Submission Deadline: Wednesday, August 24th by 11:59 PM PST.
Voting begins Thursday, August 25th, and goes until Sunday, August 28th at 11:59 PM PST.
Optional Secondary Objective: Animals
Include animals in your story. Everybody likes animals. Cuter the better.
Submission Guidelines:
- One entry per poster.
- All submissions must be written during the time of the challenge.
- Using the topic as the title of your piece is discouraged.
- Keep to the word count!
Voting Guidelines:
- Three votes per voter. Please denote in your voting your 1st (3 pts), 2nd (2 pts), and 3rd (1 pt) place votes.
- Please read all submissions before voting.
- YOU MUST VOTE in order to be eligible to win the challenge.
- When voting ends, the winner gets a collective pat on the back, and starts the new challenge.
Couldn't think of anything, but I'm reading The Count of Monte Cristo for the GAF book club, so I just went through the contents page and picked the first chapter title that sounded like a theme.
What did you have to learn to publish the Kindle book, as far as formatting, submitting, all that jazz? I have something in the works that I want to self publish soon. It's not non-fiction though.
What did you have to learn to publish the Kindle book, as far as formatting, submitting, all that jazz? I have something in the works that I want to self publish soon. It's not non-fiction though.
It's surprisingly easy to actually publish it. There are some great guides out there. Really you just need an American bank account for transfers or you can get mailed a cheque every time it hits $100 (which I'm sure it will)*.
*From memory and last time I looked, which was a couple of months ago.
I'm getting an idea only because I've tossed the idea around of trying to start an Internet conspiracy theory and see how far it spreads.
I can see a greasy man in a dark basement, cigarette smoke trickling up beside his unshaven cheek as he peers through his thick convex glasses and begins to tell me what the government doesn't want me to know..... about animals.
Okay, have an idea. More a theme. Haven't figured out the conspiracy yet.. but I'm sure it'll involve cookies or the like. It kind of feels like I'm about to embark on a reckless and irresponsible short story campaign. That's kind of exciting.
Senator Hazel sat on the edge of the hotel bed, loosened his tie. He lifted a paw to his forehead and found that he was sweating profusely.
He glared at the phone like it was a ferret that might bite.
"Are you telling me," he finally said, "that Bigwig--Bigwig the Owsla, Bigwig the Medal of Honor winner, our Bigwig--are you telling me he's some kind of Efrafan super-assassin?"
"Hazel," came Fiver's quiet voice from the phone. "That's exactly what I'm telling you."
Senator Hazel sat on the edge of the hotel bed, loosened his tie. He lifted a paw to his forehead and found that he was sweating profusely.
He glared at the phone like it was a ferret that might bite.
"Are you telling me," he finally said, "that Bigwig--Bigwig the Owsla, Bigwig the Medal of Honor winner, our Bigwig--are you telling me he's some kind of Efrafan super-assassin?"
"Hazel," came Fiver's quiet voice from the phone. "That's exactly what I'm telling you."
Senator Hazel sat on the edge of the hotel bed, loosened his tie. He lifted a paw to his forehead and found that he was sweating profusely.
He glared at the phone like it was a ferret that might bite.
"Are you telling me," he finally said, "that Bigwig--Bigwig the Owsla, Bigwig the Medal of Honor winner, our Bigwig--are you telling me he's some kind of Efrafan super-assassin?"
"Hazel," came Fiver's quiet voice from the phone. "That's exactly what I'm telling you."
Hey ronito; I think we created a gaf curse or something. Amirox posted in the poetry thread. And now he ain't a mod....
His entry was pretty cool actually, but its made him one of us now. Don't look at the 3ds thread; that's just a cover up!
The Dream Metropolis is now up on Amazon US. UK/EU versions to follow in a couple days. $3.99 US, equivalent amount in other countries. I can't promise you it's a good book, but I can promise you the cover art is fucking awesome and you'll want it on your Kindle just to be cool. I swear.
I think the beginning might be one of the stronger parts of the book, thankfully. Though I hope you'd still buy it anyway because I could use the cash, haha.
For H... I know it's not much, but I hope you like this...
The boy made good. That was me. I came from a care home and look at me now. Suits and Ferraris.
An orphan borne from the seeds of crack addicts; I worked so damn hard to get where I am now:
An office on the 39th floor.
How wonderful life is... so why the long face?
It was a roll-over last week; so I bought my self a ticket....
...I won.
I didn't tell a single soul. I put my card in the cash-point. I had three thousand seven hundred pounds in my account. By the end of the week I would have 300 hundred million.
No conspiracies. I'm not a math wiz. I bought a ticket. And I won.
...
Three folders lay on my desk. The Nestlé brief; the Diageo brief, and the McDonalds brief. I finished my work for the day with a couple of hours to spare. It's hard to explain why I didn't just go home. I sat in my comfy armchair in my glass-clean minimalist office reminiscing about my roots on the streets below. I had my feet up on the table, whilst I leaned back, comfortably.
I'd had to talk a lot of bullshit to get where I am now. The time to talk was over now. I'd won.
I was still there when everybody left. I walked round the empty office and found a pair of headphones attached to a laptop. I don't know why I took it back with me to my office. But I did. And I sat there listening to music.
Sitting in my Ferrari as I'm going home, I realize that I have a Ferrari. This feeling catches up to me every now and then. Today, its a little overwhelming. All of a sudden, I can buy it outright now. I call her Melissa. I worked so damn hard for that car. And now it's... I own a Ferrari. Like you would a Ford Focus. There it is. It's all kinda disjointed. I've unintentionally come into the possession of life's great cheat code: an astronomical amount of money.
...
I sat waiting for my order to come at my local restaurant. It was a Turkish diner; it's simple, down to earth. The food is modestly priced and the people who work there are pretty cool.
As I was about to tuck into something I cannot pronounce, I noticed that a number of people were not having their food. I called over someone who told me that it was Ramadhan. The people have been fasting all day and they would break their fast at sunset.
Ahh, I see, I said.
