his wagon, pawing the ground as if it were a bull facing a toreador.

     For a moment, the boar seemed to stare directly into Kylo’s eyes,  and he could tell a split-second before the boar charged there was no way to save his precious cargo.  Kylo turned and ran.  The boar lowered its head and shoved its tusks beneath the wagon.  With one toss of its mighty head, it flung the carriage into the air.  It seemed to hover briefly in the air, and then plummeted to earth, almost crushing Kylo under it’s mass.  Moments later, the wagon burst into flame, incinerating Krumboldt’s vast accumulation of overpriced goods and fake rarities.  (Picture #4)

     Kylo stopped, and stared in horror as the fire consumed everything.  At least I still have the emeralds, he thought, absently patting the pouch concealed in his coat.  He sat down nearby, and hoped that when the fire subsided there would be something worth salvaging from the wreckage.  Of the boar there was no sign.

     Constaro watched with grim amusement as the boar sent Krumboldt’s wagon airborne.  He left his hiding place and approached the remnants of the golem.    A strong spicy scent hovered in the air, and Constaro instantly recognized it as the same concoction he’d spent the previous day spreading around the farms.  

     Constaro rooted through the vines and shattered logs that littered the area until he found the emeralds that were supposed to have provided the golem with sight.  Up close, he could tell that the green orbs were nothing more than chunks of cheap glass.   He pocketed them and went in search of the rest of the council.

•

     Kylo groaned.  He squinted, the morning light burning his eyes.  He remembered little after the destruction of his wagon the night before.  Judging by the headache that pounded in his temple and the tinkling glass that accompanied his every move, he’d gotten thoroughly drunk.

     He groaned again, and sat up.  He rubbed his eyes to clear his blurry vision, and immediately wished he hadn’t.  Arrayed around him were a number of angry townsfolk sporting an impressive variety of pointy objects. (Picture #3)

     “The emeralds if you please, Mister Krumboldt.” Constaro said.

     Kylo calculated the odds of successfully bluffing his way out of this situation, and realized that this was one of those times when keeping his mouth shut was the best of all possible actions.  He shrugged, then reached slowly inside his tunic and removed the gem pouch that Constaro had given him the day before.  He tossed it at the man’s feet, and waited to see if restitution was sufficient, or if they would only be satisfied with blood.

     Constaro reached down and picked up the pouch.  He opened it and glanced inside.  Satisfied that the pouch contained two large emeralds and not more worthless glass, he closed it and gestured for Kylo to stand.

     “Get up, get out, and never, ever come back.  If we even hear that you are headed in our direction, we’ll tie you waist-deep in the water and cut you.  Just a little bit, just enough for the piranha to notice.”

     Kylo blanched.  “Of course, of course.  A thousand pardons, gentle sirs.  You are most merciful.”

     The merchant continued his constant stream of groveling apologies as he backed away.  When he was sure that the townsfolk wouldn’t stab him in the back, he turned and ran on a straight path out of town.

•

     The people of the town began repairing the damage done by both of their unwelcome visitors. Pirmet’s parents took their little girl out to their field, the same one where the mayor had gotten trampled.  They admonished the girl to stay nearby, and began restoring some semblance of order to the ruined furrows where their crops had been planted.  

     Pirmet began gathering flowers near the edge of the jungle, quickly forgetting her parents’ warnings.  She’d collected a large bunch when she smelled a familiar scent.  Giggling happily, she ran towards the large form hulking in the woods.

     Pirmet’s mother looked up, and froze as she saw her tiny daughter standing in the shadow of the massive beast.  Her gasp alerted her husband, and the two of them watched helplessly as the boar opened its cavernous mouth and reached towards the helpless girl.  Their terror turned to astonishment as the creature gently engulfed the bundle of flowers offered by Pirmet.  

     The two adults cautiously approached their daughter.  Having eaten all the flowers the girl had to offer, the giant boar lowered its head and closed its eyes as the child scratched under its bristly chin.   Smiling at each other, the family petted their new friend for several minutes.  Reluctantly, the parents returned to work, and Pirmet curled up next to the gentle creature.

     The next day, Pirmet’s father plowed a new field near the treeline.  This field would not produce food for the family, or herbs and spices to trade.  This field would grow flowers.

•


     Miles away, on the outskirts of another farming community, Kylo stopped and considered his options.  Most men would have been ruined by the events of the past few days, he figured, but not a man of his intelligence and sophistication.  He would soon be back in the game, and the two small chunks of emerald he’d had the foresight to chisel from the massive stones would pave the way.


----------



## orchid blossom (Jul 22, 2004)

Round 2:  Greywolf-ELM vs. orchid blossom

Birth Pangs

By:  orchid blossom

Carowyn held the delicate fish in her hand.  "It's not even struggling to breathe," she marveled.

     "That's not all, watch this," Erica said as she flipped off the lights.  The already golden fish began to glow from deep within with a warm, orange light. 

   "It's beautiful.  This doesn't seem so bad.  Not like what happened to Sheeva."  Carowyn sniffled.  The villagers had been too afraid to let the sweet brown bear stay after she mutated.

     The old herbalist clicked her tongue.  "I thought I chose my apprentices better.  You're not thinking.  A fish that glows like that is going to have a hard time avoiding predators.  And what's the good of being able to breathe out of water if you can't move?  This mutation is fairly benign, but others aren't.  It has to be stopped.  Yet the humans still want to wait.  Fools, the lot of them."

     Carowyn carefully lowered her hand and slipped the goldfish back into its bowl.  "Can you really blame them?  The farther apart our worlds grow, the more magic they lose."

     "I understand it, but it doesn't make it any less stupid.  For whatever reason the parts of this world that are touched with magic can no longer coexist with those that aren't.  They're pushing against each other.  It's amazing the world isn't just ripping itself apart.  The magic in us is creating us a new world, but the birth pangs are doing terrible damage.  We must sever ourselves or both worlds will be changed beyond recognition," Erica said, snapping the light back on.

     Carowyn picked up her mortar and pestle and put them neatly away.  "You think we shouldn't wait for the humans?" she finally asked.

     "We can't," Erica sighed, her old bones slumping as she settled herself in a chair.  "They are tenacious. They'll hold on as long as they can, and longer than they should.  Bring me some tea, child."

     Carowyn fetched the whistling teapot and dropped in a tea ball.  "You have an idea?" she asked once it was finished steeping and they were both at their ease in Erica's soft chairs.

     "Not an especially good one.  Our mages are ready to work the spell that will close the last ways between the worlds.  But there are still humans here guarding them.  The spell will be long, and unfortunately flashy.  We need them distracted, or better yet out of the way.  There's only the one way nearby, so it shouldn't be too difficult.  I've recruited Jacob to help us."

     Carowyn laughed.  "Jacob, the human mage?  Never mind his mutation, but staying here is driving him insane.  Can we trust him?"

     "He has first hand knowledge of what's happening; more so than most humans.  He understands why it has to be, and when it has to be.  He can get the guards out of the way without hurting them, but I want you to go with him."

     "Is that really necessary?  I mean, if we can trust him, why send me?"

     Erica flicked her fingernail against the rim of her teacup.  "I trust his intentions.  But he's on the edge of madness.  He may not be able to deal with the unexpected.  Someone should be with him, and I trust you.  Once the spell is complete his mutation should disappear, and the mages think they'll be able to keep one human sane."  The older woman reached over and patted the apprentice's shoulder.  "Maybe Sheeva will even come back."

*                     *                    *

     The watches had gotten increasingly dull.  Steven paced back and forth in front of the broken down bit of wall to the side of the waypoint.  He'd rather have had guard duty on the human side.  These gnomes were far too quiet.  At least on his world there was the occasional mage willing to risk mutation and madness to keep his magic.  Here they were just waiting to close the gates.

     The gnomes were so eager to be rid of the human world.  Of course, they weren't losing anything.  Everything in the original world was duplicated in this new one, but in his world everything touched with magic would disappear.  He spat on the ground.  Everyone said the drift was a mystery.  No reason for it.  But these small ones had magic.  They could have started it.  And there were rumors they wanted to finish it.

Steven knelt down next to one of the many garden gnomes the soldiers had placed around the camp, painted like a soldier.  As if a gnome would pick up a weapon and fight.  He ran his hand along the weapon in the gnome's hand, searching for the switch.  There.  He flipped it on and attuned his ears to the crackling reception.  Those gnomes wouldn't get the jump on them.  Humans just needed long enough to figure out how the they were doing it, and then it could be stopped.  

     The receiver crackled louder.  The tired voice of an elder came over the airwaves.  There were a couple of minutes of silence after the old biddy asked for tea.  Steven was about to turn it back off when he heard a young voice say, "You have an idea?"  What followed hardly surprised him.  They would turn the tables on the gnomes, yes they would.

*                            *                            *

"So little girl, what are you wanting from me?" Jacob asked merrily.

Carowyn watched as the human wizard sipped at the glass that held his own eye.  "Would you mind putting that in while we talk?" she asked.  As the worlds had drifted farther apart the human wizard's eyes had mutated until they were bloodshot and far too large for his eyelids to close over them.  Even stranger, he could pop them out, which he did frequently.  He said keeping them in his drink kept them from getting dry.  

     Jacob fished his eye out of the liquid and popped it into his mouth for a moment as if it were an ice cube.  "Shame to waste good liquor," he grinned as he popped it back in.

     "Right."

     "I suppose you're here for the old lady?"

    Carowyn shifted her weight uncomfortably on the bench.  "Yes.  Are you ready?"

     "Course I am.  Them soldiers are smug little bastards, I enjoy the thought of sticking it to 'em."

     She grinned.  Those human soldiers had been getting rather arrogant lately.  The gnome statues were just one example; they knew how offensive her people found them.  "I like humans generally, but it does seem they're all going a little mad, doesn't it?"

     Jacob nodded.  "That they are, missy.  Now, we should get moving.  We got about an hour, yes?  I'll take you out to see my car.  You'll love the modifications.  I'll have those soldiers sleeping before they can say 'I love my gun.'"

     They stepped outside and Carowyn listened to the sounds of the gnomish village.  It was quieter than it used to be.  Many technologies, like cars, had never been of much use to the gnomes, so when the humans left much of the noise went with them.  

     A scream ripped through the quiet.

     'What the hell was that?" Carowyn asked sharply, her head swiveling to find the source.  Jacob's eyes bulged for a moment as her muttered under his breath and made a flicking gesture with his fingers.  If possible, his eyes got even wider.  "They're bringing soldiers in through the ways.  The must have figured it out.  Get in the car!"

     Carowyn ducked under the end of the strange wings he'd attached to the front doors and clambered into the too large vehicle.  Jacob slammed his foot down on the gas.  They peeled off toward the waypoint, the black spheres he'd attached to the wings bouncing and swaying madly with each bump.

     "Climb into the backseat," Jacob grunted.  "There's more of those spheres back there.  When you see the soldiers, start throwing them out, fast as you can."

     "What do they do?" she shouted over the noise of the engine.

     "They'll break when they hit the ground.  There's a gas in there that'll knock 'em out.  And even if the gas doesn't hit 'em, the shards'll make moving around hard.  Hand me one of those masks, and put one on yourself.  It's likely to get bad out there."

     Carowyn barely had time to get the mask on before the waypoint came into view.  She crouched down in the backseat and held on hard.  The car filled with wind as Jacob rolled down the windows.  "Now girl!" he shouted as he headed straight for the waypoint.

     She stared for a minute when her head got high enough to see out the window.  There were humans everywhere, swarming out of the waypoint.  .  "Throw 'em girl!" Jacob screamed again.  She shook her head and started grabbing the black spheres and throwing them out to shatter against the ground.  A green mist rose out of each one, causing the soldiers to choke and sputter.

     "Down!"  Jacob commanded as the soldiers raised their weapons to fire.  A hail of bullets shattered the windshield and the gas spheres.  Jacob kept plowing forward through them until he got to the waypoints entrance.  The broken spheres were still oozing gas, and they both began throwing more out the windows.  In a few moments the pile of passed out soldiers was so large that it blocked the way gate.

     Jacob jumped out of the car and threw a few more of his gas bombs over the pile of men.  "In case there are any behind there," he explained.  "You go find a radio.  Call Erica and tell her to start her spell.  These guys should be out for a couple hours, but I can't be sure.  Best to get started quick.  I’ll make sure there’s no more."

     Carowyn nodded and scanned the camp surrounding the waypoint.  Those damn garden gnomes were all over.  The path of destruction made by their crazed ride through the camp had left ceramic gnome shrapnel everywhere.  She laughed at that.  Garden gnomes were one thing about humans that she would not miss.

     The waypoint had been set up at a ruined farmstead.  Only one building was still intact.  Most likely the radio would be in there.  Carowyn set off over the sleeping bodies of the humans.  It was a shame they would be trapped here.  The intent had been to send the few soldiers back through the ways to their home before severing the worlds.  That couldn't happen now.  She reached the front door of the old farmhouse and turned the knob. 

     There was a click behind her.

     "Just what do you think you're doing, Gnome?" a muted, scratching voice said behind her.  She lifted her hands, palms open, and turned around.  This man had managed to react and put on a gas mask during Jacob's mad rush through the camp.  His weapon was trained square on her.

     “I wanted to call for help,” she said carefully.  “He finally snapped.  An insane mage is a dangerous thing.”

     The man narrowed his eyes.  “You lie.  I recognize your voice.  You were with him.  You want to take it from us.”  He snapped the rifle to his shoulder.  “I don’t think I really want you making a call.”

     Carowyn kept very still.  There was a movement just out of her vision.  Another soldier?  She took a slow, careful step forward.  “Listen, I don’t know…”

     The sound of the discharge echoed through camp.  There was fire in her shoulder and she fell back, clutching her arm.  She saw the movement again in her peripheral vision.  The soldier was advancing, weapon still held at the ready. Carowyn’s head was spinning.  “Enough talking,” the soldier said.  “I think I’ll do this world a favor.  One less gnome.”

     This time Carowyn felt a rumbling through the ground just before she saw it.  An enormous brown bear leapt from behind the building onto the soldier, tearing at him with claws.  Carowyn shook her head.  Enormous fangs protruded from its mouth, dripping venom as it ripped the man apart.  Her stomach churned.  Sheeva dragged the man into the brush behind the camp and pushed his remains into her large web.  Quicker than Carowyn would have thought possible, Sheeva spun silky threads and wrapped the remains into a cocoon.

   .  “Thank you, Sheeva,” Carowyn said weakly as the bear creature lumbered back toward the farmhouse.  It stood looking at Carowyn for a moment before it moved back to its web.  A few moments later she heard shouting.

     “Girl, where are you?”

     The air must have cleared of the gas.  Jacob’s voice was ringing clear.  She pulled the gas mask off over her head.  “Over by the farmhouse,” she shouted back.  Her lungs spasmed and she coughed.

     Jacob came around the corner.  “Lord, girl, what happened to you?”

     “Soldier had managed to get his mask on.  Didn’t want me to go in there.  You find a radio?”

     “Yeah, I did.  We should be seeing a show any minute.”

     Carowyn nodded.  “Good.  Now, go in my bag and get some herbs and bandages.  I’ll tell you how to dress this wound.”

     Jacob was surprisingly quick and gentle as he applied the paste she instructed him to make and wrapped her shoulder up.  Just as he finished, a swirling column of grays and blues crept into the sky from the village.  It swirled like a tornado reaching up toward the clouds.  One by one tendrils formed and snaked their way across the sky.  They watched as one headed toward them.  It reached the waypoint and split into even more tendrils.  They began a complex weave into and out of the gate.  Carowyn had through the spell would cut them off, but instead it was like tying off an umbilical cord.  The tendrils were squeezing the way closed so the worlds would separate on their own.

     Carowyn looked over toward Sheeva.  The animal was shaking, as if something were trying to crawl out of her skin.  Leg after leg a  spider climbed out, shrinking with each step it took until it was no longer visible and only the bear remained.  She turned to see Jacob’s eyes shrinking.  His relief was almost palpable as for the first time in weeks he closed his eyes.

     “Never realized what a blessing that was,” he muttered.

     “We’re alone,” Carowyn said softly.

     Jacob grunted, his eyes still closed.  “Except for about twenty-five humans that’ll be stark raving loonies in a few days, yup, we are.”

     “Maybe the mages can help them.”

     He finally opened his eyes and looked at her.  “Me first.  I’ll give them a few more shots of the gas.  It’ll keep them out long enough to get them disarmed and moved.”

     Carowyn smiled.  “Sheeva, come here,” she called.  The large brown bear came over and nuzzled at her hand.  “She’ll carry me.  Let’s go home.”


----------



## alsih2o (Jul 22, 2004)

What a flurry, it is snowing short fiction!


----------



## carpedavid (Jul 22, 2004)

Any chance a flurry of judging is in the works?


----------



## alsih2o (Jul 22, 2004)

carpedavid said:
			
		

> Any chance a flurry of judging is in the works?




 My email and I are waitng with baited breath.

 This was the HARD round, and harder to judge as well. The writing quality may have dipped as I got irrationally hard to deal with on the pics.

 I assume the next 2 rounds will see some better writing as I get a little fairer with the pics.


----------



## BSF (Jul 22, 2004)

Well, I am sure half of us will feel better about that.


----------



## Graywolf-ELM (Jul 22, 2004)

alsih2o said:
			
		

> The writing quality may have dipped as I got irrationally hard to deal with on the pics.





Really?  Orchid Blossom wanted to pull hair out.  I would have, but don't have enough to grab ahold of to pull.  From these last images, I almost hope that I lose this round, so as not to have to face torture like that again.  The competitor in me quashed that feeling quickly however.

GW


----------



## BSF (Jul 22, 2004)

/hijack

Greywolf-ELM, take down my email address and email me sometime.  I am thinking it would be cool to try to meet you and MerakSpielman (and Emerald) at some point.  I'm wondering if we could coordinate a small EN World Game day.  BardStephenFox = davidmoore@zianet.com

/end Hijack


----------



## Graywolf-ELM (Jul 22, 2004)

BardStephenFox said:
			
		

> /hijack
> 
> Greywolf-ELM, take down my email address and email me sometime.
> /end Hijack




Got it.  I'll send you a message here shortly, so you'll have mine as well.

There has definately been some fast thinking to get these stories out with what was available.  This is more fun than I expected, other than the mild stress of trying to come up with something that won't be totally panned.

GW


----------



## BSF (Jul 22, 2004)

It seems like it should be really intimidating if you haven't ever tried it.  But, once you do, it is quite a rush.  Even if I haven't ever won, it is still a lot of fun.


----------



## Macbeth (Jul 22, 2004)

Greywolf, BSF can give you my email if we do star talking about getting together. I live in Socorro, but I'm in Albq. a lot for gaming with BSF.


----------



## mythago (Jul 22, 2004)

Battle #1 with the forces of evil was successful, so I should be sending in my judgments tonight.


----------



## BSF (Jul 22, 2004)

You know Mythago, you have a penchant for the cruel.  I actually wasn't nervous/filled with trepidation until just now.  Those simple little words just did it for me.  

I have to almost applaud you for it.


----------



## orchid blossom (Jul 22, 2004)

Graywolf-ELM said:
			
		

> Really?  Orchid Blossom wanted to pull hair out.  I would have, but don't have enough to grab ahold of to pull.  From these last images, I almost hope that I lose this round, so as not to have to face torture like that again.  The competitor in me quashed that feeling quickly however.
> 
> GW




That or put my fist through the monitor.  That sounded like a lot of fun yesterday afternoon.

As for almost hoping to lose, I had the same thought.  Of course, I was also sick the last two days of writing time, so I was pretty cranky anyway.  Poor Ao, I wasn't much fun to live with.


----------



## RPGgirl (Jul 23, 2004)

orchid blossom said:
			
		

> That or put my fist through the monitor. That sounded like a lot of fun yesterday afternoon.
> 
> As for almost hoping to lose, I had the same thought. Of course, I was also sick the last two days of writing time, so I was pretty cranky anyway. Poor Ao, I wasn't much fun to live with.



The day I posted the story, I was so angry about, well, everything, that I was on the verge several times of just posting "I quit".  As it was, I finished the story, gave it two edits and posted it on the site.

Of course, now that I am feeling better, things have settled down at home, and life is back to normal, I wish I would have done things a bit different, and, like Greywolf, am not ready to throw in the towel.  We'll see how it turns out ... after all, didn't Edgar Allen Poe write all of his best stories on drugs.  This can't be much worse than that, can it?


----------



## RPGgirl (Jul 23, 2004)

RPGgirl said:
			
		

> Horrified, Darren watched as the beast breathed inhaled deeply, drawing glowing white smoke from the tiny flower, causing it to wither and die. ​



Oh Crapetty, crap, crap, crap ... that was supposed to read:

Horrified, *Dale* watched as the beast inhaled deeply, drawing glowing white smoke from the tiny flower, causing it to wither and die.​
Would you believe this was missed by three people proof reading for errors?​


----------



## Berandor (Jul 23, 2004)

And would YOU believe I missed it, too?


----------



## barsoomcore (Jul 25, 2004)

Hi folks:

Sorry for delays.

I got fired on Wednesday. Holy crap.

My life kind of went straight to hell in a handbasket.

What is a handbasket, anyway?

I have no job. This is kind of bewildering.

Oh well, lots of time for Ceramic DMing, I guess! 

Sorry folks. Expect my decisions tonight or tomorrow.

Good thing I've started posting my resume in my sig, huh?


----------



## BSF (Jul 25, 2004)

Oh my!  I am sorry to hear you are jobless Barsoomcore.  That sucks.  I hope you are able to find something cool to do, jobwise, in the immediate future.


----------



## Berandor (Jul 25, 2004)

Holy F... that is bad! I wish you best of luck with finding a new job.


----------



## Macbeth (Jul 25, 2004)

Ouch... Sorry to hear that Barsoomcore, I hope you can get by alright... Good luck.


----------



## RPGgirl (Jul 25, 2004)

Sorry to hear that ... I can sympathize.  It happenned to me once a couple of years ago, and threw my life in a tailspin.  On the upside, after eight months of litigation, at least I got a settlement.


----------



## orchid blossom (Jul 26, 2004)

That's rough, sorry to hear it.  Good luck to you in finding a new job you can enjoy, and finding it in short order.


----------



## alsih2o (Jul 26, 2004)

Ouch. But your resume is entertaining.


----------



## mythago (Jul 26, 2004)

Shew, if that isn't a good reason for a delay I don't know what is.


----------



## barsoomcore (Jul 27, 2004)

alsih2o said:
			
		

> Ouch. But your resume is entertaining.



Yeah, it's meant to be.

I mean, I want to receive PFO's that were sent with a smile, you know what I mean?


----------



## Berandor (Jul 28, 2004)

I don't want to be impolite, but

*Bump*


----------



## Ao the Overkitty (Jul 28, 2004)

Bumps happen.

I'm using this time to go back through and catch up on the stories I've missed.


----------



## alsih2o (Jul 28, 2004)

Carpe David Vs. Bard Stephen Fox


Barsoomcore-

carpedavid  "The Strange Tale of Arthur Peddington"

The title is nicely typical, but it could do with something more 
evocative -- just the tiniest smidgen.

This is a fine "weird tale" -- very little explanation, first-person 
narration (in the form of an actual document), and a nice little zinger 
at the end (I was actually a little disappointed the last three words 
weren't in italics).

There's a couple of bits and pieces that are left a little too loosely, 
however. What's the connection of the skeletal beast to the bird-men? 
Why did our hero survive (if the beast could find their ship, surely it 
could find him)? What were the duplicate bodies all about? And who the 
heck mailed Arthur's face to him? While I don't mind (in fact, even 
enjoy) a couple of loose ends here and there, this story leaves them 
lying around too casually even for me.

But the primary failing of the story is the failure to deliver the 
mounting tension that one of these stories (especially one that pays so 
many compliments to HPL) must generate as the narrative winds on. 
There's a mention of big birds. Well, big birds just aren't all that 
scary. The episode with the "bird-man in the night" is good but never 
delivered on. The bird-things never return to the story, so...

The first section is the best -- an excellent opening. It provides us 
with lots of promises: an explanation for Charles' state, the fate of 
the expeditionary party, the identity of the disembodied face, and of 
course the reason for our narrator to have received any disembodied 
face at all.

But much gets lost in subsequent sections. You need to build up your 
tension more steadily, with constant references to upcoming events and 
horrors. HPL is a tough model to follow because what he did was so 
terribly difficult -- he was able to walk the line between suggesting 
and showing, leaving as much to your imagination as possible but still 
giving enough details to keep you gripped. And even he failed at that 
more often than he succeeded.

It may be that the form is just too short to do what you want to do. 
That the tension requires the sort of space that a story like "The Rats 
In The Walls" or "The Lurker At The Threshold" can give. But even so, I 
think you needed to provide a few more choice details in the second 
part of the story to keep the reader going. Statements like: "a 
sentiment I'm sure Pickman would share, would he still alive," aren't 
good enough. Give me a clearer detail (not a complete picture of 
course, but a detail) of Pickman's fate -- I don't know from what you 
wrote if he died of old age or what.

Using "cursory" twice in the same paragraph is perhaps overkill.  

Then we come to big final action sequence of the story -- the discovery 
of the city, the entrance to the "storeroom", the escape and the final 
confrontation at sea. A couple of notes: Martin Whateley's death has no 
impact emotionally because it has no impact NARRATIVELY. It makes no 
difference, it reveals nothing and it is only really there because the 
picture needs to be addressed.

You're juggling too many elements: bird people, pod people, weather 
control and finally, skeletal beings at sea. None of which really seem 
to fit together.

And the final revelation, though enjoyably pulpy, leaves us with more 
questions still, and no sense of resolution -- the story does not 
deliver on the primary question it promises to answer: Why was the face 
mailed to Arthur?

Still, a very readable story and commendable picture use. Thanks.


BardStephenFox  "Quest for Mimir"

Good old Godan.

There's a nearly-fatal drive towards too much explanation in this 
story. Relax! Your readers are smart people, they'll figure it out. 
They're patient, they'll keep reading even if you don't explain 
everything.

For example, the very first line of dialogue sounds so polished and 
complete that it deflates the urgency you're trying to start with. If 
Jack's got time and energy to put together long and complicated 
sentences like this one, I guess he's not quite as tired as he claims. 
We don't need to know anything about a phylactery at this point. Just 
the weird image of guys carrying a flaming litter is good enough for 
your opening.

Improve your punctuation use. Read "Eats, Shoots and Leaves" and pay 
special attention to the chapter on the comma. Especially the comments 
on "yob's commas" which your story is unfortunately blighted with in 
abundance. Your writing would appear significantly more professional 
and competent if your usage and style were better.

The "three reasons" scene is good, but too long. Again, you're pouring 
too much into my cup. Stop! Give me a chance to sip and savour. Have 
faith in your material. Have faith in your reader.

The sequence in Hel's apartment works well and the face is nicely 
integrated. I'd like a clearer picture of the place, though. I get a 
list of furniture, a description of colour and a statement that there 
was no artwork. Try to integrate your descriptions into your actions, 
and you can give better images. What furniture does Jack slink around? 
How does the colour scheme affect his searching? Good description 
involves action and depends on strong verbs.

Don't put commas after "But". Please. Stop.

The sequence with the "kite shadow" doesn't fit with the flow of the 
story and has no impact on the narrative. The situation at the end of 
the scene is exactly the same as it was at the beginning of the scene. 
Better would have been to have Jack take control of the shadow and 
maybe use it against the dragon at the end of the story -- then at 
least I feel like there was a reason for me reading that scene. As it 
stands now, you could cut the scene and there would be no impact on the 
story.

Stop using exclamation points. If it's not exciting to begin with, you 
putting up "This is exciting" signs isn't going to help.

WAY too much explanation during the "kite shadow" scene. Guy controls 
the shadows, drops a rock, Jack gets the rock, controls the shadow. We 
can figure it out for ourselves. Stop explaining everything. I feel 
like you think I can't figure it out and that makes me cranky. Don't 
make your readers cranky.

Don't use the word "dracolich". It's jargon and has no meaning outside 
of d20 rules. Use some other word or description.

Why's there a litter in the captain's cabin? Never mind. It's okay. 
That one I'll give you.

But how is it that their ship is sinking and yet they can jump 
overboard and WALK to the shore? I mean... It doesn't make huge amounts 
of sense.

You've got good narrative sense and sharp descriptions. Your story 
moves along well and the picture use is quite spectacular. This is a 
very solid Ceramic DM entry. But you really, really, really need to 
start cutting yourself more thoroughly.


Jusdgement: BardStephenFox

 Alsih2o-

 BSF- I like starting with the action and working back, personal preference, but still a preference. J  And the payment, covering a skin, nice touch, very real feeling. 

 But this doesn’t have the pace and wording of a 6000 word story, I frequently get the feeling that you are trying to put 18,000 words in a 6000 word box. In the moments like the one where Jack is starting a fire on a sinking ship your real talent for a scene comes out. But it is sometimes cancelled by your hurry to describe a dracolich attack, or the briefness of the shadow attack. All good scenes, but they feel a bit cramped. Part of this is the conditions of the competition, but I feel that another part of it is you tring to do too much. 

 I like the modern mythology angle, but wish you would have dragged in the play of all the interesting rewqrds at the end when the 9th rune was seen, the were all developed enough that I want to see them come to fruition.

 You are a really good writer BSF. You make me wanna host a 9 month 300,000 word competition- you and siala maybe. J

 Carpe David- How does one get new people interested in Ceramic DM? Certainly we can take someone new and then turn them against Piratecat and the BSF, what a friendly entry!

 I wish I was good enough at this part to really pin down why the first 3 paragraphs here rock so hard, I almost immediately get a fel for “where” the characters are, but it is done in such a way that I want to say where I am. J

 Great use of “top of the morning”!!!

 Great use of “need a light?”!!!

 Great story. Solid as a piece of stone, continuous in approach and smooth in pacing..even when it gets hectic.

 How do oyu get new people interested? Stick ‘em with a hard draw and watch them kick butt!

 Judgement: Carpe David,  BSF was solid, but CD is kicking butt and taking names.

 Mythago-

  THE STRANGE TALE OF ARTHUR PEDDINGTON (Carpedavid)

Very nice use of the style of the genre, which wobbles only a little
towards the middle of the piece. EXCELLENT integration of the pictures
into the story; nothing is a throwaway. I would have liked a little more
detail on the skeletal beast, to understand what relationship it had to
the bird-men (was it a skeletal bird of some sort?). It's tough to do this
kind of pastiche without just going through the motions.

I would also have liked a little more on the strange tubes. We don't get
much of a sense that they're Evil Science. I thought they were statutes at
first. There's no sense of the horror and unnaturalness. They're
mentioned, and then our heroes are smashing them.

Where the story really hurts is when you get cute. The device of warding
off incredulity by mentioning that it SOUNDS like bad fiction is, well,
overly cute. And it reminds the reader that this is a piece of fiction.
The re-use of specific Lovecraftian names, I didn't like much either. I
understand making the expedition out of Arkham, but referring to specific
characters (or notorious families) straight out of known fiction again
breaks the fourth wall. It's like the League of Insanely Gibbering
Gentlemen.


QUEST FOR MIMIR (Bardstephenfox)

The chronology on this seriously weakens the story. There are times when
it's good to break up linear flow, or where it makes sense to shift around
in time, but this isn't one of them; we start out in the middle and then
segue to a lengthy, detailed flashback. It doesn't seem likely that Jack
would reflect on the details and dialogue of his commission while he's
fighting the ocean. I also wondered why he was tempted by the gold--he's a
god too, right? And even though he's greedy, if he's that good a thief
he's got money enough. It would have made more sense for Jack to be
disinterested until the real prize, the ninth secret, was dangled.

The prose also repeats itself: _He had until April 30 to complete the
job, which gave him nine days. Nine Days, only nine days! "Mr. Godan,
April 30 is only nine days away."_ Okay, we get the idea. There are a
lot of instances like this, where the editing could have been much better.

The picture use was adequate. I was bothered by some of the plot holes. If
Hel's so bad-ass, she probably has good security to back up her
reputation, and she wouldn't breeze by Jack only to go after him later. 


Judgment this round for CARPEDAVID

 Decision- Carpe David eeks it out 2-1


----------



## alsih2o (Jul 28, 2004)

It has been a hard roudn on everyone, but the machine is rolling again. 

 My apologies for the delay.


----------



## Delgar (Jul 28, 2004)

Congratulations Carpedavid!

You are the eliminator! First it was PC and then it was BSF. I don't envy your next competitor!

Delgar


----------



## carpedavid (Jul 28, 2004)

Eep! That was close. Thanks to BSF for providing some very tough competition.

Thanks to the judges once again for some insightful commentary. I believe that's the first time I've ever written a piece in that style, so it was a definite learning experience.

Mythago - it's interesting that you _dis_liked the reference to the other Lovecraft stories. I wasn't sure if it needed those references to tie it into the mythos.

