Wait, did we skip a week there? I think we did. Let me see if I can remember how it went. I made a loosely biographical story about my dad putting down a cat who had been run over by a car. It stretched the rules to the breaking point, but I felt alright about it, considering the schedule I was on. Then I went to Mexico, not finding out my fate until I returned this past Wednesday. Happily, I made it to the final challenge.
That final challenge was an absolute doozy. A story where every 250 words, everyone forgot the events from the beginning of the story to that point. The final section was 'mercifully' allowed to have 600 words.
The intel was good, Malaracher is definitely here.
I slip away from the party to the basement beneath. It won’t be easy
to find him or the bomb down here. It will be far more likely that he
finds me. I begin to wish that I hadn’t told Hewitt to stay up with the
party guests – I could really use a second pair of eyes watching my
back.
The gunshot I hear and the blinding pain I feel in my side let me know that my fears have been well rooted in truth.
Dammit, I’ve been sloppy. He knew someone was trailing him, so he
doubled back, and he knows the layout of the tunnels much better than I
do. Despite the vest, his bullet manages to find at least one or two
vital organs. I rise to my feet and try to give chase, but I slip on my
own blood and fall hard to the marble floor. My gun clatters away from
me, I scramble in vain to retrieve it, but my limbs suddenly feel so
heavy. Malarcher disappears into the darkness and I begin to feel woozy
from the blood loss.
I retrieve the cylinder from my jacket pocket and press the button.
Five minutes – not a second more or less.
The synchronization alarm goes off to let me know that the forced
loop was activated. That means that the first try must not have gone
well. In this situation, I suppose it’s natural to over-analyze what
mistakes could have lead to the need to start the loop, but that only
leads to situational paralysis, and if I’m going to prevent whatever
Malarcher’s got in the basement from going off, I’m going to need to
have my wits about me. Of course, that doesn’t mean that I don’t make a
mental note to exercise caution.
Reminding myself to stay aware, I make my way to the basement. I need to move with some haste. The clock’s ticking.
The basement turns out to have a labyrinth of tunnels. I knew this to
be the case because of the mission briefings, but there are a great
number of tunnels that simply do not show up on the map I was provided. I
know the building is large, but this is ridiculous. I try to think of
where the premium location for a bomb of this type would be. The
briefings said that it would probably be under the conference rooms, but
when I go there, all I see are some scuffs in the floor, implying the
device may have been here before, but was removed for some reason. A tip
off, perhaps?
I’m still mulling this over when the Janus activates – indicating a wasted loop.
The synchronization alarm sounds. I quickly glance down to check the
number, and sigh with relief when the display reads only fifteen. You
get one hundred and eighty three five minute loops before you and your
surroundings get so out of sync with the prime timeline that re-merging
is impossible.
I set about sweeping the maze of corridors and rooms in the basement
as fast as I dare allow myself to. I practically stumble across
Malarcher and the bomb in a secluded area of the basement, in a room
situated right beneath the first floor’s main banquet hall. I’ve caught
him by surprise, he looks up from the bomb to see me, and he reaches for
his weapon. Without hesitation, I put two bullets in his chest.
He slumps to the floor, and I go to investigate the bomb. As I make
my way past him, he mumbles something I can’t quite make out. I look at
him inquisitively.
He points at his chest twice, then at the bomb – a deadman switch?
That worry is confirmed seconds later when Malarcher’s heart stops. The bomb gives a loud screech and immediately detonates.
My first fifty one trips back have apparently been fruitless. There’s
something ominously difficult about this mission. It was supposed to be
a fairly standard “prevent the terrorist from blowing up the building
with the VIPs” scenario, but I would think that I would’ve lucked into a
solution at this point. It’s time to think outside the box. Cell phones
won’t work, since we’re currently cut off the prime timeline, and with
it the rest of the world, but the walkie talkies that Hewitt and I carry
will still function. I radio him and ask him to meet me in the
basement.
He has to know that I’ve started the Janus, even if he isn’t any more
aware of each passing loopback than I am. He certainly does seem to
take his time getting to the basement, though. By the time he does, two
and a half precious minutes have elapsed, and we’re left with a
worryingly small window to work with.
Having two people sweeping the basement is much faster, and much
safer and we get to Malarcher’s lair fairly quickly. He hasn’t seen us
yet, but something doesn’t seem right.
Hewitt’s shot is already fired by the time I’m able to voice my
concern. Malaracher drops to the floor, his head a gaping mess. I don’t
even get to finish my sentence before the blast annihilates us.
The synchro-alarm blares an ugly threatening tone and the little red
light indicates I’m nearing to synchronization breaking point. I check
the indicator – one hundred eighty.
I only get three more tries at this.
No one really knows what happens when re-merging is unable to occur.
The optimists insist that the timeline fractures and all of the events
play themselves out in a new timeline. Most theories figure that those
who can’t reconnect with the prime timeline get lost in some sort of
timeless void. All I know is that the few times it’s happened, the
unfortunate people who were unable to re-synch simply disappeared. My
uninformed opinions always sided with the latter.
The one time I got even close to the resynch threshold, I was tasked
with preventing a member of an eastern extremist group from
assassinating a group of middle eastern diplomats. There were more of
them then we had expected, and our contact had been found out and killed
before we could determine who the assassin was.
It turns out there were two of them. If Hewitt hadn’t been along and
helped me piece it together on try one seventy seven, I would’ve had to
abort the mission. Aborting was an option that time, this one’s been
given red status – I am to prevent this bombing, even if I have to pass
the threshold to do it.
On try number one eighty one, I don’t even find Malarcher. One down, two to go.
I don’t recall what I’ve done on any of the previous loops. Only the
device itself persists through the loop back, no actions or memories
make the trip, so each time I start out, it’s like I’m flying blind.
It’s frustrating, the knowledge that any action you take is one that
you’ve probably already taken – perhaps dozens of times – to no effect.
This time, I get lucky, catching Malarcher unaware. He never sees me
coming, so I’m able to take my time and execute a leg shot. I get to the
bomb, and it doesn’t seem as though he had a chance to activate the
countdown. I’m about to enter the code to cancel the next loopback, when
I feel the bullet penetrate my back.
A second terrorist?
I crumple to the floor. I can’t turn to see my assailant, but he steps into my sight soon enough, anyway.
Hewitt.
“Why?” I weakly gurgle as he rips the Janus out of my jacket. He fiddles with the device for a couple of seconds.
“You changed the synclock…” he waves his gun in my face.
I did. He can’t cancel the return jump. He doesn’t have anything to
threaten me with in these last twenty seconds. He seems pissed off about
both of those facts.
I need to find a way to warn myself. Shit. I don’t even have access
to the Janus. Even if I did, there’s no way to send yourself a message
back in time. Maybe if I…
Last try.
Everything has to work this time, or I have to be willing to condemn myself and everyone in the building to timeless oblivion.
I manage to find Malarcher in a room that doesn’t appear on the
provided blueprint. I’m about to make a kill shot, but caution stays my
hand, and I opt for a non-lethal shot. I detain the terrorist, and have a
look at the bomb. It doesn’t appear as though the countdown had been
initiated.
Something’s not right. I don’t think I would have failed a hundred
and eighty two times if this situation could be taken at face value.
I hear footsteps coming down the hall. Already feeling jumpy, I raise
my weapon and sneak a quick peek at the Janus – one minute remaining. I
need to figure this situation out immediately.
Suddenly, Hewitt bursts into the room. He sees that I’ve got my gun
trained on him and gives me a questioning look. Then he sees Malarcher
restrained in the corner. He gives me an approving nod, and I return it.
Time to stop the countdown.
Hewitt catches a glimpse of the Janus device as I pull it from my
pocket – the blinking ’183′ prominently featuring. “Looks like we almost
got desynched. Lucky break, I’d say. Cancel the loopback and let’s
clean up” he says.
That catches my attention. I was the only agent notified of this
mission’s Red status. To minimize leaks, everyone else, including Agent
Hewitt, thought this to be a standard Blue status terrorist hunt. If
this were indeed a Blue, there would be nothing to cancel, only critical
orders would trigger a loopback past the threshold. Even a standard
ordinance bomb wouldn’t be enough to justify a red, so what reason would
he have had to think otherwise? A quick look at his face show a man who
just admitted to knowing more than he should know. With the clock
ticking, I think back.
Hewitt saved me in Paris, but the leaps in logic he made to determine
the locations of the assassins never made sense to me, even back then.
The mission itself was viewed as an unqualified success, but we later
learned that the biological materials that ended up being put to use in
this very bomb were stolen that evening, while the agency was out
tracking a conspicuously high number of high-risk cases – many of which
turned out to be false leads. How did Hewitt track Malarcher – or me,
for that matter – to this point? A point which, according to the
basement map provided by our contact doesn’t even exist.
I look at my watch – only fifteen seconds left.
Hewitt knows that he’s overstepped his ability to backtrack. “Cancel
the countdown and let’s talk this over,” he says “you know what allowing
this to reset will mean.”
