Messages

Um, okay...I'm guessing that's a no?

Er... seek harder.

Seek the truth within and all shall be revealed.

     ¹ In the beginning there was light.  And then there followed a series of events of no remarkable importance.  And then the Fortnightly Writing Competition came into being, and it was good. Welcome therefore to the competition named:

Biblical Book


     ²The commandment was written on the tablet in letters that flamed.  Thou shalt write a story in Biblical format.  Thou shalt name thy piece the Book of Something, and therein thou shalt tell a tale of moral ambiguity, perhaps with occasional lapses in continuity with lessons so arcane as to be of dubious value!

     ³Ye olde archaic language is optional, quoth the tablet.  Furthermore, thou needst not necessarily have a biblically themed story: only the format need be in bible-esque verses.  So thou canst write about modern times, or some hedonistic atheist creation myth, or write a bubblegum commercial without judgement.

     ⁴ But thou shalt not incur the wrath of the higher power in this competition by forsaking the deadline!  All entries must be submitted two days after the first Sabbath of autumn.  Hence thou shalt travel to the village of thy forefathers to vote and be counted in categories various and sundry.  These categories might include something related to character, setting, plot, style, and best-use-of-theme.  So it is written.

     ⁵ Directeth thy questions to the nearest oracle, and thou willt learn that all is permissible if ye but submit to the awkward format prescribed!  Seek ye the guidance of the voices in thy head, and thou shalt revel in the wisdom of the prophets.  Ask, and thou shalt receive.  But render unto Caesar what is Caesar's, lest He vomit thou from His mouth.  Go in grace.     

Big thanks to CaeserCub for the trophies!

A good round as always, although I will miss the opportunity to co-host with Sinitrena again.  I'll try to have the next topic up shortly.

Congratulations to all participants!

[Best Character:]

Best Character: I'm going with Blondbraid for his socially inept "expert in life" who can't understand why everyone always disappears.
Best Setting: I think Sinitrena wins this for evocative imagery of nature swallowing humanity's overwrought nests and anthills. 
Best Plot: Gotta be DBoyWheeler for his spelunker mystery.
Best Writing: Hands down Sinitrena for the double rhyme. 
Best Editing: Ultimately Stupot+ has winnowed away the most chaff, leaving nothing but pure minimalism to tell the story.
Best Mystery: Although there was an element of mystery to all the submissions,DBoyWheeler wins my vote for creating a creepy twilight zone style enigma.

[Barnetville Tennessee, 1915]

Sneaky McSneakface Sneakerson here....

Barnetville Tennessee, 1915

   The throng of angry men and hysterical women chorused like an un-oiled steam engine, at times rumbling threateningly and then screeching alarmingly, all the while casting noxious vapours about the air of the hall.  Wooden benches creaked under the weight of burly miners now standing on them, and objects were now beginning to fly towards the stack of crates that served as a podium.  The director of the mine wisely left the stage, sensing that the runaway pressure in the boiler was about to blow.

   But then, remarkably, a man no one had ever seen before replaced him.  He radiated an authoritative calmness that made the fretful mine director look like a chastened school boy.  His immaculate suit made him seem more official than the local reverend.  He stood such a contrast to the raging and ragged crowd that their ferment cooled instantly like vapour in a condenser, and the resulting vacuum pulled them gently back to their starting points like so many pistons in their cylinders.  They stared at him, awestruck that such a man existed at all in the world, let alone in their miserable corner of it.

   â€œLadies and gentlemen,” the man spoke clearly and concisely, “I am Joseph Austin Holmes, Deputy Director of the Federal Bureau of Mines.  I and my team have handled dozens of mine disasters: we are the experts, and your loved ones' best hope for survival.  According to our information an uncontrolled blast occurred at 0600 hours at the Boswell mine-head, leading to a shaft-collapse and fire, resulting in 22 men and boys unaccounted for.  To further dampen hopes, the primary pumps were damaged in the explosion, resulting in a water-table creep of approximately four feet per hour, which will flood out any remaining air-pockets in roughly 26 hours.  I want to assure you that the best mechanics, engineers, and firemen in the country will be working on restoring the shafts and pumps for that entire time, but I want to soberly caution everyone in this room that the chances of survival are remote and declining by the minute.  Besides asphyxiation from coal-gas and the threat of drowning, there is a very real possibility that an underground fire could smoulder and grow, precluding any rescue or recovery efforts for decades.  In addition, the threat of successive explosions is ever present, so I want to caution members of the community to remain outside the perimeter that my team is setting up even as we speak.  The best thing you can do for your loved-ones right now is to stay out of our way, and pray.”

