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What about a revolution against the tyrannical banning of current American political topics?

[Sinitrena]

Is it by random that most of the stories feature either something blue or glowing green?  Weird.

Well, the results are in and the people have spoken.  Which would make Xina happy, but Noah roll his eyes (what do the masses know anyway? #LetThemEatCake); but I digress!  To the results:

The golden trophy of abstract free-form art (that kind of looks like a little puppy if you squint just right) goes to Sinitrena with 7 votes! (***cheers***).  I thought your story was tight, with just enough of a mystery to keep the reader wondering, and then a terrifically random twist in the end. 

The silver trophy of random squiggles (that kind of looks like a robotic raccoon if you squint just right) goes to Sane Co. with 5 votes! (***applause***).  I thought it was awesome that you were a character in your own random story, you big green meenee.

The bronze trophy of two-second scribbling (that kind of looks like a screaming duck head if you squint just right) goes to Danvzare with 4 votes! (***polite coughing from back of room***).  I think I would have given you my vote for most random event, had I been constitutionally permitted to vote.  Truly weird, my friend!

Special mention to SilverSpook, who only garnered three votes with his three-post opus.  I thought it was an awesome story.  Yeah, it was long, but I never lost interest, and I thought all the frenetic thoughts going on in Noah's millennial sharing-economy cranium contributed to a steady character development.  And I wouldn't hold random dream sequences against you when the topic is "random".   I guess the consensus is that kids these days need the elevator-pitch version of the story, not the 400 page prospectus.

Also special mention to Mandle who randomly entered the random competition and walked away with two votes.  It would have been more random if you had randomly won, but I guess random doesn't work that way in real life....  It's fun to dream sometimes, though.

So, with my contest administrant duties discharged, I hereby pass the torch to Sinitrena, be yours to hold it high.  I look forward to seeing everyone out again for the next exciting instalment of....

The Fortnightly Writing Competition!

[Danvzare]

Sorry for the delay in voting.  That's what happens when I have to be host in the depths of a Canadian winter.   So let's close this competition already!

Our entrants are:

Danvzare with It was a Beautiful Summer Morning
Sinitrena with Blue, Blue, Blue is All My Food
Sane Co. with A Funny Story
Mandle with Over the Spring Holidays
SilverSpook with The Ark

You may vote for as many people as you think deserving per category: the more the merrier, I always say.  Your categories are:

Best Character: the most believable/captivating/magnetic/unique character
Setting: the most vivid background world, or most gripping atmosphere
Plot: the best organized, coherent and well-executed story with appropriate pacing, climax, etc.
Word Choice: the technical art of combining words in a memorable way
Random Event: the most creative or weirdest or most random event around which the story is built.

Voting starts now and runs until Sunday April 17, with tabulations & trophies to follow whenever I can get to my computer on Monday.  Good luck to all contestants!

Well, let's close the competition Tuesday, just to be sure.   Good luck!

Two stories and two more days to go.  I know the official deadline is tomorrow, but I won't get around to starting the voting until approximately 48 hours from now, so get clicking those keys in a random kinda way! 

Nice to see so much activity already.  But for the rest of you, we're halfway to the deadline, so get those computer keys tapping!

What was the DiNiro line about every time I think I'm out, they keep dragging me back in?

Pacino, I think.

I'm glad you'll be sticking around Stu+, but to be frank I'll miss the old you.  You had this intoxicating devil-may-care aura that I liked to bask in, back in your 4000s.  I don't know.  Maybe we can still rekindle a little bit of that old magic.  Time will tell. 

[Sunday April 10]

Have you ever seen those YouTube videos by Grant Thompson, a.k.a.

The King of Random?



Well, this topic has nothing to do with him, but enjoy learning how to smelt metal by taking apart a microwave.   But seriously folks, this competition is about a single, random event that suddenly turns a character's world on its head.  Maybe it's a regular day and then suddenly aliens invade, or a car drives through the living room wall, or a taco in a restaurant becomes sentient, or a character suddenly develops the telekinetic ability to trigger aneurysms in anyone he meets, or an AGS game your character is coding starts taking over entire swathes of the digital global financial system, or the bottom rusts out of an airplane, or a protagonist wins the lottery, or frogs that were sucked up by a tornado suddenly start raining down à  la Magnolia, or a pothole suddenly opens under a character's car and swallows the car and then the car and the character are transported to an ancient version of the same city but has been buried for millennia under debris and is now populated by blind albino ancients with grotesquely long ear hair and uncanny echo-location abilities.  So yeah, the topic is random.  Enjoy!

