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Wait, does this mean no sunsets?  For anybody? 

Wait, if the competition is really over, I think Sinitrena should get to ride off into the sunset first.  She's been working this competition longer than I have, and I've been doing it regularly for... nine years?!? 

Somebody get me my dentures and my typewriter....

[Sinitrena]

Sorry for my absence - life's been very busy lately.  I, for one, appreciated Mandle's stalling of the voting process.   

I liked both the stories of my fellow competitors.  BarbWire does a good job of bringing the reader into the moment with little details of 19th century life (the dirty streets, the cacophony of sounds).  She had me convinced Molly was rehearsing lines for a stage play behind that red curtain.  The twist at the end brought a welcome change in perspective, with the young woman confirming ownership of her own destiny.  My only real criticism is that the story feels a bit short.  Perhaps a bit more build-up for the final encounter?

Sinitrena's story also had an impressive twist at the end (I wonder at the fact that all three stories about stage fright relied on twist endings - what are the chances?).  I liked her philosophical musings about the tension between belief in the mystery of magic and the belief in a rational explanation.  The simile of putting on another person's dress being like an impostor slipping into the wrong person's body was powerful.  I think a bit more editing would make the last third of the story stronger, but the story concept and the reader's emotional attachment to Mikaela's success easily outweigh any short-comings.

With just one vote, it's hard to decide between two meritorious stories.  I think I have to give a slight edge to Sinitrena for building more emotional attachment to Mikaela than BarbWire did for Molly, but it was a very close contest.

[Counsel of Despair]

Counsel of Despair

Telford paced the hallway nervously, looking at his watch.  It was not too late to back out of his appointment.  He briefly paused in front of the solid wooden door to read the brass plate for the umpteenth time: Dr. Archibald S. Higgins, LMHC.  And then he resumed the pacing ritual.  At last he had convinced himself that this whole expedition was not worth the bother when the solid door swung open and a nice receptionist lady said that Dr. Higgins was ready to see him now.  Telford swallowed awkwardly, and his armpits pissed themselves with fright.  He went beet red and stuttered something three furlongs past nonsense.  He then proceeded to rock on his toes as if hitting an invisible barrier every time he tried to move forward.

“Mr. Telford?” the receptionist repeated, a concerned look on her face.  “It's all right, Mr. Telford.  The doctor is here to help.”

Telford must have muttered something semi-coherent in response, because the receptionist looked relieved at having discovered in part the issue behind his bizarre behaviour.  “Not at all, Mr. Telford,” she told him reassuringly.  “What happens in Dr. Higgins' office stays in Dr. Higgins' office.  We have a duty of confidentiality towards our patients, Mr. Telford.”

Somehow Telford doubted that was actually true.  He appreciated the lady's soothing tone, but he knew enough about human nature to understand that some truths could simply not be contained.  There was always an opt-out clause that allowed people to wiggle out of their solemn duty, no matter how vigorously they promised otherwise.  In fact, now that he had stopped to think about it, the more vigorous the promise the more likely it was to be broken.  Telford searched the receptionist's face for a sign of falseness, but all he could detect was a seemingly genuine feeling of concern.

“Mr. Telford, we are here to help,” she repeated.  Simplicity was always the best option.  Short and sweet.  In and out like the bat of an eye.  Less room for error, or miscommunication.

“OK,” he agreed, somewhat surprised that his feet seemed now to obey his will once more.  “OK, let's do this.”

The receptionist lady led Telford through the doorway and closed the solid wooden door behind him.  She then escorted him through a second solid wooden door and into the doctor's study, where he was invited to make himself comfortable on a very posh looking sofa.

“Hello, Mr. Telford,” Dr. Higgins greeted him from a chair near the sofa as the receptionist left the room.  The doctor was older than Telford had imagined, not that that had any bearing on the business at hand.  “I am Dr. Higgins, registered member of the College of Psychiatric Professionals and licensed mental health counsellor.  My specialty, as I'm sure you've heard, is performance anxiety.  Now, tell me about your problem.”  And now the doctor sat, raptly attentive, so still that a bird might come and sit on him at any moment, mistaking him for a rather hoary old bush.

Telford stared into his sweaty palms, willing himself to get it out.  His head spun from something akin to vertigo, and he suddenly felt as if he might be physically ill.  Breathing deeply to centre himself, Telford began in a rambling, disjointed manner.  “Yeah, so I've got this, er.... Um, I mean.... this, uh, friend!  Yeah.  And this friend has, uh, this job where he works with, you know, lots of people.  I mean, lots and lots of people!  But, uh, my friend has this problem when it comes to working with a certain type of person, you know?  It's like he, uh, can't.... you know, make it happen with them.”
   
Dr. Higgins nodded, scribbling something on his notepad.  “I see,” he said gravely, fixing Telford with an inquisitive stare.  “And how do you think your friend came by this... unfortunate association?”

It was Telford's turn to stare, flexing his fingers against each other to stop from clutching at his pant legs like they were a comforting teddy bear.  “Uh....  I guess my friend gets all fixated on how great these, uh, kind of people are.  And he doesn't like the idea of, uh.... bringing them down.”

“Hmmmm,” Dr. Higgins said, scribbling with even greater intensity.  “Probably some combination of an inferiority complex and a pedestal complex,” he speculated.  “In either case, it would help if your friend could see these special people as just normal, fallible humans, just like himself.”

