Fortnightly Writing Competition - Time to Vote (not any longer - RESULTS)

Started by Sinitrena, Tue 09/02/2016 01:52:42

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Sinitrena

Hello everyone to our next exciting installment of the Fortnightly Writing Competition. As Azure wasn't online in over a week, I'll be your host this time.

So, did you look at the title of this post? No, don't worry, you're not too late, even though the title says it's time to vote. No, this time around, you should write a story about some kind of voting.


Ostracon, used in ancient Athens for ballots


Voting can and does happen in a lot of different places. It's not limited to politics. A jury deciding about a defendant, a group of friends discussing where to go for lunch, judges judging a talent show, our very own forum competitions - I'm sure there are countless everyday situations where a formal or casual form of voting takes place.

Your story should center around this in some way: a lawyer waiting for the verdict, a corupt politician manipulating an election or the group of friends trying a new restaurant - it's up to you.


Get your stories in for the deadline on the 24. February, so that we can do some voting in these categories:

Character: You find one or several characters really believable/captivating/magnetic/unique, etc.
Plot: The story arc was well-organized, coherent, and well-executed with appropriate pacing.
Atmosphere: This is all about feeling: did the story evoke strong feelings due to excitement/humour/intrigue/wonder/emotional intensity?
Background World: The best setting or milieu for a story; a place brought to life.
Word Choice/Style: The technical art of combining words in clever or gripping ways.

Mandle

Hehe when I read the title I wondered if you were being just that clever...and it turned out that yes...yes, you were (laugh)

Mandle

The following events took place during the 2016 American Presidential Election:

THE HEAD ZONE

The transcript below has been edited down from a much longer police interrogation tape to contain only the most pertinent points:

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   My name is John Smith. In 1997 a car accident left me with severe head trauma and in a coma for almost five years. Upon awakening from the coma I found that I had brought something back with me from that "dead zone": A gift. Sometimes when I touch a person their future, or future events that they will put into motion, appear to me in psychic visions.
   By using this gift I have assisted the police on several occasions with bringing killers to justice, and in one other case I believe I have saved the world from nuclear holocaust at the hands of a madman named Greg Stillson, who was destined to become the POTUS until I intervened.
   I first became obsessed with Donald Trump while watching him announce on live TV his intentions to run for the office of President. I felt a shiver run through my body as I noticed the same mad glint in his eyes that used to reside in those of the late Greg Stillson.
   I started following Trump's campaign trail, with the hope of eventually being in the right place at the right time for a handshake. My patience paid off finally about three weeks ago when I could make it to the front lines of the crowd and, from behind the barricades, managed to get that handshake.
   Once again I witnessed the horror of a world destroyed by a madman with access to America's nuclear arsenal.
   Knowing what must be done, I shopped around here and there for a weapon of suitable power to get the job done, but with a slim enough profile to be concealable under a puffy winter windbreaker.
   Armed with such, I attended the rally yesterday and made it through a gap in security and into the main throng of people around the stage.
   As Trump began his speech I started to inch my way forward through the pressed shoulders of the crowd, avoiding eye contact with security personel. I was approaching the front rows when I noticed security stir into action and start pushing through the crowd towards me from both sides.
   I knew it was now or never: I barged through the last few people between myself and the stage, pulling my weapon out from under my windbreaker, and levelled it directly at Trump's head.
   I stared down the thick, black barrel and, at point blank range, I pulled the trigger.
   The blast took Trump full-force in the face, and I had just enough time to see the top of his head explode into chaos before being tackled to the ground by security...

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The following article is from the evening edition of The New Hampshire Herald:

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TRUMP OUT OF RACE AFTER BEING SHOT AT RALLY

   Chaos erupted at a Donald Trump campaign rally earlier today when an as yet unnamed man burst through the crowd towards the stage and pulled out a high-powered leaf-blower from under his coat.
   The blast of air from the blower hit Trump square in the forehead and blasted his famous comb-over backwards, leaving it flapping in the wind, and exposing his bald pate.
   While embarrassing enough for Trump as this was, Donald only compounded matters further by letting out a high-pitched squeal like a 5-year-old child, and running from the stage blubbering like a billionaire baby.
   An hour later the Trump camp announced its withdrawal from the 2016 Presidental Election.
   Police sources say the assailant is being charged with misdemeanor assault, and creating a public disturbance.

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kconan

Dr. Henry Thomas III, former councilman and mayor of his hometown, watched his opponent's press conference on a big-screen television at the head of the ornate conference room.  Dr. Thomas studied the man like a hawk would eyeball prey.  He looked for every mannerism and brow crease, and listened for changes in his adversary's inflection and overall manner of speaking.  The words almost didn't matter, as Henry knew the man's stance on each issue and how he would articulate them to potential voters.  Henry silently watched as his newfound arch-nemesis, Silcox Remington II, draped himself in an American flag while holding a huge King James edition of the Bible in his right hand and an equally oversized Remington 10-gauge shotgun in his left.  His opponent then led the assembled crowd at the televised press conference in prayer.

