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*Sini claws on her monitor, complete panic washing over her face...

Is that panic washing over your face?  It's hard to see with the monocle in the way....

Wow, what an articulate post from me... and so mature...

The baronification process has begun! 

It's official title

I'll fix that, but only because it's just a somewhat unreasonable typeo.  If it were wildly unreasonable it would have to stay. 

[ABSURDITY!]

Hi.  I'm Baron.  I like to write, so I usually compete in AGS's monthly writing competition.  Its official title is the "Fortnightly Writing Competition" (FWC for short).  The contest administrator (i.e. the person who won the last competition) sets a theme and then everyone has two weeks plus the odd extension to write a short story on that topic.  Then there's a reading and voting period that usually lasts from 3-7 days, maybe a bit of administrative downtime in between competitions, and then BAM!  We're back to writing again next month!  Celebrity endorsements include "It is very fun!" (Reiter) and "What competition?" (Ponch).  Basically it is a fun forum in which to explore your creativity, practice writing, and discuss writing challenges with friendly people. 

As a writer I will admit that I've fallen into a bit of a rut.  I usually write these really weird absurd little stories that often don't go anywhere and end abruptly.  I think it gets on Sinitrena's nerves, to be honest, but she's too gracious to mention it (much).    So last competition I tried to play it straight and WOW, I actually won!  Which got me thinking... NUTS TO THAT!!!1!  Writing zany silliness is just too much fun!  So this fortnight I give you the theme of....

ABSURDITY!



According to Dr. Google the proper definition of absurdity is: "the quality or state of being ridiculous or wildly unreasonable."  Your challenge is to write a story that is at least 63% absurd 39% of the time.  Maybe you have a quirky character that makes the most unexpected choices; maybe a hugely improbable event throws a mundane scene into utter disarray; maybe the plot twists YOU?  I would give you more direction than that, but you would be compelled to ignore it due to your state of being wildly unreasonable.    Just make your story fun and silly and I'm sure it will pass muster.

Deadline for your submission is midnight at the International Date Line on Tuesday JULY 7, 2020.

Possible voting categories, for those of you striving to win by following the rules (which is the opposite of the absurd mentality you need to win this competition, by the way):

Oddest character: Which character stood out the most for their qualities of being really, really different?
Weirdest plot: The winning story must have a plot that is both discernible and yet wildly outlandish.
Purplest Writing: If we're being honest with ourselves, the most absurd writing is over-the-top flowery.  Who used words in the most absurdly poetic way?
Funniest Larks: Which story had you giggling the most?
Best Absurd Story: Which story was overall the best in your opinion?

Good lick to all the participants! 

Edit: Fixed somewhat unreasonable typo.  

[@ Ess2s2:]

Thanks for all the votes, folks!  I'll try to have another competition up by tomorrow.

@ Ess2s2:  While I wouldn't call it a rewrite, the addition of Ben's side of the story makes the whole much, much better.  I agree with Sinitrena that changing back and forth between writing to Jim and writing about Jim was slightly jarring, but otherwise the new piece has just about everything the original lacks: character development, suspense, even the slow-burn menace of the shadow people.  I too wondered whatever happened to June, but then nobody laments the Arab trader who opens Disney's Aladdin and then disappears, so.... I guess sometimes as a technique it works.  In summary, I think a bit of reworking of this second installment with some of the important details from the first would allow it to stand alone as a stronger, tighter story than the two submissions together. 

I look forward to reading your future submissions.  All the more so next time since I won't be competing against you! 

I'd be interested to see how you rework the text, Ess2s2.  As a last-minute writer, I rarely have time for anything other than an extremely superficial edit.  Which is regrettable, given that that's often where a story makes the jump from ok to good or from good to great... 

...(of special note is that there is an end. Baron tends to stop his stories too early  ). I 

Always leave the fans wanting more, I always say!     Truthfully, I struggled working outside of my so-called baronesque style.  Without the manic absurdity to keep the plot going, I found myself grasping for plausible developments and character traits to keep the ship afloat.  I'm still not at all happy with how I turned the slacker-brother into a scientist in the course of a few paragraphs, but I have every confidence that Ess2s2 can resolve that and other issues during his extensive rewrite initiative.   

[Character:]

Wow, two great entries to choose from!

Character: I vote Sinitrena for Okoth.  Symbolically she is a desert herself, empty (in terms of love) and barren (in terms of milk).  And like a desert she sees the illusion of hope just beyond the horizon, while the ugliness of her reality is almost unbelievably harsh.  The parallels between her character and the process of desertification are also intriguing, as her story-arc seems to be a long slide of degradation and despair.  I found Ess2s2's Rambling Jim folksy but a little too boyscout-ish to be believable.

Plot: I vote Sinitrena again.  The story within a story foreshadowed the arc of the broader story nicely, and the ending was gripping (although incredibly sad).  I thought Ess2s2's story had a very intriguing premise, but then nothing really happened in the subterranean oasis town, or to the character that found it.

Writing Style: I vote Ess2s2 in this category.  His playful use of words to describe the townsfolk as venomous and the trees as "Seussian" keep the reader engaged.  Sinitrena had her own moments (my favourite was the water as brown broth), but I found Ess2s2 had more of them.

Atmosphere: I struggled with this category.  Sinitrena has an all pervasive atmosphere of overwhelming despair.  It weighs down on the reader almost from the first word, and is unrelenting throughout.  But is this an atmosphere that I can be drawn into?  Is it engaging and stimulating for the reader?  To be honest I think it's just a little too dystopian for me to feel a connection.  Ess2s2 creates more of an atmosphere of wonder, which although much less powerful than Sinitrena's, still creates a more vivid world that I would be interested in visiting.  So I suppose what I'm saying is I vote Ess2s2 by a hair.

Theme: My vote easily goes to Sinitrena for a tale of society mirroring a dying environment.  Most of Ess2s2's story actually took place in a mountain wonderland.  And while oases are certainly an integral part of a desert, I found his oddly alien town a step beyond Reiter's theme of "Desert".

[Edit:]

Well, I'm about halfway done.  I will probably be submitting late tomorrow night.

Edit:

The Parch of Woe

   Three moons lit the night sky of Woe, slivers of hope in a cold and empty realm.  Three candles lit the grave for the Parting Vigil, flickers of hope in a similarly empty landscape.  Three brothers of the family Sol stood holding the candles, thinking thoughts of emptiness now that their father was dead.

   Ansol, the eldest, clove closely to the beliefs of his father.  Life was simple: toil hard and build the honour of the family.  He could not help his gaze wandering past the grave to the caked earth beyond, a hard and dry land of broken dreams and fleeting potential.  His father's land, and his father's dream.  Did he dare take up the mantle of the land-debt?  It was his family's only real asset, the only thing separating the family from the utter destitution of the helji, the landless labourers who eeked out a pittance working the mines, the salt pans, or on the farms of the wealthy merchant lords down in the oasis.  The helji lived hand-to-mouth, never more than a day or two away from outright starvation.  Theirs was a hopeless existence.  And yet the price of hope was high: the cost of the land-debt was precious gallons that the family could not easily afford. 

   Barsol, the second son, was lost in his own thoughts as well.  He had never seen the point of the Game of Rocks and Dirt, as the radical sermonizer called it.  Land was an obligation more than an asset, its value negligible and its costs taxing.  He worked the same long hours in the mines as his helji friends for two measly gallons per day.  But they could drink one outright and trade the other for their food, while three quarts of poor Barsol's water was siphoned off to help his father pay an endless land-debt for a wretched plot of sand and rock.  For all the good it did him, his father might as well have just dumped the water on the dunes themselves.

   Cabasol, the youngest son, was lost in his own thoughts, too.  He was young still, barely a man, and brimming with the idealism of youth.  When he looked at the family plot his mind's eye saw not a modest farm or a sandy debt-trap, but a garden of possibility complete with the pools and fountains and palm trees that he had seen during his short time at the schools in the oasis.  Alas, more than one teacher had concluded that Cabasol's head was full of nothing but empty dreams. 

   The eastern sky began to glow above the horizon, and the distant bells of Woe began their doleful summons to wakefulness and work.  Soon the blazing sun would be upon them, bearing down on all the land and all the people with a searing weight that grew relentlessly by the hour, baking the water and the life out of all but the richest of men.

   â€œGood bye dear Father,” Ansol intoned respectfully.  “May your soul be ever quenched in paradise.”  He ended the ritual by wetting his fingers with his mouth and pinching out his candle flame.  His two brothers followed his lead.

