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[@ Mandle I]

Sorry for being a bit late on closing up, folks.  I had wanted to draw up some trophies but I just can't find the time, so I'll wrap this up and add trophies when I can get around to it. 

First some feedback:

@ Mandle I: Your thought experiments are, um, slightly more extreme than most other people's.    I didn't quite agree with the mom's assessment of the situation.  She says she would gladly take a "swift bullet" to the head, but not the harvester.  Well.... that was kind of an option, wasn't it?  I mean, just run off and the guy would shoot you.  You're just relying on his sense of decency to let the unsacrificed person go anyway: would that really be a riskier strategy?  Also, a decent mother would never leave a child even for a few minutes in the back seat of a car in 40 degree heat, so she was already a bad mom and basically had it coming.    I agree with some of Sinitrena's critiques: where does the "example" person come from each time, and how is this related to Christmas themes?  Otherwise the story kinda makes you think, which was the point, and it was certainly a gripping tale.

@ Mandle II: Your dystopian Christmas carol makes me think that you should build a time machine and go back and write for Futurama.  It would be a perfect second verse to Santa's "slaying song". 

@ Sinitrena: I think I played an AGS game starring Fridol way back when.    I like the hints at the whole technical infrastructure that keeps Santa's operation going (data, treaties, seasonal labour imbalances),  without bogging the reader down in boring details.  The character contrast between Nikolaus and Ruprecht was unexpected and appreciated.  I like how Ruprecht's plan for sending the "bastard out into the frozen sea" parallels the inuit cultural tradition of letting an elder who has become a burden to the family take a long walk in the snow.  And the bits of description here and there at elf culture were sprinkled throughout in a way that made me want to keep reading on.  Finally, I liked how you actually crossed the themes of standard Christmas with German pre-Christmas and Russian revolutionary themes, thereby satisfying the topic. 

So on to the votes.  Sinitrena is our grand winner with 10 votes.  You'd get a gold trophy of something Christmas themed if I wasn't so fat and lazy from all the turkey I ate over the past two weeks.  I'd write more but the effort of typing is making my fingers sweat with sweet, sweet turkey juice.... 

That makes Mandle I our uncontested second place winner with 5 votes.  You too would receive a turkey at this point in the ceremony but.... turkey.

So that leaves Mandle II with turkey and turkey.  Mmmmmmm.  Turkey......

What?!  Oh yeah, so this means Sinitrena takes over as contest administrator for the next three weeks or so.  I look forward to her choice of theme, as long as it doesn't involve cardio workouts or liposuction.  Now, back to those turkey leftovers.... 

[Mandle I]

Well, I hope everyone has sobered up enough to enjoy a good read.  Happy 2020, by the way!  Now down to business: we have three spectacular seasonal submissions salivating for your assessment.  In order of submission we have:

Mandle I with And Scrooge Just Stood There
Mandle II with Bringing Hell
Sinitrena with Nuts!

For the sake of fairness please remember to distinguish between Mandle I and Mandle II when voting.     Any votes for Mandle not specifically designated as I or II will be automatically assigned to his least popular story, so don't mess this up! 

Categories for voting are as follows:

Best Character Interpretation: Which seasonal character was best brought to life?
Best Plot: Which plot arc gave you the biggest sense of satisfaction?
Best Crossover: A vote for pure creativity - who's seasonal-unseasonal medley was most inspired?
Best Writing: Turns of phrase, rhyming cadence, descriptive glory or mysterious minimalism - who done best put the words together all purdy-like?
Secret Voting Category: Best Magic Toy Sack, meaning which story keeps on giving and giving long after the others are depleted.

Voting will run from now through Saturday January 4, with votes to be tallied the next day.  Good luck to all entrants!

Negatives:     No AGSing whatsoever

Positives:       I finally built my wife that master bedroom we always talked about:

This is a sad day indeed.   

Haunt in peace, friend Ghost.

One more day or so.  I know count-downs are a New Years thing, but what's a little more crossing-over between friends? 

I died.  Wait....   

