Fortnightly Writing Competition - SACRIFICE (Results)

[Baron]

'Tis the season!  Let's write about...

Sacrifice



Perhaps the most appealing aspect of Christianity is the idea that its messiah willingly sacrificed himself for the good of mankind.  Good christians are supposed to emulate this gesture to a small degree by giving up some trivial comforts during Lent in the run up to celebrating Easter.  But it is also Ramadan right now, where Muslims one-up their Christian buddies by giving up food and drink entirely during daylight hours.  In parts of the world animal sacrifice still occurs, with the idea that Providence will provide for those that give up what is valuable to them.

The history of sacrifice is perhaps even more fraught.  Ancient old world cultures sacrificed human beings to appease their gods, and ancient new world cultures weaponized sacrifice to do the same (and conveniently keep the neighbours in check).  Ancient Romans bizarrely believed that the future could be augured from the entrails of a sacrificed bird.  Kamikaze pilots in 1940s Japan would bring honour to their families with their self-sacrifice during World War 2.  Sacrifice can indeed be a bloody business.

But smaller sacrifices can be noble in their own right, and perhaps be more constructive.  Witness people sacrificing their own happiness to provide for a loved-one, or going without in the short-term in the pursuit of a long-term goal (a penny saved is a penny earned).  Love itself is a sacrifice of individuality.

This fortnight your submission must revolve around a sacrifice, big or small; noble or destructive; bloody or beautiful.  Deadline for submissions is Monday April 10 at midnight Hawaii time.  Good Luck to all participants!

[Mandle]

Oooohhh, I like this theme!

[DBoyWheeler]

Aww, you didn't include the scene from QG4 where Toby sacrificed himself to bring Tanya back to life.

Still, quite an intense topic, for sure.

[Mandle]

I have my story written and ready to post after a bit of proofreading tomorrow.

[Mandle]

THE FINAL FLIGHT OF KENRIN

Captain James Verill still read paper books. The data files for them were considerably more costly than the digital variety, took much longer to download, especially all the way out here, and ate up a lot of expensive 3D printer resources to simulate the hardback covers he preferred, the individual "paper" pages and the "inked" letters "soaked" into them, and the glue that held each page affixed within the spine, all built rapidly one microscopic layer at a time.

But, when freshly printed, they still smelled somewhat like the real books he remembered from his past, all of which had crumbled to dust millions of years ago. The extra financial expenditure was well worth the simple pleasure of opening a new book, hearing the glue along the spine creak and crack for the first time, and drawing in the close-enough scent of the approximated paper through his ancient but proud, and unwrinkled, nose. Well, maybe a few creases were starting to form across its bridge. Humanity wasn't completely immortal yet, only nearly so.

The cover of this most recent and expensive book bore the inlaid gold-foil title (another cost he refused to shirk), "The Caa Invasion of Rizable Six". The real action in this war against the Caa seemed far away to James as he started to read the account he already knew the generalities of. But it was the details he needed.

Even if he wasn't overseeing a direct combat post against the alien race that, after all the multitudes of other races had been assumed defeated and extinct, had actually made a dent in the human-occupied vastness of the universe, his position here was still vital.

And so, he read his book, the view of the twin, cannibalistic suns of this system forgotten to him as they cast their dying orange and red rays through the Nuc-Sil half-dome of glass that was his preferred reading room, set into the side of the massive black sphere that was the "Human Collective Outpost Red-08618-Ahab".

It was an "H.C.O." in name only however, a subterfuge that would be unlikely to stem the cruelty of the Caa, should they find him here. The size of the sphere, seemingly capable of supporting an outpost colony of a few billion humans, yet only home to James and Kenrin, was also for camoflague purposes only: H.C.O Red-08618-Ahab was a listening post, and Captain James Verill was a spy.

A great length of time passed, measured not in hours nor days nor years, but by the further downloadings and printings of another few hundreds-of-thousands of books detailing the more vital military actions in the disappointing war against the Caa, all of which James had read and then tossed into the hollow central core of the sphere. They would float around down there, orbiting each other with their splayed covers and fanned pages, for as long as humanity stood against the Caa, which might not be all that much longer the way things were going.

