Fall Ceramic DM - Final Round Judgment Posted!

[mythago]

Round 1.7 – MarauderX vs. BigTom



Maldur



MarauderX
Rakshasa as a good guy, fantastic. And “an” explanation as to why they are evil. I like it. The only thing I don’t get is where the additional arms come from , that pic does not invoke that image of a marilith to me.

BigTom
Very 60’s personal discovery story, the only thing I found strange was your “fact” that it is unknown you can trip on a cactus, I thought Peyote was known by the general populaceJ All in all a nice story.

My point goes to MarauderX, as I liked the more fantastic story over the Magical realism offfered by Big Tom. It was even for a long time though. It ws personal preference swinging me.

Berandor

MarauderX: "Cursed"

Before going into details, let's talk about s...tyle. You should try toinclude sentences without any conjunction or relative in your story. I found myself re-reading several sentences, some being too long for their own good, losing clarity and power.

"To stop the incantation would be a waste, so I let the guard continue to wake the entire village as there would be nothing they could do to stop me." If he can't be stopped, why is he even thinking about stopping himself?

"The humans were confused as to why she didn't help and gave them looks of disdain." At first, ‘gave' seems to relate to the humans (the subjectof the sentence). Better would be "She regarded the humans disdainfully and refused to help, confusing them."

"She stopped at the foot of the hill, backtracking away from the decoy trail I had left as the sun met the mountain horizon." Does she stop at sunset, or did he leave the decoy trail at dusk? --> "At sunset, she stopped instead of following my decoy trail up the hill, even backtracking a few steps." These kinds of inaccuracies happen often and confused me somewhat as I read.

There were other, isolated things that struck my nerve. "...(she) cast a a spell to knock us apart. I had used enchantments to conceal myself from her.." So did the spell work, or did it fail because

of said enchantments? Something seems to miss here.

Also, when the Rakshasa shoots the bow, please tell us whether he misses, hits or doesn't see it as Notura is already upon him. Finally, the foreshadowing "I would later find out that the marilith's curse would follow me to this day." is out of place; it seems to belong to a different story altogether.

On the plus side, the beginning ritual was cool and showed the ruthlessness of the protagonist.

The idea of having a Rakshasa and a marilith starring in the story was interesting, as well, and I enjoyed how focused the Rakshasa was on breeding, mating and "raising a litter", even pondering a life with the female he plunges to death with.

It also strikes me a very sadistic (read: cool) of his fellow brethren to send him back to the world he came from, both to the protagonist and to the people who suddenly have to deal with a spell-immune, undead spellcaster.

Oh, and consider this character stolen as an NPC in my game.

"Cursed" would have benefitted from a tighter edit, but it was still a good read. Thanks.

BigTom: "Big Tom's story"

Paragraph breaks. Please use them. I print out all the stories and the paragraphs were still too long. In short (ha!), a paragraph should be restrained to one topic (or setting, event, etc.); when the topic changes, begin a new paragraph. Also, start a paragraph when somebody says something, or when the speaker changes in a conversation. There are a lot of instances in your story where the setting changes, or a new thought comes up, and at first it just confuses if sentences run one after the other. For example, when "Finally he came to the base of the tallest mountain he had ever seen.", this should begin a new paragraph.

Paragraph breaks also serve as a short pause in the narrative, so you are usually able to emphasize events better, too. (Note that the first and last words of a sentence, sentences of a paragraph, etc., are usually emphasized).

Consider "Paul shook his head and tried to clear his vision. Footsteps echoed on the ground, heavy boots stepping up to his crumpled form. Paul could feel a cold numbness encroaching on him, and despite his better knowledge, he looked up to regard the figure towering above him. It was Death."

And now "Paul shook his head and tried to clear his vision. Footsteps echoed on the ground, heavy boots stepping up to his crumpled form. Paul could feel a cold numbness encroaching on him, and despite his better knowledge, he looked up to regard the figure towering above him. It was Death."

Now, to the story. What is it with this tournament and drug use? Here, a cactus makes a young man come to his senses - a nice contrast, btw (gaining clarity by being drugged). Your monologues are very refreshing to read. The part where Bo talks about his experience with the Indians and their drugs was very cool.

"I followed Peyote to Coyote and he led me to the promised land." And all that follows is great.

However, as you likely noticed, I wrote "monologues." That's because youdon't have real dialogue in your story. People spout off lengthy sentences with no answer from listeners. Dialogue livens the story up. Monologues quickly become bouts of exposition - boring.

On his trip, Jakey displays a certainty that likely can be attributed to his drugged state, but the lack of reactions also keep him isolated from us. He might freeze not freeze on the mountain and even find it normal, but then we should see at least that he finds it normal. Or, maybe he does freeze and doesn't care, but then we need to see that.

By showing us more of Jakey, we would also understand better why climbing the mountain leading to Heaven or Hell was never a choice for him. "Showing" in that regard doesn't necessarily mean visual clues, as there are other senses you can use to describe events. For example, when Bo gives Jakey money, does the latter feel guilty? Ashamed? Does he hesitate before taking the money? Apologize? Does he thank Bo? Hug him? And so on.

Now, the basis of the story was good. The moral of it - as told by the Warrior - was a great idea (having his motivation come from a life-like experience whilst drugged out). It just needs some refinement, but that is the fate of most Ceramic DM stories. Thank you.