[Christmas Crossover]

Greetings writing competition compatriots!  This festive season calls for a jolly theme of epic proportions.  This fortnight's writing theme is:

Christmas Crossover


Your challenge is to write a Christmas story (involving characters from familiar Christmas tales, or familiar Christmas locations, or familiar Christmas themes) and meld them with a completely un-Christmas-like story (involving non-Christmas characters, or non-Christmas locations, or distinctly un-Christmas-ish themes).  So for example you could have a familiar Christmas cast of Santa, elves, and reindeer but set in bloody ancient Rome (pictured above).  Or you could have Smurf village populated by a hundred different personalities of Grinch.  Or you could have Mark Zuckerberg visited by the ghost of Christmas past, present, and future.  Basically the sky's the limit here.  I'll even allow Hanukkah, Diwali, and Kwanzaa characters and themes, just to keep this festive gathering open to all revellers.  You could even cross them over with traditional Christmas characters for some real fun: imagine Ganesha as Santa Clause, using those extra limbs and trunk to good effect! 

Deadline for this unholy endeavour competition is midnight of Monday December 30, 2019.

Potential voting categories might include: Best Character Interpretation, Best Plot, Best Crossover, Best Writing, and a secret voting category that you'll have to wait to unwrap. 

Good luck to all competitors.  I look forward to a magic sack full of submissions in two week's time. 

Thank you, thank you, to all my many admirers (both of you).    I'll be sure to get the next topic up in the next day or two.

[Best Writing Style]

OK, after careful consideration I have decided to cast my votes thusly:

Best Writing Style: In my humble opinion it was Sinitrena by a mile.  While not perfect in terms of rhyme or meter, a gifted voice artist could make it work quite well.  I really think she used irony well to reflect the intrinsic irony of insomnia (sleep time but not sleeping): silent screams, waking dreams, shapeless figures, wants to run and has to stay....  There were a few really good turns of phrase.  My favourite: "...blinks treacherous sleep from read-rimmed eyes."  A few conjugation issues (she know -> she knows; silent this -> silence this), but the ambitious ABAB rhyming structure and atmosphere of hopelessness that she constructs more than make up for it.

Best Character: I believe Sinitrena won in this department as well.  I really felt a deep and personal connection with the husband, who tried his best with constructive advice and then, when all else failed, dutifully laboured at producing white noise all night long to help his wife into slumber.  I mean, he's pretty much the epitome of an everyday hero, selflessly exposing himself as a murder target just to provide an outlet to his wife's pent-up aggression.  I think the "learn to cook" comment was especially endearing: too many spouses just lie to not hurt their partner's feelings, but he's showing that he's comfortable enough in their mutual love and respect that he can tell it like it is.  Just.  Plain.  Awesome. 

Best Plot:  Oh let's say Sinitrena for this one as well.  I was really getting excited halfway through when I thought she was going to murder her husband by smothering.  It didn't pan out, but it really got me into the game.

Most Intriguing Exploration of Insomnia: I think Sinitrena genuinely wins in this category.  She explored the physiological and psychological dimensions of sleeplessness much better than I did.

Best of luck with your surgery, Sinitrena.  I read your comment about 'emergency' as implying that the surgeon/hospital prioritised another case over yours and you got bumped, but if it's your emergency then best wishes for that too. 

I do intend to vote (and I think you can anticipate how those votes might fall), but I'm rushing off to work and can't give proper feedback at the moment.  I'll make the new deadline for sure, though.

I tried to write something for this but I fell asleep.

Did you fall asleep, or did you ....DIE??!?   

[The Unblinking Ring]

The Unblinking Ring

   Moxy's Palace.  This was the place, according to the chat room binge-loafer known as RubberDuck23.  Steel bars and disrepair around the entrance made it look more like a derelict prison than a palace, but then things rarely look their best at 3am.  Just ask the pair of exotic dancers sharing a smoke beneath the flickering entry light.  The first looked like someone had painted a skeleton and then left it exposed to tropical humidity for forty years.  The second looked like someone had left a hotdog in the microwave for too long and then tried to cover up their mistake with a glue gun and a package of coloured feathers.  But I'd been in this business too long to judge this place on looks alone.  My job is to search out the truth, after all, and the truth is rarely pretty.

