Fall Ceramic Dm™ - Winner!
mythago
Hero
Round One, Set One Judgment
BardStephenFox
Funeris vs Macbeth
Funeris - Checkmate
OK, this is an interesting story. Very fun! It definitely appeals to the EN World Gamerati. Kudos to writing to your audience. But how about I add some actual critiquing in here?
I like your opening. You have some very evocative descriptions of the environment. I like that you use the number of cigarette butts on the ground to help track time. You describe the protagonist pretty well here. I get the feeling that he is a bit weary and cynical. But we never learn why. For the confines of the story, perhaps you don't need to explain it. But I do wonder about it.
You have good conflict going on here as well. There is the 'job' and then there is the revealed conflict between Destan and Ronaldo. You keep the story moving along and it was fun to discover the real conflict of the story.
I am conflicted here. Some of the issues I would point out are the lack of depth. The characters are just deep enough to be explainable. The action is just useful enough to be entertaining. The setting is just detailed enough to be usable. But in the end, I think that these might not be valid complaints. After all, you have written a piece of gaming fiction. And you have done it in such a way that it is fleshed out enough to be 'playable', but might not quite pass muster for a solid piece of publishable fiction. The kicker is that you are writing a parody. I can imagine writing out a series of game notes with this degree of depth. When we get to the end of the story, it comes out almost exactly like a game. So rather than criticizing you for not breathing more life into everything, I think I should be applauding you for cleverly poking fun at our hobby.
The story is a fun read. You bring in a lot of in-jokes. The more I know about EN World & gaming, the more amusing the story is. So I give you high marks on writing some amusing gamer fiction.
But Ceramic DM is more than just writing. It also involves integrating the pictures! So how well did you do?
The weakest picture is the quarry. I am left with the feeling that the endgame could have taken place just about anywhere. As a result, the quarry has no more significance than any other location in the story.
The crocodile head wasn't too bad. I think using it as a mask is a little weaker than it needs to be. But you did a good job integrating the picture throughout the story via the Cult of Sebek.
'The Prez' was a bit fun. I was afraid it would end up being mostly a throwaway. Having the pic represent her explosion was fun in a gory sort of way.
The censer was very good! You made it an important piece of the story since it was containing the souls of the victims.
In all, I very much enjoyed the story. It isn't a classic piece of fiction, but then Ceramic DM isn't a classic sort of writing contest. You have written to your audience and you have done so pretty well. Your picture use isn't outstanding, but it is competent. Please don't take that too harshly though. I have high expectations for handing out really high marks for picture use. In all, I had fun and that is a wonderful quality to have in a story. Thanks for writing it!
Macbeth - Election
*sniff* *sniff*
Is that the smell of social commentary laced with bitterness?
What a ludicrous premise! I dig it.
OK, your opening is pretty good at drawing the reader in. I would like a little more description of the theater. This is the main arena for the story and it deserves a little more detail. It's an abandoned theater, but is just dusty from being closed for a while? does it smell? What condition are the seats in? You flesh it out a bit more throughout the story, but a little more detail early would be nice.
Jamis could use a little more depth as well I think. You tell us he is crazy, but we don't really see it. For that matter, we don't see much of the insanity of the rest of the 'candidates' either. It is a difficult balance for this story I think. It is a short story so you don't want to overdo the detail, but a little more coupld be helpful here. I think I would approach it from the standpoint of a television screenplay. You want to briefly describe the actions of the vagrants in the theater so an extra could act them out, but not so much as to bog down the story.
I find the entire explanation of MUMU to be amusing, but possibly unnecessary. I suspect it is intended to show two things. First of all, that Jamis will have someplace to go 'home' to before the next day. He has an organization he is part of and that sets him apart from the rest of the 'candidates'. You are also drawing a parallel with presidential committees that help buttress a candidate enough to get through primaries and the like. The story is short enough that it isn't a distraction. But if you are going to go for satire, there is no reason not rip into MUMU. Jamis' sycophants should have walked home with him while showering him with praise.
You have a nice satirical piece here. Looking over it though, I think the pictures detract from the story.
Like Funeris, your use of the censer is the strongest picture. Spewing forth it's wisdom, which isn't listened to in a rush to make a decision, the lamp is an interesting metaphor.
The use of the quarry is weak since it isn't even a location of any real importance. The limited chamber beneath the quarry is more important, but only marginally so. The quarry ends up being a piece of background scenary, and that's it.
The crocodile is worse. It serves no purpose in driving the story anywhere. I'm not sure how you could have made it relevant, perhaps as a metaphor elsewhere in the story?
'The Prez' was evocative in usage. But ultimately you have used it to introduce a character that serves no purpose beyond window dressing. Fortunately, the picture has many elements. Using the background people as the Powers that Be is good. If you had used the woman as a more relevant character, I would have given you high marks for this picture.
I think you would have written a stronger story without including the quarry or the crocodile. As it is, both elements provide a distraction from the main flow of the story.
I think you could tighten the story up a bit, rip out the bits that you only included because the contest compels you to include them, and then submit the story for publication. Perhaps at the local university paper? Despite some of the nitpicks, I also enjoyed reading this story. Thanks for posting it. Now I need to start looking for more words to alliterate with.
Comparison
Funeris provides parody, Macbeth provides satire. Both stories are enjoyable. Both have strengths. There are weaknesses in the picture use for both stories. This is one of those rounds that I wish I could advance both contestants. But I can't, so I have to choose.
[sblock]If one of the stories had stronger picture use, it would be easy. But I think the picture use for both is pretty close. I enjoyed Funeris' story. But I enjoyed Macbeth's story just a bit more. I've got to go with Macbeth on this one.[/sblock]
Maldur
Round One, Set One contestants
reveal vs. Funeris vs. Macbeth
Funeris
Chtulu, insane rbdm's, egyptian gods, and a double cross
Macbeth
Cutting political remarks in disguise, bum's, odd elections and "low keys"
secret societies.
