Ceramic DM- The Renewal ( Final judgement posted)

Winter 2005 Ceramic DM Round 1: FireLance vs. NiTessine

Life's Illusions

Victoria felt somewhat guilty as she knocked on the door of her uncle Neil's house. It had been a month since her last visit. She'd put off visiting him, partly because she was busy at work, and partly because he got on her nerves. Still, she felt somewhat responsible for him, since he was the only family she had left, and he took care of her after her parents were killed in the War. Victoria took all her responsibilities seriously.

The door opened, and Victoria's uncle Neil peered out. A broad smile creased his bearded face and his eyes twinkled in delight. "Victoria! How good to see you," he said. "Please, come on in. How are you getting on in the Evocation Research Department?"

"Rather well, thank you. We're currently working on the problem of flight, and making quite good headway," she said. We've worked out how to get people into the air, she thought, moving them in the right direction and getting them down safely is another matter.

"Flight?" he asked, looking bemused. "Whatever for? The Transmutation chaps worked that out several years ago. It helped win the War for us, you know."

"It's for the times that you don't have a Transmuter around, of course. Once we perfect it, an Evoker will be able to provide flight capability as well." Or an Evoker and a parachute, if we don't manage to get it right, she thought gloomily, or perhaps we should try developing an Evocation variant of Feather Fall. "So, what have you been working on yourself?" she asked.

Uncle Neil smiled. "I've been tweaking the Mirror Image spell a little," he said, "Watch." He spoke a word and spread open his hands, palms facing up. A tiny image of himself appeared on each palm, and even smaller images of himself appeared on the palms of those. This went on for as far as Victoria could see. (1) It made her eyes water. "Ta-daa! Fractal Image! Great if you want to masquerade as a chaos theory gnome."

Victoria was not impressed. "Are there any such things as chaos theory gnomes, uncle?" she asked.

Uncle Neil sighed, shook his head and dismissed the spell with a wave. "No, there aren't. It was a joke, Victoria."

"In other words, it's another spell with no practical use whatsoever," she said.

"Only to someone with no sense of humor whatsoever," he shot back.

There was an uncomfortable silence for several moments.

Victoria spoke first. "Look, I'm sorry, Uncle Neil. I didn't mean to say that. It's just that..."

"...You think I'm wasting my time on Illusion. I know. We've had this discussion many times before. Usually, just before you decide not to visit me for a month," he said drily.

Victoria smiled weakly. "Okay, I promise to see you more frequently."

"So you'll be there later? At Erwin's birthday?" he asked.

Victoria grimaced. She had a major field test scheduled, and the main reason why she decided to call on her uncle today was to let him know that she might be too busy to attend that event. But she didn't have the heart to disappoint him now. "I'll be there," she said.

* * * * *

Harmon's Home for Retired Familiars was set up after the War, and catered to familiars who were no longer able to function effectively because of physical injury or psychological trauma. Uncle Neil's familiar, a black and white cat named Erwin, was one of those. An Explosive Runes trap had claimed his right front paw and ended his career, but apparently, had given him a favorite joke in return. Victoria thought it was a dreadfully poor bargain.

"A cat that good, you don't eat it all at once," Erwin said to his audience of disabled creatures of all varieties. Victoria had heard that punch line at least four times since she had arrived at the Home, and found it less amusing with every repetition. It had not been a good day. The field tests of Evoker's Fly had showed that it was even more difficult to control the direction of travel and the pace of descent than originally anticipated. They would be trying it out again in the afternoon, this time with the crash test dummy wearing a specially designed glider suit. However, instead of spending her lunch hour re-checking the parameters of the spell, she was at a birthday party. Right on cue, one of the staff of the Home carried a large birthday cake decorated with a cat made of grey cream into the room. And Uncle Neil had not made an appearance. So much for wanting to see me more often, she thought.

Victoria felt a touch on her leg. It was Erwin. "Victoria," he said, his tone strangely tense and serious, "Look at the cake. Tell me what you see." Victoria looked. "It's just a cake," she said.

"Right," he said, "I'm going to try something. It might work because you're Neil's only surviving relative. I'm going link with you so that you can see through my eyes. When I've done so, look at the cake again, but don't make any sudden moves." He touched Victoria's leg with a paw, and her eyes tingled. "What do you see?" he asked.

Victoria looked at the cake again. The grey cream cat was nothing but a transparent outline surrounding another shape perched on top of the cake. It was a small, horned humanoid with a bloated, sparkling red belly. "A blast imp," Victoria said softly, "What is it doing here?" She had never seen one before, but she had read about them. They were used as assassins in the War because they were able change their shape to appear harmless, and then explode with enough magical energy to destroy a small building when their target approached. Even attacking a blast imp was dangerous, as they exploded when they were killed.

"I have a hunch," Erwin said. "Since it hasn't detonated itself yet, it must be waiting for something. Don't make any sudden moves. If it thinks it's been discovered, it might just decide to blow itself up early. Come with me."

"What about the other familiars? Will they be able to see it?" she asked, as she followed him out of the room and into the corridor.

"I doubt it. Neil had me enhanced with a permanent True Seeing, and he was one of the few mages who had the power to do so." He stopped outside an open doorway. "This is my room. Go inside and look under my sleeping basket." Victoria lifted the basket and saw a dagger with a dull black blade. "Your Uncle Neil's old dagger, the one he carried during the War," Erwin said, "He left it with me, because he hated the War and anything that reminded him of it. Sometimes, I think that was the real reason why he had me retired." Erwin paused gloomily for a moment. "Anyway, it's an absorbing dagger. Touch the blast imp with it, and it'll be sucked inside. He won't be able to harm anyone in there."

"But if the imp sees us coming with the dagger, won't it blow up? How can we get close enough to touch it?" Victoria asked.

"Two things. First, a little bit of glamer. You can't help picking up a trick or two from hanging around the finest Illusionist in the War," Erwin said. He murmured an incantation, and the dagger shimmered and suddenly resembled an ordinary kitchen knife. "Next, I have a hunch who the blast imp is after, and I'm guessing it isn't you. The blast imp isn't going to blow up unless its target is nearby, or it is discovered, so we'll just have to act naturally. And what could be more natural than someone helping a poor, disabled, retired familiar who has lost the use of his right front paw to cut his birthday cake?"

"Yes, that just might work," Victoria said. She picked up Erwin and the absorbing dagger, and returned to the party. Slowly and carefully, she approached the cake, holding the glamered dagger and Erwin's right front leg in her right hand, and supporting Erwin with her left. (2) Using the True Seeing she had from her link with Erwin, she watched the blast imp nervously. Was it suspicious? Would it give any hint before it exploded?