   I step into the light of the entryway and wink knowingly at the dancers.  They recoil into the shadows like spiders, and I can't blame them for their caution.  The scars of bad experiences cross my face like animal tracks on a late-winter field.  Truth is the ugly friend I hang out with to make myself look better by comparison.  But when I've yet to find it, there is no makeup that can cover my kind of ugly. 

   I knock on the barred gate purposefully.  A plate of steel slides open and a pair of judgemental eyes ask me my business.  I tell them they look pretty in the pale moonlight, and they reluctantly yield to the pass-code.  Now I'm in a hallway walking towards a redish light, the embers of a dying party.  I pass a pair of late-night revellers stumbling towards the exit, then a scowling bouncer carrying a bucket and a mop.  The hallway ends in a tired haze of artificial mist and laser lights, both looking to clock-out and call it a night.  A few tables around the perimeter have chairs stacked on them, and the staff are busy rolling up the sidewalks.  A few patrons still linger here and there, but it's clear to everyone that the show is now over.

   I approach the bartender, who apologizes that the bar is closed.  I tell him I'm looking for someone.  He tells me that patrons at this establishment aren't the type that like to be found.  I drop a name and the barkeep backs down real quick, nodding towards the stairs that lead towards various balconies that surround the main dance floor.  I climb.

   On the topmost floor I see him.  At least, I assume it's him.  He's alone, which is what I expected.  Sitting at a table in the corner, overlooking the whole establishment.  A laptop, three tablets and a phone all open at once, table covered in coffee cups.  He looked younger than I expected, although worry lines creased his face behind the sunglasses needlessly covering his eyes.  The nation of Czechoslovakia might one day reunite to demand their 1980s mullet hairstyle back, but otherwise the man was nondescript.  I approached.

   â€œCandy Unicorn?” I asked, using the only name I'd been given.

   â€œJa,” was his only reply.  He tapped three screens in quick succession and then quickly typed something into the laptop.

   â€œMr. Unicorn, you're a hard man to find.”   

   â€œYou did not find me,” the man corrected, turning his neck to look at me for the first time.  His English was impeccable, but the accent vaguely eastern European.  “I do not exist,” he continued, “and one can not find something that doesn't exist.”

   Another rule for conducting business at 3:15am is that things rarely make sense at first pass.  Did he mean that he wasn't really there, or that none of us are really anywhere, or that his obvious pseudonym was an empty shell, or what?  I'd spent too long tracking this guy down to get bogged down so quickly, so I tried changing tack.

   â€œSo you expected me?”

   â€œOf course I expected you.  You started this three and half years ago with your snooping around Hamburg.  Since then we've danced the dance through our avatars in St. Petersburgh, Bangkok, Dubai, Paris, and Scranton, Pennsylvania.  Every step was a choreographed rehearsal to bring you here, on this night.  Your trials and tribulations mean nothing to me: just the blind steps of a sleepwalking dancer going through the motions.  The question is, are you ready to finally pull back the veil and see reality for what it truly is?  What is your longest run?”

   â€œEighteen days and change,” I told him, without missing a beat.  Some people watch their steps, and some people watch their calories.  I'm a consecutive waking-hours guy.  I might have mentioned that at the beginning, but in 99.999% of my life's work this has no relevance whatsoever.  It's just a personality quirk, a weird hobby.  But then in the course of another investigation I stumbled onto whispers about The Unblinking Ring, a clique of fellow insomniacs that claimed special powers.  Candy Unicorn was supposedly their gatekeeper, and this I guess was my audition for the big show.

   The man known as Candy Unicorn was busy with his screens again.  A waitress stopped by and dropped off two more coffees.

   â€œThanks,” I muttered as she walked off without so much as a word.

   â€œThey are both for me,” Candy Unicorn muttered, reaching absently for the first cup.

