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[The Fortnightly Writing Competition!]

Thanks for the votes, everyone!

I don't think there's any shame in posting experimental writing, at least so long as you don't have any hurtful intent.  I sure wish I could crank out an excellent story in a very short period of time.  While I don't think that Stupot's entry this time around was something necessarily to be proud of (i.e. probably not a good idea to send a copy to grandma ) , the goal of turning an idea and some spare in-between time into a winning entry is like a modern day grail quest.  Logically the chances of success were always pretty remote, but what if he had stumbled onto something.... 

I'll try to get the next competition up and running in the next day or so.  See you all next time in the next exciting instalment of....

The Fortnightly Writing Competition!

Sure thing, Mandle ol' mate!  I've just gone back and edited some hide tags.

Having said that, I have to believe that anyone who is reading the commentary afterwards has either read the stories or wants to read what people think before committing to reading.  So I'm leaving the following out in the open, warts and all.

The behaviour from Jaqueline just doesn't match her shown characteristics too well. Yes, she doesn't care about Miss Teschmacher, but that's fair enough in their current situation, while she otherwise shows support for her collegue - she goes with Lilah to a place she clearly doesn't want to go, she takes photos even before they are together, she manages to get them out of the prison. You could argue that the situation got more dangerous at the end, but I don't think so.

Ah, but you are meant to think the best of your social betters -that's the whole point of what was meant to basically be a social commentary.  Jacqueline and Mr. Big come from the same world of wealth and privilege, and they behave fundamentally by a different social code than us regular peons.  Jacqueline gets beaten by her rich boyfriends but thinks it is normal: it is the wealth they share and status they impart that matters.  Mr. Big eats and violates people for sport, but doesn't consider himself a monster: it is the power that matters.  Jacqueline and Mr. Big get each other.  Sure, they may outwardly behave decently when it is in their own best interests (to increase one's status, in the case of Jacqueline; to earn a vast fortune in banking, in the case of Mr. Big), but ultimately they just use others to further their own goals (lust, survival....).  In Jacqueline's eyes, Lilah was a diversion for her own escape, especially when she became bogged down with Ms. Teschmacher.  Jacqueline & Mr. Big are pretty on the outside (at least Mr. Big was, before the fire, and he still has a vile charisma about him) - we want to like them, and to be liked by them, as Ms. Teschmacher is loyal to the despicable Mr. Big to the end.  But they are grotequely ugly on the inside - especially since they seem to enjoy the ugly side of their social caste, as is revealed in the epilogue as Jacqueline enjoys the party.  Thus the title: Pretty Ugly Things.

What other driver? The other car was parked. ("...I remembered the truck hitting a parked car, I remembered the other car swerving into the little girl...), though, admittedly, that could have been a bit clearer.

Hmmm....  I usually think of "swerving" as an intentional act (in an attempt to avoid a collision), i.e. something difficult for an unpiloted object to do.  But even so, he said himself that he did every rational thing to avoid hurting anybody - the person who left their car without the parking break on must bear at least some responsibility.

(fricking vaccination side-effects, but better those than actually getting sick).

I know, right?  I haven't been sick for the better part of two years now, except for right after I got that vaccine:  BAM!

[EjectedStar]

Ha ha, well after all that pestering for deadlines I had some unexpected spare time this evening.  It's been a long time since we've had such a diverse selection of stories!  I won't share votes, but here's my thoughts on each story:

EjectedStar: Fantastic light-hearted fantasy writing here!  The characters were engaging and complimented each other nicely.  The action, though brief, was well-described, and the accidental heroics were a nice twist towards the end.  It was a bit hard to take seriously the actual danger they were in, due to all the joking and the casual cavalier attitude they took after barely the briefest reconnaissance, but I guess that goes part-and-parcel with the happy-go lucky tone that I enjoyed so much.

Mandle:  Edit: text hidden due to spoilers

Spoiler

Man, I so called "fleas" right after the fantastic opening paragraph describing the "drooping foliage ripe with the stench of decay"!  I think if I hadn't already drawn that conclusion I would have gotten more invested in the rest of the descriptive narrative (which was good!), but was just so much background between the action.  It kind of reminded me of yet another shot of the cast of some Tolkien-based movie striding through the gorgeous landscape of New Zealand Middle Earth to inspiring music - alright, just get there already!  I wonder that, as notorious jumpers, the fleas never thought to expedite its explorations or seek greener redder pastures?

[close]

BarbWire: I liked the way you punctuated the serious tone of the story with quirky observational humour: "canned food" when the sharks were swimming around the sub comes to mind, or "cordon bleugh" when it came to the rations.  The background politics of humanity getting its shit together was intriguing (and mercifully succinct  ).  I'm still trying to figure out if The Kingdom was just a discorporate version of Atlantis, or if he just actually died and went to a more conventional heaven.  Given the parallels between typical accounts of the place and the fact that they found his dead body, I'm leaning to the latter, but I'm not entirely convinced there's not more to your story.

Stupot: I feel like, instead of Dr. Gregory shouting "Mac!  Mac!  Nooooo!" at the end, maybe Mac should have shouted "Gregory!  Gregory!  Nooooo!" at some point in the middle.  I mean, he had one job!  Other than that, my only other comment is that your story might benefit from a little more.... fleshing out?   