Henry turned toward his small team of advisors, who were currently cowering at the other end of the long mahogany conference table, and barked, “Have you super-geniuses figured out how to beat this guy?  In the Deep South, how does one compete with an injured war veteran and former Christian missionary that can trace his family lineage back to legendary gun inventors?”  Dr. Thomas set his large Muniemaker cigar down in a gold-inlaid ashtray and continued, “I don't know where you boneheads hail from or what kind of regional politics you are used to dealing with, but this is Freepatriotsville!  I need to win the governorship HERE, and I need people who understand how to reach the voters HERE!”

In the year 2020, the state of Mississippi split into two.  The bottom half was called Freepatriotsville and became home to the ultra-hardcore conservatives.   The top half of the former state was where everyone else moved to, and was officially known as Missipeaqua - though their neighbors to the south refer to it as “Misseshippy”.

One of the advisors glanced from the television to Henry and offered, “We could do a NASCAR tie-in…or even better, how about at the next rally you whip out a red, white, and blue colored gun with a bald eagle-head shaped barrel that shoots small rolled up copies of the Bible?  You could fire it off into a crowd at your next…” and was cut off by Henry who exclaimed, “OUT!  All of you knuckleheads clear out of the war room.”  The team dejectedly filed out and passed by a small man in tailored suit with a fancy bowtie, who came in and sat down at the table across from Henry.  The man cracked his neck and said, “Dr. Thomas, it is not too late to remake you as a candidate since it is so early in the race and you are a relative unknown.  I will put you further to the right than Governor Remington, and the constituency of Freepatriotsville will be eating out of your hand.”  Henry played with the oversized American flag pin on his lapel and adjusted his matching (and of course oversized) American flag cufflinks while appearing to mull this over, and then replied, “Only Attila the Hun is further to the right.”  The well-coifed stranger smiled, and Henry noticed he was expertly twirling ben wa balls in his right hand that had the Chinese characters “孫子” written on them.  The bowtied man said, “I'm a purveyor of high level strategy with specialties in the promotion of anti-intellectual propaganda, fact obfuscation, hyperbolic rhetoric, and fearmongering tactics who strongly believes in the end justifying the means.  I can turn you into something that would make Attila the Hun look like a beardy hipster listening to the Scissor Sisters on vinyl at an artisan coffee shop.”  Henry nodded and asked, “What's your name?” and the bowtied man replied, “Niccolo, but friends and close business associates call me Bernard…I've done work on the left â€" both the anti-vaxxers and the original Truther stuff was my handiwork â€"  but as you'll see firsthand:  I, along with my staff of PolitBrosâ,,¢ consultants, do our best work on the extreme right-hand side of the isle.  Let's get started Dr. Thomas.”  Bernard pressed a few buttons on a remote control, and a PowerPoint presentation came up on the big-screen television cutting off Silcox Remington II just as he began the “intellectuals and their high fallutin' science” portion of his speech.

Bernard said, “You'll excuse the lack of fancy graphics in this presentation Dr. Thomas, as I'm a man of letters.”

Smear Campaign…

-> Compromising digital photos have been gathered and are ready for distribution to the media.  Some will prove especially damning; refer to filenames “ButtStuff.jpg”, “GapesOfWrath.jpg”, and “Tijuana_Snowcone.jpg” as examples.

-> Remington's longtime mistress, a former intern, is prepared to come forward and tell all at the moment of our choosing in return for our covering her plastic surgery expenses.  She has already strategically placed rumors in various circles throughout Washington.

-> It was believed that a second cousin on Remington's mother's side might be gay.  This of course would be a gold mine if proven true, and so an operative was sent to follow and observe.  The cousin was seen leaving a Cher concert which would support the theory, but then he was also dressed in un-stylish and ill-fitting clothing which is of course in direct conflict with our clichéd understanding of gay people.  More research will be conducted.

-> Inside sources tell us that Remington is soon to be endorsed by a former child star named “Honey Boo Boo”.  When that happens, we'll counteract the “Boo Boo bump” by reminding the voting public that she is Honey Boo Boo.

-> Hitler analogies.

-> We've tracked down a small handful of the people that Remington supposedly converted during his time as a Christian missionary, and none of them have led a Christian lifestyle.  Sure they are productive and charitable members of their societies, and basically each is a credit to humanity in their own way as a direct result of Remington's assistance, but they all now identify as “agnostic” and so his work can be spun as a complete and total failure.

