Messages

[@Sinitrena]

Wow, we all kinda took that theme and ran in four different directions. That's what I love about this comp!


@Sinitrena

Spoiler

I liked it! It was moody and thought-provoking. The half-twist (slide?) at the end was fantastic! Slight grammatical lapse with "were it tears in his eyes?" - I point this out because I've noticed similar conjugation quirks like this in your writing before, and it's a distraction from what is otherwise very good writing. There is a rare circumstance where you could pair it + were (conditional tense i.e. "were it not for him"), but in general you should always use "was" when "it" is involved. So, even though "tears" is plural ("tears were in his eyes" is correct), when you construct the sentence around the subject "it" the sentence should read "was it tears in his eyes?" (I personally would prefer "were those tears in his eyes?", but then we're getting into stylistic arguments  ). Getting back on track, this story punched hard for me because I have exactly two kids myself (no plans to run out on them, but it would be horrible if they were cut out of my life for forty years). So top marks for insight into the human condition, pulling on my emotional strings, and twisting the script at the end.

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@brushfe

Spoiler

I'm sure somebody will bring it up ( ), but we've had lengthy debates in the past about contest administrants submitting their work. One school of thought says it's biased, because they already know what the topic is ahead of time, and another school of thought says more stories makes the competition more interesting, so what's the harm? The unofficial compromise has been that contest administrators can post stories but then declare that it's not a "real" entry and therefore can't be voted for. You're new, you didn't know, and since I was in the second school of thought it doesn't really bother me, but to keep the peace I automatically discounted voting for you. 

Having said that, your story was like a wormhole into my mind. Whichever lane of traffic I pick, the other always seems to be doing better (or maybe only as well?). Maybe it's a Canadian thing, being such a car-centric culture but also having such horrendous traffic in the major cities. Either way, you have me questioning that my suffering is pre-ordained and that the only way out of this Sisyphean purgatory is to just stay home and avoid lines/traffic/people altogether.    Of course there's always driving into a concrete wall to prove a point, but that seems an escalation too far IMO.

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@Mandle

Spoiler

At first I was a little put off by the rambling tone of your story, until I realized that it's exactly how I would scribble a note on the fly (pen pals, anyone?  ). I'm always a sucker for sci-fi (know your market, I suppose), and I was fascinated with how the inconsequential super-power turned out to be consequential indeed. I'm making some jumps of inferencing here, because it's not overtly stated, but I'm assuming [Joe] was able to see the future of his own demise because of the ridiculously inconsequential trial ahead of time? You got my vote for cool concept, strong narrative technique, and hilarious twist at the end. Good work!

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[Death Warrant]

Death Warrant

Spoiler

Wednesday June 6, 2012 - 13h36 - 6th Precinct

Detective Constable David Tarker had a reputation down at the 6th precinct, and he meant to keep it. He was a no nonsense investigator, a man possessed when he was on the trail of a malefactor, like a bloodhound on the heels of a fox.

Which was why when the Perkins file crossed his desk, a slight smile quirked the corner of his lips.

It didn't matter that he and Perkins shared a distant history. It didn't matter that Tarker's ex-wife had dated Perkins for a while in high school, or that Perkins had accidentally dented his car at the Bowl-o-rama 20 years ago, or that Perkins' dog had left a steaming pile of nastiness at his outdoor wedding reception. No, what mattered was that Perkins was accused of being a low-level drug dealer, and that Tarker always got his man.

He signed the warrant application with relish, and assembled his team.

Wednesday June 6, 2012 - 16h11 - 13 Meadowlark Crescent

The officers pulled up in front of the accused's residence in full force: three police vehicles and eight officers armed with all the tools necessary for disassembling a house and ferreting out hidden evidence. Crow bars, drill guns, even a reciprocating saw—Tarker was going to enjoy this.

He led his team up the walkway of the unassuming suburban residence and knocked firmly on the door. There were a few footsteps, and then the subject of the investigation answered.

"Humphrey Perkins—we have a warrant to search these premises. I am Detective Constable Tarker and I will be the supervisory officer for this search. You are to remain in my eyesight for the entire period of our search and you are to refrain from any communication, electronic or otherwise, with anyone outside of this home. Do you understand?"

