Tangent's done that before though... picking two titles..

Evil Speaks
Words: 1783
TidyPub: http://tidypub.org/lCOHv

I will tell you where Larissa Blessing is.

But first, please stop calling me “Mr. Bilaan”. You're about to become acquainted with me, so just call me Tom.

Second, don't mind me scratching my mustache. I'm not the mustache twirling villain, I simply have fleas in my cell.

Do you know what it's like having to sleep with fleas in my bunk and a rapist above me, his bunk screeching with his late night masturbation which leave me maddened and staring daggers at the mattress, wishing I had a knife I could stab upward, feeling his warm arterial blood tickling down my fingers, my arm...

I apologize, I rant. I find myself running at the mouth. I have a photographic memory, which will be helping you in the end, but unfortunately makes recollections quite vivid to myself.

I have done 7 years for accessory to murder, despite no body and little evidence of any...

Right, again, I apologize for ranting, but if you want all the evidence you should listen to each detail. I told you I've come to confess and I have.

The last person on record to have seen...Ms. Blessing...stated she saw the 14 year old walking into a convenience store in a “bad part of town”. She was correct. I remember the day vividly: gray but not rainy, it did not rain that day at all, but was overcast and there was periodic fog. It was not a hand reaching out to drag her into the mist, as the TV movie described, but was in fact a hand reaching out from the convenience store office. I was sharing the shift with a Mr. Douglas Farron Anderson, a student at Santa Fe, age 24 at the time, tall and handsome, Rastafarian...right well, anyway, he was working the desk while I was to be doing the inventory in the back office.

And I saw her from the corner of the desk. Blue eyes like shattered crystals, black hair like strands of onyx, skin like ivory – a living, breathing statue of the goddess Venus but in a Jaguars jersey. She was picking through the potato chip bags, her lips pursed as she was thinking, “hm, what do I choose, what do I choose?” as if her life depended on which bag would give her a lifetime of happiness.

She shouldn't have thought so hard about her future. My hand was around her mouth and she kicked upwards, far too slow to actually strike the chip rack and alert anyone, her foot then slammed downward, making only a light “screet” of rubber sole on tile. Two great strides and she was already in the office. I held my hand over her mouth and nose, my teeth grit and my lower jaw shivering in the heat.

Douglas knocked on the door asking if I had seen a young girl in the store and I called back in a dull voice that I hadn't. Larissa passed out and I slid the body out the back door and into the trunk of my car, her mouth and limbs duct taped shut. He never saw me come back inside and when the police arrived hours later, I could honestly say I hadn't seen her because it's true, I had not seen her for hours.

Yes, I have just confessed to kidnapping her. Congratulations, it's on tape now.

But I won't confess to murder. Do you want me to go on?

By the way, I thank you for the five minutes with my lawyer. He advised against this, but he's a smart little man, has a photographic memory like me. I was able to convince him this was a smart idea and he memorized my little statement quite quickly.

So, I brought her home after work and she was weak, but still alive. She had managed to get some of the tape off, which was the smudges of glue your forensic teams found. I kept her prisoner for only 3 weeks and I did everything an abnormal human being could do to her. I had been dreaming of this for years, you see.

When I was in high school I would dream the world would stop and I could walk up to Elizabeth Boer and touch her skin with the back of my hand. She couldn't do anything, she was still as a statue, her green eyes focused forward and unseeing. If I unzipped myself, she wouldn't look down and wonder what kind of shame I was bringing on to myself. She stared forward and I could reach up and touch her red hair, kiss her jaw, lick her neck. I would undress her slowly while the rest of the school was still frozen in time, unseeing, but there. I would leave her clothes bunched around her ankles and never take my lips off her skin...

Oh don't rush me. Pay attention. No, I'm just scratching.

Larissa was tied to a pole in an abandoned room in my house, once home to my stepdaughter before my wife left me. My wife had gone and taken everything of value, but all the little decorations were still there, the bed was still there, the little vanity and the netting full of old stuffed animals my stepdaughter had in her childhood. I kept a web-cam perched in that netting, the line going directly into my room so I could know when she slept and when she didn't. The smart girl checked every corner of the room but that netting, precious thing.

For those three weeks Larissa was my Elizabeth Boer. I played all my fantasies out on her, only allowing her freedom to sleep and leaving food for her to eat. The pressure to release her or find a way to dispose of her came when she began to refuse food and fast, and when the police came knocking at my co-worker's home as poor Douglas was the number one suspect.

No! I have not been fasting, though thank you for your concerns. I've lost weight in prison, you're correct, but I would never fast. I enjoy my vices too much.

Manuel Cavares had been a long time friend of mine, a kind of “clingy” person who continues to harass you until you finally give in and accept his association. He loved to glorify the criminal aspects of his hometown in Mexico, coming into the store at first, then later my home to tell me the brutal details of a local sheriff's decapitation for example. He would always proudly tell me he knew a guy who knew a guy who could get me drugs or women or firearms. Did I want explosives?

Do you want to disappear?

Yes, that is him, correct. C-A-V-A-R-E-S.

My details will get scant at this point as the issue soon went beyond my control. The “issue” being Ms...Blessing. Yes, Manuel was my contact and helped me get into the world of human trafficking and very fast. Within days of the police arresting my co-worker, Manuel's guy was at my house with a shocked look on his face when I said I didn't want any money. This quickly became a blackmail session as he realized an opportunity when he saw one and I was forced to give him nearly everything I had in the bank or he would report me to the police. I was broke, ruined, all my savings. This was the lowest point in my life.

I was arrested soon afterward and charged and after years of deliberation and front page news, I was found guilty of accessory to murder. Murder, my god the thought of me killing that beautiful Aphrodite pains me. I think of her daily now. My Elizabeth, with her porcelain skin beneath my warm hand...

I mean, Larissa, right.

By the way, don't worry about my life savings. It was just a savings account I set up for rainy days, I would never let them have my trust fund or the checking account my parents set up for me. Or my offshore accounts.

The important thing is, you want to know where she is. And that's why I'm here to confess, to lower my sentence according our deal. Because guess who walked in the door this morning but Javier de Dios himself. Arrested on four counts of prostitution and abuse of minors. Well, Javier is the man who took her off my hands and we had a talk today.

She's alive. She is going by the name Christina Baker. She's in Nogales, Arizona and was married just two months after her initial imprisonment by myself to a man named Jason Baker. WAIT! Don't all rush out before I tell you another thing. She has gained weight, Javier told me, laughing, and her hair is falling out. Her husband beats her. For the same reasons I beat her. Because I didn't want her to be recognized if you saw her on the street. And because I wanted to break her spirit. She has three children from him. She's not the pretty girl on the front page of the newspapers anymore. Her eyes, he tells me, are dead inside.

Like a statue.

I wanted to thank you for these hours. I wanted to let you know you'll never find Manuel: I gave you the wrong name because I have a use for him. I want you to know that I'm happy now, not just at getting my conscious clear. But for that five minutes you let me see my lawyer in private.

...

Let me get this mustache off, sorry gentlemen. Don't look too shocked.

Where was I? Right, the five minutes you let me see my lawyer and the hours he has had you sitting here, confessing all of my crimes while I've been to see Manuel. I hope he remembers every line I told him to tell you, and I hope you can believe he's me for just a few hours longer.

And I hope you're not too harsh on him, I believe accessory to conspiracy carries a fairly light sentence and by the time he gets out I'll ensure he's well taken care of. I mean, look at him, how handsome and young he is still. Those off shore accounts mommy and daddy set up for me before they died will make sure he's comfortable when he gets out in a few years. If you want the details, have him recite my letter again.

Anyway, with that, I say goodbye gentlemen and give my best to Elizabeth.

