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[IN FROM THE COLD]

Seasonally apt or metaphorically rich?  You be the judge when you come...

IN FROM THE COLD



Huh.  Well, it was more dramatic with the picture, but apparently the forums don't like my server anymore.  Here's the link if you're a visual kind of person: http://www.vanwijst.com/games/Published/writing_comp_2020_in_from_the_cold.png

Anyway, the theme spans everything from Christmas grinches coming around to spies reconciling with HQ to literally finding shelter in a frigid environment.  Basically if there is any physical or emotional coldness that is resolved in some way then the work will suit the theme.

Deadline: Monday December 14th at Hawaiian midnight, although this deadline may well extend like a brooding icicle drooping from an under-insulated eave..... 

Voting: Aw heck, I can see the collective mood is swinging back towards simplicity.  So we'll just vote 1st, 2nd, & 3rd (yes Mandle, 3rd) with feedback as a much appreciated bonus for the authors.  I will calculate each vote as representing points for tabulation purposes (1st = 5 pts, 2nd = 3 points, 3rd = 2 points).  If there are more than 5 entries you can double up your votes with ties at your discretion (e.g. one first, two seconds, and a third place vote).

Good luck to all participants and stay warm out there! 

MANDLE!  You're supposed to update the subject of the original thread so that I know to check the results! 

Thanks everyone for your votes.  I think with your constructive feedback I could whip my entry further into shape.  Honestly what I really need to do is start sooner, thereby giving myself some time to either get feedback or mull it over with enough time to spare to do some serious editing/rewriting.  Knowing this doesn't make it any easier to actually DO it, though....   

I'll try to get the next competition up and running within a day or two.

Possibly it is a real-life thought experiment to see what would happen if the FWC were extended to its inevitable heat-death in 12.6 billion years.... 

[@ Mandle:]

@ Mandle: I think this is one of the best pieces I've read from you, and not just because of the demonic playing-card dwarf and the walrophilia.   Yes it was zany at times - what good story isn't? - but it also had a menacing feel of inevitable destiny that I think suits the theme well.  I liked how you brought the story to life with colorful descriptions - perhaps a bit much so with the gruesome details of anal impalement, but let us not quibble over the specifics.  Your character(s) was an interesting study in brooding paranoia.  And in the end I am left wondering whether his scheme was actually successful or not, as we never see what is on the other side of the "doorway" (a metaphor for actual death?).  A very interesting piece.

@ Sinitrena:  I read your twilight wraiths as ghosts, but I think the minimalism of your non-prose opens itself intentionally to interpretation by the reader.  The title I read as more metaphoric "witching hour", referring to the magic time between day and night without literally needing to mean witches.  Your meter is as always flawless, but I feel as if some of the rhymes and imagery were a bit forced.  Why, for example, would the inherently formless and almost indefinable-nature of twilight constitute a "circle quickly drawn", a circle being a very precise and well-defined form?  If it is to be a container then maybe a "ring" would work better, implying a boundary as well as a shape.... but then that of course would throw off the haunting rhythm.    Returning to our "graves" makes sense, as there are many, but only one "buried urn"?  It makes the rhyme work, but jars the eye enough to break the spell.  I think my final verdict is that the idea has a lot of potential, but it needs a bit of reworking to hit a perfect note.

So, while I'm reluctant to vote for the contest administrator, I think my absolute love of good story writing must in this instance trump my sense of good form.  I vote 1st place Mandle, and 2nd place Sinitrena.  And may the weird playing-card dwarf demon have mercy on my soul....   

So the mail-in ballots are still counted as long as they are post-marked by the 25th, right?  I'm getting mixed messages from the media.... 

Well I was all for an extra official entry until you took away the third place vote.  Now I'm not sure I want the extra competition.... 

[The Inside Track]

   The Inside Track
   
   â€œMom, can we go now?!” Gregory pestered, tugging at his mom's shirt.  He'd just been to a dentist appointment, but there was hardly enough time to deposit him back at school before the final bell rang.  In 30 minutes they could pick up her daughter Samantha when her middle school let out, but until then they had a bit of time to kill.  Usually she would take her son to the park to burn off a bit of energy, but as it was raining they were stuck for the time being at the thrift-shop around the corner from the dentist's office.

