Fortnightly Writing Competition - CARPENTARIAN

[SilverSpook]

Carpentarian

 

I'm going to be straight with you- I haven't seen a good horror movie from this millennium (Cabin In The Woods is disqualified cause AoU pissed me off) and my wife is hounding me about date night, and it's Halloween season, and the Ebola Zombies trailer made me vomit most of my internal organs (in boredom).  Hyperreal slomo slaughter marathon, mindless regurgitated character tropes no one cares about cause we're too busy slaugtering in IMax 4D. 

To rectify this, I'm digging deep into the virtualized Blockbuster bargain bin of Netflix (or your preferred content streaming thingy) and re-watching every single John Carpenter movie ever made in existence, with the exception of Ghosts of Mars, because he, Ice Cube, and Jason Statham all basically phoned that schlock omelette in. 

Anyway, the common thread is: "bad-in-a-good-way" movies with characters, setup, suspense... and eventually usually some slaughter.

The kicker is, I'm rewatching all these movies in order to make my own horror movie for us to snuggle up to.

Not really. 

But!  John Carpenter is awesome.  For example: They Live - a masterful anti-Reaganomics visual poem on the dangers of rampant consumerism run amok wrapped in a grindhouse slaughterfest with Arnold Schwarzenegger body doubles, nightmare-grade makeup and unbeatable zingers like, "I'm here to chew bubblegum and kick ass.  And I'm all out of bubblegum."

"So, this is a writing competition, right?  What the hell are you rambling on about, Silverdude?"

Okay, so basically, the challenge is to pull from a John Carpenter movie either:

1.) a character  (i.e. Snake Pliskin, George Nada) 
2.) a setting (i.e.  Riot-swallowed, prisonified New York City, Antarctica where an anomalous alien life form has landed)

Then write a story with said character or setting. 

Before you feel weird about writing basically fan-fiction, just be glad that I didn't go with my other Fortnightly Writing Competition Halloween theme, which was:

"Write a genderbent fan-fic of Twilight"

(Because Stephanie Meyer has beaten me to that punch, damnit.)

But in all seriousness, if you have no idea who John Carpenter is and don't have the time to figure it out, don't give a shit about campy action movies, just look at those movie covers and screenshots I posted and base a character off of that.  You can make up a new name if you want, whatever.

BUT!  Here are the categories:

Best Protagonist: Wrestlemania muscles optional.
Best Plot: Carpenter's signature is his tackling of bold and creative premises such as an alien invasion run through corporate propaganda or the turning of New York into a walled-in penal colony. 
Best Dialog: Doesn't have to be bubble gum related, or indicative of impending violence, but must be iconic and sayable by an Austrian immigant!
Best Atmosphere: Make it thick as bad 80's fake blood!
Best Writing Style: Bonus points for the best one-liners! (Bubblegum and impending violence optional)

(In the case of a tie) Most Carpentarian: I realize this is subjective, but if there is a tie, I will be slanting towards the writer who stuck most to the theme!  I took this out of the regular categories cause I realize it may be tough to judge for some.

DEADLINE: October 25

Good luck to all, and when you're thinking about wasting that ninja zombie nemesis 200 words in with the rocket-propelled throwing stars out of boredom, just remember Snake Pliskin's words of wisdom, "I'd kill you, but I'm too tired.  Maybe later."

[kconan]

I just watched "Big Trouble in Little China" last week!  The "Escape" movies are awesome, and I love me some "Assault on Precinct 13" and the very underrated "The Fog".  Carpenter's "The Thing" has to be one of the best sci-fi movies of all time.

Hopefully I can join this one...I'll be on a lengthy business trip, so I may not be able to find time to grind out something worthy.

[Ibispi]

Cool theme. I'm going to participate in this writing jam, but first I'm going to do some research.

[SilverSpook]

I'm glad the theme hasn't started a riot... yet

I figured the theme might go well with the Halloween season, since there are going to be horror movies all over the place.

Enjoy your research, Ibispi, and everyone else!

[Ponch]

I love John Carpenter. His movies take up most of a shelf in my DVD collection (physical media forevar!!!)

Very tempted by this theme...

[Baron]

The serpent in the tree speaks sweetly to Ponch....

Rule clarification: gender-bent Twilight characters are out?

[Sinitrena]

And while we're on the topic of clarifications: When's the official deadline?

[SilverSpook]

@Baron: Gender-bent Twilight characters, Twilight anything = instant disqualification!!! 

No, not really, although -- full disclosure -- I'm not a huge Stephanie Meyer fan so that might effect your outcome in the event of sudden death.

@Sinitrena: Oops!  October 25, if that seems about right?  I've added it to the OP.

October 25th deadline, everyone!  Meet it, or DIE!  (Creepy Halloween laugh)

[WHAM]

The USCGC Southern Cross floats peacefully under the stars of the Antarctic ocean. The ship's engines rumble away, while the hull cuts through the waves as the vessel heads north.

