"Fortnightly" Writing Competition (August 3rd - August 25th) - WINNER ANNOUNCED

[olafmoriarty]

EDIT August 27th: All the votes are in, and the winner is Jack Sheehan. Congratulations!

You're free to start a new fortnightly (this one will hopefully be without forum downtimes), and I'll squeeze your name into a script as soon as I can.

Thanks to all participants!

____________________

It's the sixth round of the Fortnightly Writing Competition! Hurrah!

This fortnight's theme: The Key
The word "key" has many meanings, and keys are also well-used inventory items in adventure games, so why not devote a writing contest to them?

Rules:
- Write a text about the abovementioned theme.
- Post your story or link to it in this thread.
- All contributions must be in by August 17th, 23:59:59 PM.
- Voting will take place the following two days.
- No word limits. Two words, two million words, you decide.
- No style or genre limits. Fiction, non-fiction, haiku, Shakespearean playscripts or none of the above, you decide.

Prizes:
Worldwide fame.
Okay, not really "fame", but hear me out. I'm not terribly good at drawing pixel trophys, so I have another idea.

I am a professional writer, and for a while now I have been writing comic book scripts for the Danish publishing house that makes most of the world's Donald Duck comics. You may think that Disney comics are childish and lame, and you're entitled to think that, but in Europe, they're huge. In Norway alone, the Donald Duck weekly comic book is read by almost 20 % of the population every week (and I hear it's even bigger in Finland), and Disney comics are published in tons of countries -- so far, I've seen my stories published in 14 countries from China to Brazil.

And I'm sorry if this feels as if I'm bragging, but I'm just mentioning it to add weight to the next paragraph:

If you win this competition, I will put your name in an original Donald Duck script. I will give a background character your name, have someone call him or her by that name, and if you want to I can also try making him or her look like you in my sketches to the artist based on a picture.

If you're very fond of your anonymity, we'll think of something else.

The name will most likely be changed in most translations, but with a little luck it won't change too much, and if it's printed in the United States, they normally don't change names from the original script. And when the story is first printed (hopefully already next year), I will buy a copy of the Norwegian edition and mail it to you. How's that for a prize?

... oh, and you also get to host the next competition, of course.

[Tuomas]

Sounds like a neat price, as a Finn, whose brother gets the DD every week. I'll enter surely, nothing else to do anymore

[Jack Sheehan]

THANK YOU. Finally a simple one. Expect an entry soon...

Edit: Here we go. Right, it's about 700 words and is extraordinarily nihilistic, as well as being a wee bit gory. You've been warned.

The Key

   A Living room. The wallpaper has separated from the wall underneath and is sloughing off like a snake shedding its skin. The floor is covered in used plates and take-away pizza boxes. Little light reaches past the grimy window to illuminate the tiny, dank room.

   On a couch in front of an expensive, enormous TV, sit three blank faced men. Pieces of stray food cling to their clothes. The only sign of life is when they deign to blink briefly before returning to their silent vigil.

   On the television the picture is crystal clear. A fresh faced young man talks into the camera in a reassuring faux-American accent.

   â€˜Hello and welcome to…’ At this, he turns to his left side and the camera swings around with him. The audience are on their feet, chanting and waving. As one, they say ‘FIND. THE. KEY.’

   A brief look of disgust flutters on our presenters face but is quickly replaced by his trademark grin.

   â€˜And let’s see who we have on the show tonight!’ A massive screen lowers itself behind him and we see a still image of a frowning young man.

‘James Regwin has been in and out of institutions all his life. From the age of thirteen he was described by a judge as being an “irredeemable criminal”. For a recent conviction of armed robbery he was sentenced to death. Thanks to our joint venture with the fine people at the Ministry for Mercy we have give him one last shot at freedom.’

   Again he turns and says ‘What have we given him?’

   â€˜ONE. LAST. SHOT.’ The crowd seem ever more zealous. A woman in the front row is visibly in tears.

   â€˜Without further ado…’ The screen shows a narrow alley in the centre of a city. A nondescript white van opens its rear doors and dumps a man out. He lands heavily on his side, clearly stunned.

