Fortnightly Writing Competition - MASS DISAPPEARANCES (FINISHED)

[Baron]

OK, I've got something started, but we're going back out camping for a couple days and I won't be home until Tuesday night (Aug 30).  Is there any chance for a one or two day extension?

[Mandle]

No worries, mate!

The competition wouldn't be the same without a Baron entry. Extension until September 1st!

[Mandle]

About 24 hours left, but I probably won't be able to officially close the contest until about 12 hours after the deadline, so if anyone wants to sneaky-sneak in during that time gap I'm sure nobody would notice...

[Baron]

Sneaky McSneakface Sneakerson here....

Barnetville Tennessee, 1915

   The throng of angry men and hysterical women chorused like an un-oiled steam engine, at times rumbling threateningly and then screeching alarmingly, all the while casting noxious vapours about the air of the hall.  Wooden benches creaked under the weight of burly miners now standing on them, and objects were now beginning to fly towards the stack of crates that served as a podium.  The director of the mine wisely left the stage, sensing that the runaway pressure in the boiler was about to blow.

   But then, remarkably, a man no one had ever seen before replaced him.  He radiated an authoritative calmness that made the fretful mine director look like a chastened school boy.  His immaculate suit made him seem more official than the local reverend.  He stood such a contrast to the raging and ragged crowd that their ferment cooled instantly like vapour in a condenser, and the resulting vacuum pulled them gently back to their starting points like so many pistons in their cylinders.  They stared at him, awestruck that such a man existed at all in the world, let alone in their miserable corner of it.

   â€œLadies and gentlemen,” the man spoke clearly and concisely, “I am Joseph Austin Holmes, Deputy Director of the Federal Bureau of Mines.  I and my team have handled dozens of mine disasters: we are the experts, and your loved ones' best hope for survival.  According to our information an uncontrolled blast occurred at 0600 hours at the Boswell mine-head, leading to a shaft-collapse and fire, resulting in 22 men and boys unaccounted for.  To further dampen hopes, the primary pumps were damaged in the explosion, resulting in a water-table creep of approximately four feet per hour, which will flood out any remaining air-pockets in roughly 26 hours.  I want to assure you that the best mechanics, engineers, and firemen in the country will be working on restoring the shafts and pumps for that entire time, but I want to soberly caution everyone in this room that the chances of survival are remote and declining by the minute.  Besides asphyxiation from coal-gas and the threat of drowning, there is a very real possibility that an underground fire could smoulder and grow, precluding any rescue or recovery efforts for decades.  In addition, the threat of successive explosions is ever present, so I want to caution members of the community to remain outside the perimeter that my team is setting up even as we speak.  The best thing you can do for your loved-ones right now is to stay out of our way, and pray.”

*    *   *   *   *

   Slowly, sadly, almost wordlessly the crowd dissipated, trudging meekly back to their homes and hovels.  Soon the hall was empty except for a single, lonely woman.  She was Dorothy “Dot” Maybell, one-hundred-and-eight years old as far as anyone could reckon, which apparently wasn't very well in this hillbilly mining town.  Her husband had died of the miner's lung some forty-odd years ago, leaving her to keep bar in the local saloon to feed the family.  Not a respectable career for a family lady, but Dot Maybell never was much for niceties when her family was in trouble.  Now she had two sons and a grandson down that godforsaken pit, and nothing but a bunch of fine-spoken suits to help them out of their impossible predicament.  Now was not a time for niceties.

     No, now was a time for someone who would suffer no nonsense to take charge of the situation, and Dot Maybell had a firm impression that that person was her.  There hadn't been a bar-fight in her saloon since 1875, and she kept an old Colt revolver fastened to her garter and a pair of throwing knives in her nickers to keep it that way.  And between her family and her patrons she had heard enough about coal-mining over the years to know the business inside and out.   Maybe even enough to impress the suits in charge, if they ever bothered to listen to a meek old grandmother, which was unlikely.  But then, she wasn't very likely to listen to them either.

*   *   *   *   *

   â€œI need a full report and I need it two minutes ago,” Joseph Austin Holmes barked to a subordinate as he and a coterie of G-men entered the perimeter.