   â€œIn a minute, sweetie,” Macey said absently, trying to brush her son off.  Her eye fell onto a stack of the community paper with a headline featuring another abducted woman, and immediately she looked away.  Instead she idly browsed through the children's clothing to see if anything in decent condition might fit either of her children.  She turned to catch Gregory trying to wipe his nose on the sleeve of one of the garments on the rack, and she quickly yanked it out of his hands.

   â€œBut MOM!” Gregory whined.

   â€œTry to be patient, dear,” Macey told him, moving on to the electronics.  Most of the wares were outdated enough to be quite useless, but not nearly old enough to be valuable as antiques.  A flicker of movement in her peripheral vision made her turn just in time to catch her 8 year-old son trying to stick his tongue into the empty light socket of an old lamp.  “Gregory!” she scolded in exasperation, causing the boy to grumpily recoil.  Honestly, she wondered at what went on in that boy's head sometimes....

   As the pickings seemed pretty thin today, she decided to cut her losses and head for the cashier.  She had found a rather nice jacket for Samantha and a sharp dress shirt for Gregory (“grrrr,” he had helpfully commented).  As they were lining up, Gregory smeared fingerprints all over the glass of the jewellery case, causing her to scold him again.  She was about to launch into the familiar lecture about respecting others when her eye lit upon an old ring in the case.  It was tarnished with age and lacked any jewel, but the Celtic loops of the design were mesmerizing and it was priced at only five dollars.  Money was tight and Macey usually didn't indulge in luxuries for herself, but as her son slouched to the floor to make a scene by wrapping his arms around her ankle she began to seriously consider spoiling herself just a little bit.  How nicely the ring would look on her left hand where the faded tan-mark of her hawked wedding ring still stood out like a scar....

   Impulsively she asked to try the ring on, and it fit so well it seemed meant for her.  Go on, buy it, the cashier seemed to say to her, you deserve a little something nice after everything you have to put up with!.  Macey bought it on the spot and wore it out of the store.

   It was still raining outside and she had to drag her son quickly to the car.  “Ow!  You're hurting my arm!” he said, and she had a pang of guilt.  She stopped and apologized to her son, who stared at her with a confused look on his face.  Then he looked away.  Why don't we just splash in puddles for a bit? he seemed to think.  Macey looked down the sidewalk pock-marked with little puddles dancing with raindrops.  “I wonder who can splash in more puddles before we get to the car?” she suggested aloud.  Her son smiled at her for the first time that day, and he splashed merrily down the street (she just pretended).  That was so much fun! he seemed to think.

   On the drive to her daughter's middle school Macey kept admiring her new ring. “The rain drops look like magic characters shifting shape,” Gregory said from the back seat.  Macey checked the rear-view mirror to see her son staring at the raindrops as they ran down his window.  “What an interesting thought!” she remarked, turning her attention back to the road.  When she glanced back she saw her son staring at her again, his brow furrowed in confusion, but she shrugged it off as Gregory just being weird like always.

   At the middle school Samantha dashed to the car in the kiss-and-ride loop, slamming the door as she got in.  “I've had a TERRIBLE day!” she shouted.  “Meghan Jones said my jacket looked like it belonged to an old bag lady and Meghan Forester said my breath smells like I ate dog food for breakfast and Simon Holditch laughed when I dropped my binder in French class and I'm really starving because I didn't eat the yucky tuna sandwich you packed me for lunch and-”

   â€œWell, tomorrow's another day,” Macey interrupted.  “How about we have supper early and try on the new jacket I bought you?  I bet Meghan Jones would be jealous!”

   â€œWhat the hell?!?” Samantha exclaimed.

   Macey looked into the rear-view mirror to scold her daughter for swearing at her, but stopped when she saw the girl staring gobsmacked back at her.  Samantha and Gregory cautiously exchanged glances, but after that Macey's attention was distracted by the road again.

   â€œMom's finally having a good day,” Samantha said from the backseat.  “I guess she finally learned to accept all those grey hairs....”