-> Remington's war record will come under scrutiny by a group of fellow soldiers who served in his unit.  The official line is that he earned his bronze star by single-handedly capturing an enemy entrenchment while it was being bombarded.   This group will say that he earned it for scrubbing the top brass's bathroom after it suffered a different kind of bombardment.  Remington actually served bravely and honorably, but of course the truth doesn't matter when you can cast doubt via repetition in the mainstream news media and televised attack advertisements shot in black-and-white and scored with gloomy music.
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Henry didn't like tainting war records, but he chuckled at the idea of using scandalous photos and secretly hoped that none of his sordid personal life would leak out.  He asked Bernard, “Will my doctorate hurt me?  Remington might try to paint me as an academic or an elitist yuppie.”  Bernard shook his head and said, “You have an honorary doctorate in kinesiology…Which is a fancy way of saying that a university you donated a lot of money to thinks you can teach a gym class.  So the academic label wouldn't stick.  We know you are an elitist fancy-pants, but we can redirect that back on Remington as he comes from a wealthy, aristocratic family.  Really neither of you should start a ‘most humble beginnings' contest, but whatever their camp does to attack your champagne background can be counteracted by a strong ground game of you â€" a man of the people â€" visiting mom-and-pop shops.  You don't have to actually care about Earl and Flo's struggles in the business world, but we can make it look like you do in front of the camera.”

On Guns…

Remington's Position:   Ignores the “well regulated” part of the 2nd Amendment and believes that everyone â€" crazy, criminal, terrorist, or otherwise â€" should be able to legally purchase a firearm and fetishizes the idea of owning a gun.  Also ignores the opposition's call for background checks, and pretends that they instead want to take everyone's guns away from them since it's an easier argument to handle.

Our Strategy:   Legalize bazookas, missiles, tanks and basically all weapons platforms up to nuclear armaments and institute state-wide ordinance that every man, woman, and child must open carry a firearm.  Also, men and women of age would be allowed to legally marry their favorite gun.
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PolitBrosâ,,¢ Consulting â€" Copyright 2028

Henry said, “I know we are just appeasing the tastes of low-information simpleton voters, but I genuinely love the idea of open carrying a rocket launcher that is also my wife.”  Bernard replied, “We've tested this in Freepatriotsville door-to-door polls, and the small handful of pollsters who didn't die from gunshot wounds report that this is a key issue for the state.  We also had a group go encampment-to-encampment to survey the various militias in the state, but none of those pollsters returned.”

Jingoistic Patriotism and Nationalism…

Remington's Position:   The United States is the greatest country in the World in every single aspect, and there is nothing to be gained from contact with non-Americans and their “lesser” countries.

Our Strategy:   Create propaganda for Freepatriotsville and set it against the rest of the World, including other states.  These people don't like nuance or complex solutions to problems so we'll create a boogeyman, in this case basically everyone outside of Freepatriotsville, and blame them for all the problems.  Also, world geography will be removed from school curriculums.
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PolitBrosâ,,¢ Consulting â€" Copyright 2028

Harry asked, “Bernard, what about the rebel flag?”  Bernard replied, “You can use it, but you would create a more impactful overall “us versus them” scenario using fresh Freepatriotsville propaganda and tailoring to the specific fears of the voters.”

The Environment…

Remington's Position:   The government should repeal every environmental regulation, even basic ones such as the Clean Water Act and the Fishery Conservation and Management act, in order to allow business to flourish without any impediments.

Our Strategy:   Our stance is that every square foot of clean air and water is wasted business potential.  All businesses, regardless of their industry or place in the supply chain, will be required to emit pollutants into the air and dispose of liquid toxins into the nearest body of water.  Laws on hunting and fishing seasons will be abolished, and further enhanced so that a hunter, who kills the last animal of a particular species in a given ecosystem, gets a cash reward equivalent to how cool of a gun they used to make the killshot.
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PolitBrosâ,,¢ Consulting â€" Copyright 2028

Henry squinted at the current slide and said, “So the state will eventually end up a barely habitable, scorched earth that is barren of all wildlife?”  Bernard chuckled and said, “Who cares?  You will be in power.”

Religion…

Remington's Position:   Despite freedom of religion, the only religion that matters is Christianity and it is always under attack regardless of whether or not it is really under attack.

Our Strategy:   Propagate the usual Christianity is under constant attack line and go a step further by promising a governmental transition to Christian theocracy, plus mandatory prayer, along with a dash of “the gays, abortionists, and/or other religions are taking over” paranoia.  Also, create a strawman argument that portrays homosexuals as wanting to force everyone â€" straight or otherwise â€" to be gay married.
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PolitBrosâ,,¢ Consulting â€" Copyright 2028