He assured me that it was okay for me to eat; no one would mind. I asked him how long it was till sunset. He said something about the 'breaking fast' time being slightly before sunset. And that was in a couple of minutes.
Oh, I can wait that long, it's cool.
He looked delighted, at my respect for his culture, and brought over complimentary dates and a glass of water. I nodded as if I knew the reason behind the dates and the water.
I asked him what it was like to fast all day in the summer sun.
An empty stomach, reminds the mind that one is hungry, he said before laughing.
When I broke my two minute long fast, and I drank from the glass of water, I couldn't help but think of water in the third world. Flashes of an African child, a Somalian child, dying of thirst, crossed my mind.
Several times over the course of the meal, I put my knife and fork down, and thought about the Somalian crisis. Its not necessarily a wave of guilt that enveloped me. The feeling is best described as one of a growing sense of sadness. One's place in the world had suddenly matured, and a feeling of responsibility latched on to me. No one gave me that responsibility. Its something I gave myself. And in there somewhere, I felt a little ashamed. Honestly, it wasn't that much; just enough to make my self aware of it.
A parent was struggling to get his annoyingly loud child to behave in the table behind me. Normally, that would annoy me, but today, the noise was a little too distant for me to care. In fact, I empathised with him a bit. Must be difficult. The whole family thing.
...
Naomi is cooking in the kitchen. I tell her that I've already eaten; that I'd mistakenly thought she had the late shift. She doesn't hear me; she has her headphones in. She gives me a quick peck, as I shuffled through the news channels, then the documentary channels, before settling on the sports channels. Football is on.
I am, for lack of a better word: befuddled. I feel dehydrated, and at a loss for thoughts. My body feels stiff, and I feel exhausted.
In the shower, I turn the lights off. Naomi joins me.
My relationship with Naomi is a little unconventional even if it has all the hallmarks of a modern relationship. Our story together goes a little like this.
I didn't go to university when she went Med school. I was fed up with takeaways, so I put in an ad.
Not looking for a pro cook; can't afford that, but if you can cook normal stuff, by the time I get home, you can take a tenth of my monthly pay check.
She answered; and I guess if you have a year of dinners together, there's bound to be some sort of emotional bond there by the end of it.
We had one huge row once over the house not being clean; which when placed in the context of my dating a hot girl from accounts, the night before this, makes some sense. Thereafter, she took more of my pay check, and kept the house clean. Then started saving me money, here and there, cause I was always horrible with money; getting this gas company, and that broadband offer.
A tenth became a fifth of my pay-check; and sometime thereafter I forgot all about that stuff.
By the time she was working in a local hospital, she started leaving her toothbrush. I don't even remember whether she was still in my employment, even less then like I said, because she was the one who dealt with the money.
One day, a couple of promotions later; checking through my accounts; I realised I had 16,000 dollars in my saving account. The minute I knew about it, is the minute it disappeared. When that account emptied; I went into Naomi's workplace, and gave her the card. Its with its rightful owner.
I don't know how much I have in my saving account now. But Naomi was always good with money. I find it funny that she still separates the accounts.
You can't buy love with money though. I don't know why Naomi is assexual, or something close to that, but she is. I remember having all these fantasies about cheating, for the longest while, but I'm not the most handsome guy on the block; I'm distinctively average. It was only when I hit the big league, and started making over £60, 000 that girls started to like me. Money can't buy you love, but it sure as hell makes you a lot more attractive.
Naomi said one day, that I could have sex with whoever I wanted. Its like she read my mind. But at this stage, I'd developed half a brain. It's the way she said it. I don't think you can really do that to your other half; unless you're both, you know, off the straight and narrow. So, if you're one of those people, complaining about having sex less then a couple of times a week, count your self lucky. Sometimes I won't have sex for six months! Its cool though. I can't explain why; you just look for something deeper; and when my lady luck turns my way, she stays for a while, if you know what I mean.
Naomi meanwhile was trying to buy the apartment next door. She was planning ahead see, even though I don't actually see the point in that. She never moved in with me.
Don't think I didn't propose to her; I did. She said thank you. But she already considered me more of a hubby than a label could ever convince her. She could have kids with me, she said.
...
Naomi meditates a lot; and sometimes I join her. I don't think she's Buddhist, but it's certainly along those lines. Not that I mind. It brings out the best in her. You look at me and at her, and you would think it was me doing 48 hours shifts at the local A&E and her sitting on her backside behind a computer screen.
When you meditate, your worries are meant to become weightless bags that just fly away calmly. I watched her in the dark, sat on the floor, a few minutes before dawn.
We have one of those can dispenser machines in our apartment. It's one of those impulse buys of mine. I went over to it and got my self a cold bottle of water. Opening the lid, and the image of a Somalian child flashed across my mind.
I have bad news Paul, Naomi said. Dawn flooded in lightly behind her.
...
My heart stopped. I... I have good news. Spectacularly good news. You first.
Naomi looked at me with those big hazel eyes. There was a genuine discomfort in those eyes. I knew what she was going to tell me before she opened her mouth. She'd had a lump on her left breast investigated recently.
Its okay. You go first. Its not everyday you hear spectacularly good news.
I won the lottery. You have cancer, don't you?
How wonderful for you, Naomi said. I don't have cancer no. You're about to become a father.
My jaw fell open.
Sorry, she said nonchalantly. A smile simmering to the surface.
Holly shit!
...
And that's I how I came to be here. I have a kid. A daughter. For someone who doesn't like housework, I sure am very good with nappies.
Naomi still has her day job. I couldn't be bothered to return to mine.
Melissa lies in my garage, whilst the Ford Focus, I bought Naomi lies in hers. She doesn't like driving, so it's kinda my own as well. Its a good little car.
The government's budget cuts have ripped the heart out of Londons children homes to the point of nearly non-existence. So I'm trying to do something about that. But that's another story.
The night I won the lottery is the night the dash through the rat race ended for me. It may be different for you.
And Somalia. Somalia is a weight that my conscious does that not let me forget. I have schools there, and wells, and camps and... yet I'm still a lowly little rat. What's the most a lowly rat can do? :/
The End.