"Davie, what on earth is this all about? You're going to frighten the cat with all your stomping about with heavy boots. I say, what are you intending to do with that crowbar?"

"Mr. Perkins, obstructing a police investigation is an offence under section 129 of the criminal code. You have the right to be present but not to interfere. Please sit down in the living room where I can see you."

Perkins made a face, but did as he was instructed. He poured himself a drink—scotch, by the look of it—and sat himself down on the sofa.

"Want one?" he asked grumpily, waving his drink in Tarker's direction.

"Officers on duty do not imbibe, Mr. Perkins. In fact, I recommend you don't either, given the circumstances."

"Recommendation received and ignored, Davie. Under the circumstances."

Constable Jeffers moved a coffee table away from the wall and took out his reciprocating saw.

"What are you going to do with that?!" Perkins asked, spilling a bit of scotch in his panic.

"We have reason to believe that a cache of drugs is hidden somewhere in this house," Tarker explained. "It's all in the warrant I handed you. Drug dealers will typically hide their horde in the walls or between the floor joists to evade the law, and thus we must open up the walls to investigate."

"Oh, Joyce won't be pleased with this ..." Perkins muttered.

"That's no concern of ours," Tarker said, trying to keep the glee from his voice. Perkins had been an annoyance in his life for many decades, like a mosquito in the night. At last Tarker was going to swat that pest. "Constable Jeffers—proceed."

Jeffers pulled the trigger of his saw and—nothing happened.

"Must be the battery." He shrugged and swapped it out. Then—nothing still.

Tarker's foot began tapping, despite himself. "Jeffers?"

"I don't understand it, Sir. I tested this equipment back at the station and it—aaarghhh!"

The battery pack of the reciprocating saw had somehow caught fire, burning Jeffers' hand. He dropped the tool on the floor, screamed like a madman, and then rushed to the kitchen to run his injury under cold water.

Tarker frowned at the offending tool that was still smoldering in the middle of the floor.

Perkins slouched deeper into the sofa, nursing his drink.

Then there was a curse from upstairs, followed by a scream. And then the sound of something large falling down the stairs.

"Won't you excuse me just one moment," Tarker said to his suspect.

"But I thought I wasn't to be left out of your sight for the duration of your search?"

Tarker frowned again.

Thursday June 7, 2012 - 08h19 - 6th Precinct

Captain John Runciman scowled over his reading glasses at Tarker. "And you expect me to believe this report?"

Tarker swallowed. "All of the attending officers can corroborate it."

"This was to be a simple execution of a search warrant in a low-risk premises," the Captain barked. "Instead, I have six officers off on injury, and yet nowhere does it say here that the suspect booby-trapped his house or made any move to resist the attending officers. How am I supposed to explain this to my superiors? Jeffers—third degree burns suffered to the hand and arm due to battery pack catching fire. Henderson—hernia trying to move a couch. DeWitt—internal burns due to ingestion of superheated coffee. Green—slipped on the stairs and broke three bones in his arm and shoulder. Chan—disfiguring scratch marks across the face caused by a spooked feline. Brodeur—broken nose and concussion due to crow bar slipping back into his own face. And then, on top of the cost of an ambulance attending the scene, the engine of your squad car overheated on the drive back to the station causing a complete write-off of the vehicle. And I'm to believe that, somehow, all of this was a coincidence?"

Tarker swallowed harder. "It does seem suspicious. But I can't otherwise explain the events that occurred in my report."

The captain glared at his subordinate. "It's not your job to explain these things—it's HIS. Get this Perkins fellow in here for an interrogation."

Tarker's mood brightened considerably. "Yes, sir!"

Thursday June 7, 2012 - 11h03 - 6th Precinct

"Thank you for coming in, Mr. Perkins," Tarker said, showing his old acquaintance into the interrogation room.

"You'd just have arrested me and dragged me down here anyway—you said as much! Davie, I know we've had a rough history, but we've actually got a lot in common, if you think about it. She left me before she left you, after all. The thing is—"

"Please sit down, Mr. Perkins. Before we get into it, please state your name for the record."

"Er, Humphrey Perkins, accountant. I say that last bit because I think one of my clients might be trying to wriggle out of the bill by throwing me under the bus. I do tend to get distracted, and I'm a bit of a klutz as you well know, but I'm not an idiot."