The Pics

The cacti

- MarauderX introduces us to "Zephel-spider spores" (I want to know these critters! Great name.), a necessary ingredient worthy of drowning a village for. After that impressive display of magical might, the spores sink below the lines, presumably used up in the ritual.

- BigTom hans us Indian Cacti, the "bonus level for shrooms." (also a cool line) These halluzinogenous plants lead our hero to a journey of naked self-discovery (that sounds ickier than it is. Really!).

Silhouette

- BigTom's "Warrior" is an Indian spirit guide, killed by his own people. I loved that he had arrows sticking out of his back (in the pic), even though it must be pretty uncomfortable using your back as quiver. Aside from uttering a final sentence wisdom, the Warrior mostly stands aside.

- MarauderX's Notura is our protagonist's nemesis, and when he finally gets rid of her, she curses him with her dying breath. She shapes the story with her existence.

Necklace

- MarauderX's necklace represents the Rakshasa's dreams, hopes, and a long string of more words forming his identity. He pulls a female Rakshasa to death with it, and when he finally buries it, his transformation to undead monster is complete.

- BigTom's necklace shows up late in the story, almost as an afterthought, so we don't know whether it really dispenses luck or is historically significant. We do know, however, that it consists of wampum.

Mountains

- BigTom's Jakey climbs the mountains on his quest for God, and though he nearly dies of starvation, thirst, falling to death, at the end he finds himself. The mountains represent the biggest problems imaginable - Jakey overcomes them.

- MarauderX's mountains represent the Rakshasa's home world. He has put his dreams into seeing, treading on them again, and as he falls down a cliff, his hopes are shattered along with his body, albeit without regeneration.

The Judgement

This is an extremely difficult round to judge. Both stories have a neat concept, but show the 72-hour time limit on their figurative sleeves. Both stories were posted early, incidentially, but I guess that doesn't mean you'd have time to edit them if you had postponed the posting. MarauderX has loose sentences, BigTom lacks paragraph breaks. BigTom has only monologues, MarauderX has no dialogue at all. It's really a dead race. Both have used their pictures adequately, if not spectacularly, with maybe a small advantage to BigTom for his cacti.

However, I can't hide behind close calls and dead races, so I award my POINT TO

Spoiler

MARAUDERX

for having a stronger focused entry. Good luck in the next round, whomever may advance.



Mythago

MarauderX – “Cursed”

I liked the opening of the story, where we’re not quite sure what’s going on, but there’s an enormous sense of rush and tension, a race to the death between two very not-nice, er, people. One thing I noticed that there really was no dialogue or interaction, just the narrator giving a kind of monologue about what happened. That breaks mimesis a bit (“who’s he talking to?”) and it makes the story less engaging; we’re not seeing what it happening, we’re told was was happening.

This was an enormous speedbump: “I would later find that the marilith’s curse would follow me to this day, but not nearly in the way I expected.” Telling a reader in mid-story what’s going to happen like this really ruins the narrative flow, and shouts HEY! YOU ARE READING A STORY!.

Good use of the pictures overall; the silhouette was confusing in that he seems to be describing the marilith, but the picture doesn’t show a multi-armed marilith at all.

BigTom – “BigTom’s story”

The first two lines of dialogue are a hoot; after that it kind of degenerates. Jakey and Bo come off more and more as caricatures than as characters. I guess I found it kind of hard to be drawn into the story because not a lot happens; Jakey takes some drugs, decides he needs to get out of town, and that’s about it. Which is not to say you can’t use that as a plot, but here all the action is in the vision, and it’s a lot of description for not much going on.

Overall, good use of the pictures. Seeing the arrows in the Warrior as symbols of his wounding was a nice touch.

Vote this round for MarauderX.

Judgment for

Spoiler

MarauderX

, who goes on to Round 2.

 

[mythago]

Round 1.8 – SteelDraco vs. Piratecat

Maldur

Piratecat
Eh, confusing little story. I’m not sure I got the right feel from it.

SteelDraco
Pirates, and a nice scheme to get past your enemies. I would love to read a more eleborate version of this story.

My point goes to SteelDraco, arrrr.

Berandor

SteelDraco: "Valen's Vengeance"

A very fine entry. A pirate's tale to defeat Piratecat's tale? That's unusual, and you do your part to succeed. A strong point in your writing is the frequent use of dialogue to liven things up and ring some conflict into the story. Conflict is good, as is your dialogue - not too artificial, but also not too filled with slang and dialect like a caricature.

Still, I made out some problematic tendencies in your style. Your point of view shifts within "chapters", often abruptly. First we're with Tratok, then with Nate, and now we're back to the hobgoblin's p.o.v. Choose a narrative perspective and stick to it, or at least signal aswitch somehow.

Also, while your dialogue is telling enough, I nevertheless miss some descriptions or reactions outside of conversation. For example, what does Valen look like? All we are told is that he's a "man-shape". You must also examine your sentences for grammatical clarity. First, you

tend to change the subject midsentence:

"Seawater rolled off the creature's head as it unfurled..." I'm guessing it's the head that unfurls, not the water.

"Nate grabbed the man. (...) He crumpled..:" Tratok crumples, not Nate.

The second tendency I made out is similar: When you connect independent phrases with a conjunction (but, and, as), separate them with a comma. However, when these sentences are not able to stand alone, do not use a comma. Likewise, when you use a parenthetical phrase seperated with a comma, it should refer to the subject of the sentence.