From wiki:
"The trouble with the rat race is that even if you win, you're still a rat."
- commonly attributed to Lily Tomlin in People magazine (26 Dec 1977)[1], but according to The Yale Book of Quotations (Shapiro & Epstein, p. 767), Rosalie Maggio in The New Beacon Book of Quotations by Women states that William Sloane Coffin said "Even if you win the rat race, you're still a rat" as chaplain of Williams College or Yale University in the 1950s or 1960s. [2]
"That is real freedom. That is being educated, and understanding how to think. The alternative is unconsciousness, the default setting, the rat race, the constant gnawing sense of having had, and lost, some infinite thing."
David Foster Wallace in his Commencement Address at Kenyon College. Gambier, Ohio. May 21, 2005.
"A rat race is for rats. We are not rats. We are human beings. Reject the insidious pressures of society that would blunt your critical faculties to all the happenings around you that would caution silence in the face of injustices lest you jeopardize your changes of promotions and self advancement. This is how it starts and before you know where you are you are a fully-paid up member of the rat pack. The price is too high. It entails a loss of your dignity and human spirit."
Jimmy Reid, Glasgow University rectoral address, 1972
Hey guys, I'm back! (And yes, Cyan and I are clones of one another, lovers, the exact same person, blood brothers, and imaginary friends. It's super perverted.)
Zephyr, congrats on the book!!! That's fantastic. Awesome cover. And I agree: cool name.
Cyan, great story about Senator Hazel. LOL.
Wow, so my prompt for writing challenge #80 only got 3 entries?! Shoot! There might have been a fourth: I actually wrote a story out with PEN AND PAPER, out of all things. And I went to an internet cafe in Egypt to transfer it to NeoGAF and send it off. After typing it all up, the computer froze, then it said my time ran out even though it didn't, and then my screen cleared. Dangit. Then I tried sending it to Cyan by email right at the last few minutes of allowable submission time, but maybe it got lost in cyberspace on the way to him as well. I wrote a story about haggling in Egypt, and used an Islamic saying to get in that secondary objective. Oh well. I didn't feel too happy about internet cafes with Arabic keyboards at the time.
Well, I really like the challenge this time around. I hope it gets a lot more entries. If I can muster up something in the next day or so despite my jet lag, I'm in!
In the books, a smart detective person would come and solve the mystery. I have such books. Two. I used to have more, but Ive traded them away for candies, marbles and fish hooks, seven stories, and one rusting, heavy brass key with a strange-looking head.
I think its hard to be a detective. Youd have to have special kind of brain, a smart way of seeing things. I dont know what kind of brain I have, but I have never used it detectiving before. Papa told me not to stick my nose into peoples business, and to be good and quiet, but Papas in trouble now, and no Sir Detective come and help us, so I have to try solve this murder myself.
First thing is, we need clues.
Miss Harlow was a nice lady, not like old Miss Appleby at the ground floor. Miss Harlow gave me a chocolate bar once, and she was always very nice to Papa, and she used to smell like department stores. But she died tonight. The lights went out tonight, which is what they call a black-out, and Miss Harlow fell off the spiralling stairs during the dark, they said so, and now old Miss Appleby screaming her lungs out, shouting that my Papa did it. That my Papa done and murdered poor Miss Harlow.
The caretaker, Mr Burroughs, he gone and called for police already, but they was going to take some time to come. On account of the snow storm outside that made the lights went. Which was when Miss Harlow tumbled to her death. That was maybe, half an hour ago. I note this down in my head as clue number one.
Mr Burroughs has gotten Papa secured and locked in the janitors closet, which was an awful tight kind of space and which smells like piss. I think the mangy cat lives there, so I dont know if Papa would be welcomed there, because that cats awful unfriendly kind of creature. I must try and help Papa as quickly as I can.
I need to write my clues down, so I got my notebook and a short pencil, but there is no light on this level. Papa and I, we stay at the topmost floor, the fourth level, and we share it with Mr and Mrs Tully. They are out of town for the holiday, so I dont have to count them as suspects.
There are candles lit downstairs, and I can see Mr Burroughs is lighting a few more now, so I make my way down. I have to be careful because I might disturb the crime scene, which is the stairs between the third and fourth floor. And then I hear old Miss Applebys husky voice, muttering and grumbling loudly to the caretaker man.
Im telling you, Gareth, I never did trust that man, he was always so quiet and so strange even from the time he moved in. Its probably his ways, whats with him being foreign and everything, but theres something not quite right about the way he acts, the way he looks at things.
Mr Burroughs grunts a little and keeps at his task. I sit on the steps and peer at my blank page. There is a candle around the corner here and so I was able to see my writings. I make a list of suspects, which is what we call people who may be the bad guys: Papa, me, Miss Appleby, Mr Burroughs, Mr Hye, mangy cat. I pause to do a quick count and I find I have six suspects.
Then I cross out me and Papa. I underline the cat boldly, and a few times, which means the cat is my primary guess for the villain. On the account that once I fell into a cleaning bucket when that creature jumped across the hall in front of me. I note this reasoning also, on the next page, and I draw the cat leaping and my foot in the bucket, for evidence.
I dont know, see. He strikes me as secretive and untrustworthy. Wouldn't you agree? There's something ...conspiratorial... about him.
Old Miss Appleby is frail but she can talk and grind conversations for hours. Papa said so. I have never seen Papa spoke with Miss Appleby, but I have heard her talk with many others and I think Papa is right. But I cross her name out of my suspect list because she is very old, and she does not ever come up to the fourth floor. Her apartment is on the ground floor and she has very bad bones and cannot go up and down stairs. Except I saw her doing it once, when she thought no one was looking. She went and visited that strange man that lives on the second floor, Mr Hye, the one that never ever comes out of his room, a few weeks ago. But it looked awful painful for old Miss Appleby and I reckon she only does it when its awful important.
Hes very polite, that much I know. Mr Burroughs remarks as he finishes off lighting all the candles.
