The March Challenge!

[Injin]

The sunlight is always bright over heaven. The gates, as pearly as described by several religious figures stood imposing behind me as I stood in the seat of St. Peter, a seat long since assigned to you, as recently as a week ago, earth time. It wasn’t like I wasn’t busy though, so at least it wasn’t boring.

“Okay, next! C’mon, there are several million people behind you sir, could you please hurry it up?” I asked, awaiting the next person to step forward. A small balding man, clearly nervous walked forward in his suit and tie, still struggling with the realization he was at the pearly gates of heaven, “Okay, Mr. Hortonson I presume? It’s what it says in the book, so please confirm that is who you are. There are no secrets in heaven sir”.

The man fiddling with his tie responded, “Yes, I am Mr. Hortonson, but please call me Willam. Is this really heaven?”

I laughed as he asked, it still wasn’t getting old that people when they got to the front of his line were always nervous, “Don’t you worry Willam, this is heaven, although you aren’t really inside it yet. Now, let’s begin with the bad things you’ve done. Several acts of pettiness throughout your childhood and teen years – we don’t count those normally, but these are just the outstanding cases - , a little racism here and there throughout your life, although for the 30’s you were remarkably even handed towards African-Americans, as they are called now, and aren’t being hammered for that. You did bankrupt a family, although that was more of because of the stock market than you. Let’s see, ah yes. The worst of the worst. You broke a girl’s heart when you were in your 50’s. Your wife has already passed through these gates, and she has been here for about two decades now. You really did a number on her when you cheated on her with your niece”.

The man, looking visibly ashamed, covered his face and threw his tie down, “I didn’t know! I was drunk!”.

“Willam, be quiet with your excuses! You continued to see her even after your wife’s death. Excuses mean nothing for heaven, especially the ‘I was drunk’ excuse. Seriously though, you treated her and your resulting children well, and while it’s a huge infraction against you for your infidelity and your involvement in your wife’s death, you are still going to be allowed in”.

Wilam sighed and slumped to the ground, bumping against the door behind him. He sighed in relief and grabbed his tie, and began to get up when I stopped him, “Yeah, no. I told you that you would be allowed in. I didn’t say immediately. You still need to be punished for your sins Willam, and to be honest I am not sure how to properly punish you. So, I am going to have to go by the book for this particular case. If I see you try to get up, I will double whatever punishment the book provides, got it Willam?”

The lowly balding man nodded rapidly and began to cringe as I read off the punishment, “Okay, the book says that you are being ‘cut off’, so to speak, from any possible intercourse for the next century”.

Willam, shocked by this, got up in my face, “No! You can’t do this to me, you just can’t! I am finally healthy for the first time in years, you can’t just take this away from me!”

Slapping him down to the ground with my book, I lifted him up and kicked him into the wall, where he was tazed by the very gates of heaven itself. I picked him up again and looked straight into his eyes, “Willam, I think that if you do that again, I will revise my decision and sentence you to hell for 100 years on top of your punishment. Are we clear?”. While that threat was technically empty, it was usually enough to scare people straight.

With the apparently dazed man nodding rapidly, I dropped Willam and motioned for him to head into the gates and watched as he entered a door way and entered heaven, where he falls over and begins to cry as the searing pain fill his body due to the temporary punishment that is being wrecked upon his body. I turned and sat back down, awaiting the next person I was judging, when the door opened and an Austrian man with a tiny mustache walked in and sat down.

Going over his file, I looked up and said, “What the fuck?” and thus my day continued, as interesting as always.

[ASGetty ((Zovo))]

Seven nights passed before we made our descent from Uch’Naatal. Seven nights of uncertainty separated by six days of standing along the ridge staring down at an abandoned beach. Once that beach had been our home; my people, the Nya’Koloti had lived at the base of these cliffs on those sandy shores and in the forest there-between. For longer than any of us could remember, that place had been our home.

Then N’Ya stirred. The earth shuddered while he dreamed and Kun, the sea, came in the night to soothe his troubled sleep. Now our home is gone, and not just our home but that of our neighbors, the Kun’Taoli as well. Theirs is a tragedy of trust. The Kun’Taoli had lived so long in the presence of Kun’s love that they had forgotten to fear her. When the waters receded they rushed to collect the bounty she had provided from the exposed reef, but they had forgotten that each grain of sand upon that brilliant white beach was once a mountain and that Kun is a destroyer. The Kun’Taoli ignored Nya’Koro’s warnings. The Kun’Taoli did not climb to higher ground. The Kun’Taoli are gone now; as though they had never been.

Yet, we are.

N’Ya continued to pitch and roll in his sleep, though never so violently as before. Each day the sea retreated with the tides, exposing much of the reef, and the world held its breath awaiting the water’s destructive return. Each tide the waters returned, wave by lapping wave, to rest at levels made comfortable by generations of tradition. Such seduction would not entrap the Nya’Koloti; we stayed high above the waves.

Uch’Ulani, the Windtalker, plied her trade performing rites and rituals always in the presence of Nya’Koro. Koro is a born leader in possession of a countenance not to be taken lightly, though he is kind and magnanimous and fiercely protective of his people. Raised from infanthood to one day be Nya, it was he who had led us beyond the grasp of Kun; and it was from him whom we all sought guidance. For a week, each gaze he encountered asked a single question, “What do we do now?”