   â€œWe can't get a clean reading with the spectrometer, sir,” a young man in a suit named Williams replied.  “There seems to be some sort of magnetic interference, possibly originating in the lower strata of rocks.  In fact, about all we have to go on is seismic readings that led us here in the first place.”

   Holmes detected a hint of scepticism in his subordinate's voice, but ignored it.  “Calhoun, is this site secured?”

   â€œYes sir!”

   â€œAre you certain you've located and secured every possible access point, including air-shafts and abandoned works?

   â€œEr, probably sir!”  The man named Calhoun gestured to an even more minor subordinate who was wrestling with several dozen crinkled maps trying to escape in the early evening breeze.  “This whole mountain is like a brick of Swiss cheese, sir.”

   â€œI want this site secured!” Holmes snapped.  “Do you understand me?  Requisition men from the Cumberland office if you need to.  No one gets in or out without my say so.”

   â€œYes sir!”

   â€œBattison, Williams, Brown, and Schuster, you're with me,” Holmes continued, donning a trench coat.  “Johnson and his boys are on standby in case we need back-up.  Farmingham coordinates communications here at the mine head.  Anyone else belongs to Calhoun.  Are there any questions?”  Men suited up and grabbed their kit.  “Good.  Let's go!”
   
*   *   *   *   *

   The rhythmic dripping of water from the mine ceiling and the erratic static from the spectometer were the only sounds in the crypt-like caverns beneath the surface.  Williams led the way with the antenna thrust ahead of him and the rest of the heavy mechanism on his back.  Following was Holmes with a flashlight over his shoulder, and then Brown with his pistol drawn, then Schuster with the maps.  Battison brought up the rear with the telephone wire spool.

   â€œThis is worse than Nevada,” Brown whined.

   â€œCan it, kid,” Schuster muttered.  “Besides, nowhere's worse than Nevada!”

   Holmes tapped Williams on the shoulder, but the scientist shook his head.

   â€œMaybe it was just a blip?” Battison wondered aloud.

   â€œOr maybe we're too late,” Holmes shot back.  They rounded the corner, where the tunnel ended in yet another cave in.  “Can we tell how thick it is?”

   Williams brought another device out of a holster on his pack and and placed the cup end against the debris and the other end into his ear.  He counted quietly to himself, then replied: “About twenty feet.”

   â€œToo far to dig in time,” Holmes muttered, beckoning for a map from Schuster.  “Is there a way around?”

   â€œNothing on the mine specs, sir, but common practice in this type of pit suggests there should be an air shaft somewhere around here.”

   â€œLet's head that way.  Battison: send word to the surface that tunnel B is clear.”

   â€œYes sir!”

*   *   *   *   *

   Dot Maybell slid the dressing trunk to the side in the back room of the saloon, and then lifted the trap door to the cellar.  Her boys still snuck off work sometimes mid-shift and took the secret tunnel to the saloon for a nice lunch above ground.  Only a few of the oldtimers who were around when it was dug knew about it, and Dot had used her throwing knives once or twice to keep it that way.  The mine bosses had no idea it existed, but then they had a hard time telling their own assholes from a mine-shaft.  That meant the fancy G-men had no idea either.  Even her own boys didn't know all the old shafts and crosses, cut back in her husband's day more than fifty years ago.  And that meant that there was a chance, slim as the glimmer of light up a narrow air-shaft, but a chance nonetheless that she could circumvent the collapse and get to her boys.  Dot grabbed the rusty old safety lamp from the wall and quickly ducked through the dwarf-sized door into the bowels of the earth.

*   *   *   *   *

   There was an audible change to the pitch of the static from William's spectrometer, and Holmes ordered the suited procession to stop.  “We have something.  Relay our current location to the surface.”

   â€œWe're in uncharted tunnels now,” Schuster revealed.

   â€œDamn it, man!  Then give them our approximate location.  And get Johnson's team down in the hole.  They can follow our wire if things get-”

   Williams raised his hand, slowly moving his antenna back and forth.  The static faded in and out, replaced momentarily by a definite hum.

   â€œHoly shit,” Brown muttered, cocking his gun.

   â€œYou know you can't shoot that thing down here with all the coal-gas, right?” Schuster pointed out.

