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[The Visit is Scheduled for Today]

True to theme, we'll vote in two ways:

• [...]
• The story you think would be even greater if it was written in a different genre (name the genre and the benefits you see).

I'm not sure that's a good premisse for voting, because it basically asks the voter to reward someone for not doing a great job - A story set in the perfect genre (no matter how 'genre' is defined in this context, which is also a question), perfect in everything, would receive less votes than a flawed story that would have worked better in a different genre.
Honsetly, I don't think it's much of a problem, but better I point it out now than during voting.

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Oh, and I also have an entry for y'all:

The Visit is Scheduled for Today

Spoiler

The door closed behind him, slowly but surely. He always loved her level-headedness, her calming influence. And so he turned around one last time, but only in his mind. He hesitated when he walked away, or so he told himself. In truth, his steps were fast, sure, direct, strong. Later, yes later, the hesitation was in his thoughts, the uncertainty. But not then. In his memory, his hands brushed over the door knob one last time, his eyes were glued to the smooth paint as he walked away, he stumbled slightly over the uneven stones of the pathway. In his memory, he wanted to return, in his memory, he didn't want to go.

In truth... But what is truth?

The car keys did slip from his hands, the wheels clipped the curb, that much is true. But was it anger on his mind or were it tears in his eyes? Later, well... We know what he thought later, we know what he told himself, over and over again, until he believed it himself. When he drove too fast away from his wife, from his kids, his family, towards a new wife, new kids, a new family, he did not spare a thought for what he left, only for what was to come.

Or maybe there were some thoughts for his daughter, for his son. He'd call them often, he told himself. But what is often? He called them regularly, but what is regular? Once a year? Twice?

And the years passed. And for years he did not look back. He did not go back. He forgot the yellow house with the roses among a sea of pebbles in the front garden, the rickety shed he never finished to built in the back, the abysmal pink shower curtain his wife, Lilly-Anne, loved, the antique bookshelf he bought at a flee market far under value and still never sold...

Many years passed and life went on, a normal life, a happy life, just like any other, with his wife and his kids, two boys this time, until she died and the twins married, had children of their own, a life of their own.

And he was close to death.

His children knew as much, all four of them. And today they were scheduled to visit. His two boys came, with their wives and his grandchildren, with flowers and a book he would never even start to read, they embraced him, kissed him, said goodbye, though they did not admit it yet, not to themselves, not to him.

And his son and his daughter from his first marriage? They did come, or they did not. Who would be able to tell? Not him, for he met ME.

My visit was also scheduled for today. It always was, from the day of his birth to this day, and it never changed, not during his car accident, not when he nearly drowned as a child. It was always today.

How does he see me? Who would know? Not even I know how I seem to you, but here I am. It is time for me to take you to a world far from this, strange from this. I am the guide in the shadow, the path forward where no path goes back. Reach for my hand and I shall lead you, bring you forward to the world beyond.

(My hesitation is not visible to him. It is not true either, but what would he care?)

Or, I could give you one last choice, one last chance to change your regrets. I only offer one. One choice, one chance, one decision. Now and in the past. Choose now, and choose in what once was. Change one regret in your life.

(I do not tell him why I offer him this choice. Why would he need to know? Or that I offer it to all.)

It is clear in your mind from the moment the thought first settles what you want to change and so you do. You return back in time, through years and decades, through lives lived and lives forgotten, to decisions and memories, until he last stands in front of a different door and the words spoken before were so similar to before, yet so very different.

The door closed behind him, fast, heavy, thrown in anger. A sigh left his lips, he knew it was going to be that way. He loved her temperament, her spirit, but when he walked down the steps of the front garden he didn't look back. Later, he told himself he did. He believed it even. In his memory, this visit merged with all the others, just as secret, just as passionate, but passionate differently. Lust was replaced by anger, love by hate. He walked away so fast he knocked over the old garden gnome. In his memory, he stopped and set it upright again, in his memory, tears fell down on the bleached out plastic and the gnome did not roll into the streets that day. In his memory, he wanted to return, in his memory, he didn't want to go.

In truth... Well, who knows?

The car did drive over the gnome, shattered it under its heavy wheels, that much is true, but not for him. His memories were of regret, of the things lost, of the things that would never be. Later, that is. Later he remembered his hesitation, the questions he asked himself then, but in truth... Not then, not when he drove away from his mistress, pregnant with twins, when he drove back to his old family, his old life, his two children, the son and daughter he loved.

He'd visit, he'd said, had said so to his lover. And so he did. At some point. At some time. He visited. But not too often, not always, not ever from some time on.

And the years passed. And for years he hardly ever looked back, he almost forgot his fling. He hardly remembered the wild night that broke the bed frame, the night he told his wife he had to work longer, almost forgot the young strong tree he planted in the garden, the green wallpaper for the nursery they still picked out together and that Meredith loved, the drawing he made of her and that she sold off many years later...

Many years passed and life went on, a normal life, a happy life, just like any other, with his wife and his kids, the boy and the girl, until she died and the kids married, had children of their own, a life of their own.

And he was closer to ME.

So close was he on the day their visit was scheduled, that he embraced his son and his daughter one last time. He kissed his grandchildren, he laughed with them. They had brought flowers and a book he wouldn't read, they said goodbye and they knew it was for the last time.

And the twins, did they also come? Who would be able to tell? Well, I, but why should I? What does it matter when he would never know, for he did not live to see it, for his visit with me was scheduled for today.

And so we met again, and so we meet again. I step towards your bed and look down on you, old fragile man, with so many regrets and so many choices, so many paths before you once, and now none.

I granted you a boon once, many years ago or now, today, in this moment. What is the difference? And you took it, as all of you do. You do not remember yet – and now you do, as I grant it to you, right before I take you from this world, take you through the great desert of the unknown, towards the black gates and the fields beyond. I shall be your guide and your leader, the path and the question, the stone and the walking staff.

So I ask you now, which memories shall I take, which life do you wish to remember, which decision is your final one, for it is the last in this world and the irrevocable one.