I do. In ten seconds, an embassy full of dozens of diplomats and
dignitaries will blink out of existence, along with two terrorists and
one thoroughly defeated agent. It will be a disaster, the public will
call for the heads of my entire agency for allowing it – no, causing it –
to happen.
“Still better than a biological weapon going off in downtown London.” I reply.
Hewitt gives an angry scowl and draws on me and fires.
Hopefully, the optimists are right. Hopefully, there’s time enough
still for me to fix this, no matter where or when that might be.
The last seconds tick off the clock. For better or worse, I guess we’ll find out what’s beyond this timeline soon enough.
Is the bad guy's name Malarcher or Malaracher? What lies beyond the threshold? How did I come up with the name 'Hewitt'? I'll answer two of those questions, but first the judges' comments.
K: This one has some grammatical missteps and the spelling of
Malaracher/Malarcher changes an annoying number of times, but this
concept was extremely engaging. I feared that we were going to be paid
off with “It’s a video game,” but in the end, I supposed that even if
that was going to be the case, the story had drawn me in enough that I
could’ve dealt with it. The characters don’t show much of themselves
here, but otherwise, this is tons of fun, and a nice ending to the
season.
Character: 4
Creativity of Reason for Forgettings: 5
Overall Story Effectiveness: 4
DK: I love this one. I’ll start by saying the characters aren’t
outstanding here, either – I feel for this guy because of his situation
but other than a few hints here and there, he doesn’t feel especially
complex or anything on his own. The good news is that it doesn’t matter
for the way this story is set up – the concept is the star here.
There’s great care taken in this idea for the memory aspect that shows
in how its mechanics operate, and the buildup of tension is pitched
superbly to a payoff that feels surprising and yet inevitable at the
same time. And satisfying, above all else.
Character: 4
Creativity of Reason for Forgettings: 5
Overall Story Effectiveness: 5
27/30
First question: Malarcher is named for the old Negro League infielder Dave Malarcher who was, for one reason or another one of my favorite Negro League ballplayers growing up. I was going to run the whole document through a find and replace to weed out the various spelling mistakes I was fairly sure that I was making, but alas, it never happened. "Hewitt" came as I was trying to think of a good agent-y name. The copy of Maxim that randomly shows up at my house every month (you think that's a "oh, good one" excuse... it's not, I do not know who decided I need Maxim magazine, but I'm sure they could've done something more interesting with their money) has Jennifer Love Hewitt on the front cover. At that point, Hewitt seemed like a good name.
In the comments at the Casa, Beau mentioned that he was nearly constantly reminded of Source Code. That seems pretty accurate, I suppose. I certainly didn't mean for that to happen, but I could tell it bore a resemblance before too long, and actually made sure that I scrapped a couple of elements to avoid too close a comparison. The 'controlled time travel loop' just seemed an idea worth exploring. Source Code had those elements, but I feel that I took it in a more satisfying direction (though I did end up liking that movie more than I thought I was going to).
He also mentioned that the ending was a bit over explaining. This also had a reason. In the original draft, on try number 182 (one try before the threshold) the protagonist thinks he completes the mission and turns off the automatic loopback, only to have Hewitt gun him down and detonate the bomb.The betrayal reveal was going to happen the jump before. I figured this season had seen enough bleakness, so I let the ending be a little enigmatic, so that there's the hope that even if he hasn't saved himself, he still might redeem himself in whatever capacity he's allowed to.
Okay, so...... did I survive to the finale? Am I one of the final two?
Yes. Yes I am. Against all odds, my 27 just barely beat out Matt's 26 on this final challenge and I won immunity, choosing to eliminate him (sorry again, man) and advance to the final jury vote with Beau (who had a fairly surprising evening of his own, though in a far different way).
On Tuesday, I make my case for why I should win. I think there are plenty of good reasons, but I guess we'll see shortly whether or not the jury will feel the same way. Good times.
Showing posts with label vogons gonna vogon. Show all posts
Showing posts with label vogons gonna vogon. Show all posts
Monday, March 19, 2012
Monday, February 13, 2012
Spookymilk Survivor X: Before and After
It's down to brass tacks, Survivor fans. The tribes have merged into a Vogon-filled party bus. With no teams to shield a player, one must hope that either:
a) They've made some friends this winter, or
b) They can win the next several challenges outright.
This week's challenge was complex.....I'll just have Matt explain it to you.
Before and After
Two characters, let’s call them A and B, interact. They have a conflict. The kind of conflict that good stories are made of. And lucky for you, this conflict is exactly what your story is about. It’s at the center of your story.
But we’re not interested in the center of the story. Instead, your challenge is to write the story from only the before and after perspectives. And because that seems kind of easy, each of the two separate parts has to be written from one of the separate character’s perspective. That is, the “before” section of the story should be written from Character A’s perspective (or B’s if you prefer), and the After section of the story should be written from Character B’s perspective (see previous parenthetical).
Now, we’d hate to actually see Character A and Character B get into a fight. That’s not what this challenge is about. But we know full well that there’s a conflict between them. So we’re just going go ahead and put one last rule in place, to make sure they keep their distance from each other. The rule is simple: at no point in either story can the two characters directly interact with each other. They can talk about each other. They can interact with other characters (who can appear in the other part of the story). They can even set into motion and/or respond to interactions that would happen in the “center” portion of the story. They just can’t directly interact. We want to see the conflict, without seeing the conflict.
So... yeah. Complex.
Anyway, here was what I came up with.
Livingston Estate front porch, 3:13am
To the owner of this, the lawn on which I currently call my bed,
You may notice I am currently passed out on your lawn. You may wonder how this came to be.
I decided to get, as my dear friend Robert might say, “Hella smashed” on Saturday evening. To that end, I procured several bottles of the cheapest flavored vodka I could find and endeavored to drink as much I could from each of them. I noticed, with some dismay that the taste of the “cake” flavored vodka reminded me of an ex-lover, so I took it upon myself to seek out and find this lost love.
My searches were in vain, but as I wandered the streets, I did happen upon your property, and glimpsed your lawn ornament, which – in my intoxicated state – amused me. In point of fact, it amused me to the point that I found myself transfixed by it. That glorious statue of two fish entwined reminded me of the nights my darling Angela and I would spend, our bodies woven together by our love. Those nights, I scarcely knew where I ended and she began.
I must admit that this thought piqued my lust. I am a simple man, sir, with simple appetites. I find no pride in these appetites, but when I begin down that lustful course, blind animal nature takes control of me. I apologize for what I may have done while under the influence of these urges.
It is not my intention to bear unmitigated bad news, however. I expect that your anger against a lustful intruder should be fierce, but that anger should be tempered by joy. You may take solace in the knowledge that the feelings that your property has instilled in me shall remain a part of both of our lives forever. Your unwitting generosity has touched me, my friend, I shall now show my gratitude by mowing your lawn this very evening. I was unable to procure a key to your garage, so I took a small stone and gained entry through other means.
May your kindness, however unconscious it may have been, be spoken of for generations to come.
Your eternal friend,
Wallace Percival Brown
Livingston Estate, 7:54am on the day following the writing of the Wallace Brown note:
In the wake of the previous night’s events, Lewis Livingston had not noticed the note which had been hastily scrawled and secured to his porch with a rock. The note was illegible, save for the words “Fuck you, Angela” and a drawing of what looked to be a man having sexual relations with a shark. Lewis was struck dumb by the revelation, except for a single phrase.
“What the fuck!?”
As he turned to go inside, Lewis happened to glance over at his hummingbird feeder, which appeared to have been defiled by the drunken intruder.
What the fuck, indeed.
Here are the judges' comments:
K: This is fun enough…well, let me rephrase that, because it’s a lot of fun, but not fun enough to win this week. The idea is a funny one but I think it has legs that it didn’t show…some more time and punching up with this one would have been essential up against what it was up against.
DK: Another very funny treatment; the juxtaposition of the first guy’s imagined speechifying combined with the B section’s vulgar reality creates a nice, quick punch of amusement.
I'm actually pretty satisfied with how this one turned out. For the first five days, I wracked my brain trying to think of something that would work. I thought of existential plots (man vs. death, man vs. wolves), serious, even meta (that would've gone over just greeeaaaaat). Finally, I just gave up and stopped thinking about it. Then, it came to me as I sat on the frozen lake while partaking in the local Ice Fishing tournament.
Drunken silliness.
There was going to be a lot of darkness with this challenge, and making something that was purely comedic struck me as what I wanted to do. There was just one problem. I was going directly from the tournament to a hockey game in the cities, and I had no idea what time I'd be back on Sunday.
Luckily, it turned out that we got home around 5pm on Sunday, and I had a couple of precious hours to knock it out. It turned out funny (my biggest question was which animal the drawing was supposed to be displaying - sharks are funny). I was 99% certain that it wouldn't win, but if I need to win every one of the remaining challenges, I'm not going to make it very far, anyway.
On a completely different note, now that we're merged, there is no more "Nibbish and His Vogons", so I guess we'll be going our own way at this point. All of my teammates, both eliminated and still in the game have been true pleasures to play with. It's been a blast, and you've all made up the best team ever. Thank you.
a) They've made some friends this winter, or
b) They can win the next several challenges outright.
