Fortnightly Writing Competition -SERIAL (Results)

Started by Baron, Fri 13/05/2016 00:31:50

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Baron

A slight change in format this fortnight.  Welcome to the competition known as
SERIAL


Novels of yore were published as they were written, often a chapter at a time, sometimes in a journal or newspaper.  Audiences would wait with baited breath for the next instalment, like tv shows before Netflix.  Our mission this fortnight is to rekindle the magic of the serial format by writing an episodic entry according to the following criteria:

1)Valid entrants will write a minimum of two distinct entries at distinct times (ie not published within an hour of each other)

2)Entries must have a common title/branding with episode sequence indicated (e.g. TIME RIPPERS, episode 3: The Buxom Beta-Centaurians)

3)Any given entry is capped at 1000 words, but of course could be much shorter (paragraph?  log entry?  extremely well-crafted sentence?)
    There is no limit to how many entries you enter, as long as you don't violate rule #1.

4)Entries must develop the same story line (I don't mind throw away episodes or tangents, but no completely different stories)

5)Completion of the story arc is not required: it's the journey that counts. :)

Bells and whistles would include suspenseful cliff-hangars at the end of each entry, but are not necessary. The main idea is to bring the readers along on a thrilling ride with you the writer.  So have fun, engage your audience, and write up a dark and stormy....er, episodic story!

Deadline for your second entry is Thursday May 26.  You can write more than two instalments but we won't be counting stand-alone entries, so don't get caught at the last moment.  Or if you do, make sure you ask for an extension so that your hard work doesn't go to waste. ;)

Submissions will be judged on the usual criteria of character, setting, plot, word-choice, and an overall "couldn't-wait-for-the-next-episode" score.  Good luck to all participants, and I look forward to reading you frequently!

JudasFm

The 1000 word limit is going to be tough, but I'll do my best :D I can foresee my putting a lot of entries into this one...

kconan

  Ah yes, its about time we did another one of these.  The big difference this go 'round is that there are unlimited entries, which was a point of contention last time.  Anyway, sounds like fun!  I should be able to crank something out.

Ponch

I'm literally paralyzed by all the ideas I'm having at once! :cheesy:

Quote from: kconan on Sat 14/05/2016 04:46:55
  Ah yes, its about time we did another one of these.  The big difference this go 'round is that there are unlimited entries, which was a point of contention last time.  Anyway, sounds like fun!  I should be able to crank something out.
We did this theme before? When did this happen? Why wasn't I informed?! :shocked:

kconan

Quote from: Ponch on Sat 14/05/2016 05:08:20
We did this theme before? When did this happen? Why wasn't I informed?! :shocked:

I can't find the thread for some reason.  The pencil trophy in Sinitrena's signature might jog your memory.

Sinitrena

Are you sure we did this before? I remember that we did a continuation story where the entry from one person was based on what the person before wrote so that we ended up with one single story by many different authors. But if I unterstand this topic here correct, it doesnt matter what everyone else writes, its supposed to be one story by a single author in more than one post. Did I misunderstand?

Baron, could you clear this up?

Ponch

Quote from: kconan on Sat 14/05/2016 06:04:32
I can't find the thread for some reason.  The pencil trophy in Sinitrena's signature might jog your memory.
Trying to find a specific trophy in that banner is harder than Where's Waldo! :=

kconan

Ok, I think I totally misread this theme.  After going through the rules, it doesn't say anything about one continued story that is added to by each entrant.

Ponch

The South Pacific! Uncharted islands! Topless girls! High adventure! Topless girls! The perfect place for some two-fisted, manly adventure!



Here's my contribution to this latest FWC! :cheesy:


“The Door At The Bottom Of The Ocean” (Part 1)
What The Wind Blew In

The wind had been unsettled all day. When I'd woken up in the hammock at the back of the floatplane hangar, the wind was curling around me like fingers trying to coax me out of sleep, or a dozen snakes wanting to devour me. A warning, maybe. I wasn't sure. The wind was sacred, but it was hard to read its intentions sometimes.