I hear your cries, your begging. Both of them, you want. Both paths, both women, all at the same time. But both paths was not our deal, both women never an option. There is no third option, no convenient way out, no escape. You were always going to leave one, you were always going to leave one life behind. It is in your nature, in your very being. That, I cannot change, I would not change. I just offered you the option to take one decision again in your life. A single one. A generous offer, as you know.

Does the path you humans take ever feel completely right? Which memories shall I take?

Or should the reader decide? Lilly-Anne or Meredith? Maybe you should look through their decisions, their regrets.

The door closed behind him, and she stared at it for a long time. She had always loved his steadiness, his clear path in life...

[close]

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I have a vague second idea in mind, but I'll probably not finish it, so don't wait for it.

[to flub a single line:]

And that's voting done!

(First time in FWC history where it's acceptable (even necessary) to vote for one's own story? I chose the one that has zero chance of winning. I mean, by that logic, I could have just left it blank, but this seemed like too historic a moment to miss out on.)

I apologize, that was an oversight on my part. I didn't realise that due to the configuration of the entries, there was no real choice for you in the long version category. Oops. Sorry. As an exception, your vote for yourself is accepted.


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Lejeune Landing:

Spoiler

This is an interesting story, but I don't think either version works without the other. The short version hardly sets up the mystery, as there are many, many other explanations for the other boat, and the long version misses a lot of details of what the case is actually about. Taken together, this is a very interesting story though, with an interesting mystery, an overall fascinating case and great sollucion. I could critique some of the questions/answers in court, as I think some wouldn't be allowed in real life, for example because they're calling for speculation or because the police testifies to something that falls into the perview of the coroner, but these are minor details overall. It's a good story and I'm glad you found your way to our little competition.

[close]

The Stupid Things They Have Us Do in Hell to Pass Eternity

Spoiler

There's obviously no substantial difference between long and short version here, the more surprised I was to find one sentence (except for the counting, obviously) that was actually changed: Short: "But now I really care, as I approach the goal, trying really hard this time not to flub a single line:"; Long: "But now I really care, as I approach the goal, trying really hard this time not to flub a single word, my future on the line: A weird little difference one could probably write a whole thesis on ;-)
The approach to the topic is basically the oposite to brushfe's. Where they have two versions that require each other to get the full picture, yours doesn't really change or add anything. I like the story in and of itself. The punishment is clever, tedious and in a way very classic - as in, it reminds me very much of Sysiphus.

[close]

High Coup:

Spoiler

This again, is an entry that requires both parts to give the full picture to the reader. The contrast between Abraham and Trump (and theor opinion) can only be seen when reading both poems. But it creates an interesting, thought-provoking contrast.

[close]

"My name is John, and I'm a clone."

Spoiler

I think I like the doubled element in this story the most; it is also clearest here. The idea of a clone self-help group (Clones Annonymous?) is clever and the way clones are apparently used to replace loved ones is an interesting trigger point for trauma. The ending felt a bit abrupt and also a bit unclear. So, Ethan is the originall John? Then what did the guy in the bar see as a kid? Or Ethan is another clone, but apparently all in the room exapt Etan are clones. I'm sure a longer version would have cleaned up these questions and I'm sad we didn't get to read it.

[close]

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And here are the results:

Short Versions:

- High Coup  - 1 point
- The Stupid Things They Have Us Do in Hell to Pass Eternity - 2 points
- Lejeune Landing - 3 points
- "My name is John, and I'm a clone." - 6 points


Long Versions:

- The Stupid Things They Have Us Do in Hell to Pass Eternity - 2 points
- High Coup  - 4 points
- Lejeune Landing - 6 points


And that gives us the following overall result:

- The Stupid Things They Have Us Do in Hell to Pass Eternity - 4 points and our 4th place
- High Coup  - 5 points and our 3rd place
- "My name is John, and I'm a clone." - 6 points and our 2nd place
- Lejeune Landing - 9 points and our 1st place!


Congratulations to brushfe for winning this round of the Fortnightly Writing Competition.
It's your turn now to start the next round.

See you there.

[Lejeune Landing]

Best wishes to your wife, Baron, I hope everything is okay.


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But with that, submissions are closed for this round. These are our entries:

- Lejeune Landing by brushfe
- The Stupid Things They Have Us Do in Hell to Pass Eternity by Mandle
- High Coup by Mandle
- "My name is John, and I'm a clone." by Stupot

It is now time to vote. You may vote for a 1st (2 points) and 2nd place (1 point) for the short versions and a 1st and 2nd place for the long versions (so 4 votes in total). Please compare the short versions only to the short versions and the long versions only to the long versions. You can give both your first places (or second) to the same group of stories. Unfortunately, Stupot did not manage to get a long version in, so he is only eligable for votes in the short version category.

Voting deadline: 23th June.

Last day (and a bit) for entries! Don't forget to post!

Honestly, I can't imagine anything more tedious. Even writing the long version first and then paring it down to half means so much planned filler that it makes my head spin.

EDIT: After my initial response, I see there are ways to make this work and for it to be interesting for both the writer and the reader. All good. (The double-story part might still work better as an optional step, though)

I'm glad you see how it could work now. It's meant to challenge how we approach writing, how the length of a story shapes how we tell it.
Of course, I can't force anybody to give us two versions of their stories. (I could disqualify, but considering the number of entries we normally get, you know I won't do that.) But I told you how voting will work this round, so if you only write one version, you'll only be eligable for half the points. 

1. Can the second story's additional words elaborate on the plot of the first, or does it have to retell exactly the same story?

It can elaborate, of course. Otherwise, you would just add purple prose to the already existing skeleton of a story, that's not the point. But if you add too much additional content, the question becomes if it is still the same story. That's part of the challenge. So, choose wisely!

2. To clarify, should the title of the second story also be double twice as long as the title of the first?

I assumed the title would stay the same. It doesn't need to be doubled, but it can i you want to.

[... and double that!]

... and double that!


Welcome to the next round of the Fortnightly Writing Competition.

