This week, we had to write about a character’s decline.  That’s it.

Dr. Eugene Westphal  sat forward in his chair, elbows on his knees.  He started to speak, paused, and then made sure he was looking the Chief of Staff directly in the eyes.   “So you’re firing me.”

“Of course not,” said Dr. Marcus Jansen, leaning back.  “I was hoping you’d consider taking a spot on the board.”

Dr. Westphal’s left eye twitched, the usual sign he was holding back.  “You know I don’t belong there.   I’m a surgeon, dammit, not a paper pusher.  Besides, those bastards are the reason why we’re sitting here, right?”

Dr. Jansen sighed.  “It’s not just the board.  You’ve been making mistakes, Gene.  The sponge you almost left inside Mrs. Hansen.  The cut on Mr. Cartwright you started in the wrong spot.  The…”

“I’m quite aware of my performance.  If we’re going to sit here and count surgical errors I’m sure I’m still miles ahead of most of my residents.”

“Gene.”  Dr. Jansen sat forward again, clasping his hands on the desk.  “We’ve known each other for almost forty years.  I consider you a friend.  And as your friend, I have to be honest with you.  I think your memory is slipping.  And I don’t mean dementia, Christ no.  But these past few months I’ve…”

“Fuck you, Marcus.  And fuck the board, too. ”  Dr. Westphal rose from his chair and headed towards the door.  “I’ve got a little girl’s life to save.”

Dr. Jansen hung his head, hands still clasped.

********

Clara Carthon was eight years old.  She was bright, eager, and had the jump-rope record at Edgerton Elementary.  She also had a mitral valve that was leaking blood into her lungs.

“Needle driver,” called Dr. Westphal.  The surgery was progressing smoothly.  Clara’s heart had reacted to the bypass machine with ease.  The mechanical replacement tested perfectly.  All that was left were the sutures and her transition off the machine.

“Doctor, her heartbeat is increasing.  Blood pressure dropping.”

“Shit!” He handed the driver back to the nurse.  “There’s massive clotting in the CBP circuit.  Increase Heparin to two-hundred!”

“You sure?” said the nurse.  “All the way up from ten?”

“It was at ten?  What the hell?  No, it should have been one-hundred.”

“So, you…”

“One-hundred!  Now heads-up people.  This could be touch-and-go.”

Though appearing calm to the lay observer, the surgical team worked desperately for an hour and a half.  The clot dissolved and the patient’s vitals slowly returned to normal.  Transition off the bypass machine went without a hitch, and after closure, the patient was transferred to recovery.

Furious at his team, Dr. Westphal washed up in silence.  Ready to lay into the next person who opened their mouth, he glanced at Clara’s chart and noticed the pre-op orders he had written this morning:

HEPARIN:  10 units/mL

His heart sank.

********

The nurse entered Dr. Westphal’s office, appearing guarded.

“I apologize if I was harsh with you in the OR,” he told her.  “It was entirely my fault, the Heparin.  I missed a zero.”

“Doctor Westphal” the nurse choked.  “I’m sorry.  Clara isn’t waking from the anesthesia.  Her vitals are fine.  We think it’s a coma.”

He sat motionless, afraid to breathe.

“I thought you should know before we tell the family.”

“No.”  He couldn’t look at her.  “I’ll tell them.”

It only took a minute to reach Clara Carthon’s family in recovery, but it was the longest walk of Dr. Westphal’s career.  He’d delivered worse news than this, many times.  But this time was different.  As he approached, he could sense the family’s apprehension, as if he were holding a scythe at his side.

“Your daughter’s new valve is working, as is her heart.  Unfortunately, she is not waking as soon as we expected.”

Dr. Westphal could feel his chest tighten.

“We’re afraid she may have slipped into a coma.”

The words hung in the air like a fog, growing more dense the longer no one spoke.  His left eye twitched.

Clara’s father was the first to break the family’s stunned silence.  “What do you mean, coma?  It’s just temporary, right?  She’ll wake up?  How did this happen?”

Dr. Westphal usually offered generalities and platitudes in response to this question.  Today was not usual.