The blast imp's beady eyes looked around the room, as if it was searching for someone or something. As Victoria got close to the cake, it stared into her face and their gazes locked for an instant, before its eyes widened in shock. Immediately, Victoria realized her mistake. She had been looking directly at the blast imp! Desperately, she lunged forward, slashing with her dagger. The dagger blade bit into the blast imp's arm, and it suddenly vanished. Dropping the dagger, Victoria backed away, heaving a huge sigh of relief.

"It's not over yet," Erwin said, solemnly. "That blast imp was on that cake for a reason. Since nobody would bother sending one after an old, crippled familiar, the logical conclusion is that its target was the familiar's former master, who might be expected to help him cut the cake. I think Neil is in danger. You have to go warn him."

"But why would anyone want to kill Uncle Neil?" Victoria asked.

"Neil never told you what he did during the War, did he?" Erwin observed. "You can ask him after you warn him. Don't just stand there wasting time, go!"

Victoria ran out of the Home. Visions of her uncle lying dead in a pile of rubble danced through her mind. She needed to get halfway across the town as quickly as possible. Why was there never a Conjurer or a Transmuter around when you needed one? A sudden flash of inspiration struck her, and she ran for the Evocation Research Department.

Once she got there, she quickly changed into a flight suit and strapped a parachute to her back. The crash test dummy with the glider suit had already been set up in the field test site. Grabbing hold of it tightly, she invoked her spell.

Evocation magic deals with damaging energies, great forces and massive explosions. The power unleashed by Victoria's spell blasted the dummy into the air, leaving behind only a trail of smoke to mark its passage. If she had cast it on herself, it would probably have broken every bone in her body. As it was, her arms felt as if they were almost ripped from their sockets simply from holding on to the rapidly-moving dummy. Victoria was gratified to note that the glider suit worn by the dummy did slow her fall somewhat, and allowed her to bank slightly so that she was headed towards her uncle's house. When she thought that she was close enough, she jumped off the dummy and released her parachute (3). Her judgement was accurate, and she landed safely in front of her uncle's house.

Releasing her parachute, she ran to the door and hammered on it. "Uncle Neil, are you home?" she yelled. There was no answer. Cautiously, she tried the door. It was unlocked. She opened it and peered inside. "Uncle Neil, where are you?" she asked.

Apart from the absence of her uncle, the living room was the same as she recalled from that morning. There was no sign of violence or destruction anywhere. Staying alert for danger, she crossed the living room and opened the door to her uncle's bedroom. The bedroom was slightly messy and disorganized, but there was nothing out of the ordinary to be seen. She was about to search the other rooms of the house when she noticed a framed picture at the far end of the room, turned to face the wall and leaning against it. Curious, she walked to it and turned it over. It was a black and white photograph of some men in uniforms that dated to the War, but it was terribly out of focus. What a strange thing to have around, she thought.

As she put down the picture, she was suddenly aware of a cold wind blowing. As she looked for the source of the breeze, she was startled to note that her vision was blurring, and colors of the room around her were fading, until all she could see was a swirling cloud of grey. Then, the shapes around her sharpened and she found herself in what seemed to be a desolate, black and white landscape, facing the blurred shapes she had previously seen in the photograph.

A voice behind her said, "All right, chaps, we've got the shot, you Blur Berets can refocus now." One of the blurred shapes in front of her quickly sharpened into the image of a rugged, muscular man. (4) The rest soon followed suit.

The first man walked away from the others, sat by himself on a handy rock. He was soon joined by another. "I wonder why they bothered to do that. So that we can remember everyone who gets killed tonight?" the second man said. The first man said nothing.

The second man sighed. "You've been to see the Doc?" The first man nodded. "It's not good?" the second man asked. The first man shook his head. "Doc says the blast nearly killed him. He may not pull through." The second man mumbled something under his breath. "But look, man," he said, "We have the chance to get back at them, okay? Tonight, we make them pay." The first man smiled grimly. "Yeah, tonight, we'll make them pay."

And suddenly, it was night, in the thick of a battle. The air was filled with the sound of explosions and the moans of the dying. Blurred shapes dodged blasts of energy and engaged those who threw them in melee combat. A jet of flame streamed from the fingers of one man and engulfed one of the blurred shapes. It fell to the floor and lay still. "No!" someone screamed, and Victoria recognized the voice as that of the first man. One of the blurred shapes suddenly disappeared, and seconds later, the man that had cast the jet of flame collapsed, clutching at the slash wound that had mysteriously appeared in his throat. Then, another man collapsed, his stomach cut open, and then a third, bleeding profusely from stab wounds in his back. Before Victoria's eyes, death after gruesome death occurred, then the scene blurred again, the colors returned, and she found herself in her uncle's bedroom again. Uncle Neil was standing in the door leading to the living room.

"So now you know," he said simply. "I discovered Invisibility, one of the other factors that helped win the War for us. And after the War, after my discovery had resulted in countless deaths, I decided that I would never again create something that could be used for harm. I would devote my life to causing laughter and joy rather than sorrow and pain." Uncle Neil sighed, "I hope you understand, Victoria. I've lost so many things in my life, mostly because of the War. I don't want to lose you, too."

Victoria stepped forward and hugged him. "Uncle Neil, I do understand, and you're not going to lose me. You could have just told me. You didn't have to go through such elaborate lengths."

"Elaborate lengths?"

"You set up the scene in the Home, didn't you? And the blast imp was just an illusion, wasn't it?"

Uncle Neil smiled sheepishly. "Yes, I did, and yes, it was. Everything in the photographic illusion was real, though."

"Even if it wasn't, it doesn't matter. War hero or not, impractical joker or not, even though you made me sick with worry and very nearly made me break my neck trying to get to you on an experimental spell, you made me realize today that I do care for you, even if I don't agree with you. And if Illusion magic can do that, maybe it isn't such a waste of time after all."

And Victoria and her Uncle Neil smiled, the first time they had done so together in a long time.

(1) Uncle Neil's Fractal Image spell
(2) The attack on the blast imp
(3) Victoria's Evoker's Fly spell
(4) The Blur Berets

Winter 2005 Ceramic DM Round 1 - Rodrigo Istalindir vs Thorod Ashstaff

“I’d like to begin by welcoming our new employees and those of you here for your semi-annual referesher training,” the speaker in the preppy sweater said. “ Here at Savini Services, we believe that a well-trained work force is the key to success.”

Glen Turnbull immediately tuned out the droning voice. He’d been employed at Savini’s for two years, and these presentations were always boring as hell. Three hours of stupid HR crap and cookie-cutter Powerpoint presentations did nothing to prepare you for the realities of the job. At least the donuts were good.