See, Ive been watching these two, Gareth. Heather and that foreigner man. Poor dear Heather, she was so pretty and that unpleasant person has his eyes on her from the moment he saw her. You see, shes pale and golden-haired, and must seem like an angel to him.
Mr Burroughs scratches his head. I note that he does so with his right hand, which means he is right-handed. It might be a clue, I dont know yet.
Eh? Come again?
Miss Appleby leans forward and peers at the caretakers round face.
I think, I think, maybe, that dreadful man has been stalking and hounding poor Heather all along. You see?
Mr Burroughs rubs his chin thoughtfully, seeming untaken by the arguments and then he checks his pocket watch.
Shes been so terrified and frightfully cornered by by whatever that communist's name is! He practically drove her to her tragic death tonight!
Communists! Here? Are you sure, Miss Appleby!
Ill be more than happy to give my testimonies to the police, Gareth. This villain, he tried to rape her tonight, he did. In that apartment of his, up on the fourth floor, and she fled for her safety but she fell to her death in her panic. Poor, darling Heather.
Now this was not true, and I know it for certain, because I had been in our room all the time and Papa was also, but not Miss Harlow. At this time, I have also crossed out Mr Hyes name, because I have heard once from the janitor that he was a cripple. So that leaves Mr Burroughs and the cat.
Guys, just popping in to say that I'm still alive and that I haven't abandoned you. I've just been doing a lot of work and traveling lately for job interviews and stuff. Once life settles down, you'll all have to deal with me again.
Zeph, bought your book. Looking forward to checking it out.
Mocha and Timmy may have seemed like ordinary guinea pigs, but they lived in extraordinary conditions. First off, they despised each other. And second off, their guardian was a nut bag. Kelly, their guardian, was an enthusiastic jock consisting of a mere 1.5% body fat and yet still weighing 220 lbs. He was a personal trainer and a nutrition fanatic. He thought his body was an experiment tool. And he brought his guinea pigs into the experiments as well. Many guinea pigs may be used to the unfortunate fate of being, well, the guinea pig of an experiment. But Mocha and Timmy were not lab animals. They were pets. And their sense of entitlement was a few notches higher than that of their lab counterparts.
On Tuesday, when Kelly came home from the YMCA after teaching a Body Pump class, he was ready for a little warm-down in his own apartment which included jumping jacks, lunges, push-ups, and so many other odd, repetitive movements that Mocha and Timmy couldnt even keep track of. The two were fine just watching their loony guardian perform his post-workout rituals in the comfort of their hutches, nibbling on grass in a slow counterclockwise chewing motion. But instead, they were brought into the rituals.
Up you go, little guys! said Kelly as he placed his fur balls on his back, and prepared to commence a round of 100 pushups.
Oh great. Now I HAVE to be next to you and smell your disgusting feet, Mocha complained, in little grunts and squeaks.
Fine by me if you wanna move away, said Timmy. Clearly, Mocha didnt have a choice. If he backed off, hed fall off Kellys back, and guinea pigs dont land feet first. So there they stood, bobbing up and down: Mocha and Timmy side-by-side, throwing daggers at each other with their eyes.
On Wednesday, Kelly came back from work and performed lunges. Again, to work on balance, he placed one guinea pig on top of his head, and the other pig was placed on an alternating quad once a quad was parallel to the ground. Timmy rolled his eyes. What was this? A circus? (If so, it was Kelly that would be the damned circus animal.)
But underneath it all, Kelly knew that Mocha and Timmy couldnt stand each other. He only hoped that they would try to tolerate each other and perhaps learn to get along during Kellys extracurricular muscle-balancing workouts. Otherwise, he reluctantly accepted their mutual hatred for each other. In fact, Mocha and Timmy both lived in separate hutches. They used to dwell in the same one, but Kelly couldnt sleep during all their nocturnal brawls.
***
Kelly was not only odd and fanatical in his workouts for balance and strength, but he also was a very rigid eater. He had the energy of a Jack Russell puppy on several hits of 25% pure speed. He began the day with several spoonfuls of super foods such as bee pollen and spirulina. Whats more, is that he hoped that he could ignite a youthful spirit in his two elderly guinea pigs by ensuring that they receive high-end guinea feed.
Damnit. More alfalfa blocks with these disgusting vitamins, complained Mocha one afternoon. Kelly was already off to work. He was at a corporate team-building retreat with a bunch of software engineers and marketers.
Yeah you said it. This stuff is shit. I mean, if we have to eat this, cant it come in pill form? I dont want to have to taste this, agreed Timmy. Then Timmy looked up at Mocha for a second. It was the first time in a while that they had ever agreed to anything that the other said in squeaks. Quickly, Timmy looked back down. Showing any sign of affection could be a sign of weakness, after all. Timmy didnt know how to occupy himself, so he began nibbling away at the fortified alfalfa.
Well why the hell are you eating it then? asked Mocha.
What the fuck else am I supposed to do? I just took a nap. I dont feel like taking a post-nap.
Well that doesnt mean you need to eat the alfalfa. I mean, why dont you just starting eating your own shit? Its lying around you too, you idiot.
Cuz Im not a shit-eater, you fuck-face, replied Timmy.
I think this alfalfa shit is just like pig shit, mumbled Mocha, as he kicked away a pebble of alfalfa.
The two guinea pigs were quiet for the next few hours. The only sounds in the apartment were them occasionally getting up from their daytime naps to lap up some water.
Hey what are you doing over there? called out Timmy.
None of your business, asshole.
No really. What are you doing? Are you eating your shit again? asked Timmy.
Im NOT eating my own shit. Im eating the alfalfa.
Same diff, said Timmy.
Timmy walked down the stairs of his gigantic hutch. (There are regulations on how big these architectural pieces need to be, in fact.) He was bored too. But he just couldnt bear to eat another bite of the alfalfa.
Hey, what do you think would happen if we DIDNT eat this shit? asked Mocha.
Kelly would freak out. I think hes hoping well also become personal trainers at the senior centers and lead jazzercise classes or what not.
