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Fall Ceramic DM - Final Round Judgment Posted!
- Thread starter mythago
- Start date
SteelDraco
First Post
Just in case, could we get the images mirrored somewhere else? I'm going to be gaming tonight, so I probably won't get a chance to see the images for my round before the boards shut down.
mythago
Hero
Judgment Round 1.1 - Macbeth vs. Halidar
Berandor
As this is my first judgement, let me start off by saying anyone who's interested should really take barsoomcore up on his offer to review a story. His analyses are usually excellent, helpful an insightful. Furthermore, he's bound to be more technical in his analysis than me, at least.
But now, to our first match-up.
Macbeth: Caille
You have a recognizable style; reading "Caille", I knew it was one of your stories. One of the prominent elements in your entries seems to be a recurring/repeating theme, be it "Fear and Loathing" or "if my life were a story, ..." This repetition can be very efficient, but it runs the danger of being overused and becoming just a neat clever little meta-commentary.
So what is it this time? To me, this time it mostly works. The comments frame the story and infuse it with a little humour. However, the more negative comments detract from my enjoyment of the story.
"...I would have just lost you (...) hello, gaping plot holes" just takes me out of the story. You hadn't lost me before - after all, it seems to be a mythical story, so the place was strange, yet I was willing to go with it, but now you call attention to it. On the other hand, if I had already felt confused by the Caille, now I would know you felt the same way, and I wonder why you didn't amend the problem.
"This would be the training montage." is not an element of a story, more of a movie. This doesn't detract, but it breaks the theme a little. "You would have stopped reading by now." Don't tell me to stop reading -I might just heed your words
. In a way, it seems you're not confident in your story, and that influences my confidence in you, the author. Also, who stops reading when the hero's seemingly lost, when he failed? The reason for the old serials' cliffhanger was that everybody wants to read on in such a situation, wasn't it?
You have some good phrases in your prose, sentences that I like to turnaround in my head to savor the flavor: "hut at the butt crack of dawn", "don't want to go home, I want home to be gone", "sarcasm drips from my words, leaving marks in the dry ground"- great!
Some comments about the protagonist: Considering how dependant he is on modern technology - even at the end, he still thinks in strict time units ("It must be about midnight" instead of "It's in the middle of the night") - why doesn't he take something with him (watch, GPS) after Mende allows him to?
Also, his guilt about having disappointed other people rings false tome. Petro left his home for the city in spite of any relations within the tribe. He *hates* the tribal life, he *hates* Mende and what he represents (Petro uses "hate", at least, even though it's probably too strong a word for what he feels). He doesn't once wonder what his friends in the city, or his boss might think about hjim returning to Africa. His mother doesn't express any expectations towards him. I think you want to imply that Petro came back home because that was what they expected from him, but it didn't become clear to me just why he came back to this place he loathes. He even calls New York his "real home". It just didn't ring true.
Other things rang true. The conversation between Petro and his mother was great, with him wanting to alienate her to make her send him away, and her asking obvious questions ("Still living in New York?") just to say something and break the tension. Also, the way Petro expresses himself with terms he's grown accustomed to was excellent: "so far awayI won't have wireless" really tells us a lot about him. Funny touches were "So. Revelation. On it's way... now." and "I should be revelating right now". There was a lot of humor in your story, but not too much. A very
enjoyable read. --
Halivar: The Outer Darkness (please excuse my formating if it sucks. I tried!)
The story somewhat reminded me of "The Club Dumas" for personal reasons (discussion of that book right now on this very board!) and the mysterious book. However, the end really diverges from that path,doesn't it?
I don't know what "The Elements of Style" have to say about writing dialogue the way it is pronounced, but to me it had questionable effects. On the one hand, the dialogue tended to pull me out of the story because the words aren't immediately apparent. Also, I get the impression the speaker doesn't know how to spell the words correctly, which of course would make him more a caricature or not very educated instead of simply having an accent. If done overmuch, it does tend to irritate me because I really have to say the dialogue out loud to understand it (or at least pretend to say it out loud ).On the other hand, saying these words is fun and really enhances the flair of the story. I like it when I hear myself speak in Law-zyana drawl.
No matter what, however, you should be consistent in using the accent that way (unless there's good reason not to be), and you weren't always consistent. Sometimes, Davenport says "wanna", "getcha", "tell ya","gotta", and at other times, he doesn't and even makes fun of accents. Madame Bouchier suddenly loses her accent, as well: "I'm prepared toreward you handsomely. All I want is to know if he has it; and if he does, where it is."
On the other hand, when Davenport rushes towards the silhouette of the city, towards safety, I'd think he doesn't necessarily make fun of the accent by calling it "New Or-Leenz" anymore, but even in the OuterDarkness, he still mocks it.
Another problem is "show, don't tell", or rather that you often tell instead of showing. "I know it's something big. Something she wants secret." How does he know? Is it because she wants to employ a small-time crook such as he, or is it because of her posture? Show us." Jack grins evilly. I know it's evil. It's terrible." How does he know? What's so terrible? Show us.
The end would be more effective if we simply witnessed Davenport losing his mind, too. Instead of telling us "because I lost my mind", show us how he loses it, and leave us with the image of a man in the darkness, howling loudly.
Or, take the unsettling picture. You start with "The door opens, and I almost lose my mind." It really sounds as if there's something incredibly shocking in the room, something that demands attention as soon as you enter, leading to instant insanity. But then, it takes several sentences until we know what it is, and then you write, "Why is it unsettling. I don't know."