Telford twitched involuntarily.  For the first time he peered into the doctor's earnest brown eyes, nested in a pair of spectacles too small for a man with such a large head.  “How can you tell the difference between special people and fallible people?” he croaked.
   
“Oh, we're all fallible,” Dr. Higgins reassured him.  “The only infallible people are the ones you don't know well!”

Telford turned this over in his mind.  It kind of made sense.  Kind of.  “What about intentions?” he asked.

The doctor looked at him quizzically.  “Intentions?”

Telford nodded, stumbling for the words.  “Like, special people mean well, don't they.  They make mistakes, but they mean well.  That is more than just a shade better than the rest of us cunts and bastards.  So I â€" er, my friend, that is â€" he thinks very highly of people who mean well.  He feels he'd be making the world worse off by, er... doing his thing with them.”

Dr. Higgins stared pensively for a long moment.  “The problem with you friend,” he began at length, “is that he lacks a healthy self-esteem.  He needs to see that there is value in himself, and thereby in others as well, so as not to be the constant slave of negativity.  I want you to repeat something for me, Mr. Telford, so that you can teach it to your friend.  Are you ready?”
   
Telford stared blankly, although one eyebrow did twitch in an upward direction.

“Here it is,” Dr. Higgins continued.  “I am a good person.  What I do is valued.  People will like me for who I am.”

“Uh....” Telford stuttered, not liking at all the turn this session had taken.  “Uh, I'm not saying that.”

“You need to want to help your friend,” the doctor continued.  “Otherwise we're just wasting our time here.”

“Uh...” Telford began again, trying to find the words.  “I think there's been a bit of miscommunication along the line somewhere, actually.  My friend is not really concerned about being liked.  It's just something he needs to do, but he's got problems with some people....”

“Yes, yes, we all have physical needs.  Quite healthy,” the doctor soothed.

“Uh, what?”  Telford felt his pulse racing.  He looked up at the doctor's diploma on the wall, but instead his eyes chanced across a small picture of what must have been his grandchild on the shelf.  Telford quickly looked away.  How could he make the doctor understand?!?  “We're talking about the Big One, here," he said, in desperation.  "With most people it's not an issue, but with the nice ones my friend just can't seem to... get the job done.”

“I understand what you are saying, Mr. Telford,” Dr. Higgins assured him.  “Your friend has an emotional disorder whereby he is afraid to love.  This has resulted in a state of temporary impotence that is most distressing.  What we need to do is to get at the root of your friend's self-loathing, allowing him to be vulnerable again; allowing him to actually love and be loved.  Isn't that right, Mr. Telford?”

“Uh...” Telford began again, putting his hands nervously into his jacket pockets, looking for something to grasp for reassurance.  “Truthfully?”

“Yes Mr. Telford.  Only the truth will help us here.  I want to help you, Mr. Telford, but for that to happen you need to help yourself.”  Dr. Higgins spoke with an air of finality, putting the ball firmly into Telford's court.

“Okay,”  Telford said, releasing a breath that he had not realized he had been holding.  He closed his eyes, willing the truth to be out at last.  “The thing is, Doc,” he began, courage welling up within him.  This was going to happen!  He was going to say the things that had always stayed unsaid!   â€œThe thing is,” he repeated, “I'm not actually here for my friend, but I suppose you guessed that.”

The old doctor nodded, but continued to listen raptly.

“So...  the performance anxiety thing.  The truth is, I'm actually just a hit-man who hates offing doctors.”

Neither man moved for a very long moment.

Aaarrgh.  I'm already having deadline problems, and the deadline isn't for another three days!  Does deadline fright count as stage fright? 

Congratulations, Mandle!

Sinitrena's secret was the most authentic, but I admit I had to do more than a little research of her previous stories to really arrive at that aha! moment.   

I'm curious what kind of aha! moment you had that required further information than provided in this story. The fact that the juweller is (was) a burglar is the secret that's supposed to be there and that is something Ben figures out rather quickly (and maybe a little too easily, considering he's plastered) and the reader might figure out. Yes, there are connections to the other stories, mainly that the juweller has shown up before (chronologically later) and what his name is, but other than that just some tiny things you could have known before, like the fact that Rachel and Ben are siblings, which is obviously not a secret or anything.
I mean, one might not get it immediately what the plans are that Ben finds, but once he asks the juweller if he's a thief and he admits it, there's really nothing left to figure out.
I'm confused. 

So I got that the wheelchair guy was a thief, or rather used to be.  But then at the bottom of your post you mentioned that I *might* remember some of the characters from previous stories, which I kinda only half did (2015 was a long time ago - I can't remember what I ate for breakfast this morning  ).  So I had to skim several stories to remember who exactly the characters were and how they fit together.  And then I was like, "Aha!", that's who they are!     But then, for me, the important thing that the thief sees was no longer the plans in the apartment heist, but rather his future thief-mentor. But I only knew that in the context of the other stories, and so I didn't feel the reveal as related within this one story was as strong.    I hope that makes sense, it's been a long day.

Hope to see everyone out again next time!

[Best technical writing quality]

Nice reads, peeps!  Here are my votes:

Best technical writing quality: I found all three pieces to be fairly strong from a technical perspective.  I vote KyriakosCH because he has struggled a bit in this department in the past, but I personally believe this to be his strongest submission yet.

