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I'm over half done, but it will have to wait to tomorrow to be finished.

At your age I had 43 movies under my belt, and I had to do it without tappa tappa tappa.

(~ Jan 14th)

In common English usage the tilde (~) means approximately, but this is not the only meaning of the character.  In mathematics the tilde can mean negation, so the deadline is definitely not Jan 14th.  In economics, however, the tilde can denote consumer indifference: so, nobody cares about Jan 14th.  In electronics it denotes alternating, so only sometimes Jan 14th.  Apparently the Unix convention is to use the tilde to denote a backup, so Jan 14th is the fall-back date. But in Microsoft file naming it can mean temporary, so temporarily Jan 14th.  In juggling notation it can mean on top, which gets kinda weird when thinking about dates.   In Asian languages it is often used to denote a range, so this might mean between various Jan 14ths?  But since Stupot+ is an expert in Japanese, it probably has the Japanese meaning of either being the start of a subtitle (like a colon in English), a mark denoting sarcasm, or a way to extend the final syllable of a word.  So I guess the deadline is January 14tthhhhhhhhhhhh? 

Open your minds, people!  Carrie Fisher has not died.  She has merely metamorphosed into a digital form for all eternity.

Congratulations Babar!

Oh, and Stupot+ too....

Am reading my gift right now as I await IRL festivities to begin.  Thanks!:)

[Best character]

Best character Oh c'mon it's gotta be Stupot+ for Nutty's mum.  She had such credulous hope for the future, poor woman.
Best setting I'm gonna keep Gurok's gag going by voting for Babar, mostly because there was no real settings in the other entries.
Best writing/ wording I've gotta give it to Stupot+ again.  Mandle's rhymes seemed a bit ...forced sometimes.
Best prophesy I really want to vote for Babar again, but that wouldn't be fair to Stupot+.

All too soom the true meaning of the prophesy was revealed to all....

To answer questions about the use of "soom", it's just a corrupt version of "soon" that happens to rhyme with the other perils of the dust bunny universe.  Clearly the spelling and pronunciation components of their educational system's language curriculum need to be re-examined by the relevant ministries of their government.... 

Oh no, instead of my laughter and mockery demoralising you into not submitting a story in time, it invigorated you into completing it.
Curses!

Ah, the power of spite!  Where would I be without it?

THE END IS SOOM!

     The one called Wispy scratched behind what passed for his ears with what might have been his hind paw.  Maybe it was his nose that twitched pensively, or maybe it was his tail.  It was hard to speak in anatomical specifics with his species, for each individual was unique in terms of shape and composition.  He was a dust bunny, and he was king of Greater Underland.

   Wispy had not always worn the copper disc diadem of royalty.  Indeed, he was not even a native of Greater Underland.  He started life in Corner Behind Door before a wanderlust and chronic draft had set him questing for a kingdom to call his own.  In one of the Lesser Under-Realms he had met up with his two faithful companions, Lintmore and Button-Snar.  They had battled fearsome beasts like the Playful Fanged Shedder and the Carpet Fouler before eventually making their way to Greater Underland.

   Oh, how beautiful it was!  The cheap liner sky stretched for feet in every direction, and sparkling floors seemed to glisten with chemical aromas that brought to mind foreign sounding terms like “meadow fresh”.  And the great expanses were almost entirely depopulated, except for Broken Lego and Holy Sock, who were apparently recent arrivals.  Admittedly the living was a bit lean at first, but slowly a gentle snow of daily crumbs and toe nails began to accumulate in a bounty quite unprecedented in Wispy's experience. 

   The only other thing of note in this pristine Eden was carved on one of the corner pillars that held aloft the liner.  The Words, carved in desperation or madness, Wispy knew not which.  Some said it was a history.  Others said it was a prophecy.  Wispy thought it was a load of bunk.  But The Words had an insidious power, gnawing at the minds of the fearful and the gullible.  And now matters were coming to a head.