“Your daughter’s blood clotted during the surgery.  While this is always a risk during this type of surgery, it could have been attributed due to an order I…”

“Mr. Carthon?  Mrs. Carthon?” Dr. Xiong interrupted.   “Your daughter is waking up now.  You can see her if you like.  She can’t talk just yet, but she appears to be alert and oriented.”

“Oh thank God!” screamed Mrs. Carthon, hugging Dr. Xiong.

Dr. Westphal watched as Clara’s family hurriedly followed the surgical resident.  He should have felt relief.  He wanted to feel relief.  He felt nothing.

“Dodge a bullet?” he heard behind him.  It was a kid in scrubs.  He didn’t recognize him.

“Here,” said Dr. Westphal, placing his name badge in the intern’s hand.  “Give this to Dr. Jansen.”

“Sir?”

Dr. Westphal walked towards the exit, his head bowed to the floor.  His eye stopped twitching.

Spooky: Using a young girl in this way to tell a story is obviously going to work on me, Mr. Bastard. The story works pretty well period, though, and it feels honestly medical without feeling dull, which is a nice trick to pull off. 3

DK: Straight-forward, but effective. The twitching is a solid recurring touchstone. The clinical language is kind of a double-edged sword; I appreciate the way it heightens the realism, but it also holds me off of getting to know the character as closely, I found. 3

Even though this isn’t the best work I’ve done, it’s certainly the longest I’ve spent writing a story.  The little section about the surgery?  Took me about 2-3 hours of research to make sure I had the details right (as if the judges would even check).  Even then, I’m sure part of it is inaccurate.  All I knew is I wanted a realistic surgery on a child that could put them into a coma if something went wrong.  Didn’t realize that would take me so long to figure out.

As for the rest, I’m pretty happy with it.  The surgical resident stealing the good news (when he’s probably made more mistake than Dr. Westphal if we’re counting) may have been my favorite part. The eye-twitchy thing…threw that in at the last minute.  It doesn’t resonate as much as I would like, but overall I’m happy with it, and my scores.

I’m also happy the Vogons don’t have to vote anybody off.  We’re now down to ten players.  The race is on.

The challenge this week was to create a character with a seemingly useless superpower, then give them an opportunity to use it (for better or for worse).

“So. Martin.” The cold, direct voice of The Administrator filled his office. “You know why I called you in here?”

Martin remained erect, but frozen, in the steel guest chair.

“Of course you do,” he lamented. “You know, they told me that you weren’t cut out for this. That your psychological profile was…unsatisfactory. But I saw something in you. Perhaps I was blinded by your striking resemblance to me. Perhaps my instincts have softened in my old age. Regardless, it turns out they were right.”

The Administrator approached from the shadows, his jet black shoes clapping against the limestone floor. His chiseled face revealed less emotion than his tailored suit. Towering over him, his thumb and index finger cupped Martin’s chin. He let go.

“I thought I could prove your worth to us. You know, start you off slow.”

Martin stared blankly at him, watching him place a cigarette between his lips.

“After all, we couldn’t give you the ability to start the world on fire until we were sure of you.” On cue, the cigarette lit itself.

“The ability to make someone else sneeze seemed pretty innocuous. Easy to keep hidden. And a quite effective tool at extending someone’s life. Have to admit, you impressed us when you saved the Senator, delaying his first step into the crosswalk.” The Administrator turned his back to Martin, resting his hands on his desk.

“But you couldn’t help yourself. You had to play with your new toy. Showing it off at parties, placing bets on who would sneeze first. Making the President embarrass himself at his own inauguration. All fun and games, I know. But telling your wife was the last straw. This organization has the power to make this world a better place, but only if our secret is kept.” The Administrator paused, then turned around. “We’re now half way to keeping that secret.”

Martin’s eyes darted at his boss, rage masking the pain behind them. He kept quiet.

“It’s a shame, really.” He put the cigarette out. “I don’t like killing anyone, even for the greater good. Even though I’ll gain your power when you die.” The Administrator laughed. “Now, do you have any last words before you spontaneously combust?”

Martin did not.

“Alright, then. I admit this will take a few seconds longer than my cigarette. You seem to like parlor tricks. How about we end this with a magic word? Shazam? Presto-chango?”

Martin’s expression remained unchanged.

