Fortnightly writing competition: 17th - 30th July

[Trihan]

A burglar breaks into a lifeless building in the dead of night. His target: a priceless diamond.

To his dismay, when he makes his way further in, he finds that he accidentally broke into a pretzel factory! Oh no! That priceless diamond has evaded his grasp, and now he hears security guards fast approaching. What a pickle!

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Sometimes, the best laid plans just go completely up the creek without a paddle, and that's the topic of this fortnight's writing competition.

Write about someone ending up in a seemingly hopeless situation, and how they get themselves out of it (or not).

General rules:

• The length of the entry isn't important.
  
• All entries should be in by the 30th of July.
  
• Voting will start on the 31st of July and end on the 2nd of August.
  
• The winner will decide the topic of the next fortnightly writing competition.
  

No trophy unfortunately since my graphical skills are utter garbage.

Let the games commence!

[Atelier]

There, I think I've gone through my ballad and changed everything I want to. Below is the version I wish to compete with.

I know it doesn't agree with the theme, but the sticky situation is supposed to be the battle, and then the hero's downfall (quite literally) at the end. I'm sorry for my post being vertically challenged, too.

Lord Brawen's Tale

Take your seats down by the fire,
Prithee, my good sirs.
Let me recite a lengthy ballad,
Which I haven't told in years.

Careful, lords, I must warn,
This tale is not for the faint hearted.
There was one gent, I recall,
Who spewed before I started!

Settled well, my good sirs?
With flagons firm in hand?
Strike that lute, you there Jester!
Let me begin my ballad grand!

Many many years ago,
And many generations past.
Over white peaked mountain ranges,
And over oceans vast.

A lad was born, at the cock's crow,
His mother cradled him tight.
"Brawen..." she sighed, seeking the hand,
Of the father to her right.

Brawen grew up happily,
On the ancestral estate.
But then one day a rider came,
To give news of his father, late.

"He died early this morning sire,"
He said, doffing his cap.
And then he saddled, encouraged the horse,
And left with a clippity clap.

Brawen stood, jaw on chest,
At the knowledge of his father's death.
Not saddened, nor angry, nay!
What might his father have left?

A worthless title he came to find,
"Lord Brawen" he was named.
And not a sovereign, not a sovereign!
That his treasury gained.

Over the years his father passed,
From all recollection.
Brawen had never felt any love,
Longing or affection.

A cold hearted man he was,
Fueled by selfish greed.
His mother had warned him often,
But he did take no heed.

Then one day, at the cock's crow,
A rider approached the manor.
Flanked with seven men on steeds,
And holding the King's gold banner.

"Lord Brawen! Arise!"
He cried, calling on his brazen throat.
"Your time has come to show your worth!"
"Those smoke clouds do denote!"

"An army, sire, of ten thousand strong!"
"Camped up by the river!"
"Join us man, show your face!"
"Join us and deliver!"

From the parapet a head poked up,
Lord Brawen had heard them cry.
"Very well, I'll ready myself,"
"Count me as your ally!"

The company galloped away,
Their armour in the dawnlight shining.
All puffing and panting hard,
Their counterparts whinnying and whining.

Soon they came to the river,
A stench drifted on the air.
"Look," the messenger pointed out,
"The campsite's over there."

Sure enough, there it was,
A perculiar looking gathering.
Ten thousand men around a spit-roast,
There crooked mouths a'slavering.

Brawen nocked an arrow to,
His bow, carved from Oak.
And loosed it off, dispatched one DEAD!
Who slumped forward with a croak.

The battle began, the cards where down,
The die were duly cast.
The nine of them devised a plan,
Hold Out To The Last!

Volleys flew from both sides,
Until the quivers were spent.
All drew their swords and charged forth!
Their zeal did not relent.

Swords gleamed crimson red,
Dripping with gallons of blood.
It matted the hair of the soldiers,
And ran in the river and mud.

Brawen hacked at a leasuirely pace,
Slaying one by one.
A head off here, a head off there,
And his work had just begun.

