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[Sinitrena]

Wow.  That's a lot of continuation story!  I had to reread Sinitrena's Little Dove, Blondbraid's A Broken Man, and ¡El Poncho!'s Oceanspirit Omnibus, just to get enough grounding to even start reading this fortnight's stories.   

Best Writing - Sinitrena.  I really liked the thin walls, thin soup line.  It really made the knife-edge of their predicament pop out for me.  Your descriptions of Remria are also worthy of mention.
 
Best use of the theme - Blondbraid for poor, broken Paul.  There were a lot of parallel's between Paul and Sinitrena's character Jahm, but I felt more for Paul's predicament, as Jahm's was more of his own doing (which admittedly comes from the last instalment of his story).  I guess I have an easier time empathising with handicaps resulting from misfortune than bravado.

Favorite Story - Ponch, mostly for rainbow-striped toe socks and hamster-wheel platform shoes.  Is it right to take just glee from the plight of the handicapped?  Maybe I'm just a bad person.... 

[El Poncho]

Who is this El Poncho, and can he be trusted?  I mean, what's he got to hide behind that sexy mask and pseudonym? 

[Space Balls!]

Space Balls!

Orbs From Space!

   Ska Dastard rolled menacingly through the cell block to the hoots and cheers of his fellow inmates, an armed guard at either side.  His dimples were scuffed and his tattoos were scratched from eight long years in the astro-penitentiary.  If he had a chance of parole in the next 50 years he might have used his time more constructively.  Might have.  Ska was a hardened criminal, with an emphasis on hard.  They busted him for spice smuggling, barge-jacking, and racketeering, but he'd done everything in the book, usually twice over.  This recent riot business was just par for the course.

   But the Warden wasn't amused.  This would be Ska's twelfth stroke in his books, which would probably mean a lunar cycle in the cat box, or even worse, another spell in the cyclotron.  But to his fellow inmates Ska Dastard was a hero, and that kind of reputation greased a lot of gears in the joint.  It was easily worth whatever hazard the Warden could throw at him.

   Ska entered the Judgement Chamber and took his accustomed position on the Tee of Misconduct.  A magnobeam locked him to it, allowing the guards to withdraw to the periphery of the chamber.  A panel of jurors rose on tees from portals in the floor, and then at last came the Warden on the Tee of Judgement, towering over the entire proceeding.  The lights dimmed except for a spotlight fixed directly over the perpetrator.

   â€œSka Dastard,” the Warden began, “You are hereby charged with inciting riotous assemblage.  If convicted this will be your seventeenth stroke.”

   Ska shrugged as best he could within the confines of the magnobeam.  Next they'd probably charge him with being bad at math.

   â€œHow does the jury find?” the Warden continued. 

   â€œGuilty!” rang the cries from the panel.  Fair trials weren't exactly a part of Orbian culture.

   â€œSka Dastard, you are hereby found guilty of a seventeenth stroke,” the Warden continued.  “The punishment is... exile!”

   That was a new one.  An expression of confusion briefly crossed Ska's face despite himself.  Details would be forthcoming, of course.  The Warden loved the sound of his own voice when meting out sentences.

   â€œYou will be left stranded on Douchebag 3, where the yellow sun and native's penchant for fluorescent track lighting will sap you of your alien powers.  You will be a prisoner in your own shell, powerless to move, a passive witness to the barbarities of the native culture for the rest of your days!”  The Warden smiled wickedly as his tall-tee slowly withdrew into the floor portal, followed by the jury and even the guards.  Ska was left alone to contemplate his fate.

   The cyclotron was starting to look pretty comfortable.  Maybe he could-

   Suddenly a floor portal opened beneath him and he was sucked out into the vacuum of space, sent hurtling in the direction of the bluish Douchebag 3.  He screamed as the yellow sun bombarded him with strength-sapping radiation, but Ska had a thick shell and was inured to pain.  He would survive.  He would escape.  He would have his rev-

   At that moment he entered the nitrous atmosphere of Douchebag 3 and his shell began to oxidize with a glowing flame.  “Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaargh!” he screamed as he plummeted to the surface at two kilometers per second.  And as painful as the burning of atmospheric entry was, it had nothing on the pain of impact that was about to-

   WHAM!  Ska left a crater almost a meter across right in the middle of a stretch of urban asphalt before bouncing back hundreds of meters in the air.  Strangely he noticed that there were many other such potholes throughout the urban fabric, but they seemed to go unrepaired by the natives.  What kind of  deadbeat losers lived here anyway?

