Adventure Game Studio

A slight change in format this fortnight.  Welcome to the competition known as
SERIAL
(http://www.fuelyourwriting.com/files/dimenovel.jpg)

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!

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...

  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.

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:

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.

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?

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! :=

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.

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

(http://www.barnrunner.com/pics/misc/SouthSeasPulp.png)

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



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

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.

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:

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 (http://www.adventuregamestudio.co.uk/forums/index.php?topic=49559.0), 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. :=

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:

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!

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? :)

Quote from: Baron on Sun 15/05/2016 16:13:00
What's the secret of your charisma, P? :)

It's because I'm so tasty! (http://www.vanwijst.com/games/smileys/ponch_cup.gif)
(http://www.barnrunner.com/pics/misc/CowTasty.png)

The plot thickens like Hawaiian teriyaki sauce!


“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

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?

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

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.

(https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ZIYWstHzH2c/VzwteASCepI/AAAAAAAABv8/vf7zZ37DjXQdS2AVoOZlSeP5uSrmo0JtQCK4B/s1600/DS.png)

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.

Gaps are fine, as long as the reader can piece together what is happening.  Have fun with it! :)

Honestly, I think gaps would work better for some stories. Wild jumps in the plot could be used to great comedic effect (affect? I can never remember that rule). :cool:

Prologue


She caught the light with her hands from the surface of the water. It dribbled back down into the basin of the fountain while a breeze caught her long blond hair and the light cloth of her summer dress. Laughter pearled from her lips like the twitter of the birds surrounding her. It was early in the morning. The sun had just started to rise behind the horizon and doused the private park of the villa into a red gleam that shared its colour with her full lips. She leaned back on the edge of the basin, one leg up on the marble, the other on the fresh grass. Her naked toes played with the morning dew on the blades of grass.

Her father wouldn‘t approve. She was alone. Only a book accompanied her on her stroll through the park. She had slipped her lady's maid and her father's servants to relish the first warm morning of spring on her own, forgetting for just a while her duties as a prospective lady and future bride.

This evening she was supposed to début, to dance and converse. Her instructors weren't happy with her. They said she was wild, uncouth. She liked to run and to dance, as long as it wasn't a formal dance, to sing the bawdy songs she wasn't even supposed to know. She liked to sneak away. She took the rough clothes of her servants and slipped out of the house in the evening.

This morning, she only sneaked into the gardens. Her father still sat in the smaller of the two dining rooms, drinking his tea and reading the morning papers. A letter had come with them. He awaited a visitor and hadn't noticed that his daughter had slipped away. She had received a letter as well, only the night before and not in a traditional way.

I had sent them both.

Now, the girl stood up from her place at the fountain and looked back at the house for a moment. Our rendezvous was just a short time later in the labyrinth at the southern end of the park. She didn't bother putting her sandals back on her feet. Instead, she dangled them from her delicate hands as she skipped over the gravel path that led away from the nymphs that decorated the fountain and further away from the villa. Naked gods and heroes flanked the path, alternating with violas that bloomed in elevated flower beds. After a few steps, the violas were replaced by roses that entwined arched grates that spanned the path.

She reached the labyrinth after a short time, entering it with sure steps. She walked the same paths since she was a child. It was a long time since she got lost between the hedges. Three paths led to the statue in the middle of the maze that was our meeting place. Aphrodite stood on a pedestal, a swan curled around her ankles. She held a mirror in her left hand, high above her head and looked up to it or the sky above.

But Laura was more beautiful than the goddess at whose feet she sat down now. The goddess was just marble and the fantasy of men, while Laura was alive. Her cheeks were rosy while Aphrodite's were cold and pale. Blood pumped through Laura's veins, whereas the veins in Aphrodite's skin were just the lifeless patterns of Siena marble.

I stepped out from between the hedges. Laura did not see me yet. She had her back to me and her eyes were closed, bathing her face in the refreshing sunlight. She smiled and so did I.

I moved as silently as possible to better surprise the beautiful girl. The gravel crunched under my feet and Laura opened her eyes and looked in my direction. She expected someone else.

A small “Oh!” escaped her mouth and I closed the distance between us instantly. She smiled at me. “I...”, she began but I was right next to her already.

She didn't see the knife in my hand.

Now the veins of Aphrodite fill with life while it disappears from the still form of the blond-haired girl. The heart still pumps it through her veins but the rosy cheeks become pale and cold. The marble becomes warm and sticky. My fingers trace patterns through the liquid and drum a faint rhythm on the stone. She breathes still. She looks at me, not understanding. She doesn't scream. They never scream. I grab her hair and she twitches. I draw circles in her blood with her own hair. The blond locks are red now. I need to wash them later but I like the stripes the strands leave behind when I move them around. It is just a little indulgence I allow myself. I watch her breasts, heaving up and down with ragged breaths. They are shallow already. It won't be long. When the last bit of air leaves her lungs and her eyes are still open, I cut off her hair. This is what I came for. Everything else is for my audience.

The red paint of the 1928 Indian Scout motorcycle had faded a little from the tropical sun, but the engine still ran as smooth as a top. Supposedly, the bike had been shipped to Toru Marama as a gift from someone trying to curry favor with the previous magistrate. But by the time the crate was unloaded from the ship that had ferried it here, the old magistrate was dead and the new one, Pierre Lecocq, was already on his way from France. Pierre had no interest in motorbikes. Eventually, he put it up as a bet in a card game one night at his mansion. After that it had changed hands every so often over the course of a decade, until it was finally given to Corrigan as a gift by Ikale, the chief of the smaller of the two tribes on the island, in exchange for smuggling in the occasional black market goodie from the larger islands Corrigan visited on his regular mail runs. One-legged men had even less use for motorcycles than island chieftains, so the Indian belonged to me now. The fact that I was an Indian who rode an Indian around the island was pointed out to me on a regular basis. It was a joke that never got old for anyone on Toru Marama; unless you were me, of course.

The bike was solidly made, and rugged as hell. I kept it in a shed behind the hangar, out of the elements, trying to make it last as long as possible. When it was gone, the hills and trails of this island would likely never know the roar of a motorcycle engine again.

I steered it along the dirt road that connected one side of the lagoon with the other. It was one of three roads on the entire island. Everything else was a footpath at best, or else an unmarked trail through the tall grass.

The natives waved at me as I passed their village along the shore of the central lagoon. A few of the boys abandoned their chores and tried to run alongside, laughing and cheering. They never tired of seeing the machine. I shifted into a higher gear and goosed the throttle, going as fast as I dared, leaving them behind, still whooping wildly.

“Ma'ue!” they shouted. ‘Fly'. I did, the wind whipping my clothes, the leaf spring suspension of the bike mitigating the bumps and dips in the road admirably.

The island of Toru Marama is an old volcano with three craters, the older ones beneath the newer. The lowest and oldest of the three formed the basin of the lagoon, so essential to the island. The second crater was much smaller, halfway up the mountain, and filled in with regular deposits of rainwater to become a large, freshwater lake. The topmost crater was sizeable, the very peak of the mountain that formed the heart of the island. It was filled in with grass now, and none of the natives believed it would ever erupt again. Even in their oldest myths, there were no stories of it having ever done so.

The road ahead of me began to rise up from the low forest and wetlands around the base of the mountain, going up and up, winding around the side of the rocky cone. The Indian carried me along, as surefooted as any horse, and together we left the draping greenery of the forest canopy and thick carpeting of mangroves below. The magistrate's mansion was just ahead. I was on my way to see the king of this particular mountain. I was wearing my best shirt.

Magistrate Lecocq had only invited me up to his residence twice before. Once, when he had first arrived and wanted to meet the pilots in his employ. And again a year later, when Corrigan had lost half of his left leg to a shark. I figured Lecocq wanted to make sure I was up to the task of handling the mail run solo. I was wrong. He'd had other plans. That evening, I'd been a guest at a very exclusive dinner party: just three people. Lecocq, a beautiful young French actress vacationing in nearby Tahiti for whom he'd no doubt paid a lot of money to secure her company, and me.

I'd always assumed that Pierre had earned the nickname “the middleman” because he'd served as the go-between during assorted business or political arrangements on behalf of the French government. As it turned out, I didn't know the half of it.

It had been one hell of an awkward dinner; I can say that for certain.

I hadn't been back since, though Pierre extended the offer every so often, discreetly of course. This time, however, it wasn't a request.

Pierre wasn't a bad guy. He was friendly to the natives, and seemed content to leave them alone, though admittance to the spacious grounds of the Maison de Justice was by invitation only. A lush, lovely, well-tended garden staffed with servants and watched over by armed guards. The previous magistrate, a man by the name of Demonte, built it at sizeable expense for the French government. He'd been a well-connected man with many enemies. One of them finally got to him, all the way out here, and cut his heart out. Pierre had been appointed as his replacement. He wasn't the sort of man who would bother to build such an impractical palace (a large, comfortable apartment at the lagoon hotel would have been more than sufficient, or so he claimed), but he wasn't the sort of man who would order such an opulent place torn down either. Pierre was practical, if nothing else.

The double gates rose up in front of me, at the end the narrow, twisting mountain road. Two guards were there; one of them I recognized. He was the man who had collected Lillian and brought her up here yesterday. His hard eyes told me to stop. A rifle was in his hands. I hoped she was alright.

DEEP SEA DANGER
Episode 55: When Larry Met Billy

Larry's rotund near-naked frame sweltered in the glare of the midday sun. His tanned face scrunched into an anguished ball of pain as his hunched back slowly crisped in the heat. With a near mechanical action, the leather palms of his cracked hands fed a steady line of cable into the ever hungry water. His pale blue eyes squinted at his watch from beneath wild unkempt eyebrows. “I really need to ask about that pay rise,” he considered briefly before hastily dismissing the idea as the realization set in that Doris was probably the only person crazy enough to employ him. It had been fifteen years now since she'd dragged him out of that bar in downtown Havana and sent him crashing face down into the gutter with one thunderous right hook*. Larry afforded himself a smile at the memory, rubbing the sandpaper that was his jaw as he licked the empty socket where the tooth had been with his whiskey soaked tongue. He and Doris had been friends and business partners ever since.

A couple of tugs on the safety line indicated a new request from the deep. He staggered back to his feet, placed his hands on his hips and arched his sagging body in an attempt to straighten out his heavily folded figure. Larry was certainly past his peak, and his peak really hadn't been anything more than a bump, but there was something about him that Doris valued. He was certainly cheap, but more importantly he was loyal and in a strange, whiskey-fueled way he was dependable. That in itself was vital for this line of employment

After a few minutes Larry retreated from the oxygen pump, wiping the stinging sweat from his eyes. Grabbing the ever present bottle, he tossed his head back and took a few thirsty swigs. “Wow," he croaked, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "This stuff really hits the -”. Larry was rudely interrupted by the billy club that came crashing down on the back of his skull. As he crumpled to the deck, the shadow of his assailant hovered over him menacingly.

“Oh boy,” sighed Larry's internal subconscious. “Out cold again.”


*As covered in episode 2 - ‘Hullabaloo in Havana'

DEEP SEA DANGER
Episode 56 â€" The Scuttling Scotsman

The Scuttling Scotsman had been built in the murky waters of the Clyde. In its heyday it had been one of the jewels in the British fleet, a furious cannon-baller responsible for many a victory. Yet that was not the true cause for its fame. Its notoriety lay in the well documented stories regarding its nefarious treatment of prisoners of war, mutineers and, in many cases, ordinary sailors unlucky enough to have appeared on her horizon. Put simply, the Scotsman had been worse than any pirate on the seas. If the legends were to be believed, it was these wicked deeds that damned her to the deep. If legends were to be believed… my god, what if they were true.

Doris ruthlessly terminated the siren of optimism before it had a chance to trick its way into her thoughts. “Thinking like that will get you into trouble D,” she reprimanded herself, checking the integrity of her safety line for good measure. She clambered through another of the seemingly endless cabins, once inhabited by evil men, now home to an array of morally ambiguous sea creatures. The eerie silence of the dead ship broken only by the dull thuds of Doris navigating through its fragile shell.

At the summit of a precariously unstable flight of rotten stairs, Doris found what she was looking for. The Captain's quarters. A set of ornately jeweled doors, still attached and, despite a century on the ocean bed, resplendent in the shafts of dim light piercing the puncture wounds in the upper deck. Doris eased them open.

