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[Mandle]

Dammit, sorry guys, I know I'm late.
I got out of hospital in the weekend and have been pretty out of it since, cycling between pain and painkiller-induced blur.

Anyway, deadline IS up and the contestants are as follows:

Mandle
A COLORFUL JOKE

Baron
The Hubris of A

Blondbraid
The fiend in the cave

Wiggy
Nu Zulland (Story had no name, so I gave it one)

Sinitrena
A Flag of Discord

Please hand out your votes, one vote per category, as follows:
Best Rivalry: The most interesting or unimaginable pairing of nations, or perhaps the reason of the rivalry itself.
Best Writing: Grammar, structure, clarity and word choice.
Best Story: The one tale of rivalries that most entertained or educated the reader.

Once all scores are tallied on the night of 1st of July, I will also check each story for a link to a source that confirms it has some relation to a real world or historical rivalry of some kind, so you can get that tasty, tasty extra point in the end!
May the best story win!

(I will abstain from voting because holy hell is my mind a mess right now...)

As we are below 3 entries, I am granting Baron a brief extension by moving the deadline out to midnight of 26th. That means you have today and tomorrow to write, mister!

Make it count!

Huzzah, an entry! I was worried the unusual topic might deter entries entirely, but we now have one, and Baron has stated they are already working on something, so things might turn interesting after all.

A little more time left, people! Time to dig up those bitter grudges!

[National rivalries]

National rivalries


The Finns and the Swedes. The Americans and the Canadians. The British and the French. The Germans and the French. Hell, everyone and the French!
It seems that every nationality out there has some kind of rivalry with another. Some of those are good spirited and humorous, others (especially when it comes to sports, damn Swedes...) less so.

Your task for the upcoming fortnight is to write up a story revolving around a national rivalry, be it a comedic one or a dead serious one.

Points are awarded in the following categories:
Best Rivalry: The most interesting or unimaginable pairing of nations, or perhaps the reason of the rivalry itself.
Best Writing: Grammar, structure, clarity and word choice.
Best Story: The one tale of rivalries that most entertained or educated the reader.

Bonus point:
If your tale is based on a historical or ongoing real-world national rivalry, and you provide a source for it to prove you didn't just make it up, you get a single (1) free point in your final scoring!
(It is not REQUIRED to write of a real-world rivalry. You just pass up on the one (1) free point if you opt for a more imaginative setting. Remember: truth is often more fanciful than fiction!)

Deadline for submissions is Sunday 24th of June at 23:59 GMT.
Deadline for voting shall be Friday 29th of June at 23:59 GMT (to maximize voting time and allow next competition to be started in the weekend).

[Sinitrena: Rose]

Arrgh! Halt! Stop! Verrdammt!
I was really busy all week so I only just finished reading and want to cast my votes!

Sinitrena: Rose
I feel this might not have been your strongest work. Some of the phrases felt forced and a bit like filler, and a few typos and mistakes cost you the best writing here. (Only upon re-reading the rules I notice there is no best writing category this time around, so nevermind that.) Still, I feel for Rose and her story and despite the flaws, this was a rather pleasant, if grimly real and soul-crushing, read.

(In other news: fuck people who throw things into traffic. Fuck 'em with a rusty rake. Why does it keep happening every goddamn year!?)


Mandle: Bald Prophet
Good for him!


Baron: Through the Dander of Despair
Now there's a setting I did not expect to see. And well done, too. The twist ending was a bit used, a bit cliche, but the rest of the writing and the unique nature of the setting and character gives it some extra flavour.


Babar: Song of Remembrance
I'm not a huge fan of poetry, but I can appreciate the effort and style of the writing. Much better than anything I could do, that's for sure.


VOTES:
Best story: Sinitrena, for getting to me with such a real tale
Best scene setting: Baron, for the utterly unique setting
Best or worst protagonist: Sinitrena, for Rose

WHAM: I think it was a good idea to modify your story. The first version wasn't bad by any means, but the revision does clear a few things up. For example, it was a bit confusing in the beginning who is talking (I think, there were a couple of days between reading the two versions.). Your story is great when it comes to world-building, and definetely hints to a larger world behind it. What would happen if thw dead come back to life? And it's interesting that it's basically set after most stodires take place. The living fighting the armies of the dead? That I've read often enough, but a world that has itself arranged with the fact, at least to some degree - that is new and faszinating.