I know this because he told me so. Late on the fifth evening as we lay together on the dry grasses of the plateau, beneath the open sky he said to me, “Hilei, I must leave.”

“Why, my Nya?” I asked. Rarely did I, a woman, question his judgment; but this revelation took me by surprise. I forgot myself. “Where will you go? What will we do now?”

He propped himself on an elbow and stroked my hair, “I do not know, my love. Any of those answers, especially the last. Every eye in this camp asks me this question every day; I do not know.” He smiled briefly then forced his face stern, recognizing the ignominy of my questions and looked past me to see if any others had heard.

He continued, “Uch’Ulani says we must go; elsewhere, she and I. She will not speak of reasons, but it is by heeding her guidance that Kun did not take us as she did our brethren. I shall not ignore her wisdom now.”

“My Nya,” I lowered my eyes from his in deference to propriety, “You do not require the approval of a consort; why tell me these things?”

He smiled more sincerely at my pretense, for we had been equals many a time. “Uch’Ulani says that I am to leave Moliki in my stead, as Nya until my return. She says it will be good for him, he must learn to lead by being a leader and he cannot do this with all eyes looking to me. The Nya’Koloti must learn to trust him.”

I nodded, understanding.

“Moliki is still young, Helei. His ka burns hot, kindled by ambition and idealism. He does not possess the wisdom that comes with age.” This time I smiled. Moliki was a tall, brash youth; loud of lung and quick of temper. He is a brilliant warrior, but has yet to develop the problem solving capacities of his mind to the degree of those of his arms. “While Moliki watches for our people,” Koro lifted my chin to bring my eye to his, “I want you watching after them.”

I held his gaze. Moliki could not know of this request; he would not tolerate it. Koro looked back at me, I could see he understood the magnitude of his request; even the potential danger I might face.

“I will do what is best.” I responded plainly. Koro kissed my mouth and lay back onto the grass gazing at the stars.

The following morning he and the Windtalker were gone. Moliki took charge immediately, issuing orders to ration out food and water. He made no effort to have the pair tracked; he, too, had been warned of their departure. I made my rounds speaking encouraging words and waylaying fears where ever possible.

Ultimately, though, it was not Moliki, nor I who convinced the Nya’Koloti to return to the beach. It was thirst and hunger. Uch’Naatal is high and safe from the tempers of Kun, but it is dry and game is scarce. For a week our people had subsisted on those few items they had brought with them when we fled and the meager crop of shore birds and their eggs provided by the grassy steppe. There was no rain.

The journey back down to the beach was made with heavy heart, though not nearly as treacherous as the upward climb. Much of the panic and disorganization which had plagued the evacuation had subsided. The march was orderly and quiet. Few were eager to return to day to day living in the shadow of tragedy. It was a fear unfounded. Upon that beach, once called home, familiar routine was not to be found.

From the ridge we saw little but sand and the green forest canopy, but as we made our descent we encountered the smell; a foul harbinger of things to come.

Among the trees we discovered the first of the bodies. Twisted among the exposed roots and torn vines she screamed her silent scream. Her flesh, once a healthy coconut brown, carried a pale bluish tint, pulled taut with bloat. Insects and more adventurous crabs lurked among her teeth and in the dark vacant sockets that had been her eyes. I did not recognize her, nor could anyone else bless her name; markings on her legs and wrists identified her as Kun’Taoli.

We found many more like her; a despite those who had fallen, none of our own. In time Moliki ordered the bodies dragged from the forest a placed in a funerary pyre at the site where their village had once stood. Taoli custom for honoring the dead was not ours, and Moliki believed the Kun’Taoli would come, eventually, from another island. They are a sea-going people, they always come eventually. The Kun’Taoli could honor their dead upon arrival. Though perhaps disrespectful, I quietly thanked Uch that the site laid downwind.

We turned our attention to more immediate matters; food, water. Once, women would walk the reef at low tide collecting shellfish and kelp, the men would take their catch from the fish traps or swim among the calm waters of the lagoon with spears gathering larger more wily fish, crab and octopus. But the traps were gone, and the coral protecting the lagoon badly damaged. The waters were choppy, and unsafe. The stirred silt had not settled and still concealed any number of dangers both real and imagined. Rumors circulated that a great beast had been heard hunting in the lagoons at night, splashing and roaring in the darkness. The exposed reef, too, was a more fearful sight than even the hungriest of bellies would tolerate.

Moliki pointed and shouted and demanded we bring food from the sea, but none would budge. Nor did he step upon the reef or swim among the murky waves. I spotted a pair of young boys, naked as the day they were born, playing a game with a mango pit; equally naked. I ended their game, taking the seed, and instructed them each to gather banana leaves with which to clothe themselves. I brought the pit to Moliki.

He was surprisingly receptive to my approach, neither striking nor reproaching me for my audacity. I had watched the Nya-in-training from a distance for many years. We were of nearly the same age and had grown up a stone’s throw apart, though we had never spoken. I knew him only to be hard, angry and loud. Moliki stood a full head taller than I, thickly muscled, strong of jaw; he was handsome in a fearsome sense. His skin was a dark and dirty brown, unlike the warm inviting tan of the Nya’Koloti. His obsidian black hair tied in a tight bun with plains grass, gleamed in the sunlight. I did not speak to him then, only presented my gift with eyes cast downward. I do not know if he smiled or snarled, but he took the seed from my trembling hands; I am afraid of Moliki.