   For as the years had passed and the bounty of Greater Underland grew, the population began to swell.  Some more dust bunnies drifted in from various outlands and began to breed like rabbits.  Toys and larger bits of stale food arrived, and there were even a few insects and arachnids that came to call Greater Underland home.  At length the ever growing population began to put too much pressure on the food supply, and rumours of apocalypse began to spread.  The Words were the seed that fell on that fertile ground, and grew into a cult that threatened the stability of the whole realm.

   And that was why Wispy now sat, or stood, or maybe lay now, with his companions Lintmore and Button-Snar, watching the bizarre procession before them.

   â€œSoom!  Soom!  Coming Soom!” the marchers chanted, waving placards that they had made by cutting up the sacred Do Not Remove parchment, symbol of an old religion that Wispy held dear but that these doomsayers had forsaken.

   â€œWhat does 'Soom' even mean?” Lintmore asked rhetorically, more to start up a conversation than in actual wonder of its definition.  They had all puzzled over The Words in the early years, analyzing their many potential meanings.  But it was a fruitless endeavour to try to unravel such mysteries, Wispy had concluded.  Prophecy or nonsense poem?  Either way, the greatest scholars of their age had puzzled over them and could not agree in the slightest as to their precise meaning.

   Wispy sighed heavily and recited The Words by rote:

“The liner sky shall fly, and then shall come the Doom!
The crooked-bristled Broom, or the banshee-moan Vacuum!
Either way the reckoning is surely coming Soom!”

   â€œI always thought it was a type-o,” Button-Snar began.  “I mean, if something were coming, wouldn't it make sense for it to come SOON?”

   â€œWell, obviously it's not SOON,” Lintmore retorted, falling into the rut of an old argument.  “If it were coming SOON, it would have surely happened already.”

   â€œI disagree,” Button-Snar shook.  “SOON is relative to different concepts of time, not an absolute measure of-”

   â€œOh shut up, both of you!” Wispy commanded.  “We've been through this a thousand times!  What's the point of arguing?”

   â€œSorry sire,” Lintmore apologized.  “You know my poor memory, on account of having a brain the size of a peanut.  Half a peanut, actually.  Look,” he said, indicating the dry-roasted legume protruding slightly from his fur.

   â€œMine's only a bit of broken button...” Button-Snar moped.

   â€œYes, yes.  We've been through all that too!” Wispy complained.  “Now, to the point.  The Words are like a festering wound that festers more and more with each passing day.  Always festering!  But we don't need to understand the infection, we just need to cure it!”

   There were blank stares from his companions.  Actually, Button-Snar might have started to nap; it was hard to tell.

   â€œIt's a bunch of nonsense!” Wispy proclaimed.  “And the way to make everyone see that is to prove it as such.  Follow me!”

   Wispy and his companions bounded up to the processional throng, and Wispy climbed up on their shoulders in order to tower impressively over his subjects.  Well, maybe it was their backs, or possibly their faces.  But it looked impressive, and that's what counted right now.

   â€œGood bunnies of Greater Underland!  Hear me, for I am your king!” he proclaimed.

   â€œHow do we know you're the king?” shouted one of the mob.  “You don't look any different from the rest of us!”

   â€œYes I do!” said Wispy regally.  “I wear the copper disc of kinghood!”  he bent down for everyone to see, and heard the uncertain murmurs begin in the crowd.

   â€œHang on!” called out the same voice.  Wispy couldn't make out for sure where it was coming from.  “Scruffy over there's got a shinier one of those, right over there!”

   The whole crowd turned to look at the one called Scruffy.  “Two, actually,” he admitted.

   â€œShiny?!?” Wispy shouted.  “Well that just proves that they're recent knock-offs!  Only I wear the true crown, an ancient treasure given to me personally by the Lady of the Lactose Spill, ordaining me personally as king of this land!”

   â€œThat's a cheesy story!” cried out a clump of fluff agglomerated around a cheesy.

   â€œHe's spinning us a yarn!” warned a spindly spider.

   â€œI'm not going back on the foot!” shouted Holy Sock.  “It's smelly, and sweaty, and I think there's some kind of fungal issue!  We must repent of our sins, or it will kick us all up our backsides!”