"We can discuss your theory in a moment, Mr. Perkins, but first I want to know what happened yesterday at your house. Why have I been filling out insurance forms all night?"

Humphrey cast his eyes heavenward. "I told you, Joyce wasn't going to like you trashing the house."

"So your wife is a witch?"

"My wife left me three years ago—I told you we had a lot in common. No, Joyce is ... she's an old tenant of the house, see? Long before we moved in there was an accident and ... she's haunted the house ever since."

Tarker blinked in disbelief.

"I know it's not what you want to hear, and I did try to warn you, but ... there you have it, all my cards on the table."

"Mr. Perkins, I won't pretend to know what is going on, but I know it's not a ghost haunting your 1980s bungalow. You're going to sit here, in this room, while I execute another warrant, and when I come back I want you to have come up with a better story. Understood?"

"I don't think that's a good idea," Perkins said, rubbing his eye as if tired. "Joyce gets ... worked up when there are strangers in the house, especially when the regular occupants of the home are not around. Our old cleaning lady ... we still didn't really understand back then ... She was a beautiful black girl, twenty-six—Rebecca was her name, very helpful. We came home one day after she had been cleaning alone and ... she was scared senseless, hair turned white as snow—skin as well. I've heard she still doesn't speak more than one word at a time.

"Now, how 'bout this? You and me get a drink down the local pub and I'll tell you everything you want to know, about Joyce, about the Gomez account, even about Tilda, that manipulative woman we both so love to hate. But please, I'm asking you not to send more people over to the house."

Tarker thought a bit, then rose. "Painfully transparent, Mr. Perkins. You're not going to frighten a police officer with a ghost story, and you're not going to win my confidence by feeding me empty leads and pretending to understand my personal life. I have a job to do, and I pride myself in the fact that I do it well. Enjoy your day in the interrogation cell, Mr. Perkins."

Friday June 8, 2012 - 09h17 - 6th Precinct

Captain Runciman stared over those same reading glasses again, expression aghast. "He must have had a partner? Or laced the air with hallucinogenics? I just can't believe what I'm reading!"

Tarker shook his head in agreement. "It's baffling, Sir."

"Jenkins barely survived his lungs being filled with water, while his partner McDonnell lost his leg 'as if by sharkbite' in a room that was later established to be dry as a bone. Dick Carpenter—who I've worked with for twenty years—had his gun go off in his holster, shooting himself through the foot, while the bullet continued through the floor and struck the hand of Sergeant Dingman, causing the saw he was operating to go out of control and gravely injure Officer Singh. Lieutenant Patryski went blind while exploring a broom closet, and the hospital still hasn't managed to dig his fingernails out of his own palms! Detective, this is a catastrophe. Half of the officers stationed at this precinct are off on disability claims now—it's costing us a fortune! The union, the insurance adjuster, and the brass are all breathing down my neck, and for what? No evidence in a low-priority case. On top of that, your suspect lawyered up and we're on the hook for a habeas corpus writ—we have to let him go."

Tarker gritted his teeth, his dreams of petty vengeance evaporating like thin rain on hot pavement. Then he had an idea.

"What about those jerks from Drug Enforcement downtown?"

Captain Runciman shrugged. "Those trigger happy cowboys? What about them?"

Tarker chose his words carefully. "They've elbowed their way in on some of our biggest cases, and blown more than just a few with their heroics. Squandered thousands of man-hours in investigations, just to prove they're the alpha dogs on the force. Maybe we should call them in on this one. If they find the drugs, great, at least we get our perp off the streets. If the house really does take bites out of people ..."

The captain waved his finger at Tarker. "That's despicable. Make the call."

"Yes, Sir."

Friday June 8, 2012 - 11h44 - 13 Meadowlark Crescent

"Couldn't hack a simple search and seizure, eh Tarper?" Lieutenant Montoya sneered, cleaning his gun in the back of the police van.

"That's Tarker," Tarker clarified. "And no—that house must be cursed. It's the strangest thing, but accidents keep—"

"Hey, if I wanted your life story I'd have asked your mom to bust out the photo album after all of our wild sex last night. Samson, Price, Yomaha—you're on point. The rest of you are with me."