Henry shook his head, looked at Bernard, and said, “As a closet atheist, I hate praying.  It feels too much like begging…Look, I know about the Christian Coalition and the history behind using religion to get votes.  It's a blueprint to control people and can be used as an avenue to bypass critical thinking, but it somehow feels more dastardly than the other tactics.”  Bernard replied, “Publicly admitting your atheism would be political suicide, so don't do that.  Listen, the evangelical vote is the low hanging fruit.  Promise to keep churches tax free and grease a few palms â€" or psalms pun intended â€" and you are golden.  The preachers and priests will either directly or indirectly influence their flocks on Sunday or via voter guides.  Publicly, all you have to do is shoehorn God into a few speeches and figuratively (and sometimes literally) wave a Bible.  This is like pandering 101.  And while not all religious people are science deniers, there are a large enough percentage of them in the state for you to be wary…So artfully dodge any questions related to evolution or the greenhouse effect.  Don't outright deny, even if Remington does, just create a cloud of suspicion…So for evolution go with something like “chimpanzees share 98 percent DNA with humans because of the vast geneticist conspiracy“ or “the fossil record was tainted by all those crooked anthropologists who are on the take for Big Geology” or “human skin tones are different because God or something.”

Government Conspiracies…

Remington's Position:   Anything bad somehow involving a group of people that aren't hardcore conservatives must be a conspiracy.

Our Strategy:   The conspiracies themselves are a conspiracy.  Any entity made up of large groups of people must be a conspiracy, and if questioned or challenged for evidence then we must counter with vague responses like “follow the money” or “that's what they want you to believe” while nodding your head like they should understand.
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PolitBrosâ,,¢ Consulting â€" Copyright 2028

Henry queried, “What about potentially harmful conspiracies like Jade Helm?”  Bernard replied, “Doesn't concern us.  What really matters is that if they wear a tinfoil hat, then you can get them to vote for you by weaving their ridiculous theories into your platform and feeding into their paranoia.  This is great “us versus them” divider, which in-turn can be a voter unifier for you.”


Campaign Logo…

Remington's Logo:   An American flag.

Our Strategy:   We need to go further to the right…This campaign, and Freepatriotsville as a whole, is in the market for an obscenely nationalistic symbol to rally behind.  So here is a bald eagle outfitted with shoulder mounted hunting rifles wearing a tri-corner hat holding a copy of the Constitution and an etching of the Ten Commandments while flying in front of a giant flag.

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PolitBrosâ,,¢ Consulting â€" Copyright 2028


Bernard‘s presentation was abruptly interrupted by Dr. Henry Thomas III, who said “Alright, I get the idea.  Let's go win this Bowtie.”

Six months later…

“Hi, I'm Chet Jackson with Liberty News!” said Chet Jackson of the leading local television news channel in Freepatriotsville.  His assignment was to interview voters at the largest voting precinct in the state.  Chet told the cameraman to “kill the feed” and shook his head to clear the ringing in his ears.  He had arrived earlier in the day, when the banjos were still blasting the Freepatriotsville national anthem at 150 decibels.  While his ears rang, his eyes were still adjusting from camouflage overload which he guessed must be cousin to being snow-blind.

Chet and his camerman walked over to a couple near an M200 voting machine and said, “Hello Freepatriotsville voters!  Which candidate are you guys voting for?”  An old man wearing a trucker hat that advised the reader to “Git ‘Er Done!” stepped up to Chet's microphone and said, “I'm for whoever is most against socialism!”  Chet replied, “So I take it you're not on Medicare?”  The man replied, “Oh uhhh…I mean, I'm for whoever will drop a nuclear weapon on those heathens in the Middle East!”  Chet asked, “So you don't mind killing the roughly 12 million Christians who also reside there?”  The old man's shoulders sagged and replied, “Scratch that, I'm for whoever won't take my guns!”  Chet sighed and countered, “Then technically you're for every candidate, unless you're crazy or a felon…Anyway, thank you sir.”  Chet Williams muttered to himself about getting the worst assignments while smiling at a morbidly obese woman who was wearing a desert camouflage hat, forest camouflage dress, and bright pink crocs.  She also had a large AR-15 strapped to her back.  The lowest ranking reporter at Liberty News watched a sea of armed overweight men and women converge on the array of M200 voting machines.  He stopped a small girl that was passing by, put a hand on her shoulder and leaned down, and said, “Hello there young suffragette, who would you vote for today if you were of age?  I'm sorry to say that there are currently no ballot measures for free toys.”  The kid tilted her head to the side, sneered, and warned, “You aren't getting my gun mister!” and patted a small pistol holstered on her belt.  Chet frowned and backed away surprised, and then bumped into a man carrying so many guns that he was visibly weighted down and had trouble seeing through all the barrels in his face.  Another man nearby nervously eyed Chet while clutching a handful of guns to his chest.  The reporter motioned for his cameraman to follow, and they both walked over to a less crowded area.