   â€œI don't have that many grey hairs!” Macey shot back, but when she glanced in the mirror again she saw that same awestruck look from her daughter.  Macey decided her children were not in the mood for conversation and so resolved to drive on in silence.

   Soon her kids began prattling aloud as children do, but she was amazed at how non-stop and completely unconnected their verbal streams were.  Samantha was airing some rather private thoughts about her feelings for various boys in her class while Gregory was going on about how he could attach eye-patches to worms in order to sell them as pirate-worms at school.  Macey shook her head in disbelief at the weirdness but when she glanced back up into the rear-view mirror she noticed both kids staring silently out the window even as their train of thought continued in her ears.  She glanced back to the ring on her hand, then back to her children still prattling away in her mind although clearly they were sitting silently.  She surreptitiously removed the ring from her hand and suddenly all was silent in the car.  Slipping the ring back on, she immediately heard the trains of thought once more.

Three weeks later....

   Macey had made the most of her newly acquired ring-power to read people's minds.  She had rekindled the romance with her unemployed husband and successfully renegotiated their underwater mortgage at the bank to cut the payments in half while barely changing the amortization period.  She had also discovered a knack for picking up quality goods left on the curb-side in the rich neighbourhood and selling them at a profit online.  She had managed to secure a new job at a marketing firm that paid three times what her old factory job had while having more flexible working hours.  And, happiest of all, she had begun to nurture the relationship with her children that she had always dreamed of having.  All in all, things really seemed to be looking up for her.

   Macey was so pleased with the current trajectory of her life that she decided to treat herself to a smart new dress at the new dress shop out on the highway.  The advertisements stressed the brand-name quality of their wares at discount prices for the aspiring working woman.  Sure, these type of places usually had products with slight flaws and hidden defects, but she was confident of being able to sleuth out a good deal with the unwitting help of an expert sales person.  She smiled to herself with glee at the prospect as a little bell rang over the open door and the stale sound of muted 80s pop wafted over her ears. 

   The store was surprisingly empty, but it was early on a Tuesday.  Poshly dressed mannequins struck stylish poses on pedestals interspersed in a labyrinth of clothing racks.  Macey worked her way more deeply into the store, the silly thought crossing her mind of a fly being ensnared ever more deeply in a web.  Here was a stunning red dress that she could never dare to pull off, there a smart looking suit-dress made for someone forty pounds more slender than she.  And over here....  She stopped, head tilted, listening.  She could make out the faintest trace of muffled voices, as if wafted from a distance on the wind.  At first these things had bothered her, but she had grown to accept that she could sometimes catch the faintest hint of thoughts from people just beyond the range of the ring to hear.  Usually it was intense thoughts, which tended to register louder in her mind, as when the neighbours fought.  These distant, muffled thoughts sounded more sad, however.  Almost anguished....

   There is no escape now, my pet.  Macey jumped and turned to discover an elderly salesman approaching.

   â€œCan I help you, ma'am?” he asked politely, smiling.  Soon you will be part of my lovely collection.

   â€œUh, sorry!  You startled me!” Macey replied, accidentally on-purpose knocking into a rack and causing a few dresses to fall to the ground.  She took a step backwards, allowing the salesman to rush to pick up his wares.

   â€œNo worries!  I'll get those,” he said.  That's it, little fly.  Soon I will have my teeth in you.

   â€œDo you know,” Macey said, snapping her fingers, trying to hide the sense of dread that was washing over her.  “I think I left my wallet in my car.  I'll be right back!”

   Oh you might think that, the man thought as he gathered the dresses from the floor.  But soon you will discover the door locked and your car being towed away.  They will find it on the other end of town and wonder whatever became of the juicy little fly....

   Macey thought quickly.  “Um, actually....  And I'm really sorry about this, but could I use your bathroom first?” she asked.

   â€œOf course!” the salesman replied in a friendly tone.  Even better!  The back hallway makes for the best ambushes!

   â€œOh, thanks!” Macey said, trying to keep her nerve.  Oh, that mannequin had a golf-club!  She just needed to distract the salesman with a few more dresses on the ground.

   Oh how she would squirm if she knew what I have planned for her!  And now here is the helper-monkey to help me get her into the sack....

