Time flies when you are having fun.Yeah, well... I think that's what, 4-5 years ago now?
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Two days till end of submissions and we've had no chat on the ranking/favourite/whatever issue that was delayed during the last submission period. Any takers?
Two days till end of submissions and we've had no chat on the ranking/favourite/whatever issue that was delayed during the last submission period. Any takers?
Okay, I'll bite
I don't mind the idea of a 'points' system to pick the winner. I think the simpliest method would be the best method, so I'd say make 3 points for 3rd place, 2 points for 2nd and 1 point for 1st, with the lowest points winning. If someone just votes for a 'best' without mentioning the others, then just give 2 points to those not voted on.
Or, even simpler, count up the number of 'best' votes and hand out the trophy
I don't think the point of GtA should be the prize...the prize should just be a fun add-on designed to drive interest (as it did in my case)
I would prefer to keep it as simple as possible - one man, one vote for winner. I'm worried that with a ranking vote, we'll have the least hated as a winner rather than the most loved.
I don't mind at all having a controversial winner, which many love but some hate. That will make for interesting and varied critique in The AARlander - because remember that the critique goes in there too!
I don't mind at all having a controversial winner, which many love but some hate. That will make for interesting and varied critique in The AARlander - because remember that the critique goes in there too!
My favourite, if voting there must be, is as always a simple "vote for your favourite entry" rather than ranking best-to-worst with a point score system. Everybody can understand that voting for a favourite is a completely subjective vote based on what the voter likes and dislikes in content and criticism and that, as a result, it cannot in any way be said to measure which entry is better than another in any objective sense. It also goes a far way towards preventing "loser" syndrome so long as there is at least three participants.
An option of course is that the coordinator gets to pick an entry to send to the AARlander based simply on what critique he (read: I!
) finds most interestning.For example, in this round, while I liked entry #3 best, the critique of #1 was far more interesting than that of #3.
An option of course is that the coordinator gets to pick an entry to send to the AARlander based simply on what critique he (read: I!
For example, in this round, while I liked entry #3 best, the critique of #1 was far more interesting than that of #3.
I really like this idea...it compels quality critiques and promotes daring author works.
An option of course is that the coordinator gets to pick an entry to send to the AARlander based simply on what critique he (read: I!
For example, in this round, while I liked entry #3 best, the critique of #1 was far more interesting than that of #3.
All in all, though it does put some pressure on you, this sounds more appropriate. After all, since you're running this, you should be in charge of promoting it, and this is one of those ways...
I'm not sure it lessens the "contest" part of it at all, and having a contest certainly may not encourage participation any more than it might convince people they can't compete!
I think you're right -- often, the most instructive criticism (the stuff that will show writers "here's why you should participate, because this is what you can gain") is from an entry other than everyone's favorite. After all, what if a piece is the favorite because it had nothing to criticize? Who learns from that?
So would anyone be against doing it that way?
BTW - deadline for submissions is tomorrow. Just saying.
BTW - deadline for submissions is tomorrow. Just saying.
At the first free moment I get after the deadline has expired, meaning - Right now!
Remember, the topic of the month is
"An investigation gone wrong"
Author #1
„Charlotte ? I thought you`re still on vacation.“
“Don`t remind me. I came back yesterday. I tell you, blue sky, white beaches and azure water every day for two weeks. Aruba is beautiful.” She smiled, interrupted by a short cough. “And now I`m back here, standing in these snowy woods at this ungodly hour.”
She lit a cigarette, took a deep breath and when exhaling she took a look at the scene. A large tree, a rope, a ladder and a corpse. Male, blonde hair, approximately 30 years old.
“Tell me something.”, she said to the dead body.
“Pardon ? I thought, you would tell me something about him.”
“Sorry, Bill, I was in thoughts. Well, I can`t tell you that much right now. Looks like a suicide.”
“Time of death ?”
“Pfff, hard to say considering the cold. Maybe around midnight, but that`s just a first guess. We`ll take him with us and tomorrow I can say a little bit more.”
“Okay, Charlotte, see you at the morgue then.”
“Bye. And Bill, please do me a favor and keep the media at distance as long as we`re working here.” She pointed at a group of Journalists.
“Sorry, Charlotte, but I think you will have to feed the hungry pack.”, Bill replied with a grin.
“Okay”, she said, rolling her eyes.
`THAT`s a story`, he thought. An official who worked at the Department of Defense found dead. And a hint that it was maybe a forced death. While driving back to the bureau he saw a headline before his eyes: Murder in the Government !
He stopped his car near the publishing house. While entering he thought about what to do next.
`Call Ginger. Maybe she knows something.`, he thought. When reaching his desk he picked up the phone and dialed a number.
“Lovesickness ?”, she asked.
“They`ve found a suicide note in his house. He has been divorced since a few weeks. Seems as if he couldn`t get over it. Tragic.”, Bill answered.
She took another look at the dead man. Does not look like a labile guy. But heck, who can tell what drives a man over the edge. She remembered one of her ex-friends who began stalking when she left him.
“Charlotte, may it be you don`t believe it was a suicide ?”
“Are you reading my thoughts ?”
“Yes, when your thoughts can be read in your eyes. Do you really believe he didn`t hang himself ?”
“Just a vague feeling, Bill. There are a few small hematoma on his arms. And I`ve found this in his mouth.” She showed him a small plastic bag with a single fiber in it.
“I know it`s not much, but something here makes me suspicious.”
“Listen, Charlotte. We found him just a few hundred yards from his house. We have the ladder. A neighbor recognized it as the victim`s. We have questioned his ex-wife. She said, he sounded nervous when she called him a few days ago. And we have his note.”
“Is it handwritten ?”
“No.”
“Hm….”
She looked him in the eye. Bill is one of, no, the best friend she has since he helped to stop her ex-friend from stalking. He did it for a certain reason but since then they didn`t came closer and still he does her any favor. So why not ask for another one.
“Can`t you investigate a little more, Bill ?”, she said, winking with her green eyes.
“Sure.”, he answered and thought `But this time it`s not for free, Charlotte.`
All for nothing.
“Damned !”, he shouted in his car and hit the steering wheel. He had interviewed all of the victim`s relatives, friends and colleagues, but nobody said anything useful. Good friend, caring father, worked hard, no enemies. Okay, his wife had a lover, but that`s uninteresting. If Ginger doesn`t tell him anything of value, the story is over.
He parked his car and went toward a pub where he and Ginger had a date. He took a look at the sign over the entrance. “The Rat Pit”. He laughed.
“We`ve found nothing.”, he said.
“So it was actually suicide ?”, she asked.
“What I meant was that we`ve found absolutely nothing, Charlotte. We checked his private laptop. For a man in his position I think it`s quite unusual to have no, I repeat, no files or mails containing anything beyond some chitchat on his computer.”
“Maybe he had all sensitive data on CD ?”
“Maybe. But there were none. Not even a post-it saying something like `Buy milk`. The whole house made a complete uninhabited impression.”
“Uninhabited ?”, she asked, still sounding tired.
Bill sat up and left the bed.