We spent the day gathering that fruit which grew high enough to have avoided the raging waters. It was sustenance enough for now, but a village cannot survive on fruit alone. One group of men tracked what they had believed to be a boar back to the burrow of a land crab. They discovered the chitinous beast to be away from home, but the den itself was packed with the rotted limbs collected from the scattered bodies; easily detached by the snapping claws of the mighty scavenger. The men did not continue the hunt, their appetites thoroughly subdued.

We resolved to begin rebuilding the following morning in the forest just below the trailhead to Uch’Naatal. Most wanted to stay near the path in case we were forced to flee once more. Moliki recognized the wisdom in settling the village closer to the old wellspring and gave his consent. The new wellspring, which had been seen as a blessing from N’Ya was tainted and undrinkable, bubbling forth only brine.

We pressed forward, establishing new roles, new jobs and tasks; a new routine. A new mundane under a new Nya. I hoped in my heart that we might one day move back to the beach. Too much had changed, too much fear now ruled my people; both from within and from without. Moliki, too, distrusted the sea and his fear, though unmentioned, was readily observable. He tried to hide it by forcing his people to be brave, but seeing the Nya—even the temporary Nya—quiver did little to instill confidence.

On the third day yet another change; a small boat was spotted approaching our shore. I prayed silently to Nya that life would soon return to boring.

[James]

He awakes under the tree. The sun comfortingly wraps its finger around His body. Dew glistens upon the blades of grass. The wood sways in its early morning dance.






Standing steadily on solid legs, He moves slowly through the trees. The wet grass presses coolly against His feet, natural green mixing with clay-like red. Birdsong works its way slowly between leaf and wood, unknown conversations passing unseen information.






His ears twitch as He hears the sound of life scurrying across the woodland floor. Padding quickly across the ground, He races towards His prey. Salvia forms swiftly in His mouth as memories of bygone meals flitter through His mind. Broken, brown leaves float through the air as He runs.






Squinting with beady eyes, He sees his target. The rat is moving through the grass as he chases some unknown target. Moving silently closer, He waits for the perfect moment to strike.






His tail still and His breathing steady, He bolts across the ground between the rat and His mouth. The rat sees Him a second too late. It panics and run, its small legs trying to break through the conspiring leaves. A high squeak echoes out as His mouth closes down on the juicy flesh.






Blood filling His mouth, sharp canine teeth works their way deeper into the small rodent. He swallows down His breakfast with a satisfying gulp. He thinks that the day’s hunt is already done.






He savours the taste in his mouth for a moment. Pleased with His kill, He rests himself lazily on the damp, refreshing grass. With the soft tendrils of sunlight massaging His fur, His memory goes back to more challenging days. Days where the rats were quiet and the nuts were scarce.






Recollection is a dangerous game. He doesn’t hear the flattering of wings growing gently softer. Nor does He notice the silence that fills the clearing He is currently resting in.






His eyes grow heavy. Drooping down, He thinks He will take a tiny rest before continuing on with His hunt for wood. He has already done so well that He believes He deserve this moment’s rest.






The ground vibrates against His underbelly, a strangely pleasing sensation filling Him. He is unsure whether He is dreaming or He is awake. He takes a moment to think. Is this real or is this all in His head?





He doesn’t see the dogs burst out from between the trees. He doesn’t see the horses carrying machines of death that are rushing towards Him. He barely hears them as He ponders whether the sunlight brushing His back is reality or imagination.






Without warning the question in His mind becomes irrelevant. There is a brief moment of horror and pain and then there is nothing. He ceases to be nothing more than a collection of bone, flesh, fur and the remains of a somewhat eaten rodent. It doesn’t matter whether it is a dream or not.





He will never know that he died like many others. He will never know that his death wasn’t special. He will never know that the machines upon horseback gallop off after another normal, every day hunt.

[Kaez]

Silver:

Spelling & Grammar - 2/2
Ease of Read - 3/3
Use of Topic - 5/5
Entertainment - 5/7
Quality - 6/8

Total -- 21/25

I enjoyed the hell out of this, man. It was technically spot-on, it was a really creative twist on the topic, it was well-written, it was funny, it was charming... my main complaint was really, "I wish there was more of it."

Not a whole lot to critique. -Way- better than the last one. Nice work.



Reffy:

Spelling & Grammar - 1/2
Ease of Read - 3/3
Use of Topic - 3/5
Entertainment - 4/7
Quality - 4/8

Total -- 15/25

Only slight technical slip-ups, none of which were really detrimental to the flow of reading. The use of topic... I feel kind of bad about a 3/5, because I know you tried to spice it up with the twist, but it seemed like it was really -blatant- throughout. The 'workaday'-ness was so stressed and obvious, and at the end the non-workaday-ness was so stressed and obvious. Would've liked something more creative. Still, generally speaking, I basically enjoyed the story. The various sentences throughout that started one way and conclude, 'except..' and went in a different direction felt stylistically good and consistent and I enjoyed those the most.