Yeah so he doesnt want us to become the obese guineas that we so want to be. But he also doesnt want us to become feeble and slight, right?
Yeah, but is that really gonna happen? chuckled Timmy.
If we didnt eat our food suggested Mocha.
And so it began.
Mocha and Timmy agreed to go on a hunger strike despite their hatred for each other. The one thing they agreed upon is that their food tasted like shit. And so the hunger strike commenced. The hunger strike went on for two days. In guinea pig time, that is extremely dangerous. Both of the little rodents lost about 30% of their body weight. Their efforts were heroic. On the evening of the first day, Kelly had called over his girlfriend to take a look at his two cavies and to seek her advice (among other things). On the morning of the second day though, Kelly grew more concerned. He ended up calling the 24-hour veterinary nurse for advice. Mixed messages. On one hand, he was told that when pets dont eat, it could mean they are seriously ill. On the other hand, if their energy level is OK, then they are not necessarily on the way to their graves.
How helpful, thought Kelly, after hanging up.
But by the end of the second day, Kelly had enough. He couldnt bear to witness his pets starve. That evening, Kelly closed his laptop and took off again. Mocha and Timmy werent sure if it was just another Bootcamp class he was teaching or if he was going to his girlfriends place. But to their delight, their campaign worked. Kelly came home with clovers, carrot tops, banana chips, romaine lettuce, and get this: shredded coconut. Score!
As soon as Kelly put the grocery bags down on the counter, Mocha and Timmy sprinted towards him. Well, mostly towards the bag. They ate away. And there was plenty of food for both of them. They looked like good friends sharing a meal together.
Kelly smiled. I love how you two work together, he said aloud.
Seeing bigger than the moment ahead, Those heathens know not how to, Noah laughed to himself, piecing together the ark of which he was told to--his ticket towards the days ahead. After all, theyve come to say that Im delusional; that I will not survive the coming storm. Even my own woman has come to claim me a crazed man! Such the laughable notion it is, but shall not I laugh. For come tomorrow I will be not crazed, but a saved man. And on this once green earth, there will be no other man left to save.
Yeah, I can't finish this. I had an idea but it'll take too many words (and time) to execute. Here's what I got, though. It would've eventually somehow possibly have lead into a conspiracy!
===
Inspector Song:
Im haunted by those memories. Often wake up with tears in my eyes still thinking that Im back in the cell encased whole in the wire jacket. It happened twenty years ago, yet the memories, I dont think theyll ever go away. After I wake up I usually just make a cup of tea. Make some tea, sip, just sitting in the dark waiting for the dawn.
Sims were crude back then, and cruel. Nothing like the elegant fractals we use for interrogations these days. They took me in--irony, in that the ones who fucked me up are basically the same people I work for now--and I guess something was lost in the middle because no one asked me any questions. Just took me in and hooked me up and let me watch as the crude simulation lurched into motion. Back then, it wasnt instant like the ones we have now. The setting rose up around me with its cogs still spinning, with its details being sketched out all around me. The ankle-deep pool of filth, the smell of piss and rot, in some historical shithole. The constant, throat-scorching misery of it. A moan escaping my throat as I tried to move and realized that I was bound--encased--in a metal net. Cinched so tight around me that my arms and legs were broken up and crushed against my body. Cinched so tight neat square bulbs of flesh bulged out past the net like geometric bubbles of meat. And then--well, you know. Whoever was in charge of my interrogation came in, let me beg a bit, then took out a thin knife. I still remember how it glittered as I gibbered. He set the blade against my forearm and sliced down, and oh, how I howled.
It happened so long ago but I can still feel it, almost, the despair and terror of it all. Watching little bits of skin and meat flap down into the thick pool of filth. Ive worked for the PLA for about a dozen years now and Ive yet to ask if they know who did it--because Im terrified of meeting that person. I know hes there. People like that are lifers. Theyre valuable to the organization, people who arent afraid to get dirty now and then. The pain he inflicted on me was impersonal, he took no pleasure in it, none of that malicious joy in seeing me scream. No, he had his duty. Maybe Im making excuses. All I know in the end is that Id rather just avoid him--funny how I assume its a male, given that anyone can be anything in a sim--because to see him, to meet him, would just be too painful. Its the shame of it, I think. At how I begged.
#
The young man dreams of fruit.
Prunes and apricots along with slices of cucumber float along with big rough chunks of ice in the bowl. The fruits are plump with water and the cucumber is crisp and cold. He chews on some apricots--and thats when the the dream stops.
He opens his eyes. Realizes once again that it wasnt a real dream, just another spin in the fractal. The woman is there--the inspector, Han Chinese bitch--lean and mean looking with a sharp face like that of a horse.
The young man is so terribly tired. There is no rest in these fake dreams. He relives every moment in his life as this team scours his mind for the why behind the bombing. As if they could understand. The young man looks at her--the inspector--looks at her standing there before him so imperiously and he hates as he has never hated before.
One more time, the woman says in Chinese.
#
I love my country.
I remember getting back home after that date with the wire jacket--no marks on my body, still clothed, not hurt but so damnably scarred. Crying the whole time as I walked back with the bodies lying here and there in the streets, in clumps where the soldiers had shot them down. It was soon after Hu stepped down, when everything just fell apart. We didnt expect such chaos to hit Beijing, the riots were something peasants did, not us, not the sophisticated folks that we city-dwellers were... then everyone started killing and dying. I got home that night and my mother guessed at what had happened, after looking at the back of my hand, which still bore a smudged barcode-stamp thanks to my brief stay in the General Affairs incarceration unit. But she never did guess the extent of the scarring, regarding the kind of trauma that Id suffered, the utter pointlessness of it--I was but a young girl back then, knew nothing, totally fucking harmless--and I never told her, either. What could it do? It wouldve enraged her--and hurt her--and I didnt want that.
So when this young man looks at me, I feel for him. I really do. I suppose the fractal is a wire jacket of sorts, albeit a kindly one. Theres no pain, but the humiliation is there. His mind is open to me. I just have to prune it carefully--peel it layer by layer--take apart the petals one by one as the core of his memories shies away from my careful hands. Sadly similar to how globs of my skin got lopped off, as I bled.
