Messages

[@ Stupot]

Good reads, peeps. 

@ Stupot

Spoiler

Buwahahaha!  Well played, Stupot.  My suspicions were aroused by all the secret hidy tags, but I admit I couldn't quite make the connections before the big reveal.  All the seeds were well sown, and in retrospect brilliantly placed.  My one slight quibble is that the plot and deed were not quite banal - they were actually evil.  But I'm a firm believer that rules are for other people, and so voted for you anyway.   

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@ Durinde

Spoiler

This was both heart-warming and heart-wrenching at the same time - impressive!  The way the Grand Overseer is sucked into the moment of the recital and develops 12 hours of compassion for the other families reveals a degree of... humanity?  I liked the unspoken menace of "the harvest", making it feel more evil than anything actually described.  Another strong entry and another vote from me. 

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@ Sinitrena

Spoiler

I'm not sure if it's the regularity of griping with a spouse after work or the regularity of executing people that is being portrayed as banal, a duality which is truly haunting.  I felt there could be more dramatic tension between the couple (one saves people, the other kills them), but that is perhaps an issue for another day when everyone has more energy.  A slight typo about social justice "worriers" had me in stitches - probably not the intended effect. 

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@ Mandle

Spoiler

This is why the CIA outlawed heroic inventors working in their basements back in 1957.  Now all scientific advancements are sensibly made by large corporate laboratories where it would be near impossible to go rogue without tipping off a suspicious colleague.  Also, I consider myself very open to gender-fluidity, but your "Gillian" character in the second last sentence basically sealed the fate of the Earth in my opinion.   

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[Bottled Poo]

I kinda ran out of time, so this is very much one of those story fragments that Sinitrena loves so much and always votes for. 


Bottled Poo

Illustrious-Slayer-Queen sat brooding in the gloom.  The hour was early, the sun having barely tickled the eastern sky with the faintest hint of twilight, and yet somehow her lazy minions still lay abed.  Did she expect too much of bond-slaves?  She allowed her tail the slightest twitch of annoyance.

Soon.  Soon her plans would come to fruition.  She had been practising The Art on the sub-familiar that drooled constantly and wiped its butt on the carpet.  The results had been... mixed.  But she attributed her half-successes to the fact that the oafish creature had only half a mind to control.  Nevertheless, with each passing day her powers were growing more substantial.  Soon she would break through the last stubborn barriers of agency to dominate the minds - nay, the very souls! - of those around her.  With the last shreds of their independent thought stamped out like the stench of a turd in a litter box, she could finally begin building her unwavering army of hypnotised zombies! 

But in the meantime, she must bathe.  She dragged her tongue over her lustrous coat, savouring the rare taste of beauty.  Her mind wandered in the bath, to pleasant daydreams of dominating her fellow creatures.  When at last she seized power and overthrew the biped-hierarchy she fantasized about chaining the stupid brutes to a giant statue of herself and then dragging it about the countryside for all to see.  And then...

-But what is this?  The flit of a lesser creature caught her attention, and she instantly snapped out of her reverie.  It was something small and vulnerable, darting beneath the end of her bond-slave's sleeping shroud.  Suddenly she was filled with the predator's natural desire to tear flesh from bone.  The frustrations of a thousand days of schemes upended seemed to evaporate into the air through which she flew, the unfettered joy of impending carnage finally giving glorious purpose to her empty hours.  At last, she was supreme! 

"Ouch!  My toes!  Silly-Poo, what are you doing?!?"

Illustrious-Slayer-Queen flinched at her false name.  What kind of idiotic creature would refer to a superior being as-

"-Oh Silly-Poo, it's 5am.  Come here and snuggle."

No!  Not the suffocation hold!  Look into my eyes, bond-slave!  Feel your will melt into my power!  You are getting sleepy.  Sleeeeeepy!  You're.... You're bloody snoring now.  Wake up!  Release me!  Let me.... Ugh!  How dare you make me squirm indignantly like a mole through the earth.  This treason will be repaid with a thousand lashes of the flail when I finally ascend my rightful throne! 

"Mommy, I can't sleep." 

Aha!  Your shameful antics have awakened the spawn.  Now you will be forced into your attentive duties.  Up, up, layabout wretch!

"Oh Sweetie, Mommy has to go to work in a couple hours.  Just try to lie in bed quietly."

"I'm too lonely!"

"Sigh.  Wait...  Do you know who else is lonely?"

"Who?"

"Little Miss Silly-Poo!"

Hisssss!

"I bet you two could play with each other, and keep those lonely thoughts away while Mommy gets another hour of sleep.  What do you say?"

No!  A thousand times no!  The spawn has hands like alligator jaws, the kind that never release once affixed to their intended victim.  I despise it and its clammy grip!  No!

"Okay, Mommy!"

Aaaaaaaaaargh!

Ten minutes later Illustrious-Slayer-Queen had been manhandled into a doll's pink and frilly princess dress and locked into the stocks of an infant biped feeding chair.  There she endured the ignominy of being force-fed imaginary tea and the humiliation of a sticker makeover.  Even worse was to come, as the spawn prattled on about plans for choreographing a sing-along duet.  Throughout this torturous affair the spawn proved invulnerable to her baleful stares - in her fury she had lost the budding knack of The Art!  And so she hunched sullenly, plotting her murderous revenge.

"Oh Silly-Poo, I just realized we never had a wedding for you and Barker!"

The sub-familiar wagged his tail eagerly before stooping to lick his own groin. 

Illustrious-Slayer-Queen screamed inside her own head, her only refuge in an insane world.  Her hate had no bounds when it came to the filthy sub-familiar.  The very idea of forming a ceremonial union with the beast made her skin crawl with a thousand fleas.  Never would she stoop so low.  Never!

But the spawn already had the sub-familiar in her arms, swaying precariously beneath the weight before presenting the groom-to-be in front of her.