Injin:

Spelling & Grammar - 1/2
Ease of Read - 1/3
Use of Topic - 2/5
Entertainment - 3/7
Quality - 2/8

Total -- 9/25

H'okay. So. Tons of technical mistakes. Typos, grammatical errors, tense errors (both time and narrator). Tons. The characters weren't given any emotions or feelings, just observations. The dialogue was incredibly clunky, unrealistic, and over-thought (e.g., 'African-Americans as they are now called..'). There's no connection established between the reader and the characters. The reader has no reason to sympathize or care about what's going on at all. The protagonist acts in inexplicable ways. It's dry, even list-like at points. You're capable of way, -way- better.



Zovo:

Spelling & Grammar - 2/2
Ease of Read - 3/3
Use of Topic - 3/5
Entertainment - 3/7
Quality - 6/8

Total -- 17/25

Technically, spot-on. I liked the way this one almost directly followed up on one of the other stories, and the fact that you're keeping a theme keeps me enjoying whatever you're writing. That said, this was my last favorite one yet. To the degree that it captured the topic, it almost did so -because- it was... well, boring. I was much less emotionally invested or interested in this one. I didn't really get a lot of feeling out of the protagonist or a lot of the poetic descriptions that were in the others. It felt drier. In a way, that was appropriate for the topic, but in a more important sense, it just made the story overall less enjoyable. Still good, still little to criticize directly, but just lacking. Not much emotion or description, for me.



James:

Spelling & Grammar - 1/2
Ease of Read - 2/3
Use of Topic - 5/5
Entertainment - 5/7
Quality - 5/8

Total -- 18/25

Small technical errors. Word-repetition at one point bogged the reading a bit. -Definitely- enjoyed the use of topic, combining two different levels of 'workaday' into one. The ending was far from unexpected, but still enjoyable and well-executed. My main issues come with word-choice. When you use such a minimalist style, every word's got to be chosen like you would for poetry. It's got to be finely polished. And this definitely wasn't that, but I still enjoyed it for the experiment it was. If executed and polished more finely (and really I think that just means having spent more time with it than you did), it would've probably fetched three or four more points.

Round Three Scorecard

[/size]
1st: Silver - 21
2nd: James - 18
3rd: Zovo - 17
4th: Reffy - 15
5th: Injin - 9


The Round Three Winner is Silver![/size]
[/center]

Round Four
Topic: AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL
Deadline: 11:59pm -- 21st March

[Jenny (Reffy)]

One of my favourite memories from childhood had to be the massive Victorian house in Littlehampton, West Sussex, and the cellar. It was the first (and only) house in which every child in the family could have their own room and more. The rooms were huge as well, although slightly grubby and worn down, and it had a large enough garden that we could menace. It was brilliant.

The folks that had lived there before had turned the cellar into some kind of private bar but it was the perfect place for four children to turn into a play-den. We took over the bar, even stocked it with empty bottles and glasses, and pushed everything out of the way to make room for everything else fun! Objects that our parents left down there became experiments or things to turn into slides. It was perfect. The only down side was the cold, damp, and bloody huge spiders (which still scare me today).

Dad kept all of his records and LP's down there and occasionally he'd slink down there and listen to them for hours. He even taught us how to use it – after a lot of badgering. He had some of the craziest music. Stuff that we'd never heard before. Even to this day I still prefer the oldies music. It was here that I was introduced to the "Skurf" song, where you'd have to mimic stomping on a Skurf, and "Sophia Loren and Peter Sellers: Bangers 'n' Mash" and many others. They were the fun songs that we'd always beg for.

Our favourite game had to be pirates and the bunk-beds made the best pirate ship ever. In some ways I do feel sorry for my brother, who I'd always felt closest to despite the largest age gap, because we were always picking on him. He was always the poor sod thrown overboard or forced to walk the gangplank to a watery death.

I suppose, if I were to look back now, this is probably where I got a lot of my creativity from. Being a less than rich family (if you catch my drift) meant that we didn't get a lap-top each or a play-station or a game-boy. All we had was the food that Mum and Dad could afford and not-branded clothing … and it worked. I never felt hard done by. Dad always saw to it that we got what we needed and there was always a Sunday roast on the table. It was the way it was and besides there were far greater and more exciting things to do in my mind. I was forever mushing up things in the garden, or studying bugs, or taking things apart to investigate.

I'm grateful that it was like that. The only thing I would change from my childhood would be the arguing. My family, like most families, was not the perfect 2.4 children family. There were a lot of arguments, throwing things, and storming out. I was always insanely jealous of Annie (child number 2). It felt like she was always better than me and that I would always live in her shadow. Christine (child number 3) probably felt ignored as one of the children in the middle and not nearly as loud. James was, at the time, the youngest and still is the only boy. Emily came along as a step-child when my Mum and Dad finally split up. I've never considered her a step-anything. She is my sister. In a way, I wish I'd given her a better reception but at the time things weren't good. She became the spoilt one even if she didn't want it and gained all of Mum's attention. Mum found it difficult to split her time and love between us fairly.

I still wish that my parents had divorced earlier. Even to this day I feel that they would have been happier. If a psychologist was reading this he or she would probably point out that a lot of this led to my low-confidence and also to my choices later in life – the biggest being my marriage and then subsequent divorce at the age of 26.

