Fortnightly Writing Competition - MASS DISAPPEARANCES (FINISHED)

[Mandle]

Throughout history there have been many mysterious cases of large groups of people, entire towns, or even entire civilizations suddenly and mysteriously vanishing.

This is the theme of this FWC! 



Any story that includes the theme of a large group of people suddenly disappearing is acceptable. The story can be an after-the-fact investigation, or it can be about the incident as the events unfold, or can even be told from the point of view of the character(s) or force causing the disappearance, or some other fourth or fifth thing.

What's a "large group"? Well...A story about 3 friends getting lost and vanishing in the woods is not acceptable, but a story about an entire cub scout group of like 30 is...Common sense rules I guess...

The contest is now closed, and voting is open:

The entries are:

DBoyWheeler:
FULL ENTRY HERE:

Spoiler

A mild storm dropped rain at a camp, with one person within his tent.  But all the other tents were empty.  The young man, wearing hiking attire, had put his hat down to scratch at his black hair.  His pale gray eyes, open with concern of his missing comrades, looked on as he opened up a book he retrieved from his backpackâ€"this book happened to be his journal.

The one person wrote in his journal:

"Greetings, to whom it may concern.

"My name is Richter.  I am the sole person remaining of my spelunking groupâ€"originally a group of twenty.

"We had just discovered a new cave that opened up shortly after a small 3.5 earthquake.  It opened up in the mountains a few miles from my hometown.

"Curious, we all went to enter the cavern.  It only went in about thirty-five feet, before finding a strange mural on a wall.  It looked like a painting of an ancient island city over a large sea.

"We set up camp for the night to see more of the mural the next day.  But when I awoke, I saw the camp was empty, except for myself.  All the equipment and food was here, and the tents were still intact, but except for me, the camp was deserted.

"I went back into the cave, and saw the mural.  I was startled to see the mural show the city occupied--was the mural smudged at first, thus preventing us to see the people in the mural earlier?  Or perhaps... no, I must be going mad to even THINK that possibility!

"I have returned to camp safely, wondering why I am currently here, and not with my colleagues.  Are my companions playing a trick on me, or is there something sinister afoot?  I do not know.

"Finding my camp's contact radio, I signaled for help to come.  Perhaps they can help find out what became of my party.  Heaven willing, I will awaken the next day still here.  I must find out what in blazes is going on!  I am writing this page here in the event fate decrees otherwise, and this journal becomes the sole remaining witness of the events that occurred here."

After he finished writing, Richter put his journal away, said a silent prayer, and went to sleep in his sleeping bag, albeit a very light sleep.

[close]

Stupot+:
FULL ENTRY HERE:

Spoiler

And there they were.
Gone.

[close]

Blondbraid:
FULL ENTRY HERE:

Spoiler

Hello there good folks!
I have great interest in life, a field which I have dedicated much of my time and and research,
and multiple long time first hand experiences I'll have you know.

Oral fungus and algae infections!
I have even prepared a slide show with full-color images for you!
Just wait right there and I'll get the diapositives set up!



Wait, where did everyone go?

[close]

Sinetrena:
FULL ENTRY HERE:

Spoiler

Ruins

On the ruins of former demonstrations of power
bloom buds of roses, of lilies, of pinks
and take back what was once human's tower
for the wolf, the fox and the lynx.
Mortar crumbles to dust that the wind blows away
into times long forgotten and gone.
And what was once built to last and to stay
is now the playing ground for a fawn.
The asphalt is broken by powerful roots,
a garbage pile home for daffodils.
This highway is now a garden of fruits
and former houses are nothing but hills.

Out of the ruins of former symbols of might,
that are now fallen into despair,
soar twittering larks into the light
and on the ground dances a bear.
Former cities are now forests and fields.
Sunken ships became coral reefs.
They tried all, weapons and shields
and for a while there were fallen leaves.
But then, this was the new world to follow:
Moles peep out behind rusty bikes.
Behind the butchers, pigs now wallow.
And the sea takes dying dykes.