This round, we think in doubles. Your job is it to write a story that contains something that is doubled in one way or the other. It could be a story about twins, a doppleganger, a bill that is unexpectedly double the expected - anything that is somehow twice as much as expected, in the widest interpretation possible. (Correction: whatever is doubled doesn't need to be unexpected.)

But that is not all. When we double something in the stories, why not double the stories as well? The challenge is to write a story of 200 to 600 words and then tell the same story again with double the number of words, always plus the title. (For example, your version 1 is 321 words, then your version 2 needs to be 642 words.) Obviously, the initial word limit does not apply for the second version.

Each version of the story should feel complete and should be able to stand on its own.

In short:
- Write a story where something is doubled.
- It should be between 200 and 600 words long.
- Write a second version of your story, with double the number of words.
- Deadline: 18. June

You will have 2 votes at the end, one for the short versions, one for the long versions. Depending on the number of entries, there will be 1st, 2nd, 3rd place votes per version.


Happy Writing!

Thanks for your votes. See you next round!

Overall an interesting topic with some fairly different entries. It was a fun little exercise figuering out where reality ended and alternaitions began. For some entries it was easy to come to a reasonable cut-off point, for others almost impossible. I would have preferred to get the real context for all stories.

Mandle:

Spoiler

For this story, I found it almost impossible to determine what might have been the real event it is based on. Or which character Mandle might have been in the real context. Hopefully not the father, because this guy is an asshole, and hopefully the father isn't moddled after Mandle's real father either.
The story itself was slightly confusing on my first read-through. I get that Roth wants revenge, though it is not clear for what or even how. He plays around with the lights in an old/abandoned hotel? When the lights go off (which isn't actually described, the daughter is with her mother, but then she is gone. But the mother already had to chase her down once, why didn't she hold on to her? There's so much missing in-between the scenes that it feels a bit like I have to write the story myself based on some connecting sentences.
I think this might be an interesting story when all the missing parts are filled in.

[close]

glurex:

Spoiler

I think I can guess where reality ends here. Basically, everything until the last two paragraphs might be rooted in reality.
This gives us a story that is almost nothing but a bit of slice of life, so that the reader is constantly waiting for something to happen. It leads to a nice amount of suspense here, though I might have liked slightly more focus (as in, more description) of the shocking moment. We had a word limit, but you had about 50 words left, enough to describe a bit more and to highten the suspense in the dark room and the fear the protagonist might feel.
I like this story.

[close]

Creamy:

Spoiler

I have no idea how court works in France, but there are some minor things I found a bit strange, for example that the police seems to have the phone number of the protagonist's work, but not the address (because he moved, but isn't there some kind of registration?) At first, I read this sentence: "Two successive draws were made and they've chosen 35 people in the whole department for the next session in June." confused me a bit, because I didn't think of département as the political regional entity, but of a work department.
Again, I don't know anything about french courts, but the reason for suing for perjury in the end seems very, very overreaching. I mean, who remembers a random person they danced with in a club? And perjury requires the intent to lie (at least in most jurisdictions), and the protagonist said he doesn't know if he knew her, not that he definitely didn't know her. My suspension of disbelief was a bit strained with that ending.

[close]

Baron:

Spoiler

Thank you for the reality check, I appreciate it.
This story was deliciously chaotic. The logistics could be a bit clearer, though. You say the roof of the addition is missing - which would lead one to assume that the main house still has a roof. And where is the laundry room compared to the room the family starts in? Why do they need to run through the construction side? Is it house/addition/house, so the addition is in-between two more or less complete parts? Why wouldn't you move the washing machine to the bathroom or kitchen (or whereever you have running water) for the duration of the construction? Obviously, the story leans more towards chaos than logic, but you could have given a slightly clearer picture of the layout of the house.
You don't give an exact age for Little Baronetta, just "teenager", but she sounded slightly younger to me.

[close]

Votes: (Why am I so often the first to vote?)

Spoiler

1st place: glurex
2nd place: Baron

[close]

[ABC on the Line]

ABC on the Line

Spoiler

,,Kids, please!" Angela called to the children mingling with their parents and other spectators, running around the little space they had between the flower cart in front of them and the marching band behind them. "Please, take your positions!"

Astoundingly, the kids listened, at least in part. Some of the children stopped running and looked over to her, some parents smoothed out the simple white, oversized t-shirts they used as costumes, each displaying a single letter of the alphabet, her fellow teacher, Karsten, gently guided some of the pupils to their position in the formation. Meanwhile, Angela took the heavy, thick rope from the ground and gave it to the A in their formation. The B wasn't there yet. "Bastian, come over here, the parade is about to start!"

Most kids had the letter their name started with on their t-shirts, although it did not match for all. She had some convincing to do, of how wonderful a letter Y was, for example. But now, the colourful letters - red, blue, green, purple, brown, whichever colour the child preferred - shone in the bright summer sun.

Finally, Karsten and Angela had wrangled all the students into the correct position, A before B before C before D..., each connected through the heavy rope, so that everyone could follow the alphabet along the line. They walked five abreast and five deep, with just the A in front, at least that was the plan. Angela knew that no plan held for long when it came in contact with elementary school students. The A also carried the pole with the flag announcing the first grade class with their theme of ABC on the Line.

And then the cart in front of them started to move and their group had to start their walk as well. The band behind them played a marching song, matching their steps to the rhythm, and the driver of the flower cart behind them cracked his whip so that the two strong working horses would move.

Gentle applause accompanied them from the side of the road, past the school and towards the railway station, then around another street towards the older part of town and further still to the fairground, where the yearly fair was already in full swing.

The walk was unsteady, the pace of the groups in front of them at times faster, at others slower, when the streets got smaller or wider, when parents waved a bit too much and their children slowed their steps, as it was every year. Angela ushered her class along when they left their formation, joked around or tried to stop to talk to their families, show off their costumes, or were just tired. 3 kilometres was not too much for six and seven year olds, but it wasn't a daily occurrence for them either.