My judgement: [sblock]Macbeth, for a more readable story, great flow and a nice
twist in the story.[/sblock]
Rodrigo Istalindir
Round 1 Match 1 Reveal v Funeris v Macbeth
Reveal - Scratch
Funeris - Checkmate
This story starts strongly, and immediately establishes a very nice rhythm. The prose is descriptive yet economical, and the dialogue between Ronaldo and D-man rings true. The line "You know I don't do paranormal" is marvelous, setting up a character history with a minimum of effort. The first paragraph of the second act ("Morning of the eighteenth...") is also exceptional. The scene with the doomed girl is nicely done, and includes the strongest picture use in the story. Shades of Alien and Monty Python.
The setup proves stronger than the resolution, however. The school administrator seems unrealistically willing to cooperate with a gun-toting stranger, and this is the kind of jarring event that hurts momentum. The quarry setting comes across perfunctory, included because of the picture instead of being part of the natural flow of the plot. The resolution with D-man seems to be part of a in-joke, or at least, there wasn't sufficient back story to give you the 'A-ha!' moment it needs.
Picture use is decent, given the relatively tame and mundane images. The exploding girl is a perfect Ceramic DM use, creative without ignoring an element of the picture, and integral to the story. The quarry is a throw-away. The croc head is Ok, but a bit of a stretch to use it as a shapeshifter when there are no humanoid elements. Still, you get credit for not just using it as the necklace. The incense was a difficult picture, and it is worked into the scene reasonably well.
Macbeth - Election
Ah, satire. Hard to pull off, even harder when it's overtly political. Here we have an 'election' with a mystic oracle picking the leader of the free world from the ranks of the forgotten. The prose is workman-like, not spectacular, but functional. Jamis' speech is the highlight, and is pitch-perfect. The ending is laugh-out-loud funny.
The brevity of the story hurts it, though. This is an intriguing premise, but it suffers from not being grounded in time or place. The 'what' and 'how' are covered, but the 'why' is missing, and that would be the most interesting part, I think.
Picture use is average. It leads off with the best picture, an afflicted homeless woman auditioning for President. The next two are perfunctory -- the quarry base of MUMU and the croc mascot. The latter was a missed opportunity -- the urban legend of gators in the sewers could have played into the homeless protagonists. The censer is better, absolutely integral to the story and part of the sly ending.
Judgement:
[sblock]
Macbeth gets credit for swinging for the fences and taking a chance, but the story never reaches its potential. Funeris starts strong and finishes a little weak, but he has the single best picture use of the match, and a more polished story with some excellent prose. Judgement: Funeris[/sblock]
BardStephenFox
Funeris vs Macbeth
Funeris - Checkmate
OK, this is an interesting story. Very fun! It definitely appeals to the EN World Gamerati. Kudos to writing to your audience. But how about I add some actual critiquing in here?
I like your opening. You have some very evocative descriptions of the environment. I like that you use the number of cigarette butts on the ground to help track time. You describe the protagonist pretty well here. I get the feeling that he is a bit weary and cynical. But we never learn why. For the confines of the story, perhaps you don't need to explain it. But I do wonder about it.
You have good conflict going on here as well. There is the 'job' and then there is the revealed conflict between Destan and Ronaldo. You keep the story moving along and it was fun to discover the real conflict of the story.
I am conflicted here. Some of the issues I would point out are the lack of depth. The characters are just deep enough to be explainable. The action is just useful enough to be entertaining. The setting is just detailed enough to be usable. But in the end, I think that these might not be valid complaints. After all, you have written a piece of gaming fiction. And you have done it in such a way that it is fleshed out enough to be 'playable', but might not quite pass muster for a solid piece of publishable fiction. The kicker is that you are writing a parody. I can imagine writing out a series of game notes with this degree of depth. When we get to the end of the story, it comes out almost exactly like a game. So rather than criticizing you for not breathing more life into everything, I think I should be applauding you for cleverly poking fun at our hobby.
The story is a fun read. You bring in a lot of in-jokes. The more I know about EN World & gaming, the more amusing the story is. So I give you high marks on writing some amusing gamer fiction.
But Ceramic DM is more than just writing. It also involves integrating the pictures! So how well did you do?
The weakest picture is the quarry. I am left with the feeling that the endgame could have taken place just about anywhere. As a result, the quarry has no more significance than any other location in the story.
The crocodile head wasn't too bad. I think using it as a mask is a little weaker than it needs to be. But you did a good job integrating the picture throughout the story via the Cult of Sebek.
'The Prez' was a bit fun. I was afraid it would end up being mostly a throwaway. Having the pic represent her explosion was fun in a gory sort of way.
The censer was very good! You made it an important piece of the story since it was containing the souls of the victims.
In all, I very much enjoyed the story. It isn't a classic piece of fiction, but then Ceramic DM isn't a classic sort of writing contest. You have written to your audience and you have done so pretty well. Your picture use isn't outstanding, but it is competent. Please don't take that too harshly though. I have high expectations for handing out really high marks for picture use. In all, I had fun and that is a wonderful quality to have in a story. Thanks for writing it!
Macbeth - Election
*sniff* *sniff*
Is that the smell of social commentary laced with bitterness?
What a ludicrous premise! I dig it.
OK, your opening is pretty good at drawing the reader in. I would like a little more description of the theater. This is the main arena for the story and it deserves a little more detail. It's an abandoned theater, but is just dusty from being closed for a while? does it smell? What condition are the seats in? You flesh it out a bit more throughout the story, but a little more detail early would be nice.
