1 - Placeholder (Inkdrinker v Reffy)

[James]

Inkdrinker v Reffy
Constraint: The following must be the beginning to your story, verbatim:

Miles pressed his eyes tighter against each other in a vain attempt to hold off the light knocking upon his eyelids. The alarm was screaming shrilly across the other side of the room, the snooze button cleverly out of reach of his pale arms. He was vaguely aware that his quilt was not covering his body. He often kicked off the covers when the blanket of heat descended upon him and today seemed like a far hotter morning than ever before.

Which wasn’t right.

It was winter. It was a typical dreary, wet and cold winter. The sun had been sparser than a banker at a school’s career day. So why was this morning so warm? Miles flung open his eyes, immediately regretting the decision as the light blinded him. Blinking rapidly he grew accustomed to the brightness, his sight coming into focus once more.

He was in a small rectangular room. The walls were surgically white and windows brightly glistened. Miles found himself sitting in one of the rows of wodden chairs, exactly opposite a single blue door. He felt his pulse quicken and he leapt to his feet. The alarm died and the blue door swung open.

“Welcome to the tour of the DreamCentre Factory.”

[Inkdrinker]

Miles pressed his eyes tighter against each other in a vain attempt to hold off the light knocking upon his eyelids. The alarm was screaming shrilly across the other side of the room, the snooze button cleverly out of reach of his pale arms. He was vaguely aware that his quilt was not covering his body. He often kicked off the covers when the blanket of heat descended upon him and today seemed like a far hotter morning than ever before. 

Which wasn’t right. 

It was winter. It was a typical dreary, wet and cold winter. The sun had been sparser than a banker at a school’s career day. So why was this morning so warm? Miles flung open his eyes, immediately regretting the decision as the light blinded him. Blinking rapidly he grew accustomed to the brightness, his sight coming into focus once more. 

He was in a small rectangular room. The walls were surgically white and windows brightly glistened. Miles found himself sitting in one of the rows of wodden chairs, exactly opposite a single blue door. He felt his pulse quicken and he leapt to his feet. The alarm died and the blue door swung open. 

“Welcome to the tour of the DreamCentre Factory.”

The voice was cold and tinny, like a compressed audio file played on cheap ear-buds. The automaton was futuristic in function, but antique in aesthetic, and it canceled whatever prepared speech it had intended to give when it observed the room to be empty. Empty except for Miles. The automaton's faux-eyes were fixed on him, looking almost confused. “What are you doing here? Are you the nine-thirty tour? Have you done something with them? Did you eat them? You have, haven't you? I knew it. From the moment I saw you. You dreamers are all alike, never dressed and always hungry.” The automaton had a point, Miles was wearing nothing but some old pajama bottoms, and his stomach was on the verge of growling.

“I didn't eat them!” Miles protested, crossing his arms over his bare chest.

“Well then who did?” Croaked the automaton, quite earnestly.

“...”

“I knew it.” The automaton too crossed its arms, looking pleased with itself. A moment of quiet followed, Miles too dumbstruck to speak, while something whirred inside the automaton's head. “How did you get here, dreamer?”

“Get where?”

“Here.”

“Well where the hell is that?! Where am I?” Miles had lost his patience dealing with this machine, and the shock of his new surroundings was turning to panic. Shouting felt good, like a step in the right direction. He wanted to just pinch himself and wake up, but Miles had watched enough television to know that would never work.

“You are in the DreamCentre factory, as previously stated. Which means you are intruding on private property. I suggest you leave before I call security. Which will be in thirty-four seconds.” The automaton began counting down the seconds, quite unhelpfully.

“Yes, leaving, I'll get right on that. I can assure you I want to be here about as much as you want me to be here.” Miles made for the door hastily as the automaton counted sixteen. Miles threw open the door and what he saw confused, befuddled, perplexed, puzzled, confounded, and mildly nauseated him. A warehouse, seemingly built for giants, and stacked high with various crates, boxes, and containers. Each was labeled, everything from 'Flying' to 'Teeth falling out'. The raw ingredients of dreams.

“That is not the exit. That is the warehouse. Go back the way you came. Nine...”

“Don't you get it, you idiot? I don't know how I got here!”