*    *   *   *   *

   Slowly, sadly, almost wordlessly the crowd dissipated, trudging meekly back to their homes and hovels.  Soon the hall was empty except for a single, lonely woman.  She was Dorothy “Dot” Maybell, one-hundred-and-eight years old as far as anyone could reckon, which apparently wasn't very well in this hillbilly mining town.  Her husband had died of the miner's lung some forty-odd years ago, leaving her to keep bar in the local saloon to feed the family.  Not a respectable career for a family lady, but Dot Maybell never was much for niceties when her family was in trouble.  Now she had two sons and a grandson down that godforsaken pit, and nothing but a bunch of fine-spoken suits to help them out of their impossible predicament.  Now was not a time for niceties.

     No, now was a time for someone who would suffer no nonsense to take charge of the situation, and Dot Maybell had a firm impression that that person was her.  There hadn't been a bar-fight in her saloon since 1875, and she kept an old Colt revolver fastened to her garter and a pair of throwing knives in her nickers to keep it that way.  And between her family and her patrons she had heard enough about coal-mining over the years to know the business inside and out.   Maybe even enough to impress the suits in charge, if they ever bothered to listen to a meek old grandmother, which was unlikely.  But then, she wasn't very likely to listen to them either.

*   *   *   *   *

   â€œI need a full report and I need it two minutes ago,” Joseph Austin Holmes barked to a subordinate as he and a coterie of G-men entered the perimeter.

   â€œWe can't get a clean reading with the spectrometer, sir,” a young man in a suit named Williams replied.  “There seems to be some sort of magnetic interference, possibly originating in the lower strata of rocks.  In fact, about all we have to go on is seismic readings that led us here in the first place.”

   Holmes detected a hint of scepticism in his subordinate's voice, but ignored it.  “Calhoun, is this site secured?”

   â€œYes sir!”

   â€œAre you certain you've located and secured every possible access point, including air-shafts and abandoned works?

   â€œEr, probably sir!”  The man named Calhoun gestured to an even more minor subordinate who was wrestling with several dozen crinkled maps trying to escape in the early evening breeze.  “This whole mountain is like a brick of Swiss cheese, sir.”

   â€œI want this site secured!” Holmes snapped.  “Do you understand me?  Requisition men from the Cumberland office if you need to.  No one gets in or out without my say so.”

   â€œYes sir!”

   â€œBattison, Williams, Brown, and Schuster, you're with me,” Holmes continued, donning a trench coat.  “Johnson and his boys are on standby in case we need back-up.  Farmingham coordinates communications here at the mine head.  Anyone else belongs to Calhoun.  Are there any questions?”  Men suited up and grabbed their kit.  “Good.  Let's go!”
   
*   *   *   *   *

   The rhythmic dripping of water from the mine ceiling and the erratic static from the spectometer were the only sounds in the crypt-like caverns beneath the surface.  Williams led the way with the antenna thrust ahead of him and the rest of the heavy mechanism on his back.  Following was Holmes with a flashlight over his shoulder, and then Brown with his pistol drawn, then Schuster with the maps.  Battison brought up the rear with the telephone wire spool.

   â€œThis is worse than Nevada,” Brown whined.

   â€œCan it, kid,” Schuster muttered.  “Besides, nowhere's worse than Nevada!”

   Holmes tapped Williams on the shoulder, but the scientist shook his head.

   â€œMaybe it was just a blip?” Battison wondered aloud.

   â€œOr maybe we're too late,” Holmes shot back.  They rounded the corner, where the tunnel ended in yet another cave in.  “Can we tell how thick it is?”

   Williams brought another device out of a holster on his pack and and placed the cup end against the debris and the other end into his ear.  He counted quietly to himself, then replied: “About twenty feet.”

   â€œToo far to dig in time,” Holmes muttered, beckoning for a map from Schuster.  “Is there a way around?”

   â€œNothing on the mine specs, sir, but common practice in this type of pit suggests there should be an air shaft somewhere around here.”

   â€œLet's head that way.  Battison: send word to the surface that tunnel B is clear.”

   â€œYes sir!”

*   *   *   *   *

   Dot Maybell slid the dressing trunk to the side in the back room of the saloon, and then lifted the trap door to the cellar.  Her boys still snuck off work sometimes mid-shift and took the secret tunnel to the saloon for a nice lunch above ground.  Only a few of the oldtimers who were around when it was dug knew about it, and Dot had used her throwing knives once or twice to keep it that way.  The mine bosses had no idea it existed, but then they had a hard time telling their own assholes from a mine-shaft.  That meant the fancy G-men had no idea either.  Even her own boys didn't know all the old shafts and crosses, cut back in her husband's day more than fifty years ago.  And that meant that there was a chance, slim as the glimmer of light up a narrow air-shaft, but a chance nonetheless that she could circumvent the collapse and get to her boys.  Dot grabbed the rusty old safety lamp from the wall and quickly ducked through the dwarf-sized door into the bowels of the earth.