I was in the shade of the metal roof, working on the plane's big radial engine as the sun reached its highest point in the sky. The wind was calm now. Silent. That could be good or bad. The day wasn't too hot. Not that it ever got really hot here, not compared to how it was back home. Summers in New Mexico hovered around 100 degrees. Here in the Pacific, in the southwestern fringe of French Polynesia, it rarely crept above 80, and it never varied much, not even in the winter. The women here didn't wear much either. Not even in the winter. I was in no hurry to leave.

You didn't have to be a white man to get a job as a pilot here. Another reason I was happy to stay here at Toru Marama, halfway between Australia and South America, at least until I fell out of favor with the magistrate, either the one we had now or the next one to come along when the current boss here fell out of favor with his boss somewhere on one of the larger islands.

I didn't come here as a pilot. I was the pilot's mechanic. But a bad encounter with a shark last summer had left Corrigan retired to a permanent seat at the island's only tavern, and I had been promoted to fill his seat. Unofficially, of course, but the magistrate of Toru Marama did everything unofficially. Back channels were the only channels out here at the fringe of the civilized world. The Tahitians were friendly to everybody, and the French here were fond of Americans, especially now that Paris had been liberated and Hitler was gone. Nobody here cared that I was an Indian. They were just happy to have a pilot to fly the mail back and forth between here and Papeete. Like I said, I was in no hurry to leave.

A pleasant puff of cool air came in across the water, through the big, open front of the hangar, and stirred my long hair. The sound of small, fast footsteps dashing down the wooden planks of the pier and towards the hangar carried to my ears. Palila was coming, full of energy and joy, like all eight-year-olds. She visited the hangar often. She liked me in that way that only a child can like a person: completely and without reservation. I was an exotic stranger, not just the only American here, but also the sole Indian on an island filled with Tahitian natives and French expatriates.

“Tommy! Tommy!” she called, her voice like a bird, “Une femme pour parler!”

Adorable little Palila's French was nearly as bad as my own. She didn't speak English. I didn't know more than twenty words in Tahitian. French was the only way we could communicate. I tried to translate her unevenly accented words into something that made sense.

“<A woman?>” I asked in my awful, mangled French. “<A woman want talk for me? Er, to me?>” I quickly corrected.

She nodded. “E! E!” The Tahitian word for ‘yes.'

She pointed up the short pier, past the beach and across the broad expanse of grass and trees, towards the island's hotel and tavern in the distance. A boat had arrived this morning, docking at the other, longer pier on the other side of the lagoon. I'd heard its bell, announcing its presence. A few passengers had disembarked to stretch their legs while the ship restocked. Sometimes one or two of them stayed on the island when the ship left. Palila didn't know this woman's name, and she knew the name of everyone on the island â€" her mother ran the hotel, after all â€" no one was a stranger to this girl.

“Américain,” she offered, clasping her hands in front of herself, pleased, bouncing up and down lightly on the balls of her feet.

“Guess we have a new guest on the island,” I muttered in English, not sure if this was good news or bad. I wiped my hands on a rag, trying to remove as much of the black grease from the five-cylinder engine as I could.

“Aita i papu ia'u,” Palila scolded, frowning a bit. She didn't like it when I used English. She tugged at the cloth of her brightly colored pÃ,,reu, the simple cloth wrap all the natives wore. “Parle français, Tommy.”

“Mauru' uru,” I said, thanking her in Tahitian, giving her head a friendly rub. She grinned. I looked around for a shirt. Whoever it was who had sailed into the quiet, out of the way port of Toru Marama, they had come a long way to talk to me. Showing up shirtless would probably be poor manners, especially if this was going to end in blood. I pulled on a blue work shirt and buttoned it up. I looked around for my boots and stepped into them, tugging the laces tight and stuffing the ends inside. I stuffed my folding knife into the back pocket of my khaki pants. Palila took little notice of the weapon. Most men here carried a knife, usually as a tool, but sometimes for other things. I thought about bringing my revolver, but I couldn't remember where I'd hidden it.

“Haere tatou!” she grinned, grabbing my hand, tugging it, trying to get me to follow faster. She switched to French, giggling and pulling me towards the hotel, one little step at a time. “Aller, Tommy! Aller!”

I laughed, knowing it might be the last time I'd get the chance. America was a long way away, and a lifetime or two ago. I couldn't think of a single person who would make that long trip that I would be glad to see. But I could think of one or two that would make bringing the knife a damn good idea.


