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Well I think the overall impression is that the story is written a little bit too fast. One thing on the funny side; I liked the stuffed bear 
In all a pretty good story that might have improved further with some more work to it
In all a pretty good story that might have improved further with some more work to it
A very nice tale with a fare bit of skill and effort that shows in the writing. I would say that the writer was rushed by a deadline perhaps. Now I'm going to say J. PASSEPARTOUT wrote the entry as I've only read his work out of the four authors.
Well I'm in one of those can-do moods you get when you're totally insane, so I'm thinking we should start a new round. Also I need to go through my old e-mails and figure out who wrote that entry
Anyone interested in a new Guess the Author?
Anyone interested in a new Guess the Author?
You bet ya! Let's hear a topic.
Edit - maybe you want to do a quick run through of the project guidelines for any newcomer that comes along, or perhaps point them back to the beginning post to explain it. I'd love to see some new folks try it out.
Edit - maybe you want to do a quick run through of the project guidelines for any newcomer that comes along, or perhaps point them back to the beginning post to explain it. I'd love to see some new folks try it out.
Now that would take some skill there.anonymous4401 said:Topic suggestion: Setting Fruit to Buy <0 on the WM.
Let's make it interesting.
Well, I like the quote in Voshkod's signature so much I'll take his suggestion...
This round's topic is assassination. PM me if you're interested; the first three or four people will become authors (I'll send a reply).
Submissions are due by December 7 (I'll be on vacation Dec 4-5) and please e-mail them to me at brianrein@gmail.com NOT the old e-mail address.
This round's topic is assassination. PM me if you're interested; the first three or four people will become authors (I'll send a reply).
Submissions are due by December 7 (I'll be on vacation Dec 4-5) and please e-mail them to me at brianrein@gmail.com NOT the old e-mail address.
*taps his watch*
Time's up!
TO OUR CONTESTANTS (YOU KNOW WHO YOU ARE) - HURRY UP, LIKE NOW!!
Time's up!
TO OUR CONTESTANTS (YOU KNOW WHO YOU ARE) - HURRY UP, LIKE NOW!!
Perhaps, to speed up the process, you can order hits on all of your contestants that are late.
Author #1
Luigi Reggio had spent four years of his life, four long and hard years, fighting the Frenchmen. He saw the English caper about and demand a 'peace without victims', and he and the rest of Venice sat by in disgust. Then he woke up one morning and found that the rest of Venice could care less about the suffering of any man.
Luigi had spent four of the best years of his life in a trench, and this is how they repaid him? A pension and the assurance that a war wouldn't happen again? It couldn't happen. Many of his old buddies agreed, but he was disgusted to find others he kept in touch with -- including all of those untouched by war, the women and debtors the Cardiucci administration had given the right to vote -- without exception, they supported the 'peace without winners'. The Doge was a fighting man himself. He had to understand the problem. He was coming to Trieste soon, to speak to the Veterans of Foreign Wars. The Doge would understand then, and Venice would take the peace it had earned. The peace that he had earned for it, and which its politicians were denying it.
Some days later, Luigi found himself at the VFW center. Doge Benito Cavalli spoke passionately about the need for a permanent peace -- the need to avoid revanchism and to leave sleeping dogs lie. The time for questions came, and Luigi asked Doge Cavalli -- once Field Marshal Cavalli, once hero of the Colonial Wars Cavalli, once rifle-toting Dane-slaying Lieutenant-at-Arms Cavalli -- why the sacrifice of the Venetian soldiers was not being honored more heavily.
The Doge sighed. "If we make the Frenchmen bleed to honor the sacrifice of the Venetian fallen, their brothers and children will, in time, make the same sacrifice." The other veterans chimed out in agreement. Doge Cavalli had what many considered quite a talent for turn of phrase.
The younger, less medal-bedecked and internationally-honored man sat down and brooded. Soon the speech was over, and the men with whom he fought in the trenches came to him. "Cavalli is truly an amazing statesman. He makes you think without lecturing to you. I've changed my mind -- I'll certainly be voting for him in '18..." And so on. Luigi felt nothing but rising disgust.
He saw a young man paste a broadside to the great iron fence of the Veterans of Foreign Wars -- announcing the GREAT VICTORY PARADE OF VENICE, to pass through Venice in a week. He knew what he had to do.
The next day, he went to another old comrade: Agosto. Agosto, who had lost an arm in the war, and who now sold arms lost in the war. Ironic, but he didn't see it that way. Agosto was the sort of dry, humorless man who couldn't fart in private without feeling embarrassed about it; he was a damn fine soldier, though, and he knew when to keep his mouth shut. That was what Luigi needed right now. He strolled into Agosto's shop, bumping aside a fat man in dress almost absurdly over-formal for the smoky, ill-lit, illegitimate gun store. The robust gentleman merely muttered a bit more in a rushed Genoese accent and left the premises, slamming the door behind him.