What had once been a single dent of an offensive into human-held space had grown into several, and then hundreds... and then billions of intrusions.

The Caa had proved to be a much more numerous and capable foe than ever imagined, especially after the simple defeats that all the throngs of other, more primitive alien civilizations and collectives had suffered under the lightyears-wide bootheel of humankind.

But, James thought to himself, that's why they were both of them stationed out here, he and Kenrin. And, when Kenrin floated across the vast chamber that annexed his private reading dome, James was not at all surprised by the urgency of the bulbous robot's many twitching limbs and outgassing thrusters. The moment he had been here for, through all these lengths of books, was finally upon them. 

"Captain, they have found us," said Kenrin through the speaker below his tiny, but expressive, animatronic eyes. "They are beginning to scan and shut down all sphere-based servers in order of magnitude from top to bottom. This one in me is at the very bottom."

"Good," replied James, calmly placing "A Study on the Caa Victory at Frehail. Volume 73." beside him on the curving, white-cushioned couch he had sat on for the greater part of all these eons, filling his head with as much military knowledge on the enemy as he could pack into it. "Begin the hack as planned."

Kenrin's eyes, their tiny mechanical irises ratchetting wide enough to almost completely fill their glass orbs, focused in on James with an intensity he had never felt before during his and the robot's long and long time together.

"I already began the hack microseconds ago. It is almost complete. Then, James? Is the time really here? The time of the sacrifice?" the robot said.

A brief pang of pain for his friend hit James hard in his heart. He was surprised he still had it in him, after all these ages, to feel for someone, especially for a robot: To feel regret at what Kenrin was about to go through, but the sacrifice had always been the plan from the very sta...

"DOWNLOAD COMPLETE," came the automated response from the robot's speaker, not the real voice of his machine companion, not the voice that had developed to become so human over their vast time together.

James knew that he would never hear that true voice from his friend ever again. From here on in, everything was automated on a precise schedule. Every step of the plan had to happen in rigid lockstep. The Caa were a rare, advanced species, their technology and concept of reality almost the polar opposite of the human experience. But... one thing that had been detected over galaxy-spanning eavesdropping on their enemies' coms was that the Caa were developing a bomb. A bomb that could wormhole its way anywhere. A bomb that could destroy not only thousands of galaxies, but also the space between them. A bomb that could erase spacetime itself, deleting the entire history of the targeted civilization from the universe, as if it had never existed.

These were the stakes. The robot, Kenrin, had hacked into the approaching enemy and downloaded all the files on the development of the bomb. As the robot blasted away on its gas thrusters toward the hollow core of their home, James knew that the Caa had detected the hack and were already scanning the sphere for the singularity they needed to destroy to keep the blueprints for the bomb falling into enemy hands: the densest concentration of military knowledge that could be used against them.

Captain James Verill said, "Sacrifice Protocol". And, at his command, his reading-room half-dome thudded its other half into place and then burst itself away from the side of the sphere of the H.C.O Red-08618-Ahab. He picked up the book beside him from his couch as his new, tiny and final spherical home started to blast out into the void. The swarms of the Caa detected the sheer density of military knowledge that he had accumulated in his brain and poured like a pulsing river through space after James's rapidly accelerating capsule.

James managed to read another 486 pages of the book before the silvery snake of the pursuing Caa units enveloped his glassy reading room and imploded it.

Kenrin flew out from the mouth of a conduit, into the hollow core of the planet-sized sphere and, as his automated protocols demanded, shut himself down to await retrieval.

Real paper books bounced off his bulbous hull for vast stretches of time, eventually fracturing apart and then, over further eons, their fractured pieces fractured smaller and smaller again, finally crumbling to dust.