"Sir, yes sir!"

"Tarper, I don't want you touching a thing in this crime scene. Your sole purpose is to babysit the suspect, and then help yourself to a popsicle if you can get him to bed on time. Understood?"

Tarker let out a long exhale and nodded.

"OK, this is it, go go go!"

The Drug Enforcement team charged up the driveway and smashed their way through the front door. Tarker followed at a leisurely pace, not wanting to interfere with their methods. He found Perkins just inside the front door.

"Tarker, are you insane?!" the accountant cried. "This is not good. This is not good at all. I need a drink."

"So do I," Tarker agreed. "Hey, you want to go check out that pub you were talking about? We've got a bit of catching up to do and ... well, these boys might be a while."

As they walked down the sidewalk Tarker thought he heard a muffled scream, but it could just as easily have been someone's tv turned up too loud.

[close]

I've found my inspiration - stand by. 

[@ Brushfe]

@ Brushfe

Spoiler

This was an interesting read. I liked how you set up the mystery in the short version and then resolved it in a different format in the long version. The doubling up of the boats was a clever twist to fit the format. The storm must have been a surprise for the accused murderer, for otherwise it would be just easier to row the first boat away when the second one arrived? And then there was the problem of the cops already having the body and the pictures... I guess, in the end, murderous fishermen just aren't that smart.

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@ Mandle

Spoiler

Well, the doubled up story of "Stupid Things" is almost kinda the exact story except for a lot of tedious counting.    The doubling of the "stupid things" with the second task fits the theme, but the repetitive nature of the punishments made it hard for the story to gain traction in my imagination. "High Coup" was slightly better, having started with a punny title. The juxtaposition of an ancient leader condemning slavery and a modern one encouraging it was thought provoking, although highly selective (the majority of ancient leaders had no issue with slavery and the majority of modern elected presidents strongly oppose it). I liked how it seemed like the slaves would carry the day, although I struggle to see what is doubled.

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@ Stupot

Spoiler

The premise is very interesting and the twist was out of left-field. I understood the room was darkened, but I relied on Clone John's observational abilities too much: he was able to discern the cloneliness of everyone in the room, but not the familiar facial characteristics (not to mention voice and speaking patterns) of Original John? The two Johns definitely fits the doubling theme, but I was disappointed not to get a more in-depth story detailing exactly what is going on.

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VOTING: I vote short story Stupot (1st) and Brushfe (2nd). I vote long story Brushfe (1st) and Mandle High Coup (2nd).

Sorry, it's been a rough fortnight and I won't be able to make a submission. It's been a busy time at work, kids sports schedules are in overdrive, and my wife's been in and out of hospital so I've been on double duty. 

Thanks for all the feedback, everyone! I hear you when you say that the writing in my story could be clearer regarding relative locations. I thought I'd post a picture of where the main part of my story takes place to help shore up my writing shortcomings. The flimsy wooden door leads to the old part of the house, and the hatch leads to the basement beneath the old section of the house. All of this was outside for a month when I ripped the roof off, but now constitutes a cozy lounge space.

[@ Mandle]

Good reads, everyone. It was interesting to try to decipher personal history from fiction (I thought for sure Sinitrena was the wandering "B" ...  ).

@ Mandle

Spoiler

I liked it. Yes, the language was harsh, but you used it to shape a primed atmosphere. I wanted Simon to be attacked, which I'm sure was your intent. Roth's change of heart was endearing, but he comes across as quite pathetic in the process - ten years of planning to chicken out at the last minute!?! True, it seems his plans for vengeance are proceeding without Simon's family, but it's a queer mercy (Roth will almost certainly be caught after letting witnesses go). In the end, it's hard to find heroes in this story.

My guess is that the personal part of the story is that you are Mr. Winton. 

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@ glurex

Spoiler

This was a really creepy tale. The banal normalcy of it all takes a sharp turn at the end. Clearly the "dean" is an imposter, but surely the secretary is on it, too. Which makes me think some of the faculty must be as well, since they were forever hanging about. The air of conspiracy and the atmosphere of menace were both positives for me.

My guess is that you were once a very bored intern.