   â€œHoly sh-”

   â€œWhatever it is, it's moving,” Williams said, waving his antenna and squinting at the dials in the dim light.

   â€œWhere?  How far?” Holmes demanded.

   â€œOn approximately a parallel course.  Maybe forty feet through the rock.  There must be another tunnel.”

   Joseph Austin Holmes considered his options.  “All right.  Williams and I proceed with Battison, while Brown and Schuster backtrack.  I want this wall scoured for any kind of a link, no matter how small.  If you find anything one man stands guard and the other reports to Johnson.  Go!"

*   *   *   *   *

   The phone rang at the surface coordination centre and Farmingham picked it up.

   â€œSlow down, Johnson,” he said irritably.  “I can't make you out.  There's a lot of static on the line.  What?  Brown?  Shoved up Schuster's what?!?  Good god!  I'm sending Calhoun with the medic.  I said I'm sending -hello?  Hello?”

   Farmingham barked an order to a subordinate and then got back on the phone.  No answer from Johnson's team.  Next he tried Holmes.  The silence between the rings stretched out to a sickening length.  He was about to hang up when suddenly the call went through.

   â€œHello?” an old woman's voice answered

   Farmingham almost fell off his stool.  “Who is this?” he asked, confused.  He frantically waved down another subordinate and hurriedly scratched out a note reading “Code 9!”

   â€œThis is Dorothy Ann Maybell, and who might you be?”

   â€œThis is agent Farmingham with the Paranorm- er, the U.S. Bureau of Mines.  May I speak with agent Holmes please?

   â€œIs that the fancy boss man?” the old lady asked.

   â€œYes, ma'am.”  Farmingham spun his fingers in the air at the panting Calhoun to signal him that they had to go into containment mode.

   â€œHe and his friend with the electric flute walked into the brilliant light in the main gallery,” the old woman told him.

   â€œElectric flute?” Farmingham prodded.  “You mean Williams and his spectrometer?”

   â€œA lovely instrument,” the old lady prattled on.  “Like a song out of a dream.”

   â€œWhat about Battison?  He'd be the fellow attached to the phone you're speaking on.

   â€œOh, there's not much left of him,” the woman said nonchalantly.

   â€œWhat happened?  Did you see the bogey, ma'am?”

   â€œSaw it?  I stabbed the SOB right in the, well, it's hard to explain really.  It's kind of halfway between it's ninth tentacle and it's spider ass.  Whining like a gelded bull now.  Any way,  can't talk now as I'm off to kingdom come to save my boys.  Keep your G-men out of my bar or there'll be hell to pay!  Ta!”

   With that the line went dead. 

   Farmingham rubbed his temples soothingly.  This evening was going to generate a whole shit ton of paperwork.

[Mandle]

The contest is now closed, and voting is open:

The entries are:

DBoyWheeler:
FULL ENTRY HERE:

Spoiler

A mild storm dropped rain at a camp, with one person within his tent.  But all the other tents were empty.  The young man, wearing hiking attire, had put his hat down to scratch at his black hair.  His pale gray eyes, open with concern of his missing comrades, looked on as he opened up a book he retrieved from his backpackâ€"this book happened to be his journal.

The one person wrote in his journal:

"Greetings, to whom it may concern.

"My name is Richter.  I am the sole person remaining of my spelunking groupâ€"originally a group of twenty.

"We had just discovered a new cave that opened up shortly after a small 3.5 earthquake.  It opened up in the mountains a few miles from my hometown.

"Curious, we all went to enter the cavern.  It only went in about thirty-five feet, before finding a strange mural on a wall.  It looked like a painting of an ancient island city over a large sea.

"We set up camp for the night to see more of the mural the next day.  But when I awoke, I saw the camp was empty, except for myself.  All the equipment and food was here, and the tents were still intact, but except for me, the camp was deserted.

"I went back into the cave, and saw the mural.  I was startled to see the mural show the city occupied--was the mural smudged at first, thus preventing us to see the people in the mural earlier?  Or perhaps... no, I must be going mad to even THINK that possibility!

"I have returned to camp safely, wondering why I am currently here, and not with my colleagues.  Are my companions playing a trick on me, or is there something sinister afoot?  I do not know.