[Sinitrena]

This story takes place in a school and some knowledge of grades might be required. It's mentioned in the story as necessary, but just to make it easier: This is the German grading system (or one of them, Germany is complicated when it comes to schools):

1 best
2 good
3 ok
4 just passing
5 not passing but can usually be balanced out with a 1 or two 2s in a different subject
6 fail

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The Probabilities of Compassion


Luisa was shaking. Again. She tried to hide it, but wasn't very successful. Her skin was clammy and pale, her eyes darted from one side of the room to the other.

Martha looked up from her book from time to time. She didn't mean to stare at the other girl, but she did. In truth, she was nervous herself and only pretended to read her book in the break before their next lesson. Or rather, exam. With a sigh she put her book away. There was no use reviewing formulas right before anyway.

Instead, she rummaged in her backpack and took out her notes on her grades. The paper was crumpled and torn, sentences and numbers were crossed out and others added in the spaces between the lines, grades were underlined or marked in other ways. It was a chaotic note for an orderly mind. Martha's grades were good overall. Music was bad, but still a passing grade and other than that, there were no huge problems. But Martha was ambitious. Looking at the average of her maths' grade, she reminded herself that she needed a 1 to receive a 1 overall. She could do it, she knew she could. Maths wasn't particularly difficult for her, but that didn't change the fact that she was nervous.

Drrrrr. Drrrrr. Drrrrr.

She jumped. She was sure she had turned off her phone. She always did. Martha was a stickler for rules and having the phone turned on in school was not allowed. Still, the note slipped from her fingers and slowly sailed to the carpeted floor.

But it wasn't her phone. Of course it wasn't.

Luisa jumped and kicked her backpack over. Things tumbled out onto the floor. She scrambled through the contents of her backpack,

Drrrrr Drrrrr

sweat clearly visible on her forehead and on her cheeks. Or were it tears?

,,Hi, mom." Her voice sounded cheerful, high-pitched, bright.

Drrrrr. Drr...

Luisa took the phone from her ear and looked at it confused for a second, then she slid the screen to accept the call.

,,Hi, mom." she said again, slightly less cheerful and with a note of resignation in her voice.

,,Luisa." The woman's voice carried through the phone and the short distance to Martha. ,,When is your test?"

Luisa's hands were shaking. She rubbed her palms over the legs of her jeans again and again, not like she was straightening out a wrinkle, but pressing hard on the cloth and the little bit of skin and fat underneath. ,,In... in a few minutes, mom."

,,A few minutes? Why are you on your phone when -"

,,You called me, mom!"

,,Don't take this tone with me."

Martha had no idea what tone that would be. With this thought, she realized that she was eavesdropping and went to pick up her note again. She folded it carefully, far too carefully for such a worn out piece of paper, and tucked it into her pencil case.

DingDong DingDong

Martha stood up as soon as she heard the gong.

,,Mom, I got to go." Luisa said, quickly pushing her things back into the backpack. ,,That was the gong, I have to -"

,,Don't you dare hang up on me!"

Already a few steps towards the classroom door, Martha turned around and went to help Luisa pick up her stuff. She was still on the phone.

,,And don't you dare come home with a 3 again, or else..."

There was a lot of stuff on the floor, books and notebooks, pencils and chewing gum, lipstick, a calculator with a now broken display, ...

By the time everything was back in the bag, the two girls were late. Martha didn't mind. Since when were teachers punctual? But it didn't help with Luisa's nervousness. She fumbled with her phone as she put it away and didn't even say thanks to Martha or look at her as she rushed to the classroom.

For once, the teacher was already there. A substitute, Mr Martin, who hadn't learned the names of the students yet, despite being there long-term as Miss Rodriguez had some complications with her pregnancy.

,,You're late!", the teacher chided, as the two girls sat down on their respective chairs.

It wasn't his voice that rang in Martha's ears though, as Mr. Martin distributed the exam papers, nor the gong that had been far too loud since the last fire alarm test, nor maths formulas shouting at her to find the right answers. It was the voice of Luisa's mother. Or else! The words weren't even meant for her, and they still let a chill run over her spine. They were a threat. A very clear threat. Or maybe the mother was joking? Martha didn't know her, after all, didn't know her usual tone of voice, didn't know the inside jokes of Luisa's family.