Best overall story: I vote for Sinitrena for sticking to the theme by having a genuinely surprising sight for the thieving protagonist to see.  In this category I found KyriakosCH's story a bit short and lacking in plot arc (and thieving, for that matter....).  Mandle's story had a strong beginning but I found it fell apart a bit as it the action advanced.  The blackout, in particular, was unexplained and - in light of what I can infer of its source - baffling in terms of risk and logistical complexity.  Also.... how did the inside twin get out of the sealed rail car???  Wouldn't it have made more sense to have the inside twin... outside?   

Best secret or event revealed:  I vote Mandle for this category, due more to the convoluted audacity of the secret itself rather than it's quality.  KyriakoshCH's story revealed little, except perhaps further philosophical mysteries.  Sinitrena's secret was the most authentic, but I admit I had to do more than a little research of her previous stories to really arrive at that aha! moment.   

Best individual character: I vote KyriakoshCH for an intriguing glimpse into the mind and manner of quite a bizarre character.

[Ice Under Fire]

Ice Under Fire

   Radek was understandably skeptical to learn that the frozen planet of Siberius was in fact a tourist destination.  His idea of paradise involved hot beaches and hotter women, and he assumed other people would naturally share his opinion.  But now, looking over the perfectly smooth ice sheet of the Sea of Placidity, stretching mirror-like beneath a hauntingly alien turquoise sky, he began to reconsider.    The ice island he was on, heaved up at the edge of two ice plates in just a matter of years, had been fantastically carved into a lattice of turrets and buttresses by the wind and weather.  Similar islands studded the vista at irregular intervals, reflected perfectly in the waveless glass of the frozen sea.  If it weren't such a nice day for hijacking ice-yachts, he'd have considered bringing out a beach chair to enjoy the relative warmth of the mid-afternoon sun.

   His radio buzzed to life, shaking him out of his daydream.  “Any sighting?”, the voice on the other end asked irritably.  Radek's elder brother Radovan was not one much for chit-chat. 

   â€œNothing,” Radek responded.  He held an optical scanner up to his eyes, slowly panning over the horizon.  “This ice-cube is as dead as a frozen door knob.”

   A long stretch of silence indicated Radovan was thinking.  He was the brains behind the operation, and had been ever since they were orphaned as teenagers.  “Maybe someone tipped them off....” Radovan speculated sullenly.

   â€œMaybe they thought of something better to do than an ice cruise,” Radek shot back instantly.  He wasn't one much to weigh his words before speaking.  An action-junkie, he was in this business more for thrills and spills than actual gain.

   Another long pause.  How it used to frustrate Radek, trying to converse with his brother!  But after two stints in astro-juvie he had begun to appreciate that there might just be something to his brother's carefully calculated schemes.  Finally the radio fizzled to life again: “Maybe they changed course.  With the way the ice-crust churns out here, it's possible our charts are out of date.”

   â€œHow's our window looking?” Radek asked, putting the scanner down again.  He hated scrubbing missions once he had gotten himself all psyched-up for some action.  Radovan was a professional plug-puller, axing two-thirds of their jobs at the last minute because the circumstances were not perfect.  But credit where credit was due: in the five years since they had learned to work together, they had never come close to being caught in the act.

   â€œClosing rapidly,” his brother replied.  And that was probably all Radek would get out of him.  Radek knew the job relied on some conjunction of satellite dead-zones, local enforcement shift-change, and trillionaire whimsy.  But the details were the death of him, and always had been.  It was good that he had Radovan to obsess over the minutiae.  On the other hand, it was good Radovan had him to do the dirty work.

   â€œAny chance of me getting some time out here with a beach chair if we scrub?” Radek asked, trying the optical scanner out once more.

   â€œNo,” came the surprisingly quick reply.  Radek shook his head.  Ever since mom had died, Radovan had had an almost religious obsession with all work and no fun.  It was strange how the same traumatic event in their formative years could have such a profoundly different impact on their respective personalities.  But Radek wasn't one to dwell, and Radovan wasn't one to talk about it.  That was the way it was, and that was the way it was always going to be.

   And then an unnatural glint caught Radek's eye, and he zoomed in with the optical scanner to investigate.  It was hard to tell at this range, but the size and vector of the craft were encouraging.  “Got something,” he radioed.  “Possible mark, 26 degrees east-north-east.”

   A long pause drew out the seconds like icicles dripping off the sculpted vaults of the ice-island.  This was where the job hung in the balance, as Radovan carefully weighed all the factors. 

   â€œConfirmation?” Radovan radioed back.

   â€œIt'll be too late by the time we know for sure,” Radek shot back, squinting into the scanner.  “It's not likely to be Aunt Doris out for a Sunday drive, though.”

   Another long pause.  “Aunt Doris doesn't take Sundays off.  She's the hooker working just outside that religious compound on Galleum, remember?”

   â€œWell then it sure as hell isn't her.  Thirty-two degrees east-north-east.  Range fifteen kilometres and closing.  I'd say 75% likelihood this is our mark.  Make the call!”  The radio sat silently as Radek counted down the klicks: fourteen, thirteen, twelve....  It would be too late by the time Radovan made up his mind, so Radek jumped on his ice-board and recklessly slid down the complicated topography of the ice island towards the old rocket-sled they had souped-up for this job.