Deep inside the ship, in one of the many cramped crew quarters, a Dell -brand laptop sits on a small desk, it's monitor dimmed to conserve power. Black text on white, a pair of e-mails are displayed:

From: Chávez, Nicolás Sent: 13.November.2015 To: West, Herbert Subject: RE: Expedition 7 findings I'm happy to hear you've received the delivery. I've spoken with my colleagues and superiors and the findings look interesting to say the least. So far our team of data analysts has recovered a number of recordings from the ruin and I hear that another crate or two will be shipped out to us in a matter of days. Apparently they've dug out a few damaged hard drives and a helicopter flight data recorder too, all dating back to the 80's. As soon as we've looked them over, I'll make sure to send out copies of everything to McMurdo so you can take a look when you get back. Safe voyage! -Nic ------------------------------------ From: West, Herbert Sent: 12.November.2015 To: Chávez, Nicolás Subject: Expedition 7 findings Hi Nicolas! First off, on behalf of the scientific society and myself, I want to thank you for letting us be a part of this discovery. I just received the samples along with your letter and the photos and it's incredible to see how well everything is preserved. There are signs of damage, yes, and several of the remains seem to have been burned, but I think we'll be able to pull dental records and maybe even DNA! The team were especially excited to be able to get to work on identifying the remains so soon and are hoping to find some clue as to what happened down there. We could be about to make one hell of a discovery! So far we've only had a chance to take a look at one set of remains. No luck with identification, but we can safely say he's not one of the American expedition's team members. I've reached out to the other nations working in the Antarctic, Azerbaijan, Norway and a few others, in the hopes of finding a way to identify the man. My team tells me we'll be able to look into at least one or two more people today, so I'll keep you posted on what we find. We left McMurdo yesterday and are heading out to sea to meet up with a resupply vessel, so we'll be transferring the samples over for transport in a couple of days. Best regards - H. West

Save for the sound of the ship's engines rumbling somewhere below, it's quiet. The small porthole acting as the window of the room is slightly ajar and the frozen sea breeze rustles the stacks of paper scattered on the bed and on the floor.

A scream rings out from somewhere to the bow of the ship, followed by two muffled gunshots.

Footfalls, heavy boots on metal, approach the room with the laptop, accompanied by laboured breathing. There is a hasty knock on the door.

“Professor West!”

The voice belongs to a young man, his every syllable a struggle between gasps of air, as the man tries to catch his wind.

“Professor West, you must come quick!”

The handle of the door rustles and turns.

“Professor, I-”

As the door opens, the words catch in the man's throat. A face, now as pale as snow, looks in on the dark room. The beam of a flashlight scans the scattered papers stained with blood and mucus, passes over the icicles forming on the porthole and on the side of the bed, and finally freeze on the chair before the desk.

In that chair, the creature that once was Professor Herbert West stirs. Four eyes, twisted and half-obscured by thin pink membranes that glisten with moisture, slowly turn to face the door. Sinews, bones, spines and muscles all out of place and out of order turn and distend and a blurble that might have been a spoken word emanates from the creature's gut. Clear fluid flows in rivulets, splattering on the floor and freezing almost instantly as they soak in the drab carpet.

The man at the door shrieks, an animalistic howl of pure unadulterated fear, and slams the door. His footfalls and laboured breaths echo for a few moments before disappearing once more.

The thing that was once Herbert West turns back to face the laptop, the bones of it's malformed legs readjusting ever so slowly, the membranes over the flesh growing thicker and turning a pale bronze colour.

It would be two more days before the ship's path would cross that of the R V Tom Crean and the 33 people aboard. Plenty of time.

[SilverSpook]

Excellent work!  Really creeped the crap out of me, and has a lot more details from The Thing than I can even remember!  In terms of Carpentarianess, I give it five bottles of red corn syrup out of five!

[JudasFm]

Can we take the concept and shift it? For example, instead of a prisonified New York, can we make it a prison moon or space station? Or is that interpreting things a little too freely?

[Sinitrena]

Noise of Silence

It is a cold and rainy afternoon in autumn. A man is walking along a desolate street, shuffling his feet. His eyes are downcast. He never looks up. He never smiles. He never talks. Other people drag their feet along the same street, in the same direction â€" or the opposite. They don't talk. They never look up.

On large billboards, neon-colored advertisements flash their slogans in a steady, never changing rhythm. Some blare music: Drums, slowly thundering, seem to order his feet to move along. He walks and he never stops. His legs are tired, his body aches but he never stops. The backpack is heavy on his shoulders.

The street ends in a T-junction. A phone booth stands at a corner and the man enters it. He dials a number and waits. On the other side of the scratched glass, passers-by ignore him. When the call connects, he talks for a moment â€" he listens more. He takes glasses from the breast pocket of his shirt and puts them on. He hangs up. He looks at the people walking by. He studies them. He looks further up at the billboards and the ads. He shakes his head.

The door of the phone booth is heavy when he opens it. It didn't feel so heavy before. It is strange. He didn't know his way before. Now he does. Why isn't the purpose making the door lighter and his steps securer and faster? They are reluctant.

He takes the street to the left and walks. The struggling neighborhood becomes run-down. The people no longer shuffle along, they sit on the ground. The billboards still blare their meaningless message to them. The people only have eyes for the concrete of the street. Their fingers are freezing. They hold them over burning trashcans.

He reaches a side-alley that is no different than twenty others he already passed. Behind piles of trash, a metal door stands ajar. He enters it and takes the steps to his right. They lead into a cellar. A coach stands in a corner. It is filthy. A telephone hangs in a different corner. It is no less filthy. A stack of boxes serves as a table. A semi-automatic lies on it. There are other guns in the room as well.

People stand there. They talk in hushed voices. They stop when he enters the room. They expected him. They sigh with relief. He goes to the table and they step back. He takes the semi-automatic and inspects it. He is satisfied. The backpack slides to the ground. The man rolls his shoulders. A weight was taken from him. Others weigh heavier. He nods.

He leaves. The others follow him. Not all. Some stay behind. There are six of them now. He is their leader. They wear glasses like him. They are armed. He follows the street he followed before. He walks in the same direction as before. People notice them now. Guns are peculiar. They look up for a moment. They look down again. They don't say anything. Nothing is noteworthy.

The drums still thunder. The neon lights still flash. The sun has sunken behind the horizon. You never see the horizon in the city. Rain pours down on them. Their clothes are too thin. They shudder. There are other reasons to shudder than the cold and the rain.