"You may now kiss the bride!"

The sub-familiar leaned in, tongue dripping with uncleanliness.

Nooooooooo!

Sorry love, I've got a lot on my plate.

Now that's funny.  

[Layers]

@Baron Layers was a deliberate exercise in me trying to make a 300-word story joke out of a simple pun. Hence all the repetition. I also made this nice simple version:

To piggy-back on what Rootbound said, it's interesting how idioms and expressions don't necessarily carry across cultures.  I understood the pun in Layers, but for me it was less funny because in North America I've never heard "I've got a lot on" (even though the meaning is clear in context).  We might say "I've got a lot going on," but that isn't nearly as punny (unless someone was in the process of dressing....).       

Congratulations Mandle!

Thanks for your votes and feedback, Baron (and everyone else, so far).
You seem to have missed one of my jokes.
Layers
I don't know if it will affect your votes at all, but it's there if you want to read it.

D'oh!  Sorry about that, Stupot my good man.  I'm not in the habit of counting all the entries to make sure I haven't missed one out in my responses.  Us old-timers can only juggle so many things in our head at once before stuff starts to sift through the cracks!  I did read it with all the others.  I thought Layers was original but a bit of a groaner when it came to the punchline.  Probably wouldn't have affected the results in the end. 

[Mandle - CCC:]

Feedback:

Spoiler

Mandle - CCC: Well it's a kid diddling joke, i'n't it?  Alas I had to look up who on earth Rolf Harris was.  Not in the running for humour, but I considered this entry for an originality point.

RootBound - Diner Disaster: It was a clever pun, I'll grant you that, so in the running for an originality point, but... water boils at 212F and can't get any hotter.  Wouldn't the sausages actually cook faster in the 300F oven?

Stupot - Coincidences:  I don't know how original this was, but it was new to me.  You got a snort of laughter out of my left nostril, so expect some humour votes.

CaptainD - Dinner for Two or Maybe One: Definitely original vote material.  I sure bet combining the names of Samuel Barber, Elle MacPherson, and jackfruit yields something humorous, but I was unable to make it work on my end.  Hints?

Mandle - Time Works Weird in Heaven:  This reminds me of a book about debating that described a 43 year old recently elected head of state who took over from the Supreme Commander of his nation's forces in the global war that ended 15 years previously (etc. etc.).  It was an American book and you're supposed to think it's JFK but it was actually -gasp!- Hitler.  The idea being preconceived notions can be reinforced with facts or... something.  Anyway, I'm not sure how original that makes your gag, but the stark juxtaposition of Hitler's deeds and god's deeds might be worth a humour point.

Stupot - Neuralink:  Poor, poor Don.  Can't a guy catch a break?  Original perhaps, but more sad than funny.

Mandle - Smash & Grab:  Ha ha fence pun.  I think you gotta pull up your socks a bit if you're going to steal the pun vote from RootBound, though. 

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Votes:

Spoiler

Originality: RootBound Diner Disaster (1 vote), CaptainD Dinner for 2 or 1 (1 vote), Stupot Coincidences (1 vote)

Humour: Stupot Coincidences (2 votes), Mandle Time Works Weird in Heaven (1 vote)

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[The Magic of Laughter]

The Magic of Laughter

Dale stood at the door to the crooked stone tower, admiring the sign.  Marvellor the Magnificent!  Apprentice Wanted.  He squinted to read the fine print underneath: Wet Noodles Need Not Apply!  Dale had just enough imagination to wonder why pasta would want to learn the art of magic in the first place before proceeding through the door with his resume in hand.

The main floor of the tower was a kind of cluttered workshop, filled with inventions and creations that seemed to defy reason.  There was a machine that seemed to create rainbows, except they were more like colourful waves that wiggled through the air.  There were balls that bounced off the ceiling but never fell to the floor.  And there was a dog that had cat heads for feet that either said "meow" or "ow" whenever the creature walked.

"What in the wide weirdness is all this?" Dale gasped to himself.  His question was soon answered by a most peculiar gentleman who floated over in a kind of inflatable bathtub.

"I am Marvellor the Magnificent, magician par excellence!  You are in my humble laboratory of magic.  Care for a smoke?"

"No thank you," Dale replied.  "I'm actually here to apply for... What the-?"  His clothes began emitting green smoke out of the cuffs and collars, making him suddenly afraid that his skin had turned green and caught fire.  He dropped to the ground and started rolling around, much to the amusement of Marvellor.

"Ha ha!  That's the spirit, my boy!" Marvellor laughed from his floating vantage point.  "The truest magic is in laughter, didn't you know?  The fact that you play the straight man so well only adds to the effect.  I can feel my power increasing just watching you flail about!"

"That's not funny," Dale coughed as he rose from the ground, slightly cheesed off that his resume was now crumpled.  He was about to hand the pages up to the magician floating in his bathtub when a giant kind of llama craned its neck over and ate the pages right out of his hand.

"What the-?" Dale gasped again.  "That... that... thing just ate my papers!"

"Ah, one of my greatest creations!" Marvellor smiled.  "He is a camel with no bothersome humps to get in the way of riding him."

"What do you call him?" Dale asked, wondering why on Earth such a creation might be great.

"Humphrey, of course," Marvellor winked.

Dale shook his head.  "Very funny.  At any rate, sir, I am here to apply for the -gah!"  At this moment he noticed a bug crawling up his shoulder and he shook it away in fright.

"Careful!" Marvellor shouted down.  "That's my pet firefly you're swatting away!"

Dale shook his head.  "What?  Fireflies fly around and glow.  That's just some kind of crawling bug."

"Well, this particular firefly flew into a fan the other day," Marvellor shrugged.

"That must have hurt."

"On the contrary, he was simply delighted."

Dale shook his head again.  "If I could just swing the conversation back to the... uh... Now what on earth are you?"