Sinitrena:  I'm not much the fan of reading about emotional torment - it's illogical, dammit! - but I give you credit for keeping me engaged to the very end.  You had some great descriptions without spilling over into purple language ("the splints splintering his belief in his own innocence" springs to mind).  I think... again this is the logical me speaking, not meaning to be insensitive, but what kind of two-bit higher power can't rationally apportion blame?  I mean, yeah, your character was inadvertently partly culpable, but that's a pretty petty deity that lays eternal suffering on him for that.  What about the other driver, who actually did the deed (and was probably speeding)?  What about all the good things he did up that point, in general but also specifically related to the great life his daughter had?  Or maybe he creates his own hell out of an out-sized sense of responsibility?  But then rationally he'd go to hell anyway - for his small bit in destroying the rainforest by eating beef, or exploiting child-labourers by buying new clothes.  I mean, we're all at least partly to blame for that, however indirectly, if we care to think about it.  So is the only true salvation obliviousness towards how our actions impact others, like little puffs of air from butterfly wings turning into hurricanes across the world?  I think, as a wrenchingly cathartic tale, it would have worked better if he had actually been to blame.  I would then feel less of a sense of injustice and be better able to comprehend his suffering.

Great reads all around folks!

[Edit:]

Traditionally you must allot your votes in whole numbers.  And by traditionally, I mean over the last two contests since we started voting this way.   

Edit:  Is there a voting deadline?  I need a deadline in order to procrastinate efficiently.   

[Pretty Dark Things]

Yeah, I went kinda dark as well - kinda really dark.  Sorry for the length, but I cut all I could to have it still make some kind of sense. 

Pretty Dark Things

   It was a nice day for late November, or so they had claimed on Lilah's newsfeed.  But here among the banking towers the faint midday sunlight was reserved for those at the top of society, glinting off the shimming pinnacles of downtown New York like a mirage of gold.  But neither gold nor warmth trickled down into the street canyon below.  There a brisk wind sliced with chilly menace, laying bare the myth of gentler times ahead.  Down on the streets life was harsh, and seemed ever on the verge of growing harsher still.  Lilah shivered.

   Around her people bustled to and fro, rushing about their business.  But not Lilah.  Her business was as a witness.  Not of the dour looking business folk frowning disdainfully at their chilly predicament and looking greedily towards the glowing heavens.  No, her business was the folk in between that seemed to melt into the gritty landscape, camouflaged against the pity and the predations of the mighty: the addicts, the homeless, the unstable, the hopeless.  Lilah was a professional journalist, giving voice to the downtrodden and forgotten street people who blended so easily into the rest of the trash-strewn pavements of the city.  Well, she was a freelance journalist at any rate, published three times now in Liberal Hearts Review, an up and coming uptown circular.  Truthfully she was only a warm breakfast and a friend's couch removed from the folk she wrote about, a fact that stirred a grim fascination within her.

   But now her editor had teased her with news that a big paper (he declined to mention which one) was sniffing around her stories.  They might be interested in syndication, he said, if Lilah could flesh her work out a bit, adding more colour and grit.  Oh, she'd give him grit.  She gritted her teeth against the cold, or maybe it was the grit in her teeth blown up off the dusty concrete.  She looked at her watch despite herself.

   Of course it was her editor's idea to take Jacqueline along.  Jacqueline was a Park Avenue socialite who liked to play at being a photographer in between shopping binges and wild parties and crash diets and charitable causes.  It was not that Jacqueline was mean-spirited about her wealth (Lilah had slept on her plush couch on more than one occasion), but she couldn't help but wear her privilege on her sleeve.  She certainly couldn't keep to anything as proletarian as a schedule.

   To pass the chilly minutes Lilah went over the project again in her mind.  She had already spent the morning interviewing the huddled homeless, pumping them for information about the rumours that swept the street more quickly and cruelly than any early winter wind.  Whispers of a serial killer that preyed on the weak and the forlorn after dark.  Tales of a lair in the sewers or in the subway tunnels, or maybe deeper yet in the bowels of the earth.  Of course no one could name names or point fingers (it was always a friend of a friend of a friend who had heard it first), but Lilah took pride in a good ground game.  The stories churned like wisps in the wind, but she had been able to map the pieces and their frequency, and had triangulated the epicentre with uncanny accuracy.  Of course her editor knew nothing about this new angle, but Lilah was not about to squander an opportunity to investigate such a juicy story in the safety of numbers.  Now all she needed was the silver-spoon shutterbug to see if the rumours were true.

   â€œLilah, dear!” called the carefully affected voice of Jacqueline accompanied by the familiar clopping of her high-heeled boots.  Her blonde hair was blowing from beneath a fur hat (fake she assured Lilah, a little too earnestly to believe), and her make-up was immaculate enough to guess at the sleep rings under her eyes.  Still, Jacqueline shone like an angel in this place of black suit-coats and faded tatters.  Lilah herself was not an unattractive girl, but her straight brown hair and bohemian garb made her look something of a peasant next to a princess.

   â€œUp too late at the museum gala ball?” Lilah asked, shaking her watch.

   â€œDon't be ridiculous, Darling,” Jacqueline scoffed.  “Last night I was at the Waldorf reopening party.  The dreadfully dull museum gala ball is tonight!  Now do look at these perfectly wretched hobos I snapped on my way down the block,” Jacqueline continued disdainfully, sliding through the pictures on her camera.  “Look!  She's wearing what used to be a metallic puffer jacket from the 1990s.  I think a mouse is nesting here where the seam is burst!”

   Lilah forced a smile.  “That's great, Jacqueline!  They might just run that with the story.  You got her name, right?”

   Jacqueline's face betrayed the slightest look of panic before recovering its practised facade.  “Oh bother,” she said.