Comments reposted from the other thread:

I figured out very early on that I had a Lovecraftian tale on my hands, and, at that point, chose to use one of the formulae common to this type of story:

1. Academics set out to explore an exotic location.
2. Upon arriving in said location, they discover "things that should not be."
3. On the journey home, the narrator loses any ability to verify the discovery, which may take the form of (usually a combination of):
a. losing any physical evidence the group may have secured
b. losing all of his adventuring companions
c. suffering some sort of trauma
4. Once home, the narrator convinces himself that the events never took place.
5. The narrator then uncovers some form of evidence that proves the events were real.

I think I managed to successfully fulfill all but point number 4, which I believe is the reason Berandor felt that the ending wasn't as effective as it could be. After I posted the entry last night, I realized that I should have restructured the framing story to stress the narrator's doubts about the version of events at the beginning of the story. As it was, I really only made this point clear at the very end, so the tension of "Is it real? Is it not?" only lasted for a few lines.


----------



## BSF (Jul 28, 2004)

Congratulations Carpe David!  Keep going and see if you can win this thing.  I like to lose to the winner.    It is also exciting to see a new competitor take this thing to the top.

I'm at work, and somewhat distracted.  If my wife hadn't called to ask about something else *and* refreshed the screen just then, I wouldn't have seen the judgements for a while yet.  

Barsoomcore - I'm working on grammar in general, I promise.  When I get rushed, it is even worse.  

You are right, doing something more with the kite would have been much more interesting.  I will have to think on that one.

I actually tried to keep my description of Hel's apartment sparse intentionally.  I just don't imagine Hel collecting much, or doing much.  I think I need to really figure out how Hel fits into my pseudo-world before I try to revisit that.  

The issues with the boat sinking and running aground made sense at the time.  After I was done, they kept making less and less sense.  I attribute it solely to panic in writing.  Ack!

Alsih2o - The whole story feels cramped to me.  You and your dastardly pictures threw me for a loop.  I went through the whole hate/love thing with the story and the contest.  In the end, I think this is a story I want to revisit and try to write better at some point.

Mythago - I really didn't want to come out and say that Lopt had to finish by Walpurgisnacht.  I also wanted to drive home the parallels between Wodan's quest for the runes.  Nine days and nights, etc.  Loki is supposed to be trying to find himself again and I was dragging in all manner of references to tie back into assorted myth and legend.  Since he slew Otter and collected the gold from the Rhine, I wanted his motivation to be subconscious.  The otter skin and the thrill of the gold calling back to him, urging him forward to find himself again.  

It sounds like I might have achieved some of that, but I really need to polish my methods.  I really think I want to redo the story at some point, once I have worked out a lot of the kinks in my head.  If anyone has any further commentary, or more detailed commentary, I would love to hear it.  Either posting, PM, or email.  

Thanks!


----------



## RangerWickett (Jul 28, 2004)

So, when's the next one of these?  I wanna call dibs.

Oh, and Barsoomcore, I don't know how I missed your site before.  Sir, you sincerely need to advertise about those cards of yours.  Funniest thing I've read in a while, though I do wish you had, like, a reading list or something, so I'd be able to get all the references.


----------



## Ao the Overkitty (Jul 28, 2004)

Wow. Congrats carpedavid.

Which unlucky veteran will you squash next?


----------



## BSF (Jul 28, 2004)

Berandor is the only veteran that is currently proceeding to round 3.  Orchid Blossom is the only other possible veteran. We need to wait for the judgements to come back to see if she is proceeding to round 3.


----------



## Macbeth (Jul 28, 2004)

Mythago: Just out of curiosity, are you basing your comparison to "The League of Gibber Gentlemen" on the (not so good) movie or the (excelent) comic? The comic, in my opinion, actually manages to bring in all the characters without bashing the reader over the head with the fact that these are exisitng characters.


----------



## orchid blossom (Jul 28, 2004)

Congratulations, carpedavid!



			
				BardStephenFox said:
			
		

> Berandor is the only veteran that is currently proceeding to round 3.  Orchid Blossom is the only other possible veteran. We need to wait for the judgements to come back to see if she is proceeding to round 3.




As to whether I'll move on, I shall not speculate.  But it seems funny to be called a veteran when I've only done this once before.


----------



## Berandor (Jul 28, 2004)

Yeah, me too. After all, I've got three Ceramic DM stories under my belt so far, including two this year 

That's not really being part of the established scene, is it? 

Still, I'm anxious to go on, so get those judgements out and throw pics at me!


----------



## Macbeth (Jul 28, 2004)

I wouldn't write off being unexperienced yet. What was effectively my second try at Ceramic DM (my very first try I didn't really 'get' what I was doing) I made it into the finals. This was only my third real try at Ceramic DM. So even your second time is a fair bit of experience.


----------



## Sialia (Jul 28, 2004)

Congratulations and condolences!


----------



## BSF (Jul 28, 2004)

Sialia has only competed in one Ceramic DM.  Three stories.  Admittedly, she did win.  Where would you draw the line at being a veteran?  In my book, anybody that has gone through the oven to produce a cooked story in 72 hours, with wacky pics, is a veteran.


----------



## mythago (Jul 28, 2004)

Macbeth said:
			
		

> Mythago: Just out of curiosity, are you basing your comparison to "The League of Gibber Gentlemen" on the (not so good) movie or the (excelent) comic? The comic, in my opinion, actually manages to bring in all the characters without bashing the reader over the head with the fact that these are exisitng characters.



Well, I was mostly just being a smarty-pants. But I agree with you about the comic.

carpedavid, referring to the Lovecraftian corpus of work was fine--but it can be overdone, and it was. Mentioning they were sent by Arkham sends the "OMG, they're going to die gibbering" bells of nicely without throwing in Pickman, the Whateley line, etc. too. 

BSF, the problem was that the alias-persona you set up for Loki didn't fit. Sure, we can see Loki drooling over an otterskin covered in gold. (Even if it's not THAT much gold, the mythic nature of the offer makes it very convincing; it's much different than "a bag of gold," say.) But if you start him off as a successful thief, not self-aware of his identity, it's not as persuasive.

Sialia completed at least two Ceramic DMs worth of writing  

I think that if you competed at all, and you put in your darnest to make a good showing, you can count yourself as a veteran.


----------



## alsih2o (Jul 28, 2004)

Orchid Blossom vs. Greywolf Elm decision-

Mythago-

 Good picture use overall by both.

CHAOS GATES (Graywolf-ELM)

I very much like the setting: not a lot of exposition or history of
How It Came to Be, we know there's magic and chaos, let's move on. The
story suffers terribly from a shifting and uncertain point of view. At
first, it sounds as though we're watching will on a video (a nice way
to approach it), hence the present tense and the description of things
like his grin. But then we see later that's not the case; he turns it
off once, goes on an hour and a half uneventful run while being
recorded. So either the initial scene is awkward, because it describes
Will as though he's being watched rather than from inside Will's head,
or you switched POV through the story. That also doesn't work.

The fight with the spiders is too over quickly. I don't mean that he
kills the spider fast, but that you handwaved right through the
remaining four and getting the egg sacs. There's more of that 'hurry
past this scene' compression when Will arrives at HQ; this is the
climax of the story and it just feels rushed, here's your mission,
kid, hop through. And why does Will have to carry the fish through,
anyway? According to the way you describe it, he's just leaving the
fish there. Why can't they throw the fish through? For that matter,
since Will is an artificer, why can't he make a floating bot that
works the way his DVR does, and tow it through? It seems odd that
they'd send a perfectly good Altered on a needless suicide mission.

Minor points: exposition in places that comes from an author's
viewpoint rather than flowing naturally with the text, and
abbreviations (# and HQ) where there shouldn't be.


BIRTH PANGS (Orchid Blossom)

Interestingly, another cross-world story, though of a different type
than Graywolf's. What is it with alcohol and sucking on eyeballs
anyway?

The opening scene is a nice way to set out the central problem in the
story. Unfortunately, while the author knows these are gnomes, we
don't, and all we know--several paragraphs in--is that the speakers
are not human. Later we learn they're gnomes. This is hard on the
reader who is trying to form a mental picture of the people to whom
these voices belong.

The biggest problem is that the characters never seem to SAY anything.
They sniffle, mumble, marvel, laugh, and do all kinds of little busy
work to flag who's speaking, but they don't just flat-out SAY
anything. Once in a while this works, but several paragraphs running
and it makes the characters look awfully busy.

There were a couple of plot points: why are the soldiers guarding this
gap, and why isn't there an organized uprising if the gnomes are
pulling a fast one? (That is to say, you'd expect the soldiers to send
word up and get a strike force brought in, not just rush in on their
own.) And I didn't buy the warning shot in the shoulder. That close
and with that powerful a weapon, Carowyn would be dead unless the
soldier was so nervous (and he doesn't act nervous) that he missed her
completely. Even with magical constitution, taking a high-powered
rifle shot in the shoulder and walking around well enough to tell
Jacob to fetch an herb basket really didn't ring true.

Judgment this round for ORCHID BLOSSOM.


 Alsih2o-

 Greaywolf- ELM- This reminds me of some of the Lobo comics my brother sends me. No “Story” so much as a walk around a world. Lobo bashes someone, talks about bounty hunting into the camera, destroys a planet. Nice, humorous light reading.

 I do really like how the wardens pic is used, and the Siala art is treated well. This is entertaining but I think it falls short of shining.

 Orchid blossom-  I like the built in tension of waiting for enough info to realize who everyone is and what side they are on. This can be overdone easily, but for the most I think it is done pretty well here. 

 Great treatment on the garden gnome pic, integral to the story and well handled. It seems the eye pic inspired matching story elements again, I like to see two different treatments, but which writer do you blame? Blame the pic picker I guess.

 I am also fond of how the mutation broke into an explanation of what was happening. I wish there was more of a balance for this at the end, where things were more confusing.

 Judgement: Orchid blossom

 Barsoomcore-

 Graywolf-ELM  "Chaos Gates"

There's no story here. I'm looking around, lifting up meaty paragraphs, 
but I'm not seeing any sign of a story. What's Will's problem? What 
does he need to do? What's he trying to accomplish?

There's a lot of world-buildy details here but none of them provide us 
with any emotional pull and did I mention there's no story?

I don't really know what else to say about this. There's no story so 
there's very little to comment on.

Your paragraphs are too thick and ponderous. Break them up -- it makes 
my job reading MUCH easier.

Picture use is hard to comment on because while none of them relate to 
the story that has more to do with the absence of any story than a 
problem in the usage. Why do we find out about the car? Why do we watch 
him fight the Spider Bear? Say hi to the soldiers? None of this 
contributes to any sort of narrative.

Story MUST be about a change in a character. We must see a character 
striving, struggling to accomplish something. If we don't get that, 
we're just reading an encyclopedia entry.

Strunk and White, Rule 17: "Omit needless words"

Consider the effect on your story if we remove the following sentence:
"Will waves to the waitress for his check, in the universal sign, of 
one hand flat, as if holding paper, and the other hand making a check 
mark on it."

As far as I can see, there's no effect whatsoever. So delete that 
sentence. It is composed of needless words. Also remove the comma after 
"sign".

The big problem, of course, is that since there's no story, it's 
impossible to determine which words are needless. Or rather, it appears 
that they're all needless.

Tell me a story.

But thanks for this. There's some great world details in here and this 
would make a very fun campaign setting, I reckon.


orchid blossom  "Birth Pangs"

Whoa. How'd you do that?

K. Let's see.

Picture use? Five pictures, none of which could be removed from the 
story. Well, maybe the first one was a bit of a throwaway but I reckon 
that opening scene is sufficiently important. Check.

Characterization? Carowyn, Jacob, Steven and Erica. All distinct, all 
real, all sketched in quick details. Check.

Story? Saving the world of magic from bad insensitive humans. I think. 
Doesn't matter, it ends happily. Check.

Style? It's sparse but I'll take economy over flashy any day. You 
accomplish quite a bit in 2400 words, I have to say. Check.

One might wish for a little more oomph to the emotions, something a 
little more personal to Carowyn's struggle. I'd enjoy the story more if 
I saw her making sacrifices for what she wants. Or else being immensely 
clever.

Nevertheless, a fine story.

One question: given that the car is illustrated as possessing racks of 
"gas globes", why the decision to have Carowyn sit in the back seat and 
toss other globes out the window? It just seemed strange and sort of 
took away from the purpose of the racks. Surely if you had to throw 
globes out the window anyways, you wouldn't go to the trouble of 
building special-purpose weapon racks? Maybe it's just me. But it 
bugged me. A little.

Work on your action scenes. Both the careen of the car and the attack 
of the Spider Bear required re-reads on my part. Remember that people 
tend to read the first and last sentences of a paragraph in order to 
figure out if they need to read it at all. If you bury important 
details (like "the Spider Bear ATE the soldier") in the middle of your 
paragraphs you make it harder for your reader to follow the action.

"This time Carowyn felt a rumbling through the ground just before she 
saw it." This time? When was the previous time? I didn't get that.

A very good story. Thank you.


Judgement: orchid blossom

 Decision: Orchid Blossom 3-0, see you next round.


----------



## BSF (Jul 28, 2004)

Congratulations Orchid Blossom!

Man, that means all three of us New Mexicans are out.  Bummer.  I was hoping one of us would make it to the finals.  Ah well, maybe we will get another shot in a future competition?


----------



## carpedavid (Jul 29, 2004)

Congrats, Orchid Blossom. Oooh, now I'm beginning to wonder who my next victi...er...opponent will be in the next round


----------



## Ao the Overkitty (Jul 29, 2004)

Well.. After hearing her verbally berate her story since before she put it up, I can now congratulate her on making it through this round.

Congrats orchid


----------



## orchid blossom (Jul 29, 2004)

I'm very honestly surprised to be moving on.  I felt Greywolf had some great ideas going on, and creativity is where I feel I'm going to get beat if it's going to happen.

I can say now that I rewrote at least one-third to half the story in the last four hours before it was due.  I had worked in the spider/bear and the gnomemansland pictures in a different way, bringing in a fiancee for Carowyn.  It stunk on ice, so it got trashed.  Some of the omissions, like not mentioning soon enough in the story that Carowyn and Erica are gnomes, were victims of the rewrite.  A few things had to be changed, and I forgot to work it back in.

Also, I originally had a completely different idea.  I wanted to write a very "meta" story.  It would have starred Piratecat and Clay as over the top villians.  Piratecat as a kind of Enworld mob boss, and Clay as "the mad potter" moving in on his territory.

Piratecat would have sent a hired gun to find out what happened to his team of stealth gnomes he'd sent to plant the ants in Clay's air conditioner.  Clay would have been creating weird animals from clay and then magically bringing them to life, etc.



			
				alsih2o said:
			
		

> One question: given that the car is illustrated as possessing racks of
> "gas globes", why the decision to have Carowyn sit in the back seat and
> toss other globes out the window? It just seemed strange and sort of
> took away from the purpose of the racks. Surely if you had to throw
> ...




To answer these questions....  In my mind, the globes attached the car were enough to take out the few soldiers who should have been at the waypoint.  Carowyn needed to throw from the back because there were considerably more people to be knocked out than orginally intended.  Another vicitm of the rewrite, it wasn't made clear.

The "this time" line I can't explain except perhaps from cranberry juice psychosis?  (I was home sick that day and pushing fluids.)  Probably an editing miss.


----------



## barsoomcore (Jul 29, 2004)

Mm, cranberry juice. The guy down at the corner sells some of that. Wicked stuff.


----------



## Piratecat (Jul 29, 2004)

orchid blossom said:
			
		

> Also, I originally had a completely different idea.  I wanted to write a very "meta" story.  It would have starred Piratecat and Clay as over the top villians.  Piratecat as a kind of Enworld mob boss, and Clay as "the mad potter" moving in on his territory.
> 
> Piratecat would have sent a hired gun to find out what happened to his team of stealth gnomes he'd sent to plant the ants in Clay's air conditioner.  Clay would have been creating weird animals from clay and then magically bringing them to life, etc.




Now see? _That's_ comedy.


----------



## alsih2o (Jul 29, 2004)

Rodrigo Istilandir vs. RPGgirl

 Barsoomcore-

RPGgirl  "The Touch of a Fairy"

Well, well. The comeuppance of a sulky SCA reject. Hee.

Okay, you've got sulky SCA rejects, fairies, mammoths and big stompy 
monsters. You're doing pretty well with me at this point.

Your opening could use work. That first section doesn't really set me 
up for anything. If it's meant to be about Dale's anger with Tom (which 
I think it should), then all the stuff with forgetting the flashlight 
yada yada yada should be dropped. It reduces the impact of the Tim's a 
petty tyrant stuff.

Dale does seem to take the sudden appearance of a fairy and a her 
loyal, er, MAMMOTH, rather well. There's some laziness in your prose:

"Dale watched as suddenly a high pitched voice filled the cave." -- 
what exactly did he watch? Drop the first four words and you have a 
much better sentence that gives me what I need to know without wasting 
my time with "filler" text.

"without a flashlight or sunlight" -- this construction makes it seem 
like Dale ought to be held responsible for not bringing his own 
sunlight. Be careful that your list items agree with one another.

The mammoth is named Winston. Okay, I spent the rest of the story with 
a smile on my face. Winston. Hee.

"“And to show I am not caring,” she tinkled" -- obviously you meant 
"uncaring" just then. And to me, "tinkling" will always be a euphemism 
for "urinated" Which is entirely the wrong image.

One of the problems with this story is that we don't feel like Dale 
kind of deserves it. These cautionary tales on the dangers of Fairies 
need to illustrate a fundamental character flaw (or moral failing) and 
show how it leads to disaster. I know what Dale's flaw is: he's a 
petty, vindictive little snot. But I don't know that until he falls 
asleep and has his dreams -- and by then the Fairy Queen (and Winston) 
have already left, promising him what he wants. Too late.

These stories work on a sort of "Heh, heh, heh," principle. When the 
Fairy Queen says, "You will see," I ought to be thinking to myself, 
"Heh, heh, heh. Poor old Dale is in for it now." Instead, I'm waiting 
to see what she means. Which isn't quite what you want, I think.

The story motorvates through the next day quite well. I didn't get why 
Dale took his shirt off (I mean, sure, in any action movie the hero 
ends up shirtless (insert pithy comment on the homoerotic content of 
action movies here)), and so that picture seemed like a throwaway, but 
the image of the wicker man stomping suburban... wherever we are... was 
great.

And the final bit, with the petty tyrant Tim giving the speech, was 
good. It should have been funnier, is all. Does Tim actually feel bad? 
Or is he just saying what tradition demands? I'd like to see it a 
little more "over the top" if you know what I mean.

Good story, though. Thanks.


Rodrigo Instalindir  "Caveat Emptor"

I'll say it here and now: Give me more stories about Kylo Krumboldt. 
Here's a character with a future. You can never have too many sly, 
ruthless, charming rogues.

The setting is well-defined and presented, and the opening paragraphs 
give us all the details we want, nothing we don't.

"A strange scent slithered among the permanent and pervasive smell of 
rotting vegetation." -- one might accuse this sentence of being, well, 
overwritten just a tad. Watch out for overloading of adjectives. Choose 
the right noun, and you don't need so many adjectives.

"he might be forced to take up honest work, or, God forbid, engage in 
manual labor." -- Mm. This would be clearer (and I think funnier) if 
instead of making a double distinction between his current activities, 
honest work and manual labour, it made a single distinction between his 
current activities and honest work. Adding a third item here just 
dilutes the humour.

A couple of items seem to get more attention than they deserve: the 
calliope and the nautical greeting. Why are we spending any time at all 
on these? If they're not going to deliver anything then leave them out.

Think of "pay-off" -- your readers spend time and energy reading your 
words. If those words don't pay off in some fashion -- if they don't 
reward the reader for spending that time and energy -- do you really 
need them?

Watching Kylo bamboozle townsfolk is a real pleasure. I love this guy. 
He's unstoppable. I was a little let down when he "stammered" on 
switching his story in front of the angry council -- the whole "mixed 
with wine" bit. Up to then he'd seemed like a guy who could breeze over 
such a trifle without too much difficulty.

One of the things that's fun about a story like this is watching the 
protagonist outwit every obstacle that's placed in his path. This story 
by and large does a pretty good job of that, but there's one bit that 
confuses me: what did Kylo expect to happen with the wicker man? If 
he'd meant to slip away while the town was watching the "fight" that 
wasn't made clear. It comes across as a stupid plan since the wicker 
man is obviously going to fail to defeat the beast. Which is 
disappointing. But the attack on his wagon is good fun, as are the two 
reversals.

You could have not shown Constaro finding the glass and have him 
confront Kylo with it at the end -- that would have given us a good "Oh 
no!" moment and then Kylo's revelation that he'd done okay for himself 
would have had even more impact.

All in all, an excellent story. Thank you.


Judgement: Rodrigo Instalindir

 Alsih2o-

 RPGgirl- There are some really cool points here. The Pics for this round were, I thought, rough. But the mammoth is handled pretty well and the reenactors brandishing blunt arms against a fey- that is so cool it made my head hurt!

 And then Dale wiggles out of his shirt. Wow, that takes sand. And then the straw man returns, as a brute! Wow. 

 Now I am unsure if this was intended, but right in the middle we get this line- “Trying to think rationally…” I mean, really??? Chasing a fey in the modern world who is leading a strawman who can break trees and smash buildings. Comedy gold!

 I was not surprised that Dale suddenly could fight like a lion, that is how these stories go, but I was surprised by the ending, especially with Tom still alive.

 This isn’t a great story on it’s own, but facing THAT pile of pics I think this is at least an admirable job. Well played RPGgirl.

 Rodrigo Istilandir- In the opening salvo Rodrigo touches all the readers senses, this works to draw me in better than just hitting me with the visuals.

 The jump form Kylos entrance, which is done very well, to him packing up is a little rushed for me. Rodrigo has pictures to get to, but I was enjoying this Snake-oil Willy Wonka.

  The story is not quite satisfying, I feel Kylo should have either won the day or been punished. The author has me too invested in him to see an indefinite ending. 

 The picture use is OK, but my favorite part has to be Kylo, here is a character I can really sink my teeth into. The story starts much stronger than it ends, I am left feeling there isn’t an even hand over the whole story even though it has very strong moments.

 Judgement: RPGgirl


THE TOUCH OF A FAIRY (RPGgirl)

The story starts out strong and menacing and, I'm sorry to say, turns
into a standard "figure out the mysterious hint and skill the monster"
adventure. We get the picture of Doug as a bitter and self-centered
guy who takes grudges easily, and we know that the fairy's gift is
probably not going to be a nice one. It seems a little odd that Doug
would go from his immediate seething to remembering high school, but
okay, it's plausible. As is the destruction of the Beltane site. It's
harder to buy the wicker man saving Jessica's house for last--if we're
going chronologically, why not his parents?--and the cataclysmic
movie-ending destruction of the cliff falling in.

The best part of this story is the fairy. Without being told she's
scary and creepy, we get a very clear sense that she is Bad News, and
that her favor to Doug is one he'll regret. Though there's no reason
other than plot forwarding that she appears in his head and gives him
a hint. And the funeral breaks up the nice touch of the sword--the
thing that started the whole mess--ending it.


CAVEAT EMPTOR (Rodrigo Istalandir)

This is a problem in a lto of Ceramic DM stories, but I'll pick on
Rodrigo: Dance with the point-of-view character what brung you. If
we've got a bird's-eye view watching a little girl walking around,
don't jump behind her eyes, then jump back out to offer an explanation
of what the kids do, and then jump back in. Shifting characters
between scenes is fine--ending the tableaux with Pirmet and then
moving on to Kylo's arrival works just peachy. But it breaks mimesis
when, say we jump from Kylo to one of the villagers watching Kylo's
wagon get torn up.

Other than that, there are a lot of somewhat tired descriptions:
pungent aroma, backwater burg, solitary figure. Nix these. The similes
and metaphors work better (from the point of view of a small child,
"it smelled like the family dog..." was perfect), or alternatively,
stick to strong nouns and telling us about it once. We get the idea.

Kylo's arrival in the small town is hilarous, and perfectly suited to
a travelling carnyman going from one place to the next when they all
seem to run together after a while. It's a nice tale of a trickster
getting punished for his trickery (although, like all tricksters worth
the name, he escapes only somewhat worse for the wear) and the
villagers live happily ever after.

Judgment this round for RODRIGO ISTALANDIR

 Decision: Rodrigo Istilandir 2-1


----------



## alsih2o (Jul 29, 2004)

So, here is how I have it-

 Carpe David vs. Berandor

 Orchid Blossom vs. Rodrigo Istilandir

 Who is “Ready to rumble”?


----------



## alsih2o (Jul 29, 2004)

Um, bump.


----------



## Rodrigo Istalindir (Jul 29, 2004)

alsih2o said:
			
		

> So, here is how I have it-
> 
> Carpe David vs. Berandor
> 
> ...




Ready whenever Orchid Blossom is.


----------



## Ao the Overkitty (Jul 29, 2004)

orchid is at work and unable to post from there.  She is currently musing on when she wants to start.

I can say we'll be away from August 7th through the 11th, so those dates are no good for her.

congrats Rodrigo.  This should definately be an interesting round.

So... will berandor be able to stop the freight train of doom that is carpedavid? Or will he, like the others, be swept beneath the tracks?


----------



## Sialia (Jul 29, 2004)

> Who is "Ready to Rumble"?



I am!  Er . . . .  ready to _read_ more stories, that is. 

Any rumbling going on around here is just my insatiable appetite.

Congrats and sympathy as per usual.

Now. Give more.


----------



## Rodrigo Istalindir (Jul 29, 2004)

I found writing for Round 2 was a 180 degree difference from Round 1.  In the first round, I drew inspiration from the pcitures, and almost immediately found a way to link 3 of the 4.  In round two, though, I found the pictures to be an impediment.  A child was the centerpiece of my first story, and I really didn't want to do that again, which made the first picture especially troublesome.

Also, part of the fun is using the pictures in an unexpected way, and the more explicit they are, the harder it is to do that.  It's hard to use the picture of an angry mob as anything else.  Also, I'm paranoid about inadvertantly writing the same story as my opponent, which I suspect is an easy pitfall in these types of competitions.

I waffled quite a bit on whether Kylo Krumboldt should be a good guy or not.  My original concept was an Elmer Gantry type huckster, cynical and amoral, who wandered from town to town ripping people off without regard for the consequences. As I wrote, though, I started to kind of like the guy, and he became more of a Harold Hill figure.


----------



## carpedavid (Jul 29, 2004)

I'm ready to rumble!


----------



## Berandor (Jul 29, 2004)

Hit me Baby one more time!


----------



## RPGgirl (Jul 29, 2004)

Congrats, Rodrigo!

Good luck to all!


----------



## orchid blossom (Jul 29, 2004)

(Posted at orchid's request)

Not only will we be away the 7th-11th, then we'll also be away the 13th-15th.  Obviously finishing before the 7th would be best.  I would be fine with the pictures going up late this evening (around 8 central) or tomorrow night.


----------



## BSF (Jul 29, 2004)

I'm finally getting around to posting my congratulations to Rodrigo Istalindir.  Good job!   

It will be interesting to see how the semi-final matches come out, I am looking forward to it.  

Mark, I am about ready to send you the updated links.  Right now, I am assuming it will be like the last contest and this will also be 5 pictures with a 6000 word limit.  If I am wrong, let me know and I will correct the links.


----------



## alsih2o (Jul 29, 2004)

Carpe David vs. Berandor

 Round 3 (Congratulations!) 5 pics, 72 hours 6000 words.


----------



## alsih2o (Jul 29, 2004)

BardStephenFox said:
			
		

> Mark, I am about ready to send you the updated links.  Right now, I am assuming it will be like the last contest and this will also be 5 pictures with a 6000 word limit.  If I am wrong, let me know and I will correct the links.




 We were posting at the same time 

 For those of oyu who do not know, the awesome tables with linkies up front is all done by BSF, an amazing contribution above and beyond his writing. Big thanks form those of us who use it


----------



## Berandor (Jul 29, 2004)

brain... empty... pics... destroyed... luck... carpedavid...


----------



## Piratecat (Jul 29, 2004)

Berandor said:
			
		

> brain... empty... pics... destroyed... luck... carpedavid...




Are you kidding? They immediately suggested a particular story to me. 

Good luck, guys!


----------



## Ao the Overkitty (Jul 29, 2004)

I thought you were going to be less evil with the pics this time around, Clay? 

Good luck you two.


----------



## alsih2o (Jul 29, 2004)

Ao the Overkitty said:
			
		

> I thought you were going to be less evil with the pics this time around, Clay?




 You believed that?   

 Wait till next round, I MAY have the ultimate set yet. I am conferring with the other judges as to whether I am brilliant or an idiot.


----------



## Rodrigo Istalindir (Jul 29, 2004)

alsih2o said:
			
		

> You believed that?
> 
> Wait till next round, I MAY have the ultimate set yet. I am conferring with the other judges as to whether I am brilliant or an idiot.




Must flag this for follow-up comment once the competition is over....


----------



## carpedavid (Jul 29, 2004)

Huh...this'll be interesting.

Good luck Berandor.


----------



## alsih2o (Jul 29, 2004)

Berandor said:
			
		

> brain... empty... pics... destroyed... luck... carpedavid...






			
				Carpe David said:
			
		

> Huh...this'll be interesting.
> 
> Good luck Berandor.




 You two trash talk like fey.


----------



## Ao the Overkitty (Jul 29, 2004)

alsih2o said:
			
		

> You two trash talk like fey.




Maybe, but remember this post.




			
				carpedavid said:
			
		

> Oh bloody hell...
> 
> Er, I mean... <smacktalk>Yer goin' down, kitty!</smacktalk>.




He wasn't lying.


----------



## Sialia (Jul 29, 2004)

Piratecat said:
			
		

> Are you kidding? They immediately suggested a particular story to me.
> 
> Good luck, guys!



Oh yah. Me too. I could write all five of those in a single scene, two pages tops.

But who'd want to read the minutes of my freshman dorm committee anyway?


----------



## mythago (Jul 29, 2004)

alsih2o said:
			
		

> You two trash talk like fey.



Yeah, don't make me and my semicolons come over there.

And I want it stated that I was NOT responsible for the hand pic.


----------



## alsih2o (Jul 29, 2004)

mythago said:
			
		

> And I want it stated that I was NOT responsible for the hand pic.




 Well, directly.


----------



## RPGgirl (Jul 29, 2004)

I originally posted this is the other thread because I did not want anyone to think I was "bashing" the judges, but I received feedback that the comments were fair and could be adressed to the judges directly.  I understand judging is a voluntary thing, and I applaud you all for your hard work, but this is what my take was on the last round.


Okay, I have been giving this quite a bit of thought this morning, and I would like to respond to the judge's comments ...

First, I think Rodrigo deserved to win. This was definitely not my strongest story, and I think Rodrigo probably put more effort into it and it shows. Also, I agreed with most of the judges comments, and do not want to detract from anybodies well earned victory. 

Having said that, I do take exception to a couple of things. First, is names. While the writers get bashed for spelling and gramar mistakes, I think it is not unreasonable for the judges to at least get the characters names right. Granted, Barsoomcore calling Tom 'Tim' could be written off as a simple oops, but Mythago calling Dale 'Doug'? To me that screams the judge did not really read the story ...

And that brings me to my second problem. Below is an excerpt from the story. I think it is clear that Dale's first dreams about his friends turning on him, then gym class, then his parents, and finally Jessica.
Quote:
Originally Posted by *RPGgirl*
_That night, lying on the stone floor of the cave, Dale tossed and turned as sleep eluded him. ... If only his ‘friends’ had defended him, he grumbled half awake. He wouldn’t be in this cave. He should have known better. This was no different than high school, especially gym class. Every time he entered that building, he was humiliated...

In fact, if it was anybody’s fault it was his parents ... 

Like Jessica, he thought, the little slut who led him on all through twelfth grade. Sure, she was nice to him, but that was just because she wanted help with calculus. He could still hear those mocking words, Dale, you’re a sweet guy, but can’t we just be friends? Friends? Do friends tell you what a nice and caring guy you are then date someone else? Do friends hang out with you during study hall then refuse your invitation to the senior prom? No, they don’t. Friends stand up for you, stand by you._

And here is the criticism I received from Mythago
Quote:
Originally Posted by *MYTHAGO*
_It's harder to buy the wicker man saving Jessica's house for last--if we're going chronologically, why not his parents?--and the cataclysmic movie-ending destruction of the cliff falling in._

We know from the story to this point, the Wicker Man destroyed the SCA friends, then the school, then his parents house. Chronologically, Jessica's house is last. 

Again, I feel the judge did not really read the story. I suppose I would be okay with it, if the judgements were posted immediately after the story, but it was over a week. As an author that struggled to come up with something presentable in a short period of time, I am insulted by the lack of attention to details in the reviews - not that more detail is needed, just accuracy.

I would also have liked to see more emphasis on picture use, as I thought that was the point of the contest.