Groups of people were loudly arguing with each other.  A tall man with a bushy handlebar moustache came over to Chet and said, “I'll tell you what's really going on here son!”  Chet replied, “And what's that sir?”  The man replied, “I saw Thomas and Remington in their debates, at least before the fistfights broke out, and…”  The man paused as he dug into his jeans pocket, retrieved a large chaw of Red Man tobacco, and placed it deep in the right corner of his mouth and then continued, “…and I don't cotton to either of them fellas.  This whole thing is a sham-” Chet was immediately distracted by a group of voters loudly booing poll workers in another section of the large room, and when he turned back the mustachioed man was gone.  Chet watched a few people duck out of the exits as the groups of people arguing became noticeably louder; some of whom now had their hands on personal sidearms holstered on their hip.  He nodded towards his cameraman and they went over to the head precinct official's office, and were waved inside.

The precinct official was sitting behind a desk with his head in his hands and moaning.  Chet did a neck slicing motion with his left hand, and his cameraman turned off the video feed and boom microphone.  The official looked up and said, “We created this monster.  Our binary political alignments are already far enough apart…Shove people the far left and you get a bunch of annoyingly politically correct artsy-fartsy whiner-hipsters lazing around a coffee shop, but continually push uneducated, low-information voters to the far right and over a period of time you can wind up with fascism, or even anarchy.  Thanks to the direct influence of Dr. Thomas and Governor Remington and people like them, the residents of Freepatriotsville are accusing all of us of being part of a vast local government conspiracy.“  The man then reached into a drawer and pulled out a pair of MAC-10 machine pistols, and set them on his desk.  He removed his bulky suit jack jacket to reveal a bulletproof ballistic vest.  Chet heard a loud crash and turned around; through the office window he could see a handful of people throwing chairs and another small group overturning a long metal table in attempts to use it as cover.  A wide-eyed Chet moved away from the window, turned back around, and stuttered, “Wait…Hold on…What the hell?”  The official sighed as he unfolded the shoulder stocks of his machine pistols, and added, “They think we are luring people to polling places to confiscate their guns, which will then be given to gay atheists who will use them to shoot fetuses in order to save the environment so that land will be ripe for a takeover by Arabs.  This is what our first world democracy has come-” and the remainder of his explanation was drowned out by the sounds of the first gunshots.

Baron

Nice to see so many timely entries already.  I will be, as usual, flirting with the deadline, but at least I've developed the germ of an idea today.

Sinitrena

You still have a few days, as does everyone else - but the deadline is ticking closer, so get your entries in, guys. (nod)

Baron

Humour on the Hustings

       Er.... hi.  I bid you, the Membership, welcome to the first annual general meeting of the Society of Roll-Playing Game Aficionados or -as I like to anagramatically condense it -S.O.R.P.G.A.  Meuhuh!   If you would please take your seats we can move on to the first order of business for our new-formed corporate body, which is to say the election of a club president, after which we will break open the Cheezies and soda and play Magic the Gathering until there is a clear and decisive winner, or until we hit the curfew wall of 9:30pm, whichever comes first.  Meuhuh.  Are there any nominations for the position of club-president?”  Filmore adjusted his thick glasses and dramatically scanned the room, which was a needlessly theatrical gesture since there were only three other people there.  A pair of hands came up in the back, both belonging to the same person.  “Uh, yes, you sir, in the back.”

   A slender man of stooping stature and fuzzy cheeks stood up.  “I, Edwin d'Appopollopodrou, hereby challenge for leadership of the clan!”

   There was a gasp of murmurs from the other two members present.

   Filmore adjusted his glasses again, trying not to appear agitated.  “Why, there is no one to challenge, this being our inaugural meeting and the presidency therefore being at this time vacant.  However, if you are willing to submit to the process as laid out in our club charter....”

   â€œ-Oh fine.  I nominate myself.” Edwin pouted, crossing his arms and sitting down.

   â€œGood, good,” Filmore soothed, again fiddling with his glasses.  “Any other nominations?”  He made a show of scanning the room again, just to make sure everyone felt as if they had a fair chance to contribute.  At length another hand shot up.

   â€œYes, you sir, with the hopelessly dated heavy-metal T-shirt.  Who do you nominate?”

   â€œI, Guthrie, hereby nominate Teresa Palmer.”

   â€œHmmmm, I see,” Filmore nodded, reaching for his smart-phone to figure out who exactly Guthrie was talking about.

   â€œObjection, your honour!” Edwin shouted, jumping to his feet.  “I hold that Teresa Palmer is ineligible, on the grounds that she does not meet the eligibility criteria stipulated in the club charter.”

   Filmore's phone finally got a signal of sufficient strength to process his search term, and his glasses almost hit the screen.  “Sweet Windwright Mage!” he blurted.  “Why doesn't she come to the meetings?!?”

   â€œFor the love of Greven il-Vec!” Edwin persisted.  “She's a Hollywood celebrity!”

   The quietest member of S.O.R.P.G.A., Dan Batsma, spoke up for the first time.  “Hey Filmore, when your done, can I look at the pictures on your phone?”