Chop slash hack cleave,
All through the night.
He killed them all, ten thousand men!
He'd put up quite a fight.

Brawen searched the battlefield,
For his comrades, but in vain.
After several hours of picking through,
He knew that they were slain.

Lord Brawen saddled his waiting steed,
And began the journey home.
Because the paths were long and plain,
His thoughts were left to roam.

He pondered the night before,
Where ten thousand men were slain.
Why had he done so? He questioned himself,
When he had nothing to gain?

Then on the trackside,
A maid he did pass.
Locks like woven gold she had,
And eyes as green as grass.

Brawen caught a glimpse of them,
His eyes were locked with love.
She shyly turned away from him,
And gazed at the sky above.

Brawen felt a burning pain,
Spreading in his breast.
Then he slipped from the saddle,
Clutching at his chest.

Something deep inside him,
Something very warm.
Some strange sensation,
He'd never felt before.

Then our Brawen gave one last breath,
I'm loathe to say, my Lords.
He lay upon the trackside, dead,
Beside his bloodstained sword.

And so, my Lords, that ends the tale,
The fire has now burnt low.
Rest yourselves, my good sirs,
Basked in the ember's glow.

Slew ten thousand yet slain by love.

[Phemar]

I started writing and went off on a slight tangent. Hope this still fits with the rules - It's about a barman who finds himself in quite a sticky situation.

 The sun in most parts of the south country was not a beast to be reckoned with, and the sun above the small town of Killing tended to abide by this law. It glared a fierce orange in the slightly off-blue sky and sent its burning rays down toward the disgruntled earth. Small blades of yellowed grass decorated the deserted streets, like tiny flames licking the ground.
 Underneath the intensity of the sun and in-between the rickety buildings of Killing lay a wooden haven, seemingly ungrateful towards the large oak tree which held the building captive in its shadow. The building bore witness to much of the happenings in Killing, and in no other place was this reflected more than the building’s exterior. Its windows sulked in silence, perhaps unhappy that they had never been opened. An ambient creaking sound emerged gently every now and then from the door as if to remind everyone that it still existed. The door hung, perhaps only on one hinge, perhaps on two. No-one paid it much attention anymore.
 Inside the building the mood changed slightly, but not by much. Two old men adorning ponchos slouched in one corner, immersed in a game of poker. Another man sat at a bar, brooding over his whiskey while pretending to listen to the barman’s rambling voice. The man was a dark man. He dressed himself in a sleek black shirt and a dark grey overcoat which came down to his knees. The coat however did not manage to hide the 5 shot revolver which poked its curious butt out from underneath.
 The barman’s drawl droned on, “Happy hour? He comes in here asking me when’s happy hour, can you believe that? So I says to him, I says, ‘Happy hour, eh? Well kid, there ain’t no smiles ‘round here. Now why don’t you get your fancy pants on that there horse of yours outside and ride clear of my sight before you makes me real mad!’”
 The barman chuckled and stopped for a second to pour himself a drink.
 â€œCan you believe that? Damn cheap good-for-nothing coming into my bar! Kid sure was damn near scared to death.”
 The barman was done and silence reigned once again, save for the sound of chips clashing and cards shuffling from the other end of the room.
 The man with the dark grey coat stopped drinking and looked up at the barman. The barman noticed and glanced back. The mood had shifted subtly and the barman could feel it. There was something not right about the fellow in the grey coat and the sooner he finished his drink and left the bar, the better.
 A gust of hot wind swept through the bar, as if attempting to carry the barman with it.
 The man in the grey coat spoke, slowly at first. He was calm and everyone could sense it. His serenity frightened the barman.
 â€œSo you’d be Hylton then?” The words escaped his mouth like flakes of paint falling off of a wall. His raspy, breathy tone sent chills down even the poker players’ spines. At last he had pierced the thin layer of rust that coated his one-sided conversation with the barman.
 The barman looked around nervously as if for help, but the poker players pretended not to notice.
 â€œAye,” He replied nervously after some time, “That’d be me.”
 The man in the grey cloak stared at the barman, his deep blue eyes piercing the poor man’s soul. His eyes were without mercy. They were the eyes of a killer.
 â€œAny last words, Mr. Hylton?”
 â€œWhat? You … no!” If the barman wasn’t afraid before, he was definitely afraid now. “I … I’ll break every bone in your goddamned pig body, you pig!”
 The barman hoped his threat had gone across as harsh and that he could gain some leverage by it, but the man in the grey coat was not irked so easily. All the barman had was hope.
 â€œYou fool,” were the next words from the man in the grey coat’s mouth, “You’ve never even broken a sweat before.”
 With that, the man in the grey coat lifted his revolver, shot the barman twice in the chest and left the bar. His work was done and he didn’t need to stick around to watch the poor fool die.
 Outside the bar the sun worked its way relentlessly down towards the man in the grey coat’s head. He placed his wide-brimmed hat back on his crown and re-saddled his horse. It was time for him to leave the crappy little town of Killing and move on. Move on to somewhere less dull â€" Some place with a just a tad more fruit for him to pick.
 The man smiled slightly as he set off, thinking about the frightened look on the barman’s face. It felt good to be in power, and to have power over the life of men.
 He felt like God.