*   *   *   *   *

   There was an audible change to the pitch of the static from William's spectrometer, and Holmes ordered the suited procession to stop.  “We have something.  Relay our current location to the surface.”

   â€œWe're in uncharted tunnels now,” Schuster revealed.

   â€œDamn it, man!  Then give them our approximate location.  And get Johnson's team down in the hole.  They can follow our wire if things get-”

   Williams raised his hand, slowly moving his antenna back and forth.  The static faded in and out, replaced momentarily by a definite hum.

   â€œHoly shit,” Brown muttered, cocking his gun.

   â€œYou know you can't shoot that thing down here with all the coal-gas, right?” Schuster pointed out.

   â€œHoly sh-”

   â€œWhatever it is, it's moving,” Williams said, waving his antenna and squinting at the dials in the dim light.

   â€œWhere?  How far?” Holmes demanded.

   â€œOn approximately a parallel course.  Maybe forty feet through the rock.  There must be another tunnel.”

   Joseph Austin Holmes considered his options.  “All right.  Williams and I proceed with Battison, while Brown and Schuster backtrack.  I want this wall scoured for any kind of a link, no matter how small.  If you find anything one man stands guard and the other reports to Johnson.  Go!"

*   *   *   *   *

   The phone rang at the surface coordination centre and Farmingham picked it up.

   â€œSlow down, Johnson,” he said irritably.  “I can't make you out.  There's a lot of static on the line.  What?  Brown?  Shoved up Schuster's what?!?  Good god!  I'm sending Calhoun with the medic.  I said I'm sending -hello?  Hello?”

   Farmingham barked an order to a subordinate and then got back on the phone.  No answer from Johnson's team.  Next he tried Holmes.  The silence between the rings stretched out to a sickening length.  He was about to hang up when suddenly the call went through.

   â€œHello?” an old woman's voice answered

   Farmingham almost fell off his stool.  “Who is this?” he asked, confused.  He frantically waved down another subordinate and hurriedly scratched out a note reading “Code 9!”

   â€œThis is Dorothy Ann Maybell, and who might you be?”

   â€œThis is agent Farmingham with the Paranorm- er, the U.S. Bureau of Mines.  May I speak with agent Holmes please?

   â€œIs that the fancy boss man?” the old lady asked.

   â€œYes, ma'am.”  Farmingham spun his fingers in the air at the panting Calhoun to signal him that they had to go into containment mode.

   â€œHe and his friend with the electric flute walked into the brilliant light in the main gallery,” the old woman told him.

   â€œElectric flute?” Farmingham prodded.  “You mean Williams and his spectrometer?”

   â€œA lovely instrument,” the old lady prattled on.  “Like a song out of a dream.”

   â€œWhat about Battison?  He'd be the fellow attached to the phone you're speaking on.

   â€œOh, there's not much left of him,” the woman said nonchalantly.

   â€œWhat happened?  Did you see the bogey, ma'am?”

   â€œSaw it?  I stabbed the SOB right in the, well, it's hard to explain really.  It's kind of halfway between it's ninth tentacle and it's spider ass.  Whining like a gelded bull now.  Any way,  can't talk now as I'm off to kingdom come to save my boys.  Keep your G-men out of my bar or there'll be hell to pay!  Ta!”

   With that the line went dead. 

   Farmingham rubbed his temples soothingly.  This evening was going to generate a whole shit ton of paperwork.

OK, I've got something started, but we're going back out camping for a couple days and I won't be home until Tuesday night (Aug 30).  Is there any chance for a one or two day extension?

I've suffered from a mass disappearance of ideas on this one.  C'mon, brain!  Think!

Does it have to be about people?  What about an entry detailing the mass disappearance of Stupot+'s unfinished entries?

I just reread your post actually Mandle and yes.  Do you have any two year old cheddar?

Query: When you mention that the editing category of voting involves the lack of obnoxious rambling and excessively tangential details (possibly in beautifully baroque language that is so purple it makes your nipple hairs rise like kelp from the ocean floor), did you mean to imply that this was the only element of the editing process that would justifiably garner a supporting ballot?  Or would the category be expansive enough to include other meddlesome off-stage duties such as polishing the syntactical props and proofreading the programme for spelling mishaps?  I ask out of curiosity but also most crucially out of strategic intent, so I humbly beseech you to set out unambiguously the exact extent of this exasperatingly exacting new frame of assessment.   

Joined.  Just cause I'm a bandwagon kind of guy.

Sorry Slasher.  Deadlines are deadlines!

What is off-putting to her (and the point of the story) is the lack of consent. Quin took their free will, they had no choice. Did I not get that across properly?