"Finding my camp's contact radio, I signaled for help to come.  Perhaps they can help find out what became of my party.  Heaven willing, I will awaken the next day still here.  I must find out what in blazes is going on!  I am writing this page here in the event fate decrees otherwise, and this journal becomes the sole remaining witness of the events that occurred here."

After he finished writing, Richter put his journal away, said a silent prayer, and went to sleep in his sleeping bag, albeit a very light sleep.

[close]

Stupot+:
FULL ENTRY HERE:

Spoiler

And there they were.
Gone.

[close]

Blondbraid:
FULL ENTRY HERE:

Spoiler

Hello there good folks!
I have great interest in life, a field which I have dedicated much of my time and and research,
and multiple long time first hand experiences I'll have you know.

Oral fungus and algae infections!
I have even prepared a slide show with full-color images for you!
Just wait right there and I'll get the diapositives set up!



Wait, where did everyone go?

[close]

Sinetrena:
FULL ENTRY HERE:

Spoiler

Ruins

On the ruins of former demonstrations of power
bloom buds of roses, of lilies, of pinks
and take back what was once human's tower
for the wolf, the fox and the lynx.
Mortar crumbles to dust that the wind blows away
into times long forgotten and gone.
And what was once built to last and to stay
is now the playing ground for a fawn.
The asphalt is broken by powerful roots,
a garbage pile home for daffodils.
This highway is now a garden of fruits
and former houses are nothing but hills.

Out of the ruins of former symbols of might,
that are now fallen into despair,
soar twittering larks into the light
and on the ground dances a bear.
Former cities are now forests and fields.
Sunken ships became coral reefs.
They tried all, weapons and shields
and for a while there were fallen leaves.
But then, this was the new world to follow:
Moles peep out behind rusty bikes.
Behind the butchers, pigs now wallow.
And the sea takes dying dykes.

And the ruin of this that came before
was not an earthquake, was not storm and flood.
The owners themselves, they opened the door
with their words, their hatred, their wars and blood.
Now nothing is left of what once was all
but the ground on which new occupants walk.
Gone is all that once stood tall,
gone their hope that was nothing but talk.
Death takes life and life takes death.
Iron chains become twines of flowers.
What is the end for one is the other's first breath -
through eons, through years, through hours.

[close]

Baron:
FULL ENTRY HERE:

Spoiler

Barnetville Tennessee, 1915

   The throng of angry men and hysterical women chorused like an un-oiled steam engine, at times rumbling threateningly and then screeching alarmingly, all the while casting noxious vapours about the air of the hall.  Wooden benches creaked under the weight of burly miners now standing on them, and objects were now beginning to fly towards the stack of crates that served as a podium.  The director of the mine wisely left the stage, sensing that the runaway pressure in the boiler was about to blow.

   But then, remarkably, a man no one had ever seen before replaced him.  He radiated an authoritative calmness that made the fretful mine director look like a chastened school boy.  His immaculate suit made him seem more official than the local reverend.  He stood such a contrast to the raging and ragged crowd that their ferment cooled instantly like vapour in a condenser, and the resulting vacuum pulled them gently back to their starting points like so many pistons in their cylinders.  They stared at him, awestruck that such a man existed at all in the world, let alone in their miserable corner of it.

   â€œLadies and gentlemen,” the man spoke clearly and concisely, “I am Joseph Austin Holmes, Deputy Director of the Federal Bureau of Mines.  I and my team have handled dozens of mine disasters: we are the experts, and your loved ones' best hope for survival.  According to our information an uncontrolled blast occurred at 0600 hours at the Boswell mine-head, leading to a shaft-collapse and fire, resulting in 22 men and boys unaccounted for.  To further dampen hopes, the primary pumps were damaged in the explosion, resulting in a water-table creep of approximately four feet per hour, which will flood out any remaining air-pockets in roughly 26 hours.  I want to assure you that the best mechanics, engineers, and firemen in the country will be working on restoring the shafts and pumps for that entire time, but I want to soberly caution everyone in this room that the chances of survival are remote and declining by the minute.  Besides asphyxiation from coal-gas and the threat of drowning, there is a very real possibility that an underground fire could smoulder and grow, precluding any rescue or recovery efforts for decades.  In addition, the threat of successive explosions is ever present, so I want to caution members of the community to remain outside the perimeter that my team is setting up even as we speak.  The best thing you can do for your loved-ones right now is to stay out of our way, and pray.”