"Ah, Luigi. I told you you'd be welcome here any given time, any given reason. Now's a fine time. Business's been pretty slow, which is a shame, because I've got a man who gets me the best War-vintage equipment. The best. In fact, I just got a Duodo '15 repeater. It's a lovely gun for hunting... which is what I assume you're here for, correct?"
Luigi drew in an uncomfortable breath of air. "Yeah, that's it. Hunting."
"I hope not hunting for frogs. No sport in that." Agosto gave him a skewed look. "In fact, I just spoke to the Genoese... monsignor that you saw leave the establishment on that subject, and he and I had a divergence of opinion."
"No, of course not. Hunting a lion. A big damn lion."
Agosto beamed with approval. "Not enough of that in this country, old friend. We're too used to enemies abroad; no one wants to face their own problem. Would you believe the tax hikes going to police?"
"Not at all, Agosto. Not at all. How much will that and, oh, two full magazines cost me?"
"For an old friend such as you? Nothing." That was so very odd. He remembered Agosto being humorless, dry as the desert, and stingy even among friends. What had happened to him? What had the war done to him? Maybe his memory was gone. He remembered Venice as a land ruled by filial harmony. The comment, the generous offer, suddenly began to wound him -- more than he could have thought possible. It's all changed too God-damn much, he realized, and he knew that he had to end the conversation then and there.
"Well, thank you. Thank you from the bottom of my heart. Good day."
For the remainder of his life, Luigi would not speak at any greater length.
He loaded the magazine into the Duodo '15 and stared across the derelict field at his target: a scarecrow. It looked like a thin, rakish parody of a man, as scarecrows are wont to look. The man who once owned it had given his life for God and Country the same year as his new rifle's design was finalized. He found himself in the War again -- he did that, sometimes. The rotting corn became slowly advancing gas, the scarecrow a false, inhuman Frenchman in a filthy mud-brown uniform, rushing the lines without a rifle -- without a mask -- with a face obscured by clouds and a saber in each hand.
He fired, and the Frenchman lost an arm. He slowly advanced -- Luigi didn't realize that it was him doing the advancing, not the scarecrow and not the thick of the cornfield -- and then he lost another arm, and then his bowels. He came close enough to see the face.
Benito Cavalli. He shot and Benito Cavalli lost his face.
He shot the empty pole that once held a scarecrow over and over, until he pulled the trigger and the gun clicked empty.
Exactly five days later, Luigi Reggio woke up and looked out his window to see a crowd assembling, cheering, and drumming their feet in the light rain. He had slept in, by how much he couldn't tell, and for a moment anxiety overtook him. He'd never have an opportunity like this again.
He realized the crowds weren't following the parade from behind, but from ahead -- they lead the flag-bearers and the marching band. He still had his chance. He rushed through his living room, through his kitchen, and into his pantry -- and fetched his tool out from under three bulging sacks of flour. One of them spat at him with almost human indignance, and he ignored it. He knew that where he was going no one would care if he looked like a man playing a ghost in a cheap traveling comedy.
He went back to his window and opened the blinds, holding the rifle behind the door so as not to alert anyone. A pair of lithe, attractive women stood in front of it; he grumbled in anger. For all of his planning, these ignorant children would ruin everything.
His luck only got better. The women moved on, apparently captivated by one of the bandsmen -- or so he imagined, anyway. The motorcade came, and at last, he looked Benito in the eyes. He shouted his last testament -- 'Viva Venezia!' -- to his terrier, lounging unimpressed on the couch.
He pulled the trigger. A faceless guardsman began to kneel as the window shattered and the great blast tore through the streets. Time slowed down; the band still played and the people still celebrated.
He pulled the trigger. The English ambassador jerked, the guardsman neared the completion of his fall. The first trumpeters stopped their joyous song.
He pulled the trigger. Another guard began to bend, the Englishman finished the wild grasp for his neck, the first guardsman hit the earth. The music lost more volume.
He pulled the trigger. The Japanese Crown Prince's arm flew off at the elbow -- he didn't notice it -- the second guard keeled over in half, the Englishman slumped, the guardsman bled. The music stopped. The cheering stopped. The air was still. A third guardsman, particularly quick, was bringing a pistol to the ready.
He pulled the trigger. The sight of Cavalli's head exploding tore through his eyes. Fire tore through all the nerves in his chest. The screams of the masses tore through his ears. And then there was nothing except darkness, numbness, and silence.