   There was a flurry of shuffling papers and then Edwin stood triumphantly.  “The Charter says, and I quote: Whomsoever shall be a card-carrying member in good standing shall be entitled to voting privileges and shall be eligible to become an officer in the club.  I demand that the membership role be consulted before this farce goes on any longer!”

   Now it was Filmore's turn to shuffle through papers while Dan peered studiously at the images on his smart-phone, Edwin preened, and Guthrie turned red with an inner chuckle.

   â€œAha!  The official membership role!” Filmore declared.  “Huh....”

   â€œRead it out,” Edwin commanded.

   â€œWell, er.... bearing in mind that we have just emerged from a rather chaotic membership drive.... the official membership role reads as follows: Filmore Spry -that's me.  Edwin d'Appopollopodrou, Ernst Guthrie, Dan Batsma.  Also scribbled in at the bottom and thereby being official according to the terms of the Charter are: Missus Floofy -that's Guthrie's dog; Gene Hackman, the afore-mentioned Teresa Palmer,  Æthelberht King of Kent, Oliver North, Super Dave Osborne, and the Loch Ness Monster.”

   Guthrie wheezed with laughter, turning brighter and brighter red.  Edwin stood gobsmacked, silently withdrawing his objection.  Dan scrolled further until Filmore grabbed his phone back.

   â€œRight.  Are there any other nominations?” Filmore asked, this time with a rather expectant tone.

   Dan raised his hand. 

   â€œYes, the quiet fellow with the greasy fingers,” Filmore said, wiping at his smart-phone screen.  “Who do you nominate?”

   â€œI, Dan Batsma, would like to nominate Ernst Callaghan Guthrie the Third for the presidency of S.O.R.P.G.A.”

   Again there were gasps, this time coming exclusively from Edwin.

   â€œOh fine,” Filmore said, scribbling down another name.  “So we've got Edwin d' Appopollopodrou, Teresa Palmer, and Ernst Callaghan Guthrie III.”

   â€œWait,” Dan interrupted.  “You haven't nominated anyone yet, Fil.”

   â€œI nominate myself as well,” Filmore retorted, a little too quickly.  “So let's proceed to the voting.”

   â€œWait, wait, wait, wait, wait,” Edwin repeated.  “I think there should at least be a brief speech by all of the nominees, so that we have the opportunity to win votes by laying out our platforms.  All in favour?”

   â€œAye!” Guthrie managed, still giggling.

   â€œSo carried!” Edwin smiled, revealing a transcontinental railroad's worth of steel bracing in his teeth.  He confidently put one foot up on his chair and began to speechify:  “Friends, Romans, Country Bumpkins-” this last a  not-so-subtle jab at the still shaking Guthrie- “Lend me your ear.  I, Edwin of Appopollopodrou, will lead this society of gamers and circus freaks to greatness!  Follow me, and together we will straddle the Earth in glorious victory over our vanquished foes!  Only I have the decisive executive disposition, the maniacal ruthlessness, and the coif of sufficient sex-appeal to unite the factions and lead us to greatness!  Ho!”

   There was a smattering of muted applause, and Edwin returned to his chair.

   â€œGuthrie,” Filmore indicated, “It's your turn.”

   Guthrie was again starting to glow, which could only mean that he was plotting further gags at the expense of the democratic process.  “I have no speech,” he managed through stifled laughter.  “But I do have a brief statement from another candidate.”  With a sudden motion that belied his girth, Guthrie threw open the drapes of the nearby window to reveal a montage of very well curated pictures of the semi-famous actress Teresa Palmer.  Several jaws hit the floor.

   â€œGuthrie, you fool!” Filmore protested.  “My mom will have a feminist conniption if she sees a young woman displayed so overtly for ogling!”  He quickly closed the drapes again.

   â€œI don't believe Candidate Palmer has been given sufficient opportunity to make her case for the presidency,” Dan interjected while Guthrie shrank into giggling again.  “Shouldn't there be a minimum time allotment for her to speak to the membership?”

   â€œAll in favour?” Edwin called out.  Only Dan raised his hand as Guthrie was shaking too much with mirth to contribute.

   â€œMotion denied,” Filmore stated flatly.  “And now it's my turn,  meuhuh.  If I am elected president I will run this club in a conspicuously normal way, by ensuring that the kitchen tables of our various venues are booked well in advance, and that snacks are apportioned fairly relative to the dues contributed by each member.  I will also show up early to make sure our playing surfaces are wiped free of crumbs and sanitized to my exacting standards,  meuhuh.  Finally, if elected president I will undertake an initiative to create an efficient phone-tree in order that time-sensitive information can be distributed quickly to the membership.  Remember, fate favours the prepared mind.  That is all.”

   Filmore sat down, and all four of them stared at each other for a long moment.

   â€œWell,” Filmore started again, “Now is the moment of truth: Decision 2016.”  He rang a little bell, and sat back expectantly.

