Messages

I move for a short recess, your honour. Recent evidence presented in the prosecution of this case indicates that I am massively behind schedule. 

Objection! 

[@Sinitrena]

Sorry, time got away from me.

@Sinitrena

Spoiler

I usually don't read reviews before voting, but I happened to this time, and I can't get over how similar our two main characters are. Very process-oriented individuals, strong on procedures and indifferent to the agendas of others. Psycho-killer vibes, did you say? 

I liked the story, especially the kindness at the end, although it is a bit of an indictment of our society that we are too busy even to deal with serious threats.

[close]

@Mandle

Spoiler

An interesting tie-in between Santa and Dicken's Christmas Carol. I liked the elf techno-lore, although the character of big S seems a bit flat. I agree with other reviewers that it this is just a snapshot of what would make for a fascinating larger story.

[close]

@lorenzo

Spoiler

The internal company politics in your story are awesome. Old man Gianfranco was my favourite character, but perhaps I'm biased by my own favourite bosses of the past whose great contribution to the enterprise was benign neglect. I found the other characters a bit thin: why is Gregorio such prick? If Antonio is suffering so much, why does he never raise his issues with the boss? Why is Matteo so withdrawn towards the end, except for dramatic purposes? -it doesn't seem to suit his character who is otherwise deeply in cahoots with Antonio.

Top marks for the terraforming sci-fi elements. Matteo and Antonio must be truly massive creatures to pull off what they do!

[close]

@Stupot

Spoiler

A lot is left to the imagination in this, er, gripping tale. The real draw of the theme, I think, is what happens when the habit is interrupted, but you cut out just when things were getting interesting. I demand a ...climax.

[close]

And my solitary vote goes to ...

Spoiler

It was hard to decide, but I think in the end Sinitrena wrote the best story based on the theme.

[close]

I started a story about a nun, but I wasn't able to finish it. 

There ain't nun this time around. 

[The Depth Collector]

The Depth Collector

Spoiler

The bird in the little clock came out and peeped twice. David diligently put away his figurines, carefully leaving the brushes to soak in the stand he had designed so that the bristles wouldn't get bent out of place. A quick wipe left the station spotless, for David was as meticulous as he was fastidious. He turned to leave.

That's when he spotted it—a drop of paint on the floor. David furrowed his brow. It was unlike him to drop paint even on his work table. It must have dripped from under the lid as he was unscrewing the tube. A compulsive tick began to tug at the corner of his mouth.

He stooped to wipe up the paint, grumbling at his own sloppiness. At least the floor was warm to the touch, testament to the thoroughness of his insulation job. He put his ear to the floor to see if he could hear the water heater, but there was nothing but beautiful silence.

David moved on to the stamp station, a large desk near the north window where natural light would not interfere with his work. He adjusted the arm on the large magnifying glass and took out his tweezers. A large lot of Belgian colonials had finally arrived and he was eager to inspect their true condition.

Riiiiiiiiing!

David furrowed his brow. Grumbling to himself, he checked the front camera on his phone and saw a uniformed delivery person. He left the stamp station, took nine steps down the long hall, compulsively straightened the mat in front of the door, and then undid the six locking mechanisms.

"You're locked down tighter than a sail in a sea storm, ain't ya?" the delivery man joked. David noted 'Gus' on the man's name tag and thought it very much suited the aging and overweight man.

"Can't be too careful in these parts," David gave his stock answer, peering suspiciously past Gus. Most of the block had long been abandoned, the empty houses mostly burnt down by vagrant teens. Only blind old Mrs. Cowling's house still stood at the end of the street—the rest was reverting quickly to natural prairie. He eyed the white van across the street as out of place, but decided it must belong to the delivery company.

"Sign here," the Gus said, shoving a clipboard under David's nose. David took several moments to read through the standard delivery chit, just to ensure that none of the terms and conditions had been subtly tweaked, then signed. Gus took the opportunity to collect a dolly heavily laden with a large box from the walkway.