She glanced at her in that moment. Luisa was sitting two seats in front of her and one to the left. One hand was still rubbing the legs of her jeans, while the other was high in the air, waiting for Mr. Martin to acknowledge her. Her foot was tapping up and down, up and down, almost too fast to see.

Martha saw only half of her cheek as she turned slightly to follow Mr. Martin with her eyes, but Luisa's skin was clearly still damp and pale.

Maybe she was sick. Maybe she always was this nervous. After all, it couldn't be that her mother threatened her because of a 3? A 3 was still a passing grade, after all.

And why was Martha even still thinking about this?

Calculate the probability of the following events: she read.

,,My calculator is broken!" Luisa's voice interrupted her concentration. Mr. Martin still hadn't acknowledged her and come over to her so that they might talk silently, and so Luisa shouted the words with a slight panic.

,,Does anyone have a second calculator?" Mr Martin asked with a sigh, as if such a simple request was too much of a bother for him.

Those of the class who reacted at all shook their heads but most were already concentrating on the stochastic test, Martha included.

From the corner of her eyes she saw Mr. Martin shrug his shoulders. ,,Then you're out of luck. It's your responsibility to bring your things and keep them in a working condition."

,,But -"

,,No but. Get to work, no more talking." With that, Mr. Martin turned around and strolled to the front of the class.

The next minutes were mostly silent. There was a bit of rustling of paper here, a pencil scraping over some lines there, a cough, the creaking of a chair – the usual sounds of a class concentrating on a test.

And Martha could finally start to work on hers. As always, once she actually paid close attention to the questions and formulas, it was fairly easy for her. She never understood why it wasn't for other people. Maths was always logical, always structured, always obvious. So often, when she was younger, an answer just came to her without thinking, because she was able to do three steps at once.

There were three long questions in the text, each with multiple subitems. From time to time, she heard one of her classmates silently groan at this format, because questions that were build on each other made it so much more difficult to receive points for parts of a correct answer.

She was just done with the first larger question, when a sound called her attention once again to Luisa. Sitting behind her, she couldn't be sure, but it certainly looked as if the other girl was mildly sobbing. She for sure wasn't writing anything on her exam paper and wiped her eyes from time to time with her sleeve.

When Martha was done with the second question, Luisa stood up, took her paper and walked to the front of the class. She put the exam on the teacher's desk and turned around.

,,You're not done." Mr. Martin said, a clear statement of fact. ,,If you think you're done, read through it again." And he handed her the paper back.

As she was walking back to her seat, there was no doubt for Martha. Luisa had been crying. Her skin, so pale before, was as red as her eyes, only interrupted by white lines, where tears were not wiped away fast enough and had ran down her cheeks.

Luisa sat back down and stared at her test. She wasn't reading it. She probably wasn't even seeing it.

Was it because of the broken calculator? Because she wasn't that good at maths anyway? Was it because of her mother's threat, non-specific as it might have been? Or was it even non-specific for Luisa? Didn't she probably know exactly what or else meant?

Either way, Martha didn't know, but she kept thinking about it. She kept hearing the words in her thoughts. If her own parents reacted like that to a bad grade. Not that there were many bad grades for Martha. But being good was never good enough for her, she wanted to be the best. Not necessarily better than everyone else in her grade, but as good as she could possibly be. She wanted to be the best version of herself: studious, honest, rule-abinding, with integrity. She wanted good grades, she wanted to earn them and deserve them and get them. A 1 on this test would guarantee her a 1 on the end-of-year report, a 3 or worse would mean a 2, with a 2 on this test it depended on other factors.

All these thoughts weren't exactly helping her concentrate on the third and last question and time was ticking by faster than she wanted it to. As a matter of fact, she suddenly became acutely aware of the ticking of her wristwatch and of the constant movement of the hand of the large clock on the wall. Five minutes were left and she still had three more sub-questions to solve.