Jamis could use a little more depth as well I think. You tell us he is crazy, but we don't really see it. For that matter, we don't see much of the insanity of the rest of the 'candidates' either. It is a difficult balance for this story I think. It is a short story so you don't want to overdo the detail, but a little more coupld be helpful here. I think I would approach it from the standpoint of a television screenplay. You want to briefly describe the actions of the vagrants in the theater so an extra could act them out, but not so much as to bog down the story.
I find the entire explanation of MUMU to be amusing, but possibly unnecessary. I suspect it is intended to show two things. First of all, that Jamis will have someplace to go 'home' to before the next day. He has an organization he is part of and that sets him apart from the rest of the 'candidates'. You are also drawing a parallel with presidential committees that help buttress a candidate enough to get through primaries and the like. The story is short enough that it isn't a distraction. But if you are going to go for satire, there is no reason not rip into MUMU. Jamis' sycophants should have walked home with him while showering him with praise.
You have a nice satirical piece here. Looking over it though, I think the pictures detract from the story.
Like Funeris, your use of the censer is the strongest picture. Spewing forth it's wisdom, which isn't listened to in a rush to make a decision, the lamp is an interesting metaphor.
The use of the quarry is weak since it isn't even a location of any real importance. The limited chamber beneath the quarry is more important, but only marginally so. The quarry ends up being a piece of background scenary, and that's it.
The crocodile is worse. It serves no purpose in driving the story anywhere. I'm not sure how you could have made it relevant, perhaps as a metaphor elsewhere in the story?
'The Prez' was evocative in usage. But ultimately you have used it to introduce a character that serves no purpose beyond window dressing. Fortunately, the picture has many elements. Using the background people as the Powers that Be is good. If you had used the woman as a more relevant character, I would have given you high marks for this picture.
I think you would have written a stronger story without including the quarry or the crocodile. As it is, both elements provide a distraction from the main flow of the story.
I think you could tighten the story up a bit, rip out the bits that you only included because the contest compels you to include them, and then submit the story for publication. Perhaps at the local university paper? Despite some of the nitpicks, I also enjoyed reading this story. Thanks for posting it. Now I need to start looking for more words to alliterate with.
Comparison
Funeris provides parody, Macbeth provides satire. Both stories are enjoyable. Both have strengths. There are weaknesses in the picture use for both stories. This is one of those rounds that I wish I could advance both contestants. But I can't, so I have to choose.
[sblock]If one of the stories had stronger picture use, it would be easy. But I think the picture use for both is pretty close. I enjoyed Funeris' story. But I enjoyed Macbeth's story just a bit more. I've got to go with Macbeth on this one.[/sblock]
Maldur
Round One, Set One contestants
reveal vs. Funeris vs. Macbeth
Funeris
Chtulu, insane rbdm's, egyptian gods, and a double cross
Macbeth
Cutting political remarks in disguise, bum's, odd elections and "low keys"
secret societies.
My judgement: [sblock]Macbeth, for a more readable story, great flow and a nice
twist in the story.[/sblock]
Rodrigo Istalindir
Round 1 Match 1 Reveal v Funeris v Macbeth
Reveal - Scratch
Funeris - Checkmate
This story starts strongly, and immediately establishes a very nice rhythm. The prose is descriptive yet economical, and the dialogue between Ronaldo and D-man rings true. The line "You know I don't do paranormal" is marvelous, setting up a character history with a minimum of effort. The first paragraph of the second act ("Morning of the eighteenth...") is also exceptional. The scene with the doomed girl is nicely done, and includes the strongest picture use in the story. Shades of Alien and Monty Python.
The setup proves stronger than the resolution, however. The school administrator seems unrealistically willing to cooperate with a gun-toting stranger, and this is the kind of jarring event that hurts momentum. The quarry setting comes across perfunctory, included because of the picture instead of being part of the natural flow of the plot. The resolution with D-man seems to be part of a in-joke, or at least, there wasn't sufficient back story to give you the 'A-ha!' moment it needs.
Picture use is decent, given the relatively tame and mundane images. The exploding girl is a perfect Ceramic DM use, creative without ignoring an element of the picture, and integral to the story. The quarry is a throw-away. The croc head is Ok, but a bit of a stretch to use it as a shapeshifter when there are no humanoid elements. Still, you get credit for not just using it as the necklace. The incense was a difficult picture, and it is worked into the scene reasonably well.
Macbeth - Election
Ah, satire. Hard to pull off, even harder when it's overtly political. Here we have an 'election' with a mystic oracle picking the leader of the free world from the ranks of the forgotten. The prose is workman-like, not spectacular, but functional. Jamis' speech is the highlight, and is pitch-perfect. The ending is laugh-out-loud funny.
The brevity of the story hurts it, though. This is an intriguing premise, but it suffers from not being grounded in time or place. The 'what' and 'how' are covered, but the 'why' is missing, and that would be the most interesting part, I think.
Picture use is average. It leads off with the best picture, an afflicted homeless woman auditioning for President. The next two are perfunctory -- the quarry base of MUMU and the croc mascot. The latter was a missed opportunity -- the urban legend of gators in the sewers could have played into the homeless protagonists. The censer is better, absolutely integral to the story and part of the sly ending.
Judgement:
[sblock]
Macbeth gets credit for swinging for the fences and taking a chance, but the story never reaches its potential. Funeris starts strong and finishes a little weak, but he has the single best picture use of the match, and a more polished story with some excellent prose. Judgement: Funeris[/sblock]
Funeris
First Post
"Shades of Alien and Monty Python". . .Well, I did just rewatch the Holy Grail last night
There were a lot of in jokes and I tried to make it fun. I also realized that while the setup was good...that my resolution lacked. As I stated earlier in the thread I ended up going back and cutting some of the dialog (which really screwed it up).
So...eh.
Congrats Macbeth on two of the votes.
~Fune
There were a lot of in jokes and I tried to make it fun. I also realized that while the setup was good...that my resolution lacked. As I stated earlier in the thread I ended up going back and cutting some of the dialog (which really screwed it up).