"It's heavy as all fuck, I'll tell you that," Gus complained. "What is resin coated poly-laminate, anyway?"

"It's used for preserving specimens," David said, unable to think up a convincing lie on the spot.

"Well, I don't see no garage. I assume you want it up in the house?"

David looked up and down the derelict street, but of course it was empty. He looked over the heavy box and decided he might pull a back muscle trying to move it himself.

"Just inside the door will be fine," he said reluctantly

Gus sweated and cursed as he lugged the heavy dolly up the front steps. He manhandled it up and over the threshold before tucking the box inside the front door. David compulsively straightened the front mat with his toe.

"What the fuck is that?!" Gus gasped, almost tripping over his own hand cart in an attempt to duck away from the specimen on the wall.

"Coyote," David replied, holding the door open for the man to leave.

"But it's, it's ..."

"It's perfectly preserved in resin coated poly-laminate," David explained as if to a child. "I have quite a collection of other local fauna in the basement, if you're interested ..."

"No thanks, bud," the delivery man said, straightening himself. "I've got a schedule to keep!"

David nodded, waving the man out. He had his own schedule to keep, but blathering on about it wasn't going to get him back to it. Gus left promptly, and David rebolted the doors.  He was just sitting down to the Belgian colonials again when the bird in the clock chirped three times.

David grumbled to himself. He carefully tidied the stamp station, making sure the arm of the magnifying glass was stowed at an 80 degree angle so as not to wear out the springs that held it in place. He moved on to the trading card station, a nook in the corner with a large monitor over the table that would display spot values. David had no new cards today, but he had a large back catalogue to reevaluate. He donned his white gloves, freshly pressed.

Riiiiiiiiing!

David furrowed his brow. The tick at the corner of his mouth had returned. He checked his phone and saw a young girl at the front door. Grumbling to himself, he left the trading card station and took nine steps down the long hall, compulsively straightened the mat in front of the door, and then undid the six locking mechanisms.

"Wanna buy a box of cookies, Mister?"

David forced himself to smile, more to draw the muscles tight so that his tick was hidden than out of any enthusiasm for overpriced cookies that tasted like cardboard. He noted the name 'Daisy' on the breast of the girl's uniform and thought it very much suited the blonde waif of a girl.

"How much are they?" he asked, peering suspiciously past Daisy. A frumpy woman next to a minivan on the street stood silent sentry, not doubt Daisy's mother. Beyond her a pair of crows argued vocally in the skeleton of a dead tree that used to stand outside the old Bonair house, but otherwise the street was vacant as always.

"Eight bucks a box," Daisy told him, dropping the cutesy schtick now that he'd expressed an interest.

"That's a lot for nine ounces of sugar," David grumbled.

Daisy turned on her heel. "MOM! The man is being mean!"

David furrowed his brow. "Fine. Fine. I'll take two. Keep the change."

Daisy smiled as she grabbed the cash from David's hand, then shrieked as she looked over his shoulder.

"Oh, that. It's just a preserved owl," he tried to explain, but of course by then it was too late. The girl had fled back to the van, and the mom had marched up the walkway to give him a piece of her mind. Be ashamed of himself this, isolated weirdo that—he'd heard it all before a million times. It was hard not to glance at his watch as the mother scolded and berated him. He tried to ask for his money back, but sliding a word in edgewise was like trying to park an RV at a Christmas market. In the end he just ended up closing the door in her face, bolting it shut against her tirade as he compulsively straightened the front mat. Some people just didn't appreciate the motivation to collect.

David eyed the woman on his phone as she banged and kicked at his door. His mother had once told him that if he made a face for too long it would stay that way, and he idly considered the red fury of the woman's expression. But at last her rage was spent, and she was stalking back down the walkway to her minivan.

David returned to the trading card station, sitting down just as the bird in the clock peeped four times. Grumbling, he shelved his trading cards and wiped the surface.