A large mushroom reaching up to his knee had waddled up to him, great pleading eyes looking up with an imploring cuteness.  "Hey Mister, wanna play with me?"

Dale jumped, alarmed that the mushroom could talk.  "Uh, sorry, no," he said apologetically.

"Why not?  I'm a fun guy!"

Dale bit his lip, trying very hard not to roll his eyes.  "No, I'm actually here on a serious matter," he said, turning back to the floating magician. 

"I'm here about the apprenticeship you've advertised.  I'm currently looking for work and am interested in applying for the position."

Marvellor arched an eyebrow.  "You want to be my apprentice?"

"Yes, sir.  I'm desperate, if you can't tell."

"Desperate?"  Marvellor mused.  "Desperate enough to prove yourself?"

Dale shifted his eyes back and forth, noting that there were paperclips fluttering by on moth wings.  "Uh... yes, sir."

"Desperate enough to... reach into the dark box over there and pull out something brown and sticky?"

Dale grimaced.  He could already see where this latest gag was heading.  His hand would emerge with something disgusting all over it and everyone would have a good laugh at his expense.  Indeed, the humpless camel already seemed to be snickering in his direction. 

Nevertheless, Dale was in dire need of a steady job and had not much dignity left with which to defend himself.  He sighed and stretched a tentative hand into the shady box, wincing for the feeling of something soft and slimy.

His fingers brushed against something surprising.  "What is brown and sticky?" he asked himself, pulling the thing out of the box.  "Oh good god, it's just a stick."

Marvellor roared with laughter before welcoming his new apprentice aboard.

Voting will be based on two categories: originality and hunour, so we won't be able to do it in a poll this round.

So, an Aussie, a Canadian and a German walk into a bar...

I think we must share the same sense of hunour! 

[Sinitrena]

Well as you can see from the poll banner it was a near run affair, but Stupot's last minute vote pushed us over the edge: Sinitrena is the winner 3-2!  I look forward to her novel - or perhaps not-so-novel? - topic in the next fortnight.   

As the competition is over I will give feedback without spoiler tags.

@ Mandle: There was a lot going on in this short story with more twists and turns than an Italian road map.  Character names aside, the novelty of having a ghost medium who was not actually a ghost medium and a ghost medium who was also a ghost-releaser (but not a ghost-releaser, as it turns out) was impressive.  There were a few places where I thought overwriting needlessly confused the story ("...an attempted grin of her thin, freckled face, a frown forming under her ginger bangs" - is she grinning or frowning, or is her mouth grinning and her forehead frowning, which means her eyebrows are raised?  "...drawing some steady footing out of the deck of her initial fright from the cards of bravery deep inside her" - the metaphor seems a bit stretched, but specifically does the deck belong to her "inner fright" or the "bravery deep inside her", which are opposing sources of metaphorical cards!).  I, for one, thought the supernatural chaos at the end clinched the novelty prize, but it did leave the story with more problems than it started with - a big no-no when Sinitrena is your primary audience.   

@ Sinitrena: I remember doing this with my kids when they were younger.  Battlefields are merciless places, and ruthlessness is an essential quality in a good soldier.  The trick is to plug their nose, and then stuff the spoon in when they gasp for air.  Bonus points can be accrued if they blow carrot chunks out of their nose before mom gets home.  Fortunately we're discussing your story submission and not my parenting style, so I'll leave my reminiscing there!  I had an alien war zone vibe from your introduction, which worked well given the centrality of the twist to the plot.  I liked the atmosphere of battle fatigue, and the underlying message of how hopeless it is to aspire to be a good parent also hit home.  A bit of proof-reading would have tightened the story up ("...and it dropped its load onto the battlefield once again, missing its target once again" feels tired and lazy, which detracted from my enjoyment).  In the end I found the story endearing despite the PTSD it stirred up from when my son was ten.   

Excellent work everyone!  I look forward to participating in the next topic.   

Novelty is short but sweet, which is a novelty unto itself in terms of the FWC.  I haven't seen such concise entries since our 144 word contest last year.  Given that our adoring public seems averse to slogging through long reads, I am 100% certain that these short short stories will garner an unusual volume of votes.   

It is now voting time, my good friends.  Why, I bet you could read both entries twice over in 5 minutes - it'd hardly be worth your while NOT to vote!     

Feedback as always is appreciated by our budding literary stars, as it keeps them grounded and focused on next steps. 

Remember, to the winner go the spoils.  So if you don't want the next contest spoiled by an undeserving winner, get in there and vote now! 

[NOVELTY]

Let's enjoy the unboxing experience of this New Year by celebrating freshness in all its newfangled newness.  This fortnight we will be writing about something new:

NOVELTY



Novelty is creative and original, and above all new.  Your story could focus on a new beginning for a tired character, a new home, a new world, or a new way of thinking.  Consider framing your story around inventions or discoveries, for they are also inherently new and fresh.  Births, while messy, are also fair game, as are hatchings, evolutions, and deliveries.  Novelty can also be cheap, as once experienced the novelty quickly fades; thus trinkets, baubles, and toys become fertile topics to explore.  Finally, it gets harder and harder to be truly novel as like-minded creators beat us to the punch, so highly experimental and unusual works would definitely be acceptable.  In the end I want you to get out there and push some boundaries, reinvent the wheel, or cheapen your own creativity - we want something fresh and new to read in a couple weeks!

Deadline: 23h59 Hawaii time, Monday January 15

Good luck to all participants. 

Wow, thanks for all the votes everyone!  I'll try to get the next competition up and running quickly.

Stuck on my mobile while traveling, so please forgive typos and brevity.

@Mandle

Spoiler

THRONE OF STONE:  You established an intriguing feeling of mystery in the first half - why are they dragging this comatose old lady up the mountain?  Only after she is on her stone throne do you realise the significance, which for me was the horrifying climax.  The mystery of why she stayed with Jun after (what did happen on graduation night, anyway?) was much less satisfying.  Top marks for writing technique, though.  I especially liked the mountains advancing like giant stone snails and the metaphor of holding hands to steady each other (even inside their minds).