There are several editing problems in the story, but you already know that, so I won't address it in detail.
Now, that's not to say it's all bad. Far from it. Take some of these gems, for example: "She's so pristine you can clean your bathroom just by uttering her name." "so many screws loose I'm afraid he'll start falling apart in front of me." very, very nice.
"That's when I remembered I didn't speak French." is a great pay-off. It might have made a good ending, too, but perhaps would have been too open-ended.
I also liked that you recall the voodoo priest's words without spelling out for us word by word what happened. It's not difficult to figure out he closed the door from the wrong side, but it's still nice that you trust me to figure it out instead of treating me like a dummy. Just two questions: Why doesn't Davenport admit to reading Poe novels? And why is it strange that Bouchier knew about him not speaking French? Couldn't she have asked around? Anyway, also a very nice story. Thank you.
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The pictures:
THE CHICKEN: Halivar's hen is an emissary from the voodoo priest with the thick accent It is important in that it leads Davenport to the shaman, but otherwise not very central to the plot. Macbeth's chicken is a seemingly very patient loa. It provides for alittle humor ("the chicken can fly me home") and is otherwise central to Petro's quest. Although I do admit as to now being sure whether there are any chicken in Africa's desert.
THE ISLAND: Macbeth gives us a mystical place where shamans go to die, an absurd place in an absurd world. Halivar has the island be the hero's final hope, a sanctuary that he'll never reach, and at the same time a picture woven of darkness.
THE MEDICINE MAN: Halivar's voodoo priest provides us with needed exposition and brings the final conflict about. He also draws a protective spell on the heroso that we may witness him losing his mind first hand. Macbeth's Mende refuses to give us any more exposition that is barely needed before heading off to the Caille. He also leaves a letter filled with "Now..."
THE SHELLS: Macbeth's shells are important in that they serve no function whatsoever, but we believe they do. That's just mean. Halivar's shells are very colourful, as you can see here: "...eight shiny, differently-colored shells, all different colors." They also open a gate to demon-filled worlds, so be careful! All in all, I think both contestants use the pics competently. Macbeth's chicken is a little stronger than Halivar's, but while I really liked the use of the shells in "Caille", Halivar's shells are simply more central to the final outcome.
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Judgement: Enough already, you say? You want to read the results? Alright, here it is.
"Caille" is a mystical story with humor sprinkled throughout. I find it fits fairly well into an admittedly absurd world. "The Outer Darkness" is a dark thriller with New Orleans, Mardi Gras, Voodoo, foul sorcery and even a dash of Lovecraftian tentacled beasts thrown in - what more can I want? In the end, I would have wanted a little more consistency in style, and a little more description to feed the atmosphere and horror.
POINT TO
.
Mythago
Both stories made good, if not spectacular, overall use of the pictures. The chicken made it alive, much to my surprise...
Macbeth – “Caille”
The style works very well for the kind of central character we have; he loathes what he feels he has to do, hates the village, is embarrassed to be back, and feels lost without his technology. We don’t really get a sense of why he hates the village, though, other than the lack of wireless. He tells us it’s primitive and backward, but we never see anyone other than Mom and the shaman, and the homecoming could be in any small town. The shaman doesn’t even care if Mende brings his electronics on his revelatory quest. (Does this mean Mende is exaggerating wildly, or that we just aren’t shown what he’s telling is is true? I can’t tell.)
I liked that the story isn’t predictable. We don’t know if Mende is going to fail, if he’s going to give up and try to find a way home, if he’s going to die, or what. We hope he’ll succeed somehow, but it isn’t clear what that path will be. I didn’t like the note left by the shaman—that just seemed jarring, a little too much like another step in a typical quest—but the rest of it worked very well. Mende’s having somewhat petulantly left his gear behind was a nice touch.
I thought the ending was abrupt and hard to buy. Mende goes from “Aw man, this place blows, where’s my iPod” to “With great power comes great responsibility” in a very short narrative time.
And the asides about “If this was a story” only work some of the time. There’s a fine line between the character thinking this believably and it being an author winking at the audience: “See, this is like a training montage! So if it seems cheesy, don’t worry, the people in the story get it too.” Doesn’t work, comes across as apologetic and a crutch.
Halivar – “The Outer Darkness”
Well, you’ve got two stories in here, a parody of hard-boiled detective fiction, and Lovecraftian horror. They don’t mesh well together. It’s one thing to have the central character not take everything seriously (until it is Too Late), but lines like “The name? Rich Davenport, private eye” only work if we’re not meant to take the *story* seriously.
Dialogue is tricky to get right. A long string of approximations gets hard on the reader. It might be better to allude to Mrs. Bouchier’s accent early on and leave it at that. The reader hears it. Davenport’s grousing about how they pronounce “New Jersey” is a great, as is his insistence on sarcastically thinking of the antagonist as “Bou-cheer” works also. (Giving the voodoo shaman a Jamaican accent, not so much.)
And the way Davenport thinks and talks shifts, too. At first he talks like this: “This dame wants somethin' she's not supposed to have, and a no-name private dick is just the one to get it for her,” but by the end he says “I stare at the macabre, pulpy, tentacled monsters with a mix of abject terror and horrific revulsion.” Er…
Show, don’t tell; you could cut the last line or two from the story and it would work fine. You kept it in present tense, so we’re there with the narrator, instead of scratching our heads thinking “And I found out about what happened to you how?”