The Scuttling Scotsman had been captained by the malevolent Hamish McStaven. His cabin, hauntingly preserved, was faintly illuminated in muted splashes of colour by the surprisingly intact rear facing stained glass window. There was more than enough treasure here to fund a number of debauched late night escapades. Gold, gems, and all manner of trinkets lay strewn around the room, no doubt scattered by the ships violent death throes. But that's not what Doris was here for. “Alright Hamish you evil bastard, where is it?” As her words subsided, the Scotsman exuded a long tormented groan as its carcass shifted in the silt.

Doris tumbled backwards, twisting her body so as to land face down. As she pushed herself to her feet dark shadows snaked and coiled their way out from behind her, slithering across the room and suffocating what little light there was. Doris turned to face the window, her expression one of fearful knowing. “Oh shit.”


DEEP SEA DANGER WILL CONTINUE ON MONDAY 

In this installment: sexy intrigue and air conditioning!


“Tahoma! How have you been, my friend?” Pierre always called me by my proper name whenever he was trying to butter me up for something. He was dressed to the nines, like always.

“No complaints,” I said, shaking the well-manicured hand he offered.

The large sitting room was pleasantly cool, with a nice breeze moved around by ceiling fans powered by diesel generators in the side yard, the sound of them muffled by the thick walls of the sheds in which they were kept.

“Come, come,” he said, one arm extended, showing the way to the dining room. “We should not keep our lovely guest waiting.”

He led me through the ornate doors. Lillian was there, wearing a very fetching dress, her hair down, and her face lovely. She smiled warmly when I entered the room.

There was red wine chilling in a bucket of ice. Both were luxuries in the tropics. A bowl of fresh bread was on the table, with butter readily available. The smell of cooking beef was unmistakable and surprising. Fish was the staple food here. Maybe once every couple of weeks, someone would cook up a chicken, or on special occasions, a pig. But beef? Cattle were impractically large livestock for small tropical islands. My guess was that it had arrived aboard yesterday's ship, shipped in at great cost for Pierre's personal kitchen, probably all the way from Australia.

The seat at the head of the table was reserved for Pierre, of course. Lillian was seated to his left. He motioned that I should sit to his right. I sat down. A servant was placing small porcelain bowls of steaming soup at each place setting.

“Bread and consommé, to start, naturally. The main course will be served soon,” Pierre said. “Hachis de Boeuf Parmentier.”

I had no idea what that was.

“Oh, how nice! I haven't had that in ages,” Lillian cooed.

I nodded, hoping it would be a thick, juicy steak. I couldn't remember the last time I'd had one.

Pierre said something under his voice to the servant, who disappeared into the kitchen. He then turned his attention to me.

“While we wait, perhaps I could appeal to your knowledge, Tahoma?”

“Sure.” I said, settling back into the chair, munching on a slice of buttered wheat bread.

“My guest, Dr. Price, has shared with me her hope to charter the island's plane to find her missing father.”

I nodded. It wasn't a question. I knew from prior experience that Pierre Lecocq liked to take his time getting to a point.

“I have contacted my fellow officials in both the Windwards and Leewards, trying to find some trace of the man. He was last seen leaving port at Rapa Iti, sailing southeast.”

“He was headed to PÃ,,“ Niho,” I said.

Lillian nodded, sipping her wine.

Pierre wasn't convinced. “I could not find it on any of my maps. Are you sure it is real? Perhaps it is a phantom, like Tabor Island or Wachusett Reef.”

“It's real,” I said. “Chief Ikale hired Corrigan to make a run out there last year, about a month before he got attacked by that shark.”

Pierre raised an eyebrow. “He did? I was not aware of it.”

I avoided eye contact, pretending something very interesting was going on over by the window. “It was sort of… well…”

Pierre covered his smile with a wine glass. “Off the books?”

“Yeah.”

Pierre made a big show, sighing like a disappointed parent. “I hope you were paid handsomely for stealing my plane.”

“We were.”

“Good,” he chuckled. “That takes some of the sting out of the offense.”

“Why did you go there?” Lillian asked, mistakenly assuming I'd been part of that trip. I didn't correct her.

I looked at Pierre. “Remember that group that paddled in from Rotoava? That guy who tried to kill Ikale?”

”I remember. Ikale very nearly killed the man â€" a witch doctor, if I recall.”

“Yeah, well… Ikale hired Corrigan to take the guy to PÃ,,“ Niho and dump him off.”

“That would be certain death,” Pierre mused, eyes twinkling.

“The guy did try to kill Ikale.”

“I would have done the same,” Pierre conceded with a small smile. He waggled his glass. A servant hurried to refill it.

Lillian fixed her gaze on the soup. Life in tropics wasn't the picture postcard many people assumed it was. Life was cheap here. Laws were few, and easily bent.

“Assuming you're okay with it, I'm ready to make the trip.”

“<Please say yes, Magistrate>,” Lillian said in perfect French.

Pierre smiled, placing his hand over hers. “It sounds like an adventure to be had. Perhaps I should come along. Having a representative of the French government could be beneficial … for everyone.” He turned his hooded eyes towards me. “Your plane seats three, does it not?”

I kept my tone professional. “Not if it's going to make it all the way to PÃ,,“ Niho. We're going to have to travel light, strip some of the extra gear out to maximize the fuel efficiency. That means just one passenger. And one bag, Doctor. A very light one, I'm afraid.”

“Speaking of which,” Lillian said, easing her hand away, making room for the arrival of the main course, which was not a steak at all, sadly, but a thick slice of some sort of baked dish, a meat pie, “where are my bags, Magistrate? I'm running out of clothes to wear.”

Pierre winked at me discreetly, one man to another.

“Someone was sent down to the hotel to collect the rest of Lillian's luggage this afternoon, Tahoma. Perhaps you passed him on your motorbike ride up here?”

I cocked my head. Was this a joke? “Didn't see a soul.”

He furrowed his brow. “Odd.”

As if on cue, a guard appeared. He hurried across the room. I noticed the flap on his pistol holster was unbuttoned, in case he needed to get the gun out in a hurry. He bent at the waist and whispered to Pierre. His gravely voice carried easily across the table.

“Sir, we've found the missing man.”

Pierre was unhappy now. “Where is he? He'd better not be drunk!”

The guard cut his eyes towards Lillian and me.

Pierre glowered, good manners forgotten in the face of insubordination. “Spit it out!”

“He's been… decapitated, sir.”

Pierre gaped, as mentally off-balance as I'd ever seen him. “Someone cut his head off?!?”

“Ripped it off, sir.”

:O :O :O!!!!
RIPPED IT CLEAN OFF!

Pierre needs his own spin off - the cad.

Clean off, indeed! :grin: Now onward and upward to the next chapter!



I adjusted the scarf around my face. The wool-lined leather jacket was zipped all the way up. I could barely feel the controls through my thick gloves. In the seat behind me, shivering inside the cramped cabin, Lillian was wrapped up in the blanket I usually kept in the emergency box. She looked like a mummy, but I couldn't blame her. Nobody comes to the tropics with winter clothing in their luggage.

Outside the cabin, it was a few degrees below freezing. Simple electric heaters kept the controls and gauges from freezing up, but that's about all they were good for.

We were soaring at 9,500 feet, close to the plane's maximum altitude. The throttle was nearly wide-open too. Normally, low and slow was the way to go with this old plane, but we were close to our destination. I needed to see as much of the world as possible. Even on a clear day like this, a little slice of nothing like PÃ,,“ Niho was easy to miss. And if we missed it, the next stop was the uninhabited Marotiri, if the fuel held out, which it probably wouldn't. And if we missed that one, there wouldn't be anywhere else to get out stretch our legs until Carney Island, down in the Antartic, 3,500 miles away. A long way to go for floatplane that could make maybe 500 miles on its best day.

“We're not lost, are we?” Dr. Price asked from the seat behind me. She had asked a variation of that question at least twice an hour since we'd put Tupua'i behind us this morning.

We left Toru Marama just before dawn, refueled at the little science station on the atoll of Maupihaa, and again at Maiao, then legged it to another gas station at Tupua'i, then spent the night at Raivave. A few hours before noon this morning, we'd hit Rapa Iti, a little speck that was the last place to fill up in the Pacific. I'd topped the tanks all the way up to the gas caps. Now it was midday and we were two hundred miles southeast of that little island, well beyond the border of French Polynesia. These waters belonged to no one. I doubted the small radio onboard would be of any use if we needed help. I didn't like this at all. It's a good thing for Lillian that she had such great legs. I don't think any amount of money could have convinced me to make this trip. Toru Marama was a thousand miles away now.

“Nope,” I said, with as much confidence as I could muster. “We're right on course. Should be there soon.”

“All right,” she said nervously. “Good.”

I discreetly checked the map, the compass, the altimeter, and the airspeed indicator. We were still on course. I studied the fuel gauge and did the math. We weren't going into the drink anytime soon. But on the trip back, it was going to be close. The winds had better be kind to us. A strong headwind on the return trip could force a water landing just shy of Raivave. We might have to spend the night on uninhabited Marotiri, or one of the Motu Araoo atolls until a rescue ship could be sent. Truth be told, I wasn't averse to the idea of a night spent alone with the lovely doctor.

I picked up the binoculars from where they hung by the strap around my neck, and began to scan the ocean again. We had maybe another forty minutes of loiter time left before I would have to turn around and head back.

We'd seen a military corvette on the horizon early this morning, probably English, and probably out of Pitcairn, a small warship on a lonely patrol. That was hours ago. We hadn't seen another soul since.

I rubbed my tired eyes. Corrigan was back in Toru Marama. There was no backup pilot to spell me for a while. A long day of flying yesterday, and another six hours in the air today. I was getting tired and I couldn't afford to get sloppy. This far from human civilization, even a small mistake could doom us. A few degrees off course, this way or that, and we'd fly right by the landmark we were looking for. Errors compounded quickly when the only thread linking you to the rest of the world was an invisible one that existed only in your mind, a slender lifeline made up of complicated calculations that permitted no mistakes.

I took a deep, calming breath and brought the twin lenses of the binoculars to my eyes again.

There it was, ahead and to my left, far below. A black, glittering, crescent moon shape, with a dark, inky smudge staining the water all around it, the shadow of the submerged volcano.

“Found it,” I said, as though I'd been here a thousand times before. The truth was I'd never been this far out on the edge of the world in my life. Lillian sat forward, anxious. I passed the binoculars back to her and pointed in the general direction that she should look. “PÃ,,“ Niho. It means ‘Rotten Tooth.' The natives steer clear of it. Bad luck or something.”

“Oh!” she exclaimed happily. “I see it!”

She kept the binoculars trained on it while I reduced the throttle, slowing down to about 50 mph, and began to descend in a lazy, slow circle, taking us around and around the small curl of dry land, dark and foreboding, no more than three-quarters of a mile long. It grew larger outside the cabin window with each slow pass.

With the binoculars, she must have seen the wreckage of the ship before I did, though she said nothing.

Every instinct I had told me to pull up, kick the big rudder hard to port, bring the nose around, and fly as fast as I could back to the safety of the French islands we'd left behind the day before.

Instead I cut the throttle and shuddered when I felt the plane vibrate and rattle as the pontoons made contact with the sea. We were landing in the cloudy, stained waters over the submerged crater. There was no going back now.

QuoteErrors compounded quickly when the only thread linking you to the rest of the world was an invisible one that existed only in your mind, a slender lifeline made up of complicated calculations that permitted no mistakes.

What a line... pun not intended.

Thanks! Looking forward to the next installment of DSD. I'm also curious where Sinitrena is going with her story following that nice twist at the end of the prologue. :cool:

Chapter 1: Doctor Whyte

The girl was surrounded by men. They stared at her nearly naked form. It was necessary. They had to examine her body, assess the damage her murderer had done to her. Her dress was ripped or cut. It was difficult to tell. There was too much blood, too many slashes in her flesh.

Two of the servants held her father back. Master Simmons wanted to wrap his daughter in a blanket or in his arms but everyone knew that the inspector needed to observe the scene as it was found. They had sent for him already. And for the doctor.

The women stood further away. They cried silently into the arms of their friends. Everyone had liked Laura, with the exception of her instructors maybe, but those weren't there. She didn't have a live-in governess since she was little.

It looked like a wild animal had mauled the poor girl. There was blood everywhere: on her skin, on her dress, between her legs. There was a lot of blood between her legs.