So...eh.
Congrats Macbeth on two of the votes.
~Fune
Macbeth
First Post
I just got back from an all-weekend Rugby Tournament in Flagstaff (7+ hours away in a big ol' van), so I haven't done more then scan the judgements, but thanks to the judges, and thanks to Funeris for a great round.
This week isn't preferable for a next round, I'd prefer to wait to start on Sunday (a week from today), but if the judges and conestants are ready before then, I can go anytime this week.
This week isn't preferable for a next round, I'd prefer to wait to start on Sunday (a week from today), but if the judges and conestants are ready before then, I can go anytime this week.
Wild Gazebo
Explorer
Cracked Pavement
by
Wild Gazebo
366 Emaner Street. Shifting patterns of French quarter mingled with the rich aroma of fried shrimp and gutter coloured my future. I can still hear the buzzing echoes of the quiet city street. The bitter calls of my frustrated Mother tasted of sweet bread upon the wind--but always to that empty hall. That last scourge of emotional battery before the stovetop warmth and wolf-mother wallpaper. That lonely chair ensconced in brick amidst the tempered forbearance of our callused hands and bitter regret. That temple of loss.
Stepping across the spiked tent wires I study my kaleidoscopic horizon: modern nomads. Grease splattered, hydraulic motored, grift minded mobile symphony of discarded bacchanals mingle in appropriated busyness--culling the public herd and quenching the thirst of the innocent and bored. A quivering smirk creeps across my face as I bow below the canvas entrance of my office. It is just as I left it. The cot is neatly made with the blankets tightly wound into hospital corners. My regalia are curtly folded into my battered blue trunk with worn green bronze filigree. The single oil lamp rests gingerly upon an upended apple-crate placed adjacent to the head of my bed. Eliot’s Waste Land weighs down my foam pillow: breeding lilacs out of the dead land.
After carefully paralleling my soft leather shoes amidst my other footwear, I calmly take the three steps to the edge of my bed, make a smooth practiced quarter turn and sit. Smoothing down the folds of my trousers in fixed rapidity I lie back upon the tight structure of the cot. I stare at the yellow, red, pink, blue, and green facets of my canvas ceiling and pretend I can control the undulating wind that ripples my rainbow world.
Three, six, six. It wasn’t just a street number…it was a calling card. It always felt like a beacon—a grotesque mockery of everything that I didn’t want the world to know. I could hear them whisper…poor, poor Emannuel. Why did she always keep that chair there? I guess it is all she had left of him.
It was a good place to grow up nevertheless. I always had people to play with, not friends, just other children whose mothers held sway over playtime with a lordly wooden spoon. There was no mockery, or ill will, just quiet perplexity with a dab of uncertainty and a great deal of pity. Pity from the eyes of a small child: emotional make-up to paint the void of certainty until time fills the cracks.
I didn’t waste my youth with the regrets of what was. I traveled on as only I knew how. I learned to appreciate the space between, the vastness of everything and the wonder of nothing.
I clinically examine Sasha as she gracefully steps off of me. The gentle rippling of her attuned muscles manipulate her frame through the space of my room. She arcs over like a young willow and redresses in her bright red gown delicately tying it about her waist. Cradling her head down and to the right, she looks at me as I lie watching her. No smile, no lust, no look of connection graces the room. I reach over and douse the lamp watching the smoke dance in the flickering florescent light that escapes from the world as Sasha leaves the tent. The darkness is my friend.
Dawn paints my room like a psychedelic glow-worm. I reach for the lamp; first to the right and then to the left, touching each side exactly the same way so as not to imbalance my day. The dawn light is bright through the canvas but not strong enough to read by. I leaf through my book coaxing memory and desire: shoring the fragments against my ruins. Pieces of me become the work and pieces of me stay in my tent. It is a short read. I reach down underneath my cot and lift out my diary from the shadowy underbelly of the bed. Flipping through the hundreds of pages toward the end of my current volume; scores and scores of tick-marks darken the pages. I carefully draw the pen from the fold on the spine and make a small mark behind the last mark I made. Everything seems to be in order.
I met Sasha when I was but fifteen--she was much older but she never seemed to age. I was standing just down the lane. In front of a red bricked café I was showing some of the block kids how I was able to grow a moustache. I had just carefully groomed the thin sickly lip fur and was more than a little smug about the possibility of buying some spirits off of old Bill down at the Dime. Sasha had heard my adolescent boasting and sauntered over. She brushed past the other children and laid a smouldering caress upon my neck and face--speaking like a temptress and moving like a serpent. Coiling her finger around my collar she led me down the road.
The day became a blur of flirting and adventure. We stopped at local shops and stole sweets and cigarettes--making no effort at modesty or subtlety. We stampeded the boulevard like drunken cattle laughing and yelling--ending up choking on bourbon late into the evening. Sasha has somewhere acquired dark glasses and two fine hats as we were waiting in the sitting room of an upscale burlesque down town. She took one that looked awkwardly like a matador’s cap and crushed it onto my head while she fished out the two last cigarettes and placed one in each of our mouths. The two cigarettes burned in unison hanging from the edge of our lips. It made me wonder how light can only fill the darkness for but a short time.
Lacquered mahogany, silken frills, soft skin, burning liquor, and jasmine became but fragments upon my shore.
Fully dressed in my bright yellow, red, and white mockeries, I skip toward the grandstands through the throng of people. No thought of happiness or sadness clouds my mood--I skip for the watchers: the children and the elderly. Playing the crowd I am able to escape notice and secure attention. I filter from one gag to another adjusting a small amount of time for a dabbling of theft and a smattering of lounging. My eyes read the faces of the times and take in the meaning of the rippling motions of the liquid people. Making my way to the top of the grandstands, the peak of the extravaganza, I take in the wholeness of my world. The drunken azure sky sparks my vision with a wonder of emptiness, leading to a dun horizon of earthiness, sprinkling to a paved greyness.
