Fortnightly Writing Competition (June 12th - June 26th)

Started by ShadeJackrabbit, Thu 12/06/2008 21:34:39

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ShadeJackrabbit

Welcome to the third round of the Fortnightly Writing Competition!

So me and TwinMoon decided I would host this one alone so that he could enter again. The theme this time is going to be: Scribes

Just so you know, this doesn't mean it has to star a scribe. It just has to relate to who a scribe is, or what they do, or simply be inspired by the profession.

ENTRY RULES:
- Write a story of around 500-800 words
- Entries must be in before June 26th
- Post your entries (or link to your entry) in this thread
- Voting will take place on the 26th-27th of June
- The winner sets the subject for the next competition and starts the next competition
- Top three entries will get a trophy!

VOTING RULES:
- EDIT: Anyone can vote. Originally, I had made a more restrictive rule, but I thought there was more opposition to the voting being open.
- You get two votes, not in any order. (So basically, you give one tally to each person.)
- Voting ends at midnight EST on Saturday the 28th. Any votes made after that point don't count.

Trophies:

Stupot

Which time-zone are you going by?
I intend to enter this time, if only so I can vote.

TwinMoon

I feel strongly that non-entrants shouldn't be excluded from the voting.

Jack Sheehan

Everyone should be able to vote, this isn't some snooty artists guild it's a measure of how good your story is and people don't have to write in order to appreciate it.

rock_chick

Look it seems each person who runs each competition sets their own voting rules, so let's just stop fighting about this rounds voting rules or instead have a off subject discussion about a permanent voting rules for all rounds, this seems like setting a constant standard will avoid all these arguments.

rock_chick

Quote from: TwinMoon on Fri 13/06/2008 11:15:08
I feel strongly that non-entrants shouldn't be excluded from the voting.
No offence but I thought you only wanted entrants of the first round of this competition to be able to vote, that's the way it seemed anyway.

TwinMoon


ShadeJackrabbit

#7
...huh. It seemed there was more opposition to letting it open last round, so since nobody has submitted yet, I'll change that rule.

Just trying to keep everyone happy.  :-[

EDIT: Oh yeah, and I'm on EST.

Stupot


rock_chick

I agree that everyone should be able to vote in all rounds for this competition, I think the initial argument was that non entrants might not be bothered to read the entries. However I still think it's a good idea to have a consistent rule for this either way for every round.

TwinMoon, I'm sorry, I misunderstood what you meant in the first round but now I understand.

rock_chick

I'm a bit stuck for this theme so I'm currently unsure if I'll enter but I might. However if anybody enters I'll vote(if there is at least 3-4 entries).

Not to sound pessimistic but let's say that no one or only one or 2 people enter, I hope that wont discourage the continuation of this competition.

TwinMoon

It is a difficult theme, I think it's because people don't have experience with scribes in their everyday lives ideas don't pop up immediately.
I'm working on something though.

All contests sometimes have a round which is less appealing, or people are on holiday or something. It's only the third round, you are being too pessimistic ;)

Quote from: rock_chick on Sun 15/06/2008 10:14:12I'm sorry, I misunderstood what you meant in the first round but now I understand.

You're forgiven ;)

rock_chick

I probably am, it's just sometimes when these competitions start to get very few entries sometimes people start to think it's not worthwhile, I disagree but it has happened before.

MashPotato

Bad limerick ;)


There once was a scholar named Tybal,
Who drank wine while 'scribing the Bible;
Had too many a glass,
Got drunk off his ass...
Ended up sued by God for libel.


EDIT: not an entry, btw--wee bit below 500 words :)

Dualnames

Fish Fish
----------
Once upon two times, on the small village of Villeville, which can be found in the very outskirts of the eastern coast of America, there was a man that kind of settled in that village. He was from New York, but due to the lack of funds, as known as money, or green pieces of paper, he came in to make a new start. He had no other choice. So at this village was his grandmothers house. She was still alive, and still a stupid old lady, who grandson hated or disliked, but what can you do? Sometimes life doesn't bring things the way , you want to. You just have to get over it and get up fast. otherwise, you'll get stepped over.
So there he was, took him long way to reach that old pathetic boring town of fishermen, but he was ready to do what is needed.The town was really not much of beauty. And the weather didn't help at all. It just had the essential. One newspaper, a grocery store, some houses, a church and a whole bunch of curious citizens, the kind that asks personal questions demanding an answer even if most of the times the answer to the question is absent. You can't avoid them as well, many have tried to do so, but it's quite impossible. Especially if you're famous. Even a little.
He was just a journalist on the New York Times, and he was writing novels- when he got the time for it of course. But since there was hardly time for anything if you're a new yorker, he just kept on being a journalist. So local folks kept asking all the silly questions. But he managed to live. He had to. He needed a job. And he knew the place for one.
He remembered from his childhood that there was a local newspaper. Pretty overrated by those who live there, and pretty unheard of by those who don't. And he was on the second part. He took all his pride left, and opened the door. Most of the people working in there, were suprised to see someone they haven't seen for so many years, others carried on writing articles, and others were in the toilet and couldn't see. However, he could barely recognise one of them to say hello or something, so he just said Morning to all of those that stared at him. He entered the boss's office. Suprisingly enough for a boss's office this one was like the others on the outside, and if it wasn't for that cool looking computer standing on it, he wouldn't be able to tell he was the boss. No ashtray's as well. "Hello, Mat. Nice to see you again, after so long," his boss said opening his arms to embrace him which he did in the next second, trying to make Mat feel welcome but he managed to achieve the exact opposite."Eh..hello," was the only word Mat replied. They sat talking about childhood and job relative matters for a couple of minutes. Mat managed to cool a little, but he lost his cool when George said about the wage. Before he managed to say or do anything though George said that he could earn more if he wrote articles that could make first page. Didn't so good at all, but it sounded about good enough to worth a shot, thought Mat. So they shook hands.