   â€œAnd now life goes on,” Barsol muttered, clapping his younger brother on the shoulder and picking up his pick-axe.

   â€œShow some respect!” Ansol shot back.  The two brothers glared at each other across the fresh earth.

   â€œWhat shall we do now?” Cabasol asked, blinking as if suddenly realizing the hard choices ahead of him.

   â€œIndeed!” called a voice from behind them.  All three brothers turned to see the silhouette of a large man stumbling towards them in the half-light of the pre-dawn.

   â€œWho are you?” Ansol challenged the unknown man, retrieving his shovel from the grave in case he needed a weapon.  “And how do you come through our land?”

   â€œPeace be with you, lads,” the man said, coming to stop at the edge of the grave.  “I am Darnys the Lender of clan Flo, and I hold the land-debt to this plot.  I am here by right of interest on this, the day of your father's Great Rest.”  Darnys made a solemn gesture towards the grave.

   The three brothers stared at the man.  He was quite large, now that they could see him up close.  Indeed, if they robbed him of his fancy clothes they could all three of them fit inside comfortably.  His face was plump beneath a layer of stubble that would no doubt be shaved when better light afforded the opportunity, and his skin positively glowed in the twilight, indicating days spent in the gentle shade of his counting room.

   â€œWe thank you for your respects,” Ansol told him, at a loss for anything else to say.

   â€œHmmmmm,” Darnys replied, frowning.  “And now to business.  Your father was a proud man who always paid his land-debts on time.  His dream of raising his family to full yeoji status may have been someway off, but he believed in the power of the family Sol.  So much so that he paid an extra premium for kobei.  Do you know what that means?”

   The three brothers shook their heads in unison. 

   â€œIt means,” Darnys continued, “that he made a wager with the clan Flo.  In the event of his untimely demise, clan Flo would pay life-water to his heirs for one year and a day if they swear to uphold the terms of the land-debt jointly thereafter.  So, do you?”

   â€œWait,” Barsol said.  “Do you mean you'll pay us life-water for a year if we agree to take over the land-debt?”

   â€œYes.  But all three of you must agree.  Do you?”

   The brothers stared at each other, again lost in thought.  Ansol was sorely tempted, mostly because it was his father's dream that he and his brothers work together for the family's honour, but also because it would get him out of working the hated salt-pans for a year.  Barsol was tempted as well, not at all because it was his father's dream but because it would get him out of working the hated mines for a year.  He was under no illusions about making a go of farming the desert, but he assumed they could default after the year was up.  Cabasol was tempted as well, for a whole year's worth of life-water would surely fill the pleasure pool that they could dig.  He could close his eyes and feel himself floating in those cool, blue waters....

   â€œYes,” all brothers spoke at once, surprising each other.  And so the deal was struck.

*   *   *   *   *   *

   â€œOK, so we've got one year to make a go of this,” Ansol said as the heavy form of Darnys laboured back towards the road, the sun now piercing the horizon.  “Barsol, you will use your pick-axe to mine the shaft of father's well, and I will use my bucket to haul the stone to the surface.  Cabasol will go to town to fetch a rope to speed our work.”

   â€œNot likely,” Barsol responded, sitting himself down on a rock to enjoy the last few minutes of shade.  “We could mine a thousand feet down and still not hit water.  I don't intend to sweat away my only year of free life-water on a fantasy.”

   Ansol bit his tongue.  Arguing with Barsol would only beget more arguing, which was exactly what his father had not intended.  Sighing, Ansol sat down on a nearby rock.  “The farm won't work without water,” was all he said.

   â€œWe've got lots of water!” Cabasol said brightly, joining them.  “We could use the year of life-water to grow a forest!”

   The two older brothers merely exchanged a glance.  A couple thousand gallons of water would keep the three of them alive for a year as well as allowing them to trade for food and a few simple tools.  But any real crack at farming would need much, much more water.  Ansol pondered his strategy for several long minutes, allowing the sun to rise enough to start its merciless assault upon them. 

   At last he struck.  “How far down do you think father dug?” he asked cunningly.

   Oblivious to the danger, Barsol reflected on the question.  He was the mining expert in the family, after all.  And truth be told it was one of his more favourite topics to debate and discuss.  “I'd say a hundred and twenty feet,” he said at last.  “At least, that's where I'd reckon he was at a month ago when I was last down the hole.”  Barsol wiped the sweat from his brow in the intensifying heat.  Usually he was deep underground by this time of day....

   â€œWhen did Darnys say the first of the water was arriving?” Cabasol asked, suddenly thirsty as well.  Usually by this time of day he was looking for a place to nap in the shade of Lord Crohn's orchard where he had recently found work.

   â€œNot until this evening,” Ansol sighed, making a show of gauging the hour by measuring the distance of the sun over the horizon.  “It'd be cooler inspecting the last of father's work,” he suggested.

   Barsol stared at his brother, beginning to suspect his guile.  And yet if they didn't go to work there was precious little other shelter for them out here.  The plot had a very short stone wall along the roadside which tapered to nothing more than a line of boundary stones along the other edges, stretching into the distance.  The only other structure on the property was the simple tent that housed them, which would be beyond sweltering in the full sun.  “Agreed,” Barsol said at length.

   Compared to the sun-baked surface, the well-shaft was mercifully cool.  Indeed, at its base, it was almost chilly.  Their father could barely afford the five stalks of bamboo that held their tent up, and so the ladder to the base of the well-shaft was nothing but a series of hand and foot holds carved into the rock itself.  Each piece of rock he dislodged would be lashed to his back with a small length of weary cord and hauled up by hand to the surface.

   â€œHow did he even see enough to work down here?” Cabasol asked. 

   â€œGlow stone,” Barsol explained, revealing his.  “Leave it in the sun for an hour, and you get a faint glow for about as long underground.”

   â€œYou can't get much digging done in an hour,” Ansol commented.

   â€œWell, in the mines we keep swapping them,” Barsol continued.  “But you're right, father probably only mined an hour at a time.  I'd say we're down about one-forty, by the way.  Not bad for one old guy in his spare time after work.”

   â€œWait,” Ansol interrupted.  “Are you saying he dug twenty feet in the last month?  Just in his spare time after work?  For something approaching an hour a day?”

   Barsol considered his brothers words.  “Yeah, I guess I am saying that.  It's possible, I guess.  If you were really moving.  You'd have to be really motivated to work at that pace, though.”

   â€œSo what if you were working, say, five times as long each day,” Ansol suggested.  “Not all day, mind, but say half-a-day.  You'd be able to dig, what, a hundred feet in a month?”

   Barsol squinted in the pale light at his fingers, trying to do the math.

   â€œAnd after ten months you'd be more than a thousand feet deeper....” Ansol continued. 

   Barsol shook his head.  “No, it takes a lot longer the deeper you go.  Because each foot deeper means you have to carry material out that much farther.  And who's to say how long it might take if you hit harder rock.”

   â€œBut what if it wasn't just you?” Ansol asked.  “What if you had two other motivated workers doing the carrying?  Or helping with the mining?”

   Barsol was still trying to work out the sums on his fingers.  “Dung cakes.  You know, it might just work.”

*   *   *   *   *   *

   Day 126.  The well-shaft was now a spectacular 500 feet deep.  They'd saved money on rope â€" none would stretch that far anyway â€" and instead invested in several old warrior shields which Barsol had cleverly rigged over his head as he worked to deflect any rocks dropped or accidentally dislodged by his brothers as they lugged his tailings laboriously to the surface.  They would travel up and down in pairs, one above the other, for there was no way to cross on the rock-hole ladder, but it was always a harrowing trip for the lower brother.  Well, at least until one of the brothers disappeared to nap.  To where, Ansol never did find out.

   In the bright light each morning before work Barsol would carefully examine the rock dug up the day before, looking for signs of any ore or jewels that might make their mining endeavour worth-while, but sadly he never found anything of value, save for a few oddly shaped fossils of insect shells.  “Not even the right type of rock,” he would mutter to himself.

   All morning they would work, Barsol with his pick in the gloom of the shaft's bottom, Ansol hauling the rocks dislodged to the surface, sometimes even with the help of lazy Cabasol.  In the early days when the climb was shorter Ansol and Cabasol busied themselves between trips stacking the rocks into two parallel walls, which they then covered with the poles and fabric of their tent.  This little shelter was a great improvement over their old tent as its walls allowed the wind to waft through.  But now that the climb up the well was 500 feet sheer there was no spare time to be had.  No sooner was a load deposited at the surface than they had to start the long descent once more.

