This week's challenge was actually quite a punch for so early in the game. It was "Community Story". Essentially, you got together with your seven teammates and told a story together, with each member of the team writing a section.
Before I get ahead of myself, here's my little portion (read the whole thing, unedited, with no attributions at the bottom of this post. To figure out who did what and how much the judges loved it, go here).
Roger was going to let down those who had depended on his timely arrival, and he was growing increasingly mindful of the fact that it might all be for nothing. This was a losing battle; he could only hope to delay it just long enough to put Thomas in more capable hands. Any hands that weren’t his would do. He mumbled a hundred prayers to no god in particular as he counted down the mile markers.
“Just a little further now. You can hold on ’til then, can’t you, Thomas?” he said – mostly to himself, his passenger had passed out miles back. Keeping his eyes on the road, Roger leaned over to check on his companion. Thomas’ breathing was shallow and labored. He was running out of time. They both were.
By the time Roger finally saw the harsh fluorescent lights of the hospital parking lot in the distance, the rescue mission had failed. There was nothing to do now but make one final delivery.
Here are the judges' comments:
K: Huh, I thought our climax would seem bigger. I’d take more bombast on Thomas’s death. Nice writing, I was just expecting something more…unexpected. I won’t take that out on the writer, though. 4
DK: And a strong climax, that evolves pretty fluidly from the way the previous action built up. It also, in my opinion, helps the flow because it starts to settle into the resolution (such as it is) even though this section is labeled “climax” solely. 4
From the beginning, our primary concern was to make the story read as straight through as possible. Meaning, we toned down individual styles to a certain extent to speak with as similar a voice as we could manage. Spooky mentioned that he was surprised that my section didn't seem "bigger". I actually tried to keep it as low key as I could without going catatonic on it. The rider just dies... the driver fails the rescue and his goals... neither needs much fanfare to be compelling, besides, Matt's denouement was more interesting if I let my part just sort of sadly conclude.
This was kind of a beast, but the team communicated like pros. Here's the finished product, with limited commercial interruption...
Thomas knew 1-90 would take him all the way to the coast, but any
passing motorist noticing him would have been disinclined to believe
that he could make it more than another mile. The man wore only one
shoe, and his right arm was held against his chest, cradled by the left.
A sock, formerly white, flapped in ragged tendrils around an ankle that
was scabbed and discolored by road grime, and two black eyes, framed by
a mat of hair that was held together in clumps by some viscous residue,
looked towards the horizon with a despairing certainty. It was late
afternoon on this length of interstate, and the saw grass clanked dumbly
together while the sky became the color of bronze in an alchemist’s
smelter. No one stopped. Thomas did not, and could not lift a hand with a
thumb extended to beg a ride. The apparent injury to his arm prohibited
him from doing much more than stagger forth, driven by some internal
engine that ran on pain. Overhead, Cooper’s hawks spun in dizzying
circles, riding thermals under a flat, dead sky. The shoeless foot made
flat, wet slaps against the macadam. He walked on.
Though Roger didn’t consider himself a loner, he did prefer the long
hours he spent with the deep growl of his rig to the arduous time he
spend listening to the high-pitched barking of human discourse. He
avoided banal blabbering as much as he could, selecting instead to
continue the conversation he and his machine had been sharing for
sixteen years.
Despite his sonic preferences, he justified his apparent loneliness by helping those asking for his help. Somewhere in the back of his mind he knew he only helped because it satisfied his need to feel above the people that depended on him. If he bothered to give that fact any thought, he’d probably also realize he had begun driving a truck to feel separate yet superior, to those people anxiously awaiting his deliveries. He had never been late for a delivery, nor lost one piece of cargo. Merchants around the country knew him as “Reliable Roger” and he delighted in knowing he was like a god to these people- in fact he felt like a king, perched high above the road, lord of all he surveyed.
Roger took a sip from the cold, bitter coffee. Over the years, he’d
come to prefer day-old Folgers. It gave him a shock that fresh coffee
could not provide. He slid the cup into its holder and caught a glimpse
of someone in the distance, sitting on the road barrier, under a
highway light. It was clearly a strategic placement. Roger lifted his
foot from the gas pedal. As the truck slowed, he was able to get a
better look at the man ahead. He was holding his arm, the way someone
having a heart-attack might. He appeared to be in rough shape. His
clothes were ripped. He wasn’t wearing shoes. Roger could easily spot a
homeless person, and this man did not strike him as such. Something
was obviously wrong. He made the decision to stop.
Thomas noticed the truck slowing down. Using his good arm, he stood himself up and waved. The truck came to a stop just past him. He grabbed the one shoe he had left, and limped his way toward the truck. He called out in desperation, “I’ve been hit. I need a doctor. Nobody will help me.”