When she had time, Angela looked at and admire the elaborate decorations of the flower carts in their vicinity. Over and over covered in colourful dahlias, they smelled sweet and stuffy in the hot summer sun. Insects swirled around the blossoms, mosquitoes and bees and wasps, from time to time annoying the various spectators, the musicians, the driver and even the horses.

She grabbed the rope before the thoughts had caught up with the action. She yanked as hard as she could. She pulled the kids to the pavement, letting them stumbled into the audience, dragging them over the ground when they fell. Bastian stumbled. He let go of the rope.

And only then, the scene registered in her head. The wasp, too close to the horse's eye, the sting she saw even though it was so far away, the horse's scream, its rearing, its bolting, its galloping. The driver was thrown back, the musicians scattered, their instruments fell. Bystanders screamed, but Angela did not. Angela pulled and the kids were on the side-walk, but Bastian was not. And the horses were so close. The heavy cart was still dragged behind them. The blossoms were loosing their petals in the wind. She saw each one, each and every one, framing Karsten as he ushered the kids through a doorway between two half-timbered houses and into a dark and narrow backyard. But she did not follow, she turned in the opposite direction. As the horse's legs trampled further, she threw herself over Bastian's little body, shielding it with her own.

Four hooves came down on her. But the kids were safe. The first on her leg. But the kids were in a backyard. The second on her back. But Bastian breathed. The third on her arm. But not on Bastian. The fourth hit her head. But Bastian was safe. The wheels of the cart she did not feel, for the kids were safe.

[close]

Separating fact from fiction:

Spoiler

- All names are changed. The year was 1991, most likely 25th August.
- We did have a yearly parade, the description is accurate, including the general path and the kind of groups that participated.
- We did use the described costume/theme when I was in first grade. (I was the letter I; the title of the story was the name of our theme; the meaning of "on the line" = "at risk" doesn't exist in German, but it fits so fricking well.)
- A horse did bolt, might have been due to a wasp, but I don't know for sure why. I don't think anybody does.
- I think we were just separated by one group from the flower cart in question, but I'm not entirely sure. I don't have any concrete memory of that; it feels correct, though. In fact, I only remember – independently - the start of the parade and basically waking up in some random backyard (I wasn't really unconscious, I'm just referring to a lack of memory.). I actually remember not having a memory at this point in time already. We were in this backyard and I had no idea how or why exactly we ended up there. I remember not remembering.
- As such, I think someone pulled us out of the way by grabbing the rope, at least that's what I kind of remember, but not with any scene in my head, more as a fact of sorts. I don't know who pulled us out of the way, it might have been a teacher, it might have been a bystander.
- So, up to this point, the story matches my memory as much as possible. At least, all details I was able to verify match with what I remember, so I'll assume my memory isn't wrong for the details I can't verify as well, like what position we were in in the parade or if the bolting horse was really right behind us, though I think it was.
- To the best of my knowledge (and my mom's) nobody was (seriously?) hurt and no body had to be shielded from the horses. So this is the only thing I actually altered (well, and, according to the few photos I could find, we were fairly widely spread, not in a very narrow formation, maybe accounting for the fact that there were no injuries.)
- But I do believe whoever pulled us out of the way saved maybe not our lives, but did save us from serious injury.
- Horses were banned from the parade in subsequent years.

[close]

Stupot:

Spoiler

There's a whole lot hinted at here, that gives us the impression of a longer story. This really feels like a fragment, as if the reader had just randomly opned a book at this specific page. Well done. I think you give slightly too much information, there are things mentioned that I would assumed were experienced by Nancy (and therefore the reader) before this point in the book and there shouldn't be a reason to repeat them in this specific place. Also, we reached the 5th profecy in this story, apparently, which would mean 4 other have already happened - page 174 seems early. But as it is just a fragment and feels like just a fragment, these things could make sense in context (which we obviously do not have). I'm intriuged. If I had picked up this book and randomly read this page, I would at least check out the plot summary on the back.

[close]

Mandle:

Spoiler

I don't think this story follows the rules set out for this round. This story is complete, it is not a fragment in and of itself. Even the letter seen seperate is a fragment - the letter is completed. The writer couldn't write more because of lack of paper, but they were aware of this and finished it, put it in the bottle, apparently threw it in the ocean. It is not a fragment. Also, did you follow the 600 words rule? It seems more to me, but due to the choosen format, it's difficult to check.
You might have noticed, that I refered to the letter writer as "they" - that is because something gave me the impression it was written by a man, not a woman, though I cannot tell you what.
I was not able to read the last parts of the letter (about 8 lines). Fancy formatting is fancy, but not exactly great on the readability (there's an in-story reason given why it cannot be better, but that doesn't make it any less frustrating).
Good story, and I enjoyed it and it has a good mystery. But it is a complete story and I have doubts when it comes to the word count.

[close]

CaptainD:

Spoiler

Welcome back.
This is the most fragment-like entry. There are absolutely no explanations given, half (probably over half) of the article is missing, you don't even offer us a title or give us the lines we do have completely (well, there are just parts of letters missing, but it still feels cut off). There are tiny parts of the text that seem intentionally evasive, moreso than a newspaper article would ever be (unless we are in the beginning of a click-bait article, that never wants to reach its point). For example: "[...]into what has been dubbed "The Krakow Incident"[...]" Who dubbed it that? When? Usually, news do so, not officials, so did the newspaper call it that and doesn't want to admit to it? Or: "[...]have [not] yet been verified by our news agency." What news agency doesn't name itself?
The mystery is intrguing, there's strong hints at a lot of story we're not told here. Interesting.

[close]

My votes:

Spoiler

Stupot - 3 points
CaptainD - 2 points
Mandle: 1 point

[close]

So, when do you guys think 31st April actually is? 

Baron, you have a job to do!

[Julius and Julia]

Oh, two fancy presentations this round.  None from me though. First I had no idea, then I forgot, then I had no time. So I only offer a pro forma entry this round:


Julius and Julia

Spoiler

p. 52

... severed from the body, fell to the ground. Even before the last drops of blood of the last rebel had reached the ground, his knees had given in. He knelt in the hot rain, on the shit, blood and piss stained field.