The automaton ceased it's countdown, whirring again. “You are a dreamer. You dreamed your way here. Unless you are not a dreamer after all. What manner of creature are you? Identify yourself.”

“I'm Miles Davis, no not that Miles Davis. I live in Charlotte, North Carolina. I'm a human bei--” Miles was cut off by a blaring alarm system. After a few rounds of sirens, a feminine voice came on.

“Danger. Warning. Leak in nightmare pipeline: all floors between zero and one, or above infinity please evacuate immediately.”

The automaton walked dutifully towards the door. “This floor qualifies. Regretfully, Miles Davis, I must escort you to safety. If you would just follow me.” Miles did not have to be told twice, dutifully following the automaton out the door.

“Nightmare pipeline, I don't much like the sound of that,” said Miles, as the pair made their way through the warehouse. A few boxes caught Miles' eye. 'Third eye', 'Frog disaster', 'Not your house', 'Cannoli'.

“It is to be avoided, if at all possible,” agreed the automaton as they rounded a corner. They were closing in on two doors, one read 'Elevator', and the other 'Stairs'. “In the event of an emergency, please use the stairs. In the event of a nightmare leak, doubly so.” The automaton helpfully dispensed this information, much to the dismay of Miles. “Many nightmares are about elevators,” it explained.

The stairwell seemed to go on forever in both directions. “How far do we have to climb?”

“Zeno's paradox states we have an infinite distance to travel. But here at DreamCentre, we Dream Bigger.™”

“Oh. Great.” Flight after flight of stairs passed, up or down it really didn't matter. Miles was exhausted trying to keep up with the automaton's pace, an unwavering robotic march. At least it wasn't running, thought Miles, trying to stay positive.

“In case of emergency, please walk, do not run. We are almost there.” It wasn't lying, after five more minutes they arrived at a door, marked with a smiley face instead of a number. The automaton ushered Miles inside. “We should be safe in here until help arrives. Nothing ever goes wrong in here.”

The view was stunning, rolling pastoral hills, a huge gold-shining sun in the sky. Miles didn't even notice the office desks at first, littered seemingly at random all over the landscape. “Where are we now?” he asked, mildly bewildered.

“Stop twenty-seven on the DreamCentre factory tour: Sunshine Pastures. It is here some of the more creatively minded employees think up happy things. Then another department packages the ideas, and they are stored in the warehouse, until they are needed elsewhere in the factory. Now get under a desk, for your own safety.”

“Right,” said Miles, absentmindedly complying with the automaton's instruction.

Minutes passed in silence, as they cowered under neighboring desks. “And when can we expect help to arrive?”

“The current estimated wait time is... four hours, fifty-six minutes, and half-past eleven years.”

“Half past eleven years? I don't have that kinda time! I gotta get out of here. What's the quickest way to the exit?”

“The stairway is not likely to still be accessible. The fastest way to leave Sunshine Pastures now would be by balloon. But I must caution you against such action. The next three floors above us are occupied primarily by the Nightmare Cells. A most unpleasant segment of the factory. It is to be avoided, if at all possible. I recommend we stay here, under these desks, where it is safe. If you insist upon violating protocol and leaving, there is a door in the sun. After you have cleared the Nightmare Cells, make your way to the Lost & Found. Avoid all contact with nightmares, or nightmare spawn, if at all possible. Results of contact would be catastrophic. In case of contact with eyes, flush with water, and contact a poison control specialist. It would be wise to disbelieve any lies you find on your journey. There is a balloon now, if you run, you can catch it. Or you could stay here, under a desk, where it is safe.”

Miles had already started towards the balloon before the automaton had finished. He had expected it to be talking about a hot air balloon, but his goal was actually just a gigantic version of a birthday balloon. At the summit of one of the numerous little green hills, Miles took a mighty leap, and wrapped himself around the trailing length of white ribbon. Luckily there were a few knots in the ribbon, so Miles did not have to struggle to keep hold. As he floated gently towards the sun, Miles stared wistfully at the huge smiling face of the balloon above him. It was not comforting at all. Truth be told, Miles had preferred the blank face of his automaton companion.