And here he signed it: Thomas Bilaan.

…

By the way, I think he meant Larissa. Probably.




Trope: Xanatos Gambit

bengraven said:

I'm going to hell for my story.

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This is a good sign.

Ashes1396 said:

Tangent's done that before though... picking two titles..

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That's cool and all but I don't really see the point

ronito said:

Damnit Cinders! Look what you've done. Now EVERYONE has to have two titles.

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I do not know to what you reffering to sir. If you will kindly take notice of my entry, I have obliged to enter one title not two.

Taking my smiley away from me was a cruel blow mods. A cruel blow indeed. :/

Picking two titles is SOOOOO 1800s.

Speaking of titles, I've had mine for 11 years. The title I mean. It was originally for a novel I had planned about an old psychiatrist who works in a mental institution and begins to take down the memoirs of a man claiming to the Devil. You wonder throughout the novel if he's really mad or if he is actually Satan. I think in the end, you realize he is in fact Satan because let's be honest there's a huge difference between a horror novel and a thriller and I had no interest in writing thrillers at the time. haha

I think I'll do that with my stories from now on just to be ironic

The Impiety of Blood (2,000 words)




Fibald knelt in the light of his garden. Moist earth clung to his simple auburn robes, falling away with every shudder of movement. His fingers ploughed the ground under his watchful eyes. Each new excavation was followed by a shower of delicate seeds, and was completed with a burial of water and soil. A man of sixty-two years, this was one of the few pleasures Fibald was able to keep for himself. Hunting, meadow games, marriage, those were pastimes for young men.

“Fibald, Fibald!” a voice cried from beyond the gate.

Fibald rose and looked toward the source. He beheld a young man standing at the waist-high portcullis, clad in the same garb as he. A red sash ran across his waist, a symbolic observance of atonement. It was one of the learners, a minor cleric under Fibald’s mentorship.

“What is it, Aubust?” Fibald answered, brushing the dust from his lap as he did.

“Come to the front door, Teacher! There has been a notice posted!” Aubust answered, before he moved away into the street.

Fibald strode toward the gate and swung it open, calling after Aubust, “By whom?”

“Holy Blood!” the call answered.

Sickly warmth settled in Fibald’s chest. He followed Aubust to the front door, and his pupil did not mistake the worry written across his mentor’s face. A weathered piece of parchment was pinned to the wooden face of the door, a small and ornate knife held it in place. Wrinkled hands seized the decree and pulled it loose.

Fibald grew increasingly more troubled as he read it, and Aubust did not fail to notice. Fibald had retreated into his thoughts. Uncountable ambiguous emotions coloured and warped his face with each passing second. The meek learner waited several minutes before speaking.

“The Order wants our archives?” he asked, though he already knew this to be true.

“Yes, Aubust, and that is troubling indeed. It would seem they are revisiting their long-standing practice of letting the small communities and universities practice Atonement after their own fashion.”

Aubust replied, “But Scholar, what if the Knights are correct about Atonement? Might it be achieved in the body, and not in deed and word? Are we in error?”

Fibald turned toward his friend and spoke firmly, “No, Brother Aubust. The Law is a broad road, and we heed its direction, yet not the orientation of every cobble.”

The young monk contemplated for a moment, but once more was troubled. He gestured to the parchment in Fibald’s hand and said, “Even so, what of the decree? Will we yield to the Law?”

The elderly monk sighed and his shoulders fell. His eyes closed for a moment, and opened again, this time clouded with a heavy fog. Whether it was grief or some other stress, Aubust knew not.

“Lacking the Law, I am nothing,” Fibald spoke at last. He motioned for Aubust to return to his studies and watched the young student depart into the stone chapel. Fibald remained a minute longer, alone under the stone arch that crowned the sturdy, wooden doors. He eased the small knife free of its hold and studied it. Running the length of the blade was an archaic description.

By this blood ye are held blameless,
By this blood ye are freed,
Atoned are ye by this blood.

--

Brohta selected a volume from the shelf of his library and retrieved it. He felt the book’s weight sink into his hands. Much dust clung to its cover, and he could dimly make out a title set in black ink: Liber Fornacum. He returned to his chair in the corner of the room, stoked the light of a candle, and spread the pages of the book across his lap. He was undisturbed for an hour, maybe two, before a knock at the door roused him from his daydreams.

“Enter,” Brohta said, his gaze still on the weathered pages.

“Hello? I take it you are the resident Spirit-reader?” a voice asked.

Brohta looked up, and took in an elderly man wrapped in brown cloth. “By your admittance into this chamber, I presume you have passed my associate’s questioning,” Brohta replied.

“Yes. My name is Fibald, and I am the Master Scholar at the Greenberg University in Ausbick,” Fibald answered.

Brohta inwardly chuckled at the esteemed title, but made no appearance of his amusement. He planted a feather into the pages of the book he held and set it aside. “And I am what you call a Spirit-reader. Do you have need of my particular and forbidden knowledge?”

Fibald spoke, “I have need of your aid, though I don’t know what good my coming here can possibly achieve.”

Brohta motioned for him to take the chair beside him, and the monk accepted it. Fibald told Brohta everything, from the decree nailed at his door to the fruitless efforts he had made to erase or nullify the grim reality of that law. By the end of his explanation, the old man was shaking and distraught.

“So if you relinquish your University’s records to Holy Blood, they are free to ‘Atone’ sinners as they see fit,” Brohta summarized. Fibald nodded gravely. Brohta said, “And you have no choice but to relent, thus dooming perhaps hundreds of your neighbours.” Fibald nodded again, the pain clear on his face.

“Well, let me offer you a choice. Refuse them,” Brohta said.

Fibald looked horrified. “I can’t!”

“Not without aid. I possess it,” Brohta answered. “I have sufficient means to defend a church-forgive me, University, but not much more.”

Fibald began to protest, but Brohta held up his hand as if asking for a moment longer. “The Order of the Holy Blood won’t be sated with the records of one University. They will move to exert influence over all of them, and bleed the populace dry.”

“And what can I, a humble Scholar do?” Fibald asked. “I am no warrior, do you suggest an uprising?”

“What I ask is not for your sword, but your tongue,” Brohta answered. “I can lead men in battle, but I am an undesirable in all else. Your learners and followers trust and respect you. Inspire them. I will lead them. You won’t have to bloody your hands.”

“But how would you hope to win?”

“Holy Blood is as only strong as its head. In this case, that is Marshal Frahl. With the kennel-master slain, the hounds will soon vie amongst themselves for primacy,” Brohta continued. “I lack the nuance to contest him in intrigue, but my reading has granted me insights into peerless strategy. Put him to the field of battle and I shall put him to death.”

Fibald grew quiet and contemplative. Brohta allowed him some time to think, but it was not too long before he continued his proposal. Bit by bit, Brohta chiselled away at the scholar’s outer complexion. This timid monk was yet indwelled with a silent wisdom and determination.

--

In the following weeks and months, Fibald turned his attentions to the craft of insurrection. He met in secret with the like-minded, he authored nameless tracts, he did what he could to enhance the fear in the populace toward that darkest of institutions. Marshal Frahl was suspicious as these airs began to circulate, and wasted no time in spinning intrigues of his own.

His spies began to infiltrate and watch the activities of the Universities and their scholars. Frahl rightly understood that it was in those halls that a bitter and defiant spirit dwelled, it was they in auburn robes that threatened to undermine the dominancy of his order and his moral authority.

Yet even as the nets closed in around him, Fibald was unaware. He threw himself into the work of the uprising and penned intrigue after intrigue, but failed to mark the intrigues of others.