A few of his men still pushed their swords into the necks and hearts of their enemies, some still jerking from impact or pain, he could not tell, while others had long stopped moving.

Julius did not allow himself a long respite. His men were busy, he had no right to have them work while his exhausted body sank deeper into the mud. ,,Finish them!" he whispered, hoarse from hours of battle-cries, of commands, of mindless fighting.

"Finish them off!" he called triumphantly, heaving himself up on his gladius, the dull edge nearly braking under his weight.


*


Julia sprinted through the villa, past the atrium and the impluvium, quickly kissing the feet of the Lar standing guard over the house. Bone comb and bone needle clicked against each other in her pouch, reminding her of the thread she had nearly forgotten.

She slithered to a halt on the marble ground and sprinted in the other direction. This was no time to anger her mistress, no time to dawdle, no time to be forgetful. Lydia expected guests tonight, her hair needed to be perfect. But if she had forgotten anything else, it was worse. She checked her pouch in front of her mistress' door, then straightened her clothes and her own hair before she entered Lydia's room.

The lady of the house sat on her bed and didn't bother to look up when Julia entered.

"About time," she sighed, standing up and going over to the chair in her usual lethargic fashion. Her long hair hung half over her eyes, not yet combed or ordered in any way.

For a moment, the uncharitable thought entered Julia's mind that she didn't even know how to comb her own hair, but she knew that this wasn't fair. Lydia was still a child after all, thrown into the responsibilities of a domina far too young. With her father at war, her adoptive father no less, she had no-one but her ancilla, who...


gladius – sword
impluvium – basin for catching rain water
lar – household god
domina – mistress
ancilla – maid, slave

[close]

Alright, we got a lot of votes!

But now it is time to declare a winner.

First, though, some comments from me and the individual winners for each category:

After the Month No Werewolves Came

Spoiler

I really liked this one. A lot of mystery and suspense in such a short text. But, from all entries, this is the one that bends most to the word limit, using a slightly unusual word choice and phraising.

[close]

Backlot to the Future

Spoiler

This has a nice little twist at the end, impressive in such a short piece. It reads exactly like a short, blurb-like comment on a review website. It received no votes, but that's probably just because it doesn't have a lot of plot compared to all other entries.

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2:31:15

Spoiler

Too much mystery, too little resolution for my tastes, but luckily tastes difffer, so that this entry won in its category!

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And these are the results for the 50 words category:

- Backlot to the Future ----------------- 0 points - 3rd place
- After the Month No Werewolves Came ---- 2 points - 2nd place
- 2:31:15 --------------------------------4 points - 1st place



Lesion

Spoiler

Wailing windows as an allegory for the children's pain. And even replaced, they still cry out - indicating that the family also still suffers, even with the perpetrator gone. Maybe I'm reading a bit too much into this, but this is certainly an imagery that could be further developed in a longer version - though I think they are already there. Well done.

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My Wife's Two Bottles

Spoiler

Picked right out of real life, I take it? A good lesson to always make new lables when putting new things in old containers. In this case, both things are drinking alcohol, but it can get dangerous with cleaning products, for example. Lable your things, people!

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Guarding Gay

Spoiler

Interessting possibilities here: Did the narrator realize that Trevor was the speaker and killed him out of revange? Or did he really think Trevor was a potential attacker? I found this one a bit predictable, at least insofar as it turns out that Trevor is the speaker.

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Gatekeepers of Smoking

Spoiler

I like this one, probably my favorite in the 200 word category. It reminds me of this old joke/cautonary tale of the man drowning in a flood and he turns down all offers of help, saying God will protect him. In the end he dies, and complains that God didn't help after all, only to then get reminded of all the offers of help he did receive.

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Leaving Home

Spoiler

Interesting end. Either there is no more currency because all people are dead, or society has moved on from moeny. I think you were going for the first possibility, but the second one is more brutal in a way. Because then the protagonist could still have a community but is so caught in his own idea of wealth and success that he can't connect. On the other hand, the first possibility just means death, which is a bit less fascinating.

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And the winners of the 200 words category are:

Gatekeepers of Smoking------0 points - 3rd place
Lesion -------------------- 1 point  - 2nd place
My Wife's Two Bottles ------1 point  - 2nd place
Guarding Gay ---------------2 points - 1st place
Leaving Home ---------------2 points - 1st place

Not a clear winner in this category.


And now the 500 word category:

There's No Taste Like Home

Spoiler

I think this one needs a content warning! It was pretty clear to me that the family would eat the cannibal father. I seriously doubt Nathan's survival instincts. Why would he go into the apartment, why would he eat the meat? Also, weird little detail, but how fast are flies attracted to meat? They were already eating, they just needed to get an additional plate from the flat, should there really already be a substantial amount of flies there? The message this story might give off is a bit icky: If given the chance, people would gladly eat people.

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A Tragedy of Errors

Spoiler

Clever. All that can go wrong with Prospero's inventions does go wrong, except it doesn't in the end, which is, in a way, also something going wrong. I'd like a longer, more detailed version, with more descriptions of the inventions. But it is good as is, I just want more. Good job.

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And these are the 500 words results:

There's No Taste Like Home ---- 3 points - 1st place
A Tragedy of Errors by Baron ---3 points - 1st place

No winner (or two, however you want to look at it) in this category.




And now, let's look at the overall winner of this Fortnightly Writing Competition and the one, the only, who'll have to come up with a topic for the next round:


After the Month No Werewolves Came by RootBound - 1 point
Guarding Gay by Mandle -------------------------- 1 point
There's No Taste Like Home by Stupot ------------ 1 point
Lesion by RootBound ----------------------------- 1 point
A Tragedy of Errors by Baron -------------------- 2 points

It is close, with a wide spread of votes, but we do have a clear overall winner, so the category votes will not be used for tie-breaking.


Our winner this round is:

Baron!

Congratulations!

[50 words:]

And that's it! We have 10, I repeat, 10 entries!!!