Deadline is Sunday April 10 at the close of business, which means I'll actually close the comp when I get back to my computer on the evening of the eleventh.

Successful entrants will be judged on the quality of their character, setting, plot, word-choice, and of course the creative aspect of their random event.  Happy writing!


 

Well, I guess I should acknowledge the victory, but rest assured that I will be discussing via PM with kconan the terms "optics" and "collusion". 

The way I count it was a seven-seven-six vote split, which in my books pretty much constitutes a dead heat.  In the ideal world I think we should have left voting open a little longer, but I accept the authority of the contest organizer to call it as he sees fit.

In response to Sinitrena's comments about purple language, I think you would appreciate the edits I made.  In my first draft I had this Disney Acid Trip where I went off into this really silly/crazy/weird dream about a four-legged potato named Whiskers and cigar-smoking pile of cat vomit that can tell your future if you let it hold your hand.  But it was pretty purple and it really got off topic (and really needed to be rewritten), so in the end I just cut the whole thing.  So basically the version I submitted is actually less purple then it could have been.

In condolence to SilverSpook: I thought your piece was clever and insightful, and leaves the reader with just enough information to draw their own conspiratorial conclusions about what happened in the end.  I think you hit the nail on the head why you're not winning these things, though.  With such an international community here you really can't make assumptions about universal media experiences, which can make your sophisticated observational humour seem confusing or arcane to those not in the loop.  The age-old adage of "know thy audience" is as important now more than ever.  Basically you'll always be writing for Sinitrena (an ex-circus carney of German extraction who used to make glam music-videos back in the 1980s) and myself (an ex-banana republic dictator currently in exile in the Arctic), and often for Ponch (a motorcycle driving ninja-vigilante from Texas), kconan (a freak mutation of one of my cloning experiments currently running amok in Asia), JudasFM (a muscle-bound gear-head who runs her own chop shop in the Inland Empire), WHAM (aristocratic spawn of one of Europe's most powerful banking clans who now makes his living as a dangerously seductive exotic dancer), Stupot+ (a 300 year old Cornishman cursed by some old shinto god-spirit to walk the Earth for 1000 years searching for his lost mojo), and sometimes a few random others with even more bizarre background stories.  I'm not telling you how to write your stories, 'cause I really enjoy your style and substance as it is, but it's something to bear in mind when entering this particular competition.

All right, I'll climb off my rock now, smash the tablets, and move on.  As I write this the power has gone off due to an insanely intense ice-storm (stupid Arctic exile.... ), but when I get back on the grid I'll post this and get another competition up and running.








(Did you think I forgot? )






For the next exciting instalment of...



The Fortnightly Writing Competition!

[Edit]

Edit

Wait, what?  It's still the 22nd in like half the world!

Voting period ends on close of business Wednesday, March 23rd!

I demand a recount, or at least a deferment. 

----------
Original Post

Wow, I got through those in like fifteen minutes -I think that's a record!   I wonder if this will result in a surge of voter participation....   Here are mine:

Plot: I liked them both, but Sinitrena I think built more suspense before the quick conclusion.  And what is a plot without suspense, I ask?

Atmosphere:  I'm going with SilverSpook, who did a good job of mimicking a conspiratorial internet chat thingy.

Word-Choice/Style: It's no secret that I'm a sucker for SilverSpook's stringing of social-economy-era buzzwords like beads on a necklace around the neck of a beautiful woman.  My favourite this time was the punny "fences bigger than American border walls."

Grasp of Subject Matter:  I think SilverSpook seems to have a surprisingly firm grasp of flouting alphabet spy agency algos, sexbot phishing scams, and the immigrant ancestry of Republican primary candidates.

Enthusiasm for Subject Matter: Probably Sinitrena, since her hobby appears to be running off and joining the circus....   I've juggled a bit myself in my day, and I can appreciate the importance of rhythm over all else around you.  Plus, SilverSpook doesn't really seem all that enthusiastic about the coming USAnian exodus.  What's wrong with 40 years in the desert in atonement, man?