“Oh, I got it. Here we go.” His splayed his hands out in front of him as if it were necessary. “Abracada…ah! Ah! Ah-CHOO! Abracachoo!”

Martin rose from the chair, watching The Administrator clumsily stumble with an endless sneezing fit. Walking behind his former boss, he waited for him to rise from his latest attack. In one motion, he cradled his head and snapped his neck. The lifeless body slumped to the floor.

A few minutes later, there was a knock on the door. “Come in!” called Martin, finishing the last button on his new suit.

“Sir!” barked the young man as he entered. “Are you done in here?”

Martin nodded.

“Good. We may not have much time. Talks are breaking down between the U.S. and China. And both sides have their bombs aimed and ready.”

“Well then,” Martin replied, looking down at the body. “It looks like we’ve got a fire to put out.”

“Sir?”

Martin looked up. “So to speak, son.” He approached the young man, putting his arm around him as they exited his office. “So to speak.”

Spooky: Hot damn, all y’all. Another thorough beatdown of the challenge’s parameters, and although the ending was apparent enough, it was still satisfying as hell to get there. 4

DK: I think I appreciate inherent cheesiness more in this challenge than most of the others. The line about the striking resemblance really, really got me for some reason, but again, this is a fun power too. 4

My story is all kinds of obvious.  I’m probably the ninety-four thousandth person to use “The Administrator” as the antagonist, and like Spooky said, the ending was the most natural way for the story to progress.  I also was never quite satisfied with the mood, having a mix of suspense and goofiness all in one.  I mean, it’s pretty hard to make a superhero story bone-chilling.  I tried, and I think I just missed it.

Still, I think it’s pretty fun, and I’m glad the judges enjoyed it.

What I didn’t enjoy was a teammate non-subbing, making the Vogons have to send another member to the guillotine.

This week we got to the challenge I created several weeks ago during an optional week.  Basically, the rules was to get three wishes granted to the main character.  One had to turn out very good, one very bad, and one ambiguously.  And the wishes had to be extraordinary.

Desiree clutched the ticket in her hand. Twenty-four. The LED lights shone sixteen. Not eager to guess her upcoming fate, her mind drifted to the events of the past two months.

***

“Fuck! Trish, that was awesome” he said as he pulled out and laid beside her.

Desiree liked her pseudonym. It sounded fun, not trashy like her given name.

“You know what?” he continued. She lit a cigarette, ignoring him. “You’re not like the other girls. I really like you.”

Desiree had two kinds of repeat customers. There were the men who had a particular kink that she was willing to oblige. And then there was this type, the lonely ones who genuinely thought they could fall in love with a few thrusts and a hundred bucks. There was really only one way to deal with them, and that was to pretend not to know them the next night.

“I need to shower,” Desiree said without inflection, avoiding the inevitable attempt at cuddling. Kicking off her heels, she got out of bed.

“I gotta leave, hun” he said, jumping up and putting on his slacks. “Conference downstairs, but I’m here all week. Can I see you tomorrow?”

“Sure,” she lied, grabbing her purse off the bathroom door and then closing it behind her. She enjoyed her shower more than usual, knowing he wasn’t going to be there when she was done.

The night still young, she reapplied her makeup before slipping on her dress and heels. On her way out, she saw a hand-written note on the bed:

I COULD LOVE YOU. ASK FOR ANYTHING YOU WANT.

There was a blank line underneath. Desiree smirked. Grabbing the pen, she wrote “a fucking tip”.

***

The LED display now said eighteen.

The next day, Desiree had received a shock when a tobacco shop clerk outside her usual corner delivered an envelope. “AS YOU WISH” was on the outside. On the inside, a thousand dollars.

Her tempered excitement didn’t last long, however, as later that night her pimp had found out about the extra money. He took it, of course, but not after taking it out on her.

***

“I’m sorry,” she told him, shivering. “I’m just too sore. I can go down. With a discount, of course.”

Shaking his head, he sat up beside her. “What’s wrong, Trish?” he asked, not out of annoyance but with genuine concern. Desiree did not know what came over her, but she told him everything. Not just about the night before, but troubles and
feelings she hadn’t shared with anyone. By midnight, she found herself next to him, her head on his chest.