   â€œDon't worry about it,” Lilah said, dragging her colleague down the street.  “I've already interviewed her â€" lovely person, really.  But you are right about the mice, unfortunately....”

   Jacqueline shrieked despite herself, and then returned Lilah's smile.  Well, if they weren't exactly close, at least they were on friendly terms.

   â€œHere we are,” said Lilah, turning a corner into an alley.  The noise of the streets seemed to fade behind them, replaced now with a vague hum pierced by sudden clanking sounds of ominous origin.

   â€œAre you sure about this?” Jacqueline asked, unable to hide the tentative tone.

   â€œThe homeless are more victims then vicious,” Lilah replied.  “We'll be fine as long as we stick together.  Flashlight?”

         *   *   *   *   *

   And down they went, through an abandoned parking garage, into the dark underbelly of the living city.  The occasional flutter or scuffle belied life in these first few levels, sometimes human but too wretched to brave the wind and light above, but often animal (although at times it was hard to tell the difference, even in the full glare of their flashlights).  Lilah tried her best to get quotes or info on life in the underground, or to see if anyone had heard of homeless children going missing (although not entirely true, it did tend to elicit more helpful responses).  Most of the squatters were stoned beyond coherence, and at least once the piles of rags seemed more corpse-like than alive, but at last at the bottom-most depths they found an old toothless man that mumbled angrily and pointed towards a grate on the floor.

   â€œThey scream in whispers,” was all they could make out, over and over again.  “They scream in whispers.”  Jacqueline took his picture, although the man recoiled like a vampire from the flash of light.  Lilah did not write down his words.  Those she would not forget.

   Listen as they might at the grate, all they could hear were the quiet sighs of air buried too long against its will.  It took both of them some effort (although Jacqueline's seemed half-hearted), but eventually they managed to pry it up and descend a rusty service ladder still further into the blackness.  Here was a silence more sinister than even the creepy sounds above, like the dread menace of the grave when the last desperate twitches of life have ceased.  Eventually the pair emerged into tunnels so old that the bricks themselves had begun to drip into stalactites. 

   â€œSurely there is nothing deeper,” Jacqueline whispered, afraid of disturbing the smothering silence.  “A man can only sink so low.”

   â€œWhat is that, then?” Lilah whispered back.  For down the tunnel there was now the faintest glow, and the unmistakable movement of shadows on the wall.  They froze, listening, and there was indeed the faintest clack-and-whir as if from some half-broken machine.  Jacqueline withdrew a pepper spray bottle from her pocket.  Lilah smiled, flashing the palm-sized pistol that she kept in her own.  Nodding to each other, they slowly crept towards the light and noise.

   They began to round the corner, noticing that the masonry of the floor gave way to more steel grating.  Indeed, the steel bars were now on all sides, and above something resembling fire-escape stairs stretched out of the light, no doubt providing a different route back to the surface.  Below was nothing but blackness, although they thought they could imagine the vague outline of pipes and catwalks in the brighter flashes of light.  Another step and they could see the lights were flashing on the wall as if from a projector, showing what might have once been segments of black and white movies, but the scenes were cut and disjointed, and looped endlessly again and again.  Another step and they came to notice that the shadows were made by bobbing dolls, strung disturbingly from their necks by strings that attached them to some kind of conveyor belt that twisted them first one way and then another in a macabre dance of the hanged.

   â€œWhat do you think this place is?” Jacqueline asked, daring to snap a few photos.

   â€œI don't know,” Lilah replied, recoiling from the dancing dolls who seemed to leer hideously at her.  “A warning to stay away?  But it's so bright and obnoxious that anyone nearby would be drawn to investigate....”  Suddenly Lilah new exactly what the purpose of this place was, although she hardly dared think it.  Her body seized stiff, and she fumbled for the pistol in her pocket, accidentally dropping it onto the grating on the floor.  “Jacqueline,” she squeaked feebly.  “It's a trap.”

   And then the grating gave way and they were falling into blackness.

         *   *   *   *   *

   â€œAnd what have we here, hmmmm?” crooned a voice, and a hand brushed too familiarly against her cheek.  Lilah came to with a jolt, realizing that her arms and legs were restrained, although her body was upright.  She stared fearfully at the man in front of her in the half-light.  He wore a theatre mask over his face, but it was done up in make-up and lipstick to look like some hideous parody of beauty.  Blonde and white tufts stuck out akimbo to frame the mask in great matted chunks, more like a mangy mane than human hair.  But the eyes were the most haunting part of him, mad and ruthless and lustful all at the same time.  And around them the small bits of skin that were visible seemed to bubble like the scales of a cold-blooded lizard.

   Lilah was suddenly aware of weeping, and the man stepped back to reveal Jacqueline chained on the floor, a great bruise across her face.  Her fancy clothes were ripped, and Lilah could see through the tatters that there were scratch marks all over her soft skin.  In dread, she turned back to their captor, and despite the impassive mask the eyes belied a cruel smile.  He waved something that smelled like cooked meat in her face, and to her horror she realized it was a human arm.  The man turned the hand part towards him and stuck a cooked finger into the mouth-hole in his mask, biting off a bit of flesh.  Lilah gagged in revulsion.

   â€œWelcome to my sanctuary, my dear lost little birds,” said he as he chewed, waving the arm expansively about him.  It seemed like he was wearing some kind of monk robe, but Lilah was distracted from his clothing by the faint outline of a maze of steel stairs and catwalks above and below.  Her heart caught in her throat at the silhouette of another female form, minus an arm, dangling upside down through bars which she now realized were on all sides of her.  She choked back the panic rising like bile in her throat.