*    *   *   *   *

   Slowly, sadly, almost wordlessly the crowd dissipated, trudging meekly back to their homes and hovels.  Soon the hall was empty except for a single, lonely woman.  She was Dorothy “Dot” Maybell, one-hundred-and-eight years old as far as anyone could reckon, which apparently wasn't very well in this hillbilly mining town.  Her husband had died of the miner's lung some forty-odd years ago, leaving her to keep bar in the local saloon to feed the family.  Not a respectable career for a family lady, but Dot Maybell never was much for niceties when her family was in trouble.  Now she had two sons and a grandson down that godforsaken pit, and nothing but a bunch of fine-spoken suits to help them out of their impossible predicament.  Now was not a time for niceties.

     No, now was a time for someone who would suffer no nonsense to take charge of the situation, and Dot Maybell had a firm impression that that person was her.  There hadn't been a bar-fight in her saloon since 1875, and she kept an old Colt revolver fastened to her garter and a pair of throwing knives in her nickers to keep it that way.  And between her family and her patrons she had heard enough about coal-mining over the years to know the business inside and out.   Maybe even enough to impress the suits in charge, if they ever bothered to listen to a meek old grandmother, which was unlikely.  But then, she wasn't very likely to listen to them either.

*   *   *   *   *

   â€œI need a full report and I need it two minutes ago,” Joseph Austin Holmes barked to a subordinate as he and a coterie of G-men entered the perimeter.

   â€œWe can't get a clean reading with the spectrometer, sir,” a young man in a suit named Williams replied.  “There seems to be some sort of magnetic interference, possibly originating in the lower strata of rocks.  In fact, about all we have to go on is seismic readings that led us here in the first place.”

   Holmes detected a hint of scepticism in his subordinate's voice, but ignored it.  “Calhoun, is this site secured?”

   â€œYes sir!”

   â€œAre you certain you've located and secured every possible access point, including air-shafts and abandoned works?

   â€œEr, probably sir!”  The man named Calhoun gestured to an even more minor subordinate who was wrestling with several dozen crinkled maps trying to escape in the early evening breeze.  “This whole mountain is like a brick of Swiss cheese, sir.”

   â€œI want this site secured!” Holmes snapped.  “Do you understand me?  Requisition men from the Cumberland office if you need to.  No one gets in or out without my say so.”

   â€œYes sir!”

   â€œBattison, Williams, Brown, and Schuster, you're with me,” Holmes continued, donning a trench coat.  “Johnson and his boys are on standby in case we need back-up.  Farmingham coordinates communications here at the mine head.  Anyone else belongs to Calhoun.  Are there any questions?”  Men suited up and grabbed their kit.  “Good.  Let's go!”
   
*   *   *   *   *

   The rhythmic dripping of water from the mine ceiling and the erratic static from the spectometer were the only sounds in the crypt-like caverns beneath the surface.  Williams led the way with the antenna thrust ahead of him and the rest of the heavy mechanism on his back.  Following was Holmes with a flashlight over his shoulder, and then Brown with his pistol drawn, then Schuster with the maps.  Battison brought up the rear with the telephone wire spool.

   â€œThis is worse than Nevada,” Brown whined.

   â€œCan it, kid,” Schuster muttered.  “Besides, nowhere's worse than Nevada!”

   Holmes tapped Williams on the shoulder, but the scientist shook his head.

   â€œMaybe it was just a blip?” Battison wondered aloud.

   â€œOr maybe we're too late,” Holmes shot back.  They rounded the corner, where the tunnel ended in yet another cave in.  “Can we tell how thick it is?”

   Williams brought another device out of a holster on his pack and and placed the cup end against the debris and the other end into his ear.  He counted quietly to himself, then replied: “About twenty feet.”

   â€œToo far to dig in time,” Holmes muttered, beckoning for a map from Schuster.  “Is there a way around?”

   â€œNothing on the mine specs, sir, but common practice in this type of pit suggests there should be an air shaft somewhere around here.”