   WHAM!  Ska made another impact, this time merely cracking what was left of a pedestrian right-of-way before bouncing scores of meters into the air again.  He felt nauseous at all of the changes in direction, but wouldn't give up now that he was so close to landing.  Now there was nothing beneath him but a nice soft carpet of grass.  He gently skipped another four times, and then rolled to a stop.

   Whew!  His ordeal was over.  But wait... who was THAT?!?  Not two meters from him, nestled next to some broad ground foliage, there lay another Orbian!  What were the chances?  “Hey!” Ska called to him.  “Hey you!  Can you help me out, bro?”

   â€œNo way, man,” the other Orbian called back.  He lay half in shade and was able just barely to rock back and forth.

   â€œC'mon, bro!” Ska called. 

   But the other Orbian had now managed to roll entirely into the shade and laughed with glee.  “You're the Titliest 4 now, man!”  he called as he disappeared into the rough.

   Ska strained and pulled, but he couldn't move from his spot on the open green.  What had the other Orbian meant?  When darkness descended he would surely-

   But what was this now?  A club wielding native barbarian was approaching, with a pair of radiation-filtering lenses over his ocular nerves and a can of anger-sauce in his hand.  He immediately spotted Ska and planted his feet to either side.

   â€œGreetings, Douchebaggian,” Ska began, trying his best to affect the same accent he had heard from his fellow Orbian, hoping that it would somehow pass for native language.  “I have come here from an advanced society to-”

   Suddenly there was a light tap against his side.  Ska turned to notice the business end of the native's iron club looming menacingly next to him.  And then it withdrew away, far away.  And then it approached even more quickly, and Ska braced for impact....

   But then nothing.  What was going on here?!?  The bizarre ritual repeated itself twice more, and Ska began to think that these Douchebaggians were crazier than they were barbarous.  Then suddenly, on the fourth iteration of the ritual, the iron club did not stop and slapped him upside the head so hard he thought his brain would juice itself inside his shell.  He soared up high again, before bouncing gently on the grass a few times and coming to rest again.

   What had he done to deserve such ill-treatment?  If only he could regain his powers, he would wreak his vengeance on that senseless barbarian!

   But vengeance for some unknown offence flowed only one way that day.  Ska was driven, and sliced, and beaten to within an inch of his life.  Once the beast even tried drowning him, fishing him out with a long pole only at the very last moment.  Finally, at the end of the day, when at last the sun plunged close to the horizon and Ska felt his powers starting to return, he was zipped into a prison that smelled of dead cow with a dozen or so other former inmates of the astro-penitentiary.

   â€œBrothers!” Ska gasped, trying hopelessly to roll in the crowded confines.  “What terrible place is this?  Tell me there are no greater horrors on this planet?”

   The other Orbians huddled together in silence for a long moment.  Then one bravely spoke up: “There is a juvenile in the barbarian household that likes to clog up the plumbing at his educational center....”

[Sinitrena!]

     Sinitrena!     

I want you to know that I'm definitely thinking of coming up with an idea. 

Hee hee!  We should all do it!  My horse will have one of those wheely carts for its hind quarter, and a giant cone on its head so it can't nibble on its casts! 

Congrats Mandle!  A well deserved victory.

Personally, I feel that DboyWheeler getting snubbed was too bad. I really like his story. But that's democracy for you.

If only there were more votes to spread around....   

[Mandle]

Today was yesterday, Mandle! 

I vote Mandle and Blondbraid.  In a way, I regret not writing a similar story about imprisonment during World War II.  That would have really weirded everyone out. 