   In the afternoon they would rest in the shade of the new shelter, munching on whatever fruit they could trade for, drinking away the precious life-water, and speculating on their success or failure.  Ansol was convinced that a lake of water lapped the rocks just below their shaft.  Cabasol would doze some more, dreaming of forests and pools and fountains. Barsol oscillated between barely believing that they might succeed to dreading their certain failure.  He had even taken to cutting his rations short again, gambling his savings in the evening markets in hopes of hedging his prospects (though he never won). 

   In the beginning they would spend their evenings walking to market or visiting friends, like in the old days.  But as the months passed by increasingly they found themselves back digging in the well-shaft, grunting, hacking, hauling, hoping.  A minute not spent in the hole became a minute forsaken to the land-debt holder.  They measured their days no longer in hours but in inches of rock rent from the deepest bowels of Woe.

   And the desert around them seethed with rage that they might dare defy its inhospitality.  The sun pounded down so fiercely at times that the wind felt like the air escaping a furnace, and at sometimes great clouds of wind and sand swallowed their plot, each grain a tiny nugget of spite sent to scour their dreams away.  The days dripped by like sand in a glass, but still the brothers laboured on.  Day 154.  Day 198.  Day 237.

   And then on Day 282 it happened.  At an astonishing 845 feet below the surface Barsol's pick pried a rock from the base of the shaft to the sound of gurgling fluid.  Squinting in the gloom of his glow stone he could make out the faintest reflection of light.  Hurriedly he hacked and pried another stone out of the way so that he could scoop the shallow film of water into his hand.  At this depth it was uncomfortably cold once he stopped moving, but he could not help but marvel at the wobbly wetness pooled in the cup of his palm.  “Bucket!” he shouted.

*   *   *   *   *

   All three brothers peered into the bucket, now raised to the bright mid-morning light at the surface.  The bucket was about a quarter full with a cloudy fluid that certainly might be water if it were allowed to settle.  It didn't smell funny, which was lucky as some of the known waters of Woe carried the foul stench of dissolved minerals that were poisonous to man and beast alike.  But nor did it appear particularly appetizing.

   â€œLet it settle,” Ansol said as Barsol shook the bucket for the umpteenth time.

   â€œGet a rag for a filter,” Barsol replied, marvelling at how the fluid caught the light.

   â€œShouldn't we test it on an animal?” Cabasol suggested, poking at the water with a small stem that had once been attached to their midday fruit meal.

   â€œWe'll just try a drop,” Ansol said finally, sticking his finger into the bucket and raising it out with a small droplet dangling precariously off of it.  “This one's for you, Father.”  Ansol dipped his finger into his mouth, letting the moistness wet his palette.  A moment later he spit it out again.  “Brine,” he swore, kicking the bucket over so that its contents spilled over a large rock.  “I tasted similar many a time when I worked the salt pans.  Dung cakes!”

   Barsol cursed as well, handing a drink of fresh water to his brother.

   â€œWait, it's not water?” Cabasol asked.  “What is brine?”

   â€œSalt water,” Ansol explained.  “No good for farming.  Or for anything really.  Except making salt.  Watch the rock and you'll see the crystals form as the water dries.”

   Cabasol turned to stare at the thin film of water on the rock that was visibly shrinking in the intense heat from the sun.  Indeed, there was a tiny crust of white where the water had been.

   â€œI'm going drinking,” Barsol said, tossing his pick-axe on to the ground.  “And I don't mean water!”

*   *   *   *   *

   â€œWhat in the burning sands are you doing?” Ansol asked from the shade of the shelter.  By now it was mid-afternoon and the heat in the sun was nigh unbearable.  Still, his youngest brother had made two trips down to the bottom of the well since their discovery that morning, each time returning with a partial bucket of brine.  Again he poured the liquid into the shallow bowl of a rock, only to watch the water slowly disappear in a matter of minutes to leave a thin white film caked to the rock.

   â€œWhere does the water go?” Cabasol asked.

   â€œThe sun hates men,” Ansol told him.  “And so it steals their water wherever it can find it.  Have you never listened to a sermonizer, boy?”

   â€œBut the sun doesn't take the water from our amphorae....” Cabasol wondered.

   â€œThey are sealed, so the sun can't get at it,” Ansol explained.  “But it has other ways.  Leave a vessel with water in it in the full sun and it will burst the seal, mark my words.”

   â€œBut the sun leaves the salt?” Cabasol pressed.

   â€œThe sun doesn't want the damned salt,” Ansol said in exasperation.  “Only our water.”

*   *   *   *   *

   The next morning before dawn Ansol headed down to the salt-pans to work his old job again.  He told his brothers he might as well be paid for his hard labour if all he was hauling was brine.  Barasol merely groaned, hungover, and Cabasol waived him goodbye.

   â€œYou'd do well to join me,” Ansol said to his youngest brother.  “There is nothing for us here.”

   â€œI still have 82 days of free life-water,” Cabasol told him, “and I intend to enjoy it.”

   â€œFifty three, actually,” Barsol admitted, rubbing his temples tenderly.  “Sorry, I got to gambling last night as well as drinking.”  With that he rolled over and fell back asleep.

   â€œSuit yourself,” Ansol told him.  “But there's a reckoning coming.  In the desert there always is, they say.  When the water runs out you will need to earn your own keep.”  With that he was off.
   
*   *   *   *   *

   â€œAnsol's right, you know,” Barsol called from the shade of their shelter.  He was sipping on fresh water and still nursing the mother of all hangovers.  “We'd all do best to get into work and get out of this land-debt.  We played the Game of Rocks and Dirt and we lost.  It's over.”  He turned to squint out into the brightness.  “What the deuce are you doing, anyway?”

   Cabasol had a line of bottles on the rock filled with various amounts of brine, some plugged, some open.  The open ones did indeed seem to be losing their water.  Pop!  He turned his attention to one of the closed bottles that had blown its seal.  “Have you ever noticed how the droplets of a sealed bottle stick to the sides?” he asked his brother.

   Barsol groaned and lay back down.  This was a hard world, and his brother seemed at times too soft for it. 

   â€œIt's fresh!” Cabasol marvelled, carefully sampling the droplets nearest to bottle's opening with his finger.  “The sun has sucked the pure water completely free of the brine below.  If we could tip the bottle somehow without mixing the brine back in....”

   Barsol just snored.

*   *   *   *   *

   Day 287.  Ansol rose at the pre-dawn bells to find Barsol hacking at the ground next to their father's grave with his pick-axe.  “Bit overly dramatic, isn't it?  Digging a new grave,” Ansol asked, yawning in the twilight.

   â€œI was down the mines yesterday,” Barsol said.  “Asking after my old job and any ex-yeoji who might be working there.  So this old-timer tells me there are no ex-yeoji.  He said once you taste free life-water you're bound to the land for life.  You and your family carry that land-debt into your grave.”

   Ansol stared at his brother, trying to process what he was saying.  “So you're.... helping the process along then?”

   Barsol hacked the earth again, pulling his pick-axe through the now loosened earth with a grim look on his face.  He held his tongue, instead stooping to uncover something from the shallow pit.  Solemnly he tossed a white rock at Ansol's feet.  Only Ansol could see clearly that the white rock was hollow with the unmistakable sockets of a human skull.

   â€œThat's our uncle, I reckon,” Barsol said, wiping the sweat from his brow.  “The old-timer told me they ensnare the whole family, and then kill them one by one until those remaining pay up.  Do you remember his name from when you were a kid?”

   Ansol furrowed his brow in concentration.  “Davisol,” he muttered.  “I thought he'd run away to join the caravans.”

   â€œHe probably did,” Barsol said.  “This old-timer said that was an age-old trick to jump the land-debt.  But he said the lender clans are wise to that, and always bring the body back as proof.”

   â€œDung cakes!” Ansol cursed.  “The caravans are the only way out of Woe....”

   â€œThat's right,” Barsol replied.  “There's no place to run, and there's no place to hide.  I'd bet gallons this pathetic plot is littered with the bones of our ancestors.  We are royally scorched.”

   â€œNo more gambling!” Cabasol called, emerging from the shelter.  He stumbled up to the grave site.  “Starting a new well, are we?”

   The two older brothers exchanged glances.  “We've got to talk,” Ansol said to his youngest brother.

   â€œIndeed we do!” Cabasol replied.  “Fancy a bit of water as we speak?”

*   *   *   *   *

   Ansol and Barsol shared their grim news with Cabasol as the sun rose.  The young man took the news quite well, smiling and nodding despite their dire assessment of the situation.  Speculative details about land-loan hit-men and debt-serfdom didn't really seem to phase him either.  At last in exasperation Barsol asked if any of this was sinking into his thick brain.