"Each carried a hunting spear, and wore armor of turtle shell..." No comma (or no conjunction)

"Several carried woven kelp bags, flopping with fresh-caught fish." No comma

"Nate hopped easily from the landing boat, and strode up next to Tratok." no comma.

It's a minor thing for this competition, but I thought I'd mention it anyway.

Now, the tale you unfold is a queer one - pirates hunting for silverware has a certain irreverent touch to it. I also like the pirate crew, for example the magic-sniffing goblin.

"I see Valen's eggling has grown..." This idiom is not only clearly understandable to us, but it also shows us a part of lizardfolk culture (or biology, or both). Very good. The showdown is tense and fast, but I wonder why the crew listened to Sha'galok and did not interfere. Nate had just illustrated his intent to kill the lizardman, after all. "This fight is between them." is not

enough for me, just as it wasn't in the D&D movie.

How Tratok disrupts Nate's spell with a punch is great, though. And the image of him laughing whilst coughing blood is a very vivid one.

The ending, however, is just an ending in that the story suddenly stops. "Why would I be worried?" We don't know enough to be sure that Valen's rightfully unconcerned; in fact, people will probably recognize him just as they recognized his statue. I miss at least one sentence that either gives us closure or really opens the ending (like Tratok groaning at the process of being hunted again). As it is, though, the ending is just too abrupt.




Piratecat: "Jabberwockies"

Let me tell you about rhythm. Some stories have rhythm. Their words run along in a mesmerizing ebb and flow, pulsating in the reader's mind, spinning a web of fascination you have to actively force yourself out of. When you read one of these stories, your brain automatically falls in line with the cadence. Perhaps it's not so much rhythm, but melody.

Words dancing high and low, in major chords and minor discord, playing on your emotions like Vanessa Mae on a violin.

Whether you call it rhythm, melody, or snufflebuggle - this story has it.

Right from the start, it grabs me and never loosens its grip until the very end. "Tin. Tin. Biting on aluminum, licking a battery. Tin." And just like that, I'm in.

The foreshadowing starts early with Aunt Frances's clutching "a martini glass like it was a life preserver and the wedding was a sinking ship." Carol has already begun to make excuses for her "asthmatic whiffling husband" Charles.

What follows is a foray into an absued woman's soul. There are great details, like Carol sweating "(perspiration glow dew but ladies don't sweat)" - great line - from (to my understanding) fear and concentration, explaining it away with "even at this altitude, a hot breeze was flowing..." when a few lines later it reads, "'It's a little rustic, darling,' she hazarded, 'and chilly at this altitude.'", telling us somehting is amiss with the present.

Charles's plans are alluded to, but never explained: "It's much better than the alternative." or "This is the way out of my trap." Carol's mindset is illustrated excellently, I find, from her italicized subconscious mutterings to expressions like "she had grown to live for the rare moment when his gaze would alight on her..."

And just in case we don't hate Charles enough, you give us the nightly climb into the grave where my loathing for the bastard reached new heights.

I think that even in the end, a large part of Carol is caught in Charles's web ("He did such hard work for the both of them.") – that sound very realistic to me (sadly).

Now, there's the odd sentence that could be trimmed, or where a comma is amiss or missing. But these instances are solitary in nature and shall not be dwelt upon any longer - for now.

On top of it all, you mix your narrative with Carroll's poem. Charles is galumphing, the manxome foe, while Carol uffishly sits at the tum-tum wooden table... and it works.

And the ending. The ending is just... Snicker-snack. I realize this sounds more like and endorsement than like a critical assessment, but so be it.

Thank you, Piratecat. Thank you very much.

The pics

The Cave

- SteelDraco's cave is not natural in origin and holds one hundred (and one) cases of platinum silverware. Strong magics guard against intrusion, able to fell even a hydra.

- Piratecat's cave is an ancient burial site, home to desiccated corpses, tin silverware and milipedes. Only a candles lights our way down there, a flickering flame exposing the horror that is otherwise hidden in darkness.

The Silverware

- Piratecat's "utensils" are made from tin covered with silver, and at least one "vorpal blade" will be put to good use soon.

- SteelDraco's silverware is the motivation behind the pirates' quest, platinum forks and spoons. Even though we never see the silverware itself, only its containers, we can surmise that it hasn't rusted in the years of being buried in the cave.

The petal necklace

- SteelDraco has Sha'galok wear a necklace of bone spines topped with a black pearl containing Captain Valen's soul.It is an unseemly piece of jewelry, yet quite important.

- Piratecat's variety of "Anthropoda Myriapoda" is shy, yet probably paralytically poisonous. What's more, they gyre and gimble in the wabe and look distressingly cute with a purple ribbon on their head. This is my favorite picture use of the tournament so far.

male bust

- Piratecat has his heroine experience a vision, seeing her husband in the shriveled face of a mummified corpse. Maybe it is here Carol realizes she will not satisfy Charles until he is dead, but it is still Piratecat's weakest pic.

- SteelDraco gives us Captain Valen, he who "destroyed the fleet of Thron's Hold, sailed out of the Mirrormere, and dared to steal from Raelin the Glutton." If that isn't a resume worthy of at least middle management, I don't know what is. (We're sailing on the big accountancy!)

Judgement

I think it's probably clear where my vote goes to, but the story really clicked with me.