It had been on a dark night of September, when he had convened a meeting of Scholars sympathetic to the overthrow of the Holy Bloods, it was then that Frahl’s net closed entirely. His crimson-robed Knights converged on the streets of Ausbick, making for Greenberg University. They burst in and found Fibald speaking to a room full of clerics, sedition on his lips and with eyes widened in surprise. They wasted no time in seizing everyone present, and every last traitor was smuggled to Frahl’s fortress of Halmund. Its walls sat on a majestic hill; they rose far above the surrounding plains and forests. Within Halmund, the dungeons were full to bursting with enemies to the state and to its enforcers.

Fibald now found himself in the presence of the Grand Marshal himself, and the soldier made his contempt for the Scholar no secret. He paced back and forth in his crimson robes, his silver plate armour gleaming atop it. His longsword was sheathed at his side, and his left hand gripped the hilt impatiently.

“Impiety is no small sin, Master Scholar!” Frahl roared, gesturing madly at the cleric who was now forced to kneel on both legs. “I should take your head now, and be done with it!”

Fibald meekly answered, “I plead with you Marshal, forgive me!” He threw himself to the floor and began to weep.

A brief tinge of satisfaction washed over the supreme Knight’s face. The humbled cleric had broken immediately. “If you fail to bend to the law, you will most certainly bend to Atonement. As shall your kin.”

Fibald answered without raising his eyes from the floor, “Lacking the Law, I am nothing.” He sobbed. “I will not be found impious, what ought I do?”

“Rise,” Frahl commanded. Fibald obeyed at once.

“Surrender to me this Spirit-Reader, and you shall be forgiven,” Frahl said.

Fibald answered at once, “You hold the Law in your palm, Holy Marshal, and I will see to it that Brohta is reconciled with it. Without his support, the Universities will do nothing. They may be redeemed.”

Frahl nodded. “So be it.”

--

Fibald returned to Ausbick with the weight of Frahl’s declaration on his shoulders. He wasted no time in entrapping the hapless Spirit-reader, who knew nothing of the Scholar’s duplicity. He answered the cleric’s invitation and was seized without delay.

When Marshal Frahl walked through the doors of Greenberg University a week later, he was greeted with the sight of Brohta kneeling upon the stage in the sanctuary, his arms and neck bound in a wooden pillory. His eyes were closed, and remained.

“I must say, I have long looked forward to justice for these demon seekers,” Frahl said.

Fibald walked out of the Scholar crowd and knelt reverently. “Forgive us our apostasy, my lord. We have sought to mend our ways,” Fibald said. He motioned to his cleric associates to begin the procedure, and entreated the Marshal to sit in the central chair in the chamber. Food and wine had been prepared for him.

“Proceed, Master Scholar,” Frahl commanded as he settled into his chair.

Fibald sat and nodded to his clerics to begin the procedure. Two men approached the stage. One held a crude syringe and tube; the other carried a vast bucket lined with a sheepskin. The first positioned the needle to strike, and Fibald raised his hand.

Frahl glanced sideways in shock at a new and horrifying noise. His guards were on the floor, blood swelling up all around them. Before he comprehended what was taking place, he felt the hot sting of a blade in his back. A wrinkled hand slipped around his throat and squeezed.

“By this blood ye are held blameless,” Fibald said.

Another strike. “By this blood ye are freed.”

And a third. “Atoned are ye by this blood...” Fibald released him and Frahl collapsed. The Grand Marshal said nothing, merely gasping in the dust.

Aubust strode forward asking, “I don’t understand, Teacher. Why?”

Fibald turned to him. “Lacking the Law, I am nothing. The Law is a broad road, and we heed its direction, yet not the orientation of every cobble. Atonement in deeds, my friend.”

ronito said:

ho ho ho.

you should be careful what you say around me.

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:lol

So, so true.

ZephyrFate said:

what's up with the "X title" or "Y title" thing? I'm still not understanding why that's necessary

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Dunno, but I will also blame Ashes, because why not?

ZephyrFate said:

That's cool and all but I don't really see the point

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There is no point. There is only indecision.

And more importantly, sometimes it just fits...

ZephyrFate said:

I think I'll do that with my stories from now on just to be ironic

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Yeah I hear ya... just to be ironic... yes, of course, just to be ironic...

of course, because I want to emulate Mary Shelley's Frankenstein

They were once partners and as the frozen grass crunched under their boots, Paul wondered if he should bail out--if he should stop--because there was a line which he would be crossing in short order, if he did what he had to do. He clutched the revolver with his fingers feeling numb from the cold and as Carlos began to cough again, Paul kicked him in the back, knocking him down onto his knees.

I could stop now, he thought, but the stakes were too high. And as Carlos sobbed Paul walked around his kneeling form and lashed him across the face with the back of his right hand. The blow hurt his hand more than he let show. Carlos, knocked to the ground, whimpered and something in Paul hardened at how pitiful he looked. He knew that, were he in Carlos’s shoes he’d behave in much the same way, but for now he held onto that hard core of contempt and forced himself to review the proper steps to take. He would start with the ankles and move up to the knees then the arms then the shoulders, and then, finally, one between the eyes to finish him off. As he pondered this Paul resisted the urge to throw up, having known Carlos for so long as they ran the the trails with black tar slung onto their backs dodging narcos and customs. But he reminded himself that his life was at stake and he asked Carlos once again where the money had gone.

Nothing but a low desperate sob and there Paul got his revolver and set his sight onto Carlos’s right ankle. He held it there trembling and after some time spent like that he pulled the trigger. Bone and blood spurted out as the bullet tore through and dug into the frozen ground.

“Please,” begged Paul. He could barely hear himself over the other man’s screams.

No answer. Perhaps it wasn’t too late--or was it? Paul shot the other ankle and moved up to the knees.

“You stubborn fucker,” he whispered. he felt oddly helpless. Was he not the one with the gun? Better he than me, he thought. So hollow.

Snot and piss and spit and blood leaked out from Carlos in various locations from his groins to the bottom of his pants to his face smashed against the ground churning into it in a tick-tock motion. He wept and Paul could get no answer out of him and before he started crying as well with no other option available in his mind he shot Carlos’s right knee.

If there was a line it had already been crossed and Paul stood there staring at what was once his partner now broken and shattered. They both knew that Carlos wasn’t going to walk out of here, nor breath or anything like that, just left as another corpse in the endless war for a pinch of shit-yellow crack dusted out of a farmacia envelope.

“La puerta,” Carlos whispered. The words came out ragged and raw. Wrenched out of him thick with pain. “That’s what she said. La puerta. Hay lobos.”

“You don’t speak Spanish.”

“I know.” Then: “La puerta, Paul.” Cough. A moan. “Fuck you. Hay lobos or some shit like that.”

Paul shot him in the left shoulder.

When Carlos stopped screaming he gargled some words out which Paul could not decipher. They came out as an incomprehensible string of garbled nouns, mangled verbs. Something wet his eyes. Paul touched a hesitant finger to his cheeks and realized that he was tearing up. When was the last time he had cried? Perhaps as a child getting strapped for being a brat. Or, a hundred miles from El Paso on his first run thinking he’d die of thirst and get his body ravaged by coyotes. He didn’t cry for Carlos, not really, he felt numb about that, a matter that didn’t truly concern him. If that was a sign of him being a monster, so be it. Paul wept for he knew now that Carlos truly didn’t know where the money had gone. And so he was fucked just as he had fucked over Carlos by telling him they were going to go on the run only to knock him out and lead him by gunpoint over to this frozen place still rife with the chill from the desert cold.

And Carlos had followed, at first out of trust then fear and at last, disbelief perhaps that Paul could do such a thing.

And he had.

“I’m sorry,” whispered Paul.

Carlos choked a bit, the dirt under his face muddy now with spit and blood, it having been churned from where he had thrashed and bucked with pain, and then muttered, “fuck you.”

