chelydra

holy cow
I asked for dynamite and I got it, even tho ineligible to explode my expectations of a winner

chelydra

Marg,
Sadly you seem to be right... My understanding of math is too limited to find any meaningful connection between your word-count (243) and the assigned number (433). Otheriwse I really would try to jam you into contention.

chelydra

(comment 61 refers to midnight's conclusion)

Ladyhwin,
I would have announced this at the beginning, perhaps even used it as reason to decline this judgeship, if I'd thought of it. I am unable to read fantasy fiction. I could be looking a pages of Japanese. I know this has ABSOLUTELY NOTHING to do with the quality of the writing, because I have read two novels and one essay by Ursula LeGuin that are among my all-time favorite writings, but when I have tried to dip into what is supposed to be her masterpiece (a vast four-volume monstrosity) my eyes glaze over in the first paragraph and skipping ahead a few pages makes no difference. I had a similar experience with Nadine Gordimer (I think it was her anyway, I mix up names sometimes.) Two chapters of Tolkein I have enjoyed, but no more, and I hated the one Ring movie I saw. I will try a few more times to overcome this handicap between now and the end of judgement day, but I don't expect I can. At this point, all I can offer is apologies and The ThinkWrite Inadequate Judge's Consolation Prize. I would urge whoever wins this one to allow Ladyhwin to re-enter this story in the next (keeping the current word-count and word-list for this one only), because this must be painfully unfair, and I feel terrible about it.

chelydra

Ladyhwin again,
Good news, sort of. I had another go and it almost read itself, start to finish, and I was able to tell it is very, very nicely written. (I was probably in a very grumpy or sleepy state when I tried before.) However, my prejudice against the genre remains immoveable. If Ursula LeGuin can't budge it or dissolve it, I suppose no one can. So my suggestion about re-entering it (and letting it in) next time remains the best solution I can offer.

ladyhwin

*grins laughingly!!*

I wrote it because I wanted to, not to win!! You're not choosing a winner until tomorrow, right?? Let me see what I can come up with between now and then.... mwahahaha...!!

If someone is willing to let me enter it in the next competition, I will gladly do so, but its not a big deal to me at all!!

I am very much enjoying reading everyone's contributions!!

chelydra

(And please note I was unable to read even one complete sentence of LeGuin's fantasy masterpiece, whereas I did read all of yours start to finish. I can't think of a higher complement to offer than that.)

chelydra

Hi, Lady! Messages arrived simultaneously. YES, do by all means send another! Remember: dynamite... dynamite.... dynamite.... That's your mantra to chant as you write. Same applies to everyone who wants to explode my expectations of a winner. Judging will begin at midnight GMT tomorrow night (that would be 11pm daylight savings time in London, 6pm EDT in eastern USA, etc... Requests for extensions will be considered in exceptional circumstances, but not past 11:59 on the Saturday side of the International Date Line, and requests must be delivered in writing, here, by noon tomorrow GMT (so they can apply to everyone who wants to revise a submission or whatever).

ladyhwin

tehehe... off to write then...!!

midnightpoet

Chelydra - having a prejudice against a genre doesn't make one an inadequate judge (or torch bearer). We all have our preferences and prejudices in genre, I think - which is why the judging is always so subjective. If someone is writing to "win" they may play towards the judge's particular tastes, but I believe most who write would echo Lady's sentiment "I wrote it because I wanted to, not to win!!"

five

Moonlit, the treetops were calmer and the air thicker than expected.

Love tolerates. Graceful letters etched in hard stone remember, behind the church and among the tombs.

“The dead sleep with their eyes open; the living snore,” Dad once said. “It’s a beautiful noise. I plug my ears and happily choke on goose-down.”

Caw.

Hush, Crow.

Isabella traced the wood grain with her eyes. She lost it under white flowers. The scale was wrong. One rose would be good. Red, not white. Bright, bright red. These white flowers spread out like a blanket and hid the box.

She turned over Dad’s hand. She traced the flesh, digging harder with her nails as slid her finger. He yanked away.

“Go in peace, my ang-” 

Later, Isabella chewed the last raspberry thirty-two times -- she counted. She saw iron in Dad’s eyes, or, she imagined it. He slumped. Once a wolf, now a sheep. Errant juice slid the wrong way down her throat. She gasped and opened wide to suck. He smacked her on the back, hard, punishing her. She spat. She had done nothing wrong. Not a sheep; a ram.

Caw. Damned bird.

Isabella cried. She waved her arms, then squeezed her fingers into tight fists and shook them madly. Dad held her close and kissed the top of head.

five

ack, forgot "scales" so replace "a blanket" with "scales" ... plus a couple other word count tweeks since I misread 219.5 instead of 216.5


Moonlit, treetops were calm, air thick.

Love tolerates. Graceful letters etched in very hard stone remember, behind the church and among the tombs.