'New and fascinating'. Now that I consider high praise. Thank you!

I was at work, doodling on my notepad while I was trying to come up with ideas for a story. Ended up just drawing a simple skull as sort of practice for facial structures, but his eyesockets had this sort of expression in them that was unintentional. He seemed annoyed, possibly due to the inconvenience of being dead and missing a jaw. That was pretty much what I started building this story around: the dead being dissatisfied with their condition and rising up to try and make their afterlives more tolerable. Now that I have this rough opener, I am kind of tempted to expand this thing into a longer, more fleshed out story of war-refugees and survivors, of how humanity might contend with a sort of zombie apocalypse scenario where the living dead aren't just shambling, mindless, flesh-eating monsters, but people with personalities, motivations and needs. Just, sans breathing. I kind of like the setup.

I wasn't happy with the original story I posted, so I updated it a bit a moment ago. In case you read it already and felt it was crap, consider giving it another shot.

[A road to the land of the dead]

A road to the land of the dead

The old truck, dating back to the late 70's, it's hull painted in a dull orange and its back covered by an army-green tarpaulin, lists dangerously as its driver struggles to keep it on the road. The old asphalt was full of cracks and gaps, entire sections of it missing entirely as the recently ended war had left its mark upon its surface, while the roadsides were full of shattered metal and wreckage. Occasionally the vehicle would pass groups of other travellers, but most of those didn't even look up. At least the smoke had cleared over the past weeks, so the faint light of the stars and the moon were able to bathe the landscape in their dim, eerie glow. Britney wrapped her arms tighter around herself, pushing on the metal floor with her feet, and pinning her back against the wooden boards that made up the side. She'd tried to fit in, but it was difficult in this group. At least the other passengers tried to keep a polite distance. The stench of diesel fuel back here was almost overwhelming, and from time to time Britney couldn't help but cough and retch, but the other passengers didn't seem to mind. Of course they didn't. Why would they?

Outside the truck passed a road sign. Two locations were listed there, in the original soot-stained blue and white:

Vyšné Nemecké - 16 km
Sobrance - 4 km

A third plaque, white and black, much newer and cleaner, has been screwed into the metal posts below, the symbol of the UN emblazoned upon it in addition to the words:

New Border (Latorica) - 62 km

A skeletal figure raises his (her?) head near the back, the moonlight filtering in through a narrow gap in the tarpaulin revealing the bone structure of a face, the missing teeth and the empty sockets where eyes had once been. The dead one tilts his (her? It truly was impossible to tell most of the time) head and stares at Britney as a new bout of ragged coughing causes her to briefly double over. The body language read as puzzled and the question was obvious, even if the dead one could not speak for his lack of a tongue.

“Matej wants to know...” -came a voice, a guttural croak that barely manages to clear the throat of the speaker; an old woman, her face hidden by the shadows of the heavy hood she wore. So the skeletal one was a man after all. Britney held up her hand, the black leather of her glove turning her fingers into shadowy slits that split her vision. The old woman fell silent at the gesture. The skeleton named Matej shrugged and looked away, through the gap in the tarpaulin, at the war ravaged fields outside.

Britney recalled the war acute detail. Not much time had passed, after all, not nearly enough to forget, especially in this company. Besides: she'd fought in it, in her own way. Her family had sacrificed so much. She'd watched in disbelief as the negotiations fell apart, then in abject horror as the ranks of the newly risen dead overwhelmed the lands of the living, sweeping in from the east, rising in unexpected pockets all across the continent, with more joining their ranks each day as the battle turned darker and darker. For a time she'd thought the world would truly end.

As the realities finally sunk in and the leaders of the free world finally understood what was about to happen, frantic new negotiations had been held, speeches and rallies and brutal demonstrations leading to new agreements being made. Now the dead travelled back east and south here. West in the orient. North in the colonies, up into the snowy wastes of Dead Canada. They didn't mind the elements so much. In their own words, they'd just wanted a place to be in peace. Some place where they wouldn't be buried again.