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@ Creamy

Spoiler

It's hard to gauge, what with different legal systems out there, but there were some legal jargon problems that made the story hard to follow. "Jane Doe" is a name reserved for a victim of unknown identity, so by definition there could hardly be family attending the court proceedings. And "perjury" is a criminal offence, while being "sued" is for civil matters. And perjury itself is lying under oath to the court, not in a conversation. I get that the judge might have felt deceived, but with an unknown victim how could anyone reasonably have said that they knew the woman in passing? The most likely outcome would probably be a mistrial with no action taken against the juror.

Now, all that aside, the dread of making an unwitting mistake by making a decision in an informational vacuum is rich ground for a story. I think with some tweaking this story could be tightened up nicely.

My guess is you were once murdered without an identity. 

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@ Sinitrena

Spoiler

Your poor, noble teacher! I hope they were paying her well. Her self-sacrifice is of course what we would hope for from anyone charged with the care of our children. And yet ... And yet I'm not sure of the moral of the story. Letter B's flouting of instructions and willful wandering had no personal consequences, but he nevertheless destroyed lives. I wonder if he grew up to be a CEO or politician, stepping on other people for his own embetterment ...

The story was well-written, and I found the way you interspersed Angela's injuries with thoughts of the children at the end particularly poignant.

[close]

Votes

Spoiler

This is always hard. I'm voting Mandle 1st for his ability to suck me into the story, and glurex 2nd for the way he built up suspense.

[close]

[Concept:]

This is why I don't enter this competition - you guys both knocked it WAY out of the park!

Concept: It'd be hard not to vote Misj. Brushfe's ruined institutional building is amazing, but the concept of panning in different dimensions to tell a larger tale is brilliant.

Playability: I'm going with brushfe. Yes, it's more conventional, but it would also be functional. Plus, I struggle to play games with too much resolution, so it would be personally more playable for me. 

Artistic Execution: Both of these backgrounds are masterclasses in their respective styles. Yeah, Misj's sinuous line work and cartoony style are easy on the eyes, but the architectural detail and atmosphere portrayed in brushfe's work is stunning on its own terms. For me it's a tie.

[Winter is Dumbing]

Winter is Dumbing

Spoiler

The wind sounded like a freight train whistle, apparently the sound a tornado makes as it bears down upon you. Fortunately it was -20° Celsius, making it meteorologically impossible for a tornado to form. Unfortunately it was February, and the roof was still not on the new addition.

There had been time enough for recriminations. Price spikes and supplier issues due to the pandemic had played their part, of course. Abnormal weather had wreaked havoc with the construction schedule, as had the prickly building inspector. Illnesses and injuries hadn't helped the cause. But, when you got down to brass tacks, the real culprit was lack of know-how. Baron was an enthusiastic DIYer, to be sure, but he was so far in over his head on this one that the Titanic wreck was starting to look shallow.

"Daddy, I'm cold," a pile of blankets whimpered. Somewhere beneath them huddled Little Baronetta.

"Hey, I didn't make the laundry schedule. It's your turn on point! Or do you want your mother to blow away again?"

The pile of blankets sulked for a moment. "No. I don't want that."

"Dang right! Now help your dad with these straw bales."

The bales of straw had been an inspired solution, given the current price of insulation and the household's proximity to agricultural lands. By piling them up against the inside wall of the house they did a somewhat decent job of keeping the ice from forming on your coffee. Well, at least so long as you kept stirring vigorously. Unfortunately they needed to be cleared away from the thin wooden door to reach the laundry through the construction site.

"Ew! I think there's something living in this one!"

"Phew! That means the house is still habitable. You know rats have an instinct for fleeing a sinking ship, right?"

Little Baronetta was unimpressed with her father's optimistic outlook on life.

"OK, you want shovelling or door-bracing?"

"Want is a very strong word," Little Baronetta replied. My, she was getting snarky in her teenage years!

"Well, it's going to go faster if I'm on shovel detail, so you brace the door. Just don't give it half your attention like your brother, or we'll have another blowout."

"Hey, I'm not seven!"

Baron waited at the door for the sound of the wind to subside briefly, as the winter storm took a moment to catch its breath. Then, with Little Baronetta manning the door, he charged out into the construction site. It was a ghostly desolation of half-walls and gaping windows that would put Stalingrad to shame. The snows here churned with every ounce of heartlessness cruelty that February could muster.