This district of the city is affluent. Cars are on the streets â€" parked or driving. The people are busy. They rush through the streets. There are cups of coffee in their hands. And umbrellas. They seldom look up. Sometimes they do. They shriek. They panic.

The leader smiles. Their goal is a skyscraper just a block further away. Sirens blare. They walk faster. They don't want to hurt the cops. Probably. The skyscraper is in sight. There are lights in the windows. The glass doors slide open for them. There is a bank on the ground floor. Skeletal faces look at them. A cashier pushes a button. Alarms go off at the nearest police station. They are already on their way.

Skeletal faces. Tight skin over protruding bones. Gray. No hair, never hair. Hollow eyes. Shadows. A sneering mouth. Long teeth. Sharp. Twelve fingers. Four joints each. No thumbs. Rings on them, glinting. Rich, always rich. All of them.

There are posters behind the teller's desk. They advertise credits for new homes. Faces smile on them â€" families: father, mother, daughter, son. A dog jumps for a ball.

Darkness. Silence. No smiling faces. A message. An order. Buy. Consume. Adjust. Assimilate. Obey. Obey. Always obey.

The leader raises the gun. He aims. The others follow suit. He doesn't talk. He never talks. He doesn't order. He doesn't demand. He shoots. People run. They scream. More shots follow. People fall. They bleed.

The blood: yellow, greenish. Too slow.

A guard has a gun. He draws. He dies. A woman falls. An hour ago, she had left a cellar. She screams. She bleeds. Her blood is red and hot. It leaves her body too fast. She dies.

The police arrives. This is no robbery. They can't negotiate. They storm.

Lights flicker in the bank. A flash of lightning does outside. It thunders. Muzzle flashes flicker too. The leader screams. It is not pain, it is defiance. The officers wear helmets. He doesn't see their faces. He doesn't know. He doesn't. He can't tell. Their hands are obscured by gloves. He doesn't know.

He hesitates. The officers do not. He is still conscious while he falls. He has a hole in his chest.

Green, sluggish green. Too many fingers. Too pale.

Blood drips on the ground. The glasses fall from his nose. His blood is red.

The last shot trails away. Silence reigns. They hear their own breaths in their ears. They walk around. They check for pulses. Twenty-eight are dead, including the terrorists. An officer takes a pair of glasses from the ground. He doesn't see such a pair for the first time. He looks through them, absentmindedly.

Twenty-eight dead. A child among them. Her hand in her mother's. Ten fingers. Too small. The hair of everyone crusted with blood. Pain on their faces. Once smiling. Their eyes stricken with fear. Never laughing again. Never talking. Never looking up again. Behind the teller's desk: a poster. A family: father, mother, daughter, son. A dog. A ball. A new home. Hope.

[SilverSpook]

Thanks Sinitrena for nailing the vibe of They Live, in all its paranoid subversive horror!  Deeply Carpentarian indeed!

Can we take the concept and shift it? For example, instead of a prisonified New York, can we make it a prison moon or space station? Or is that interpreting things a little too freely?

I don't think it's too big of a stretch- I mean it's not like you'll get disqualified! 

I can't promise anything in the case of a tie, of course

[SilverSpook]

Two days left, guys!  Go go go!

[Ibispi]

Sorry, SilverSpook, I didn't have enough time to write my story. I am very busy with my college and also I had the driving exam recently. It was a nice theme. But, life gets in the way. Sorry.

[Ponch]

I'll try to get my story finished and posted before bedtime tonight...

[Baron]

I'm half done.  Hopefully get it in before midnight.  Although your "two days left" post yesterday tempts me to procrastinate....

Edit:

Escape from the Things

   â€œDamn!” shouted Jazz as the snowplow-fitted garbage-truck smashed through the store front.  Out-dated women's clothing flew into the wind-shield like a floral-printed snow storm before the truck came to an abrupt stop against a brick wall in the house-wares section.  The successive crashes of store shelves dominoing echoed ominously through the store.

   â€œDamn!” Jazz shouted again.  “God damn, Snide!  That noise ain't just enough to wake the dead;  it's like giving 'em three cups of coffee and an injection of pixie-stick dust right in the god-damn heart!”

   The man named Snide just turned off the ignition casually, applied the parking brake, and picked up his shot-gun from the floor between the seats.  “Good,” he said flatly.  “I don't like slackers who sleep in all day.” 

   With that Snide pushed his door open, emerging into a dimly lit cavern of dust and debris.  Jazz did likewise after grabbing his Clairtone 7985 Super Jumbo Ghetto Blaster in one hand and his baseball bat in the other.  He already had his chrome-plated heat holstered in the back of his pants and a bowie-knife sheathed at his hip, but the ghetto blaster was his main weapon.  If the freakin' harpies zeroed in on his heartbeat he'd use the beat-box to distract them while he ran like a little school girl who'd peed her panties. 

   Snide and Jazz met at the back of the garbage-truck, the occasional crash and smash of falling debris still echoing through the remains of the store.  “Man, they heard that in Akron!” Jazz lamented.  “They'll be swarming us any moment.”

   Snide just sneered in the eerie gloom and flipped the compressor switch into reverse.  The back of the truck opened up to reveal a man and a woman gasping for breath and flailing to escape their steel-and-garbage tomb.

   â€œSnide, you son of bitch!” the man shouted, stumbling out of the truck first.  He would have fallen flat on his face if Jazz hadn't caught him.  “If we make it out of this alive, I'm going to kill you for that!”

   â€œHey,” Snide retorted in his husky rasp.  “I was promised a cushy appointment if I pulled this off!”

   â€œFirst I'm going to appoint you Assistant Deputy Secretary of Twisted-Metal Fuck-Ups, and then I'm gonna kill you!” the man fumed.