This week's challenge was complex.....I'll just have Matt explain it to you.
Before and After
Two characters, let’s call them A and B, interact. They have a conflict. The kind of conflict that good stories are made of. And lucky for you, this conflict is exactly what your story is about. It’s at the center of your story.
But we’re not interested in the center of the story. Instead, your challenge is to write the story from only the before and after perspectives. And because that seems kind of easy, each of the two separate parts has to be written from one of the separate character’s perspective. That is, the “before” section of the story should be written from Character A’s perspective (or B’s if you prefer), and the After section of the story should be written from Character B’s perspective (see previous parenthetical).
Now, we’d hate to actually see Character A and Character B get into a fight. That’s not what this challenge is about. But we know full well that there’s a conflict between them. So we’re just going go ahead and put one last rule in place, to make sure they keep their distance from each other. The rule is simple: at no point in either story can the two characters directly interact with each other. They can talk about each other. They can interact with other characters (who can appear in the other part of the story). They can even set into motion and/or respond to interactions that would happen in the “center” portion of the story. They just can’t directly interact. We want to see the conflict, without seeing the conflict.
So... yeah. Complex.
Anyway, here was what I came up with.
Livingston Estate front porch, 3:13am
To the owner of this, the lawn on which I currently call my bed,
You may notice I am currently passed out on your lawn. You may wonder how this came to be.
I decided to get, as my dear friend Robert might say, “Hella smashed” on Saturday evening. To that end, I procured several bottles of the cheapest flavored vodka I could find and endeavored to drink as much I could from each of them. I noticed, with some dismay that the taste of the “cake” flavored vodka reminded me of an ex-lover, so I took it upon myself to seek out and find this lost love.
My searches were in vain, but as I wandered the streets, I did happen upon your property, and glimpsed your lawn ornament, which – in my intoxicated state – amused me. In point of fact, it amused me to the point that I found myself transfixed by it. That glorious statue of two fish entwined reminded me of the nights my darling Angela and I would spend, our bodies woven together by our love. Those nights, I scarcely knew where I ended and she began.
I must admit that this thought piqued my lust. I am a simple man, sir, with simple appetites. I find no pride in these appetites, but when I begin down that lustful course, blind animal nature takes control of me. I apologize for what I may have done while under the influence of these urges.
It is not my intention to bear unmitigated bad news, however. I expect that your anger against a lustful intruder should be fierce, but that anger should be tempered by joy. You may take solace in the knowledge that the feelings that your property has instilled in me shall remain a part of both of our lives forever. Your unwitting generosity has touched me, my friend, I shall now show my gratitude by mowing your lawn this very evening. I was unable to procure a key to your garage, so I took a small stone and gained entry through other means.
May your kindness, however unconscious it may have been, be spoken of for generations to come.
Your eternal friend,
Wallace Percival Brown
Livingston Estate, 7:54am on the day following the writing of the Wallace Brown note:
In the wake of the previous night’s events, Lewis Livingston had not noticed the note which had been hastily scrawled and secured to his porch with a rock. The note was illegible, save for the words “Fuck you, Angela” and a drawing of what looked to be a man having sexual relations with a shark. Lewis was struck dumb by the revelation, except for a single phrase.
“What the fuck!?”
As he turned to go inside, Lewis happened to glance over at his hummingbird feeder, which appeared to have been defiled by the drunken intruder.
What the fuck, indeed.
Here are the judges' comments:
K: This is fun enough…well, let me rephrase that, because it’s a lot of fun, but not fun enough to win this week. The idea is a funny one but I think it has legs that it didn’t show…some more time and punching up with this one would have been essential up against what it was up against.
DK: Another very funny treatment; the juxtaposition of the first guy’s imagined speechifying combined with the B section’s vulgar reality creates a nice, quick punch of amusement.
I'm actually pretty satisfied with how this one turned out. For the first five days, I wracked my brain trying to think of something that would work. I thought of existential plots (man vs. death, man vs. wolves), serious, even meta (that would've gone over just greeeaaaaat). Finally, I just gave up and stopped thinking about it. Then, it came to me as I sat on the frozen lake while partaking in the local Ice Fishing tournament.
Drunken silliness.
There was going to be a lot of darkness with this challenge, and making something that was purely comedic struck me as what I wanted to do. There was just one problem. I was going directly from the tournament to a hockey game in the cities, and I had no idea what time I'd be back on Sunday.
Luckily, it turned out that we got home around 5pm on Sunday, and I had a couple of precious hours to knock it out. It turned out funny (my biggest question was which animal the drawing was supposed to be displaying - sharks are funny). I was 99% certain that it wouldn't win, but if I need to win every one of the remaining challenges, I'm not going to make it very far, anyway.
On a completely different note, now that we're merged, there is no more "Nibbish and His Vogons", so I guess we'll be going our own way at this point. All of my teammates, both eliminated and still in the game have been true pleasures to play with. It's been a blast, and you've all made up the best team ever. Thank you.
Monday, January 30, 2012
Spookymilk Survivor X: Unfortunate Strength
Vogons need to vogon over the next two weeks. Can they do it? Can I snag some sweet scores in the process? Read on, my friends.
This week's challenge was "Unfortunate Strength". The only requirement was that the protagonist had to have a strength that had drawbacks. A broad category, to be sure, but it had lots of potential. Did I live up to that potential? Did Vogons? Let's find out together.
My entry:
“I’m sorry to bother you…” the frail woman began. They were always sorry. They were usually scared, too, but mostly, they were just apologetic. Sorry to inconvenience, sorry to impose, so sorry to place the burden on Christine. If they were really so sorry, she thought, they wouldn’t be asking. They’d be looking into aromatherapy or herbal treatments – anything but this.
“You do understand what you’re asking for, don’t you?” Christine cut the woman off. “Can you live with what’s going to happen?”
They always, without fail, said that yes, they could live with it. Some of them actually could. Maybe they just didn’t understand the nature of the Balance, or maybe they understood it, but simply didn’t care what about the implications.
“Gather up a couple of Frank’s personal effects and procure a single vial of his blood. Bring those things to me three nights from now. You’ll need to spend that night in this house, so bring along a change of clothes.”
Some of Christine’s clients would then begin to worry about how they were going to get a vial of blood without their loved one suspecting anything. Some of them began to realize the full weight of what they were asking for around this time. If this woman did, she resigned herself to it with a sigh and a weary nod. They made their arrangements and the woman left.
Thursday came, and Christine set the basement up for the ritual. The woman came over at the appointed time and the pair went descended into the darkness.
“Do you ever feel badly for what you do?” the woman asked. Christine loathed conversations like this. What they about to do was soul-wrenching enough as it was without having a great deal of attention cast upon the particulars of it.
“I generally don’t think about it too much. If you’re ready, we ought to begin.”
“Why do you do it? You didn’t ask for much money, and you can’t possibly enjoy the heartache your actions cost.”
Christine opened her mouth to reply, but couldn’t find the words for an explanation. This woman was just as complicit as she, what was there to be gained from discussing it further?
“I don’t think we should talk about this any more.”
“I just don’t see how a human could…”
“Enough. Do you have the items I requested?”
“Yes.”
“Then if you have nothing further to say, let’s begin. I will transfer your husband’s illness into this loaf of bread. Whichever eats the bread will take on his illness.”
“Alright.”
The ritual was completed with no further incident. Christine gave the woman the cursed loaf of bread, instructed her that the sooner she found a target, the more effective the transference would be.
The woman nodded, she took the bread out of her purse and began to eat it.
Christine stared in disbelief as the woman took the curse upon herself.
“Why did you do that?” Christine asked. She had entertained a suspicion that others had done similar things throughout her time, but never had she seen a client do so in person.
“I couldn’t bear to see him slip away.”
“But you’ll force him to do it for you?”
“No.” replied the woman, as she briefly showed Christine the pistol she had hidden in her purse. With that, she left.
The next day, Christine’s new client was sitting at her table. “I’m sorry to bother you” he began…
No, Christine thought, you’re not, and after this time, I won’t have to be, either.
Here's what our fair judges thought.
K: Wow, another fable. Don’t play God, people. I like the concept and would like to see it extrapolated further, though it does seem somewhat familiar. 4
DK: Another good idea (these are all pretty good ideas) but something about it played out a little too familiar for me. It didn’t really grab me and keep me interested like some of the others. 2
My initial concept when I first read the outline of the challenge was the idea of a doctor who's too good at hopeless cases, and is constantly being saddled with no hope cases. This was discarded, because the story that was coming together was weirdly devoid of any sort of humanity (just as well, in retrospect, it reads kind of - like Beau said - a bad episode of House).
The sort of vague witch doctor-y thing I came up with didn't come together quite like I'd hoped, particularly the ending. I like the last sentence, but the lead in felt like it was lacking. I couldn't figure out exactly what that lack might be, but it felt flat-ish.