If only I’d stopped, Paul thought. But at the time he could think of no other options. He had agonized over the decision and even as he had put the plan into execution his movements had been lethargic, as if he was still in a dream, disbelieving.

He shot Carlos in the back of his head and watched the top half seemingly dissolve with the brain-matter flung back against the cold ground in a yellow-red spray.

Afterwards he stood there and watched this ruin of a human being seep into the dirt. He stood like that for a long time.

He walked back to his car thinking of what would happen next and now the fear was so great in him, he could barely stand. He trembled as he knew with that fear sinking deep into his gut that he was going to die as well. He didn’t have the money and he didn’t know where it was and now, he had betrayed perhaps his only trusting companion in a spectacular display of savagery. He got to his car and opened the door and sat inside with the key stuck in the ignition half-turned, turned only the radio on, and sat there staring at the scenery with Banda el Recodo playing an incongruous tune. He fiddled with the dial and found a sports station and they talked about the Spurs as he turned the engine on and got onto the road, still in the cold with the sun barely halfway up in the sky. He had begun something over which he no longer had control. So he drove, and listened to idle chatter, thinking of nothing at all.

(the trope was "a tragedy of impulsiveness"--have no idea if I succeeded)

ZephyrFate said:

of course, because I want to emulate Mary Shelley's Frankenstein

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you chose to be ironic with one of the most iconic novels of it's era?

then again... I see your dilemma...

Ashes1396 said:

you chose to be ironic with one of the most iconic novels of it's era?

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Duh, how else can I be so ironic I bleed irony?

ZephyrFate said:

Duh, how else can I be so ironic I bleed irony?

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okay... I'll accept that.... I don't understand it, I don't get it, but I'll accept it.

Ashes1396 said:

okay... I'll accept that.... I don't understand it, I don't get it, but I'll accept it.

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That's like how I feel about all this dual title business.

ZephyrFate said:

That's like how I feel about all this dual title business.

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The point I was expressing. I'm glad we finally agree.

Unmutual (1509 words)

Jacobi kissed his wife goodbye as she set out of the door on her way to work. The satisfying hum of the hovercar signaled her departure for another day and he set himself to the task of obtaining breakfast. He turned on the television and switched over to the breakfast channel, sliding through meals being prepared by chefs all over the world. After spending a good ten minutes browsing he decided that today, he was in a bacon mood. Making his selection he sat and watched as a chef in London prepared a full English breakfast, although by now it was well into the afternoon in Europa. He missed the smells of cooking, especially bacon, but these condos were ultra-modern and didn't waste space on something as obsolete as a kitchen. It suited his wife's busy schedule, but it was another aspect of their lives that had become automated. His mother would never have approved. He thought of her slaving in the kitchen of the flat he grew up in, baking and basting, roasting and stewing to keep the family fed. Anyone venturing into her domain was liable to be caught in her gravitational pull, recruited to perform menial culinary tasks under threat of a clip round the ear. How she would have detested the very notion of a home without a kitchen. On screen, the chef had finished preparing his breakfast and was busy sealing the plate in preparation to be delivered. The display switched to an itemised bill as the computerised voice proclaimed "Your meal is in matter transit and will be with you shortly. Thank you for dining with the Home Breakfast Channel."

Switching off the TV he waited by the MatTran unit until the condo filled with that indelible smell of greasy bacon and sausages, baked beans, fried eggs, bread, mushrooms and tomatoes and an authentic slice of English black pudding on the side. He savoured the taste, every bite reminding him of home and of his mother's cooking and he didn't return the plate until he'd sopped up every last elusive drip of bacon grease and bean juice. The MatTran thrummed softly as it disposed of his washing up, another of life's little chores done away with under the relentless march of technology. He took a shower and got dressed and was about to head to the study when he heard a knock at the door. Opening it he saw nothing but a parking lot full of empty hovercars. He was about to shut the door when he noticed something at his feet. It was a letter, no stamp or postmark of course. No one wrote letters anymore. Hell, no one dealt with paper anymore. He picked it up and read the name on the front, his name. He split the seal of the envelope and unfolded the paper inside. It felt coarse and unfamiliar in his hands and was written in neat cursive script. He didn't know anyone with good handwriting. Everything was typed or dictated, the only time anyone physically wrote something was to sign their name on an electronic receipt or datapad. Wondering who on earth the letter could be from, he ordered a coffee, retrieved it piping hot from the MatTran and began to read;

"Jacobi.

You may remember me, or you may not. I hope I wasn't important enough to Ghost and if not, you should have no trouble figuring out who this letter is from.

I knew you when you were small, back home in England. I was a friend of your mother's and met you and your sisters on a number of occasions. You would sit wide eyed as I told you all tales of the wilds, of the people that lived there and how they survived. The girls found it impossible to believe anyone could live without the luxuries of society, but you were always intrigued. I took you camping on the moors for your fourteenth birthday and taught you how to make a fire, build a shelter and construct a bow with nothing but that which nature afforded. We lay rabbit traps and hunted for salmon in the rivers. I'd wade in and remain perfectly still, spear-point poised while you thrashed in the water, scaring the fish into my path. You didn't flinch once as I gutted or skinned our catches and I remember how proud I would have been to call you my own, but fatherhood was an impossibility for me, living off the grid.

Shortly before your ma' passed away I visited her in the hospital, which was no mean feat without identification, implanted or otherwise. I had to sneak to her bedside where we talked for a long while and I told her about her husband, your father, and old friends she'd been forced to forget. That was one thing I always loved about your ma'. She could size anyone up with a look, know their worth in the merest of glances and she had me pegged from the moment we met. A lot of people would have thought I was crazy but, ever the pragmatist, your ma' took it all in her stride, whether she believed me or not. I have to guess that she did believe, in the end. And that's why I'm writing this letter to you, so far away. She asked me to look out for you, made me promise to keep a watchful eye and make sure you or your sisters never came to any harm. But it was a difficult promise to keep and I couldn't help you all, I couldn't help Annie.

You were too young when your dad was Ghosted, you won't remember, but you must remember Annie. You must.

Think back, to the flat in East London. A cramped and crowded two-bedroomed place filled with the smells of cooking and the sounds of laughter. You and your ma' and your sisters. Your three sisters. Angela, Alison and Annie. She was the youngest, bright and brimming with life. She loved music and loved to dance. She loved to laugh and to entertain and was a constant source of joy for your ma'. That was before the tests. It took me months to locate the results, pouring through lines and lines of code to gain access to the government data-banks. She had a learning disability. She was declared 'unmutual' and there in black and white was her death sentence; "to be purged from the gene pool". They took her in the middle of the night, silently. And when your mother awoke, it was to the sound of the vid-phone ringing. She answered and the apartment flooded with sound. Alpha-waves targeted at the hippocampus, designed to mask and eliminate memory. Once it stopped, it was as if Annie had never existed. Just like your father, just like me.

And why am I telling you all this? Because I promised to protect you. I promised your ma' that I would keep you safe, but more importantly, you have a choice to make. I know you and Helen have been trying for a baby. I've seen the results from the fertility clinic, the results that you've both been waiting weeks for. I'm sorry to tell you this, but Helen is barren, she's incapable of bringing a child to term. This morning she left for work, but she never arrived. I watched the security feed as they picked her up not ten minutes from your home. She was taken to a processing centre where she was executed. Killed in the prime of her life for the crime of her birth. Deemed a waste of life for her physical inability to sire your progeny and further the human race, declared 'unmutual'.