Two vehicles stand out amidst the paved greyness. Two cars smashed in the fore. Two machines driven forward and disabled by what got in the way. Two vessels seemingly uninjured in the rear yet still commissioned to stay put—side by side, until they can be dealt with. Two objects that enrapture my white and grey interest until the cusp of dawn.
Accumulating my shores of ruin.
by
Wild Gazebo
366 Emaner Street. Shifting patterns of French quarter mingled with the rich aroma of fried shrimp and gutter coloured my future. I can still hear the buzzing echoes of the quiet city street. The bitter calls of my frustrated Mother tasted of sweet bread upon the wind--but always to that empty hall. That last scourge of emotional battery before the stovetop warmth and wolf-mother wallpaper. That lonely chair ensconced in brick amidst the tempered forbearance of our callused hands and bitter regret. That temple of loss.
…
Stepping across the spiked tent wires I study my kaleidoscopic horizon: modern nomads. Grease splattered, hydraulic motored, grift minded mobile symphony of discarded bacchanals mingle in appropriated busyness--culling the public herd and quenching the thirst of the innocent and bored. A quivering smirk creeps across my face as I bow below the canvas entrance of my office. It is just as I left it. The cot is neatly made with the blankets tightly wound into hospital corners. My regalia are curtly folded into my battered blue trunk with worn green bronze filigree. The single oil lamp rests gingerly upon an upended apple-crate placed adjacent to the head of my bed. Eliot’s Waste Land weighs down my foam pillow: breeding lilacs out of the dead land.
After carefully paralleling my soft leather shoes amidst my other footwear, I calmly take the three steps to the edge of my bed, make a smooth practiced quarter turn and sit. Smoothing down the folds of my trousers in fixed rapidity I lie back upon the tight structure of the cot. I stare at the yellow, red, pink, blue, and green facets of my canvas ceiling and pretend I can control the undulating wind that ripples my rainbow world.
…
Three, six, six. It wasn’t just a street number…it was a calling card. It always felt like a beacon—a grotesque mockery of everything that I didn’t want the world to know. I could hear them whisper…poor, poor Emannuel. Why did she always keep that chair there? I guess it is all she had left of him.
It was a good place to grow up nevertheless. I always had people to play with, not friends, just other children whose mothers held sway over playtime with a lordly wooden spoon. There was no mockery, or ill will, just quiet perplexity with a dab of uncertainty and a great deal of pity. Pity from the eyes of a small child: emotional make-up to paint the void of certainty until time fills the cracks.
I didn’t waste my youth with the regrets of what was. I traveled on as only I knew how. I learned to appreciate the space between, the vastness of everything and the wonder of nothing.
…
I clinically examine Sasha as she gracefully steps off of me. The gentle rippling of her attuned muscles manipulate her frame through the space of my room. She arcs over like a young willow and redresses in her bright red gown delicately tying it about her waist. Cradling her head down and to the right, she looks at me as I lie watching her. No smile, no lust, no look of connection graces the room. I reach over and douse the lamp watching the smoke dance in the flickering florescent light that escapes from the world as Sasha leaves the tent. The darkness is my friend.
Dawn paints my room like a psychedelic glow-worm. I reach for the lamp; first to the right and then to the left, touching each side exactly the same way so as not to imbalance my day. The dawn light is bright through the canvas but not strong enough to read by. I leaf through my book coaxing memory and desire: shoring the fragments against my ruins. Pieces of me become the work and pieces of me stay in my tent. It is a short read. I reach down underneath my cot and lift out my diary from the shadowy underbelly of the bed. Flipping through the hundreds of pages toward the end of my current volume; scores and scores of tick-marks darken the pages. I carefully draw the pen from the fold on the spine and make a small mark behind the last mark I made. Everything seems to be in order.
…
I met Sasha when I was but fifteen--she was much older but she never seemed to age. I was standing just down the lane. In front of a red bricked café I was showing some of the block kids how I was able to grow a moustache. I had just carefully groomed the thin sickly lip fur and was more than a little smug about the possibility of buying some spirits off of old Bill down at the Dime. Sasha had heard my adolescent boasting and sauntered over. She brushed past the other children and laid a smouldering caress upon my neck and face--speaking like a temptress and moving like a serpent. Coiling her finger around my collar she led me down the road.
The day became a blur of flirting and adventure. We stopped at local shops and stole sweets and cigarettes--making no effort at modesty or subtlety. We stampeded the boulevard like drunken cattle laughing and yelling--ending up choking on bourbon late into the evening. Sasha has somewhere acquired dark glasses and two fine hats as we were waiting in the sitting room of an upscale burlesque down town. She took one that looked awkwardly like a matador’s cap and crushed it onto my head while she fished out the two last cigarettes and placed one in each of our mouths. The two cigarettes burned in unison hanging from the edge of our lips. It made me wonder how light can only fill the darkness for but a short time.
Lacquered mahogany, silken frills, soft skin, burning liquor, and jasmine became but fragments upon my shore.
…
Fully dressed in my bright yellow, red, and white mockeries, I skip toward the grandstands through the throng of people. No thought of happiness or sadness clouds my mood--I skip for the watchers: the children and the elderly. Playing the crowd I am able to escape notice and secure attention. I filter from one gag to another adjusting a small amount of time for a dabbling of theft and a smattering of lounging. My eyes read the faces of the times and take in the meaning of the rippling motions of the liquid people. Making my way to the top of the grandstands, the peak of the extravaganza, I take in the wholeness of my world. The drunken azure sky sparks my vision with a wonder of emptiness, leading to a dun horizon of earthiness, sprinkling to a paved greyness.