I have to believe that when both judges said it felt 'familiar' they were talking about the Stephen King story Thinner? Maybe? I dunno. They both said it, though, so that, combined with the 'changing horses midstream' nature of my entry this week makes me think that I might have unconsciously cribbed a plot detail from some other work. I'll have to be more careful about that in the future.
Regardless, not only did Vogons not have to eliminate anyone, they vogoned all over the place, with a snazzy 3.2 average.
This week's challenge was "Unfortunate Strength". The only requirement was that the protagonist had to have a strength that had drawbacks. A broad category, to be sure, but it had lots of potential. Did I live up to that potential? Did Vogons? Let's find out together.
My entry:
“I’m sorry to bother you…” the frail woman began. They were always sorry. They were usually scared, too, but mostly, they were just apologetic. Sorry to inconvenience, sorry to impose, so sorry to place the burden on Christine. If they were really so sorry, she thought, they wouldn’t be asking. They’d be looking into aromatherapy or herbal treatments – anything but this.
“You do understand what you’re asking for, don’t you?” Christine cut the woman off. “Can you live with what’s going to happen?”
They always, without fail, said that yes, they could live with it. Some of them actually could. Maybe they just didn’t understand the nature of the Balance, or maybe they understood it, but simply didn’t care what about the implications.
“Gather up a couple of Frank’s personal effects and procure a single vial of his blood. Bring those things to me three nights from now. You’ll need to spend that night in this house, so bring along a change of clothes.”
Some of Christine’s clients would then begin to worry about how they were going to get a vial of blood without their loved one suspecting anything. Some of them began to realize the full weight of what they were asking for around this time. If this woman did, she resigned herself to it with a sigh and a weary nod. They made their arrangements and the woman left.
Thursday came, and Christine set the basement up for the ritual. The woman came over at the appointed time and the pair went descended into the darkness.
“Do you ever feel badly for what you do?” the woman asked. Christine loathed conversations like this. What they about to do was soul-wrenching enough as it was without having a great deal of attention cast upon the particulars of it.
“I generally don’t think about it too much. If you’re ready, we ought to begin.”
“Why do you do it? You didn’t ask for much money, and you can’t possibly enjoy the heartache your actions cost.”
Christine opened her mouth to reply, but couldn’t find the words for an explanation. This woman was just as complicit as she, what was there to be gained from discussing it further?
“I don’t think we should talk about this any more.”
“I just don’t see how a human could…”
“Enough. Do you have the items I requested?”
“Yes.”
“Then if you have nothing further to say, let’s begin. I will transfer your husband’s illness into this loaf of bread. Whichever eats the bread will take on his illness.”
“Alright.”
The ritual was completed with no further incident. Christine gave the woman the cursed loaf of bread, instructed her that the sooner she found a target, the more effective the transference would be.
The woman nodded, she took the bread out of her purse and began to eat it.
Christine stared in disbelief as the woman took the curse upon herself.
“Why did you do that?” Christine asked. She had entertained a suspicion that others had done similar things throughout her time, but never had she seen a client do so in person.
“I couldn’t bear to see him slip away.”
“But you’ll force him to do it for you?”
“No.” replied the woman, as she briefly showed Christine the pistol she had hidden in her purse. With that, she left.
The next day, Christine’s new client was sitting at her table. “I’m sorry to bother you” he began…
No, Christine thought, you’re not, and after this time, I won’t have to be, either.
Here's what our fair judges thought.
K: Wow, another fable. Don’t play God, people. I like the concept and would like to see it extrapolated further, though it does seem somewhat familiar. 4
DK: Another good idea (these are all pretty good ideas) but something about it played out a little too familiar for me. It didn’t really grab me and keep me interested like some of the others. 2
My initial concept when I first read the outline of the challenge was the idea of a doctor who's too good at hopeless cases, and is constantly being saddled with no hope cases. This was discarded, because the story that was coming together was weirdly devoid of any sort of humanity (just as well, in retrospect, it reads kind of - like Beau said - a bad episode of House).
The sort of vague witch doctor-y thing I came up with didn't come together quite like I'd hoped, particularly the ending. I like the last sentence, but the lead in felt like it was lacking. I couldn't figure out exactly what that lack might be, but it felt flat-ish.
I have to believe that when both judges said it felt 'familiar' they were talking about the Stephen King story Thinner? Maybe? I dunno. They both said it, though, so that, combined with the 'changing horses midstream' nature of my entry this week makes me think that I might have unconsciously cribbed a plot detail from some other work. I'll have to be more careful about that in the future.
Regardless, not only did Vogons not have to eliminate anyone, they vogoned all over the place, with a snazzy 3.2 average.
Monday, January 9, 2012
Spookymilk Survivor X: Aladdin's Lamp
Last week, Vogons had to do the first non-trivial voting out of the competition. Everyone submitted again this week, so voting is actually important again this week. Will Vogons be voting another one of their number out? Or will they be Vogoning all over their competition? Read on.
This week's challenge was "Aladdin's Lamp", a twist on the old "three wishes" myth. The protagonist of the story was allowed three wishes - one had to have a good result, one a bad result, and one an ambiguous result. How'd I do with such a task? Let's find out...
Here's my story:
Caleb Parker was a cheerful man.
That he put a gun to his head and fired was shocking enough. That his estranged ex-wife wordlessly handed me a white business card with the word ‘Omni’ on it at his funeral was puzzling.
Omni Incorporated looked unimpressive – a medium-sized office building in an area full of medium-sized office buildings. The lobby was the same. Unused chairs, nondescript art, and a receptionist’s desk. I wondered what they actually did, since there was no indication anywhere.
“May I help you?” The receptionist asked.
“I’d like an appointment.”
“I’m afraid we can’t do that without a reference or prior agreement.”
I fumbled in my pockets, searching for the card. Finding it, I pulled it out. “I have this”.
“This way, please.”
The man led me down a corridor, past several doors. Finally coming to the one he was looking for, he opened it and ushered me in. In the center of the room was a hospital bed, with a great deal of computer equipment hooked to it via some cabling. “Make yourself comfortable. Doctor Henter will be in shortly.”
After a wait, a woman came into the room and introduced herself as Dr. Madison Henter. I shook her hand as she explained the process. I would be placed in a deep, medically-induced sleep for somewhere around two hours, while the machine (‘Eidolan’, she called it) would do its thing – whatever that thing might be (she wouldn’t elaborate).
“Are you sure you want to do this?” she asked “none of our first time users actually undergo the procedure on the first day.”
While the idea of being put into a coma didn’t entirely sit well with me, I needed to understand what happened to Caleb. “I’m quite certain” I said “Let’s do this.”
Dr. Henter placed the IV with the anesthetic and had me count down from ten. I don’t recall hitting seven.
“Hello, I am a digital construct here to ensure the merging process is as smooth as possible for all who would use Eidolan. You may call me Eve.”
I wasn’t in the medical room. Instead, I was in a room with no clear walls – only a fuzzy white expanse with no clear limit. In front of me stood a beautiful woman.
“Where am I?”
“It is designated ‘The Shimmering’, it is a white space where your subconscious can interface directly with Eidolan’s hardware.”
“What do I do now?”
“Eidolan can sense your innate desires and make them reality.”
“Any desire?”
“Yes.”
“How is that possible?”
“It is not for the user to try to understand these things. Please, what is your deepest desire?”
I’m not even sure why Claire came to mind. I hadn’t seen her in three years, and we had not parted under good graces. I should have asked for a million dollars, or a private continent. Instead, my subconscious insisted on trying to get my ex-girlfriend back.
I woke up disoriented in the waiting room with a slight headache. I took the bus home. When I got to my apartment, I was shocked to see Claire sitting on the step.
“How is this possible?” I asked her as stepped forward and hugged me warmly.
“I was just thinking of you this afternoon” she said “I thought about everything, and I shouldn’t have left. I think we should try again.”
Claire and I talked for a couple of hours before I sneaked off to get some rest. I should have been skeptical. I should have disbelieved my ‘good fortune’. Instead, I slept like a baby.
The next day, I awoke to see Eve sitting in a chair at the foot of my bed.
“What are you doing here?” I demanded “you don’t even exist.”
“True, but the process that the Eidolan uses has some residual effects. Think of me as an afterimage, a sort of merging between the version found in the Shimmering and of your own mental biases.”
“How is all of this possible. The last time Claire and I spoke, she told me that she never wanted to see me again.”
“Whatever else you may do…never ask that question.”
“I can’t just let this go unanswered…”
“I know.”
Later that day, I went back to Omni and made another appointment.
Inside, Eve greeted me. “Welcome back, Josh. I trust you are happy with the results of yesterday’s session?”
“I am, but I need to know how this works.”
“It is not your place…”
“Yes, I know what your policy is” I interrupted “I just don’t know if I can accept it.”
“Surely there must be something else. Do you want a promotion? A private island, perhaps?”
“This is all impossible.”
“Impossible is such a limiting term. Expand beyond it.”
My better sense told me to be wary of answers like this. This had to be a scam, something dangerous, even. It had killed Caleb hadn’t it? Still, curiosity won out.
“Please. Anything is possible. Do not let your skepticism keep you from taking advantage of this opportunity.”