[Confessions of Dozisaurus]

Confessions of Dozisaurus

        The bedside clock glowed green with 4:23am, while the wall-clock glowed red with 4:14.  Green for go, red for stop; the stoplights of slumber.  One clock to put the fear of god into you, and another one to soothe it away.  One to motivate, the other to relieve.  One to drive, the other to brake.  One to wake, the other to lull.  One to charge ahead into the future, the other to ground patiently in the present.  The two clocks manifested the tension of the wee dark hours between wakefulness and slumber, like two ping pong paddles on either side of my bouncing head.  I hate Tuesdays.

   Of course the clocks were omnipresent.  It was the same clocks on Saturday as Monday, but it was in the small hours of Tuesday that they were at their most combative, pulling me like wild horses in their opposite-  Wait.  Was it Tuesday at all?

   My mind drifts through the half-forgotten details of another week, so familiar in its pulses and rhythms it's like an eternal dance.  They change up the music, aye, but it's always the same steps.  Like my old grandma used to say: same shit, different pile.  I should visit grandma one of these days.  But it's a long way up north at these fuel prices, and I'd have to find a cat sitter, and if I miss another garbage day the shed will be full to the brim and I'll have to borrow Big Geoffie's trailer again to make a dump run.  Besides, grandma died like a decade ago or more.

   The green clock jumps forward to 4:31am.  That means two more hours of sleep, plus a bonus snooze based on the current differential between the two clocks, as long as the baby doesn't cry and the storm doesn't shut all the roads down again.  If the power holds there might be a call at 6:15 (6:24 green time) saying not to come into work.  Those are the best days, when the whole cosmic routine breaks down and there's nothing better to do than change diapers and play tickle-fight.  Of course the wife would probably leave a list of things to do.  She's been on me about that kitchen trim for years now, but the kids don't like the loud saw and the shed is full of junk so I can't do it there unless I made that dump run.  But to do that the driveway would have to be shovelled out, and there's laundry piling up, and the bathroom needs a good scrub.  The kids will probably want to build a fort in the living room and they'll need help with moving the couch and draping the heavy blanket.  Then I'll probably get sucked into playing house or tea-party or -my son's favourite- princesses.  I don't mind the dresses or the hair clips, but why must the plot-lines be so inane?  Maybe we should just go sledding.  Too bad it's late April and I can hear the rain pelting against the roof.

   Was that a drip?  Suddenly my ears strain to detect the source of the sound.  With a house this old there are always sounds.  Settling sounds.  Unsettling sounds.  Creaks in the joists and squeaks in the floor.  Then there's the cat and his nocturnal prowlings, the furnace, the ever expanding and contracting pipes, the water heater, the battery-powered kids toys that sometimes come alive by themselves.  And the bloody devices that never want to be forgotten, with their messages and hour-beeps and endless low-power warnings.  I don't hear another drip.  Probably not the roof, or even a leaky pipe or faucet.  Maybe it's just a kid who's wet the bed all the way through?  A morning problem, whatever it was.  I snuggle back deeper under the covers.

   I am a bear in my den hibernating.  I am a mouse in a pink nest of cozy insulation.  I am a caterpillar in my cocoon, metamorphosing into a beautiful butterfly.  When dawn cracks the egg of night like a humourless drill-sergeant-chef I will emerge from my chrysalis like a phoenix, changed, improved, and energized by my hiatus from the world.  I will fix the house and tame the kids and make that big sale at work and end world hunger and build all those AGS games that have been on the back-burner for so long.  I think I'll also take up piano and call my grandmother and bathe the cat and figure out how to make sushi and write that novel and stop humming when I'm nervous and only eat vegetables before 6pm (green time) and start up the morning exercise routine again and refine my telepathic ability to control the behaviour of squirrels and break my agar.io addiction and work on that website- wait.

   I glimpse at the clock and startle awake.  How did the green clock jump ahead to 7:23am?  We're late!  My wife has to shower, the kids need to get ready for school, nobody's breakfasted, the cat has flees, the car won't start, the lunches aren't made, it was garbage day and nothing's on the curb, the washing machine broke and my work-clothes are ruined, and a voracious horde of nose-sodomizing aliens have invaded just my street as a beach-head for their conquest of the entire Earth!