   â€œNot sinking, brother,” Cabasol smiled.  “Floating through the ether!  Is it my turn to share?”

   The two elders just stared stone-faced at their youngest brother.  But Cabasol paid them no heed, instead excitedly waving their attention towards his ever growing collection of vessels on the rock next to the well.  “Brine goes in here,” he showed them, pouring a bucket of the mucky brine from the well into an amphora, which he then resealed.  “I've whittled an elbow shaped hole in the plug that joins this hollow bamboo pole that I borrowed from the roof â€" I'm glad no one noticed.  As the sun gains strength it warms the vessel, pulling the water from the salt.  If left sealed the water would eventually push its way out, but now it is caught following the length of the hollow bamboo pole, which gently slopes downward into the cool air of the well.  Come, come look at the end!”

   The elder brothers reluctantly came to stand by the edge of the well to notice the slow dribble of water from the end of the pole into a cup carefully tied beneath it.  “So?” asked Barsol, looking to Ansol for support.

   â€œTry it!” Cabasol said excitedly, gently pulling the cup free of the pole to offer it to his brothers.     Barsol tasted it first and then frowned.  “It doesn't taste like anything,” he said flatly.

   Ansol tried it next.  “It's....fresh!” he said, turning to look back at the mechanism Cabasol had constructed.

   â€œNow imagine a bunch of amphora working all day long,” Cabasol continued, “with a new well to hold all the drippings.  We'll have to run some tests, but I don't think we'll be able to haul the brine up fast enough.  This amphora alone cleared three gallons yesterday!”

   Barsol fiddled with his fingers, trying to do the math.  Ansol just stared at Cabasol, jaw agape.

   The desert of Woe is as empty as you make it.

Gah, I've still got forty reports to write this weekend.  Any chance of an extension?

Washed-up has-been aether pirates? 

Forgive me my lateness; I hope my votes are still tallied, despite the delay. It is, almost, on time.

Oooo!  Whose time zone is betraying whom now?   

I'm sure Sinitrena will allow your votes, after deducting a suitable percentage for tardiness. 

Or, or.....  you could join MY time zone!  As an honorary member, of course.  Then your votes would actually be EARLY (and would therefore gain bonus marks). There is the teensy weensy matter of the initiation ritual, but I'm sure you'll come it through it just fine with most ofyour eyebrows still intact.

Let me know!  We're only allowed to sponsor one initiate per year, and Mandle's been pestering me incessantly.   

[Character:]

Character: I vote Reiter for, er.... well I'm not sure what his name is.  But you'll know it when you hear it, and if you never do, we both have reason to be thankful.    In all seriousness (and Reiter excels in being serious despite my best efforts to corrupt him), his un-named ex-prophet/god-king scribe monster is an interesting study in character complexity.  He is remorseful and sickened by his own failures, and yet dare I say proud of them at the same time.  He sees the logical need to remove himself and his unintended destructive tendencies, but also can't resist writing down just enough clues to tempt some other scribe down the eons to research down the same cursed rabbit hole.  He blunders through existence like a bull in a china shop, and yet reflects philosophically with great depth and sincerity.  This is a character of dangerous charisma and self-belief, even now that he is just a husk of his former self.  One wonders, with a record such as his, if even now he is making the right choice for the greater good.

Plot: I believe I shall vote Reiter in this category as well.  I have a sense of beginning, middle and end, and despite the ending being telescoped from the outset I was willingly brought along on the ride to find out just how we ended up where we did.  I liked the allusions to other famous stories, such as C.S. Lewis's realm in the Magician's Nephew that was destroyed through the blind arrogance of a cruel dynasty.  I thought the piece did lack a bit of detail on the Triumvirate, especially their specific initial pact and where the other members ended up, which would have added a bit more depth and human (er, god-king) interest to the story.

Writing Style: A very few typos could not detract from Reiter winning in this category as well.  Numerous turns of phrase and excellent word choice leave the reader awestruck at the writer's poetic grasp of language.  Be it the volumes that "grow from dusty shelves like little square marrows" or the philosophical truths that "all souls are travelers" and "we do not know where we are going, but we are on our way," I found the piece to be full of compelling words and phrases.  On some occasions I found the summary of immense concepts and sub-plots to be a bit dense, but then an epic of this magnitude would always be a challenge to adapt to the short story format.

Atmosphere: Hmmm....  I think I will vote Reiter once more.  The lilting language and powerful imagery - God-kings!  Drugged-up insatiable lackeys!  Writing and destroying of worlds! - give the piece a distinct flavour.  Also the self-loathing of the narrator added a tint of darkness to the story that was refreshing after the tomfoolery of the story published immediately above it.    Was anyone else reminded of Interview with the Vampire?  They both have the same kind of narrator and basic premise: "I'm telling you this story so you don't do this," but that just makes the person who hears the story more determined to follow down the forbidden path....

[Edit]

Well, I went and broke the Writer's Code by starting before the day before the deadline.  I suppose I should submit myself to the Guild for disciplinary action.  Do they still have those bum-paddles shaped like editing symbols?  Those were always a blast....  Anyone else struggling as a writer struggling with writing on this one?

Edit: Later that same week.....

Moby Douche

   The infinite bedazzlement of deep space stretched infinitely in all directions outside the spaceship Navirathon.  Space pirate Captain Daf O'dyll surveyed the sparkling void from the ship's bridge, letting the tides of nebulonic glow wash over him like the oceanic waves of yore.  Sure the situation was bleak, nay mayhaps impossible.  The ship was low on fuel, and he was even lower on prospects.  But he wasn't the type of space pirate captain to sweat a close brush with an A-class hypergiant white star, so there was no way he was about to lose his cool now!

   â€œNar, nar, I get what you're saying, Love,” Daf said, letting the nauticalisms roll off his tongue.  “It's just that the wig really itches.  Couldn't we just, y'know, pop it in afterwards with CGI? ....Aye, aye.... yea, I get that it's live....  Nar, nar....  Well how about Plyobrin?  Really?....  That many, eh?  Bugger.  And no nibbles on the sub-spectrum? ....Nar, I cou'na make that last bit out. ....He said what?!?  That wormy little tosh!  ....Nar, nar.  It's this parasite thing I picked up years ago on Flotron 2.  ....Nar, nar.  Not a good story at all, unless you like tales of botched eye-lash implants. ....That's what I told HIM!  I said, I said JORAX, LOVE, IT'S JUST A FEW KILOS.  ....I wou'na say that....  Nar, nar!  The costume takes off at least 20!  ....What do you mean it depends on the angle?!?  ....Now look here, Love, I've got lots of interest from other agents, so if you don't want my file I'll just....  You can't do that!  Clients fire agents, not the other way around!  ....Really?  She did, eh?  That far?!?  Blimey.  ....Now wait, Love, don't hangup just yet!  Love?  Love?!?  Bugger!”

   Daf ripped the headset off and threw it across the cockpit.

   â€œAnother slo gin, Sir?” the butler-droid droned, already beginning to wheel his way back to the bar abaft. 

   â€œNay, Jenkins” Daf sighed, rubbing his temples.

   â€œWhat about Collins, Sir?” the butler droid asked, trying to sound chipper.  “You always love beating on your punch-bot when you've sparred with your agent.”

   Daf flexed the fingers on his right hand, marvelling at how pudgy they had become.  “Nary this time, Jenkins.”

   â€œOh dear.”  Jenkins ran through his depression protocols, LEDs flashing madly under his jaunty butler-droid bow-tie.  “Madam Wu is almost done recharging, Sir.  Shall I....”

   â€œNay, Jenkins, I told ye, she needs a complete reboot after what happened last time.”

   Jenkins spun his head backwards, running through the error codes.  “Sir, I believe Madam Wu was working within designated parameters for a level 4 sex-bot when the incident occurred-”

   â€œI said NAY, dammit!” Daf barked.

   â€œPerhaps we could find new batteries for the yes-bots?”  Jenkins droned on.

   Daf just closed his eyes and shook his head.  It wasn't Jenkins' fault.  He was programmed to assist in any way he could.  Jenkins, Collins, Madam Wu, the infernal yes-bots.  All just so much code and bolts bending over backwards to satisfy his every urge (Madam Wu could bend over very far backwards indeed).  But they had all indulged him, leading him here, to this lonely place, 8 trillion miles from anywhere, unemployed and seemingly unemployable.  If only he'd kept in touch with his friends, his real friends.  They would have reigned him in, counselled him into making better decisions....