   â€œWho are you?” was all she could manage.

   The man tucked the cooked arm into his robe pocket and held up her notebook, chuckling to himself.  “Always on the clock,” he chided, tossing it carelessly into the corner.  “Do you know I was once like you, working my days away?  Like a beast in the yoke!” he shouted, suddenly angry, but just as quickly returned to a crooning tone.  “I was on a trading desk, you know.  They used to call me Mr. Big.”  He raised his hand up to the one solitary bulb of light dangling above the ceiling bars, and Lilah could see his nails were inches long, more like yellowed claws, and that the back of his hand carried the same bubbly scars as his face.  “They told me I could own the world!  And I very nearly did,” he giggled, now rubbing his hands together like a child.  “I knew they had their knives out, behind their backs, just waiting....” he trailed off, kicking something else across the floor to tumble down into the labyrinth of darkness and steel.  Only when it was gone did Lilah realize it had been her pistol, and she swallowed weakly.

   Mr. Big came to stand behind her, which was much worse, for now her imagination tortured her as to his next move.  His next words came as a raspy whisper, right near her ear: “Do you know what people are like when it's their ass on the line?  Do you know what a man will do to save his own bacon?  Do you know who he'll step on to raise himself up?”  Again the wicked chuckle, and Lilah tensed as the clawed fingers came to massage her shoulders.

   â€œOh, I know,” he said, now teasing her hair between his nails before moving on to Jacqueline.  “I know!” he shouted.  “That's why I built this, as a bolt-hole, just in case it all went south.  Just in case the great pyramid of assholes started to crumble, drowning us all in their shit!  I was ready, even though I didn't see it coming when it came.”  Jacqueline trembled at his feet, but Mr. Big now seemed lost in his own narrative.  “They smashed planes into my office,” he ranted.  “Took out the four floors below me.  My own coworkers used me as a human shield to shelter from the heat!  That's what people can do if you push them to the brink,” he growled, clawing at his mask.  “And it's only gotten worse since â€" yes, I keep up to date on the news down here.  Super storms and great recessions and demagogues and virus plagues!  The ship is obviously sinking, and the clowns in charge just keep the band playing!”

   Lilah tried to steady her nerves.  She was probably going to regret it, but the words came bubbling up out of her mouth.  “So who's the clown in charge down here?” she asked.  She made herself make eye-contact with Mr. Big.

   Slowly, ominously he turned.  There was a fire in his eye quite apart from the old burn scars.  Mr. Big stalked menacingly up to her, and grabbed her chin with that hideously clawed hand.  “Oh, things down here are just as bad as they are up there,” he whispered.  “Maybe even worse, if you're on the bottom rung.  But here's the difference: the clown in charge down here doesn't sugar coat it with lies and platitudes.  What you see is what... you...  get!”  His breath rasped through the tiny hole in the mask, drowning Lilah in a stench so foul that it made her eyes water.  But still she held his gaze, not daring to look away.  Dangerous animals could sense weakness, after all....

   A squeaking came from along the catwalk and they both turned to see a beautiful woman in a wheelchair just outside her cell.  “Excuse me, sir?” she asked in a surprisingly professional voice.

   â€œUh?!  What is it, Miss Teschmacher?”

   â€œIt's the twins, sir.  You told me to tell you as soon as they were ready.”

   â€œOh yes,” Mr. Big muttered.  “Yes!  I remember.  You will have to forgive me, ladies,” he said in a magnanimously civil tone, releasing his grip of Lilah's face.  “I'm afraid I have business elsewhere at the moment.  But let's do lunch tomorrow, shall we?” he asked, mischievously prancing towards the door of what Lilah realized was their cell.  “I am, after all, a man of many appetites.”  And with that he swung the wheelchair into the cell and pushed, so that Miss Teschmacher fell out onto the cell floor.  In horror Lilah saw that she was entirely missing her legs.

   Mr. Big merely laughed and strutted away down the catwalk, whistling a merry tune to himself.

   â€œWhat happened to you,” Lilah asked, unable to tear her eyes from the stumps on the woman's exposed thighs.

   â€œThe same thing that will happen to you, if not worse,” Miss Teschmacher spat, pushing herself up into a sitting position before scooting back towards her wheelchair.  “Now shut up and rub this marinade all over yourself.”  A plastic bottle was tossed at Lilah's feet.

   â€œI...  I can't reach it.”  Lilah flexed against her bonds.  She was tied to some sort of upright plank affixed to the middle of the floor.

   â€œToo bad for you,” Miss Teschmacher said, hauling herself up into the wheelchair.  “He doesn't like it when you don't listen to instructions.”  And with that she wheeled off, slamming the door to the cell behind her.

   â€œHoly fuck,” Lilah said, squirming at her bonds.  “Jacqueline, are you all right?  Jacqueline?”  Lilah turned to see that Jacqueline was no longer whimpering, but rather undoing her bonds with a key.

   â€œWhat?!” Jacqueline shrugged, clicking off the last of her chains.  “When all you date is rich pricks, you learn how to pick pockets and take a beating.  Oh, yeah, now suddenly I'm the monster!”  She rolled her eyes at Lilah as she stooped to work at the other woman's bonds.  “In the real world, a girl's gotta do what a girl's gotta do.”  Soon they were both free.

   â€œDoes the key work on the door?” Lilah asked, suddenly seeing her friend in a whole new light.