   He scrambles up and grabs a nearby pole for support, his eyes darting about. He breaths heavily and then starts walking quickly out of the street.

   The alley opens out onto a wide broadway, red bricked and blazing with sunshine. A few people are milling about, clearly not here for the shopping. One man stares at James and immediately races after him. Seeing the man, James sprints in the opposite direction. A close camera captures the tears and terror in his eyes.

   More people join the chase; a woman dressed in black appears out of a shop doorway and lands heavily on James’ shoulder.

   She falls but he manages to struggle on. Some of the pursuers are carrying weapons now.

   In the studio, the presenter seems bored with proceedings ‘It seems our competitor has reached the first milestone.’ Loud boos emanate from the crowd. On screen James mounts a motorbike and speeds off. Almost immediately he is followed by a four by four, screeching out of a garage.

   The camera switches to overhead CCTV shots of the bike racing down the main streets of the city. James looks nervously back over his shoulder and loses control of the motorbike. The front wheel turns and the bike flips end over end, catapulting him into the pavement.

   His leg is twisted almost out of its socket and one of his arms is clearly broken. Blood streams from a long cut in his forehead and he spits feebly in an attempt to clear his throat of fluid.

   It’s not long before the cars pull up. Hungry eyed contestants swarm around his broken body, brandishing their knives. James opens one eye and manages to croak out a weak syllable.

   â€˜Please.’

   He finds no mercy in their eyes, nor in the studio with the rabid fans and the bored presenter, or even the passers by or the dead eyed watchers at home.

   As they carve his chest apart, not even stopping to end his suffering, he slumps back against the wall. One lucky contestant brandishes the shiny piece of metal, the joy of greed lighting his world. He holds the key, but not to what he thinks.

        He possesses only the privilege of being the next contestant.

[DanielH]

Watch this space- there will be an entry

EDIT: No, there won't. Just lost my work in a computer crash, as well as half of my english coursework and some work on my game. Damn. :'(

[Stupot]

Hey Olaf.
I'm not a massive Disney fan, myself, but that is still a cool prize... I'll try to enter this one (I've been saying that for weeks, though).

I'll reserve this spot, anyway.

[olafmoriarty]

Hmm... I didn't think it through earlier, but is it a problem for anyone that the end date is in the middle of this Mittens thing? I just added a fortnight to the start date when I started the competition, but if that means I will the only person online to vote, maybe one should think it through a little further...

Cool to see so many people participating, though.

[Jack Sheehan]

Theres my entry, I'm not sure if it's really in the spirit of the competition but anyways.

[PixelPerfect]

That's an awesome prize olafmoriarty!  :o
I'm definitely entering this!

-will be modified with an entry-

EDIT:
Yeah I totally forgot this comp until 17th when the lights were out. Didn't remember the keyword/subject so no work done and just found out site was back online.

Let's see if I can make it... 

EDIT2:
Yeah this seems to be going nowhere on my part. I can't post this drivel and I can't get it work before going to sleep (which is now). Let it be a lesson for you kids. Don't leave it until the last minute.

Massive kudos to olafmoriarty for arranging such a nice prize for the winner!

[olafmoriarty]

Just a quick reminder that the contest ends in two days and a little less than ten hours.

DanielH: How awful! Losing lots of work is always terrible (especially since you lost many things far more important than this little contest). You have my sympathy.

[olafmoriarty]

Okay, since the forums went down 24 hours or so before the deadline and we only have one entry (and a couple of people saying that they intended to entry), I suggest pushing the deadline a bit so that everybody who wanted to participate but couldn't due to downtime still have the chance.

How about Sunday August 24th, GMT Midnight?

Or we could end it here and now, but in that case I see no point in voting since there's only one entry...

(Apologies for double-posting, but it seemed appropriate in this scenario.)