A few of the other students got up and turned in their papers, but Luisa was not one of them. Chided by the teacher before, she kept staring at her desk, clicking the back of her pen fast and unrhythmicly on the table.

DingDong DingDong

Luisa jumped at the sound.

,,Alright, time's over. Turn in your tests!"

Martha wasn't done. Martha was always done when time was up. She had never not been done before.

Just one last - she thought and scrambled to write down one last number. There was still one sub-question left, but she was out of time. Maybe it was good enough. Maybe it would still be a 1.

Luisa stumbled forward right in front of her and threw her test on the desk without looking at anyone, almost running, certainly fleeing from the classroom right after.

Martha put her test on the table as well, her movements subdued, careful. She didn't feel certain at all about her answers, having had no time to look over them one last time as she usually would have done, then she picked up her backpack and headed to the door as well. She was the last to leave

With sudden realisation, Martha stopped in her tracks. She had forgotten to write her name on the test. She turned around and snatched the paper back from the teacher's desk.

"Forgot to put my name!" she half mumbled, half exclaimed.

With her back to Mr. Martin, she put the paper on the nearest student's desk and started to write her name, when she noticed that she had accidentally taken the test underneath hers as well. Luisa's. A quick look told her what she already knew: that Luisa had answered nearly none of the questions. She also hadn't put her name on it either, if by accident or intend, Martha could not tell.

When she turned the tests in again, there were names on both of them, Luisa's and Martha's.

Or else. Hopefully, Martha would never find out what it really meant, because Luisa did not have to experience it. What did a 1 on the report card mean anyway?

[Baron]

Just a heads up that the deadline is tomorrow night.  Let me know if you can't make the necessary sacrifices to get your story in on time.   

@Sinitrena:  Confusingly in Canada, level 4 is the highest (basically an A), then level 3 (B), then level 2 (C), and finally level 1 (D).  I suppose theoretically there must be a level 0 (F), but in practice kids who try that hard are deemed to be too fragile to know the truth of their ineptitude.   

[Baron]

Edit due to last-minute submission: see below.

------------------------

Well that's a wrap, peeps. 

Our entries for your consideration this time around are:

Sinitrena with The Probabilities of Compassion

Mandle with The Final Flight of Kenrin

Stupot with his last-minute (and therefore to be found after this post) Don't Forget the Rice

For voting we will be using a 10 point scale.  For clarity purposes I will list rankings below:

10 points: absolutely incredible.  Loved it!
9 points: incredible with a slight flaw.  Liked it a lot!
8 points: merely outstanding, or maybe there were a few more flaws.  Liked it!
7 points: It was good, but there were issues.  Mostly liked it!
6 points: It was mostly good, but....  Kinda liked it!
5 points: There were good points and... other points.  Basically balances out to neutral.
4 points: To be honest the whole thing was kinda meh.  Don't worry, I'll give feedback!
3 points: There were some serious issues that need to be worked out.
2 points: I really struggled finishing this one.
1 points: Hey, I'm being charitable here.
0 points: Hey, at least I bothered voting!

I can live with fractional scores to one decimal place (e.g. 8.5).  Ideally there would be a voting pool of at least three in order for me to give out averaged scores.  If there are not more than two voters I reserve the vote in order to give more meaningful scores (i.e. not just from entrants' direct competitor).  Votes should be PMed to me on or before Saturday April 15, 2023.

Remember, feedback helps us writers grow, so please share your thoughts and impressions.

Good luck to all participants!

[Stupot]

Sorry if this is too late, but I have just found myself with a bit of time and was able to pump something out. I'll post it here anyway, and if it doesn't count, that's fine.