David left the trading card station, took nine steps down the long hallway and compulsively straightened the front mat. Four o'clock was time for his favourite hobby, taxidermy, but his latest technique required a lot of resin coated poly-laminate. David furrowed his brow, considering the easiest way to move the heavy roll down into the basement.

Riiiiiiiiing!

David took out his phone to look at the front door camera, even though it would have been faster to peek out the window next to the door. An immaculately dressed man in black stood on his front stoop, book cradled lovingly in his hands. David found it very hard to roll his eyes against the grain of his furrowed brow.

The front mat was compulsively straightened and the six locking mechanisms opened.

"Hello sir, I was wondering if you had a few moments to spare to hear the word of our Lord?" The glint of a metallic pin etched with the name 'Matthew' caught David's eye, and he could not help but think the name suited the earnest looking fellow.

"I know you are busy, sir, but we all must make time for the business of the Lord."

David peered suspiciously past the man, noting that the vacant street was entirely empty, with not even a parked car to mark Matthew's presence. "You didn't walk here through the derelict neighbourhood, did you?"

Matthew smiled wanly, pity in his eyes. "Since I've found the Lord, there is no longer fear in my heart. Perhaps you'd like to hear about the word, such that you can bask again in the light of his kingdom, free from fear?"

David looked up and down the empty street again. "There's a lot of crime here, despite most of the people having moved on."

"I've heard about the junkies and the spiked opioids, I've heard about the delinquents burning down the empty houses, and I've heard about the spate of disappearing vagrants. Let me tell you a secret son—none of that matters. Not when you've got the Lord on your side. Shall I read a passage of his word from the good book?"

David furrowed his brow, looking up to the sky. Dark clouds threatened rain, and a grim wind blew through the desolate neighbourhood. He had a sneaky suspicion that the Lord was very much not on his side, but the man seemed determined to try his luck.

"What does the Lord have to say about strange collections?" David asked.

"The good Lord takes in both the mighty and the meek. You might say he's a collector of sorts himself."

David nodded. "Well, you're going to get the Lord's good book wet reading out on the stoop. Come inside, won't you?

David stepped aside, idly fingering the mechanisms behind the door. The man came inside to stand on the front mat, and then disappeared into the floor.

David shut the door and quickly set the locks again. A chorus of screams echoed up from the basement, but those would soon be silenced now that he had his resin coated poly-laminate again. He cheerfully tipped the box down the chute, then closed the trap door, compulsively straightening the front mat.  It was four o'clock, and his collection beckoned.

[close]

He's a witch!  Get him! 

[@Mandle]

@Mandle

Spoiler

More hellish than diabolical. The concept was fascinating - escaping the universe - even if the last-man-on-Earth nightmare is an overplayed trope. Captain Bryant Khipper's plight might be a bit more poignant if we had got to know him a bit better. I liked the link between time and expansion, making a mockery of our teleological sense of time. This adds to the nightmare - all is predetermined. I just feel that said nightmare could have been better told focusing on the tragic story of Jessica instead of the cold and sterile mission of the bizarrely named S.S. Devil.

[close]

@Sinitrena

Spoiler

I actually dropped my daughter off within a kilometre of this statue today! Small world...
It's an old story, an angel and devil competing over souls. I like how statue-Jesus is above stooping to the competition, although the resulting one-sidedness of the competition adds to the unfairness of our mortal plight. The message, that we hardly need a devil whispering in our ear to be wicked, is as disheartening as it is cynically accurate. It almost makes me wonder at the plight of the poor devil himself - his skill and scheming is hardly necessary anymore, consigning him to the same irrelevance as the ruined church.

[close]

Votes

Spoiler

Mandle - 1 vote
Sinitrena - 2 votes

[close]

[Trigger Warning:]

Trigger Warning: Torture, childhood trauma, swearing

The Road to Hell

Spoiler

"Hello, Hank."