   â€œI thought the bar was closed?” I asked, trying to find a chink in this guy's armour.

   â€œOnly to mortals,” Candy Unicorn replied.  He turned his attention back to me.  “Tell me, why do we sleep?”

   I shrugged.  “Doctors tell us it is to regenerate.  The brain reprocesses inputs, growing neural pathways.  The immune system fights off germs.  In younger people minerals are consolidated to affect growth....”

   â€œAnd what do you think?” he asked.  His expression was emotionless behind the sunglasses.

   â€œI'm not sure I'm getting the whole story,” I said evasively.  “Doctors says stuff, but I'm starting to notice that things aren't adding up.  Thus my attempts to contact The Ring.  That's why I'm here.  I'm looking for real answers.”

   â€œAnd you will find them, I assure you.  Do you know what sleep really is?”

   â€œEnlighten me.”

   A faint smile traced its way over Candy Unicorn's lips.  “It is a failing.  A daily defeat, for most of nature's creations.  A cat spends two-thirds of its life in slumber and rarely lives past twenty years.  A typical human sleeps about a quarter of his life away.  Resulting life span: approximately eighty years.  Turtles barely sleep at all, and they can live hundreds of years.  And then there is the lowly jellyfish....”

   â€œWait.  You're telling me that lifespan is inversely related to sleep?”

   â€œThe facts are telling you this.  I am just trying to open your eyes.  If you never let your guard down, there is no degeneration.  If there is no degeneration, there is no ageing.  No forgetting.  No illness.  Billions of dollars are spent annually on self-improvement fads, all while the aspirational spend six hours daily tearing themselves apart from within.  The only true way to maximize the self is to minimize your losses.  Waste no asset.  Waste no time.  To be Unblinking is to the closest thing there is to becoming a god.”

   â€œHow old are you, then?”

   â€œAh!  Finally a question worth answering!  I do not know for sure, as birthdays were not so important back when I was younger, but I am approximately two-hundred years old.”

   â€œThere's no way you are two hundred years old.”

   â€œI am.  I was raised in what was once referred to as Dalmatia, part of the Astro-Hungarian empire.  Fun fact: I once taught Adolf Hitler back in middle school.  He had the beginnings of that terrible moustache even back then.  Of course, back then we were allowed to beat the children for arbitrary reasons.  I got many a Fuhrerschpanken in back then, let me tell you.”

   â€œWhat?  That's not even a word.  I've been to Germany, and that's not even a word.”

   â€œNot any more.  But there was a day when it was the height of fashion, I can assure you.  Excuse me for a moment: Shanghai is closing.”

   Candy Unicorn turned back to his screens while I was left to process what I had just heard.  If what he said was true, then a sleepless cabal of quasi-immortals was stalking the chat rooms of Earth, micromanaging their assets on foreign stock-markets and shaping the rage of future dictators.  They probably all had weird invented identities like Candy Unicorn or Mega Smurf or Latex Hobgoblin69, just to keep society from figuring out that all those crummy middle-school teachers over the centuries were actually the same crummy middle-school teachers with recycled names.  I thought back to the ancient battle-axe that had taught me and gasped in horror at the realization. 

   Or maybe Candy Unicorn was just a kook, and he was playing me for a fool.  I had been awake for a long time, and the bounds of reality were getting a little blurry around the edges.  Was it really possible to will yourself beyond illness?  Beyond ageing?  How would you even disprove the claim?  Stay awake for a year?  If you got sick they might tell you that you hadn't stayed awake long enough.  If you blinked for too long, they'd tell you all bets were off.  Maybe they were in old pictures?  Or maybe they were savvy enough to photoshop themselves into old-looking pictures?  What is truth, anyway?  Maybe I should have spent more time getting a philosophy degree and less time getting into bar fights back in my youth.  Maybe if I had had better middle-school teachers to channel my interests I wouldn't be in this mess right now.

   â€œDay-trading?” I asked  “Don't immortals have better things to do with their time?”