His mind wandered to his conversation with Becky that morning. Argument, really. The same argument they’d had almost every morning for the past month. Becky’s nagging about his job had become incessant despite the fact that he spent every Sunday morning combing the classifieds looking for a new one. Glen was good at his job, but the skills he’d perfected at Savini’s weren’t terribly useful elsewhere. Becky didn’t care. She kept pushing him to get a better paying job doing white-collar work. Apparently, all she cared about anymore was herself and where her next meal was coming from.

Glen knew he had to end the relationship, but they’d been together since high school. They’d stayed together even though she’d gone off to college while he served a stint in the Army. His tour ended, she graduated, and it was if they had been together every day instead of the odd week here and there. It was over, there was no doubt about that. But it was still hard to pull the trigger, so to speak.

“So you can see, it doesn’t really matter how much trauma is inflicted on the target. Incapacitation can only be achieved by interrupting the signals from the brain to the body. Here at Savini’s, we have a saying: ‘Kill the brain, kill the ghoul’” (Picture 1)

The smattering of polite applause snapped Glen from his reverie. The other attendees were standing, heading out of the small conference room to go to the bathroom or grab a smoke. He stood and started to head to the employee lounge to grab a cup of coffee when someone grabbed his arm.

“Glen, got a minute” asked Trip Walker, junior VP for Internal Process Compliance (Washington Office).

“I notice you’ve been slacking off, Glen. You’re a week behind on your Termination and Protective Services reports.” Trip said with insincere smile.

“Uh, yeah, Trip. I was on assignment until Friday. Today’s Monday.”

“Right. Your reports were due last week. It’s this week. They’re a week late.”

“Right. I’ll get on those as soon as the class is over.”

“Great, Glen. I knew I could count on you. Now that I’m a VP, I need you guys to make me look good!”

“You’ve got that right, Trip” Glen replied, inwardly laughing as the smug grin on Trip’s face gave way to puzzlement as he tried to figure out whether he’d been insulted.

“And by the way, Trip. I’ve been meaning to congratulate you on your promotion. Junior V.P. is a heck of an accomplishment. One of only 12 in the office.” A office consisting of 30 people, Glen thought.

Trip’s smile returned.

“Hey, thanks Glen. You’ll be up here too, someday.”

“I can’t wait, Trip. I can’t wait.” Glen said, as he joined the rest of the herd returning to the classroom.

*

The commute home sucked. Some moron downloaded a virus onto the network, so the system was down half the day, keeping him there till after 6 to finish the reports for Trip. The delay threw his whole schedule off, making him miss the bus that took him to the Metro, which made him miss the 6:30 train and the 7:00 bus from the station to his apartment.

Glen slammed the door behind him and dumped his backpack on the floor. The apartment was dark save for the ghostly flickering of the television. Becky had been burning some Oriental incense constantly of late, and the air was thick with the smell.

Becky must’ve gone out and forgotten to turn the TV off, he thought, as he wandered into the living room and turned on a light.

“Jesus, Glen, are you trying to blind me?” Becky shouted from the couch.

Glen’s heart skipped.

“What are you doing sitting here in the dark? “

“Watching TV. You’re late.”

“I had some paperwork to catch up on.”

“Damn it, when are you going to ditch that job. That’s all you ever do. Work, work, work. We never do anything fun anymore.”

“Can we not have this discussion again. I hate that job as much as you do, but it’s better than nothing.”

He could tell by the way her jaw clenched that she was getting ready to launch into another tirade. He cut her off.

“Look, have you eaten? Let’s go out somewhere nice for dinner.”

“I already ate.” As soon as she said it, Glen saw the remnants of ribs and napkins covered in barbecue sauce strewn on the coffee table.

“And didn’t save me any. Thanks a bunch.”

Glen turned and went into the kitchen. He rummaged through the refrigerator, grabbed a soggy container with Chinese food left over from the weekend, and then headed for the second bedroom he used as a study.

*

Glen awoke when he felt Becky slip into bed beside him. Through slitted eyes, he looked at the alarm clock on the dresser. Three-thirty in the morning, he thought. She’d left the apartment at some point while he was playing on the computer. No ‘goodbye’, no note, nothing. And now she sneaks in, reeking of cigarette smoke and too much perfume.

He closed his eyes and went back to sleep.

*

She was still dead to the world when he awoke in the morning. He tried to rouse her, but she just pushed him away.

“Becky, you’re going to be late for work.”

“I’m off today. Gonna sleep in.” she mumbled.

“Oh. Have a nice day, then. I’ll see you tonight.”

Glen left the apartment and started walking to the bus stop. He approached just in time to see the bus pull away. He looked at his watch, then at the departing bus, back at his watch.

“Son of a bitch!” he shouted. He was on time, but the bus was leaving early.

Now he was looking at another commute from hell. Probably be yelled at your being late, too.

Screw it, he thought, and pulled out his cell phone.

“Savini Services, how can I help you?”

“Hey, Carol, it’s Glen. I’m gonna be out sick today. Think I picked up a cold on that stakeout last week.”

“Oh, that’s too bad, Glen. You get some rest.”

“Thanks. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

He turned and started walking back to the apartment complex. He was a block away when he saw Becky run out of the apartment. She hurried to the street where her car was parked, hopped into her car, and peeled away.

*

The next morning, Glen called in sick again. He left for work as he usually did, but this time, he headed for the parking lot when he got to the Metro station. He looked around, then spotted the Zipcar section. He walked up and used the smartcard he’d gotten from them yesterday to unlock the car.

He drove back to his apartment, parked a block away, and waited.

Ten minutes after he arrived, he watched as Becky, dressed in black and carrying her red coat, drove off towards the city. He started the car and followed her downtown. He suspicions rose as she drove past the 12th street exit she normally took to work. She kept driving till she exited at 16th. She pulled up to the parking garage for the mall.

Glen drove around the block for several minutes, then returned to the shopping center. He grabbed a ticket from the parking machine and drove down into the garage. He cruised slowly, looking around until he spotted Becky’s car. He turned the corner and parked.

He took the elevator to the street. He looked around, then saw her bright red coat heading east. Keeping a safe distance, he followed her. After a couple of blocks, he realized she was heading towards her office.

He knew that the company she worked for paid for her parking. He couldn’t understand why she’d park 4 blocks away when there was a garage below the office building. He was even more puzzled when instead of going into the lobby, she leaned against the wall next to one of the window displays.

He slipped into the Starbucks across the street and watched her through the window. A few minutes later, an old woman exited the building and stood on the street trying to hail a cab. (Picture 2) Becky walked up behind her and leaned in close. It looked like she whispered something, but he couldn’t tell for sure.

The old woman turned and began walking up the street, back towards where Glen and Becky had parked. Becky stayed close to her, one hand gripping her arm as she steered her along the sidewalk. The street was nearly empty – the mid-morning smoke and coffee breaks over, and lunch still an hour or more away.