Hank's chair rattled to a stop in the middle of the cell, his wrists and ankles bound by velcro to its arms and legs. Sweat beaded on his brow in anticipation of what was to come. Or maybe he was just hot—it was hard to tell in Hell.

"Jesu—" Orwell began as he read through Hank's rap sheet before realizing where he was. He glanced furtively above the wall of the cubicle cell to see whether his boss had noticed his slip up. The giant devil was frowning in another direction, giving him hope.

Orwell swallowed and changed tack. "I mean, shit Hank, any one of these things would get you sent to Hell. Did you really rob your own grandmother?"

Hank stared blankly ahead.

Orwell sighed. This was typical behaviour for sinners who passed through his station. The silence was a defence-mechanism. By not acknowledging guilt, they could mentally externalize their fate. How many sinners had passed through the gates of Hell, clinging to the tenuous belief that their eternal punishment was somehow someone else's fault? Orwell shook his head, for one of the items on his job description was to disavow them of this notion.

"Broke your girlfriend's nose?" Orwell continued, enumerating the items. "Yanked your dog's tail off? Drove drunk and got into an accident that put your stepson into a coma? Hank, I gotta tell you, I've seen a lot of borderline cases and you're not one of them. You're one genuine douche-bag who genuinely deserves everything you get."

Hank spat, the spittle sizzling on the hot floor until it was just a crusty scum stain.

Orwell reconsidered his initial take. Maybe Hank wasn't just a typical wanna-be victim? Maybe he had been through the nemesis stations so many times that his conscience had become inured to shame? Orwell sized him up: big guy with scar on his chin, cow skull tattoo on his arm, more hair on his chest and back than on his head. He looked every inch like he had had a tough life, but not like someone who had sat long in the fires of Hell.

"Damn, you're one tough son of a bitch, ain't ya?" Orwell asked.

"Get on with it," was Hank's only reply.

Orwell shrugged. Hank had an eternity ahead of him to be reconciled to the consequences of his life choices. His job was just to help the process along. He reached for the vise-grips.

"My, those sure are some pretty fingernails," Orwell commented, locking the vise-grips onto the littlest nail on Hank's left hand.

"Get on with it," Hank repeated. He seemed neither angry nor resigned, which puzzled Orwell. Was it possible that someone just got so used to bad things happening that they stopped feeling? He supposed there was only one way to find out.

Squinch!

The nail pulled out with a tearing sound that still gave Orwell the shivers. Blood squirted on to the floor, where it bubbled and dried into char. Hank frowned, but he didn't call out or swear or do any of the normal reactions. Instead he leaned towards Orwell and fixed him with a meaningful stare.

"Is that the best you got?" he whispered.

Orwell tried to be philosophical about his job. Whereas Heaven was the carrot that beckoned men to be good, Hell was the stick that threatened them if they were bad. And the stick needed to be wielded by someone, so it might as well be him. Normally his station involved slow torture interspersed with teary confessions and moaning laments. In the end the sinner was bloodied, yes, but the real wounds were of the soul. In this instance, however, the stick would need to be more of a club, and the blood would need to flow and splatter freely. This was the way. Orwell would not say that he enjoyed his work, but in Hank's case he was willing to make an exception. As he hacked and bludgeoned and ripped, Orwell could imagine Hank's victim's baying for more vengeance. There was no punishment easier to dole out than a just one.

In the end Hank didn't even whimper. He never cried out, or gasped, or even winced. He just absorbed the hateful malice like some sort of human sponge. Orwell grunted with exertion as he broke the man's last kneecap with a hammer.

"Losing your knack, Number 23?" the giant devil asked, peering over Orwell's cell wall. "Maybe you should take a break."

Orwell grunted and looked at the empty chair in the corner. He was exhausted, but he knew better than to admit weakness in front of his boss.

"This one's a tough nut to crack," was all he would admit.

"They all break, in the end," the devil said casually. "Next!"