Worked on Strangeland, Primordia, Hob's Barrow, The Cat Lady, Mage's Initiation, Until I Have You, Downfall, Hunie Pop, and every game in the Wadjet Eye Games catalogue (porting)

rock_chick

Would an interviewer classify as a scribe? I'm just trying to work out what occupations would qualify for such a title.

Jeffers

To rock_chick: "A scribe (or scrivener) is a person who writes books or documents by hand" (Quote shamelessly stolen from wikipedia). So, yes, if the interviewer wrote by hand I should say they would count as a scribe.

That being said...here goes my entry:

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Dear Mr. Rivers
A story by Jeffers

This is my day:
I wake up. I make some tea. To hell with coffee, tea is better.
I pick up the newspaper and try to convince myself I’m interested in reading it. After a few minutes of getting lost in thoughts about something that has nothing to do with the shocking breakup scandal on page E2, I toss the paper aside and take a shower.
I head out to my car, grabbing my pen and notebook from the front hall table on the way out.. I drive off on my merry way.
…I forgot to mention, I did get dressed after I took my shower. I didn’t just drive around naked. That would weird. I think.
(Note to self: try driving around naked)
I drive up to the guard gate. I wave at the security officer. Friendly.
He scowls at me. Not friendly. The opposite of friendly…the antithesis of friendly.
“Whaddya want?” He eloquently inquires.
“I’m here to visit one of the residents” I explain. Duh. Why else would I come to a nursing home? What terrible business could I have? If I were a terrorist, I think the last place I would attack would be a retirement home.
(Note to self: find a terrorist and ask him what his lowest priority bombing site would be)
After dealing with the surprisingly aggressive guard, I park.
I knock on the door of one of the rooms. The door is open, but I find it polite to knock.
The old man inside half-whispers in his low, gravely voice, “Who is it?”
I take this as my permission to enter. I look around. The man sits on a small chair by his hospital bed, a walker at the ready in front of him. The lights are all turned of and the room is silent, save the occasional beeping pulse of the breathing machine. Between the oxygen hose attached to his nose, his poorly shaven face, and the fact that he’s been wearing the same outfit for the past four days, he’s quite the sight to behold. He’s not as a lively as when I first saw him…but he sure is something.
“Mr. Rivers, my name is Greg. I’m a volunteer. I’m here to talk to you for a bit.”
“Volunteer, eh? Have I met you before?”
“Maybe once or twice”
And I can't help but scream in my head, OR MAYBE I'VE BEEN VISITING YOU FOR THE PAST YEAR!
But that’s okay. His memory is fading, I don’t expect him to remember me. I knew from the very start he probably would never know who I was.
He sits up slightly. “So, what are you here for?”
“Just to talk, I guess. I love to hear stories”.
“You do, eh? That’s good. I got a million of ‘em”.
This was true. Mr. Rivers was well-known for his stories.
One time, Mr. Rivers had been visited by another volunteer. A very frightened young Christian girl from the high school…she was at most sixteen years old. She had agreed to help the residents fill out surveys so that the activities coordinators could get a better feel for what kind of hobbies and games the patients would like to play. The survey consisted of yes or no questions, like “Are you a physical person?”, “Do you enjoy the company of volunteers?” and “Do you like playing with animals?” Well, Mr. Rivers had a fun trick up his sleeve. Apparently, our generation wasn’t the first to come up with adding “in bed” to the end of every sentence. That poor girl is probably scarred for life.
(Note to self: find that girl and buy her a cup of tea sometime)
Or the time Mr. Rivers had used his skills as a retired electrician to hack into the nursing home P.A. system and play heavy death metal music just to screw with the other residents.
Today, I eagerly await the next story in the Mr. Rivers Saga.
But all that comes is a bunch of awkward mumbling of “well, let’s see…uh…ah…”
At this moment I realized that Mr. Rivers had gotten a lot worse with his memory. He always had a story to tell. Why couldn’t he remember one now?
“Could you just read me a story, instead?” He asks meekly.
This catches me off guard. Mr. Rivers is not a meek man. This is seriously wrong. Mr. Rivers is getting very ill. I know what needs to be done.
I write a note in the title page of my notebook. I read a short story I’ve written. And then, I say goodbye to Mr. Rivers. And I decide to not come back.