Luigi Reggio had spent four years of his life, four long and hard years, fighting the Frenchmen. He saw the English caper about and demand a 'peace without victims', and he and the rest of Venice sat by in disgust. Then he woke up one morning and found that the rest of Venice could care less about the suffering of any man.
Luigi had spent four of the best years of his life in a trench, and this is how they repaid him? A pension and the assurance that a war wouldn't happen again? It couldn't happen. Many of his old buddies agreed, but he was disgusted to find others he kept in touch with -- including all of those untouched by war, the women and debtors the Cardiucci administration had given the right to vote -- without exception, they supported the 'peace without winners'. The Doge was a fighting man himself. He had to understand the problem. He was coming to Trieste soon, to speak to the Veterans of Foreign Wars. The Doge would understand then, and Venice would take the peace it had earned. The peace that he had earned for it, and which its politicians were denying it.
Some days later, Luigi found himself at the VFW center. Doge Benito Cavalli spoke passionately about the need for a permanent peace -- the need to avoid revanchism and to leave sleeping dogs lie. The time for questions came, and Luigi asked Doge Cavalli -- once Field Marshal Cavalli, once hero of the Colonial Wars Cavalli, once rifle-toting Dane-slaying Lieutenant-at-Arms Cavalli -- why the sacrifice of the Venetian soldiers was not being honored more heavily.
The Doge sighed. "If we make the Frenchmen bleed to honor the sacrifice of the Venetian fallen, their brothers and children will, in time, make the same sacrifice." The other veterans chimed out in agreement. Doge Cavalli had what many considered quite a talent for turn of phrase.
The younger, less medal-bedecked and internationally-honored man sat down and brooded. Soon the speech was over, and the men with whom he fought in the trenches came to him. "Cavalli is truly an amazing statesman. He makes you think without lecturing to you. I've changed my mind -- I'll certainly be voting for him in '18..." And so on. Luigi felt nothing but rising disgust.
He saw a young man paste a broadside to the great iron fence of the Veterans of Foreign Wars -- announcing the GREAT VICTORY PARADE OF VENICE, to pass through Venice in a week. He knew what he had to do.
The next day, he went to another old comrade: Agosto. Agosto, who had lost an arm in the war, and who now sold arms lost in the war. Ironic, but he didn't see it that way. Agosto was the sort of dry, humorless man who couldn't fart in private without feeling embarrassed about it; he was a damn fine soldier, though, and he knew when to keep his mouth shut. That was what Luigi needed right now. He strolled into Agosto's shop, bumping aside a fat man in dress almost absurdly over-formal for the smoky, ill-lit, illegitimate gun store. The robust gentleman merely muttered a bit more in a rushed Genoese accent and left the premises, slamming the door behind him.
"Ah, Luigi. I told you you'd be welcome here any given time, any given reason. Now's a fine time. Business's been pretty slow, which is a shame, because I've got a man who gets me the best War-vintage equipment. The best. In fact, I just got a Duodo '15 repeater. It's a lovely gun for hunting... which is what I assume you're here for, correct?"
Luigi drew in an uncomfortable breath of air. "Yeah, that's it. Hunting."
"I hope not hunting for frogs. No sport in that." Agosto gave him a skewed look. "In fact, I just spoke to the Genoese... monsignor that you saw leave the establishment on that subject, and he and I had a divergence of opinion."
"No, of course not. Hunting a lion. A big damn lion."
Agosto beamed with approval. "Not enough of that in this country, old friend. We're too used to enemies abroad; no one wants to face their own problem. Would you believe the tax hikes going to police?"
"Not at all, Agosto. Not at all. How much will that and, oh, two full magazines cost me?"
"For an old friend such as you? Nothing." That was so very odd. He remembered Agosto being humorless, dry as the desert, and stingy even among friends. What had happened to him? What had the war done to him? Maybe his memory was gone. He remembered Venice as a land ruled by filial harmony. The comment, the generous offer, suddenly began to wound him -- more than he could have thought possible. It's all changed too God-damn much, he realized, and he knew that he had to end the conversation then and there.
"Well, thank you. Thank you from the bottom of my heart. Good day."
For the remainder of his life, Luigi would not speak at any greater length.
He loaded the magazine into the Duodo '15 and stared across the derelict field at his target: a scarecrow. It looked like a thin, rakish parody of a man, as scarecrows are wont to look. The man who once owned it had given his life for God and Country the same year as his new rifle's design was finalized. He found himself in the War again -- he did that, sometimes. The rotting corn became slowly advancing gas, the scarecrow a false, inhuman Frenchman in a filthy mud-brown uniform, rushing the lines without a rifle -- without a mask -- with a face obscured by clouds and a saber in each hand.