----------



## Macbeth (Jul 29, 2004)

Huh. I just looked at the Berandor vs. CarpeDavid pics, and I had 2 stories immediately (more like two ways of telling the same plot, but still, two stories nontheless).


----------



## Berandor (Jul 29, 2004)

Piratecat said:
			
		

> Are you kidding? They immediately suggested a particular story to me.
> 
> Good luck, guys!



 Yes, I am. 

I figured maybe, just maybe, going the other way will put carpedavid at ease, and then I'll follow up with a breath-taking story about twins, born with white skin and square heads, who fall in love with the same nurse. 

Honestly, the pics *did* give me a story right away, but I'm not sure I want to tackle that one. I am thinking of other way to use the pics, and maybe I'll find one throughout the next day. Otherwise - see above.


----------



## mythago (Jul 30, 2004)

Well, RPGgirl, now that makes two of us who are insulted.

First: yes, I read your story in detail. I don't know why you seized on my malaprop of "Doug" for "Dale" as an assumption that I didn't, especially when I referenced other details that were, in fact, present. (I'm not sure why I kept writing Doug, either.) My comments about the Wicker Man were not because I didn't read what was going on. They were criticisms, because I didn't think your progression made any narrative sense: it went from Doug's most recent humiliation to...well, logically it would be to the furthest away in time, which would have been his parents the family to the mill town, not his issues with Jessica in his final year of high school. Having Dale remember the events out of order, and then the Wicker Man going after his hurts in exactly that order, seemed like a contrived way to save Jessica for the heroic finale.

Second, we judges don't comment on everything in every story. If you want more detailed feedback, ask for it. If you want to know why a judge didn't say anything about your picture use, ask why. (In my case, because I didn't think yours was particularly good *or* bad, just adequate.)

And finally, on the judgment being delayed, I don't _post_ them, I just send them on to the Big Guy. Mine was sent in to alsih2o days ago. 

Part of being in Ceramic DM (and, in general, about being an author) is that not everybody will see or remark on everything you put in. Sometimes you will be yelling "What do you MEAN you didn't understand that scene?!" Sometimes you will be shaking your head that the judge completely missed your perfect characterization of the villain or your really sharp use of Photo #4. And sometimes you will get a pass because you _did_ screw up, and at most one person caught it.

All of the judges this round have been in Ceramic DMs before. We all know what it's like to wait and wait and wait for a judgement, to feel like the judges just _did not get_ what you wrote, or to feel that you were treated unfairly. We all know what it's like to work hard on a story and read a judgment thinking "That was all you had to say about it, after I busted my fanny?" So be assured that we _are_ reading what you write carefully. We make mistakes and are human and all that stuff, so yes, there's nothing wrong with pointing out an error (may I never have a boss named Dale), or asking for a little more expanded criticism.

But I'm more than a little annoyed at being accused of being a lazy doof because I didn't write an essay-length dissection of your story.


----------



## alsih2o (Jul 30, 2004)

Orchid blossom vs Rodrigo istilandir

 3rd round (congrats!) 5 pics, 72 hours, 6000 words.


----------



## alsih2o (Jul 30, 2004)

Everyone has had their say, this isn't the place for it.

 Back to business folks.


----------



## orchid blossom (Jul 30, 2004)

Our monitor isn't the best, and sometimes it's hard to see the pics.  Can you give me a little help with intothelight?  All I can see is a really bright spot near the bottom and some orange glow on what appear to be figures?  Is there more to it than that?


----------



## Piratecat (Jul 30, 2004)

Where the heck is that last photo from? Wow!


----------



## orchid blossom (Jul 30, 2004)

Piratecat said:
			
		

> Where the heck is that last photo from? Wow!




I'm beginning to think Clay doesn't like me.    He keeps giving me technology and weird animals.


----------



## carpedavid (Jul 30, 2004)

orchid blossom said:
			
		

> I'm beginning to think Clay doesn't like me.  He keeps giving me technology and weird animals.



I'll trade you my Captain Fluffernutter picture for your conjoined whatsits picture.


----------



## alsih2o (Jul 30, 2004)

orchid blossom said:
			
		

> Our monitor isn't the best, and sometimes it's hard to see the pics.  Can you give me a little help with intothelight?  All I can see is a really bright spot near the bottom and some orange glow on what appear to be figures?  Is there more to it than that?




 That is about it. 




			
				Piratecat said:
			
		

> Where the heck is that last photo from? Wow!




 I'll tell you later, after they figure it out. Shhh!


----------



## alsih2o (Jul 30, 2004)

orchid blossom said:
			
		

> I'm beginning to think Clay doesn't like me.    He keeps giving me technology and weird animals.




 I'm a guy, that's how we show fondness, technology and weird animals.

 Are you saying you didn't like the digital pig?


----------



## mythago (Jul 30, 2004)

orchid blossom said:
			
		

> He keeps giving me technology and weird animals.



 It could be so, so much worse.

 And I'm sure it will be, in the final round.


----------



## Berandor (Jul 30, 2004)

orchid blossom said:
			
		

> Our monitor isn't the best, and sometimes it's hard to see the pics.  Can you give me a little help with intothelight?  All I can see is a really bright spot near the bottom and some orange glow on what appear to be figures?  Is there more to it than that?



 To me, it looks like two people with brimmed hats knitting something under a strong light.

But I might be wrong.


----------



## orchid blossom (Jul 30, 2004)

alsih2o said:
			
		

> I'm a guy, that's how we show fondness, technology and weird animals.
> 
> Are you saying you didn't like the digital pig?




Nah, the pics are just fine.  Quite interesting actually.  Technology just isn't a place I generally go with writing, which probably makes it a good thing you include it.  It's very challenging for me.


----------



## alsih2o (Jul 30, 2004)

orchid blossom said:
			
		

> Nah, the pics are just fine.  Quite interesting actually.  Technology just isn't a place I generally go with writing, which probably makes it a good thing you include it.  It's very challenging for me.




 I mistyoed, and now fear I came across wrong.

 That line should have read "You didn't like the digital pig I sent you for Valentines?"

 It was funnier in my head(man, but I say that a lot)


----------



## orchid blossom (Jul 30, 2004)

alsih2o said:
			
		

> I mistyoed, and now fear I came across wrong.
> 
> That line should have read "You didn't like the digital pig I sent you for Valentines?"
> 
> It was funnier in my head(man, but I say that a lot)



 Oh, in that case....

I loved it, but Ao was a little pissed.


----------



## alsih2o (Jul 30, 2004)

orchid blossom said:
			
		

> Oh, in that case....
> 
> I loved it, but Ao was a little pissed.




 You should see how my wife reacted. I got her an analog pig!

 Ba-dum-ching!


----------



## alsih2o (Jul 31, 2004)

It gets quiet like this.....makes my heart warm.


----------



## mythago (Jul 31, 2004)

Well, it's not as though you heart could get COLDER.


----------



## alsih2o (Jul 31, 2004)

mythago said:
			
		

> Well, it's not as though you heart could get COLDER.




 Sweet truth!


----------



## Berandor (Aug 1, 2004)

Ceramic DM Semifinal Match: Carpedavid vs. _Berandor_

*For lack of a better term *

"Excuse me - are you a superhero?"

Hans immediately knew she was a reporter. Her hair had the cemented firmness necessary for outdoor shoots, her face the required mix of intelligence and sex appeal. The casual clothes clung to her, enhancing her womanly shape without endangering her professional attitude. Another indicator was the stale taste forming in Hans' mouth when he looked at her. 

Of course, the sweating photographer following her helped as well.

Hans closed his eyes for a moment to savor the question. True, he didn't wear a costume, but still...

"Miss," he began.

"Underwood. Laura Underwood," she interrupted, "Splash Magazine."

"Miss," he repeated, waiting for her to interrupt again. In his experience, reporters could ask questions all day, but listening to the answer was not their forte. When she said nothing, however, he continued, "you are at Bruce Wayne Memorial Home for Senior Citizens with Superhuman Abilities, or BWMHSCSA as we affectionately call it," he loved that joke, "so what do you reckon?"

"Uh-huh. You don't look like a superhero."

Her exquisite rhetoric enamored her even more to Hans. He was already annoyed. He got so easily annoyed these days, but then again, he'd never really had had patience for reporters. Which was, of course, one of the reasons that they didn't visit him very often. Most of them came to see...

"Miss Underwood?" the nurse's commandeering voice rang through the meeting hall, "He is ready for you now."

A grin appeared on Underwood's face, and she blushed slightly before rushing off, her photographer struggling to keep up. Hans sighed. He should have known who she'd come for. Weakly, he lifted a gnarled hand and waved after her. 

He looked at the hand. It was skinny, and the skin had turned brown in places. It did not tremble, however. Once it had been able to support his whole body weight easily. It could still crush tangerines, however. It had been able to defuse bombs without tools. It could still procure coins from behind ears, however. It was a good hand, Hans thought. It might be older than it had been, but it wasn't "old".

Hans felt his thoughts turn towards the past again, but he was thankfully distracted by the appearance of Kit and Kat, the Ghostly Twins. They painstakingly crossed the room, as silent as they'd always been, their skin white as flour, their malformed heads bobbing fore and aft. As he watched them approach, Hans couldn't help but notice his surroundings.

He saw the linoleum floor (for ease of cleaning), the adamantine chairs and tables (complete with scratchmarks from a certain bad-tempered resident), the walls made of lead (for privacy reasons), the surveillance cameras with their malevolently blinking red eye (for circumventing said privacy), the multi-functional sprinkler system (capable of emitting various gases, liquids, and alien substances as well as sonic waves), and the smell of stale urine permeating everything (thanks to several residents who had found new uses for the phrase "Super Beam").

Hans had been here for five years now, and the moments when he saw the Home like that were getting scarcer every day. Some day, he hoped, he'd simply not notice anymore. It was the only way not to despair. He turned his attention back on the Twins.

They'd almost reached his table now. Looking at them, Hans felt affection flooding through him, warming him. The Ghostly Twins had been his friends for almost half a century now; together with Woodwhiskers and the Invisible Stalker, they'd formed the Hand, one of the lesser know superhero teams around. Their moniker had been a play on his name, as he'd been their leader and spokesperson.

The Twins had finally reached him, and sat at the table.

"How are you guys?" They swayed their heads sideways.

"I'm sorry to hear that. Is anybody up for a game of chess? Kit? Kat?" Both shook their heads.

"You're just scared of losing." Nodding. 

"It doesn't matter. I'm glad to see you, anyway. Where have you guys been all day? Chasing the nurses again?" They looked at him silently, their heads tittering. Whether of age or amusement, Hans could not say. 

"I'll take that as a yes." He smiled. "You've never been able to keep your hormones in check, have you? I still remember how you almost fell for Tentacular." They shook their heads vehemently now, but Hans was lost in his memories.

"Tentacular..."

---

"I looked on as the Ghostly Twins and Woodwhiskers were in its tentaculous grasp, and for the only time in my life, I was afraid." Hans made a pause and leaned forward, regarding his audience with his good eye. Dick was drooling again, and Sue looked at him with wide eyes and an open mouth, totally enraptured, as if she'd head the story for the first time. That's why Hans loved to talk to these two - he could tell them the same story over and over, and they'd forget it just as quick. And he loved to tell that story.

"This beastly abomination was strong, intelligent, and clearly did not hesitate to kill. Only the Invisible Stalker and me were still around to fight. And I couldn't signal the Stalker, or I'd give away her position. Suddenly, I had an idea..."

"How'd you know where she was?" 

Hans inwardly cursed. Life in the Home could be good, if it wasn't for Him, his curse, arrogant bastard that he was. As He swung himself into a chair next to him, Hans watched Dick and Sue turning towards him, their eyes lighting up. Oh, how he hated Him. 

Forcing a smile on his face, Hans said, "Good evening, Clark."

"I've told you a hundred times already, Emmy. Call me Supes." Clark Kent had aged with dignity. Despite being almost eighty years old, he still had an athlete's built, a dazzling smile of his own teeth, and a spandex costume that fit him tightly and snugly. At least his full, black hair was a wig; Clark was almost completely bald. Still, he looked great for his age, and the worst thing was, he knew it.

"As you very well know - Clark - I like to call people by their real name." Hans took a deep breath. His doctor had warned him to avoid excitement. Well, he wasn't excited to see Clark, anyway.

"But Clark is not - forget it." Clark waved his hand dismissively, only to flash his smile again and point a finger towards Hans. "What's a name among friends, eh?"

"You were saying?" Hans had to force himself to keep civil. It would not do to attack Clark. In his age, broken wrists didn't heal as easily as they used to.

"Huh?" He really shared a vocabulary with Laura Underwood, probably literally. Hans could see him not using specific words because "Laura uses them today." That thought brought a smile to his lips. He might be inferior to Superman in most ways, but he was still smarter than he'd ever be.

"Oh, yeah. How did you know where she was? I mean, she's invisible, isn't she?"

"I... simply knew." Great. Now he was trying to make him look stupid.

"Could you see her?"

"No."

"So you heard her?"

"No, I didn't."

"Then how'd you know?"

He'd had enough. "It's my power, Clark!"

"Knowing is your power?" The bastard grinned. He knew exactly what he was doing.

"Yes, Clark. Knowing, extrapolating, foreseeing, guessing, outmaneuvering - I'm cunning, damn it!"

"So your cunning business strategies led you to have what? One guest appearance in _Aquaman_? As opposed to several movies, comic and TV series, merchandising, and of course, memorials?"

Hans stood up and left Dick and Sue with the still-grinning Clark. He hated that bastard. Of course, Hans had brought his enmity upon himself. If only he hadn't put kryptonite into Clark's breakfast. At least, he should have used the green kind instead of the white. Who knew there were different colors? 

Hans still remembered Clark's look as he put it off as a harmless joke. What had seemed like Hell to him before had only intensified tenfold afterwards, as Clark had made it a personal goal of his to embarrass Hans.

Hans had to distract himself, so he went to the media room to watch TV. He decided against using one of the personal TV sets and simply sat down next to Tony in front of the big plasma screen. Tony was breathing laboriously, as always, and was watching Fox, as always. Hans simply nodded at him as a way of greeting. Tony didn't react. As always. The news was on.

_"...as the town is getting ready to celebrate America's greatest hero's eightieth birthday, Superman himself seemed to be genuinely ashamed of all the publicity."_

Life was not fair. Hans almost screamed in frustration. Massaging his temples, he contemplated whether he should rather kill himself or try and find green kryptonite. 

"Perhaps on e-bay?" he murmured, as the scene changed and a young woman reported from a fashion exhibition.

_"The exhibition's greatest discovery, however, has to be Yelena Vuckovich, a sixteen year old girl from Croatia. Yelena took the scene yesterday to standing ovations as she presented her Nouveau Chapeau line of hats."_

Hans simply stared at the screen, unbelieving. He didn't hear the rest of the report. Everything ceased to exist except for that picture of the young designer walking on stage, smiling, waving to the crowd, wiping a tear away. Impossible.

"Impossible," he said. But there it was, right on the screen. Or at least it had been right there, before the topic had turned to the upcoming election. Tentacular was back.

---

Hans used the rest of the evening for research. He still couldn't understand how his old enemy might have returned. The Superwar had killed all supervillains or sent them off to a parallel dimension. The good guys had won. That had been over thirty years ago, but the memory still hurt. The Hand had only been allowed to play a very minor part in the war. Of course, they'd all survived, and Hans knew they'd likely been obliterated by any of the more powerful villains had they been in the heat of the battle. Still, it would have been a hero's death.

And now, of the forty-three superheroes that had survived the war, only 26 were still alive, and most of them had enough problems remembering their names or holding their dinner. Hans was one of the few who remained lucid and healthy enough to lead a reasonably good life. The only one who might be capable of still taking the mantle of a hero was...

"No. I must do it without him." On top of his notes, he wrote "No Clark!" in big, red letters. It felt good.

---

The next day, Hans resolved to put the Hand back together. This might be their chance to show the world they were the heroes he always knew they'd been. In the end, it wasn't important how Tentacular had survived, only that it was back. And he would stop it again.

He found the Twins in the meeting room, moving towards the kitchen door.

"My friends, the time has come for us to reassemble," he greeted them. They tilted their heads together.

"Yes, you heard correctly. The world is in peril again. Tentacular is back." They regarded him solemnly, their heads motionless except for the constant tittering. 

"What do you say, friends? Shall we fight together once more, for the good of the people?" The Twins slowly shook their heads.

"But..." Hans did not finish his plea. He thought about how slow they had become, these former master acrobats, and had to admit they would be of no use in a fight anymore. He'd disregarded the truth in lieu of their friendship, but they were right to decline.

A nurse passed them, and the Twins began to chase her. The nurse pretended to flee from them, even though she could have outpaced them by walking briskly. This was their place now. Hans felt a lump form in his throat, and he cried a single tear for what his friends had become.

His next stop was the garden. The Wayne Foundation had been very generous in their construction of the Home. A vast outdoor area formed what was called the "garden": a large meadow, a deep pond, and even a small wood. Hans waved over to where Hank lay on the grass enjoying the warm spring morning, and walked into the woods.

He hadn't come here for a long time. At first, Hans had visited his friend almost daily, but when the mutant they'd only known as Woodwhiskers had never shown any reaction to his presence, the visits had soon become more and more infrequent. Hans was surprised how well he remembered the way. Soon, he stood in front of his old comrade-in-arms.

Woodwhiskers resembled a man, but only in shape and size. In all other regards, he looked like a tree. And in his heyday, he had been as strong as a tree. Hans didn't know whether Woodwhiskers was still aware of his surroundings, or capable of uprooting himself, but he had to try.

And he tried. He asked, he cajoled, and he ordered, but Woodwhiskers did not move. Hans pushed against the strong bark, but nothing happened. By all accounts, his friend was a tree. 

"At least wiggle with a twig so that I know that you can hear me." Nothing.

Hans wondered whether maybe Woodwhiskers had died, and simply left this wooded shell behind. It made no difference. He was as lost to the Hand as the Ghostly Twins were.

Hans walked back towards the Home, but after a few steps he turned around for a final time. Woodwhiskers stood motionless in his place.

"Goodbye, my friend."

Hans made his way back, and went up to his room. Lying on the bed, he closed his eyes. He was alone, and he alone had never been enough. If only the Invisible Stalker had been still alive, but a car had run her over nine years ago. He missed Kathryn's support, now more than ever. For the first time, he really felt alone. He had nobody to go to with his doubts, and nobody who would stand beside him.

"The bane of growing old," he said. His friends were dead or senile, his body slowly fell apart, and nobody would remember him after his death. Superheroes couldn't afford families, and the public had other heroes to cheer. Perhaps it would be best if he simply closed his eyes and waited for death to come.

He closed his eyes, and waited. After a few moments, Hans opened his eyes again. While he waited, he might as well watch TV.

Tony breathed laboriously, watched Fox, and did not respond to his greeting. The news was on.

_"Security measures are increased as the Springtime Fashion Show prepares for President Clinton's arrival tomorrow, but today belonged to the new fashion sensation Yelena Vuckovich..."_

Hans stormed into the garden, where he gave way to his frustration, shouting curses at the sky. What was he to do now? He couldn't stop Tentacular himself, but nobody seemed to recognize it, either. If he could not fight it, at least he had to warn somebody. But who would believe him? No, there was only one person whom they'd surely believe, one person who might be able to defeat Tentacular.

For a moment, he considered doing nothing. But his sense of responsibility took over quickly.

---

Laura Underwood had returned, together with her photographer - still sweating - to produce a cover story about Superman. Clark had sprawled on the bed, and Laura sat on the edge of the mattress, looking like a cross between therapist and lover with her casual outfit and the notebook in her hand. 

Hans felt immediately jealous of him, for the first time really recognizing his jealousy for what it was. Clark had everything he'd always lacked. And now he'd get the fame for defeating the world's last supervillain, as well.

"Well, well, Emmy, come in," Clark said to him. Turning to the reporter, he added, "Laura, may I introduce you to the Emerald Fox? Emmy is a... hero, for lack of a better term."

"Just like you are, Supes," she said, not even glancing in Hans' direction.

"Not like me, no," Clark grinned, "but who is?" They both laughed. When the photographer joined in, they broke off. Hans rolled his eyes, but he had to tell him.

"I've got a problem, Supes," he said, hoping Clark noticed the subtle hint. Indeed, the spandex-clad senior sat up, and smiled reassuringly.

"What is it, Emmy?"

"I..." Hans couldn't believe how hard it was to form the words. "You know about Tentacular?"

"Is that the story you're always telling?" He turned to Laura. "You see, Emmy likes to tell this story, and..."

"Yes, that one. It's back. Not the story, but the creature. The villain."

"Tentacular?" Now they all looked at Hans, but more like one would look at a green elephant walking a rope.

"Yes," he said slowly, carefully. "The parasite Tentacular, one of the greatest dangers I have ever met."

"And you want me to...?" Clark wondered, lifting one brow.

"Fight it. Warn the authorities. Whatever. Just stop it from taking over the president."

Clark nodded solemnly, and looked at him with fake sincerity.

"Of course. I will do that. I'm sure you're not trying to paint me for a fool, nor have you seen hallucinations. Three decades after the Superwar, I believe you when you tell me you've seen a tentacled parasite, even if nobody else has seen it."

"It has disguised itself as a hat. It was on Fox News."

"It has disguised itself as a hat, and you saw it on TV. Sure," Clark said, turning back towards the reporter. "You were saying?"

Hans clenched his fists and stormed off. He could hear Clark laughing, and calling after him.

"How did you defeat Tentacular again? It seems you never told me the story..."

Back in his room, Hans took several deep breaths before he could think clearly again. His heart hammered almost painfully in his chest. After a few minutes, he had calmed down sufficiently to consider his options. 

Clark hadn't believed him. He would do nothing. The President of the United States would be taken over by a parasite, but Superman would sit idly by and do nothing. And Hans himself could do nothing. He was just an old man. Granted, he still had a cunning mind, but how would that help him? Tentacular had three powerful tentacles and a dangerous beak. Its mouth lay hidden by the tentacles, save for a small hole. In order to paralyze it, you had to put iron into this hole. There was no way...

Or was there? As a plan began to form in Hans mind, he briefly considered staying in his room and doing nothing. Let Tentacular take over President Clinton. Hans hadn't voted for her, anyway. In fact, he'd never voted in his whole life. He would likely meet his death when he faced the creature, should he really risk it for a politician?

He had already pulled his costume out of his closet before he admitted to himself that he really had no choice. A one-fingered hand couldn't make a fist, but it might still poke your eye out. Smiling, Hans changed outfits and resolved to poke with all his might.

On his way out, he passed a nurse.

"Mr. MacManus?" she asked, staring at him. Hans shook his head.

"Emerald Fox," he said. 

He left the building just as his cab arrived at the front door.

"To the Fashion Show," he said. To the rescue, he thought.

---

The blocks around Groening Exhibition Hall had been closed to traffic. Hans had thanked the driver and now made his way through the streets on foot. His costume didn't fit as tight as it used to, one of its ears had a bend, and the shorts scratched in all the wrong places. Still, Hans had never felt so good in the last five years.

He passed the security guards without problems, although he saw one of them circling his index finger towards his temple.

"Haute couture," the guard said, rolling his eyes.

Backstage, Hans approached a man who busily talked into a headset. The man froze in his tracks as he saw the costumed hero walk up to him.

"Miss Vuckovich's dressing room?" he asked. The man simply pointed down a flight of stairs. Hans thanked him, and then continued on his way. He could feel the man's stare in his back for a moment, but then he resumed talking.

Finally, Hans had found her room. Yelena Vuckovich hadn't been known at all before this show, so she had been given a room far away from the stage or the models' dressing hall. Hans stood in front of the door for a moment, and then knocked.

"She's not here," a female voice said from behind him. Hans turned around to see an assistant something carry a bunch of flowers.

"She's already in meeting room 2, preparing for the President. It seems Miss Clinton wanted to see her personally."

---

Hans opened the door to the meeting room, standing in the open doorway for a few moments. The room beyond was large enough to hold twenty people comfortably. A large table with a dozen chairs dominated the center of the room. A small plate of soft drinks stood on a cupboard to the side. At the far end of the table sat Yelena Vuckovich. Tentacular sat on her head, motionless as a hat. For a moment, Hans wondered whether he had been wrong, but then Yelena opened her mouth and spoke.

"So, the human finds me again?" Yelena spoke, but it was Tentacular's voice. The voice was shrill, and yet not without allure. Without wearing the parasite, however, it had no power over people.

"You have let yourself be found," Hans said with as much menace in his voice as he could muster.

"Silly human. Does he think I care for his arrival? Nobody believes human, and I dispatch him easily."

"Dispatch me, and the guards will never let the President close enough to wear you." A slurping noise emanated from the parasite's beak. Hans recognized it as laughter.

"Funny. Human thinks I want to take over important human, and rule? Has human not learned from last time? I dispatch human, and important human. I dispatch every human in this building, and then I hide. I can wait. I have time. I don't grow old. Not like human."

"I have defeated you once, I will defeat you again, Tentacular." The parasite laughed - slurped - again.

"Tentacular, yes. That is the name human gives me. I always like it. But why talk? Does human hope to live longer? He does not defeat me. This time, he is alone."

"Am I?" With that, Hans jumped on the table and ran towards Tentacular. Yelena stood up, and the hat came to life. Three barbed tentacles whirled through the air, two slashing at him, and the last one coiling around his waist, cutting him in a hundred places at once. The tentacle lifted him up like a doll.

"Fight is over." Hans fought against losing consciousness, forcing a smile on his bloodied lips, forcing himself to speak.

"Not... yet... Sue, Kathryn - Now!"

It was a bluff, and not a good one at that. But Tentacular remembered how almost forty years ago, the Invisible Stalker had shoved an iron spike into its body, and reacted instantly. The two empty tentacles lashed out blindly, while it pulled the third tentacle in. It was all the chance Hans would get. It was all the chance he needed.

Closing his eyes against the pain, Hans bit his tongue off. Immediately, blood spurted filled his mouth. Hans aimed for the opening in the midst of the tentacles, and spit. A huge gob of blood flew forth, splattering Yelena's head, but a good part of it hit the hole and poured into the parasite's mouth.

Tentacular shuddered.

"What does human do?"

"Iron... in blood," Hans said. Blood was still flowing freely from his mouth, and he couldn't pronounce the words correctly any more. 

"It won't... work instantly... but it... will... work." Tentacular screamed in rage. Its empty tentacles thrashed the room, while it drew Hans close to its beak.

"For that, I dispatch human." 

Hans smiled, coughed, and smiled again.

"I figured... you would..."

---

The media room at Bruce Wayne Memorial Home for Senior Citizens with Superhuman Abilities was packed. Residents, nurses, and quite a few reporters sat or stood in front of the big TV screen. The last missing resident entered the room just as the special report began.

"Hey, guys," Clark said, waiting for the heads to turn around. As the assembly continued to watch the screen, he shrugged, and pushed through the crowd. He lifted a wide-eyed Sue from her place next to Tony and sat down.

"Hey, Tony. My birthday parade will be next month, so what are all of you watching?" Tony turned to him and put a bony finger on his lips.

"Shh."

"Oh, right. Sorry." Clark flashed his smile and concentrated on the screen. The camera showed several scenes from different cities, but they all showed the same object in the center of the picture. It was a giant hand, six feet tall, made entirely from iron.

_"Thousands of people congregated into their state capital today as at noon Easter time, 51 identical memorials were unveiled. The giant hand is a replica of Hans MacManus' right hand. MacManus was better known as Emerald Fox, the leader of the Hand, who just a few weeks ago saved America from the last surviving supervillain. MacManus died in the battle.
In a press release, President Clinton dedicated the memorials to all the unknown heroes of our time, with or without superhuman abilities. "When Superman won't help," she said, "we may have to rely on men - and women - to do the job." From Washington DC, this is Laura Underwood."_

The TV screen went black, and for a moment, silent reigned in the room.

"Emmy," Clark said. "He was a good guy. Did I mention that he bought me a birthday gift? From e-bay, wrapped in lead. I wonder what it is?"

*The END*


----------



## Berandor (Aug 1, 2004)

Cutting it mightily close here - and already seeing a spelling error. Oh, well.


----------



## carpedavid (Aug 1, 2004)

*The Life and Death of John Chrysanthemum, Superhero*



Captain Chrysanthemum was never a particularly important superhero. He was not part of the team that stopped Dr. Colossal from destroying the city, nor was he among the coalition members that sent the Beryllians running back to their home world with their tails between their tentacles. No, for the past thirty years he had spent most of his days in the park, entangling pickpockets and politely asking passers-by not to trample the flowers. It was good, respectable work for a superhero whose only power was to rapidly accelerate the growth of plants.



For John Chrysanthemum, today was much like any other day. He woke up at precisely 6:15, staggered to the bathroom, took a shower, brushed his teeth, staggered to the kitchen, ate a bowl of oatmeal, drank a cup of coffee, staggered to the bedroom, combed his hair, and stuffed himself into his uniform.



He looked at himself in the mirror. Green boots and shorts framed muscular legs; green suspenders showed off his tight, flat stomach and crossed in the center of his powerful chest; a silver collar sat atop broad shoulders, while a silver cape and horned, green mask rounded out the ensemble. 



He smiled as he patted his taught stomach, and admired his broad chest; he looked eminently heroic. He could only hold his breath for so long, though, and when he exhaled, his high-school wrestler body dissolved into that of an aging superhero who didn't get enough exercise. He frowned. "You're not getting any younger, John," he said with a sigh. As he shook his head, one of the horns flopped in the middle. He tried to prop it back up, but it just flopped over again.



"Maybe it's time for a new costume," he thought, "One without a cape."



***



The Hall of Heroes stood at the east end of the park. Every day, while the important superheroes were out saving the world or stopping supervillains, John was stopping crime in their own backyard. Some days, he was amused by the irony. Other days, like today, it was merely frustrating. He had tried to join the group a number of times. When the Beryllian invasion was being repelled, he took the time to learn the alien race's unique sign language in the hope of being admitted.



"John," Captain Fantastic had told him, "Leave the real superhero stuff to us."



When Dr. Colossal had threatened the city, he volunteered again. That time, Captain Stupendous, Fantastic's son, had been less patronizing, but still firm in his rejection.



"s," John muttered. He turned his attention back to a patch of daisies that he was tending. He carefully touched each flower, and watched as they grew and blossomed under his care. He smiled, and gingerly stood up, trying not to make his knees creek too much along the way.



Then, suddenly, he heard a screech come from off in the distance. "Ah hell," he muttered, and took off running. He ran across the park, past the hot dog vendors, the musicians, and the fountain before he spotted a crying, elderly woman.



She looked at him hopefully, then pointed at a young man who was racing toward the park entrance at a sprint.



"Not in my park, buddy," he muttered under his breath as he pointed toward the grass in front of the man. It sprouted and twisted around the man's ankles, sending him sprawling. Once he was on the ground, John pointed again, and spiny weeds erupted from the ground, pinning the pickpocket's limbs.



After catching his breath, John pulled out his cellphone and dialed 911. "Hello, this is Captain Chrysanthemum. I've just apprehended a pickpocket."



***



John discovered his powers in the autumn of his sixteenth year. Although he spent most of his childhood outside, he had never felt any particular connection to the natural world, so when he took the shortcut through the woods to his friend Chester's house, he paid little attention to the forest around him.



The sky was grey and overcast, and a bitter wind whipped through the trees, sending the dried leaves scurrying along the path, searching for shelter. He turned up his collar and quickened his pace, eager to be out of the chill air and in front of a warm dinner. As he began to descend the final hill, he heard a loud snap, and looked up just in time to see a branch plummeting toward him. He dived forward out of the way, but caught his foot on a tree root and tripped, sending him tumbling down the hill.



He rolled and bounced down the path, crashing through the underbrush and banging his limbs against trees and rocks, before coming to a stop at the bottom. Unfortunately, his last bounce turned him in such a way that he landed directly on the back of his neck. He heard a snap, hoped that it was a branch, and then the world went black.



Images and sensations faded in and out as he lay on the cold, leaf-covered ground: the trees swayed overhead in the breeze, a squirrel chattered noisily off to the side, and leaves danced across his chest and face.



Then, as his vision faded in again, a figure emerged from behind a tree. It was shaped like a man, but moved with a stiff gait. It walked slowly toward John, creaking like the wind-blown trees with every step. John's vision was blurry, but he could swear that it looked like it was made of wood. Moreover, it looked like its arms and torso were covered in some sort of fungus. As it ambled through the woods toward him, every branch it brushed against burst into bloom, and flowers erupted from the ground where it stepped.



John tried to move, tried to sit up, but found that he couldn't. His arms and legs simply refused to listen, and any attempt to will them to move caused his vision to black out. The creature, whatever it was, finally reached him, and bent down, creaking and groaning all the while. Its head was shaped like an inverted tree stump and its breath was warm and earthy. John thought he detected a face carved into the stump through his hazy vision, but couldn't be sure. He thought about screaming, but the presence of the creature filled him with a great sense of comfort.