“Charlotte. Look at your home. Books and notes on your desk. The kitchen untidy. Clothing that needs to be washed and ironed. Face it, your apartment is a mess. And you`re not a desperate guy poised to commit suicide.”
“You could make a start by picking up your clothes.”, she said with a smile, “I get your point, Bill. So what are we doing now ?”
`Good point`, he thought. Detective William Shaffer, married, two children, hadn`t been much of a hero so far and this whole story stinks. On the other hand he didn`t want to screw up his relation with Charlotte right now.
`Well, there should be no harm in going ahead a little more.` he said to himself and added `And I should cure my addiction to redheads.`
“Maybe I can investigate a little at his job.”, he meant.
Ginger is great ! This fellow seemed to have his fingers in every pie. Working at the research department, being responsible for the budget and public procurements, he must have been corrupt as can be. But she also said that there must be more to it than that. Sound logical. A little corruption is nothing to deserve such a pathetic death for. Finally she said she would arrange a meeting with an Insider this week.
It was a busy morning at the morgue. There was a shootout at the docks that night and now Charlotte was carrying out a postmortem on the victim. While weighing the brain, Bill came in.
“Hi Bill, anything new about our suicidal blonde ?”
“I`ve been at his bureau but the police had already been there and confiscated all material in his desk.”
“So ?”
He came closer and said: “Charlotte. I am the police and none of the guys of the homicide division has been there to confiscate anything. I talked to his superior, but he wasn`t that communicative. I tell you, he was afraid.”
“Afraid ? Of what ?”
“Good question ! A friend of mine works for the Feds. I think I`ll ask him if he can find out something about our mysterious man.”
He noticed his hands were shaking. Maybe because he hadn`t slept that much the last days. Or maybe because he`s been working round the clock. The meeting with the informant revealed some dynamite. This guy was not just corrupt. As it seems, he was responsible for several deals with arms and technology being sold to countries and investing the receipts in some projects run by the Agency to destabilize other countries. So far it was just his job. But someday he must have decided to sell technology and his knowledge about the Agency`s projects to a third party on his own. Hence it is no wonder that he was found dead.
The informant has given him some evidence for his story and right now he sat at home, making a backup copy of the disk and his article for the newspaper.
Then the lights went out.
She turned on the lights. Suddenly the bell rang. When she opened the door, she saw Bill. He came in without saying anything but his eyes expressed that he was nervous. He went to the living room and sat down.
“Charlotte, it was a suicide.”
“What ?”
“I tell you, that man killed himself. So please close the file.”
She looked at him. She knew him for three years now but she never saw being anxious before.
“What happened ?”
“I`ve called my friend. A few hours later he called back, giving me the `advice` to stop investigating. And that`s what I`m going to do. And you should too !”
“And what shall I write in my report ? That there are some inconsistencies in this case but I decided to declare it a suicide because a `friend` of a friend told me to ?”
“That`s what I beg you to do.”
“But I want to know the truth !”
“Charlotte ! Stop it !”
“STOP ! HELP !”, he shouted, but nobody could hear him. He stood on top of a ladder, tied, gagged and with a noose around his neck. In front of him were two men. In the next moment one of them gave the ladder a push.
The neck didn`t break but he became unconscious after a few seconds. Five minutes later one of the men removed the gag and said: “Farewell, Martin.”
Nearly a week had passed since that evening and she hadn`t heard anything from Bill since then. Finally she called him at his office. A female voice answered.
“I would like to speak with Detective Shaffer.”
“Oh, Bill isn`t here anymore. He asked to be transferred to the traffic police.”, the woman said.
“And where can I find him ?”
“6th Precinct. But he is not at work. One of his children had an accident so he is in the hospital right now.”
“Thanks”. Charlotte put down the phone. She went back to the desk to finish her report and stared at the monitor.
NAME: CHADWICK
FIRST NAME: MARTIN
DATE OF BIRTH: AUGUST 2, 1980
DAY OF DEATH: FEBRUARY 26, 2009
CAUSE OF DEATH: UNKNOWN
She made a pause, looking at the blinking cursor. Eventually she made a decision.
CAUSE OF DEATH: STRANGULATION (SUICIDE)
Remember, the topic of the month is
"An investigation gone wrong"
Author #1
„Charlotte ? I thought you`re still on vacation.“
“Don`t remind me. I came back yesterday. I tell you, blue sky, white beaches and azure water every day for two weeks. Aruba is beautiful.” She smiled, interrupted by a short cough. “And now I`m back here, standing in these snowy woods at this ungodly hour.”
She lit a cigarette, took a deep breath and when exhaling she took a look at the scene. A large tree, a rope, a ladder and a corpse. Male, blonde hair, approximately 30 years old.
“Tell me something.”, she said to the dead body.
“Pardon ? I thought, you would tell me something about him.”
“Sorry, Bill, I was in thoughts. Well, I can`t tell you that much right now. Looks like a suicide.”
“Time of death ?”
“Pfff, hard to say considering the cold. Maybe around midnight, but that`s just a first guess. We`ll take him with us and tomorrow I can say a little bit more.”
“Okay, Charlotte, see you at the morgue then.”
“Bye. And Bill, please do me a favor and keep the media at distance as long as we`re working here.” She pointed at a group of Journalists.
“Sorry, Charlotte, but I think you will have to feed the hungry pack.”, Bill replied with a grin.
“Okay”, she said, rolling her eyes.
*******
`THAT`s a story`, he thought. An official who worked at the Department of Defense found dead. And a hint that it was maybe a forced death. While driving back to the bureau he saw a headline before his eyes: Murder in the Government !
He stopped his car near the publishing house. While entering he thought about what to do next.
`Call Ginger. Maybe she knows something.`, he thought. When reaching his desk he picked up the phone and dialed a number.
*******
“Lovesickness ?”, she asked.
“They`ve found a suicide note in his house. He has been divorced since a few weeks. Seems as if he couldn`t get over it. Tragic.”, Bill answered.
She took another look at the dead man. Does not look like a labile guy. But heck, who can tell what drives a man over the edge. She remembered one of her ex-friends who began stalking when she left him.
“Charlotte, may it be you don`t believe it was a suicide ?”
“Are you reading my thoughts ?”
“Yes, when your thoughts can be read in your eyes. Do you really believe he didn`t hang himself ?”
“Just a vague feeling, Bill. There are a few small hematoma on his arms. And I`ve found this in his mouth.” She showed him a small plastic bag with a single fiber in it.
“I know it`s not much, but something here makes me suspicious.”
“Listen, Charlotte. We found him just a few hundred yards from his house. We have the ladder. A neighbor recognized it as the victim`s. We have questioned his ex-wife. She said, he sounded nervous when she called him a few days ago. And we have his note.”
“Is it handwritten ?”
“No.”
“Hm….”
She looked him in the eye. Bill is one of, no, the best friend she has since he helped to stop her ex-friend from stalking. He did it for a certain reason but since then they didn`t came closer and still he does her any favor. So why not ask for another one.
“Can`t you investigate a little more, Bill ?”, she said, winking with her green eyes.