[Dances With Winds]

All right, deadline looms:

Dances With Winds

       The Don sat proudly in the saddle like it was a throne, lord of all he surveyed.  Anything that fell beneath his gaze seemed to bend to his iron will, regardless of allegiance or proprietorship.  The Don was born and bred to conquer and command, and woe betide the man or beast who thought they might ignore his pretension.  With a soldier's grim discipline he would wield the whip at the faintest hint of disobedience.  There was no spirit in all the land immune to his ruthless domination.

   â€œHa, Chico!” he barked, not bothering to spur the great stallion on which he sat.  The beast instantly sprang into motion, knees high in the impressive trot that the Don insisted upon.  The slightest stumble or imbalance and the stallion would feel the sting of the whip, and so he focused carefully on the rough trail ahead.

     Except now that they rounded the hill his eye caught the rolling hills on the other side of the river, soft and green like a bed of moss.  Chico knew those hills from his youth, a lifetime ago in a long forgotten dream.  There the long grass shimmered in the wind like hair on a dog, stretching endlessly unfenced towards the great mountains beyond.  In the days before he was Chico he knew the feel of those soft grasses beneath his hooves.  Back when there was no whip to fear and no stream untasted.  Back when he was Dances-With-Winds.

   A sharp spur to his flank brought him out of his reverie.  Those days on the soft unfenced grass were long gone.  Dances-With-Winds was gone.  He was crushed beneath the weight of the yoke and saddle.  Only Chico remained now, a sorry slave to an indomitable master.  Even now he trembled at the thought of being broken in the ring, his days filled with merciless beatings and white eyed-terror, his nights spent shivering in solitary confinement.  But the tremble itself was enough to have the bridle pulled painfully and the whip brought down hard against his thigh.  There was no room now for even memories of happier days.

   But still there was a glow to those distant hills as the lowering sun caught the sheen of a recent rainfall.  Not the parched oppressiveness of the valley heat up there.  Chico felt the dryness in his throat  that seemed to last from noon to night.  He was a hollow wretch, but he dared not even thirst for something more.

   Again the whip snapped down and the spurs dug in.  Escape was impossible, of course.  The river that separated him from the hills meandered in a deep gorge, and the river itself churned with icy waters over jagged rocks.  The only ford was miles downstream, and guarded jealously by an agent of the Don.  And his experience of the other direction was even worse: more and more Dons, with meaner and meaner tempers.  And anyway he'd never escape the whip and spurs.  His cell was made of leather and wrapped about him, even through him in the case of the hated metal bit in his mouth.  He carried his jailer and his jail with him wherever he went.  There was no escape from himself.

   Again the whip bit flesh, and he was sure this time it drew blood.  He was a broken spirit, and now his body was being broken too.  What difference did it make, though?  A short sharp bursting of the flesh, or a long thirsty grind to decrepitude?  But he dared not rebel.  And yet he couldn't bring himself to fully surrender, either.  So he was neither rebel nor slave.  He was just broken.

   The blood flew from his flanks and now his withers and his shoulders too.  The bridle pulled sharply and the spurs dug deeply.  But the connection between pain and feeling inside Chico was now broken.  He was galloping, full bore, down the hill, a crazed look in his eye.  On his back the Don bounced about like a scarecrow, furious at his treacherous steed, but still too dignified to be thrown from his horse.  Death before dishonour was his creed, and now it would be put to the test.  For the gorge loomed ahead, and the horse's aching muscles seemed to find new vigour and speed for the last leg of his mad dash.  Would the Don's will at last be broken?  Or would it be his body broken on the jagged rocks of the river far below?  Either way, his breaking was now inevitable.  Chico would not break on the rocks, though.  He was already broken.  Not broken like a draft animal, no.  The one called Chico was shattered like a crystal plate.  There was no Chico anymore.  The last of Chico splattered uselessly on the shrivelled weeds beneath the whip of a broken man.  Whatever was left, it was not Chico.  Whatever was left would soon dance on the winds across the gorge and up to the cloudy hills beyond.

   And then he left the ground behind, breaking the bonds of earth and servitude in one tremendous bound.  The writhing tumult broke on the jagged rocks, but the wind danced clean away.