“The dead sleep with their eyes open; the living snore,” Dad once said. “It’s a beautiful noise. I plug my ears and happily choke on goose-down.”

Caw. Caw.

Hush, Crow.

Isabella traced the wood grain with her eyes. She lost it under white flowers. The scale was wrong. One rose would be good. Red, not white. Bright, bright red. These white flowers like soft scales spread out and hid the box.

She turned over Dad’s hand. She traced the flesh, digging harder with her nails as slid her finger. He yanked away.

“Go in peace, my ang-” 

Later, Isabella chewed the last raspberry thirty-two times -- she counted. She saw iron in Dad’s eyes, or, she imagined it. He slumped. Once a wolf, now a sheep. Errant juice slid the wrong way down her throat. She gasped and opened wide to suck. He smacked her on the back, hard, punishing her. She spat. She had done nothing wrong. Not a sheep; a ram.

Caw. Damned bird.

Isabella cried. She waved her arms, then squeezed her fingers into tight fists and shook them madly. Dad held her close and kissed the top of head.

ladyhwin

Sooo... my other story isn't working out... how long exactly do I have...? I can probably write something in the morning and post it... if that's not too late... hmmm...?

midnightpoet

Raven hair framed a porcelain white face – light rose cheeks scattered with chocolate freckles. Huge honey colored eyes, filled with a twinkle of life and laughter, shone from under long charcoal lashes. A smile always played across raspberry lips – the barest hint of dimples on either side.

Her name was Lily. She was as beautiful and wild as a flower. Her energy could sweep you away, no matter how grounded you thought you were. She was everything good in this world, everything light. There was no dark in her. No dark besides her love for me.

I still see her face when I lie awake at night, filled with the joy of being alive, with life and excitement and everything I have never known. In the silence, I can still hear her laughter, a scattering of musical notes that sang the antonym of my very being.

I stand at her tomb, staring at my own hands. Wind tosses my hair into my face. A wave of revulsion passes through me as I remember. I trace my finger along the moonlit letters, and a tear slides down my cheek.

I still see her face when I lie awake at night – it’s an image that will not go away. The joy of being alive, the light and laughter in her honey eyes – gone in an instant. I can still see the drops of blood splattered across her porcelain white skin like crimson freckles. In the silence I can still hear her scream, not the musical scales of her laughter but the haunting cry of a wounded wolf.

I stand at her tomb, reading her name. Wind whistles in the treetops outside the iron gates. My stomach turns with loathing – for her or for myself, I do not know. I trace my fingers along my lips, longing to feel her kiss again.

She was my Lily – beautiful and wild as a flower, with energy that swept me away despite my efforts to stay grounded. She was everything good in the world and I am everything bad. Her light could not outshine my darkness. Her light extinguished by her love for me.

Raven hair framed a porcelain white face – light rose cheeks drained of all color, save the chocolate of her freckles, as the life and laughter left her huge honey colored eyes. Tears stuck in long charcoal lashes. Horror twisted her raspberry lips as she cried out and begged me to stop, but death brought peace. A lifeless smile on her face – the barest hint of dimples on either side. My love… dead by my hand.

chelydra

ladyhwin, see note 67...
i am interpreting this as a request for an extension and so the challenge will officially end whenever Saturday turns to Sunday along the International Date Line... is that how it works, or does Saturday turn into itself all over agin? No, then tomorrow would never come, would it... Seeing that line zig-zagging up the Pacific on our classroom world map was one of the main things that convinced me grown-ups were out of their minds... Look, let's just say when it's Sunday morning in London, you're out of time. What "morning" means will be up to me... but if you wrap it up and send it in before midnight wherever you are (except maybe Hawaii or the Aleutian Islands) you oughta be okay...

chelydra

Being already judge, jury, prosecutor (trying my damnedest to condemn all but one entry to oblivion), and a member of the audience (enjoying the show), it seems only fair that I should serve as defense attorney when I'm convinced an entrant is innocent (as opposed to Marg, for instance, whose word-counts are a threat to public order). That's by way of introducing this whispered and confidential advice to five:
The first sentence, and the single caw, make the uncorrected version much better, in my opinion (which seems to be the only opinion that counts at the moment). What you did here was what I did with my heathen's story - I saw that I needed to get rid of some words, and started by butchering the first sentence, reducing a nice moody opening to a compressed, choppy one. Rather than waste the court's time and space with further rewrites, your defense attorney is now going to ask to see the judge in his chambers, to see if Ihe might take into consideration the merits of the uncorrected text. He might react badly to this request, maybe even have be banned from his courtroom, but I think it's worth a shot. We'll find out tonight, I guess.

marg

LOL.. love the 'public order' threat, chelydra - that REALLY made my day

So.. in order for me to show that I am a truly nice person and TD rule-abiding and that I would like one of my entries to be considered and officially discounted, may I please present a slightly amended version of my last contribution ?