Two vehicles stand out amidst the paved greyness. Two cars smashed in the fore. Two machines driven forward and disabled by what got in the way. Two vessels seemingly uninjured in the rear yet still commissioned to stay put—side by side, until they can be dealt with. Two objects that enrapture my white and grey interest until the cusp of dawn.
Accumulating my shores of ruin.
Bibliophile
First Post
My story follows, but I have a feeling a few words will be hit by the "grandma-unfriendly" censor, so I've also included a .pdf version. They really are necessary for the tone/atmosphere.
Without further ado, I present: Good Advice
********************
Good Advice
Somehow, getting shot always seems to ruin my day.
It was supposed to be a normal day at work. The house call was a bit out of my way, but I needed the money, so I dutifully got in my car and drove for hours to Charlotte, Vermont—right off of Lake Champlain.
I found the house without a problem. Everything was just like the descriptions: stately Victorian columns, white siding on everything with a coat of drab grey on the walls, a walkway leading straight up to the door, and an expansive, green ranch for miles around. It was perfect. I pulled up to the driveway and got out. Knocking on the door, I checked myself in a pocket mirror, I looked beautiful. To top things off, it was an amazing blue-sky day, and I was about to hit pay dirt.
The lady who answered the door was exactly who I expected. I opened up with some small chit-chat, before going on to the business at hand: her life insurance policy. I knew she didn’t have one, not that it was urgent for her—she was only fifty three. Yet, I knew she had a brother in Brooklyn: a successful banker, and quite rich, just the same as I knew she hated it when her brother helped her with money; her brother was always helping her with money. I did my homework, and I knew how to approach my mark.
Soon enough, I had convinced her that I had a policy suited just for her, and she invited me in. I tripped over the doorway, making enough noise in catching myself that anyone else in the house would hear; from the lack of response, I guessed that nobody else was.
The two of us sat down at her living room table and I opened my briefcase to remove a small stack of papers. She looked at them for a moment, obviously starting to entertain second thoughts, so to distract her, I asked for a cup of water, claiming the heat outside had gotten to me a bit.
She stood up and walked to the kitchen.
I stood up and followed her.
She didn’t notice me. They never do. I slit her throat as she was pouring the cup. I let the water filter fall to the ground behind me as I made my way out of that house.
I decided to take the back exit, just in case someone was out there. There was, but I never saw him. One moment I was passing by rows of tie-dye shirts, apparently ready for sale, and the next I was on the ground, my mind reeling as my blood poured out of the new hole in my shoulder and onto the trimmed lawn. I felt the shooter prod me in the back just before I lost consciousness. *picture 3*
I didn’t take any jobs for a while after that. Regardless of my own injury, I completed my task, and the pay from that was good enough to last a whole six months. Once that ended though, I started looking around again. I needed work, and I was going to find it and carry it through, healed shoulder or not.
It was another two years before I had a big one. I was sitting at the bar in a club down in Sydney. The job was on one of the local bigwigs. The guy had made some serious enemies during his career, but I never asked why. Only the rookies ask why. In any case, he was heading out of the country soon, and I was biding my time until he started heading to the airport. The bar was close enough that it would be a short drive down to the airport, and I’d still have enough time to plant the poison in the pre-packed meals that would be loaded on the plane by that time.
I went over the plan again in my mind. It was flawless. Once again, I had done my homework.
Fate had a different plan however. I was watching the television above the bar when I heard the screeching of metal coming from outside. Every last bit of attention in that bar became focused on the door, and half the people jumped up to see what was happening.
Needless to say, I was one of them.
You know how sometimes you have bad days? And sometimes you have worse days? And then there are some days that manage to be so incredibly god-awful that you just can’t believe it?
This was one of those days.
I stood amidst the crowd in the doorway of the bar, watching as the front of my car, and part of the car parked next to it in the number twenty-seven spot, began to deform. The hood started buckling as the metal framework of the car seemed to bend back in on the engine compartment. The headlights shattered. A tire came off of its wheel as the hubcap was deformed into oblivion. Then, just as suddenly as it had started, it all ended. My car looked like it had been hit, front-on, with a semi. The SUV next to it didn’t look much better, but I didn’t care about it. The only thing flashing through my mind was the fact that somehow my ride had been totaled—in a very strange way. It would be an understatement to say that I felt something amiss. *picture 4*
Apparently the entire bar, or at least those close enough to the doorway to see, felt the same way. The silence that had settled on the place at the first sound of the metal deforming was shed, as best humans can, by a loud, shrill, piercing scream, the kind of scream that as a kid you’re sure has the power to wake the dead.
Two things became very clear to me—firstly something had seriously begun to screw with me, to my detriment, and secondly, I didn’t understand a bit of how or why. I needed a place to go—a place to catch up with reality and decide on a new course of action. The job was as good as gone; there was no way I could make it to the airport on time now.
I started running.
It took me a while on foot, but I finally reached the relative safety of #336, a nondescript, drab, grey building off of the Pacific Highway. This was my safe house. I could stop and think here.
Climbing up the front stairs, and making my way to the bedroom to collapse on the bed, I tried to do just that: stop and think. I even managed it for a bit, before I was interrupted.
I never heard the door to the bedroom open. The first I knew that he was there was when he sat down next to my feet on the bed, and I turned over with a start.
“Where the hell did you come from?”
“I didn’t.” He looked like he was young, maybe seven or eight years younger than me, and he wore a black beret with a plaid shirt. He looked vaguely Spanish.
I sat up. “Look, I don’t know what that’s supposed to mean, and I sure don’t know who you are, so why don’t you tell me something about yourself real quick now.”
“I was clear, I didn’t come from anywhere. I’ve always been here.”
“For how long? You must have been waiting for me to get back.”
“Not here in this room, but here as in watching you. And always.”
I had a sinking feeling in my gut. This guy had me under surveillance and I never knew it.
“Who put you up to it?”