And the ruin of this that came before
was not an earthquake, was not storm and flood.
The owners themselves, they opened the door
with their words, their hatred, their wars and blood.
Now nothing is left of what once was all
but the ground on which new occupants walk.
Gone is all that once stood tall,
gone their hope that was nothing but talk.
Death takes life and life takes death.
Iron chains become twines of flowers.
What is the end for one is the other's first breath -
through eons, through years, through hours.

[close]

Baron:
FULL ENTRY HERE:

Spoiler

Barnetville Tennessee, 1915

   The throng of angry men and hysterical women chorused like an un-oiled steam engine, at times rumbling threateningly and then screeching alarmingly, all the while casting noxious vapours about the air of the hall.  Wooden benches creaked under the weight of burly miners now standing on them, and objects were now beginning to fly towards the stack of crates that served as a podium.  The director of the mine wisely left the stage, sensing that the runaway pressure in the boiler was about to blow.

   But then, remarkably, a man no one had ever seen before replaced him.  He radiated an authoritative calmness that made the fretful mine director look like a chastened school boy.  His immaculate suit made him seem more official than the local reverend.  He stood such a contrast to the raging and ragged crowd that their ferment cooled instantly like vapour in a condenser, and the resulting vacuum pulled them gently back to their starting points like so many pistons in their cylinders.  They stared at him, awestruck that such a man existed at all in the world, let alone in their miserable corner of it.

   â€œLadies and gentlemen,” the man spoke clearly and concisely, “I am Joseph Austin Holmes, Deputy Director of the Federal Bureau of Mines.  I and my team have handled dozens of mine disasters: we are the experts, and your loved ones' best hope for survival.  According to our information an uncontrolled blast occurred at 0600 hours at the Boswell mine-head, leading to a shaft-collapse and fire, resulting in 22 men and boys unaccounted for.  To further dampen hopes, the primary pumps were damaged in the explosion, resulting in a water-table creep of approximately four feet per hour, which will flood out any remaining air-pockets in roughly 26 hours.  I want to assure you that the best mechanics, engineers, and firemen in the country will be working on restoring the shafts and pumps for that entire time, but I want to soberly caution everyone in this room that the chances of survival are remote and declining by the minute.  Besides asphyxiation from coal-gas and the threat of drowning, there is a very real possibility that an underground fire could smoulder and grow, precluding any rescue or recovery efforts for decades.  In addition, the threat of successive explosions is ever present, so I want to caution members of the community to remain outside the perimeter that my team is setting up even as we speak.  The best thing you can do for your loved-ones right now is to stay out of our way, and pray.”

*    *   *   *   *

   Slowly, sadly, almost wordlessly the crowd dissipated, trudging meekly back to their homes and hovels.  Soon the hall was empty except for a single, lonely woman.  She was Dorothy “Dot” Maybell, one-hundred-and-eight years old as far as anyone could reckon, which apparently wasn't very well in this hillbilly mining town.  Her husband had died of the miner's lung some forty-odd years ago, leaving her to keep bar in the local saloon to feed the family.  Not a respectable career for a family lady, but Dot Maybell never was much for niceties when her family was in trouble.  Now she had two sons and a grandson down that godforsaken pit, and nothing but a bunch of fine-spoken suits to help them out of their impossible predicament.  Now was not a time for niceties.

     No, now was a time for someone who would suffer no nonsense to take charge of the situation, and Dot Maybell had a firm impression that that person was her.  There hadn't been a bar-fight in her saloon since 1875, and she kept an old Colt revolver fastened to her garter and a pair of throwing knives in her nickers to keep it that way.  And between her family and her patrons she had heard enough about coal-mining over the years to know the business inside and out.   Maybe even enough to impress the suits in charge, if they ever bothered to listen to a meek old grandmother, which was unlikely.  But then, she wasn't very likely to listen to them either.