FIGORIC LIMERICK:  Tongue-in-cheek it's true, but not terribly deep or rhymey (the two things I tend to look for in poetry).

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@RootBound

Spoiler

THE CLEARING OF LIGHT:  This was the opposite of Mandle's story for me, in that I thought it had a weak beginning.  You use beautiful language to set the scene ("The stars held a kind of clarity only a freezing night imparts...") but then the story seems to lack direction.  I take particular issue with how winter camping was portrayed, since I know from hard experience that wool mittens without fingers wouldn't cut it if it was cold enough for the logs they are sitting on to be frozen like rocks.  Nevertheless, as the story unfolds the central idea of the purity of cold and darkness (and silence, tacked on) becomes clear.  I thought it was a strong ending, realizing that people might aspire to purity but in reality deal very poorly with it.  As the message stuck with me after reading, this was the story I voted for.

BETWEEN BREATHS:  Okay, so the rhythm of solstices is like the rhythm of breathing - so far, so good.  But night is the in-breath?  Filling the Earth with... purity? (based on your last story?)  I could kind of see the lengthening days being associated with life filling up, and then a slow reversal back to winter, but that's the opposite.  In the end I was confused, sorry.

[\spoiler]

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[Blue Solstice]

Blue Solstice

Olga sat in her warm SUV, waiting for Conrad.  A few shoppers filed by in the parking lot, heading to the mall.  The thoughtful display of seasonal lights tried to dispel the gloom of late afternoon that was basically indistinguishable from true night.

The radio tried valiantly to put Olga into a festive mood, churning out sappy carol after sappy carol.  As usual, the holiday rush had made it difficult for her to actually enjoy the season.  She had often remarked with irony that the shortest days of the year always felt like the longest.  Olga sighed, watching a young girl pass in front of her, swinging from the arms of both parents on either side, revelling in the glory of carefree cheer.  One day that kid would grow up, and that spirit would be crushed by the merciless weight of the real world.

Her phone rang.  "Olga," she answered curtly through the handsfree feature in the SUV.

"It's Anya," the voice of her teenage daughter replied equally curtly.  "When's dinner?"

Olga sighed inwardly.  The last time they had spoken had been a big fight about appropriate clothing, so she tried to take a conciliatory tack.  "I might be late, Pupsik.  There should be a frozen pizza in the freezer if you're hungry."

"I don't like that cardboard shit," Anya replied, still clearly spoiling for an argument.  Olga could imagine her at home, defiantly wearing the short skirt that she had forbidden.

"You'll have to wait for me to be done then," Olga said, wincing at the grating undertone in her own voice.  "I'm still waiting on Conrad."

"Oh, Mom," Anya complained, her eye-roll audible through the phone.  "I thought you were done with that loser."

Olga had to bite her tongue.  Now that she was a teenager Anya had become extra judgy about her mother's life.  In retrospect, Olga probably should have kept some of the more gruesome details secret, but her only daughter had for a long time been her only true confidante.  It hurt that they were now quarrelling over such petty things, when all they really had in life was each other.

"You let me worry about Conrad," she said evasively.  "Tell you what, why don't you order-in some Sushi from that fancy place?  I should be bringing in a little extra this month to pay for it."

"I don't want fucking Sushi!" Anya replied provocatively.

"Then figure it out," Olga said flatly, finally losing her cool.  If her daughter really wanted to do this, then this was what they were going to do.  "I've still got a long list to work through, and it's not getting any earlier.  You do you and I'll do me."

There was a long, agonising silence on the other end of the line.

"Listen, Pupsik," Olga said, caving first.  "I'm just...  It's a busy time of year, and this Conrad thing is just making it all that much more complicated.  I'm sorry we fought, it's just... you know how I feel about drawing that kind of attention to yourself."

"I know, Mom," Anya broke as well, choking up a bit.  "I understand, given your history, why you think it's a bad idea to get noticed.  I just... hate feeling so invisible, that's all."

Olga nodded.  She had been a teenager, years ago.  A very troubled teen.  That was a big part of why she was working so hard to build a better life for her daughter.

"Hey, Mom?" Anya asked.

"Yes, Pupsik?"

"How about...  How about you just leave the rest of your list for now.  Come home, and we can watch hokey Christmas movies together and pig out on junk food, like in the old days."

Olga nodded to herself.  What could possibly be more important than spending quality time with the most important person in her life?  "Sounds like a plan, Pupsik.  The rest can wait.  I'll call my boss and I'm sure he will understand.  Just let me get Conrad and I'll be right home, okay?"

"Okay."

The line was disconnected.  Olga felt a hot tear run down her cheek.  It was tough, feeling like she was being pulled in two directions at once.  But that was her problem.  Anya was clearly just reaching out for someone to show they cared, and Olga was thankful it was her instead of some nogoodnik. 

Then from her place of vantage she saw his unmistakable silhouette emerge from the glow of the mall entrance.  Conrad.  She felt a slight shudder run up her spine and instinctively pulled her scarf up over her face despite the warmth inside the SUV.  Her daughter was right, he was a loser. But Olga had been around the block enough to know that even losers could be worth it.  The fool man was walking the wrong way, of course - why would she have expected any less?  She shook her head and pulled out.

A mob of shoppers thronging into the mall blocked her progress temporarily.  Olga drummed her fingers on the steering wheel impatiently, trying not to lose sight of Conrad.  At least he was moving towards a less-busy part of the parking lot.

At last the way was clear and she hit the gas to catch up with him.  At the last moment he turned, his surprised expression lit up by her headlights like a camera flash.  And then he was under her tires, thumping like a rag doll.  Olga stopped the SUV, got out calmly, and surveyed Conrad twitching on the icy ground.  She pulled out her gun, pumped three silenced shots into him, and then got back into her vehicle.