Judgment this round for
.
Maldur
Macbeth vs Halivar
Isnt it odd, that Cockrels equal voodoo, in so many peoples minds.
macBeth: Mystic, very personal story. A sense of weirdness and exceptation.
Halivar: Can someone say Chtulhu
Winner: MacBeth
Judgment overall for round 1.1 goes to
, who goes on to Round 2.
Berandor
As this is my first judgement, let me start off by saying anyone who's interested should really take barsoomcore up on his offer to review a story. His analyses are usually excellent, helpful an insightful. Furthermore, he's bound to be more technical in his analysis than me, at least.
But now, to our first match-up.
Macbeth: Caille
You have a recognizable style; reading "Caille", I knew it was one of your stories. One of the prominent elements in your entries seems to be a recurring/repeating theme, be it "Fear and Loathing" or "if my life were a story, ..." This repetition can be very efficient, but it runs the danger of being overused and becoming just a neat clever little meta-commentary.
So what is it this time? To me, this time it mostly works. The comments frame the story and infuse it with a little humour. However, the more negative comments detract from my enjoyment of the story.
"...I would have just lost you (...) hello, gaping plot holes" just takes me out of the story. You hadn't lost me before - after all, it seems to be a mythical story, so the place was strange, yet I was willing to go with it, but now you call attention to it. On the other hand, if I had already felt confused by the Caille, now I would know you felt the same way, and I wonder why you didn't amend the problem.
"This would be the training montage." is not an element of a story, more of a movie. This doesn't detract, but it breaks the theme a little. "You would have stopped reading by now." Don't tell me to stop reading -I might just heed your words
. In a way, it seems you're not confident in your story, and that influences my confidence in you, the author. Also, who stops reading when the hero's seemingly lost, when he failed? The reason for the old serials' cliffhanger was that everybody wants to read on in such a situation, wasn't it? You have some good phrases in your prose, sentences that I like to turnaround in my head to savor the flavor: "hut at the butt crack of dawn", "don't want to go home, I want home to be gone", "sarcasm drips from my words, leaving marks in the dry ground"- great!
Some comments about the protagonist: Considering how dependant he is on modern technology - even at the end, he still thinks in strict time units ("It must be about midnight" instead of "It's in the middle of the night") - why doesn't he take something with him (watch, GPS) after Mende allows him to?
Also, his guilt about having disappointed other people rings false tome. Petro left his home for the city in spite of any relations within the tribe. He *hates* the tribal life, he *hates* Mende and what he represents (Petro uses "hate", at least, even though it's probably too strong a word for what he feels). He doesn't once wonder what his friends in the city, or his boss might think about hjim returning to Africa. His mother doesn't express any expectations towards him. I think you want to imply that Petro came back home because that was what they expected from him, but it didn't become clear to me just why he came back to this place he loathes. He even calls New York his "real home". It just didn't ring true.
Other things rang true. The conversation between Petro and his mother was great, with him wanting to alienate her to make her send him away, and her asking obvious questions ("Still living in New York?") just to say something and break the tension. Also, the way Petro expresses himself with terms he's grown accustomed to was excellent: "so far awayI won't have wireless" really tells us a lot about him. Funny touches were "So. Revelation. On it's way... now." and "I should be revelating right now". There was a lot of humor in your story, but not too much. A very
enjoyable read. --
Halivar: The Outer Darkness (please excuse my formating if it sucks. I tried!)
The story somewhat reminded me of "The Club Dumas" for personal reasons (discussion of that book right now on this very board!) and the mysterious book. However, the end really diverges from that path,doesn't it?
I don't know what "The Elements of Style" have to say about writing dialogue the way it is pronounced, but to me it had questionable effects. On the one hand, the dialogue tended to pull me out of the story because the words aren't immediately apparent. Also, I get the impression the speaker doesn't know how to spell the words correctly, which of course would make him more a caricature or not very educated instead of simply having an accent. If done overmuch, it does tend to irritate me because I really have to say the dialogue out loud to understand it (or at least pretend to say it out loud ).On the other hand, saying these words is fun and really enhances the flair of the story. I like it when I hear myself speak in Law-zyana drawl.
No matter what, however, you should be consistent in using the accent that way (unless there's good reason not to be), and you weren't always consistent. Sometimes, Davenport says "wanna", "getcha", "tell ya","gotta", and at other times, he doesn't and even makes fun of accents. Madame Bouchier suddenly loses her accent, as well: "I'm prepared toreward you handsomely. All I want is to know if he has it; and if he does, where it is."
On the other hand, when Davenport rushes towards the silhouette of the city, towards safety, I'd think he doesn't necessarily make fun of the accent by calling it "New Or-Leenz" anymore, but even in the OuterDarkness, he still mocks it.
Another problem is "show, don't tell", or rather that you often tell instead of showing. "I know it's something big. Something she wants secret." How does he know? Is it because she wants to employ a small-time crook such as he, or is it because of her posture? Show us." Jack grins evilly. I know it's evil. It's terrible." How does he know? What's so terrible? Show us.
The end would be more effective if we simply witnessed Davenport losing his mind, too. Instead of telling us "because I lost my mind", show us how he loses it, and leave us with the image of a man in the darkness, howling loudly.
Or, take the unsettling picture. You start with "The door opens, and I almost lose my mind." It really sounds as if there's something incredibly shocking in the room, something that demands attention as soon as you enter, leading to instant insanity. But then, it takes several sentences until we know what it is, and then you write, "Why is it unsettling. I don't know."