   â€œI have them on the lidar,” Radovan droned cooly over the radio.  “Current vector takes them past the island across the channel, range 10 km.  I don't think we can catch them with that kind of differential.”

   â€œNot unless we leave now, now, NOW!” Radek shouted, hopping on top of the rocket-sled's roof and banging on the aluminium for emphasis as he hooked on to the sled's tether system. “We can always abort if they out-range us!”

   â€œWe've got six minutes, thirty five seconds,” Radovan responded icily as the engines roared to life.  “Hang on up there.”  The rocket-sled lurched into motion, skidding sideways on its blades as it tried to change direction on the ice.

   â€œPunch it!” Radek shouted, wishing he was in the driver's seat as well as surfing cavalierly up on top.  The rocket-sled finally swung around and Radovan dropped the hammer.  The force of acceleration felt like it was going to tear Radek's arms off, but somehow he managed to hold on.  “Woo!” he shouted happily, just to let his brother know he was still on-board.

   â€œEight kilometres,” Radovan droned over the radio.  “Seven â€" they've seen us.  Changing course....  Wait.”

   â€œWhat is it?” Radek shouted over the rushing wind.  He squinted into the distance.  He should be able to see the ice-yacht with his naked eye at this range.

   â€œThe ice-yacht is now heading in our direction,” Radovan muttered.  “I don't like it.”

   There!  Radek could see the star-like shine of sunlight reflecting off the ice-yacht on the horizon.  But confusingly there were suddenly other, smaller stars emerging from beyond a distant ice-island.  “I think we've got company!” he called out over the radio.

   â€œConfirmed.  Three bogies, sled-class.  I'm aborting.”

   â€œIt can't be the cops-” Radek began before he was flung sideways as his brother cranked the wheel.

   â€œHang on,” Radovan radioed belatedly as the rocket-sled skidded in a wide circle.  Radek made sure his grip was secure before risking a glance over his shoulder.  Was that laser fire?

   â€œTwo kilometres,” Radovan narrated.  “One kilometre...”  The blades bit into the ice and the rocket-sled surged forward, the ice-yacht closing just behind, with laser blasts shooting past from the bogies beyond.

   â€œThey're trying to jack our mark!” Radek shouted in confusion as a laser blast shot by his right shoulder.

   â€œYou're causing too much drag up there,” Radovan muttered.  “That ice-yacht is faster than we predicted.  Get in here!”

   Radek moved to unclip the tether, then paused, looking back at the ice-yacht on their tail.  “Wait.  I've got an idea,” he said.  “Keep it steady!” In one practised motion he jumped up and strapped the ice-board back on to his feet, pulling the tether taught so that he landed like a water-skier on the ice behind the rocket-sled.

   â€œRadek, you crazy idiot!  Get back here!”

   â€œJust a little closer!” Radek called back, slicing his board to the side to avoid a freak ice-spike.  He let out the tether to its maximum length, but he still dangled about 30 metres in front of the ice-yacht.

   â€œWe scrub!” his brother called back over the radio.  “We don't know who these guys are!  And we're outnumbered!”  The rocket-sled began to drift off to the side, until a sudden laser blast exploded near their flank and Radovan veered back on course.

   â€œThey're shooting wide,” Radek commented.  “They just want to keep them straight.  Probably got a team getting ready to board.  We can beat them to it.  Just get me underneath!”

   No, we scrub!” Radovan shouted back, a hint of fear in his voice. 

   Radek hated to put his brother through the anguish of potentially losing another family member, but to his discredit he hated wimping out even more.  “Pick me up in two minutes,” he called back, and then disconnected from the tether.  He surfed back on his ice-board until he was under the ice-yacht, and then flipped up to grab at a strut that attached the craft to one of its giant blades.  A lateral laser blast caught him off-guard, narrowly missing him.  He turned to notice another thief perched precariously on the supporting struts of the other runner.  Not having brought a weapon, Radek improvised by throwing his optical scanner towards his attacker, miraculously hitting the laser weapon out of his hand.

   Now it was a race along the lattice of the craft's under-frame to get to the ice-yacht's engine hatch first.  Radek beat his rival, but was promptly kicked out of the way, nearly falling onto the ice racing by underneath.  Radek managed to swing himself back up, kicking at his assailant with the ice-board that was still attached to his feet.  Unfortunately the other thief dodged the blow, then used the opening to get in a good shot at his kidney.  Radek shouted in pain, but swung back with an elbow to the other thief's helmet, knocking him backwards off the lattice.  The helmet bounced off the ice and disappeared behind the craft, but miraculously the thief's leg had caught between the angle of two struts, leaving him dangling precariously upside down just barely over the rushing ice.  Only the pained scream and the billowing hair in the wind revealed him to actually be a her.

   â€œTake it easy, Sweetheart!” Radek laughed over the wind.  “I'm sure they'll scrape you off the undercarriage the next time they run this thing through the yacht-wash!”  He turned to fiddle with the engine hatch latch, but froze when the woman spat a familiar but thickly accented curse at him.  Slowly he turned back around.

   â€œMom?”

... the natives are basically running a sorcerous wrecking operation.