“Who? Who do you think? It was the old man. He said you needed some looking after.”
If things were strange a moment before, they had just become downright weird. I’d never heard of any “old man,” and I certainly couldn’t imagine why anyone I’d never heard of would want me under surveillance.
“Look gal,” he moved over and sat down next to me on my right, “Here, have a drag.” He pulled out a pair of fags, and handed me one, taking the other for himself. It took him a moment to find a lighter, and we sat there in silence on the bed, as the smoke began to thread its way around the dimly lit room, making everything seem even more colorless than it had before. *picture 1*
“There’s something you’ve got to understand,” he began. “It’s time you found out about something.” He jabbed me in the shoulder with his left index finger, right on top of the scar that bullet had left, some two and a half years earlier. “You’ve had a string of luck, the way I see it. You were left for dead in a field in Vermont, and you still made it back from that. Even now, you were determined to go get yourself killed by the security force at the airport that you didn’t know was in place, but your car gets itself some serious issues, and you come down here, trying to figure out what’s going on.”
I starred at him dumbly now, more out of shock than anything else. He continued though.
“Now, I know you aren’t religious, heck, you haven’t even looked seriously at a church since your father died when you were six, but even you have to admit that it looks like you’re being watched out for. Well, there’s a thing about that; you only get so many ‘Get out of Hell’ cards free Hon, and that was your last one, earlier today. If I were you, I’d do some serious thinking about your life, and figure out really quickly just how many chances you really want to keep taking…”
I came to, and it was seven a.m. the next morning. He was nowhere to be found. My memories from the day before were a bit hazy, but I remembered enough to give my therapist a call. We chatted for a bit, and within two more appointments, I was on a new drug that would, sure-thing, get rid of my hallucinations, once and for all. I kept on living my life.
********************
“And damnit, you better take me more seriously than I took him myself!” I yelled at the youth. He stared back, baggy clothes and tattoos marking him as a ganger. “It took me three thousand years to pay off my debt, and you’re going to be facing the same, or worse, if you don’t get your sorry ass in order, and there won’t be any way I’ll be saving you again. There’s only so much a guardian angel can do!” I slapped him. That seemed to shake him out of his stupor, and he slowly nodded his head. I could tell he was giving my words careful consideration. Finally though, he nodded his head.
“All right lady, you know things about me that I can’t figure out how you learned, no matter how I try thinking about it. Plus, you scare me, damn bad. I’ll work on it.” As he started walking away, I knew I had gotten through to him, and that he’d not need my services again.
One more time, I returned back to #336. The grey, drab, brick walls looked not a bit different than they did the day I threw my life away. Hell, that might even have been the same chair there, just inside the screen door. *picture 2*
I never did see him again, my old angel. But that was where it started. It took me three thousand years of punishment to repent for my sins, and when I was done, well, since I’ve been done, I’ve been doing what I can to help out those who really need it. After all, you know the saying: if you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em.
Without further ado, I present: Good Advice
********************
Good Advice
Somehow, getting shot always seems to ruin my day.
It was supposed to be a normal day at work. The house call was a bit out of my way, but I needed the money, so I dutifully got in my car and drove for hours to Charlotte, Vermont—right off of Lake Champlain.
I found the house without a problem. Everything was just like the descriptions: stately Victorian columns, white siding on everything with a coat of drab grey on the walls, a walkway leading straight up to the door, and an expansive, green ranch for miles around. It was perfect. I pulled up to the driveway and got out. Knocking on the door, I checked myself in a pocket mirror, I looked beautiful. To top things off, it was an amazing blue-sky day, and I was about to hit pay dirt.
The lady who answered the door was exactly who I expected. I opened up with some small chit-chat, before going on to the business at hand: her life insurance policy. I knew she didn’t have one, not that it was urgent for her—she was only fifty three. Yet, I knew she had a brother in Brooklyn: a successful banker, and quite rich, just the same as I knew she hated it when her brother helped her with money; her brother was always helping her with money. I did my homework, and I knew how to approach my mark.
Soon enough, I had convinced her that I had a policy suited just for her, and she invited me in. I tripped over the doorway, making enough noise in catching myself that anyone else in the house would hear; from the lack of response, I guessed that nobody else was.
The two of us sat down at her living room table and I opened my briefcase to remove a small stack of papers. She looked at them for a moment, obviously starting to entertain second thoughts, so to distract her, I asked for a cup of water, claiming the heat outside had gotten to me a bit.
She stood up and walked to the kitchen.
I stood up and followed her.
She didn’t notice me. They never do. I slit her throat as she was pouring the cup. I let the water filter fall to the ground behind me as I made my way out of that house.
I decided to take the back exit, just in case someone was out there. There was, but I never saw him. One moment I was passing by rows of tie-dye shirts, apparently ready for sale, and the next I was on the ground, my mind reeling as my blood poured out of the new hole in my shoulder and onto the trimmed lawn. I felt the shooter prod me in the back just before I lost consciousness. *picture 3*
I didn’t take any jobs for a while after that. Regardless of my own injury, I completed my task, and the pay from that was good enough to last a whole six months. Once that ended though, I started looking around again. I needed work, and I was going to find it and carry it through, healed shoulder or not.
It was another two years before I had a big one. I was sitting at the bar in a club down in Sydney. The job was on one of the local bigwigs. The guy had made some serious enemies during his career, but I never asked why. Only the rookies ask why. In any case, he was heading out of the country soon, and I was biding my time until he started heading to the airport. The bar was close enough that it would be a short drive down to the airport, and I’d still have enough time to plant the poison in the pre-packed meals that would be loaded on the plane by that time.
I went over the plan again in my mind. It was flawless. Once again, I had done my homework.
Fate had a different plan however. I was watching the television above the bar when I heard the screeching of metal coming from outside. Every last bit of attention in that bar became focused on the door, and half the people jumped up to see what was happening.