   â€œGive me a sec,” Jacqueline cursed, reaching through the bars to try the lock.  Lilah picked up the notebook and the marinade (which read Dr. Cawlins' Special Sauce), but there was nothing else in the cell.  Then there was a very satisfying click from the door.

   â€œOh Jacqueline, you are fantastic!” Lilah whispered.  They tiptoed out and along the catwalk, painfully aware that the bars and grating of the open-concept prison made it impossible to hide out of sight.  Somewhere in the distance there was a muffled scream, but with the way sound echoed down here it was hard to tell where it had come from.  They rounded a corner and there was an unmistakable sound of a gun cocking.

   â€œDon't move an inch or I'll tenderize your meat,” Miss Teschmacher threatened.  They both turned around to face their assailant.

   â€œHe doesn't trust you with bullets,” Jacqueline replied dismissively, not bothering to raise her hands as Lilah had.  “If he did, you would have blown your own brains out long ago.”

   Miss Teschmacher's well-practised poker-face gave nothing away.  “I guess we're gonna find out,” she retorted, but that's as far as she got.  At that moment Lila squirted the Dr. Cawlins' Special Sauce in her eyes, causing her to scream in pain.  Jacqueline grabbed the gun and checked the chamber.

   â€œEmpty,” she said, unable to hide the satisfaction from her voice.  She flipped the gun around and brought it down hard on the back of Miss Teschmacher's head.  The crippled woman went limp.

   â€œShe's just a victim like us!” Lilah said, tossing the bottle of marinade aside.  “It's classic Stockholm syndrome!”

   â€œThose screams will bring Mr. Big,” was all Jacqueline replied.

   â€œThis place is full of screams.”

   Jacqueline shrugged.  “Well I'm not carrying that sack of bitch up all those stairs.”

   Lilah looked up to see the steel stairs snaking away into the blackness.  “I will,” she said.

   Up, up they climbed, and soon they came to the projector and the dancing dolls.  “There,” said Jacqueline, pointing at the ceiling just before they entered the trap.  Lilah had to strain to crane her neck under the dead weight of Miss Teschmacher draped over her shoulders.  She saw the fire-escape ladder in its upright position out of reach above them.  “Give me a boost.”

   Lilah grunted, gently lowering her load to the grated floor where Miss Teschmacher moaned and clutched at her head.  Lilah stooped and braced her hands to let Jacqueline step into them.  “One, two, three!”  Lilah heaved as Jacqueline lunged for the fire-escape ladder.  Remarkably she reached it on the first try, pulling it down to its full extension.

   Miss Teschmacher started laughing, and sat up.

   Jacqueline ignored her and started climbing the ladder.

   â€œThis is exactly how I lost my first leg,” Miss Teschmacher said casually, as if they were all just buddies shooting the breeze.  “It'll be my arm this time.”  Then she lunged and wrapped her arms around Lilah's legs, clutching them in a death grip.

   â€œWe're trying to save you!” Lilah cried, trying to pry the other woman off of her.

   â€œHe'll catch you,” she said.  “He always does.  Listen, he's coming!”

   All three of them froze, and above the clacking and whirring of the projector and the doll jangling mechanisms drifted the unmistakable sound of a male baritone in full song.

   â€œLet go!”  Lilah pleaded, beginning to pull at Miss Teschmacher's hair in desperation.  “I'll carry you up, I promise.  Just let me go!”

   â€œThere is no escape,” Miss Teschmacher said simply.  To her horror Lilah began pulling out whole tufts of hair from the other woman's scalp, but still the grip did not lesson.  The ominously pleasant singing grew louder, and Lilah began to punch with her fists.

   â€œHe's faster than you think,” Miss Teschmacher said despite the blows to her head.  “He'll catch you, no matter how quickly you run.”

   â€œHelp me!” Lilah called to Jacqueline, but the fire-escape ladder suddenly recoiled up into the ceiling once more.  “Jacqueline!?!”

   â€œHe can't catch us both, if we go different ways,” Jacqueline called down.  She ripped a length of tattered clothing from her body, and began tying the ladder to its frame to stop it from lowering easily.

   Lilah screamed, but not in rage.  Miss Teschmacher had bitten her leg so hard it felt like a chunk had come loose under her jeans.

   â€œHere,” said Jacqueline coolly, tossing a small iron bar down through the ladder opening.  Lilah grabbed it and started stabbing it at Miss Teschmacher's head.  On the third blow the woman collapsed, blood running down her face, but she laughed maniacally.  The singing now seemed to echo all around the chamber.

   â€œJacqueline, let me up!” Lilah cried.

   â€œA girl's gotta do what a girl's gotta do,” was all Jacqueline replied.

   Lilah peered uncertainly into the pitch black tunnel down which they had come, her only other means of escape.  “I don't have a light!” she screamed.  But Jacqueline had already started climbing the steel stairs back to the surface.  Grimacing against the pain in her leg, Lilah began to hobble desperately into the blackness, careful to avoid the trap door again.  Miss Teschmacher laughed, wriggling her leg stumps grotesquely in the air.  And Mr. Big just sang happily, for there was nothing he enjoyed better than a hunt in the dark.

*   *   *   *   *

   A shower, a nap, and more make-up than usual was all it took to get Jacqueline to the museum gala ball that evening.  There the pompous egos of the upper crust rubbed against each other like great tectonic plates, with the colossal stresses and grinding forces hidden just below the surface.  She was surprised to find she enjoyed the gala more than she thought she would. 
   

Congratulations RetroJay!  My votes had you tied with another competitor, but I'm glad you won.   

Honestly I feel like side-eyeing the story-teller in the bar and asking him if he’s just fucking with me.