Then it placed its hands on his chest, and he could instantly feel energy coursing through him. Warm, green power flowed through his veins and back into the earth, repairing him, mending his broken bones, and patching his internal organs. The creature emitted a musty sigh, and collapsed, crumbling into dirt.



By the time John was able to sit up, all that was left of the creature was a pile of fresh, fragrant loam. He shook his head to try to clear the fuzziness from his mind, and then stood up on wobbly legs. As he staggered down the path, he felt different somehow. As the world became clearer, he realized that he could see the green energy flow through the forest around him. Fountains of it bubbled from the tops of holly bushes, while great pools of it gathered at the base of pine trees. For the first time in his life, he felt connected to the world around him



***



John had just finished handing the pickpocket over to the police when a beautiful, young, elegantly dressed, redheaded woman tapped him on the shoulder.



"Can I help you?" he asked as he turned.



The girl said nothing. She simply smiled, motioned to him to follow her, and began walking away.



"Odd," he thought to himself. "I wonder if she's one of those European models that can't speak English?"



She led him past the hot dog vendors and musicians, past the fountain and the patch of daisies he had been caring for earlier. She said nothing - just turned and smiled at him occasionally.



"Crap, why didn't I learn French or Russian or something?" he thought to himself.



She led him toward the maintenance building in the far corner of the park. Once they rounded the back of the building, the girl stopped dead in her tracks. She turned and stared straight at him, the smile never fading from her face as the back of her head opened up. 



John stared in shock as a small creature climbed out. It looked like a cute little owl with a red beak, but it possessed three long, thin, feathered tentacles and a spiny tail. "Oh crap," thought John, "It's a Beryllian!"



As creatures with neither vocal cords, nor the ability to communicate telepathically, the Beryllians had developed a complex sign language. It wiggled its tentacles at him.



John's comprehension of the alien language was a little rusty, but he nodded his head, "Yes, I can understand you. What are you doing here?"



Wiggle, wiggle.



"What kind of information?" he said, suspicious. The mere presence of a Beryllian on Earth was a bad sign.



Wiggle, wiggle, wiggle, wiggle.



"Well, we fought off an invasion once, we can do it again," he said, trying to sound confident.



Wiggle, wiggle.



"Oh my. That's horrible."



Wiggle.



"You're right; I don't think we could fight off you and Dr. Colossal at the same time. How are they planning on releasing him?"



Wiggle, wiggle, wiggle.



John gasped as the full weight of the information he was learning sunk in. If what the creature was saying was true, they would not only free Colossal, but kill a great number of heroes. "Ok, I'll communicate this to the Council of Heroes, but before I do, I have one question. Why are you telling me this?"



The Beryllian wiggled its tentacles once more, this time at the ground in front of him. He watched as the plants at his feet burst into full bloom, growing and stretching toward the sun, and he understood.



***



As John entered the Hall, he saw a young Japanese woman in a schoolgirl uniform being chased by two stylized humanoid cats. His heart jumped at the sight of her. Keiko - the name brought a smile to his face, even though she was young enough to be his daughter. "Keiko, Keiko, Keiko," he sighed to himself.



The woman giggled when she saw him, and ducked behind him to hide from the cats. Her soft, small hands pressed against his back as she peered out at her pursuers.



"Careful," she taunted, "If you don't behave, Captain Chrysanthemum will turn your heads into flowerpots!"



"Maybe he'll turn our cocks into cucumbers!" retorted Neko, the cat on the left.



"Or our balls into turnips!" quipped Neko, the cat on the right.



John forced a smile. "No, I can't really," he trailed off. "Um," he muttered as he reached into a pocket and pulled out a small green stem. He held it in his palm, concentrated, and the stem grew, budded, and blossomed into a rose over the course of a few seconds. He offered it to Keiko.



"For me?" she said quietly as she took the flower. "It's beautiful, John."



"Better than a balloon animal," giggled Neko.



"Get lost, you two!" Keiko yelled, and the cats ran off. "John, I don't know what to say," she said as she looked at him with her beautiful brown eyes.



"It's ok. You don't have to say anything."



"Thank you," she said, smiling, as she stood on her tiptoes and kissed him on the cheek.



He blushed, and she turned to walk away. After a few paces, she turned back, "I'd like it if you brought me more flowers, John."



"Ok," he smiled, and then watched her walk away. After she turned the corner, he finally exhaled.



On his way to the Council chamber, he passed the giant handprint of Dr. Colossal. At forty feet tall, the hand was both a memorial to those that had lost their lives fighting him, and a reminder that the 400 foot tall, indestructible behemoth lay in a state of suspended animation far below. He read the inscription at the base of the palm, "Never Forget," and had to wipe a tear from his eye.



"I'm getting too old for this," he thought.



When he reached the Council chamber, he saw Captain Stupendous about to close the doors. "Captain, wait!" he yelled, and saw Stupendous roll his eyes.



"John, we're somewhat busy right now," Stupendous said.



"But the Beryllians are about to invade again," John replied.



"Yes, I know, that's why we're busy."



"I have information about their plans, though."



"John, we have the most sophisticated information gathering tools in the galaxy. Anything you might know, we doubtless already do."



"But…"



"John," Stupendous interrupted. "Maybe," he paused, "Maybe you should think about retiring." Then he closed the doors, and left John Chrysanthemum standing in the hall.



***



John spent the night in the park. He watched as the most powerful superheroes in the world flew off into space, as explosions lit up the night sky, and as the sun slowly rose over the top of Hall. He wasn't going to let Dr. Colossal get released, he wasn't going to let the Hall get destroyed, and he certainly wasn't going to let Keiko get killed.



He waited, nervous that the Beryllian had been right, and nervous that it had been wrong. At a quarter 'till eleven, his stomach started growling, and he decided to get a hot dog. As he was standing in line, the hot dog vendor looked up, and pointed frantically toward the sky.



Screaming directly toward the hall was a black missile, followed distantly by the caped figure of Captain Stupendous. "I was right, you ass," John thought to himself. He looked at the distance between the two, and realized that Stupendous would never be able to close the gap before it hit. He needed to do something quickly.



John reached down and placed his hands on the bare earth. He could feel the green energy beneath his palms - ebbing and flowing as the earth itself drew breath. It cascaded from the tops of trees, lapped at the edge of the grass, and trickled along the cracks in the sidewalk where weeds had taken hold.



He took a deep breath and pushed. Energy rippled out from his hands, and the blades of grass around him groaned audibly as they grew. He stopped and cursed at himself - grass tall enough to entangle a normal man certainly wasn't going to stop a direct hit from a Beryllian missile.



He closed his eyes and tried to block out the panicked screams of those around him. "Harder," he thought to himself. His own pulse quickened as he pushed again. Energy flowed out from him, creating waves of green that crested and broke against water fountains and park benches.



"That's not good enough, old man," he growled to himself, and then pushed again. His pulse and breath both quickened as he forced the energy inside him out into the world. This time, the waves crashed into and over each other, building on each other as they raced to the other end of the park. John could feel his pulse pounding in his ears as he gasped for breath. He didn't have much time until the missile reached the Hall, so he pushed again. This time, he felt something burst inside him, and he fell.



He fell down, down into the green, down through the tumultuous surface into the warm comfort of the verdant sea. Above him, all was chaos. The green boiled and swelled, sending a tsunami of grass, flower, fungus, and tree careening toward their target.



The green, fueled by Captain Chrysanthemum's anger, engulfed the Hall, forming a living, impenetrable shield. In the distance, far, far above him, there was sound, and there was fury, but down here, there was only calm and quiet. John smiled and relaxed, as he drifted farther into the great below.


----------



## carpedavid (Aug 1, 2004)

My apologies for the formatting weirdness. As you can see from the timestamp on my post, I didn't have much time to play around with it.

Aaand, I apologize for the lack of links in the story. It should be fairly obvious where they go, but here they are, in order of appearance:

John Chrysanthemum
The Green Man
Beryllian Host
Keiko and Neko Neko
Dr. Colossal's Handprint


----------



## Berandor (Aug 1, 2004)

That's timing!  I'm looking forward to reading your story, and I'm already curious where the profanity filter kicked in


----------



## carpedavid (Aug 1, 2004)

Berandor said:
			
		

> That's timing!  I'm looking forward to reading your story, and I'm already curious where the profanity filter kicked in



That's timing is right. Eeep! I was having a creative block this weekend, so about three quarters of the story was written after 8:00 EST this morning. I was literally writing right up to the deadline. Ugh. I'm going to go drink heavily now


----------



## Berandor (Aug 1, 2004)

carpedavid said:
			
		

> That's timing is right. Eeep! I was having a creative block this weekend, so about three quarters of the story was written after 8:00 EST this morning. I was literally writing right up to the deadline. Ugh. I'm going to go drink heavily now



 Heh. I finally gave in to the story at 10 AM, which means nine hours ago, and finished it half an hour before the deadline. I hade time for a quick check of mistakes, but no rewrites. It seems we're on equal footing here 

and drinking sounds good. If only I drank alcohol. I'll resign myself to taking a bath.


----------



## alsih2o (Aug 1, 2004)

Well, mine are written. It is gettign tot he bittersweet end here folks....


----------



## orchid blossom (Aug 2, 2004)

Round 3:  orchid blossom vs. Rodrigo Istilandir

Distraction

By: orchid blossom

"Bring that light closer."  Shen bent over the crate and pulled up another cord.  How in the world did Zhi-Nu ever keep this straight?

"Where does that one go?" Hsin asked.

"Dunno yet.  It's bluish, so it has something to do with, um, sickness I think.  Quit worrying about the cords.  You're supposed to guarding.  Guard."

Jin pushed up next to Shen and slipped the cord between the blades of his scissors.  "Do we get to cut it?" he asked eagerly.

Shen shoved Jin away.  "No!  No red stripe, this one is supposed to recover."

"I never get to cut the threads."

"It's not really Zhi-Nu's job to end the lives.  Just to make sure that what's supposed to happen does."  Shen disentangled the blue cord and laid it neatly at the foot of the loom.  "Light," he said as he turned back to the crate.    

“Jin, light!”

Jin cleared his throat and pointed.  Shen followed his finger toward a tall figure in the doorway.

“Nice job with the guarding, Hsin,” he muttered.

They turned and bowed to the Jade Emperor.  "This is my daughter's work," he said flatly.  "Why are you touching the threads?"

The three looked at one another.  "I'm waiting for my answer."

Shen cleared his throat.  "Sire, I, um, I believe your daughter was delayed.  We were just, ah, getting things ready for her return."

The Emperor's eyebrows lifted.  "In the dark."

"Yes, sire."

"Open up that lantern.”  Yellowish light flooded the room as the Emperor walked over to a large mirror on the wall and passed his hand over it.  His reflection shimmered and disappeared, replaced by that of his daughter.

"Leave the work."

"But, Sire, the lives," Shen began.

"If my daughter is so easily distracted, she must learn the consequences of such distractions.  Leave it."

*                         *                         *

Zhi-Nu took a deep breath and wrapped her arms around her pillow.  It was getting cold in the bed.  She scooted closer to the center, searching for John's warmth.  Instead she found an empty space, rapidly cooling.  A warm hand touched her cheek.  "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to wake you."

"I get lonely without you," she said.

John laughed and kissed her forehead.  "What you get is cold.  I'll bring you another blanket before I leave."

Zhi-Nu sighed and opened her eyes.  "No.  It's time to get up anyway.  My loom is finally ready, and I'm far behind."

"That thing is huge," John said as he sat down on the edge of the bed.  "You really weave peoples lives on that?"

"Not exactly.  People's lives are their own, but the weave makes sure that certain challenges happen, and sometimes certain choices.  How people deal with it is up to them."

John learned over and kissed her again, sliding his hand down her arm.  "And did you weave us into your pattern?"

"Just a happy accident," she smiled.  "You should get going, you have that test flight today, don't you?"

"The last one.  I'm confident.  The plane has worked perfectly during each test, there's no reason to think that's going to change."

"I'll be relieved when it’s finished, I don't quite trust airplanes," Zhi-Nu said.  

John watched as she slipped out of bed and adjusted her hair.  He was getting spoiled.  It hardly amazed him anymore how perfect his goddess was each morning.  His eyes slipped down past her neck and over the elaborate tattoo that spanned from her shoulders to her thighs.  She denied it was a tattoo, claming it had actually been painted, but he didn't know of any paint that stayed on skin like that.  

The water seemed to flow across her back as Zhi-Nu moved.  He watched idly as the two women walked and waited for the man to appear behind them.  John leaned forward to look closer.  "Zhi-Nu, wasn't there a man in that painting, on your right side?"

"Of course."

"He's not there now."

Zhi-Nu snatched up a hand mirror and ran over to the full-length mirror on the wall.  "No, he's not."

"What does it mean?" John asked.

She put down the mirror and slipped on a robe.  "That something's changed.  You really should go, I think I should get to work immediately."

"You're sure it's alright?"

"I'm sure," Zhi-Nu smiled and kissed him.  "Get out of here."

Zhi-Nu watched him until the door closed and then went to her own work.  The new loom took up almost the entire second bedroom, but it would be a pleasant enough place to work.  Early morning sunlight streamed through the windows and set the wood to glowing.  She sat down, nestled the shuttle in her hand, and reached up to pluck her first thread from her room in the heavens.

The missing man on her body painting was disturbing.  She flipped the shuttle to her other hand and pressed one of the pedals with her foot.  In some ways the painting was a representation of her work.  As long as her weaving was completed well before the events were to occur everything was fine. If things were disappearing from it, then the events in her last weaving would be occurring very soon.

She threw the shuttle from one hand to the other, pressing the pedals and quickly forming the woven cloth of fate.  Each thread went into its proper place, each challenge and trial for every human being woven into a tapestry that showed the connections between them.  Speed was of the essence at the moment; there was no way to know how close to the present her last weaving was.  It might have been her haste that caused the shuttle to catch on the warp and clatter to the floor.

Zhi-Nu put her cut finger into her mouth and picked up the shuttle with her other hand.  She took a look at the fabric and noticed a small hole.  The shuttle clattered again as she stood and ran her hand along her work.  Each thread had gone to the right place, but there was a hole in the fabric, as if that thread had ceased to exist.  There was no red stripe in that thread, it should have been whole.  Zhi-Nu laid her finger against the thread and read it carefully.  

Images came to her mind.  A dark man, humorous and kind, and strongly associated with machines and air.  A challenging flight, but even its worst outcome should not be death.  John was confident about his flight, but there was a hole.

*                         *                          *

Zhi-Nu ran through the lobby of their apartment building and flung herself at the door.  It was always busy on the street in the morning, but the crush of people in front of the building was worse even than rush hour.  They spoke in hushed whispers, some bouncing on their toes trying to see over the heads in the crowd.  Zhi-Nu pushed and wriggled her way to the center of the mob.

Rectangles of ivory were scattered among huge splinters of wood and twisted wires.  The bloodied body of a man lay beneath the largest pieces, his flesh lashed by the piano wires as if he'd been whipped.  Zhi-Nu swallowed against the churning in her stomach.  She pulled her eyes away from the man and studied the concrete.  His watch had flown from his wrist and landed near the edge of the wreckage.  She reached out and pulled the man's thread from the ether.

No one else saw the slim cord stretching from the watch to the slight woman's hand.  She read it quickly. He had been moving pianos for a few weeks, but this was his first time assisting with an aerial lift.  This was his challenge.  He had done everything right, secured each strap perfectly.  There was no red stripe on his thread, only a spreading red pool, the mark of an unintended death.  The image of the piano flickered in her eyes, lifting with the straps, and then falling without.  Zhi-Nu released the thread.

Her loom was upstairs.  She should go back to it.  The fabric she had woven this morning would look like moths had been eating it by now.  Zhi-Nu stared at the door and then back down the street.  She pushed her way through the crowd and hailed a cab.

*                       *                        *

Zhi-Nu pushed her feet against the floor as if she could make the cab go faster.  She cursed the limits of her powers.  At her loom she could weave challenges into the lives of mortals, but in their world she faced them.  She couldn't even make this damned cab go faster.

The private airstrip John would be flying from wasn't far outside the city, but she'd spent several hours at the loom before she'd noticed the hole.  He might be in the air by now.  She pulled out the cufflinks she'd snatched off his bedside table and pulled his thread through it.  He was another who would do nothing wrong, this failure would be mechanical.

The buildings had grown farther apart until they drove through green fields.  In only a few more minutes they would arrive at the airstrip.  She had visited there with John once.  They had gone through several checks of their identification and other security measures.  She didn't have time for that.  Why would they listen to her anyway?  It had taken her weeks to convince John of what she was.  The people inside would think she was just a paranoid girlfriend.

Zhi-Nu tapped her fingernails against the window.  She hadn't really thought out what she would do once she got to the airstrip.  The cab approached the viewing area where people could come to watch the planes take off and land.  "Let me out here," she said, throwing the fare into the front seat.  She wouldn't be able to get to the field, but she should be able to get the attention of one of the ground crew.  They would recognize her, at least.

As soon as the cab stopped she was out and running across the soft grass.  Chain link fences surrounded the strip, keeping her from getting close.  She scanned the field and saw a man wearing a red jacket walking along the fence.  Zhi-Nu squinted.  Yes, she recognized him.  "Gerald!" she shouted, waving her hands above her head.  "Gerald!"

A moment later Gerald turned and waved back at her.  Zhi-Nu raised her voice as loud as she could.  "I need to get a message to John!"

Gerald shook his head and pointed to the sky.  "He's up there.  Landing in a minute, you can tell him yourself!"

Zhi-Nu wrapped her fingers around the chain link fence and stared at the sky.  The plane was miniscule against the clouds.  She prayed that she was wrong; that the hole in the tapestry was not the loss of a thread that should have been there.  The plane turned and headed back toward the landing strip as Zhi-Nu again pulled his thread.  At first it seemed the clouds were darkening, but as the plane came closer she could see the plumes of white smoke streaming from the back.

She stared at the thread in her hands as the plane flipped upside down and debris from its tail flew toward the ground.  Gerald ducked and covered his head just moments before the top of the plane skidded across the runway.  A deep crimson spot appeared on the thread in Zhi-Nu's hands.  It spread along its length as she stumbled back from the fence.

To stop death was not within her power.  "Father," she whispered.  "Stop this, it is not his time."  

She watched as emergency crews rushed to the crash site, but she felt nothing.  The stain continued to spread.  Zhi-Nu looked toward the crash.  Behind the smoke and wreckage the river sparkled.  She numbly followed the fence line to the shore, fell to her knees, and leaned out over the water.

The flowing water warped her reflection, but she could still see her red, swollen eyes and trembling lip.  She waved her hand across the surface of the water and watched as the coldly Imperial face of her father replaced her own ravaged reflection.  "Do not let him die, Father," she begged, "It is not his time."

The Jade Emperor looked back at his daughter through the water.  "It is not, but that is not my fault."

"It isn't his either.  Please Father, do not abandon me."

"Why should I not?  You have abandoned us," the Emperor said flatly.

Zhi-Nu blushed.  "That was not my intention.  I built a new loom here, I was beginning my work anew.'

"But too late."

She swallowed.  "Yes, too late.  But is that John's fault?  Should he die for my folly?"

The Emperor waited, but Zhi-Nu offered no more excuses.  "I will do this thing, but you must agree to my conditions.  You will return immediately to the heavens, take up your work, and you will no longer see this mortal."

She shook her head.  "No Father, please."

The Jade Emperor looked at his daughter's tear stained face.  True, she had been foolish, but he could still remember love.  "I will grant you one day a year, but the other conditions stand.  Accept them or not."

Zhi-Nu nodded.  "I accept, but I ask one more thing.  I wish to say good-bye to John, and to explain."

"I will bring him to you, but you have only a few minutes daughter."

"I understand."  Zhi-Nu backed a few steps away from the shore.  A moment later a creature rose from the water.  It reached the shore and began to rearrange itself.  Its large flat head shrank and warped as the complex skeleton beneath took on a human shape.  Finally the muscles and skin formed and the eyes opened.

John looked down at his body, and then over toward the burning plane where rescuers still worked to pull his real self from the wreckage.

Zhi-Nu leaned forward and took him in her arms.  "Listen to me love, we don't have much time."

*                        *                        *

The sun streamed across Zhi-Nu's loom as she passed the shuttle from hand to hand. One hundred passes a minute, sunrise to sunset, day to day, week to week.  Minutes were measured by the creaking of pedals and the weaving of threads, and days by the yard.  Hundreds of yards had passed through her loom, but hundreds more had yet to be woven before they measured a year.

Zhi-Nu passed the shuttle, pushed the pedals, and wove.


----------



## Rodrigo Istalindir (Aug 2, 2004)

*Ceramic DM - Round 3 - Rodrigo Istalindir*

"Life Imitates Art"

Katsumi sighed and slammed the fallboard of the piano closed.  The missed note still reverberated in her ears, mocking her.  No one else in the room had paid any attention to her mistake; it was a practice room, after all.   The clatter from her outburst, however, brought the room to a stunned standstill.  Silence reigned for an interminable moment, and her face flushed in embarrassment as she imagined everyone staring at her.  Eyes downcast, she pushed back the bench and hurried from the room.  Only after she’d passed into the hallway did the sounds of various instruments resume.

	“Hey, Kat, wait up,” a voice called from behind her.

	Kat didn’t break stride.  David LaMont was a musical genius, equally home playing Scarlatti’s Sonata Grave or Satriani’s Cryin’.   The last thing she needed right now was sympathy from that perfect little twerp, even if he was her sort-of boyfriend.  They’d dated a few times, nothing serious, but the potential was there.  Kat’s obsession with music discouraged most men, but David was just as passionate about playing the guitar.  It was nice to be able to tell someone that you hadn’t answered the phone when they called because you were practicing, and have them understand completely.

	Her anger and frustration fading, she relented and stopped at the top of the stairs.  She turned and watched David running down the hall towards her.

	“Jesus, Kat, you nearly gave half the people in the room a heart attack.”  David said.  “It sounded like a gunshot.”

	“Sorry.  I was just pissed that I still haven’t got that movement right.  It’s only two weeks until finals, and a week after that is the national competition.”

	“I was listening.  You played it perfectly seven times in a row.  It’s no wonder you finally made a mistake – your fingers had to be ready to fall off.” David countered.

	“They may as well fall off if they aren’t going to do what I tell them too.” Kat replied. 

	The pair descended the wide stone steps that led from the concert hall.  The sun was shining brightly, and the quad was filled with college students enjoying the weather, studiously ignoring the fact that exams were imminent.

	“So, are you coming over tonight?” David asked.

	Kat hesitated.  She knew she should come back and practice some more, but David had been bugging her all week to have dinner with him.  He was probably a gourmet cook, too, she thought.  

She knew she was being unfair.  David wasn’t one of those people who rubbed your nose in their accomplishments, and he worked hard to make the things he did look easy.

        “Sure,” she said.  “What time?”

        “How about 6?  We can listen to the new ‘Pessimists’ album while dinner cooks.”

        “Sounds good.  Can I bring anything?” she asked.

♪​
        Kat looked around David’s apartment.  It was obvious where his interests lie.  Second-hand bookcases groaned under the weight of hundreds of CD’s, and an expensive stereo system sat upon a desk that looked to have been scavenged from a junkyard.

         The pair sat on the ratty sofa in David’s apartment.  Dinner had been delicious.  David had prepared traditional Japanese cuisine, and Kat had been surprised by the gesture.   She felt him hesitantly put his arm around her, and she relaxed into his embrace.  The afternoon’s frustrations melted, her worries over the upcoming competition banished.  

        A new CD started, a piano concerto, but she barely noticed.  She turned slightly, and saw David gazing at her.  He lowered his mouth towards hers, and they kissed, tenderly at first, but with a passion that echoed the rising tempo of the music.  For several minutes they remained entwined, each caressing the other. 

        Kat felt David’s fingers fumbling with the fastenings on her blouse, and her body stiffened for a moment.  For a moment, she considered stopping him, but her ardor was as great as his, and she relented.   One by one, the sea shell buttons came undone, and she felt the cool air on her bare shoulders as her shirt fell open.  She tensed again, knowing what would come next.

        David gasped, and Kat prepared herself for a repeat of the scene that always played out in such circumstances.  But in place of the awkwardness she usually sensed, David’s voice seemed curious.

        “Wow, Kat”

        David gazed upon Katsumi’s half-naked body.  From just below the hollow of her throat, extending down past her tiny breasts and disappearing underneath her jeans, an amazing panorama decorated her skin.  (Picture #3)  The flickering candlelight made the tattoos dance and writhe.

        “You don’t think they’re ugly?” she whispered.  

        “I think they’re beautiful.  I think you’re beautiful.” 

        David’s gaze met hers and she blushed.  Standing, he took her hand in his.  She rose and let him lead her into the bedroom.

♪​
        Hours later, the exhausted couple lay in bed.  Kat lay with her back to David, and in the moonlight his fingers traced the figures that adorned her body.   Images of animals appeared next to human faces.  Kanji lettering mixed with English.  Here and there, unknown symbols were also visible.

        “Are the man and woman your parents?” he enquired, referring to the largest of the images that graced her smooth skin.  

        “Yes.”

        “Did they ever see it”

        “No, they would have freaked  I had to hide it from them.”

        David knew little of Katsumi’s parents.  He knew they had died the summer before she came to the university, but she rarely spoke of them.

        “How do you decide what to have done?” he asked.

        “I draw the pictures myself.  They’re mostly to remembrances, of important people or times in my life.  Some of them are supposed to be magic symbols, or incantations.  I usually get a new one before a major performance, for good luck.”

        “Maybe one day you’ll get one that says ‘David’.

        Kat rolled over and kissed him.  

        “I hope not,” she said, kissing him to forestall the inevitable question.

♪​
	That Friday, Kat approached the auditorium.  Final exams for the Advanced Classical Piano class were today, and she was nervous.  She was still having trouble with the same part of her composition, and she couldn’t afford to make a mistake.  An ‘A’ on the exam wouldn’t be good enough; she needed to finish first in the class.  A ‘first’ here would get earn an automatic invitation to the national competition.  Win there and every concert hall in the country would be begging her to play.  Her future as a renowned artist would be guaranteed.

	She entered the auditorium and sat in the back, away from the rest of her class.  The order of performance had been decided randomly, and she was set to play near the end.  She closed her eyes and listened as student after student played the piano set at the center of the stage.  She smiled to herself every time she heard a mistake or hesitation.  

	Scattered applause marked the conclusion of another student’s performance, and Kat sat up, paying attention now as Samantha Lewis ascended the stage.  Here was the one person that could seriously challenge her, and she absently rubbed the still-sore spot on her hip as Samantha began to play.

	For several minutes, musical perfection issued forth from the stage.  A knot formed in Kat’s stomach.  She closed her eyes again, and chanted ‘Mistake!’ under her breath.

	A jarring note broke the flowing melody, and Kat’s eyes snapped open.  On the stage, Samantha looked unperturbed, but Kat’s trained gaze caught the tension in her neck and shoulders as she continued the piece.  Kat’s silent mantra continued, but Samantha finished the performance without making another mistake.  Kat hoped it would be enough.

	Several performers later, and it was Kat’s turn.  She walked to the front of the auditorium and sat in front of the piano.  Taking a deep breath, she launched into the piece she had been practicing for weeks.  All was perfect, her fingers dancing over the keys, and then disaster struck.  It was the same movement that had been troubling her, the one she had performed flawlessly while warming up,  and once again her fingers betrayed her.  It was a slight mistake, less serious than the one made by Samantha earlier, but it was not the flawless performance she wanted.  She continued to the end, then stood and walked back to her seat.

	When the last performer had completed their piece, the judges gathered at the front of the auditorium.  For several minutes that spoke in hushed tones.  Finally, the head of the music department broke from the group.

	Knocking on the stage, he waited until he had the class’s attention.

	“Such wonderful performances, all of you.  You have performed beautifully, and we are proud to have such fine students at this university.”

	“Grades will be posted in the morning, but I’m sure you all want to know which among you finished first.  It was a very close competition, but the judges concurred that while both Samantha and Katsumi were technically equally good, Samantha’s original composition showed more originality and passion.  Accordingly, we are awarding Samantha first place, with Katsumi as alternate.”

	Kat’s heart stopped.  All the work, the hours of practice, and then to lose not because of her technical skills, but because of the personal bias of the judges.  How could they do this to her.  Stifling a sob, she stood and hurried from the auditorium.

♪​
	After classes the following Monday, Kat walked to the bus stop and waited for the #14 bus that went downtown.  When it arrived, she hurried aboard and sat far in the back, away from the few other riders.  The ride was long but uneventful, and Kat got off at a stop in the heart of the city.

	Although the locals called it ‘Chinatown’ like they did in most big cities, the denizens of this district represented almost every Oriental culture.   The buildings were built closely together, with retail shops and restaurants on the ground floors.  Above were tiny apartments, often with two or more families crammed together.

	Kat walked quickly down the street, and turned into a narrow lane between a tea room and a shop selling traditional medicines.  At the end of the dark alley stood a green door, the lettering barely visible beneath the dirt.  Kat knocked once and waited.

	After nearly a minute, the door opened, and a wizened Japanese man peered up at her.  He nodded, and let her in.

	The two made their way down an unlit hallway, and through a beaded doorway.  A thick cloud of incense hung in the air, but Kat, used to it, was unaffected save for a slight stinging sensation in her eyes.  She made her way to the battered dentist’s chair and sat.

	“What do you wish this time?” the old man asked in Japanese.

	Without a word, Kat opened her backpack and withdrew a sheet of paper.  On it was a pencil sketch, human hands wreathed in stylized flames.  Below were several Kanji symbols.  

	The man took the sketch and pinned it to the wall next to the chair.  

	“Where?”

	Still silent, Kat hiked up her skirt and pointed to a spot high on her left hip.  The man nodded and began preparing the needles and inks.  Kat closed her eyes and waited for the pain.  Every time she hoped that she would have become used to it, but each new tattoo seemed to hurt worse than the last.

♪​
	The next day, Kat watched from a distance as Samantha Lewis left her dorm and headed for her next class.  Kat followed discreetly as Samantha crossed the campus and entered Anderson Hall, the building where most of the art classes were taught.  Kat waited for several minutes, and then she too entered.  She walked down the hall, stopping outside the workroom where the ceramic and glass-making classes were taught.  Pressing her ear to the door, she heard Samantha laughing and telling her classmates about the upcoming competition.  Kat felt her hip flair in pain, and it seemed for a moment as if her new tattoo had come to fiery life.

	Inside the room, there was a sudden crash as a large piece of glass smashed upon the floor.

	“Sam, are you okay?” a voice called out.

	There was no response, but a moment later there was a larger crash.  Kat peered cautiously through the small window set in the door.  Across the room, she saw Samantha standing in front of an overturned table, shards of stained glass scattered everywhere.  Around her, the other students stared in shock.

	Kat watched as Samantha overturned another table, colorful panes of glass shattering like flowery grenades.  A girl reached out to grab Sam’s shoulder, but Sam just shook loose.  She looked up, and for a second seemed to stare directly at Kat’s face framed in the window.  

	With a sob, Samantha broke through the throng crowding around here, and rushed to the back of the room where the glass furnace stood.

	With an anguished cry, Samantha thrust her hands into the molten glass.   (Picture #2)  A split-second too late, the instructor grabbed her and pulled her away from the inferno.  Screams erupted from the other students as the teacher hurried the mutilated girl to the sink and thrust her burning hands beneath the water.

♪​
	“It’s just so.. so.. horrible.” Kat said.

She sat on David’s couch while he cooked dinner.  Like everyone else on campus, all they could talk about was the terrible incident that had occurred in the arts and crafts building.  

	“I know.” David said.  “Such a waste.  She wasn’t anywhere near your caliber, but she was still a gifted musician.  I can’t begin to understand how she could do that.  I’d rather die than not be able to play the guitar any more.”

	“Me, too,” Kat replied.  “But you know the pressure we all operate under.  Maybe the thought of having to compete in the Nationals was the straw the broke the camel’s back.  Maybe she couldn’t take it and just snapped.”

	“That’s the only thing that makes any sense.  Still, you’d think she could just walk away from it.”

	“We’ll probably never know for sure.  But I don’t want to talk about it anymore.  It will be hard enough taking her place.  I don’t want to be see her burned hands in my head every time I close my eyes.”

	David kissed her on the forehead as he placed the dinner plates on the coffee table.  

	“Don’t worry, sweetheart.  You’re so single-minded when you play, you’ll never even think about it.”

♪​
David lay on his side, awake despite being exhausted.  Beside him, Kat slept fitfully, muttering in Japanese.    The sheets lay crumpled between them, and David traced the tattoos that decorated her body.  He was worried about her.  Kat always seemed to have everything under control, but he knew what a roller-coaster she’d been on recently.  

	His finger followed the portrait of her parents.  The figures were surrounded by an intricate wreath that he suddenly realized was a series of stylized waves.  They were the color often referred to as ‘sea foam’, and they rippled as the muscles beneath them expanded with Kat’s slow breathing.  At the bottom were Japanese letters, presumably the names of her parents.