   I glimpse at the red clock.  It's only 4:37am.  I don't know what I did before I got that red clock.  I think I hear the satisfying whack of a ping-pong ball, but bear it no mind as I settle down to restful slumber once again....

I was going in another direction, with me being no more than a narrative voice that is in all my work anyway.  I also assumed this would be all right since we've never actually rejected a submission ever, no matter how off-base....

 It's been a while, but if memory serves

Spoiler

you gotta use the noose on the guillotine, which you cut down with the shrapnel, which you get by shooting the cannon, which you do by spitting the cigarette.  All I have to say for myself is that it made sense at the time....

[close]

The deadline looms when I say it looms; I have great expertise in procrastination.

I've got an idea, and the deadline's not for 9 days!  It must be all the psychotropic drugs I'm becoming an expert in and will soon be writing about....

I found a knife once, too.  It was lodged in the drain pipe under my sink.  Weird.

Congrats kconan!  A well-deserved victory!  I look forward to the next round.

...

[Characters]

Ministry of Characters:I've got to give this one to kconan for the Niccolò di Bernardo dei Machiavellian character of Niccolo/Bernard.  His almost inhuman cynicism in the blind pursuit of power is as scary as his ideas were absurd (and scary too!).

Ministry of Plot: Here I'm going with Mandle for the clever plot twist at the end.  Kconan's piece, while hilariously descriptive of the depths to which sound-bite democracy has plunged, didn't really have much plot development.

Ministry of Atmosphere: I guess I'm going with kconan, mostly because of the sense of intellectual revulsion he was able to bring out in me (which is impressive, because I'm a pretty cynical guy."

Ministry of Background World: Definitely kconan's world of severed Mississippi.  I particularly liked the idea of an "encampment" circuit for all the known militias, and Big Geology (those bastards!).

Ministry of Word Choice/Style: I think I've got to give it to kconan for the radical right-wing rhetoric of his various power-grubbing politicos.  I especially appreciated how he was able to cram in so many wedge-words into one phrase: They think we are luring people to polling places to confiscate their guns, which will then be given to gay atheists who will use them to shoot fetuses in order to save the environment so that land will be ripe for a takeover by Arabs.  Nice!

Unfortunately my votes come out rather one-sided this time.  I want to say that I enjoyed Mandle's story, especially the clever twist on the "assassination", but kconan has clearly put a vast amount of thought and effort into his piece (either that or he lives in a bunker somewhere in the mid-west and this all just flowed freely from his paranoid mind ).  Good reads both; good work, gentlemen!

Humour on the Hustings

       Er.... hi.  I bid you, the Membership, welcome to the first annual general meeting of the Society of Roll-Playing Game Aficionados or -as I like to anagramatically condense it -S.O.R.P.G.A.  Meuhuh!   If you would please take your seats we can move on to the first order of business for our new-formed corporate body, which is to say the election of a club president, after which we will break open the Cheezies and soda and play Magic the Gathering until there is a clear and decisive winner, or until we hit the curfew wall of 9:30pm, whichever comes first.  Meuhuh.  Are there any nominations for the position of club-president?”  Filmore adjusted his thick glasses and dramatically scanned the room, which was a needlessly theatrical gesture since there were only three other people there.  A pair of hands came up in the back, both belonging to the same person.  “Uh, yes, you sir, in the back.”

   A slender man of stooping stature and fuzzy cheeks stood up.  “I, Edwin d'Appopollopodrou, hereby challenge for leadership of the clan!”

   There was a gasp of murmurs from the other two members present.

   Filmore adjusted his glasses again, trying not to appear agitated.  “Why, there is no one to challenge, this being our inaugural meeting and the presidency therefore being at this time vacant.  However, if you are willing to submit to the process as laid out in our club charter....”

   â€œ-Oh fine.  I nominate myself.” Edwin pouted, crossing his arms and sitting down.

   â€œGood, good,” Filmore soothed, again fiddling with his glasses.  “Any other nominations?”  He made a show of scanning the room again, just to make sure everyone felt as if they had a fair chance to contribute.  At length another hand shot up.

   â€œYes, you sir, with the hopelessly dated heavy-metal T-shirt.  Who do you nominate?”

   â€œI, Guthrie, hereby nominate Teresa Palmer.”

   â€œHmmmm, I see,” Filmore nodded, reaching for his smart-phone to figure out who exactly Guthrie was talking about.