With a soft thump, Miles' balloon collided with the surface of the sun. It was painted on, and sure enough, in the center was a little trap door, with a rope ladder dangling from it. Miles took a deep breath, and cautiously switched over to the ladder. Miles wasn't particularly scared of heights, but at this moment he was immensely grateful for his primarily ground-based existence. After a brief pause to steel himself, Miles popped open the trap door, and ascended into darkness.

Wherever Miles was now it was warm, and he started to sweat. A sickly sweet scent filled his lungs. He regretted not having interrogated the automaton further, not having any idea where to go now. A soft breeze prickled the hairs on his arms. Turning into the breeze, Miles slowly moved forward. There seemed to be no immediate threat, but with every step the ambient noise level of the room seemed to rise, along with the temperature. At first it was just white noise, static, but after a minute or two Miles could discern whispers. “Wrong way... Wrong, wrong. No, no. Help. Home.” Miles did his best to 'disbelieve' what he was hearing, just focusing on the next step. But it got harder when he started to feel things brushing up against him. The whispers were almost screams now, ten more feet and it would be deafening. Sweat dripped silently from his pores to the sticky floor. Miles wished he had followed the automaton's advice and just stayed under a desk, back in Sunshine Pastures. He covered his ears in vain, finding no relief, only sticky hot liquid. Miles took a final fateful step, and lost consciousness.

Miles awoke seemingly instantly, in his familiar bed, in his familiar bedroom, in his familiar apartment. He wiped cold sweat from his forehead. “Jesus Christ...” He whispered, his voice shaking. Had it all been just a dream? Miles peeled the covers off of him, and rolled out of bed. The moonlight through the windows was enough to get to the kitchen. Miles got a glass from the cupboard, and filled it with water, warmer than he would have liked. Only the faucet didn't sound like it was pouring water into his cup, it sounded like it was whispering. And when he shut it off, and raised the glass of thick, murky solution to his lips, the whispers didn't stop.

[Jenny (Reffy)]

Miles pressed his eyes tighter against each other in a vain attempt to hold off the light knocking upon his eyelids. The alarm was screaming shrilly across the other side of the room, the snooze button cleverly out of reach of his pale arms. He was vaguely aware that his quilt was not covering his body. He often kicked off the covers when the blanket of heat descended upon him and today seemed like a far hotter morning than ever before.

Which wasn’t right.

It was winter. It was a typical dreary, wet and cold winter. The sun had been sparser than a banker at a school’s career day. So why was this morning so warm? Miles flung open his eyes, immediately regretting the decision as the light blinded him. Blinking rapidly he grew accustomed to the brightness, his sight coming into focus once more.

He was in a small rectangular room. The walls were surgically white and windows brightly glistened. Miles found himself sitting in one of the rows of wooden chairs, exactly opposite a single blue door. He felt his pulse quicken and he leapt to his feet. The alarm died and the blue door swung open.

“Welcome to the tour of the DreamCentre Factory.”

A tall and haughty woman shuffled through the door which banged against the wall and all of the way around Miles head like a puppy on drugs. She bustled in holding a green collapsed umbrella above her head like a flag with her blonde hair tugged back in to a little bun and a sheath dress in the same shade as the umbrella. She was followed closely by a gaggle of tourists, each with a glazed expression smeared across their faces. A few paused to take photographs of the simple chairs and plain white walls. Most of them listened intently to the tour guide, not yet tired or irritated by her drizzle.

“We begin in the waiting room! It’s a little quiet today but it’ll get much busier. The patients are picked up here and taken down there,” she used the umbrella to point towards another door. She had the kind of voice which never faltered and was always cheery. It was already getting on his nerves.

Until now Miles hadn’t even noticed the other door. It was a very unassuming door, like it had been trying to hide amongst the chairs, a bit like the other blue door but red this time. It had little recessed panels and a brass handle, the type you’d find in a Victorian home, but no peep-hole. Curiously part of the paint had been scratched off by something pretty heavy. Parts of splintered wood were poking out to wave hello.

“You can see the contraption they use to pick up the patients up there.” The umbrella was used again. Obviously a tool of the trade.

In the ceiling, way above the tourist’s heads, was a gap that ran in a circuit, disappearing through the door. At the other end was a cluster of metal hooks and cages; not unlike the type you’d see in amusement parks for grabbing toys. It was like a grouping of iron spiders all crammed in to a small space. One of them twitched and hissed as if to make a point.