Glen slipped out of the coffee shop and resumed his surveillance. The pair returned to the garage, and got into the elevator. Glen rushed forward as soon as the doors closed, and watched the numbers overhead change as the elevator descended. He expected to see them stop at P2 where their cars were, but the blinking lights continued to move, finally stopping on P5.

Glen pushed the call button, and hurried aboard the empty car when it arrived. He pressed ‘P5’ and waited. When the doors opened, he cautiously peered around the corner, then scuttled behind a pillar.

This level of the garage was deserted. He could hear whispers, urgent, angry, but the empty space echoed, making the words indistinct. He picked a direction, then flitted from pillar to pillar, looking more like John Belushi than James Bond.

The voices grew louder and more clear. He realized that there were several people speaking. He came to a corner, and peeked around.

In a shadowed corner of the garage, he saw a several young men and Becky crowded around the old woman. The woman looked terrified; the mob gleeful. With no warning, one of the men swung his fist, striking her in the back of the head and knocking her to her knees. As if one, the others began hitting and clawing at her. She collapsed completely, feebly struggling to get away.

Stunned, Glen reached into his pocket for his cell phone. He pulled back out of sight around the corner, and dialed ‘911’. Putting the phone to his ear, he heard nothing. He looked at the display, and realized he had no signal.

He was about to run back to the elevator when the sound of Becky’s laughter caught his ear. He peered around the corner again, and nearly vomited. No matter how many times he’d seen it, the sight of a pack of ghouls feeding was never pleasant.

Becky was kneeling over the woman, face covered in red as she gnawed at a fistful of torn flesh. The victim still twitched as the men pulled chunks of meat from her legs and back.

He turned his back on the carnage and sprinted for the elevator. He banged on the button, and hurried to enter as soon as the doors parted. He was nearly bowled over by two men in trenchcoats.

“Dave? Stan?”

“Glen?”

The two men stared at him.

“They said you were out sick, bud. Must’ve been a snafu at dispatch. So, where are they?” Dave said.

“Uh, back there, around the corner.” Glen stammered.

“Cool. Let’s go get them.”

Dave pulled a Mossberg 500 bullpup shotgun out from his coat, and headed into the garage. Stan followed close behind, a .357 in each fist. Glen hurried after them.

Dave and Stan charged forwards. Their sudden arrival surprised the pack, and one was dropped by a shotgun blast to the head before it had a chance to move. The rest scattered. Glen lost sight of Becky in the darkness.

“Stan, you get those three. Glen and I will go after the bigger group.”

“We shouldn’t split up. You know the rules.” Stan argued.

“Wuss. There’s three of us. We’ll be fine.” Dave called back over his shoulder as he rushed off in pursuit.

“This is a bad idea.” Stan said, and then ran off after the rest.

Looking around wildly, Glen spotted the bloody prints of a woman’s shoe heading off in the direction that Stan had gone. He hesitated for a moment, then sprinted after Stan.

Glen had a hard time keeping up. Someone, presumably the ghouls, had shattered most of the light bulbs overhead, plunging large sections of the garage into deep darkness. Stan and Dave had their night vision gear, but he was almost blind, and he nearly knocked himself senseless several times glancing off cement pillars as he ran.

The garage echoed with the sounds of gunfire, but whether or not the shots were hitting their mark, he couldn’t tell. The parasite thought to be responsible for Bodoff-Ensai Disease rendered its hosts almost immune to pain, and possessed of rather remarkable recuperative powers. The pharmaceutical industry was engaged in their own version of the Manhattan Project, racing to perfect a way to harness the benefits of the disease without the rather unfortunate side-effect of turning the victim into a rational but psychopathic cannibal.

Glen tripped over a body and fell. He scrambled to his feet, glancing at the corpse long enough to see it was one of the ghouls and not his co-worker. Muzzle flashes ahead of him momentarily revealed Stan, legs spread, revolvers blazing at an unseen target.

The strobe effect also illuminated one of the ghouls as it crawled from beneath an abandoned car and lunged towards Stan.

“Look out!” Glen shouted.

The warning came too late. The ghoul latched onto Stan before he had a chance to turn around. The gunman’s loud cry turned into a gurgle as the monster bit through his throat.

Dashing forward, Glen grabbed one the revolvers from the ground. Praying that it wasn’t empty, he grabbed the ghoul by the hair. Yanking its head back, he shoved the pistol in its mouth and pulled the trigger.

The report, though somewhat muffled by the deranged creature’s skull, still nearly deafened him. He pushed the corpse away, and knelt to look at Stan.

There was nothing he could do. The bite had severed the jugular, and blood rushed over his fingers as he fought to staunch the flow. In moments, Stan was dead.

Wiping his hands on the dead man’s coat, Glen stood. He had to find Becky before Dave or another Savini’s employee did. He tucked the gun in his coat pocket. Looking around, he saw bloody footprints leading to an emergency stairwell. He pushed open the door and followed the trail upwards.

The alarm on the emergency door was blaring as Glen stepped onto the street. The parking garage filled the entire city block, and it took him a moment to get his bearings. He realized he was on the opposite side of where they had come in, close to the Natural History Museum that had been the latest attempt to revitalize the tourism industry.

The trail was almost invisible now, as the blood on her shoes dried. Still, it looked as if she was heading towards the museum.

That makes sense, he thought. It’s doubtful Dave got a good look at her. If she ditches the coat and cleans up, she could lose herself in the crowd.

Glen rushed towards the entrance. He was careful to keep his bloody hands in his pockets. He didn’t want a panic, and if someone called the police, the dispatcher at Savini’s would pick it up on the scanner and notify Dave.

He asked the ticket-taker where the restrooms were, and headed calmly towards them. Taking a quick look about, he made sure no one was looking at him before ducking into the ladies room.

Quietly, he peered into the waste bin and saw piles of bloody paper towels. He held the gun in his right hand and pushed the stall doors open with his left. Empty, save for a red coat hanging on the back of the middle door.

He left the bathroom and returned to the main floor of the museum. Although there were a number of people in attendance, they were clumped here and there looking at the exhibits, giving the impression that the place was mostly empty.

Glen wandered from group to group, looking for Becky. He found her hanging at the back of a tour group looking at the dinosaur exhibit.

“Becky?”

Her head whipped around, and for a moment he saw the bloodlust that simmered in her eyes. It disappeared beneath the surface once she recognized him, but he had seen the monster lurking there.

“Glen? Wow, what are you doing…” she started. Her voice trailed off as she realized that he knew her secret. She edged away from the tour group, towards an unattended exhibit.

“Glen, please. I know you hunt people like me, hunt us down and kill us. But you don’t know the whole story. Your bosses don’t want you to know.”

“Are you kidding me? I saw you and your friends rip that woman to pieces. What else is there to know?”