There are several editing problems in the story, but you already know that, so I won't address it in detail.
Now, that's not to say it's all bad. Far from it. Take some of these gems, for example: "She's so pristine you can clean your bathroom just by uttering her name." "so many screws loose I'm afraid he'll start falling apart in front of me." very, very nice.
"That's when I remembered I didn't speak French." is a great pay-off. It might have made a good ending, too, but perhaps would have been too open-ended.
I also liked that you recall the voodoo priest's words without spelling out for us word by word what happened. It's not difficult to figure out he closed the door from the wrong side, but it's still nice that you trust me to figure it out instead of treating me like a dummy. Just two questions: Why doesn't Davenport admit to reading Poe novels? And why is it strange that Bouchier knew about him not speaking French? Couldn't she have asked around? Anyway, also a very nice story. Thank you.
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The pictures:
THE CHICKEN: Halivar's hen is an emissary from the voodoo priest with the thick accent
It is important in that it leads Davenport to the shaman, but otherwise not very central to the plot. Macbeth's chicken is a seemingly very patient loa. It provides for alittle humor ("the chicken can fly me home") and is otherwise central to Petro's quest. Although I do admit as to now being sure whether there are any chicken in Africa's desert. THE ISLAND: Macbeth gives us a mystical place where shamans go to die, an absurd place in an absurd world. Halivar has the island be the hero's final hope, a sanctuary that he'll never reach, and at the same time a picture woven of darkness.
THE MEDICINE MAN: Halivar's voodoo priest provides us with needed exposition and brings the final conflict about. He also draws a protective spell on the heroso that we may witness him losing his mind first hand. Macbeth's Mende refuses to give us any more exposition that is barely needed before heading off to the Caille. He also leaves a letter filled with "Now..."
THE SHELLS: Macbeth's shells are important in that they serve no function whatsoever, but we believe they do. That's just mean. Halivar's shells are very colourful, as you can see here: "...eight shiny, differently-colored shells, all different colors." They also open a gate to demon-filled worlds, so be careful! All in all, I think both contestants use the pics competently. Macbeth's chicken is a little stronger than Halivar's, but while I really liked the use of the shells in "Caille", Halivar's shells are simply more central to the final outcome.
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Judgement: Enough already, you say? You want to read the results? Alright, here it is.
"Caille" is a mystical story with humor sprinkled throughout. I find it fits fairly well into an admittedly absurd world. "The Outer Darkness" is a dark thriller with New Orleans, Mardi Gras, Voodoo, foul sorcery and even a dash of Lovecraftian tentacled beasts thrown in - what more can I want? In the end, I would have wanted a little more consistency in style, and a little more description to feed the atmosphere and horror.
POINT TO
MACBETH
Mythago
Both stories made good, if not spectacular, overall use of the pictures. The chicken made it alive, much to my surprise...
Macbeth – “Caille”
The style works very well for the kind of central character we have; he loathes what he feels he has to do, hates the village, is embarrassed to be back, and feels lost without his technology. We don’t really get a sense of why he hates the village, though, other than the lack of wireless. He tells us it’s primitive and backward, but we never see anyone other than Mom and the shaman, and the homecoming could be in any small town. The shaman doesn’t even care if Mende brings his electronics on his revelatory quest. (Does this mean Mende is exaggerating wildly, or that we just aren’t shown what he’s telling is is true? I can’t tell.)
I liked that the story isn’t predictable. We don’t know if Mende is going to fail, if he’s going to give up and try to find a way home, if he’s going to die, or what. We hope he’ll succeed somehow, but it isn’t clear what that path will be. I didn’t like the note left by the shaman—that just seemed jarring, a little too much like another step in a typical quest—but the rest of it worked very well. Mende’s having somewhat petulantly left his gear behind was a nice touch.
I thought the ending was abrupt and hard to buy. Mende goes from “Aw man, this place blows, where’s my iPod” to “With great power comes great responsibility” in a very short narrative time.
And the asides about “If this was a story” only work some of the time. There’s a fine line between the character thinking this believably and it being an author winking at the audience: “See, this is like a training montage! So if it seems cheesy, don’t worry, the people in the story get it too.” Doesn’t work, comes across as apologetic and a crutch.
Halivar – “The Outer Darkness”
Well, you’ve got two stories in here, a parody of hard-boiled detective fiction, and Lovecraftian horror. They don’t mesh well together. It’s one thing to have the central character not take everything seriously (until it is Too Late), but lines like “The name? Rich Davenport, private eye” only work if we’re not meant to take the *story* seriously.
Dialogue is tricky to get right. A long string of approximations gets hard on the reader. It might be better to allude to Mrs. Bouchier’s accent early on and leave it at that. The reader hears it. Davenport’s grousing about how they pronounce “New Jersey” is a great, as is his insistence on sarcastically thinking of the antagonist as “Bou-cheer” works also. (Giving the voodoo shaman a Jamaican accent, not so much.)
And the way Davenport thinks and talks shifts, too. At first he talks like this: “This dame wants somethin' she's not supposed to have, and a no-name private dick is just the one to get it for her,” but by the end he says “I stare at the macabre, pulpy, tentacled monsters with a mix of abject terror and horrific revulsion.” Er…
Show, don’t tell; you could cut the last line or two from the story and it would work fine. You kept it in present tense, so we’re there with the narrator, instead of scratching our heads thinking “And I found out about what happened to you how?”