   â€œWhat is that?” Edwin asked.  “Some sort of signal?  Are you bringing your hired thugs in to smooth your ascendency to power?  Filmore, you diabolical Napoleon you!”

   â€œQuite the contrary, my Machiavellian comrade.  I'm merely summoning my old grandmother from her solitaire game to act as an impartial arbiter to forestall any accusations of vote rigging.  I think we can all agree that anyone who has lived to such an saintly old age must have an impeccably honest character.”  There were nods of consensus around the table.

   At length an old woman hobbled into the room with a box.  “Look at all you nice boys, waiting patiently to exercise your democratic rights.  Why, back in the Old Country you'd be lionized as heroes.  That is, if you weren't lined up and shot.  Why I remember....”

   â€œ-Oma, please,” Filmore interrupted.  “Stick to the script.”

   â€œOh yes, sorry.  The mind wanders at my age, you see.  I will now distribute the ballots.”  Filmore's grandmother lifted the lid of the box and ceremoniously distributed the four blank ballots contained therein to each of the members present.  She then replaced the lid so that only a tiny slot was left for the ballots to be returned once filled out.  She distributed pens and hummed cheerily to herself while each S.O.R.P.G.A. member thought pensively before scribbling a name, folding the paper, and submitting their ballot. 

   â€œI will now tally the ballots,” she said formally, moving to the far side of the kitchen island so that the proceedings would be visible to all.  Slowly, ever so slowly, she withdrew the first ballot and made a neat tally on her score sheet.  The process was so tediously slow that the boys turned to speculate over the potential results.

   â€œWhat do we do in the event of a tie?” Edwin asked, scanning Charter for guidance.

   â€œI think there should be two co-presidents, like the Roman consuls.”

   â€œNah, there should be a second round of voting, eliminating the weakest candidates.”

   â€œCouldn't there be some sort of contest of wits or reflexes to decide a champion?”

   At great length Filmore's grandmother proclaimed that results were in and that there was a decisive winner.  This set off a wave of gasps and murmurs as such an outcome was most unexpected.  There was a sudden flurry of electoral calculus.

   â€œErnst Callaghan Guthrie III, one vote,” the grandmother read.  There were nods from the crowd.

   â€œFilmore Amadeus Spry, one vote.”  Gasps erupted again as the conclusion to the vote came increasingly into focus.

   â€œEdwin d'Appopollopopopadude,” the grandmother read as she struggled to reassert control over her dentures, “Two votes.”

   â€œWhat?!?” Filmore blurted.  He looked accusingly at Guthrie, who slipped further into spasmic laughter.  Edwin cackled with triumphant glee.

   â€œAnd Teresa Palmer,” she concluded, “26 ½ votes.  Gentlemen, with the authority invested in me as adjudicator of the electoral process, I hereby declare Miss Palmer to be the president of the Society of Roll-Playing Game Aficionados!”

   With that the old grandmother hobbled out of the room leaving a stunned silence, except for the knee slapping snickers of Ernst Callaghan Guthrie the Third.

Sinitrena

Ladies and Gentlemen,

time for nominations to the ministries of the Fortnightly Writing Competition are now closed and our three candidates had the oppurtunity to present their manifesto. You can find them and their parties right here on this ballot paper:

Mandle: The Head Zone
kconan
Baron: Humour on the Hustings

Our candidates fight for a seat in these ministries:

Ministry of Characters: Our minister in this category should be able to create characters that are believable/captivating/magnetic/unique, etc.
Ministry of Plot: We want our representative to be able to tell a well-organized, coherent, and well-executed story with appropriate pacing.
Ministry of Atmosphere: In every voting, feelings and emotions do matter (even if they probably shouldn't), so this is the right ministry for someone good at evoking feelings, due to excitement/humour/intrigue/wonder/emotional intensity, etc.
Ministry of Background World: A politician should be familiar with the world in which he lives. Did our candidates bring their world to life?
Ministry of Word Choice/Style: What's the best idea without the right rhetorics? This is about the technical art of combining words.

Dear voters, you are allowed to vote for one candidate for each ministry, and the president will be whoever recieves most votes overall.

Please be adviced that all votes must be in untill the end of 28th February.

Sincerely,
Sinitrena, president of the election comission.

Baron


Ministry of Characters:I've got to give this one to kconan for the Niccolò di Bernardo dei Machiavellian character of Niccolo/Bernard.  His almost inhuman cynicism in the blind pursuit of power is as scary as his ideas were absurd (and scary too!).

Ministry of Plot: Here I'm going with Mandle for the clever plot twist at the end.  Kconan's piece, while hilariously descriptive of the depths to which sound-bite democracy has plunged, didn't really have much plot development.

Ministry of Atmosphere: I guess I'm going with kconan, mostly because of the sense of intellectual revulsion he was able to bring out in me (which is impressive, because I'm a pretty cynical guy."