*   *   *   *   *

   â€œI need a full report and I need it two minutes ago,” Joseph Austin Holmes barked to a subordinate as he and a coterie of G-men entered the perimeter.

   â€œWe can't get a clean reading with the spectrometer, sir,” a young man in a suit named Williams replied.  “There seems to be some sort of magnetic interference, possibly originating in the lower strata of rocks.  In fact, about all we have to go on is seismic readings that led us here in the first place.”

   Holmes detected a hint of scepticism in his subordinate's voice, but ignored it.  “Calhoun, is this site secured?”

   â€œYes sir!”

   â€œAre you certain you've located and secured every possible access point, including air-shafts and abandoned works?

   â€œEr, probably sir!”  The man named Calhoun gestured to an even more minor subordinate who was wrestling with several dozen crinkled maps trying to escape in the early evening breeze.  “This whole mountain is like a brick of Swiss cheese, sir.”

   â€œI want this site secured!” Holmes snapped.  “Do you understand me?  Requisition men from the Cumberland office if you need to.  No one gets in or out without my say so.”

   â€œYes sir!”

   â€œBattison, Williams, Brown, and Schuster, you're with me,” Holmes continued, donning a trench coat.  “Johnson and his boys are on standby in case we need back-up.  Farmingham coordinates communications here at the mine head.  Anyone else belongs to Calhoun.  Are there any questions?”  Men suited up and grabbed their kit.  “Good.  Let's go!”
   
*   *   *   *   *

   The rhythmic dripping of water from the mine ceiling and the erratic static from the spectometer were the only sounds in the crypt-like caverns beneath the surface.  Williams led the way with the antenna thrust ahead of him and the rest of the heavy mechanism on his back.  Following was Holmes with a flashlight over his shoulder, and then Brown with his pistol drawn, then Schuster with the maps.  Battison brought up the rear with the telephone wire spool.

   â€œThis is worse than Nevada,” Brown whined.

   â€œCan it, kid,” Schuster muttered.  “Besides, nowhere's worse than Nevada!”

   Holmes tapped Williams on the shoulder, but the scientist shook his head.

   â€œMaybe it was just a blip?” Battison wondered aloud.

   â€œOr maybe we're too late,” Holmes shot back.  They rounded the corner, where the tunnel ended in yet another cave in.  “Can we tell how thick it is?”

   Williams brought another device out of a holster on his pack and and placed the cup end against the debris and the other end into his ear.  He counted quietly to himself, then replied: “About twenty feet.”

   â€œToo far to dig in time,” Holmes muttered, beckoning for a map from Schuster.  “Is there a way around?”

   â€œNothing on the mine specs, sir, but common practice in this type of pit suggests there should be an air shaft somewhere around here.”

   â€œLet's head that way.  Battison: send word to the surface that tunnel B is clear.”

   â€œYes sir!”

*   *   *   *   *

   Dot Maybell slid the dressing trunk to the side in the back room of the saloon, and then lifted the trap door to the cellar.  Her boys still snuck off work sometimes mid-shift and took the secret tunnel to the saloon for a nice lunch above ground.  Only a few of the oldtimers who were around when it was dug knew about it, and Dot had used her throwing knives once or twice to keep it that way.  The mine bosses had no idea it existed, but then they had a hard time telling their own assholes from a mine-shaft.  That meant the fancy G-men had no idea either.  Even her own boys didn't know all the old shafts and crosses, cut back in her husband's day more than fifty years ago.  And that meant that there was a chance, slim as the glimmer of light up a narrow air-shaft, but a chance nonetheless that she could circumvent the collapse and get to her boys.  Dot grabbed the rusty old safety lamp from the wall and quickly ducked through the dwarf-sized door into the bowels of the earth.

*   *   *   *   *

   There was an audible change to the pitch of the static from William's spectrometer, and Holmes ordered the suited procession to stop.  “We have something.  Relay our current location to the surface.”

   â€œWe're in uncharted tunnels now,” Schuster revealed.