   â€œObjection, your honour!” Edwin shouted, jumping to his feet.  “I hold that Teresa Palmer is ineligible, on the grounds that she does not meet the eligibility criteria stipulated in the club charter.”

   Filmore's phone finally got a signal of sufficient strength to process his search term, and his glasses almost hit the screen.  “Sweet Windwright Mage!” he blurted.  “Why doesn't she come to the meetings?!?”

   â€œFor the love of Greven il-Vec!” Edwin persisted.  “She's a Hollywood celebrity!”

   The quietest member of S.O.R.P.G.A., Dan Batsma, spoke up for the first time.  “Hey Filmore, when your done, can I look at the pictures on your phone?”

   There was a flurry of shuffling papers and then Edwin stood triumphantly.  “The Charter says, and I quote: Whomsoever shall be a card-carrying member in good standing shall be entitled to voting privileges and shall be eligible to become an officer in the club.  I demand that the membership role be consulted before this farce goes on any longer!”

   Now it was Filmore's turn to shuffle through papers while Dan peered studiously at the images on his smart-phone, Edwin preened, and Guthrie turned red with an inner chuckle.

   â€œAha!  The official membership role!” Filmore declared.  “Huh....”

   â€œRead it out,” Edwin commanded.

   â€œWell, er.... bearing in mind that we have just emerged from a rather chaotic membership drive.... the official membership role reads as follows: Filmore Spry -that's me.  Edwin d'Appopollopodrou, Ernst Guthrie, Dan Batsma.  Also scribbled in at the bottom and thereby being official according to the terms of the Charter are: Missus Floofy -that's Guthrie's dog; Gene Hackman, the afore-mentioned Teresa Palmer,  Æthelberht King of Kent, Oliver North, Super Dave Osborne, and the Loch Ness Monster.”

   Guthrie wheezed with laughter, turning brighter and brighter red.  Edwin stood gobsmacked, silently withdrawing his objection.  Dan scrolled further until Filmore grabbed his phone back.

   â€œRight.  Are there any other nominations?” Filmore asked, this time with a rather expectant tone.

   Dan raised his hand. 

   â€œYes, the quiet fellow with the greasy fingers,” Filmore said, wiping at his smart-phone screen.  “Who do you nominate?”

   â€œI, Dan Batsma, would like to nominate Ernst Callaghan Guthrie the Third for the presidency of S.O.R.P.G.A.”

   Again there were gasps, this time coming exclusively from Edwin.

   â€œOh fine,” Filmore said, scribbling down another name.  “So we've got Edwin d' Appopollopodrou, Teresa Palmer, and Ernst Callaghan Guthrie III.”

   â€œWait,” Dan interrupted.  “You haven't nominated anyone yet, Fil.”

   â€œI nominate myself as well,” Filmore retorted, a little too quickly.  “So let's proceed to the voting.”

   â€œWait, wait, wait, wait, wait,” Edwin repeated.  “I think there should at least be a brief speech by all of the nominees, so that we have the opportunity to win votes by laying out our platforms.  All in favour?”

   â€œAye!” Guthrie managed, still giggling.

   â€œSo carried!” Edwin smiled, revealing a transcontinental railroad's worth of steel bracing in his teeth.  He confidently put one foot up on his chair and began to speechify:  “Friends, Romans, Country Bumpkins-” this last a  not-so-subtle jab at the still shaking Guthrie- “Lend me your ear.  I, Edwin of Appopollopodrou, will lead this society of gamers and circus freaks to greatness!  Follow me, and together we will straddle the Earth in glorious victory over our vanquished foes!  Only I have the decisive executive disposition, the maniacal ruthlessness, and the coif of sufficient sex-appeal to unite the factions and lead us to greatness!  Ho!”

   There was a smattering of muted applause, and Edwin returned to his chair.

   â€œGuthrie,” Filmore indicated, “It's your turn.”

   Guthrie was again starting to glow, which could only mean that he was plotting further gags at the expense of the democratic process.  “I have no speech,” he managed through stifled laughter.  “But I do have a brief statement from another candidate.”  With a sudden motion that belied his girth, Guthrie threw open the drapes of the nearby window to reveal a montage of very well curated pictures of the semi-famous actress Teresa Palmer.  Several jaws hit the floor.