Baron shovelled for his life, the icy breath of winter stinging his nose and lips. He struggled with the tarpaulin in the wind, losing his feet more than once on the slippery ground that used to be the floor of his back room. Then he wrestled with more straw bales, uncovering the hatch to the ancient basement.

"OK, ready!"

The door back to the house swung open, and Mrs. Baron stumbled out under an impossibly heavy load of laundry. It would have been easier to make multiple trips, but there is only so much winter a wife can bear and Mrs. Baron had reached her limit in November. She began listing to port as she made it down the steps. Baron intercepted her there, lest she fall into the snowbank again, and redirected her trajectory onto the stairs beneath the basement hatch.

"Close it up! For the love of god, close it up!" Mrs. Baron cried over her shoulder. Huh. Not even an 'I love you' ...

Baron dropped the hatch with a sigh. "Start timer!" he called.

"Timer started!" Little Baronetta shouted through the cracks of the door as she braced it closed with all her might. Laundry took exactly two minutes and seventeen seconds in the near-freezing basement, after which they would need to extract the wife. Baron took the moment to stare up into the swirling snows, wondering what on Earth had possessed him to rip the roof off half his house.

"Daddy, I can't hold it any longer!"

The winds seemed to suck the air out of his lungs just as there was an ominous creak, and then the door shot out right off its hinges.

"Not again!" Baron lamented.

[close]

Reality Check

Spoiler

I did rip the roof off the back of my house in late June of 2019, and fortunately had the new second storey addition framed and roofed by mid-August. Windows and insulation were in by the end of September and the old house has never been warmer in winter. But so much went right that could have gone so wrong with that project. The weather that summer was unusually dry, so that I didn't lose a single day to rain. That old Santa Clause of a building inspector was a pushover ("Of course you pass! Oh ho ho ho!"), but he could have made my life hell. The pandemic could have struck a year earlier, the nail I put through my hand could have caused a life-threatening infection, I could have fallen off the roof when I was shingling... I remember laying awake at night in early July thinking how the hell my family would survive the winter if things went sideways. Although it's murder on my bowels, I guess that horseshoe up my ass is good for something. 

[close]

I've been absolutely slammed at work these last two weeks, so that's a "no" from me. 

Must be that learning tariff the rest of the world put on American education... 

I will not be altering reality by submitting early. 

[@Stupot]

Thank you everyone for your votes, the competition is now closed. Results are summarized below, but first some feedback for our industrious authors:

@Stupot:

Spoiler

The novel page out of context was brilliant, and you add just enough of the plot and the character dynamics to make me seriously intrigued. Top marks for both starting and ending mid-sentence. The plot prediction of EVERYTHING we think we know about the world being a lie is one hell of a story hook. Add in psychics, ghostly shoulder taps, and copious amounts of alcohol, and I think you've got the makings of a seriously awesome story.

[close]

@Mandle:

Spoiler

The blog instalment (as a piece of a broader story that may or may not continue) was an inspired choice. I, too, struggled to read the bottom bits of letter, which I assume is intentional (and I assume you assumed these bits wouldn't contribute to the word count ). I could make out that after the excitement of the find there was scratching on the guardrail and the sound of scruffy feet walking on the deck, and that Kerry can "understand their language" when she touches the figurine, and that "they" want to make her their queen. I don't think it's much of a stretch from there to deduct the existence of organized sub-aquatic monarchy, although the species involved is unknown. Since this is a love letter from Kerry to Jojo, I assume she abandoned him for this new opportunity. His subsequent disappearance with Beth makes me think Queen Kerry of the Underwaves might have become jealous at how quickly she was replaced in Jojo's affections, but this might be the result of an overactive imagination.

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@CaptainD

Spoiler

The clip from the newspaper was a clever vehicle for this fragment. The piece drips with conspiracy theories. I've probably been dragged to watch too many super hero movies with my kids, but my theory is one of the test subjects went rogue with weird powers and is now levelling parts of cities.