“I just… don’t know. What if I ask for a million dollars?”
“Anything.”
“I want to be able to play the guitar.”
“You don’t have higher aspirations?”
“I’ve always wanted to play, but mostly, I need to know that this isn’t coincidence.”
“Fair enough.”
I awoke. On the way home, I stopped at a music shop and bought a guitar. That night, I serenaded Claire with the most beautiful guitar playing that she’d ever heard. Again, I slept like a baby.
I awoke the next day with the worst headache I’d ever experienced. I rushed to the bathroom to find my nose bleeding.
“My counterpart should have warned you about repeated use of the machine.”
“What in the fuck is this?”
“The process causes strain on the human brain. If spread out over weeks, it’s not serious. You’ve done it twice in the last three days…”
“Is this how Caleb died?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“What did it do to him? How does it work, Eve??”
“Do you really want to know what happened to Caleb?”
“You fucking know I need to…”
“Then you know what must be done.”
Omni Incorporated had closed for the weekend, and the only human presence was a lone security guard sitting at the front desk sipping coffee. With Eve’s help, I slipped by him easily. She led me to the Eidolan, and assisted me in turning it on. I slipped myself the sedative and quickly lapsed into The Shimmering.
Eve was there, as before. Her form was different than before – almost alien in its appearance.
“I cannot convince you to just accept this?”
“No. I want to know what happened to my friend Caleb Parker. I want to know how this works.”
Eve gave a slight nod. I woke up.
I was a cheerful man, once.
And here's the judge's critique:
K: I really like the opening and closing lines here. Stories that come around ending where they began can be a little hacky in less apt hands, but the use of the same dichotomous language made it pop. There are some pacing issues and the tension feels like it should be greater, but this concept is very strong. 2
DK: I like this template, with the hero who keeps going in a dangerous direction, but it too doesn’t strike me like some of the other ones do. Like most of these, though, there really isn’t anything wrong with it. 2
A couple notes on scoring. I'm actually very happy with these results for reasons I'll get into in a bit. Judging was done on a forced curve (so there were only two 5's to be given out, two 4's, and so on...) this was, to use, Spooky's words, one of the best weeks I've ever seen, so for both judges to think mine merited above a one is excellent especially considering...
It is truly astounding what one can't do with 1200 words. I had a grand idea for this story. Lots of exposition, lots of backstory, lots of character development. Writing the story the way I wanted to write it meant that by the second wish, I had already used 1800 words. I panicked, then wrote up a completely nonsensical submission just in case I wasn't able to make the sad story of Caleb Parker work (don't worry, you'll get to see that, too...) I went in with a hatchet and cleared away huge chunks of the story. The introduction has hit the hardest - entire scenes were removed. On the one hand, I guess it made the story a little leaner, on the other hand, motivations were obscured, characters weren't built up, and I had to axe some dialog that I liked a lot.
The final product was riddled with pacing issues because the cuts (I could've cut down further, but I had to have something to resonate, and 1200 words of "and then this happened" would've been awful). With ten minutes to spare, I essentially had a meltdown, said 'screw it', and submitted what I had. Truly disappointing.
Even if I had been able to shape this the way I wanted to, I don't know that I would've gotten very much higher a score. People brought it this week. When I saw my score, then saw Brooks' score, I knew that Vogons had another vote coming our way.
...only we didn't. Beau, Matt, and John brought the heat and the flavor, and our glorious team ended not only not finishing last, but winning outright. Granted it wasn't by much, but it was enough. Good going all around, gentlemen.
Break out the 'Vogons Gonna Vogon' tag!
This week's challenge was "Aladdin's Lamp", a twist on the old "three wishes" myth. The protagonist of the story was allowed three wishes - one had to have a good result, one a bad result, and one an ambiguous result. How'd I do with such a task? Let's find out...
Here's my story:
Caleb Parker was a cheerful man.
That he put a gun to his head and fired was shocking enough. That his estranged ex-wife wordlessly handed me a white business card with the word ‘Omni’ on it at his funeral was puzzling.
Omni Incorporated looked unimpressive – a medium-sized office building in an area full of medium-sized office buildings. The lobby was the same. Unused chairs, nondescript art, and a receptionist’s desk. I wondered what they actually did, since there was no indication anywhere.
“May I help you?” The receptionist asked.
“I’d like an appointment.”
“I’m afraid we can’t do that without a reference or prior agreement.”
I fumbled in my pockets, searching for the card. Finding it, I pulled it out. “I have this”.
“This way, please.”
The man led me down a corridor, past several doors. Finally coming to the one he was looking for, he opened it and ushered me in. In the center of the room was a hospital bed, with a great deal of computer equipment hooked to it via some cabling. “Make yourself comfortable. Doctor Henter will be in shortly.”
After a wait, a woman came into the room and introduced herself as Dr. Madison Henter. I shook her hand as she explained the process. I would be placed in a deep, medically-induced sleep for somewhere around two hours, while the machine (‘Eidolan’, she called it) would do its thing – whatever that thing might be (she wouldn’t elaborate).
“Are you sure you want to do this?” she asked “none of our first time users actually undergo the procedure on the first day.”
While the idea of being put into a coma didn’t entirely sit well with me, I needed to understand what happened to Caleb. “I’m quite certain” I said “Let’s do this.”
Dr. Henter placed the IV with the anesthetic and had me count down from ten. I don’t recall hitting seven.
“Hello, I am a digital construct here to ensure the merging process is as smooth as possible for all who would use Eidolan. You may call me Eve.”
I wasn’t in the medical room. Instead, I was in a room with no clear walls – only a fuzzy white expanse with no clear limit. In front of me stood a beautiful woman.
“Where am I?”
“It is designated ‘The Shimmering’, it is a white space where your subconscious can interface directly with Eidolan’s hardware.”
“What do I do now?”
“Eidolan can sense your innate desires and make them reality.”
“Any desire?”
“Yes.”
“How is that possible?”
“It is not for the user to try to understand these things. Please, what is your deepest desire?”
I’m not even sure why Claire came to mind. I hadn’t seen her in three years, and we had not parted under good graces. I should have asked for a million dollars, or a private continent. Instead, my subconscious insisted on trying to get my ex-girlfriend back.
I woke up disoriented in the waiting room with a slight headache. I took the bus home. When I got to my apartment, I was shocked to see Claire sitting on the step.
“How is this possible?” I asked her as stepped forward and hugged me warmly.
“I was just thinking of you this afternoon” she said “I thought about everything, and I shouldn’t have left. I think we should try again.”
Claire and I talked for a couple of hours before I sneaked off to get some rest. I should have been skeptical. I should have disbelieved my ‘good fortune’. Instead, I slept like a baby.
The next day, I awoke to see Eve sitting in a chair at the foot of my bed.
“What are you doing here?” I demanded “you don’t even exist.”
“True, but the process that the Eidolan uses has some residual effects. Think of me as an afterimage, a sort of merging between the version found in the Shimmering and of your own mental biases.”
“How is all of this possible. The last time Claire and I spoke, she told me that she never wanted to see me again.”
“Whatever else you may do…never ask that question.”
“I can’t just let this go unanswered…”
“I know.”
Later that day, I went back to Omni and made another appointment.
Inside, Eve greeted me. “Welcome back, Josh. I trust you are happy with the results of yesterday’s session?”
“I am, but I need to know how this works.”
“It is not your place…”
“Yes, I know what your policy is” I interrupted “I just don’t know if I can accept it.”
“Surely there must be something else. Do you want a promotion? A private island, perhaps?”
“This is all impossible.”
“Impossible is such a limiting term. Expand beyond it.”
My better sense told me to be wary of answers like this. This had to be a scam, something dangerous, even. It had killed Caleb hadn’t it? Still, curiosity won out.
“Please. Anything is possible. Do not let your skepticism keep you from taking advantage of this opportunity.”
“I just… don’t know. What if I ask for a million dollars?”
“Anything.”
“I want to be able to play the guitar.”
“You don’t have higher aspirations?”
“I’ve always wanted to play, but mostly, I need to know that this isn’t coincidence.”
“Fair enough.”
I awoke. On the way home, I stopped at a music shop and bought a guitar. That night, I serenaded Claire with the most beautiful guitar playing that she’d ever heard. Again, I slept like a baby.
I awoke the next day with the worst headache I’d ever experienced. I rushed to the bathroom to find my nose bleeding.
“My counterpart should have warned you about repeated use of the machine.”
“What in the fuck is this?”
“The process causes strain on the human brain. If spread out over weeks, it’s not serious. You’ve done it twice in the last three days…”
“Is this how Caleb died?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“What did it do to him? How does it work, Eve??”
“Do you really want to know what happened to Caleb?”
“You fucking know I need to…”
“Then you know what must be done.”
Omni Incorporated had closed for the weekend, and the only human presence was a lone security guard sitting at the front desk sipping coffee. With Eve’s help, I slipped by him easily. She led me to the Eidolan, and assisted me in turning it on. I slipped myself the sedative and quickly lapsed into The Shimmering.