        He’d poked around on the Internet, and found an old newspaper article in the International Herald Tribune about a ferry that had sunk between Kobe and Takamatsu.  All on board had been lost, including Kat’s parents. He assumed she must have been away at a competition or something.  Survivor’s guilt was pretty common, and what little she’d said about them led him to believe that they hadn’t gotten along well.  Maybe that was why she drove herself so relentlessly.

        Kat tossed in her sleep, rolling away from him.  Moonlight splayed through a gap in the ragged shades that covered the window, illuminating her bare bottom.  David stared, then blushed and started to avert his eyes.  As he looked away, a bright patch of skin caught his eye.  He looked at the crimson drawing on her hip.  

        It appeared to be flames, and he looked closer.  With a chill, he realized that those were hands enshrouded in the flames.  Creepy, he thought, and he wondered when she’d gotten that particular image.  He hadn’t noticed it before, and he’d thought he’d seen every square inch of her in the past couple of weeks.

♪​
        “Oh no!”  Kat cried out. “Not him.  Anybody but him.”

        “What’s the matter, Kat?” David asked.  The national competition was only days away, and Kat had been increasingly agitated.  He’d come over to her apartment that afternoon, hoping that she’d give up her constant worrying long enough to take in a movie.

        “It’s the list of judges for the competition.  They made an addition at the last minute.  Here, read this.” She thrust the ‘Arts’ section of the newspaper towards him.

        David read the article and then looked at her.  

        “So what’s the big deal.  Dominic Patrovanni is a world-famous pianist. It’s an amazing opportunity for you.  Plus, he’s donating the use of his personal piano.  How many people get to play on an authentic, hundred-year-old Bosendorfer?”

        “Patrovanni’s a bigot.” Kat replied.  “There was an interview with him a couple years ago.  He went on and on about how only Europeans had any real appreciation or talent for classical music.”

        “He also refuses to take any students that aren’t white and male.  I can’t believe they expect this pig to be an objective judge.”  

        “I’m sure it will be fine.  He can’t be that bad.  Besides, he’s only one of the judges.”  David countered.  “If he tries anything that outrageous, they’ll slap him down.”

        “Hardly.  They’re so enraptured at the thought of being in the same room as the great Patrovanni that they’ll bend over backwards to accommodate him.  They’d never have the guts to disagree.” Kat said.

        Kat stood and grabbed the newspaper back from David.  She crumpled it into a small ball and threw it across the room at the garbage can.   It missed and bounced under her desk.

        David stood up and walked over to where the balled-up newspaper lay on the ground.  He retrieved it and dumped it into the wastebasket.  His attention was caught by a number of pencil sketches pinned to the wall.

        “These are amazing.  You are so talented.  You could have been as good an artist as you are a pianist.”

        David’s gaze wandered over the pictures.  There were drawings of animals so lifelike he expected them to jump from the paper.  He saw one drawing of the university auditorium, and another of St. Elizabeth’s cathedral.  Some must have been from her hometown in Japan, judging by the architecture.  There was even one of him, a stunning portrait of him playing the guitar, a look of intense concentration mixed with sheer joy on his face.

        “Ick!  What’s this?”  he asked, pointing to a rendering of some horrific creature.  It was like something out of a monster movie, all sharp teeth and slimy tentacles.

        “That’s nothing.  Just something from a nightmare I have every once in a while, when I get really stressed.  I thought maybe putting it on paper would get it out of my head.” Kat said.  

        Kat pulled the picture from the wall and crumpled it like she had the newspaper.  

        ”Let’s go to the late show instead.  I want to get another hour of practice in.”

        “What about food?  You have to eat.” David asked.

        “We’ll go to that Thai place next to the theater.  I’ll meet you there at 7:30.  That’ll give us time to eat before the movie.”

        “Ok, that sounds like a plan.  But only one hour of practice.  Promise me.”  David said as he opened the door.

        “One hour, I promise.”

♪​
        Kat closed the door behind him, then hurried to her desk.  She drew a fresh piece of paper from the stack, and spent the next 20 minutes drawing.  When she was satisfied with that she had created, she folded the paper and put it in her purse.  She checked the bus schedule pinned to the wall, then hurried from the apartment.

♪​
	Kat returned to her apartment alone after the movie.  David had wanted to come up, but she’d pulled the ‘I have a headache’ bit and told him she’d see him tomorrow.  She went into the bathroom and removed her shirt.  

	A bandage covered a patch below her belly button.  I’m running out of skin, she thought.  Any lower and that old man will probably have a heart attack.

	She gently peeled the bandage back to reveal a fresh tattoo.  A bird, wings spread wide, but with several feathers falling from its tail.  Lettering encircled the figure.  Satisfied, she replaced the bandage.  She finished undressing and climbed into bed, but sleep was a long time coming.

♪​
	The next morning, she awoke and rushed to turn on the television.  Charlie Gibson was interviewing some stupid actor.  She looked at the clock, and remembered that they only did ‘real’ news on the half-hour.  She went into the kitchen and fixed a bowl of cereal, and then sat down to wait for the news.

	The lead story was about the Middle East, as usual, but her heart started racing when a graphic of an airplane appeared over the news anchor’s shoulder.  

	“In other news this morning,  37 people, including virtuoso pianist Dominic Patrovanni, were killed when American Eagle Flight #73 crashed on take-off last night.  NTSB investigators are on the scene at JFK airport in New York, but have not made a determination as yet, although they are ruling out terrorism as a cause of the crash.  Surveillance video cameras captured the accident.  It appears as if the tail structure of the aircraft broke away as it took off, resulting in immediate and catastrophic loss of control.”

	A knock at the door startled her.  Eyes glued to the screen, she opened the door.  

	“Kat, turn on the news.  You won’t believe it.” David’s voice was agitated.

	“Yeah, I just saw.  I wonder if they’re going to postpone the competition?”  Kat said.

	“That’s pretty cold, Kat.  I know you didn’t like the guy, but you had to appreciate his music. “

	“I feel sorry for the other people on the plane, but not him.”

	David stared at her.  

	“I’m going to take a shower.  If the phone rings, answer it.  It may be the competition committee.”  Kat went into the bathroom and closed the door.

	Still aghast at her callous reaction, David sat on the sofa.  The phone rang, and he picked up the handset.  

	“Hello?” he said.

	“May I speak to Ms. Ito, please?” said the voice on the other end.

	“I’m sorry, she can’t come to the phone right now.  May I take a message for her?”  David replied.

	“If you would, please.  My name is Angela Dubios.  I’m one of the judges for the classical piano competition.  Could you please tell Ms. Ito that the competition will go on Saturday as scheduled.   The committee felt that it’s what Mr. Patrovanni would have wanted.  Also, we felt it would be a hardship for all the performers to have to reschedule at this late date. Please have her call me at 555-0219 if she has any questions.”

	“I’ll be sure to give her the message.  Thank you.”  David said, and hung up the phone.  David grabbed a pencil from the table, but didn’t anything to write on. Looking around, he saw a piece of paper sticking out of Kat’s purse.

	David pulled the paper free.  He started to write when he realized it was a folded-up sketch.  He opened it, not wanting to ruin one of Kat’s drawings.

	He looked at the picture of the eagle, it’s tail feathers fluttering.  Odd, he thought, and was about to look for something else to write on when he heard the newscaster repeat the words “American Eagle”.  He looked at the screen, where they were showing the video of the plane crash again, and then back at the sketch.  (Picture #1)

	He was still staring at the drawing when he heard the bathroom door open.  He looked up.  Kat stood across the room, towel covering her wet body.  She looked at the paper in his hands, horrified.  David stared back, unable to believe what he was thinking.

	He lunged across the room and yanked the towel from her.  She stood their naked as he gazed at the fresh eagle tattoo, the original still clutched in his hand.

	“The eagle.  The burning hands.  Jesus, the water around the tattoo of your  parents?  What the hell is did you do?”

	Kat shook herself from her daze and grabbed the towel back from David and covered herself.

	“Come on, David.  They’re just pictures.  You can’t believe I had anything to do with a plane crash, can you?”

	“What about Samantha?  Was that an accident too”

	“What else could it be?  A roomful of people saw her shove her hands in the furnace.  I wasn’t even in the room.  How could I be responsible for that?”

	“I don’t know.  You can’t be.   But it can’t all be a coincidence.  What about your other tattoos?  Are they all like this?  Some twisted make-a-wish fantasy?”

	David stood and walked to the door.

	“David, don’t go.  Don’t leave.  It’s not what you think.  It’s just the way I deal with things.  I got the burning hands tattoo the day after Samantha’s accident.”

	“What about the eagle?”

	“I was up all night, I couldn’t sleep.  I saw the news about the plane crash on CNN in the middle of the night.  The guy that does my ink is open at weird hours.”  The excuses sounded hollow even to Kat.

	“And what about the one of your parents?”

	“I got that after they died, as a way to remember them.  That’s all, the waves were just my own sick way of dealing with the accident.”

	“The first night we were together, you told me you had it before they died, that you had to hide it from them. “

	“I meant I would have had to hide it from them.” Kat stammered. “I swear, I got it after they died.”

	David looked at her, and she looked away.  He shook his head and walked out the door, shutting it quietly behind him.

	Kat collaped on the sofa, sobbing loudly.  For an hour, she didn’t move, until finally her tears ran dry.  Numb, she walked into the bedroom and dressed.  She returned to the living room and sat at the desk.  She pulled a sheet of paper from the stack, and began drawing.

♪​
	That afternoon, she called David on the phone.  She let it ring a dozen times, but there was no answer.  She remembered that David had Caller-ID, and could picture him looking at the display, waiting for her to hang up.

	She hung up, and immediately re-dialed his number.  This time, the answering machine kicked on. 

	“David, please.  I’m so sorry.  I can’t explain why I did these things, or how.  But I never wanted to hurt anyone.  I just wanted to be the best.  That’s all I ever wanted, ever since I was a little girl.  Everything I’ve done has been because of that.”

	“I’m sorry, David.  But I promise, I promise, it will never happen again.  I love you, David.  I’m sorry.  Good bye.”

♪​ 
	David played the message back for the fifth time.   The way her voice sounded worried him.  It sounded like the voice of someone who was already dead.   He called her back, but got no answer.

	He rushed from the apartment, and sprinted the six blocks that separated his place from hers.  Taking the stairs two at a time, he charged up to her door and started pounding on it.

	“Come on, Kat, open the door.  Let’s talk about this.”

	The door across the hall from Kat’s opened, and a stoned-looking college student poked his head out.  

	“I don’t think she’s home, dude.  She left a half-hour ago.  Said something about one last session with the piano.”

	David thanked him and started back down the stairs.  She must be at the auditorium, he reasoned.  He hurried downstairs and took off towards campus.  He and Kat had both taken apartments close to the auditorium, and he was grateful he’d not have to cross the entire campus to get there.

	As David approached the hall, he saw that a large crowd had gathered.  A ribbon of yellow tape kept the crowd off the grass and on the sidewalk in front.  A large crane was slowly hoisting a piano skyward.   One of the large windows that lined the practice room had been removed, and David realized that it must be easier to lift the heavy equipment in than try to maneuver it up the spiral staircase that led to the room.

	The wind had picked up, and the piano swung alarmingly.  David approached as closely as he could, and he heard the workmen discussing whether or not to put the instrument down and try again later. 

	He caught a disturbance out of the corner of his eye, and his heart froze as he saw Kat breaking through the cordon.  

	“Kat!  No, get out of there!” he shouted.  

	Kat didn’t seem to hear him.  She ran until she was directly under the dangling piano, oblivious to the shouted warnings of the workmen as well.

	Adrenaline pounding, David pushed to the front of the crowd and ducked under the tape.  

	“Hey, buddy, get back here” yelled the foreman.

	A snapping sound echoed above him, and David could see the wire split.  With a burst of speed, he reached Kat and shoved her as hard as he could.  She flew off of her feet and landed several feet away, the breath knocked out of her.  David stumbled and fell to his knees.

	The sound of the wire breaking was accompanied by the screams of the crows, and David only had time to realize that Kat was safe before the plummeting piano crushed him. (Picture #4)

♪​
	Kat opened the door to her apartment.  She was exhausted.  It had been almost 24 hours since she’d slept, and she’d spent every minute since David had been killed  answering questions, first with the police, and then at the hospital with a shrink.  Somehow she’d managed to convince them that she’d just gone to see the new piano, and hadn’t heard the warnings, that she hadn’t meant for anyone to get hurt.

	Numb, she went into the bathroom and undressed.  She stared into the mirror, gazing at the rough tattoo she’d carved onto her chest after David had left.  It was raw and bloody, but it was obviously a crude piano, encircled by a piece of rope tattered at one end.

	Crying silently, she got dressed again and left the bathroom.  She turned on the desk lamp and sat, staring at a blank sheet of paper.  She couldn’t think clearly, couldn’t think of any fate terrible enough for what she’d done.  She looked at the wall behind the desk, a sob escaping as she saw the picture of David she’d drawn.  Then her eyes were drawn to the blank spot next to it, and she knew what she was going to do.

	Kat rummaged through the garbage can, looking for the sketch she had thrown away until at last she found the crumpled paper.  She unfolded it and smoothed it on the surface of the desk.  It was the picture of the monster that haunted her nightmares, the tentacle-shrouded horror that had been her constant companion since the death of her parents.  She re-folded it carefully and placed it in her pocket.  She pulled her bus pass from her pocketbook, and headed downstairs.

♪​ 
	That night, Kat lay in bed.  Her sketch of David lay on the pillow beside her head.  All the lights in the apartment were out, but the dim glow of the streetlights turned the bedroom into a forest of shadows.  Heart pounding as if it were about to burst from her chest, she closed her eyes and waited.

        A wet, slithering sound, like seaweed dragged across a sandy beach, came from the living room. She gasped and her eyes flew open.   A putrid stench invaded the room, dead fish drenched in rotten eggs.  How her soul would smell, she thought.  The shadows at the foot of the bed slowly solidified, and Kat screamed as the creature enveloped her.   (Picture #5)


----------



## Berandor (Aug 2, 2004)

I just noticed I haven't copied my comments on the earlier stories, so here goes:



> Well, carpedavid, I'm home from work now, (even though I am still a little dizzy from my win, but that's probably to your advantage ) and I will comment on your story. BSF is next, don't fear
> 
> But first, I want to whole-heartedly agree with Sialia that the judgements were to harsh  (j/k, I think it's better to be held to a high standard than being cut too much slack. Nevertheless, I'm glad Clay didn't go all-out, as well.)
> But I really want to agree with you with regards to storytelling structure and so on. I  think, when all is done, a story either works, or doesn't work. Perhaps some ways of telling a story are more promising, or easy (ha!), but in the end, even a story that follows every imaginable rule to the T can fail abysmally.
> ...






> (BSF said that considering where I live, he was curious as to my comments)
> What does living in an apartment have to do with it?
> 
> So, I read the story, and I have to say one thing up front against the readability of message board posts. Because you have to put a break between every paragraph, switchting to a different place/time between paragraphs doesn't work so well. Case in point:
> ...






> Well, third try for posting commentary (and now I'm tired, it's midnight, and I really should start cooking for tomorrow)...
> 
> Graywolf ELM, Chaos Gates:
> First off, I like the narrative voice you use. At first, I was a little concerned that it would detach me too much from Will Hurt, but I think in the end that was a good choice. However, I'm not sure wether including doubts and thoughts from Hurt into that voice was correct from a purely structural standpoint.
> ...


----------



## barsoomcore (Aug 2, 2004)

Berandor said:
			
		

> Perhaps some ways of telling a story are more promising, or easy (ha!), but in the end, even a story that follows every imaginable rule to the T can fail abysmally.



There are no rules. Anyone who says there are (especially me) is lying. I suspect this has to do with my comments on Macbeth's story being a backwards one. Note what I actually said, please:


			
				barsoomcore said:
			
		

> I'm not often a fan of these, because nine times out of ten the reason the story is backwards is because the story lacks tension and by telling it backwards the writer exchanges tension for mystery.



I'm not saying it can't be done. Nor am I trying to discourage anyone from trying it -- but I AM encouraging anyone who wants to try it to consider carefully WHY they think it's a good idea.

Some stories are done this way and are brilliant. I agree. But if you're writing your story, and it occurs to you that structuring it this way would be really cool -- take ten seconds and ask yourself if you're just doing this because if you did it in linear fashion the story wouldn't be worth reading.

_The Usual Suspects_ is a good story either way. As is _Momento_. They use the backwards structure to accomplish something very specific, and I would agree that by and large they succeed.

Make sure you're attempting to do the same if you decide to try a backwards story, is all I'm saying. Telling bad stories backwards in the incorrect belief that this makes it more interesting is a common mistake of inexperienced writers. I can't tell you how many stories of that nature I have read.

Not because it's a secret, because there's been lots of them. And I didn't keep count.  


			
				Berandor said:
			
		

> I'm not really annoyed at all the mystery, I am enjoying being told in the speed of the story, because I can feel the story moving onworad to that point of resolution.



I'll repeat my previous comment: there's nothing wrong with mystery. There's only a problem if mystery is ALL the story has.

ANYONE can write a story in which the reader doesn't know what's happening. That takes no skill whatsoever. Anyone can write a story of apparently senseless events and then provide a clever explanation at the end of it. So what? The challenge is in creating a story that provides not just mystery but an emotional tension that builds the desire to see the story through to its resolution in the reader. Not just to "see how it turns out", but to share in the experience of the story.


			
				Berandor said:
			
		

> When I enjoy the ideas in the story, the writing, the rhythm, and the twist, does simply telling it backwards make it a bad story? I don't think so.



If you think I said telling it backwards makes it a bad story, I misspoke. What I meant to say is that if a story is told backwards, nine times out of ten it's because it was a bad story to begin with, and the author told it backward in order to easily add a sense of mystery to what wasn't worth reading in the first place. But taking a good story and telling it backwards doesn't make it a bad story. Sorry if I gave anyone that impression.

I'm also sorry if anyone thinks I'm being excessively harsh in my judgements. I'm trying very very hard to give people who I know have worked their hearts out doing something I know is really difficult some useful feedback on their writing. I work on the assumption that if you submit your story, you already have the desire to write. You don't need me to provide cheerleading -- my best value to you is my honest, undiluted opinion. The cheerleading you'll have to look elsewhere for.

People who tell what you've done wrong, what you did that made them NOT like your story -- those are the people that are trying to help you.

I'm not saying it's a disaster if you like a little support every now and then. But if you want to write, get writing, find some people who will tell you what's wrong with your writing, and listen to them, and get better.

But I am saying that if all I provide you with is a little cheerleading routine, you might as well have not submitted your story. I take everyone's work in this contest very seriously. All the contestants have accomplished great things and I hope nobody is discouraged at their judgements. It is my hope that you would be MORE discouraged if I dishonestly told you everything was great and every story here was ready for publication. I feel like it's my responsibility to look for as many problems in every story as I possibly can, and to report those as faithfully and straightforwardly as I can.

Whew. Long-winded barsoomcore is obviously who's sitting at the keyboard right now. I guess the short form is: The fact that I'm writing critiques as detailed as I am should tell you how seriously I take these stories. If anyone wants me to spend less energy on this contest, well, it's kind of late now.


----------



## Eeralai (Aug 3, 2004)

barsoomcore said:
			
		

> I'm also sorry if anyone thinks I'm being excessively harsh in my judgements.




Strictly as an observer, I must admit to feeling this way at the beginning of the contest.  But as I have read more and more of your judgements, I realized that you were giving advice from an editors view point.  You are right that anyone participating in this contest is probably interested in improving their writing, and what better way than free advice from an actual editor. Some of your comments have come up in conversations with my husband (BSF) about writing in general, and I have been able to apply them to my own writing.  So thanks for the free advice even though I'm not in the contest


----------



## orchid blossom (Aug 3, 2004)

At risk of sucking up before my judgement is in....

I appreciate the detailed feedback we've been getting from all three judges.  I've been in classes where all you heard was, "Good job," and after a few sessions you're begging for someone to rip your story apart.  You can't get any better if you never hear where the problems are.  I am no way a pro, nor do I intend to be, (My writing is pretty much confined to emails these days) but you never know when you'll need those skills again.


----------



## Berandor (Aug 3, 2004)

Sorry, I didn't think about that part of my comment when I copy/pasted it. I think the issue has more or less been put to rest, so I would have excised it. Anyway,



			
				barsoomcore said:
			
		

> There are no rules. Anyone who says there are (especially me) is lying. I suspect this has to do with my comments on Macbeth's story being a backwards one. Note what I actually said, please:



As I said, this was written very shortly after the judgement, so the little controversy was still around. You and Macbeth cleared it up shortly thereafter, though.



> Make sure you're attempting to do the same if you decide to try a backwards story, is all I'm saying. Telling bad stories backwards in the incorrect belief that this makes it more interesting is a common mistake of inexperienced writers. I can't tell you how many stories of that nature I have read.



Yeah, you're right. It's the same with movies: I can think of a dozen bad mystery films for every "Usual Suspects" or "Memento".



> I'm also sorry if anyone thinks I'm being excessively harsh in my judgements. I'm trying very very hard to give people who I know have worked their hearts out doing something I know is really difficult some useful feedback on their writing. I work on the assumption that if you submit your story, you already have the desire to write. You don't need me to provide cheerleading -- my best value to you is my honest, undiluted opinion. The cheerleading you'll have to look elsewhere for.
> 
> People who tell what you've done wrong, what you did that made them NOT like your story -- those are the people that are trying to help you.
> 
> I'm not saying it's a disaster if you like a little support every now and then. But if you want to write, get writing, find some people who will tell you what's wrong with your writing, and listen to them, and get better.



Just for the record: I absolutely agree, and to be honest I reall appreciate your detailed criticisms. It's been very interesting to read even judgements for other entries because of your professional approach. 

And by "your", I mean all three judges. As mythago said earlier, we're lucky she isn't Maldur  (Nothing against Maldur, btw, just that her (I believe) comments were shorter than yours)

If there's one thing about the judgement I think questionable, it's starting out too harsh. After all, this is a role-playing board, not an authors' forum, and I am somewhat anxious that interested users might be put off from entering the contest because they are, in fact, not trying to be published, but just want to write a little story for fun and see how it turns out. That could come off like posting in a new Story Hour with harsh criticism against the author's style. 

If possible, I think the judgements should start off fairly lenient before getting tougher every round, or at least consider who you're judging. It's one thing to think "That story's got no structure and no plot!", and it's another thing to write that to somebody who just put down a few words for the first time. 

I agree that if you want to "make it" as an author, you should be prepared for harsh criticism, perhaps even relish it, and if you enter such a competition, you must be ready to face criticism, but we should try to remain ENWorld and not turn into "American Writer's Idol: Worst Contenders Reel".

I really appreciate how serious the judges take their job, and I enjoy their different perspectives on a story. Carry on.


----------



## alsih2o (Aug 3, 2004)

Carpe David vs Berandor

  Alsih2o-

 Berandor brings the funny. And the tragic. Great combo. 

 This blended style of fiction and reality is one of my favorites (see previous Frank Miller comments) when handled well, and this is pretty darned well. The pic of the old super is used as what it is, no real revelation or invention on Berandors part, but by the time I got to it I was cheering for this sorry old man. I like the picture use of a hat as the villain and Twins/nurse photo was handled admirably.

 I really was waiting for Woodwhiskers to pop up at the end, he was referenced several times and the picture was made prominent and yet he doesn’t show, I can’t decide if that added tension or was a letdown.

 There are some seriously great lines here- “I'm cunning, damn it!" and "No Clark!" in big, red letters. It felt good.” And especially “Perhaps it would be best if he simply closed his eyes and waited for death to come.

He closed his eyes, and waited. After a few moments, Hans opened his eyes again. While he waited, he might as well watch TV.” 

 AND he bites his own tongue off. Wow. 

 If I didn’t know better I would accuse Berandor of writing TO me, with Bruce Wayne, the odd humor and heroes sensibilities. I really enjoyed this.

 Carpe David brings us another loser that is easy to love. Picture use is there, and handled competently but it never really shines. 

 I would have liked to have heard…more. Keiko earlier, more background, higher conflict with the Hall members.

 The sign language is a nice touch and they show our heroes willingness to go that extra mile. I want more.

 Maybe an after-the–missile reaction or a last word form keiko. 

 Judgement- Carpe David has done himself proud this competition, but he has been outdone in this round as far as I can see it. I hope he comes back to try again. I judge for Berandor.

 Barsoomcore-

 Berandor  "For Lack of a Better Term"

You made me laugh. Quite a few times, actually. Well done. The idea of 
the "senior super citizens" is a good one, and you pull a lot of pathos 
out of this absurd situation.

Of course, as soon as I know this is a Bruce Wayne Super Senior 
Citizens Home, I'm going to start looking for the hero jokes, and you 
lay those nice and thick.

The plot develops well, with "Emmy" discovering the problem, trying to 
rouse the troops, swallowing his pride and then heroically going forth 
to do what he knows he must. Good stuff, all of this.

And finally, a nice cynical twist at the end to let us know that our 
hero's ire and crankiness didn't quite completely transform into 
selfless sacrifice -- which is good, cause we liked him the way he was.

Your best story of the tournament, Berandor. Very well done indeed.

Okay, so now BC SMASH!  

Like most Ceramic DM entries, this one suffers from a prolonged set-up. 
The opening scene, introducing the concept, Laura and the Ghostly 
Twins, is too long. As is the second scene, taking us from the story of 
Tentacular to her reappearance.

Hans' willingness to go to Clark to ask his help is the moment where 
this story really takes off. This is where we see this character, who 
so far we've kind of liked, in a vague sort of way, make a real 
sacrifice for what he knows is right. He swallows his pride to save the 
world, and in doing so he earns our respect and our sympathy.

'"To the Fashion Show," he said. To the rescue, he thought.' -- it's a 
good line, but it would have been better if we had heard Hans use the 
"To the rescue" line earlier. This moment is Hans taking back his old 
identity, rejecting the realities of his age for the need he knows the 
world faces, and I think you ought to be milking it a little more 
powerfully. He should be thinking something to himself that means 
something to him. Something that is specifically HIS, not just a 
generic "I'm a hero" line.

And then I have one teensy little problem with the whole 
iron-in-blood-into-mouth method of dispatching the bad guy. If 
Tentacular's big weakness is iron into mouth, and human blood contains 
sufficient iron to take advantage of that weakness, wasn't 
Tentacle-Head about to get its writhy self into big trouble just by 
taking a bite of ol' Hans?

Just seemed a little weird to me. I don't mind the silly weakness 
(indeed, I approve), but a silly weakness ought to be consistent, 
otherwise it's just silly.

And this, for all its trappings of silliness, is by no means a silly 
story. It's not silly to Hans, and it's not silly to me.

Okay, picture use: The Emerald Fox, striding to the rescue: excellent. 
The Ghostly Twins pursuing the nurse: excellent. Tentacular the Hat: 
excellent.  Woodwhiskers: meh, kind of throwaway, but given that we've 
got shots of everyone else in the old crew (isn't that the Invisible 
Stalker, there in the background (ha ha)), that's not a big deal. The 
Hand Memorial: excellent. Generally, very fine job on the pictures.

Very well done indeed. Thank you.


carpedavid  "The Life and Death of Captain Chrysanthemum"

There's a lovely, quiet tone to this piece that gives it a stately sort 
of feel. The idea of a caped crusader who just never graduates from 
stopping purse snatchers and pickpockets is plenty humourous, and gives 
you a nice point to launch your story from.

Unfortunately, the story never quite gets off the ground. This piece 
stays a collection of vignettes that just don't combine into a single 
story. Is this about John recovering his youthful strength and vigor? 
Winning the love of the sweet Keiko? Proving to the world that he's as 
good as any other hero? At the end, I don't know.

The opening of your story sets the expectations of the reader. This is 
where I assume you are putting forth your promises as to what you're 
going to tell me. Your opening scene ends with John considering getting 
a new costume. By putting that line there, you are setting me up to 
expect some sort of return on it. It becomes part of my frame of 
reference as I read the story.

Now, there's nothing wrong with setting up a reader with false 
expectations (all the better to eat you with, my dear), but by the time 
I get to the end of the story, there's never been another mention of 
his costume, so why was it brought up here?

Likewise the state of his physical fitness. It never figures in the 
story, so why is such a point made of it here?

This is really the basic problem of the story. The writing is fine -- 
you've got a good ear and you can string sentences along without any 
trouble. It's easy to read and very little jumps up and says "Smack me 
with your style guide!" But the bits never hook up to form a coherent 
story.

You don't have time, in such a short space, to introduce a character 
halfway through and then ask us to accept that saving her is of central 
importance to our hero. A short story should be about a single change 
in a person -- about witnessing or describing one change that happens 
to them (or does not happen to them). If this story is about how John's 
unrequited love for Keiko (and just why is it unrequited? She sure 
seems to like him just fine) gives him the strength to save the world, 
then all the stuff in here that's NOT about that should be cut.

Not saying it should be about that, just saying. If. You know.

What I'm left with here is a hero whose power seems useless, a threat 
(that isn't revealed until too far along in the story), and then I just 
read really to find out how our hero is going to be able to use his 
power to save the day. And I find out, and the story's over, and I 
feel... unfulfilled. I don't really get the sense that anything 
significant has changed inside of John. Other than death, of course. 
But what is the meaning of that death? I am left to wonder.

I know I'm not being super-precise here, but I hope this is helpful.

The picture use is good, but since so many segments of the story seem 
disjointed, the pictures likewise seem unconnected to the main thrust 
of the story.

Thanks.


Decision: Berandor

 Mythago-


Hm, both stories with superheroes past their negligble prime, both
with squiggly head-riding aliens that need to be stopped, both forced
to go it alone in the face of arrogant skepticism and dying in the
process of stopping the Bad Things...

FOR LACK OF A BETTER TERM (Berandor)

Shades of Bubba Ho-Tep!

No, really, it was interesting to have the old third-rate hero at a
rest home, and it was a nice touch to have him trying to collect his
old colleagues. I really didn't get why Superman would be in that kind
of rest home with the third-tiers, unfortunately; putting them in such
proximity seemed really contrived. Nice use of the weird Japanese
picture (man, that one was ugly) and the tree, although I'd have like
to have seen as much use of the latter as you did with the former.
Woodwhiskers is kind of a walk-on.

Hans getting backstage stretched credibility. The President's around
and he just breezes past the security guards? The iron-in-blood trick
also struck me as a little strained.

I liked the little touches of humor--Hans writing "No Clark!," the
President Clinton joke, the absurdity of Hans's story when he tells
Clark (even though we know it's all true).

THE LIFE AND DEATH OF JOHN CHRYSANTHEMUM, SUPERHERO (carpedavid)

There are some really wonderful scenes wrapped around the pictures in
this story. But they seem more like episodes in John's life than
scenes from a coherent tale. Why the flashback to his Secret Origin?
Who are the cats following Keiko around? Both of these scenes are
really well-written, but they don't tie into the storyline much at
all. I also found John's wandering away when the heroes tell him to
get lost, followed by his sudden leap into action after letting things
slide until they were at the Utter Doom point. (He wasn't worried
about Keiko before?)

I very much liked the idea of a small-time superhero taking care of
"his park".  I would have liked to see his story drive the pictures
rather than the other way around.

Judgment this round by a hair to BERANDOR.


 Decision: Berandor, 3-0. Welcome to the finals.


----------



## Berandor (Aug 3, 2004)

Wow.

You know how I feel?







Really surprised.

That's what I was talking about with critical distance to my own story. I really just hoped to get one vote before carpedavid puts away with me.

Wow.

Thanks to the judges for their comments (which I agree on), and thanks to carpedavid for his story, which I really liked.

Now, my goal is to be a judge next time...


----------



## carpedavid (Aug 3, 2004)

Congrats Berandor. I'm looking forward to reading the finals


----------



## Ao the Overkitty (Aug 3, 2004)

alsih2o said:
			
		

> Shades of Bubba Ho-Tep!




We made the same comment.  Course, I really liked Bubba Ho-Tep.

Congrats Berandor.  This is looking like it is going to be a very interesting final round.


----------



## BSF (Aug 3, 2004)

Big Congratulations to Berandor!  Good job.

My condolences to Carpe David.

It is shaping up to be an interesting contest this time around.


----------



## Berandor (Aug 3, 2004)

It's shaping up...? Only one round to go, and it's shaping up?


----------



## Piratecat (Aug 3, 2004)

Well, it's a very interesting shape. I'm loving the stories.

Right now I'm going head to head against Carpe David in the final round of Iron DM, where there have been some amazing adventures written; we get to see if he whallops me in that competition as handily as he did here!


----------



## Berandor (Aug 3, 2004)

From "over there":


> carpedavid, your story was the reason I was afraid of doind the story I ended up doing. (bla bla about being afraid...)
> 
> But enough of me. Your story is great. For a moment, I thought you were losing it towards the end, because there was only so much text left, but the resolution was wonderful! (no exclamation marks). There were no picture links in it that I could see, but the picture use was fairly obvious, so I don't hink it'll be held against you.
> 
> ...