I have not yet begun to procrastinate. 

Momentum... flagging.  Inspiration... fleeting.  What was the topic again? 

Your theme is broken. 

Congratulations Ponch! 

But I feel compelled to write one more thing about what I don't know before they lock up this thread:  I don't know about this waiting a week between competitions.    What am I supposed to mull over in my mind during those long sleepless hours?  Plans for world conquest can occupy me only for so long....

Aw, man!  How come Ponch gets an invisible trophy and nobody else does?!? 

And now the tyranny of Ponch begins anew....   

[Best setting:]

Oh maaaaaaan this is going to be hard to vote on, especially because two of the entries were really good but not exactly conventional stories.  Great entries all around. 

Best setting:  I'm going to toss Ponch a bone here for his snowy jungle, because it'll still look cool. 
Best character(s): It's gotta be Babar for the ultra-helpful, ultra-incompetent know-it-all, although kconan's conductor was for me a close second. 
Best plot: Oh gee I dunno.  Er.... Ponch?
Best style/word choice:  I gotta hand this one to Babar again.  That was some seriously awesome awfulness he slapped together. 
Best implementation of newfound knowledge: It's tight like a door frame in the summer humidity, but I'm going to give it to kconan for teaching me a thing or two about musical implements. 

I didn't think Ponch knew so little about lengthy elongated entries.... 

[bastard!]

Mandle you bastard!  I felt really bad for you for about three paragraphs.

OMG 1940s Noir Detective Game!

It's probably not the vibe you're going for, but I do have some experience with the absurdist noir detective genre, right here on our very own forums!  I won't be heartbroken if you're interested in something more retro-pixelated, but I could step up the quality big-time on an actual project (Hotel Exotica was just silly speed drawing).  Good luck on your project either way!

[The Art of the Bar Pick-Up]

Mah, I stayed up drinking and finished it.

The Art of the Bar Pick-Up

   Witness the plight of the solitary male, a social animal ostracized by all except his fellow loners.  He is doomed to a life of extended pubescence in his parents' basement where he perpetually hones the martial arts of konyaku and FPS in preparation for the apocalyptic event that will shake society to its foundations and give him his opportunity to gain status.  His only other plausible tracks of advancement are a garage-band success in alliance with his fellow outsiders, or securing the support of a human female.

   Undaunted as always by long-odds and shortcomings, the solitary male will embark on the acquisition of female support with brazen confidence and unwavering determination.  It is imperative that he first prepare physically, as he has learned through long years of careful study of action movies and pornography that human females are attracted only to the burliest and most bad-assed males.  He will sensibly attempt to bulk up, first with a protein intensive diet, and then with nutritional supplements that the power of modern science has created for late night infomercials.  He will break cheap exercise equipment to prove his strength and virility.  And he will attempt to extend his sex organ  to elephantine proportions through the use of painful weights and Swedish mail-order implements.

   Satisfied after a couple days of vigorous body enhancement, the solitary male then turns his attention to the trappings of fashion.  Just as the peacock entrances the peahen with his shiny plumage, so too shall the male fancy himself up in the most eye-catching of manners.  He shall bathe thoroughly and shave the neck-hair at female eye-level.  However he shall leave a thin strip of hair along his upper lip to give proof of maximum testosterone, which will satisfy the female lust for strong children.  He will spare no expense for both hair product and pheromone-infused cologne, as he needs any edge he can possibly gain over his less-informed competition.  For clothing he dons uncomfortably tight garments to show off his genetic endowments, with lots of superfluous buckles and chains so that he can dazzle a female like a shimmering constellation of jewels.

   And now the choice of time and place.  The solitary male will emerge from his den at a nocturnal hour, when the human female is known to get a little drowsy, thus potentially letting down her guard.  Likewise, he will enhance his chances for success by choosing a venue where the most desperate human females are known to congregate.  He will steer away from high-class venues that will expose his limited financial resources because all the classy girls are logically already taken anyway.  His preferred milieu will have open sight-lines but dense herds of human females, preferably smelling slightly of beer and second-hand smoke so as to mask his approach from upwind.  At this point he may enlist the services of a trusted wingman whose job it will be to help separate his prey from the herd by feigning interest in an uglier friend. 