Thing is, I could sit here and whine about how life has been unfair to me, and it probably has, but I wouldn't change any of it (except of course for wishing that people would had done things differently so they could be happier). Everything that I've been through and experienced: the bullying, the odd-ball syndrome, the bad first sexual encounter, the poisonous relationship and restarting my life, and the divorce – it has made me who I am today and I rather like that person. She's alright. She still has that creativity, and imagination, and that bounce-back-ability that Delaney's are famous for. I know what is right and what is wrong and I know what to do about it. Some times I might need a little nudge but then, who doesn't.

[Injin]

An Autobiography is among the hardest things to write. Most people here are going to write about their past, as am I. However, I doubt that a single person will write about the same thing I am. How I started to write things in the first place. You see, when I was in middle school, I was really into both Dynasty Warriors and StarCraft. How do these things connect to my first writings? Well, from StarCraft I took inspiration in the form of the unit names and from Dynasty Warriors I took inspiration from one on one fights. Now, that might sound odd, but my first stirrings of writings were not writings at all. I was imagining a tourney where units or individuals were fighting against one another in a bracket styled tournament.

The real writing began with destruction. Normally, it would be assumed it was my fault this destruction took place, but why would I have destroyed my own work in this? No, this was not the case. During the summer in between 7th and 8th grades, my mother cleaned out my backpack and destroyed everything. Everything I had worked on for the last two years was gone. My response? To create a whole new world based on what I remembered about the tourney and the fighter’s, who had all by this point become anthropomorphized. From the ashes of my written word’s destruction, I grew a new world upon which I began to weave a mythos that I haven’t really had time to fully explain to anyone. Over the next few years, I would expand the world until the result; the world of Thelakia was born. I didn’t ever really have time to write stories about it, only on expanding the political structure of the world, but as it grew I became more and more focused on the nature of the land itself, as well as all the connecting lands through the great portal within the Zellatian Empire’s heart to Thelakia through events. To this day, I still think back to it from time to time, but alas I have writer’s block in relation to it, so I cannot really do much further with it.

While all of this was happening, I first began my RP experiences. RP, at least to me, is a fantastic way to improve your writing through lots of experience. For me, this started on an RP board that advertised that it RP’d Dynasty Warriors. While I did do a lot of that on there, it was elsewhere on the forums that I truly found a way to RP with something unrelated to anything I had ever done before: original character roleplaying. My first original character, Zhang Ku, was based on an OC I had created to play pretend with my brother. Once he got bored of doing that and “killed” his imagination as he put it, I was free to use him in any way I wanted to. The universe me and several others created was played for around 7 years. Now, that is a long time for a roleplaying group, but by year 4 it was just me and a person named Donthaveone, if I remember correctly. I, as a story teller, led him through stories of my creation as battled through demons, gods, and goofy villains. This was a great time for me and it depressed me quite a lot when it finally ended. It was this world that eventually merged with Thelakia and created a large and expansive world with plenty of factions, groups, and other political structures that I created during my mid teen years. The end of our collaboration however, was about the time I lost interest in expanding this world I had created. Every attempt I have made since failed miserably, and as a result, I will either adapt it differently, or leave it behind.

Moving back again, we return to the years of the Burning Crusade, just as the WoW roleplaying community was reaching what I believe to be its Apex. It was a fateful night when I signed up for my first world of Warcraft RP, ready to blaze the shores of Westfall clean of invading Horde. I signed up with my first roleplaying character, a troll by the name of Injin. Of course we all found out he wasn’t really a troll later, but that is a story for another time. It was from there that I jumped from the WoW forums to the ones I reside to today, the AWR. I don’t think I fit in really well at first, but over time I think I have become accepted into the writing circle as it were, although not amongst the better writers, such as Reffy, Kaez, and Taed. I am not saying that I don’t feel accepted by them though, that would be a weird assumption. Instead, I feel that I am still not that good of a writer, and still need to improve if I am to ever learn how to write well. While this does catch my writing up to the modern day as it were, I can’t stop myself from feeling that it’s all just begun, that in time my writing will be much better than just subpar level. As I move forward in my writing career, I look back at the variety of roleplays I have been involved with and see the bad and the good, the bad stylistic choices and the good ones, I instead look back with sadness, and I close my eyes and try to forget. I have not been a good writer. However, perhaps one day I will be. That is up to me and for my future to decide.

[ASGetty ((Zovo))]

When I was in kindergarten I was a straight-five student. That is, my report cards listed my grades as fives in all categories; because my tiny mind couldn’t yet abstract value to letters, I assume. I recall looking forward to receiving letters in higher levels of schooling; like the third grade. Seeing that first “A” was exciting. But this isn’t about my glory days; K through 3. No, this is about my slightly-above-average days; i.e. the rest of my life.

I suppose it began with my first failing grade, the dreaded “F”. I’ve heard tell that many schools no longer use the F because it reeks of failure. Mine didn’t. It smelled an awful lot like apathy. My first F was received in the fifth grade. The subject was reading, the assignment was some manner of book report. I don’t recall the specifics. What I do recall was, not wanting to do the presentation portion and getting up in front of my classmates to talk about a book or something in which I was quite clearly the only person interested.

This assumption was based on a prior experience with a similar premise; that assignment being the stereotypical “Who is Your Hero” report. The one where you research your current pre-teen idol/hero figure, dress up like this person and go in front of the class and explain why, in your fifth grade mind, they are worthy of your adulation.