   â€œDamn it, man!  Then give them our approximate location.  And get Johnson's team down in the hole.  They can follow our wire if things get-”

   Williams raised his hand, slowly moving his antenna back and forth.  The static faded in and out, replaced momentarily by a definite hum.

   â€œHoly shit,” Brown muttered, cocking his gun.

   â€œYou know you can't shoot that thing down here with all the coal-gas, right?” Schuster pointed out.

   â€œHoly sh-”

   â€œWhatever it is, it's moving,” Williams said, waving his antenna and squinting at the dials in the dim light.

   â€œWhere?  How far?” Holmes demanded.

   â€œOn approximately a parallel course.  Maybe forty feet through the rock.  There must be another tunnel.”

   Joseph Austin Holmes considered his options.  “All right.  Williams and I proceed with Battison, while Brown and Schuster backtrack.  I want this wall scoured for any kind of a link, no matter how small.  If you find anything one man stands guard and the other reports to Johnson.  Go!"

*   *   *   *   *

   The phone rang at the surface coordination centre and Farmingham picked it up.

   â€œSlow down, Johnson,” he said irritably.  “I can't make you out.  There's a lot of static on the line.  What?  Brown?  Shoved up Schuster's what?!?  Good god!  I'm sending Calhoun with the medic.  I said I'm sending -hello?  Hello?”

   Farmingham barked an order to a subordinate and then got back on the phone.  No answer from Johnson's team.  Next he tried Holmes.  The silence between the rings stretched out to a sickening length.  He was about to hang up when suddenly the call went through.

   â€œHello?” an old woman's voice answered

   Farmingham almost fell off his stool.  “Who is this?” he asked, confused.  He frantically waved down another subordinate and hurriedly scratched out a note reading “Code 9!”

   â€œThis is Dorothy Ann Maybell, and who might you be?”

   â€œThis is agent Farmingham with the Paranorm- er, the U.S. Bureau of Mines.  May I speak with agent Holmes please?

   â€œIs that the fancy boss man?” the old lady asked.

   â€œYes, ma'am.”  Farmingham spun his fingers in the air at the panting Calhoun to signal him that they had to go into containment mode.

   â€œHe and his friend with the electric flute walked into the brilliant light in the main gallery,” the old woman told him.

   â€œElectric flute?” Farmingham prodded.  “You mean Williams and his spectrometer?”

   â€œA lovely instrument,” the old lady prattled on.  “Like a song out of a dream.”

   â€œWhat about Battison?  He'd be the fellow attached to the phone you're speaking on.

   â€œOh, there's not much left of him,” the woman said nonchalantly.

   â€œWhat happened?  Did you see the bogey, ma'am?”

   â€œSaw it?  I stabbed the SOB right in the, well, it's hard to explain really.  It's kind of halfway between it's ninth tentacle and it's spider ass.  Whining like a gelded bull now.  Any way,  can't talk now as I'm off to kingdom come to save my boys.  Keep your G-men out of my bar or there'll be hell to pay!  Ta!”

   With that the line went dead. 

   Farmingham rubbed his temples soothingly.  This evening was going to generate a whole shit ton of paperwork.

[close]

Remember to vote in all categories:

Best Character: Your favorite character.
Best Setting: The world-building you enjoyed the most.
Best Plot: Pacing, story-arc, and non-put-downability of the work.
Best Writing: Elegant use of language.
Best Editing: For works that have been properly pruned to avoid rambling and just tell the damn story.
Best Mystery: For the story that really made you want to keep reading to find out what the frick happened/was happening that could make all those people just vanish...Of course an actual resolution is usually part of a great mystery story.

Good luck to all participants!


TROPHIES:

1ST PLACE:

[imgzoom]http://i.imgur.com/TvqURMV.gif[/imgzoom]

2ND PLACE:

[imgzoom]http://i.imgur.com/L44CKI7.gif[/imgzoom]

3RD PLACE:

[imgzoom]http://i.imgur.com/PQLs9Qr.gif[/imgzoom]


Thanks so much to CaeserCub for creating these!!!