   Having settled on a hunting ground, it is now that the hunt truly begins.  The solitary male will establish himself in a place of vantage, usually elevated, from whence he can scope out opportunities.  At this point he will need to enhance his linguistic skills and the attractiveness of his prey by imbibing several cheap alcoholic beverages.  At length he will begin to winnow down the possibilities in order to increase his chances of success.  He is initially disappointed by not finding a rare solitary female, but he is heartened by the fact that there are several unaccompanied females in small groups.  He will focus on the less-intimidating pairs, rather than the larger clusters.  Within the pairs he is looking for obvious signals of seeking masculine attention: excessive grooming, revealing garments, titillating gyrations, overly-loud laughs, and multiple empty glasses.

   And now that he has his mark he approaches, not in his usual gait but in a kind of rhythmic strut.  His legs bow slightly and his arms extend outward to give an impression of size and confidence.  His mind races through the signals as he gains increasingly better vantage, but all those years of intensive mind-training in front of the video game console are paying off!  He is quickly able to ascertain that the angle of the lighting was waaaay too flattering from a distance and he veers off, unscathed.

   Now on to his second mark, a short brunette with tall black boots.  All signals appear to check out, and maximum age can not possibly be greater than his mother minus 10.  It is now time to deploy his secret weapon: the pick up line.  He has spent some considerable time composing it, refining it, and practising it in front of reflective surfaces.  Smoothly he sidles in next to her.  “Kiss me if I'm wrong,” he says affecting a slight accent, “but is your name Candy?”

   Suddenly there is an intense pain in his shin.  What has gone wrong?

   â€œOh, sorry!” the girl calls out.  “I thought you said 'kick me'!  It's really loud in here!”  She twirls her fingers around her ears apologetically.

   At least the ice is broken, he figures.  But when he opens his mouth to continue the conversation she kicks him even harder in the other shin and walks away with her friend.  Strike two.

   But there are other fish in the sea.  Some of them are sitting on unswivelling bar stools, which would make it difficult to kick forcefully in any direction but frontwards.  He limps over to focus his attentions on a medium-build blonde with blue streaks in her hair.

   â€œKiss me if I'm wrong,” he tries again, “but is your name Candy?”

   Her friend sitting across from her is giggling, but the blonde just rolls her eyes.  “You can call me Candy,” she says flatly.  The friend breaks out laughing.

   â€œWell Candy,-” he starts with his contingency line, but she cuts him off.

   â€œWhere did you get that jacket?” she asks.  “It looks like a wind chime!”  The friend covers her face with a napkin, but not before the solitary male gets a quick glance at drops of her purple cooler drink coming out of her nose.  This is obviously not going to plan, but to be successful he must be persistent.

   â€œWell,” he says suavely, “if you look closely, it's actually made out of boyfriend material.”  The friend snorts, with tears now leaking down her cheeks.  She slaps the table, unable to regain composure.  This might actually work to his advantage, he thinks.  Once the friend is immobilized, he can work his magic on the human female unhindered.

   But suddenly the waitress is between him and his mark, asking if that will be all.  Thinking quickly he extends his hand to get her attention, for his confidence now desperately needs refuelling. 

   â€œMy boyfriend will pay it,” the human female says, winking at him and setting her friend off again.  Now there is a bill in his outstretched hand, and in a flash the two friends return to the safety of the churning herd, both laughing hysterically.  The solitary male moves to pursue, but there is suddenly a bouncer towering over his path, shaking his head with a look of pity on his face.  Reluctantly the solitary male pays the inflated bill, depleting his funds until next week's allowance.

   So for now the solitary male has met with failure.  But his spirit is undiminished, and next week he will try again.  For in this Darwinian jungle of life or loneliness, he has chosen to strive for betterment.  He knows that in the high-stakes game of bar pick-ups you only have to get it right once.  So hold your head high, solitary male, for next time may just be your time to shine!