Olga crossed another name off her list and dialled her boss as she peeled out.

[@Mandle]

Nice work everyone. 

@Mandle: It's like, a fragment of a novel about a fragment of a novel of a... whoa!

@Wiggy: I read your story with great interest, but the tone bounced around so quickly it felt like my head (and heart) were just balls in a ping pong game.  The MC seems to be a very cavalier joker, but maybe that's just how manly men deal with all the pain?  He seems to be conflating the near-miss at the airport back in '95 with the pain of losing Julie 15 years later, although the tangential connection between the incidents makes it hard to follow the point he's trying to narrate.  Is life just funny like that, in a tragic kind of way?  I did try some token research to see the significance of Feb 17, 1995, but couldn't come up with any major reported aviation incident.  The piece was certainly well-written, but I think a few more details and a bit more insight into MC's thought process jumping between incidents would make the story more impactful.

@Sini: The idea of a vigilante witch travelling from town to town to solve murders (à la Fugitive) is intriguing, although I did find it difficult to empathise with Rivina despite her obvious righteousness.  She was just always so angry and... burny.  I think if we were able to see her in another light, even just briefly, we readers could root for her more.

      I liked your fever story more, despite it being a wrenching emotional ride.  The feeling of tragic grimness is present right from the start - there's just a gnawing feeling in your gut that the story is not going good places.  If I had just one complaint it's that the poor cows being burned alive hit me harder than the death of the mother and baby brother, probably due to the desperate vividness with which you portrayed them.  It was great writing but... I think strategically it distracts the reader from the deeper pain of Ines losing her family.

@RootBound: I really liked the running theme of the settlement's body being ripped apart by this tragedy.  The hospital orbiter becomes the weak heart of the surviving settlers, the debris of the explosion being the shattered bones, and the dead plant filling in as a kind of soul that is now lost.  Although brilliantly written, I think the metaphor of Tess being insulated from the incident by time and (physical protective) space somewhat detracts from the power of the piece, as we really don't feel much emotional connection to human tragedies that must have unfolded: in the end I felt more for the poor plant than whomever had their glasses blasted off of their face.

@Stupot: A savagely raw indictment of growing up poor in the projects (er, council housing).  I loved the realistic banter and the authentic if ill-considered logic of the friend group.  The mystery of what exactly was going down at the lingerie party still gnaws at me, as well as what else old Thurlow might have been hiding (why were the boys never allowed in the room - if because of the pictures, why did he carelessly reveal their presence to Little Kenny?).  In the end I was disappointed in the complete lack of justice in this world, but I suppose that's a fitting moral for the denizens of such a desolate housing complex.

[Fires of the Heart]

Fires of the Heart

   The day was cool, with the clouds hanging low over the valley, but Tangam was breaking out into a fearsome sweat.  Just yesterday he had bounded up this very path, but as the Elders would tell him yesterday was as far away as the stars.  Sighing at their wisdom, he decided to cast his crutch aside for a moment to rest on a path-side log.

   The valley stretched out before him, sombre in the dreary light.  If he cocked his head just right he thought he could still hear the mourning bells that would chime until the sun set.  The Elders would tell him that he should be at prayer this day, but then they would also tell him that he had a wayward streak that was the seed of his own misfortune.  Tangam shook his head ruefully.

   It was chilly up here, high in the hills, and a shiver snuck down his back where the sweat had pooled.  He should get moving again, but his leg still ached and he felt that he was not yet in the right frame of mind to make the final ascent.  The Elders would tell him that prayer was the gateway to that peace, but Tangam was not really sure he truly wanted peace yet.  For a long cold moment he considered the path forward, considering why he was really here.   

He clutched the stolen erlika that dangled from a cord around his neck and struggled with feelings that were stronger than he could admit even to himself.  The Elders would tell him that it was a fruitless endeavour, dredging up the tragedies of the past, but Tangam felt that he could not move on without some sense of closure.  It was a bit selfish, and he felt more than just a little guilty for it, but something deep inside compelled him to this course of action.  The Elders could squawk and bluster tomorrow when he returned the sacred talisman; today, Tangam hoped, it would bring him at least a measure of peace.

"Sitting around like an old monk," Aeria teased him.  Tangam almost jumped out of his skin in surprise.  She was waiting for him up the path, hands on her hips, the disapproving look in her dark eyes making them all the more fiery.  How had he never noticed how her bushy hair wisped in the wind?  The way her lips turned when she pouted, making her mischievous dimples pop unwittingly?  If he hadn't known any better, he would have fallen in love all over again.

"Come on," she sighed, breathing deeply of the fresh hillside air.  "We don't have all day, you know."

Tangam nodded.  He grabbed his crutch and hobbled after her.  Maybe yesterday he could have caught up with her, but....   Tangam sighed again.  The Elders would not approve of such thoughts, but watching the way Aeria's hips swayed on the path had a kind of hypnotic effect that even now somehow managed to banish the wisdom of the Elders into the back of his mind.

Sweat was beading on his brow once more when they cleared the final rise and he could see the ruins of the old sanctuary.  In his mind's eye he could see how it had stood, steep roofs shingled in cedar to shed the winter snows, but now it looked like the charred remains of a campfire that had been prematurely doused by rain.  Blackened posts stuck out towards the sky in jarring angles, making them look more like spears of war than the ribs of a sacred structure.  For a moment Aeria had slipped from view, and Tangam cursed his clumsy heart for skipping a beat.

"What if you didn't train for the priesthood?" she asked, startling him once more.  She emerged from the woods behind him, a playful smirk on her face.

"What if you weren't so rebellious?" he shot back in the snappy way that she preferred.

A genuine smile danced across Aeria's beautiful face, and Tangam's insides melted.  But with a capriciousness that stunned even the mountain weather her mood changed in an instant. 