“Sure.”, he answered and thought `But this time it`s not for free, Charlotte.`
*******
All for nothing.
“Damned !”, he shouted in his car and hit the steering wheel. He had interviewed all of the victim`s relatives, friends and colleagues, but nobody said anything useful. Good friend, caring father, worked hard, no enemies. Okay, his wife had a lover, but that`s uninteresting. If Ginger doesn`t tell him anything of value, the story is over.
He parked his car and went toward a pub where he and Ginger had a date. He took a look at the sign over the entrance. “The Rat Pit”. He laughed.
*******
“We`ve found nothing.”, he said.
“So it was actually suicide ?”, she asked.
“What I meant was that we`ve found absolutely nothing, Charlotte. We checked his private laptop. For a man in his position I think it`s quite unusual to have no, I repeat, no files or mails containing anything beyond some chitchat on his computer.”
“Maybe he had all sensitive data on CD ?”
“Maybe. But there were none. Not even a post-it saying something like `Buy milk`. The whole house made a complete uninhabited impression.”
“Uninhabited ?”, she asked, still sounding tired.
Bill sat up and left the bed.
“Charlotte. Look at your home. Books and notes on your desk. The kitchen untidy. Clothing that needs to be washed and ironed. Face it, your apartment is a mess. And you`re not a desperate guy poised to commit suicide.”
“You could make a start by picking up your clothes.”, she said with a smile, “I get your point, Bill. So what are we doing now ?”
`Good point`, he thought. Detective William Shaffer, married, two children, hadn`t been much of a hero so far and this whole story stinks. On the other hand he didn`t want to screw up his relation with Charlotte right now.
`Well, there should be no harm in going ahead a little more.` he said to himself and added `And I should cure my addiction to redheads.`
“Maybe I can investigate a little at his job.”, he meant.
*******
Ginger is great ! This fellow seemed to have his fingers in every pie. Working at the research department, being responsible for the budget and public procurements, he must have been corrupt as can be. But she also said that there must be more to it than that. Sound logical. A little corruption is nothing to deserve such a pathetic death for. Finally she said she would arrange a meeting with an Insider this week.
*******
It was a busy morning at the morgue. There was a shootout at the docks that night and now Charlotte was carrying out a postmortem on the victim. While weighing the brain, Bill came in.
“Hi Bill, anything new about our suicidal blonde ?”
“I`ve been at his bureau but the police had already been there and confiscated all material in his desk.”
“So ?”
He came closer and said: “Charlotte. I am the police and none of the guys of the homicide division has been there to confiscate anything. I talked to his superior, but he wasn`t that communicative. I tell you, he was afraid.”
“Afraid ? Of what ?”
“Good question ! A friend of mine works for the Feds. I think I`ll ask him if he can find out something about our mysterious man.”
*******
He noticed his hands were shaking. Maybe because he hadn`t slept that much the last days. Or maybe because he`s been working round the clock. The meeting with the informant revealed some dynamite. This guy was not just corrupt. As it seems, he was responsible for several deals with arms and technology being sold to countries and investing the receipts in some projects run by the Agency to destabilize other countries. So far it was just his job. But someday he must have decided to sell technology and his knowledge about the Agency`s projects to a third party on his own. Hence it is no wonder that he was found dead.
The informant has given him some evidence for his story and right now he sat at home, making a backup copy of the disk and his article for the newspaper.
Then the lights went out.
*******
She turned on the lights. Suddenly the bell rang. When she opened the door, she saw Bill. He came in without saying anything but his eyes expressed that he was nervous. He went to the living room and sat down.
“Charlotte, it was a suicide.”
“What ?”
“I tell you, that man killed himself. So please close the file.”
She looked at him. She knew him for three years now but she never saw being anxious before.
“What happened ?”
“I`ve called my friend. A few hours later he called back, giving me the `advice` to stop investigating. And that`s what I`m going to do. And you should too !”
“And what shall I write in my report ? That there are some inconsistencies in this case but I decided to declare it a suicide because a `friend` of a friend told me to ?”
“That`s what I beg you to do.”
“But I want to know the truth !”
“Charlotte ! Stop it !”
*******
“STOP ! HELP !”, he shouted, but nobody could hear him. He stood on top of a ladder, tied, gagged and with a noose around his neck. In front of him were two men. In the next moment one of them gave the ladder a push.
The neck didn`t break but he became unconscious after a few seconds. Five minutes later one of the men removed the gag and said: “Farewell, Martin.”
*******
Nearly a week had passed since that evening and she hadn`t heard anything from Bill since then. Finally she called him at his office. A female voice answered.
“I would like to speak with Detective Shaffer.”
“Oh, Bill isn`t here anymore. He asked to be transferred to the traffic police.”, the woman said.
“And where can I find him ?”
“6th Precinct. But he is not at work. One of his children had an accident so he is in the hospital right now.”
“Thanks”. Charlotte put down the phone. She went back to the desk to finish her report and stared at the monitor.
NAME: CHADWICK
FIRST NAME: MARTIN
DATE OF BIRTH: AUGUST 2, 1980
DAY OF DEATH: FEBRUARY 26, 2009
CAUSE OF DEATH: UNKNOWN
She made a pause, looking at the blinking cursor. Eventually she made a decision.
CAUSE OF DEATH: STRANGULATION (SUICIDE)
Last edited:
Author #2
I guess I am a hero. I didn’t really set out to do what I do, which is to save the world on a fairly regular basis. For I am the protector of my city. No one knows my name. I don’t do this for the glory or for the fame. I don’t want the accolades of the people. I am just a normal man, but a normal man with a gift.
You see, I have a knack for hunting the demons that haunt this city. I have killed nineteen already and have suffered not more than minor injuries and the occasional fright. On occasion, it is true, I have soiled myself. I find no shame in that fact. These are terrible monsters after all and they would not hesitate to rip me limb from limb, devour my soul even, should I make a single false step. But I do not. I am always prepared.
Whenever I hunt these creatures I bring along a rather sophisticated set of weaponry. I carry a baseball bat attached to the inside of my trench coat by means of a clever device. Tucked in my belt, I carry a very sharp hatchet. I have also procured a taser, which, to my considerable relief, is highly effective on these terrible monsters. The test of this little toy was nerve wracking and it took several hunts for me to screw up the courage to try it. After all, if it had failed to immobilize my foe, I would probably have died horribly. I also bring along garlic, and some wooden stakes.
I know that these tools are supposed to stop vampires, but, contrary to certain television shows, books containing true occult folklore and lessons on the hunting of supernatural beasts of the night are few and far between. I’ve certainly never seen one and vampire lore is all I have to rely on. Both species are supernatural monsters, and I suspect the vampire legends are based on the night creatures, the demons, that I hunt. So, just to be safe, once I’ve dispatched one of the monsters, I sever its head with a hatchet and stuff the mouth with garlic. I also drive a stake into the heart of the beasts. It seems to work as I’ve never seen the same demon twice.
Really, I don’t know much about these creatures or why they are here. I don’t really understand their physiology and their language, guttural and feral, is incomprehensible.