   â€œNo, no!  Friends, hear me!” Wispy orated.  “That's what I'm trying to tell you!  We don't have to be afraid any more!  The Words, you see.  They're all just a bunch of stuff and nonsense, no more real than satellite communication or the Monster under Bedland.  Don't you see?  Some huckster long ago got a real chuckle from the idea of good folks like you being taken in by his little gag.  There's nothing to be afraid of, because there is no prophesy.  There is no Doom, and there is no Soom!  And I will prove it to you, by leaving the safety of the liner sky.  I will charge out into the Unknown Beyond, and will return unmolested by Broom or Vacuum, because they do not exist either!”

   A great murmur erupted from the crowd now, and rather than getting tangled in another debate Wispy spryly lept from his companions' shoulders or, er, whatever, and began to bound for the crack of light that heralded the Unknown Beyond.  Scruffy and some of his companions tried to stop him, but they were too slow to catch him.  Holy Sock raved in fear at the foot returning, and fled to curl up behind the backmost column, but the rest of the crowd came to gawk curiously at Wispy's bravado.

   With all the chivalrous pageantry of his regal station, Wispy strutted out from under the couch like the a model on the catwalk.  Unfortunately, his only audience was a woman about to host a rather important tupperware party.  All too soom the true meaning of the prophesy was revealed to all....

It is foretold that I will be submitting something within hours of the deadline.

The prophecy is true!  Stay tuned.

Fate says I'm going to get my ass in gear this week, f'shizzle!  (Fate likes to rap it old school )

[I'M IN.]

I'M IN.

I like to get physical.  I also like long walks on the beach and holding hands.

But realistically, with the way time is crunching, I think digital is the most practical way to go.

It is foretold that I will be submitting something within hours of the deadline .  Ponch too, maybe, although the chicken entrails are a little muddled on that point.

I know nothing of Melbourne except what I've learned from watching Phryne Fisher mysteries.  Basically it's a murderous cesspool with a glitzy veneer of sex and alcoholism, right?   Good luck!

[Blondbraid]

I'd have written something, but damn do I hate steampunk. It's just painfully twee.

That's just the post-trumpmatic stress talking.  P actually loves all things twee.  Especially those old-timey painted plates with idyllic rural scenes that are too nice to actually use for eating off of.  (Just in case some of you still haven't done your Christmas shopping for Ponch.... ).

And now down to business.

The Golden Whatsamajigger trophy goes to Blondbraid with a convincing fifteen votes.  I thought your Wooden Machine story an improvement over last time.  As a reader I kept trying to figure out what the machine was actually doing, so I was happy in the end that the whole story was actually about that.

The Silver Whatchamacallit trophy goes to Stupot+, mostly just for submitting something ( ), but also for creating a world that could just have been the setting for a really cool story.   Dare I hope that one day we might find out?

So I hereby bestow my powers of contest administration upon the worthy shoulders of Blondbraid.  I look forward to competing directly against my old nemesis Ponch in the next exciting (but non-twee) instalment of....

The Fortnightly Writing Competition!!1!

[The Wooden Machine]

And the competition is closed!  We have two entries this time around:

The Wooden Machine by Blondbraid
The Iron Queen by Stupot+

Please evaluate these entries on the following criteria:

Best Character: the most believable/captivating/magnetic/unique character
Best Setting: the most vividly evoked background world, or most gripping atmosphere
Best Plot: the best organized, coherent and well-executed story with appropriate pacing, climax, etc.
Best Word Choice: the technical art of combining words in a memorable way
Best Technical Innovation: Which invention/technology is most impressive from a creative perspective?
Most Substantive: Which story best reveals a lesson about the relationship between humanity and technology?

Voting will be open until it is no longer Saturday November 26 anywhere in the world.  Votes will be tabulated and a winner announced on Sunday.  Good luck to all participants!

Donald Dowell is also a fantastic game with gorgeous art, good puzzles, and great humour.

You know what they say: random endings are better than no endings at all.

The contest is hereby extended until Stupot+ enters or three days have passed, whichever occurs first.

Excellent!  Keep up the good work, gentlemen.   Extensions are available for hardworking authors such as yourselves, upon request, if required.

BvB

Great entry!  But I'd hate to see a writing comp end by default.  You've got two days to make a competition of this, folks!