“She wanted us to, honey. She worked in my office. Somehow she found out about me, and asked me to infect her.”

“She had cancer, lung cancer. She was going to die. She thought that if she got infected with BE, it would cure her.”

“How was eating her going to cure her?” Glen stared at her in horror.

“It wasn’t supposed to be like that. I thought I could control the pack. But they went wild when they smelled the blood. I did too. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean for this to happen.”

“You’ve got to believe me. This was the first time we ever attacked a person. We’d managed to control the hunger by feeding off of each other, or animals.”


For the first time since he’d started working at Savini’s, Glen was unsure. He knew the company line, that once turned the ghouls couldn’t be cured, couldn’t control their hunger. But what if that was just a way to protect their business? Savini’s made millions in government contracts. And if Becky couldn’t control her hunger, why hadn’t she attacked him?

“Stand clear, Glen”

Glen turned, and saw Dave standing on the other side of the exhibit, ten yards away. The shotgun was once again concealed beneath his coat.

Glen turned back to Becky

“Get ready to run.” He whispered.

Glen backed away from Becky, then charged fossilized leg supporting the immense creature that towered above them. He hard Becky’s footsteps as she ran away, heard Dave curse as the shotgun got tangled in his coat.

Loud creaking gave way to the sounds of ancient bones shattering as the dinosaur toppled. With a crash, it knocked Dave to the ground and pinned him beneath its shattered ribcage.

Looking back over his shoulder, Glen saw Becky dash through the door and out onto the Mall. There was a stampede behind her as the rest of the crowd fled. The lone security guard was nearly trampled by the tide.

He rushed to Dave’s side. He hoped he wasn’t hurt. Dave was just doing his job.

He pulled the bones away and helped Dave to his feet. The shotgun lay on the ground, its strap tangled in the mess.

“You shouldn’t have done that, Glen. You know there will be consequences.”

“Yeah, well, I’d been looking for a new job anyway. I couldn’t keep working for a place that would promote Trip to VP.”

“You’re going to lose more than your job, pal. I heard what she said to you, and I can tell you believed her. No way is old man Savini going to let you live.”

Dave bent and began trying to free the shotgun from the rubble.

Glen nearly turned to run, but his training took over. He grabbed the three-foot long breastbone, still miraculously intact, and swung it at Dave.

At the last second, Dave sensed something. He released the shotgun, twisted and stopped the wishbone inches from his face. The men began struggling for possession of the artifact. With a loud crack, the ages-old bone cracked in two.

For a long, drawn-out moment, the two men stared at the fragments in their hand. (Picture 3) With a roar, Dave raised the larger half over his head, intent on smashing Glen’s brains out. Glen lunged forward, driving the splintered end of the smaller fragment into Dave’s chest. Dave dropped his bone mid-swing and collapsed.

Guess you didn’t get your wish, Glen thought, as he stepped over Dave’s body and headed out the main entrance.

He ran out the same door through which Becky had fled. The crowd had gathered a fair distance back. Police cars had blocked the end of the street, and uniformed cops were trying to establish a perimeter.

He ran up to the nearest cop and flash his company ID.

“Keep the perimeter secure until my colleagues arrive. The ghoul already took out one hunter. Don’t put your men at risk.”

The cop gulped and nodded, and began issuing orders to the other cops.

Glen disappeared into the crowd and began trying to spot Becky. He saw her off in the distance, heading across the park towards the river. The cold weather kept the tourists hurrying from museum to museum, so no one was dawdling outside. He began running in her direction.

He had almost reached her when a car screeched to a halt in front of him. A man stepped out wearing a Savini uniform.

Becky had looked back when she heard the car brakes squeal, then turned and kept running when she saw the agent step out. Glen saw her reach the edge of river and climb over the rail.

“This one’s mine.” he yelled at the agent, “She killed Dave.”

He resumed his pursuit. He reached the guard rail, and hopped over.

The river was mostly frozen, with a inch or so of sun-melted water covering the surface. Becky was still fleeing, slipping and sliding. (Picture 4)

A loud crack shattered the air, and Glen’s stomach flip-flopped when he saw Becky fall to the ground. He looked back, expecting to see a Savini agent with a rifle, but the man in the car was looking at the river and speaking into a cell phone.

Glen ran towards where Becky had fallen, and saw that she had broken through the ice. She was soaked, struggling to pull herself back above water.

“Becky,” he said.

She stopped struggling and looked up. Glen stood a few feet away, pistol aimed at her head.

“I love you, ” he said, and pulled the trigger.

*

Hours later, after an exhaustive debriefing at the office, Glen returned home. He had managed to convince him that he had taken off from work to do some Christmas shopping downtown, and had run into Dave and Stan. They had no reason to disbelieve his story. He was the hero that had taken down the ghoul pack that had killed two agents.

They even talked of promoting him. Glen wasn’t sure he could continue to work there, but what better place to learn the truth about the ghouls than from within the company paid to exterminate them?

Well, there is one better place, he thought, as he entered his apartment. He could hear the shower running, and steam filled the air. He pushed open the door to the bathroom. Becky stood beneath the scalding spray.

“Damn, that water was cold,” she said.

“Cold enough that no one wanted to send for divers to look for your body, anyway. I wasn’t sure how long ghouls could go without oxygen.”

“Neither was I. And we don’t like the word ‘ghouls’, honey. We prefer ‘undead American’”

Glen was nonplussed. “You’re kidding, right?”

“Of course I’m kidding, you goof,” she laughed as she pulled him fully-clothed into the shower.

Determinism

Will had known it was going to get weird the moment he saw the black-robed man flying towards him at 500 feet, apparently under his own power (3), but he never anticipated how weird. As he had dangled from his parachute, gently descending and looking at the rapidly disappearing man, it had occurred to him that perhaps he’d accidentally jumped into a military test zone for hi-tech toys, and there’d be men in black waiting on the ground to take him away. Why one such would be located where he was parachuting every week was beyond him, but it had been the only rational explanation his mind could formulate.

Once his ‘chute had been cut off and he had been grabbed from behind in midair, he had come to the inevitable conclusion that rationality was out of the game.

With his helmet and the disconcertingly high speed, he’d been unable to take a look at his assailant, and resigned to trying to pinpoint where he was being taken. Whatever power he had been flown under was apparently soundless. They’d dropped in altitude to nearly brush the treetops, and Will had lost sense of where they were headed.

Now, he was sitting on a cold, smooth stone floor in a cave where he’d been dropped. It was a hole in the sheer cliff face, with a drop of hundreds of feet into a river. He could not remember a place like that anywhere nearby the airfield, or in the whole state for that matter. The man who’d dropped him had flown away, leaving a cloud of brimstone-smelling smoke that dissipated soon. Will had only been able to glimpse his kidnapper before he flew off, but he’d seen the man wore the same black robe as the first flier he’d observed.