Ministry of Background World: Definitely kconan's world of severed Mississippi.  I particularly liked the idea of an "encampment" circuit for all the known militias, and Big Geology (those bastards!).

Ministry of Word Choice/Style: I think I've got to give it to kconan for the radical right-wing rhetoric of his various power-grubbing politicos.  I especially appreciated how he was able to cram in so many wedge-words into one phrase: They think we are luring people to polling places to confiscate their guns, which will then be given to gay atheists who will use them to shoot fetuses in order to save the environment so that land will be ripe for a takeover by Arabs.  Nice!

Unfortunately my votes come out rather one-sided this time.  I want to say that I enjoyed Mandle's story, especially the clever twist on the "assassination", but kconan has clearly put a vast amount of thought and effort into his piece (either that or he lives in a bunker somewhere in the mid-west and this all just flowed freely from his paranoid mind ;)).  Good reads both; good work, gentlemen!

kconan

Ministry of Characters: Mandle for John Smith.
Ministry of Plot: Baron's story has a basic, but entertaining and fun storyline.
Ministry of Atmosphere: Baron had me on the edge of my seat wondering if Teresa Palmer would win the RPG Society Presidency, and I guess rule in absentia?
Ministry of Background World: Baron's story perfectly recreates the world of a bunch of sweaty D&D dudes living in a grandmothers basement.
Ministry of Word Choice/Style: Baron for bringing the goods like:  "Edwin smiled, revealing a transcontinental railroad's worth of steel bracing in his teeth."  That's alot of mouth metal.

Mandle

Ministry of Characters: kconan
Ministry of Plot: Baron
Ministry of Atmosphere: kconan
Ministry of Background World: kconan
Ministry of Word Choice/Style: Baron

Sorry, not a lot of time to explain the reasons why, but it's probably self-evident anyways as the only people reading this thread are the ones who entered stories anyways...Such is the life of the downtrodden writer!

I suggest to the winner that the next month's theme should be the mostly widely read short-fiction forum in all of human history:
Spoiler
"Letters To Penthouse"
[close]

That'll boost readership!!!



P.S: Baron, thanks for worrying about the "lopsided" voting, but my story was only ever intended as an O.Henry-trick-pony, and you enjoyed the trick, so that's what counts for me.

Sinitrena

Unfortunately, very few eligible voters actually decided to vote, but we do need to declare a winner and host for the next round, so here we go:

With 2 votes, Mandle recieves a parliament with the bronze party in the lead:

I really enjoyed your story, especially the twist ending. I seriously did not expect Smith to use a leaf-blower: Unusual, funny, really surprising. I also liked the overexaggeration of Trump's character (or was it?) - perfect for satire. I'm not sure why you didn't use an original character for your "terrorist". I recognized John Smith immediately (and didn't even need the very conspicious title), even though I never read the novel by King and am only familiar with the TV show. But I think the story would work just as well with an original character. -  All in all, a good satire that deserves some love.

With 6 votes, Baron is right on kconan's heels.

Good desriptions make this story easy to imagine, even though some of the characters are sligthly too sterotypical in my mind - they seem more like what people who never played D&D or similar games would imagine such a group trying to establish some kind of formality and not like actual players. Of course, this also adds to the charm of the story, and makes the plot possible to begin with. I like Filmore, who seems to constantly fight - without much success - against the shenangiens of everyone else, and the grandmother, who seems to indulge her grandson just a bit too much.

And our winner, with 7 votes is kconan.

Like Mandle's story, this one offers a satirical view of american politics. The best form of satire is when it comes as close to reality as possible while exaggerating it at the same time. This story does this in a frighteing way. I think it would have been even better, and more scathing, if Bernard's suggestions would become more and more over the top instead of being slightly absurd from the get-go. But I really like the ending, especially this sentence: They think we are luring people to polling places to confiscate their guns, which will then be given to gay atheists who will use them to shoot fetuses in order to save the environment so that land will be ripe for a takeover by Arabs. that Baron already pointed out.


Congratulations, kconan, It's your turn to start a new round.

Mandle

Firstly: Thanks for the kind words honorable host!

Quote from: Sinitrena on Tue 01/03/2016 06:24:44
I think the story would work just as well with an original character.

You're probably right, but I liked the juxtaposition of the endings of the two stories, and that maybe John Smith learned that attempted violence was not the only way to save the world...And also, if I had made my own character with similar powers it would have been a copy of King's character anyways, so why not make it an homage?

Congratz to kconan! I only enter when an idea strikes out of the blue, so maybe seeyas all next time, or maybe not...

kconan

  Fun game all-around guys!  I'll cook up a new writing competition in a day or two.

Baron

Congrats kconan!  A well-deserved victory!  I look forward to the next round. :)

Ponch

Ministry of Characters: Mandle
Ministry of Plot: kconan
Ministry of Atmosphere: Baron
Ministry of Background World: kconan
Ministry of Word Choice/Style: kconan
:=

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