Miles felt a chill tap-dance down his spine. A contraption? To pick people up? He found himself considering whether or not he was a patient doomed to be hoisted away by a metal spider grabbing device. “Excuse me?” He darted forward to his only source of information at the moment – the optimistic tour guide. “Excuse me!”

“Are you with the tour?” A clipboard sprang from the bag on her back and zoomed round to her face. It blocked her vision completely.

Suddenly Miles wasn’t sure what to say but he was certain he didn’t want to stay here! Weakly he managed to utter yes in a rather unconvincing manner with a little squeak at the end. Silently he prayed that she hadn’t noticed that he was still only partly clothed and in pyjamas. Thank god for the clipboard. He didn’t want to find out what was behind the red door where the circuit disappeared.

“Good. Question?” The clipboard sprang away, leaving her green eyes to pierce his. She didn’t waste any words and was impatient for a reply.

“N-nothing,” he spurted, suddenly feeling very open, like an ant underneath a magnifying glass. He shrunk away and tried to blend in with the group. Maybe the room wouldn’t notice if he disappeared. He felt like the room would know. It was a curious and unnerving feeling of being watched although he hadn’t seen any cameras. He wasn’t going to hang about and wait for the metal grabber.

“Onwards,” she sung, barely missing her stride after the interruption. "Next we’ll visit the processing area. The patients need to be checked and booked in before they can be used. Here at the DreamCentre only the best dreams will be used to push forward inventions and new creations.” She clicked away on the tiny but irritating heels, and the crowd followed her dutifully, with the addition of Miles, who wasn’t doing a very good job of blending in. Most of the tourists ignored him or shied away from the partly naked man in their midst. Some people were just too weird and others were more busy taking pointless photographs.

The tour guide tapped the umbrella against the white wall and a new door slipped down from the ceiling. It was the familiar green and had the word TOUR in brilliant white. Soon enough most of them had bumbled through the door.

On the way through Miles was sure he’d spotted more people sitting in the wooden chairs. A pang of guilt glided through his stomach. Would they be just as confused as he was? Did they know why they were here? Had he just missed a memo? Many thoughts tumbled through his head as he was caught between decisions to continue or go back for the people. Maybe they would also know a way out?

However, just as he was about to make his mind up one of the mechanical spiders lurched and groaned. It whizzed across the circuit with a screech and stopped above a girl. She looked like she was still waking up, scrubbing her eyes with balled fists. She was in a dressing gown and had some worn-out bunny slippers on her feet. There was no warning before the claw dropped and grabbed her around the shoulders and torso. The scream she let out then was almost deafening as it rattled around the sterile room.

Another cold shiver. There was no way he was going back in that room.

Some of the tourists had stopped to get a picture of the spider in action. Miles burst passed them until he was all the way into the new room. He leaned against an available wall and pressed a hand over his mouth. It was all he could do to avoid throwing up – although he guessed there wouldn’t be much to throw up. His stomach, despite feeling sick, was also hungry.

“The processing area!”

The tourists snapped out of their reverie and re-joined the group to hear what the guide had to say next. Each of them was eager to find out more. It only served to make Miles feel even sicker. Miles had tried to find the green door but it must have slipped away again. He let the words drown over him as he tried to get his bearing, not focusing on any of them or paying any attention. All he could think about was how to get back and warn the others and what would happen to the girl. She must have been only around fifteen or sixteen.

The room they were in now was completely black and dark. It was a little like a bad eighties cop show and their two way interrogation mirrors. The room the special mirror looked into had the only source of light; a tepid orange glow of low budget florescent tubes. This room was longer and through the window was a conveyor belt with more machines and gizmo’s akin to medieval torture equipment.

The drone of the tour guide continued, still bouncing and gay, as it described the processing room and what happened to the patients. Miles was only half listening right up until she mentioned dissection. “The DreamCentre must be sure that the patient is clean. If there is something else inside the patient then it is discarded along with the subject through that hole there,” the umbrella waggled towards a chute. It was labelled rejects.

A tourist spoke up, finally un-sticking their eye-balls from the camera lens. “What happens to their place on Earth?”