[Aljoho]

Im working on mine as we speak definately expect another entry in a later edit

Here it is its a bit of a novel at almost 2500 words. I always get carried away when i write . Hope you like it

          1776. Somewhere in the mid Atlantic. The large wooden boat struggled fruitlessly on the stormy ocean, and like a snuffer about to extinguish a flame the enormous waves and turbulent seas seemed to be playing with its quarry, a child tossing his food around its plate. Aboard the ship a few figures tried desperately to gain control of their ship.
          From the crows nest came a voice that was lost to the wind, and just before the ship was torn asunder, the screaming male who had spoke felt a brief moment of relief as the words “Land Ahoy!” left his parched lips.

          Then he was tossed mercilessly into the air. Falling, falling, falling. Icy water enveloped him, and then he  knew only crashing waves, white flecked foam which tossed him about, then gasping futilely for air, finding only the tang of salt, and totally at the mercy of the sea. Finally: hopeless and despairing, freezing and thirsty he knew only blackness.

           Spluttering, he could only lay there a moment as the water washed over his still form. Finally, with enormous effort he slid his eyes open a crack. The blazing heat beat down on him caused them to shut reflexively, but after a while he became accustomed to the light and painfully sat up.

          Staring around him, he saw a once pristine sandy beach stretching out on either side of him, littered with cracked wood. The sand seemed to reflect every ounce of heat straight onto him and standing up, the effort threatening to knock him unconscious, he stumbled and staggered into the shade of some nearby trees.

            He dimly remembered voraciously splashing some muddy water from a spring down his throat. His thirst momentarily quenched he began to feel coherent again. Wandering purposefully out onto the beach, he walked up it. After a short while he stumbled across a body that bore a familiar face. His friend Tom lay unconscious on the sand. Tom was a tall, lanky sailor. His thin face looked to be upside down with a totally bald head, but a crop of thick black hair sprouting from his chin. Pumping furiously on his chest Frank was just beginning to lose hope when with a wheezing cough; Tom sat bolt upright spewing salt water from his mouth.

          Helping his friend to his feet the pair set about finding drinkable water. Whilst Tom’s looked to quench his thirst, Frank set about searching for more survivors, but to no avail. Several drenched corpses littered the beach farther down the coastline. They set about burying their shipmates, saying prayers for their souls and before dark settled in, they began to make camp. Scavenging some dead wood, they lit a fire, and with some thin branches they made a shelter, covering it with palm leaves to keep out rain and bugs.
The next few days were a desperate struggle for survival. The small island bore little edible food and the few coconuts they found barely served to counterbalance the energy they exerted to build their camps.

           During one of the days that followed, whilst on the way back from an all too familiar, and relatively unfruitful food expedition, strolling casually along, Tom let out a cry and the bundle of coconuts in his hands slew everywhere as he seemed to hand in mid air for a split second, then vanished. Looking down Frank saw what appeared to be a well. Desperately he found a sturdy looking vine and, tying it to a sturdy stump, Frank threw it down the cavernous hole, calling to his friend to climb up it. There was no answer and, fearing the worst for his friend,  Frank clambered down the vine after him.

          He was about halfway down the vine, when the darkness all about him suddenly became an intense blue spiral. He quickly lost all sense of direction as the world seemed to spin sickeningly end over end, the sapphire world changing to shades of emerald, before all went inevitably dark. Trying not to spew up the valuable food milk all over the place, Frank braced himself for a long ride as, again, the world began to spin. As suddenly as it had started it stopped he felt the impact of a hard floor as his feet thwacked into it with a resounding ring.

          Surveying the bizarre metal world around him, he fought vertigo and lost. Tumbling to the floor, the wind was knocked out of him. Clambering uncertainly to his feet, he inspected the room closely. In one corner of the room stood an enormous and imposing metal door. A spoked wheel such as those on a cart stuck out in the middle such as those on a cart. He jumped as he suddenly realized he wasn’t alone Staring around the room, he suddenly noticed a hoard of people. Amazed he hadn’t noticed them before, the noise was deafening. People laughed and talked casually to each other.

          They stood in an orderly line. He watched as the person at the front of the line stepped up to a counter which had the words ‘Safety deposit box,’ where a plain faced woman sat. The man showed her a piece of parchment as white as clouds, she nodded as he pulled out an oddly shaped key with a numbered tag with the word ‘Billingtons’ written on it and moved towards the large metal door. It opened on huge metal hinges and the man stepped inside, accompanied by an elderly woman. He stared back at this bizarre scene as another person stepped up, a woman.