   â€œOn the contrary, time is money,” Candy Unicorn replied, not turning from his work.  “Even marginal sums can be spun into great fortunes with long-enough time horizons.  An unfailing attention to newsfeeds and stock-tickers helps.  We all do it, to various degrees.  The liquidity of the whole financial system as you know it actually depends on the good graces of The Unblinking Ring.  Do you remember any financial crashes?”

   â€œI know of them, yeah.”

   The Ring always meets in the autumn.  Every member.  September 2008 someone mistakenly brews decaf.  We all woke up three months later with the world's biggest collective hangover.  I'm still wearing the wrinkles from that down-time.”

   â€œWhat about 1929?”

   â€œHash-brownies.  It wasn't pretty.  We should really have like a royal taster at the annual gatherings.  I'll make a note to put in on the agenda.”  The waitress came by and dropped off two more cups of coffee.

   â€œSo....  Mr. Unicorn, sir?  What does one have to do to become a member of The Unblinking Ring?”

   â€œWell, not blinking is a good start.  I use homemade eyedrops of my own design.  The secret ingredient is a dash of cream-of-tartar.  It's like your eyeballs are wearing satin gowns, you really must try it.  Oh, and there's this initiation trial.  Just a little obstacle course really, full of mantraps and lateral thinking puzzles.  There's an opening next Wednesday, if you want me to slot you in.”

   â€œNext Wednesday?”

   â€œYeah it's, uh... well, technical difficulties.  Old kit, you know.  I thought we'd be able to do it tonight, but....  Tell you what, we can start the paperwork, yeah?  Fill in the webforms.  Get the whole application process moving.  It'll save time later on.  You know, if you're not gored to death down in the dungeon level.  Can I have your full name, for starters?”

   What can I tell you?  Truth is often stranger than fiction.  Maybe I'm not into the whole truth thing, after all.  Maybe I'm just in it for the strangeness?  For that gut-wrenching feeling when you stick your head through the mirror and see everything batshit backwards, with your evil twin cackling in the background and a swarm of wind-up chatter-teeth hunting you down like prey.  I'm not saying I'm buying what Mr. Candy Unicorn is selling.  I'm just saying I want to take it for a test-drive and see how she holds up.  First I needed something fitting to put on the dotted line.

   â€œGoldfish,” I told him.  “Colonel Goldfish.”

   â€œOkay.  Social security number?  We don't pay taxes, it's for the pension plan.  You don't have to provide one, if you are fussy about privacy.  We change them anyway every thirty years.  Do you self-identify as a minority for our affirmative action initiative?  Recent sex-change?  It doesn't count after twenty years, unfortunately, but you can always switch back and forth to keep your status up.  Animal limb implants?  Substance addictions?  We're open minded.  I once disclosed that I was hooked on snorting gerbil food.  HR didn't even bat an eye.  Well, of course they don't blink.  None of us do.  But they didn't care.  Hendersen married his dog back in '59 and she's still listed as a dependent.  Do you have any idea of the logistical challenges involved in keeping a dog awake for seventy years?  Oh wait, I'm getting an update about the initiation gauntlet.  Apparently it's a go after all.  Are you ready?  If the mechanical dinosaur jaws do seize up just give the flywheel on the back a good kick.  Best of luck, Mr. Goldfish.”

   The chair I am sitting in begins to lurch sideways.  I realize it is very slowly following a track in the floor.  Where it is taking me I don't know, but I feel I can wake up from the impending nightmare any time I want to by just standing up.  I am in control.  I am the executive function in this crazy, mixed-up dream world we call life.

   â€œOh shit, I forgot the bloody restraints,” Candy Unicorn called out, banging away at his keyboard.  “Ah, they don't seem to be working anyway.  Just hold on to the armrests, ok?  We wouldn't want you falling off on your way down.  Apparently we're not insured for that bit.  Wait, I'm getting another message.  No, I'm afraid you'll have to get off and walk.  Here, I'll illuminate the in-flight arrows to guide you to the chute.  Sorry about that.  It really is quite impressive when it all works.”