   â€œLet's head that way.  Battison: send word to the surface that tunnel B is clear.”

   â€œYes sir!”

*   *   *   *   *

   Dot Maybell slid the dressing trunk to the side in the back room of the saloon, and then lifted the trap door to the cellar.  Her boys still snuck off work sometimes mid-shift and took the secret tunnel to the saloon for a nice lunch above ground.  Only a few of the oldtimers who were around when it was dug knew about it, and Dot had used her throwing knives once or twice to keep it that way.  The mine bosses had no idea it existed, but then they had a hard time telling their own assholes from a mine-shaft.  That meant the fancy G-men had no idea either.  Even her own boys didn't know all the old shafts and crosses, cut back in her husband's day more than fifty years ago.  And that meant that there was a chance, slim as the glimmer of light up a narrow air-shaft, but a chance nonetheless that she could circumvent the collapse and get to her boys.  Dot grabbed the rusty old safety lamp from the wall and quickly ducked through the dwarf-sized door into the bowels of the earth.

*   *   *   *   *

   There was an audible change to the pitch of the static from William's spectrometer, and Holmes ordered the suited procession to stop.  “We have something.  Relay our current location to the surface.”

   â€œWe're in uncharted tunnels now,” Schuster revealed.

   â€œDamn it, man!  Then give them our approximate location.  And get Johnson's team down in the hole.  They can follow our wire if things get-”

   Williams raised his hand, slowly moving his antenna back and forth.  The static faded in and out, replaced momentarily by a definite hum.

   â€œHoly shit,” Brown muttered, cocking his gun.

   â€œYou know you can't shoot that thing down here with all the coal-gas, right?” Schuster pointed out.

   â€œHoly sh-”

   â€œWhatever it is, it's moving,” Williams said, waving his antenna and squinting at the dials in the dim light.

   â€œWhere?  How far?” Holmes demanded.

   â€œOn approximately a parallel course.  Maybe forty feet through the rock.  There must be another tunnel.”

   Joseph Austin Holmes considered his options.  “All right.  Williams and I proceed with Battison, while Brown and Schuster backtrack.  I want this wall scoured for any kind of a link, no matter how small.  If you find anything one man stands guard and the other reports to Johnson.  Go!"

*   *   *   *   *

   The phone rang at the surface coordination centre and Farmingham picked it up.

   â€œSlow down, Johnson,” he said irritably.  “I can't make you out.  There's a lot of static on the line.  What?  Brown?  Shoved up Schuster's what?!?  Good god!  I'm sending Calhoun with the medic.  I said I'm sending -hello?  Hello?”

   Farmingham barked an order to a subordinate and then got back on the phone.  No answer from Johnson's team.  Next he tried Holmes.  The silence between the rings stretched out to a sickening length.  He was about to hang up when suddenly the call went through.

   â€œHello?” an old woman's voice answered

   Farmingham almost fell off his stool.  “Who is this?” he asked, confused.  He frantically waved down another subordinate and hurriedly scratched out a note reading “Code 9!”

   â€œThis is Dorothy Ann Maybell, and who might you be?”

   â€œThis is agent Farmingham with the Paranorm- er, the U.S. Bureau of Mines.  May I speak with agent Holmes please?

   â€œIs that the fancy boss man?” the old lady asked.

   â€œYes, ma'am.”  Farmingham spun his fingers in the air at the panting Calhoun to signal him that they had to go into containment mode.

   â€œHe and his friend with the electric flute walked into the brilliant light in the main gallery,” the old woman told him.

   â€œElectric flute?” Farmingham prodded.  “You mean Williams and his spectrometer?”

   â€œA lovely instrument,” the old lady prattled on.  “Like a song out of a dream.”

   â€œWhat about Battison?  He'd be the fellow attached to the phone you're speaking on.

   â€œOh, there's not much left of him,” the woman said nonchalantly.

   â€œWhat happened?  Did you see the bogey, ma'am?”

   â€œSaw it?  I stabbed the SOB right in the, well, it's hard to explain really.  It's kind of halfway between it's ninth tentacle and it's spider ass.  Whining like a gelded bull now.  Any way,  can't talk now as I'm off to kingdom come to save my boys.  Keep your G-men out of my bar or there'll be hell to pay!  Ta!”