Judgment this round for
Macbeth
Maldur
Macbeth vs Halivar
Isnt it odd, that Cockrels equal voodoo, in so many peoples minds.
macBeth: Mystic, very personal story. A sense of weirdness and exceptation.
Halivar: Can someone say Chtulhu
Winner: MacBeth
Judgment overall for round 1.1 goes to
MACBETH
Eluvan
First Post
WARNING: contains strong references to drug use
Round 1.4 Eluvan vs. RangerWickett
A token gesture
As Daniel slowly, blearily, opened his eyes and struggled reluctantly into consciousness, a number of things imposed themselves upon him quite quickly. The first was the hard, uncomfortable object on which he was lying. He tried to brush it away, but his hand simply smeared across the mud on which he lay. No object was displaced. It was then that he realised the object was not on the ground, but in his pocket. Shifting his weight so he could access the pocket he reached in and found the thing with his hand. It was small, perhaps an inch long, and hard. He got his hand halfway out of his pocket, holding the thing, when his eyes happened to look up and noticed a sheep. It stood opposite him, quite still, staring at him dispassionately. A sheep is certainly not what you expect to see upon waking up, and it was presumably for this reason that this particular sheep registered so quickly to him and seemed for a few moments to be the focus of the entire world, the most important thing in existence. There seemed something almost profound about it as it stood there looking at him with that blank stare that suddenly seemed to Daniel so reproving. It seemed that if only one knew its relevance, this sheep held the answer to all kinds of questions. After all, it was the only thing within sight that seemed significant, and more and more questions slowly began to encroach upon Daniel as his mind became more aware.
The first and most pressing of these was ‘why am I lying in a ditch?’. This question seemed to Daniel so pressing and pertinent that he muttered it out loud, and then scratched his nose and meditated upon it. The sheep continued to stare, offering little in the way of a solution. Looking down at himself, Daniel slowly took in the information offered to him tentatively, rather uncertainly, by his eyes. He was wearing a rather expensive looking suit, now muddied and tattered beyond all hope of salvation. By some miracle, the red rose tucked into his button hole had survived relatively unscathed, and stood out on his tattered person like a gem sitting pristine among lumps of filth. His nose still itched. He slowly sat up, and tried to piece the situation together in a way that made sense.
He remembered… something. A party? It was, perhaps, something like that. No – not a party. Not exactly. He remembered now. He’d been at the opera, hadn’t he? A solid memory came back to him, surprising him with its vivid quality even if it seemed somewhat dream like, as if seen through a distorting lens. Looking away from the performance for a second, to his left, at the group of ladies he was with, and meeting the eyes of one of them in a fleeting shared moment as they both laughed at some joke on stage. Something about that girl… he couldn’t place it, but he knew she was in some way significant although he had never met her before the previous night.
He dwelt on this a little longer, but quickly reached the conclusion that however important it was, it was probably rather less important than getting out of the ditch he was still uncomfortably slouched in. He pushed himself up to standing, and it was as he did so that a small packet fell out of his pocket and lay there on the ground, looking distinctly out of place with the fine white powder it contained contrasting strongly against the mud. Daniel stared at it for some moments, trying to comprehend its meaning, before finally remembering. About half of the original contents were gone, consumed the night before. That accounted for the unusual manner of his awakening, and his hazy recollections. And something else was important. Something – money. That was it. The god damn stuff had to be paid for still. Paid for today. Suddenly Daniel had a thought and in a panic his eyes shot down to regard his wristwatch. Its surface was caked with mud, but after a few seconds of frenzied wiping it became clear. 10.00am. Thank God, it was still early. Daniel had about twelve hours before his meeting. Twelve hours to find the money.
After scooping up the fallen packet and stuffing it back inside his jacket pocket, Daniel rather shakily began making his way down the uneven track that ran parallel to the ditch in which he had spent the night, his unsteady passing causing the sheep to trot away a few paces skittishly. Movement was something Daniel could have done quite happily without being forced into, but forced he was, and he slowly managed to lurch his way two miles down the track and find some signs of habitation. Over a small stone wall was a road – a small road, admittedly, but nonetheless a real, honest-to-God road which sure beat the rutted track he had been walking down. It hadn’t really occurred to him to look about before, but now he was forced to. The road he was coming onto ran across the top of a ridge, and beyond it the land fell sharply away and then slowly levelled out into a river valley, the river itself winding slowly through the fields with the early morning sunlight sparking and flashing off it’s surface in the odd spots where it penetrated the thick cloud cover. To his left it widened and joined the sea, a great expanse of tranquil grey that stretched out to the horizon.
Daniel surveyed this scene for a few moments. He recognised his location now – he wasn’t too far out of town. If he started now he should get into town before twelve and still have time to pawn something. He wasn’t sure what – he was certain he had nothing left of enough value, and his parents had long since stopped giving him money. In fact, the dinner suit he had ruined by sleeping in it was probably the last thing he owned that they had given him. As he trudged along the road, he speculated a little further on why he was actually wearing it. He’d been at the opera, he had already remembered that. It might seem weird, juxtaposed with his awakening the next day, but Daniel was used to it. He’d been living an unusual life for some time now – he had never really got out of the habit of the high life he had been brought up in, even if it was now beyond his means. But then, many things he did regularly were beyond his means. He always seemed to find a way to work things out somehow.