Nineteen dead, including the driver, sat aboard that truck. Nineteen out of billions. Refugees aimed at reaching their new home, in a world that would eventually struggle to contain them. How they had found the funds for this trip, Britney could not say. She'd sold what little she had left to come here, herself. it hadn't been much. The new dead nations were a stopgap measure at best, a temporary attempt at stemming the tide until a solution was found, with borders to be expanded if one was not. The few living that still survived within the newly formed nation had fled, quite literally, for their lives. It was cold in the truck, and Britney found herself struggling to keep her teeth from chattering as she hugged herself, tugging on the ragged coats she'd collected while crossing the ruined Czech Republic to keep herself warm. The weight of something new on her shoulders caused her to gasp.

“Hush now, girl. You jus' looked cold so I thought I'd give you my coat, that's all.” The voice had been that of a man, old and grizzly. It made Britney think of an old-timey sailor, like in the movies. The face she saw as she turned her head didn't quite match that image, however: A bald head attached on narrow shoulders, the paper-thin skin taut as it stretched over the bones. The smile was toothless, the tongue that spoke black. Britney tried to smile and nodded, mouthing the words ‘thank you' even though her voice was lost to the loud rumble of the engine.

“I don' get cold no more, anyways.” -the dead man chuckled dryly, leaning back against the side of the truck. “So... go on, now, girl. We're all dyin' to hear it.” The joke either fell on deaf ears, or was so worn out in these past days and weeks that none of those present even bothered to acknowledge it. “What's a livin one like you doin' on the dead express, huh?”

Britney sighed and shook her head. She'd told her story so many times now, to so many people. People always assumed she was one of the soon-to-be-dead, one of the millions that had lost their hope and made their way to their eventual resting place, abandoning what little life they had left in favor of making the journey while still alive. People assumed wrong. Just getting on board one of these trucks had been a hassle enough, but there was no other traffic going in, so as they got closer, the going got easier. The truck listed again as its driver slowed down and veered off to the left, avoiding the burnt-out wreck of an armoured personnel carrier lying on its side in the ditch.

“It's my son.” -she finally answered. She could feel eyes on her as she spoke. For some reason the dead always took great interest in the affairs of the living, especially when those affairs overlapped with their own. Matej twitched, but kept his face pointed away so as not to be too obvious about listening in. He had no expression to give away his interest. “He was in the war. Third siege of Sevastopol, with the western volunteer corp. He wrote to me...” She paused to swallow the lump that had formed in her throat. Inside her clothes she clutched an old photo, pressing it to her chest so hard that it hurt. “...and I need to find him.”

“What's th' point, thought?” Asked the dead man that sounded like a sailor and looked like a mummy. “If he ‘asn't come out, he's... well, you know... Likely to stay.”

Britney knew. She knew all too well. Even if she did find him, she couldn't bring him out. All she could do was to stay with him and be there for him, wait it out like the soon-to-be-dead. It was a mad journey, void of reason or purpose if viewed by another. To her, though, it was the sole purpose of her being now. The early war had taken her husband. The outbreak in Newbury had claimed all of her friends and family, apart from her son. He'd been there for her, sacrificed so much for her, and then gone to war to keep her safe. She couldn't forget his smile when he waved her goodbye at the train station, the feeling of dread, fear that she'd never see him again. She'd kept all four letters she'd received.

“They won't let you in. Not past the gates. Living only go out, not in.” This time the voice was new. Britney couldn't see who it was, but it sounded wet, as if spoken through a mouthful of water.

“I've come this far. I'll think of something.”

The piece of paper feels heavy in her hand. The words written on its back burn in the back of her mind. It was like an old polaroid, made in one of those shops that turned digital images into ‘retro' ones. The only way to sneak out a message nowadays, with all the electronic messages monitored and censored. It was a photo of her son, Kevin, along with two other men in army fatigues, standing outside of a building. None of them were smiling. Two of them had a distinctly dead look in their eyes, while Kevin's expression was forced and fearful.

And then, on the back he'd written the numbers: 44.658372, 34.014814

[Wiggy]

Congrats Wiggy! It was a damn fun story and concept, even if Sinitrena had to bring us all down with actual SCIENCE! What madness!

As for my story and it's rambly, seemingly pointless nature, the key lies in these few words near the end:
"I wonder if you'd even care about them?
It doesn't matter. I just had to write them down to make them real."