   With that the line went dead. 

   Farmingham rubbed his temples soothingly.  This evening was going to generate a whole shit ton of paperwork.

[close]

Remember to vote in all categories:

Best Character: Your favorite character.
Best Setting: The world-building you enjoyed the most.
Best Plot: Pacing, story-arc, and non-put-downability of the work.
Best Writing: Elegant use of language.
Best Editing: For works that have been properly pruned to avoid rambling and just tell the damn story.
Best Mystery: For the story that really made you want to keep reading to find out what the frick happened/was happening that could make all those people just vanish...Of course an actual resolution is usually part of a great mystery story.

Good luck to all participants!

[kconan]

Best Character: Baron...for Dorothy Ann Maybell
Best Setting: Sinitrena...This fantastic entry was mainly setting and background world.
Best Plot: Baron...The man can spin a yarn.
Best Writing: Sinitrena...Really well written from start-to-finish; especially the opening line that sets the tone.
Best Editing: Baron...One man's "ramble" is another man's fleshed out character or setting, so I read this category more as grammar/typos.
Best Mystery: DBoyWheeler...Fine entries all-around, but I felt like his centered around a real-deal mystery.

[Baron]

Best Character: I'm going with Blondbraid for his socially inept "expert in life" who can't understand why everyone always disappears.
Best Setting: I think Sinitrena wins this for evocative imagery of nature swallowing humanity's overwrought nests and anthills. 
Best Plot: Gotta be DBoyWheeler for his spelunker mystery.
Best Writing: Hands down Sinitrena for the double rhyme. 
Best Editing: Ultimately Stupot+ has winnowed away the most chaff, leaving nothing but pure minimalism to tell the story.
Best Mystery: Although there was an element of mystery to all the submissions,DBoyWheeler wins my vote for creating a creepy twilight zone style enigma.

[DBoyWheeler]

Best Plot: Gotta be DBoyWheeler for his spelunker mystery.
Best Mystery: Although there was an element of mystery to all the submissions,DBoyWheeler wins my vote for creating a creepy twilight zone style enigma.

Man, I didn't realize my story gave a Twilight Zone feel.  Thanks for the compliments, Baron.  And I thank kconan for his compliments, too!

[Mandle]

Trophies are in the works!!!

The amazing CeaserCub has agreed to make them for me, and the one I've seen so far is awesome!!!

[Blondbraid]

Best character:Dorothy Ann Maybell by Baron, hands down!
Best setting:Sinitrena, the setting itself is the plot and protagonist of the poem.
Best plot:Baron an the mystery in the mine.
Best writing:Sinitrena, I'm impressed with the pacing and rhymes.
Best editing:A though coice, but I'm going with the minimalism of Stupot+.
Best mystery:I'd say DBoyWheeler's entry is the one with most mystery to it.

[Mandle]

And YAAAAAAAAAYYY!!!

TROPHIES:

1ST PLACE:

[imgzoom]http://i.imgur.com/TvqURMV.gif[/imgzoom]

2ND PLACE:

[imgzoom]http://i.imgur.com/L44CKI7.gif[/imgzoom]

3RD PLACE:

[imgzoom]http://i.imgur.com/PQLs9Qr.gif[/imgzoom]


Thanks so much to CaeserCub for creating these!!!

[Sinitrena]

Phew, I'm glad we have a long voting period this time. I was afraid I'd be too late. (Had a bad case of pink eye - couldn't read )

Best Character: Blondbraid's clueless speaker. I know people that are enthusiastic about a topic while everyone else just shakes their head and their eyes glaze over. Very true to life, relatable and likeable because of it.

Best Setting: Hands down Baron here.

Best Plot: I was torn between Baron and DBoyWheeler here. Both have a discernable story arc, that is intruiguing to some degree - and both have some problems with it. For Baron, the fact that the reason for the disappearence of the miners is supernatural actually doesn't matter for the story at all. It would be the same if the government workers were just there to rescue the miners and the reason for the accidant was an earthquacke or bad support beams. A supernatural explanation adds absoluetly nothing. As for DBoyWheelers story, the timeline just doesn't make sense: The cave is a few miles from their hometown. Richter awakes in the morning to find his friends gone, goes to the cave, signals for help, writes his journal and then... goes to sleep? That didn't take a whole day, and a rescue team can't be that far away, even if it is a small amateur one from their hometown. But in the end, I go with DBoyWheeler here.