   â€œHang on now, Mr. President,” Jazz soothed.  “I know it weren't pretty, but Snide did save your life back there.  And that little nest of garbage was a pretty cushy place to be in case of a crash.”

   The woman finally managed to haul herself out of the back the garbage truck, seemingly lurched unsteadily to the side, but then threw a mean right-hand punch right at Snide's jaw.  He took it like a statue.

   â€œHarmony, darling!  Are you alright?” the president asked, his tone instantly softened.

   â€œDaddy I hate you!” the woman pouted.  “And I hate these smelly brawny men who think they're such hot shit, and I hate this scuzzy rust-belt hell-hole too!”  For a president's daughter, the inaptly-named Harmony sure didn't look the part.  She was wearing nothing but short-shorts and a sports-bra, spoke like a sailor on a drunken bender, and acted about a third of her 21 year age.

   â€œEveryone's fine, then,” Snide observed in a sarcastic tone, then turned to lead the group through the back of the store.

   â€œWhat's the plan, Snide?” Jazz called, bringing up the rear.

   Snide kicked open a fire-escape door, but didn't reply.  He cocked an ear to listen for a moment, then waved for the group to follow him into what turned out to be a darkened stairwell.  Snide moved quickly but cautiously up the steps.

   â€œWhy are we going up?” the president hollered brashly.  “The exit sign points down, you idiot!”

   A sudden shuffling sound echoed ominously up the stairwell, like the sound of feathers beating in a chicken coop.  Everyone froze.

   â€œMaybe you should defy the polls and go up for once,” Snide suggested.  Quickly the group followed him until they emerged into a parkade about four stories up.  The perpetual glowing twilight of post-apocalyptic Cleveland lay spread out around them.

   â€œMy god, what a shit hole,” Harmony sneered.  Snide scanned the sky from the open ventilation wall while Jazz secured the door.  “People used to live here?  On purpose?”

   â€œWell, I don't know about on purpose, but they sure used to live here,” the president told her.  “Back in the 1960s the river caught fire, but they stayed.  Back in the 2010s the sky caught fire, but they stayed.  Heck, when the harpy infestation took hold in the 2023 they still stayed.  Mostly 'cause of the wall we built to enforce the quarantine, but partly no doubt to an ill-omened affection for the place.”

   â€œIs it really true?” Harmony asked, turning to Snide.  “Did they really call this city the Anus of Ohio?”

    “Only the ones that liked it,” Snide told her, moving further down the open wall to survey the street below.  There was already a crowd of harpies congregating around the broken window of the store-front, no doubt with more inside already.

   â€œWe're trapped!” The president spat accusingly.  “We've been treed like foxes, and the hounds are braying around the trunk for blood.  You led us to this!”

   Snide grabbed the president by his collar and swung him out over the edge.  “No,” he said cruelly, waving at the destruction extending miles in every direction.  “You led us to this.”

   â€œDon't do it, Snide!” Jazz called. 

   â€œDo it!” Harmony shouted, egging him on.  She jumped up and down a bit so that her boobs bounced for hypnotic emphasis, but Snide pulled the president back into the parkade in disgust.

   â€œNow, the harpies can't just fly up here and get us,” Jazz explained.  “They're kinda like bats: they need to launch themselves from height to get airborne.  And they don't see so well, so they rely on their hearing to track down their prey.”

   â€œAnd we're the prey,” Harmony stated dramatically.

   â€œWell, us men are.  They'll skeletonize the flesh from our bodies in a matter of minutes.  You, they'll just bite to infect.  After several hours of intense pain that makes child-birth seem like a gentle fart you'll turn into one of them.  Wings will burst from your back, talons will grow from your fingers and toes, and your mind will melt until you're a slavish drone for their queen.”

   â€œMight be an improvement,” Snide suggested, glancing once more into the street canyon below.

   â€œThey won't fly in here, though,” Jazz said comfortingly.  “It's too tight.  They need lots of room for those big wings.”  As if to spite Jazz there was suddenly a fluttering of wings just above them, sending them all diving for cover.  The mean bass tones of Con Funk Shun suddenly blared from the ghetto blaster in the middle of the pavement, but their 1970s funkadelic power was squandered.

   â€œHa!” pointed the president from under an abandoned SUV.  “It's nothing but a bunch of garbage eating pigeons.”  Indeed, a lonely pair of common pigeons merely cooed innocently from the rafters of the parking garage.

   Snide lowered his shotgun, but noticed his other arm was stuck tightly around Harmony's naked waist.  “Not scared of a bird now, are you?” she asked. 

   â€œNot a feathered one,” Snide replied.

   â€œWill someone turn off that god-damned racket before we attract a swarm of naked cannibalistic sexy flying banshees?” the president cursed, rising to his feet.

   They all turned to look at Jazz, who was sitting on the concrete guardrail at the edge of the parkade, seemingly about to slip outside despite the four-storey drop below him.  A thin rivulet of blood dripped slowly down from the edge of his mouth.  Snide raised his shotgun again, this time aiming it at his friend.

   â€œAre you crazy?!?” Harmony asked angrily, although she was caressing Snide's muscular torso while she was saying it.  “Maybe he just bit his tongue?”

   Suddenly a spine of talons burst through Jazz's chest, then parted to reveal a harpy's disturbingly sexy face peering through his chest cavity. 

   â€œSorry buddy,” Snide said, and pulled the trigger.  The blast from his shotgun went clean through Jazz and took off half the harpy's head on the other side.  There was a massive fluttering now, as a flock of harpies descended from the sky to perch on the ledge of the parkade.

   â€œThe music!” Snide shouted, reluctantly taking his hand off Harmony to cock his shotgun.