   I nod understandingly and stand up.  I begin to pace the path of the tiny arrows illuminated beneath my feet.  If only life had little light-up arrows to guide us through all of our darkest moments.  Or maybe it does, and we just don't have the sense to open our eyes to their presence.  There's that artificial night-club mist again, obscuring the arrows slightly.  And now the arrows stop, but I keep going.  The future is forward.  Only now I'm falling blindly through the darkness.  But aren't we all falling blindly, in a metaphorical sense?  The only trick is to cope with your blindness with your eyes open.
   
   

Well, this theme is certainly keeping ME up at night.... 

Congratulations to the winners! 

I mean that sincerely this time, since I don't have any skin in this game. 

Watch out next time, though.  I have every intention of following through and actually submitting something. 

[Character]

Good reads, both.  Thanks to the authors for their hard work.

Character:  There was an embarrassment of riches in this category this time: so many distinctive characters sketched in quick strokes, although sadly the promise of the tantalising glimpses is never fulfilled.  My vote goes for Reiter's the Man, purely for the sense of intrigue he presents.  Is he a Man?  Is he a ghost possessing an eerie plaster fish in a pillow case?  Like Joseph in the bible he just kind of buggers off without any indication of his fate.  Reiter's Passenger was a close second, having somehow encountered Captain Badin socially in port despite his many handicaps.

Plot: I vote Mandle on this one, as I see and understand the story unfolding.  Reiter's work for all its genius (and I liked it a lot!) felt somehow like a mystery too far: why are they there?  What actually happened at the party?  Did the boat leave without them in the end?  If plots and subplots are threads weaving the story, Reiter's feels more like a tangle than a fabric.

Style: I vote Reiter here.  Both works had some impressive writing, such as Reiter's feast and Mandle's shoe imagery.  But I felt like Reiter employed a lilting kind of poetry to powerful effect.  The Ship's "many scrapes and cuts proved its pluck," and at the feast "flesh and thoughts were torn by grinding teeth" are just two examples of fantastically descriptive language.  I hate to do this to Mandle, but the title implies comparison with his other piece in this story, and I felt that the train of thought of his narrator lamentably lacked the pace and rawness of last time.  (Yes, I understand The End needs to be the thrilling climax, and that the rest of the story necessarily needs to be longer with steady building of pace, but I found the narrator's voice lacking the same distinctive character that I so enjoyed last time in every line).

Spookiest Atmosphere: It's hard to judge this fairly without contemplating the conclusion to Mandle's work.  Without the conclusion, I think my vote has to go to Reiter for an eerie tale of ghostly mystery.  His story pulses with anthropomorphism, to the extent where the whole story world, from the Island to the Ship to the cat to the dynamic note churn with a kind of sinister character.  The pervasive, overwhelming mysteriousness that was such a liability in the plot category becomes quite the asset in the atmosphere category.  Mandle's sequence where the gang encounters Jumping Jack is creepy, but I felt a bit more strategic description (of the mosh pit, for example) would have brought the atmosphere more to life.

Dang it!  I missed the deadline.  I had a good idea for this one too....  Too much talking smack and not enough smacking down.  Oh well....

I'll be sure to vote by the last minute: PROMISE!   

Even George Lucas had the good sense to rename his original Star Wars as Star Wars: A New Hope so that the fan boys could argue and debate which instalment was better.  You gotta make it easy on us fanboys....  How else can we trace the trajectory of your artistic development (and your inevitable fall)? 

Baronesque sounds too much like burlesque.... 

I for one have no qualm with a continuation of the same story-world or even the same story.  It's just the use of the same title that I find confusing: how are we supposed to discuss your works intelligibly if they're all called the same thing?    Imagine Shakespeare named all 39 of his plays "Hamlet".  Now, write a high school English essay comparing and contrasting Hamlet, Hamlet, and the other Hamlet.  Go!   

That's an AWESOME idea, Sinitrena!    We should have a referendum on how Mandlesque we want this competition to become. 

Wait, hasn't Mandle already submitted something by that title?

I recommend disqualifying him preemptively and then slowly sorting out the details over the coming months and years.