Essentially the whole letter is a confession of failure, not to anyone specific and most certainly not for the eyes of the seemingly intended recipient, but rather for the writer themselves. A sort of way to write down and admit to one's own failings in a way that won't harm the people involved in the story, but one that feels real and concrete due to the physical nature of having put that very admission of failure on paper, to be discovered by some unknown reader, perhaps years or decades later. Perhaps never. And hey, considering what was about to happen to them, the author of the letter might not have been in the most lurid state of mind.

[Sinitrena]

Best Character: Sinitrena
Best Fail: Wiggy
Best Writing: Sinitrena
Best Story: Wiggy

[An apology]

An apology

I have failed only once.

I still remember the day we met. The jokes we made. Your smile. The sound of your laughter. I remember how, over the weeks and the months, we became close. How the dinner we were supposed to go to with all our friends turned out to be a trick. They all cancelled at the last minute so that it would be just the two of us in that restaurant. That night, down by the train tracks, we kissed. I was afraid you'd turn away, but you didn't. And I was truly happy.

I'd just graduated. I was free to go where I wanted, do what I wanted. You were stuck in a bad place with no way out. Your home was a trap, or so you told me, a cage you wanted to escape, but couldn't. That one night, after you fought with your parents and I could hear, over the phone, how you all were screaming and shouting, I couldn't sleep for worrying so much. I promised myself I would find a way to save you.

I took out a loan. Found an apartment, a job, all so that I could be closer to you. We practically lived together. When you couldn't spend the night, I felt so alone. So empty. I remember the summer trip to the amusement park for little kids we decided to go on. We wanted to see if the place was anywhere nearly as fun as it had been when we'd been five or six. Oh, how the childhood memories made that place seem far more grand than it truly was. We laughed about all the things that had seemed to wonderful when we were younger, and that seemed to ridiculous and pointless now. The cold water in the swimming pools. The overpriced food. The crappy toys in the stalls. The parents yelling at their children for having too much fun.

That summer we moved together. I'd promised myself I would save you, get you out and give you a better place to live. I succeeded. We cooked dinner together. We watched movies together. We went on those long walks in the woods and listened to the birds whenever the cars on the highway were silent for just a moment.

You became sick then. Well, you'd always been sick. Just not that bad. I knew you had your troubles, I knew of the medication. I promised myself that I would stand by your side and support you, no matter how ill you got. When you collapsed in the kitchen, I kneeled there with you until the pain went away. I told you we'd find a cure. Save up money for the doctors. We'd make it all better. When the medication didn't work and you had to suffer through trial after trial, I promised you I would always be there for you. When the pills changed you, made you forget... I nearly failed then. It was January. I remember when we woke up in the morning and you looked out of the window in shock. You asked me where all the snow had come from. I forced myself to smile and told you it was all right. Played it off as a funny misunderstanding. Over the weeks that followed, I realized you'd lost entire months. Met people and forgotten them. Seen the seasons change and lost that time to the medicine.

We carried on anyway. Money was tight. I worked so hard to make sure we had a home, food, medicine, clothes. You couldn't keep a job. Who'd hire a person when they'd forget entire months. Collapse with pain at random. I promised I'd keep you happy, anyway. I promised we'd be together forever.

I don't remember when I stopped believing it.

We got a dog. We couldn't have children, but that furry little thing was our baby. We raised him. He was our way of showing each other that we could do everything everyone else could. Our way of showing the world everything was fine and we were happy.

The money ran out, even after we moved to a smaller apartment. I kept on working but it just wasn't enough.

I was so tired. When I came home from work I'd just collapse into bed.

We began to have the arguments.

We began to avoid each other in the house.

We grew distant.

I'd promised.

We argued about the dog. We argued about the money. We argued about friends and relatives and the colour of the living room carpet. When the words failed us, it all fell apart. When you struck me, I broke inside. I knew you were in pain that day. I knew how hard it all was for you and how tired you were. I promised myself I would forgive you the pain and the bruises. I promised I would go on and not let you see how tired I was, how spent I was.

The next day I went to work with a smile on my face, explaining the bruise away as me having tripped while walking the dog.