   â€œGuthrie, you fool!” Filmore protested.  “My mom will have a feminist conniption if she sees a young woman displayed so overtly for ogling!”  He quickly closed the drapes again.

   â€œI don't believe Candidate Palmer has been given sufficient opportunity to make her case for the presidency,” Dan interjected while Guthrie shrank into giggling again.  “Shouldn't there be a minimum time allotment for her to speak to the membership?”

   â€œAll in favour?” Edwin called out.  Only Dan raised his hand as Guthrie was shaking too much with mirth to contribute.

   â€œMotion denied,” Filmore stated flatly.  “And now it's my turn,  meuhuh.  If I am elected president I will run this club in a conspicuously normal way, by ensuring that the kitchen tables of our various venues are booked well in advance, and that snacks are apportioned fairly relative to the dues contributed by each member.  I will also show up early to make sure our playing surfaces are wiped free of crumbs and sanitized to my exacting standards,  meuhuh.  Finally, if elected president I will undertake an initiative to create an efficient phone-tree in order that time-sensitive information can be distributed quickly to the membership.  Remember, fate favours the prepared mind.  That is all.”

   Filmore sat down, and all four of them stared at each other for a long moment.

   â€œWell,” Filmore started again, “Now is the moment of truth: Decision 2016.”  He rang a little bell, and sat back expectantly.

   â€œWhat is that?” Edwin asked.  “Some sort of signal?  Are you bringing your hired thugs in to smooth your ascendency to power?  Filmore, you diabolical Napoleon you!”

   â€œQuite the contrary, my Machiavellian comrade.  I'm merely summoning my old grandmother from her solitaire game to act as an impartial arbiter to forestall any accusations of vote rigging.  I think we can all agree that anyone who has lived to such an saintly old age must have an impeccably honest character.”  There were nods of consensus around the table.

   At length an old woman hobbled into the room with a box.  “Look at all you nice boys, waiting patiently to exercise your democratic rights.  Why, back in the Old Country you'd be lionized as heroes.  That is, if you weren't lined up and shot.  Why I remember....”

   â€œ-Oma, please,” Filmore interrupted.  “Stick to the script.”

   â€œOh yes, sorry.  The mind wanders at my age, you see.  I will now distribute the ballots.”  Filmore's grandmother lifted the lid of the box and ceremoniously distributed the four blank ballots contained therein to each of the members present.  She then replaced the lid so that only a tiny slot was left for the ballots to be returned once filled out.  She distributed pens and hummed cheerily to herself while each S.O.R.P.G.A. member thought pensively before scribbling a name, folding the paper, and submitting their ballot. 

   â€œI will now tally the ballots,” she said formally, moving to the far side of the kitchen island so that the proceedings would be visible to all.  Slowly, ever so slowly, she withdrew the first ballot and made a neat tally on her score sheet.  The process was so tediously slow that the boys turned to speculate over the potential results.

   â€œWhat do we do in the event of a tie?” Edwin asked, scanning Charter for guidance.

   â€œI think there should be two co-presidents, like the Roman consuls.”

   â€œNah, there should be a second round of voting, eliminating the weakest candidates.”

   â€œCouldn't there be some sort of contest of wits or reflexes to decide a champion?”

   At great length Filmore's grandmother proclaimed that results were in and that there was a decisive winner.  This set off a wave of gasps and murmurs as such an outcome was most unexpected.  There was a sudden flurry of electoral calculus.

   â€œErnst Callaghan Guthrie III, one vote,” the grandmother read.  There were nods from the crowd.

   â€œFilmore Amadeus Spry, one vote.”  Gasps erupted again as the conclusion to the vote came increasingly into focus.

   â€œEdwin d'Appopollopopopadude,” the grandmother read as she struggled to reassert control over her dentures, “Two votes.”

   â€œWhat?!?” Filmore blurted.  He looked accusingly at Guthrie, who slipped further into spasmic laughter.  Edwin cackled with triumphant glee.

   â€œAnd Teresa Palmer,” she concluded, “26 ½ votes.  Gentlemen, with the authority invested in me as adjudicator of the electoral process, I hereby declare Miss Palmer to be the president of the Society of Roll-Playing Game Aficionados!”

   With that the old grandmother hobbled out of the room leaving a stunned silence, except for the knee slapping snickers of Ernst Callaghan Guthrie the Third.