   Macey caught movement in her peripheral vision and turned to see another salesmen walking calmly towards her from the other direction.  She screamed and lunged for the mannequin....

----------------------------

Edit: So I'm not even sure if it was a Twilight Zone episode or not, but I remember seeing a Twilight-Zone-esque show as a kid where a woman found a magic locket that froze time, which was really handy until she froze time just as the world was about to end and then was basically trapped forever.  So this is kind of a hack job on that concept.... enjoy!

Yeah, I'll need to apply for an extension as well.  Unlike Sinitrena, I know exactly what I've been doing with my time (falling head-over-heals in love with Kamala Harris  ), but as for the writing thing... yeah, not so much.  Extension please?

[1st = Mandle]

1st = Mandle.  He had some good imagery: saving up complaints in an account and "spending" them on her poor husband, the scream of triumph that matched to wail of the siren.  And I got a kick out of the ending (not so much the petty destruction of the garden but the fact that the shallowly buried cat's bones came raining down in the very very end).  I felt that 50s vibe of people not making any effort to empathize with the struggles of others, as well as the building rage within Bobby which reminded me of the Honeymooners: "One of these days, Alice!".

2nd = Sinitrena.  Punny!  Something smelled a little ...fowl right from the first line, and you kept the poultry puns going the whole way through.  I'm torn when it comes to the voting, because I think you nailed the chicken characters pretty well (petty squabbling, not terribly intelligent, doomed to be taken advantage of).  But I feel, in the instance of chickens, that the brooding over gender inequality is a bit over the top.  I mean, your main character can't even count or keep track of her own children or sustain enough attention to defend her own eggs - this level of intelligence does not believably lend itself to analyzing gender power imbalances.  But then maybe I just secretly feel threatened by her growing empowerment.... 

A week off, woot woot!    See ya next Thursday!   

I require voting deadlines.  Otherwise I procrastinate indefinitely.... 

[---edit---]

If you want me to cut back two more words I can.

That's awfully accommodating of you, Mandle.  Please remove the two uses of the word "litter" from your piece.   

---edit---

A Brooding Menace

   Life is full of problems that are not easily resolved.  It bears not dwelling on this much, as this very act will make you even more unhappy.  However, not thinking about how difficult one's problems are is a good way to unwittingly make them even worse.  This is what a wise owl might refer to as a “double bind”.  I'm just a chicken though, so I'm calling it a “rotten egg”.

   Now I know what you might be thinking: a chicken that thinks too much is bound to be unhappy, no matter what she thinks about.  And you'd be right.  Except in so doing you yourself would probably be thinking too much, which would also make you more unhappy, and who would be the winner of that?  Think about it....

   So I'm on my nest in the coop, right?  And it's a chilly spring evening, so I'm hugging my clutch like I'm never going to see them again.  All the other hens are chattering to keep themselves warm, nattering on as they do about the moulting process and the pecking order and blah blah blah.  It's not entirely useless information to share, but they rehash the same themes over and over so much that one tends to tune them out.  One could literally wring one's own neck following the arguments around and around: who's popular, who's fighting, who's next for the block....  If one could actually harness the vindictiveness from the tiniest squabbles to a heating machine we'd all be roasted by halfway through the evening.

   So anyway, this fat hen named Penny stands up and declares that the cold is gnawing at her like an itch she can't scratch.  It's like a gap in her soul where the cold droughts can blow unimpeded.  The only thing that will warm her up is a fire in the pit of her belly, and with that her beak stretches like she is about to swallow a watermelon and out comes this hungry looking fox.

   Everyone gasps at this shocking revelation.  But then this scrawnier hen named Patches yawns and out pops a hungry looking snake.  The snake tells the fox that he'd been working the fat Penny hen for a week because she'd make such a great meal.  The fox tells the snake he'd been working the mangy Patches hen for a week because she seemed like an easy mark.  They get into a big fight, with the fox trying to bite the snake and the snake trying to strangle the fox.  Well, eventually they both succeed and fall down dead in the middle of the coop.