Wait, wait, wait - why wasn't THIS the core of the story?!?  The sorcerous wrecking operation has so much potential!  If the next writing theme is "Salvage" I'm stealing your idea.... 

Also, congratulations WHAM! 

[Best Character:]

YAR!  Avast ye scurvy writers!  All yer stories be brimming full of booty, yar, but some booty be more valuable than other booty, if'n ye take me meaning!

Best Character: I vote Creamy for his Andreas.  In the course of just a few paragraphs we sense his exhaustion, dread, analysis, yearning, despair, hope, madness (?), and finally something resembling acceptance.  I liked WHAM's motley crew, but in all the action there wasn't room for much character development.  Mandle's drunken captain and Salty Lad seemed to have less combined character than the Lost Lenore, although I suppose that might have been the point?

Best Plot: I'm torn here.  I might have voted for Creamy on this one, because he had an excellent set-up, but then events moved at lightning speed and it was all over so fast.  It's a little unfair to Mandle as poetry typically has less plot than prose, but his story of "first the ship started tipping over, and then it tipped over" also struggles to claim the prize.  WHAM comes closest to a conventional set-up, problem, resolution, but his plot has more holes than that beached imperial galleon.  Where did those storms come from?  If it was some native magic (which was kind of implied, since their suddenness seems to have confused all the sailing experts in the story), then why did they rush out beforehand?  Why not just let the storm do the work for them?  But if the storms were just some freak natural occurrence of lightning striking twice, it is still baffling that the native warriors would have divided their troops for two simultaneous attacks.  Their assault on the Grinning Ghost was so nearly successful - I bet those hundreds of warriors from the beach would have been really handy at the height of battle!  So either these particular natives are too primitive to understand basic strategy (unlikely given their analysis of the weaknesses of sailing ships, not to mention the sophistication of the civilization required to support such teeming numbers), or they are just a trope of a mindless swarm (which again doesn't really fit with the knowledge they do display).  And then there's the issue of the battle hardened pirate crew who dared to take on a cannon-armed imperial galleon not knowing how to react to a fleet of smaller craft with weapons of almost pitiful range.  Um.... broadside, anybody?!?
        So.... I don't know.  I think I have to vote WHAM for sheer effort, but it wasn't his finest hour.

Best Atmosphere: I think, based on the above analysis, that I have to vote Creamy in this category.  The set-up was heavy with fear and menace, and it really got me into his story.

Best Writing Style: Another tough one.  Mandle's poetry has some good turns of phrase (Lenore "curtsied and showed her tail" as the ship tips over), but is hampered by a meter that runs unpredictably from 4 to 10 beats.  Creamy's minimalism is compelling ("dots of fire puncture the horizon"), but it is all over so quickly.  WHAM deals out a much more measured flow of wordy treasures (the recently conscious young man's "memories rolled in with the waves"), so I vote WHAM once more.

[No Keelhaul for Old Men]

Well I ran out of time, but I won't have time later, so I kinda just mashed something together at the last second.  Enjoy!

No Keelhaul for Old Men

Captain Firebeard nursed his last dram of rum, the creaking sway of the rocking chair reminding him of his youthful days at sea.  The fire of his beard had long since burnt down to ash, and his jaunty swagger was now more of a rickety teeter.  Aye, roving the seven seas had cost him his left hand and right foot, but rocking on the porch these last few years had cost him the last of his treasure.  And which did he lament more?  Not for the first time the hook scratched greedily down the left arm-rest of his rocking chair, tracing a deeply worn groove of ruefulness. 

Captain Firebeard took a final swig, grimacing through his last three rotting teeth towards the empty cup.  That was the last of his rum.  Not just in the cup, but in the decaying shack as well.  There was no booty left to buy more.  In a fit of hollow rage he tossed the cup towards his old mistress, the sea, but it landed feebly at the edge of the beach not ten paces from his porch.

The cup was dry.  He was now dry too, he supposed.  His youthful well of energy had long since run dry.  Desiccation was the nemesis of pirates and retirees alike.  It was the cancer of disuse, shrivelling plank from beam and skin from bone.  Even the depths of his soul now seemed an arid desert, for he was dry-eyed about his fate.  Why, given the choice of just one more raid, he'd take it in a second.  He'd win back his treasure, no matter the price.  And then he'd greedily hide it away for a well-earned retirement.  And then he'd squander it all on bobbles and booze, and he'd end up right back here, dry as a beached whale left three years in the sun.  The inevitability of his demise made him smile dryly.

So if the end was predestined, it must be the journey that counted?  It was hard to believe that all that rapine and pillaging was the stuff of fulfilment, but a pirate does not grow old enough to retire by being too judgy.  Captain Firebeard considered the matter philosophically: the important thing was that he steel something, and hopefully hurt someone along the way.  He frowned sulkily, squinting up and down the deserted beach.  Not a lot of options there...  He turned stiffly to look further ashore, and noticed an old lady gathering hundred-year old driftwood from the weeds.

Avast!  He reached for his cutlass, rusty as a weathered hinge.  How was it that the hated dry could decay him inside and out, but it couldn't keep his weapon in working order?  Such a fickle enemy....  No matter, for he had his pistol at hand and the powder would surely still be dry!  But no, he had forgotten that he had spent his last shot keeping a seagull from his last wormy biscuit....  It would have to be the hook, then.  A blessing in disguise, the loss of limbs.  The grim menace of his artificial limbs was almost as potent as their actual utility in battle.  His old reliable hook would never let him down.  Old Rippy, he had named it.  And now it was time for the two of them to sally out on one last malicious venture. 