[DBoyWheeler]

This Fortnightly Writing Contest topic sounds cool--this could also double as a launching pad for a creepypasta! 

[Baron]

Query: When you mention that the editing category of voting involves the lack of obnoxious rambling and excessively tangential details (possibly in beautifully baroque language that is so purple it makes your nipple hairs rise like kelp from the ocean floor), did you mean to imply that this was the only element of the editing process that would justifiably garner a supporting ballot?  Or would the category be expansive enough to include other meddlesome off-stage duties such as polishing the syntactical props and proofreading the programme for spelling mishaps?  I ask out of curiosity but also most crucially out of strategic intent, so I humbly beseech you to set out unambiguously the exact extent of this exasperatingly exacting new frame of assessment.   

[Mandle]

Query: When you mention that the editing category of voting involves the lack of obnoxious rambling and excessively tangential details (possibly in beautifully baroque language that is so purple it makes your nipple hairs rise like kelp from the ocean floor), did you mean to imply that this was the only element of the editing process that would justifiably garner a supporting ballot?  Or would the category be expansive enough to include other meddlesome off-stage duties such as polishing the syntactical props and proofreading the programme for spelling mishaps?  I ask out of curiosity but also most crucially out of strategic intent, so I humbly beseech you to set out unambiguously the exact extent of this exasperatingly exacting new frame of assessment.

So...you want to buy some cheese?

[Mandle]

I just reread your post actually Baron and yes (Monty Python references aside):

A story free of spelling and/or grammar errors would be well voted for in this category.

Although I feel that the self-editing of your own story to prune it down to the best bare basics of what you were trying to say in the first place is still first and foremost in this category.

And I know that I harp on editing, but it is really the overlooked factor in a lot of amateur writing: It's hard enough to cut something from your own(just killed that horse) story that a third party might point out is not needed, but it's even harder to cut it yourself, especially if you think it's very clever...

To quote writers much better than myself:

Kill your darlings...Rip out all the signs that say "Horse" under your pictures of horses, and save that cleverness for your next story...

[Baron]

I just reread your post actually Mandle and yes.  Do you have any two year old cheddar?

[Mandle]

I just reread your post actually Mandle and yes.  Do you have any two year old cheddar?

Sorry, not much call for it around here...

[DBoyWheeler]

Well, I decided to make an attempt at this.  Hopefully it does better than my attempt at the "Last Will and Testament" Writing Competition.

Yes, it is a bit on the short side, but I believe in keeping it simple and to the point.

**

A mild storm dropped rain at a camp, with one person within his tent.  But all the other tents were empty.  The young man, wearing hiking attire, had put his hat down to scratch at his black hair.  His pale gray eyes, open with concern of his missing comrades, looked on as he opened up a book he retrieved from his backpackâ€"this book happened to be his journal.

The one person wrote in his journal:

"Greetings, to whom it may concern.

"My name is Richter.  I am the sole person remaining of my spelunking groupâ€"originally a group of twenty.

"We had just discovered a new cave that opened up shortly after a small 3.5 earthquake.  It opened up in the mountains a few miles from my hometown.

"Curious, we all went to enter the cavern.  It only went in about thirty-five feet, before finding a strange mural on a wall.  It looked like a painting of an ancient island city over a large sea.

"We set up camp for the night to see more of the mural the next day.  But when I awoke, I saw the camp was empty, except for myself.  All the equipment and food was here, and the tents were still intact, but except for me, the camp was deserted.

"I went back into the cave, and saw the mural.  I was startled to see the mural show the city occupied--was the mural smudged at first, thus preventing us to see the people in the mural earlier?  Or perhaps... no, I must be going mad to even THINK that possibility!

"I have returned to camp safely, wondering why I am currently here, and not with my colleagues.  Are my companions playing a trick on me, or is there something sinister afoot?  I do not know.