   The president bent over to turn it off, but Harmony kicked his backside so that he went head-first into the trunk of an adjacent car.  “We'll be back for you after we ....er.  Later Daddy!”  She kicked again and slammed the car trunk closed.  The muffled shouts inside were quickly drowned out by Con Funk Shun and the fluttering wails of the Harpy flock.

   â€œThis way!” Snide said coolly, pulling her down an aisle of poorly parked and abandoned cars.  He shot, reloaded, shot, and cocked again.  The whole flock seemed to be pouring in through open wall of the parkade, but once inside they had to walk blindly, and were confused by the different sound points of the shot-gun and the blaring ghetto blaster.  Snide retraced his steps to the stairwell and ripped open the door.  A strikingly beautiful looking harpy stood on the other side, wailed menacingly at them, and then took a swipe with her talons, snatching Harmony's purse from her grasp and causing the contents to spill down the stairwell.  Snipe levelled his gun at the harpy's buxom chest and pulled the trigger, causing it to fly backwards over the railing and plunge bloodily into the darkness below.

   After scanning the stairwell for signs of other harpies or a relatively clean patch of concrete for some quick hot sex, Snide stepped inside and tried his best to secure the door from the approaching flock.  Harmony meanwhile swore and fretfully bent to gather the contents of her spilled purse.  Snide turned to tell her to leave it, then noticed all the pain killers on the ground.

   â€œWhere do you hide a bite wearing so little?” he asked her, raising his gun.

   Harmony suddenly grew a set of talons and wings, and screamed wordlessly at him.

        "I guess I was right," Snide said snidely.  "It is an improvement."

[Ponch]

Any chance of a 24 hour extension? We just got back from a haunted house / zombie paint ball experience. I'm covered in fake blood and welts. Need to shower and then I'm going to pass out.

[SilverSpook]

Ok, but you'll need to work the fake blood and welts into the story somehow!  Just kidding!

[Ponch]

Excellent. I'll get the thing finished on my lunch break today and post it when I get home tonight.

[Baron]

WHAT?!?  I could have procrastinated yesterday?!?   Dammit, P, we gotta coordinate better next time.

[Ponch]

No time for your belated shenanigans, B! There's posting afoot!




The skin gave way. The thin metal file, still attached to the small nail clippers by a cunning little swivel, drew blood. A thin, wet rivulet of red, trickling down the woman's arm, growing larger, flowing faster as the slender hand worked the file deeper into the skin, twisting it, gouging, digging, making the wound larger, defiling. It was a joyous thing, the defilement. This flesh was a hateful thing. Soft. Thin. It yielded easily. These invaders were weak. The bodies were a necessity, but disgusting all the same. A wind blew, making the hair on the woman's head stir. The hair was even more vile than the flesh. Dead and useless, it covered the invader's body in a thin, almost invisible coat. In some places it grew thick, dead cells pushing out of the greasy, flimsy skin. In some places it had been shaved away, likely days before. Now it was sharp, shoving up from the skin, itchy, irritating. Leaving the clippers dangling from the borrowed forearm, the woman's hand reached up, seeking the thick, reddish, looping curls that hung from the scalp. Taking a fistful of the hair, gripping tightly, the woman's knuckles turning white from exertion -- fine muscle control was still an uncertain thing -- she yanked. The hair tore loose with a ripping noise, almost like a rusty zipper. More blood trickled down, oozing from the raw scalp, coloring the graceful neck, staining the collar of the work coveralls the woman wore. The garment was stupid if durable, a form of synthetic fiber meant to mimic the strength of canvas while remaining as lightweight and comfortable as cotton. A true conqueror wore the boiled skin of the conquered. These invaders were as weird and pathetic as their ridiculous clothing. And how much pain they felt! So unnecessary! What use was pain except to serve as notification of injury. Any more was wasteful, distracting.

Another gust of hot wind blew in from the desert, dusting the woman with a light coat of sand where she sat on a cargo crate near a blood-spattered cargo truck. This place had been the scene of a good fight less than an hour before. The corners of the ruined lips pulled back tightly in a parody of a smile. Clotted blood cracked and ruptured. Fresh, wet red droplets fell from the lacerated lips. The woman sat up straight, her chest expanding as she pulled air into her body, filling the fragile, odd, twin bags inside her body, breathing deeply. The atmosphere was thin from inside the invader's body. They had come from another world. A blue speck in the sky where the wind was thicker, wetter, and oceans still crashed and surged, as yet undried by the brutal, killing sun. One day it would claim the blue world as surely as it had the red. The old gods, leering and cackling, willed it. Their thirst could not be denied. The wind would dry the seas there, wither the plants the prey animals relied on, until only bare sands and sharpened teeth remained, and the time of feasting on one another arrived. War would follow, glorious and savage, until nothing but the winds remained.

Rippling and flowing around the woman, the wind coming in from the canyon would bring more death in the nights to come. A host of unseen fighters were borne aloft by it, liberated conquerors looking to claim their share of these invaders. Blood would flow, just as the gods of old demanded, mocking and cruel, so ancient and primal that even the deathless and disembodied furies swirling in the wind could not remember their names.

Throwing her head back, the woman's throat tried to shout jubilantly, tried to make the words, tried to sound the call. But the words came out only half formed, no better than a weakling newborn might do, trying to prove it's worth, hoping to avoid being thrown in the fire, wanting to be seen as useful, desperate to mimic the adults howling under the Great Conqueror's black and red banner, back in the days when the sands still bore their footprints, in the glory days, when they were numerous and warred constantly, and strong, rugged flesh held their unyielding spirits firmly.