Eve was there, as before. Her form was different than before – almost alien in its appearance.
“I cannot convince you to just accept this?”
“No. I want to know what happened to my friend Caleb Parker. I want to know how this works.”
Eve gave a slight nod. I woke up.
I was a cheerful man, once.
And here's the judge's critique:
K: I really like the opening and closing lines here. Stories that come around ending where they began can be a little hacky in less apt hands, but the use of the same dichotomous language made it pop. There are some pacing issues and the tension feels like it should be greater, but this concept is very strong. 2
DK: I like this template, with the hero who keeps going in a dangerous direction, but it too doesn’t strike me like some of the other ones do. Like most of these, though, there really isn’t anything wrong with it. 2
A couple notes on scoring. I'm actually very happy with these results for reasons I'll get into in a bit. Judging was done on a forced curve (so there were only two 5's to be given out, two 4's, and so on...) this was, to use, Spooky's words, one of the best weeks I've ever seen, so for both judges to think mine merited above a one is excellent especially considering...
It is truly astounding what one can't do with 1200 words. I had a grand idea for this story. Lots of exposition, lots of backstory, lots of character development. Writing the story the way I wanted to write it meant that by the second wish, I had already used 1800 words. I panicked, then wrote up a completely nonsensical submission just in case I wasn't able to make the sad story of Caleb Parker work (don't worry, you'll get to see that, too...) I went in with a hatchet and cleared away huge chunks of the story. The introduction has hit the hardest - entire scenes were removed. On the one hand, I guess it made the story a little leaner, on the other hand, motivations were obscured, characters weren't built up, and I had to axe some dialog that I liked a lot.
The final product was riddled with pacing issues because the cuts (I could've cut down further, but I had to have something to resonate, and 1200 words of "and then this happened" would've been awful). With ten minutes to spare, I essentially had a meltdown, said 'screw it', and submitted what I had. Truly disappointing.
Even if I had been able to shape this the way I wanted to, I don't know that I would've gotten very much higher a score. People brought it this week. When I saw my score, then saw Brooks' score, I knew that Vogons had another vote coming our way.
...only we didn't. Beau, Matt, and John brought the heat and the flavor, and our glorious team ended not only not finishing last, but winning outright. Granted it wasn't by much, but it was enough. Good going all around, gentlemen.
Break out the 'Vogons Gonna Vogon' tag!
Monday, December 12, 2011
Spookymilk Survivor X: Grab Bag Challenge
Last week, we learned that Vogons are as vulnerable to nonsubs as any other team (though you will note that we still had the highest scoring team... for the seventh consecutive week). Can all that vogonning be contained? Will another team break from our shadow and live in the glorious limelight for a week? Will enough people submit for it to actually matter?
For the ADD-impaired, or for people who don't want to waste their time reading my take on my own (fairly poor) entry this week, the answers are no, no, and no.
This week, Spooky put a few of the various entries from the Create-a-Challenge. The challenge was that each member of a given team had to pick a different challenge and complete it. No two teammates could pick the same challenge. The one I picked was "I Put a Spell on You, Because You're Hermione", where I make up a Harry Potter spell and let Hogwarts' resident know-it-all do her thing.
Here's my entry:
Everyone knew that if you had a problem, she could solve it. It was just a matter of that price… She spoke up before the boy could change his mind for a fifth time.
“May I help you?”
“My name’s Albin”
“I’ve conjured Sanjuro’s Unending Fire and bound it to my Herbology textbook. There’s a spell to remove it – Liberate Te Ex Infernis– but I’ve tried for hours to cast it, and it just doesn’t work.”
“Of course it works, you’re not saying it properly. You know my fee? Two weeks of displaying the House Elf Liberation Front pin…”
“…oh, God.”
“…and one favor for me to call upon at any time I choose, day or night.”
“Well…”
“Do you want to complete Herbology?”
“Fine.”
“You’re placing emphasis on the wrong syllable. The pronunciation is “Libera-TAY te ex in-FER-nis…”
Hermione cast the spell on Albin’s textbook. The fire disappeared.
“Odd that you’d choose that spell. It has a tendency to…”
A scream came from a nearby classroom.
“…redirect to unexpected places.”
Students poured from the room.
“Rutilda’s hair has caught fire! No one knows how to extinguish it!”
Albin was going to owe her double for this one…
And here is what our fair judges had to say:
K: It felt true to the source material and referenced Kurosawa (I assume this was intentional). No complaints here. 4
DK: A lot of the structural details of how spells are cast in the Harry Potter world are going over my head, but I can pick up enough to get a sense of what’s going on. This works fine as an idea, but it didn’t hit me as particularly clever as it could have been. 3
Okay, first things first... I didn't completely care for this one. I mostly took it because someone was going to have to, and the quicker someone took one of the more variable ones (honestly, the difference between a 2 and a 5 in this challenge particularly was more a matter of how the writing and biases struck a particular judge, rather than how well it was presented.) I was going to be busy all week/weekend, and I figured I'd leave the more fine-tunable challenges for those who would be able to put in some time.
My initial concept was a sort of "Encyclopedia Brown", but with Hermione in place of the Boy Detective. Kind of a lame idea, but it was the only one that struck me at all (and it did, in fact, strike me while I was drunkenly watching Archer reruns on Netflix with my buddy and his girlfriend). I typed it all up, polished it a bit, and copied it into a word counter...
427 words.
Which brings me to my second point, I would've loved a 300-word word limit on this one. Most of the other challenges got one, it would have been nice if this one would've too. By the time I had finished chopping and mutilating my original, it had no breath left in it. Sometimes a hard word count forces me to be more concise and lean about things (I do tend to get a bit wordy). This particular time it gutted what I was going for, I probably should've trashed the concept and gone with something else. This would be why, as DK said, "not as clever as it could've been" (though there was no way I was going to axe "Sanjuro's Unending Fire", even if that particular name doesn't jive with the Harry Potter universe at all), I left quite a bit a flavor on the floor.
In fairness the other user to try his hand at this challenge had me beat both in concept and execution, and even if I would've gotten my 300 words, it wouldn't have been much more than a 3.5, anyway. The finished product just would've looked nicer, which is all I'm looking for, because...
...even though Vogons went ahead and Vogonned for the 8th straight week (!!!), two nonsubs made it all academic. It's a little sad, the Vogons are showing such dominance (most weeks, even if each nonsub got a 5, we still would've won), and the story of this season so far is the fact that slowly, but surely no one is showing up.
For the ADD-impaired, or for people who don't want to waste their time reading my take on my own (fairly poor) entry this week, the answers are no, no, and no.
This week, Spooky put a few of the various entries from the Create-a-Challenge. The challenge was that each member of a given team had to pick a different challenge and complete it. No two teammates could pick the same challenge. The one I picked was "I Put a Spell on You, Because You're Hermione", where I make up a Harry Potter spell and let Hogwarts' resident know-it-all do her thing.
Here's my entry:
Everyone knew that if you had a problem, she could solve it. It was just a matter of that price… She spoke up before the boy could change his mind for a fifth time.
“May I help you?”
“My name’s Albin”
“I’ve conjured Sanjuro’s Unending Fire and bound it to my Herbology textbook. There’s a spell to remove it – Liberate Te Ex Infernis– but I’ve tried for hours to cast it, and it just doesn’t work.”
“Of course it works, you’re not saying it properly. You know my fee? Two weeks of displaying the House Elf Liberation Front pin…”
“…oh, God.”
“…and one favor for me to call upon at any time I choose, day or night.”
“Well…”
“Do you want to complete Herbology?”
“Fine.”
“You’re placing emphasis on the wrong syllable. The pronunciation is “Libera-TAY te ex in-FER-nis…”
Hermione cast the spell on Albin’s textbook. The fire disappeared.
“Odd that you’d choose that spell. It has a tendency to…”
A scream came from a nearby classroom.
“…redirect to unexpected places.”
Students poured from the room.
“Rutilda’s hair has caught fire! No one knows how to extinguish it!”
Albin was going to owe her double for this one…
And here is what our fair judges had to say:
K: It felt true to the source material and referenced Kurosawa (I assume this was intentional). No complaints here. 4
DK: A lot of the structural details of how spells are cast in the Harry Potter world are going over my head, but I can pick up enough to get a sense of what’s going on. This works fine as an idea, but it didn’t hit me as particularly clever as it could have been. 3
Okay, first things first... I didn't completely care for this one. I mostly took it because someone was going to have to, and the quicker someone took one of the more variable ones (honestly, the difference between a 2 and a 5 in this challenge particularly was more a matter of how the writing and biases struck a particular judge, rather than how well it was presented.) I was going to be busy all week/weekend, and I figured I'd leave the more fine-tunable challenges for those who would be able to put in some time.
My initial concept was a sort of "Encyclopedia Brown", but with Hermione in place of the Boy Detective. Kind of a lame idea, but it was the only one that struck me at all (and it did, in fact, strike me while I was drunkenly watching Archer reruns on Netflix with my buddy and his girlfriend). I typed it all up, polished it a bit, and copied it into a word counter...
427 words.