When I was ten my father, a chronic hobbyist, became enraptured with salt-water fish tanks. His living room contained two massive fish tanks filled with some of the most colorful and strange creatures my young mind had ever seen. Immediately I decided that I no longer wanted to be a fire truck, but instead I wanted to be an oceanographer (a decision I would later revise to “marine biologist” when I realized oceanography was a lot more tide charts and chemistry and not nearly enough cool animals).

So, amidst a crowd of sports stars and actors and singers and daddy-issues I donned my cotton stocking cap, a warm coat, and a pair of reading glasses and became Jacques Cousteau. It wasn’t until the end of my five minutes of blank stares and muffled laughter from my peers that I was helpfully informed, much to the mirth of my classmates, that it’s not pronounced “Jakees Coostayoo”.

All digression aside, it wasn’t fear of being mocked that kept me from completing the aforementioned book report (or something). It was the realization that, looking out at that small crowd of eyes, none of my peers wanted to be there any more than I did. That I was up there presenting something that I had worked hard on, that I was interested in, and that I was the only person interested. When you’re ten you want to belong, not spend two weeks constructing a personal alienation device. So when it came time to shuffle up in front of the class and shakily read off whatever it was I was supposed to read I simply refused. Didn’t want to; in fact, I didn’t even do the assignment because I knew what lay at the end of it. I was granted my first failing grade.

I recall my mother talked to me about it, encouraged me to try harder, told me I was special; all that jazz. I don’t recall if she was upset. I don’t recall anyone making any special effort to find out why I didn’t even bother to begin the project, despite having near-flawless marks prior to that point. What I do recall is that it began a long string of less than adequate grades.

I wasn’t held back in the fifth grade for my failing “Reading;” though I’d been told repeatedly in the past that failing would result in having to do the grade over again. In the sixth grade I began to procrastinate, to get lower marks on my assignments and tests. The universal answer from teachers and counselors was that I was, “a smart boy who just needs to be challenged.” What I could have told them was that challenge wasn’t the problem; in fact, I loved easy things, I could put them off for a greater amount of time and finish them faster. No, the reason I got poor grades was that I didn’t care. I didn’t care because it was pretty clear at the time that no one else cared.

In time I grew weary of repeating this same conversation and I learned how to do just enough to get by. Amazingly, this sudden upward trend in my grades was met with praise; solid C’s across the board was good enough. Better than D’s and F’s. Sure, they (teachers, counselors) still maintained that I was special and that I “just needed to be challenged” but no one pushed the issue. So I cruised.

In high school things became more complicated. Projects became more in depth, more involved. Long term assignments often culminated in lengthy essays and presentations. In order to maintain my pattern of procrastination and mere adequacy I had to develop a new skill; I had to learn to lie.

Now, lying and I had a long history at that point, spanning back a decade and a half. It was an off and on relationship. Often the results were disastrous and I’d regularly go through extended period of abstinence as a result. But sure enough, like any relationship built on volatile passion we couldn’t keep ourselves apart. One day she’d appear at my door, just at the opportune moment. Then, in the dark heart of night the two of us would come together in scheming brilliance and ultimately Untruth and I would ride off, triumphantly, into the sunset.

It wasn’t until high school that my hit and miss approach to factual augmentation became a reliable skill; but it was a turbulent first couple of years. Putting together a project you were given a month to complete the night before it was due is a tricky process; you had to be able to make snap judgments based on things like, the materials you had readily accessible, the amount of time it would take to slap it all together, your standing knowledge of the topic in question, and most importantly (though most often overlooked) the tolerance of the teacher assigning it; how far you could push reasonably stretch the boundaries of disbelief. Few educators, or parents, encourage their students/children to hone these skills. The only means of practice and real-world application was trial and error in a social context and the price for failure was often dire. I’ll admit I hurt feelings; I lost friends, and definitely dragged down the group grade on a number of projects.

It was during this period that I discovered a practical application for my newfound skills. The ability to think on the fly, to create detailed scenarios and multi-leveled plots and in some cases characters led me to the oft-maligned life of the Dungeon Master.

When I was twelve, my step-mother’s sister gave my brother and I a “Dungeons and Dragons 2ED” boxed set as a Christmas gift. I don’t believe it was a particularly well thought out gift, more of a “boys like this sort of thing” gifted from a woman who had three daughters and no sons. Regardless, the first free moment I had I read the instruction book cover to cover and immediately went to setting up the board, punching out all the little cardboard figurines of goblins and bugbears, placing doors and traps, all the great things of which adventures are made. Then my brother bumped the table so I spent another half an hour setting it all up again. When that was completed, the two of us must have spent five hours rolling dice and pretending to understand the rules to a board game that had no discernible end. Slowly, over days and weeks, we both lost interest.

Though, over the course of the next few years, I brushed up against the phenomenon of role-playing games a number of times. Each time growing more and more fond of the idea, creating and playing characters whose powers and abilities bent the imagination into fantastic shapes. I came to realize the significance of that old boxed set, what it was and how laughably wrong we had gone about it. Through multiple encounters with various Sci-Fi RPGs I came to understand the frivolity of game boards and figures and became enamored with the more stripped down equation Pencil + Paper + Dice + Lies = Epic!

It was only a matter of time before my skills at conjuring essays and presentations out of nothing turned themselves toward my hobbies. I purchased a Dungeon Master’s guide with my allowance and began to read while I saved up for a Player’s Handbook. Once I had both in hand I began toy with story ideas, plots and intrigues, wizards and knights and damsels in distress, all the time tested standards, twisted to my own desires. I only needed players.