One more time, I say. Sink him in once more into a quagmire of his own dreams so I can tend to his mind. I know I shouldnt feel for him; hes a monster, really, a murderer, blew up a mall just two months back. But as he lies there strapped to the chair I cant help but remember the feel of that thin knife against my quivering flesh. Ill make it painless, I think. Ill show mercy. But if I succeed--if I extract that confession from him--then hes most likely heading for a trip into the heart of the desert set for a date with the barrel of a rifle. But if I dont get that truth out of him, get him to fess up, then the butchers in the PLA get him and who knows what theyll do to him there. Damned if you, damned if you dont.
Its all for your own good, kid.
#
I wear the blindfold calmly and without protest as I'm led down flights of stairs, along corridors, past dripping pipes and exhaling heat vents. I balk when we reach a metal ladder, that clangs and echoes as the first conspirator clambers down. A firm grip guides my hands to the rungs and then shoves insistently until I follow. At first I try to keep track of where we're going, to mentally map our route through the building and undergournd, but we go around turn after turn and up and down ladders and staircases and even on the straightaways I think I can feel a gentle curve in one direction or another, and somewhere along the way my sense of direction gathers up some rope and commits suicide.
I don't touch the blindfold or try to peek, of course. I don't even consider it. I've waited too long for this chance. This opportunity. I'm not going to lose it now. Not here. Not on the precipice of knowing.
You might call it an obsession. If it were someone else staying up to all hours poring over old books, neglecting work and studies both, warping his life away from friends and family; if it were someone else breaking into the university library at night, tapping on floors and walls, looking for secret rooms; if it were someone else going quietly along on this mad rendezvous that could well (I estimate a greater than fifty percent chance) end in his death--someone else, I would call obsessed. Me, I don't like the word. I prefer "driven." "Obsessed" is too pejorative, too redolent of UFO-hunters and conspiracy theorists.
Which is another phrase I don't like. It puts belief in any and all conspiracies on an equal footing, when so many of them are shiny false idols for the masses, with mediocre minds for disciples. And some--all right, one really, and one so buried amid garbage and detritus that only a genius-level intellect and a towering pile of research could pick it out--one is purest unalloyed truth.
Well. For certain values of "truth."
A hand on my shoulder stops me. With a whisper of cloth, the blindfold comes off.
I stand before a door of wrought iron. The walls around it are stone, and hold torches in brackets, giving off a pale orange light. The tunnel I'm in must be old indeed, built before electricity and unable to be wired up now. Or too secret to bring in electricians. I try to turn to speak to my guides, but the hand on my shoulder tightens and forces me forward, towards the door.
Up close, I see that it's cunningly constructed, with symbols and signs worked throughout. An equilateral triangle with an eye inside. An astrolabe, with rete and rule built in. A compass--the sort used to draw circles, not the sort for finding North. There is no obvious means of opening the door.
"How--" I begin to say, as I try once more to turn. This time the hand is more insistent, shoving me hard. I stumble into the door.
Very well. I am evidently meant to work it out for myself. I ponder for a moment. There are two possibilities. One, that the door has a hidden catch which is carefully hidden such that only one who knows where it is can open the door. Two, that the door has a hidden catch which is carefully hidden such that one who understands the symbols can find it. The second possibility is the only one I consider--if the first is true, I have no hope of entry anyway.
I trace a steady circle in the iron around the compass. Nothing. I push the pupil of the eye inside the equilateral triangle. There's something there, a small hole (perhaps, fittingly, a peephole), but nothing happens. I'll come back to it.
I turn to the astrolabe. This is not a sailor's astrolabe, a clunky ring allowing determination of latitude from the altitude of the sun at noon. This is the real thing, a circle within a circle, engraved with the positions of moon, sun, and stars. On a proper astrolabe, these circles rotate to show the celestial bodies in their proper places for a given day and time. But on this wrought-iron engraving--no, I am wrong. I touch the astrolabe, and it rotates freely. As a true astrolabe would.
Ah. I twist it, and moon, sun, and stars spin in their dancing orbits. I think for a moment, pondering what the sky outside looks like. I don't see much of it, but I've learned all the celestial bodies and their movements in my archival binges. Such things are important to the group I wish to join. I smile and twist until the astrolabe corresponds with the sky above. I push on the door.
"Done and through," says a voice from behind me, in a harsh whisper meant to disguise the speaker's age and gender. "Enter, and be tested." The phrase has the sound of ritual.
Not looking back, I step forward and into the chamber. It appears natural; the high-vaulted ceiling and near-circular shape the result of water and time rather than tool-wielding men. On the walls, more brackets and torches cast a flickering light on the people already in the chamber. Wait. People?
I twitch, but keep myself from jumping backwards in startlement. Of course there are people already here. Those who came to fetch me aren't the entirety of the membership. And surely it takes more than just three to initiate a new member.
The door clangs shut behind me, as I examine the men--women?--in the room with me. It's difficult to tell anything about them. Like the ones who came to fetch me, they wear black robes and cowls, the hoods drawn too far forward to see anything of their faces. Their hands are gloved, and they stand in silence, hands together, leaning slightly forward. There are perhaps twenty of them, in a semicircle around the edge of the chamber.
My guide pushes me forward, and I step to the middle of the chamber, where the flickering light pools thickest.
The guide speaks again, this time in a hollow, ringing voice. "Why are you here?" The voice still reeks of ritual, and the tone again prevents me from putting an age or sex to it.
"I wish to join you."
The hooded figure stood unmoving, saying nothing.
Apparently something more was required. "I wish to join the Enlightened."
Still nothing.
"I wish to join the Enlightened," I say louder, more strongly. I'm a little angry now. They could at least give some sort of guidance, tell me what they want of me. "I wish to learn and keep learning, forever. To lift the veils from humanity's eyes. I want to know, and to never relinquish that knowledge!"