As the barefooted wayfarer approached Roger’s truck he peered into
her large passenger’s side mirror. Seeing the man slowly shuffling
towards the door, Roger felt a tightness in his chest. His would-be
passenger clearly needed a lot of assistance; assistance that Roger knew
he was unequipped to provide. He reached down to his coffee cup and
took a long sip as his mind raced.
Despite the pride he felt from his perfect delivery record, Roger had
very little confidence in his ability to do much else. When confronted
with a task that was anything but trucking, he was aloof. His estranged
family could attest to this. Admitting his shortcomings was below him,
so his brain worked to find the most convenient excuse to avoid the
failure he felt was inevitable.
When reaching across the cab to unlock the door, his arm brushed
against his truck’s freshly upholstered passenger seat. Roger found his
absolution. We wouldn’t want anyone to stain your pretty new seats, would we girl? Roger thought. She responded with her soothing rumble as Roger shifted her back into gear.
Thomas felt that familiar foreboding that accompanied another missed
ride. He pictured himself insubstantial, the gravel spit up by the
tires of this truck passing straight through him without leaving a mark.
If he acknowledged them, even these small impacts would be enough to
fell him.
The driver’s eyes shifted between the dashboard clock and his side mirror that showed the unmoving hitcher receding behind him. In the time it took Roger to calculate just how far behind schedule he was, whatever strings had been holding the hitcher upright were snapped and he collapsed forward, splaying his ragged legs over the white line bordering the highway.
“Damn Gipetto,” Roger muttered, as he put his hand on the stick. He
stayed on the gas for a quarter mile, but his conscience eventually ran
out of plausible excuses for not turning back. He glanced at the clock,
sighed, and took the next ramp.
As he approached the wretched man, Roger looked for signs of life but saw nothing obvious. Part of him hoped he would fine none, as much for the man’s sake as his own. But as he nudged the man’s arm with his boot, he heard a faint cough. “Alright, buddy,” Roger whispered, hoisting the man up and into the bed of his truck. “You owe me one.”
Driving faster than even he considered safe, Roger looked down at his
new passenger, as well as the fresh blood now staining the seat. His
stare was greeted with one from the stranger. “Thank you,” the man
said, his voice trembling.
“You got a name?” Roger asked.
“Thomas.”
“A last name?”
His new friend passed out.
“Thomas.”
“A last name?”
His new friend passed out.
Roger was going to let down those who had depended on his timely
arrival, and he was growing increasingly mindful of the fact that it
might all be for nothing. This was a losing battle; he could only hope
to delay it just long enough to put Thomas in more capable hands. Any
hands that weren’t his would do. He mumbled a hundred prayers to no god
in particular as he counted down the mile markers.
“Just a little further now. You can hold on ’til then, can’t you,
Thomas?” he said – mostly to himself, his passenger had passed out miles
back. Keeping his eyes on the road, Roger leaned over to check on his
companion. Thomas’ breathing was shallow and labored. He was running out
of time. They both were.
By the time Roger finally saw the harsh fluorescent lights of the
hospital parking lot in the distance, the rescue mission had failed.
There was nothing to do now but make one final delivery.
Dazed, Roger continued towards the hospital, a rudderless ship drifting into port, and, arriving, made his way to the attendant.
“Can I help you sir?”
“There’s a dead man in my truck.”
He turned, answering all of her questions with an absent wave of his hand, and headed back to the truck. Opening the door, as a blue-scrubbed doctor rushed towards him, Roger saw that the cab was empty.
There was no body.
“He died right here,” Roger stammered, “His blood…”
There was no blood on the seat.
“Thomas?” The doctor asked knowingly.
“Yeah.” Roger sat, stunned, on the blacktop.
“Yeah. You’d best move on.”
————————————-
Thomas started slowly, shuffling through the grey dust that had settled over the years. Sighing, he flexed against the ethereal tether. He was still bound to the road. Dutifully, head down, grabbing at his injured side, he moved along the margins, seeking out a ride.
“Can I help you sir?”
“There’s a dead man in my truck.”
He turned, answering all of her questions with an absent wave of his hand, and headed back to the truck. Opening the door, as a blue-scrubbed doctor rushed towards him, Roger saw that the cab was empty.
There was no body.
“He died right here,” Roger stammered, “His blood…”
There was no blood on the seat.
“Thomas?” The doctor asked knowingly.
“Yeah.” Roger sat, stunned, on the blacktop.
“Yeah. You’d best move on.”
————————————-
Thomas started slowly, shuffling through the grey dust that had settled over the years. Sighing, he flexed against the ethereal tether. He was still bound to the road. Dutifully, head down, grabbing at his injured side, he moved along the margins, seeking out a ride.
Perhaps tonight he would find his release.