Needless to say, I was one of them.
You know how sometimes you have bad days? And sometimes you have worse days? And then there are some days that manage to be so incredibly god-awful that you just can’t believe it?
This was one of those days.
I stood amidst the crowd in the doorway of the bar, watching as the front of my car, and part of the car parked next to it in the number twenty-seven spot, began to deform. The hood started buckling as the metal framework of the car seemed to bend back in on the engine compartment. The headlights shattered. A tire came off of its wheel as the hubcap was deformed into oblivion. Then, just as suddenly as it had started, it all ended. My car looked like it had been hit, front-on, with a semi. The SUV next to it didn’t look much better, but I didn’t care about it. The only thing flashing through my mind was the fact that somehow my ride had been totaled—in a very strange way. It would be an understatement to say that I felt something amiss. *picture 4*
Apparently the entire bar, or at least those close enough to the doorway to see, felt the same way. The silence that had settled on the place at the first sound of the metal deforming was shed, as best humans can, by a loud, shrill, piercing scream, the kind of scream that as a kid you’re sure has the power to wake the dead.
Two things became very clear to me—firstly something had seriously begun to screw with me, to my detriment, and secondly, I didn’t understand a bit of how or why. I needed a place to go—a place to catch up with reality and decide on a new course of action. The job was as good as gone; there was no way I could make it to the airport on time now.
I started running.
It took me a while on foot, but I finally reached the relative safety of #336, a nondescript, drab, grey building off of the Pacific Highway. This was my safe house. I could stop and think here.
Climbing up the front stairs, and making my way to the bedroom to collapse on the bed, I tried to do just that: stop and think. I even managed it for a bit, before I was interrupted.
I never heard the door to the bedroom open. The first I knew that he was there was when he sat down next to my feet on the bed, and I turned over with a start.
“Where the hell did you come from?”
“I didn’t.” He looked like he was young, maybe seven or eight years younger than me, and he wore a black beret with a plaid shirt. He looked vaguely Spanish.
I sat up. “Look, I don’t know what that’s supposed to mean, and I sure don’t know who you are, so why don’t you tell me something about yourself real quick now.”
“I was clear, I didn’t come from anywhere. I’ve always been here.”
“For how long? You must have been waiting for me to get back.”
“Not here in this room, but here as in watching you. And always.”
I had a sinking feeling in my gut. This guy had me under surveillance and I never knew it.
“Who put you up to it?”
“Who? Who do you think? It was the old man. He said you needed some looking after.”
If things were strange a moment before, they had just become downright weird. I’d never heard of any “old man,” and I certainly couldn’t imagine why anyone I’d never heard of would want me under surveillance.
“Look gal,” he moved over and sat down next to me on my right, “Here, have a drag.” He pulled out a pair of fags, and handed me one, taking the other for himself. It took him a moment to find a lighter, and we sat there in silence on the bed, as the smoke began to thread its way around the dimly lit room, making everything seem even more colorless than it had before. *picture 1*
“There’s something you’ve got to understand,” he began. “It’s time you found out about something.” He jabbed me in the shoulder with his left index finger, right on top of the scar that bullet had left, some two and a half years earlier. “You’ve had a string of luck, the way I see it. You were left for dead in a field in Vermont, and you still made it back from that. Even now, you were determined to go get yourself killed by the security force at the airport that you didn’t know was in place, but your car gets itself some serious issues, and you come down here, trying to figure out what’s going on.”
I starred at him dumbly now, more out of shock than anything else. He continued though.
“Now, I know you aren’t religious, heck, you haven’t even looked seriously at a church since your father died when you were six, but even you have to admit that it looks like you’re being watched out for. Well, there’s a thing about that; you only get so many ‘Get out of Hell’ cards free Hon, and that was your last one, earlier today. If I were you, I’d do some serious thinking about your life, and figure out really quickly just how many chances you really want to keep taking…”
I came to, and it was seven a.m. the next morning. He was nowhere to be found. My memories from the day before were a bit hazy, but I remembered enough to give my therapist a call. We chatted for a bit, and within two more appointments, I was on a new drug that would, sure-thing, get rid of my hallucinations, once and for all. I kept on living my life.
********************
“And damnit, you better take me more seriously than I took him myself!” I yelled at the youth. He stared back, baggy clothes and tattoos marking him as a ganger. “It took me three thousand years to pay off my debt, and you’re going to be facing the same, or worse, if you don’t get your sorry ass in order, and there won’t be any way I’ll be saving you again. There’s only so much a guardian angel can do!” I slapped him. That seemed to shake him out of his stupor, and he slowly nodded his head. I could tell he was giving my words careful consideration. Finally though, he nodded his head.
“All right lady, you know things about me that I can’t figure out how you learned, no matter how I try thinking about it. Plus, you scare me, damn bad. I’ll work on it.” As he started walking away, I knew I had gotten through to him, and that he’d not need my services again.
One more time, I returned back to #336. The grey, drab, brick walls looked not a bit different than they did the day I threw my life away. Hell, that might even have been the same chair there, just inside the screen door. *picture 2*
I never did see him again, my old angel. But that was where it started. It took me three thousand years of punishment to repent for my sins, and when I was done, well, since I’ve been done, I’ve been doing what I can to help out those who really need it. After all, you know the saying: if you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em.
Wild Gazebo
Explorer
Oops. I guess I should mention that my images are ordered in the sequence I used them...not from which they appeared. They should link to the proper images.
RangerWickett
Legend
As a quick side discussion to keep this thread alive while we wait for judgments, who here has a storyhour or other ongoing story that readers might be interested in? I imagine if someone wins the CDM competition, he or she has to be a pretty good storyteller, so why not advertise your storyhour? That way, when you win (and we all know you're going to win, aren't you?), people will be able to read even more fiction by you. *grin*
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