“The body will go back there for the funeral,” said in a manner of fact tone and without a trace of emotion. “The family can then grieve and bury their dead.”

“Can’t you still use their dreams?” a little boy this time. Miles guessed he was probably European from the dark brown hair and very pale skin. He was sucking on a lollipop and had sugary mess all over his chops.

“If there is a risk of infection, if the patient is infected, we cannot use the dreams. It would be a law suit waiting to happen.” There were no more interruptions or questions and the tour guide picked up the pace again. “The next room is where the magic happens. Come along!”

The umbrella led the way through the next green door which sloshed down from the ceiling. Only Miles remained, cautiously edging closer to the mirror with shaking hands. He didn’t dare look through but couldn’t leave without an answer either. His stomach roiled with sickness and vertigo threatened to take him from his bare feet and throw him off the world … or wherever he was! Even his skin had blanched to a pale white, nearly duck egg blue, as he reached the edge of the room.

The girl he’d seen hoisted in the last room was on the conveyor belt; the machine still around her waist. Her screams could be heard through the glass. She was begging for answers, to be let out, to go back to reality. Miles wasn’t sure if this was reality any more. The tour guide had spoken about going back to Earth. That didn’t sound great. That didn’t sound like they were on Earth any more. But if they weren’t on Earth, where were they? And was there a way out besides the machine?

At each section of the process she was weighed, measured, scratched and scrapped, washed and cleaned. There was even an x-ray that flashed up briefly, although it showed nothing unusual to the untrained eye. It was like clockwork as she moved along it wriggling and trying to worm her way out. It was filthy in there. Each patient that had gone before had left their mark. A bloody handwritten was streaked across the wall, a forgotten sock trapped in part of the conveyor belt, and some hair balled up and covered in dust. The whole room was a morbid mixture of red and bolt grey.

Thankfully Miles saw her pass the rejects bin, still streaked with dark red, and the final chute … unfortunately though he missed seeing the green tour door slide down again, trapping him in the dark room.

It was only after the girl left his sight that he realised he was now alone.

A new patient started on the same journey. It was a guy this time, quite old with greying hair. Miles rushed from the viewing ledge, not keen to watch it all over again. He quickly made his way around the room with fingertips looking for a way out. Any way out! There was no way he was staying here. Not for the next tour or a guard or whatever would find him next!

The panic was hot and fresh in his mind; like a hot poker pushed into a bloody steak it hissed and spat. His tired limbs ached as he pushed here, leaned there, and grasped for anything reachable. The sweat, which now trickled down his back, sent a series of tsunami of chill-touched waves as each scream reached his ears. Every crack and edge was checked until his fingernails started to pull away. Bloody fingerprints created the maze which he traced.

“There has to be a way out,” he mumbled, his breathing coming in short gulps and gusts. “There has to be.”

It was almost two hours before he gave up and slunk down to the floor. The screaming continued behind the pane of reflective glass. Some times it was so loud that the whole room seemed to move. At other times it was just one solitary human begging for release.

“Just a rest. Just five minutes,” he mumbled to himself, his head leaning against the cool metal of the wall. Rest could not come quickly enough now that the panic had dissipated. Beads of sweat wrinkled and jumped from his face as his breathing slowed. “Just five minutes …”

[James]

Inkdrinker

Spelling & Grammar – 4/5
A few mistakes spread out through the story, but nothing too major. It didn't become too noticeable.

Ease of Read – 3/5
It was a nice story to read but it definitely lacked a certain flow. It might have been that you were rushing it? At times, it just got jumpy. The ending was suddenly compressed and paragraphs grew twice as long as before. The introduction of the automaton was so sudden I had to reread the paragraph.

Just make sure that you don't rush things and you'll be fine. Pacing, a bit of description (such as what the automaton looked like in greater detail) and it'll flow much better.

Use of Topic – 8/10
I loved your idea of the Dream Factory. It had a hint of Douglas Adams going for it which I enjoyed greatly. The warehouse with the ingredients for dreams was a great bit of imagery. You definitely captured the theme of the beginning.

Entertainment – 12/15
I really enjoyed this story until Miles left the automaton. Once that happened, the story became rushed and it suffered for it. Up until that point it had a nice comedic tone, the automaton was well done and the nightmare leak (nice name!) provided enough of a drive for the plot to allow an almost travelogue feel through the Dream Factory.