   â€œWe could try bringing the friend-bots back online again, Sir,” Jenkins droned, trying very hard to keep the pity out of his tone.

   Daf ignored him.  What he really needed was a sounding board.  A real person, or at least a reasonable facsimile thereof.  No one too successful, of course.  Not a high-flyer or a go-getter.  Someone even more pathetic than Daf himself would be nice.  A miserable creature desperate for just a modicum of attention from a fellow human being.  “Wait!” he called, the idea forming in his mind.

   â€œOh god, Sir,” Jenkins droned.  “Not the writer!”

   â€œAye!” Daf smiled, slapping the arm-wrests on either side of his captain's chair, making his arm flab jiggle jauntily.  “Aye, the writer!”

   â€œBut he's been alone in the slave galley for years, Sir,” Jenkins protested.  “Thompson â€" the garbage bot â€" says the clothes have long since rotted off his body.  All he does is rave and curse and natter on and on about his precious manuscript.”

   â€œWhat be a manuscript?” Daf wondered aloud.

   â€œUnknown, Sir.  It might be the old-tongue name for the L-pipe he uses as a sex-bot.”

   â€œYar....” Daf winced, considering.

   â€œApparently they are quite close, him and his manuscript.  Quite inseparable at times.  Although the writer seems at times desperate to tear himself away, he can't seem to bring himself to do it.”

   â€œDesperate, ye say?”

   â€œSir, I must advise against this course of action-”

   â€œEnough, Jenkins!  Release the writer and bring him afore me.”

   Jenkins let out a long, put-upon sigh.  “Very good, Sir.”

*   *   *   *   *

   Soon his robo-captors dragged him up to the cockpit.  He looked every bit a gaunt and bearded savage, hands bound behind his back with laser-cuffs.  His ribs protruded prominently, as if several scrawny limbs and a head all lay claim to a pair of xylophones and then refused to let go.  Except for what could pass for a man-sized diaper (or perhaps bandage?) wrapped around his hips, he wore no clothes at all.

   â€œJenkins!”  Daf scolded.  “Are the laser-cuffs necessary?”

   â€œSir, I have reason to believe that the manuscript might still be secreted somewhere on his person.”  The butler-droid tried to nod subtly towards the diaper, but as his head only rotated on one axis it just looked like he was negating his previous statement.

   â€œBah!” Daf said.  “Take them off, I say!”  Daf then turned his attention to the writer.  “Do you know I've been going through some of your work?”

   The writer twitched, seemingly ill at ease with the attention of a fellow human being.  “Uh.... really?”

   â€œOf course really!” Daf smiled sincerely.  “Smashing stuff!  Top notch!  Captain Daf O'dyll, space pirate adventurer of the Omega Quadrant!  Interstellar Swashbuckler and womanizer extraordinaire!  It really is fantastic stuff you've been pumping out for us all these years.”

   The writer twitched a bit more, like an animal scenting danger on the wind.  “Wow,” he managed, after a moment of letting the praise massage his ego back into shape.  “Uh, just wow.  So, uh, how many readers do we have?”

   Daf gave the writer his best roguish grin.  “Ha!  Readers!  Ye've got that writer's wit, ye have.  Nary a soul reads anymore!  But it's important to keep cranking the material out.  Good for the brand, savvy?  And the press-bots can sniff out a writer-bot a league away, so we've all got real flesh-and-blood writers churning the words out on our behalf.”

   â€œOh,” the writer said.  He would have deflated visibly, if there was anything left in the sack of bones he called a body to deflate.  He shifted awkwardly, from one foot to the next, trying to think of something clever to say.  “We?” was all he could think of.  “As in....?”

   â€œCelebrities, man!  I be a celebrity space pirate, the last of me kind!  Captain Daf O'dyll, at your service!”

   The writer seemed more than just a little surprised at this revelation.  “Oh.  You're.... wow.  I mean, I had... well, you know, writer's use their imagination and, uh ....yeah.”

   â€œYar, yar....  I know what you're thinking.  I'm not what I once was.”

   â€œBut Sir!” Jarvis protested, not entirely convincingly.

   â€œNar, nar, 'tis true.” Daf admitted.  “Thirty years ago I was starring in action films while on the lam from robbing space banks.  Now the best I can do is a cameo in a Rom-Com and the occasional children's birthday party.”

   â€œOh god, Sir.” Jenkins groaned.  “I didn't know you'd stooped to Rom-Coms!”

   A weighty silence followed.  The writer twitched, involuntarily.  All the space out the windows of the bridge was making him agoraphobic.  Somehow he had to slink back to his writing nook in the bowels of the ship without being noticed.  “So....” he said, filling the void.  “Things aren't going so well top-side, then?”

   â€œNay, nay....” Daf mused aloud.  “We be in danger of starving soon, that be the truth of it.”

   â€œActually I'm already-”

   â€œWhat we be needing,” Daf continued, inspiration suddenly seizing him, “is the mother of all yarns.  Something so incredibly brilliant as to go viral on the uber-spectrum.  Something to get me back in the game!”

   The writer twitched again, taking this in.  “Wait... what?”

   â€œI need ye, Matey, to write me out of this predicament.”  Daf stared earnestly at the skeletal writer before him.

   The writer twitched more so.  All the shaking brought an L-pipe tumbling to the floor.

   â€œI'm not picking that up,” Jenkins droned.

   â€œOkay, let me get this straight,” the writer said, quickly changing the subject.  “You need me to... write?”

   â€œAye!” Daf nodded.

   â€œBut... that's what I've been doing.  For.... years?”  The writer blinked, trying to calculate the time that had passed in the slave galley.  Then he gave up, as math was never his strong suit.  Damn English Lit degree!  “All my best ideas are already out on your serial adventure blog, I'm afraid.”

   â€œNar, nar,” Daf shook his head.  “I be needing ye to REALLY write this time.  Put yer back into it, man!  Like the cat-o-nine tails be licking at yer scrotum!”

   The writer cringed.  Instinctively he wrapped his toes around the L-pipe on the floor, in case he needed to use it for self-defence.  No, no.... he couldn't fight his way out of this.  The guard-droid was too strong, and the fat space pirate blob might explode if his outer membrane were punctured, sending them all to their deaths out in the void.  He had to think....  Dammit!  Writer's block!  OK, he needed to weasel for time.  “Er...” he began convincingly, but soon warmed to his theme.  “Uh, right you are Cap'n!  I'll spin you a yard so dazzling that it would take space elves to weave it without becoming blinded.”  Too much, way too much!  Dial it back now: “Er... but I'll need a few more details than I've been getting so far.  You know, to make it, er, authentic.  You know, standard stuff.  Like star charts... ship schematics... shuttle repair manuals... a sonic-screwdriver-”

   â€œYar, wait!  What need ye with a sonic-screwdriver?” Daf asked suspiciously.

   â€œUh... keyboard repair!  I've been writing around the letter “m” for months now.  And you can't spell Space Pirate Captain Extraordinaire without, er.... that's a bad example, actually.  See, I'm so used to it!”

   â€œNar, I'll take yer word for it.  Go on!”

   â€œOh, uh, ok.  Um.... actually, for the plot line I'm thinking of I'll also need a droid programming manual, access to the ship's armoury for cataloguing purposes (obviously), about a gallon of space slug sludge, and interview time with all of your robot companions.”

   â€œYou can start with Madam Wu,” Jenkins interjected in his laboured monotone.  “She has some spectacular stories to relate.”

   â€œYar, unfortunately she be offline at the moment,” Daf apologized.

   â€œWell, er....  I'm sure there are data logs I could go over?” the writer suggested.

   â€œI admire your attention to detail,” Jenkins piped up again.  “But she is in pieces at the moment.  Would you like the top half or the bottom half?”

   â€œOooo....” the writer thought, struggling mentally with the space-age equivalent of the reverse mermaid riddle.  “Now that's quite the philosophical question, my robot friend!  How many RAM chips did you say you carried?”

   â€œHe he he, oh you!” Jerkins flirted.

   The writer turned back to Daf, but he had fallen into a gentle fat-man nap.

   â€œWell then, let's get started, shall we?”

I will wear my jester hat of wormy jollies proudly. 

[Character:]

An excellent collection of stories, friends!

Character: I vote Sinitrena just for the sheer descriptive power of her writing.  We don't know much about the old woman, but we know an awful lot of what we need to know.  I was intrigued by TheFrighter's lady in grey, but in the end not quite intrigued enough.