It was as he was walking along, preoccupied by these musings, that the sound of a car came into focus behind him. This was not surprising. He was walking along a road, after all. What was surprising, however, was when the car slowed down as it came near and eventually stopped right in front of him. Curious, he came alongside and bent down to look in the passenger seat window. Sitting in the driver’s seat, smiling wryly at him, was a girl. He knew her, he was sure – of course. The girl from last night. With a grin, he opened the passenger door and climbed in. The girl greeted him with a friendly ‘good morning’, amusement and curiosity evident in her tone. Daniel smiled shamefacedly, and shrugged. ‘Don’t ask.’ He said simply, fervently hoping that she wouldn’t.
She looked intensely curious, but to his relief she let the subject drop. She seemed about to say something, but did not. The silence was awkward, tangible. Daniel shattered it, in the end, with the rather feeble effort of ‘sorry about your seat, and the dirt and all.’ The exchange as to his dishevelled state had rather taken the winds out of his sails. She smiled at him, shaking her head slightly. ‘It’s fine. This thing’ll probably get retired soon anyway. Can’t complain I guess. Most biscuit tins would just fall apart if you slapped them with an engine and wheels and tried to make them run, but this one’s lasted years.’ Daniel made an effort to smile at her joke but failed rather miserably. It occurred to him that he was being rude, and should say something more.
‘I’m sorry,’ he ventured hesitantly, after another long silence, ‘but I don’t recall your name. I know I’m dreadful.’ She grinned. ‘You certainly are, Daniel’, she said, putting emphasis on his name. ‘It’s Olivia.’
‘Of course!’ He cried, trying to sound much more enthusiastic than he felt and aiming for the clear subtext of ‘I remember now, certainly, I can’t think how I could have forgotten,’ though in fact it came out rather ponderously.
‘Well… you’re certainly less charming this morning than you were last night,’ she rebuked playfully. ‘But I’ll forgive you, since you did get opera tickets for me and all my friends.’ That was it! Thought Daniel. He had met this girl and her friends at a bar, and had invited them all to come to the opera with him since there was a show on and, he said, he could get free tickets. It was a lie – he’d had to buy them all, and in doing so he’d wiped out what pathetic vestiges of his bank balance still remained. He was prone to such impulsive acts, particularly where a pretty girl was involved.
Lost in his thoughts, he realised that he was once again being rude, but could think of nothing to say. This time the awkward silence was broken by Olivia. They had come into town by now and were driving along the beachfront, and she pulled the car in at the side of the road by a fast food place. ‘Come on, I’m sure you’ve got time to drink an awful cup of coffee with me haven’t you?’ she asked pleasantly, though the question was clearly rhetorical as she opened her door and stepped out without waiting for an answer. Daniel followed, and after each buying a polystyrene beaker of coffee the two made their way across the road and sat on the wall, looking out across the beach. It was still morning, but the cloud cover had become even thicker and had turned the sky an ominous deep grey, with odd shafts of sunlight piercing the clouds and lancing down to earth in radiant glory. ‘It’s beautiful,’ Olivia said softly, ‘don’t you think?’
Daniel nodded, feeling somewhat at peace for the first time that day as he sipped his scalding, dreadful coffee and looked out across the sea. ‘Yes,’ he stated simply, but with an emphasis that made the agreement seem considered and profound.
She turned, and smiled at him. Conscious of her gaze on the right side of his face like the shining of a lamp, he kept his own focus ahead, at the ocean before him. A figure came into view, silhouetted as it jogged across the beach, and then disappeared into the distance, whilst a tranquil, shared silence prevailed between the two who watched from the wall.
The moment was finally brought to an end by Olivia as she got up and walked a dozen paces to put her empty coffee container in a bin. She remained standing when she returned. ‘Well, I’d better be going,’ she said with a hint of regret. ‘Places to be. Just like always… never can find a moments peace. Oh,’ she exclaimed, as if suddenly remembering something, ‘I don’t suppose you found a brooch last night did you? Small, white, floral pattern? It’s pretty hideous to tell you the truth, but it’s an heirloom and kind of valuable. I think I must have dropped it somewhere last night.’
Daniel shook his head. ‘No, sorry. Nothing like that.’
‘Oh… well, I suppose it was kind a long shot. Do you need a lift into town?’ she asked with a warm smile, quickly overcoming her disappointment.
Daniel shook his head. ‘No, thank you – I’m fine here.’
‘Okay. I’ll see you around then.’ She turned on her heel, flashing him a last smile, and went back to her car, waving at him through the window as she drove away. Daniel watched the car until it drove out of sight, and then resumed his vigil, looking out over the beach. It was mere chance that led him to put his hands into his trouser pockets after a few minutes, and discover there the small, hard item that had awoken him when he had lain on it that morning. He drew it out and regarded it. A small brooch, white, with a floral pattern. He stared at it for some time before he finally remembered. He had stolen it. Last night, as he embraced Olivia and stole a farewell kiss, he had slipped a hand up and under the pretence of a caress had unclipped it from its place on her breast and pocketed it with the knowledge that he would need something to sell the next day, and had nothing else. The memory hit him with all the force of a sledgehammer to the head. He was stunned, appalled by it, and for some moments he was shocked into complete inactivity.
That night, Olivia was alone but for her cat who purred and rubbed himself incessantly against her legs as she tried fruitlessly to read the book she had settled down with. About nine, an envelope came through her door. She opened it, full of curiosity, and found inside her brooch, and a small slip of paper on which were written five words:
Sorry. Thank you. Goodbye.