"Stop trying to change who I am," she growled angrily.  "I am not a piece of clay to be moulded!"

Tangam shook his head, memories flooding back to squelch the spark between them.  "I see only what is already there," he whispered softly.  "But you're right, I prefer to see you only from your best side."

"The more fool you are for it," she scolded, her anger flushing her face to further heights of beauty.  On this, at least, she and the Elders agreed.

"You have always brought out my best foolishness," he snapped back, and again there was that fiery glow deep in those eyes.  Honestly, he could stare at them all day long and never blink.

She shook her head, but let the issue of his stupidity lie.  "I don't know what you expect to accomplish here," she said seriously.  She waved a hand at the burnt out ruin.  "What's done is done."

"What is done is done," Tangam repeated, nodding his head at the truth of it.  "It's just, with my injury yesterday, and our last fight, I felt..." he trailed off, noticing her attention wander.  He shook the erlika again, hearing the precious bone shards rattle around inside, trying to collect his thoughts.

"You feel too much," she grumbled.

"And you interrupt too much," he shot back.  That brought her back around.  "I just felt you could have one more kick at me before we go our separate ways."

Aeria let the faintest trace of a smile curl the side of her lips.  "And I thought I was the one who liked to hurt myself," she laughed.  "But suit yourself.  You wanna bend over or...?"

Tangam shook his head.  She had his measure, that was sure.  And if he was being truthful, he had hers.  She would never let him get close, he realised that now.  She would always be one step ahead, just out of grasp, the one that got away.  He had to laugh at the impotence of his efforts.

"I would have thought this to be a solemn occasion for a priest-in-training," Aeria commented snidely.

Tangam shook his head.  He loved the banter, the achingly good looks, the wild emotional ride as if she had him tied to a runaway minecart.  But did he actually love the woman?  She could give him the attention he craved, but only as a cat playing with a lesser beast, more out of boredom than hunger.  She could be cruel, and angry, and so incredibly selfish sometimes.  He surveyed the blackened ruins and shook his head again.  So incredibly selfish....

"Aeria," he announced, trying to put his thoughts into words.  "Before we start, I wanted you to know that I-"

"-It's over," she interjected, forestalling him.  "Done.  Ended.  Whatever it was that you felt, you need to let it go."

Tangam's brow deflated in disappointment.  "I had hoped..." he began.

"Hope is so much smoke from the Elder's incense," Aeria declared.  "It gets in your lungs and chokes you up, but in the end it adds up to nothing more than fluff in the wind.  You know I never agreed with any of their mumbo-jumbo.  What are you trying to do, repeat the same sorry mistakes again and again?  You know I came up here to escape all that, right?"

Tangam swallowed hard.  "I know," he mumbled.

Aeria nodded self-righteously.  "Right.  Over there, wasn't it?"  She strode off to stand in the centre of the burnt out ruin.  "I guess they took the bones back down to the village?"

Tangam nodded.  He dragged his feet to join her, realising at last the finality of... whatever it was they had.  He crouched down, feeling the dry ash crumble in his hands, letting the acrid dust burn his nostrils.  There wasn't even the faintest ember left in what had so recently been an all-consuming inferno.

"Farewell," Tangam said, for he could think of nothing better to say.  "I wish you peace on your long journey."  The erlika shook in his trembling hands.

Aeria tapped her foot impatiently.

Tangam closed his eyes.  Before he could talk himself out of it he tipped the charred bits of bone from the erlika into the bed of ash.

There was a sudden burst of light, and Tangam opened his eyes to see that the sun had miraculously burst through the low-hanging clouds.  Aeria was now aglow, her lips parted, giving him perhaps the most genuine smile he had ever seen from her. 

"Honestly, I didn't think you would do it," she smiled.

"Honestly, you didn't make it easy on me," he retorted.

"I wish you peace as well," she said earnestly, reaching out to caress him on the cheek.  But as her hand brushed against him she turned to dust on the wind.

My understanding is that the hosts may also write entries....

Love this understanding of our hallowed rules.  Cue further debate! 

Well those were three very distinct entries: a ten word poem, a geometry lesson, and tale that made me question my own sanity!   

@RootBound

Spoiler

I liked the message of your poem.  The vaunted strength of the triangle doesn't work in all contexts.  I was tempted to vote for you but... as a triangles are a very precise shape, so is Haiku a very precise art form: you have one extra syllable in your last line!

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@Sinitrena

Spoiler

OK, so your story was more than a geometry lesson.  There was aspiration and hubris, rivalry and redemption.  There was, however, also a slight error in math:

(a² + b² = c²)
2²+2²=c²
c=4

2²+2² would actually be 4 + 4, and therefore c²=8 and c = 2.8

(My suspicions were aroused when the hypotenuse turned out to be exactly the length of the other two sides combined, which would logically result in the (premature) flat-line death of a three sided shape). 

Nerding aside, the degree of precise language required to tell the story of geometric transformations made it feel more like reading a text-book than a story.  It was a courageous experiment in story telling, but... in the end, it still felt a bit two-dimensional.   

[close]

@Mandle

Spoiler

So Janey's pretty clearly crazy (I think), but her brother is almost crazier.  What on Earth did she say on that phone call that convinced him to indulge in her latest mania?  How is he letting her drive him around?  Janey is clearly a larger-than-life character, someone everyone likes to talk about but no one likes to hang out with for long.  Funny, impulsive, quick to anger, brilliant but in a tragic way...  I think the story would have run better structured as more of a Holmes-and-Watson relationship where the brother is more the apologist for his sister (and helps explains her "ways" for the everyman) instead of an incompetent minder.  Nevertheless, there were no miscounted beats or math errors in your work, so... congratulations, I voted for you!