          The most bizarre thing about them was their clothes. The people were clad in such an assortment of clothes, from what appeared to be dresses but were cut short at the knees, to thick cloaks that didn’t extend beyond a boys hips, but bore a hood. They often had bizarre writing, such as on young looking boy, clutching at his mothers arm bore such a cloak. Written in a bright white hand on the black breast of the bizarre shirt were the words ‘System of a Down,’ with a broad had drawn beneath
Wondering what bizarre place he had found himself in, he walked down the line of people admiring their interesting clothes. Then he saw a figure that scared him.

          The figure had no chest length beard, and bore no earrings, nor had he the scar that ran down his cheek, but even in the black jacket and tie the man wore there was no question it was himself. As he watched the figure carefully placed his hand into the pocket of the boy with the ‘System of a down’ cloak and withdrew a small leather packet, with some long white string protruding from its base. Before Frank had time to examine the bundle in his doppelganger’s hand, the thief took some paper and an assortment of odd coins from the boys mothers pocket, pretending to nudge her as he did so. Apologizing profusely he moved on. Horrified to see this thieving version of himself, he called to the woman. She didn’t appear to hear him. He strode up to her and waved his hand in her face. Nothing.

          Infuriated, he strolled up to his double and raised his fists. He punched the man with all his might, and his hand met with the mans face and kept going. The idea he must be dead dawning on him, he settled to follow himself.

          Shortly the man left the building. Passing straight through the metal door as though it didn’t exist, Frank shadowed himself as the figured carried his loot down several side passages. Staring at the metal boxes that travelled without horses that sped down the streets in amazement, He almost lost himself, but resolving to follow himself he ignored the bizarre contraptions of this bizarre metal world and moved on.

         After a while the thief came to a small door down a small alley and removed a small ring of keys and opened it. The man placed a small pipe in his mouth and lit it with another contraption. Then he began to remove things from his pockets. Item after item was placed on the table in front of him.

          Contraptions which blared light and sound were sorted one at a time. They were either placed on the table with the others or thrown into a small round box on the floor. Money came from every crevice in the mans clothes, and before long the table was filled with everything Frank could imagine.

          The man then opened a door Frank hadn’t noticed before by rolling up a carpet. Underneath this hidden door the man pulled out one of the small devices. A girl of about 18 years old sat their, a gag around her mouth. Her arms tied to the chair. Tears rolled down her cheeks and Frank was appalled to see two of her fingers were missing. The man removed a small knife and poised it ready to cleave another finger. A thought occurred to him. If he could walk through walls how come he didn’t fall through the floor.

          On impulse he lashed out with his foot. Sure enough the foot landed right in between the mans legs and he crumpled with shock and agony. Pinning the kidnappers foot down with his own, frank heard a silent sound like a clap. He tried to move his foot, but there were only three feet where there should have been four. Trying to tug his leg away Frank saw the other mans leg shaking.

          Stepping on the other leg, to try getting some leverage to pull, Frank finds both legs are now combined. A sudden realization hits him and he lies down on the man. Another sound and he sees the thief flying across the room. For a brief moment their eyes locked, and pure hate burned in the mans eyes, and then he was running aiming a kick at Frank. Then Franks doppelganger was falling, as though through a hole. A flash of brilliant blue light lit up the whole dank room and then there was just Frank and the kidnapped girl.

          Breathing heavily Frank got to his feet. The terrified girl was sobbing ferociously. She flailed and whined as he grabbed the knife and cut the ropes binding her hands. She stood there, stunned and then she ran without looking back.