The cave was small, with smooth, round walls that curved into the ceiling just above Will’s head. It was too even, too smooth to be natural. It was man-made, and he was starting to like it less and less. For the sake of experiment, he walked to the edge of the opening and shouted at the top of his lungs:
“HELP!”

“It’s not going to work, you know,” said a calm voice from behind him. Startled, Will turned around. There was an old, short man with a neat white moustache, clad in black robes like a monk. The ghost of a smile played around the corners of his mouth. Behind him was a dark opening in the wall that hadn’t been there moments before.
“Who are you? What are you going to do to me?” Will requested.
“I am Edgar. I… We will show you something. Worry not, you will not be harmed,” the old man replied in a reassuring manner. Will thought he detected the hint of an English accent. “Please, follow me, and you will receive your explanations in due time, William.”
“How do you know my name? Is this some sort of sick joke that my friends put you up to?”
“I would be surprised indeed if your friends had access to resources such as ours,” Edgar replied and turned around, disappearing into the dark doorway. After a moment’s hesitation, Will followed.

There was a lightless tunnel that went on for many minutes. A glow emanated from something held by Edgar, silhouetting his shape with pale luminescence and casting a weak light upon the stone walls. Finally, it terminated into a dead end, a smooth stone wall. Edgar spoke words in a language that Will could not comprehend, and a way opened, but not in a way he had ever seen a door open. No slab of rock slid away to let them pass, no door swung open in front of them. Rather, the rock itself contracted, reminiscent of a flexing muscle, and a hole opened in it, expanding to let he two men pass.

“How did that..?” Will started once they were through, but Edgar cut him off:
“It is the weakest of the things you will see here today and learn to do tomorrow.”
“Learn to do? What was that?”
“It’s easiest to think of it as magic,” Edgar replied nonchalantly. “The author Philip K. Dick once said that any technology sufficiently advanced is indistinguishable from magic.”
“And I suppose you’re a wizard?”
“I prefer the term magus, plural magi, but ‘wizard’ does capture the essence of it, though in a tacky manner.”
“This is just like that Harry Potter movie, right? You’re gonna teach me magic?”

Will couldn’t see Edgar’s face, but somehow he could tell the old man winced.
“Yes, that is essentially it. This was so much easier before that Rowling woman made magic popular. As for why we picked you, it’s because a) you can be trained, it’s in your genes, and b) you are single, have no living family and virtually no social contact outside of your workplace, landlord and parachuting instructor.”
“And all this time, they thought it was the government who’s spying on us.”
“Oh, they’re doing it too. We’re just better.”
“Hey, do tinfoil hats really work against mind control rays?”
“Not really, but then, one would need a mind to be controlled.”

The tunnel widened into a chamber, this one with actual furniture and small glowing bulbs on the walls shedding light into the room. There was a cushioned chair and a small table upon which lay a book. What first attracted Will’s notice, though was the man standing near the wall. He was bearded, had a bit of a gut, and in his both hands he held miniature versions of himself, cut off at the waist. The miniature men in turn held smaller versions of themselves who held even smaller ones, and so on. (1)
“Take a seat, William, I’ll be along shortly,” Edgar said, paying no mind to the strange man.
“Who’s he?”
“Not ‘who’, ‘what’. Not ‘he’, ‘it’. To tell you the truth, we’re a bit confused about it. From what we’ve been able to tell, it’s the first actually functioning perpetual motion machine. It keeps replicating those handheld mini-men, drawing power from the process to fuel the process itself. It’s paradoxical in so many ways it makes my brain hurt if I think of it for too long. Theoretically, it’s an eternal power source. Theoretically, it also has an infinite surface, thus fusing it with the very fabric of reality and all that sort of thing. We never figured out any practical use for it, so we put it here. One of the older members of our order created it before he passed away several years ago. Now, wait.”

Obediently, Will sat down, as Edgar departed via another strangely opening hole in the wall. He was vaguely aware he was trapped, but somehow Edgar gave off a reassuring feeling, which in itself was disconcerting. Pushing it away from his mind, he turned his attention to the book.

The cover was red leather, and bore the gold-embossed title “William Guildenstern”.

He was not surprised. He opened the book and leafed through it. There was a detailed chapter on his family tree, his school years, his first job as a park ranger – here he paused to glance at a peculiar photograph. It was a sepia-toned group shot from his ranger days, with all others blurred away. He remembered the photo, had it back home in a photo album, but in colour with all the other rangers in it. Will frowned, just as Edgar returned.

“What did you do to this photo?” Will asked him.
“PhotoShop. I needed the practice. Come, you are going to meet some people.”
“Who?”
“Fellow magi.”
Incredulously, Will followed.

They passed through another short tunnel and came to a door. It was a white, wooden one, with a brass handle. Edgar opened it.

The room beyond was very ordinary, and as such, so very out of place in the cavern network they’d just passed through. It looked like a normal middle-class home, with a rug on the floor, mildly kitschy porcelain animals on the windowsill, and Ikea furniture. From the window he saw a well-kept yard, a white picket fence, and the kind of normal, mould-cast suburb that people love to make fun of.

In the room were two women, holding small pets. One, whom Edgar went on to introduce as Katherine, held a small dog that wouldn’t have looked out of place in the end of a broomstick and the other a cat with a hat. This one was introduced as Maria. They were smiling, but strangely quiet. Then the cat spoke.
“Welcome, William. We have been expecting you.”

Will blinked a few times, then recollected himself. He was beginning to get ready to believe anything.
“Hello…”
“We messed up an experiment, okay? We don’t like to talk about it, especially not on my birthday.”
“Err… congratulations.”
“Thanks,” the cat answered as the woman took her to a table where stood a cake. It had a marzipan cat on it. “Technically, it’s the cat’s birthday, but I celebrate it anyway. When you’re stuck in a body without opposable thumbs, you use every excuse to party.”

The woman held the cat in one hand, and picked up a knife in the other. Then, holding the cat’s paw over the knife’s handle, she cut the cake. (2)

Will shot a questioning glance at Edgar, who merely shrugged.
“Here, sit down, have some cake,” the cat invited. “And then we shall discuss your future.”

Piratecat said:

Yikes! Okay, new rule: if you cut-n-paste from Word, don't do it into the enhanced WYSIWYG editor. Who knew? Not me!

If Alsih2o gives me the okay, I'll go in and strip out the formatting that is making it invisible. In the mean time, Thorod, don't worry; it'll be simple for me to fix.

Click to expand...

Wow, I mean, wow. After a few weeks of wacky art school types that seems like a statement.

Of course twist it back right, P-kitty. Please.