But then he would just absorb you into his collective being!      Honestly, I ran a little short of time and had to crank out the ending much more quickly than I would have liked.  In the ideal situation I finish a day or two before the deadline and have time for a quick re-read/edit before things go out the door.

[Sinitrena]

As per usual, I voted just at the deadline.  Mostly due to personal time management issues, but just a little bit to tip the balance in the end and mess with Mandle's confidence in the voting system.   

Great bunch of stories this time around.  Here is a breakdown of my impressions:

Sinitrena: I very carefully avoided reading what looks like an explanation of what was happening in your story.  To me it was like a kid in class, day-dreaming (although it is night) and filling in the "spaces" between the stars with her imagination, and then trying to capture those fantasies on the page but feeling them to be just lifeless approximations of her vivid dreams.  And of course the teacher thinks she's just wasting her time.  Story-wise it was a bit of a rambling excursion with no obvious destination, but the poetic use of language made it an enjoyable trek.

Ejected Star:  I'm disappointed that I can't vote for your story, but rules are rules.  I liked the "personal kaleidoscope" behind Lt. Vaughn's eyes before he comes to - I've actually experienced those flashing lights when I've experienced head trauma, and its the kind of creative use of language that drags you into the story.  The bored Fentellians remind me a bit of the Vogons (sp?) that wrecked Earth in Douglas Adams' stories.

Retro Jay:  For a very short story I thought yours packed the most punch.  I liked the idea of humanity flushing away its most unwanted antihero, but at the same time inadvertently destroying their universe at the same time.  I guess there's some kind of lesson about human-nature to be learned here....   I'm a little confused as to how the Moon just up and died one day (I mean, yeah, they were extracting to much H3, but....  what happened to that 63 trillion tonne corpse?)  I smiled at Gandalf the White sweeping up our mess.

Repi: Johnny Jet was easily the best character of the competition for me.  He kind of seems to shoot himself in the foot by shutting Eve down before arriving ...anywhere, but that seems very much in keeping with his shoot-first, don't-put-pants-on-later kind of mentality.  I think a bit of editing could tighten up the text a bit (Ooziness?  As in oozing stuff?), but I would definitely be interested in following this character through further adventures.

Mandle:  Well, if we were voting in categories I would definitely vote for you in the too-much-information-with-regards-to-old-men-using-toilets category.  At least you didn't have his old man balls drooping into the water first -ah crap, now I thought it.    I'm not going to lie to you, I think the equating of jam between the horoscope entries as "betwixt the stars" was a bit of a fudge in order to write a moving tale of eternal love grafted onto a bigfoot fantasy.  Despite essentially avoiding the theme, the underlying message of the story was great, and your use-of-words is top rate.  I do wish you had been able to edit the less interesting scenes down a bit (teaching the cup game) and expanded a bit on the more intriguing (why is Harry grabbing a wild-animal's buttocks three seconds after encountering it?).   

Barbwire: Who doesn't like a good road-trip adventure!  Spaceman's adventures in the Baby Boom Galaxy were unfortunately glossed over, but you definitely capture the wonder and magic of the great beyond.  I do wish you had expanded a bit on the whole consciousness-in-a-mannequin thing, as that was a lot to swallow all at once.  The idea of space being a circle that just brings you home in the end could also have been developed further.  In the end, I think this story had a lot of potential, but it needs to be fleshed out a bit.

Wait...  Sinitrena submits a nice short entry and Mandle writes a novel?!?  We're through the looking glass here, peeps! 

[Nebulous]

Nebulous

Did you know I died once?  It's a complicated story, so bear with me.

There I was, adrift in the cosmos, the boot of my space suit filling with blood, my oxygen levels dropping precipitously, my nose encrusted with space boogies due to the dry air and there being no immediately obvious means of picking them without removing my helmet and succumbing to the merciless vacuum beyond.  Did you know that the lack of pressure in space pushes the boiling point of human blood disturbingly low?  I didn't want to go out like a shrimp at a fancy Thai restaurant, and so I resolved to wait out the clock on my last oxygen canister.

It is beautiful out there, all alone, in the milky darkness.  Kind of like paddling a canoe alone on an infinite lake at night, only in full dive-equipment with an insect biting at the inside of your nose.  The galaxy seems right at your fingertips, and yet its elements are spread so far apart that the mathematical probability of getting close enough to something else to actually touch it approaches the infinitesimal.  So it's more VR desktop background than story setting, or at least it would be in most stories where a human is floating alone is space and death is a virtual certainty.

But of course this is not such a normal story.  I've been called many things in my day, but the word “normal” has never crossed the lips of anyone having made my acquaintance.  My life to that point was such a series of remarkable events that to be perfectly honest I can't even recall the specific misfortune which had cast me into this predicament.  And so, from that perspective at least, it was in fact rather likely that I should encounter something unexpected out there in the empty vastness.

So there I was, my mortal husk wilting and my eternal soul waning in the final countdown to oblivion.  There could have been barely five minutes of air left to me, and unless I could quickly improvise some electrolysis to extract the oxygen from my external bladder container I was surely doomed.  And then it hit me, not like the solution to an adventure game puzzle, but like a rock up side the head.  I turned to notice that I had collided with an asteroid the size of a Volkswagen Westphalia.  Oddly I wasn't pulverized into little atomic bits as most things that collide at hyper-sonic speeds, because by some remarkable coincidence our relative motion followed almost exactly the same vector.