I know they recover their dead. Or maybe the bodies dissolve after a while. Something happens to them. I've never stayed to find out. After a successful hunt, I typically escape the area as swiftly as possible. After all, I am one man and the sounds of battle might attract other demons. I like to think of myself as ninja-like. Striking suddenly and fiercely from the shadows and then retreating, victorious.
I’ve contemplated taking a trophy, perhaps a severed head, back to my apartment but I’ve always decided against it. I don’t want that horned, misshapen thing in my house. It would creep me out. Plus, I don’t really know much about what happens to these things when they die. I’d hate to bring something home that can wake up and kill me in my sleep.
It is weird how all of this came about. You see, I was at my lowest point. I had nothing really to live for. My wife had left me. I was fired from my job and my daughter still will not speak to me. To be honest, I deserved all of that. I was lucky to avoid prison. Those days are long behind me now, so I will not dwell on the moral lapses that, oddly enough, led to my new role as protector: savior of the people, defender of the night.
Really. when I reflect on it, it seems more and more clear that those moral lapses were not really my doing. Something was guiding me to my destiny. I had to be tested by fire, I had to be redeemed before I could assume my new role. Besides, losing all of those social links, social burdens even, freed me. Once I found my purpose, my redemption, all of those obligations would have only served as needless distractions. Potential weaknesses, even. If the demons knew I had a wife and a daughter at home, why think of the threats and hold they would have over me. I would fear to hunt because I would feel obliged to stay home and protect my wife and child. The cosmic good that was molding my destiny had to break those ties so I could realize my potential. Doubtless the humiliation and degradation I suffered when the lapses became public knowledge have helped make me a stronger person, a better hunter.
Of course, as these events were unfolding, I knew none of this. I’d rented a cheap efficiency apartment in the low rent district but I had not yet gotten accustomed to being alone. Every moment I spent in that apartment was a torture. The accusations and tears of those I’d wronged ringing in my head. I spent most of my time wandering the streets of the city. The sounds of the city pushed most of those memories to the side. I moved everywhere as though I was being hunted, watched. I slunk in shadows. I pulled the brim of my hat low. I avoided all human contact.
Over time, the voices grew louder. Too loud. They were accusatory. They were angry. I moved about in a daze, trying vainly to escape them. I did not know then that they were merely leading me to my destiny. Perhaps that would have given me some peace. As it was, I wandered the streets non-stop, day and night, for a week. I was delirious from sleep deprivation, hunger, and thirst. The voices made it hard even to think. I was still crying, though I was sufficiently dehydrated for tears to stop coursing down my cheeks.
It was around midnight when I saw it. It was facing away from me, lurking behind a trashcan in the park. No doubt, it was waiting for prey to come along. It was one of the demons. I could smell the brimstone and hear the beast’s talons raking the can. Somehow, miraculously, it had not noticed me. The voices were rising to a crescendo. I could hear nothing, feel nothing. I had to make them stop. Rage was building in me, had been for days, with no outlet. Now this demon blocked my path. It would destroy me the instant it noticed my presence. I don’t know how the rock got into my hand or where the courage to approach it came from, though I do know I soiled myself during the approach. Courage is moving forward in spite of oppressive fear.
When I struck it, the creature collapsed. I was on it in a flash, the rock rose and fell, over and over and over again. The voices in my head screamed with each blow, louder and louder. All the pent up anger, humiliation, and frustration of the last year exploded on the fell creature. When I was done, I collapsed next to the fallen monster. The voices were gone. For the first time, I felt free. The fact that I had battled and defeated a dread creature of the night had not fully registered. Indeed, it would not for many days. Even when I disposed of the clothing I’d worn that night, stained and ruined as it was with the creature’s fluids, and mine, none of it felt real. I would try to digest the event at night, but very little of the whole ordeal made very much sense. In time though, I would come to a better understanding of what was happening.
You see, the voices returned. Slowly, to be sure, but over time the accusing voices of my past life returned and once more crowded out all else. I felt like I was going insane. I could not work; I could not really even talk. I certainly could not think clearly. The voices crowded out all else. There were so many of them, and they were so loud that it was only with a tremendous effort that I was able to recall the circumstances that had chased them away before.
I remembered the peace and quiet after I had killed the demon. It was desperate and dangerous, but I had no choice. The voices had to go, and at the time I felt that death at the hands of a monster would have been preferable. I purchased an aluminum softball bat and slunk off to the park to seek out a creature. I hadn’t noticed any since my last encounter, but I was certain one would be there. I hid in the bushes along side the jogging trail and awaited my quarry. The voices in my head were at a fevered pitch, screaming as one. Night fell and I watched the trail. Only humans thus far, jogging, walking, talking together in groups, but I knew it would come. After all, its prey was plentiful this night and it would not expect another predator.
Around ten o’clock, the park was empty by then, I heard it shuffling along the trail, moving swiftly. It must have been on the trail of a victim. It came shambling along, its breath, hard and raspy, tasting the air. I let it get a couple of paces ahead when I charged from the bushes. It let out a terrible screech as my bat connected with a disturbing 'clong.' It crumpled to the ground and I went to work, bludgeoning the horned beast until my arms could no longer rise in the air and its grotesque, mandibled head existed only in theory. Once more the voices departed, swiftly as I stood, admiring my handiwork, and recovering my breath. As carefully as I could, I fled the area.
It was only now that I finally understood. The voices were not berating me for my past transgressions, rather they were leading me, prodding me towards my redemption, towards a new life, a new goal. The voices still return. Each time they begin to build, I plan another hunt. I reconnoiter the place. I work and plan as much as possible before the voices make rational thought too difficult. The voices, as useful as they are for steeling my nerves at the moment of battle, tend to cloud my thinking in the days leading up to a hunt.
I know that I have a gift for stalking and battling these dread beasts, but there is no sense going off blind into the wilderness, as it were. For by now, I am doubtless something of an avenging angel in their circles and I have no doubt that any demon that manages to defeat me will be a legend amongst his horrid kind. I try not to establish any pattern in hunting grounds, for I do not want to give them much to work with. They would ambush and destroy me given the chance. So far, it is only they who have been ambushed, a trend I plan to continue.
This night, I plan to destroy my twentieth monster. I know where this night’s beast can be found. I have given it much thought, and I am certain that these beasts also haunt the river walk at night, doubtless planning the destruction of some wayward couple out too late. It does not know that I’ve been planning its destruction.
Ideally, it never really will get the chance to find out. While it patrols the shore, I will be there, hiding in the shadows. As I’ve done so many times before, I will strike from behind, like lightning. To be safe, I will open with the bat. It is the most trustworthy weapon in my arsenal, but, once the beast is subdued, I want to try out the latest addition to my arsenal: a Machete.
I am always learning more about these creatures, it is, after all, my life's work. Someday, I may even find out why they are here and what they want. Ah, but enough for now. The moon will soon rise and I must be in position. Humanity needs me. I am off.