As discussed before, I was different, interested in different things than my peers; even into high school. Turns out those folks who are into things like Dungeons and Dragons don’t often advertise said interests; this made them difficult to locate. My brother, though; my brother had friends. Friends who had friends; all of whom bordered on nerdity. One afternoon, as a group of middle-schoolers lounged about my house watching television, I decided to go for it. I brought out my books; I sat down among them and started passing out paper and dice. It wasn’t until years later that I learned that, as Erik’s older brother, most of them thought I was just another asshole high school kid and those who weren’t afraid of me really disliked me.

Oblivious, I proceeded to help each of them make a character. Five years later, that same group of guys was still meeting at my mother’s home almost every weekend, devouring every food item in the house and saving the world 1d20 at a time.

Between gaming sessions, I began to tamper with short fiction. Mostly it would start off with a gaming scenario that I realized just wouldn’t pan out the way I wanted it to if I stuck those six chuckleheads into the story. So I’d write it the way I wanted it, the way I thought it should turn out in a world where, when characters are presented with a choice between right and left they don’t employ magical means to drive up the center.

Sometime in my junior year, school and I reconciled our differences. I was given an assignment to do and oral presentation (joy!) on my hobby. Any hobby. Some students chose things like fishing or football or dance or basically a more participatory collection of those career choices made by their heroes from eight years prior. My hobby was Dungeon Mastering; so far out of the question.

So, in my practiced fashion I waited until the night before my presentation was due to create something that might earn me a C. I wrote a story. I worked until 1AM that morning and woke my mother up to drive me to the nearest Kinko’s to make copies; one of the requirements of the project was a “visual aid.” So I used my very limited collection of dollars to have the high school drop-outs working the nightshift at Kinko’s run me off thirty copies; almost 400 pages.

The following morning, with sleep still in my eyes, I showed up for class with a box full of paper as my visual aid. Hesitantly, I passed a copy to each of my classmates. The front page, in plain black, Times New Roman font read: “Warsong by: Adam Getty.” A low-fantasy love story, rife with tragedy and tears; in retrospect I can honestly say that it was the 7,500 word version of every angst-ridden, teenage heartbreak ever written overlaid with swords and sorcery. I read it, front to back, out loud in front of a jury of my peers; I recall my pubescent voice cracking, I remember my heart pounding, I remember my blood drumming in my ears and the hot wash of my face and hands . . . I also remember the rapt looks in the eyes of people reading along, the intent stares of those just listening. There was an audible resonance between my words on the page and those of my peers, and it echoed in silence; the kind of silence I’d never witness in a classroom before or since.

I want to say that when I was done there was applause, that there were congratulatory remarks, and at least one teary eye; but I can’t. I don’t remember finishing. I don’t remember reading the final line and sitting back in my seat. I don’t even remember the grade I received. What I do remember is that, for ten minutes, I connected completely with a room full of people with whom I’d previously felt completely alien.

I had lied to them, the most honest lie I’d ever told; and to this day, that lie is still the reason I write.

[Kaez]

Reffy:

Spelling & Grammar - 1/2
Ease of Read - 2/3
Use of Topic - 5/5
Entertainment - 4/7
Quality - 5/8

Total -- 17/25

I enjoyed this. Some technical slip-ups, and the ordering of information seemed a bit off at times which hindered the entertainment more than the flow, oddly. But really it was just a sweet and sincere retrospect that could've been much less brief and have only been better for it. I would've liked some more vivid descriptions to really get 'hooked' on it, but without them in felt light and casual in a good way.



Injin:

Spelling & Grammar - 2/2
Ease of Read - 2/3
Use of Topic - 5/5
Entertainment - 5/7
Quality - 4/8

Total -- 18/25

Relatable and raw, it felt genuine and sincere in a way any good autobiography should be. I disliked the bits where it seemed to be -talking to me- as the reader ('now, you see'; 'that might sound odd'; 'if I remember correctly'). It would've flowed more smoothly as an interesting and concise narrative without all of that. Nevertheless, I found it blunt and straightforward in a good way.




Zovo:

Spelling & Grammar - 2/2
Ease of Read - 3/3
Use of Topic - 5/5
Entertainment - 5/7
Quality - 7/8

Total -- 22/25

Poetic and honest and simplistic. A plain and simple presentation of what seems to be unabashed facts told in an entertaining and well-written way. What's there to say?

Round Four Scorecard

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1st: Zovo - 22
2nd: Injin - 18
3rd: Reffy - 17


The Round Four Winner is Zovo![/size]
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Round Five
Topic: TRAGICOMEDY
Deadline: 11:59pm -- 26th March

[Injin]

The following events are based on a true story. Any similarity between your life and it are simply coincidence and do not mean that Injin is spying on you.

Where to begin? Ah yes, the beginning, the most obvious of locations. Let us start with a girl. For the purpose of anonymity, let us call her Jennifer. Jennifer is not a good person. She dropped out of high school due to a combination of Pot and Heroin abuse, thinks she is extremely clever, and will do anything to get money. After she was cured of her Heroin addiction, through no small part a miracle in itself, she found herself without an opportunity to move forward with her life. She tried going to a nearby Junior College, in which, for this story’s sake, will be called Tuareg Park. She went to Tuareg Park for a year, while also working at a Pilates Studio nearby. Then, after her crazy mother kicked her out for a multitude of reasons, she asked a friend’s family if she could crash there for a few months. The head of this family, let’s call her Jules, allowed it as long as she continued to work.