“She was raped...,” the cook whispered to me.

“Raped and left do die...,” the gardener, who had found her just an hour ago, answered silently.

We all waited for the doctor to arrive. In an angry cry just minutes before, Master Simmons had screamed that Doctor Whyte should have arrived half an hour ago. He had written and asked for a meeting, or so he said. But when he didn't arrive even after the poor girl was found, one of the stable-boys was sent for him.

He arrived before the gendarmes did. He pushed his way through the crowd of servants and stopped in his track. I never saw him so pale before. It added an interesting contrast to the waves of his black hair. The doctor was young, only slightly older than Laura had been and all the servants knew of the looks they cast each other whenever he visited the frail old man. I shook my head. This wasn't the right moment for such thoughts.

“I... Laura...,” he stammered as soon as he saw the girl.

Just then, Master Simmons broke free from the two servants holding him. “You... Where were you? What took you so long? She's dead... She's dead because of you!”

“What? I... What? Laura...?”

“Your letter said you'd be here by nine, and if you'd been...” The rest of his accusations was buried in his sobs and in a punch against the doctor's jaw.

Doctor Whyte stumbled back and into the arms of a police officer who had just arrived through a different opening in the hedges.

“What is going on here?” he asked with authority in his voice.

Until that moment, most of the servants had been silent, only whispering among themselves, too shocked to actually say anything. Some had cried silently into the shoulders of their friends or commented on the gruesomeness of the scene. But now they started to talk. We all wanted to  explain what had happened. We wanted to tell him about poor, innocent Laura and about the letter the Master had received this morning. After all, that was the reason the master's anger was focused on Doctor Whyte, wasn't it?

With a simple gesture, the inspector stopped the nonsensical babbling and turned to the master of the house and Doctor Whyte.

“Doctor Whyte,” he said sternly, “Mister Simmons. What is going on here?”

“He was supposed to be here this morning! He wrote to me. But he didn't come and now my Laura is dead. She is dead!” His voice was shrill from hysteric wailing.

“That is hardly important now.” the inspector said after a moment's hesitation and with a sad look to the girl's still form. “We'll talk about it later. For now: Doctor, please examine her body. Mister Simmons, I must ask you to leave. The servants too.”

“No. Please, no. I can't leave her. She...” He finally focused his attention on the dead girl instead of the doctor again.

“I understand, Sir. But, as painful as it is, you can't do anything for your daughter now, except allow me and the good doctor to do our duty. Please retire to your house and wait there. Unfortunately, I will have questions for you later.”

“No. It is not right,” Master Simmons sobbed, “Someone should stay. She shouldn't... It is not right. A woman should stay with her. Someone... She deserves better... She deserves some respect...”

The inspector nodded his head. He understood that a father wanted to make sure that his daughter was treated with a modicum of respect.

“Of course, Sir. One of the servant girls can stay, so that you can be sure that we do not mistreat your daughter. But you are no help right now. I'm sure one of the girls will stay with her and protect her.”

Master Simmons nodded slowly and the inspector looked around. Shyly and with downcast eyes I raised my hand.

Her head is bald. Only stubbles remain. Her left hand is on Aphrodite's foot. Her head leans against the swan. Red feathers adorn the elongate neck. The girl's dress spreads around her like the wings of an angel. The cook and the gardener were right. Laura was raped: My knife is long and sharp. It enters her easily. I don't care whether it cuts her or not. She doesn't either. She won't care ever again. This is just for the audience. On her stomach is a pattern of cuts that doesn't make sense. It doesn't need to. Her face was so beautiful before. Now it is pale and full of pain. I pity her. She was so young, so innocent. There is compassion in my heart. Is there?

Oooooo!  The plot thickens like inky tendrils of shadow at the bottom of the sea. ;-D 

I usually don't read submissions until voting time, my reason being that they will all be fresh in my mind when it is time to cast my vote.  But I am all up to date now, and I want more, more, MOAR!!!!1!  There's only four days left in the competition, and I fear there won't be enough time for resolution. :sad:  If only I could travel back in time to edit the OP to ensure that some sort of synopsis-of-what-would-have-happened blurb was appended to any unfinished story!  I guess the only solution now is to encourage you all to write, write like the wind.  Goose the throttle of your keyboards like you've never goosed before! :=

[EDITED]
I've pulled out. I didn't have time for a second entry, and the first is crap. I'll leave it below in spoiler tags for posterity.

Spoiler

Thicket of Evil

Peter digs a finger into Sean's chest, "You're fucking my wife!" Turns to the woman, "You're my fucking wife!"

"I'm sorry, Pet.."

"She's my wife! Oh shit, how could she...? How could you..? My WIFE!"

Meanwhile, a shadow moves across the barn door. Something stirs in the leeks. A frightened girl lays shaking in her bed.

"My..." The farmer drops to his knees and slowly lowers his head to the floor and begins sobbing violently. Great heaving anguished spasms. Sean and Tracey look at each other.

"Tracey. Go get Kelly, we should leave." Sean says, sensing something not quite right.

Tracey moves swiftly across the room and starts to ascend the stairs, but then Peter's crying suddenly stops and the air is silent. An age seems to pass as they stare at the silent shaking ball of pain on the floor. A candle flickers on the table, droplets of red wine glistening as they silently fall from the coffee table. Finally, Peter, head still on the ground between his knees, says "Kelly stays with me"

"Peter..."

"Kelly. Stays. With. ME!"

Tracey again starts to move up the stairs, more urgently now and Peter shoots up from his foetal position and darts after her. Sean scrambles behind Peter, tackles him and pins him to the ground. Peter throws his fists at Sean, but his flailing attempts are easily absorbed by the stronger brother.

Then. A scream.

"Tracey?" Both men call. Forgetting their fight, they both hurry up the stairs to find Tracey looking at an empty child's bed.

[close]

Ooo you are spoiling us on this Monday Morning! A new part and a new entry - superb!

DEEP SEA DANGER
Episode 57 â€" An Old Nemesis

The monocle struggled to steady its position as the wrinkled brow that encased it quivered with suppressed rage. The beady grey eye behind it peered down the long pointed nose and disdainfully out across the deck of the Golden Bilge. Larry, now trussed like a plump, badly burnt seasonal fowl, was awkwardly dangling from the mast in a makeshift cage of cargo netting. His face, which appeared to be supporting the full bulk of his bulbous body, was pressed into the ropes in such a way that his nose had violently re-positioned itself somewhere between his right eye and ear. Of course, Larry was still out cold, his subconscious trying without success to free the erratic conscious from the mischievous unconscious.

“How is it that a pair of simpletons, floating around on this crudely fashioned rust bucket, continue to outsmart a mastermind like me? ME?!” squealed the monocle wearer with a hint of cabaret.

“Well…” growled a second voice confidently, “If you was bein' outsmarted by a couple o' simpul'uns… well… that would make you a master simpul'un!” The speaker drew out the word master with an air of misplaced authority. To add unwitting insult they followed it up with an even further misplaced grin.

Baron Vaistlande shot his henchman a look that clearly instructed him to make a swift exit over the side.

“Leave him!” bellowed the Baron as a number of the unfortunate henchman's colleagues rushed to pull him from the water. “We have more pressing matters at hand, it seems our old friends have done the hard work for us.” he barked, “Ready the Iron Turtle for diving!” The henchmen scurried off to carry out their masters commands.

The Baron minced his way over to the diving hardware and crouched down onto his haunches over the now dangerously unmanned oxygen cable. He picked it up and held it close to his body, cradling it as though it were a child. His mind drifted into a flashback…

That full bodied figure bouncing towards him, those plump lips calling out his name. Now she was upon him, manhandling him, dragging him across the floor, tossing him out into the street. He paws at her boots, she pulls him to his feet, he protests his innocence, she winds up a sledgehammer of a left uppercut*. Crunch**. The flashback ends abruptly.

“Doris,” he whispered, caressing the cable, “my sweet Doris, we could have been so good together.” The Baron held the cable up to his cheek and gently kissed it.

Then he pulled out a knife, severed the line and tossed it into the water.


* To be honest, if Doris wasn't throwing punches at you by the end of the evening you either hadn't pissed her off, or she just didn't like you that much.
** In her defence, the Baron had certainly deserved it! See episode 27 â€" Fracas in Fiji.

Never trust a monocled man. (wrong)

Also: hooray! more entries! :grin:

Chapter 2: Inspector Lively

The inspector had chosen the smoking room as his temporary office in the manor. It suited him. He had the same distinguished demeanour the room tried to convey. Long grey hair, combed back and tied into a neat ponytail, sat flat over a crooked Greek nose. His eyes were small and jumped around the room like an excited rabbit. A pipe hung in the corner of his mouth, unlit for now.

He had ordered his constables to round up the servants and tell them to go speak to the inspector one after the other.

They were nervous. They didn't know exactly what the inspector would ask or the details of what had happened to Laura, but they had seen that it was gruesome. And then there were the rumours that travelled through their minds. No-one knew where they were coming from.

Laura wasn't the first victim, they said, actually, she was the third.

The cobbler's sister was the first.

And then there was the old widow...

The murderer took their hair.

From Laura and the cobbler's sister â€" what was her name again? - he took even more.

Not from the widow?

Well, she was married before...

You can laugh about gallows humour, even if you don't want to, even if you try not to. The silence afterwards was awkward.

The inspector called Master Simmons into the luxuriously furnished smoking room first.

“I am terribly sorry, sir. I hadn't had the opportunity to properly introduce myself before. I'm Inspector Samuel Lively and I promise you that I will find out what happened to your daughter. But please understand that I need to ask you some questions...”

I offered tea. Inspector Lively thanked me and asked for milk but Master Simmons send me away.

“How bad is it? How bad, honest?”, the cook asked me when I came into the kitchen.

She sat on an old bench. On a pot on the oven a soup simmered. It didn't smell like it usually did. I added a pot for tea.

I shook my head. That was so difficult to talk about. We where both silent for a while.

“So bad, huh?”

“Yes, so bad.” I watched the tea steeping.

After Master Simmons, the inspector called Doctor Whyte into the smoking room. They talked already while the doctor examined the girl but at that time the inspector didn't understand yet why the master got angry at him. They just talked about the lifeless body and her wounds. They whispered about two other victims. Maybe the rumours were started then.

The doctor smiled at me when I brought the tea. He wasn't really paying attention to me, of course. A small smile was the only acknowledgement I received. White teeth blinked under bright red lips.

“You wrote to Mister Simmons this morning, didn't you?” Inspector Lively asked.

“I wrote? No, I didn't write. Why should I?”

Inspector Lovely unfolded the thick paper, shaking the letter a bit to straighten it. He cleared his throat. His small eyes flitted over the words. “You didn't write?”

“No, no I didn't. I really wouldn't know why I should. I mean, Mister Simmons was feeling better, so unless he requested a visit, there was really no reason for me to...”

“Well,” he said, putting the letter down and puffing at his pipe, “be that as it may.” He turned his attention to me: “Would you be so kind as to open the curtains slightly before you leave, dear?”

The curtains were heavy and smelled of cold smoke. Through the window I could see the alley leading to the labyrinth. James, the gardener, and Sam, the coachman, carried the broken body to the house. They had wrapped her in a blanket. Only her naked feet were uncovered. I think the white blanket was red, soaked through, around the middle of the body.

“Someone mentioned that you might have been in love with Miss Laura?”

I had to leave.

Blood festers in the hair. I wash it and clean it in the stream. Dance, golden shimmers, dance. Ride on the waves. Up and down in the stream they go, up and down. Aphrodite watches from afar.  The hair belongs to her. It slithers in the water, drawing patterns in this liquid like it did in the blood. I prefer the blood. There, the patterns stay. Here, in the water, they wash away. And sometimes the water takes a strand of hair away. Steals it away. Steals it from me. I try to catch it in my hands. I catch sunlight in my fingers instead. It disappears. Everything disappears. Three colours are mixed in the bunch now. It isn't enough. I fear it will never be enough. Aphrodite needs more. I need more thread to sew her dress. But I have time. Aphrodite waits. People stole her dress and put the threads on their head. Aphrodite called to me. Her buttons are somewhere else. I saw them today. I don't know why I didn't see them before. They shone their white smile at me. Sad. But I saw them. And I'll get them. I wring the water from the hair.


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

Note:
I originally meant to write the chapters from a different point of view than the prologue but changed my mind. So the prologue isn't actually a prologue but the first chapter. I leave it as is, because mistakes like that do happen in serialised stories.