The stunted words she made fell away, swallowed by the wind. Unheard by the delicate shells of the woman's cartoonishly externalized ears, the conquerors around her sang, returning her pathetic attempt at a proper howl, mocking the feeble attempt she'd made. She ignored their disdain. They were freshly awakened. They didn't know. They would see. Once they were embodied within these grotesque forms, they would see. And in understanding, they would come to hate this flesh too. But there was no other choice. They were the conquerors who had defeated all the others, but could not best their own dying world. Resting inside their tombs for uncounted aeons, they waited, not knowing what else to do. More time had passed than could possibly be measured by their old calendars. No flesh existed to be eaten. No souls could be gathered. Only waiting. Uncertainty. Darkness. Nothing more.

Then these invaders had come. Frail but plentiful, they had spread their numbers across a world that did not belong to them, raising cities on old battlegrounds -- the only sacred places -- defiling them, disfiguring the sands with beds and gardens and other unimportant things. These weak yet clever creatures with their amazing technology and thin, hot blood were busy laying rail lines across the desert, linking their scattered cities, building their mockery of a nurturing, coddling civilization.

The old conquerors of this world were not a people of nimble minds. They were a people of battle. And there had been no battles for years uncounted. There had been no one to war with. The world had been dead for too long.

But now these strange invaders had come, raising children and livestock (different things, somehow, to these new people) thinking themselves masters of a world they had never earned through battle. They had opened one of the tombs, driven by a curiosity that made little sense to simple, brutal, indomitable minds. They had freed the conquerors. The first ones fell quickly, the faint flickerings of their feeble souls no match for the will of the rested, eager lords of this world. Each invader was a poor, small candle compared to the raging bonfire that erupted, unseen, from the crypt. Grave robbers, they were, not soldiers, and easily overcome. Now their abandoned bodies would be made to serve in the war that had only begun. The invaders would be driven out as the masters rode the winds, retaking this world one small town at time, discarding the bodies as needed, claiming fresh ones along the way, killing and conquering, united under a black and red banner, as in the days of old.

The woman's mutilated face smiled a clotted, rictus grin and studied her strange hands. They would need to hold a weapon if they were going to be of use. Something sharp and jagged, serrated. Metal, if possible. Splintered or pointed bone, blackened in a fire, otherwise.

The hands had five digits apiece. One too many. The hands of the true conquerors, when they'd had them, so very long ago. had sported only four fingers.

Four would do.

The woman pushed the smallest finger of her left hand into her mouth and began to chew.

[SilverSpook]

Woah!  Is it hot in here or is that just Kirk Russel's career re-igniting? 

No!  The heat is Kirk Russel breathing down my neck waiting to snap it offhandedly!!  Awesome jobs guys!



Well it's that time again!  Time to get your credit cards out and try to bribe the host (me) with John Carpenter blu-ray collectors edition box sets!

But seriously, great entries all around!  I'm happy everyone was able to dig deep into their souls, their backyards, their subliminal media messaging and pull out their own personal Carpenters.  I don't think we had a single non-Carpentarian entry!  This will be hard!

The entries:

WHAM - (Based on The Thing?)
Sinitrena - Noise of Silence
Baron - Escape From The Things
Ponch - (Based on They Live?)

And here are Our Categories:

Best Protagonist: Wrestlemania muscles optional.
Best Plot: Carpenter's signature is his tackling of bold and creative premises such as an alien invasion run through corporate propaganda or the turning of New York into a walled-in penal colony. 
Best Dialog: Doesn't have to be bubble gum related, or indicative of impending violence, but must be iconic and sayable by an Austrian immigant!
Best Atmosphere: Make it thick as bad 80's fake blood!
Best Writing Style: Bonus points for the best one-liners! (Bubblegum and impending violence optional)

(In the case of a tie) Most Carpentarian: Hopefully it doesn't come to this!  It's going to be tough!

Since I am a n00b contest hoster, what would be a reasonable date to have the votes in by?

[Ponch]

Ponch - (Based on They Live?)

No way, dude! My entry is based on the unappreciated (and admittedly lackluster) later-era Carpenter's "Ghosts of Mars." It's a bit of a misfire of a movie in execution, but I really dig the premise of the movie. Check it out, why not? You might like it.

Since I am a n00b contest hoster, what would be a reasonable date to have the votes in by?

As soon as Ponch has established an early lead, close the voting polls suddenly and without warning. Otherwise, people might come to their senses.

[WHAM]

Is this a good time to admint I've never actually seen any single Carpenter movie? I've read reviews of The Thing and I've played the (honestly pretty bad) PS2 game based on it. I just like the concept and wrote based on that loose idea.

[SilverSpook]

Ponch - (Based on They Live?)

No way, dude! My entry is based on the unappreciated (and admittedly lackluster) later-era Carpenter's "Ghosts of Mars." It's a bit of a misfire of a movie in execution, but I really dig the premise of the movie. Check it out, why not? You might like it.

Oh right!  Yes I have actually seen Ghosts of Mars.  I probably should've read the story before 2AM, when I had all the mental faculties of a zombie!

[Sinitrena]

Is this a good time to admint I've never actually seen any single Carpenter movie?

Well, I only saw one, so you're in good company.



Best Protagonist: Baron's Jazz and Snide - They are your typical action movie heroes: unfriendly, aggresive and all around not very nice, manly intrested in survival and sex - not likeable but fitting for the story.

Best Plot: Ponch - It's a bit difficult because I haven't seen Ghosts of Mars, so I'm not sure how much of this story comes from the movie and how much is Ponch's addition (wikipedia only offers a single sentence on the matter and I'm too lazy for any further research) but I liked the justifications / explanations for the actions of the "ghosts" and the look we get into their psychology.

Best Dialog: Baron - Let's be honest here: Ponch doesn't have any dialog at all and WHAM only has three lines of dialog and they are nothing unusual. So this category is a no-brainer.