Don't Forget the Rice

Jacob had had an idea for his story. It was for a little writing contest that he and a few friends took part in, based on a cosy gaming forum. There were only a few regular particpants, and Jacob always tried to be one of them. The story he had in mind was a bit different from usual. Jacob had to admit that he was a bit of a one-trick pony when it came to writing. His stories always tended to be sort of urban-legend, creepypasta type fare. There always had to be some gimmick or twist. He wasn't really able to just tell a nice story. But this story was going to be different. It was going to be a tear-jerker, goddammit. He was going to make the rest of his fellow writing-buddies cry.

* * *

The story would go something like this: There was a young teenage boy called Simon who was extremely bright and popular, but his younger brother David was involved in an accident and received a traumatic brain injury, leaving him completely disabled. The boys' father had already left years ago and their mother was a drug addict, and not a high-functioning one at that. So, Simon's life immediately changed. He had to sacrifice his popularity and social life in favour of looking-after his brother. This frustrated him at first, and he resented his brother.

One day, he was invited to a party at Greg's house and he and his mum had agreed she would look after David so he could go out. He had made himself look his best and was extra excited because Jenny was going to be there, and he really wanted to dance with her. But he waited and waited and his mother didn't come home. She was off getting high somewhere. So, it was up to Simon to stay at home and feed and bathe his brother... again.

At first, he was just depressed, but he sort of knew it was going to play out like this. But then, as he was spooning a glutinous mash of food into David's mouth, he saw Jenny walking past the window, holding hands with Greg. He lost control and struck his defenceless brother across the face. But David didn't react. He couldn't. Simon looked into his brother's eyes and hugged him, breaking down in shuddering tears. In that moment he realises that his brother is more important to him than anyone in the world and he will do whatever necessary to keep him safe, even if that means sacrificing his social life.

* * *

Something like that.

Jacob was looking forward to fleshing the story out and seeing where it took him. Should David die, or is that too much? What about the mother and her addiction? How might that be resolved? Is it a bit "incel" of Simon to get angry just because he couldn't bone his crush? Jacob spent a fair bit of his waking time thinking about his story and he knew that with a little focus and a little time he might even be able to make it good. And he might even be able to jerk some tears out of his fellow writing buddies.

But focus and time were two things, Jacob lacked the most. His wife was pregnant with their second child and Jacob was forced to put his silly story on the backburner while he kept on top of all the housework and kept their elder son entertained. He didn't wish to moan. He wasn't an asshole. At least he hoped very much that he would not come across as such, but it just seemed to our poor hero that every time he thought he might have a moment to write his story, there was another chore or duty to be done.

As the deadline for the writing contest passed, Jacob wondered if he would ever have a chance to write his story again. Let alone all the other books and big writing projects he had on his laptop, in various stages of "barely begun."

One day, while his son was watching something on TV and his wife was napping, and it seemed that all the laundry and dishes were done, Jacob decided to open his laptop and try to bash something out, despite the deadline having passed already. But no sooner had he clicked on the "Word" icon, than he heard his son. "Hey, daddy. How about we make paper aeroplanes?"

"Not now buddy," said Jacob at first, and obligingly his son didn't ask again and carried on watching the screen.

Jacob also found himself watching his own screen, staring at the blank page. Something was keeping him from typing. He tried to focus, but nothing came to him. Instead, he closed his laptop, took out a couple of pieces of paper and said, "Go on then, turn the TV off. Let's make paper aeroplanes."

And so it was that Jacob never did finish that story. Some say that that blank Word doc titled "Document1" is still somewhere on a hard drive somewhere, long lost to mother nature.

He did, however, manage to write a story, even if it wasn't the story he had hoped to write. One day, before work, he received a phone call saying he wasn't needed until much later in the day. So, he suddenly found himself alone in the house, already pretty tidy, no distractions, and no other chores [except rice, don't forget to cook the rice]. So, he decided he would try to enter something, even though the deadline had long passed. And what he wrote was a story about a guy who really wanted to write a story but couldn't because he kept having to sacrifice his writing time for his family, and he used that story to frame a basic outline of the story that he had originally wanted to write.

Kind of silly really.

[Mandle]

Oh, cool. Three stories if Baron can bring himself to sacrifice his last post!