“You know I can’t have sex with you anymore.” she said, somewhat embarrassed.

“That’s okay,” he said. “This is better, anyway.”

“Maybe. If only I could charge you for talking.”

“Look. I have plenty of money. I can make sure you always bring home the right amount.”

She squeezed his hand. A tear fell.

***

“Twenty-one!” a voice called in the distance.

Their arrangement had worked really well for a while. Even on nights when he was not around, he gave her enough money to make it looked like she was doing business. And she felt like she was slowly developing a friend. The following month had been one of the best of her life.

But eventually word got back to her pimp that she was noticeably absent on the streets at night. She cracked under interrogation and spent a night in the hospital for “falling down the stairs.”

***

“Now why did I have to pick you up at the corner tonight?” he asked. She told him.

“We can’t continue like this,” she said. “You’ve been amazing, but it’s just too risky. This has to be the last time.”

He was visibly frustrated, but held her closer. “Dez, do you think we could be more?”

She looked into his eyes. “Than friends?” She paused, then couldn’t finish her thought. Averting his eyes, she choked up. “I wish he was dead.”

“I’m better for having known you,” he said through his tears. Turning her chin, he kissed her. There was no hesitation. And for the first time, they made love.

***

It hit the front page two days later. Double-homicide. Two men, their connection unknown to everyone except Desiree. Both dead from gunshot wounds.

And now, a week later, Desiree was broke and homeless waiting to speak with a welfare worker. She felt a tug at her sleeve, breaking her thoughts of self-pity.

“Mom, when is Daddy coming back?” His brown eyes looked up at her.

“Daddy’s not coming back, hun. Not ever again.”

Her boy hugged her leg. “Are we going to be okay?”

She found the strength to hug him back. “I hope so, sweetie. I hope so.”

The counter changed to twenty-four.

K: I don’t know what to say about this one that y’all can’t already see. I absolutely loved these characters by the time of the surprise but fair ending. Desiree might be my favorite female character ever written in Spookymilk Survivor, and I’m not exaggerating. I would follow her through any number of words. 5

DK: Man, this is really good. I was really drawn into the situation and I liked how the wishes played out. I guess I don’t usually like things that start in media res, but this used it pretty effectively. 4

K: I almost exclusively like things that start in medias res. Huh.

First of all, the Vogons are back to their winning ways, so no elimination for our team this week.

Secondly, thank you to the judges for the compliments.  I am in love with this competition.  I’m writing better than I have in my whole life and it’s damn good fun.

I decided early in the week I wanted to write about a hooker.  I quickly decided the ending (sans child) as well.  Took me three days to come up with the actual wishes.  But when I started writing, it took me about two hours.  There’s really no background I can give as I didn’t base this off anything.  It just came out.

Spooky mentioned that I tend to write women well.  I don’t know why, but I’ve always felt more comfortable writing from a female perspective.

When we last met, stories that had cliffhangers were written.  This week, we had to take someone else’s story and provide the ending, while keeping the style as well.  With the holiday week, and the degree of difficulty this challenge had, this one was really tough.  I stayed up late on Friday, spending midnight to 2 am writing mine.  I decided to go with Andy Rustleund’s story.  Here is what he wrote last week:

The Crocville Library was nearly empty this time of year, with the summer sun burning away most students’ interest in books or studying. Earl Toulouse was normally the kind of kid that wouldn’t be caught dead in the library, even during the school year, but the library seemed to be the only place in town with the answers he needed.

Earl had always thought it was a little strange that they never got any new students in class, or that no one ever seemed to move away. Sure, most of the land in the area was a muddy swamp, but there were plenty of nice neighborhoods, a new Super Wal-Mart had just gone up on the edge of town, and the schools were supposed to be the best in the county.

But in history class, no one ever seemed to know exactly when Crocville was founded, or by whom. It wasn’t until the subject came up again later that week with his best friend Martin that Earl really got curious.

“Are you telling me you don’t know anyone who wasn’t born here?” Earl had persisted.

“That’s what I’m telling you, man. I even asked my dad,” huffed Martin on their way to the baseball field. “He said we were Louisiana’s best kept secret or something. Who gives a crap, anyway, man. We gotta get down there before they start without us. I’m not getting stuck in the outfield again.”