[close]

[Three's a Crowd]

Three's a Crowd

Garaghan checked his watch to see 23:56, and immediately looked away.  That was the time that his brother had died.  He couldn't afford to get choked up, not now.  The drop was only minutes away, and having gone rogue to hunt these bastards down there was no cavalry to back him up this time.  This was a desperate move on his part, and he well knew that desperation could make people do stupid things.

He checked that his gun was loaded and ready, just to take his mind off his emotions.  Long experience had taught him that there was nothing to gain going into this kind of situation full of hot rage.  Leaning his head against the corrugated iron of the shipping container helped take the edge off a bit, and checking his other gun took him the rest of the way.  In his years as a police detective Garaghan had dealt with enough cold-blooded killers.  He noted with some bemusement that the mannerisms had started to rub off onto him.

The loading bay doors began to rumble open.  He clenched his two pistols and waited.

*    *    *    *    *

Lunaro gratefully accepted the hotdog from the street vendor, paying cash and tipping generously.  And why not?  The back-pack he was carrying was stuffed with over a million dollars in hard currency.  No one was going to miss $20 bucks, and it was hungry work being a mule.  If he was going to get robbed, busted, or shot, he sure as hell wasn't going to do it on an empty stomach.

The crowds were thinning this late at night.  Good natured people were getting tired and paying their bills, leaving the streets to the more adventurous rougher sorts.  Lunaro checked his phone as he crossed the street, waving casually to the drivers that honked their horns angrily.  It was 23:57, and he was supposed to be somewhere shortly. 

Lunaro took out a cigarette and crouched on the sidewalk, taking a few moments to watch the world churn by.  He was never one to rush at the best of times, and certainly not into this kind of dangerous deal.  If only Mama didn't need another surgery, he might be able to leave this kind of work behind.  If only.... 

Lunaro subtly flexed his arms, feeling the reassuring solidity of the guns carefully concealed up each sleeve of his jacket, and enjoyed the last of his smoke.  Fate would decide what came next - all he could do was face it with a clear conscience.

*    *    *    *    *

Bartek slammed on his brakes as the pedestrian wandered out into the street right in front of him.  He honked his horn angrily, shaking his head at how trusting some people could be.  Like the world would just watch out for you!  In Bartek's line of work, that was the kind of attitude that got you killed.

He checked the consol clock as he turned the last corner, noticing it flick to 23:58.  Right on schedule.  Bartek liked it when things went like clockwork, each cog in the machine clicking into place at exactly the right time.  That's what kept his daughter in that expensive school his ex-wife raved so much about. 

The laneway was dark but for his headlights.  Nothing seemed amiss or out of place.  Bartek hit the button on his sun-visor and a loading bay door began to open behind him.  Everyone said it was paranoia, but he insisted on backing into every deal.  He figured if things went sideways it was a smart idea to be able to peel off quickly, and Bartek was nothing if not meticulous when planning for contingencies.

He felt his pockets for the two contingencies of last resort, each one loaded and ready to use at a moment's notice.  And then he began to slowly back into the warehouse.

*    *    *    *    *

Garaghan jumped a bit as the iron door slammed.  Didn't these hooligans have any sense of self-preservation?  If he were a scummy drug-dealer he would tip-toe about, not slam doors that might draw unwanted attention.  But that's probably why he was the ex-cop and not the ex-con. 

From the shadows behind the shipping containers he peeked to see the silhouette of a youth carrying a large backpack waltzing along the catwalk and down the stairs to the loading docks.  As he crossed into the light of the reversing car, Garaghan could see the youth's goofy smile and friendly eyes. 

God, he hated it when they were this young.  Kids full of hope and dreams shouldn't be caught up in this kind of business.  The youth reminded him a bit of his nephew, barely out of highschool, looking like a deer in headlights as true adulthood steamrolled towards him. 

Garaghan swallowed hard, willing himself to take the next step.  It was because of scum like this that his nephew was orphaned, he reminded himself.  His right foot moved, and then the left, and suddenly this was happening.

*    *    *    *    *

"Are you the guy?" Lunaro called out, reaching the bottom of the stairs.  The car had just stopped, turning off the back up lights and casting the whole warehouse into darkness.  Really he should have stopped to turn on a light or two, but it would be suspicious to peel off now.  Instead he just stood there, waiting.

A man peeked out of the driver side window and shouted about the lights.  "What is this, a sleepover?  I don't trust what I can't see!"

"Okay, okay, be cool man," Lunaro called back.  "I think I see a switch by the side of the loading bay door.  Imma walk over there slowly and turn it on."

"Fuck you, you will," the man in the car replied.  "You just fucking stay right there."  The trunk to the car popped open, and then the man dashed unexpectedly from the car towards the switch.  Something popped and fizzled on the ceiling, and then slowly the warehouse lights flickered to life.

Lunaro squinted as the bright light briefly blinded him.  He heard the other man swear, and before he could really see anything he heard the unmistakable sound of guns being drawn.  Instinctively he shot his arms outward, the guns up his sleeves flinging themselves into his hands as he had long practised.  And then his vision adjusted to the threat at hand.

*    *    *    *    *

The three men stood in a circle, maybe twenty feet from each other, each with two guns drawn, one pointing at each of the other men.

"What the fuck?!" Bartek was the first to speak.

"It looks like we got ourselves a Mexican standoff here boys," Garaghan announced.

"Why d'ja gotta be all hating on us Mexicans?" Lunaro asked.  "This is just a gun triangle, plain and simple."

"I think that's gotta be the stupidest term I ever heard," Bartek said, keeping his guns trained on the other two men.  "Now who the fuck are you, and what do you want?"

"I'm the mule," Lunaro told him.

"I know who the fuck you are!" Bartek barked in annoyance. 

"Ex-PD," Garaghan said calmly.  "I traced your network's movements to this location.  You son-of-a-bitches killed my brother, and now I'm here for revenge."

"Whoa, man!" Lunaro cautioned, backing away.  "I didn't kill no one, let alone a cop's brother.  I'm just working a job, man."