The bloody pulp that used to be Hank was sucked out of the cell. Orwell sighed and turned to look over the new rap sheet before the next sinner arrived. The screech and clatter of some rusty mechanism behind the scenes whorled into motion, and soon another chair rumbled into Orwell's little domain.

"Hello, Krayden."

Orwell looked up and did a double take. Before him sat a boy no older than seven. Something fell out of the bottom of his stomach.

"Who are you?" the boy asked, looking around, confused. He struggled at the velcro that bound his wrists and ankles to the comically large chair.

"That's not important," Orwell said, trying to get a grip. The sweat was up on his forehead now, and he felt a little dizzy on his feet. He desperately turned his attention back to the rap sheet.

"It sure is hot in here," the kid prattled. "You got anything to drink?"

Orwell tried to tune him out. "Holy crap, it says here you stabbed your teacher with scissors!?"

Krayden shrugged sheepishly. "I get angry sometimes."

"No shit? What about ripping out your little sister's hair?"

"She bit me first!"

"Says here you lit your cat on fire?"

"I told him not to walk on my toys!"

Orwell's questioning was getting the boy worked up, which was usually the point of reading out the rap sheet. Maybe he could get away with just a few pinches and the boy would confess all?

"The thing is, Krayden, my job is to make you admit your mistakes, one way or another. Do you see these tools here? They are for little boys who don't tell the truth."

The kid squirmed in the oversized chair. "They made me do it," he said evasively.

Orwell felt his stomach start to reel. People learned early to blame others for their bad choices, it seemed, and now he was going to have to do his job or literally get fired. He picked up the vise-grips and moved towards the boys mouth, reasoning that those baby teeth were probably near to falling out anyway.

"Fuck you!" the kid shrieked in his high-pitched voice, trying to dodge from side to side.

The dodge might have worked, except for the boy's precocious swearing. As the kid tried to close his mouth around the words the vise-grips shot in, and in one fluid motion Orwell ripped out one of the kid's front teeth. Blood dripped out of the boy's mouth, giving him a demonic look as he spouted more obscenities.

"You're a piece of shit! If I ever get out of this chair, I'm going to bite off your nose and piss down the hole!"

Orwell smiled at the empty threat, his stomach settling somewhat. His job was easier when the punishment was just, and this psychotic little git seemed more than deserving of what he was about to receive. Orwell moved the vise-grips down to seize one of the kid's fingernails.

"Hey kid, I bet I know which finger you use the most," he teased.

"Fuck you!"

Orwell yanked and the kid howled as blood splattered onto the cell wall.

"Still a tough guy now?" Orwell asked.

Krayden scratched at the arms of his chair as if he were sharpening his claws. "You just wait til my step-dad catches up with you! He'll wipe his ass with your stupid face!"

"Sounds like a really scary dude," Orwell agreed, going back in with the vise-grips. "But I don't see him here, do you? I know this is a lot of growing up to do all at once, but it's time for you to take responsibility for what you've done. Just you, all alone, with nobody to help and nobody to blame."

Krayden jerked and thrashed and spat out of his bloody mouth. "You just wait. Once he sobers up, he'll be here. He never misses the chance to beat on someone. He's just gotta wake up ... wake up ... c'mon, wake up ..."

Orwell paused. The kid seemed to be slipping out of consciousness, which would blunt the effect of the torture. He'd heard that newly arrived souls could sometimes flit back to their mostly dead bodies, although he'd never seen it himself.

"... Wake up, you big piece of shit ... Mom's going to slit your throat in your sleep when she sees you've been driving drunk again ... c'mon you big hairy dick ... I fucking hate you!"

The creeping feeling of nausea overcame Orwell again. Step-dad ... hairy ... drunk driver ...

"Whatchoo staring at, you dumb shit?" the kid squeaked, returning to his senses.

Orwell tried to swallow, despite the dryness of his mouth. "Is your step-dad named ... Hank?"

"Yeah, you would know Hank. That piece of shit always hung out with loser bullies like you."