It was a black christmas. No snow had fallen that year. The ground was black and wet, the sky covered in heavy clouds. I'd made my decision. I worked all week. I made us dinner. I watched you eat. I tried to smile even though it hurt.

I don't know when, exactly, I failed, but I knew it must have happened in the last year or two, somewhere. That night I told you the truth. That same night I packed what I could carry and I walked out the door. I hope you took good care of the dog.

We never saw again. You'll never read these words.

I wonder if you'd even care about them?

It doesn't matter. I just had to write them down to make them real. To let anyone who read these words know that, at some undefined point in time, I broke all my promises to us both, and in doing so I failed.

I'll never fail again.

Whoever you are, reading this: thank you for finding me. And this letter.

Please burn it.

Woo! 2nd only to Baron. I can deal with that!
Congratulations, and THANKS FOR THE MUSIC, Baron!

If nobody else votes, can I change all my votes to be for myself in a most crude and unsportsmanlike display of evilhood?
Asking for a friend.

[Baron]

Best Character: Baron, for the character of Mødï.
Best Plot: Baron, for the more well-structured plot, albeing a predictable one this time around.
Best Writing: Baron for excellent use of vocabulary and english language. And for creating a challenge in my repeated attempts to figure out how to pronounce the name of the band.
Best Atmosphere: FormosaFalanster, despite some mistakes in writing reducing the effect, makes for the most atmospheric tale of the two.
Best Music: FormosaFalanster, for truly making an attempt to evoke the emotion and feel of the music through the medium of colour


Radio colours by FormosaFalanster
While the story is plagued by some grammar issues and such, and I failed to grasp parts of its key concept, the way it makes an attempt to weave together the different senses of sight and sound into one, and the curious sensations our protagonist achieves through imbuing himself with the music and, in so doing, wiping away much of himself, was an interesting read.

£ÿ¢k! by Baron
And then there were none. But alas, the story seems to miss some key elements: motivation for one. Why? Why the killing? The purple hair? Did I miss something in my reading, or was the tale intentionally obscured just for that final reveal? In any case, points for the interesting mixing of storytelling elements and narrative styles.

I think that people (including myself) crash and burn with their MAGS projects simply because of greed. We want to make great games, we want to make the best we can, and when the 30 day deadline comes crashing down on you, it can get disheartening. Organizing a team to work on a game can be even more work than working solo on something smaller, so I don't really see teaming up as a solid solution here, either.
There isn't really anything concrete that can be done, apart from promoting MAGS more so people are aware of it, and making it clear that the games are not expected to be of top-notch quality or have ten hours of story and gameplay to them. If you can get people to grasp that a small, crude and not-entirely-finished project is a perfectly okay thing to release for MAGS, it might help people be more willing to experiment and put in the effort.

Personally I've looked at participating several times over the past couple years. A couple times I've been put off by the theme (I find themes that are too open to put me off, and personally prefer more restrictive rulesets), other times I have started something and then seen the project die due to simply not having the time and energy to put together a functioning game, which has been exasperated by a personal tendency towards feature creep in development.

I love MAGS, though, as it has helped me focus on some small projects that have taught me a ton about game development, scheduling and planning withing the scope of a project / deadline, so I'd love to see the competition go on and shine in the future. I just hope I can find a way to be a part of that, myself.

-W

I've been stalking the forums, eyeing the fortnightly and MAGS threads, but poor health and other issues have kept me from doing much of anything. The Gnrblex -project has been stuck for far too long and it's really getting me down, but I can't seem to find the resources I need to finish it up.

[They sing, but not to us]

[Well this turned out strange. A sick and feverish mind can produce strange tales in the middle of the night.]

They sing, but not to us

I watched as the two axes hacked away at the ice, cold chips scattering down into the trampled snow as the pit in that sheer, glimmering surface deepened inch by inch. My own axe hung limp in my hand as I waited to see if my turn would come up. There was space only for two bodies to work on the hole we were making, and Carthall, as the leader of our expedition, had naturally taken his place, while Carter, the scarred woman, seemed eager and almost giddy to join him in the task. So I waited, watching as the axes rose and fell, occasionally glancing over my shoulder at Mr Crowley, our doctor, as he tried and failed to calm the dogs that had already sacrificed so much to bring us here. A gasp, a slip, and the Carter -woman dropped her tool into the snow.