In a short while, your vid-phone will ring and if you answer you will forget this letter, forget about me and Annie and your father. Forget all about your wife Helen and the life you've built together. Ignorance is bliss, as they say, and I wouldn't blame you one bit for picking up that receiver and making all these hard truths disappear, but that's not how we were meant to live. If the government can take away the pain, what else can they take? Your freedom, your will, your life? There's a different way. There's always a different way. Come with me Jacobi, and this will be only the beginning, instead of the end. You can find the address of motel on the back of this letter, I'll be here for two more days. I'm sorry, Jacobi. I am truly sorry."

Jacobi put down the letter as images swam before his mind's sight. Memories of his sister, his youngest sister. Memories of his mother, laughing with a man that might have been his father and memories of a man who took him hunting for his fourteenth birthday. Thoughts of his wife, his beautiful wife who he wouldn't see again, would never again hold in his arms. He shuddered as tears streamed his cheeks and the vid-phone began to ring.

Meteorology, Inc. (1900)

"You have to admit, it's suspicious as all hell." I tapped my fingers on the desk. Nervous habit, I've done it since childhood. "A hot new startup, focused on meteoroid tracking--and the founder's killed by a falling meteor? What are the odds?"

"James." Emmie perched on the corner of the desk, arms folded. "You're a professor, not a detective."

"I mean, how often are people even killed by meteors?"

"There was that woman in England two years ago. Are you listening to me? This isn't even your field."

"Of course I'm listening. You said I'm not a detective." I smiled. "Guess it's my first case."

"You've got other things to think about. The grant proposal?"

I waved a dismissive hand. "Later. This concerns a former student."

"What? Oh, you mean the English kid?

"Jonathan Butler." My fingers were tapping again. "He's worked there a few years now. I always keep tabs on my students."

"I know for a fact you haven't talked to that kid since he graduated." Emmie threw up her hands and leapt off the desk. "Don't blame me if the proposal doesn't get done."

*

"Prof Vandermeek." Jonathan stood next to a fake plant, hand outstretched to shake mine. His hair was as unkempt as I remembered, but he wore nice slacks and a tucked-in, button-up shirt. No tie--he'd gone only slightly corporate.

We shook hands, and he turned to sign off on a clipboard while the man at the front desk handed me a badge. VISITOR, it said in bright blue letters. I peered at it. "Tight security, huh?"

"Not really," said Jonathan, finishing off the signature with a flourish. He led me down the hallway on the right. "I mean, we've got all these badges, but I don't think anything would actually happen if someone walked around without one. Ah--" He began to push open a door, then paused. "Something to drink?"

"No thanks. I'd love to meet some of the major players, though."

"Ah." Jonathan looked thoughtful. "You know about what happened to Jacob, I suppose."

I tapped my fingers on the wall. "Yeah. That's sort of why I'm here."

Jonathan turned back to face me. "Really?" A shadow passed across his face. "Listen, we're not selling anything off. Whatever you've heard, we're still a going concern and the VCs have not pulled our funding."

"I--what?"

His expression lightened, and he shook his head. "Sorry." He turned to lead me through the door into a brightly lit office. "We've had vultures coming around since Jacob was killed. They assumed with the bad pub, we'd be going under right away." He shook his head, and gestured for me to sit. "I mean, I get it. We're supposed to help 'protect people from the dangers of deep space,' and our own founder is killed by a meteor? What are the odds?"

"I said exactly the same thing." I took the seat he'd offered. I wavered, nearly telling him why I was really there--but he'd just laugh at me. Or get upset. Emmie's reaction told me not to expect approval of my investigation. Covert for now, then.

The office was immaculate. Antiseptic. A stainless steel filing cabinet dominated the room, the mahogany desk looking downright pitiful next to it. A few shelves were attached to the wall by what looked like wires. On one shelf, an oddity--a small lump of blackened rock. "Is that--?"

He turned to see what I was looking at. "Yep. Meteorite. That's the one that killed a woman a few years ago. Was a godsend for the company, of course. Protection from deep space was suddenly in demand. Funding poured in, I got hired shortly afterwards." He shook his head. "And now another meteor might mark our end."

I sat, not knowing quite what to say. My fingers began tapping on the arm of the chair.

"I'll tell you what," said Jonathan. "I'll bring you round to meet the lads. Then you and me can go for a drink. You can tell me how Emmie's doing." He grasped my shoulder, in a way that felt more politician than friend.

I nodded assent.

*

"Professor Vandermeek, this is Melly Abrams. Cofounder of the company. Named it, in fact." We were in a sort of garden area. It was fifteen feet across, with glass doors in four directions. Flowers and bushes adorned a central cement pot, and a solid concrete path wound around it. There was no ceiling, and light trickled down past the walls as they extended upward, giving the plants some modicum of energy.

"Named the company?"

She looked up, eyes crinkling. "Yes, and I know what you're going to ask. I know what meteorology means. It just sounded good." She patted the bench beside her. "Go ahead and sit down."

"So. You founded the company with Jacob?" I sat, my fingers immediately beginning to tap on the bench. Jonathan surreptitiously backed off.

"We knew each other since we were kids." She looked down. "Brilliant man."

I frowned. She didn't seem the type, though as cofounder she'd surely gain monetarily from Jacob's death. "What prompted you to--" I gestured at the building around us, the garden we sat in. "All this?"

"Saving humanity, of course." She smiled. "We were still young when we first heard about Apophis."

"Sorry?"

"Apophis. An asteroid. Scientists reckoned it would pass close by the Earth about ten years from now. But they couldn't figure if it'd hit us or not. And of course, if it did..."

"Dinosaurs?"

"You got it. Well, we weren't satisified with not being sure. We wanted to know. And to find dangerous asteroids and meteoroids sooner, and be able to neutralize them. Thus--" she gestured at the building and garden.

"So what did you do?" In spite of myself, I was fascinated. It was a classic lone-inventor story. Only there had been two of them.

She looked down again. "Like I said, Jacob was the brilliant one. He did the calculations, he built the equipment and the launcher. I just handled the business side." She smiled crookedly. "Got permits for the launcher."

"But--"

She sighed. "Listen, Professor. I'm sorry. It's been a tough week. Maybe another time?"

I nodded.

"Talk to Carney. He's the engineering pro."

*

Carney was indeed a pro. His office looked more like what I was used to--joyfully messy. The desk, chairs, and shelves were the same ones Jonathan had in his office, but what a difference setting made. Here, projects in progress adorned every inch of shelves, the desk, one of the chairs, and not a small amount of floor space. The phone on his desk was apparently being repaired or improved, as it lay in pieces. His computer looked to have recently been given the same treatment.

I smiled.

"Sit down Professor," Carney said, then paused. "Um." He stared at the wire and circuit board-adorned chair for a moment.

"That's all right," I said. "I just wanted to ask you some quick questions."

"Shoot," he said, and gestured for me to speak.

"You have some kind of equipment already in orbit, right?"

"Yep. First launched about two years ago. Got more stuff up once we got funding, though."

"What exactly does it do?"

Carney scratched his head. "Do? Well, most of it is early-warning stuff. Watches for meteoroids and asteroids in the vicinity, calculates their trajectories exactly. It keeps close enough tabs on everything nearby to get the gravity right."

"And the rest?"

"Sorry?"

"You said most of it was early-warning stuff." My fingers were tapping on the side of my leg.

"Oh, right. I--that's supposed to be sort of secret, since it's still experimental. And anyway, that's Jonathan's area."

"I see. I just thought you would be the person to ask about all the equipment." I gestured around at the room.

He shrugged. "I guess it can't hurt. You promise not to compete with us, right?" He smiled and winked. "The other stuff is our competitive advantage. We're working on actually changing the flight paths of dangerous asteroids or meteoroids, right from there in space."

"I--see." Alarm bells were going off in my brain.

"Jacob was the real expert." Carney shook his head. "It requires incredible precision with your calculations. Jonathan's getting there, though."