I did get that Debra was disgusted at the thought of Ian haunting her from exboyfriendland, but it was her nauseous reaction to Celia physically that struck me.  To me she seems to have the emotional will to still love Celia (We have to try), but can't bring herself to see her lover as sexually attractive anymore.  So I guess in my mind I equated the physical reaction to the physical act, although rereading the ending I can see how I might have been reading too much between the lines.  I guess I let my own middle-aged perspective (with my emotional relationship going strong but the physical one not what it once was ) colour my perception of what the much younger Debra was feeling.

[Mandle]

Just doing my duty as contest administrator.

(hehehe ....duty.)


Alrighty then!  The votes are in ...kinda.  I'm going to wave a cautionary finger at selmiak for just lazily saying all his votes go to Mandle.  Our competitors have poured their souls and several hours into writing these stories: the least you could do is write out your votes for each category.  Even discounting half of his votes, however, would still result in a Mandle victory, though, so I'm going to declare him the winner.

The golden tent of spooky campfire story-telling goes to Mandle.  I thought it was clever incorporating a classic jump-scare yarn into the camping competition, and the way you crafted that horrible turn was certainly chilling.  I too am a little confused by the main character's sudden obsession with becoming Grabberman.  If the character was something he aspired to be, wouldn't he relish the telling of the Grabberman story instead of immaturely abridging it?

If this silver tent's a rockin', don't come a knockin' for Sinitrena.  She championed another underappreciated camping theme: sweaty sleeping bags!   I thought it was an artistically bold choice you made, but you pulled it off vividly.  And it really had to be so rough and lustful that it was off-putting, so that the reader could appreciate Debra's sentiments at the end.  You have my admiration for bravely holding no punches with your pen this time: well done.

Finally, the bronze tent of Ninja Aunties goes to kconan.  It was a thrilling battle of (wo)man vs. nature.  I would gladly forgive you the cheesy fight scene at the end if you'd have just killed off Sarah.  Why, why, why didn't you kill her off?  Our herd is weaker now....

No trophies for Ponch and Stupot, whose fictional fiction was somewhat lacking in both form and substance.

So now it is up to Mandle to take a break from regaling and put on his contest administrator's hat.  Yes, the tall one.  It is now his sole responsibility to come up with a novel theme and rule set for the next exciting instalment of...


...The Fortnightly Writing Competition! 

[kconan]

Our cub scouts leader was an alcholic guy who came up with the best game ever:

Yeah, I'm pretty sure some of our leaders were there because the judge told them they had to do community service....

But this discussion digresses.  It is VOTING TIME!  Our participants are, in order of entry:

kconan with Henry Mountain Mayhem
Mandle with The Story of the Seven Steps
Sinitrena with Late Summer's Dream
Stupot+ with Cub's Guide to the Zombie Apocalypse
Ponch with The Unwritten Memoirs of Band Camp

OK, so the last two submissions weren't actually written, but we can imagine that both would have been pretty entertaining.

As promised, we will be voting on the categories published in the OP, namely:

Best Character: the most believable/captivating/magnetic/unique character
Best Setting: the most vivid background world, or most gripping atmosphere (i.e. nature in all it's harsh reality or haunting unknowability)
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 Natural Obstacle: What was the best curve-ball that nature threw at our heroes?
Most Substantive: Which story best reveals a lesson about humanity or the world around us?

Voting runs until Saturday August 13.  Happy reading, and good luck to all (actual) participants.

I was going to be a show-off and started working on a little semi-interactuve Twine story based on my time in the cub scouts (and not enjoying it very much because I was a shy kid pushed into it by my mum].

Akayla, we'll do our best...dub, dub, dub....  Oh man, that takes me back.  Where would you learn to smoke cigarettes and cuss like a sailor if not in Cub Scouts?   I blame your sixer....

24 more hours!

the trust of the EU is now lost, probably forever. The EU will most likely never think of Britain as a real partner in anything ever again.

Ah, but time heals all wounds.  It took exactly twelve years for Germany to go from apocalyptic war-monger to being a founding member of the EEC.  I'll bet Britain can manage cordial relations with its ex somewhat more quickly.

Nice!  With three submissions we have a genuine competition now.  Hopefully we'll get a few last minute submissions.  Ponch, for example, hasn't logged in for two weeks: the only plausible explanation is that he's doing research for his story submission at Band Camp.  And who knows, maybe some of our other regulars or even a newcomer might submit something crazy-awesome to shake things up.  Diaphanous tents, anyone?

As an incentive, I'm giving you a one day extension.  Not because I'm nice, but because I'm actually going camping.  Living the dream, man!  If I don't make it out of the bush I hereby nominate WHAM to administer the competition, or if he makes a submission in my absence then JudasFM, and if she also makes a submission then I nominate icey games because that guy's clearly got the energy to kick this competition up a notch.

See you all in a few days!

Keep Writing!

We may have just started anticipating your submission.

Your hands are most likely dirtier before you use the bathroom than they are after as you transferred some of the filth to your willy in the process.

OMG I've been smearing filth on my willy six times a day all my life!