MISSION TO MAGDA: OFFICIAL REPORT â€" CHELSEA GOODWIN

Transcribed by Amalla Firenze

Is this thing on? Okay. Right.

Well, it all went wrong from the start, really.

Our orders were simple enough: ambush the road crew, kill the guards, rescue Tomoko and Rowena and anyone else who wanted to come, and then get out again.

Only it didn't quite turn out like that. I don't know what Aiko put in her report, but I can't think it's going to be too different from this one.

Oh yes, before I forget: we have four new recruits. Three boys and a girl, ages around ten to fourteen. Not sure what you guys on the bridge want to do with them, but for the moment they're together in the brig. Maybe we could bend the six-people-to-a-new-Team rule and let them stay together. Just a thought.

We don't, however, have Rowena or Tomoko, because they weren't on the road crew that Selena insisted they would be on!

Anyway, I don't usually go along on these missions, as you know â€" my job on the Nemesis is running CGT â€" but this one was personal. I mean, Rowena's my Teammate, and Tomoko's Ken'ichi's sister, and Ken'ichi's always been friendly toward me. I kind of figured I owe him.

What I'm trying to say is, that what happened was in no way, shape or form my fault, and I'm sure Aiko will agree with me!

You all know Rowena and Tomoko were taken when we stopped on Luna, and we managed to track them to a labor camp on Magda. Selena assured Aiko and me that she knew how these things worked and that at least one of them, if not both, would be on the road crew first thing.

So. Easy, right? We go in, rescue them, come home.

Nope.

Hunter flew my group down in the Cosmic Hawk. We landed, the doors opened and some of us â€" not me, but more seasoned raiders like Neil Cox and Ismene Trajan â€" shot the guards. From there it should have been easy, but no-o-o! No, nothing's ever simple, is it?

We were supposed to get the keys off the guards and unlock everyone's shackles, and we did. That was one job I could help with; I don't think I could have actually killed anyone, but freeing slaves is just fine.

The problem was, our crewmates were nowhere to be seen! None of the workers could tell me where they'd gone, and most were too frightened to even look at me, much less answer. Out of the twenty there, one of them came along willingly â€" that older guy in the brig; I think he may be Terran, but I'm not sure. We didn't exactly have time to stop and chat, since the guards' biorhythms are connected to the control center at the labor camp, as I'm sure you know, and I could already see the transport in the distance. I grabbed the nearest kid and threw her into the Hawk, and Neil grabbed another one, and the guy we freed took another one, and then we had to get the hell out before the transport arrived.

Four kids got out of a labor camp, so in that respect, we didn't do too bad a job.

However, not only did we fail to rescue Rowena and/or Tomoko, but we put the guards on the alert and as good as told them that two of our people were in that camp! Anyone care to take bets on how long it'll take them to home in on the latest acquisitions? Don't all shout at once.

This was a failure, pure and simple.

SELENA'S REPORT

I should have known better than to let an untrained civilian like Chelsea along on this mission, but Aiko insisted she was ready. Chelsea's report is largely accurate; however, it might be an idea to re-examine it with a view to investigating Aiko's suitability as commander of the raiding forces, perhaps with an eye on replacing her.

AIKO'S REPORT

No it might not! You were the one who provided that intelligence, Selena! You said at least one of them would be on the road crew and we acted based on your words! Chelsea did the best she could; it wasn't her fault they weren't there! Even though she couldn't rescue the targets, she adapted to the current situation and came away with four new potential crew members.

ADDENDUM: SELENA

True, but hardly a substitution for a successful mission. Suggest Aiko Shizuya investigate possibility of additional training for 'raiders'.

ADDENDUM: AIKO

Suggest hotshot so-called commander Selena Mount investigate possibility of removing stick from butt. If hotshot so-called commander unable to locate aforementioned butt, would be more than happy to indicate approximate location with foot!

FURTHER ADDENDUM: SELENA

Aforementioned suggestion rather laughable, as I have serious doubts as to Aiko's ability to locate her own rear end with both hands and GPS, let alone somebody else's.

FURTHER ADDENDUM: AIKO

Suggest Selena trying to run from own mistakes and put blame onto Chelsea. Not good behavior for a commander, is it?

FURTHER ADDENDUM: SELENA

Chelsea screwed up, plain and simple. Nothing more to be said, although would advise Aiko to be more selective in her choice of field operatives.

FURTHER ADDENDUM: AIKO

She screwed up because you did! Why can't you just man up and accept responsibility for your own incompetence?

OFFICIAL RESPONSE FROM BRIDGE CREW

For fuck's sake, we get it already! It was a screw up from beginning to end! There's nothing to be done but sit back and rethink this whole thing.

Chelsea managed to get herself and four others off the planet and none of us have any doubt that she could have succeeded in saving Tomoko and Rowena, had they been there. It's damn difficult to rescue someone who's nowhere to be seen, however, so we can hardly blame her for her failure in this.  We'll talk it over and come up with some alternatives.

END OF REPORT

-

AN: This takes place in the Nemesis world last seen in the Writing Whodunnit challenge, so some names may be familiar to you ;) I've no idea how many parts this is going to span, but I guess we'll see :D

This competition is really taking off now! More entries, more updates! Fantastic stuff.

THIS WEEK â€" DOUBLE LENGTH FEATURE!

DEEP SEA DANGER
Episode 58 â€" Tarantopus Terror!

Tarantopus (octopodes terribilis). A member of the octopodidae family, yet superior in size, power and, most formidably, intelligence. The name consequent of the black and orange pattern that adorns its skin coupled with the venomous barbs deployed within its suckers. For deep sea divers the tarantopus represents the ultimate nightmare, the monster that stirs you from your sleep, floundering in your own secretion.

This one was an adult. A big one.

Doris stared into the glassy unblinking eye of the beast. The beast stared right back, its expressionless gaze betrayed by the eight spiraling tentacles frantically searching for an opening into the ship and to its prey. With a burst of delicate power it crawled across the stained glass window, each movement creating a kaleidoscopic dagger of light that stabbed into the darkness of the Captain's cabin.

She stood deathly still, watching as the tarantopus stalked her. The situation was, to be optimistic, grim. It had been five minutes now since Doris had noted the growing staleness of the oxygen in her helmet, but that issue had to take a backseat. There seemed to be a methodical process to the way the tentacled beast was now moving across the glass panes. “What are you up to,” she thought, watching as the tarantopus settled on the central pane. Slowly it extended its eight limbs, reaching them out until they formed an eight pronged star enveloping the window and creating an underwater eclipse within the cabin below.

The penny dropped. Doris broke out into the closest thing to a run given her burdensome diving suit, the underwater environment creating a natural slow motion effect.

The tarantopus paused, seemingly for ominous effect. Then it propelled itself violently away from the ship, its tentacles tearing away the entire rear section of the cabin. Back it came almost instantly, gliding with speed and power through the silty debris like a gelatin rocket. It poured into the exposed cabin behind Doris, unfolding its black and orange mass in a terrifying orgy of snaking tentacles.

Doris felt the tentacle wrap itself around her ankle. She pulled her knife and spun to face her frenzied aggressor. The beast bound itself to Doris, embracing her in an eight tentacled grip of death. Its razor sharp beak excitedly snapping in voracious anticipation. Doris was shocked by the crushing strength of its jelly limbs, its suckers hungrily trying to penetrate her suit*.  She retaliated, punching it in the face with her knife**.

The tarantopus hadn't expected that. It discharged a thick cloud of obsidian ink and released its grip, thrusting a tactical retreat across the cabin to assess its wounds. Doris, sensing an opportunity, turned to flee the confines of the cabin. Murphy's Law, whatever can go wrong will go wrong. The cabin floor gave way beneath her, its already questionable resilience fatally compromised by the dramatic entrance of the beast.

Doris sank through the newly gaping hole in the floor. Below her, through the cloud of wreckage and ink, emerged the ruins an extravagant four poster bed, the rusted metal frame the only feature still relatively intact. Where there had once been bedding of luxurious and exotic fabrics there was now a blanket of seaweed adorned with a vibrant constellation of anemones. Beneath the partial cover of the foliage lay a skeleton, the empty sockets of its skull fixated on Doris as she drifted down towards it.

“Hamish I presume,” murmured Doris, a cold chill dancing down her spine. As if in acknowledgment, the skull slowly turned itself away from Doris, fastening its stare on something else secreted away within the weeds. Doris followed its line of sight. The seaweed billowed in a hypnotic arch, momentarily revealing the object sharing the bed with the eternally slumbering Captain. Doris gasped.

“I should have known,” Doris exclaimed, “you bloody well slept with it!”

A tentacle reached over her shoulder and latched onto her armpit. With a powerful tug the tarantopus twisted her around to face it for one final struggle. It locked onto her just as she nestled into the skeletal arms of Captain McStaven. Using her left arm to shield her body from the sustained attack Doris reached out for the item in the leafy foliage. Her fingertips agonizingly brushed its shaft, serving only to knock it further away. Murphy's law was enacted for the second time. Freezing cold water poured into Doris's diving suit, courtesy of the Baron's devilish handiwork. The sudden change in pressure caused her head and lungs to throb with pain as the crushing weight of the ocean bore down on her tiring body. The tarantopus, encouraged by the signs that its prey was in trouble, coiled a pair of tentacles around the copper helmet and squeezed, plunging Doris into darkness.

Freezing wet, deprived of oxygen and increasingly crushed by the sudden change in interior pressure and the embrace of the tarantopus, Doris put every ounce of energy she had into one last anxious grab. She trusted in herself. She trusted in the legend.

In that second, the tarantopus, which had never really known true fear, emptied its bowels.


*It was fairly common for Doris to find herself in situations where ‘jelly limbs' and ‘hungry suckers' were trying to penetrate her attire, usually on a Friday night down at MacGrory's. Every single one was dispatched in the same way, with a broken jaw.

**No tarantopus specimen has ever been caught dead or alive so very little is known about the internal framework of these terrifying sea beasts, but you can rest assured that if they had jaw bones, this one's would have been smarting something fierce.

Almost done! And good thing too, my pulper is getting tired!


The dead water was as smooth as a glass mirror. The cold air was very still. It was eerie. No whales or fish could be seen in the cloudy depths around this rock. No birds rested on the jagged shore. It was as though every creature in the world had enough sense to avoid this place. Except us, of course.

I had dropped the plane's small anchor, which would keep it from drifting too much while we were gone, and I was paddling us towards the shore with one oar, Indian style, in the small, flat-bottomed aluminum boat normally stowed against the plane's belly, between the pontoon struts.

The wrecked ship was a motor yacht, a sixty-footer, I figured. It had run around on those sharp rocks, ripped to hell, and not just at the water line. Something other than the local jagged obsidian had damaged that ship. Parts of the gunwales and the deck had been gouged by something I couldn't even guess at. Axes or machetes hadn't made those wounds in the wood. It looked almost as though a shark had sank its teeth repeatedly into the sides and top of the boat.

I was grateful that before we'd left, I'd bothered to find my Iver Johnson .45. I wish I'd been able to find more than four bullets for it. I made a mental note to pick up a box of ammo for it the next time I was in Pap'ete. Assuming I made it out of here in one piece, of course.

This tiny islet was the most solitude that could be found in this world, if you asked me. More than a thousand miles away from my hammock at Toru Marama. If anything went wrong, nobody would ever find us.

How drunk did Corrigan have to be to make that trip out here last year, with nobody for company except a half-dead, trussed up witchdoctor stuffed behind the seats, where we usually kept the mail. I'd helped load the poor bastard into the plane. Ikale's shaman had painted the doomed man with all sorts of weird symbols. I'd never seen anything like them at the time. But now I was suddenly seeing them again.

The weird, broken columns jutting up from the volcanic glass had strange markings on them, just like those I'd seen on the witchdoctor. The symbols didn't look chiseled or gouged, but more like they'd always been a part of the rock since it cooled from the volcano that had spewed it out who knows how many centuries ago.

“What the hell's up with those columns?” I asked, working the oar with noticeably less enthusiasm now.

“Stele,” Lillian corrected, studying the approaching shoreline, green eyes squinting against the harsh, reflected rays of the sun. “Columns are architecture. Steles are monuments.”

“Whatever they are, what are they doing out here? I didn't think any of the islanders ever set up shop on this place. Bad juju or something.”