"Finding my camp's contact radio, I signaled for help to come.  Perhaps they can help find out what became of my party.  Heaven willing, I will awaken the next day still here.  I must find out what in blazes is going on!  I am writing this page here in the event fate decrees otherwise, and this journal becomes the sole remaining witness of the events that occurred here."

After he finished writing, Richter put his journal away, said a silent prayer, and went to sleep in his sleeping bag, albeit a very light sleep.

[Stupot]

And there they were.
Gone.

[Baron]

Does it have to be about people?  What about an entry detailing the mass disappearance of Stupot+'s unfinished entries?

[DBoyWheeler]

Does it have to be about people?  What about an entry detailing the mass disappearance of Stupot+'s unfinished entries?

Oh no you didn't! 

[Mandle]

And there they were.
Gone.

I think I'll include this as an actual entry...

It pays tribute to Hemmingway's "Baby Shoes" for the briefest of short stories, and the ironic logic gap in the grammar is awesome...

I know the term is not original, but it's still awesome...ENTRY ENTERED!!!

On a side note: One of my other favorites for logic gaps in grammar (although not as intentional I suspect) is from a Matthew Reilly "Scarecrow" book:

Spoiler

I can't find the actual quote so I parphrase, but it was about this awesome:

"He saw no sign of the Scarecrow, apart from his jeep speeding away into the distance."

[close]

[Mandle]

So....anyone out there working on an entry?

Or has everyone just mysteriously....DISAPPEARED!!???

[Blondbraid]

Your entry was great, DBoyWheeler, some pretty good mystery and suspense, I love the ambiguous ending.
Well, I might as well give this a try, here is my take on the theme of large groups of people suddenly disappearing from sight:



Hello there good folks!
I have great interest in life, a field which I have dedicated much of my time and and research,
and multiple long time first hand experiences I'll have you know.

Oral fungus and algae infections!
I have even prepared a slide show with full-color images for you!
Just wait right there and I'll get the diapositives set up!



Wait, where did everyone go?

[Mandle]

HAHAHAHAHA!!!

Another great entry! Now we have three!

[Baron]

I've suffered from a mass disappearance of ideas on this one.  C'mon, brain!  Think!

[Mandle]

I've suffered from a mass disappearance of ideas on this one.  C'mon, brain!  Think!

Sleep on it...and remember your dreams...

Albiet a very light sleep...

[Sinitrena]

Mass disappearence, you say? Well, let's go all out on this and let all of humanity disappear...


Ruins

On the ruins of former demonstrations of power
bloom buds of roses, of lilies, of pinks
and take back what was once human's tower
for the wolf, the fox and the lynx.
Mortar crumbles to dust that the wind blows away
into times long forgotten and gone.
And what was once built to last and to stay
is now the playing ground for a fawn.
The asphalt is broken by powerful roots,
a garbage pile home for daffodils.
This highway is now a garden of fruits
and former houses are nothing but hills.

Out of the ruins of former symbols of might,
that are now fallen into despair,
soar twittering larks into the light
and on the ground dances a bear.
Former cities are now forests and fields.
Sunken ships became coral reefs.
They tried all, weapons and shields
and for a while there were fallen leaves.
But then, this was the new world to follow:
Moles peep out behind rusty bikes.
Behind the butchers, pigs now wallow.
And the sea takes dying dykes.

And the ruin of this that came before
was not an earthquake, was not storm and flood.
The owners themselves, they opened the door
with their words, their hatred, their wars and blood.
Now nothing is left of what once was all
but the ground on which new occupants walk.
Gone is all that once stood tall,
gone their hope that was nothing but talk.
Death takes life and life takes death.
Iron chains become twines of flowers.
What is the end for one is the other's first breath -
through eons, through years, through hours.



Edit: changed takes into blows in line 5 (typo)

[Blondbraid]

I am at a loss for words.
Marvelous, simply marvelous,
a truly epic poem, and well rhymed too.

[Mandle]

A very haunting poem indeed. I can imagine Sting singing it in the same tone as "Russians".