----------



## BSF (Aug 3, 2004)

Well yeah!

Not that other Ceramic DM contests aren't interesting.  They are.  Nor has this one been uninteresting.  But it is always fun to watch each contest come together with it's own unique personality. 

As an example, your story ideas are always nifty, but your writing has improved in the short span of this contest.  That's cool!  Especially since English isn't your first language.  Your story and Carpe David's story had some similarities, because the pictures really suggested some common themes.  Your individual approaches to the story created something similar, but vastly different.  That is always interesting.  

I could go on, but I really haven't taken the time to delve into the stories.  I'm working on something else right now and I have set *this* Ceramic DM contest aside for the moment.  But, I am almost back to where I can read the stories and comment with some enthusiasm.  (Sorry I have been so quiet folks.  I think the project I am working on will be worth it though.)

Please pardon my dry attempt at humor.  It really isn't a slight to anyone.  I love Ceramic DM and I heartily applaud everyone that participates in it.  It isn't easy.  It can be emotionally grueling, but it also a boatload of fun.  I derive a lot of personal satisfaction writing in the Ceramic DM.  I appreciate the feedback from judges and spectators.  I enjoy the friendly competition with a bunch of other people.  I try to listen to what the people tell me I am doing wrong.  I may end up disagreeing, or it may click completely into place, but I appreciate all the feedback.  I hope everyone enjoys Ceramic DM as much as I do.  So when I say that it is shaping up to be an interesting contest, I mean that with tongue-in-cheek humor.


----------



## orchid blossom (Aug 3, 2004)

Congrats Berandor!

Carpedavid, how do you manage to write cool stories AND do Iron DM?  I'd like to pull my hair out with just the one.


----------



## Berandor (Aug 3, 2004)

Yeah, I think Macbeth likes to do both, as well.

Of course, with a second-round requisite of humorous stories, this Iron DM really shook things up (I would have loved to see what Pielorinho would have done with it).


----------



## mythago (Aug 3, 2004)

Piratecat said:
			
		

> we get to see if he whallops me in that competition as handily as he did here!



 Have you tried wearing a cup? The competition can be a pretty painful place to get whalloped.


----------



## carpedavid (Aug 4, 2004)

orchid blossom said:
			
		

> Carpedavid, how do you manage to write cool stories AND do Iron DM? I'd like to pull my hair out with just the one.



Well, judging by the declining quality of my stories over the course of the tournament, I'm not sure I did manage.

That bit of self-deprication aside, thank you for the kind comments. It's been very creatively draining, and is not something I'm likely to try again, but I'm glad I did it, since it allowed me to stretch my own limits.


----------



## Graywolf-ELM (Aug 4, 2004)

I just arrived home from vacation, and plodded through the threads I read.  Congrats to Orchid Blossom, (Belatedly).  This has been fun, and comments have given me much to think about, before I attempt to through words together into a story again.

GW


----------



## BSF (Aug 4, 2004)

carpedavid said:
			
		

> That bit of self-deprication aside, thank you for the kind comments. It's been very creatively draining, and is not something I'm likely to try again, but I'm glad I did it, since it allowed me to stretch my own limits.




I'm actually really sorry to hear that.  I enjoyed competing against you and I was hoping we might have the chance again at some point in the future.


----------



## orchid blossom (Aug 4, 2004)

carpedavid said:
			
		

> That bit of self-deprication aside, thank you for the kind comments. It's been very creatively draining, and is not something I'm likely to try again, but I'm glad I did it, since it allowed me to stretch my own limits.




I enjoyed reading your stories as well, and I hope we'll see you again sometime.  I know what you mean though.  I've been thinking I need to skip it next time and wait for winter to try again.  It is _very_ draining.


----------



## carpedavid (Aug 4, 2004)

Er, let me clarify my comments. I'm not likely to try competing in both Ceramic DM and Iron DM at once. Hopefully, you'll see me in one or the other during any given season, though


----------



## BSF (Aug 4, 2004)

I know what you mean about taking the next contest off.  I keep telling myself that too.  but the lure of Ceramic DM is powerful indeed!  

You might find yourself vying for a spot the next time the contest is announced.


----------



## mythago (Aug 4, 2004)

My judgment is not yet in, but will be by tonight. Sorry for the hold-up.


----------



## Berandor (Aug 4, 2004)

BardStephenFox said:
			
		

> I know what you mean about taking the next contest off.  I keep telling myself that too.  but the lure of Ceramic DM is powerful indeed!
> 
> You might find yourself vying for a spot the next time the contest is announced.



As Ceramic DM, I won't have to vy, will I?


----------



## BSF (Aug 4, 2004)

Early on, Mark reserved a place for previous Ceramic DM's in the next contest.  For the last couple of contests, it has kind of worked out in interesting ways.  Previous winners will judge, or slots might be reserved for specific contestants, but I am not sure there is a clear-cut process right now.  I am comfortable with however it works out, but I cannot say with certainty what the winner of this contest will do next time.


----------



## orchid blossom (Aug 4, 2004)

Berandor said:
			
		

> As Ceramic DM, I won't have to vy, will I?




Hmmm, do I smell smack-talk?


----------



## Berandor (Aug 4, 2004)

I don't know. Do you? 

I'd say you'd better make it to the finals first, and then I might answer you that question.


----------



## orchid blossom (Aug 5, 2004)

Berandor said:
			
		

> I'd say you'd better make it to the finals first, and then I might answer you that question.




That's the sentiment that kept me from posting something like "Ah, so my sacrificial victim has been chosen!" when your judgement went up.


----------



## BSF (Aug 6, 2004)

It's getting mighty quiet around here.  

Alsih2o, when are you going to look at competing in one of these again?  The previous contests this year were fun and it would be great to see you back in the writer's seat.


----------



## alsih2o (Aug 6, 2004)

BardStephenFox said:
			
		

> Early on, Mark reserved a place for previous Ceramic DM's in the next contest.  For the last couple of contests, it has kind of worked out in interesting ways.  Previous winners will judge, or slots might be reserved for specific contestants, but I am not sure there is a clear-cut process right now.  I am comfortable with however it works out, but I cannot say with certainty what the winner of this contest will do next time.




 I think we are standing on "last times winner can judge or have a spot reserved" but there has never been a formal rule set up.


----------



## alsih2o (Aug 6, 2004)

Mythago-

DISTRACTION (orchid blossom)

All right, the opening scene is hilarious, but I'm not quite sure how
the events tie in after reading the rest of the story. Are the mooks
doing secret maintenance because they can, or because Zhi-Nu asked
them to cover for her? The mechanics of how the threads work are also
a little confusing; I get the idea that if she leaves them unattended,
they quickly fall apart, but then she's not supposed to actually *end*
the lives (but isn't that what happens if she ignores them?), and she
did bring her loom with her, so it's unclear why the threads 'back
home' need attending. The connection between the weaving and the
tattoo was also dropped later in the story, it seemed.

I would have liked to have a stronger impression of why her love for a
mortal gwailo was so strong that she was willing to run away from her
realm and neglect her duties, then plead with her father to save her
lover's life (when the other guy who got killed gets barely a shrug of
regret). She mentions that it took "weeks" to persuade him she wasn't
human, which combined with the short timeline of the threads' decay
later in the story, makes it seem as though their relationship has
been going for a very short time indeed. I could see the Jade Emperor
going soft for True Love, but this sounds more like infatuation as
presented. (Also, please nuke the jumping-perspective line where the
Big Guy remembers what love was like.)

Generally good use of pictures, except for the aforementioned problems
of the tattoo/weaving link being brought up and then sort of forgotten
about.

LIFE IMITATES ART (Rodrigo)

Nice making the tattoo the central piece of the story and then tying
the piano strongly into that as a theme. The other pictures were
almost more throwaway; remember, the use should be such that, if your
story were published, it would have been sensibly illustrated with
those pics.

You did a good job of making Kat out to be a total jerk, but the
redemption at the end didn't quite work as a result. She comes across
as less desperate ("All I wanted was to be the best") through most of
the story than, well, evil. Her throwing away her life and her
successes for her boyfriend doesn't ring true.

For that matter, the boyfriend doesn't either. If she'd started off
with a new relationship, or if we got a sense of their love, it would
be reasonable. But he comes off at the beginning as sort of a
convenience, and what they have in common is their music. We don't see
the strong bond or how he, in a way even her parents couldn't have
been, is the one person who matters to her, whose love shakes her out
of her selfishness. By the time the piano falls on him, if she hasn't
changed much, she'd probably shrug it off given her previous
character.

So the plot and the elements work fairly well. The biggest issue I had
was that a lot of things seemed to flow from the needs of the next
scene rather than logically. David doesn't twig to Kat's behavior for
a long time, the police 'somehow' don't question Kat much about
David's death, her falling in love with him to the point of guilt over
his death when he starts out as a sort-of boyfriend. I also didn't
think the monster worked very well; all of her other tattoos were of
accidents or real-world events. The nightmare seems kind of dropped
in.

Judgment this round for ORCHID BLOSSOM

 Alsih2o-

 Orchid Blossom- “It might have been her haste that caused the shuttle to catch on the warp and clatter to the floor.” Wow, a goddess revealed and then this. 

 It is odd, I pick the pics, that means it can be hard to build tension for me. I know there will be a plane wreck later. I know there will be a piano. But this story has me on needles.

 “It had taken her weeks to convince John of what she was.” This is the first time I catch up to John, until then I was unsure if he thought her a goddess or s Goddess. Well handled.

 Then the morphing skeleton. The picture use here is handled very well, nothing is shocking but they all ring true. 

 What a good story, I really enjoyed it.

 Rodrigo Istilandir- “The last thing she needed right now was sympathy from that perfect little twerp, even if he was her sort-of boyfriend.” Great line. The secnd bulky paragraph in and I am in tune with who Kat is, that is an accomplishment.

 OH! How did you get the little notes in?

 “I hope not,” she said, kissing him to forestall the inevitable question. DUN-DUN-DUN!
 Nice tension.

 I detect a weakness in the pic use, the hands in the fire bit. It dseems a bit of a stretch from what I see in the pic.  I also want to point out that anyone would know a new tattoo from an old one, but with magic….

 Hmm, and the use of the plane seems off, it is integrated, but that is not an illustration of a commercial liner. You can get away with that in the first round (maybe) but this is nearing the end. J

 Good story all around Rodrigo, but you dropped the ball a bit on pic use and that is a large part

 Judgement: Orchid blossom and Rodrigo had solid stories, but I think OB’s was a little stronger and the pic use pushed it by. I choose for Orchid Blossom

 Barsoomcore- 

 orchid blossom  "Distraction"

Mm, myth. Goddess gets distracted by hottie guy, the age-old story.

It took me a while to put all the pieces of this story together. It's a 
complicated little tale, and this might be the nearly-unique case of 
barsoomcore wondering if a story isn't too SHORT.

Don't get excited. It's not a trend.

But there's a lot I need to grasp. Zhi-Nu weaves lives, Zhi-Nu's not 
doing her job, Daddy's angry with Zhi-Nu, Zhi-Nu's boyfriend's in 
trouble, guy gets hit by a piano, some business in a taxicab, Zhi-Nu's 
boyfriend dies, Zhi-Nu makes deal with daddy to bring boyfriend back to 
life, Zhi-Nu once more returns to weaving lives.

Note how the piano kinda doesn't fit so perfectly into that particular 
narrative line. Yeah, that's a problem. More on that later.

For the most part that's fine, and the story works pretty well, though 
it does labour a bit as you develop your various "threads".

'"You really weave people's lives on that?"' -- Surely he already knows 
this. Why is he asking her today? Well, just so that we the readers, 
get a piece of information that's important.

'"The plane has worked perfectly during each test, there's no reason to 
think that's going to change."' -- Gee, famous last words, anyone?

It just feels a little contrived at this point. Frankly, I'd rather you 
just told me outright: "Zhi-Nu built a loom to weave people's lives, 
cause she's a goddess and that's what she does. John's a test pilot 
with an important final flight today." It would be less clumsy and 
honestly, with a mythic story like this, it would work very well.

I need to get to picture usage now, because the pictures point out the 
other major issues here.

The opening picture, of the furtive light and huddled figures -- this 
opening confused me for quite a while, and once I got how it fit with 
the rest of the story, I realised that this was just a long-winded way 
of explaining that Zhi-Nu had run away from home. None of these 
characters matter, none come back into the story, and nothing that 
happens in this scene has anything to do with the resolution of the 
story. Drop the whole scene and find some other, simpler way of telling 
us what's happened. Or else bring all this back to provide some 
conclusion to the story.

The tattoo is lovely, but it doesn't seem to apply very much to the 
story. While it signals some urgency, it doesn't communicate any 
crucial information. You could drop the image and the story would be 
unaltered.

The piano is a throwaway (so to speak -- HA!). This whole scene does 
nothing to move our story along.

The airplane is obviously critical to the story and for that it is 
well-chosen -- such a catastrophic image ought to be the critical 
moment of the story.

The weird skeleton is another throwaway, however -- why is John formed 
out of this monstrosity?

A fundamental problem here is that Zhi-Nu remains a passive spectator 
of events until she and her father have their little conversation. We 
don't see her overcoming obstacles in her efforts to succeed at her 
goal and so we don't get caught up in her predicament. We don't see her 
making sacrifices in order to get what she wants -- which means we 
don't build much sympathy for her.

Your writing is as crisp and authoritative as ever, and the characters 
(especially Zhi-Nu) are well-drawn, but the story just isn't there.


Rodrigo Istalindir  "Life Imitates Art"

Okay, you got me. I got to the last section thinking, "Man, that 
monster pic is such a throwaway." And then you dropped the hammer. 
Nicely done.

This is an intriguing story. The big problem with a story like this is 
keeping our sympathies to some degree with your psychopathic heroine 
while still making us feel like she gets what she deserves. And you do 
a good job of that here.

This is really a moral fable about the danger of cheating -- Kat cheats 
to get ahead, and so of course we expect to see her punished for doing 
so. So a large portion of the fun of the story really comes from our 
guessing game as to how her punishment will be delivered. Your job, in 
that sense, is to keep delivering obstacles to Kat getting what she 
wants so that we keep thinking THIS time she's going to get it.

Will she succeed at the recital? Nope. Oops, too bad for Samantha. Will 
she get caught out by Patrovanni? Nope, too bad for him. Will David 
take matters into his own hand? No, but aha -- she's remorseful and now 
willing to pay the price -- but NO! Poor David. And then it's nightmare 
time. And I have to admit there was a voice in my head saying, "That's 
just what you deserve, you bad, bad girl."

Heh, heh, heh.

Okay, what can I complain about here?

Engaging of the sense: I don't get much sense of what anything (or 
anyone) looks like, sounds like, smells like... The story moves so fast 
from one plot point to the next that I don't get drawn into the scenes. 
You need to work on your descriptions -- and by that I don't mean add a 
paragraph's worth of static description to each scene, but rather have 
the characters interacting with a unique environment. "Her fingers 
dancing over the keys" is fair enough, but if you could find more 
specific images -- these are KAT'S fingers, and the keys of the recital 
piano. What's unique about them, about this situation? That will help 
your reader get caught up in what's happening.

But don't overdo it. Keep your descriptions, but don't look like you're 
keeping your descriptions. You know, write casual.  

Dialogue: Again, BE SPECIFIC. Ideally, I should be able to take any 
line of dialogue out of context and be able to tell who said it. 
Everybody has their own way of speaking, their own patterns of speech 
-- your written dialogue should reflect that. All these characters 
pretty much sound the same. There's only so far you can go with that, 
of course, but you know what I mean.

The revelation scene, where David figures it out, is a little clumsy. 
You don't need to explain each and every issue -- especially the whole 
bit with her parents isn't necessary. David doesn't have to be 
convinced here -- he just has to get suspicious enough that Kat feels 
remorse.

Picture use: Obviously the tattoed girl, the hands in the glass 
furnace, the creature and the piano are all very good indeed. You're 
kind of stretching on the airplane (that's obviously NOT an airliner of 
any sort), but I'll give you that one. Each image is crucial to the 
story, in any event.

Very well done, Rodrigo. Thanks.


Judgement: Rodrigo Instalindir

 Decision- Orchid Blossom eeks it out 2-1. Welcome to the finals.


----------



## alsih2o (Aug 6, 2004)

Thanks.

 Thanks to all the competitors. It really is a joy to read all the stories, even when it is difficult.

 Thanks to Barsoomcore and Mythago, there is nothing like asking two people to "help" and them making you feel like the weak link because they do it so well.

 Thanks especially to the readers, art is nothing without an audience. The support and interest seem alamost tangible at points, hopefully we all will grow with it.

 As soon as our two winners are ready I will post the last set of pics (whoo! they are a doozy!) and we will be on our merry way.


----------



## Rodrigo Istalindir (Aug 6, 2004)

Congratulations, Orchid Blossom -- well done!  Now go kick Berandor's tail so I can say I lost to the winner 

Thanks to the judges for all the work -- I really appreciateed the feedback.  I had a ton of fun and hope to get a chance to avenge my loss in a future Ceramic DM.


----------



## Berandor (Aug 6, 2004)

> Now go kick Berandor's tail so I can say I lost to the winner



heh. No dice 

Anyway, for this weekend, you'd have to post the pics in the next 12 hourse, because afterwards I might have time to write, but no internet access.

Also, I believe orchid blossom is occupied the next 3 weeks.


----------



## Berandor (Aug 6, 2004)

And, as you are no doubt already expecting, from the other thread:


> I'll continue my coverage of the entries (Only 3 more stories to go... alright, maybe 4 ) with the other two semi-final stories. Before I do, though, I want to repeat that it is extremely difficult (if not impossible) to fit all five pics into a narrative so that they not only make sense, but are also equally important to the story. To me, having the pics make sense in the overall plot of the story is accomplishment enough, but I'll still cover it strictly.
> 
> orchid blossom, distraction:
> what a wonderful and intelligent concept you brought in. I fell absolutely in love with the idea of fate-spinning (at first, I thought Zhi-Nu was one of three sisters, but it seems she was capable enough on her own ) and the whole plot. A great idea. As you said, you had an easier time writing this story, and it shows. It flows very well, and there are almost no superfluous scenes at all (see below). And her father's curse, come to earth one day for each year, it just rings true mythically. Well done!
> ...


----------



## BSF (Aug 6, 2004)

Congratulations Orchid Blossom!

Grudge match between the two veterans that claim they aren't.  

It will be fun to see how the stories go for the *Final Round*.


----------



## orchid blossom (Aug 6, 2004)

Thanks Rodrigo.  I was in a great deal of doubt about whether this story would make it past yours.  You had a great concept, and the story genuinely creeped me out.  I'll see what I can do about that butt-kicking for you.  

Berandor, at last we meet.

As for scheduling, I'm out of town this weekend, and then next as well.  But, if the pics go up Tuesday morning, I could squeeze it in before we go out of town again.  Otherwise it would have to wait until after we get back on the 16th, and that's a long time to wait.


----------



## Berandor (Aug 6, 2004)

Well, I would rather wait until 16th or even the weekend following 16th, if that's not entirely out of the question. I'm doing work for two employees at the moment, so anything done under the week will indeed be "squeezing". I'd do it, but I think for the final round, we should have at least a good chance of producing something memorable, and not be put into a hassle when before there was none.


----------



## orchid blossom (Aug 6, 2004)

I don't mind if it's alright with the judges to wait that long.  I would certainly make my week less stressful.

Call it building the anticipation.


----------



## alsih2o (Aug 6, 2004)

The 16th sounds like it.

 It will be worth the wait- Hardest picture set yet.


----------



## BSF (Aug 6, 2004)

So, no pics for 10 days, at least.  

Where's the smack talk?  You should be able to create quite a build up in that time.


----------



## Ao the Overkitty (Aug 6, 2004)

The smack talk will resume when we get back from our trip.


----------



## Berandor (Aug 6, 2004)

Ha! They're just trying to get a few days in to think about talking smack, so they look much smarter than me with my half-cooked and often not very confident challenges.

So, I will begin... slowly

To Pluck a Rose
---
there grows a rose deep in my garden
to pluck it meant to end its bloom
so I'll refrain, but know no pardon
when sealing orchid blossom's doom.

ETA: any chance of at least one week-ended day in the 72 hours?


----------



## Berandor (Aug 9, 2004)

Orchids blossoming
freezing in Berandor's grasp
Winter is Coming


----------



## orchid blossom (Aug 11, 2004)

Awww, you wrote me some sweet little poems.  No good trying to charm me though.  I'm sure your story will make fine mulch in my creative garden.


----------



## alsih2o (Aug 11, 2004)

Ah, the long lull is occupied by trash-talk. It is good to come together like this, encourage one another creatively, build our skills and talk bad about each others mothers.


----------



## Berandor (Aug 13, 2004)

orchid blossom said:
			
		

> Awww, you wrote me some sweet little poems.  No good trying to charm me though.  I'm sure your story will make fine mulch in my creative garden.



 You wish! But you're right in one account: you're going to need all the fertilizer your creative garden can get!


----------



## alsih2o (Aug 13, 2004)

So, being as I will not be at GenCon this year- we are on for the 20th, to allow weekend days?


----------



## Berandor (Aug 13, 2004)

I would like that very much, as long as orchid's not too rooted on the 16th.


----------



## orchid blossom (Aug 13, 2004)

20th is just fine for me as well.


----------



## BSF (Aug 16, 2004)

The agony of having to wait longer to see how this plays out... 

OK, I am back from a weeklong work trip.  EN World is back online.  Things are starting to feel "right" again.  If we have to wait another week before we see your stories at least entertain the crowd with a little more mouth-frothing smacktalk.


----------



## orchid blossom (Aug 17, 2004)

I'm all done with my traveling and resting up for the weekend.

But what is this "talk of the smack" of which you speak?  In his heart, my competitor already knows his sad fate.  It would just be cruel to rub it in.


----------



## Berandor (Aug 17, 2004)

Four
---
Four days to go, and then three more
till orchid blossom's story-bore
when done with her I, bear and door,
hope to have left no feelings sore
(and someone else to clean the gore)


----------



## alsih2o (Aug 17, 2004)

Bragging, knowing not
  homicidal visuals
 and the doom that waits.

 High koo for you.


----------



## orchid blossom (Aug 17, 2004)

Are the judges allowed to smack-talk?


----------



## BSF (Aug 17, 2004)

I do think of that so much as smack talk as taunting.


----------



## orchid blossom (Aug 17, 2004)

But taunting is cruel, and we all know Clay would _never_ be cruel.


----------



## mythago (Aug 18, 2004)

This is like the part of the horror movie where you scream "Don't go into the basement!" at the screen.


----------



## Berandor (Aug 18, 2004)

orchid blossom said:
			
		

> But taunting is cruel, and we all know Clay would _never_ be cruel.



 This is like the horror film phrase: "That was close, but I'm sure we're safe now.", isn't it?


----------



## alsih2o (Aug 18, 2004)

Berandor said:
			
		

> This is like the horror film phrase: "That was close, but I'm sure we're safe now.", isn't it?




 Well, yeah. Perhaps you should go stand by the window.


----------



## BSF (Aug 18, 2004)

Oh, and even though the power is out, I think there is a flashlight down in the basement.  It's sitting right next to the breaker box.  Why don't one of you just head on down there by yourself and see if you can find it.  Batteries can be found in the attic.  I think the other person should go grab those.  Then you can meet out by the garage where all the farm implements are kept.


----------



## Zhaneel (Aug 18, 2004)

BardStephenFox said:
			
		

> Oh, and even though the power is out, I think there is a flashlight down in the basement.  It's sitting right next to the breaker box.  Why don't one of you just head on down there by yourself and see if you can find it.  Batteries can be found in the attic.  I think the other person should go grab those.  Then you can meet out by the garage where all the farm implements are kept.




Well duh!!!! If we spilt up we'll find the monster faster.

Oh, and if we lose our virginity.  Who's up for that?

Zhaneel


----------



## Berandor (Aug 18, 2004)

Please continue with your horror posts right after mine. It fits the dread looming above me just fine.

Anyway, I messed up the time frame, so you'll get a double helping

Three
----
Just three more days, and then we'll see
who will the better writer be
by all accounts, it will be me
while orchid pays me teacher's fee

Two
---
Two days of waiting left to do
then I squash blossom 'neath my shoe
and judges pay me what is due
a sweeter win I hardly knew
(and if I lose, I'm gonna sue!)

Any idea of a specific time frame for the pics, Clay?


----------



## alsih2o (Aug 18, 2004)

Berandor said:
			
		

> Any idea of a specific time frame for the pics, Clay?




 Any time better than another for you two?


----------



## BSF (Aug 19, 2004)

Zhaneel said:
			
		

> Well duh!!!! If we spilt up we'll find the monster faster.
> 
> Oh, and if we lose our virginity.  Who's up for that?
> 
> Zhaneel




Good point!  I forgot about the hay loft.


----------



## orchid blossom (Aug 19, 2004)

Berandor said:
			
		

> Please continue with your horror posts right after mine. It fits the dread looming above me just fine.
> 
> Anyway, I messed up the time frame, so you'll get a double helping
> 
> ...




You just keep right on wasting those creative juices.  I gave my muse the week off, she'll be all rested up by Friday.  Unless she's been beating up on your muse again.  I've had to talk to her quite sternly about that several times this week.



			
				alsih2o said:
			
		

> Any time better than another for you two?




Well, I'd appreciate them not coming up between 6:00a.m. and 2:00pm CST.  I'm at work then and while I can look at the boards I can't see any pictures.  Between 2 and 5 central would be good for me, but as long as it's not during work hours I'm cool.


----------



## mythago (Aug 19, 2004)

Zhaneel said:
			
		

> Oh, and if we lose our virginity.  Who's up for that?



 No, no, you already have to be the school tart for that one to work, and it helps if your boyfriend is a dumb jock.

 Who volunteers to be the perky heroine? Berandor?


----------



## Berandor (Aug 19, 2004)

mythago said:
			
		

> No, no, you already have to be the school tart for that one to work, and it helps if your boyfriend is a dumb jock.
> 
> Who volunteers to be the perky heroine? Berandor?



 ... but I won't sleep with Nick! Otherwise, yeah.

*AAAAAIIIIIIIIEEEEEEEE!!!*

(just a test of my screaming, now I'm good to go)

Did you hear knocking? Someone better open the door while we wait in different rooms.

(2 pm CST would be 9 pm for me. So, if the pics came between 2-4 pm CST I would be fine, as I could sleep over the pics)


----------



## alsih2o (Aug 19, 2004)

Just after 2pm cst it is


----------



## Berandor (Aug 19, 2004)

One
---
One is the loneliest number that there'll ever be...

Oh, sorry, wrong association.

One
---
Just one more day, then we'll be done
once more we shoot creative guns
I hope that orchid's had some fun
'cause in the final she'll have none

I do agree, though, that orchid blossom's muse beats mine up regularly. The thing is, my muse is kinda masochistic, and without a little pain she doesn't quite function as well as she can.

That's what you get for using second-hand muses, I guess.


----------



## BSF (Aug 20, 2004)

Bumping this back up to the top for pictures!  

Bring on the final round.


----------



## alsih2o (Aug 20, 2004)

Yep, just about an hour.... he he heh.


----------



## alsih2o (Aug 20, 2004)

Berandor Vs. Orchid Blossom

 FINAL ROUND

 6 pictures, 72 hours.

 EDIT: No word limit, just a limit on judges attention spans. Measure yourselves.


----------



## Berandor (Aug 20, 2004)

All right, I wish orchid blossom best of luck. Just to warn you: after today, I'll probably be stuck to write a fairly violent piece, just to cope with the Hell that broke lose 

*looks at the pics*
*blinks*
*blinks*

Nothing modern? I must have missed a pic.

Wow, that is... evil. All the while, I have had images contemporary stories in my mind, and now you give me this? Can I really make a modern story out of this, after I wanted pics like these? Can I?

I guess we'll see about that in 72 hours 

No word limit, right?

This will rock.


----------



## Ao the Overkitty (Aug 20, 2004)

Ooooooh.

Nice pictures.


----------



## alsih2o (Aug 20, 2004)

Berandor said:
			
		

> No word limit, right?
> 
> .




 No word limit, but there is a limit to my attention span and patience.


----------



## Berandor (Aug 20, 2004)

alsih2o said:
			
		

> No word limit, but there is a limit to my attention span and patience.



 I'm gonna test that.


----------



## Zhaneel (Aug 20, 2004)

Dude!!!!!! Okay, maybe I'm just off here [helps that I've been dealing with something completely NOT Ceramic DM] but... um... aren't those easy?  I mean there is a major theme just leaping out of the pics and dancing.

I remember hard finals.  With *hands* and weird stuff.

*resists urge to write something other than her Eberron Novel submission*

Zhaneel


----------



## Rodrigo Istalindir (Aug 20, 2004)

Oh, come on!  I get crashing planes, falling pianos and something so dark and illegible I'm still not sure what it was, and for the finals we have pictures that could illustrate any fantasy work ever written?  And not even any action shots; they're all portraits!  Where's the picture of the frog in the blender, or some obscure piece of modern art?  How about people playing donkey basketball, or at least a clown?

(I'm not really upset; it's just that all the trashtalking lately has me feeling kind of left out   )


----------



## Berandor (Aug 20, 2004)

A theme? With pics named sorcerer, rogue, cleric, fighter, orc, and treasure?

I don't see it.


----------



## alsih2o (Aug 20, 2004)

Rodrigo Istalindir said:
			
		

> and for the finals we have pictures that could illustrate any fantasy work ever written?




 It seems to me THAT is the challenge. I cold be wrong. Happens all the time.


----------



## orchid blossom (Aug 20, 2004)

Hmm, insidious.  Pictures that will be difficult by thier own generic natures.....

Sure, those pics will be easy to put in a story.  Making them _important_ will be the hard part.

Damn it, you all beat me to the picutre comments.  Damn people not at work and not getting ready for gaming tonight.


----------



## BSF (Aug 21, 2004)

Hmm, these could either be easy, or deliciously difficult to work around.  But I will wait for the stories before I make any comments on that.  

Alsih2o - Email on the way with the updated menu.  Along with some other stuff.


----------



## BSF (Aug 21, 2004)

orchid blossom said:
			
		

> Damn it, you all beat me to the picutre comments.  Damn people not at work and not getting ready for gaming tonight.




I'm doing both!  But I missed the early picture comments because I was running around the older Ceramic DM threads.


----------



## Piratecat (Aug 21, 2004)

Is it just me, or should that last picture REALLY have been a pie?


----------



## mythago (Aug 21, 2004)

Rodrigo Istalindir said:
			
		

> and for the finals we have pictures that could illustrate any fantasy work ever written? And not even any action shots; they're all portraits!



 Bingo. Give me pianos and stone spheres any day of the week.

 Making an original, enticing story with those pics, now, that's hard.


----------



## orchid blossom (Aug 21, 2004)

Piratecat said:
			
		

> Is it just me, or should that last picture REALLY have been a pie?




I could so do something with pie......pie is important.


----------



## Berandor (Aug 22, 2004)

I'm just posting to give orchid blossom a little shock 

I'm done with the first draft, and it's clocking in at ~5.500 words. I hope al2isho (I can't spell that damn name!) Clay can read that much. 

Now, I'm going to take a break, and then I'm off editing. (Wow, I finished a story and still have time to take a break before editing/posting. That feels good!)


----------



## orchid blossom (Aug 22, 2004)

Wanna know a secret?  I just sat down to start.

That's not really unusual for me though.


----------



## Berandor (Aug 22, 2004)

Yeah, well, it's 10 am for you, but 7 pm for me. So I started at 10 am, as well 

I had to mull the story over first, so that I knew where - and how - it was headed.


----------



## orchid blossom (Aug 22, 2004)

Exactly.  I tend to spend the first day and a half getting things worked out in my head, then just sit down and write the thing.  There's just no point in staring at a blank screen when you don't know what you're going to write yet.

Actually, it's going on 2:00pm here.  So I'm a bit late starting today.


----------



## orchid blossom (Aug 23, 2004)

The Puppet Master

By: orchid blossom

Nigel grinned and tossed another silver to the barman.  “Another for the lady.”

Sophia nodded her thanks and held out her glass.  Bits of dark hair had escaped from under the scarf she wore and curled around her pierced ears.  She even had a delicate ring through the pointed end of each ear.  Elven heritage, those points.  Nigel liked them though.  Even the scars on the right side of her face seemed to enhance her beauty rather than detract from it.  “You didn’t come by those working in a brothel, did you?” he asked suddenly.

“What, these?” she asked, tilting her head a bit.  “I haven’t always worked in a brothel, you know.  And some men like a girl who’s seen a little action.  Some even want a girl to give them a bit of violence before the other.”

“To each his own.”  Nigel lifted his glass to the lady and took another long swig, dribbling a bit down the front of his clean, white shirt.  “’Scuse me.  I seem to have gone empty.  Barman, another.”  He reached blindly into his belt pouch and tossed whatever coin came to hand.  “Keep it full till that runs out.”