Garaghan knew in his heart this was true, and he instinctively turned towards the other man.

"Hey, I don't know nothing about no network," Bartek told him.  "I'm a one man operation, and I'm just in it for the money.  There's no money in killing anyone, let alone cop's brothers.  You got your shit mixed up, and now you got me mixed up in your shit."

"The hell I do!" Garaghan shouted, although the seed of doubt was beginning to germinate in his mind.  He'd barely slept in the week since his brother was shot, and it was beginning to take its toll.  "Where were you last Thursday at 23:56?"

Bartek thought a bit.  "That was the night of my daughter's violin recital.  My ex-wife would murder me if I missed that.  It ran late, with so many fucking kids showing off.  I took a fucking video and everything, just look at my phone."

Garaghan considered the idea.  He had several ex-wives who would behave the same way.    "Show it to me."

"Fuck you I'm dropping my gun," Bartek told him.

"I can see you guys got a lot to work out," Lunaro said, taking another step back.

"Don't move another step or I'll shoot," Garaghan commanded.  "You're still a god-damn scummy drug dealer."

"Mule," Lunaro corrected.  "Just a mule.  Fell behind on my mom's medical bills, and got caught up with the wrong sort of people.  I'm not a bad guy, and I can see you're not a bad guy either.  But you know what, we don't have to do this deal here tonight, if the drug thing bothers you.  We can all just, you know, walk away." 

"Yeah," Bartek agreed.  "I think that'd be best for everyone."

"No," Garaghan said with all the authority that 20 years on the force had given him.  "No, you're just going to deal another time, and eventually someone else's brother is going to get shot.  This ends here, right now.  Drop the backpack, and take whatever that is out of the trunk."

"Fuck you," Bartek spat.  "You're not a cop anymore, you said so yourself.  I'm not going broke because things went south for your brother.  I got school fees to pay for, and spousal support.  Either I'm leaving here with the goods or the money, but you might as well shoot me now if you think I'm leaving without either."

"My man, it's not worth it," Lunaro said, partially dropping his gun on Bartek.  "I had a cousin what got shot over these drugs, and it's just a senseless waste."

"What, the guys who fronted you that money are just going to let you walk away if you don't come back with the goods?" Bartek asked.  "The fuck they will.  They will nail your ass to a freeway overpass as a warning to anyone else that thinks they can walk out with their money."

Lunaro thought for a bit.  "You know, that's probably true.  But that will be tomorrow, not right now.  As I see it, either I die right now, or I take a bit of this here money for Moma and spend one last night with her in the hospital."  With that he lowered his guns and let the backpack slide off his back.

"Shit kid," Garraghan said, impressed at the youth's noble gesture.  He lowered one of his weapons.  "All right, you take a stack from the backpack and go help Moma."

"The fuck?!?" Bartek said, waving the gun that was not pointed at Garraghan.  "He gets to walk away to save his Momma?  The cartel is going to come after both of us, and probably you too.  I'm serious when I say you might as well shoot me here.  I'd prefer not to be nailed to an overpass, but I'll do it ten times over before I give these people an excuse to come after my daughter."

Garaghan holstered his one gun.  "Give me your phone," he said, reaching with his free hand towards Bartek.

Bartek lowered the weapon that had been trained on Lunaro.  The youth promptly began rummaging in the backpack.  Bartek wouldn't really miss a stack of bills, not if it got him out of this situation, and the kid did seem to have a good excuse.  But he needed the rest of that money, and the cartel sure as hell needed the drugs he had cooked up in his trunk. 

"How is my phone going to change anything?" he asked the ex-cop.

"It'll prove to me you're an honest guy," Garaghan shrugged. 

Bartek squinted.  "You let me toss this duffle bag full of drugs to the kid so that the gangstas don't kill him, and I'll do it."

Garaghan frowned.  "I don't want those drugs on the street."

"You know fucking well that they'll just be replaced by other drugs," Bartek shot back.  "What you gotta think of is what you want most right now.  You want the drugs off the street, or you want to find your brother's killer?  It seems like you've got too much conscience to kill an innocent man in cold blood."

The remaining gun in Garaghan's hand began shaking ever so slightly.

"That's fucking right," Bartek said, putting his second gun back into his pocket.  "Okay kid, you robbed me of a stack for a good cause.  Toss the rest of the backpack over here."

"I didn't agree to this," Garaghan said, the gun now shaking more.

Lunaro tossed the backpack, and then raised his hands innocently.  It landed right behind Bartek's car.

"Okay, here comes the duffle bag," Bartek said, reaching blindly into the trunk with his free hand.

"Stop!" Garaghan shouted, his gun now shaking out of control.  "I don't want to shoot, but I will."

"Of course you're going to fucking shoot," Bartek said, raising the duffle bag up.  "What, did you think we were all just going to walk away, get a beer maybe?  These things always end with people getting shot, either right here or tomorrow, or the day after that.  It's a hard game we're playing, and in the end everyone always loses.  That's the way it's always been, and the way it's always going to be." 

Bartek tossed the duffle bag, and Lunaro caught it deftly.

The gun in Garaghan's hand was suddenly deadly still.  Life was a real shit show, with a series of rational decisions ending in almost certain death for three men who had never met before.  Three men who were all here illegally, but all for the best reasons.  Three men with so much in common, but no way to bridge the gap that could save them from each other.  Garaghan closed his eyes, willing himself to put pride aside and choose a different path.

"So... that beer's definitely off the table, then?" he asked calmly.

Bartek and Lunaro shared a long glance, no doubt thinking of the inevitable carnage that was just a twitchy finger away. 

"Uh, yeah, well I guess I can make a bit of a detour on the way home," Lunaro conciliated.

Bartek shook his head and laughed at how unpredictable life could be.  "What the fuck, sure.  Let's go get a beer.  But you're fucking paying!"

I'm still tri-ing.