But I hope that a nurse will someday come by his room and find the notebook I left behind. And I hope that nurse reads it to him. Because it says something like:

Dear Mr. Rivers,
You probably don’t remember me, but I visited you every week for about a  year. Inside this notebook is every story you’ve ever told me. Whenever you’re feeling nostalgic, get one of the nurses to read one to you. Trust me, they are all very good...mostly because I wrote them. (I’m kidding. Mostly.) I hope reading these stories brings you the same joy I got from writing them. I’ll miss ya, you horny old goat.
Sincerely,
Greg Rivers

Colxfile

Chapter One
-----------------

“In the beginning, there was the world...”

'No. Cliché.'

Rip. Scrunch. Throw. Miss.

'Hmm.'

“Thousands of millennia ago, when the world was very different...”

'No. Awful.'

Rip. Scrunch. Throw. Miss.

“In a time when dinosaurs reigned supreme, there came...”

I sighed.

Rip. Scrunch. Throw. Miss.

Two weeks I'd spent trying to get my opening down. Two weeks I'd put my life on hold to get the first chapter of my novel on paper. A pile of unwashed dishes and plates and cutlery sat on my kitchen worktop growing mould. My kitchen cupboards were close to empty. I hadn't done my laundry, and had been wearing the same underpants and socks for four days running. I had made too many excuses for not going to the pub, the cinema, the football. I was convinced that once the first chapter was done, the rest would flow like... like...

“As the red hot magma gushed forth from the first volcanic eruptions, whatever pre-historic beings that existed may have...”

... like a ball of paper flying through the air towards my waste-paper bin.

Rip. Scrunch. Throw. Miss.

It had already struck me that my approach to writing was rather wasteful. I had a working laptop computer which was very portable, and I could easily use it in a cafe for a few hours while watching the world go by: a cup of coffee in one hand with the other hovering over the home row. But the great writers such as Conan-Doyle, Dickens, Austen, Shakespeare and Bronte did not have laptop computers. They had to make do with pen, inkwell and parchment. If they could write great works without such futuristic niceties, why couldn't I?

“Man has often believed that he was the first intelligent life to walk this earth. However...”

'Hmm. Promising.'

“...an organism which arrived on the scene some thousands of years before the evolution of homo sapiens beat him to it.”

'No. That gives the game away.'

Rip. Scrunch. Throw. Miss.

I used to have such a creative spark. Where had it gone? Maybe it was the job. Maybe it was all those hours manning a checkout with a painted smile on my face and encouraging surly customers to have a nice day. Or maybe it was those unhappy years at school, where many a teacher derided my ability to write fiction. Maybe it was because they told me I had no talent and should concentrate on getting a job. No, that can't have been it: I was a good writer at some point in my life. Something must have happened to me.

“Far back in the mists of time, something truly terrible occurred...”

'Pathetic'

Rip. Scrunch. Throw. CLANG!

Three goals out of about four hundred shots. Not bad.

I sighed and put my pen down, then I got up and surveyed the total carnage that these unsuccessful sessions of writing my first paragraph of my first novel had unleashed on my life. In the corner of the room, I saw the red light on my answering machine blinking away furiously telling me that I had ignored the phone ringing every single time for the last two weeks. By the door, I saw the soggy, unread newspapers pushed through the letterbox on many a rainy day. I saw the unclean crockery in the kitchen, the unmade bed in my bedroom, and the open empty cupboards. I stared for some time, not comprehending what my eyes were telling me. Then I caught the odour from my clothes, and it brought things back into sharp focus.

I sat down at my desk, and picked up my biro once more.

“Chaos abounds in life. The smallest alteration of the system of life can cause such a huge change beyond the wit and comprehension of man...”

'Too pretentious.'

Rip. Scrunch. Throw. Miss.
Always carry a UV marker pen with you. When you go to a shop or a friend's house, if you see something you like, put your name and postcode on it. If it gets stolen and subsequently recovered, the police will get in touch with you so that they can 'return' it.

ShadeJackrabbit

Wow, good entries so far! Hopefully we'll get some more before it comes time to vote.

TwinMoon

Well, I said I wanted to enter, so here it is: Writing History

My inspiration let me down a little, so I just made it into a writing excersise - using only indirect speech instead of the long confusing / confused dialogs I usually write.

728 words.

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