Elated at her new prospect, she moved into their house and quickly made herself at home. Perhaps too much at home, if you know what I mean. She would laze around all day, forgoing her classes because they were too hard or that she was lacking too much sleep to go. All of these things were lies, but the family she was living with didn’t care, as they did not know what lay in the wake of Jennifer’s continued presence. It is now, at this point, that Jennifer began to hit on Jules’ son, the aforementioned friend, who we shall call Kirk. Now, Kirk is not a smart man. Kirk also at many points in his life was addicted to one drug or another, but had at this point kicked the habits. Kirk’s family was wealthy enough to deal with any problem that Kirk found, but it was Jennifer that began to stretch this elasticity to a breaking point. The straw that broke the camel’s back was the fact that not only was Kirk rejecting Jennifer’s advances, as he had a girlfriend at the time, but also the fact that she dropped out of Tuareg Park and quit her job at the Pilates Studio.

Now this stressed out Jules and her family, so she got a friend of hers by the name of Pepper to take Jennifer into her home, not warning of the potential shit storm awaiting the unsuspecting family. Now, Pepper and Jules had been best friends for quite a many years, and Pepper had recently gone through a slightly messy divorce. Pepper, wanting something to make her feel better, let this strange young girl into her home, and did her best to make sure Jennifer felt at home. However, as per usual, Jennifer took advantage of the kindness and made messes everywhere, as well as stinking up the house with her medical grade marijuana. This continued for about 6 months, until Jennifer was thrown out after a particularly nasty fight with Pepper, and she moved to San Francisco. Now, unbeknownst to Pepper, Jules’ son Kirk was living in San Francisco, and the reason Jennifer moved up there was to be closer to him. She lived out of a pool house at a housing complex just so she could be near her obvious infatuation.

Eventually, Kirk moved back home after failing his way out of an art school in San Francisco and moved home. Not to be perturbed, Jennifer moved back to the area Jules’ family lived in and once more schmoozed her way into Jules’ household. This time, unlike the last time, Kirk was single, and thus when Jennifer jumped him and attempted to make him love her, he did not bash her away. This went on for a while as the rest of the household moaned with disgust. Then, as before, Jennifer was kicked out in order for Jules to not lose her son to this obviously crazy broad. Once more Pepper took Jennifer into her home, in order to assuage her guilt, but this time because she felt guilty for kicking her out initially. Everything seemed like it was working out, that is until month 6 rolled around. Jennifer claimed that she didn’t have enough money, so about a few months earlier, Jules got her a job. Pepper’s children, who still lived at home, helped ferry her to and fro to her job, as Jennifer had sold her car the year before. Then, as a full year had finally passed by, Jennifer was still refusing to leave. Angered greatly by this destruction of trust, Pepper gave her an ultimatum. Either Jennifer makes up with her family and stay with them, who she had earlier been ostracized by, or she would be forced to leave in one month’s time. Reticently agreeing, Jennifer made up with her family, and eventually moved out, although a month behind schedule.

It was then that the revelations began pouring out the chasm of damnation that Jennifer had stuffed with all of her dirty secrets. The first revelation was that there was an active warrant out for her arrest, and that she had skipped the court date simply because she didn’t feel like going. The second revelation, a month after Pepper and Jules bailed her out of jail, was that she was pregnant with Kirk’s child. After much debating and arguing over the issue, she relented and got an abortion. The third revelation was even more troubling, that she had quit her job and although she lived with her grandparents, she still claimed she needed money for rent. After all of these revelations, it was staggering to all that Jules and Pepper had ever thought they could help fix the marijuana addled lass from her own self-destructive habits. Half a year later, a final revelation slammed the two families, Jennifer was once more pregnant with Kirk’s child, and had purposely gotten pregnant in order to blackmail money from Jules and Kirk. It was at this point in the pregnancy that it was too late for an abortion, and the baby, the only innocent in this entire story, is doomed to be another orphan, just as Kirk was before Jules adopted him and another boy. You see Kirk was adopted, and not blood related to Jules, but at the same time refuses to take care of any resulting child, regardless of what anyone in or out of the situation wants.

Everyone in this story was guilty of sin, whether or not they realized it. Jules and Pepper were guilty of Pride, as they expected that they’d be able to fix Jennifer, no matter how long it took. Kirk was guilty of Lust, as he gave into the temptation to sleep with Jennifer. Jennifer, the guiltiest of all, was guilty of not only Sloth, but also Envy, Lust, and Pride, thinking she could do no wrong, and go about her poor decisions without consequences. The child, born of sin, cannot hope to live with any of the characters in this story, and as a result is doomed to become an orphan, and wayward soul with no reliable future and a mind full of empty dreams.

[Kaez]

Injin:

Spelling & Grammar - /2
Ease of Read - /3
Use of Topic - /5
Entertainment - /7
Quality - /8

Total -- /25

Round Four Scorecard

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1st: Injin -


The Round Five Winner is Injin![/size]
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Round Six
Topic: INTERVIEW
Deadline: 11:59pm -- 31st March