But perhaps it wasn't that odd at all, this being an interesting story about interesting characters.  Oh yes, characters in the plural, for there was an inhabitant on that tiny lump of rock.  One might call him bizarre, if one were close-minded or uncultivated.  Eccentric perhaps, if one were inclined to judginess or the cult of normalcy.  But though my immediate opinion of the fellow may have been slightly ill-informed, I can say with the benefit of hindsight that this being was without a shadow of a doubt the most handsomest and witty scholar in the whole entirety of existence.

It is hard to put into words an accurate description of his physique, as it kept changing with the light and with his mood.  In general I will say that he seemed more cat-like than not, although quite a bit larger, so that he occupied a good third of the asteroid himself.  He lazed like a cat, that is certain, possessed as are all superior beings with a fine-tuned sense of just the exact modicum of effort required  to maintain his superior existence, so that the floating rock resembled more of a throne and he a pampered emperor.  And he was quite inquisitive, again in a cat-like manner, batting at me curiously with his somewhat tentacle-like paw.

Well it would hardly be an interesting story if I spun out those next five minutes into the hours required to do justice to the philosophical banter that ensued between us.  I mean, I was a daring space adventurer and he a god-like super-being with the power to absorb the likeness and consciousness of beings that he found intriguing, so of course we had scintillatingly different perspectives on the meaning of life, and individuality, and “fun”, and well to cut a long story short it did take a bit of work reconciling our differences.

But to get to the point, the strangest thing happened while I was still me and he was still him.  He was having the grandest time batting at my dangling air tube like a kitten with a bit of string.  And in his rapturous enthusiasm for this new-found sport he most unfortunately managed to mis-swallow me whole, whereupon I lodged inconveniently in his non-air passage which was nonetheless still vital to his life.  And in between my oxygen running out and his non-oxygen not unrunning out we both managed to expire at the exact same moment.  Such brilliant synchronicity, no?

But now here's the really interesting thing.  He was so incredibly cat-like that I guess he has nine-lives (or more, perhaps?), since the next thing I know we're both of us floating in the same skin through the beautiful desolation, and then into the bilge pipe of a salvage derrick, and then via an unfortunate stint as a galley slave to this very bar here with you, my most interesting fellow.  Now, is there anything you'd like to tell me about yourself, or can we just get down to business?

Objection, your honour!  Speculates on motivation.  I myself enjoy annoying Sinitrena sometimes, but I tease because I care.   

So, er...  I kinda SPACED on deadline.  Any chance of an extension to Friday? 

[EjectedStar]

Ah, if only someone had considered in advance that one of our participants might not vote, and then had created an overly elaborate contingency plan to make up the missing votes.  Oh wait! 

So, according to the rules Mandle spreads his votes evenly (3-3-3) amongst his fellow competitors.  Thus, we have the following totals:

EjectedStar with 16 points
Sinitrena with 15 points
BarbWire with 10 points
Mandle with 8 points

So EjectedStar is our winner, and administrator of the next round of the competition!

My own brief thoughts on the stories:

@EjectedStar: Your story seems like the critical turning point in a larger epic.  I like how you were able to suggest just enough of the details of the surrounding story to get the reader on board with Alaine's internal thoughts, but not enough to overwhelm.  I liked even more how the overarching story seemed to take a back seat the landscape, antagonizing yet beautiful as it passes relentlessly by.  I actually thought that was the allegory (life is like a desert sleigh ride?), but your spoilers make a much more compelling case.    As a dad of two kids I found the "purposeful annoyance" between siblings  a raw and authentic portrayal of real family dynamics.  I understand you will soon have two children of your own.  Have f-u-u-u-u-n.....    Also, top marks for the hidden song lyrics! 

@Sinitrena: A more conventional allegory, with a short plot and an obvious lesson.  Unfortunately I believed the lesson was that you can't be given responsibility, but have to take it.  I guess that's not so far off the intended meaning of the allegory.  I missed the more poetic language we get out of some of your longer pieces, but I understand that the short allegory format is not really the time and the place.  I did find it interesting, from a plot perspective, that the questioning novice did not question the other former novices.  Indeed, their example of successful problem-solving points to another allegory, perhaps even more powerful than your intended lesson: the act of repeatedly banging one's head against the wall and expecting a different result from the previous time is irrational and self-defeating.

@Mandle: Wait, what?!?  That's a lot of text-bomb drama all at once!  The stickler in me insists that baby mice are effectively blind for several days after birth, but let's leave that aside.  Rich has been dead for two months -presumably the gestation period of a baby mouse - but only experienced human thought flashbacks for a few seconds after his birth before mousifying?  What about in utero?    So the lesson is don't die first in a love triangle or you'll be reincarnated and infanticided by your former lover (whom you actually hated) who betrayed you for your best friend (whom you actually loved), due to the shoddy work of your gang of half-wit colleagues when it comes to sewer pipe installation?  Is that really just an allegory for fate comes back to get you in the end?  Am I asking a lot of questions instead of drawing my own conclusions?  It looks like I'm gonna be polishing some bronze toes for a while....

@BarbWire: I got this one, after rereading it twice!  I was caught up on the details - why the husband in tow, why the succession of disasters, and then thinking about the foreign entanglement and the charismatic blond taking over made it all click.  Naturally I would have given you top marks had I been an eligible voter, but alas rules are rules (right Mandle?  ).  I think the allegory would have worked better as a story with nemesis, such as Brian Jarvis railing about how easy fixing the mess would be, but then experiencing a rude smack with the wet trout of reality at the end.  Of course that presupposes that things won't work out in the end as rosily as promised, but is that really such a stretch of imagination? 