   What follows is complete and utter silence.  Suddenly my mind is in this zen-like state of clarity.  That moment lasts for about three seconds before the gossip erupts once more: who suspected when, who might still be in disguise....  But for me the rotten egg is now rolling around in my mind.  Who else needs to die in order to get some room to think?

You had one job, Mandle.  One job! 

Wait, what?!?  I don't think KyriakosCH should be able to withdraw after the voting period has started.  And besides, he hasn't hosted a competition yet, so I vote he hosts the next competition. 

Congratulations KyriakosCH! 

It's like the movie Groundhog Day!  We're forever caught in this ongoing but incomplete competition!  Quick, somebody step in front of a bus to see what happens.... 

The symmetry is fitting.  The voting period is ongoing but ...incomplete. 

WHAT?!?  SORRY, YOU'LL HAVE TO SPEAK UP! 

[Edit]

Sorry, sorry!  I got distracted with other tasks and forgot to check in on the forums for a couple days there.  I'll read and vote by tomorrow, I promise!

Edit

OK.  After some due consideration I vote in the following manner:

Favourite: Sinitrena.  I most liked how both characters (the dreamer and the painter) were developed as the story unfolded.  It was an interesting concept, although by the halfway point I already had a good idea of where everything was going.  Which brings me to my only real criticism: the story kind of ends.  I mean, obviously there will be fallout for both the dreamer and the painter, but the main important idea of any larger story (the painter snapping, or at least breaking out of white cubicle prison of his mind) is effectively over.

Second Favourite: KyriakosCH.  You can't disqualify your entry!  Only Mandle can do that!    I agree with Sinitrena that mentioning the apparition would have made the story make a lot more sense.  However, leaving the reader questioning what was happening was a good way to make the story seem incomplete, so in that regard I think you succeeded more than anyone else in this competition.  I think just a few more details (maybe not even describing the apparition but hinting at its presence) would have clinched you first place in my books.

Mandle.  Yeah, that's right.  No vote unless I hear an audio recording of you singing those lyrics.  And by singing I mean screaming at the top of your lungs, preferably to heavy metal music that is also just vocals that you pre-recorded.   DAH DAH DA-DA-DAAAAAAAH!   DAH DAH DA-DA-DAAAAAAAH!  DAH DAH DA-DA-DAAAAAAAH! 

[Take Twenty]

Take Twenty

   â€œNo!  No, wait!” he pleaded, spitting blood.  He clambered backwards awkwardly, slipping on the debris of the collapsed building.  The shadow of his pursuer loomed menacingly over him.  He raised his hand up in a feeble attempt to defend himself, wincing in anticipation of the mortal blow that was surely about to fall.  “I'll tell you!  I'll tell you everything!  It was all Jessica, I swear!  She learned your secret and planned to-”

   â€œCUT!” the director shouted wearily.  “Damn it, Steve, we can see your wristwatch!”

   â€œCrap, sorry Hank.”  Steve took a small towel from his pocket to wipe the fake blood off his chin.  “Can't we get that stuff in editing these days?”

   â€œNot on our budget,” Hank grumbled.  “OK, that's lunch people!  We'll take it from the top in twenty!”  A bell rang to drown out the sound of gripes from the crew-members at the shortness of the break.

   â€œNice going, Shitowitz!” Gary complained from beneath the tentacles of his costume, as he waddled off to quickly have a smoke.

   â€œShipowitz.  It's Shipowitz, actually!” Steve called after him.  He tried to flag down a crew-member to get a sandwich, but they were all scurrying away like rats from a sinking ship.  Instead he was left prone on the fake rubble beneath the sinister shadow of the director.  Somehow it was even more terrifying than that of the space alien.

   â€œSteve!” Hank barked, “I'm not one to mince words.  This movie is depending on you, and your career is depending on it.  It's like a parasitic circle of slimy interdependence, you see?  But you're sucking all the life out of it.  You are the uber-parasite that is gobbling up all the nutrients in the system. You are the locust swallowing the last grains of a farmer's crop, blissfully unaware that there is nothing left to eat tomorrow.  For any of us!  Am I being clear?  Is there any ambiguity to the message I am trying to communicate?  You are shitting in the punch-bowl of this party!  Get your act together or get your ass back to that two-bit college theatre program you crawled out of!”