EDIT: Fixed a few typos

SilverSpook

This is deeply cringeworthy, being an actual Native Hawaiian.  But I don't hold it against the author!  Story's good!  I'll just manually Windows-10-annotate my own trigger warning for anything from this pulp.

Ponch

Quote from: SilverSpook on Sat 14/05/2016 22:18:59
This is deeply cringeworthy, being an actual Native Hawaiian.
Thanks! :cheesy:

One of my favorite things about those old pulp stories (and I'm a big fan of them!), is how poorly researched they often are. Most of those writers were not exactly world travelers, and Google wasn't around yet, so when they wrote about exotic locales, they just let their imaginations fill in the details. A man who never left New England, H. P. Lovecraft's description of the south and the yokels who lived there are hilarious. Brian Lumley, as a young Englishman, wrote several stories set in America, and I love all the little details he gets so completely wrong. I live in El Paso, Texas. A lot of western novels have their hero travel out to the empty, windswept plains of El Paso. It always makes me giggle. El Paso means "The Pass" because we're up in the mountains! :cheesy:

Anyhoo, I hope my shoddily researched story of a Navajo pilot on an adventure among the Polynesians doesn't cramp the Hawaiian part of your brain. If it's any consolation, I set the story in a fictional chain of islands in French Tahiti instead of Hawaii because I've actually lived in Hawaii (I was stationed at Hickam, at Pearl Harbor) and I was afraid that if I put the hero in Hawaii, I might accidentally get too many details right, thus ruining the pulpy experience. :cool:

Baron

Quote from: Ponch on Sat 14/05/2016 23:44:42
I've actually lived in Hawaii (I was stationed at Hickam, at Pearl Harbor) and I was afraid that if I put the hero in Hawaii, I might accidentally get too many details right, thus ruining the pulpy experience. :cool:

I wouldn't worry too much, P.  Things have changed a lot in Hawaii since the 40's.  (roll)

Quote from: Sinitrena on Sat 14/05/2016 12:08:49
Are you sure we did this before? I remember that we did a continuation story where the entry from one person was based on what the person before wrote so that we ended up with one single story by many different authors. But if I unterstand this topic here correct, it doesnt matter what everyone else writes, its supposed to be one story by a single author in more than one post. Did I misunderstand?

Baron, could you clear this up?

Sinitrena's impression is correct, while kconan's fond memories of competitions past betray him.  Back in November of 2013 we had the Continuation Story Theme, while this competition is the Serial Theme (Pulp Quality Optional).  This time you write your own story, but you are supposed to make it up and publish as you go.  Having said that, there's nothing specifically in the rules about piggy-backing on someone else's story, so knock yourselves out if you feel so inclined.  Like I always say: Write what your gut tells you, and let the judges sort it all out. :=

Ponch

Quote from: Baron on Sun 15/05/2016 00:15:57
Quote from: Ponch on Sat 14/05/2016 23:44:42
I've actually lived in Hawaii (I was stationed at Hickam, at Pearl Harbor) and I was afraid that if I put the hero in Hawaii, I might accidentally get too many details right, thus ruining the pulpy experience. :cool:

I wouldn't worry too much, P.  Things have changed a lot in Hawaii since the 40's.  (roll)

It was the early 90s, thank you very much. That means I'm not old and still very hip and cool, right... right? :sad:


SilverSpook

#13
To be honest, the most offensive part was probably the cover of the pulp, not the story itself.  It's funny in the context here, since it's pretty obviously a joke, but sadly the reality is people still think Hawaii and Pacific islands in general are just fun, sun, and topless girls.  Kind of like thinking all Africans are just emaciated children, primitive bush people, and at best gun runners for Robert Downey Jr. to scorch from the Earth with his proton cannon. 

There's actually a huge campaign to recruit teachers to Hawaii from the mainland right now (1600+) telling young people, 'come have fun, sun and babes in beautiful Hawaii!' and it's horrible.  50% burn out and go home within the first 2-3 years when they discover the reality, and they have to go recruit a new batch of paradise-suckers.  I particularly hate this, since I'm a teacher here, and this sort of scam is a way of avoiding paying teachers something livable.  Subprime education.