Epilogue:
BLAINESVILLE, FL – Florida’s most vicious serial killer struck again last night. The victim, Mary Dawkins, was attacked while jogging at the river-walk. Police Chief Worth stated the injuries sustained by the victim are consistent with the method of attack of the "Vampire Bat" has used in the past, with a minor new variation, which Police decline to discuss. Citizens are warned not to travel alone at night as all victims…
An Investigation Into The Super-Natural
I guess I am a hero. I didn’t really set out to do what I do, which is to save the world on a fairly regular basis. For I am the protector of my city. No one knows my name. I don’t do this for the glory or for the fame. I don’t want the accolades of the people. I am just a normal man, but a normal man with a gift.
You see, I have a knack for hunting the demons that haunt this city. I have killed nineteen already and have suffered not more than minor injuries and the occasional fright. On occasion, it is true, I have soiled myself. I find no shame in that fact. These are terrible monsters after all and they would not hesitate to rip me limb from limb, devour my soul even, should I make a single false step. But I do not. I am always prepared.
Whenever I hunt these creatures I bring along a rather sophisticated set of weaponry. I carry a baseball bat attached to the inside of my trench coat by means of a clever device. Tucked in my belt, I carry a very sharp hatchet. I have also procured a taser, which, to my considerable relief, is highly effective on these terrible monsters. The test of this little toy was nerve wracking and it took several hunts for me to screw up the courage to try it. After all, if it had failed to immobilize my foe, I would probably have died horribly. I also bring along garlic, and some wooden stakes.
I know that these tools are supposed to stop vampires, but, contrary to certain television shows, books containing true occult folklore and lessons on the hunting of supernatural beasts of the night are few and far between. I’ve certainly never seen one and vampire lore is all I have to rely on. Both species are supernatural monsters, and I suspect the vampire legends are based on the night creatures, the demons, that I hunt. So, just to be safe, once I’ve dispatched one of the monsters, I sever its head with a hatchet and stuff the mouth with garlic. I also drive a stake into the heart of the beasts. It seems to work as I’ve never seen the same demon twice.
Really, I don’t know much about these creatures or why they are here. I don’t really understand their physiology and their language, guttural and feral, is incomprehensible.
I know they recover their dead. Or maybe the bodies dissolve after a while. Something happens to them. I've never stayed to find out. After a successful hunt, I typically escape the area as swiftly as possible. After all, I am one man and the sounds of battle might attract other demons. I like to think of myself as ninja-like. Striking suddenly and fiercely from the shadows and then retreating, victorious.
I’ve contemplated taking a trophy, perhaps a severed head, back to my apartment but I’ve always decided against it. I don’t want that horned, misshapen thing in my house. It would creep me out. Plus, I don’t really know much about what happens to these things when they die. I’d hate to bring something home that can wake up and kill me in my sleep.
It is weird how all of this came about. You see, I was at my lowest point. I had nothing really to live for. My wife had left me. I was fired from my job and my daughter still will not speak to me. To be honest, I deserved all of that. I was lucky to avoid prison. Those days are long behind me now, so I will not dwell on the moral lapses that, oddly enough, led to my new role as protector: savior of the people, defender of the night.
Really. when I reflect on it, it seems more and more clear that those moral lapses were not really my doing. Something was guiding me to my destiny. I had to be tested by fire, I had to be redeemed before I could assume my new role. Besides, losing all of those social links, social burdens even, freed me. Once I found my purpose, my redemption, all of those obligations would have only served as needless distractions. Potential weaknesses, even. If the demons knew I had a wife and a daughter at home, why think of the threats and hold they would have over me. I would fear to hunt because I would feel obliged to stay home and protect my wife and child. The cosmic good that was molding my destiny had to break those ties so I could realize my potential. Doubtless the humiliation and degradation I suffered when the lapses became public knowledge have helped make me a stronger person, a better hunter.
Of course, as these events were unfolding, I knew none of this. I’d rented a cheap efficiency apartment in the low rent district but I had not yet gotten accustomed to being alone. Every moment I spent in that apartment was a torture. The accusations and tears of those I’d wronged ringing in my head. I spent most of my time wandering the streets of the city. The sounds of the city pushed most of those memories to the side. I moved everywhere as though I was being hunted, watched. I slunk in shadows. I pulled the brim of my hat low. I avoided all human contact.
Over time, the voices grew louder. Too loud. They were accusatory. They were angry. I moved about in a daze, trying vainly to escape them. I did not know then that they were merely leading me to my destiny. Perhaps that would have given me some peace. As it was, I wandered the streets non-stop, day and night, for a week. I was delirious from sleep deprivation, hunger, and thirst. The voices made it hard even to think. I was still crying, though I was sufficiently dehydrated for tears to stop coursing down my cheeks.
It was around midnight when I saw it. It was facing away from me, lurking behind a trashcan in the park. No doubt, it was waiting for prey to come along. It was one of the demons. I could smell the brimstone and hear the beast’s talons raking the can. Somehow, miraculously, it had not noticed me. The voices were rising to a crescendo. I could hear nothing, feel nothing. I had to make them stop. Rage was building in me, had been for days, with no outlet. Now this demon blocked my path. It would destroy me the instant it noticed my presence. I don’t know how the rock got into my hand or where the courage to approach it came from, though I do know I soiled myself during the approach. Courage is moving forward in spite of oppressive fear.
When I struck it, the creature collapsed. I was on it in a flash, the rock rose and fell, over and over and over again. The voices in my head screamed with each blow, louder and louder. All the pent up anger, humiliation, and frustration of the last year exploded on the fell creature. When I was done, I collapsed next to the fallen monster. The voices were gone. For the first time, I felt free. The fact that I had battled and defeated a dread creature of the night had not fully registered. Indeed, it would not for many days. Even when I disposed of the clothing I’d worn that night, stained and ruined as it was with the creature’s fluids, and mine, none of it felt real. I would try to digest the event at night, but very little of the whole ordeal made very much sense. In time though, I would come to a better understanding of what was happening.
You see, the voices returned. Slowly, to be sure, but over time the accusing voices of my past life returned and once more crowded out all else. I felt like I was going insane. I could not work; I could not really even talk. I certainly could not think clearly. The voices crowded out all else. There were so many of them, and they were so loud that it was only with a tremendous effort that I was able to recall the circumstances that had chased them away before.
I remembered the peace and quiet after I had killed the demon. It was desperate and dangerous, but I had no choice. The voices had to go, and at the time I felt that death at the hands of a monster would have been preferable. I purchased an aluminum softball bat and slunk off to the park to seek out a creature. I hadn’t noticed any since my last encounter, but I was certain one would be there. I hid in the bushes along side the jogging trail and awaited my quarry. The voices in my head were at a fevered pitch, screaming as one. Night fell and I watched the trail. Only humans thus far, jogging, walking, talking together in groups, but I knew it would come. After all, its prey was plentiful this night and it would not expect another predator.