“Churchill! Step up! Miss Melinda here needs to rest!” -barked the bearded man without pausing in his work. As she stepped aside to make room for me, kicking her tool before her so as not to abandon it in the snow, I gave her an apologetic nod and a smile that might have been made into a grimace by the bitter cold acting on my face. I watched for half a minute as Carthall worked his axe into the ice, learning the pattern of his strikes, before lifting my own and striking in between his blows. Blood rushed from my core to my limbs and after only a minute of work I could feel my heart pounding. The cold make work hard, each motion of my body felt like it might set me off-balance as the snow and ice shifted beneath my boots.

“Harder now, Churchill, lest we be here all night!” -the veteran of the Second Falklands War barked at me. I recall grunting in reply, lifting my axe higher than before and striking in a misguided attempt to impress the man. The blade bit into the ice, deeply, piercing its way through and striking something beneath it, something softer. Black liquid welled up around the metal and I could hear the hiss of gasses escaping, bubbling through the fluid, as I hastened to pull my tool free.

“Hah! Good work, Churchill! Crowley, step up now! You'll want to sample this!”
-
It had been two more hours of work before the gap in the ice, and the wall of flesh beyond it, were wide enough for a man to make his way through. We propped up the hole with spare parts from our sleighs. The dogs barked madly as we worked, frenzied by either hunger for the living flesh we carved or frightened by the godless nature of our discovery. We had to take some time to embed stakes into the ice so that we could tie the dogs up and keep them from escaping. Finally, however, we were ready to enter. I fulfilled my duty by sketching into my journal, documenting images of what we were seeing, crude depictions of my comrades at their work. It was impossible to capture the size and scope of the thing in the ice, and as I stepped into that gaping wound it became clear to me that any attempt to do so was doomed to fail.

The electric lanterns we carried sizzled and sparked in the strange air, but their light revealed to us the reality of what we were experiencing. I could hear the Carter woman laughing as she lifted her eyes at the vaulted ceiling of flesh above our heads, with the pale shapes of bones visible under the translucent inner flesh. It was warm inside, though this much we had expected. That warmth had revealed the existence of the beast to us before, and had triggered this expedition of ours.

For that first day we worked near the entrance, never straying far enough away so as to lose sight of it. I did what I could to document our work, writing down notes and adding to my sketches, while Carthall stood to the side, grinning to himself. Another glory to add to his growing list of discoveries and victories. Carter was no less excited, smiling and laughing as she hauled in the gear our good doctor requested. Sensors, devices, a miniature laboratory. With a sharp knife he'd carve samples all over, leaving small pits in the flesh which welled up with that black blood we'd witnessed before.

-

I recall waking in the night, opening my eyes to the oppressive darkness of the cramped tent I shared with doctor Crowley. I could hear his breathing, the whine of a restless dog outside, the low rumble of Carthall snoring in the other tent. Normal sounds. Sounds I was used to. Sounds that would not have woken me up. Perhaps it was the fear of being thought mad, that had me silently slip out of my sleeping bag and put on the rest of my gear before stepping out into the cold night air all alone. If I'd awoken the others for naught but a dream or a figment of my imagination, which I will freely admit had been running wild ever since we set off across the glacier, there would have been no end to the cruel jokes and harsh judgement from Carthall.

I recall approaching the wound-opening we had cut in the day. I had no light source with me, but the singular lantern we had left inside was still on and I could navigate by the sliver of light it produced. My gloved hand touched the flesh and I could feel a hint of its warmth on my fingertips. There was another sound, coming from inside. At first I suspected a recording device had run out of tape and the mechanism had jammed, producing a high-pitched whine. It changed key, dipping lower before rising up an octave. The melody of it was slow, ponderous. I pressed into the hole in the flesh and witnessed the walls move, undulating as bones shifted and sinew twisted around the internal passage, the wall of which we had violated with our axes. The lantern, sitting atop a tripod, wavered so that its light caused the shadows of the objects we had left inside to dance madly on the glistening, crimson walls. The sound rose further. I could feel my brain throbbing, then sting in a sudden spike of pain, as if the sound had manifested physically inside my ear and taken the shape of a six-inch nail. The lantern sparked and burst, and as I stumbled away from the darkened hole I could hear the dogs go into a mad panic, tearing at their leashes, barking and howling.
-
Come the morning we took stock of what had happened. The lantern was easy to replace, some device that recorded vibrations had broken and would have to be abandoned as useless. One of the dogs was dead, its neck broken as it has gotten one of the lines stuck around its throat before trying to flee from the terror of that night. I did not speak up of the sound I had heard, crafting a lie of having been awakened by the snoring of our expedition leader. In whispers I asked our doctor for something to soothe the pain in my head, and he produced the necessary pills to keep me functioning.