The stooped and crooked pirate rose menacingly from his rocking chair like a cat stalking its prey.  His outstretched hook glinted in the sunlight as he hobbled along the deck towards the stairs.  The grim rapping of his peg leg foreshadowed the boney reaper coming to collect his due.  Tap step, tap step, tap step....

And then the leg snapped, and Captain Firebeard tumbled helplessly onto the scorching sands.  "Bloody dry-rot!" he shouted.  And then the seagulls moved in for their revenge.
   

Yar, I be out of time, matey!  Shiver me deadlines!   

Huh.  Am I the only person who thought the special white powder was cocaine?  Huh.... 

Congratulations Sinitrena!  I look forward to the next comp! 

[Best use of a frying pan or other cooking tool:]

Best use of a frying pan or other cooking tool:  I'm going with Sinitrena because of the use of frying pans and other cooking tools.  Mandle kind of had a few cooking implements on the periphery (as did I), but Sinitrena really made the story about the process of cooking, so a well deserved vote here.

Best overall story:  I'll throw my vote for Mandle on this one, but only by a whisker.  His story had a lot of teases to draw the reader onward, and the authentic (unedited) text was true to the writer's voice, if a bit difficult to read at times.  I was disappointed by the ending of his story (as it really wasn't much of an ending at all), but that attests to his ability to build up expectation, which is deserving of recognition.  Sinitrena's story was much more conventional in terms of the author's voice, but I had a harder time getting into the story.  Maybe I'm a poor baker because I don't slow down to appreciate the details, but I found myself often agreeing with Meara that the whole cake baking process was dragging on a bit too much.  Perhaps a big pay-off at the end of the story would have made the wait worth while, but alas there was no cake for me.  What did the cake taste like?  What did the grandmother do when she tasted the special ingredient (as surely she would)?  How did the nobles react?  The only pleasure I got out of the ending was the hollow self-satisfaction of pointing out that the story seemed to end just as it was about to- 
   
Best technical writing:  I vote Sinitrena here for the proper use of writing conventions, syntax, spelling, tense, and ingredients.  I think Mandle's choice of technique was bold and had potential, but in the end it wasn't really an integral part of the story.  Ross - who if he's that interested in writing as to watch a YouTube course might well be expected to be capable of a quick revision - could easily have told the same story in proper English without losing any meaning.

[Out of the Frying Pan]

Out of the Frying Pan

   There is a hunger in some men, an emptiness behind the eyes quite separate from the state of their stomach.  Indeed, such men could feast for a thousand nights and still be empty inside.  Like a locust, theirs is a joyless consumption that serves naught but the destruction of all they love.  I have known many such men, for they are not as uncommon as you might think.  One of my favourites gives me a roguish wink each morning from the mirror.

   Now it must be said that different men hunger for different sustenance.  You may lick your chops at the prospect of my story advancing, but to each their own taste!  Some men hunger for the meat and potatoes of honour and glory.  Others are somewhat bizarrely obsessed with the cold broccoli of divine service....  For some it is the cheap wine of beautiful women - with the sadly predictable hangovers, and for yet others the rich gravies of gold and treasure.  Me, I'm more of a deserts man myself.  I hunger for nothing but the sweetness of revenge.

   Now I'm not proud of much in my many misspent years, but I do take pride in the fact that I've seen it all.  You could not invent a character with more deranged appetites than those that I've seen in real life, not if you fed your mind nothing but toad grease and purple flower smoke for ten years and a day!  I've met pirates and prospectors and thieves and thespians.  Merchants and magi and minstrels and madmen; hunters and hustlers and hangmen and whores.  Lords and losers, soldiers and sailors.  I tell you I once met a priest and a pervert and a pimp while only shaking one hand!  But nothing in my life could have prepared me for the man I met on the marge of Mount Malice last summer....

   I was in the Southlands tracking my quarry of three dozen years.  The jungle air was thicker than the web of vines that clung at my every step.  I was a hundred miles from nowhere and six miles from Hell when the last of my strength finally dripped off the end of my nose.  I made my camp in a clearing haunted by the shattered ruins of a village strangled with bones and weeds.  My bed was a downy soft mattress of ash eight inches thick and still smelling of burnt human hair.  Vultures serenaded me into a restless slumber.

   And then in the depths of that unpeopled wilderness a man walked out of the scrub, followed by another and another.  I swear two vultures knocked heads in disbelief, which is what I would have done as well if anyone had been so stupid as to come along with me.  More men emerged from the tangled brush, each more laden than the last with baskets and boxes and troves and trunks.  And then the final five emerged, four of them shaking at the effort of carrying the fifth on a grand, glittering litter.

   On the litter lounged a man larger than I have ever seen.  He was 36 stone if he weighed a pebble, and three chins removed from handsome, although he did keep his hair well-trimmed and his face meticulously shaved.  He wore something like a toga that was sumptuous but ill-tailored, as if the only regal garment he could find to clothe his girth was a royal-sized table cloth.  Golden bracelets decorated his fingers where rings would clearly fail to span the distance.  And his facial expression veered between patrician boredom and pig-like self-indulgence.