Around ten o’clock, the park was empty by then, I heard it shuffling along the trail, moving swiftly. It must have been on the trail of a victim. It came shambling along, its breath, hard and raspy, tasting the air. I let it get a couple of paces ahead when I charged from the bushes. It let out a terrible screech as my bat connected with a disturbing 'clong.' It crumpled to the ground and I went to work, bludgeoning the horned beast until my arms could no longer rise in the air and its grotesque, mandibled head existed only in theory. Once more the voices departed, swiftly as I stood, admiring my handiwork, and recovering my breath. As carefully as I could, I fled the area.
It was only now that I finally understood. The voices were not berating me for my past transgressions, rather they were leading me, prodding me towards my redemption, towards a new life, a new goal. The voices still return. Each time they begin to build, I plan another hunt. I reconnoiter the place. I work and plan as much as possible before the voices make rational thought too difficult. The voices, as useful as they are for steeling my nerves at the moment of battle, tend to cloud my thinking in the days leading up to a hunt.
I know that I have a gift for stalking and battling these dread beasts, but there is no sense going off blind into the wilderness, as it were. For by now, I am doubtless something of an avenging angel in their circles and I have no doubt that any demon that manages to defeat me will be a legend amongst his horrid kind. I try not to establish any pattern in hunting grounds, for I do not want to give them much to work with. They would ambush and destroy me given the chance. So far, it is only they who have been ambushed, a trend I plan to continue.
This night, I plan to destroy my twentieth monster. I know where this night’s beast can be found. I have given it much thought, and I am certain that these beasts also haunt the river walk at night, doubtless planning the destruction of some wayward couple out too late. It does not know that I’ve been planning its destruction.
Ideally, it never really will get the chance to find out. While it patrols the shore, I will be there, hiding in the shadows. As I’ve done so many times before, I will strike from behind, like lightning. To be safe, I will open with the bat. It is the most trustworthy weapon in my arsenal, but, once the beast is subdued, I want to try out the latest addition to my arsenal: a Machete.
I am always learning more about these creatures, it is, after all, my life's work. Someday, I may even find out why they are here and what they want. Ah, but enough for now. The moon will soon rise and I must be in position. Humanity needs me. I am off.
Epilogue:
BLAINESVILLE, FL – Florida’s most vicious serial killer struck again last night. The victim, Mary Dawkins, was attacked while jogging at the river-walk. Police Chief Worth stated the injuries sustained by the victim are consistent with the method of attack of the "Vampire Bat" has used in the past, with a minor new variation, which Police decline to discuss. Citizens are warned not to travel alone at night as all victims…
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Author #3
Alan Jéquel did not consider himself a murderer. Sadly, their violent entrance into his temporary home a rainy morning in late October illustrated the city guard's disagreement with this notion of innocence.
Up until when the door was forced off its hinges, the morning did not come across as remarkable. The northern winds that swept the cobbled streets was just about contained by the walls of the inn and the shutters, shuddering in the window frame, were tight enough to keep the torrential rain on the outside. Alan had been lying awake, listening to the outside storm for almost an hour and was silently pondering whether it would be useless to bring his goods to the marketplace or if the London populace would defy the weather and gather in the marketplace as usual.
Something moved in the far corner of the room. Alan yawned. Five armed guards were still a block away from the Cardinal And Crook.
Tugging the rough woollen blanket up to his chin, he moved closer to the bundle of red hair that lay next to him. The parts of merchant life that he loved where enabled by his lonesomeness: there was no wife to urge him to come home earlier, and there were no children that made him think twice before leaving. His life was that of the road, and imagining seasons following seasons without the travelling, the activity and the constant supply of wine and women appeared excruciating. It was only when he was with Jackie -- Jacqueline -- that he was able to envisage a more pleasant scenario. A life without seeing new shores did not appear as painful if the alternative was to admire her features every day and surely, they would get beautiful children. Likewise, he thought with a wry smile, a life without sleep would not be unbearable if the alternative was a life of nights like the past one.
He let his finger play with a strand of her hair. Downstairs, five armed guards -- their later severity amplified by the awful weather in which they had been forced out -- entered the dimly lit tavern and, disregarding the shouts of the inn-keeper, walked briskly up the stairs.
Alan stretched his arms above his head, feeling the tense muscles beneath his shoulder blades loosen a bit. Travelling from Cherbourg to Portsmouth, and from there to London, took its toll on his body. He yawningly started to contemplate whether there was any way to make the travel home any more comfortable. Simultaneously, the guards reached his room.
Disregarding the fact that the door was unlocked, two muscular men forced it off its hinges. Alan's bafflement was rapidly replaced by fright, and the sound made by the guards' shouts and movement in the crowded room was pierced by the sound of a screaming girl. Their interest was only on Alan though, and ignoring his cries of terror the two guards that first reached the bed simply lifted him up. His struggle was futile -- the two men were far stronger than him and hardly appeared to notice his trying to claw their eyes out.
Due to the lack of space in the room only three of the five guards had been able to enter, the other two standing expectantly grunting in the doorway. This caused some confusion when the guards escorting Alan tried to exit the room, but with some communication and coordination the Pride of London eventually managed to leave with their booty. The third guard that had entered the room was the last one to leave. He lingered for a moment, contemplating whether the girl should be brought as well. The butts of two burned-down candles by the foot of the bed quickly revealed that the girl did not have any closer bond to the prisoner; hence there was only a negligible risk of her being involved in the matter. He left the room, and closed the door so that he would not have to listen to the girl's screaming all the way down.
Robert Pritchard watched as the five men under his command left the small, worn-down inn, two of them half-carrying, half-dragging the prisoner. Their earlier sullen mood now appeared to have disappeared with the notion that their job now was complete, and that they could return to the barracks. The prisoner appeared heavily distressed, surely in part as he was facing backwards and hence had trouble remaining on his feet. Naturally, the distress could also stem from his being forcefully and unexpectedly abducted from his night quarters.
Robert spat on the ground.
"Sire--" Robert's heart sank a bit. He was not fond of his new sergeant, whom he had accepted only as a service to an old brother-in-arms. "Sire!" The boy was doing his best to attract the guard captain's attention. Sighing, Robert turned to face him.
"Yes, what?"
"He…" the sergeant appeared to hesitate. Poor lad, he could not be much older than ten and a few, Robert thought. "He dun look like a murderer, sire."
"Most of 'em don't," Robert answered, brisker than he needed. He spat on the ground again as the men passed him and his sergeant. The arrested appeared to have given up his resistance by now and had retorted to sobbing cries of mercy.
"I didn't think murderers could cry," the sergeant said absent-mindedly, before fearfully adding 'sire' upon realising that he had forgotten the suffix of humility. Robert muttered something that was incomprehensible even to himself as an answer, and then started walking after the company, the young sergeant shuffling after him.
The rain appeared to fall heavier by the minute as they walked through the streets of London, the grey outline of the Tower of London looming in the distance. Robert avoided looking in the direction of the royal residence -- his nausea was hard enough to control already. As the group rounded a corner a small, shaggy dog came running through an alleyway, causing Robert to near enough trip and fall face down in the mixture of mud, shit and waste that was the streets of London. Upon regaining his balance he accidentally set his gaze on the prisoner. He was no exceptional man: short, chestnut hair, the colour of his eyes impossible to make out in the gloom of the early morning. He was crying though, that much was obvious, and his eyes were locked on Robert's.