Big Tom Vs. Eeralai Judgement-

Alsih2o-

Big Tom- Wow. What a strange tale.

I enjoyed MOST of the world you have here. I empathized with the main character, believed the other characters and felt like you created a cohesive environment for a story. What I didn’t like was the ending.

Part of the problem is that it is a BAM kind of punchline ending and it isn’t as strong as other parts of the story. Some of which are really strong.

The tree picture seems to have been stretched a bit. OK, more than a bit. Maybe a previous reference would have helped?

The ape costume pic is a bit stretched, but you pulled it off better. The conversation about magic gets a bit screwball and hard to follow, but it seems appropriate given the scene you have created for it.

The snail is fine, that is a moment that would get illustrated. The car is funny, but a bit forced it seems.

Overall I find the story darned strong. I would like to see it reworked and polished without the three day limit.

Eeralai- Wow. A really original twist wrapped around a strong story. Reality TV and Tolkien and fast food jokes. Believable characters, tight conversations and very few moments that didn’t maintain the complete strength.

I really liked how central to the story the snail pic was. The orc pic was great, the white tree was handled beautifully and the car was foretold well.

Great story.

[sblock] Judgement- Big Tom wrote a really god and interesting story, but Eeralai presented an exceptional story. My vote goes to Eeralai. [/sblock]


Piratecat’s commentary on BigTom vs Eeralai

BigTom’s Finals Week

This fun story makes me think of Harry Potter-esque magic academies. That
means it’s setting itself up for comparison to J.K. Rowling!

My one complaint is that BigTom is in the habit of telling, not showing. I
think the story would be much more powerful if he trusts readers to figure
out conclusions on their own, and just gives them the clues that they need
to make those conclusions. For instance, don’t tell me that Trent’s been
working hard on his transformation spells, show me the debris and crawling
creatures resulting from his practice. Don’t tell me that Mackenzie has no
impulse control, show me. This flaw undermines an otherwise solid story,
making it less engaging than it could be.

The more Ceramic DM I do, the more I’m convinced that you need to weave
images into major plot roles that make sense in context in order to make
them avoid feeling strained. BigTom did a great job of doing this with the
monkey suit, because it tied intimately into the “reverse time” solution to
Trent’s problem. Although using the snail image as the main plot driver was
a fun idea, I felt like the other two photos were dragging along the plot.
They didn’t really feel like they needed to be there; in particular, I think
the ending could have been much more effective if he hadn’t randomly
teleported the car, a conclusion that hadn’t been foreshadowed at all.

Nevertheless, I liked the premise of a flubbed transformation. The addition
of more whimsy (everyone likes talking snails!) and less explicit “telling”
would make it even stronger than it is now.


Eeralai’s Bilboian Trek

Original concept? Check.
Engaging story? Check.
Relevant literary analogy? Check.
Realistic and consistent back story? Check.
Smoothly integrated photos? Check.
Well-written conversation? Check.
Emotional payoff? Check.

It’s difficult to write a tight story in a small amount of space, especially
when you have to work in improbable photographs that aren’t thematically
linked. It’s particularly hard to do one that’s relatively original, fresh
and can stand on its own as a work of fiction. That’s what we’ve got here.
It isn't perfect, but I think it's darned good.

Liza’s emotional epiphany and the use of the Tolkien imagery are especially
strong. That’s the twist that elevates this above the usual; the humorous
and surreal are made to feel absolutely normal within the context of the
world. Eeralai gets additional credit for not over-explaining the world up
front. By waiting until mid-story before describing how the world changed,
she had me hooked.

There are a few nit picks. Ryan’s whining got old and unrealistically
shrill, and he wanted to win so badly that his cheating – especially in
front of observers – seems badly out of character. He effectively became
dehumanized part way through the story; by Eeralai not showing us any of his
positive aspects whatsoever, he eventually borders on a parody of
“emotionally abusive husband” instead of coming off as a three dimensional
character that he needs to be. I actually hated him and wanted him to get
his just desserts earlier in the piece because he seemed more like a
realistic person at that point. For that same reason, the climax with the
upside-down car wasn’t as strong as it could have been. Ryan bringing on his
own defeat seemed inevitable and somewhat staged.

I also think that Eeralai's style has to limber up a little bit. Sentences
generally have the same cadence, and there aren't many stylistic risks;
there's also some "telling, not showing."

Those are the only negative points I can make about an otherwise outstanding
story. Nice work.

[sblock]I really liked BigTom’s story, but he was up against some difficult
competition this time. My judgment goes to Eeralai. [/sblock]

Maldur-

Big Tom vs Eeralai

Snails, cars, shapechanging and donut eating Halflings

[sblock]My vote for Eeralai, I kinda like the car race revisited[/sblock]

Decision- [sblock]Vote is 3-0 with Eeralai advancing to the next round![/sblock]

Maldur-

MacBeth vs Ruined
clowns, succes, escape and judgement, How different the stories, and still
the same.
MacBeth's is stronger but "borrowed", and ruined's was FUNNY.

[sblock]My Vote for Macbeth[/sblock]

Alsih2o-

First a comment to both authors and the other writers: Please drop the in-post commentary. I appreciate the honesty from Macbeth and the humble intro (and game-time sacrifice J ) from Ruined, but let’s try to keep these things to posts that are not entries. I think we get a better and fairer game with no in-post commentary form the authors )(Macbeths IS an odd case) and if we don’t draw a line somewhere, well, you know the rest. J


Macbeth- I kept thinking all throughout that this sounded just like some folk tale. I was amazed at the classic sense of the story. What do you know? It is.

Now, I haven’t read that story and I feel I have dealt with Macbeth enough to trust him that he changed it, but I am still uncomfortable with this. As an artist I know the value of working form the base left by other artists but still… Something about it makes me itch.

The pictures are integrated well and I felt this was a hard set to deal with. The writing is strong, despite some typos/misspellings, but I am left wondering how much of that comes form the mood of the original piece.

Ruined- Here we have a good solid story with an interesting twist.

The pictures are used well, but not in an outstanding way. The face and the tarry feet are handled pretty well, and the face is OK. The hobgoblins picture was used with a decent creative bent as well, but I would have liked to see at least one of them become more of a focus.

Judgement- [sblock] A hard one, two good stories, man I love this competition.Iit is close and I have to go with Ruined for the all-original story.[/sblock]


Piratecat-

Okay, I’ll start by saying that both the stories deserve to advance.
They’re both well-written, fun to read, and awfully impressive. We can only
advance one, though, so let’s see how they stack up. . .


Macbeth’s The Clown of God

I’m a little uncomfortable having Ceramic DM stories be reinterpretations of
other peoples’ work. That’s not because there’s no art or skill in retelling
a classic story – far from it – but because without the original work we
have no way of telling how much of the story is original and how much isn’t.
My research into the original Clown of God indicates that Macbeth
has, in fact, made the story his own.