826 words

[Dualnames]

I'm in a strange writter's block this time..but promise to attempt something by tomorrow..

[Atelier]

EDIT: Perhaps I'm being too harsh on myself. I'd really like to see where I come in the competition. So just forget what I said before, if you remember. If by some chance I come first, not only will I have had a vial of felix felicis but the person in second can become first.

I should be so lucky...

[Akatosh]

It’s a common saying that one can learn more from failure than success, and that what doesn’t kill you only makes you stronger.

Unfortunately, all this misadventure had taught me so far was that you should be careful around prototypes, and that having to rely on early beta builds was a poor place to be indeed. I had, however, managed to evade all but two bullets, so maybe the additional strength would make up for the arm I wouldn’t be able to use anymore.

I could hear the monstrosity making its way through the corridors behind me. I supposed I had about two minutes left before it would catch up; I had never been very good at estimating distances, but I could easily tell the nightmarish sound of its steps was increasing in volume. The killer of my colleagues was obviously made no attempt to move quietly – it did not need to.

The whole project had seemed like such a good idea at first. We had been studying the topic so intensively, we were sure it simply couldn’t fail. Long (and quite painful) story short – it did, and our creations turned onto their… well, “masters”, for lack of a better term.

I struggled onwards. In all likelihood, I was lost. I have seen these… things take down a dozen of our best guardians with as much ease as we would add one to one.

Still, no use in giving up. Maybe, just maybe, others had escaped the sudden assault, and if I could distract it for long enough, my end would have not been in vain. Pathetically, I shambled on, around a corner, deeper and deeper into the subterranean part of the installation… and nearly bumped into another creation of ours. Seemed like my pursuer had already freed its “comrades”.

It seemed… surprised at first, possibly not having expected someone to have survived in these parts. It quickly recovered, however. The last thing I saw in this world was that disgusting self-satisfied expression, that “grin” - a horrible flash of white and yellow in a soggy red-pink mass - as it pointed its weapon at my central processing core.

We shouldn’t have played Creator. The robot civilisation should have never tried to utilise soldier humans.


---


*Twilight Zone music plays* 

/EDIT: Gotten rid of some purple prose. "Horrible monstosity"? "Nightmarish sound" of "thunderous steps"? Ugh, what was I thinking?

[Phemar]

Nice twist, Akatosh I didn't see that coming.

Reminds me of this topic.

[Trihan]

Aaaand it's voting time!

AtelierGames:
Very nice entry! Nice and long and it tells an engaging story. The meter suffered in places for the sake of the rhyme, which grated slightly, but overall a solid piece. A couple of typos here and there but nothing too bad.