Plot: I think I was most sucked into the story of Sinitrena.  It's not quite a fair comparison, since her story was so much longer than the others.  I was right into Creamy's until the end, but I needed more closure with the (imaginary?) fairy.  Same with TheFrighter's story: lots of ominous suspense and then.... what happened?  Did the mysterious lady in grey murder someone?  I must know!

Writing Style: This was close, but I have to give it to TheFrighter.  Yes he needs to work on his verb conjugations, but some of his descriptions are magical.  I loved how "the flowers do their thing in beautiful indifference" and how Oleandro catches the lady in grey's writing "with the tail of his eye".  Creamy had his moments, especially describing the fairy ("oak leaves torn, dangling miserably on her frail shoulders").  But I was confused by some writing choices, such as referring to "a tiny figure" without really introducing who the fairy was, and the neighbour Odette Arby showing up for one quick nosy observation and then disappearing forever.  For Sinitrena it was almost the opposite problem: your writing is beautifully crafted and extremely descriptive, but I found myself getting bogged down sometimes with almost too much description.

Atmosphere: I think the desolate atmosphere of Sinitrena's mountain tundra, punctuated by the magic of the floral ring has to win this category.  TheFrighter had a strong showing in this category with the sinister machinations of the mysterious lady in grey, but that was a smaller part of his story.  Creamy created strong emotions with his writing, but I felt jerked around a bit too much between them to really feel any one thing (wonder, blunder, sadness, folly, redemption, well not really, and the sour taste of judgement in the end).

Yay!  The western hemisphere celebrates its equal status with the rest of the hemispheres! 

Were you running out of time or is it intentional?

Mostly running out of time.  There was this bigger, tougher time-zone that was bullying my little, scrawnier time-zone.... some milk money was stolen....  I don't really wanna talk about it. 

[Full Metal Daisy]

Midnight?  Which crazy time zone did you crawl out from under?  I've still got twenty minutes to spare! 

Full Metal Daisy

        The name is Bloom.  Jade Bloom.  And I'm a 4 inch tall vessel of destruction.

   That's right.  Some forest creatures are herbivores, and some are carnivores.  Some are omnivores, and some are detrivores.  Me?  I'm an inimivore.  That means I eat my enemies.  For breakfast.  With a side of bootlegged bacon and some moonshine gin to wash it down.  Don't mess with me.

   We pixies are a war-like race.  You can think of me as a super-pixie.  I sleep in the plank position and then get up six hours before dawn to pump pebbles and then shoot up bats.  All morning I practice mixed-martial arts with a squirrel ninja.  The guy moves in fast-forward and uses his teeth like nunchucks, but I can beat him.  All afternoon I nap with my eyes open, designing murderous weapons in my mind as I compete against myself in six simultaneous mental chess games.  In the evening I build those weapons in the illegal hack-shop some of us ultras carved out of that rusty old truck the humans dumped.  Have you ever been murdered by your tongue being pulled so hard it ripped your heart out along with it?  I have a machine for that.  DON'T FREAKING MESS WITH ME!

   Bluesday Blossomber the 14th, 06:00, eastern forest quadrant.  The annual war-games are upon us.  The entire forest participates in these drills in case the humans return.  Brownies, gnomes, fairies, goblins, elves, shrews, and pixies.  I'm with my unit down in a root-trench, the early morning mists swirling like the ghosts of my future victims.  I can almost taste the thrill of mock-battle already.  It tastes like barbecued grasshopper that's been burnt on the outside, but is still gooey on the inside.  I salivate at the prospect.

   â€œA-TEN-HUT!” the sergeant bellows, and we fall into line like graves on a battlefield.  The sergeant paces in front of us, her sneer drooping lower than the torn bit of flesh that dangles from her left flutterwing.  I haven't seen her in such a fowl mood since she lost all that money on the rabid porcupine fights back in Rotober.

   â€œWe have the privilege of a special assignment!” the sergeant barks.  “Is anybody not feeling special today?”

   â€œSIR NO SIR!” we shout in unison.

   â€œGood!  High command has assigned this unit to liaison duty.  You will be assigned a partner of a different race for the duration of this war game.  You are to exchange battle tactics and build rapport, in order that our communal defences should be all the stronger down the road.  IS THAT UNDERSTOOD?”

   â€œSIR YES SIR!” we shout. 

   â€œI CAN'T HEAR YOU, LADIES!” she bellows back.

   â€œSIR YES SIR!” we shout even louder.  But the sergeant can tell our hearts aren't in it.  Damn babysitting duty.  The last time we got stuck with liaising I had to pull a firefly's butt out of a choking frog before it detonated.  I can still feel the mix of stomach bile and fly-poop under the fingernails of my mind.  Corporal Hoppers went so long without oxygen that he passed out; I figured he was dead.  It would have been the firing squad for me after I buried him secretly under the dogwood patch, but it turns out that's how frogs hibernate and he came up just fine later that spring.

   I resist the urge to spit.  No, I channel it inwards.  Up into my sinus cavity.  Yeah, that's how disgusted I am at this whole prospect.  Mother pus-bucket barf rags.  I'm already plotting where to hide another body.

   â€œMcNutt!”  the sergeant barks.  “You will be assigned to private Wraithweave.”  A sinister looking goblin dressed in a spider's exoskeleton emerges to salute his new partner, and they depart with their sealed orders.  Dammit!  Why couldn't I get partnered with the freaky necro-dresser?! 

   â€œTearjar!  You have been assigned to corporal Fluffbomb.”  Holy crap!  It's my ninja squirrel sparring partner!  He salutes his new partner and then turns sideways and disappears.  Dammit!

   â€œConeway!  You get Dr. Nosefingers.”  A squidgy looking mole emerges to salute, his weird nose tentacles twitching eagerly to meet a new friend.  Well, I dodged a bullet there, at least.

   â€œBloom!”  I stand straighter, inwardly praying for a cool partner.  Necro-dressing squirrel ninja!  Necro-dressing squirrel ninja!  “You have been assigned to lieutenant Petal-Flare.  And may god have mercy on your soul.”  A bright smiley waif of a fairy is now in front of me, doing that goofy wave-salute thing that fairies do.  Then she grabs my hand, right in front of everyone, and leads me off like we're best chums on the garden path.  I feel the urge to murder rising, rising....

   â€œOh my god, I can't BELIEVE we're partners for the WHOLE game!” Petal-Flare gushes.  “We are, like, SO going to be besties forevs!  I just LOVE what you're doing with your hair.  You've got that whole rambo-butch-cat-backhair-in-a-fight thing going for you!  Is that berry dye?  Who does your wings?  Right now I'm wearing swallowtail with hints of virginiensis, but I'm thinking of going full-monarch in the summer.  Wow!  Those boots are all dog-collar, aren't they?  Do you get those at the Toad Depot or what?  Hey, is that a knife or a machete?”

   I look down and realize that I've subconsciously drawn my tactical survival knife, the one with the serrated back that can saw through bone in a pinch.  “Oh my!  How did that get there?!”  I blurt in mock disbelief.  I dart a quick glance back at the sergeant, who is remarkably only four steps behind us by now.  She just shakes her head, eyes impassive behind those aviator sunglasses made from dragonfly eyes.

   â€œUh, orders!” I say, turning quickly back to lieutenant Petal-Flare.  “We can use this to open our orders!”

   â€œOMG, that's such a FANTASTIC idea!  The last time I opened an orders envelope in the field I totally broke a nail.  Well, it was just a glue-on, but it throws off your whole campaign after that, y'know?  Wait, stop waving it.  I can so TOTALLY do it myself if you hold the blade still.  This reminds me of when my cousin Betuniella sliced open her thumb on that pollen grater!  She was all, like, omg I'm so going to bleed out!  And the rest of us couldn't stop laughing.  They had to glue it back together with spider silk.  She had to carry that spider-butt around with her for like a WEEK in case it burst open again!  She tried to pass it off as a mink purse, but, C'MON!  It screamed spider-butt hairs from a mile away.  Wait, what were we talking about again?”

   The tactical knife is still shaking in my hand, lurching murderously towards my partner in involuntary spasms.  Not here!  Not here!  Get her deeper into the bush, my precious!  Then you can sink deep into her flesh like a half-inch steel mosquito stinger.  Yesssssssss.  Patience!

   â€œAnd... GOT IT!” lieutenant Petal-Flare cheers, slicing open our orders on my still-wavering blade.  “Is that nerves?  It's ok if it's nerves.  I used to freak out at the sight of snail-slime.  I know, right?!  Once we get into the fray I'm sure you'll be fine. OMG!”