Look at them, here they are:

50 words:

- After the Month No Werewolves Came by RootBound
- Backlot to the Future by Mandle
- 2:31:15 by Mandle


200 words:

- Lesion by RootBound
- My Wife's Two Bottles by Mandle
- Guarding Gay by Mandle
- Gatekeepers of Smoking by Mandle
- Leaving Home by Mandle


500 words:

- There's No Taste Like Home by Stupot
- A Tragedy of Errors by Baron


As you can see, I sorted them into their word count categories. This is for voting purposes.

You have 1 vote for your overall favorite entry, no matter how many words were used to tell the story. This vote will decide the overall winner.
You have 3 additional votes, 1 for each category. These votes are more or less just out of curiosity but might be used for tie-breaking purposes. (Anything else wouldn't be fair, because the distribution of stories is too uneven.)

Voting is open untill end of April 13th.

And remember, you don't have to have entered in order to vote. We want all the votes. All of them!

About four days left! And we already have 8 entries! Fantastic!

Will we get more? Of course we will, because you, yes YOU reading this right now, will take some time out of their weekend and write something. Right?

[Flash]

Welcome once again to the Fortnightly Writing Competition.

This time, we want some quick entries, or, as they are also known, some flash fiction stories.

What is flash fiction, you might ask?

It is defined as a short story with plot, characters, conflict and resolution just like any other short story, but limited to usually under 1000 words.

But that's too long for us here! Who needs so many words to tell their story?

No, we will be even shorter - but also more precise! (We're flexible with the whole character, plot, conflict stuff, by the way.)


Write a Flash story of exactly 500 words, or a Flashier story of exactly 200 words, or the Flashiest story of exactly 50 words (always plus any number of words under 10 for the title)! It should include something happening suddenly, to make it even flashier, if you get my drift, but that's very much open for interpretation - so basically, anything goes! Isn't that exciting?!?

You can do it! I know you can! We all can! Just get your trusty computer or tablet or even phone, heck, even old fashioned pen and paper will do, just get some writing done!


And look, I'm generous, I give you two weeks, two whole weeks, to finish your entry. For a 50 word story, that's just 3-4 words per day! Who hasn't some time for this! (That's a deadline of 9.April, by the way, just to make this clear.)


Oh, if you're some monster with amazing time management skills, you can even write more than one entry! That's amazing, isn't it?

...

...

...

What are you still doing here? Why haven't you started writing yet?

Go away, write something!

Well, thank you!

Now come over to the next round for a quick story fix!

We're in a bit of a dry streak, but that happens from time to time. I agree a flash round might be a good idea. Declare me the winner and I'll come up with a topic tomorrow or the day after.

Congratulations to all nominees and winners!

And thanks Kastchey and Cat for the wonderful ceremony!

[April]

April

Spoiler

Evelyn tiptoed down the stairs, her mother's tablet she wasn't supposed to have tucked under her arm. The video she wasn't supposed to watch had not yet turned dark, still showing the comments underneath she could not read yet, while she sneaked towards the kitchen. On the way she stopped, plugging the tablet back in in the living room. For a second, the screen that had just turned off blinked on again, but she did not see the traitorous video pop up again before the screen fully went to sleep.

After positioning the tablet exactly as her mom had left it in the evening, Evelyn sidled around the far too huge vase that had betrayed her before (by hurting her naked toe) and into the kitchen.

Turn on the light or leave it off?, she mused as her small, cold feet touched the glazed tiles of the kitchen floor. Her plan could only work if she were able to see. She didn't know exactly where the salt shaker stood in the cabinet. But turning on the light might be suspicious, it might shine up to the second floor, through the window to her parents' bedroom that was diagonally above the kitchen.

"Hgm." she mumbled, biting down on her lower lip, deep in thought. "Dodo? What do you think?" she whispered, talking to her stuffed animal upstairs.

"Just be careful. Don't get caught!" the dog whispered back in her head.

"Hmn."

For a moment, she just stood in the kitchen looking around. Her eyes had already adjusted some to the darkness. Just a little light, from the moon or the streetlamp in front of the window shone onto the clean kitchen top.

Evelyn went over to the cabinet and opened the door. She knew that the salt shaker was here, as well as the sugar can. And these were the things she needed, after all. But the door opened towards the kitchen window, blocking the little light there was. Again she bit down onto her lip, thinking deeply. One step, then two, she went over to the kitchen door and the light switch, but then she stopped again. It would blend her, she knew that. And she hated it. She hated it how the light pressed into her eyes in the morning when she had just woken up and had not yet had time to blink the sleep from her eyes.

And then, like lightening, an idea sprang into her mind: The refrigerator! There was a light in the fridge, wasn't there.

Slowly, she tiptoed over to it, pulling with all her might on the heavy door. It sucked for a second, sticking to the appliance where the seal held it shut, but then she pulled again and the door opened.

It slipped from her fingers, rushing towards the wall to the side of the fridge but she grabbed for it and she was fast. Just fast enough to catch it before it rattled the whole house. Carefully, she lead the door against the wall and let the light shine into the dark kitchen and towards the cabinet.

The salt shaker was mixed in with the other spices, pepper, oregano, cinnamon. Her mom had told her what the spices were once, taking one after the other little cans out of the cabinet and saying one weird name after the other. She couldn't read these names, and the cans were too similar to each other to really differentiate, but the salt shaker was different. It was not made of plastic but of glass, it was not opaque but clear.

There! She grabbed it into her tiny hands, the glass filling her whole palm, squishing it as hard as she could in her excitement.

Now, what did the video say? she wondered, trying to think back to the smiling faces and excited voices of the people on the screen.

Open the shaker and pour out the salt.

Okay, that was an easy instruction, right? But Evelyn hesitated. She didn't want to waste all this salt. Her mom always said that she shouldn't be wasteful.

Evelyn shook her head, turning the shaker this way and that in her hands. She couldn't decide, and, on second thought, she couldn't open the shaker either. She didn't know how. But she still needed the sugar as well, so she had time to think of the next steps in her plan while she searched.

For now, she set the shaker aside again, placing it on one of the lower shelves in the cabinet.

Fill the salt shaker with sugar, the next instruction in the video had been. No one will be able to tell!