This day we planned to delve deeper, see where that passage of monstrous flesh might lead us and what we might learn of the creature. Doctor Crowley seemed dispassionate about the task at hand, while miss Carter protested loudly as she was told to stay behind and care for the dogs in our absence. I volunteered to stay in her stead, but my task of documenting our findings was deemed of more value to Carthall than an end to Melinda's protestations. We turned left from our initial opening. The fleshy floor was almost flat and easy enough to traverse, despite the occasional slippery spot. We had no trouble following the order to ‘not laugh' after Carthall slipped on a puddle of slime and fell on his backside. In fact, I was petrified, afraid that some unseen opening had split up to devour him. I think the doctor and I shared that feeling of being swallowed whole by this monstrosity, as his demeanour closely mirrored my emotional state. To voice my apprehension, however, might have sent Carthall to a fit of rage. His military background made him effective, but harsh on his underlings. I wondered if Crowley had served in the war, considering his medical background, but never asked.

We had expected the tunnel of flesh, the doctor surmised it must have been some sort of airway for the creature due to its open and semi-rigid nature, to carry on mostly flat for some distance. The tight twist to the right was unexpected, as was the following continued upward spiral. Sickly yellowish nodules lined the ceiling here, dangling above our heads as we crouched to avoid touching them. Only after being twice ordered to do so, did the good doctor puncture one of these nodules to gather a sample of the fluid that welled inside. Clear, sweet in scent, but corrosive. The fingertips of his glove melted away in seconds, but fortunately he avoided any damage to his hand.

The spiral continued for some time, I lost track of the number of rotations and had little idea how far we had climbed. The sweet scent was strong here, a constant companion. As we paused to discuss whether or not we should return and see what the other end of the passage might hold, or carry on and see what sort of fleshy formation awaited atop the spiral, I could feel a vibration beneath my feet. The others felt it too, and we exchanged confused glances. I recognized the sound as soon as it began, though it took the others a few moments longer to realize it was more than just the passing of air.

“Like I said!” -the doctor shouted, gesturing at the fleshy ceiling. “An airway! It breathes just like we do!” As the song, which I now regarded the sequence of sound to be, slid down the scales, the vibrations in this spiralling passage grew unbearable. The floor beneath us shifted and due to its slick nature, we began to lose our footing. I will never forget the screams of doctor Crowley as he began to slide down, face first, slamming at the slick floor with his hands to slow or stop himself. The pool of acid from before had been stored in a shallow dip that served to stop him, but also doomed him. Carthall and myself used the twitching corpse to push ourselves back to our feet and as the sound that now flowed around us turned ear-splittingly shrill, we ran.

-

The rest of that day, and most of the following, are a blur to me. Carthall and I argued, this much I recall, and the black eye I had after that second night in our encampment would serve to remind me for many days. The dogs had gone quiet, as if they had accepted their fate. They hardly moved and some didn't seem to want to eat. Carthall was adamant that the expedition would not stop just because our doctor was dead. Carter backed him up for reasons I cannot, to this day, fathom. She seemed to resent me for having been left behind, and repeatedly suggested that Crowley might still live if she had been present to help him. My demands to head back and return better supplied and equipped now that we had a better understanding of the creature, its location and its nature, went on deaf ears.
On the fourth day, we had planned to stay for seven, Carthall and Carter decided to enter again, both to see what the other side of the passage was like and to see if they might bring out Crowley's corpse for burial. I was to stay behind, tend to the dogs, watch and wait.

They never returned.