   â€œAt last, a fellow traveller!” He rumbled more than spoke, flailing his limbs like a turtle stuck upside down on its shell.  “This calls for a feast!”  And I kid you not, his servants set about preparing the most delectable spread of gourmet foods I've ever seen in a palace, let alone in the depths of the jungle wilderness.  How they cooked such fine dishes with nothing but what they carried on their backs is beyond my grasp, but no sooner had we finished one course then two more were served, each more delicious than the last.

   But even more remarkable was this bloated man, a gentleman adventurer named Leonius.  His stamina for eating was simply prodigious.  You could not dump food off a plate faster than this man could eat, and even for his girth I could not believe where he managed to cram it all.  I was painfully stuffed by the fourth course, but this man continued eating nine more.  But for all the sumptuousness of the food, he said he could barely taste it at all.  He confided that the only thing he could truly savour was a new ingredient, and when he found one it was simply bliss.  But then soon the new became the old, and he hungered for that blissful state once more.  As all the foods of the settled lands became known to him he was driven ever further afield to seek out ever more exotic foodstuffs.  In his desperation for the novel he had turned to the recipes of yore, half-myth and half-magic, scrawled out by the insatiable gluttons of ages long lost.  And it was this that had led him to those ruins in that clearing in that jungle by that mountain.

   Though Leonius was evasive about the specifics, I soon cottoned to the fact that he was seeking the same beast as I. It has had many names over the eons, but to me it was always called the Worm.  It was a serpent of monstrous length and fearsome appetite, that roved the world attempting to sate it's own ever growing hunger.  It was cursed to feed off only the most absolute terror of its victims, which it usually gleaned by burning them alive with its fiery breath.  Leonius called it the Glubbon, and he claimed the ancient sources had deemed its tongue to be the most divine food the world has ever known.  He would not rest until he had just the smallest taste of this marvellous food, even if the questing for it killed him. 

   Truth be told, I was more interested in ripping out the Worm's heart.  But I wasn't against teaming up to achieve my goal.  Aye, I could see in Leonius' eyes that he was mad with yearning for one last self-destructive taste of bliss.  But at the root of it, was his hunger any different from mine?  Or for that matter, was either of ours any different from that of the dreaded Glubbon itself?  We're all driven by hunger, in our own way.

   And so we agreed to work together to achieve our aim, which involved a rather painful amount of more feasting.  Deep into the night we schemed and plotted and talked and dreamed.  Indeed the boundary between sleep and wakefulness blurred as our plans grew ever more extravagant and the food comas set in.  In my mind's eye I could clearly see the path to vengeance, as if the fog of nearly four decades were suddenly lifted and the landscape of my wretched task at last exposed to the light of day.  But with this dazzling clarity came a sense of giddy surrealism that bore ill for our enterprise.  Never has clarity had much to do with the muddy reality of real life.

   And so I woke with the half-twilight of dawn licking at the fringes of the clearing, an ominous mist rolling through the trees like the ooze of a ghostly volcano.  There was sweat on my face, but I could not tell if it was from the muggy weather or the food sweats or the painful dreams of a hapless soul.  But what I could tell was that the ground trembled like grass in the wind in anticipation of the coming storm.

   â€œIt's here!” I yelled as I tried to sit up, my sore stomach protesting at the effort.  I fumbled with the clasp of my weapons belt, cursing that it no longer fit around my waist as it should.  Leonius merely waved me away, mumbling nonsense and draping a napkin over his face as an ostrich might bury its head in the sand.  But his men were up and scurrying, although it was hard to tell if they were preparing for battle or preparing another feast (the many implements they produced could easily serve either task).  Small solace it brought them, for in an instant the Worm was upon us.

   The first man near the fringe of the clearing had barely time to scream before the beast swallowed his terror in one fell blast.  The second shrieked like a child before succumbing to the same fate.  One by one, as fast as your eyes will blink, the party was consumed in a grisly meal of flame and dread.  And the Worm bore down on me as well, and I felt the kiss of its burning breath upon my cheek.  But it could not taste the fear in my heart for there was none â€" not yet â€" and so it only seared off my ear and my left arm.

   And lo there was this rumbling roar the likes of which I'd never heard, even I a hunter of demonic beasts.  It raised the hair on my remaining arm and I dare say at that moment I knew fear, for I knew not what dread menace was now upon me, and that ignorance made me cringe.  I rolled on the ground in abject terror, flames still dancing from my cauterized wounds.  I turned to see it gliding through the sky, not the grim spectre of the Glubbon but rather an obese angel possessed of his own righteous flame.  As my vision cleared I could see it was none other than Leonius, swinging from a vine of unexpected strength, waving a dinner fork and hollering an unworldly battle cry as the first rays of dawn streaked through the trees.  And I swear, even from a distance I could see the hunger in his eyes, the yearning for death or delicacy.  It may have taken his last six men to heave him into position for this last glorious charge, but as he flew through the air aglow like a shining missile I have not the slightest doubt that this was his finest hour.

   And there was the Glubbon, looming over me but turned to face this most unexpected opponent.  The vile worm lunged and the vine snapped and somewhere in the middle the two met head on, a battle of appetites the ages have never known.  Although the moment will hang in my mind for the rest of my days, it must have all been over in just an instant.  The earth shook and the dust flew and then the world was nothing but a choking cloud of ash.