Anyway, just a fun aside!  Carry on!

Baron

Quote from: Ponch on Sun 15/05/2016 02:46:51
Quote from: Baron on Sun 15/05/2016 00:15:57
I wouldn't worry too much, P.  Things have changed a lot in Hawaii since the 40's.  (roll)

It was the early 90s, thank you very much. That means I'm not old and still very hip and cool, right... right? :sad:


You were there in the early 1890's for the overthrow of the Hawaiian kingdom?  And a proud member of the American Committee of Safety under Sanford Dole as well?  But even yet, despite your record-breaking superannuation and unapologetic imperialism, I still can't help but find you very hip and cool just the same.  What's the secret of your charisma, P? :)

Ponch


Ponch

The plot thickens like Hawaiian teriyaki sauce!

“The Door At The Bottom Of The Ocean” (Part 2)
Amber Waterfalls and Emerald Eyes

“Aller!”

Little Palila giggled and pulled at my hand, clasped tightly in both of hers. We were walking up the steps to the hotel. I hoped I wouldn't have to kill anyone in front of the girl or her mother, Nalanie, who had always been kind to me, a foreigner who could barely speak the language.

We entered into the cool, shaded, common room. The expected crowd of regulars were there, mostly French, mostly men, but with a few women, whiling away the warm, midday hours in the shade and comfort of the parlor.

The little girl released me and ran over to her mother, who was talking to Corrigan, my boss, at his usual spot by the bar. A woman was there as well, a stranger, and the sole blonde on Toru Marama. American too, judging from her accent. She was covered up, overdressed by the local standards I'd grown accustomed to, but the cotton and wool layers couldn't entirely hide the curves. She wore her hair up, the only woman on the island to do so.

Palila babbled happily to her mom, proud of herself for a job well done. The girl had fetched me from the other side of the lagoon, just as she'd been told to do. Nalanie gave her an affectionate squeeze and smiled at me.

“Hey, here he is,” Corrigan said to the woman he had been entertaining while they waited for me to arrive. He beckoned me over, half a cigarette in his hand. With just the one leg, Corrigan preferred people come to him rather than the other way around. “Tommy! C'mere, buddy.”

Corrigan had found me at a barnstorming show in Albuquerque. His mechanic had chosen whores and booze over work one too many times. Corrigan needed someone who could turn a wrench. Fixing things was the only thing I was good at, and I needed a way out of New Mexico, fast. Three years working and traveling together before he'd made a chance acquaintance that had led to a job flying the mail back and forth for the French government here in the South Pacific. When he'd lost his leg to a shark last summer, we were both glad he'd bothered to give me all those flying lessons. He was still officially the pilot of our little enterprise, since I didn't actually have a pilot's license on file with the consulate, or any pilot's license at all, for that matter, but he was happy to take a cut of the money and live out his days at the bar of the Manuia Taverne et Hôtel.

“Say hello to Dr. Lillian Price,” Corrigan said as I crossed distance from the door to the bar. “She's from Rhode Island. A geographer.”

“Geologist,” she corrected smoothly, holding her small hand out as I arrived.

I shook her hand gently, wishing that I'd bothered to put on a cleaner shirt.

“Nice to meet you,” I said, trying not to sound too suspicious. “What brings you to Toru Marama? Long way from Rhode Island, isn't it?”

“It isn't close,” she agreed, her plump mouth shaped into a friendly smile. She wore ruby red lipstick. “I'm looking to hire a pilot. I need to find my father. He was part of an expedition on behalf of Bradford College when his ship went missing ten weeks ago.”

“Disappeared somewhere between here and Rapa Iti,” Corrigan offered, taking a last drag from his stubby cigarette. Nalanie refilled his glass with a tiny waterfall of amber whiskey while he fished a crumpled pack of smokes from his shirt pocket.

“That's a lot of ocean to get lost in,” I said. And a long time to be lost at sea, though I kept that particular thought to myself.

“I've studied the notes he left behind,” Lillian responded, taking a map from her luggage. She unfolded the paper on the bar, Corrigan moving the ashtray aside to make room for it. There was a red circle drawn on the map around an empty stretch of blue ocean. She tapped it with her painted fingernail. “This is where the expedition was heading. I'm certain of it.”