Which brings me to my second point, I would've loved a 300-word word limit on this one. Most of the other challenges got one, it would have been nice if this one would've too. By the time I had finished chopping and mutilating my original, it had no breath left in it. Sometimes a hard word count forces me to be more concise and lean about things (I do tend to get a bit wordy). This particular time it gutted what I was going for, I probably should've trashed the concept and gone with something else. This would be why, as DK said, "not as clever as it could've been" (though there was no way I was going to axe "Sanjuro's Unending Fire", even if that particular name doesn't jive with the Harry Potter universe at all), I left quite a bit a flavor on the floor.
In fairness the other user to try his hand at this challenge had me beat both in concept and execution, and even if I would've gotten my 300 words, it wouldn't have been much more than a 3.5, anyway. The finished product just would've looked nicer, which is all I'm looking for, because...
...even though Vogons went ahead and Vogonned for the 8th straight week (!!!), two nonsubs made it all academic. It's a little sad, the Vogons are showing such dominance (most weeks, even if each nonsub got a 5, we still would've won), and the story of this season so far is the fact that slowly, but surely no one is showing up.
Monday, November 21, 2011
Spookymilk Survivor X: Bantam Bulwyr
In 1830, Edward Bulwer-Lytton's novel Paul Clifford began with a line so incredibly overwrought and hamfisted that it essentially broke written language. At Spookymilk Survivor, contestants are tasked with honoring that glorious line by trying to top it.
The concept is to write an opening line to a book - a sentence so horrible that anyone who read it would immediately close the book, throw it in the garbage and picket the author's house. I've never done very well with this particular challenge, but here's what I came up with.
K: This is a tough one. Yes, it’s gross and ham-fisted. Does it teeter on the brink of intentional comedy? Yeah, I think it does, but in the end it sounds more desperate to be cool than anything, like an after-school special written by 45-year-old white guys. 4
DK: I’m not sure I’d want to read Genesis, or the Bible, in this style (I’m not sure I’d want to read Genesis all the way anyway), but it feels a little too much like trying to be bad. 1
So... yeah. My first one of the season and a 2.5 overall. There was some discussion on the actual site about the nature of the challenge itself and the extremely subjective nature of what is "bad" and what is just trying too hard. Both judges seemed to think mine was trying too hard to be bad. Spooky was able to fight through it, DK wasn't. Fair enough. In retrospect, I do hate the "bam" that I put in there. If I had to write it over again, I'd leave that out.
I would take a little bit of an exception to DK's comment about "trying to be bad" for a couple reasons. First off, that is, of course, the point of the challenge. I could understand if mine felt forced, but that actually leads me into my second point.
We live in a world where this dude makes albums and sells them to lots of people (a recurring set of skits from one of his albums, which were actually the inspiration for my entry, were titled "The World's Greatest MC", where KJ opined about Jesus' status as "world's greatest MC"). More power to him if he's able to do that, I guess, but the point is that my paragraph (which is obviously meant to be Genesis 1:1, as taken verbatim from the "Thug Life" bible) is actually right about in line with the overly-thick desperation to be cool and relevant that exists in some segments of Christianity. These people were all around in church when I was growing up, the 'Thug Life Bible' might not exist, but the mindset certainly does. I suppose Poe's Law could come into play, as it often does in these matters, but I've seen too much sincerity from certain corners of this niche to make me think that it's as simple as "trying to be bad".
Either way, the rest of my team bailed me out, so we keep on marching. Well played, vogons, I get to keep using one of my favorite categories, and we keep thinning out the herd.
The concept is to write an opening line to a book - a sentence so horrible that anyone who read it would immediately close the book, throw it in the garbage and picket the author's house. I've never done very well with this particular challenge, but here's what I came up with.
Ayo, peep this. Back in the day (and I mean way, way back in the day), this crazy powerful cat, God, said the word and ‘bam’, everything came outta nuthin’ – the sun, the world, even the hood… everything.Here's the judges' input:
K: This is a tough one. Yes, it’s gross and ham-fisted. Does it teeter on the brink of intentional comedy? Yeah, I think it does, but in the end it sounds more desperate to be cool than anything, like an after-school special written by 45-year-old white guys. 4
DK: I’m not sure I’d want to read Genesis, or the Bible, in this style (I’m not sure I’d want to read Genesis all the way anyway), but it feels a little too much like trying to be bad. 1
So... yeah. My first one of the season and a 2.5 overall. There was some discussion on the actual site about the nature of the challenge itself and the extremely subjective nature of what is "bad" and what is just trying too hard. Both judges seemed to think mine was trying too hard to be bad. Spooky was able to fight through it, DK wasn't. Fair enough. In retrospect, I do hate the "bam" that I put in there. If I had to write it over again, I'd leave that out.
I would take a little bit of an exception to DK's comment about "trying to be bad" for a couple reasons. First off, that is, of course, the point of the challenge. I could understand if mine felt forced, but that actually leads me into my second point.
We live in a world where this dude makes albums and sells them to lots of people (a recurring set of skits from one of his albums, which were actually the inspiration for my entry, were titled "The World's Greatest MC", where KJ opined about Jesus' status as "world's greatest MC"). More power to him if he's able to do that, I guess, but the point is that my paragraph (which is obviously meant to be Genesis 1:1, as taken verbatim from the "Thug Life" bible) is actually right about in line with the overly-thick desperation to be cool and relevant that exists in some segments of Christianity. These people were all around in church when I was growing up, the 'Thug Life Bible' might not exist, but the mindset certainly does. I suppose Poe's Law could come into play, as it often does in these matters, but I've seen too much sincerity from certain corners of this niche to make me think that it's as simple as "trying to be bad".
Either way, the rest of my team bailed me out, so we keep on marching. Well played, vogons, I get to keep using one of my favorite categories, and we keep thinning out the herd.
Monday, November 14, 2011
Spookymilk Survivor X: What Was That You Asked?
Vogons be killin' it.
The old standby where you're given a response, and asked to sculpt a question around it. We got 20 of the 38 possible points. Well done, team.
These were my contributions.
It’s no surprise they melted, then.
-Man, I sure goofed on the kids’ birthday present – instead of the Playskool Noah’s Ark, I got them the Ark of the Covenant.
I wasn't actually sure how this one would go over. I knew I wanted an Ark of the Covenant joke, but didn't know how to phrase it. This is the first draft. I'm glad I didn't work it down any more. Both judges picked it.
You could get the same result by banging a bunch of pots and pans together.
-My third grader’s band is going to be in the school’s talent show, do you want to watch?
I like this one better than the obvious Nickeback joke. They are to music what Two and a Half Men is to television. Not very good, either way. I would've picked the 2004 election one over both of them.
That’s an unlikely use of your theater degree.
-It’s time to make some money, bitches!
My last minute contribution. Picked by both.
I wanted to go because they have the hottest chicks.
-Why did you vacation at Death Valley Hatcheries?
Weirdly, everyone went with the "warm baby chickens" route. Mine got picked by both judges.
A couple extra notes.
* We're lucky that we didn't go with mine for the "going so well until he slipped" one, because both other teams went the circumcision route.
* I still like my question for "A slide rule, an apple and a piece of the Blarneystone", which was, of course, "I give up, what would an Irish Isaac Newton carry on him at all times?"
The old standby where you're given a response, and asked to sculpt a question around it. We got 20 of the 38 possible points. Well done, team.
These were my contributions.
It’s no surprise they melted, then.
-Man, I sure goofed on the kids’ birthday present – instead of the Playskool Noah’s Ark, I got them the Ark of the Covenant.
I wasn't actually sure how this one would go over. I knew I wanted an Ark of the Covenant joke, but didn't know how to phrase it. This is the first draft. I'm glad I didn't work it down any more. Both judges picked it.
You could get the same result by banging a bunch of pots and pans together.
-My third grader’s band is going to be in the school’s talent show, do you want to watch?
I like this one better than the obvious Nickeback joke. They are to music what Two and a Half Men is to television. Not very good, either way. I would've picked the 2004 election one over both of them.
That’s an unlikely use of your theater degree.
-It’s time to make some money, bitches!
My last minute contribution. Picked by both.
I wanted to go because they have the hottest chicks.
-Why did you vacation at Death Valley Hatcheries?
Weirdly, everyone went with the "warm baby chickens" route. Mine got picked by both judges.
A couple extra notes.
* We're lucky that we didn't go with mine for the "going so well until he slipped" one, because both other teams went the circumcision route.
* I still like my question for "A slide rule, an apple and a piece of the Blarneystone", which was, of course, "I give up, what would an Irish Isaac Newton carry on him at all times?"
Sunday, November 6, 2011
Spookymilk Survivor X: Half the Conversation
Last any of us had heard, the Vogons were killin' it. I mean killin' it. Not to spoil everything, but that's still the case.
On the other hand, how did I do? The team still has my name weirdly attached to it, after all. I have to keep up the high standards associated with the "Nibbish and His Vogons" name. Read on for the answer.
This week's challenge was "Half the Conversation". Spooky provided us with half a conversation, and tasked us with filling in the holes (thereby providing the other half of the conversation). Here's what I came up with...