Daniel
Round 1.4 Eluvan vs. RangerWickett
A token gesture
As Daniel slowly, blearily, opened his eyes and struggled reluctantly into consciousness, a number of things imposed themselves upon him quite quickly. The first was the hard, uncomfortable object on which he was lying. He tried to brush it away, but his hand simply smeared across the mud on which he lay. No object was displaced. It was then that he realised the object was not on the ground, but in his pocket. Shifting his weight so he could access the pocket he reached in and found the thing with his hand. It was small, perhaps an inch long, and hard. He got his hand halfway out of his pocket, holding the thing, when his eyes happened to look up and noticed a sheep. It stood opposite him, quite still, staring at him dispassionately. A sheep is certainly not what you expect to see upon waking up, and it was presumably for this reason that this particular sheep registered so quickly to him and seemed for a few moments to be the focus of the entire world, the most important thing in existence. There seemed something almost profound about it as it stood there looking at him with that blank stare that suddenly seemed to Daniel so reproving. It seemed that if only one knew its relevance, this sheep held the answer to all kinds of questions. After all, it was the only thing within sight that seemed significant, and more and more questions slowly began to encroach upon Daniel as his mind became more aware.
The first and most pressing of these was ‘why am I lying in a ditch?’. This question seemed to Daniel so pressing and pertinent that he muttered it out loud, and then scratched his nose and meditated upon it. The sheep continued to stare, offering little in the way of a solution. Looking down at himself, Daniel slowly took in the information offered to him tentatively, rather uncertainly, by his eyes. He was wearing a rather expensive looking suit, now muddied and tattered beyond all hope of salvation. By some miracle, the red rose tucked into his button hole had survived relatively unscathed, and stood out on his tattered person like a gem sitting pristine among lumps of filth. His nose still itched. He slowly sat up, and tried to piece the situation together in a way that made sense.
He remembered… something. A party? It was, perhaps, something like that. No – not a party. Not exactly. He remembered now. He’d been at the opera, hadn’t he? A solid memory came back to him, surprising him with its vivid quality even if it seemed somewhat dream like, as if seen through a distorting lens. Looking away from the performance for a second, to his left, at the group of ladies he was with, and meeting the eyes of one of them in a fleeting shared moment as they both laughed at some joke on stage. Something about that girl… he couldn’t place it, but he knew she was in some way significant although he had never met her before the previous night.
He dwelt on this a little longer, but quickly reached the conclusion that however important it was, it was probably rather less important than getting out of the ditch he was still uncomfortably slouched in. He pushed himself up to standing, and it was as he did so that a small packet fell out of his pocket and lay there on the ground, looking distinctly out of place with the fine white powder it contained contrasting strongly against the mud. Daniel stared at it for some moments, trying to comprehend its meaning, before finally remembering. About half of the original contents were gone, consumed the night before. That accounted for the unusual manner of his awakening, and his hazy recollections. And something else was important. Something – money. That was it. The god damn stuff had to be paid for still. Paid for today. Suddenly Daniel had a thought and in a panic his eyes shot down to regard his wristwatch. Its surface was caked with mud, but after a few seconds of frenzied wiping it became clear. 10.00am. Thank God, it was still early. Daniel had about twelve hours before his meeting. Twelve hours to find the money.
After scooping up the fallen packet and stuffing it back inside his jacket pocket, Daniel rather shakily began making his way down the uneven track that ran parallel to the ditch in which he had spent the night, his unsteady passing causing the sheep to trot away a few paces skittishly. Movement was something Daniel could have done quite happily without being forced into, but forced he was, and he slowly managed to lurch his way two miles down the track and find some signs of habitation. Over a small stone wall was a road – a small road, admittedly, but nonetheless a real, honest-to-God road which sure beat the rutted track he had been walking down. It hadn’t really occurred to him to look about before, but now he was forced to. The road he was coming onto ran across the top of a ridge, and beyond it the land fell sharply away and then slowly levelled out into a river valley, the river itself winding slowly through the fields with the early morning sunlight sparking and flashing off it’s surface in the odd spots where it penetrated the thick cloud cover. To his left it widened and joined the sea, a great expanse of tranquil grey that stretched out to the horizon.
Daniel surveyed this scene for a few moments. He recognised his location now – he wasn’t too far out of town. If he started now he should get into town before twelve and still have time to pawn something. He wasn’t sure what – he was certain he had nothing left of enough value, and his parents had long since stopped giving him money. In fact, the dinner suit he had ruined by sleeping in it was probably the last thing he owned that they had given him. As he trudged along the road, he speculated a little further on why he was actually wearing it. He’d been at the opera, he had already remembered that. It might seem weird, juxtaposed with his awakening the next day, but Daniel was used to it. He’d been living an unusual life for some time now – he had never really got out of the habit of the high life he had been brought up in, even if it was now beyond his means. But then, many things he did regularly were beyond his means. He always seemed to find a way to work things out somehow.
It was as he was walking along, preoccupied by these musings, that the sound of a car came into focus behind him. This was not surprising. He was walking along a road, after all. What was surprising, however, was when the car slowed down as it came near and eventually stopped right in front of him. Curious, he came alongside and bent down to look in the passenger seat window. Sitting in the driver’s seat, smiling wryly at him, was a girl. He knew her, he was sure – of course. The girl from last night. With a grin, he opened the passenger door and climbed in. The girl greeted him with a friendly ‘good morning’, amusement and curiosity evident in her tone. Daniel smiled shamefacedly, and shrugged. ‘Don’t ask.’ He said simply, fervently hoping that she wouldn’t.