   Silence!  Sweet, golden silence!  Maybe the squirrel ninja slit her throat when I blinked.  That wouldn't be so bad.  Sure, I would miss the satisfaction of doing it myself, but... hey, sometimes you gotta roll with the punches!  Wait- maybe it was an enemy sniper.  I drag my baffled and befuddled mind back to the task at hand.  We're on a mission here, and I can't let this fairy-ditz get inside my head.  I scan the forest for threats.

   â€œAre you seeing THIS?” Petal-Flare splutters, passing the orders to me.

   I glance down briefly.  Search and destroy.  Intel reports humans have hidden a toxic waste device in the daisy glade.  Our orders are to locate the device and eliminate it before it detonates and takes out all life within a three kilometre radius.  Intel also reports domestics and mechanicals in the vicinity.  Exercise extreme caution.  Why is this dream mission in the middle of a nightmare scenario?     

   â€œShit!” I curse, reluctantly sheathing my tactical knife.

   â€œLike, I KNOW, right?” Petal-Flare says.  She's still at a loss for words.  Must be nerves. 

   The sad thing is this means I'm probably going to have to let her live.  I'm one of the world's greatest soldiers, but even I can't stash a body far enough away not to get caught AND complete this hypersensitive mission at the same time.  I mean, if we were just running recon then I'd have her in sixteen pieces before the orders hit the ground.  But search and destroy with hostiles in the vicinity?  There's no way I'm missing that, even with a fluttering blabbermouth in tow.  Maybe if a ricochet hit her voice-box, all accidental-like....

   â€œI guess we better get moving,” she says at last.

   â€œI guess so,” I reply.

*   *   *   *   *

   â€œOMG!  Don't you just LOVE how the dappled sunlight catches the daisies in the gentle breeze!  And the smell of the sunlight baking the dew off the grasses: it's like, so peaceful!  I just wanna flit merrily between the flower stems and sing my happy song, y'know?”

   The daisy glade is an obvious death trap.  The open terrain is exposed on all sides to enemy surveillance and sniper fire.  Venturing into it's perfumed expanse would leave you dangerously short of cover when things get hot.  From our vantage under the adjacent fern canopy I can make out at least half a dozen drones buzzing on patrol.  Sure they're just bumble bees in tinfoil costumes since this is just a drill exercise, but we have to treat them like they're floating death machines.

   â€œI make six-plus mechanicals in the sky, and let's not forget about the domestics,” I say.  “I'd put my money on one in the long grass, and another in the gloom of the cedar forest along the southern flank.  That's where I'd be.”

   â€œThey don't use REAL domestics, do they?” Petal-Flare asks with just a hint of worry in her voice.

   I shrug.  “Usually it's just a hypnotized rabbit fitted with carnivore teeth, but one time they used a dog costume made of sticks and straw and operated by fifteen rat puppeteers.  But that's beside the point: a real domestic could breach the forest perimeter at any time.  We gotta be prepared for the worst.”  I make a show of cocking my gun.

   â€œWhoa!  There's no WAY that thing is legal!  Where did you EVEN get that gun?!”

   â€œI made it,” I reply, stroking my creation lovingly.  “And it is illegal.  You don't win wars by playing nice.  It's a standard rifle upgraded to fully automatic with custom rotating chamber and top mounted feed-tray.  Custom cartridge, custom scope, custom barrel, and custom flash suppressor with bayonet attachment.  I've tweaked it so it recoils like a junebug for better aim, and it can fire 160 rounds per minute.  I call it Beau.”

   â€œDoes it take, like, cat-claws for ammo?!”

   â€œWasp stingers, 50 millimetre.  These ones are rubber, as per war-game regulations.  But the lower barrel can shoot a stink-bug mortar 50 yards.  What are you packing?”

   â€œI've got like this bow that shoots LOVE arrows.  One time I had to use it on this drunken chipmunk at the fall festival.  He was so like-”

   â€œShut up,” I say simply.  “Here's the plan.  You get all dolled up in flower camo so you can move inconspicuously through the meadow.  Don't worry about the drones, I'm gonna take care of that.  Here, take this.”  I hand her a smoke grenade.  “Set that off three feet west of the device when you find it.  That way it won't arouse suspicion that we've located it.  I'm going to create a diversion from that dead stump on the far north side.  Wait till the drones and domestics are engaged, then flit like a butterfly, covering as much terrain as you can.  We'll rendezvous at the device two minutes after you smoke it out.  Got it?”

   â€œWait, WHAT?!?” Petal-Flare asks, eyes wide like a doe in a wolf-pack.

   But I'm already moving through the undergrowth along the fringes of the meadow, a ghost in the shadows.  I highly doubt that lieutenant Petal-Flare will be able to move stealthily enough through the daisy glen to avoid the snipers surely positioned in the surrounding trees, but that's all a part of my plan: the real diversion will be a fancy fairy princess in full floral dress shrieking and flying for her life around the meadow, while I move in undetected to disable the device.

   The stump is twenty yards away; close enough.  I grab a custom-made sing-and-shake mortar shell from my ammo belt and carefully take aim.  The shell will whistle, then send out shaking ribbons and rustling sounds after a timer goes off, attracting the attention of any enemy operatives in the vicinity if only briefly.  Then Petal-Flare makes her move, and I make mine.

   FFSHHHHHHEW!  The shell whistles through the air and plunks into the soft rotting wood of the old tree stump.  I creep silently away, so as not to reveal my location.  Suddenly the air is filled with rustling sounds from the stump, like a helpless bird has got its beak stuck and is frantically trying to free itself.  I see movement in the long grass, and the drones all buzz over to investigate.  Still no movement from beneath the cedars, but I expected as much.  That's where the real danger will come from, and I bet nearby is where we'd find the device.  I count out the seconds patiently.  Petal-Flare should be flitting by now.  Soon she will be detected.  I stroke Beau soothingly.  Soon....

   Suddenly there is a very realistic barking sound, and then there is a creature bounding through the flowers.  It's black and furry, but I can't make out its exact nature as it crisscrosses the meadow beneath the tall flowers.  It is go time.

   I am a shadow.  I am a wraith.  I am one of those insects that is all needle-thin legs that you don't notice until it's just about up your nose.  I am a flower-field ninja!  I am stealthy death, unforeseen.  A brain aneurysm that just explodes your brain from out of nowhere.  And now I am frozen, as the creature bounds past, invisible through the stems and foliage.  And now I am moving again towards the cedar-gloom, searching.  Still no smoke signal from Petal-Flare, but I am not surprised.  I set a timed-clicker flare to detonate in twenty seconds, and then continue my search.

   CLATATACLATACLATACLAT!  The flare sends up a bunch of clappers into the air, and I can hear the drones and creature change direction.  I must be getting close now, as the gloom looms menacingly to the south.  Suddenly there is a swishing sound a plume of smoke two feet to the west.  Well, I'll be a deer-turd pie.  I turn east.

   That's where I see it, through the daisy stems.  It's like a car-battery, only wired to a circuit board and two pounds of modelling clay.  Next to it I see corporal Fluffbomb, the squirrel ninja.  Shit!  He beat us to the prize.  But then he turns towards me, a dopey look in his eye and an arrow sticking out of his shoulder.  Movement catches my eye, and I see lieutenant Petal-Flare emerge from behind the device, wearing a daisy-like a sombrero and wielding her dinky little bow.  She shrugs at me as Fluffbomb approaches, saying “I wuv you!”

   That's when the mecha-cat burst out of the cedar-gloom and shit really hit the moose tail.

[Character:]

Great reads, guys!

Character: Best character must go to JudasFm for Jordan, but not just because he's a menial servant cum space captain cum janitor cum man stallion.  He's not a hero, but he is, kinda, in the dark, when no one is looking.  Just doing what he can.  I thought Reiter kind of hobbled his chances here by writing in the second person.  If I voted for Reiter than I'd kinda be voting for myself, and I'm just really not that interesting of a character.  But I suppose if someone more dashing, more charismatic were to read his story.... 

Plot: This was hard, but I've got to go with JudasFm again.  Although just a fragment of a larger story, it did contain its own micro story-arc.  At the end I felt a surprisingly big story had been told in so few words.  In Reiter's story it was harder to see the plot developing, probably due to the stubborness of a certain Clock Face not allowing time to progress normally, or at all, or maybe allowing it to end entirely, or not allowing it to start.... Actually, I found it hard to discern exactly what was going on, to be frank.