An eternity seemed to pass as he stood there, looking deep into his prisoner's pleading, desperate eyes.
An eternity during which the purse in his pocket appeared to grow heavier and heavier until he was sure he would not be able to support its weight any longer.
He averted his gaze, ending the eternity as abruptly as it had overcome him. He threw a quick glance towards the silhouette of the Tower, feeling the purse almost throbbing in response to his pang of guilt. Sometimes investigations went wrong -- sometimes they did not. And sometimes, finding the true perpetrator would be far worse than not.
Charade
Alan Jéquel did not consider himself a murderer. Sadly, their violent entrance into his temporary home a rainy morning in late October illustrated the city guard's disagreement with this notion of innocence.
Up until when the door was forced off its hinges, the morning did not come across as remarkable. The northern winds that swept the cobbled streets was just about contained by the walls of the inn and the shutters, shuddering in the window frame, were tight enough to keep the torrential rain on the outside. Alan had been lying awake, listening to the outside storm for almost an hour and was silently pondering whether it would be useless to bring his goods to the marketplace or if the London populace would defy the weather and gather in the marketplace as usual.
Something moved in the far corner of the room. Alan yawned. Five armed guards were still a block away from the Cardinal And Crook.
Tugging the rough woollen blanket up to his chin, he moved closer to the bundle of red hair that lay next to him. The parts of merchant life that he loved where enabled by his lonesomeness: there was no wife to urge him to come home earlier, and there were no children that made him think twice before leaving. His life was that of the road, and imagining seasons following seasons without the travelling, the activity and the constant supply of wine and women appeared excruciating. It was only when he was with Jackie -- Jacqueline -- that he was able to envisage a more pleasant scenario. A life without seeing new shores did not appear as painful if the alternative was to admire her features every day and surely, they would get beautiful children. Likewise, he thought with a wry smile, a life without sleep would not be unbearable if the alternative was a life of nights like the past one.
He let his finger play with a strand of her hair. Downstairs, five armed guards -- their later severity amplified by the awful weather in which they had been forced out -- entered the dimly lit tavern and, disregarding the shouts of the inn-keeper, walked briskly up the stairs.
Alan stretched his arms above his head, feeling the tense muscles beneath his shoulder blades loosen a bit. Travelling from Cherbourg to Portsmouth, and from there to London, took its toll on his body. He yawningly started to contemplate whether there was any way to make the travel home any more comfortable. Simultaneously, the guards reached his room.
Disregarding the fact that the door was unlocked, two muscular men forced it off its hinges. Alan's bafflement was rapidly replaced by fright, and the sound made by the guards' shouts and movement in the crowded room was pierced by the sound of a screaming girl. Their interest was only on Alan though, and ignoring his cries of terror the two guards that first reached the bed simply lifted him up. His struggle was futile -- the two men were far stronger than him and hardly appeared to notice his trying to claw their eyes out.
Due to the lack of space in the room only three of the five guards had been able to enter, the other two standing expectantly grunting in the doorway. This caused some confusion when the guards escorting Alan tried to exit the room, but with some communication and coordination the Pride of London eventually managed to leave with their booty. The third guard that had entered the room was the last one to leave. He lingered for a moment, contemplating whether the girl should be brought as well. The butts of two burned-down candles by the foot of the bed quickly revealed that the girl did not have any closer bond to the prisoner; hence there was only a negligible risk of her being involved in the matter. He left the room, and closed the door so that he would not have to listen to the girl's screaming all the way down.
***
Robert Pritchard watched as the five men under his command left the small, worn-down inn, two of them half-carrying, half-dragging the prisoner. Their earlier sullen mood now appeared to have disappeared with the notion that their job now was complete, and that they could return to the barracks. The prisoner appeared heavily distressed, surely in part as he was facing backwards and hence had trouble remaining on his feet. Naturally, the distress could also stem from his being forcefully and unexpectedly abducted from his night quarters.
Robert spat on the ground.
"Sire--" Robert's heart sank a bit. He was not fond of his new sergeant, whom he had accepted only as a service to an old brother-in-arms. "Sire!" The boy was doing his best to attract the guard captain's attention. Sighing, Robert turned to face him.
"Yes, what?"
"He…" the sergeant appeared to hesitate. Poor lad, he could not be much older than ten and a few, Robert thought. "He dun look like a murderer, sire."
"Most of 'em don't," Robert answered, brisker than he needed. He spat on the ground again as the men passed him and his sergeant. The arrested appeared to have given up his resistance by now and had retorted to sobbing cries of mercy.
"I didn't think murderers could cry," the sergeant said absent-mindedly, before fearfully adding 'sire' upon realising that he had forgotten the suffix of humility. Robert muttered something that was incomprehensible even to himself as an answer, and then started walking after the company, the young sergeant shuffling after him.
The rain appeared to fall heavier by the minute as they walked through the streets of London, the grey outline of the Tower of London looming in the distance. Robert avoided looking in the direction of the royal residence -- his nausea was hard enough to control already. As the group rounded a corner a small, shaggy dog came running through an alleyway, causing Robert to near enough trip and fall face down in the mixture of mud, shit and waste that was the streets of London. Upon regaining his balance he accidentally set his gaze on the prisoner. He was no exceptional man: short, chestnut hair, the colour of his eyes impossible to make out in the gloom of the early morning. He was crying though, that much was obvious, and his eyes were locked on Robert's.
An eternity seemed to pass as he stood there, looking deep into his prisoner's pleading, desperate eyes.
An eternity during which the purse in his pocket appeared to grow heavier and heavier until he was sure he would not be able to support its weight any longer.
He averted his gaze, ending the eternity as abruptly as it had overcome him. He threw a quick glance towards the silhouette of the Tower, feeling the purse almost throbbing in response to his pang of guilt. Sometimes investigations went wrong -- sometimes they did not. And sometimes, finding the true perpetrator would be far worse than not.
This is a good round. Firstly because there is no WWII-story
But mainly because the chosen topic seems to have inspired the authors to write down good stories. And that`s the problem. The stories are hard to rank. All about murder. All with a twist.
But we have to come to a decision, so let`s start.
Rank 3: Author 3
First the good news. I like the scene, when Alan awakes and describes the place and reflects his life. It`s really cosy. And the line
perfectly describes how the situation changes when the guards enter the room.
But I thought the whole time: Where is the investigation ? Right in the first line there is a hint that Alan is accused being a murderer before the story experiences a backlash. Then the scene that I described above. Then the scene on the street with the description of the young sergeant. And finally the story gets solved by a hint, that Robert has been bribed to arrest a man for a crime someone else has committed (and whom Robert probably knows).
Since there is a lot of description and not that much investigation I`d say, that this story is No. 3 despite it`s really good atmosphere.
Before I forget it. Alfred, is it your story ? French people are called Alain (as in Alain Delon) not Alan (as in Alan [a]Wake). No offense ;-)
Rank 2: Author 1
Aruba, Jamaica, oooh I wanna take you......ehm, we`re on air ?