So it looked similar, right? And sugar was a spice, right? So it should be in the same cabinet, right?

What else was there to do but to shake some of the spice from each of the plastic cans until she found one that looked just like salt?

Evelyn took the first can, opened it and turned it upside down. A little bit of brown powder drizzled from the top onto the counter top, leaving a tiny cloud of dust behind. Not that one! Evelyn thought excited for her reasoning skills and slightly disappointed because it was the wrong one.

The next one didn't offer any better results. The content had more of a greenish tint and didn't create any dust, but it was definitely not what she was looking for.

Another brown powder, more towards white than the first one followed and she put this can to the side as well.

Evelyn tried more cans than she could count and none of them seemed like the correct one. The counter top was filled with various spices by now, all mixed together, some filling the room with dust whenever Evelyn passed by and created a bit of wind, brushing more and more particles to the floor.

But she needed to find the sugar! The prank wouldn't work without sugar! It would be no fun! And her parents needed some fun! They didn't laugh nearly often enough. And the video had promised that this would be an amazing prank! A classic! Perfect for April Fools! And tomorrow was April Fools. And the video had promised the best ten pranks for April Fools Day!

Tears started to fill Evelyn's eyes as a child's panic started to creep into her mind. She had to get this right! She just had to!

And so she pulled one of the kitchen chair's over to the cabinet, brushing more and more lost spices onto the floor, to get to the higher shelves.

White! Yes! She pulled the package towards her, but it was so heavy and it slipped from her hands, tipping over and spilling powder all over the shelves. A giant cloud of dust encircled her little head, whitening her hair and drifting into her nose. It prickled. And she fought against the need to sneeze. And sneezed, once, twice, a third time, holding onto the back rest of the chair for dear life.

Quiet! Dodo whispered in her mind.

I'm trying! Evelyn whispered back once the sneezing had stopped.

And for a moment, everything stopped, while the dust cloud slowly settled on all the shelves in the cabinet. Evelyn waited for sounds from above, the traitorous opening and closing of a door, her father's heavy steps on the stairs, the one creaking one near the bottom. Even her breathing stopped for a second to better hear.

But all was silent. The only sensation was the dry powder on her tongue that was definitely not sugar. Sugar was supposed to taste sweet, this tasted like nothing but dust.

"Pickles!" she cursed, repeating her dad's favourite swear word.

She picked up the now half-empty package of flour and put it back on the shelf.

The next package then. She had to find the right one, she just had to!

And finally, finally, she had found the right one. White, crystalline, it tasted sweet when she put some on her tongue. The package had still been closed when she found it and she had to rip it open, spilling even more powder into the kitchen, but she had finally found what she was looking for.

"Yay!" she celebrated silently as she jumped from the chair, sweeping the last bits of spices from the counter.

The impact shook the whole kitchen, shaking the glasses and platen in the cupboard. Again, Evelyn stood stock-still, listening for any sound from above, not daring to breath even a little bit. Her plan had to work, it had to. Her parents argued all the time, but when the prank worked they would laugh, all of them together, and then all would be fine. Fun for the whole family! the video had said.

Now, she was so close to being done here. She only needed to figure out how to open the salt shaker now, dump out the salt and fill it with sugar and then her dad would put sugar on his hard-boiled egg in the morning and all would laugh and embrace each other and they would congratulate her on her clever prank.

Suddenly in a good mood, Evelyn's hands became so much stronger and she twisted the top of the salt shaker without any problems, opening it right up.

"Yay!" she celebrated again, already a couple of steps towards the sink where she intended to pour out the salt. But then she hesitated again, with the same thought as before. She didn't want to be wasteful. Her mom would be angry if she was wasteful and that might ruin the prank. But maybe she didn't need to pour out all of it, maybe she just needed to pour out enough to make room for the sugar, then her mom could not get angry.

Yes! That made the prank so much better, removing even the tiniest chance of failure.

She spilled some of the sugar, the opening in the paper package was just so uneven and the package itself, filled to the brim, just a bit too heavy for her. But enough sugar ended up in the salt shaker for Evelyn's satisfaction.

Wit every crystal that fell into the shaker, ten spilled over the edge, but she also got more and more excited with every single one. Soon, the salt shaker was full again and she only needed to screw on the cap again and put it back in the cabinet, then she could finally go to sleep and wait for the morning of April Fools Day.

And that is what she did. She put the salt shaker back in the cabinet, put the sugar, still trickling out of its ripped package right next to it, not remembering where it had come from, and then she tiptoed as fast as she could back up to her room where she slipped into bed and snuggled with her trusted dog Dodo.

*

Ellen was hardly awake. Her alarm had rung far too early, as it always did. Her alarm? - His. But Frank never stood up when it rang, she did. Technically, her alarm was set to a later time, technically, she needed to get to work later than him. Still, she stood up and went downstairs into the kitchen to put the kettle on and to boil the eggs, while he stayed in bed until she called up to him to get up.

The refrigerator stood open and an unavoidable sigh left Ellen's throat. For a moment she just stood in the door waiting for reality to change, but it didn't.

Evelyn had crept into the kitchen again, probably for a cup of milk or... It didn't matter why or what. It only mattered that she hadn't listened, again. And that she left the fridge door open, again. Ellen dreaded going over there, she dreaded checking if some of the food had already spoiled. Hopefully not, they couldn't afford it. But the leftover spinach might be a problem and the milk and... A thousand worrying thoughts raced through her mind while she inspected one food item after the other, deciding if a couple of hours at a less then optimal temperature would be a problem for it or not.

When she went over to the sink to set aside some of the leftovers, her slippers crunched on the ground. Ellen looked down. There was pepper mixed with chilly powder, cinnamon and nutmeg, a bit of sugar... under her feet.

"What has happened here?" she wondered, "An earthquake?" Why else would all these spices lie around here.

For a second, she looked curiously at the cabinet, wondering if it had fallen from the wall. And then apparently climbed itself up and secured itself again. She shook her head, she was not awake yet. But there was no doubt that a blanket of spices covered the blue tiles of the kitchen floor.