Writing Style: So here Reiter starts to come into his own.  We've got some killer turns of phrase, like the "smiling sun held court" and the alliterative confusion of the game being a "trial, triumph, or tribute?"  I also liked the thread of frozen tea-time imagery, and the poetic rhythm of smashing things to solve problems, until you encounter a problem that can't be solved by smashing.  JudasFm had a more minimalist style that I thought suited her dystopian space station, but it didn't grab me as much as a reader.

Atmosphere: This category is all about emotions and vivid images, so I've got to give it to Reiter for his colourful creation.

Best Action in the Dark: What Reiter's work lacks in action it certainly makes up for in mysteriousness.  One might even say the piece was... intransparent.    I wonder if the Clock Face was telling a lie, though.  JudasFm's Jordan was definitely telling several lies at different levels, and his purpose in doing so was definitely mysterious.  What's his motivation?  What's he after?  If it's escape, why help the prisoner?  If it's love, what is it based on?  This category has me all tied up in knots.  I'm going with Reiter by a nose hair, just because it epitomizes the opacity that I think Sinitrena was thinking of when she composed this topic.

Oops, sorry.  Distracted by work (which takes 3 times longer remotely as it used to... what's with that?  ).  I'll get those votes in by Sunday.

[Edit:]

Aha!  Extended deadlines mean extended procrastination! 

Edit: Or not. 

Choking on Whispers

   Dusk.  The hour of darkening, but you knew that already.  You can't spell dusk without “duh.”  I know that doesn't sound like a very profound monologue for a guy standing on the roof wearing a pickelhaube and a monocle, surveying the mean streets of Hoochburg like a living gargoyle, so I'll start again.

   Dusk.  The hour of darkening.  Of delightening.  The hour of shadows limbering up for the sprint to nightfall, doing their stretches like good little minions, preparing to help the hooligans with their mischief and meyhem.  One last hour of peace before the veil of blackness swallows the town like some sort of giant... land-whale....  So shoot me, I'm a super villain, not a poet.

   Dusk.  The witching hour.  No wait, that's midnight.

   Dusk.  The slipping hour.  The sun slides blissfully into a ball-pit of clouds, unawares that he will thence be sucked into the darkness below for a terrifying twelve hours of bondage and captivity.

   Dusk.  The sucking hour.  Old Mrs. Dyson sucks on her last cigarette of the day, shouting uselessly at the neighbour's cat that is creeping through her begonias.  The town drunk sucks back the last dram of liquor from his paper bag, dragging his feet purposefully towards the shelter of the only bar in town.  Mrs. Baron takes the laundry down from the line before hollering up to the roof: “Weren't you supposed to be putting the kids to bed?!”

   Dusk.  The bedtime hour.  Time for stories, time for tears.  Time for the perpetual fight over oral hygiene and at least pretending to be quiet in your room so that daddy can work on his secret projects.  Time for last-minute homework assignments to suddenly be remembered.  Time for mysterious growth pains and parched throats, bizarre giggling fits and nightmares.  Like it's possible to have a nightmare before you even fall asleep.  What was I, born yesterday?  If you ask me-

   â€œI thought I told you to get those kids to bed!!!”

   â€œYes, dear.”

   *   *   *   *   *

   Later that same day.  Although I use the term “day” lightly.  Since it is now in fact night.  So you might say I use the term “day” “darkly”.  You might say that.  Maybe.

     Dusk is done and the kids are all tucked in.  Or maybe they are up jumping on their beds, shooting at each other with improvised death-rays made from toilet paper rolls and cat-litter.  I don't really care because I am no longer in daddy mode.  I am now the Baron, evil banana dictator cum mad scientist.  I pull the book on children's manners on the shelf and the wall opens up to reveal my secret lair cum man-cave cum laboratory cum robot factory cum cat litterbox cum home office cum vacuum storage cupboard.  Two imps the size of colobus monkeys hold battle axes to block my path, but step aside respectfully on ascertaining my identity.  I am about to seal the entrance for a night of diabolical creativity when the wife-alarm starts flashing.

   â€œDon't forget it's garbage night!” she yells down the stairs.  My imp guards panic and run into each other, knocking themselves out cold.  Typical.  Now I guess it's up to me to do the hated chore.  But wait!  I am no longer in daddy mode.  I am the Baron now.  Diabolical villain extraordinaire.  Pox on convention.  Rocker of worlds.  And now a scheme so sinister hatches in my mind that my helmet might as well be an evil chicken butt in the world's wickedest egg farm.  Wait-

   Darkness.  The garbage curbing hour.  Sometimes it is still dark when they pick it up the next morning, so it must go out now.  To feed the skunks and raccoons and other vermin of the night.  But I have a plan.  A secret project I've been working on.  I call it the Mr. Puckles Project.  Actually the kids named him Mr. Puckles, our erstwhile geriatric cat that peed and pooped everywhere.  Only now that he's passed on, his mortal husk has become my bionic frankenstein science experiment.  Sure, the kids think he's sleeping peacefully in the freezer until such time as we can bury him properly, but what they don't know won't hurt them.  Hey, I'm in Baron mode here; don't judge me!  Besides, daddy mode me needed the freezer space for his bulk order of German sausages.  Don't judge me!

   Darkness.  The hour of mad scientists.  I descend the steps into my lair and fire up the positron accelerator.  Soon I will bring my creation to life.  Tubes of life giving oxy-plasm and chocolate milk permeate the dead cat's body like tracks in a mountain roller coaster.  Bionic limbs splay lifelessly in all directions like those of a drowned spider.  A repurposed whiskey tumbler contains the cat's tiny brain, suspended in neurologically stimulating kool-aid fluid and augmented with a waterproof arduino implant, all of which are duct-taped onto the cat's biological cranium like some sort of glazed, brain-revealing cat turban.  Oh, and there's that one eye that's been replaced with the LED from the old VCR, for that old-school HAL kinda look.  Yeah, this is the stuff of dreams come true.

   Darkness.  The manifesto of all evil geniuses.  Genii?  Whatever.

   Darkness.  The incubator of madness.  The playpen of maniacs.  The midwife of meyhem.  The cauliflower of veggie trays.  How can a thing defined by the absence of energy be so energizing, so intoxicating?  My spine tingles at the weight of dark potential hanging in the air like humidity before a thunderstorm.

   Darkness.  It is now your turn to shine.  By not shining.  Because you are dark.  So it is now your moment to ...darken.  I can't find my thesaurus in the poorly lit lair, so that will have to do for now.

   Darkness.  Meet light.  I flip the zappinator and give Mr. Puckles 20 000 volts of snuggle love.  It'll either bring my diabolical creation to life or cook him like a Mongolian shish kabob.  Through the intense blue lightening I can see the cat's old bones as if in an x-ray.  Just a few more seconds should do it....

   The zappinator powers down, replaced by the omni-present wife-alarm.

   â€œWe blew a fuse again!” she shouts from upstairs.

   Darkness.  Mistress of fuse panels.  I flip the breaker and examined the charred and smoking remains of Mr. Puckles.  He twitches spasmodically on the operating table, groaning like a hungover roadkill.  There is the flicker of life in his evil LED eye.  Slowly he stumbles to his bionic feet, flailing at the attempt due to the confusing addition of all those extra limbs.  Oh, and now he's crashing off the table, tripping over himself.  One limb is now ensnared in the tubing, making him look like one of those internet kittens that is stuck in a watermelon with his hind-legs around his head.  Stumbling again, now kind of recovering balance, now definitely stumbling again.  OK, now he's made it to the corner of the lab.  He's turning around and... ah, jeez!  How did all that voltage not vaporize the contents of his bladder?!?

   Darkness.  The hour of disappointment.  The time when hard truths can't be gussied up with light and colour.  Now is the moment of reckoning.  Where a month's worth of diabolical toil will emerge from painstaking chrysalis to ...oh god, now he's puking on the computer interface!  What is in cat vomit, anyway?  It's like sawdust cut with sour milk, and generous portions of egg-whites around the edges.  Gah!  Now the equipment is short-circuiting!  The wife-alarm flashes once more.  At the top of the lair stairs a kid's voice calls out for a glass of water.

   â€œAll right, all right!” I cry, throwing my hands up in defeat. 

   Darkness.  Moment of least hope before the dawn.  The sleeping dog of the daylight hours, harmless to the unambitious eye.  Sure, darkness can be defeated.  But it can not be destroyed.  It lurks still, in the dark corners of the mind, biding its time.  Waiting.  Patient.  Nursing its wounds, but recharging its resolve.  As the geospheric rock grinds out its long course towards oblivion, the darkness counts the hours until it shall return.

Sorry, I thought the forums were under quarantine.     I'll try to throw something together by Wednesday.