SteelDraco, a very nice entry; you would have a good chance to advance, usually - and you still might, since it takes two votes to win a round.

Other than that, what can I say except POINT TO

Spoiler

PIRATECAT

, and "Snicker-snack", off to my sig!


mythago

SteelDraco – “Valen’s Vengeance”

Arr! Few things are as pleasin’ as a good pirate yarn.

Whew. Had to let that out.

The prose was engaging; what I found lacking was suspense. It’s pretty obvious where the story is going and who’s driving it. We have the young snot who’s not the man his father was and isn’t half as clever as he thinks he is, and the second-in-command, loyal to the dead (?) father, who really runs the show and will put the brakes on the kid in the end. Pretty much from the beginning you can see that the kid is going to get his comeuppance.

There is too much “as you know…” dialogue in the beginning, telling us of Valar’s deeds and the background. It’s as nicely handled as one can expect, but still, there is a feeling that these characters are only repeating this information (that they know all too well) for our benefit.

That said, the prose flows along, and I quite liked the device of Valar as figurehead of his own ship with his soul sealing the bargain with the guardians. I’d have liked to see a better wrap-up. It thuds rather than, er, rips. (Why should I worry, is not much of a pirate-y, Valar-like thing to say.)

Excellent use of pictures. The statue as jaunty, butt-kicking Valar is perfect.



Piratecat – “Jabberwockies”

See, people, THIS is why I didn’t enter Ceramic DM this time around.

A great horror story without supernatural oogies. It reminds me a bit of “The Yellow Wallpaper”; we flip back and forth, believably, watching Carol mentally disintegrate over the years of her miserable marriage. Charles never raises a hand to her or terrorizes her, but his terrible self-centeredness and withholding of approval are devastating.

The only real criticism—and I’m reaching here—is that I’d liked to have gotten a better sense of why Carol married him in the first place. It’s clear from the wedding scene that he was a jerk from Day One, but what she saw in him (or why she thought she saw anything) isn’t entirely clear.

Picture use: I had a bit of trouble seeing the ‘mummy’ one as you placed it, and the silverware seems a bit shiny for an archaeological find—but plausible.


My three-cornered hat tips to

Spoiler

Piratecat

Judgment this round to

Spoiler

Piratecat

, who goes on to Round 2. Nice work, gentlemen.

 

[mythago]

Since Rodrigo said "tomorrow night" today, pics will go up Wednesday evening.

 

[Sparky]

ALL THAT GLITTERS
by Sparky


SPIELBERG, PRECINCT #7, Captain Grimm’s Office

Blinds chatter against the glass as I shut the door to the Captain’s office, just barely pulling my hair through the door in time. There’s a small, furry man sitting in a chair opposite the Captain’s desk. He’s got a red cap in his lap. A red cap in his lap and a soy latte frap. Oh…a Seuss. I hope this is short, I don’t rhyme for sport. Ugh.

I glanced at him as he stands, brushing at a green speck on his fuzzy, yellow chest. Turning my attention to the captain I ask, “You wanted to speak to me?”

Speak was a bit of an overstatement. Captain Grimm was a solid gold statue.(1) It still creeped me out to hear her voice in my head.

“Romaine, this is Detective Samuel.” The captain’s voice was tinnier than usual. The fuzzy guy stuck out a hand, “Your new partner. Detective Samuel this is Rapunzel Romaine.”

I smile around clenched teeth and hope it reads as friendly. Reaching down I take the new Detective’s hand. The fur warm and coarse. Not what I expected. A knock interrupts us and an officer sticks his head in, brow creased with concern, “Ma’am, Mayor Goose’s aid is on the phone.”

Something’s amiss. I’m not ready for this. And definitely not for a Suess. And now, with The Goose. Oh won’t the rhyming please stop? My brain’s going to turn into slop.

I grimace down at my new partner and he smiles giving my hand a squeeze before turning it loose. His voice bright and chipper, “Call me Sam, ma’am, if you would. Pleased to meet you, I know we’ll do good.”

This was going to be a long assignment.


SPIELBERG DOCKS, The Breakwater

We arrive at the scene. An officer is taking the statement of an agitated lady chicken. She paces back and forth, red-gold feathers swirling around her.

“The sky is what, ma’am?” The young officer’s voice is patient. He looks dapper with straw colored hair and neatly pressed blues.

“Falling! The sky is falling!” The lady squawks.

“Please calm down, ma’am,” the officer continues. He spots us and gestures with his head to another officer and a band of yellow crime scene tape. The officer nods us through and I lift the tape for Sam before realizing he doesn’t need it.

We walk out onto the breakwater. It’s empty, rare on a clear day. (2) Even a cold one like this. I’d enjoy it if we weren’t here on business. We make our way carefully down the rocks of the jetty to the strand and rounding a boulder step into a grisly scene.

Officers are combing the area for clues. One young forensics officer detaches himself from the searching phalanx and approaches, “Detectives. This is big. The vic is a Dumpty. Humpty Dumpty.”

Wow. Big. No kidding. Humpty was heir-apparent to the Royal Dumpty crown. It was purely ceremonial, the Dumptys were rulers in name only, but it made sense now why The Goose was anxious.

“So I’m guessing you think this wasn’t an accident?” I asked, expecting the answer that came.

The officer nodded gesturing us over to a large curving piece of shell, “Our preliminary study of the more intact shell fragments show some crazing on the left upper hemisphere. I think Humpty was pushed.”