I waited all day and all through the following night, listening to that awful song start, rise, fall and stop, then start again a few hours later. I watched as the passage we had cut into the creature's flesh twitched in the cold air, the warmth radiating from it making the air move. The sound no longer hurt me much. Perhaps the dogs, too, were getting accustomed to it, which might explain their calming down.
Deeming my companions lost, I packed up my tent and sleeping bag, whatever supplies I could, loaded up one of the three intact sleighs and prepared the dogs. The animals seemed lethargic, unwilling to take a single step. Only with much coaxing I was able to get them to pull the sleigh and myself. We travelled for ten minutes when I heard the sound again, and this time the pain was back. The dogs went mad and began to tear at their reins. Two broke free and bolted right back in the direction we had come from. The others remained trapped with me as the sudden motion had overturned the sleigh.

It was hours later when I returned to our doomed campsite. The song had not ended and my brain was throbbing with the pain, though it seemed to lessen as I approached the mass of flesh trapped inside the ice. Paw-prints of the two escaped dogs led right into that gap, indicating the animals had entered the same hole that had consumed my three companions.

That evening I cried. I cried and sobbed and cursed as the desperate nature of my being was made clear to me. I could try to walk back, but without the dogs I had no hope of carrying enough supplies to reach the ship alive. The dogs I still had tugged on their leashes, always in the direction of the hole. I cannot say what madness made me give in, but in the early hours of the night I cut them free and watched them disappear into the hole. They howled in muffled voices, answering the strange song of this monster in the ice we had carelessly wounded.

As the dark of the night began to give way to morning light, I took what little supplies I could carry on me and followed the dogs. With two electrical lanterns with me, in case one failed and left me in the dark, I ventured right this time. The passage grew narrow soon enough, and low enough that I had to crawl across the slippery flesh as it pressed down on me. After a long moment the pressure relieved and the ceiling seemed to rise, allowing me to carry on like a pathetic parasite in this living tunnel. I tried to document my movements as the passage split. I continued as it split again, then again and again and… Bony protrusions jutted out of the walls, shifting slowly and restlessly as I passed them by. As air flowed around me, they vibrated, slowly at first, then visibly faster as the song picked up again. I saw the corpse of one of the dogs here, impaled be one of the spikes, somehow. Other things, bones of strange fish and globs of unknowable plant matter were caught on the spikes here and there. I began to wonder on the purpose of this passage once more.

My wondering was short-lived, however, as even without the knowledge of our doctor I could recognize the space I soon found myself in. Teeth. Teeth as long and as wide as a motor car, lined a grand opening. A smooth wall of ice had pressed against those teeth, which had melted bits of the ice. One of the dogs lay here, whimpering softly, its tail wagging as I laid eyes on the poor beast. I wonder what thoughts passed through its mind in that moment. I wonder what thoughts passed through mine.

What happened next is mostly lost to me now. Only feverish glimpses remain in my mind. I recall the sound again, the song, but it was not coming from the beast I inhabited like a heartworm: it came from ahead, in the ice, or rather: beyond. I recall motion, a thick translucent film that had pressed against the ice which slid away as the head I was in moved and dove deep. I recall the darkness of the sea beneath the glacier, the roiling bubbles in the pale blue glow, and eyes and maws uncountable, and the song of those numberless creatures as they sang to one another.

You think I am mad. The others did too. The crew of the fishing vessel that hauled me aboard near Punta Buque had shocked expressions on their faces as I lay there, rambling and raving and crying, the lifeless corpse of that poor dog clutched in my arms. The men that questioned me upon returning to London were kind enough, compassionate, but I could see in their eyes that they thought me mad.
Can I truly blame them, if even I cannot fully believe the story myself? All I know is that when they put me on a boat across the channel, the fright of seeing the water nearly killed me where I stood, and I could swear, swear by my father's grave, that I heard their song in the waves.

Going to discuss ideas for this with a friend over the weekend and see if we come up with something that works.

Friend is out of the picture for now, but I have a small idea brewing I might go for. Will have to see how the early planning turns out.

I'm out.

Goals for 2018:

- Release the final version of GNRBLEX
- Release 1 or more new game projects, probably for a MAGS
- Participate in 2 or more Fortnightly Writing Competitions
- Get through and recover from 2 surgeries
- Lose 10 kilos of weight

Good show! Glad to see another big project come to a successful close!