I’ve batted this back and forth, and I think that ultimately a story has to
stand on its own merits. We’re trusting people to not plagiarize and do
original writing anyways. That being said, I suspect that works which are
not wholly original will start with a strike against them; be warned!

I’ll start off by talking about what I didn’t like. Typos! There’s quite a
few punctuation errors, spelling mistakes and simple typing goofs. This
remains an area where Macbeth needs to tighten up his standards; good
writing can be scuttled by poor editing. Only one logical error that I could
see; Rodion’s parents would almost certainly be drinking vodka instead of
Southern Comfort.

There’s a lot more aspects of the story that I did like. I loved the story
itself, and I find it very interesting how well the writing and the pictures
supported one another. This is a good example of a story with tightly
integrated images. None of the illustrations were obviously tossed in just
to include it in the tale; the use of the images flowed smoothly out of the
text, and that’s the best way to handle it in Ceramic DM. In fact, the big
failing is that there is no image of Rodion juggling as one of the mandatory
illustrations! Macbeth couldn’t add that, of course, but the image of the
juggling balls is so powerful that the story seems weaker without it.

The writing itself was very strong. Rhythm, tone, and imagery worked well
together. I half expected Macbeth to go off on a tangent that he studiously
avoided; it occurred to me that what we had in Dmitry’s theater was a
burgeoning superhero team, of all things. Talk about mixing genres. . . but
yet, the fact that it didn’t seem absurd to me says something about the
strength of the writing. Instead we went towards the original story’s lesson
of religious epiphany and the lesson that you can succeed by doing your best
and pleasing yourself. I’d like to see how this story might have evolved if
Macbeth hadn’t been retelling the original fable.

-- o --

Ruined’s Working for the Weekend

My first impression when starting this story is that Ruined needs to trust
his subtlety and avoid over-writing. Things are a bit too spelled out; Gavin
doesn’t just puff out his chest, he puffs it out in self-importance. When he
goes through and does the classic “remove 10% of the words” editing pass,
that’s the sort of thing that should go. Luckily, this isn’t a trend that
continues. I noticed a few typos, incidentally.

The concept of this story is a wonderful one. I like the idea of the faeries
wanting nothing more than to work. It creates a great framework to write
around, and Ruined carries it off nicely. I think this aspect could have
been stressed a little more because there’s some nice humor implicit in the
idea of Gavin and Tinsdale competing to be the most over-worked, especially
when the humans around them don’t necessarily feel this way.

Photo use is equally strong. The hobgoblins in parade is one of the best
uses, and the others are good as well. The tar on the feet felt a little
disjointed; more than any other picture, this felt inserted only for the
story. Otherwise, I was pleased with how well the photos fit.

Ultimately, Ruined’s story would be better with another editing pass. I
think that the tighter it becomes, the stronger it would be. I loved the
conversation between characters, and would like to see more of that.

-- o --

Both stories are good for a first round, and it’s a tough decision to make.
Macbeth’s seems a little better written to me, but Ruined has a more
original concept. Frankly, both authors should be proud of themselves.

[sblock]I give my vote to Macbeth to a hair. Even considering that he is
reinterpreting an existing story, the strength of his writing and photo
integration combined with a weightier theme to push the balance slightly in
his favor. [/sblock]

Decision- [sblock]Macbeth advances by split decision, 2-1[/sblock]

I haven't had much chance to read the stories yet. HEck, the commentary thread is a bit light so far this contest.

But from the little bits I have seen, I have to agree on two points:
There is some great writing here.
I love the Ceramic DM contests.

Alsih2o, thanks for setting these up to begin with.

I will try to get updated menu links to you this evening. Probably late this evening. So maybe look for them if you have time in the morning.

Okay, first, my thanks to the judges and my opponent. That was fun!

Second, onto the biggest issue here: by reinterpreting the story I mean 'almost completely rewriting' and I should have made this clearer. I think this story is just about as derivative as if somebody retold Cinderella in Kuwait with a fairy god-camel that demands favors in return for viscious pains inflicted on her sisters. Obviously, this isn't the original story (but now that I've written the outline, I kind of like it), it has both cosmetic, thematic, and (persumably) grammatical differences. It has the same basic plot points, but it is a different beast.

To fend off any fears that this story was too derivative, let me (very briefly) retell the original story, or at least the version from the book I remember from my childhood:

A young boy, Giovanni (the story was set in Renassance Italy), lives on the streets, but can juggle quite well. He finds a bit of work with a travelling troupe of actors/clowns, and develops into a prodigy, becoming a star in and of himself. He has a set act, ending with the rainbow balls and 'the sun in the heavens.' He sets out on his own, performing for kings and queens, lords and ladies. There's a biref scene that I always felt was a little out of place where Giovanni speaks with some monks who share his food while he travels to his next act (most of the story is told in a very fast, third person view, but this scene had dialogue and slowed quite a bit). He grows in fame until eventually people don't care anymore, and he becomes poor again, sleeping on the streets and so on. One cold night he decides to sleep in the back corner of a church, only toi be awoken by a midnight mass for christmas. He sees the ritch people leaving presents at the foot of a statue, and gives it the only gift he knows: a performance. He dies, the statue smiles, the end.

Really, my story (without the monks, with the troupe, with the supporting characters, with the modern setting, with the fantastic powers, with the face beneath the church) is quite a bit different.

But now I'm sounding too defensive. I knew I was taking a risk reworking a classic tale, but I wanted to do it anyway. Glad it turned out alright. I don't think I'm goign to try that again, but I'm glad I did it once.

I have to say, seeing the comment that it 'sounded like a folk tale' is one of the best things I could have heard. I wanted it to be clear that it was a folk tale, but not loose my own vboice, and not hit the reader over the head with it.

Overall, thanks to everybody. I'm ready for the second round, the sooner the better.

Good reviews. Thanks to the judges for taking the time to read and review all of these. It's almost a relief not winning so I don't have to take time out of my schedule worrying about this.

Best of luck in the next round(s) Macbeth!

I'm stunned. Thanks to all the judges for their time and comments. I really liked Big Tom's story and was disatisfied with the end of mine because, as Piratecat pointed out, Ryan wouldn't have been so blantant in disregarding the rules. But I couldn't wrap my mind around any other ending within the constraints of the contest. I am looking forward to reworking it and really glad I gave the contest a try.

I liked PC's comment about my cadence being repetitive. That's never been said about my writing before and I think it was on target. It will be something that will take a long time to change, and probably won't be noticeably changed in the next round, but I will keep it in mind.

Thanks again, and I am looking forward to the next round. As before, I can start anytime.