She looked intensely curious, but to his relief she let the subject drop. She seemed about to say something, but did not. The silence was awkward, tangible. Daniel shattered it, in the end, with the rather feeble effort of ‘sorry about your seat, and the dirt and all.’ The exchange as to his dishevelled state had rather taken the winds out of his sails. She smiled at him, shaking her head slightly. ‘It’s fine. This thing’ll probably get retired soon anyway. Can’t complain I guess. Most biscuit tins would just fall apart if you slapped them with an engine and wheels and tried to make them run, but this one’s lasted years.’ Daniel made an effort to smile at her joke but failed rather miserably. It occurred to him that he was being rude, and should say something more.
‘I’m sorry,’ he ventured hesitantly, after another long silence, ‘but I don’t recall your name. I know I’m dreadful.’ She grinned. ‘You certainly are, Daniel’, she said, putting emphasis on his name. ‘It’s Olivia.’
‘Of course!’ He cried, trying to sound much more enthusiastic than he felt and aiming for the clear subtext of ‘I remember now, certainly, I can’t think how I could have forgotten,’ though in fact it came out rather ponderously.
‘Well… you’re certainly less charming this morning than you were last night,’ she rebuked playfully. ‘But I’ll forgive you, since you did get opera tickets for me and all my friends.’ That was it! Thought Daniel. He had met this girl and her friends at a bar, and had invited them all to come to the opera with him since there was a show on and, he said, he could get free tickets. It was a lie – he’d had to buy them all, and in doing so he’d wiped out what pathetic vestiges of his bank balance still remained. He was prone to such impulsive acts, particularly where a pretty girl was involved.
Lost in his thoughts, he realised that he was once again being rude, but could think of nothing to say. This time the awkward silence was broken by Olivia. They had come into town by now and were driving along the beachfront, and she pulled the car in at the side of the road by a fast food place. ‘Come on, I’m sure you’ve got time to drink an awful cup of coffee with me haven’t you?’ she asked pleasantly, though the question was clearly rhetorical as she opened her door and stepped out without waiting for an answer. Daniel followed, and after each buying a polystyrene beaker of coffee the two made their way across the road and sat on the wall, looking out across the beach. It was still morning, but the cloud cover had become even thicker and had turned the sky an ominous deep grey, with odd shafts of sunlight piercing the clouds and lancing down to earth in radiant glory. ‘It’s beautiful,’ Olivia said softly, ‘don’t you think?’
Daniel nodded, feeling somewhat at peace for the first time that day as he sipped his scalding, dreadful coffee and looked out across the sea. ‘Yes,’ he stated simply, but with an emphasis that made the agreement seem considered and profound.
She turned, and smiled at him. Conscious of her gaze on the right side of his face like the shining of a lamp, he kept his own focus ahead, at the ocean before him. A figure came into view, silhouetted as it jogged across the beach, and then disappeared into the distance, whilst a tranquil, shared silence prevailed between the two who watched from the wall.
The moment was finally brought to an end by Olivia as she got up and walked a dozen paces to put her empty coffee container in a bin. She remained standing when she returned. ‘Well, I’d better be going,’ she said with a hint of regret. ‘Places to be. Just like always… never can find a moments peace. Oh,’ she exclaimed, as if suddenly remembering something, ‘I don’t suppose you found a brooch last night did you? Small, white, floral pattern? It’s pretty hideous to tell you the truth, but it’s an heirloom and kind of valuable. I think I must have dropped it somewhere last night.’
Daniel shook his head. ‘No, sorry. Nothing like that.’
‘Oh… well, I suppose it was kind a long shot. Do you need a lift into town?’ she asked with a warm smile, quickly overcoming her disappointment.
Daniel shook his head. ‘No, thank you – I’m fine here.’
‘Okay. I’ll see you around then.’ She turned on her heel, flashing him a last smile, and went back to her car, waving at him through the window as she drove away. Daniel watched the car until it drove out of sight, and then resumed his vigil, looking out over the beach. It was mere chance that led him to put his hands into his trouser pockets after a few minutes, and discover there the small, hard item that had awoken him when he had lain on it that morning. He drew it out and regarded it. A small brooch, white, with a floral pattern. He stared at it for some time before he finally remembered. He had stolen it. Last night, as he embraced Olivia and stole a farewell kiss, he had slipped a hand up and under the pretence of a caress had unclipped it from its place on her breast and pocketed it with the knowledge that he would need something to sell the next day, and had nothing else. The memory hit him with all the force of a sledgehammer to the head. He was stunned, appalled by it, and for some moments he was shocked into complete inactivity.
That night, Olivia was alone but for her cat who purred and rubbed himself incessantly against her legs as she tried fruitlessly to read the book she had settled down with. About nine, an envelope came through her door. She opened it, full of curiosity, and found inside her brooch, and a small slip of paper on which were written five words:
Sorry. Thank you. Goodbye.
Daniel
Boojum
First Post
Argh. I was out of town Friday and most of Saturday, but figured I would be ok because I set aside a few hours for writing Saturday night, to hopefully get at least a good start if not go all the way through. So I logged on a little after 9 only to find the boards were down and I couldn't get the pictures. I'll still try to put something together, but having lost most of the time I had set aside for writing, I have no idea if I will be able to finish in time. I don't want to withdraw partway through, though, so I'll put something up, even if it ends up being a 500-word speedbump entry.