There is silence. Then, the hollow voice. "Name three who once were Enlightened," it intones.
"Three?"
"One is chance, two is luck, three is knowledge." It had the sound of a litany.
All right. Three who once were Enlightened. That must mean three former members. I clear my throat. "Francis Bacon." Easy and obvious. Erasmus Darwin. Chancier. I am almost certain of Erasmus, but not entirely. I pause after speaking the name, but there is no indication of whether I am right or wrong. I take that to mean I'm right, and forge on. Bertrand Russell. I hold my breath. I only assign a sixty percent chance to the proposition that Russell was a member of the Enlightened. All my research, all my long nights and misdemeanors, have not provided as much evidence on the membership of this august group as I'd like. The group's existence is clear enough, if you read between the lines of the history books, but the men and women who made up the group are fogged, hidden. They went to their graves with the secret behind their lips, never spoken.
The hooded figure nods. Name three who are now Enlightened," comes the hollow voice.
Trickier. I think I know three. But do I? And what are the consequences of missing one? Would they even tell me? Perhaps I already missed on Russell. But this was no time for second thoughts. I want to know. "Douglas Hofstadter. Warren Buffett." I pause, not for thought, but because the strain is finally getting to me. "Aubrey de Grey." I'm sweating, a thin sheen arriving on my forehead despite all my efforts to remain relaxed.
The hooded figure nods again. "Name three acts of the Enlightened."
Oh good. This I can do--history and the Enlightened's place in it is my specialty. I lick my lips. "Harpers Ferry." Obvious. A key link in the causal chain leading to the Civil War and thus, eventually, to abolition. "The Underwood Tariff." The reimposition of income taxes in the United States, ultimately bringing about the rise of science and technology in the twentieth century. As before, the figure doesn't respond in any way to my answers. I push forward, and feeling a little brash, say, "the Milgram experiment." The Milgram experiment, of course, was the famous psychology experiment in which participants were induced to do nasty things by authority figures, and shocking numbers of them were obedient to the end. Ninety-three percent, as I recall. It has the fingerprints of the Enlightened all over it, but I'm not sure what possessed me to say it--there are other acts I'm far more sure of.
There's some muttering around the room at that last item, but the figure nods a third time. "Done, and through," it says. "Be tested once more."
I am turned away from the center of the room, pushed aside a little, and I can hear whirring and grinding from behind me. Something is pushing up through the floor. The grinding stops with a sudden booming crash, and silence reigns once more.
I am turned back. Where I stood while being questioned, now stands an altar. It is stone, rectangular, with a smaller rectangle of some gilded metal atop the stone. On each side of the altar, four candles burn. And atop the gilded metal lies a small, mewling kitten.
The hooded figure, my guide, hands me an ornate knife, then steps back.
A ritual sacrifice. My stomach turns to ice, and my limbs suddenly weaken. I have come across the concept in my research, of course, but I always assumed it wasn't true, was just rumors to scare people--or to make them think the whole story was nonsense. But here I stand, a knife in my hand and a small, helpless animal before me, and I'm expected to do the deed. I note, in my almost detached horror, that the top of the gilded metal altar is grooved. To drain the blood of the sacrifice.
"I can't do this."
"You must." A harsh whisper.
"I can't kill a creature like this. Not to no purpose." I find I'm whispering in return.
"There's a purpose to all ritual."
I point the knife at the figure. "What is the purpose?"
Silence.
The figures around the edge of the chamber start to mutter again. They can't hear our whispered conversation. Someone laughs, then changes it into a cough.
I go red. "I refuse. Set me some other task. Some other test. I won't do this one."
"You must." The figure tilts its head at me as though studying my face. "You said you seek knowledge."
"I do."
"You said you seek to lift the veils."
"I do."
"You said you seek to learn, and never stop learning!"
"I do!" The last is a shout.
"Well then." A gloved hand gestures at the kitten.
My stomach turns. But he--it--is right. Knowledge above all else. Knowledge to be found, and never to be relinquished. I have overcome qualms before, in the search for knowledge. I will do it again. No doubt this is the purpose of the ritual. But it still hurts. Feels wrong.
"You must."
There's a tear in the corner of my eye. I can feel it there, but I can't do anything about it. I don't want to touch my face. I feel dirty for what I'm about to do. My head bows.
There's more muttering from the room at large, another, louder laugh.
That does it. I stumble forward, raise the knife. And I do the deed, in three swift cuts.
Dead silence falls across the room, apart from my snuffling and one last piteous meow. And at that, I collapse onto my knees, not hiding the tears.
The hooded figures stares at me. I can't see its eyes, but I can feel its gaze. It steps forward, lifts me to my feet, turns me back to the door. My three guides surround me and begin to chivvy me towards the wrought-iron exit.
"Well?" I say loudly, angrily.
No response.
"What now? I've passed your damned tests."
"No," comes a harsh whisper.
"What?" I stop, fighting off the hands, and turn to the first figure, my tester.
"You failed. We do not want you as a member."
"I--failed? What? How?" It's not possible. Unless--was I wrong about Bertrand Russell the whole time?
"Milgram."
That one word punches through all my defenses, through my heart and through my brain. I fall, stumbling to my knees again. The ice in my stomach reforms, melts, reforms anew. I failed. I obeyed Authority, when Authority was wrong, and when I knew in my bones of that wrongness. All these years, studying the Milgram experiment and feeling so sure, so certain that if it were me, if I were told to do what I knew was wrong, that I would stand strong, would fight back, would refuse. I would overcome that mental block that says Authority is right and you are wrong and you must obey Authority. And I didn't. I failed. Even with the experiment fresh in my mind, ready and able to twist my response toward the correct one.
I failed.
I hardly notice as the guides, still hooded, put my blindfold back on, drag me back along passages and turns and stairs and ladders, and leave me lying in an alleyway with a healthy portion of vodka splashed across my clothes. I hardly notice as a police car slows, stops, disgorges officers who question me and kindly drop me off at my apartment.
Man, I keep pushing my luck, don't I. Really had a fun time writing this one, though.
