Fortnightly Writing Competition -STEAMPUNK (Results)

[Baron]

This past year we've written a lot about politics (Revolution, Time to Vote), sociology (Scarcity, Last Will & Testament), the wilderness (Camping, Abandoned Place, and most recently Myst), and the occult (Mass Disappearance, Biblical Book, and for all intents and purposes Serial).  Now the pendulum swings and it's time for Sci-Fi once more.  Our topic this time is:

STEAMPUNK!



Any kind of story is permissible so long as it is your own original unpublished work, and contains futuristic technology as if it were devised in past times.  So to clarify, the technology in question need not necessarily be typical Victorian steam-powered machines, but could be elaborate medieval water-, wind-, or pendulum-powered; ancient steam-, animal-, or human-powered (à  la Roman galley?); or indeed prehistoric inventions that mimic futuristic or contemporary technology (mammoth dung-powered?).  Heck, you could even come up with a fanciful power source that some crazy inventor stumbled upon that even we don't know about.  The important thing is that cool shit goes down in historical (or fantasy) times due to wicked creative inventions.

Deadline for the contest is Saturday November 19, 2016, with voting to start the following day.

Voting will be based on the following categories:

Best Character: the most believable/captivating/magnetic/unique character
Best Setting: the most vividly evoked background world, or most gripping atmosphere
Best Plot: the best organized, coherent and well-executed story with appropriate pacing, climax, etc.
Best Word Choice: the technical art of combining words in a memorable way
Best Technical Innovation: Which invention/technology is most impressive from a creative perspective?
Most Substantive: Which story best reveals a lesson about the relationship between humanity and technology?

Good luck to all contestants.  Let the writing commence!

[Baron]

...And we're halfway through the competition.  I'm going to have to ask the more rabid followers of this topic to temper their enthusiasm by a couple notches, as we don't want you burning out before the deadline.

[Baron]

Great entry!  But I'd hate to see a writing comp end by default.  You've got two days to make a competition of this, folks! 

[Stupot]

At the risk of jinxing myself, I have started something, scribbled in my notebook. Nothing that much resembles a story though.

[Blondbraid]

I too have started on a story, I hope I can finish it in time!

[Baron]

Excellent!  Keep up the good work, gentlemen.   Extensions are available for hardworking authors such as yourselves, upon request, if required.

BvB

[Blondbraid]

Well, here is my take on the theme:

The wooden machine

Jacob woke early that morning to the cold sunlight pouring in through the small opening in the wall serving as window. He was well aware that the life he had chosen was one of asceticism
as he sat up in his hard wooden bed and his bare feet touched the cold stone floor, yet he was content in his choice.

He was no stranger to simplicity having grown up on a small farm in a barren land, but as he went from a boy to a man he had seen the changing seasons and what came with it. He had seen lambs grow into sheep giving birth to lambs and men bury their fathers and then becoming fathers themselves, one day waiting for their sons to bury them. Their life was that of a blind snake eating its own tail. With that, he knew that he could never live that life and wandered away, searching for a purpose, as had all the other men that inhabited this ancient and desolate place high up in the mountains.

The sound of footsteps began coming closer to Jacob's room now. Quickly and quietly he reached for his coarse brown robe and pulled it over his head. The bluntly crafted door swung open with a creak as Jacob slid his feet into the leather boots. The man standing in the opening was Bernard, older yet burlier than Jacob and with half his face covered by a grizzled beard. Jacob knew why he had come. It was at last his time to go and work on the machine.

He followed him through the herbal garden and past it's workers hunched over sage, thyme and rosemary. Some men in this place worked with growing plants, breeding sheep and weaving wool, not unlike the tasks performed by the people whose life Jacob had left behind, yet this was different. It was not merely toiling and labouring for its own sake, but a necessary evil for sustaining the men working on the machine, and every sheep, plant and seed was one of purpose.

As they approached he could hear the rumbling sound of the machine and its workings.

When they walked around a corner they were greeted by an impressive sight. A contraption of turning wheels of every size, all perfectly round, and massive ropes and pulleys going back and forth between them, enormous oaken pillars slowly rotating and stairs and ladders connecting them. It engulfed the entire courtyard, different parts of machinery stretching almost all the way up to the roof of the walls that surrounded it. Only a small tower stretched up above it, lone and defiant. Jacob despised the look of it, a still and unmoving stone structure disrupting the grinding and pulsating harmony of the ever moving machine. The tower was a forbidden place, and only a small hemp rope was tied across the dark vault leading into it, but the small rope was enough. Jacob had no desire to go there, and could not see why any soul in this place would want to go there and abandon the wondrous marvel that was the machine, ever moving, ever working.