Best Writing: Blondbraid Sometimes, simple and to the point is the best.

Best Editing: Stupot+, even though I doubt there was all that much editing involved in this. (I'm not exactly happy with this category. Editing is a process and you often don't really see the results. Unless you limit the definition to spelling and grammar mistakes. Besides, I usually see this as part of the writing category.)

Best Mystery: DBoyWheeler, even though the greatest mystery for me was the timeline...

[Stupot]

Best Editing: Stupot+, even though I doubt there was all that much editing involved in this.

You should've seen the first draft

[Mandle]

Best Character: Dorothy Ann Maybell from Baron's story...Tough old broads are always awesome characters!
Best Setting: Sinitrena: It was like an episode of "Life After People", which I loved back in the day... 
Best Plot: Baron...I loved the rescue story, and also loved the joke of just throwing the supernatural cause straight in the bin the moment it was mentioned: Gravity Falls did the same with Cthulhu strutting all around all over the place but never mentioned or addressed at all: Funny stuff!
Best Writing: Sinitrena...such a beautiful poem...
Best Editing: Baron: The style of the story was very verbose, but on purpose, and consistant. Also, I noticed that he cut down on the extravagant prose when the action was getting hotter, for the quicker read those sections deserved.
Best Mystery: DBoyWheeler...There was a real mystery and yeah, it felt like a Twilight Zone episode as someone pointed out...

[Mandle]

Compiling votes soon...

EDIT: I've been working on "Tales" until 1AM, so sorry guys...I'm gonna have to leave the vote tallying until tomorrow...

Please forgive me in the future while you are playing this masterpiece that it is...

[Mandle]

The final scores are as follows:

Blondbraid: 3
Baron:8
Sinitrena: 8
DBoyWheeler: 7
Stupot: 3

So we have two ties!

Sinitrena and Baron may both accept their GOLD TROPHIES:

[imgzoom]http://i.imgur.com/TvqURMV.gif[/imgzoom]

DBoyWheeler: Here's your SILVER TROPHY:

[imgzoom]http://i.imgur.com/L44CKI7.gif[/imgzoom]

And to Stupot and Blondbraid: BRONZE TROPHIES:

[imgzoom]http://i.imgur.com/PQLs9Qr.gif[/imgzoom]

(Please remember to re-host your trophy's image if you value its permanence, as I cannot guarantee that the current links will be permanent...)

So...what to do about the tie?

I have an interesting idea:

Both winners set their own theme for the next round, and stories should combine both themes into a single work...

So...in this case: Who hosts the round?

Whichever winner wants to I suppose: If both want to host then they can be dual-hosts, or I could just flip a coin...

So...for now: Could Sinetrena and Baron decide what they want to do, but don't mention possible themes to each other or post them in this thread!

I think a double-blind system would be more interesting: Where each winner sends me their theme to be revealed only after both winners have decided upon one...

I feel this could provide the most interesting mash-up possibilities...

So...what do you both want to do regarding the hosting?

CONGRATZ AND CHEERS TO ALL PARTICIPANTS!!!

[Sinitrena]

While your idea does sound interesting, there is no need for it. You miscounted. Baron recieved 9 votes total, and I 8, so he is the winner.

Thanks for all your votes and complements and congrats Baron. It is your turn again.

[DBoyWheeler]

WOO!  Got the silver trophy!  Neat!

[Mandle]

While your idea does sound interesting, there is no need for it. You miscounted. Baron recieved 9 votes total, and I 8, so he is the winner.

Ahhhh...It was such a cool idea too I thought

Oh well...Someone feel free to use it in the event of the next tie, maybe?

Over to you Baron!

[Baron]

Big thanks to CaeserCub for the trophies!

A good round as always, although I will miss the opportunity to co-host with Sinitrena again.  I'll try to have the next topic up shortly.

Congratulations to all participants!