The phone rings at 5pm. It wasn’t supposed to ring until 7pm. There is no way that this call has any kind of good news. I pick up the phone.
Coleen’s voice comes to life on the other end of the line. “You missed a call.”
That doesn’t sound right at all. She knows I’d never ignore a call – not with the project nearing completion.
“Sorry about that. Bert must be furious. Should I stop by the office later to patch things up?”
“Yeah. There’s no reason not to.” comes the even-voiced reply.
Something’s up. Bert is an untrustworthy rat – one whom Coleen despises. Someone’s listening – someone that she’s afraid of. I need got to know what I’m dealing with.
“Did Charlotte ever pick up those test results yesterday?”
“No. She never did. Neither did I, for that matter.”
Shit. That means I have a stop to make en route to the safehouse. It also means that this is probably the last conversation Coleen and I will ever have, and I have to fill half of it with code words to try to shake down the poor woman for information.
“I’ll pick them up on the way to the office. By the way, are we still on for Sunday?”
“At the Fall Festival?”
Things get worse. Coleen’s doomed, and unless I get moving, I’m next. The line is tapped, and the spooks must be with her. No need to keep up appearances.
“Can you imagine if they’d gotten anything out of that poor bastard from the survey team?”
“Yeah, that would have been a disaster.”
It already is. There’s nothing left to do but say goodbye and make my preparations.
“Tell those bastards that we haven’t forgotten Franconia. No matter how many they brain-fry in those machines, it won’t stop us.”
“It wasn’t personal. They don’t see things the same way you do.”
That gets a bitter chuckle from me. Even in the face of the mind-raping she’s about to receive, she’s still got that glorious black sense of humor.
“I’m sorry for dragging you into this.”
“You’re not the only one.”
“You don’t blame me?
“Absolutely not.”
“It isn’t right, what’s about to happen to you.”
“So what are you going to do about it?”
“Same thing you’d do… I’m going to run. Goodbye, Coleen.”
With that, I hang up the phone and press the little black button underneath the second shelf in the kitchen twice. The next person through the front door gets immolated, and when the time is right, the rest of Coleen’s killers will wish they’d gotten off that easily.
Here's the judges' critiques:
K: Wow. This is a great dark tale, and it reads seamlessly, going from heavy narration to a quick back-and-forth and never losing steam. This was a lot of story in a small space, which is really all I ever ask. 5
DK: Nicely done. Great premise, lots of tension building up, and the conversation fits together well too. 4
The nice thing about working tons of overtime on overnight shift if that you get a lot of time to yourself to think (the down side, if you were wondering, is literally every other thing). When I first saw this challenge, it seemed intimidating, but because of my interesting work schedule, I had the time to come up with (and cruelly reject) well over a dozen different scenarios. Eventually, I decided to pay the story I had made for the create-a-challenge in season eight (the one with the three pictures that takes place in the dude's mind). The characters are all different, and only minor allusions exist (the original draft was a lot more explicit about the continuity, which I decided was stupid, since I wasn't exactly working with Star Wars canon, or anything. The protagonist alludes to "brain frying" machines, and "that poor bastard from the survey team" - not particularly direct (in fact, I'd be shocked if Spooky even realized it, since I wasn't really going for "sequel" so much as "basic story framework").
I sort of dislike writing in the present tense. It's hard to keep track of (I had to scan this one three times to make sure I didn't put any past tense narration. More importantly, it always feels put on and false when I write it. There were a couple of transitions that I initially felt didn't flow well with it, and I almost trashed the whole thing about halfway through. Eventually, I decided to just tough it out. I alternated wildly from "way too over-descriptive" (the first draft was 700 words) to "way too under-descriptive" (which resulted in a story about as bland as a story about kidnapping, mental torture, and murder could possibly be).
I wasn't sure how what I came up with would be received. I felt like I'd made something that at the very least wasn't embarrassing, but I was worried over whether or not the implied previous content locked people out of the story (and also whether or not I was being overly vague). I guess it worked, but I still feel like it could have flowed better.
In the end, the Vogons rolled to a third consecutive victorious week, and that's what matters.
On an only partially related note, I'd like to share my condolences with fellow contestant Jake Elliott, who lost his uncle in an accident over the week. Stay strong.
On the other hand, how did I do? The team still has my name weirdly attached to it, after all. I have to keep up the high standards associated with the "Nibbish and His Vogons" name. Read on for the answer.
This week's challenge was "Half the Conversation". Spooky provided us with half a conversation, and tasked us with filling in the holes (thereby providing the other half of the conversation). Here's what I came up with...
The phone rings at 5pm. It wasn’t supposed to ring until 7pm. There is no way that this call has any kind of good news. I pick up the phone.
Coleen’s voice comes to life on the other end of the line. “You missed a call.”
That doesn’t sound right at all. She knows I’d never ignore a call – not with the project nearing completion.
“Sorry about that. Bert must be furious. Should I stop by the office later to patch things up?”
“Yeah. There’s no reason not to.” comes the even-voiced reply.
Something’s up. Bert is an untrustworthy rat – one whom Coleen despises. Someone’s listening – someone that she’s afraid of. I need got to know what I’m dealing with.
“Did Charlotte ever pick up those test results yesterday?”
“No. She never did. Neither did I, for that matter.”
Shit. That means I have a stop to make en route to the safehouse. It also means that this is probably the last conversation Coleen and I will ever have, and I have to fill half of it with code words to try to shake down the poor woman for information.
“I’ll pick them up on the way to the office. By the way, are we still on for Sunday?”
“At the Fall Festival?”
Things get worse. Coleen’s doomed, and unless I get moving, I’m next. The line is tapped, and the spooks must be with her. No need to keep up appearances.
“Can you imagine if they’d gotten anything out of that poor bastard from the survey team?”
“Yeah, that would have been a disaster.”
It already is. There’s nothing left to do but say goodbye and make my preparations.
“Tell those bastards that we haven’t forgotten Franconia. No matter how many they brain-fry in those machines, it won’t stop us.”
“It wasn’t personal. They don’t see things the same way you do.”
That gets a bitter chuckle from me. Even in the face of the mind-raping she’s about to receive, she’s still got that glorious black sense of humor.
“I’m sorry for dragging you into this.”
“You’re not the only one.”
“You don’t blame me?
“Absolutely not.”
“It isn’t right, what’s about to happen to you.”
“So what are you going to do about it?”
“Same thing you’d do… I’m going to run. Goodbye, Coleen.”
With that, I hang up the phone and press the little black button underneath the second shelf in the kitchen twice. The next person through the front door gets immolated, and when the time is right, the rest of Coleen’s killers will wish they’d gotten off that easily.
Here's the judges' critiques:
K: Wow. This is a great dark tale, and it reads seamlessly, going from heavy narration to a quick back-and-forth and never losing steam. This was a lot of story in a small space, which is really all I ever ask. 5
DK: Nicely done. Great premise, lots of tension building up, and the conversation fits together well too. 4
The nice thing about working tons of overtime on overnight shift if that you get a lot of time to yourself to think (the down side, if you were wondering, is literally every other thing). When I first saw this challenge, it seemed intimidating, but because of my interesting work schedule, I had the time to come up with (and cruelly reject) well over a dozen different scenarios. Eventually, I decided to pay the story I had made for the create-a-challenge in season eight (the one with the three pictures that takes place in the dude's mind). The characters are all different, and only minor allusions exist (the original draft was a lot more explicit about the continuity, which I decided was stupid, since I wasn't exactly working with Star Wars canon, or anything. The protagonist alludes to "brain frying" machines, and "that poor bastard from the survey team" - not particularly direct (in fact, I'd be shocked if Spooky even realized it, since I wasn't really going for "sequel" so much as "basic story framework").
I sort of dislike writing in the present tense. It's hard to keep track of (I had to scan this one three times to make sure I didn't put any past tense narration. More importantly, it always feels put on and false when I write it. There were a couple of transitions that I initially felt didn't flow well with it, and I almost trashed the whole thing about halfway through. Eventually, I decided to just tough it out. I alternated wildly from "way too over-descriptive" (the first draft was 700 words) to "way too under-descriptive" (which resulted in a story about as bland as a story about kidnapping, mental torture, and murder could possibly be).
I wasn't sure how what I came up with would be received. I felt like I'd made something that at the very least wasn't embarrassing, but I was worried over whether or not the implied previous content locked people out of the story (and also whether or not I was being overly vague). I guess it worked, but I still feel like it could have flowed better.
In the end, the Vogons rolled to a third consecutive victorious week, and that's what matters.
On an only partially related note, I'd like to share my condolences with fellow contestant Jake Elliott, who lost his uncle in an accident over the week. Stay strong.
Monday, October 31, 2011
Spookymilk Survivor X: Community Story
I was going to hold off on this one until I had posted the next entry in my video game list, but that one's sort of being annoying to write, and there's about 8 other blogs who have already gotten the jump on me on this one, so I'll be a sheep and follow along.
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...
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.
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.”
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.
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.”
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.
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