Barely able to hold back his smile Jacob eagerly asked Bernhard to begin. The sturdy man began cranking a large wooden handle on one of the wheels, and very carefully Jacob took the place beside him. Together with all the other men they worked long until noon. It was hard work and his body aced, yet Jacob was very satisfied, for he was working towards a purpose, and even if he had yet to know it, he was certain of the progress he made in every move. When a new group of hooded men emerged to relieve them, Jacob felt almost disappointed. Even as he joined his peers for supper and later crept down into his bed, he still longed to be back and work on the machine.

And so it continued for days and months, Jacob working on the machine, and happily so. But one day it came to an end. Gradually new components had been installed, someone built another wheel, another tied two pillars together with a rope and new ways to work on the machine were formed. But when Jacob tried to move one of the handles on one of the large wheels that day, it stuck firmly in place. At first he almost panicked and spun around looking for someone to ask for help, but quickly stopped himself from doing so, for what would they think of him, if he could not handle the machine? He wanted to, no, needed to try and solve this on his own first, if he asked another Jacob would deprive that man of his time to work on his part of the machine. Jacob looked around for what the problem could be, but it was no small task as the machine engulfed the whole courtyard. However he looked at it, he could never see it in its entirety, for it was large enough to even obscure itself, with large wheels and pillars hiding the other wheels and pillars behind them. Everything was covered in machinery save the tower, and a forbidden thought entered Jacobs mind.

It was only to get an overview of the machinery, he told himself as he swung his leg over the hemp rope and started scaling the narrow staircase spiralling up to the top, yet part of him felt guilty and his unease grew the further up he came. When he was at last at the top, the unease gave way to a deep sense of dread. The pinnacle of the tower was a high and windy platform without railing, but this was not the reason of Jacob's dread. The source came from the machine itself.

Never had Jacob dared question the purpose of it, instead toiling in the hope that the nature of its contraptions would reveal itself to those of strength and devotion enough to work on the machine. The idea of asking any of the other men working on it had left him not long after his arrival, for it was clear that few, if any of the men Jacob had spoken to knew any more than himself. For years, if not generations the men had worked and strived for the betterment of the collections of mechanisms on the courtyard for the sake of an ever illusive purpose and now the tower had taught it to Jacob in the cruel manner that only the cold and indisputable truth can do.

From above, the machine seemed not the marvel it had appeared from the ground. It did not majestically envelop the courtyard, it cluttered it, an inexplicable tangle of ropes and planks connecting wheels spinning in circles, and small men in robes as brown as the machinery that surrounded them going back and forth turning gears and levers without knowing why they were doing it. From the tower Jacob could see the mountains and moss green moors stretching far around him, yet he could not see the machine connecting to anything outside the small courtyard square. The machine worked on its own and neither produced nor consumed anything, save all the hard work the men naively poured into it. The machine had no purpose, it was merely a grinding contraption perpetually working against itself, and none of the labour put into it would ever bear fruit.

It was all meaningless.

[Stupot]

Bravo, Blondie. Good stuff.
My story has hit a road block. I might just chuck a random ending on a post it later today, If I may.

[Baron]

You know what they say: random endings are better than no endings at all.

The contest is hereby extended until Stupot+ enters or three days have passed, whichever occurs first.

[Stupot]

Okay. I'm only posting this because I promised something and I hate to see people win by default. I didn't give myself enough time to turn it into anything resembling a story. It's really just a scene (barely even that) but gives you an idea of the kind of Victorian-Tokyo vibe I had envisaged.

It's going in spoiler tags because I'm too embarrassed to fill up any more of this post with it.

Spoiler

Masahiro stood on platform 2 of Pikadiri Station in the heart of Tokyo's Shin-Rondon ward. As always the platform was rammed. Trapped between a sneezing salaryman to his left and an old lady in expensive funeralwear to his right, Masahiro fingered his breast pocket and thanked God this was the last time he would ever have to take this train.


The horn sounded and the whistles blew. Then, the sound of gears creaking and chains jangling, the passengers were engulfed in the familiar vapour as the platform slowly began to rise the 200ft and three minutes it takes to reach the upper platform.