He fired, and the Frenchman lost an arm. He slowly advanced -- Luigi didn't realize that it was him doing the advancing, not the scarecrow and not the thick of the cornfield -- and then he lost another arm, and then his bowels. He came close enough to see the face.
Benito Cavalli. He shot and Benito Cavalli lost his face.
He shot the empty pole that once held a scarecrow over and over, until he pulled the trigger and the gun clicked empty.
Exactly five days later, Luigi Reggio woke up and looked out his window to see a crowd assembling, cheering, and drumming their feet in the light rain. He had slept in, by how much he couldn't tell, and for a moment anxiety overtook him. He'd never have an opportunity like this again.
He realized the crowds weren't following the parade from behind, but from ahead -- they lead the flag-bearers and the marching band. He still had his chance. He rushed through his living room, through his kitchen, and into his pantry -- and fetched his tool out from under three bulging sacks of flour. One of them spat at him with almost human indignance, and he ignored it. He knew that where he was going no one would care if he looked like a man playing a ghost in a cheap traveling comedy.
He went back to his window and opened the blinds, holding the rifle behind the door so as not to alert anyone. A pair of lithe, attractive women stood in front of it; he grumbled in anger. For all of his planning, these ignorant children would ruin everything.
His luck only got better. The women moved on, apparently captivated by one of the bandsmen -- or so he imagined, anyway. The motorcade came, and at last, he looked Benito in the eyes. He shouted his last testament -- 'Viva Venezia!' -- to his terrier, lounging unimpressed on the couch.
He pulled the trigger. A faceless guardsman began to kneel as the window shattered and the great blast tore through the streets. Time slowed down; the band still played and the people still celebrated.
He pulled the trigger. The English ambassador jerked, the guardsman neared the completion of his fall. The first trumpeters stopped their joyous song.
He pulled the trigger. Another guard began to bend, the Englishman finished the wild grasp for his neck, the first guardsman hit the earth. The music lost more volume.
He pulled the trigger. The Japanese Crown Prince's arm flew off at the elbow -- he didn't notice it -- the second guard keeled over in half, the Englishman slumped, the guardsman bled. The music stopped. The cheering stopped. The air was still. A third guardsman, particularly quick, was bringing a pistol to the ready.
He pulled the trigger. The sight of Cavalli's head exploding tore through his eyes. Fire tore through all the nerves in his chest. The screams of the masses tore through his ears. And then there was nothing except darkness, numbness, and silence.
Author #2
April 26th, 1746: The home of Basil Mosely Junior, Coventry.
It was a beautiful night in Coventry, the city was healthier than ever, made rich by the tributes of its vassals Aragon and Eire along with the efforts of its industrious people. Basil still lived alone, he was a rather young man and at the moment he lusted for power more than women.
Closing the door to his home, Basil tossed off his overcoat and glanced around. He didn't hear the soft gaelic singing of his housemaid and furthermore the front room was still rather untidy. "Sarah beth?" He called, running his fingers through his hair and glancing around.
"She is not here, sir." The voice said with a slight french accent. Basil spun around to see a tall, well dressed gentleman standing between him and the door, a rather large egyptian scimitar within his hands.
"Wh.. Who are you?! and what are you doing in my home!" Basil said with outrage as he stumbled backwards, tripping over a chair and collapsing to the floor. He knew all too well who the man was and why he was here. An assassin. "I can pay you more than the Mameluks, good christian money.." Basil began to try to reason with the assassin, even as he crawled backwards.
"lovely. Even you think it is the mameluks who sent me, that is perfect. Make no mistake, you are going to die. But it is France that strikes you down." The assassin came forward, smashing his booted foot across the lord-protectors face.
Basil clutched his face in pain, blood running from his mouth even as he tried to speak. "b.. but why, why france? I .. don't understand.." Spoken through his tears.
"You have crippled france, reduced her to poverty. Paris is filled with starving children and disease runs rampant. Her italian territories have been reduced to the island of corsica and even that is in rebellion. You must pay for your crimes." The assassin spoke no further, bringing his wicked weapon downward and slicing into the soft flesh of the englishman. Blood splattered across the floorboards as Basil let out a scream. He was soon silenced as three more brutal cuts were made with the heavy weapon. Dropping the evidence that would point fingers towards the Mameluk court, the assassin slipped out the door confident justice had been done.