[close]

@Sinitrena

Spoiler

Such a disjointed place to come into the story, literally in the case of battlefield dismemberments.   I think there's enough information to infer a romantic relationship between Julia and Julius (mostly based on the title), with the complication of his adoptive daughter thrown into the mix. I love the attention to period details and the feeling of intrigue you create with these two short snippets.

[close]

The voting was close this time around - real close! In first place we have Stupot with 8 votes, in second place CaptainD with 7 votes, in third place Sinitrena with 6 votes, and in fourth place we have Mandle with 3 votes. If it's any consolation Mandle, I didn't feel you dodged the word count rules (unless you count a picture as a thousand words). But the people have spoken, and Stupot is our winner! The power of contest administrator now falls to him.

Thanks everyone for some great stories!  See you next time around!

Voting extended, as per request. Now closing the 10th.

[Stupot]

Hey, I set an alarm on my phone to go off on April 31st to remind me! 

Nice turnout this time around. We've got a slew, nay, a bevy of entries to tantalize the intellect. In order of submission:

Little Brother by Stupot
How My Three Day Vacation Turned Into Much More by Mandle
Julius and Julia by Sinitrena
Experimental Piece by CaptainD

We'll do ranked voting this time around. Three points for your favourite, two points for your second favourite, and one point for your third. I will assign points if you just rank your preferences first through third. In the event of a tie I will split points proportionately (e.g. two first places and a second would be translated as 2.5 points for each first place - [3+2]/2=2.5 -and 1 point for third, with a hypothetical third place vote receiving no points for actually being in forth). If you just say that all of the entries equally deserve to win then that's not very helpful for voting purposes, but I will diligently split the possible six votes four ways ([3+2+1]/4=1.5). 

As always, in the event of a tie the handsome and enlightened contest administrator has the deciding vote.

Voting deadline is Wednesday May 7 at midnight Hawaii Time, with results to be announced the following day, or sometime thereafter as the hockey playoff schedule allows. 

Good luck to all entrants!

[Fragment]

The Fortnightly Writing Competition is a friendly bit of wordsmithing that takes place over a period of two weeks. Write a short story based on the theme, share your thoughts with votes or feedback, and enjoy the creativity that this community can bring to bear when they put their minds to it. This fortnight's theme:

Fragment



Your writing mission, should you choose to accept it, is to write a max 600 word fragment of a bigger story (Title not included in word count). Your fragment should have no beginning and no end, but can certainly imply how these parts of the story pan out. What we want to see is some bit of the middle of a larger story, ideally the juicier or more thought provoking bits. The reader should NOT have a full grasp of exactly what is happening - that is part of the fun. Feel free to start and end mid-sentence!    See if you can suck someone into your story world without so much as an introduction or any serious world building. Be liberated by the fact that your cool story idea that probably wouldn't work can now see the light of day. Have fun, challenge norms, and let your muse run wi-

Contest deadline is April 31, 2025. I know, I know, it doesn't make sense, but neither will the entries, so just go with it. 

Good luck to all entrants!

Wow, that was a narrow victory! I can't help but feel that the 500 word category had a distinct advantage in this case, in that it was just easier to craft a more coherent story using more words. Having said that, thanks to everyone who voted for me!

I'll try to come up with another theme shortly.

[FEEDBACK]

So many stories! Good work, everyone. 

FEEDBACK

@RootBound

Spoiler

The plot for the vampire story was spot on. I think it would have been the perfect story at 60 words, but it just reads a little awkwardly, trying to cram in all the juicy details into 50.

The child abuse story was awesome, disturbing content aside. That last line was haunting. Bruised air? You sir, are a poet.

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@Mandle

Spoiler

The mixed-up bottles was amusing, if only because my own wife has done this. Twenty years of WHMIS training has left her undaunted - just put a label on it!

"Guarding Gay" had more twists and turns, including the doozy at the end. You crammed a lot of character development into just 200 words - this was by far your strongest story this time around, in my opinion.

"The Gatekeepers of Smoking" was shallower and more predictable.

"Backlot to the Future" - interesting.  Feels a bit like the Jetson's version of the year 1980, though. Time travel tourism in twenty years? I wonder if people will even be able to afford groceries in 20 years.

"Leaving Home" was more thought provoking. What does status mean when you are the only one left? All those retired hockey players are so buddy-buddy after punching the crap out of each other throughout their careers because only they "get" each other. Those winner-takes-it-all types are setting themselves on a lonely path.