Best Atmosphere: Ponch - Wonderful, goosbumps inducing atmosphere. Lovely.

Best Writing Style: WHAM - That one was difficult. I like all three. What makes WHAM's story stand out to me is the paragraph describing what West looks like now. It creates a clear picture in my head.

[Baron]

Best Protagonist: This is tough, but I gotta give it to Ponch for the nameless female reincarnation of one of the old conquerors.  Not a very rounded character, obviously, but she's got that old-testament wrath of the ancients thing going that really turns my crank.

Best Plot: I think Sinitrena easily deserves to win this category, since her piece had a discernible arc (the others were just the start of something that was obviously much broader).

Best Dialog: Must be WHAM by default, since he actually had dialog.  Well, at least people spoke out loud....

Best Atmosphere: I think I have to go with WHAM again.  His writing has a way of drawing me into the story....  I don't know if it's like a butterfly to nectar or like a moth to a flame, but it's compelling whatever it is.

Best Writing Style: Going with Ponch here for some great descriptive writing.  I think my favourite line was "the delicate shells of the woman's cartoonishly externalized ears", but there was many a clever turn of phrase to choose from.

[Ponch]

Best Protagonist: Baron

Best Plot: Sinitrena

Best Dialog: WHAM

Best Atmosphere: Sinitrena

Honorary "Memoirs of an Invisible Man" Award goes to Kconan for the entry he posted but no one can see.

Best Writing Style:

[MiteWiseacreLives!]

Best Protagonist: Baron, Kirk Russel would be so honoured to be cast in this testosterone filled jelly doughnut!

Best Plot: Sinitrena, I want to not hear more Noise of Silence that I can see with my mouth.

Best Dialog: Baron, nailed the 80's action movie banter.. music to my ears

Best Atmosphere: Ponch, makes me want to book some tickets to mars! Those conquerer guys can have this hateful flesh thing of mine.

Best Writing Style: Ponch, just paints such a nice thick back story.

Best Use of Ice In The Far North: Wham, what can I say, with Hebert West on your side you could build a sweet snow fort!

[Baron]

Best Writing Style:

Wow, burn on the rest of us for not measuring up....

[Ponch]

Best Writing Style:

Enough of these mind games, Ponch! You can't keep playing the field! Not at your age! Now choose! Me or Sinitrena? Who's it going to be?!

A free spirit like me doesn't respond well to ultimatums, Baron. I'm not the sort of cow who digs on commitment, no matter how nice your monocle or how many trophies are packed into your sig file. I'm turning my back on both of you and running away with WHAM!

Best Writing Style: WHAM

Curse your for forcing my hand, B.

[kconan]

Best Protagonist: Baron for Snide/Snake

Best Plot: Sinitrena...Enjoyed the overall plot and I'm a sucker for "They Live"

Best Dialog: Baron

Best Atmosphere: WHAM

Best Writing Style: This was tough, as everyone gots the style...But have to go with Ponch this time for clever wordplay.

[SilverSpook]

Sorry never got to adding a vote-by date.  How does Nov 3 work?  I'm on Hawaii time so you all get a 12 hour est extension (results vary based on nation of origin).

[Baron]

Wow.  We were always pretty loose on deadlines due to the theoretical possibility that someone from Hawaii might enter the competition, but I never thought it would actually happen.

[Ponch]

Wow.  We were always pretty loose on deadlines due to the theoretical possibility that someone from Hawaii might enter the competition, but I never thought it would actually happen.

Truly, it's a beautiful dream brought to life. Nonetheless, this competition could use a few more votes.

[Baron]

....this competition could use a few more votes.

Oh very well.  If it'll bring closure.

Best Use of Vowels: Sinitrena
Horniest Avatar: Ponch
Best Use of Fonts: WHAM
Best Female Actor: Ponch
Best Dangling Participle: Ponch
Best Use of Non-Conventional Adverbs: WHAM
Best Unwritten Sub-Text: Sinitrena
Best Use of Dramatic Pauses: WHAM
Best Contortion of Metaphors: Ponch
Best Sentence Structure: WHAM
Best Character Names: Sinitrena
Best Novel Voting Categories: Baron

[Ponch]

Horniest Avatar: Ponch

Best Dangling Participle: Ponch

My cow refuses to wear pants. Deal with it.

[MiteWiseacreLives!]

OK FINE!
I'll submit an additional vote!
I vote for everyone in every category who is a part of Team Party Wagon.

Spoiler

Who eats potato chips and drinks beer.

Spoiler

Sorry, Ponch... your healthy.. but you don't win.

[close]

[close]

[SilverSpook]

Sorry for the lateness of results everyone, even counting the antipodean time zone difference! 

Anyway, voting is all done, time to count!

Uh oh!  Looks like we have a tie! 

That means it's time for the

MOST CARPENTARIAN SMACKDOWN down down down down...

In the left corner, weighing in at 7 votes, straight outta post-apoc Cleveland Ohio -- John Cena Baron's Escape From The Things!  Haaahhhhhhhh!!! (Breath simulating stadium audience applause)

In the right corner, at a cownormous 7 votes, flown in on a U2 spyplane from neuropsychotic-infected and separately but equally apocalyptic Mars -- Ponch's Untitled Ghost Of Mars Reboot!  Haaaaahhhhhh!!!!!  (+randomly interspersed mooing)

Most Carpentarian Protagonist: BARON.  Smelly brawny men who happen to be anarcho-punk reluctant POTUS savers!  Snide is Carpentarianism distilled down to its high-fructose, 12-guage, Revolution Will Not Be Televised core!