Upon discovering the death of the Lord-Protector the Commonwealth was quick to point its finger at the Mameluk lords. Outrage swept through the countryside and soon Parliament found itself committed to a war in the south that was already taking heavy tolls. Sinai had fallen, but at the loss of 20,000 young men mostly due to the horrors of the desert heat. Despite following victories at alexandria and Cataract, the General Nottinghams forces alone could not win the war. At the publics urgings Lt. General Jason Walker, a second cousin to the deceased Basil Mosely jr., was instructed to set sail for Egypt with new troops to bring an end to the war.
April 26th, 1746: The home of Basil Mosely Junior, Coventry.
It was a beautiful night in Coventry, the city was healthier than ever, made rich by the tributes of its vassals Aragon and Eire along with the efforts of its industrious people. Basil still lived alone, he was a rather young man and at the moment he lusted for power more than women.
Closing the door to his home, Basil tossed off his overcoat and glanced around. He didn't hear the soft gaelic singing of his housemaid and furthermore the front room was still rather untidy. "Sarah beth?" He called, running his fingers through his hair and glancing around.
"She is not here, sir." The voice said with a slight french accent. Basil spun around to see a tall, well dressed gentleman standing between him and the door, a rather large egyptian scimitar within his hands.
"Wh.. Who are you?! and what are you doing in my home!" Basil said with outrage as he stumbled backwards, tripping over a chair and collapsing to the floor. He knew all too well who the man was and why he was here. An assassin. "I can pay you more than the Mameluks, good christian money.." Basil began to try to reason with the assassin, even as he crawled backwards.
"lovely. Even you think it is the mameluks who sent me, that is perfect. Make no mistake, you are going to die. But it is France that strikes you down." The assassin came forward, smashing his booted foot across the lord-protectors face.
Basil clutched his face in pain, blood running from his mouth even as he tried to speak. "b.. but why, why france? I .. don't understand.." Spoken through his tears.
"You have crippled france, reduced her to poverty. Paris is filled with starving children and disease runs rampant. Her italian territories have been reduced to the island of corsica and even that is in rebellion. You must pay for your crimes." The assassin spoke no further, bringing his wicked weapon downward and slicing into the soft flesh of the englishman. Blood splattered across the floorboards as Basil let out a scream. He was soon silenced as three more brutal cuts were made with the heavy weapon. Dropping the evidence that would point fingers towards the Mameluk court, the assassin slipped out the door confident justice had been done.
Upon discovering the death of the Lord-Protector the Commonwealth was quick to point its finger at the Mameluk lords. Outrage swept through the countryside and soon Parliament found itself committed to a war in the south that was already taking heavy tolls. Sinai had fallen, but at the loss of 20,000 young men mostly due to the horrors of the desert heat. Despite following victories at alexandria and Cataract, the General Nottinghams forces alone could not win the war. At the publics urgings Lt. General Jason Walker, a second cousin to the deceased Basil Mosely jr., was instructed to set sail for Egypt with new troops to bring an end to the war.
Great initiative to start this again.
Author nr 1
A pretty sad story. At first I found it a bit confusing but it cleared up after reading some more. The style was rather sparse and hard-hearted but I guess that might be the whole idea with the writing. The concept was ok though the end came rather predictable. One thing I never grasped was the presence of the Japanese Crown Prince but I guess Japan had been involved somehow in the war. I felt that some of the inspiration to this story might have come from the movie “Taxi driver”? In all a nice story.
Author nr 2
A short story, perhaps too short to really capture your interest. The writing was good though. One thing I did not understand was why France would want to lay the blame on the Mameluks? In EU 2 terms it might make sense but not otherwise.
I guess this must be some extract from an EU 2 AAR and I am sure it would make more sense in a broader perspective. In all I thought this stuff was well written and it would surely work very well in a broader perspective.
Author nr 1
A pretty sad story. At first I found it a bit confusing but it cleared up after reading some more. The style was rather sparse and hard-hearted but I guess that might be the whole idea with the writing. The concept was ok though the end came rather predictable. One thing I never grasped was the presence of the Japanese Crown Prince but I guess Japan had been involved somehow in the war. I felt that some of the inspiration to this story might have come from the movie “Taxi driver”? In all a nice story.
Author nr 2
A short story, perhaps too short to really capture your interest. The writing was good though. One thing I did not understand was why France would want to lay the blame on the Mameluks? In EU 2 terms it might make sense but not otherwise.
I guess this must be some extract from an EU 2 AAR and I am sure it would make more sense in a broader perspective. In all I thought this stuff was well written and it would surely work very well in a broader perspective.
Hajji Giray I said:Very true
Ha, ha, what I meant was that it almost seems that the author have taken this small part from a longer and broader context thus making it hard to grasp the circumstances. Good writing though