   â€œYeah, Hank.  Sure, sure,” Steve soothed, but the director had already stalked off.  Steve shut his eyes to imagine the indignity of returning to the Marlon Brando School for Theatre and Film back in Omaha.  He felt the imaginary shame coursing through his veins.  Of course, since it was an imaginary school that he had just made up to pad his resume, imaginary humiliation was all he could expect from his alma mater.  Much worse was the prospect of returning to his cardboard box under the I-80.

   Suddenly there was the sound of K-Pop girls singing at the top of their lungs.  Steve looked around embarrassed, relieved that he hadn't been caught with his ring-tone unsilenced during a take.  “Steve-boy here,” he answered with a fake sense of cheer.

   â€œHi Steve-Poo!” his girlfriend gushed.  “Are you all packed for the weekend?”

   â€œHi Pixie Stick!” Steve gushed back.  “Uh, actually things aren't going so well on the set.  I think I might have to stick around for some extra innings on this one.”

   â€œBut Gary said shooting would be done by Friday!”

   â€œWell, yeah, but Gary's part isn't as involved as mine.  I've got a lot of close-ups, facial reactions, voice work, stuff like that.  I mean, all Gary has to do is waddle around in that alien costume to help the CGI modellers.”

   â€œFine,” Pixie said, although she didn't sound very fine with it.  “Maybe Tish can come up with me to the cottage....”

   â€œYeah, yeah, that sounds like a great back-up plan.  I'll catch up with you guys if I -hello?  Pixie Stick?”  Damn service provider kept dropping his calls.  He was about to call tech support when the perky K-Pop girls started shrieking again.

   â€œSteve-boy here,” he answered cheerily, relieved that his girlfriend had called back.

   â€œSTEVE-O!” a male voice shouted back.  “What's rocking my main man??”

   â€œOh, hi Jerry.  I'm actually on this other call right-”

   â€œHey, hey!  No probs, man!  I wouldn't be the world's greatest agent if didn't give my Number One client the space he needs to keep in THE ZONE!  You're not talking to another agent, are you?”

   â€œWhat?  No, I-”

   â€œGOOD!” Jerry shouted, steamrolling over Steve's attempts to get a word in edge-wise.  “'Cause I've been busting my chops getting you your next gig!  How do you feel about doing a Tupperware commercial?  No, no, don't tell me, 'cause I already signed you up.  And I got a casting director from CBS looking for an up-and-coming actor to play Hitler's girlfriend for a new series on their Peacock streaming service!”

   â€œBut.... I'm a man!”

   â€œYeah, it's like this cross-dressing kind of homoerotic satirical thing.  It'll be hilarious!”

   â€œGeeze, Jerry.  I don't think it's right-”

   â€œI know!  What is CBS thinking, launching a streaming service in this market!  But in order to climb the ladder, you gotta get your hands on the rungs, right kid?  And I'm the guy that's finding those rungs for you.  You just gotta close your hand and pull.  Can you do that, Steve-O?  Can you wrap your hand around a solid cylindrical object and pull with all your might, over and over again, until you reach  the highest heights?!?  Don't answer that!  I know the answer, because you've been working at it your whole life!  Training to be the best damn ladder climber in show business!  I believe in you, Steve-O!”

   â€œThanks, Jerry.  I really appreciate everything you've done, but-”

   â€œWhoa, whoa!  Let me stop you there, man!  Buts are for assholes!  Now before you go off rubbing your but all over me, I wanna remind you of that little incident in Vegas that I took care of for you.  Yeah, you know what I'm talking about.  Your best-bud-in-the-world Jerry took care of that shit for you.  Haven't I wiped enough buts, Steve-O?”

   â€œNone of that Vegas stuff made any sense!” Steve said with exasperation.  “I mean, how did that dead hooker even get-”

   â€œWhoa! Whoa!  What kind of movie are you talking about?!?  Remember that one where gentlemen speak in code?”

   Steve rolled his eyes.  “Fine!  How did that ROOM SERVICE even get into my hotel room?”