Orwell was vaguely aware of the sound of vise-grips clattering to the floor. This kid might well be a psychopathic asshole in-training, but it was hardly his fault. That douche-bag Hank had practically forged his step-son in his own image, before doing him the favour of killing him in a car crash as a drunk driver. Where was the justice in that? What fault could the kid truly admit to, other than being abused and mistreated for as long as he could remember?

"You don't look so well, Number 23," the giant devil commented, peering over the cell-wall. "If you do not wield the stick to punish the sinners, who will?"

Orwell stumbled, catching himself against the wall of the cell and burning his hands in the process. He looked back at the boy, writhing in a mix of anguish and fury. He tried to force himself to bend down, to pick up the vise-grips, but the hurt look behind the child's eyes bore down into his own soul, causing him to collapse and vomit at the thought. No, he couldn't do it. Weeping and barfing in equal measure, he crawled his way to the chair in the corner.

"I'm done," he said, shaking as he heaved himself into the chair. "I'm so done."

The giant devil nodded.

Orwell was vaguely aware of what happened next. Somehow he was transported out of the cell, riding the chair through tunnels that echoed with the screams of the condemned. His stomach reeled as he climbed and dropped, and there was the ever-present sound of rusty metal screeching ominously. He noted that his wrists were now velcroed to the chair, but he had expected no less. He deserved to be on the other side of the torture for a while, after everything he had done. At least now he could hold up his head with dignity, after making at least one decent decision in his pathetic life.

There was the glow of light at the end of the tunnel as the chair slowed up to rattle into a torture cell. Orwell blinked, trying to get his bearings.

Little Krayden was reading his rap sheet, or at least pretending to. The crust of blood still caked his jaw like a devil's goatee. When his squeaky little voice piped up, he sounded like a psychotic tooth-fairy.

"Hello, Orwell."

[close]

I've got an idea, but the devil is in the details.

[@ Mandle]

Well, well, well!    Voting is closed, and it seems we have a bit of a tie. I hereby invoke rule 278b of the FWC Constitution granting the contest administrator UNLIMITED POWER in such a scenario.  Buwuhahahahahahahaah! Who shall hold the hem of my cape out of the mud during my triumphal parade? 

While I bask in the golden light of fortune, let us review where we stand:

Mandle - 12 votes
Lorenzo - 12 votes
Stupot - 10 votes
Sinitrena -  10 votes
Rootbound - 6 votes

I want  you to know that I wrote down my own hypothetical votes before reading everyone else's votes and feedback, and will be adding my ten votes to the fray momentarily.  First, as means of further dramatic pause, a little feedback for each of our dear contributors:

@ Mandle

Spoiler

There are many elements of a good story here, but they are hitched all together like a Frankenstein monster.  I felt the dozens of adjectives in your introduction hurt pacing, but then the story got significantly better as the mystery unfolded.  And then it got dark quickly! But then it got light even quicker - I didn't have the sense it was a fun story before the midpoint. Then it got paranormally weird ... I think if you had settled on any one of these tones it would have made for a strong story, but as it stands it felt like we were constantly veering from one atmosphere to the next at breakneck pace.

[close]

@ Rootbound

Spoiler

The contrast between nocturnal and diurnal animals is clear and well done.  Yes, as a human I feel enfeebled, but night is obviously not the environment I am adapted for - I'm sure the coyote up the tree feels the same I do in the dark. What I'm left wondering, though, is where this comparison is supposed to take me?

[close]

@ Stupot

Spoiler

This poem has a very strong atmosphere. Your narrator flirts with the idea of playing with the forbidden fruit, although instead of fruit it seems to be some kind of perilous pit-of-no-return. I wish you had taken some of that charged atmosphere and added just a bit more meat to the story.