“This place is too remote and too small,” she replied. “People couldn't live here for any length of time. No grass. No crops. It was probably a religious site for them, or something along those lines, I'd imagine.”

“Ikale never said anything about it. He said PÃ,,“ Niho was cursed. Older than the waters. The place where misfortune was birthed. Stuff like that. He said he wouldn't come out here for any reason. Not even to save his own children, if it came to that.”

“Yet he sent his would-be assassin out here to be left for dead,” she countered.

“Worse curse he could put on the man,” I answered, remembering Chief Ikale's words to Corrigan and me as he convinced us to take the job. “Watching the moon rise over PÃ,,“ Niho is ‘a doom worse than any death.' That's what he said.”

“Then let's be gone before nightfall,” she said dryly.

“Good idea.”

The aluminum of the boat scraped against the submerged rocks. We had arrived. We stepped out onto the glossy black shore of PÃ,,“ Niho.

“What the hell was your dad looking for out here?” I asked, keeping my voice low. Dread was clawing at me. The wind was silent, saying nothing.

“While he was still a student, my father did some important work for Harold Copeland, the famous traveler and author.”

“Never heard of him,” I shrugged, picking my way cautiously across the uneven shoreline. I preferred The Shadow or Doc Savage when it came to light reading.

“He wrote Prehistory in the Pacific: A Preliminary Investigation with References to the Myth-Patterns of Southeast Asia,” she answered. From her tone, it was clear that she knew I wouldn't have read it. “He also wrote The Ponape Figurine. That was the one my father assisted him with.”

“Ponape?” I asked. It was a familiar name, part of the Caroline Islands, northwest of the Marivellas. “Like the island?”

“Yes,” she answered, watching worriedly as I levered myself up and over the side of the wreck, onto the angled deck.

There were spent shell casings on the deck, twinkling at the bottom of a shallow pool of fetid water that had collected along the tilted basin of the gunwale. There was blood on the deck too, splotches and streaks of it, sprays too, all of it dried in the sun. There were no corpses to be seen.

The revolver was a comforting presence in my back pocket; I only wished I'd had more bullets for it.

“Help me aboard,” she called, reaching up for me from the black rocks below.

“Probably safer if you stay down there,” I said, resting one boot on the edge of the boat, trying to look confident. “There's… uh, it's a mess up here.”

“Help me up,” she insisted.

I did, reluctantly. She stared at the gruesome mess and said nothing for a moment. Her eyes were worried. She paled a little. Her voice was shaky when she spoke again.

“We should check the wheelhouse and the berths below. There might be something left… Someone, I mean.”

“You're the boss,” I muttered.

I sat at my desk and felt sick.  I'd tried writing lyrics for our next song to take my mind off that damn failed mission, but it was two am and I hadn't been able to come up with anything.

My door beeped and I looked over my shoulder as Ken'ichi Sawada, navigator on the Nemesis came in. He didn't have to knock; the bridge crew have open access to every room on the ship, including the crew's.

I knew what he was there for.  Maybe that was why I hadn't bothered going to bed.

"The answer's no," I said before he could speak.

"You haven't heard the question."

"You want me to go back alone and rescue your sister.  Break into a labor camp, in fact, only this time I'll be doing it without backup, without a weapon and very possibly without any kind of escape route.  Ken, we only just got away." My protest wasn't just based on that; I did not want to end up in a labor camp myself and I knew damn well that was what would happen if I was caught.  "What's Cy going to say?"

"Don't worry about that; I spoke to him before coming."

I folded my arms.  "Uh huh.  And what did you say?  If you said Cy, I'm going to break into Neil's room at two in the morning to beg him to sneak out on some suicide mission then maybe we can keep talking.  If you just called him on the radio to say Goodnight, then this conversation is over."

Ken'ichi sighed.  "For god's sake, Neil, relax.  He knows all about it."

"Right.  Fine.  So you won't mind if I call him to confirm that."

I reached for my headset but Ken'ichi got there first, knocking my hand away.  "No!"

I sat back down again.  "So he doesn't know.  You want me to go behind his back, presumably steal a ship, take an unauthorized trip down to Mercury to break into a labor camp in the hopes of rescuing two crew members who might not even be there anymore!"

"Cy will never give permission for a raiding party to go into the labor camps themselves."

"No, because he doesn't have cat shit for brains.  In case you'd forgotten, I'm the lead singer for the Mavericks. My face is plastered on just about every wall that belongs to a female crew member." This wasn't quite true â€" my bandmate Jarvis and I were about neck and neck in the Poster-On-Wall stakes â€" but it was true enough to give Ken'ichi a little pause.  "There's no way Tomoko won't recognize me and if she gives the game away…" I shook my head.  "I'm sorry.  It's one thing to raid a road crew, but going right into the heart of their operation…I'd be lucky to even survive that."

"This isn't a raid, Neil.  It's more...you could think of it as active espionage."

"I think of it as complete insanity.  Ken, I'm sorry about Tomoko, I really am so sorry, believe me, but getting me killed and/or locked up won't help her.  You know that, don't you?"

"I'm not talking about you breaking in.  They…" Ken'ichi swallowed hard.  "They, sometimes...people go and pay…" he shook his head, lips so tight they'd all but disappeared.

I stared at him, shocked to the heart.  "You want me to pretend I'm some sick, perverted asshole who gets his kicks from raping twelve year old girls?  Even if I go in and even if they let me and even if they agree to bring Tomoko, what's going to happen when she turns up, sees me and reacts?"

"You could request she be unconscious."  When I didn't do anything except keep staring, Ken'ichi shrugged.  "Some people like that sort of thing."

"And you know that how?" I demanded.

He shrugged again.  "I talked to Vern before coming up to you."

"And Vern knows that how?"

"He's made something of a study of labor camps. I don't know why or where he gets even half his information from, but so far it's been accurate.  You know Cy and Aiko rely on him when it comes to planning raids.  He came up with a plan and I think it might work, but I need your help.  I can't go down there myself; if they do a DNA test on the gate and find out Tomoko and I are related, I'll never get near her.  Neil, she's my sister."

I was silent.  Isolated as we were on the Nemesis, forbidden from making planetfall anywhere, family bonds were the closest thing we had to sacred.  For many of us, a brother or a sister were all that remained of our family, and the rest of us didn't even have that.

"Tell me your plan, then," I said at last, very quietly.  "Goddamn you."

-

AN: I have a question: how soon after one instalment are we allowed to post the next? Only this is shaping up to be a little longer than I thought and I really want to finish it before the deadline :)

DEEP SEA DANGER
Episode 59 â€" The Eye of the Storm

Despite having the aesthetic appearance of an angry hemorrhoid protruding from the water's surface, the Iron Turtle was a fairly nimble submersible. This was especially true when it came to submerging, predominantly due to the preciseness with which it mimicked a lump of metal tossed into a pool of water. Which, in effect, it was.

Within minutes the Iron Turtle had descended to the site of the Scuttling Scotsman. Baron Vaisteland folded away the periscope and eagerly pressed his pointed nose up against the porthole, watching as his own crew of deep sea divers converged on the wreck.

“I found it!” he babbled with excitement, hopping in the air. “With this discovery, I will finally be able to take my rightful place as the greatest treasure hunter of them all! No longer will I be a mere foot-note in the annals of history to all those other overhyped charlatans. People will write about me, people will write about Baron Vaistlande! No more Ethan B. Rake! Bah! Fake! Laura Kraft? Boo! Phony! Ohio Smith. Sell out! Frau… wait, I actually quite like him!” The Baron giddily rambled to himself, playing all the roles with a childish gusto. The two henchman piloting the craft glanced at each other, a clear look of this-isn't-what-I-signed-up-for etched on their nervous faces.

“But of course,” the Baron spat out “last and by full means least, the shameful stain on our profession, that sultry diving vixen, ‘Deep Sea' Doris.” He shaped each word of her name with a mixture of contempt and lust. Allowing a pause, he wiped a mock tear from his eye.

“Sadly she's one rival I won't have to worry about anymo â€" what in the blazes is going on down there?!”

The Scuttling Scotsman lit up ahead of them. Flashes of ice-blue light throbbed from deep within the rotting timber, giving the effect of a lightning storm viewed through thick low lying cloud.

The thunder followed.

A massive pulse of energy resonated from the wreck, as though the ship had taken a deep breath then exhaled with incredible force. A visible ripple of silt surged outward from the vessel across the ocean floor. As it rumbled by the Baron's divers they were thrown from their footing, scattered listlessly like a set of underwater skittles.

The Iron Turtle lurched violently as the turbulent wave of energy punched through the water around it. The Baron was sent sprawling across the floor of the sub, his face a portrait of open-mouthed shock. His dignity dented he pulled himself back to his feet, eye-balling his pilots with a look that indicated if they told anyone about this they'd be jettisoned quicker than a meat pie at a vegetarian dinner party.

Then the ocean was calm again.

The eye of the storm.

The Scuttling Scotsman exploded in an inky black eruption of ancient timber. From the darkness soared the fearsome tarantopus, its tentacles billowing and thrusting as it propelled itself forward with primitive intent, an inky black jet-stream trailing in its wake. Straddled atop it was Doris. Her suit gone, she was now a vision of supple flesh, understated muscle and flowing raven hair. Her modesty covered by a scarcely-there shell and seaweed combination. Her expression was one of stone-faced purpose, her eyes two pools of ice blue light that pierced through the darkness of the depths. With her left hand she guided the flight of the tarantopus. Her right was held aloft over her head. Within it she bore the trident.

A modern day Neptune*. Goddess of the sea.


*Post-op of course.


JOIN US TOMORROW FOR THE FINAL EPISODE OF DEEP SEA DANGER!

Quote from: JudasFm on Wed 25/05/2016 07:14:00
AN: I have a question: how soon after one instalment are we allowed to post the next? Only this is shaping up to be a little longer than I thought and I really want to finish it before the deadline :)

I'm not the guy running this contest, of course, but I'd guess once every 24 hours would be acceptable? Maybe once every 12 hours if you're really trying to get paid by the word? :wink: I'm doing one installment every two days, but that's because I'm old and I need frequent naps. :=

I wouldn't advise anything more frequent than 24 hours - not because I think it's against the rules, because it's burnt me out, my creative juices are spent!! 8-0 If you have the stamina, go for it! You could do hourly mission reports - an update on the status of the rescue mission every hour starting at midnight tonight... running through to competition end!! AMAZING! I look forward to it ;)

Chapter 3: Master Simmons

“I swear to god I will find her murderer!”

I was sure he didn't think straight. Otherwise, he would know better than to basically tell everyone that he was in love with the girl. I was not even sure why he thought it was a good idea to return to the manor and talk to the master. But Doctor Whyte had returned and was now stomping up and down the dining room.

“I swear to god, sir, this monster will not stay free and alive for long!”

Master Simmons sat on one of the hard chairs. His back was straight but his head had sunken to his chest. His usually well-kept hair hung half over his swollen eyes. His rheumatism had flared up this morning and it was difficult for him to move. His legs were stiff and tired and his hands shook, unsteady. He had considered sending for the doctor this morning but ultimately decided against it.

The doctor had come anyway but he didn't care about the old widower's condition.

“Sir, I promise...” He began again, saying the same thing over and over again.

The old man finally lifted his head and stared at the other one. “What could you promise me? Why would you promise anything?” Even though his eyes showed obvious signs of his grief, they now stared cold and hard at the doctor, piercing his self-importance like a knife cutting through the flesh of a virgin.

“Sir, I now you are probably not aware and this is not the right moment...”

“I know!” He leaped up. Even the weak muscles of the old master were enough to throw the heavy chair back so that it tumbled down and crashed on the parquet. Unsteady on his old legs, he braced himself against the oak of the tabletop.

I rushed over to put the chair upright again.

“I know!” Master Simmons repeated, slightly out of breath. “Do you seriously think I hadn't noticed? Do you think I didn't notice the looks you threw at her? Do you think I don't know how you stared at her whenever she passed you in the hall? How you took longer every time you examined her? How you suggested more and more treatments she probably didn't need?”

“Sir, I...”

“Do not interrupt me! Don't you dare interrupt me!”

“I never...”

“Oh, I didn't notice it at the time, maybe. But then I came to think about it. You swear to avenge her? How could I know you didn't kill her?”

“Sir...” The doctor didn't finish his sentence. Instead he sank down on one of the chairs â€" interestingly enough the one Laura usually sat on â€" and buried his head in his hands.