After Miles left the automaton, though, it went downhill. The balloon idea was neat but it was rushed over so quickly. Going beyond the Sun was left relatively unexplained and while the ending was neat, it was so rushed it didn't really have any payoff.

Again, I feel like this is just a case of you running out of time rather than any structural flaws within your writing. But I'll keep an eye out on pacing in your future stories where I'm judging so I can let you know if this is an area you may need to keep an eye on.

Overall, though, good work.

Quality – 9/15
Hmm. Overall, it was solidly written. You had some excellent lines (antique in aesthetic) and some nice imagery of the various parts of the warehouse. But there's a few flaws that I'd like to see you look out for and try to fix.

Most of all, you told me a whole lot and only showed me a little. Miles was panicking. He wasn't sweating, hands shaking, heart pumping, chewing on his bottom lip. Obviously, you don't want to go overboard, but you need to give the reader a little more freedom. Especially toward the end, you began to just rattle off a group of sentences telling me exactly what was happening in a blow-by-blow account. You didn't really dwell on any sense of dread on Miles behalf or the suffocating atmosphere of his surroundings.

Connected with that it I'd like to see you concentrate a little more on visuals. Again, don't go overboard, but for instance, the automaton was described in broad brush strokes which left my imagination to do the heavy lifting.

What you'll find, if you do these things right, is they then start correcting your other problems by default. The pace of the plot becomes better. The flow is more streamlined. The characters feel fuller and more real. The setting more vibrant and easier to imagine.

You're halfway there. Good story and you're one of the writers that I love to see write because you have a lot of promise.

TOTAL – 36/50

[James]

Reffy

Spelling & Grammar – 3/5
There were some problems with commas and an apostrophe. Mostly it was that there wasn't enough of them. However, besides that, you didn't really have anything else wrong besides the odd usual typo that everyone has.

Ease of Read – 3/5
Holy Batman. Those first two sentences, Reffy. I felt like someone had violently head-butted me. You have to make sure that you ease the reader in. You didn't necessarily have to make it interesting (since this was the Arena round) but you shouldn't throw the kitchen sink at the reader at the start. The first sentence didn't exactly make sense on the first read through. The second one went on forever!

After that first paragraph, you seemed to settle down and it got a lot better. I just feel like the most important part of the story to make sure it's edited and flowing is the beginning. And that didn't happen there. It meant the story took a moment to get going.

Use of Topic – 7/10
Pretty decent use of topic but I felt it was lacking a little oomph. The other people I've judged have really owned the topic by using it, immersing themselves in it, but also creating a whole another story out of it. I'm not sure you did the second part. I'm not sure there was another story here besides “Dream Factory.”

But the way you portrayed the Dream Factory was good. It was definitely some strange and terrifying. I just felt a little more context could have made it better.

Entertainment – 11/15
Quality – 10/15

Like I did with Jordoom, I'm going to talk about entertainment and quality together because this story is pretty tricky.

I feel like it just wasn't quite all there. It was interesting and entertaining in its individual parts: the descriptions, the setting, the mystery. But on the whole, it didn't quite gel.

There was some nice clever lines (tap-dancing chills) and you did a good job of getting inside the character's head and really portraying his fear. That was good work. Also, I found the whole thing intriguing and I loved the way you portrayed the tourism industry within this horrible factory of slaughter. Something like that was a really nice touch.

But I needed more to it. Like you said, this was a beginning. Neither you or Inkdrinker gave me a satisfying conclusion (whereas both Jor and Kaez in my other match gave me great endings). You need to make sure that your short story is a short story and not just the beginning to a novel.

I'm always a little worried about giving you negative feedback because you're definitely a confidence writer. But I can't be lenient for you and not others. And we both know you can great when you're on-song (like the Arena final entry). What you need to look at is making sure that your story is a story with a strong, clear start and a satisfying ending. If that happens, then your story is going to be so much better for it. From there, you can then look at just tidying it up, making sure the narrative is consistent (there was an exclamation point in the narrative that felt really odd – like the narrator had just been replaced by Reffy).

TOTAL - 34/50

[James]

VICTOR: INKDRINKER