Sam’s been quiet, content to let me take the lead. I look over to ask him a question and he’s staring up the twenty-foot high wall of rough-stacked stone.

He points to the top of the wall and calls over his shoulder, “There’s no railing, it’s really quite breezy.”

“Yeah,” I say lightly, “Humpty went over easy.”


SPEILBERG, PRECINCT #7, Detective Bull Pen

We’re only a few hours into the case and the Mayor is already giving Captain GRIMM a hard time. The Captain’s metallic voice rings in my head, making the hairs in my ears tickle.

She’s snappish as she gives us our marching orders, “Humpty’s parents are flying in right now. I want you two waiting at the castle the moment they arrive.”

She wheels around, rigid golden form spinning precariously on her small, wheeled dolly. More than one officer has to leap out of her way. I sigh and look up as Sam makes his way across the room with two cups of coffee. He is watching the Captain, eyes wide and sympathetic as she rolls off on her rattling dolly.

“So what’s the story of the gold, rumors and whisperings are all I’ve been told,” he asks, small, cat-like face peering at me over his desk as he hands across my cup.

“Thanks for the coffee, I do like it black. The Captain? It happened a couple years back,” I answer, distractedly taking the cup while I sift through a pile of paperwork. The involuntary rhyme trickles into my brain. Stop. Rhyming. Damn. I need to tell Sam.

Shaking my head, I continued, “Remember Midas? Nasty guy? Turned his victims into gold and then melted them down? The Captain collared him.

“She and her partner had been closing in on the guy and his accomplice, but their leads kept vanishing out from under them. When they finally caught up to Midas, the Captain decided to get proof that he was their man the only way she could. She let Midas touch her.” And she looks so smug about it. I wonder how she knew she would survive and for the first time it occurs to me that maybe she didn’t. Damn.

The phone on my desk started to ring; I reached for it and looked toward the Captain’s door, “She’s a tough lady. Never did catch the accomplice, though.”

I picked up the receiver and reflex answered for me, “Precinct Seven, Detective Romaine.”

It was forensics. I gave Sam a look and a gesture to let him know we were getting ready to go. “Great, thanks, Big. We’ll be right over.”


SPIELBERG, CORONER’S LAB, Workstation of Big Malloup

Sam stands up from the microscope and shrugs. He sidesteps out of the way so I can look at the slide, tripping over a long coil of my hair as he does.

“Sorry,” I say as I gather up the errant loop and help Sam to his feet. One of these days – snip – it’s all coming off.

I straighten, tucking the loop of hair away and lean over the microscope squinting. I adjust some knobs and start to ask what it is I’m supposed to be seeing when the slide snaps into focus. (3) Pretty.

I stand up, puzzled and shake my head. Sam makes a non-committal face and I scratch behind my ear thinking.

After letting my mind whirl for a bit, I cave and ask, “I give up, Big. What is it?”

Big bares his teeth, long, canines gleaming white like his lab coat. I can’t tell if it’s a smile or a grimace.

His voice is gravelly as he points a clawed hand at the microscope, “That, Rapunzel, was the next-to-next in line for the Dumpty throne.”

I whisper, “Humpty was pregnant?”

The wolf nods, golden eyes solemn. This is bad. I glance at my watch and it is time for Sam and me to head over to the castle.

“I appreciate you getting to this fast, Big,” I say.

“No problem,” he replies, baring his fangs again, this time I can tell it’s a grin. “Care to thank me over dinner sometime?”

Sam is already at the door and I’m not far behind as I call back, “After our last date? My, what big cojones you have.”

“Har, har, Detective Romaine,” he mutters, busying himself with his lab equipment. With a brighter tone he asks, “So, we on?”

“I’ll think about it,” I say, squinting at him as I shut the door behind me.


SPIELBERG, CASTLE DUMPTY, East Parlor

The castle is cold and dreary. Not nearly as romantic as I’d imagined. As much as I hated being a prisoner in the witch’s tower, it was cozy at least. Sam studies a bust of Grumpty Dumpty II, hiding well any anxiety he might have.

I page idly through a magazine and try to remember the more grievous no-nos when meeting and addressing royalty. Oh forget it. I decide to move on to something I can do something about.

Closing the magazine I look at Sam and begin, “Well Sam, they’re going to come and get us eventually. I wanted to talk to you about something.”

He turns around, bright eyes curious, “Is it about your partner’s death? Is it true he ODed on crystal meth?”

I stand, magazine sliding to the floor, my long braid slithering out of its bindings, uncoiling on the floor like a living thing, “No he didn’t, you take that back. Don’t regurgitate lies, you little hack.”

The stricken look on Sam’s face makes me instantly regret what I’d said. Stupid rhyming… that’s not what I meant. I open my mouth to apologize when a liveried man appears, officious and curt; he motions for us to follow him, drawling, “Come with me, Detectives.”

Looping my hair hastily over my arm I have to run to catch up with Sam and the manservant. We are ushered into a well-appointed receiving room. The servant retreats into a corner, I can feel him behind us coiled like a spring, ready to leap into action for his liege lords. It’s a strange sort of devotion.

Their Majesties are great white domes ensconced in cascades of velvet and lace. They’d be hard-boiled if the castle weren’t so chilly. We sidle awkwardly in, unsure of what to do. Their wide, red-cheeked faces look jolly, but over-bright eyes and fidgeting hands give the lie to their courtly demeanors.