“You’re pretty free with your coin there,” Sophia said.  

Nigel leaned closed.  “I’ve had a streak of extremely good luck,” he whispered loudly.  “I’ve been winning at cards, betting on horses, and local security’s been pretty lax lately, if you know what I mean.”  He paused for another drink.  “I got myself a nice little hoard.  Too bad I didn’t bring it with me, I got some real pretty jewelry would have suited you.”

She looked at him over the top of her glass.  “Well, I’m not going anywhere for quite a while, you could always come back.”

He laughed.  “I just might at that.  Of course, that’ll depend on how good a time I have tonight.”

“Oh, I can guarantee you a good time, Nigel,” Sophia whispered, laying her hand on his arm.  “I have a very comfortable room upstairs. We could have a glass of wine and you can tell me all about your good luck.”

*                                *                                  * 

Nigel turned over and hid his eyes from the late morning light that flooded the room.  His head felt stuffed with cotton, and he seriously considered going back to sleep.  But he had things to do.  He sat up and carefully put his feet down on the floor.  Sophia’s side of the bed way icy; she must have left hours ago.  Not that it was a surprise.  She was a working girl after all, and he hadn’t paid her for a whole night.

He coughed and rubbed his eyes, keeping them carefully closed until his head settled.  Sophia had surprised him in one way last night; she’d been willing to spend a lot of time just listening to him.  He’d had at least three more glasses of wine before he stopped talking.  The only thing he liked better than pulling off a good scam was talking about it.  It had been a good night, all in all.

Nigel kept up with his morning after ritual.  He stood up, feeling a bit too tall, as if his head was up near the ceiling.  His hands ran up and down his arms to get the circulation going.  The skin was extra sensitive this morning, each old scar and flaw obvious.  Nigel ran his hand down his arm again.  Something felt wrong.  Sure, he’d gotten a few scars in his time, but this skin didn’t even feel like his own.  He bit the bullet and opened his eyes.

Maybe it was a rash?  Even his alcohol-dulled brain knew better.  The skin on his arms was darker, and a lot hairier.  He flexed his fingers, watching the muscles of his forearm ripple.  Those were definitely different.  Step by careful step he crossed the room and stood in front of the mirror.

Everything was larger.  Everything.  The skin all over his body was darker and tougher, just like his arms.  He examined his body, starting with his feet and moving slowly up until he raised his head and looked at his face. “What did that woman do to me?” he growled through his mouth full of pointed teeth. 

He’d done an awful lot of talking last night, and he really couldn’t remember what he said.  “Keys, keys, keys,” he muttered and grabbed his bag.  His huge hand rifled until he found a small wooden box.  It was hard to manipulate the latch with his sausage fingers, but he managed at last.  

The box was empty.  It hadn’t held much, only a couple gems in case of emergency and the keys to his little hoard.  Even if he hadn’t told Sophia everything, he must have told her enough.  She’d taken his keys and there was no reason to do that unless she knew where it was.

Nigel grabbed his robe and threw it over his distended shoulders.  There was no hope for any of his actual clothes.  As it was the robe was uncomfortably short and tight and barely covering what needed to be covered.   He threw his few belongings in his bag and headed downstairs.  

There was no back door.  He’d checked the place over last night, as he did was every place he ever stayed.  More than a few nights of sleep had been interrupted by fists pounding on inn doors.  This was a brothel and it was late in the morning.  If he was lucky, any patrons who’d stayed overnight would still be asleep in their rooms.

Nigel’s extra large body didn’t seem to affect his ability to be quiet.  He padded softly down the stairs and peeked through the door.  The room wasn’t nearly full, but it was full enough.  He briefly considered just sauntering through, tossing some coin on the bar, and leaving.  Orcs weren’t common in these parts though, and there were probably those in that room who would shoot first and ask questions later.  Getting out of there unnoticed was not going to happen.  There was going to be a ruckus no matter what.

He took a couple deep breaths and plowed into the common room screaming.  For a few seconds nothing happened as the dazed patrons stared at the huge monstrosity dashing across the room.  He made it almost halfway across the room before the first arrow whizzed past his head.  Nigel tried to duck and roll, but this body wasn’t as supple as his own.  Chairs scattered across the room as he slammed into a table and knocked it over.  Two more arrows thunked into the thick wood as he dragged himself to his feet and made a dash for the door.  He stopped to upend another table near the door and then dove out.  

For a moment he considered running to the stable for his horse, but the poor animal probably wouldn’t be able to carry him, even if it let him near it.  His hiding place wasn’t that far; if he hustled he could make it by mid-afternoon.  It would take Sophia longer to find it.  She would stick to roads, but he could cut straight across country.  If he was lucky he would beat her there, or she would at least stop there to rest before moving on.  

There was screaming coming from inside the brothel as Nigel continued to move as fast as he could.  Another arrow flew by his ear before he was out of sight and into the woods.  They might follow him they might not.  They’d been shocked when he charged the room, but he hadn’t actually attacked anyone.  He threw a bit of extra effort into his strides just in case.

*                   *                     *

Things really were not going as Nigel had planned.  He made good time toward the little forest cottage where he’d hidden his stash, and after hearing no sounds of pursuit thought he’d made a clean getaway.  By the time he’d heard the horse behind him he was so close to the cottage that he had a good chance to make it inside before his pursuer even saw him.

He hadn’t expected be standing just inside the clearing with Sophia’s sword at this throat.  He tried to grin, but the teeth got in the way.  “Come on, Sophia, whoever’s coming is looking for an orc.  Change me back and I won’t give you a hard time about stealing my stuff.  We can split the money.  Hell, I’ll give you 60 percent.”

“It’ll wear off eventually,” she assured him.  “And I rather like you this way.  Firstly, it makes it harder for you to talk.  Plus, whoever is chasing you through the forest is going to want to save my sweet little self from you.  Seems everything works better for me with you in the orc suit.”

“We could be partners.  Between you and I we could do very well.  What I can’t steal you could seduce.”

Sophia laughed and kicked open the lid of the chest at her feet.  “Like the previous owner of that skull, hmm?  You really shouldn’t write things down, you know.  I knew you were a braggart, but I had pegged you for a bit more intelligence.  Still, I’d rather overestimate an opponent than underestimate them.”  Sophia paused and looked toward the crashing noises.  She cast a quick spell, still keeping her blade pointed toward Nigel, and the chest shrank into a small piece of cloth.  She picked it up and tucked it into her pocket.  “We may be partners yet, but my ride is here.”  

A blood-curdling scream hit the air as Sophia dropped her sword and cringed.  Nigel spun around just in time to see the fully armored knight bearing down on him.  “Stand back, Lady!” the armored figured shouted as he charged.  

Nigel dove to the left and scrambled back to his feet.  The knight spun his mount and charged again.  Nigel stood his ground and waited.  Just as the sword was coming down he punched the knight in the side as hard as he could.  It was just enough to change the course of the blow.  He didn’t have to fake letting the blow take him down.  Nigel laid still as he could, eyes wide open.  The knight trotted back over.  “Please, let’s go,” Sophia shouted, her voice convincingly shrill.  He lay completely still, holding his breath and forcing his eyes to stay open as he listened to the knight trot over to Sophia.  A few minutes later everything was quiet.

*                     *                        *

“You’re lucky I was out here today.  Care to explain how you go this?” Darien asked as he carefully unwrapped Nigel’s makeshift bandage.

Nigel smiled.  “You’ve always said someone would scam me someday.  You were right.”  He quickly sketched in the encounter with Sophia and the Knight outside the cottage.  “You going to give me a lecture now?”

Darien laughed and pulled his holy symbol from beneath his tunic.  “I’ve given you enough lectures to last you a lifetime.  I think I started when we were still children.  I’ve given up.  As long as you keep making donations to the temple for healing, I’ll keep fixing you up.”  He laid his hands against the wound and muttered the now familiar incantation.  

Nigel tried to stay still as he felt his muscles and skin knit themselves back together.  “That always feels so strange.”

“If you don’t like it, quit making people angry enough to stick swords in you.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.  Come on, I’ll walk back to the temple with you and make my donation.”

A heavy mist had set in while Darien was at Nigel’s cottage, and the sky looked threatening.  They walked mostly in silence except for the occasional joke at Nigel’s expense.  Darien was just about the only man of god Nigel could stand.  He didn’t preach or nag, just fixed you up and sent you on your way.  Nigel didn’t even resent the donations anymore.  He even said a prayer now and then, although he’d never admit it to Darien.

They eventually left the forest and walked along a farmer’s fence line toward the village proper.  Nigel kept a keen eye out.  He wasn’t an orc anymore, but Sophia knew what he looked like, and he didn’t like how she said they might be partners someday.  Stealing someone’s stuff, that he could understand, but she seemed to have a personal dislike for him.

There were more people around now, and Darien stopped to answer a question from on of his parishioners.   It was then that Nigel saw the bright flash moving behind his friend.  Without thinking, Nigel jumped and tackled Darien to the ground.  The bright ball of energy flashed by them and slammed into the earth just where Nigel had been standing.

“It’s her, damn it.”  Nigel got up and jumped over the fence.  He didn’t get it.  Why would she attack him from so far away?  She’d gotten away with the goods fair and square, and he would have had a lot of trouble tracking her down. 

His uneasiness only grew when he found her waiting for him, the skull from his treasure chest in her hand.  “Took you long enough,” she said quietly.

“A big slice through your shoulder will slow you down.”  He waited for a moment, but she was quiet.  “I don’t get it Sophia.  You got me.  Scammed me good.  What more can you want?”

“A replacement.  You stole something from me a long time ago.”  By reflex he caught the skull that came flying at him.  His fingers seemed to weld to it and stiffen.  A moment later it fell out of his hands and rolled away.  His fingers were still flesh, but they felt stiff.  He couldn’t move them.  The feeling quickly spread to his arms, then his shoulders.

“I had a partner once,” Sophia said.  “Then one day she met you.  Why she loved you, I don’t know.  I know you didn’t love her anymore than you loved me last night.  I know you gave her up to save your own skin.  So, I need a new partner.  But I don’t like having a partner I can’t trust, so I’ve arranged it so I can.”

Nigel felt his shoulder lifting up and watched as his arm moved forward.  A smile spread across his face that he couldn’t erase.  He had no control over any of his movements.  Sophia smiled.  “See?  Now I can trust you.”

*                            *                        *

The King's court was decked out for the holiday.  Blinding colors flashed everywhere.  Sophia was in her element, meeting and greeting.  Nigel kept tumbling, each step sure, each flip and summersault perfect.  A smile was plastered on his face.  No matter how tired he got, that smile wouldn't slip.

Occasionally beautifully dressed people passed by and tossed coins at his feet.  He had been tumbling for about a half hour when a little girl and her nanny approached.  The little girl tossed a silver coin.  The nanny smiled.  "Another for the Lady."


----------



## orchid blossom (Aug 23, 2004)

And I'm off to work.  I have to say I'm relieved to be finished.  Good luck Berandor.


----------



## Berandor (Aug 23, 2004)

Ack! You're done? 

ETA: Just to make sure, I have *not* read it yet


----------



## orchid blossom (Aug 23, 2004)

I HAD to be done.  I'll get home from work after the deadline has passed.
In fact, I'm at work right now, Ao is posting this for me.


----------



## BSF (Aug 23, 2004)

orchid blossom said:
			
		

> I HAD to be done.  I'll get home from work after the deadline has passed.
> In fact, I'm at work right now, Ao is posting this for me.




Now *that* is how to delegate.  I mean, Orchid Blossom doesn't even need to type the words or click reply.  Dictation.  Good, old-fashioned dictation.


----------



## Berandor (Aug 23, 2004)

*Just a fair warning before the text. I don't think I violated board rules; in fact, I tried very much not to. However, I may have courted the boundaries of PG-13. If you're squeamish (and I am), you might consider before reading the story (I had to read it ). *

Ceramic DM Final: Orchid Blossom vs. Berandor

*The Hunt*

Cedric stormed through the underbrush. Long, thorny fingers tore at him, catching, ripping his clothes. He paid them no heed. He held his arms in front of his face, and pushed on. A few feet further, the brush thinned, and the forest began. Cedric ran on, deeper and deeper into the woods, away from the village.

Running up a hill, his right foot got caught in a root. Cedric fell into the dirt, and then slid down to the foot of the hill, where the tears found him. He'd tried to run away from them, but he hadn't run far enough. His body convulsed, his hands tore into the ground. His heart felt like it would burst out of his breast. Crying like a woman, Cedric rolled on his back, looked up into the trees, and then let out a howling scream. 

Why had he even asked her? Cedric had known Mara would deny him her favor. He had known for sure. Why had he even asked? The answer was simple: Because that was what his father would have done. Beregard the Black would have asked any woman he'd wanted to ask, and he wouldn't have accepted a refusal. But what woman would have refused Beregard the Black? No woman, of course. Beregard had been as handsome as he had been charming. Not like Cedric; not at all like Cedric.

It's not that Cedric was ugly. He was simply ordinary. And Mara was everything but. She was the daughter of an island-man and the village midwife. When the islander's ship had been blown off course by a storm and landed in Bluewater's small harbor, they'd fallen in love, and he'd stayed. Mara had her father's dark skin and hair, and her mother's full physique. She was the most beautiful girl in Bluewater, and she knew it.

Cedric still heard her dark laughter, and her friends' giggles as he'd asked her. Mara had looked at him, laughed at him. "I'd rather bed an elf," she'd said, and laughed even louder.

"That bitch," he muttered. "She'll never speak to me like this again." When he returned from his Hunt, she would be the one wanting to his favor, and then he would refuse her. That would teach her. Cedric imagined slapping Mara, and his dirty lips twisted into a smile.

In his heart, Cedric knew he'd never hurt her, but it felt good to imagine nonetheless. He took a deep breath. When he stood up, he felt weak, empty. His clothes were dirty and full of leaves and broken twigs. He brushed them off as good as possible. 

Imagining himself teaching Mara obedience, Cedric began his way back.

---

"Allyria?" Cedric asked softly.

The small hut in the woods lay silent. He could detect no sign of his friend. For a moment, he regretted coming here instead of going right home. Then Allyria jumped down from a tree and stood in front of him. 

"Cower in fear, human!" she shouted, pointing a small wand at him. She'd bound her hair back with a bandana, and she had even painted an elven war tattoo over her right eye. Cedric jumped back, partly in surprise and partly in mock fear. They laughed together.

"I see you're playing elf again?" he asked, after they had embraced.

"I'm not 'playing', Ced, I am preparing myself," she answered in the light-yet-serious tone that he loved. As long as he'd known her, Allyria had been preparing herself to venture into the Deepwood and find her father. Cedric could understand her; as a half-elf, she had nowhere to go in human lands. She'd be hunted and either killed or sold as a slave. Still, Allyria didn't want to leave while her mother was still alive. So she lived with her in the small hut at the edge of the forest, and hid when her mother entertained guests, which she rarely did.

"And what have you been up to?" she asked, looking pointedly at his clothing. "Did you wrestle a boar?" 

Cedric's smile died on his lips, and his mood darkened again.

"It was Mara," he said meekly. Allyria arched one of her fine brows. Everything about the half-elf was sharp and refined. Her nose was sharp enough to cut bread, he'd often joked, and of course she had pointed ears, just like an elf.

"You wrestled Mara?" She tried to punch him on the shoulder in an effort to lighten him up, but he brushed her off.

"What happened?" she asked, serious this time.

Cedric sat down on an upturned tree. He massaged his knees as he answered.

"I asked to carry her bag."

"You...?" Allyria began, but then comprehension dawned on her. "For the Hunt." Cedric didn't answer, which was answer enough.

"You can't still be planning to go through with it!"

Cedric jumped up, matching her agitation with his own.

"Why not?"

"Ced, they want you to kill an elf! How can you even think about such a thing?" Allyria was furious, waving her arms around vividly, her obsidian wand glinting in the sunlight.

"What do you want me to do? If I refuse, I'll never become a knight."

Allyria calmed down instantly. She looked him deep in the eyes, her jade eyes meeting his hazel orbs.

"You could come with me." 

He laughed, and her face became angry once again.

"I'm serious, Ced"

"Then you really have a woman's brain, Ally. If I came with you, the elves would kill me."

"You can't know that. They didn't kill my mother, did they?"

Cedric had had enough. First, Mara had insulted him in front of her friends, and now his best - his only friend was spouting nonsense instead of offering him solace. Anger flared inside of him, burning away all reason.

"No they didn't," he answered, "they raped her."

Allyria froze. For a breath's time, she was too shocked to react. Then, she struck him with her open palm. His face flew to the side, and he tasted blood on his lips, as she turned and stormed off.

"Allyria, wait," he said. She went into the hut, and the door slammed close. Cedric held his cheek. It burned, as did his anger. 

"Stupid cow." Spitting on the ground, he headed home.

---

As he left the woods, Cedric already regretted what he'd said. He hadn't wanted to hurt Allyria. But the half-elf always reacted strangely when he mentioned Mara, and Cedric knew she despised the Hunt.

It was an old tradition: At his fifteenth birthday, every boy of Bluewater went out into the woods. He was only allowed basic tools and a hunting knife. In a month's time, the boy had to return home with a pair of elven ears, to show that he had become a man. Failure meant the boy would only be allowed to learn a craft - what Cedric called 'a woman's task' -, while a man would go on to learn warfare or sorcery. 

It was a dangerous task, and many refused to go through with it, but Cedric wanted to be a knight. Beregard the Black had been a knight. Maybe Cedric would be able to find out what had happened to his father once he, too, was a knight. Then he would prove Mardyck wrong, who always said his father had left because he hadn't wanted a son like him.

Cedric reached Bluewater at sunset. In the dusk, the small village seemed almost like a painting. Small wooden huts and larger stone houses with reed roofs stood scattered on a grassy plain. The Green Sea lay directly beyond; seagulls shrieked in concert with waves breaking. But Cedric knew how it really was. Bluewater smelled of tar and stunk of fish. The villagers were filthy and small-minded. Most of them were content with spending their lives in this small backdrop at the end of the continent.

As he rounded his mother's hut, he could hear her sitting on the porch with the Mayor, Donell Redsmile, an old man with bleeding gums. Instinctively, Cedric crouched in the shadows, listening to the conversation.

"Well, why don't you simply forbid him to go?" Redsmile asked. 

"He's always wanted to become knight," his mother answered. "I can't take that away from him."

Cedric held his breath. They were talking about him. For once, he wished he'd have Allyria's ears, so he could better understand what they were saying.

"Well, then you should let him go." 

"What if he dies?" Cedric wanted to go to her, tell her that he wouldn't die. He would bring home two of the finest ears Bluewater had ever seen. But he stayed put.

"Well, then he will die a man." A short pause followed, and then Redsmile continued, "You're holding something back. What are you really afraid of?"

His mother didn't reply at first, but when she did, Cedric wished she'd stayed silent.

"I'm afraid he'll simply fail."

Cedric's ears were suddenly filled with crashing waves, and his stomach turned. Not even his mother believed in him. Was he such a weakling to her that he couldn't even kill an elf? Part of him wished he hadn't heard what his mother had said, part of him was glad that he had. Now he knew he really was alone. He had felt a little bad for wanting to leave his mother - not anymore.

Cedric stepped out of his hiding place, and approached the two. His mother seemed a little perturbed, probably asking herself whether he'd heard it. Redsmile stood up and smiled at him, his bleeding gums in full display.

"Well, if that isn't our latest Hunter," he said.

"Mayor. Mother." Cedric nodded at them, and then he entered the hut and went straight to bed, disregarding the strange looks they gave him.

---

Two days had passed since his fifteenth birthday. Cedric's legs hurt, and his back ached from the weight of his gear. His soft boots were wet, and his underwear chafed at his thighs. Walking through the Deepwood wasn't half as glorious as he had imagined.

Even worse, the forest seemed to be alive. It wasn't just the unfamiliar sounds echoing through the trees. No, Cedric had the constant feeling of being watched. But no matter how much he squinted, how hard he looked, he couldn't see anyone. 

On top of it all, Cedric was lost. He had planned to follow the shallow Whispercreek until he came upon a suitable ambush site, but he had never even found the creek.  For two days now, he was walking through the woods with no idea of where he was.

He almost wanted to turn around. Two days in the woods, and he was already close to giving up. He cursed himself for his weakness, but then he thought of Mara's laughing face, and his mother's words, and Mardyck's taunts. He would prove them all wrong. His gear might pull at him, his legs might ache, but he would kill an elf and become a knight. And then he'd punish them for their insolence.

Cedric had barely finished his thoughts when he glimpsed something through the leaves, like sunlight reflected by glass. Cedric dropped low, and hunched behind a tree. He thought about leaving his backpack, but his father's old tunic was in there among his gear, and he didn't want to risk losing it. Nor had he time to put it on. He'd planned to wear it when he returned triumphantly. And now, it seemed, he had found an elven settlement.

Carefully watching his surroundings, he crept closer. It was an old castle, only a ruin now. Cedric hadn't even known there was a castle in the woods. Vines grew between the heavy stones, grass covered toppled walls, and webs bridged broken windows. A piece of glass still clung to a tower window, sunlight glinting on it. Calling him here.

Cedric shrugged his shoulders. It wasn't an elven settlement, but at least it was a roof - or part of a roof - above his head for one night. He began to circle the ruin, looking for a way up that tower. He would have a better view from above, and might regain his bearings. Rounding a corner, he was startled to come face to face with another man.

"Greetings, fellow traveler," the man said. He wore short breeches and a dark leather west. His hair was cropped short, and he had a dark complexion, almost like an island-man. Like Mara, Cedric thought. The man regarded him with a curious expression, and Cedric realized he hadn't answered.

"Gree - greetings, Mylord." The stranger laughed.

"I am no lord, my friend." He laid a finger on his lips. 

"Although, I do live in a castle, so maybe I am." He looked pensively into the air for a moment, and then he shook his head. 

"No. My castle is a ruin, and I am simply Raxos. And you are?"

"My name is Cedric."

"Well met, Cedric. What leads you to my castle?" Raxos seemed friendly, but the way he smiled and met his gaze made Cedric shiver.

"I - I simply stumbled upon it. I didn't even know it was here. Can I - would you allow me to spent the night here?"

Raxos ignored the question. He looked into Cedric's eyes as if he could see into his mind.

"Nobody stumbles upon my castle, Cedric. You either look for it, or you don't find it." The man's smile broadened. His teeth were awfully long and sharp for a human. 

"Why did you come? Did you come for the treasure?" Raxos made a gesture towards the dark ruins, where Cedric saw the shimmer of gold. 

"Did you come for power?" 

The man stepped forward, standing a hand's breath away from Cedric, and whispered, "Or did you come for both?"

Cedric stepped away from him. He drew his long hunting dagger. Raxos didn't seem to notice; he just continued smiling. His eyes glowed dark red for a moment.

"Who - what are you?" Again, the man - or whatever it was - disregarded the question.

"You don't have to decide right away, Cedric. Leave, and take your time to think about it. And when you come back, just tell me your decision." Raxos smile froze. 

"But don't come back if you don't want anything. Don't waste my time." He laughed again, but it was a cold, heartless laugh. 

"You don't want to waste my time."

Cedric turned, and ran away.

"Be seeing you," Raxos voice rang behind him.

---

Cedric had run for maybe half an hour when the wood suddenly gave way to a small hut. Smoke drifted from the chimney, and he heard a soft feminine voice singing. An upturned tree lay close by. Cedric blinked. It was Allyria's hut, but how was this possible? He had walked two days before finding the castle, after all. Had he been so lost that he had walked in circles?

He entered the hut and saw Allyria sitting at the table, cutting vegetables. Her voice broke off, and her head darted up when she noticed him. Her eyes grew wide for a moment, but she relaxed when she recognized him.

"Ced," Allyria said.

"Ally." Cedric remembered the last time they'd seen each other. He still owed her an apology. "I'm sorry. I didn't want to hurt you, and I know it was stupid what I said." She looked at him with her green eyes, and then nodded.

"It's all right. Sit down, and help me." He did. Pointing her knife at his backpack, she said, "You're on your Hunt?"

"I was," he answered. Allyria tensed.

"Not what you think," he assured her. "I'm not going through with it." 

Allyria's face brightened at the news. He had come to the decision while he was running away from Raxos. He didn't want to die in the woods. But he also couldn't face Bluewater's ridicule. 

"I'm not going home, either." 

Her eyes seemed to twinkle, and she put the knife on the table. She held her hand out to his.

"I'll try to get to Oldport, and then on a ship to the islands," he finished. Allyria's hand drew back for an instant, but then she gripped his own.

"You could come with me," she said. "I will protect you from the elves." 

Her hand was warm to the touch, and her eyes shone with green fire. He gulped. 

"Maybe I will," he said, when he heard laughter coming from the door. Cedric turned around, and jumped to his feet when he saw Mardyck and his friends, Otter and Bull, standing in the doorway. The chair fell to the floor behind him.

"The little boy has found himself an elf already," Mardyck said, still grinning. Despite his youth, it was already an almost toothless smile, many of his teeth having fallen out, the rest rotting along. 

"He seems to be more interested in her bosom than her ears, however." Otter cackled. Bull simply stared at him.

"Close the door!" Cedric shouted, and rushed at Mardyck. The fourteen-year-old boy was too surprised to react. Cedric pushed his shoulder squarely into Mardyck's chest. He could hear the air being pressed out of his lungs, and Mardyck went down. The doorway was clear. 

Allyria had reacted quickly, and the door flew shut behind Cedric, who now found himself face to face with Otter and Bull. Mardyck was still lying on the ground, panting. Cedric couldn't win a fight against them. He had to get help. He feinted an attack, and then ran away.

"Let him go," Mardyck wheezed, "and break down the door."

---

Cedric burst through the bushes at the edge of the forest and stumbled onto the road. He knew he didn't have much time, but where should he turn to? Bluewater was about a mile away, down the road. Muggett's land began across the road, and his farm was only half as far as the village. But would Muggett help him?

While he was still thinking about it and catching his breath, Cedric heard the sound of an approaching horse. He turned west, towards Oldport, and saw sunlight glinting off metal. A knight. Cedric thanked the gods and ran towards the approaching figure.

"Help! Help me!" The knight galloped towards him. He was clad in polished armor, his dark shield bent in from a doubtlessly victorious battle. His horse was white as snow, and noble as a lord's. Cedric could not see the knight behind the closed visor of his helmet, but the horse regarded him friendly and patiently. 

"What is it, boy?" the knight demanded harshly. His voice echoed through his helmet, turning even a whisper into a bellow.

"I - a friend of mine is in danger. You must help her!"

"A woman in danger? Show me!"

Cedric led the knight into the woods. When it went too slow for the man, he grabbed Cedric at the neck and pulled him up behind him. The horse didn't seem to mind, and they quickly reached the hut.

They had come just in time, too. Bull was carrying a shrieking Allyria out of the hut. She threw herself around, her robe and hair flew forth and back, but she couldn't evade Bull's grip. The boy was already taller than most men and as strong as his namesake. Otter stood next to him and cackled, while Mardyck held his cheek. Cedric saw blood oozing between the fingers. 

"You will pay for this, bitch," he said.

"Hold!" the knight shouted. Cedric slid off the horse, and watched as the knight slowly rode forward. "Leave that woman be."

Bull released her, and Allyria dropped to the ground, crying. Mardyck stared at Cedric with open hatred. Otter spat on the ground. He looked more like a rat, Cedric thought.

"Since when do knights care for elven wenches?" the sneak said. The knight stopped in his tracks, and turned around to Cedric.

"Elf? She is an elf?"

"Half-elf," Cedric admitted. The knight rode towards him and punched his mailed fist into Cedric's face. Cedric went down like a sack of his mother's bread as the world turned before his eyes and pain flooded his mind. 

He could hear the knight riding away from him, and then saying, "Carry on, then. But I will take her first." Mardyck laughed, and Otter cackled. Allyria screamed.

"No!" Cedric shouted. "Please. Don't hurt her."

"Be quiet, elf-boy, or I'll hit you for real," the knight bellowed back. 

Cedric's thoughts raced. He had to find a way to save Allyria. What was he to do? He couldn't fight them, and there was nothing he could offer...

"Wait!" he shouted. He pushed himself up, disregarding the pain in his head, and continued, "If you promise not to hurt her, I will pay you."

"What are you going to pay us with, fishmonger's son?" Otter asked, but the knight held up his hand.

"Let the boy speak." Cedric knew he only had this chance.

"I have found a treasure in the woods." Mardyck waved his hand dismissively, and laughed, but Cedric spoke on.

"There is a ruin in the forest. I found it, and I found a treasure. I can lead you to it," he said. "Just leave Allyria alone."

Mardyck and Otter almost burst into laughter, but held their tongues as the knight nodded. Bull regarded everything as stoically as he always did. 

"Very well," the knight said. "You show us the treasure, and we'll let her go. Until then, we'll keep her close." He pulled Allyria on his horse in front of him, and then motioned for Cedric.

"Lead the way, boy. And don't waste my time."

---

They reached the ruins even faster than before. His captors hadn't even begun to grow impatient when Cedric saw the light from the tower window. When he pointed it out, Mardyck and his friends quickened their steps, but Lorah, the knight, called them back. He had pulled off his helmet, and his coarse beard and wet hair gave him a wild look.

"It might be a trap. The boy goes first." He didn't need to point out that he would kill Allyria when something went wrong. The half-elf had struggled at first, and quietly sobbed for the rest of the trip.

Cedric entered the clearing. He was as afraid of Raxos as he was that Raxos wouldn't be here. He could hear the others following him, and a short look showed him that Allyria was surprised to see the ruins, too. Cedric hoped she would keep her mouth shut.

He walked around the corner, his captors right behind him, but Raxos was nowhere to be seen. Cedric's mouth turned dry, and he looked into the darkness where the treasure had been. Nothing.

"Well, boy? Where is it?" Lorah asked. Cedric hesitated, and Mardyck cursed.

"I knew it was a lie. You are so going to regret lying to us," he said. Cedric took a step back. If he ran into the ruins, he might have a chance. But what about Allyria?

_"What leads you to my castle, Cedric?"_ Cedric looked around, but nobody else seemed to have heard Raxos' whisper.

_"Why did you bring your friends?"_ Lorah and Mardyck were arguing about whether to kill him right here or not, and Otter was studying the ruins. 

"I come for the treasure," Cedric whispered.

_"To your left."_

Cedric looked, and saw the glimmer of gold in the darkness.

"There!" he shouted, pointing towards it. "There it is, just like I promised."

Bull and Otter carefully entered the ruin. Mardyck guarded Cedric, but when the two returned with a chest full of gold and jewels, he seemed to forget about him. Even the knight turned away from them.

"By the gods," he muttered under his breath. Bull put the chest down in the grass. It was almost the proverbial treasure chest: jewels, coins, even a human skull lay on top of all the riches. It was more than the whole village would earn in a hundred years, and it was a fortune even for a knight.

Cedric walked towards Lorah and Allyria.

"Let her go," he said. Lorah grabbed her arm and lifted her down, but did not let go.

"No." He kicked Cedric, and the boy flew backward, stumbling over a rock and smashing his head on a toppled wall. He could hear Allyria screaming.

Lorah swung down from his horse and pushed Allyria to the ground. She tried to get up again, but Bull grabbed her, and sat on her arms, pinning her down. Allyria threw her head to the sides. 

"Grab her ankles," Lorah ordered, and Mardyck and Otter obeyed. 

Allyria was crying now, kicking, screaming, but the knight didn't seem to care. He knelt between her legs and reached forward. Cedric closed his eyes, but he could hear fabric tearing and her screams intensify.

"Silence!" Lorah spat, and Cedric heard metal striking skin. Allyria's screams turned into howls. Another hit, and she was whining.

"That's better." Cedric heard as Lorah pulled off his gloves and threw them on the ground. Straps unfastened, and his breastplate went off. Buckles came loose, and...

_"Just the treasure?"_ Raxos whispered from nearby. Cedric shook his head, held his hands before his ears, but then Allyria screamed again.

"No," he said. "I want the power, too." Laughter echoed through Cedric's mind, dark and evil laughter. It grew louder, and louder, and then he realized the laughter came from himself. Lorah was still kneeling between Allyria's legs, but they were all staring at him now.

He felt lightning coursing through his veins, thunder forming in his fists. He saw Lorah's finger tremble, and he heard Mardyck's heart beat faster. His bones shifted, his skin tightened. When he stood up, he towered over the four humans. His hands twisted into claws. His tongue slid over sharp teeth. His lip curled into a snarl. 

"By the gods," Lorah said. The knight stood up and took a step backwards. Cedric laughed again.

"No gods," he bellowed. "Only death." His jaws made speaking difficult, but he didn't want to talk to them. He wanted to slaughter them.