Most Carpentarian Plot: Ponch The 'other' perspective taken in the Martian conqueror origin story was totally awesome, bro!  I had to actually read that thing again to get it.  In a weirdly backwards way, Carpenter has always been about flipping the world inside out to examine the secret fuckedness of civilization and human nature.  They Live being the most obvious, where glasses reveal the true nature of the Ayn Randian, unfettered-capitalist right.  So I feel I need to give this to Ponch for inverting the Mars zombies and telling the story of the indigenous 'Colonized'.  Even if they are creepy bloodthirsty flippin' flesheaters

Most Carpentarian Dialog: Baron.  First of all, any Austrian immigrant, bodybuilder or not, would be deported in shame back to the refugee-generating Eastern European shithole they came from, after failing to recite Ponch's horribly polysyllabic soliloquys, even if they overdubbed it in 3-word chunks. 

Second of all, “I don't like slackers who sleep in all day.”  BOOM. 

I can hear Kirk Russel growling that out, punctuated by the overloud cock of a giant, obviously spraypainted-black Wal-Mart toy shotgun.  Baron was killing the Carpentarian one-liners, complete with the perfect scene setups left and right.  Murdering them.  Dismembering them.

Most Carpentarian Atmosphere: Ponch This was a super close call, as Baron has basically written John Carpenter's 2016 come-back star vehicle for him, and should be added to the DVD box set special features.  But I'll give it to Ponch because he captured the creeping foreboding of Carpenter jewels like "The Thing" and "Halloween".  The slower, gentler, Carpenter.  What James Cameron would call, "Terror, rather than Horror".  That won't-fill-you-up (with mindless meaningless action sequences) never-lets-you-down Carpenter.  This is a bit tricky to do.  I'll forgive Ponch's glaring dearth of kickass one-liners and hardon-deflating absence of sexploitation, tumescent gunpowder-scuffed biceps, and outdated retarded hairstyles.  Just this once.  WTF bro?

Most Carpentarian Writing: Baron Because he got my Amazon wishlist of John Carpenter collectors memorabillia Because who the hell are we kidding?  Of course it's Baron.  "Out-dated women's clothing flew into the wind-shield like a floral-printed snow storm before the truck came to an abrupt stop against a brick wall in the house-wares section."  What!?!?  That could've been a screenplay penned by the man himself!  The fact that Baron is British (I think?) and captured the deeply American Americanisms of Carpentarian B-Movies down to the little nuances of speech and diction deserves some kind of award in and of itself.  Haaaaaaaaahhhhhhh!!!

SO!!!!!



The Bronze Snake Pliskin goes to WHAM.  I have to say, this one is the only story that ACTUALLY scared me.  The final description of the room with doctor along with the suspenseful build up were like the literary equivalent of watching THE THING.  I remember being 11 and reading Goosebumps (only other time I've ever been scared by a book), and literally wanting to run away from the book, but being compelled by some supernatural, Ouija Board-manipulating demon thing to continue to read.  I got that feeling again from this story, so yeah.  You win the SCARE THE SHIT OUT award.  Good job man!   


Silver Snake Pliskin goes to Ponch.  Great spin on a classic Carpenter tail, and a lot of history, character and setting stuffed in there.  But yeah, I was specific about them one liners bro.  Tsk tsk.  Let me demonstrate:

"I came here to kick ass, and be a fascistic enforcer of arbitrary contest rules.  And I'm all out of... foot.  I don't have a foot, a shoe.  Like, to kick your ass.  With.  So I'm going to enforce my stupid rule- NEVERMIND.  Shut up."


And the winner is: Baron for Escape From The Things.  For the most deeply Carpentarian story in terms of writing, character, action sequences, cringe-worthy 80's action tropes, grindhouse action heroes, references to countless random Carpenter movies (Snide), ghetto blasting, DIY Mad Max vehicles (snow plow / dump truck), insane premises (beat box decoys, harpy-pocalypse... harpocalypse), utterly forced romantic entanglements (quick hot sex on the clean patch of ground), and BLOOD BLOOD BLOOD!  If I was a nephew of Jerry Bruckheimer with a zealous devotion to the J.C., I'd greenlight this halfway up the elevator to the imperial suite of the Four Seasons L.A.

So, congratulations, Baron, for winning this month's Fortnightly Writing Competition!  Thank God I don't have the pressure of having to break a 12-contest-long winning streak now!  (Seriously though, great job!)

[Sinitrena]

Congratulations Baron, Ponch and WHAM. It's no shame to lose to such worthy opponents.
And now, Baron, give us a topic I'm actually comfortable with.

[Baron]

Thanks everyone for the votes.  I cringed a little when Ponch didn't win, especially after he mentioned the shelf-full of John Carpenter DVDs.  I only ever saw John Carpenter's Vampires and Escape From LA as a kid (in retrospect, the only video store in town was into really cheesy movies....), but like the other contributors I read up on a bunch of JC's other movies and actually ended up watching The Thing based on a review I read about it.  So I guess my eyes have been opened to something new, and that's probably somehow made me into a better, broader person.  But Ponch's piece had something that mine didn't: PASSION.  You could read it in between his dangling participles, that here was an author that had deep and powerful feelings about Mr. Carpenter and his work.  Sure I read the rules first before writing, but that only resulted in a technical victory.  I think Ponch's piece was more than a sum of its parts that we categorically voted on: it was gripping, emotional, and stirringly well-written, and in my opinion deserved to beat mine, which was just a bunch of goofy tropes from various movies mashed together in a semi-coherent manner.

But it seems you can't talk sense into good judges these days, so I humbly accept the crown, barely, again, and will have the next competition up in a jiffy.  Stay tuned for the next exciting instalment of...

The Fortnightly Writing Competition!

[Ponch]

Thanks for the kind words, everyone. It was nice to be a part of this competition again. I had fun and we all learned that WHAM lives in a house made of shame and lies.