------------------------

The raven had been quaffing again – against all the rules. Tsking under his breath, Porton picked up the inebriated bird and took it outside to the lawn, where he placed, or rather laid, it down on the grass.

The festivities had reached a peak of silliness that he would rather not have had to endure. He stole a moment to gaze around him – the quiet skies and serene treetops above the courtyard, the statue of Justice overlooking the ducking pond, weighing the fate of all mankind in her scales, and in the far corner, the old Master’s tomb, now moonlit and looking faintly green.

What was it, he thought ? What had made them all act like that ? Surely not the tomato soup (which Cook had taken pains to make without the normal radishes), or the ‘Chicken a la King’ without the prongy bits, or even the raspberry ripple, which admittedly had been more like a wave…

Slowly he walked over to the tomb. The shadows etched the folds of the stone mantle and he knelt quickly to kiss the stone ring, where the cold marble hand rested on the lid of the crypt.

A wave of high-pitched laughter reached his ears, interspersed with a sort of hiccuping crash, as if the ancient, long wooden tables in the hall had also joined in the festivities.

He straightened slowly, ignoring a twinge of lumbago [crip..], and resolutely turned away from the tomb.

Back inside the hall, he stopped momentarily to remove a small iron bar from the ear of one of the guests before turning to close the drapes. Somewhere out there, beyond the dark walls, something howled like a wolf; he was almost sure that it was the raven.

-----------------

hee, hee.. exactly 2/3 of the word count, I believe (288.67 by my reckoning) ?

..and I just want to say that I'm grinning from ear to ear because of the fun this challenge has been and how great it is to have Think Write back

five

One more... (and I think it is at 216.5)


There is no tomb.

Fields chatter. Within them, snakes shed scales. A crow marks time; it might never sleep.

A wolf would languish until the sky was moonlit. Not him, not today; He can’t keep still.

He passes before curtained windows, raises up and pivots, then wears down nine feet of limp carpet in the other dir--.

The phone would ring. He would stop. He would want to answer.

Alice, my raspberry. Treetops in the distance. A lake surrounding us. Your hair flew loose; your eyes betrayed no guile. We ducked, and water washed over us. Giggles turned to laughter that violently shook your body. I stilled you; then, I kissed you. We melted together. We could again. For one smile, I could forgive.

It was not so much the words she used (she may have asked to spare memories from bitterness) as the sound he heard (he had not earned enough to keep her), and the way she said it -- piercing -- looking through him not into him. The worst of things whispered with meekness clears the head more than a surge of sincere kindness receding back across an iron face.

“You’re too cold now to listen. It’s best to leave than die with you.”

“You’ll stay or -- ”

He regretted but would not retract his command.

five

I am clearly bad at this as I forget I have to keep certain words in the story when I let other words take over. This time, I changed wave to surge to repeat the s sound. For for the purpose of qualifying, I a minor edit that lets me keep surge and still be 216.5 (Technically, I suppose dir-- is only one third of a word but if you say the whole word really quickly, it could sound close to half.)

There is no tomb.

Fields chatter. Within them, snakes shed scales. A crow marks time; it might never sleep.

A wolf would languish until the sky was moonlit. Not him, not today; He can’t keep still.

He passes before curtained windows, raises up and pivots, then wears down nine feet of limp carpet in the other dir--.

The phone would ring. He would stop. He would want to answer.

Alice, my raspberry. Treetops in the distance. A lake surrounding us. Your hair flew loose; your eyes betrayed no guile. We ducked, and a wave washed over. Giggles turned to laughter that violently shook your body. I stilled you; then, I kissed you. We melted together. We could again. For one smile, I could forgive.

It was not so much the words she used (she may have asked to spare memories from bitterness) as the sound he heard (he had not earned enough to keep her), and the way she said it -- piercing -- looking through him not into him. The worst of things whispered with meekness clears the head more than a surge of sincere kindness receding back across an iron face.

“You’re too cold now to listen. It’s best to leave than die with you.”

“You’ll stay or -- ”

He regretted but would not retract his command.

marg

Love it, five !

.. and now for my final contribution:

-----------------

Well, knock me down - I'm looking at you..
You ain't too wide and you ain't too tall
You're the grandest thing that I ever saw

You got the raven locks and the two-step slide
Teeth like tombstones and a wolf-like smile
You're the bestest thing that I ever saw

Won'tcha come outside for a moonlit walk
Scale the boardwalk palings for a kiss in the dark
You're the sweetest thing that I ever saw

Now don't look at me with that iron stare
Give a wave to the treetops - they're smiling at you
And raspberries to that other guy, che..
--------------------------------------------

I wish to point out that this last [thankfully for all concerned ] contribution, plus the first and second ones I did, adds up to 433 + 1% for extra effort.

An honourable mention would be warmly regarded !

marg

oh, wow, midnight - just read your #73 - just excellent