I grabbed the opportunity. "Speaking of, I'd better see where Jonathan's got to."

"Sure. Nice meeting you." We shook hands.

*

The meteorite was so small--an approximate sphere with a diameter of six inches. It was incredible to think it could've killed someone.

The door opened and closed.

"Jonathan," I said without turning around. Something had been percolating in the back of my mind since I'd first entered his office. "Jonathan, how exactly did you get your hands on this meteorite?"

"It was given to the woman's family." He sounded surprised.

"The woman who was killed."

"Yes."

"In England."

"Yes."

My fingers tapped on the meteorite. "Jonathan, do you reckon someone with the right equipment out in space, and the ability to perform immensely complicated calculations--do you reckon they could push a meteoroid towards Earth instead of away from it? Do you suppose they could maybe aim that meteoroid?" I turned to face Jonathan.

He was shaking, his face red. He didn't answer.

"At, say, someone's house?"

He opened his mouth, then closed it again. Then, "What are you trying to say?"

"I'm not trying to say anything. Merely asking a question."

Jonathan sat heavily in the chair behind his desk. "I never told him."

"What?"

"I never told him I knew what he'd done. It was so obvious, wasn't it? Things were already set up for it. It must have been so tempting. Flip a switch, throw a space rock at someone's house. Hey presto, instant news coverage. Funding out the arse."

"And no one would believe it."

"Why would they? A rock falling from the sky. An act of God."

"She was related to you, wasn't she? The woman in England?"

"My fiance." Jonathan's eyes burned. "For what it's worth, I don't think he intended to kill anyone. Just put a scare into people. Well, I knew. I knew it wasn't just an act of God. So I starting looking for the person who profited most from her death."

"And then you joined the company? Why not report him to the police?"

"For an act of God?" Jonathan laughed.

My fingers tapped. "What happened after you joined?"

"I looked for evidence. He'd hidden his files well, but not well enough. It took me two years, but I did find them. And once I found them, well."

"It was too tempting. Flip a switch, throw a space rock." I nodded.

He looked down. "It wasn't quite that simple. But, yes."

"So what now?"

Jonathan shrugged. "What now? Nothing. I'm done here. Whatever I said earlier, the company won't survive this. As for me--you can't report me, no one would believe you." He looked up, met my eyes. "And would you want to? In a way, isn't this cosmic justice?"

I found myself nodding along. Emmie was right, I made a terrible detective.

"Well Professor, how about that drink?"

I stood. "I don't think so, Jonathan." I wasn't going to report him--he was right, Jacob's end was only just--but he'd still plotted and carried out a murder. Besides, I had other business.

I had a grant proposal to write.

Tropes played straight:

And fuck this site, kept me up for an hour I could have been sleeping through!

Deadline now passed? I'm gonna read through all the ones I haven't read yet and get my votes in pretty soon. I've read some really great stuff already.

The Entries:
ronito - "The Sixth Day"
ZephyrFate - "The Sound of the Card Flip"
Ashes1396 - "Falling in love quietly"
Puddles - "Sara"
John Dunbar - "The Green House"
Tim the Wiz - "Happy Illusions"
viciouskillersquirrel - "Interlopers"
Zoramon089 - "Piano Black"
Irish - "Not Over"
Tangent - "Aaron Cry Teddybear” or “Picking the Wrong Battles”
bengraven - "Evil Speaks"
Botolf - "The Impiety of Blood"
Dresden - Untitled
Bootaaay - "Unmutual"
Cyan - "Meteorology, Inc."

I'll edit this post with some commentary later, but here are my votes:

#1 Bootaaay "Unmutual"
#2 Bengraven "Evil Speaks"
#3 Zoromon089 "Piano Black"


Commentary:

Overall a lot of really high-concept pieces to choose from here. I get the feeling that some of you guys are just brewing with ideas.

Ronito: I laughed. Read like something that should be on a web-comic somewhere.

ZephyrFate: Loved the noir-esque introductory descriptions, especially the description of the woman herself. Dialogue was nice and snappy in the first scene. But I have to say: I really don’t get it. I read it over a few times, and I’m still not sure what happened, or who the woman was supposed to be? Someone the detective had fucked over in the past?

Ashes1396: This piece really affected me. The prose was very matter-of-fact at times, but it packed an emotional punch that not many short stories have. The quotes at the end were gold.

JohnDunbar: This piece was really sad. Well-written in many places. I loved the bit about the firefly. The very next paragraph was very verbose, like some 19th century French writer translated into English. It was beautiful, but almost out of place. I won’t say completely out of place though. It was still beautiful. Loved the foreshadowing of Kathy’s mother looking older when the protagonist returned to the town - hinted that she knew what was going on with the father. A sad, haunting piece.

TimtheWiz: Interesting character study. You loathe and kind of like the husband all at the same time. The moment where he walked in on the counselor describing their session was great. The ending was great as well. The actual “beginning” in this piece was the lie the husband told his wife about wanting to start things fresh, I presume?

Viciouskillersquirrel: Great fantasy piece. I don’t read much fantasy, so reading about humans from the perspective of an elf was new to me, although it’s probably been done in some other work. But it was very well done here. I wish the action scene had a bit more tension. Arn Sidh was never in any real danger. But a longer action scene might have put you over the word count. Again, loved how the ending. “The invasion had begun.” Perfect.

Zoromon089: Loved it, especially towards the end. The middle dragged a bit until it got to the part where the man from the sky transformed, but everything after that was awesome. Great action scenes, and a fantastic final scene where they kill the girl. The beginning of an alien invasion/refugee influx? I like it.

Irish: I think this was one of the best overall ideas. I wasn’t thrilled with the first few stanzas, when it felt like a mediocre poem, but once it really delved into the afterlife aspect, I was hooked. This is really an incredible idea, one that you could do so much with.

Tangent: Interesting. Not sure how it fit the idea of a beginning, but I loved the idea of stuffed bears actually coming to life and killing a little kid. One of the more mean-spirited stories I’ve read here.

Bengraven: You win. That is all.

Dresden: Spectacularly brutal. I was a little confused about the motives behind the whole thing, but I suppose with drug runners it’s always something to do with money. The scenes of violence were well-written. Would have liked to have seen more of the psychology of the main character though.

Botolf: It felt too constrained, like it should have been part of a much larger work. I loved the twist at the end, but there wasn’t enough space to give this idea the time it needed to gain true emotional and narrative resonance. Some great writing in places though.

Boootaay: One of the most interesting dystopian ideas I’ve come across, kind of a combination of Men in Black, Brave New World, Fahrenheit 451 and a few other things. It was quite haunting. The beginning was quite typical scifi, but by the time the full idea had been introduced, I was blown away, and that’s why I voted for it.

Cyan: Brilliant twist, great concept. Feels like this is another that could have really been fleshed out, but it also worked well as a short. The descriptions, dialogue and overall prose were a little mundane at times, but the high-concept nature of the piece carried it. Felt like it could have been an episode of The Twilight Zone or X-Files of something of the sort.

It's playing off the trope, nothing more. I'm not trying to go all deep and abstract.

Puddles said:

Bengraven: You win. That is all.

Click to expand...

No, you rock for saying that.

ronito said:

sorry for the quick entry. Been working on something that will take up a lot of time. You guys will see it in the next few weeks if you're attentive.

Click to expand...

Ah ha!

Puddles said:

Botolf: It felt too constrained, like it should have been part of a much larger work. I loved the twist at the end, but there wasn’t enough space to give this idea the time it needed to gain true emotional and narrative resonance. Some great writing in places though.

Click to expand...