[close]

@ Sinitrena

Spoiler

This story had more twists than a forest path! The intro was a bit laboured - I found myself indifferent to how long she had travelled by which route - but it did establish the menace of temptation. The first encounter with the prince was fascinating, the second one sinister. I liked how the witch was the good guy.  I question how if they Prince has been trapped for a long time and folk clearly fear the forest for some reason, why did the witch ask if this particular girl was the first?

[close]

@ lorenzo

Spoiler

A ghoulish story of human sacrifice - oh Martina, you didn't read widely enough in your youth! The ending was a bit easy to see coming, but the writing was beautiful and I really was rooting for gentle Alberto. I was a bit miffed to find the forest itself rather tangential to the story, but otherwise it was a compelling narrative. 

[close]

OK, drumroll time.  Badadadadadadadadadadadadadadadadadada ...

I vote:

Lorezo 3, Sinitrena 3, Mandle 2, Stupot 1, Rootbound 1.

Thus, our final overall scores:

Lorenzo 15
Mandle 14
Sinitrena 13
Stupot 11
Rootbound 7

Thus, lorenzo is our winner! It falls to him to start the next contest (and to walk behind me in my triumphal parade whispering "careful, thou art mortal").  Hope to see you all out again next round!

[Mandle]

My apologies for the delay. The contest is now closed and it is voting time. We have a whopping five entries this round, so we're moving to a multi-vote format in order to share the love around.  All voters have 10 votes to share around, no more than 5 per entry. No fractional votes - my tender brain can't handle the maths right now. Votes are to be posted in this thread, preferably along with feedback - we critique because we care.

Here are your entrants:

Mandle with Envy of Heaven
Rootbound with Nocturne
Stupot with The Dark, Dark, Forest
Sinitrena with The Path
Lorenzo with A New Life

Voting deadline is Wednesday November 6, with results to be announced the following day. Good luck to all participants!

I vaguely remember sleeping with ThreeOhFour's nun avatar at a party back in college. 

The hockey animation is eerily accurate. Have you been fanboying me from the stands??

We're getting down to the wire, but there's at least two people feeling the crunch so I think a short extension is reasonable.  Deadline extended until Nov 1!

Working on something.

This is good. Most potential entrants are merely lost in the dark recesses of their own consciousness. 

ONE WEEK LEFT!

When I dream of Ponch doing the pee-pee dance, this is what I see.

I get a lot of joy at the thought of Ponch in a cowboy hat travelling through time in a PortaPotty. 

[The Dark Forest]

Welcome friends!  The last round I hosted was "cozy", but this time I want to get everyone out of their comfort zones. This fortnight we are visiting a place that haunts the subconsciousness; an untamed place full of wild creatures beyond the pale of civilization.  Today we visit...

The Dark Forest



Tradition has it that we have a spooky theme this time of year, but you are welcome to submit any type of story so long as it contains a forest so old and wild that it is beyond the control of humans.  Of course, you are also more than welcome to creep us out with tales of druid sacrifices, witch covens, and sentient trees that strangle the unwary with their roots.

As a short story competition, I'm going to limit submissions to a 2000 word count this time around.

Stories are to be submitted by the time it is no longer Wednesday October 30 anywhere in the world.

Good luck to all participants!

[@Tottel]

Thanks for all the votes, folks!

@Tottel

Spoiler

I liked your non-submission, but then I also like a lot of introspection in my stories. I understood the secret hobby to be yearning for something more than just wasting time away at the bar, with the main "character" actually being the inner voice that keeps saying "we could be so much more than this". I'd say next steps are to watch formatting and verb tenses for clarity (although the formatting might not be your fault, sometimes the forums do weird things). Welcome aboard - hopefully next time we get to vote on your story! 

[close]

I'll try to get the next comp up and running promptly.

Stupot here to unsave the day! 

By the way, the Marconi surname for a mob boss in 1950s US makes no sense.

Today I learned! I will have to be more careful when picking names in the future. I am sorry for painting the narrow boot of Italy with a wide brush.

My thoughts on this matter are ... secret.