   â€œHey, must have been a wild and crazy night!  But Jerry's not the type to judge.”

   â€œBut I was IN my hotel room the whole night!  I didn't even have a beer!  I just watched Storage Wars until I passed out and when I woke up there was this... ROOM SERVICE all over the floor!”

   â€œYeah, it's one crazy town, Vegas!” Jerry agreed.  “But the point is I took care of it.  That's the only point you ever need to remember.  Your best-bud-in-the-world Jerry has GOT YOUR BACK!  Oh, and I was going through your bank statements -more red ink than a vampire editor's convention!  I just want you to keep in mind that PART I told you they were casting for.  Remember the flick about the heist?  They still need an ACTOR to drive the getaway DISHWASHER.  Let me know if you're interested!”

   â€œSure, sure, Jerry.  You're-”

   â€œOh, hey!  I almost forgot.  Your doctor called this morning with your test results.  Remember all those invasive scans he had you do because he thought you might have some form of rare and incurable cancer?”

   â€œOh my god, what were the results?”

   â€œHey, I can't tell you now!  It might throw you off your game!  What you need to do now is focus on your performance.  That's the important thing.  Your buddy Jerry's gonna take care of all the rest, like always.  That a boy, Steve-O!”

   â€œOK Jerry.  You're right.  The thing is, I think I've got this little problem with Pixie-”

   â€œWhoa, look at the time!  Sorry kid, Jerry's got a parole meeting he was supposed to be at 5 minutes ago.  Keep thinking aces, a'ight?”

   â€œJerry?  Jerry?”  Damn.  If it weren't for that “till death do you part” bit in his contract, Steve would definitely be considering shopping for a new agent right about now.  He looked at his watch and grimaced: only five minutes of break left.  A few of the crew-members were starting to trickle back into the studio.  Time to get his game face back on.  Time to knock this sucka out of the park!  Time to-

   The up-tempo synth music and Korean choral vocals interrupted Steve's thoughts once more.

   â€œSteve-boy here!” he announced, struggling to maintain his trademarked cheerfulness.

   â€œSteven, it's Marlene,” a grumpy voice replied on the other end of the line.

   â€œHey mom!” Steve greeted her happily.

   â€œI told you never to call me that,” Marlene said flatly.  “Just because you're dating my daughter doesn't make us related in any way.”

   â€œI'm sorry, Mrs. Sedgewick,” Steve apologized sincerely.  “It's just I've never had anyone so close as you and Pixie-”

   â€œHer name is Priscilla.  Now I'm concerned about this cottage trip-”

   â€œWhat?  Why?  She's actually just going up with her friend Tish, since I'll be filming all weekend.  I hardly think-”

   â€œDon't piss on me and say it's raining,” Marlene barked.  “I know perfectly well that Tish will be at her mother's birthday this weekend.  We've been neighbours for twenty years, for Christ's sake.  Now you listen to me: I don't like the idea of my daughter driving up to Reno with all these wild-fires burning up-state.”

   â€œReno?  We weren't planning on going to Reno!  That's where this jerk Gary has a cottage â€" I wouldn't go within a hundred miles of that place even if you paid me!”

   â€œJust cancel the trip,” Marlene threatened, “or I swear to god the next time you come near my property I will douse you with gravy and sick my two rottweilers on you.  I don't feed 'em much, so they're usually awfully angry and awfully hungry.  Do you hear what I'm saying, Steven?”

   â€œUh... yes ma'am!  Sorry ma'am!  I will pull the plug on the whole trip, Mrs. Sedgewick!  I promise-”

   â€œOh, shut up and just do it,” Marlene muttered as she hung up.

   Suddenly there was a faint whiff of stale cigarette smoke and an unearthly shadow looming over Steve again.  “Ready to make some magic, Shitowitz?” Gary asked sarcastically.

   â€œHey, when do we do that scene where I smash your face with the brick?” Steve asked.

   â€œAs soon as you stop screwing up this one,” Gary replied, waddling back into position.  “So, never?”

   Steve took a deep breath, then removed his wristwatch and set his phone to mute.

So if I, like, just end my story in the middle like I always do, does that satisfy the entry criteria?