Master Simmons advanced slowly on the doctor, one hand pressed against the tabletop, the other searching through one of the inner pockets of his jacket. I steadied him and he didn't even spare a look for me.

He pulled a letter from his pocket.

Damn

“Do you know what got me thinking about you?” He hesitated a moment but he didn't really expect an answer. “I found this.” He shook the letter open. “I found this letter in Laura's room. Do you know what this is?”

Doctor Whyte looked up and shook his head slightly.

“Of course not. It is not signed but I recognise the penmanship. I received a letter with the same handwriting just yesterday.”

“Sir, I swear I didn't write to you yesterday and I didn't write to Miss Laura, I...”

“Spare me your excuses. And don't bother fighting me. I've send for the inspector as soon as you were announced!”

No. No no no no no.

As if on cue, the butler announced the arrival of Inspector Lively and two gendarmes.

The inspector looked at the letter for just a moment when Master Simmons demanded it, then he said: “Doctor Warwick Whyte, I am terribly sorry, but this is rather damning evidence. You will have to accompany us.”

No. No no no. I didn't know. When I wrote this letter, I didn't know. No no no no no. What shall I do? No no no. I'm sorry, I didn't know. It was planned so well. I thought of everything. I didn't know. Why didn't she tell me sooner? I didn't know then that I would need his teeth. Why didn't she tell me sooner? I should have burned the second letter as soon as she did. I should have...

I felt the panic in my lungs. My breathes were too shallow. I had to go, to leave. They didn't pay me any heed. I slipped out of the room.

The blanket is thin. The ceiling of the room is slanted and hangs low. Blood drips from the tip of the knife. No, no, no, that can't be. It is dry. The blood is dry. It should be dry. My dress lays on the bed. There are cuts in it. Why are there cuts in it? Why are the buttons loose? Why is there blood on the corselet? It is dripping down. Down, down, always down. Drip. Drip. Drip. I watch it trickle down the blade. Down and down. My forearm hurts. And blood drips. It leaves points and splashes on the apron. I laugh. Why do I laugh? Why do I need the knife right now? The doctor is out of my reach. But Aphrodite wants him. But she is blind. She demands but doesn't see. I can't. No god ever sees. The powerful close their eyes. And the blood drips down and Aphrodite demands her dress and the buttons of my dress cannot be good enough. But she demanded. She demands. My blood. This is my blood. It hurts. It hurts it hurts it hurts. Her voice is so loud. It hurts. The knife, I need it still, I...

This is what Downton Abbey should have been! MURDEEEER! I love it! But does this mean we'e reached the end! :O Or will the Doctor be getting a cell visit from a stabbed up amateur dentist?!

Quote from: Haggis on Thu 26/05/2016 00:41:49
This is what Downton Abbey should have been! MURDEEEER! I love it! But does this mean we'e reached the end! :O Or will the Doctor be getting a cell visit from a stabbed up amateur dentist?!

No, it's not the (intended) end, but I don't know if I'll have time before the dedline to write more. Sooo, maybe. :-\

24 more hours, peeps.  I think all of our contributors have established the serial feel, so for the sake of closure I'll remove any posting limits (time/words) if you feel compelled to wrap things up.  If you need a short extension to make this happen, let me know in the next 24.  Otherwise, we will soon be voting!

Thanks, Baron. I needed a few extra words, to be honest. I was in the process of sharpening the editing scissors for tomorrow's posting. :cheesy:

Well then, let the process of blunting the editing scissors begin! ;-D

DEEP SEA DANGER
Episode 60 â€" Deep Sea Deity

The metallic pinging of mast rigging flapping in the breeze chimed the descent of the evening sun. It was still incredibly hot for this time of day. Certainly too hot to be working his brain muscle this hard thought Larry. Especially given he'd only regained consciousness thirty minutes ago.

“So, let me get this straight.”

Larry's brow was ruffled with confusion as he lounged on the deck of the Golden Bilge.

“You expect me to believe that, right now, I'm sat here sharing a beer with - ” He perched up on his elbow and leaned in towards Doris who was lying next to him, his voice dropped to a hush.

“A bona-fide Goddess?” His stubbled jaw hung open in disbelief while his eyebrows twisted into right angles above his ever squinting eyes.

Doris continued to stare at the sky.

“Yes,” she replied after a long pause.

Larry spread himself back out on the deck, his rolls of flesh melting outward like a stick of butter left out in the heat for just a little too long.

“Well.” He said thoughtfully. “Wait until I tell the boys down at MacGrory's* about this!”

Doris laughed. She didn't mind if Larry believed her or not. He was a salt of the earth and always worth having along for the ride.

“What I find hard to believe, D,” continued Larry, “is that you actually punched a tarantopus in the face! A tarantopus! I mean, come on, what do you take me for?!”

As if to answer his own question, he guzzled down the rest of his beer before cracking open another bottle with his teeth.

“You mean Curly?” replied Doris, fondly remembering her eight limbed underwater stallion. “It turned out he wasn't that tough. In all honesty, I think he was just a little bit lonely.”

And definitely on heat she thought to herself. It had certainly been an eye opener, watching Curly mount the Iron Turtle and subject it to what could only be described as a passionate act of love. She smiled as she recalled the look of absolute horror on the Baron's face as he witnessed the monster aggressively going to town on his ‘attractive' submersible.

“So where's that bastard Baron now then?” asked Larry, almost reading her mind.

“I decided he and Curly needed some alone time together” chuckled Doris, “if I'm in a good mood tomorrow I might go and collect him, spare him any further tentacled advances. Fancy a whiskey?”

The speed of Larry's drinking suggested he was recovering well. He chugged back his bottle, giving it one last shake over his outstretched tongue to avoid wastage.

“Does a sea sponge shit in the sea?”**

Doris descended below deck, into the cramped confines of the Golden Bilge's living quarters. Making sure Larry was preoccupied, which he almost always was, she unlocked the padlock on her wardrobe and stood admiring her latest treasure.*** Neptune's trident glowed as supernatural power coursed through its body, a power Doris was now connected to. She thought of Hamish McStaven. He had abused the trust of the gods, using the power of the trident for his own immoral desires. Ultimately he had paid for it with his life, for what the sea giveth, the sea can taketh away. Locking the trident safely away again, she grabbed a bottle and headed back to the deck.

“There's a chap here to see you,” advised Larry as she tossed him the bottle.

Doris jumped down onto the pier where a young man was waiting.

“Miss Doris, my boss sent me to collect you.”

Well it was about time, thought Doris.

“Larry, I hate to leave you at short notice but I've got an unmissable appointment,” she shouted in the direction of the Golden Bilge, already making her way along the pier to the waiting vehicle. “Don't wait up.”

Pierre and his ‘middleman' better be ready, this goddess still had needs!

Settling back onto the deck, Larry gazed out over the ocean. The sun was now half submerged behind the horizon. Was Doris really a goddess, he pondered? Swiftly he concluded that he must be sobering up. Grabbing his bottle, Larry contemplated the night's agenda. Like every night, this would be one to remember!****


*Most of the patrons of MacGrory's already worshipped Doris like a deity, but then those old fools were a sucker for a woman who could knock them out, and not with her looks.
**This was actually a heavily contested debate within the scientific community but, the way Larry saw it, anything that went in, had to somehow come out.
***The need for Doris to padlock her wardrobe originated from Larry's belief that skimpy lingerie benefited the curves of his body. “It just holds everything together,” he'd protested to Doris upon discovery, giving her an unwanted demonstration.
***Within two hours Larry would be unconscious again, having lost a heated argument with a coconut.

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

This serialization was taken from the novel ‘Angel of the Deep' â€" an approximately factual third person account of the real life adventures of deep sea diver Doris Von Girdleshaft.

Note from the author â€" “For those who have questioned the accuracy of the novel, let it be known that I consulted with leading medical, underwater and mythology experts across the country in this particular area of expertise in order to verify the facts behind the wonderful life of Doris. Following this unofficial research I can confirm that a massive 54% of those we actually asked were in general agreement that there was a remote chance that the validity of the tales retold in the novel could, give or take a few [major] editorial adjustments, be considered theoretically sound and almost plausible. That certainly puts those arguments to bed.”

Join us next week when we begin our serialization of the next chapter of this almost best-selling novel â€" Revenge of Baron Tarantopus: The Dangers of Deep Sea Splicing
[Excerpt: The Baron laughed maniacally, adjusting the monocle with his tentacle. Unintentionally he released a cloud of brown and yellow ink. “Urgh,” he sighed quietly, “I really need to see someone about that.”]

I'm out. Haven't got time to do another entry and the first was shite anyway. There's some good stuff here though. Well done folks.

Chapter 4: Aphrodite

I retraced the steps Laura had taken just two days ago. The sun didn't shine on my path. It didn't reflect in the basin of the fountain. Only the moon stood low in the sky. Silvery beams glittered on ripples in the water.

Here, Laura had caught the light and read her book. Here, I had watched her last happy moments in life.

I let my hands glide through the water. I caught the light and it vanished through my fingers. A shiver ran down my spine. It was cold at night. The light sun of spring wasn't hot enough yet to warm the park throughout the night. I only wore a thin nightgown and a thinner cape to keep me warm. One of my two dresses was destroyed. I couldn't risk the second one, not right now.

I followed the same gravel path Laura had taken besides the violas and underneath the roses.

Heroes and gods stared down at me with blind and cold eyes. They looked but did not see. They never opened their eyes for me. They never talked. I had to reach the middle of the maze. There, Aphrodite was waiting for me. Aphrodite had called me. She looked at me. She talked. She would help.

The air was chilling between the high walls of hedges. There were whispers in the darkness. The wind blew leaves through the pathways. It hadn't rained in the last few days but there was humidity in the air and little drops of water on the plants.

Aphrodite's base was damp as well. No-one had dared yet to return to the goddess and wash the blood from the statue and no rain had done it for them either. It was dry now, only glistering because dew at amassed on it. It saturated the naked feet of Aphrodite, a sacrifice for her beauty.

But the goddess did not care about the person that had died at her feet. Impassive, she looked up to the sky or into the hand mirror she held high over her head. Long locks fell down her arched back and buttocks. Her legs were crossed and the swan's neck entwined them both. The head, the beak strained high, lay in her lap and the left hand of the goddess stroked it gently.

She was pale, paler even in the moonlight. Unlike the other statues in the garden, her body was made from a slightly yellow marble. The veins in her flesh, blue and grey, were more pronounced than those of her brothers in the alley.

When I came closer, Aphrodite's stiff form became softer and her cold disposition warmer. Her arm moved slowly down from the sky and she deigned to lower her head to me. Her cold, empty eyes looked into my face. I trembled.

“Mistress...,” I whispered.

She didn't move further, not even when she spoke. Her mouth stayed closed in a thin, disapproving line. But her voice was loud in my head, louder still than when I heard her in my room, demanding the teeth of the doctor for her dress.

“Mistress, I'm sorry...”

She knew this, of course. She knew of my plan and I thought she approved of it. But now she demanded a new plan. She had chosen me to sew her dress. There was nothing else to do but obey.

“I can wait,” I suggested, “wait until they hang him, take the teeth from his corpse...”

She didn't approve. The scream was loud in my mind, splitting my head in a thousand pieces.

“No, no, Mistress, you waited too long already. I waited too long after the old widow, I know. But it was Laura and...”

Again the scream, louder still. It hurt, it hurt so much. Please stop, please...

“There're other ways, maybe. I just... I... I just need to get him out of prison, prove that he didn't do it...”

That seemed to appease the goddess and a small smile spread across her lips.

Stupot - You can't leave us dangling like this! There's a missing child out there! I thought your first entry was great, the intro was awesome and it finished on a nice cliffhanger.

Sinitrena - Yay! I can't wait to find out if Aphrodite will get her buttons?!

Whew! Time to let my poor pulper have a good rest. I haven't pulped like that since I was young and optimistic and hopeful and stuff! :cool:
Also, word count on this last installment? 1,087. Thanks for the extra wiggle room, Baron.