   What I do know is this: in the days to come I was to lament my newfound lack of hunger.  I am now but an empty husk with no prospect of ever growing full again.  Like the ash of that jungle meadow, I am but a wraith of something that once was, once hungered, once lived.  I should have died in that pit of ash.  That is what I hungered for.  Now I am cursed like the great Leonius, not to know what I hunger for, but only to wander with the wretched hope that I might one day find it.

   As for that hero among men, he died in the throat of that gruesome worm.  But lament not for the fallen, for the Glubbon itself choked on that man who was too large for this world, and certainly too huge for just one mouthful.  Maimed as I was I could manage to hack neither heart nor hero free from the beast.  So there is no way to tell exactly how either of them met their end, but I would like to think the hateful creature died with a small chunk missing from its tongue, and brave Leonius with an expression of purest bliss.

Chez WHAM?  Oh, hi - me again.  Sorry for missing my reservation (again), but in my defence they've been keeping me at work after-hours a lot this week.  Any chance of an extension to the weekend? 

[@ Sinitrena:]

It was implied that Lazuï was not wearing a mask, but never definitively stated one way or another.   

So let us take our ease now by the fireside and chat a bit of things gone by.

@ Sinitrena:  I am ever a fan of your world-building, but I think you succeeded here better than usual.  The cultural fixation with starving demons of fire at the beginning of winter is thoroughly explored, while needless details (in terms of the scope of your short story) are omitted.  The spectre of a distant village propped up by the sacrifices of scores of disfigured women makes me think of the Vikings of Greenland: surely these people have extended their supply lines just a bit too far, and will one day certainly face catastrophe (if they can not adapt from the old ways).  Your language is descriptive as always  (the sparse light dousing the surrounding world in icy sparks springs to mind), although there are a few grammatical lapses (Were it wolves? should actually be Was it wolves?, as "it" is in fact the subject of the sentence; and one would never have "sat" one foot in front of another in order to walk).  My biggest beef would be some continuity errors that struck me perhaps more egregiously than most as I do live in the winter-bound blizzard world that we affectionately call Canada.  For one, no one would cut across the lake in early winter because the ice probably hasn't had time to freeze thick enough to safely support human weight.  I get that it was a desperation move as the accumulating snow was slowing her progress, but then why the line at the beginning of a lonely snowflake dancing in front of a cloudless sky - is it snowing or isn't it?  Nothing would roll in snow - it's like a damper.  Yeah, you might lose stuff down in it, but it wouldn't roll anywhere.  Her skirts dragging in the snow would not be wet but frozen solid: that's what happened to my pant legs when we went orienteering in March one year.  And frostbite is red at first, then white, and finally black, and your digits are already too cold to feel much of anything if it gets to that point.  I still don't have any feeling in the tips of my toes.... 

@ WHAM:  What if we called Vadim "Gary" (or "the Gary") and called -CATIE "Hue"?  I had some serious "Final Space" flashbacks reading your work.  As always you really dragged me into the story with your sparse descriptions (freezing gasses to the outside of the suit was a great detail) and teasing snippets of slightly more information about what is actually going on.  I liked the idea of a "combat carapace" (Ninja Turtle!) and the haunting idea of one's comrades slowly drifting out of range to their own demise.  But there's also some questionable physics at work:  you described how Vadim was able to stabilise his location relative to the debris field, but not how his comrades were unable to, nor indeed how the debris field itself managed to stay together (would it not have been blown in every direction as well?).  And why was the ship able to come almost precisely to Vadim's location - it seemed to have been overtaken by degens for some time: is no maintenance, refuelling, or re-provisioning ever necessary?  And why couldn't he see the ship at 10 km?  I can see much smaller satellites at 100-200 km, and CATIE was telling him exactly where to look..... I suppose like most sci-fi it is an exciting story as long as you don't think too much about it.   

So the people have spoken.  Well, at least one person spoke (the other two having obviously cancelled each other out).  Well, maybe it was a cow speaking, actually.  And by speaking I mean mooing....  It's not much to base a whole democracy on, if you think about it too much.....  But anyway, the voter has determined that the winner of this competition is WHAM!.  Congratulations WHAM.  I critique because I love.    A very close runner up was Sinitrena, but she fell slightly behind due to running through snow....    I'd hand out trophies but as Ponch would attest I'm a bit of a grinch when it comes to giving. 

Congratulations to all entrants and I look forward to another exciting competition in the near future!

[Sinitrena]

Sorry, I kinda let the deadline slip past.  I've been distracted trying to flood our backyard skating rink since it's been -15 C up here, but I'll now take a moment to ...come in from the cold and start the voting process. 

Our contestants in order of non-WHAMishness are:

Sinitrena with her short story The Flame Bearer
WHAM with his story Into the Frying Pan

Voting will be in order of preference (1st, 2nd, 3rd).  Yeah, I'll allow 3rd place votes, just to keep things interesting.  Any ties will be broken at my discretion.  Any feedback you'd care to leave for our participants would be greatly appreciated!

Voting deadline is Monday December 21, 2020.

Good luck to all our blanket-wrapped writers slaving away in their unheated garrets! 

The deadline is nigh.  Last call for submissions!

The WHAM that came in from the cold.