Tangent said:
Wow, so my prompt for writing challenge #80 only got 3 entries?! Shoot! There might have been a fourth: I actually wrote a story out with PEN AND PAPER, out of all things. And I went to an internet cafe in Egypt to transfer it to NeoGAF and send it off. After typing it all up, the computer froze, then it said my time ran out even though it didn't, and then my screen cleared. Dangit. Then I tried sending it to Cyan by email right at the last few minutes of allowable submission time, but maybe it got lost in cyberspace on the way to him as well.
Ashes1396 - "Rat Race"
Difficult to get my bearings, my first thought is lottery winner, then it seems like he is on a CEO path, but the two things seem incongruous. Why stay late at the office when youve won the lottery? I can buy it if you give me a good reason or at least address it. Maybe Ive missed the mark altogether on what you are putting together.
I like dynamic of the protagonist and Naomi, or at least you exposition of it. Thats what I want to read.
I dont like knowing the main characters name. You waited so long to reveal, that I would have liked it not revealed at all. The numbering doesnt strengthen anything.
After completing the read it all makes sense, but thats too long to take to get it. Im not really invested until I get to relationship part, the dinner revelation of wanting to help Somalian kids, the whole dinner scene was good. The lottery and pregnancy not as much. The contrast of his background to where he is now is too much, comes off a bit cliché. Coming from a group home makes the Somalian bit work, and thats fine. Id like to see the guy make a legitimate sacrifice to help Somalian kids, instead of it being so easy with the lottery. A struggle to tell Naomi since he isnt sure about money, the realization that they will have to sacrifice for their kid and sacrifice again to help Somalian kids, but they make it work. Its got potential.
bakemono - "Poor Miss Harlow"
Detective person? Why not just detective? I get that your author has a certain dialect, but I dont know that on line one, so either really pronounce it or dont do it at all. On the first read, it just comes off as your mistake.
the mystery vs THIS mystery.
I like the set-up, characterization of your protagonist, though Id really like something subtle to give me an appearance.
Underlining the cats name, the picture, everything. Loved that paragraph.
A great build up and the story ends half way through, disappointing. I was anticipating twists and turns and humorous observations from the protagonist. Its an engaging piece, which makes the unfinished nature all the more disappointing.
Tangent - "Hunger Strike"
Nice start. I really enjoyed it.
Word choice: Warm-down vs. warm-up and cool-down.
Nice ending that could be taken a number of different ways.
Miri - "Like a Boss"
Arc, ark
Took me a second read due to that spelling.
Dresden - "Xinjiang"
Bit of an Altered Carbon vibe from the interrogation sim.
A lot of exposition and less action. Tell more of the story through action. I like where you are going and I like the feelings the main character has for the kid. The last paragraph has a very real feel.
Not much more to say as its just a prologue.
Cyan - "Rites and Symbols"
Like the sense of direction suicide line- very expressive. Hard for me to suspend my disbelief with multiple stairs and ladders. I can buy one ladder, but two? Its too much for me to bear. I cant fathom a building with more than one ladder. And what, does the order exclude handicapped people? Then again if the character goes up and then down a ladder, up a stair case and then down, maybe he isnt going anywhere at all. Though, a simple It feels could have divorced all the ups and down from reality. I cant argue ones perception, but I can argue whether a building would have that many ladders.
Oh wow, Im thinking hostage and you completely turn it around- NICE!
Your writing is strong as is your premise. Just like your favorite author Dan Brown =) The door with the symbols makes the groups clear enough without stating it, I like how you give yourself room to toy with the reader and drop some names and events.
Nice. The way he failed, the foreshadowing. A fun ride, which is all I ever seek.
I dont know if I like the last line, I get it, but I dont know if its necessary.
The one word punches through paragraph, end it on that. I dont need the cop bit.
One could argue the story should end on Milgram, but I dont think your subsequent paragraph is ham fisted. The exposition aids the story. I get wanting to end it with a teaser line, but it just doesnt work for me. Not on sleep is long coming, not on I failed, not on Milgram.
Ashes: Well written with a great voice. It was a light, breezy, pleasing read. But there was no real tension in the piece. It was just stuff happening to a slightly strange, hardworking man. In a way, the lack of problems of the character made the world situations you brought up feel like a lecture.
Ward: The dialogue feels very real, but I have to say there is so little action and description that I rarely have any idea whats occurring. In truth, I think this story would have worked better as a one act play discussed entirely in one location.
Bakemono: I think it was a great start, unfortunately, there wasnt enough to it. You set up a mystery and give us a few clues and a charming little detective, and then you end it before giving the reader the answer. Thats very frustrating. That said, I liked the piece a lot.
Tangent: Cute story. A little rough in places and the ending came a bit suddenly, but it was enjoyable.
Miri: I have no idea what that opening was really saying. I was expecting some e e comings level insanity, but the writing got more normal by the end. I am a confused.
Dresden: Interesting start. The shifts in perspective were always jarring and a little awkward, but I really enjoyed the world and the character of the inspector. Id like to see more someday.
Cyan: It had to be a kitten, didnt it? I understand why it needed to be something like that, but at the same time it feels like something picked specifically to pull at the heartstrings. It takes the focus away from the act and puts it on the victim. Other than that, it was a fantastic piece.
Man Booker Prize long list announced... caught some trivia on it today...:
"This year's longlist for the Man Booker Prize is one of the most popular since records began according to sales. Here is how the sales compare.
1 Julian Barnes The Sense of an Ending 9,700
2 Alan Hollinghurst The Stranger's Child 5,400
3 Sebastian Barry On Canaan's Side 3,400
4 Stephen Kelman Pigeon English 2,350
5 Patrick deWitt The Sisters Brothers 1,550
6 Patrick McGuinness The Last Hundred Days 1,250
7 Esi Edugyan Half blood Blues 1,050
8 Jane Rogers The Testament of Jessie Lamb 1,000
9 Yvvette Edwards A Cupboard Full of Coats 900
10 Carol Birch Jamrach's Menagerie 850 "