The bolded is in fact completely true. The larger work does exist behind the scenes, but understandably there is little space to elaborate on all the concepts presented (such as the manner of execution obliquely referenced near the end). Those aspects and others are something I want to explore in future entries.

As far as the story individually, I did run out of space hard. I contemplated splitting it across two separate challenges, but ultimately decided against it because the theme would have been diluted or lost entirely (kinda hard to guarantee that everyone who reads part 2 will have read part 1 and get the full effect, etc). So I settled for the skeleton of the tale, and it is unarguably thin, especially toward the middle.

This is essentially my way of coping with the abrupt start/stop fashion of the contest threads, and is a means to chip away at the larger world from multiple perspectives and stories. It'll be a fragmentary history, but I'm hoping to open and close a small story with each shard. Even if many run no deeper than parables, I think I'll be satisfied with the overall patchwork that comes together.

Some really good entries, though I wish I knew all the tropes used.

Puddles said:

Dresden: Spectacularly brutal. I was a little confused about the motives behind the whole thing, but I suppose with drug runners it’s always something to do with money. The scenes of violence were well-written. Would have liked to have seen more of the psychology of the main character though.

Click to expand...

Wow, that was fast. Thanks man.

I just wanted to have a story where this dude dies screaming. Then the other dude is like, damn. Drives away feeling bad.

Puddles said:

Irish: I think this was one of the best overall ideas. I wasn’t thrilled with the first few stanzas, when it felt like a mediocre poem, but once it really delved into the afterlife aspect, I was hooked. This is really an incredible idea, one that you could do so much with.

Click to expand...

Thanks. Yeah, the afterlife part was what I was really looking to write about, but I ended up having to rush through it. The idea is something I'd really like to take the time to work on.

Lone_Prodigy said:

Some really good entries, though I wish I knew all the tropes used.

Click to expand...

Although, I don't think I did a great job of using it at all.

Irish said:

Although, I don't think I did a great job of using it at all.

Click to expand...

What? Irish, unconfident? Surely I have seen it all.

Heh, next week I plan on stealing the others' traits. Expect to see multiple titles, wacky situations, and a "I don't give a fuck" attitude. All in good nature of course.

I just meant I really could have explored the trope instead of using it as simply an entry point.

Sorry, I'm not really the best at giving commentary but here goes

ronito - I liked this! It was really witty and I like how it was written like a play. That was a really interesting way of presenting the story

ZephyrFate - Reading through it, I just had a feeling the girl was going to be trouble. I like how the detectives suspicions of the case grew with the readers. Also the writing was perfect for that style, you really got the style down well

Ashes1396 - Amazing story but WTF WAS WITH THE "GOTCHA!" I thought you were joking for a second and was about to lose it, but it turned out well.

Sara - So heartbreaking! I really empathize with the main character, his thoughts and feelings are articulated so well and in such a realistic manner.

John Dunbar - Another sad story, it's too much! I seriously thought you were going to reveal she was killed, I'm glad you didn't go that route, it would've been a bit too cliche. Well, I guess, it's not really a sad story. More...bittersweet?

That's it for now. Will do more later!

Puddles said:

JohnDunbar: This piece was really sad. Well-written in many places. I loved the bit about the firefly. The very next paragraph was very verbose, like some 19th century French writer translated into English. It was beautiful, but almost out of place. I won’t say completely out of place though. It was still beautiful. Loved the foreshadowing of Kathy’s mother looking older when the protagonist returned to the town - hinted that she knew what was going on with the father. A sad, haunting piece.

Click to expand...

Zoramon089 said:

John Dunbar - Another sad story, it's too much! I seriously thought you were going to reveal she was killed, I'm glad you didn't go that route, it would've been a bit too cliche. Well, I guess, it's not really a sad story. More...bittersweet?

Click to expand...

Did neither of you get the sense the narrator was ? Because that's sort of what I was going for.

ronito, I'd seriously advise you to find someone who does illustrations and turn that God/Lilith thing into a web-comic. It would be awesome.

John Dunbar said:

Did neither of you get the sense the narrator was

Spoiler

possibbly insane and was going to molest his own daughter

? Because that's sort of what I was going for.

Click to expand...

I did suspect that, but I decided to interpret it at face-value. Going back again and reading it that way makes it a lot more interesting though.

John Dunbar said:

Did neither of you get the sense the narrator was

Spoiler

possibbly insane and was going to molest his own daughter

? Because that's sort of what I was going for.

Click to expand...

We've got today and tomorrow left to read and vote!

HisNameIsDonkey: A small play to be shown at a My First Atheism meeting, but only for children under ten. It’s simple and almost condescending, but it’s very charming and despite rather serious subject matter, I couldn’t help but smile the whole time.

Zeph: Mr. Silentre is pretty dumb, but occasionally he starts talking like an erudite scholar. That doesn’t really work for me. The card game metaphor also felt forced. You start with solitare, shift to blackjack, and end with poker. It would have been better if you could have left it as one game and just worked with that particular terminology. As it stands, the jumps just end up confusing. Also, an unnamed two o’clock appointment?

Ashes: I understand why you did it, but there was a bit of confusion for me in the paragraph following when you revealed Kid’s real name. Just that second hitch that pulled me out of the story.

Puddles: The biggest problem this piece has is that it rambles, and often times (Like with the third and second to last paragraph), it weakens the effect of the overall piece. However, I can’t say that it’s a total problem. In certain places, it feels right that the narrator is babbling on and helps create this profound feeling of longing. I enjoyed this piece a lot.

JD: Yeah, that was a super depressing story. Not only for what happened to Kathy, but also for how creepy the main character become. Others have described it as haunting, and I agree.

Tim: It feels like the start of a larger piece, and as such, I don’t feel like it ever really reaches any sort of conclusion. That and the bit with Harry overhearing the therapist talking felt a little contrived.

Guess I should have written this one in third person. Bleh...

crowphoenix said:

Puddles: The biggest problem this piece has is that it rambles, and often times (Like with the third and second to last paragraph), it weakens the effect of the overall piece. However, I can’t say that it’s a total problem. In certain places, it feels right that the narrator is babbling on and helps create this profound feeling of longing. I enjoyed this piece a lot.

Click to expand...

Thanks for the feedback. You're right, it does ramble too much, and I could have made it tighter. The one problem is that


So condensing all these thoughts and emotions into something tightly crafted is a challenge. I probably could have done it if I'd spent more time on it. If I'm going to use stuff from my actual life in stories, I need to create a more coherent narrator who functions as an actual character instead of just writing whatever comes to mind.

BUT, I'm glad you enjoyed the piece, and I'm really glad you mentioned a "profound feeling of longing" as that's what I was going for the most.

Vic: I would say that this story’s biggest problem is that there is too much jargon thrown at us from the start. They’re all cool words and do a great job of showing us an alien world, but it also alienated me from the story itself. The ending was also a bit too abrupt. You switched from a strong show to a tell, which weakened its impact.

Zor: It feels like a piece that is much part of a bigger whole, and one that would ask and explore more difficult questions than the usual sci-fi. However, there are some issues. One: Why is the first video seen on the internet? Why not the news? Two: Wouldn’t science want to study these people since it seems to be only one song that causes the transformation? Three: Where are the news crews? It’s a good piece, but there are just small moments here and there that feel off enough to pull me out of the world. Hope to see more from you.

Irish:Like with Zor, I feel like this one is the prelude to something bigger, which matches the theme just fine. But, I don’t feel like I really learned anything about the situation. Can everyone do this? To what extent? What’s the purpose? These aren’t bad questions. On the contrary, I think this is one of your best pieces, it just left me wanting much, much more than what you gave.

Tang: I suppose those bears really didn’t like Aaron’s choice of snacks.

BenG: What would a lawyer have to gain by trusting a scum bag with a trust fund? He already makes enough money and he’d probably get beaten daily in prison for what he did.