There she was. Shoriko. The flagship engine of Japan Rail's 4-thousand-strong stock of steam locomotives. This grand machine was built in honour of Queen Victoria, as a symbol of gratitude for the British Intervention, which brought about the end of feudalism in the Japan and reinstated the emperor as divine ruler of the land. Masahiro, though he appreciated the magnificence of Shoriko, was not an imperialist. Nor was he a particular fan of the late Queen of England. Of course, this was something he kept to himself.


The platform locked into place and the mechanism hissed a sigh of relief. Then, the doors of the train simultaneously slid open automatically, allowing the passengers to enter. The insides of these carriages were no longer as grand as they once were. Beautiful ornate wooden seating and luxurious red felt had once adorned these spaces, but that had all been ripped up to make room for an ever-increasing number of salarymen.


Masahiro squeezed into the carriage third from the front - his favourite carriage, being the one that spills out into the row of coin-operated coffee-machines on the platform of Nishi-Padinton station, his usual destination. Today, though, he would not be alighting onto his usual platform. He would be riding Shoriko all the way out to her final desination.


As more and more people squeezed into the carriage behind him, he found himself pressed hard against particularly buxom lady in a rather skimpy outfit. But his mind was on other things. Without accidentally touching someone inappropriately, he managed to manoeuvre his arm enough to reach into his breast pocket and retrieve the telegram he had changed everything. He had already read it six times today, and though he already knew it to the letter, he couldn't resist another small glance.


It was an offer of work from his uncle, Yasuhiko, a police detective down in Kyoto.

[close]

[Baron]

And the competition is closed!  We have two entries this time around:

The Wooden Machine by Blondbraid
The Iron Queen by Stupot+

Please evaluate these entries on the following criteria:

Best Character: the most believable/captivating/magnetic/unique character
Best Setting: the most vividly evoked background world, or most gripping atmosphere
Best Plot: the best organized, coherent and well-executed story with appropriate pacing, climax, etc.
Best Word Choice: the technical art of combining words in a memorable way
Best Technical Innovation: Which invention/technology is most impressive from a creative perspective?
Most Substantive: Which story best reveals a lesson about the relationship between humanity and technology?

Voting will be open until it is no longer Saturday November 26 anywhere in the world.  Votes will be tabulated and a winner announced on Sunday.  Good luck to all participants!

[Stupot]

Best Character: Blondbraid
Best Setting: Blondbraid
Best Plot: Blondbraid
Best Word Choice: Blondbraid
Best Technical Innovation: Blondbraid
Most Substantive: Blondbraid

[Blondbraid]

Best Character: Stupot+
Best Setting: Stupot+
Best Plot: Stupot+
Best Word Choice: Stupot+
Best Technical Innovation: Stupot+
Most Substantive: Stupot+

[Stupot]

Touché

[kconan]

Best Character: Blondbraid for Jacob
Best Setting: Stupot+
Best Plot: Blondbraid
Best Word Choice: Blondbraid
Best Technical Innovation: Blondbraid
Most Substantive: Blondbraid

[Ponch]

I hate seeing the tumbleweeds blowing back and forth across the FWC thread.   I'd have written something, but damn do I hate steampunk. It's just painfully twee.


Best Character: Blondbraid
Best Setting: Stupot
Best Plot: Blondbraid
Best Word Choice: Stupot
Best Technical Innovation: Blondbraid
Most Substantive: Blondbraid

Congrats to the writers!

[Baron]

I'd have written something, but damn do I hate steampunk. It's just painfully twee.

That's just the post-trumpmatic stress talking.  P actually loves all things twee.  Especially those old-timey painted plates with idyllic rural scenes that are too nice to actually use for eating off of.  (Just in case some of you still haven't done your Christmas shopping for Ponch.... ).

And now down to business.

The Golden Whatsamajigger trophy goes to Blondbraid with a convincing fifteen votes.  I thought your Wooden Machine story an improvement over last time.  As a reader I kept trying to figure out what the machine was actually doing, so I was happy in the end that the whole story was actually about that.

The Silver Whatchamacallit trophy goes to Stupot+, mostly just for submitting something ( ), but also for creating a world that could just have been the setting for a really cool story.   Dare I hope that one day we might find out?

So I hereby bestow my powers of contest administration upon the worthy shoulders of Blondbraid.  I look forward to competing directly against my old nemesis Ponch in the next exciting (but non-twee) instalment of....

The Fortnightly Writing Competition!!1!

[Blondbraid]

Thank you, so very happy that you liked my story!