Good work all around, folks!  I look forward to participating in the next competition.  Over to you, EjectedStar!

Guh, tired.  I will wrap things up tomorrow.  Sorry peeps.

[Decisions]

Alrighty, then!  We've got four marvtacular entries vying for allegorical supremacy!    In order of reverse psychology, they are:

Decisions by BarbWire
The Jammerston Estate Deal by Mandle
Devotion by Sinitrena
Sand by EjectedStar

So on to voting.  You will be allotted 10 votes each, and may distribute them as whole numbers however you see fit (split 5 and 5, say, or 3-3-4 amongst 3 participants).  Voters can determine their own criteria for who has earned their votes.  If you think authentic characters are more important than clever wordsmithing, cast your votes accordingly.  If you're an atmosphere kinda gal and all the fellas are serving is comedic dialog, well, you know what to do.  If, say, hypothetically, a judge is a real stickler for strict adherence to the published rules of this competition, then, well... you see where I'm going with this, right Mandle?   

Any votes not designated will be pooled and given to the less-fortunate, with the proviso that excess unspent votes can not be inherited by a voting contestant's own work.  An example: "I vote for story A" gives one of your ten votes to story A, but leaves 9 unassigned votes to be divided evenly (as whole numbers) between story A's competitors, unless the voter is in fact one of those competitors, in which case the undesignated votes will be divided as evenly as possible amongst the remaining competitors.  Thus if the above voter was author B, story A would have 1 vote, and story C and story D would have 4 votes each (with story B getting no votes). 

A final clause is that the traditional classy move of participants casting votes has been hereto formalised as a requirement for this contest.  Not voting actually means you cast zero votes for an undesignated work, which means all of the other works divide up the 10 votes while yours will receive none (in this case 3-3-3-0).

The idealistic me thinks this system will allow the voting public to award points proportionate to the merit of each work.  The cynical me thinks this system will soon be an allegory for hubris before ruin.    But, at least we'll have fun watching it all unfold. 

Voting runs from now until it is no longer Sunday May 2 anywhere on Earth.  Results to be released on Monday.

Good luck to all competitors! 

Look's like we've got ourselves quite a competition shaping up. 

Four more days left if you want a piece of this action!

Mandle, you inveterate rule sloucher!  I like you. 

Holy sprint-writing, Bat Man!  Most impressive.  Hopefully we won't wait around for another eleven days only to discover that yours are the only two entries. 

Whoa!  BarbWire sets a new record by winning the next competition before it has even begun!  Well done!   

I'm not sure about the health implications of novel navels, but I for one am deeply intrigued by the prospect of Mandle's navel novel.   

The next competition is up and running, by the by: https://www.adventuregamestudio.co.uk/forums/index.php?topic=59025.0

[Allegory]

Welcome to the FWC, a writing competition that theoretically takes a fortnight to complete (although, as writers, our ability to keep to strict deadlines keeps the length of the competition constantly in flux  ).  It plays out like this: you have about two weeks to write a submission on this fortnight's topic, there's a voting period of between 3 and (2 * m) days (where "m" is the Mandle factor), and then the winner sets the theme for the next competition.  All submissions must be on topic and previously unpublished, and technically this is a short story competition, so try to keep your work shorter than a chapter.  It is considered classy to vote if you are a participant, but participation is not a requisite for voting.  Come on in, get drawn in to some amazing stories, and enjoy the word play as we explore this fortnight's exciting theme....

Allegory



An allegory is a story that contains a hidden moral or political meaning - hidden in the sense that it isn't an overt lesson.  The very best allegories become bywords for the lessons they represent.  Think Animal Farm (power corrupts ideals) or Newton's Apple (what is gravity, anyway?).  To be perfectly frank most allegories go swooshing over my head like bats in the night, but I like the idea of some hidden truth somewhere in the stories I read.  So, as a courtesy, please indicate the lesson in hide tags at the bottom of the story, so those of us who are a little slower on the uptake can have half a chance of cottoning on. 

Requirements: A hidden lesson or meaning in a short story, disclosed in [ hide] tags [ /hide] (without the spaces) around your explanation at the end of your work.

Deadline: Tuesday April 27 at midnight Hawaii time, unless otherwise extended

Voting:  It is considered sporting to tell the participants how they will be judged.  Voters will be allotted 10 votes each, and may distribute them as whole numbers however they see fit (split 5 and 5, say, or 1 each to all ten participants).  Voters can determine their own criteria for who has earned their votes, but are encouraged to write a brief note giving feedback in order to help us all improve as writers.  Any votes not designated will be pooled and given to the needy (i.e. those who didn't receive votes), so try not to be lazy.  An example: "I vote for story A" gives one of your ten votes to story A, but leaves 9 unassigned votes to be divided evenly (as whole numbers) between story A's competitors.  Thus, if there were three stories, story A would have 1 vote, and story B and story C would have 4 votes each.  You can think of this little yarn as an allegory for reading instructions properly before blundering forward in life.   

Good luck to all participants!

Remember Mandle, you should be aiming for at least 10 thousand words per day.  Don't worry about quality: we can get that in editing.  The important thing is to get it all down as fast as possible.  We're all rooting for you. 

Thanks everyone for voting for me!  I'll try to think up another theme and get it posted pronto.  My first impulse is to make the theme Mandle's Novel, but while I fear one of us might have an unfair advantage in such a scenario, the biggest drawback will be that I myself as competition administrator wouldn't get a chance to participate.    Maybe Mandle's Navel instead....