I looked. So did Corrigan. We shared a quick, skeptical glance.

“There is an island there, no matter what the map says,” she stated firmly.

“PÃ,,“ Niho,” Corrigan said flatly. “That's what that island is called. And it's worse than nothing.”

“That's a fact,” I said.

“PÃ,,“ Niho is a tiny little sliver,” Corrigan continued. “There's an underwater volcano there. Dormant. Only one corner of the rim sticks up above the water, just barely. Nothing there but razor sharp black rock, and not even very much of that.”


“But could your plane make the trip?” she asked, a hint of worry in her voice. “No ship will take me. I've tried in three different ports.”

“The rock under that water will cut a boat in half,” Corrigan shrugged, instantly regretting his words when he saw the expression that crossed her face.

“The plane can make the trip,” I said. “But it's not my plane. Not Corrigan's either. Not exactly. It's under contract to the French government. I can't take it for a joyride. Can't really take it anywhere without Pierre Lecocq, the magistrate's say-so.”

“Where can I find this man?” she asked. “Perhaps I can convince him to let me charter you for a day or two.”

A woman as beautiful as her could convince Pierre to give her half of Toru Marama if she played her cards right.

Corrigan lit his cigarette. “He lives in the big mansion, up in the highlands, on the ridge overlooking the lagoon. You probably saw it from the ship when you arrived.”

“I did,” she nodded, her green eyes suddenly hopeful and fixed on me. “Can you take me there?”

The wind tousled my hair. A pair of large men with holstered pistols appeared in the open doorway of the hotel.

“Lillian Price?” one of them asked, his voice deep, his hand on his belt, near his gun.


EDIT: Fixed a few typos

Baron

Ooooooo!  The plot thickens like a sultry day. ;-D

Any other takers?  Or am I going to be pestering Ponch for 16 more instalments to get my serial fix?

Ponch

You'll get five more installments, thank you very much, one every 48 hours. I can't pulp any faster than that! :wink:

Haggis

I actually started writing an entry on the day this competition was announced but I don't think I read the rules properly.

I thought there could be gaps between episodes as long as the main story arc was continued - like the missing reel in Planet Terror. I didn't think my idea would work as well without it so I parked it and ran away.

Oh what the heck... I'll fill in the gap, and shorten the serials so I release more than two. There does seem to be a common nautical theme here though.



DEEP SEA DANGER
Episode 54: The Descent

For any normal person the slow descent into the darkness would have been a real battle of mental endurance. The fading light and decreasing temperature slowly smothering the part of the brain responsible for bravado and hubris. Not for ‘Deep Sea' Doris. To Doris this was child's play. She peered downwards through the murky water. There couldn't be much further to go now. “Larry better have got his coordinates right this time” she mused to herself. As the tinny echo of her words subsided, the broken hull of the Scuttling Scotsman melted into view. Doris grinned. “Larry you old dog” she murmured slowly, her thoughts already shifting focus onto the importance of what this discovery might mean. Could she really be this close to changing the course of history?

Her metal boots planted themselves in the ocean bed causing a mushroom cloud of silt to envelope her diving suit. It may have been a smothering combination of rubber and metal but not even the suit could conceal her voluptuous body. The tiny creatures of the deep froze for a moment to take in her form, before scattering away from the copper-headed intruder. Doris checked her lifeline, tugged the signal for a new supply of fresh oxygen and started to trudge towards the wreck.

The Scuttling Scotsman was indeed a sorry sight to behold, listed to one side and split near in two down the middle. If the legend of its doomed voyage was to be believed however, then it was actually looking in much better condition than she had expected. Clambering over the natural obstacles of the seabed, Doris made her way to the stern of the vessel. She carefully negotiated the boats rotting shell, probing the crustacean riddled timber for an entry point. “Come on old girl” she said coaxingly, “give me something to work with here.” The encouragement seemed to work, a few steps further forward and the wooden skeleton opened up its rib-cage into a splintered archway leading into the darkness of the vessel. Doris paused. “Here goes nothing” she thought, before striding purposefully into the black.

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