Doctor Lillian Price had been forced to cobble together an outfit from contents of her recovered luggage, the contents of which had been largely ripped to shreds. She was wearing sensible pants, but her fancy flat shoes were more suited to a day at the library. They provided no traction on slippery wood. The stairs leading down into the darkened interior of the ruined yacht were wet with seawater and old blood. She'd almost fallen headlong into the blackness as soon as she placed her foot on the first step. I'd told her to stay above deck while I checked out the interior with my gun and the flashlight I'd taken from the emergency locker of the floatplane bobbing forlornly out in the middle of the inky, murky waters of the sunken volcanic ring of PÃ,,“ Niho. I'd gotten no argument out of her as I descended into the foul-smelling gloom alone.

What I saw down there can't be related, not in any way that would convey the true horror of it. There were no bodies, but draped here and there, across the stove in the galley, over the furniture in the bunkroom, hanging from light fixtures in the hold, I'd seen the haphazardly spilled contents of the missing bodies: precious organs and other assorted pieces, scattered by unfathomable violence, thrown around carelessly, drying and curing in the open air, shown in the yellow beam of the flashlight.

“Did you find anything?” she asked as I staggered up from the lower deck and out into the sunlight and the cool air.

I coughed, pressed my knuckles against my mouth, and choked back vomit. I'd searched every room down there. The crew of this ship was gone. Mostly gone, I mean. Parts of them had been left behind. I clutched the grab rail. The world was spinning slowly around me and I blinked it back into focus.

“Nope,” I wheezed, spitting over the transom and into the sea, trying to get the taste of that stench out of my mouth. “Nobody here but us. They're dead. But… there's no bodies, Lillian. What in the hell happened here? Headhunters? I've never heard of anything like this before. Not even from those nuts over in Borneo. And those freaks are headhunters.”

She exhaled heavily, shuddering. She rubbed her temple, trying to focus. “Let's check the wheelhouse. Maybe there are maps. Or a logbook. Something.”

I bristled. “Let's just get to the damn plane and get back in the air.”

“We have to look, Tommy!” she implored. “We have to!”

I spat over the side again and led the way forward to the boxy structure that was the ship's compact bridge.

The door to the wheelhouse was thick, strong enough to stand up to typhoon winds. It was open, buckled and twisted, hanging from one bent hinge. I tried to imagine the force it would take to batter that door down. A bigger man than me could've thrown his full weight at that thing, running full tilt when he did so, and it wouldn't have budged an inch. There were claw marks here too, like I'd seen all over the rest of the ship.

I went inside first. I didn't want to, but what choice did I have?

This boat wasn't going anywhere; that was obvious. The controls were smashed. The instruments bludgeoned and shredded, smashed into scrap by the same hideous strength that had stove in the door. There was blood too, of course, two great sprays of it, one along the starboard wall, the other across the bridge window, dried and flaking, rusty red-brown. There were no bodies here either. Whatever had done this had carried them off. I suddenly felt very sorry for the witchdoctor I'd had a hand in marooning here a year ago.

Lillian squeezed around me, doing her best not to see the blood. She knelt down on the floor and began feeling around the planks, slender fingers sliding around in the foul slime.

“Bín'dii át'é,” I whispered, forgetting my English for a moment, urging her to leave the mess alone the language of my childhood. “Yówheh!”

She looked up, perplexed. “What did you say?”

“Let's go, Lillian. This place is bad.”

She returned to her search, dismissing me with a contemptuous glare. “I didn't come all this way to leave empty-handed.”

“Your father is dead,” I said firmly, on the verge of dragging her to the plane if I had to.

“Here!” she exclaimed suddenly. “It's here! I need something to pry with. Do you have a knife?”

I handed her my pocketknife. She unfolded the blade and began to pry at the edge of a plank. She worked the edge up, revealing a hidden compartment. Inside was an oilskin packet, tightly wrapped and waterproof. She opened it, pulled out a small, leather bound book and a neatly folded piece of thickish vellum. She wiped her hands on a rag and unfolded the page, revealing a charcoal rubbing. Most of it was old and slightly smudged, but one corner was new. I couldn't guess the meaning of the strange symbols that had been captured on that page, but I'd seen them on the shore outside.

She flipped through the diary, reading softly, translating the weird, crabbed cipher.

“‘The dry rain fell from the black stars, searingly cold and invisible,'” she mumbled, her green eyes scanning the paper vertically, decoding it column by column. “‘The flesh it touched rotted and blackened, soaked with a bloating foulness. The bearers screamed and died. The roof above was not proof against it; only the shadows cast by the strange candles wedged into the cracks of the glyphed pillars could protect us. We dared not move and stood safe in the darkness the flames made. Damp pools formed above the withering grass, glowing and rippling…'” She nodded. “A portion of Gruenwald's record. The right part of it. This is it. We need to go. Help me set fire to boat and then take me back to Toru Marama.”

It sounded like a damn good idea to me, but I had to ask the obvious. “Burn it? All of it?”

“Yes. Torch it. Sink it. We have to leave. Now.”

“What about your dad?”

“He was never my dad.”

Cold wind slammed into my back. I turned towards the transom.

The Iver Johnson had four bullets in the cylinder. I put every one of them into the inhuman face of the slimy, scaly thing climbing over the rear of the boat, reaching for me with long, glistening, webbed fingers.

Chapter 5: Ethel Bridges

“Please, please do come in, Miss...?” the jovial inspector said and offered me a chair in his office.

“Bridges,” I said haltingly, “E... Ethel Bridges.”

“Miss Bridges. What can I do for you?”

The small office of the police station was clustered with all kinds of random knick-knack. On the table stood a single ink pot and the penknife as well as at least seven feathers lay scattered all over the tabletop. Underneath were files and single pieces of paper that seemed to have at least some spots of ink on them. Behind the desk stood a bookshelf that contained more files, interspersed by small wooden figurines of animals, mostly dogs and cats. On the wall hung a painting of a beautiful young woman next to an old dagger and pair of duel pistols. The case they belonged in lay on the shelf.

Delicately, I sat down on the hard chair in front of his desk. “I...,” I began and then stopped myself, looking at the older man shyly.

“Everything is all right, Miss Bridges. I know it can be difficult to talk to the police, especially when it is about the murder of someone important to oneself, but I assure you, you can talk freely.”

“Tha... thank you, inspector, sir. It's just, you see, I'm really not sure how to say this.”

“Everything you know can be useful and you can't do wrong by telling the truth.”

“Yes, yes, of course, sir.” I rubbed my trembling hands over the apron of my dress. “You see, I... It's just that I don't think the good doctor had anything to do with... with...”

“You don't have to say the word, I understand. Just tell me why you believe Doctor Whyte is innocent.”

“You see, sir, it's just... Doctor Whyte, he... Well, he was always so nice to the misses, and to us servants as well, and, well...”

“My dear, I'm sure you understand that this doesn't necessarily mean anything...”

“Yes. Yes, sir, of course, but... Well, you see, there is more. I... I didn't think it was important but... You see, who would think that... that a woman would do something like that to an innocent girl?”

“A woman?”

“Well yes, inspector, sir, you see, that morning, that morning when poor Miss Laura... I don't know who it was, but it was definitely a woman, you see...”

“You saw someone that morning, didn't you? Someone who went into the garden and wasn't supposed to be there?”

“Well, yes... No... I... I don't know! I saw someone. And it was a woman. And she was in the garden. Not Miss Laura, I would have recognized her, I know all of her dresses, of course. But this woman, I don't think she was supposed to be there. I thought she was friends with one of the stable-boys... You see, they smuggle girls into the grounds now and then and they stay for the night. The master doesn't like that, of course. And well, I saw her. It was a bit late for one of these girls to leave, with everyone up already and all. But Miss Laura had left the house just a short time before and this other woman went in the direction of the maze and Miss Laura was found there and... and... I just don't know. I don't want to raise trouble for one of the boys, but I don't think the doctor did it, or at least this woman might have seen him. I don't know, sir, I just don't know...”

“I understand, Miss Bridges, I completely understand. And please, don't worry that you did something wrong. You didn't. I'm really glad that you came to me. And please don't worry about Doctor Whyte, even before you came here, we had some clues that he might be innocent.”

“Re..really?”

“Yes, Miss Bridges. And it even fits with what you just told me. You see, we looked at the letters Mister Simmons and Miss Laura received and compared them with notes the doctor had In his study. The handwriting looks completely different. It actually seems like the letters were written by a woman.”

I wait for him at the corner of his street. It is late. The sun hasn't sat completely behind the horizon. Red light bathes the street in shadows and blood. Soon his blood will bathe the pavement too. The street is empty. It is away from the buzzing of the city centre with carriages and pedestrians. Here are no theatres, no gentlemen's clubs, no gentlewomen and exhausted servants. It is a nice, quiet part of town where the middle-class resides. Half an hour ago a lamplighter walked through the street with his ladder and matches but since then I saw no-one else.

Doctor Whyte arrives with a cab. He pays the driver and waits for the carriage to round the corner before he turns to the door of his house and practice. He doesn't notice me. He sighs. He looks tired and drained.

The knife in my hand feels heavy. It wasn't that heavy when I plunged it into Laura's body, or the cobbler's sister or the old widow. I want to scream. I can't. I'm not allowed to. I step forward, as silently as I can. I raise my hand, the same way Aphrodite holds the mirror over her head.

A pebble under my feet crunches. The doctor turns around. He sees me. He sees the knife.

“What...?”

I strike.

He catches my hand. I struggle. We fight. I scream.

The knife sinks into my breasts and I slide to the ground. Blood stains the corselet red. I have seen this before. My dress, red and cut. I lay in the arms of Doctor Whyte. He sees the blood on my dress, the knife in his hands, the blood on his hands. My breath is unsteady. The doctor puts me on the ground. Blood bathes the pavement. The last ray of sunshine blinds me. The doctor throws the knife to the ground. Quick hands tear apart my dress. Buttons fly away. I have seen this before. My buttons aren't good enough. I want to tell him that they aren't the right ones, that Aphrodite demands different ones. I am silent. I am mute. No words leave my mouth. Doctor Whyte shushes me. One hand presses a piece of cloth against my breast, the other slides my cap from my hair and then stays on my forehead.

“Shush, now, shush.”

There are others. They are blurry. They look, but they don't see. They never see. They never open their eyes for me. Aphrodite is there. She watches too, impassive as ever, cold and pale. Her touch is cold, so cold. Her voice is silent now.

“Hush, now, hush.” Someone else will bring me my buttons, someone else will open their eyes.

She doesn't make sense, not any more. It hurts.

It hurts no more. It is so cold, all so cold. Her face is dark, the corona behind her head is... is red... red like blood... like... like...

Quote from: Stupot+ on Thu 26/05/2016 14:52:40
I'm out. Haven't got time to do another entry and the first was shite anyway. There's some good stuff here though. Well done folks.

Don't do it, Stu! Hammer out some quick, pulpy dreck. It will still fit the theme! (nod)

Epilogue (A proper one, not like the prologue... :-[)

“Why did you kill her?”

The question echoes in his mind over and over again.

“I didn't mean to. She attacked me.”

The answer is always the same, in his dreams and waking moments.

“She thought I killed Miss Laura, maybe...”

“Miss Bridges herself came to the police to exonerate you.”

“I don't know, I just don't know... She did attack me, I don't know why but she did!”

They don't believe him.

He will be hanged three weeks later.


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

That was fun - and exhausting.
Now, time to read the other entries.

I KNEW IT! Fantastic work Sinitrena.

QuoteThat was fun - and exhausting.
Now, time to read the other entries.

:-D

@Ponch - Haha. Sorry mate. It's not going to happen this time.

Quote from: Stupot+ on Fri 27/05/2016 00:27:31
@Ponch - Haha. Sorry mate. It's not going to happen this time.

+Stu - I'm crushed! Crushed, I say! :cry: :wink:

Well, I guess that's that then.  I've got one word to sum up my impression of our contributors for this theme: prodigious(nod).  It's good to see that there's still plenty of writing tinder out there if the right spark falls on it. ;)

Now to voting.  You can vote up to twice per category if you just can't decide between your two favourites.  Categories are as follows:

Closure: Should Stupot be compelled to at least write a synopsis of what might have happened? (yes/no)
Best Character: the most believable/captivating/magnetic/unique character
Setting: the most vivid background world, or most gripping atmosphere
Plot: the best organized, coherent and well-executed story with appropriate pacing, climax, etc.
Word Choice: the technical art of combining words in a memorable way
Overall "couldn't-wait-for-the-next-episode" bonus point: an extra point for that intangible page-turner quality. :)

Voting will run for about 96 hours from this post, or until roughly Monday evening EDT when I will have time to add up all the votes.  Good luck to all participants!