After another confused moment, Ellen went over to the cabinet, opening it with some trepidation while she, too, forgot about the open door of the fridge.

Nothing was in its place but everything was there. All the spices stood on the shelves, though not in alphabetical order as she liked to have it. A thin layer of flour had dusted every single can. The last sugar crystals still dripped down from the top shelf where the package was ripped open unceremoniously.

Mice? Ellen wondered, trying for some kind of logical explanation for this chaos. But that made just as little sense as the true explanation that knocked against the back of her mind. Evelyn! But why? What was she doing?

"Evelyn!" Ellen called. "Evelyn, come down here this instance!"

Ellen's high-pitched voice hardly carried through the house and it certainly didn't reach Evelyn in her sleep.

"Evelyn April Jones!" Ellen called again, then she stormed up the steps to her daughter's bedroom.

"Evelyn, what have you done? What were you thinking?" she asked, standing in the door as Evelyn slowly blinked her eyes open.

"Mom?" Evelyn mumbled into Dodo's fur. "Hgn?"

"What have you done?"

"Hgn?"

"Answer me, girl, what have you done last night?"

"Noth- nothing? Sleep?" Evelyn's lower lip started to vibrated at the tone of her mother's voice. She was angry, she was always so angry when she talked to her. Her brain needed a moment to adjust to waking up so suddenly, but then she remembered the prank. Her mom was so angry again, it just had to work. And that meant she couldn't tell her mom anything, not yet, at least. The prank had to be a surprise.

"Answer me, Evelyn!"

"I... I don't..." She stammered as tears welled up in her eyes.

Ellen threw up her hands. "Oh, whatever!" She sighed angrily. "We'll talk later. Get up, I need to prepare breakfast. Get up and don't dawdle."

*

Frank thundered down the stairs, letting his feet fall as heavy as possible onto the steps as he did every morning to wake the rest of the house. They were already awake, of course. Ellen had already prepared breakfast, but he thought it was fun. It brought a good atmosphere into the whole house.

The kitchen table was already set. Toasted bread lay in a basket next to the breakfast sausage on a plate, but most important, the already peeled boiled-egg stood in an eggcup right in front of his place seat, the salt shaker set in perfect reach for his hands. It was perfect, as always.

Frank passed by Evelyn standing in the door frame, planting a superficial kiss on her hair as he rushed into the kitchen. With a bright and loud smile, Frank set down at the table. "Good morning!" he called to Ellen, who just took the tea bag from the pitcher.

"Well, come on, love, sit down!" he called to Evelyn who hadn't moved since he had come down, "Come, let's have breakfast!"

Evelyn hesitated, but in the end she sat down opposite her father, not touching even a tiny piece of her bread. Instead, she was staring at her father, waiting for him to get the salt shaker.

But first, he poured himself a cup of tea and added the pill of artificial sweetener he preferred to real sugar, waiting for it to dissolve. Then, he drank while Evelyn's feet pounded nervously against the front legs of her chair.

And finally, he took the salt shaker and shook it over his egg. Small crystals fell from the nozzle. For Evelyn, it was as if she could follow each one individually with her eyes. Her mother's anger almost forgotten, she smiled brightly and waited for the inevitable laugh that would come from her dad's belly as soon as he tasted the sweet egg.

Frank was talking as the spoon moved to his mouth, but Evelyn did not hear his words, so focussed was she on the egg. And then it touched his lips, his tongue. For a moment, there was hesitant tension in the air.

"What...?" Frank said, taking another bite of the egg already in his mouth, then a third. "What the fuck?" he cursed, spitting the egg into a napkin.

"What is it?" Ellen asked.

"Sugar." Frank said, "this is sugar!"

"Sugar?"

Frank took the salt shaker and turned it upside down over his plate, shaking some more crystals from the glass container. Then he put the top of his finger into the white powder and liked it off.

"Sugar", he repeated, "there's sugar in the salt shaker!"

"What, that can't be." Ellen shook her head, "There wasn't yesterday, for sure."

"Taste it yourself!"

Ellen did just that, both ignoring their daughter that looked confused from one to the other. They did not notice that Evelyn was waiting for a reaction that was not about to come. But Ellen shook some of the powder onto her own plate and tasted it just like Frank had done.

"No, that's salt." she mused, then after another moment, "And sugar. What...?"

Both parents stared at each other for a while, trying to puzzle out something that just made no sense. Meanwhile, Evelyn's eyes constantly jumped from one to the other and her tiny hands crumpled her shirt again and again until she pulled it up to her face and started to chew the fabric, filling the cloth with slobber.

"Stop that!" Ellen suddenly said, and then, after a moment, "What did you do?"

Evelyn said nothing, biting harder into her shirt.

"Evelyn April, tell me what you've done? Why was there this mess in the kitchen this morning? Why is there sugar in the salt shaker?"

Evelyn's lip vibrated and tears welled in her eyes.

It was supposed to be a joke! It was supposed to be fun! They were supposed to laugh! The thoughts repeated over and over in her mind. And their answers screamed back at her. It wasn't fun! They didn't laugh! She was naughty. Again. Bad. Bad. Bad. Bad girl!

"Jo...joke." Evelyn stammered, "Prank." She snuffled.

"This is no joke, girl!" Frank said, "How do you come up with stuff like that? And to mix the salt with the sugar, what were you thinking?"

"Didn't... didn't want to... want to waste..."

"Couldn't you at least put the salt back in its package before -"

What package? Evelyn did not understand. The video had said that she was supposed to pour the salt out. She had been considerate, she had made sure not to waste all this salt in the salt shaker, she had been careful. She had only put in a bit of sugar, not wasted the whole thing. She did not understand.

"You... you s'pposed to laugh." she snivelled, "'Video said you'll laugh!" Her voice became shrill as her parents stared down at her.

"Video? Did you take my tablet again, Evelyn?"

"Why can't you ever listen to your mother? Why do you always have to be so naughty?"

"I told you, this girl is a menace!"

Evelyn pulled the shirt over her head and cried.

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