I kneel, eyes downcast and peek over at Sam from the corner of my eye. He’s kneeling too. Good.

“Rise Detectives. It is Our wish that you speak with Our attorney,” says the King. His voice is round and bouncy. “He has Our complete trust and will be dealing with any questions you may have for Us. Please resolve this with all possible speed.”

I simply nod and can’t help but glance up as a stern looking raven in a dark suit hops in from the balcony, a briefcase clasped under his wing.

“This way,” The raven croaks, hopping sideways and inclining his head. We stand to leave and Sam stops. Oh boy.

The furry little man gathers himself and speaks suddenly, “Your Majesties, there is more news. I regret to say the abuse accrues. This death you see, it’s come in twos. It’s not just one, but two you lose.”

The King’s eyes widen dangerously, but they seem more puzzled by Sam’s outburst than offended that he’d spoken out of turn. With a gesture, the King forestalls the manservant who had come off the wall to strike Sam down.

“Humpty was our only daughter, We do not underst--“ the King breaks off as his wife gasps, hands to her mouth.

Tears spill from the corner of Queen’s eyes and before we have a chance to witness much more the manservant and the lawyer bustle us out of the room into an office. A little disoriented we are offered tea and refreshments before the manservant disappears beyond the heavy wooden door. The raven hops across the wide table, tidy in his charcoal suit, claws clicking along the inlaid surface.

He clears his throat and cocks his head at Sam, “That was profoundly stupid, Detective.”

He hops closer, head cocking this way and that as he studies both of us from different angles, “But I appreciate the gesture. Let’s get down to business. Are you two looking into this case as a formality because it is high-profile or because you suspect foul play?”

I shift in my seat. Right to business indeed.

I open my mouth, “Both Mr…?”

“Heavens! More! Neville More. Royal Attorney. Detectives Romaine and Samuel, let me welcome you to Castle Dumpty. I wish it were under better circumstances.” He cocks his head, “Don’t look so shocked. I checked the guest book before I arrived.”

I put down my coffee cup and lean across the table. I had lots of questions.


HANS HOLLOW, Residence of Margery B. Whistle

The lawyer gave us the address to a single family home in a lower-middle class neighborhood in the suburbs. We pull up to the curb by the mailbox and get out, surveying the house as we approach. Toys litter the side yard and a rambling, ramshackle playground in the corner of the lot is covered on one side with a sign that reads ‘Puppies, Free to Good Home.’ Scrawled beneath the original text is ‘Free cinnamon pie with each puppy.’

Free pie? I couldn’t help but remark, “This is where the late crown-princess’ boyfriend lives? In a giant shoe?”

Sam was unfazed. Man, the little guy puzzles me. I prodded him, grinning, “You must come from a strange place, Sam.”

He looks up at me quizzically, saying, “This from a woman who grew up in a tower. With just singing for company, hour by hour.”

How did he know about that?

We’re at the door and Sam reaches up to clang the knocker twice. A stampede of feet sound inside. Voices. Then quiet. I look up, waiting. The house has been redone. Recently by the looks of it. And by a designer with more dollars than sense. Tacky only began to describe the place. (4) I hear a squeak as the peephole slides aside.

A muffled voice comes from behind the door, “Who is it?”

“Detectives Samuel and Romaine,” I say. “We’d like a few words with Jack.”

“Detectives? What do you want?” says the muffled voice. It sounds like a kid - a young man.

“Are you Jack? We’d like to talk about Miss Dumpty,” I continue, “It’ll only take a second.”

The bolts on the door slide back and a young man slips through quickly, but not before we see a multitude of unwashed young faces peering at us with wide, hollow eyes and slack jaws. Why aren’t they in school?

“I’m Jack,” the kid says. His clothes are ragged; shirt full of holes and pants tattered. I catch a glimpse of healing burns on the insides of his calves. This is a bad scene.

“Where are your parents?” I ask.

“My mother. She’s at work,” he mumbles and glares at us sullenly. I look at Sam. He looks at me and back at the young man.

“Jack, we need you to come down town, on a matter of import to the crown,” Sam’s voice is kind and concerned.

“What’s with this guy?” the kid cracks, snorting at my partner. I’m not in the mood.

“You’re coming with us, Jack. We have questions for you. About last night,” my tone comes out harsher than I’d intended.

“You what? No way. I can’t leave. I have to take care of my brothers and sisters,” Jack backs away, voice growing wary, as he takes a couple of steps toward the door.

“We’ll call someone to take care of them.” Child Protective Services. I reach for his arm and he shrugs me off, shouting, “Get off! What is this about?”

“Easy. Your girlfriend died last night. We think she someone might have tried to kill her. And we think you might be able to help us find out who did it,” I say, trying so make my tone soothing. Sam is better at this.

The young man’s bravado evaporates and he looks away, brow creasing. He looks at me, voice catching, “Humpty? She’s dead. I don’t believe you,” his voice grows louder, “She can’t be dead. I just saw her last night. She snuck in the second story window.”

Aha! “That’s what we want to hear about. Just come downtown and answer some questions. It won’t take long,” I reach for his arm again and, this time, he doesn’t resist.


SPIELBERG, PRECINCT #7, Interrogation Room 4

The interrogation room is close and stuffy. The gray-green walls are dreary and the light dim. The combined effect puts most people off. Jack keeps chafing his hands and I begin suspect that the shoe didn’t have central heating. An officer is on his way over to check on the other children right now. We’ve convinced Jack that Humpty is dead and he’s withdrawn into himself.