Bull rushed forward and hit him in the face. His punch had killed horses, but Cedric barely felt the fist connect. He caught the next punch in his grip, and crushed Bull's hand like a ripe peach, red sap running between his claws. Bull howled. Cedric pulled him close, grabbed his head, and twisted. The neck splintered like a twig. Bull toppled over. Mardyck soiled his pants. Otter cackled madly. Lorah had frozen where he stood, half undressed.

Suddenly, Raxos was there. The man appeared out of the ruins. While the others watched, he calmly walked up to the monster that Cedric had become.

"Can you feel the power? Doesn't it feel wonderful?" He let his hand run over the charred skin. "In time, you will learn to change at will, and maybe even control it. For now, have fun with these weaklings." He turned around, and walked into the woods. Shortly before he disappeared, he looked back once more.

"Be seeing you."

Cedric stepped over the dead body and snarled again. Slaver was running down his chin. He looked at Allyria; she held her hands over her exposed breasts and regarded him with wide eyes. He saw her torn dress, he smelled her fear, and it excited him. But he would kill the others first. He wanted to taste their blood. Then he would have time to take care of her.

And then the screaming began for real.

---

Rada was worried about her son. Cedric had only left Bluewater three days ago, but he was not a good tracker. He would get lost in the forest, and starve, she told herself. Which might still be better than if he simply failed. She knew Cedric wanted nothing more than to become a knight, and she feared for him should he fail. He had a dangerous temper, just like his father had, and if it broke through - Rada didn't want to think about that.

She was also worried because three other boys from the village had gone missing. These three were notorious troublemakers, but it was still unlike them to stay away over night. Even the Mad Nan seemed to sense something. The old woman lived alone in a hut at the edge of the forest, but this morning she'd been distraught and confused when she came to town. She'd had cried, but she didn't want to talk about it. Something was very much amiss.

Rada admonished herself to stop worrying. If she spent a full month wondering about Cedric's well-being, she would be crazy by the time he returned - if he returned. She'd turned her thoughts to the sword she planned to buy for Cedric when Darryn, the miller's boy, came rushing towards her.

"He's coming home!" he shouted. A big smile lay on his lips. "He's coming home already!"

"Who?" Rada asked, but then she knew. Cedric. Cedric was coming home. She left her stall and ran past the boy. Even as she ran down the road leading out of Bluewater, her worries returned. Something had happened. Nobody had ever finished the Hunt in three days. Cedric must have already given up, after three days. He would never get a foot on the ground again; he would be the laughingstock of the whole village.

As she reached the mill, a throng of bystanders had already assembled. So much for trying to keep it low, she thought. He would feel their ridicule almost immediately. And truly, most of the people were already tossing jokes back and forth, even before her son was there. They grew quiet when they noticed her, though, and Rada was thankful for that.

Then she saw him. Cedric came walking along the road at a leisurely pace. He didn't seem hesitant or sad. Rada was Somewhat confused by her son's behavior. It seemed he carried his failure well. Then she recognized his clothes.

Cedric was wearing his father's old tunic, the only thing Beregard had left him. And there was no way he would wear it if he hadn't completed the Hunt. Could it be?

"He did it," she said, quietly at first, then louder. "He did it. My son is a man now. And he did it in a mere three days!" Rada laughed. Her son would become a knight. The whole world was open to him.

When he was a few feet away from the village borders, Cedric stopped for a moment, and looked at the assembly. He smirked, and as the sun set behind him, he really looked like a hero. Then, he flung his backpack forward. It landed with the tinkle of many coins, and a ruby rolled out of the sack, glinting in the evening sun. The assembly grew silent except for a few guffaws from a young maiden.

Cedric took the small bag from his belt and undid its strings. He pulled out two pointed ears, and held them high. The whole assembly broke into cheers and applause, and two of the men grabbed him and carried him on his shoulders. The two had been among the jokers shortly before, Rada noticed.

Cedric laughed, but after a few steps he bade to be let down again. He walked towards Rada and flung her into his arms.

"Mother," he said. "I did it." Rada laughed with him.

"As a reward," she told him, "I will bake you the best pie you've ever eaten." 

Cedric looked past her, and then he walked past her, as well. Rada turned around and saw Mara, the midwife Jill's daughter, standing close to him. She held a small leather bag in her hand.

"I'm sorry," Mara said. "I was stupid. Will you still accept my favor?"

Cedric smiled, and took her by the shoulder.

"Pie sounds good, mother." He seemed friendly, but the way he smiled and met her gaze made Rada shiver. "However, I had other rewards in mind. We'll talk later." 

In the setting sun, Rada thought his eyes glowed red for a moment. Cedric turned, and led Mara away.

*The End*


----------



## Berandor (Aug 23, 2004)

Done. And my story was written by Ao, too. Let's see if he outdoes himself


----------



## mythago (Aug 24, 2004)

Fair warning--it will be a few days before my judgment is in.


----------



## orchid blossom (Aug 24, 2004)

Thanks for the warning.  It's actually easier to wait when I know it'll be a while.


----------



## mythago (Aug 29, 2004)

Judgment sent!


----------



## Berandor (Aug 29, 2004)

Yay! Let's hope Barsoomcore has, too


----------



## alsih2o (Aug 30, 2004)

Barsoomcore sent his early. Sorry I am late, I fired a kiln yesterday and still feel like a mule kicked me. Twice.

 Final round Decision: Berandor Vs. Orchid Blossom

  Alsih2o-

Orchid Blossom- Good story. Nothing blindingly brilliant, and I think the end could have maybe been more personal (maybe even by just naming the former partner?) but it is a good story.

 I was impressed by the picture use, the light behind the cleric, the goofy pose by the rogue, the detail of the eye “scars” on the sorceress. The use of these details, and the skull, show me you were really shaping story and pics together.

 Berandor- What a spooky story! So much unexplained, but in a good way.

 The treatement of the half-elf, the shock of Raxos. The greed and misbehavior of the knight. Good world, even with so many huts. J

 I would have appreciated at least a quick view of some of the other characters before they show up as a rape-gang, and a bit more on Raxos, some explanation of what was going down there.

 The picture use is good, they are all there, but I favored OB on that one as she drew the details out. Your story is strong though, an your world drew me in more. 

 Judgement: OOB got more done with the pictures, but in the end Berandor kicked my butt by filling em with emotions that are not easily named. I choose Berandor.

 Mythago-



 THE PUPPET MASTER (orchid blossom)

It's a different take on the old "rogue gets his comeuppance"; I 
particularly like his exit from the brothel, with arrows whizzing past 
his ears. The pictures integrate into the story nicely, and Nigel's an 
engaging protagonist. (Sophia, much less so, which is disappointing 
given that she's the nominal 'winner'.) The interaction with Darien 
really shines and is, I think, the best part of the story; seeing the 
sun behind the cleric as an incoming spell is particularly well-done.

But it seems that the story hiccups around the pictures.

Why did Nigel hang on to the skull? He doesn't seem like the kind of guy 
to hoard a valueless trophy. (I know the picture has a skull; but how 
did it get there? It doesn't make sense that Nigel would have kept it.) 
Why didn't Sophia arrange to deal with Nigel when she first stole the 
chest, or better, that night in the brothel when he was completely at 
her mercy? (It would have been easier to get the chest, then, too.) 
Certainly she could have told her 'ride'--whose presence is completely 
unexplained--that the puppet-Nigel was an associate, as he'd be in no 
condition to complain. Why attack Darien? Surely it would be a Bad Idea 
to irriate Darien's entire church.

And the ending is unsatisfying, because the person who gives Nigel his 
comeuppance is a lot less likeable than he is. I couldn't see this as 
what barsoomcore (correctly) refers to as a "Heh heh heh" story, because 
who cares if Sophia wins? She's a bitch. And Nigel is likeable, if a 
sleazeball. So there's no emotional punch one way or the other at the end.


THE HUNT (Berandor)

I found the world you drew here incredibly engaging; the 
nobody-is-the-good-guy hatred between the humans and elves, the social 
structure of Cedric's little village, the Hunt, the claustrophia of the 
small society and how it affects Cedric and Allyria.

I found the prose wasn't quite up to the story in places. The opening 
scene was, I'm sorry, a bit of an eye-roller: okay, we get that he's 
upset and stumbling through the woods, but this was a bit overdone, even 
given that Cedric is young and has a temper. (I kept expecting to hear 
Linkin Park in the background.) There were too many places where you 
lapsed into dictation, with the author explaining (rather than showing) 
what's going on.

Let me give you an example. You could have told us that the elves are 
just as hostile and nasty as the human villagers, but you show us in one 
line: Cedric reminding Allyria of what they did to her mother. That 
makes it very clear that the elves are much more than simply fending off 
attacks. Contrast that to  the two-paragraph explanation of the Hunt, 
when we could easily have gotten the same information (and pretty much 
did) by inference in the other conversations about Cedric's own Hunt.

The story really begins to pick up towards the end, when Cedric makes 
his choice, and returns to the village....not quite the same. And the 
full horror of his change--what he did to Allyria--is made clear, 
without explanation or flourish.

Judgment this round for BERANDOR.

 orchid blossom  "The Puppet Master"

A tight little story, one that plays nicely with the little details in 
the pictures. Your characters are nicely drawn

My problem with it is that the story's actually about Sophia, but we 
get it from Nigel's point of view, and Nigel doesn't do much of 
anything throughout. I know you're going for the surprise of "Nigel 
done somebody wrong" ending -- but I can't help but think I'd have 
enjoyed the story more if it were from Sophia's point of view.

This gives it a certain flatness, I'm afraid, since our involvement is 
limited to watching Nigel react to Sophia's efforts. And Sophia's 
efforts don't always make a lot of sense. If she wants Nigel to serve 
her, why doesn't she do that to him in the first place? Why all the 
fuss with the orc and the knight and the fireball?

The picture use is excellent (as always), however, and the story 
certainly doesn't lag at any point. You keep things moving so fast that 
there's no time to worry about story confusion during the reading. It's 
only after, as I'm considering things, that I start going, "Hey, but 
what about..."

But I think the fundamental problem here is that Nigel's not taking any 
action -- he occasionally reacts to Sophia's actions, but even then 
it's limited to ducking and running away. If Nigel had been more of 
narrative force, I would have developed more of an emotional connection 
to him. We get connected to characters who we observe trying to do 
things. What they try to do and how they go about it are what tell us 
about them, and what make us care about them or hate them. Since 
Nigel's not doing very much, and what he is doing he's not doing in any 
particular style, we don't get a good sense of him as a character, and 
we don't care about him all that much.

This has been a problem for you throughout the competition, orchid 
blossom -- main characters who don't take much action. I get the 
feeling that you're shying away from the stories that really grip you 
-- this story would have been very interesting from Sophia's point of 
view, watching her get her revenge on her friend's bad boyfriend. But 
from the point of view of the bad boyfriend -- who never does anything 
very bad that we can see -- it's not super-satisfying.

In the beginning you set up that this Nigel character has had some good 
luck -- which gives us the expectation that maybe his luck is about to 
end. And while, yeah, his luck has ended, we don't watch him try to get 
out of his predicament, nor do we watch things get progressively worse 
and worse and worse. It's just -- now he's an orc, now he's stabbed, 
now he's lost his money, now he's a puppet. If these things piled up 
and up then that would build some tension in us as we wondered what 
next for this poor guy. If he was scrambling and taking actions to 
escape Sophia's plans, we'd be excited to see how he fared.

I'll just finish by pointing out that even the title of this story 
suggests that it's really about Sophia, not Nigel.

Technically, you're a fine writer, orchid blossom. You've always been 
economical with your prose and your characters have always been 
well-drawn. I enjoy reading your stories. If I can suggest an exercise 
you might benefit from -- try writing a story about a character trying 
to do something utterly trivial. Open a door. Tie their shoes. Try to 
come up with as many resistances to them completing this task as you 
possibly can, and force your character to come up with ever more 
desperate measures in order to succeed.

This is actually one of the bases of comedy -- trivial actions 
encountering great resistances. The other is the opposite -- great 
actions encountering trivial resistances. In any case, I really think 
you'd benefit from deliberately trying to keep a story to a single 
course of action, and keeping your focus on that.

If you want someone to read such efforts (or indeed anything you might 
produce) please don't hesitate to ask me. I'd be happy to.



Berandor  "The Hunt"

Wow, that was a nasty little tale. Not at all sure I approve, but not 
in a bad way. Just... yuck. That was a story about a bunch of bad, bad 
people. Doing bad, bad things.

First up -- props for the bravery, Berandor. That was a gutsy story.

Alright, let's get into it.

You do give fair warning in your opening scene. Cedric's looking like 
kind of a jerk from square one, which you pay off later. To put it 
mildly. Your language is a little plain, and you still tend to shift 
voice without notification. The paragraph that starts with "Why had he 
even asked her?" seems to be from the voice of Cedric, while the 
following one seems to be from some other voice entirely. It's okay to 
shift, but each shift needs to be clear and needs to serve a purpose. 
Otherwise, why are you doing it?

That following paragraph ("It's not that Cedric was ugly.") is 
problematic. It's a big chunk of exposition about somebody we don't 
even know, serving no purpose that we're aware of. It's fine to dump 
out exposition that is clearly giving the reader important information, 
but at this point in the story I don't have any way of knowing if this 
is important so I just get impatient and skip over it, then say to 
myself, "No, I should really read this," and go back and read it, and 
now you've lost me as a reader.

The fact that this exposition turns out to be pointless only rubs salt 
in the wound. This has been a problem for you throughout this 
competition, I know -- and you've improved dramatically, Berandor -- 
but you can't miss a step on your opening scene. If you don't get me 
now, you never will.

But you do a good job setting up your story -- the racial issue and 
Cedric's foul nature.

Allyria and her relationship with Cedric is a bit of a problem 
logically. Why is she friends with this boor? Especially if he accepts 
the village party line that elves are okay to kill. I would have bought 
it if you'd made it clear that Cedric had suffered some change of heart 
in deciding to go on the Hunt, but it seems like this has been his plan 
all along, so I don't really see why she tolerates him.

I just want to add that the term "knight" isn't enough. If in this land 
knights are people who kill elves, or defend the country from elves, 
then I reckon they ought to have some proper title. Just me.

You do a good job at building up Cedric's point of view. Nobody has any 
faith in him, nobody appreciates him. I'm actually sympathetic to him 
at the point at which he heads off into the woods -- I'm hoping this 
young chap learns a lesson and gains a little tenderness.

No such luck, huh?

And suddenly it's Raxos. The whole Raxos and his castle in the middle 
of the forest kinda comes out of nowhere. It works for me, pretty much, 
but that's mostly because I'm by now so wrapped up in Cedric and his 
internal struggle that your external trappings aren't really bothering 
me much at all. So you probably could have set this up a little better. 
But, okay, castle in the woods, little smiley guy with a sinister offer 
-- I have no real problem with this.

And then things get very unpleasant. And then they get even more 
unpleasant. And at last they get more unpleasant than I care to think 
about. Holy crap, Ber. You really went all the way with this one. I 
admit it, I was shocked. Appalled. I felt cheated -- you'd gotten me to 
care about this guy and then he turns out to be a complete jerk.

Nice job.

I'm struck by your improvement over the course of this contest, Ber. 
Each story has been better than the previous one, braver, tighter, and 
more ambitious. Each time you've gotten to a stronger emotional core 
than the previous story.

Your weakness is in story structure. In this story, the castle and 
Raxos are kind of thrown in without any explication or set-up or 
anything. It's just, for some reason, there's this castle. Maybe it's a 
function of Ceramic DM, but it seems that your stories have often 
nearly foundered on structural issues -- either too much set-up, or 
pointless scenes, or whatever. I suspect you're a writer who greatly 
benefits from an edit session a week or so after writing the first 
draft -- so that you can come back to it with a fresh eye and see the 
unnecessary stuff.

My advice is to do just that -- and to make it your mission to always 
cut about half of your story out. The way you write is to build stuff 
up and up, and I suspect that when you start you don't always quite 
know where you're going -- which is great, but which means that by the 
time you get where you're going, you've gone down any number of dead 
ends and your story needs a serious pruning.

Keep the idea of cutting half your story and I think your stories would 
be much better. But this one was very, very strong.


Decision: Berandor


----------



## Piratecat (Aug 30, 2004)

Wow! Congratulations, everyone! Hail to our new Ceramic DM and 2nd place winners, and my amazed appreciation of some really good stories. This has been really fun to watch.


----------



## Ao the Overkitty (Aug 30, 2004)

Congrats to the winner.


----------



## BSF (Aug 30, 2004)

Congratulations Berandor!  
As always, we had some fine stories and then a strong final match off.  Ceramic DM is always fun.


----------



## Rodrigo Istalindir (Aug 30, 2004)

Well done, Berandor!  And congratulations on a match well played, Orchid Blossom.


----------



## Berandor (Aug 30, 2004)

Wow. I can't believe I actually won the tournament. 

First off, thanks to my opponents. They didn't make it easy for me.  Who knows, MarauderX might now be in my stead. Beating Macbeth didn't seem possible for me going in. Carpedavid really became a luminary after just his first story, and gave me another run for my money. And now I even moved past orchid blossom, whose first story put her on the map the same way as carpedavid's, and who really gave me nightmares in the time leading up to the finals.

I can't really say I hated any of the stories this year, and I really loved a lot of them. I had great fun reading all entries.

Of course, I give my thanks to the judges, as well. When waiting for judgement, I often grumbled, but I think I was always grateful after the fact for the time and diligence you took upon yourself in critiquing the stories. Because of your judgements I really started to deliberately decide on certain aspects of the story instead of just writing along.

And alis2ho really deserves praise for this tournament. Ceramic DM has rekindled my love for fiction -  I had written mostly reviews and articcles in the last months.


----------



## BSF (Aug 30, 2004)

Ah, a bit more time to post.  

I would like to thank all of the contestants, and the readers.  As an author I can tell you that it is always a pleasure to pair off against somebody.  It is also gratifying to hear when any of you enjoys one of the stories.

I also want to send out a huge thanks to the judges.  It is a tough job to read and judge all the stories.  The feedback is very much appreciated.  I hope you have been able to enjoy the arduous task of reading everything.

On a related note, I am curious how the growth of the contest from 8 first round competitors to 16 first round competitors has affected the judges.  By doubling the contestants, we more than doubled the stories to be read.  In an 8 contestant contest, there are 14 stories.  In a 16 contestant contest, there are 30 stories.  Ceramic DM is about wacky pictures, tough deadlines and nifty stories.  But it is mostly about having fun.  As a writer and a reader, I have a lot of fun.  But if the judges aren't having fun, then I think we need to change something.  So, if any of you are feeling burned out from so many stories to judge, I would like to hear about it.  Judging is a volunteer gig and if we are asking more than is fair, we need to know.

Thanks to everyone, again.

David


----------



## orchid blossom (Aug 30, 2004)

First off to Berandor, along with the congratulations comes the "I told you so!"  (Check the other thread, I really did.)

Seriously, a well-deserved win all around.

My thanks to the judges as well for the good, solid, detailed feedback.  It's hard work, and we all appreciate you volunteering your time.



			
				barsoomcore said:
			
		

> I get thefeeling that you're shying away from the stories that really grip you-- this story would have been very interesting from Sophia's point of
> view, watching her get her revenge on her friend's bad boyfriend.




You're at least partially right here.  Without getting into my pshycological profile, let's just say that I have some major real life issues with conflict and unpleasantness.  Concurrently, the time limit generally has me leaving out the more complex emotional stuff as that takes me a lot more time to work through.

Reposted from the other thread, (and this is all I'll say about this final round story)



			
				orchid blossom said:
			
		

> My muse played a joke on me. I finally got even the barest idea for a plot Sunday morning, which means I had one day to write it. (I couldn't use Monday as I had to work.) I got through the story and realized that I had clarified what I wanted to write, and had something that was really a first draft on my hands. But I just had no time to do a major rewrite.
> 
> Most of the problems you(Berandor) pointed out with continuity I realized were there, and had intended to fix. But I stopped for a break and ended up going to sleep, and that was the end of that.






			
				barsoomcore said:
			
		

> If you want someone to read such efforts (or indeed anything you mightproduce) please don't hesitate to ask me. I'd be happy to.




I really appreciate the offer.  Thing is, I don't really write anymore.  Ceramic DM is the only writing I've done in the past several years.  I like Ceramic DM because the pictures give me somewhere to start with a plot.  Most times I sit down to write and I'm pretty much plot and idea free.  Blank page.  The time limit is a blessing as well as a bane as it gets my butt moving.

You never know though, if I find a bit of inspiration somewhere you just might get something someday.


----------



## barsoomcore (Aug 31, 2004)

Congrats to Berandor and to all the contestants -- this is a tough, nerve-grinding competition and yet everyone pulled it out. Well done. There's a few classic Ceramic DM stories in here, for sure.

It was a lot more work than I realised it was going to be, judging this competition. I was half-way through the first round when I truly understood how much work I'd let myself in for.

But it was really, really fun. I learned HUGE amounts about my own opinions on story-telling, and got my eyes opened time and again. It was interesting how in sync the judges were -- I think there were only three non-unanimous decisions (and I think I was the dissenting voice in all three... hm...) which represents a surprising (to me) correspondence of opinion. Not sure if it's a good thing or a bad thing or even a thing. Just saying.

I am definitely feeling somewhat burned out. But I think I would do this again. I'd definitely do it again if the tournament went back to 8 contestants. 16, though, is a lot to ask.


----------



## barsoomcore (Aug 31, 2004)

Oh, important point -- I'm not feeling burned out from READING the stories. Reading the stories was always a joy. It was writing the judgements that took up my energy.

"Gee, bc, maybe if you'd restricted yourself to LESS THAN 82,000 words per judgement it wouldn't have been so hard on you."

Yeah, fair enough. I'm not blaming, I'm just saying.

And finally I should say that it was a real pleasure judging in such fine company as mythago and Clay. You guys are pillars of the community here and fine folks to boot. Hopefully we'll all hook up one of these days for a beer or three...


----------



## Berandor (Aug 31, 2004)

Just one thing from the other thread (and if you want to read more, read there )



> Finally, let it be said that I hate the pictures that were given to us. Roger Ebert-North-hate. These pics were so generic they didn't really inspire me at all, in any way. Writing a story around these pics was nearly impossible; in the end, I had to write a story first and then find a place for the pictures, plus making them meaningful or essential. That was brutal, simply because these pics could have been from any frickin fantasy story ever written.




So there!


----------



## mythago (Aug 31, 2004)

I'm not burned out at all--it's good to be on the other end of the raccoon stick once in a while. The slowness of judgment has everything to do with a crushing work schedule and nothing to do with the stories themselves. I usually print 'em out and read them once, then go back with a red pen and write scribbly notes for later.

So, uh, we can read the No Judges thread now, right?


----------



## BSF (Aug 31, 2004)

I see no reason why you couldn't.  Though, when I was referencing all the Ceramic DM threads, I began to seriously question the need for the other thread.  It does seem like we lose a certain amount of participation and if there are any overriding comments, those can always be spoilered.  

What does everyone else think?


----------



## Berandor (Aug 31, 2004)

The only thing I want to be able to is reading the stories and commenting on them before judgement is given, because I like to give feedback and do so when the story is fresh on my mind, but after judgements I kind of lack the energy to tread the same ground again.

Oh, and mythago, read on. Uh, and ignore those comments about your mother, ok? I was kind of stressed out then.


----------



## MarauderX (Aug 31, 2004)

Congrats.


----------



## carpedavid (Aug 31, 2004)

Congrats Berandor, and to all the contestants.

Special thanks to the judges who did a consistantly great job.


----------



## Graywolf-ELM (Aug 31, 2004)

Congrats' to Berandor, and to everyone else with the guts to participate.  Thank you to the judges, your judgement showed me I need to give up, or spend more time writing to hone what skills I might have.  This was an enjoyable, if stressful competition.

GW


----------



## alsih2o (Aug 31, 2004)

berandor said:
			
		

> Finally, let it be said that I hate the pictures that were given to us. Roger Ebert-North-hate. These pics were so generic they didn't really inspire me at all, in any way. Writing a story around these pics was nearly impossible; in the end, I had to write a story first and then find a place for the pictures, plus making them meaningful or essential. That was brutal, simply because these pics could have been from any frickin fantasy story ever written.




 I win!!   

 Well, it is a ball every time for me. I am wondering if the next shouldn't be an open entry, with judges choosing the best 8 to compete?

 Berandor- are you interested in some judging?

 How does everyone feel? what needs improved? What needs revamped? Which originator needs locled out to make room for real talent?


----------



## mythago (Aug 31, 2004)

Problem with open entry is doing the match-ups, and then having people bust their butts to get *into* Ceramic DM. I like the idea of just taking as many people who want to sign up in, I dunno, a 3-day period.


----------



## Rodrigo Istalindir (Aug 31, 2004)

Maybe drop the word count in the first round, and use 3 pictures instead of four.  This would make it easier on the judges during the biggest part of the competition, and might also speed things up a bit from a competitor standpoint. 

If the first round were 3 pictures/3000 words, say, then those competing might find it a little easier to fit into their daily schedule, and it would be easier to schedule each pairing.


----------



## BSF (Aug 31, 2004)

My initial reaction is  .  But then I think about it and I think the last couple of Ceramic DM contests have been filled in that period and then petered out.  It isn't until the first round is underway that we end up with a few people chiming in that they would like to play but missed the signup.  

So a three day signup and then run with it might be a good thing.  I think the big concern would be a suddenly overwhelming turnout with 20+ first round contestants.  How about this?  

 Three day signup - First responses have preference
 Minimum 8 contestants + alternates
 Judges must agree if they are willing to take more contestants
 If more than 16 people signup, round 1 will consist of a "group competition" with the best 8 stories going on to round 2.
There are some ideas.  Tear them apart like a school of pirahna in frenzy.  

Alsih2o, if you do not want to run the next round, or any round, that's cool.  You have busy stuff going on and it might not be easy to run a contest.  You might also want to try your hand at writing again.  But this whole originator without talent schtick, nah, I'm not buying it.


----------



## alsih2o (Aug 31, 2004)

BardStephenFox said:
			
		

> Alsih2o, if you do not want to run the next round, or any round, that's cool.




 I was incredibly nervous the first time I handed it off. But it was a real ball seeing what others did with it.

 I see someone else running the fall session, with me as a possible contestant.


----------



## Berandor (Aug 31, 2004)

Yeah, I'd like to judge. I deliberately tried to comment on every story this time to show I've got the stamina  even though I wouldn't be as soft when judging   

As for the tournament, I don't know if we really want to exclude people based on past showings and become elitist. (harshly formulated, I know, so here's a smile to take off the sting )
ETA: D'oh, I just realized that by "open entry", you mean to have a round with the same pics, and the eight best advance, right? Color me stupid then, I misunderstood 

I like the idea of a three-pic first round, 4 in round two, 5 in round three, and 6 in the finals.

I'd probably set up the competition with 4 reserved seats for newbies (max. 1 Ceramic DM entry) and 5 reserved seats for previous finalists (or at least semi-finalists if we can't get 5 finalists). In all, I'd make it 14 contestants, with a bracket like this:

Match 1: Newbie1 vs. Newbie2
Match 2: Newbie3 vs. Newbie4
Match 3: Finalist1 vs. Random
Match 4: Finalist2 vs. Random
Match 5: Finalist3 vs. Random
Match 6: Finalist4 vs. Random
Match 7: Finalist5 vs. Random

We'd have seven winners + 1 "Lucky Loser" (Jury decides on best losing story) for the next round, which would be randomized (?).

This would be my idea of the next tournament.

Now, just for discussion's sake:
What do people think of "themed rounds", for example, having to write a pirate story or something like that. I think we had a "modern" contest once, but how was it received?

ETA: I think we could make the write-in more flexible by one or more of the following ideas:
1. Post the sign-up time and date up to three days early and mention it in the header of the thread.
2. Have several sign-ups (3 people+ 2 noobs + 2 finalists at 2 pm, 2 people + 2 noobs + 3 finalists at 8 opm, for example).
3. Keep 2-4 seats open until after the first story is posted, so that people who notice the story can get in. x


----------



## Zhaneel (Sep 1, 2004)

My thoughts:

Is there a rule that says we have to have the same 3 judges for all stories in the competition?

I think what would be best would be to do the 3-day sign-up period.  Then figure out the number of matches.  If it is 8 or less, I think we've got the pattern down now.  If it is more than 8, split the group in half and have two rounds going at the same time with two sets of judges at first.  Recombine the groups at some point.  Heck, mix up the contestants who advance within the groups for all I care.  As such

Round 1A: Joe v Larry, Karen v Marissa, Eric v Ben, Harry v Sally, Mike v. Ralph, Bert v. Ernie 
Judges for Round 1A: Russia, US, Korea

Round 1B: Michelle v Crystal, Moe v Curly, Rei v. Serena, Han v. Chewie, Luke v Leia, Zerkold v. Garion
Judges for Round  1B: Canada, China, Mexico

Round 2A: Joe v Crystal, Moe v. Marissa, Ben v. Serena
Judges for Round 2A: Russia, China, Mexico

Round 2B: Sally v. Chewie, Luke v. Ralph, Ernie v. Garion
Judges for Round 2B: Canada, US, Korea

Round 3: Crystal v Moe, Ben v. Sally, Luke v. Garion
Judges for Round 3: China, Mexico, Korea

Round 4:  3-way competition between Moe, Sally & Garion.  Winner is Final.
Judges for Round 4: US, Russia, Canada

Or whatever.

This way it takes some of the pressure off the judges to be dealing with so many stories.  It also allows for faster response time on the contestants as there can be multiple competitions going.  And more stories for readers.  Yay!!!!

The problems I foresee is the following:

The idea of different judges meaning that the whole competition will not on the same level of fairness - I disagree with this.  I think more judges would make it more fair as writers will have to appeal to more than just 3 people.  You can write to the judges if you know them and I feel that is not necessarily a good thing.

Confusion as to who is doing what with which pictures.  - Valid complaint

Determination of the "final" judges - As in when do the separate pools stop and who judges the last story?  There are a number of variations on when/how to recombine.

I personally like the idea of 3 pictures 3500 words.  Those extra 500 go a long way to creating good stories while still keeping it short.  Then add 1000 words per picture.

I would be willing to judge, but I will probably not write again [fear of losing rights to stories] and I won't organize.

Zhaneel


----------



## orchid blossom (Sep 1, 2004)

I actually think things run pretty well as they are now.  16 contestants is a lot, and I know (from experience now) that not only is it hard on the judges, but writing 4 stories is very hard.  I can see perhaps adding extra judges for the first round, just to lighten the load, then having one judge from each group continue on with one who didn't judge at all.  (Even this I think is more than really needs to change as long as the judges know what they're getting into.  Plus, imagine trying to find a total of 7 judges.)

As for the "Lucky loser," concept, while I appreciate the aim I don't think it's a good idea.  Working out a fair way of choosing, especially if there isn't a clear stand-out story, could be very problematic.  

With sign-ups, I would just suggest they get announced a few days early, and people chiming in right away to say "I want in," just need to be reminded to stop in and say that after sign-ups officially open.  ( I can see some people getting skunked by time-zones here, but I don't think that's anything new.)

Just my two cents here.


----------



## Berandor (Sep 1, 2004)

orchid blossom said:
			
		

> As for the "Lucky loser," concept, while I appreciate the aim I don't think it's a good idea.  Working out a fair way of choosing, especially if there isn't a clear stand-out story, could be very problematic.




Excellent point!


----------



## alsih2o (Sep 1, 2004)

Zhaneel said:
			
		

> I would be willing to judge, but I will probably not write again [fear of losing rights to stories] and I won't organize.
> 
> Zhaneel




 If you are not willing to participate and cannot help organize I see no way for you to ever judge. Especially after dropping out twice, once ofter the competition was rearranged to make sure you got a spot. 

 I do not mean to be rude, but you have to REALLY be able to count on your judges.


----------



## mythago (Sep 2, 2004)

I'd be willing to run the Fall competition if needed.


----------



## orchid blossom (Sep 2, 2004)

mythago said:
			
		

> I'd be willing to run the Fall competition if needed.




I like that idea.  I'd much rather deal with pictures of hands and concrete globes than try to get past you as a writer again.


----------



## RangerWickett (Sep 2, 2004)

I am heartily interested in trying this again.  Last time was not so easy because I had to write concurrently with finals, but now I'm relatively unemployed . . . I mean 'free.'  So I'm all for writin' some more.  *grin*


----------



## Piratecat (Sep 2, 2004)

orchid blossom said:
			
		

> I'd much rather deal with pictures of hands and concrete globes than try to get past you as a writer again.




Oh, just twist that knife.


----------



## Zhaneel (Sep 13, 2004)

alsih2o said:
			
		

> If you are not willing to participate and cannot help organize I see no way for you to ever judge. Especially after dropping out twice, once ofter the competition was rearranged to make sure you got a spot.
> 
> I do not mean to be rude, but you have to REALLY be able to count on your judges.




You're not rude.  I understand.

I dropped out only once, however.  And I understand your problem there.  If that prevents me from ever particpating again, I will accept that.

Zhaneel


----------