[Baron]

Nevar!!!1!

But I did update it to include Stupot's entry, since no one had voted yet.  Best of luck to the ever growing number of entrants! 

[Sinitrena]

@Mandle:

Spoiler

This story left me mostly confused. There are some inconsistencies or required suspenses of disbelieve that make it rather difficult to get into the story. For example: It's been millions of years since books were regularly printed, and Verill was alive at this time as he remembers books from his youth. That would mean he's millions of years old (because even if books existed longer than they were printed, if we have timespans of millions of years, a couple of thousand are neglactable. - And books really don't survive that long.) You mention that humans are long-lived in the story, but the start of this longivity would need to be close to our time for books to still be printed. I simply don't believe this.
But that's all just set-up, so let's look at the actual plot. "James knew that the Caa had detected the hack and were already scanning the sphere for the singularity they needed to destroy to keep the blueprints for the bomb falling into enemy hands: the densest concentration of military knowledge that could be used against them. " I don't get this logic. Why destroy the densest concentration instead of being more specific, or, well, everything? And why does it have to be a human and not a computerchip? Why does James need to sacrifice himself?
I had to read the ending three times to even really grasp what was going on. It was confusing.
I do like the vivid image of books floating in space though. One might read it as the caducity of knowledge (or something)

[close]

@Stupot:

Spoiler

I assume the framing part of the story is autobiographic? In which case: Congrats on your wife's pregnancy and may the delivery go smoothly and the baby be healthy. (And if it's not autobiographic, I just wish the same to your character - characters are human, too!  )
Anyway, I like the framing part far more than the story about Simon. As presented, it's a bit of a run-of-the-mill story about a boy with a dificult family; nothing really stands out.
Jacob's story, on the other hand, is interesting when it come to the topic of sacrifice. In a way, we have a mirrored sacrifice on display here: on the one hand, Jacob sacrifices his writing time to make paper airplanes with his son; on the other, he might need to sacrifice other elements of his life to finish his story. Ultimately, it's luck that allows him time to write (work doesn't need him) rather than an active decision, but the seed is still there - or did he forgot to cook the rice? Could have made the story more poignant if he actually did.
In the end, even if this second kind of sacrifice (sacrificing something else in order to write) isn't very present in the story, but it still overall illustrates the daily little sacrifices life demands of us.
Your story is basically a slice-of-life story in a pretty good way. I liked it.

[close]

Baron, your voting system stresses me out. Voting not comparatively but rather on a scale makes me feel bad when I don't give max points! With an absolute number of points to distribute among the participants, at least everyone gives the same number of points.
I'll decide on my votes a bit later (and I'll probably re-read Mandle's story one more time.)

[Mandle]

Great feedback, Sini!

This was a bit of an experiment into packing as much of an epic sci-fi story spanning eons into as small a space as possible. The plan was always to expand it further if nobody got it, and nobody really had so far.

I can't wait to hear what you have to say after that potential second read.

[Baron]

Well, it's results time!  I'm sorry for stressing the participants out with an experimental voting system, but I thought maybe it could make for more meaningful comparisons if there were only a small number of votes.  Obviously it's not ideal, since a strong opinion can swing the average quite a bit, but realistically without a large and objective voter pool any system will be not quite ideal.  Sometimes we just have to make short-term sacrifices to see if new things work.... 

Feedback for our hard-working contestants:

Spoiler

@Mandle:  It was an ambitious tale in terms of sheer timeline, which mirrors the human subterfuge that is at the heart of your story.  I felt the story was a bit short, in that I really didn't have time to bond with Captain Verill (let alone Kenrin), and so their respective sacrifices fell a bit flat.  The crux of their plan, however, was brilliant, and it appears as if they succeeded in deceiving the Caa.  I don't understand why the expense of printing books really mattered to Captain Verill, given that it is revealed that he is going to sacrifice his life shortly, but the process and bibliophilia was interesting to read about.  A few awkward sentences (ending one with "of" sticks in my mind) marred an otherwise excellently written story.