“We know about the paperwork that Humpty had drawn up, Jack. Mr. More told us,” I say. He doesn’t make any move or gesture other than the occasional shiver.

I stay at him, trying to provoke a response, adding, “We know you were to be married, and that Humpty was transferring her fortune to your name.”

He takes the bait and snaps back, “Yeah, so? There was nothing her parents could do about it.”

Bingo. I jump, words coming quickly, “But there was something they could do, Jack. And they did it. When Mr. More found out about your plans and told Humpty’s parents they were furious. I’m sure you know how they feel about you.”

He grits his teeth, but says nothing.

I have him now and keep pressing, goading him, “Yeah, you do know. And you know they would never let you touch their daughter or their fortune.”

“So what?” he shouts, looking around wild eyed. He asks the two-way mirror, “When is my mother going to get here?”

He’s angry now. And scared. Good.

“So what? So when you found out they’d nullified the paperwork you were mad,” I lean down, knuckles on the table, and put my face right up to Jack’s, “Really mad,” I breathe.

He squints at me and looks at Sam out of the corner of his eyes, “Are you … Are you saying you think I killed her?”

I my head, hair shifting dangerously as I reply, “The thought crossed my mind. I see your clothes, I see your place, your brothers and sisters with just your mother working to support all of you. And I think that you might be mad when you find out she let her parents get between you and all that money.” Any time now, Sam…

“You’re crazy,” he mumbles. Come on, Sam…

“Am I? Would I be crazy to want out of a bad situation, to want my family to have what they need,” I stand up, and move across the room to pace, starting in on him again, “It isn’t hard to imagine how angry I’d be if a chance like yours disappeared before my eyes. All that money!”

“I didn’t want her money! I loved her! My mother has all the money we n--“ Jack breaks off as the door to the interrogation room bursts open.

An old woman, bent and crooked, walks in, shoving past the Captain and grabs Jack. Her clothes are worn and tattered, like her son’s. She rounds on me and Sam, a gold brooch at her throat throwing sparks as her adam’s apple moves it up and down, “I’m Margery Whistle. Jack’s mother. What is the meaning of this?”

“Your son may know something about a murder. We need to ask him some questions,” I reply.

“My son doesn’t know anything about any murder!” she shouts. “Come with me, boy!” she says, grabbing Jack’s arm and hauling him out of the room, chastising him loudly as they move through the station.

“Dammit! Where were you? Why didn’t you get in there and help?” I snap at Sam, pacing off my anger and energy.

Sam retorts, “Two reasons I didn’t offer assistance. Reason one, you were going the distance. Reason two, I believe his insistence.”

The Captain interjected, “So what’s the situation, people?”

Both of us are glaring at each other, when Sam defers to me and I sit heavily in the chair, sighing as I begin to speak, “We talked to the Dumpty’s. Humpty and this boy, Jack, were seeing each other. You saw him. I’m sure you know they wouldn’t approve. They certainly wouldn’t approve of her pregnancy.”

“She was pregnant?” the Captain asks. I can hear the raised eyebrows in her ringing voice, even if her golden face is perfectly still.

“Yeah,” I continue, “And not only that, the two kids planned to elope. Humpty had just turned eighteen and was in the process of getting her fortune written into Jack’s name so that when they were married they could run off together. The Dumpty’s found out and put a stop to it.”

The Captain pauses, difficult to discern unless you know her well.

She asks me, “And you think he did it because he was desperate and angry?”

I shrug and think a moment before replying, “On our way to the kid’s place I didn’t. But after I saw how he lived, and his burns,” I look at Sam, “You saw the burns didn’t you?”

He nods, eyes dropping. I finish the thought, “After I saw all that I adjusted what I thought he might be capable of.”

The captain turns to Sam, “And you?”

He shakes his head. What? No rhymes for the Captain?

The Captain wheels into the corner and sits quietly. She spins around suddenly, her outstretched frozen arm sweeping a gesture. I think she’s been cultivating that effect. Poor thing, it must be hard being a solid gold statue.

Her voice vibrates in my ears, “Did either of you notice that brooch? Odd thing for a poor old woman to have.”

“I don’t know,” I say, “An heirloom. A remnant of better times. But, yeah, it is a bit showy.”

“Something’s bugging me about her. She’s familiar. I know her face. Her name,” the Captain’s voice grows thin as she searches her memory.

Sam adds, “I noticed something strange too. At the house, the outside was new. And the boy, Humpty’s money eschewed, saying his mother had cash out the wazoo.”

I nod and admit, “Yeah, I noticed the house too. That was strange. All those toys everywhere.”

“I know where I’ve seen her!” the Captain cries suddenly. It makes my head hurt.

She continues, excited, “It’s been so long. Her place, it’s the ratty shoe, right? She has a lot of kids?”

She waits for our nods and continues, “She was a victim of Midas. Rather, her daughter was. But Midas didn’t succeed in kidnapping her daughter. That was how I first suspected that I could survive an encounter with Midas. We questioned her daughter. The girl described Midas, but there was always something weird to me about how the girl got away.”

The Captain’s voice trails off. Her silence is eerie as she stops speaking and I wish I could read her face. Sam and I look at one another uncomfortable as the silence draws out.