This competition  was an absolute blast, well done Baron.

It was exhausting though - I didn't publish any episodes at the weekend because, while I thought the effect of the weekend interrupting a weekday serial publication would be good, the honest answer is I needed the weekend to make a headstart on the rest of the episodes!

QuoteYou can vote up to twice per category if you just can't decide between your two favourites.

I will utilise this happily because it really was very hard to pick winners!

Closure:- YES - I'm selfish and want to know what happened. NO - I respect Stu as an author, he must not be coerced into finishing something he was not happy with... (yes he should). Same applies to JudasFM!
Best Character:- Sinitrena & Ponch - There were lots of well written characters across the stories, but for me Sinitrena's murderer and the way in which we experienced her outer and inner personalities was nicely done. Tahoma Tommy was also very well written, but for me there was one scene stealer in Ponch's piece... Pierre 'the middleman' Lecocq. As the kids would say, he had me lol-ing.
Setting:- Ponch - Ponch created a diverse and expansive world which combined real world detail and geography (the phantom reefs were a nice touch) with fantastic invention. Over the course of the story it progressively darkened in atmosphere and character for the finale.
Plot:- Ponch & Sinitrena -  Ponch and his, what I call, 'kahki noir' was a real homage to pulp fiction. It started slow, hinting at something dark but restrained itself, before ramping up the tension to the point where even I felt uncomfortable about our heroes landing at PÃ,,“ Niho, the final two episodes superb, then that ending! I was hooked on Sinitrena's piece from the prologue, it was so strong it just sucked me into it from the off. Loved the inner thoughts of killer at the end of each part, holding it together on the outside while unravelling on the inside, and the 'twist' ending in the epilogue.
Word Choice:- Ponch - Again this was extremely close, and I almost tied it, but what swung it for me was how much Ponch was able to convey within the confines of the word limit. What on paper were short exchanges of dialogue revealed detail after detail about characters, plot, location, atmosphere etc purely through word choice. The first person account of the whole thing was also very believable. Like my cooking, extremely well done.
Overall "couldn't-wait-for-the-next-episode" bonus point:- Stupot... i'm still waiting! (Sinitrena & Ponch)

Closure: YES
Best Character: Haggis for Tarantopus AND Ponch for Pierre
Setting: Ponch
Plot: Sinitrena
Word Choice: Ponch
Overall: Sinitrena AND Ponch

I'm happy with the story but not with the fact that I wasn't able to finish it in time and I apologize to everyone. I'm not sure I have time to write the next 4 episodes, but I'll happily provide a summary for anyone who's interested :)

Closure: YES
Best Character: Sinitrena
Setting: Ponch
Plot: Sinitrena
Word Choice: Sinitrena
Overall: Sinitrena

Closure: YES, but more regarding JudasFM than Stupot. I'd really like to read more, preferably as the actual story and not a summary, but I take what I can get. :-*

Best Character: Haggis - Baron Vaistlande (who was also spelled Vaisteland at least once - misspelling character names is a bit of a pet peeve of mine, so I tend to notice it) is just such a lovely / loveable moustache-twirling, designated villain that I have to vote for him. He's a stereotype, certainly, but a well-used one. Unfortunately, in this case, the other characters are less of a stereotype and stay a bit bland and nondescript, despite recieving characterisation and backstory. I think the problem is the format of the story, here. Due to the fact that you choose to start at the end of the story, episode 54 of 60, we never get properly introduced to them. -- I also like Ponch's main character and Pierre as well as JudasFm's failed heroes but Haggis's characters are just this tiny bit more interessting for me this time.

Setting: JudasFM - This one was surprisingly difficult. As a matter of fact, I immediatly liked Judas's setting, but I did remember her other story and the world both theses stories are set in, so I had to sort in my head if it was actually something in this story that I liked or the things I remembered. We certainly don't get a lot here. Descriptions are scarce, the story is cut short (not to mention, therefore, shorter than the other entries) but we recieve hints of a larger world inhabited by diverse characters with different motivations, problems, and lifestyles. So, there are hints that there is more, even though we don't get to see it (yet).

Plot: Ponch

Word Choice: Haggis - It's an unusual style. There may not be impressive metaphors or particularly vivid descriptions, but I think a style that sometimes reads like a summary (and not just in the footnotes) - "His mind drifted into a flashback…" - as well as the footnotes lead to an interessting, albeit unusual reading experience.

Overall: Ponch - Ponch's story offers the most reasons to keep on reading, even though the cliffhangers got on my nerves after a while, not because the cliffhangers themselves were bad, but because the resolutions in the next part were so disapointing (certainly a flaw many a serialised story that depends on cliffhangers has). Especially grating was, of course, the ending of part 4/beginning of part 5: in one part a man is decapitated for the shock value, in the next the characters have basically forgotten about it - there is no resolution at all, and even if the story would go on for twenty more chapters, I think it would be unlikely that this would ever come up again. Still, this story make me want more after each part.

Hi all :D

When is the next competition going to start? I actually am a published writer, and i mostly write short stories... So i am interested! :D

Quote from: Sinitrena on Sun 29/05/2016 19:50:13
Closure: YES, but more regarding JudasFM than Stupot. I'd really like to read more, preferably as the actual story and not a summary, but I take what I can get. :-*

Setting: JudasFM - This one was surprisingly difficult. As a matter of fact, I immediatly liked Judas's setting, but I did remember her other story and the world both theses stories are set in, so I had to sort in my head if it was actually something in this story that I liked or the things I remembered. We certainly don't get a lot here. Descriptions are scarce, the story is cut short (not to mention, therefore, shorter than the other entries) but we recieve hints of a larger world inhabited by diverse characters with different motivations, problems, and lifestyles. So, there are hints that there is more, even though we don't get to see it (yet).

Yeah, I shouldn't have entered with so little time left :( My mistake. If you (or indeed anyone) wants to read the rest as a story, I'd be happy to do it but probably via PM as I don't know how long I'd have before this thread becomes locked, and it's probably not a good idea for me to start a separate thread just for my own stories ;)

Quote from: JudasFm on Mon 30/05/2016 01:33:17
If you (or indeed anyone) wants to read the rest as a story, I'd be happy to do it but probably via PM as I don't know how long I'd have before this thread becomes locked,

That sounds great to me, but don't feel obliged to anything, write for fun and in your own time. (nod)

Quote from: KyriakosCH on Sun 29/05/2016 20:49:54
Hi all :D

When is the next competition going to start? I actually am a published writer, and i mostly write short stories... So i am interested! :D

Voting is open until Monday, then Baron has to count the votes and post the results - that's usually done on the day voting ends or the next. After that, the winner starts the new round. Here in the writing competition most people are fairly quick to do so, which means the next competition is likely to start Tuesday or Wednesday.

Until then, why don't you read the stories of this round and vote? We can always do with more voters. ;-D

Quote from: Sinitrena on Sun 29/05/2016 19:50:13
Ponch's story offers the most reasons to keep on reading, even though the cliffhangers got on my nerves after a while

But I love cliffhangers! They're so serial-y! In fact, I love cliffhangers so much that I...

... Am now ready to vote (kind of a let down, I know, but I gotta keep the reader invested!) :=

Closure: Yep
Best Character: Haggis
Setting: Haggis (Love the pulp setting)
Plot: Sinitrena (Creepy stuff)
Word Choice: Haggis (again, very pulpy)
Overall: Haggis

Well, the results are in!  I was so impressed with all the thoughtful votes that everyone cast.  Hopefully Ponch won't win and revert voting to some archaic format with no feedback for the writers.... ;)

In third place, with seven votes, is Haggis.  I think this was actually my favourite piece, although only by a whisker.  I loved the word choice and over-the-top characters.  Please join us more often so I can read more of your work!

In second place, with ten votes, is Sinitrena.  Like many of the other comments, I'd like to mention how I was drawn in by the inner thoughts of Ethel as she struggled to satisfy the will of an uncaring goddess.  As always I look forward to reading more next time.

And finally, in first place, with twelve votes (if you count the hanging chads), it's Ponch!  Yours was truly a gripping tale, with excellent word-choice and good atmosphere.  It definitely was the piece that best suited the topic, so bravo to you sir.

Alas I am caught between family obligations at the moment and haven't had time to manufacture some much deserved trophies, but fear not!  They will be forthcoming over the next couple of days.  In the meantime, I turn over the duties of contest administrant to the capable hands of one Ernest J. Ponchworth, and sincerely look forward to the next topic. 

Hope to see everyone out again next time (bring a friend!), for the next exciting instalment of....



The Fortnightly Writing Competition!

Congrats Ponch! Lecocq for the win!! (http://pix.iemoji.com/appl33/0265.png)

Also, I'd love to claim that I intentionally pulpified my writing style for the task...

That was an Innovative competition premise followed up with really good entries.

congrats to Ponch!

Congratulations, Ponch :)

Thanks, everybody! :cheesy:

I'm just getting home from work and I'll be getting on an airplane tomorrow morning, so everyone gets a four day break before I post the next theme on Monday. Enjoy this brief rest for your writing hand, and I'll see you all again in a few days. :smiley:

Where could you possibly be going where it would take four days to get to by plane?  Unless it was a very small plane, and the destination was extraordinarily remote....  OMG!  Are you going to PÃ,,“ Niho?!? :shocked:

Don't do it P!  For the love of pulp, don't do it!  Your massive semi-automatic Texan fire-power and even more massive Texan sense of macho bravado is no match for the slimy scaly thing that haunts those cursed shores! (wrong)

Ha! Actually, I'm flying out for my niece's wedding, then sort of an impromptu family reunion. It's gonna be a busy four days, and I'm taking the red eye out to boot. In fact, I have to get up in five hours, so I'm off to bed! :tongue:

Why would anyone get married on PÃ,,“ Niho??!?  Your niece doesn't have slimy scales I hope.... ;)

Congrats to the winners! :D Well deserved! And before this thread gets locked, I'd like to add that I'm offering closure on my entry but only in episodic format via PM, so if anyone wants to know how it panned out, PM me :) (Sorry if that seems like too much of a plug; I just know one or two people were interested and I wanted to post this before the thread got locked :))

So, where is the new thread? :D (likely not yet made, i just feel like participating for the first time :) )

Edit, nm, just saw that it will be posted on Monday ;)

It's created by the winner - in this case Ponch. Sadly he is away for a few days fighting off - or not - bridesmaids rather than scaly beasts (hopefully not one in the same!). He said he'll probably create the new one on Monday.

Huh.  I never considered that the taloned slimy scaly beast could have been a jilted bridesmaid....  Of course it's equally plausible that the bloodthirsty creature is the mother of the groom.  If only Ponch would offer us some closure on the true identity of the monster when/if he gets back from the island. :undecided:

Making trophies is still on my to-do list, so hopefully the thread won't be locked before I can publish them.   

Don't worry - it's the haggis trophy jinx.

The only other competition I entered I got joint 3rd (a consistent bronze finish - like David Dickinson) but when the results came out I wasn't listed. So I missed out* :(

*Of course my memory could be failing and I might have done worse than I remember, but it adds weight to the Haggis jinx.

And I'm back. The bridesmaids have all been vanquished. I landed late and today I need to get back up to speed at work. I'll try to get the new theme posted tonight. :smiley:

Cool :D

Sorry I'm late with these again: I've really got to start finessing the end of the fortnight to coincide with when I have more spare time. :P

Now, on to TROPHIES!!1!!

(http://www.vanwijst.com/games/Published/typewriter_bronze.png) With third place Haggis wins himself a bronze typewriter of pulpiness.  Each key stroke sounds like a gong and vibrates like a jackhammer! ;-D 

(http://www.vanwijst.com/games/Published/typewriter_silver.png)With second place Sinitrena wins herself a serial silver trophy.  This model not only writes great werewolf stories, but could also be used to slay them if you or a brawny sidekick possess the upper body strength to wield it as a weapon. ;-D

(http://www.vanwijst.com/games/Published/typewriter_gold.png)And finally, with first place, despite the on-going recounts and court battles, Ponch wins the golden typewriter.  You gotta hack out your next story gently on this model, since the soft keys will deform if you bang away on it like you normally do, as if you are possessed by a bewigged half-insane 18th century composer. ;-D  Think pacifist rainbow yogic thoughts while you type, P, and everything will be groooooovy. ;)

Congratulations to all entrants once again.