First the good news. Anyone who reminds me of the Beach Boys should be awarded a prize. And I like the idea to split the story. It took some time until I realized that the reporter was the guy who was found dead at the start (I guess that was intended). And I really love this line:
Not that I want to imagine that too clearly but it got some style.
But when I praised the atmosphere in story 3, it`s what I have to criticize in this one. Okay, it`s "Guess the Author", not "Write a 200-page-novel" but everything seems a little bit too densely packed. A little more description of the surroundings / characters wouldn`t have hurt. I acknowledge the author`s intention to not overload the story, but still it felt, as if I`m missing some things (who on earth are these omniscient people Ginger and the Informant ?).
All in all a nice story meeting the topic of the round.
Rank 1: Author 2
Did I say in the last round, that I`m a sucker for "Inside a madman"-stories ? Yes ? Good thing, because I am.
First the good news. I love the whole story. At first I thought, it`s going to be a boring torrent of words describing the main character. But then the story gathered speed. It was the moment, when he said that he hears voices, that I realized, that he is a completely crazy murderer and his victims are not demons.
I think that`s the one and only flaw in the story. The surprise effect is gone too soon and the end is not really a surprise, more of a confirmation (so the reader can say "I`m so darn smart I realized it in the middle of the story).
But apart from this, the story is very good written. The main character`s description of his actions (especially his choice of crime scenes) are great. And while the reader knows already that he is a maniac, the character still considers himself as the nameless hero who saves the world. Now that I`m writing this: May it be, the early disclosure of the main character`s deeds is intended so the reader can regard him as a madman more intense ?
Considering that I think this story is my favourite in this round. And that`s well-deserved.
But mainly because the chosen topic seems to have inspired the authors to write down good stories. And that`s the problem. The stories are hard to rank. All about murder. All with a twist.
But we have to come to a decision, so let`s start.
Rank 3: Author 3
First the good news. I like the scene, when Alan awakes and describes the place and reflects his life. It`s really cosy. And the line
perfectly describes how the situation changes when the guards enter the room.
But I thought the whole time: Where is the investigation ? Right in the first line there is a hint that Alan is accused being a murderer before the story experiences a backlash. Then the scene that I described above. Then the scene on the street with the description of the young sergeant. And finally the story gets solved by a hint, that Robert has been bribed to arrest a man for a crime someone else has committed (and whom Robert probably knows).
Since there is a lot of description and not that much investigation I`d say, that this story is No. 3 despite it`s really good atmosphere.
Before I forget it. Alfred, is it your story ? French people are called Alain (as in Alain Delon) not Alan (as in Alan [a]Wake). No offense ;-)
Rank 2: Author 1
Aruba, Jamaica, oooh I wanna take you......ehm, we`re on air ?
First the good news. Anyone who reminds me of the Beach Boys should be awarded a prize. And I like the idea to split the story. It took some time until I realized that the reporter was the guy who was found dead at the start (I guess that was intended). And I really love this line:
Not that I want to imagine that too clearly but it got some style.
But when I praised the atmosphere in story 3, it`s what I have to criticize in this one. Okay, it`s "Guess the Author", not "Write a 200-page-novel" but everything seems a little bit too densely packed. A little more description of the surroundings / characters wouldn`t have hurt. I acknowledge the author`s intention to not overload the story, but still it felt, as if I`m missing some things (who on earth are these omniscient people Ginger and the Informant ?).
All in all a nice story meeting the topic of the round.
Rank 1: Author 2
Did I say in the last round, that I`m a sucker for "Inside a madman"-stories ? Yes ? Good thing, because I am.
First the good news. I love the whole story. At first I thought, it`s going to be a boring torrent of words describing the main character. But then the story gathered speed. It was the moment, when he said that he hears voices, that I realized, that he is a completely crazy murderer and his victims are not demons.
I think that`s the one and only flaw in the story. The surprise effect is gone too soon and the end is not really a surprise, more of a confirmation (so the reader can say "I`m so darn smart I realized it in the middle of the story).
But apart from this, the story is very good written. The main character`s description of his actions (especially his choice of crime scenes) are great. And while the reader knows already that he is a maniac, the character still considers himself as the nameless hero who saves the world. Now that I`m writing this: May it be, the early disclosure of the main character`s deeds is intended so the reader can regard him as a madman more intense ?
Considering that I think this story is my favourite in this round. And that`s well-deserved.
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First impressions:
The first was similar to a detective, but it took a bit long to figure out it was Martin in the intermediate bits. A very unsatisfying ending though, which I suppose is a good twist but I like my detectives closed off properly
Second, I think it was when he began talking about voices that I thought 'okay, he's just crazy'. I don't think I like this internal monologue too much though, it starts out with a lot of description which is rather boring.
Also reminds me of my joke entry that I cooked up:
Third: Short story, seemed clear from the start it was a wrong conclusion. I'd say, not too many twists compared to the others, which in this company makes it a bit.. bland.
The first was similar to a detective, but it took a bit long to figure out it was Martin in the intermediate bits. A very unsatisfying ending though, which I suppose is a good twist but I like my detectives closed off properly
Second, I think it was when he began talking about voices that I thought 'okay, he's just crazy'. I don't think I like this internal monologue too much though, it starts out with a lot of description which is rather boring.
Also reminds me of my joke entry that I cooked up:
Third: Short story, seemed clear from the start it was a wrong conclusion. I'd say, not too many twists compared to the others, which in this company makes it a bit.. bland.
Rankings and commentary: (Commentary to be added if possible: for now - quick thoughts, which is far less than any of these fine works deserve)
Author 3 - Rank 1:
Quick thoughts: I really liked this one all the way around. The way you ended it was clever and interesting. My only confusion came in with the description of the young sargeant. I had to re-read that twice to get what was going on there (my first thought was a 10 year old boy was talking to Robert).
Author 1 - Rank 2:
Quick thoughts: I really liked the dialogue and the voices your characters had. Each spoke with a distinct voice and I could imagine the actors who would play each part were this a TV show.
Author 2 - Rank 3:
Quick thoughts: the epilogue is superfluous, since it's not exactly a 'big reveal' that he's a madman.
Author 3 - Rank 1:
Quick thoughts: I really liked this one all the way around. The way you ended it was clever and interesting. My only confusion came in with the description of the young sargeant. I had to re-read that twice to get what was going on there (my first thought was a 10 year old boy was talking to Robert).
Author 1 - Rank 2:
Quick thoughts: I really liked the dialogue and the voices your characters had. Each spoke with a distinct voice and I could imagine the actors who would play each part were this a TV show.
Author 2 - Rank 3:
Quick thoughts: the epilogue is superfluous, since it's not exactly a 'big reveal' that he's a madman.
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Note though, the story mentions that he (Alan) travels from Cherbourg, which is in Bretagne. Isn't Alan a Breton name to start with?
I'll keep this post as a placeholder, will add proper critique later.
Note though, the story mentions that he (Alan) travels from Cherbourg, which is in Bretagne. Isn't Alan a Breton name to start with?
I don`t know since Cherbourg is in Normandy