We both jump when the Captain makes a strangled sound, “Oh god. She didn’t. She couldn’t.”

The Captain rolls quickly out of the room, dolly rattling, and shouts, “Come with me, we’ve got an arrest to make.”


HANS HOLLOW, Residence of Margery B. Whistle

The ride to the Whistle residence is tense; the Captain is radiating a nearly palpable aura of anger and sadness. Sam’s hat is in his lap again. He twists it anxiously. I stare out the windshield willing traffic to move faster.

We roll up to the house and cut the lights and the engine as we approach. There are lights on in the shoe house and we can see movement inside. The children will be gone, removed into custody of the state. Only Jack and his mother remain in the house.

We creep toward the house. Sam circles around the behind the heel to the door. Captain Grimm and I stay by the toe so we can watch the windows. There’s a mural here at the tip of the shoe - people wandering down a boardwalk. Coney Island? This lady is bonkers.

I hear Sam knock loudly on the door. “Open up! Police! You’ve breached the peace!” he shouts. I hear a shout inside and see shadows move through the house upward. She’s going to run.

Unwrapping my hair, loop after loop, I scramble up the toe of the shoe. Swinging the end around and around I throw the trailing end of my braid hard as I can over the house. It snakes over the house and vanishes. Sam yelps and I know the end made it over.

“Sam,” I shout, “Bring the end of that braid to the Captain.” He trots into view dragging my braid and puts the end into the Captain’s hand. He looks at me like I’ve gone mad as I pull down on the length of hair disappearing over the house. The long rope of hair goes taut in the Captain’s hand (5) and with her on belay I begin to scale the shoe stopping when I reach a second story window. It’s open and I slip inside. I lean out the window and signal Sam and the Captain to release my hair.

I turn around and what I see makes my stomach churn. I understand why the Captain brought us here. She’s a smart one, that Captain. Humpty must have seen this too. A golden statue, a bust, really, sits on a table against the wall. It is a little girl. A little girl who was turned to gold by the touch of a killer.

The door to the room opens and I pull my gun. It’s Jack. I feel a tugging on my braid and turn to see Sam climbing through the window, snub-nosed pistol drawn from god-knows-where.

I lower my gun and ask,“Jack, did your mother do this?” I nod at the carved up bust.

Tears well in his eyes and he nods. I press, “That why you didn’t care about Humpty’s money? And where all the toys came from?”

Another nod.

“And I bet Humpty saw it last night when she snuck in,” I add.

The young man’s eyes go wide and he shakes his head, shrinking into the corner and whispering to himself. “No. Oh god, no.”

I look at the poor boy, and softly tell him, “Jack, climb down my braid, the Captain is down there. Stay with her. We’re going to arrest your mother.”

He moves sluggishly toward the window and clambers out.

“I just saw movement upstairs,” says Sam. We move up the stairs in tandem and toward the attic and kick down the door, guns drawn. Sam advances on the old woman.

“Where were you just last night?
Tell us, don’t put up a fight.
Did you push her off the wall?
Did you, did you make her fall?”

She recoils from us, from Sam’s anger and the power in his voice. I’m impressed.

“Alright I did it!
I’ll tell all.
I did it! I pushed her!
I made her fall.

She knew, she knew!
My son spilled it!
Three years ago,
My daughter was gilded.

By Midas, the killer,
He turned her to gold
I told him to do it,
My children were cold!”

I can only stare as the words tumble from my lips.

“You have the right to silence, do not speak of your violence…”

The verse came easily to my lips and I looked over at Sam and smiled. My partner in rhyme.


1. content - Golden Captain Grimm
2. jetty - Humpty's Wall
3. egg - Humpty's got a boyfriend
4. shoe - There was an old woman...
5. pullover - The Captain on belay

 

[Berandor]

Finally!

BTW, my paragraph example for "BigTom's Story" should read:

Consider "Paul shook his head and tried to clear his vision. Footsteps echoed on the ground, heavy boots stepping up to his crumpled form. Paul could feel a cold numbness encroaching on him, and despite his better knowledge, he looked up to regard the figure towering above him. It was Death."

And now "Paul shook his head and tried to clear his vision. Footsteps echoed on the ground, heavy boots stepping up to his crumpled form. Paul could feel a cold numbness encroaching on him, and despite his better knowledge, he looked up to regard the figure towering above him.

It was Death."

 

[Sparky]

AAAARRRGGH!

Late. Crap.

Crap.

Well. If this still counts the bleeped out word isn't a swear - it 'shifted'.

 

[Sparky]

Did I mention 'Crap'?

If I didn't: CRAP.

 

[Berandor]

12 pages?

So it *was* a threat!



As to the lateness, I defer to mythago and your opponent.
ETA: Just FYI, the pics were posted at 9:12 AM from what the board tells me, and you posted at 9:08 AM, so I can't detect any lateness.

 

[Thomas Hobbes]

Late. Crap.

?

By my timestamp, pictures went up at 4:12 EST 11/14, story went up at 4:08 11/17.

This just me?

 

[FireLance]

As to the lateness, I defer to mythago and your opponent.
ETA: Just FYI, the pics were posted at 9:12 AM from what the board tells me, and you posted at 9:08 AM, so I can't detect any lateness.

As far as I can see, Sparky posted on time. The pics went up 4:12 pm on 14/11 my time, and his entry was posted on 4:08 pm 17/11.