@Stupot:  I suspect there are more than a few autobiographical touches in several entries this time around (Martha revels in the "always logical, always structured", kind of like someone else I know....  ).  Yours was of course the most realistic story of sacrifice, which struck a chord for me since I've been down that road myself.  I can't say that I felt much sympathy, however, since most parents need to make the same self-sacrifices for the good of their kids.  As for the story within the story, if only you had put more time and focus into it I could have felt a bit more for Simon's predicament .  Given the constraints upon you, however, I thought your story was well-written.
    As a side note, my daughter's hockey often has me sitting in arenas for 5-10 hours a week.  I love watching her games, but the practices.... ugh.  So I challenged myself to write a novel on my phone while sitting in the stands.  I hated the interface at first, and some arenas are definitely colder than others, let me tell you!  But over time I found the slow pace of finger typing actually helped me organize my thoughts better.  I'm not saying the novel itself turned out terribly well, but I did finish the story at 97K.  Where there's a will, there's a way. 

Sinitrena: Your story was the most poignant for me.  Sure, compared to the other stories the stakes were vanishingly low (Martha herself concedes that a 1 on a report card has no real meaning), but I liked how you first built up the importance it could have had before it was sacrificed for a good cause.  I think this is the essence of what makes stories of sacrifice (and characters that engage in this behaviour) so compelling.  There were some weird formatting issues with your story on my end that were probably not your fault (that weird quotation mark on the bottom, but not consistently....), but overall I thought your prose was very clear and well-executed.

[close]

To the scores!

Stupot: 7.37
Sinitrena: 7.3
Mandle: 6.6

...Which means Stupot is our winner!              

Congratulations to Stupot.  I wonder what he might sacrifice in order to present a really juicy writing topic for us?  Unless the next topic is "speculation", I dare not hazard to guess... 

Thanks for all the great entries, everyone.  See you next time!

[Mandle]

Sinitrena: I loved your story. The swap-outs of the tests was done perfectly. From what the mother was telling her child, I expected that maybe she was threatening something a bit more disturbing than a beating, like maybe she was threatening she would slit her own wrists if the test results weren't good. Or maybe that's what you meant... would be a creepy story if not, anyway.

Stupot: The way your obviously semi-autobiographical tale dovetailed pretty much perfectly with the meta story-within-the-story won me over enough to make yours my favorite. It was a tale with a struggle that all us writers go through.

[Stupot]

Thanks for the feedback guys. Mine is coming soon.

Just like my character, Jacob, real life got in the way and I'm embarrassed to say I was unable to vote in time.

Usually I'd be able to give my honest points and forfeit the win if those points add up to more than mine. But because of the way we're doing the scoring this time, I could pretty much decide who by playing with the averages. Not that I would deliberately do that, but whatever scores I give now, no matter how hard I try to be completely unbiased, are just going to look like I've made certain decisions either for or against myself. It seems better for me to just guiltily take the "win" and just open up the choosing of the next theme for everyone to discuss.

So here's my proposal. What if everyone lists a couple of themes (maybe something you have recently considered for the next time it's your turn) and then see which one emerges as one that everyone agrees on.

[Mandle]

I would choose: "A Music Concert"

A story set around either the creation of said concert, or the story of what happened to some people attending the concert, a murder mystery set in the chaos of a heavy metal concert, or whatever.

[Sinitrena]

Congrats Stupot!

From what the mother was telling her child, I expected that maybe she was threatening something a bit more disturbing than a beating, like maybe she was threatening she would slit her own wrists if the test results weren't good. Or maybe that's what you meant

I left it intentionally vague, as Martha wouldn't know. But I certainly thought of abuse, most likely physical. Technically, it's also possible that they just won't eat icecram later that day. It could be something innocent, people do misunderstand conversations, after all (though it's not likely here.)

I would choose: "A Music Concert"

+1 (maybe not just concerts, but all things in a place with a stage: play, opera, concert, acrobatics, etc)