Bolt: There is a lot of fluff to this piece, and it all comes from one thing. Brohta serves almost no purpose in this story. The writing is superb, the world is interesting, and I’m a sucker for political intrigue, but after the final scene anything with Brohta just felt like it didn’t need to be there.

Harry: The beginning feels a little janky, a little rushed, but it really comes into its own when Paul and Carlos began interacting.

Boot: It felt very 1984ish, but I do have to wonder, why would the government kill them rather than sending them to a work camp where they could further humanity?

Cyan: I felt like this one was a bit too neat and tidy, and forcibly so. Like I’ve said with others, it feels like chopped up bits of a much larger work that delved into themes of justice and the limitations of science and the legal system. Instead, an old teacher asks a couple questions a reporter would ask and gets the answer? As much as it’ll pain Ronito, this piece needs to be bigger to give it the treatment it deserves. Would be awesome if you fleshed it out though.

crowphoenix said:

Bolt: There is a lot of fluff to this piece, and it all comes from one thing. Brohta serves almost no purpose in this story. The writing is superb, the world is interesting, and I’m a sucker for political intrigue, but after the final scene anything with Brohta just felt like it didn’t need to be there.

Click to expand...

All too true. His main utility lies in events after the story's closure, with the uprising's beginning, so it falls really odd here. Those loose threads are definitely ones I intend to pick up later.

Tim the Wiz: Your main character is such an ass! I liked the way he was characterised, though I was a bit let down in that all he did was pick up a call girl. I don't know, maybe I expected something a little more outlandish.

Zoramon089: It feels like you were really constrained by the word limit in this one, as though you were trying to rush through too much story at once without stopping to linger at any one point.This led to some confusing situations while reading.

Was your narrator the owner of a store? How did he get onto this special team? Does the guy have his radio set to the news all the time? A bunch of details got glossed over that I think could've helped your story along.

In future, I'd find a story to tell with a smaller scope, at least for this sort of challenge. That said, I liked where the ideas headed, but they're probably more suited for a longer-form piece.

Irish: I like the idea here, the play on the "life flashes before your eyes" theme. The shift in perspective at the beginning from what seemed like third person to that of the victim felt a little out of place since the rest is based on the victim's perspective. Maybe you should've started from his perspective from the get-go.

Tangent: Ahaha! I expected the growling to be from an actual bear in the bushes, not his own teddies come to life to maul him. The story was well-written and well paced, and in spite of my aversion to a lot of the autism stereotypes, I thoroughly enjoyed it.

bengraven: Kayser Soze! Throughout the whole thing, I imagined the guy from The Lovely Bones reading out the confession, so that's very well done. Quite creepy. The only thing that I could think of to fault was the bait-and-switch at the end - was the lawyer somehow impaired? How did they fool cops that probably had his picture on file? Did they look like doppelgangers? Why would the lawyer just act like a voice box for this guy? I don't know, the bounds of believability are stretchable, but that felt like something that needed more context.

Botolf: I feel as though this one tried to do too much with the word limit given, so some characters/parts were given short thrift. The background itself was interesting, though it wasn't ever clear what the Holy Blood meant by "atonement". What were they actually trying to do? Sieze the universities' property and fiefs? Some explicit statements would've gone a long way toward providing context for that last scene.

Dresden: I liked the imagery and setting of the story, and I liked the way it ended, but I found myself thinking that the main character sure was thinking eloquent thoughts for a drug runner. There were a few bits where it seemed as though the narration and the character's thoughts blended a little, like at the end with the use of the phrase "spectacular display of savagery". In isolation, it's clearly narration, but it follows on from the character's introspection, so I had to read it twice to get it.

Maybe the use of a different vocabulary for describing his thoughts vs the narration might've alleviated that? Maybe the use of new paragraphs to make it explicit, even? I dunno.

Bootaaay: There were some run-on paragraphs here and there, so readability would be greatly improved by fixing that up. I liked the setting and the way the letter reminded Jacobi of the past, like remembering a dream.

One other thing I would say though is that the way the letter explained the alpha waves etc. seemed a little forced and it was too similar to your own narration style. Maybe you could fix this by having him read bits of the letter and interspersing the bits with his reactions - that way you get the world-building details without the contrivance of the characters explaining things to one another they should already know or having the characters write in an unnatural style.

Cyan: It felt very... Van Helsing/Monk/Detective Goren/Dr House -ish. By that I mean the super professor following the trail, every bit of conversation or blind supposition being exactly what's required, finding relevant clues easily and extracting confessions by sheer force of deduction.

Maybe it's because it's a detective story and that's just how they are, but it felt like you could've skipped a step and gone meatier with the bit at the company or whatever. Heck, maybe skip the bit at the beginning with Emmie.

ronito: I laughed, though the Sunday school kid in me twitched a little at the deliberate misunderstandings of the whole "I AM" thing etc. (I know they're part of the joke) Short but sweet.

ZephyrFate: Creepy and f*cked up. I like your prose, too. I read the whole thing in a Sam Spade accent, though the (seeming) anachronisms like the use of mobile phones pulled me out of it a little. I don't get why the guy was being killed, though. Why was she doing it?

Ashes1396: I imagined this whole story with a blue filter on the lens. Quite sad and the ending was satisfying. You could've made the relationship between the guy and the woman in the coma a little more explicit earlier on, but eh. Also, some of the quotes seemed to come out of nowhere and contradict the others. Maybe the one quote would've done the job. I like your writing, but that seemed a little bit of a non-sequitor.

Puddles: Wow. I was pulled into this one and believed every word of what the guy was saying. I believed all his regret, could feel what he felt and sympathised with him. Well done.

John Dunbar: I liked this one because it made me feel nostalgic for a place I'd never been. Piecing together the clues of what happened to Kathy was sad aswell, especially in the light of the fact that as a child, the main character couldn't have known what happened, much less done anything about it. The bit at the end with his wife and kids seemed a little extraneous, though. I felt the story was already complete.

My votes:

1) Puddles
2) ronito
3) Ashes1396

The "why" is something I want to leave to the reader. But to be honest, I felt like it didn't matter.

Damn, nearly forgot to vote - I'll try to leave some crits tomorrow, for now I'll just post my votes and try to catch a few hours of sleep;

1. Cyan
2. Ashes1396
3. Botolf

HM: viciouskillersquirrel, Zoramon089, Irish, Dresden

1) JD
2) Ashes
3) Puddles

Tim the Wiz - I liked the story and how it seems like Harry really never learns. You got a lot of backstory in there really subtly which I thought was impressive, although the golf thing seemed a bit out there as he could have really been anything that required money

viciouskillersquirrel - It's funny, your story sort of reminds me of mine...it must be why I enjoyed it so much. The various terms were a bit confusing, especially with so many in a short amount of time but I could still follow. Was the one who killed him another giant that just arrived or one that wasn't caught in a trap from before?

Irish - That was interesting...a little hard to follow at first before I understood the premise. It really could have used some fleshing out, because it became a bit more confusing as he rewound...then jumped into his father's head? Something like that?

bengraven - Super creepy...but in a good way. You really captured the crazy state of the guy and it really showed, even in the weird way the piece progressed. And I could tell this was just the beginning of this clearly deranged individuals new freedom

Tangent - Wait...what? Did that really just happen? That was interesting. I could understand the parent's frustrations but having the kid actually be right was a bit of a shock. What was it the beginning of?

Bootaaay - Gave me a VERY Matrix feel, especially since i just watched all of the Animatrix today


Ranking
1. viciouskillersquirrel
2. Cyan
3. ZephyrFate

you have three hours...

The giant that apprehended the guy was meant to be someone new that just came through, though