"2:31:15" was clever - got my vote for the short category.

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@Stupot

Spoiler

"There's No Taste Like Home" - Whaaaaat?!?    You got me, Stupot. I thought for sure the cannibal was going to jump out and eat him. Nice twist.

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VOTES

Spoiler

It was a close call, but I vote RootBound (Lesion) for best overall. For category specific votes, I vote Stupot (No Taste Like Home) in the 500 word category, Mandle (Guarding Gay) in the 200 word category, and Mandle (2:31:15) for the 50 word category.

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[A Tragedy of Errors]

A Tragedy of Errors

Spoiler

Prospero opened the door to gaze out at the torrential rain, the bottle of milk sitting just out of reach. His heavy eyebrows drew down over his eyes like the thunderclouds hanging over the Earth. Some wizard should invent something to solve problems like this.

He slammed the door shut testily, for there would be no milk for his coffee this morning. The deliverum next to the door rattled, but no milk shot out from its magical horn. Anything non-living that landed on the front stoop should be transported into his foyer before it had a chance to get wrecked. Prospero kicked his invention, wondering what had gone wrong this time.

In the end, he decided today was not the day to care. He climbed the stairs in a cranky mood, passing Igor at the first landing. The servant proffered a tray with dark coffee and darker porridge.

"Master no like breakfast?" the hunchback asked.

"Not today," Prospero sighed, patting his servant on the shoulder. Igor was as dedicated as he was simple. There was no point in burdening such a fragile mind with his malaise.

On the next landing up there was a little sitting area where he usually took his breakfast. It was dangerous to open the curtain, he knew, especially when he was in a brooding mood. The little clockwork puppet he had invented to stop him from such foolishness sat in his little sconce, shaking his head sadly.

"You're not the boss of me," Prospero told him, reaching for the drawstring.

The curtains opened, revealing a portrait. A few of the candles around the shrine spluttered to life. There she was—Beatrice—the love of his life. How long ago had he lost her? He stared with sadness down the length of white beard that reached nearly to his knees.

The little clockwork puppet waved in alarm, causing Prospero to scoff at his efforts. He drew the curtain closed again, and continued his ascent.

He passed another landing, this one containing the temporum. The machine he had built to turn back time had never managed more than to make his fingernails grow in reverse—a rather painful experience. He kicked the machine in disgust, causing it to whimper.

He climbed higher and higher up the tower, passing projects and dreams as incomplete as he himself. The relentum that was supposed to slow things down, the ungravitum that was supposed to make things lighter, the oblivium that was supposed to erase painful memories ... He kicked each in turn, useless things.

He was useless. He had failed as a wizard, and he had failed as a man. Prospero reached the top of his tower, and for once he accomplished something of note. He flew.

There was a long moment of near silence in the tower as the failed inventions whirred and churned. And then the deliverum rattled to life and spit out a baby swaddled in a very large robe. Igor scratched his head and went to tend to it.

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[SINITRENA]

I hereby declare SINITRENA as the undisputed winner of this scrumptious competition! 

Feedback for Sinitrena:

Spoiler

This was a very poignant story that "grabs you in the feels," as the kids say. I really felt for Evelyn, trying to interpret the world through the eyes of a child. I'm reminded of the Great Vegetable Caper my friends and I pulled back when I was five, harvesting a bunch of vegetables from my mother's garden with the intention of selling them on the roadside. That ... did not end well. Evelyn's motivation was more noble than ours, her plan more thoughtful, which makes the calamity of the result even more tragic. I'm glad I was born before screens were ubiquitous: these days kids can get a warped sense of reality from them, and over-screened parents have less time and patience to deal with the consequences in their children. These screens are the cancer of our mental well-being, slowly rotting our greatest asset and turning it against us. 

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I don't know whether to declare Sinitrena the winner by default or just lock up the shop behind me. This spring has felt like the FWC has tanked hard. Do we need to reconsider our format in order to attract today's youth?  More slangy buzz words? Longer deadlines? More sex appeal? Shorter word limits? More screens?!? I don't know. I feel like we had a good thing going here, but the vitality is slowly dripping away. Anyone have any thoughts to share?