          Brushing himself down, Frank left the dank basement. Left the house. Strolling casually down the street, he eyed the metal machines with fascination as they whizzed endlessly passed him. The sun was beginning to set as the old sailor felt something in his pocket. As he dug in to pull it out he saw it was the thief’s Bundle of small keys. One key in particular caught his eye and as he saw it he began to run. Swiftly his sore bones crossed through many Metal boxes, and he finally came to a stop at a building he recognized. Strolling up to the door, he tried it, but it didn’t budge

          “Its locked I’m afraid. We’re closing up for the night” came a tight female voice from the other side of the transparent door.
          “can you do an old man a quick favour I want to get in my safety depos…deposit box?” He inquired awkwardly
          “Aw what the hell,” said the woman. “I haven’t shut down the system yet. You be quick mind, I want to go home.” The door swung open allowing Frank entrance into the bank. He walked in, eagerly prospering his key. The plain faced woman he’d seen earlier stared down at it then up at him. “Got any papers or proof of id?”
   
          Frank stopped dead. Not daring to breath. Not sure what the woman wanted he offered her the ring of keys. She took them and eyed them. “Ah yes this’ll do.” She said, holding up a small piece of card tied onto the ring with a few words written on it. She led him to the big metal door and it swung aside. Rushing in, eager to see what was inside he ran forward when she lead him to a box with the same number as on his key. He put the key in the small lock and turned it. The small box opened to reveal an immense stack of the paper sheets that the thief had stashed with his coins.

          Assuming this was money he dug it all out as well as a small leather bound book with the word ‘Passport’ written on the front. He hurriedly left the bank and headed down the street towards another thing that had caught his eye. He came to a dock where a boathouse sat by a small quay. He ran down under that fading sun, and knocked on the boathouse door.

            After a minute a tall man answered. “How much for that boat?” Frank blurted out in a rush, pointing to a ship out in the harbour.

           â€œA couple of grand,” came the deep reply

           â€œWill this do?” Frank asked, forcing the piles of money onto the man.

           â€œThe mans eyes opened wide and he inquired, “your not from around these parts are you? You on the run? I don’t want to know and yeah, this is more than enough.” He handed a chunk of money back to Frank, disappeared and reappeared a minute later with a pair of keys. “Here ya’ go,” the man uttered but over come with excitement Frank was already off, keys in hand. “Crazy bastard…” the boat salesman muttered as he closed the door

            Frank leapt on board the ship, old bones creaking as he did so. He stepped into the cabin of the rust encrusted fishing boat, and, ignoring the engine completely he began to row. His job wasn’t over yet, he had to find Tom. He could grow a beard and he got the feeling there was much more to this strange world that he didn’t yet know.

            1776. Somewhere in the Mid Atlantic. A scared man fell, screaming, with a crash onto the soft soil. Sitting bolt upright the bearded man in ragged sailors clothes stared around, hoping to find his horde of stolen iPods, his money or even the vicious, biting girl he kidnapped. But he finds none of these. Instead in front of him sits a grinning figure. The man brandishes a knife. He was a tall lanky man with a thin face devoid of hair, except for a thick black beard which was coated heavily in blood. The sounds of screams echoed heavily in to the night

[Jack Sheehan]

Wahey another entry! It's never nice to be the only one who bothered. It's a hell of a lot longer than mine.

[olafmoriarty]

Okay, I hereby officially open for voting. One vote each, everybody can vote, two days. You know the drill.

(My own votes come when I've had the time to read both texts.)

[Aljoho]

          Well unsurprisingly my vote goes to Jack Sheenan.
          It's not just because i cant vote for myself though, i've always been one for bizzarre universes in which humans are so almost feral that they regard human life as trash, much like many parts of the Star Wars universe or in Judge Dredd. I think it just provides an interesting enough contrast to the real world as to grab my interest. Also it has a car chase, i mean come on who doesnt love a good car chase.

[Jack Sheehan]

Also unsurprisingly I vote for my esteemed competitor. I like the role reversal thing, it ties up really neatly too.

[olafmoriarty]

I wish I hadn't set that stupid "one vote each" rule. I want two votes.

I vote for Jack Sheehan. But it's a very, very close call.

EDIT August 27th 12.52 GMT: Original post updated with information on who won. Congratulations, Jack.

[Jack Sheehan]

Wahey! Cheers Dudes and Dudesses. I'll start a knew one soon.