Phemar:
Very intriguing. It's left (I believe intentionall) rather vague and ambiguous as to who exactly this shooter was and what his business was with the barman, though my personal interpretation was that he's a wandering hired assassin. I nearly laughed at the barman's threat. It was pretty lame, but then again he was talking for his life, so I guess he wasn't exactly thinking clearly.

Akatosh:
I loved this. I'm a huge fan of the "story sets up rigid expectations and then subverts them all" setup and use it quite often myself. Up until the second-last paragraph I think anyone who read that would assume it was about robots turning on humans...and then BAM. Rather thought-provoking, too: we never really think about things from the robots' point of view.

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Weighing everything up, my vote goes to Akatosh.

[Gilbert]

Voting? Now? This should has been ended a month ago!

[Trihan]

Whoops! Why didn't anyone tell me I had the wrong month in the topic name? XD

[Phemar]

I don't think anyone realized haha

Yea, as you said the mystery was intentional. It's funny because not even I know the man in the grey coat's motives.

Since I can't vote for myself, I vote for Akatosh.

[Akatosh]

I'm going to go with Phemar. AG's ballad really wasn't that bad, but the end came a bit too abrupt (sp) for my taste, and the focus of the story was far more on the "buildup" than the actual up-the-creek-without-a-paddle situation.

Oh, and thanks for the praise... although I don't think I've actually written a story that isn't mostly from an AI's viewpoint for a writing competition so far... 

[Phemar]

By they way, Trihan the english-man Out of curiosity, was my grammar correct during the dialogue? Were there any grammatical errors?

[Trihan]

It was mostly fine. There's some really nice imagery in there and you paint a very nice picture with your words. This is completely my opinion, but there are a couple of bits that weren't quite so solid for me:

"Two old men adorning ponchos slouched in one corner" - I'm not sure adorning was the word you meant to use in this instance, since it implies that they men were currently putting ponchos on at that moment rather than already wearing them. Adorn literally means "to lend beauty to/to enhance or decorate with or as with ornaments". I think that perhaps "Two old men sporting ponchos slouched in one corner" or some variation of that.

"The man was a dark man." - A very subtle nuance of writing is that the more you repeat yourself the less attention people end up paying to the stuff around it. "The man was dark." conveys the same thing but without that repeated word the whole thing seems a little more sinister and it doesn't grab attention from its surrounding words.

"If the barman wasn’t afraid before, he was definitely afraid now." - Same deal. While repetition can be used to emphasise a point, sometimes it's more powerful to omit it. "If the barman wasn't afraid before, he definitely was now." again conveys the same meaning but avoids repetition.

"His work was done and he didn’t need to stick around to watch the poor fool die." - This sentence isn't bad on its own but I can't help but feel the latter part of it is surplus to requirement and somehow takes away from, rather than adding to, the feeling you were going for. Simply "His work was done." packs much more of a punch. The finality of it tells the rest of the sentence for you, really.

"It was time for him to leave the crappy little town of Killing and move on." - Compared to the rest of your narrative, which definitely seems mature and gritty, this sentence is like a huge flashing red light. It's like a little kid in a sea of adults. I would have gone with something along the lines of "There was nothing left for him here in Killing; time to move on."

Other than that, I really liked it. Keep up the good work! One more day of voting left.

[Phemar]

Thanks for the critiscm! (and praise). It definitely helps. Maybe one day I'll write a novel - Just seems like so much work :/

Only one thing I disagree with: "His work was done and he didn’t need to stick around to watch the poor fool die." I think the sentence gives a little bit of information on the type of character the man in the grey coat is. No remorse, just a days work etc.

[Trihan]

I see where you're going with that, but IMO the shorter sentence gets across the same emotion. It's short and snappy, matter-of-fact. It's just a day's work to him and nothing more.

[Trihan]

Looks like Akatosh wins this one.

[Akatosh]

Yaaay! Thanks for the votes, everybody! 

I'll try to think of a topic for the next compo. Expect the thread in the evening (around 7PM GMT).