As Earl stood in right field, waiting for popups, he decided there had to be some other way to get more information. Tomorrow, he would make up some excuse and get down to the library. There had to be something there.

The town librarian beamed at Earl when she learned that he was interested in Crocville’s history.

“You’re in luck, young man. Mr. Porosus from the Historical Society is here today doing some research himself. Why don’t you two put your heads together and see if you can’t help each other out.”

Earl found Mr. Porosus in the back of the library hunched over a rather large tome, muttering to himself. “Excuse me. Sir…” said Earl tentatively.

Mr. Porosus looked up at Earl slowly. His wispy white hair peeked out from under a checkered hat, and although this part of the library was quite dim, the old man wore dark, gold-rimmed sunglasses on top of an long, pointed nose. His face contorted into a toothy smile.

“Mr. Toulouse. I’ve been expecting you.”

And here’s what I followed it up with:

“You have?” asked Earl, confused. Mr. Porosus beckoned with his hand. Earl walked up, pensive.

“Indeed, son. I hear you’ve been asking questions about our history. I’m always pleased when a young citizen shows interest.”

Earl relaxed a bit. “What are you reading?” His eyes widened as Mr. Porosus stepped aside.

“This,” Mr. Porosus said proudly, “is the entire history of Crocville. Quite fascinating, really. Did you realize our town’s founder was just four years old when he settled here?”

“Wow, really?”

“And that’s not it. It says he promised that nobody in Crocville would ever be lonely or hungry.”

“Cool.” He glossed over the open page detailing Crocville’s first organized baseball team. “What was his name?”

“Bobby Dunbar” said Mr. Porosus. “Now if you’ll excuse me for a minute. Go ahead, take a look-see. I’ll show you more when I return.”

“Yeah, okay” Earl whispered, hopping on the stool. Excited to learn more about Bobby, he flipped the book closed. On the edge of the stool, Earl opened to page one, which was blank. Turning another page, he found the next one blank as well. Then another. And another.

Turning more rapidly, Earl saw only white. Placing his index finger where he felt Mr. Porosus was reading, he skipped ahead several hundred pages. More white. Hands shaking, he flipped back the final pages, reaching the last one. It was not blank. Two words stared up at Earl. His breath caught.

“Like what you found?” said the now ominous voice of Mr. Porosus. He placed a hand on Earl’s neck.

His touch was ice. “What the…” was all Earl could mutter before feeling a swift pain shoot through his spine.

************************

Martin followed Earl to the library, hoping to make fun of his friend, the nerd. From behind the stacks, he watched his friend turning pages frantically. Then, a gangly man came by and appeared to calm Earl down.

Shortly, the man left the library. Martin walked towards his friend.

“Hey Earl!”

“Oh, hi Martin.” Earl yawned. “What’s up?”

“Dude, you looked scared for a minute. The book… is something strange in there?”

“Oh, that? Just some history stuff. Like you said, who gives a crap? See you at practice later?” Not waiting for an answer, Earl walked past Martin and out the library.
Nerd, Martin thought. Before leaving, he walked over to the tome and read two words:

THE END

And now for the judge’s thoughts:

Spooky: Mr. or Mrs. Survivor, you are trying my patience by asking me to like a meta story. However, I have to admit it’s working. Andy set up an excellent eerie tone here, and this story pays it off in a way that’s true to the tone and not in any way obvious. As Earl flipped through the book, I found myself anxious. Well done. 5

DK: Again, not as surprising a direction as some, but I think it pays off that direction really well, and it hits the mark on Porosus’s change effectively. 5

Honestly, I was hoping for 4/4.  Thanks for the compliments gentlemen.  My first ever perfect score couldn’t have come at a better time, as the Vogons suffered their first loss of the season and are now forced to vote somebody out.

As for the story, when I finished I was at 555 words and had to cut it down to 400 to meet game requirements.  Believe it or not, what you read above is virtually the same.  I eliminated a bunch of superfluous words and some flavor text that I wish I could have kept, but I did not have to change any part of the story.

It was a blast to write this.  I immediately knew I wanted Mr. Porosus to be this slick, evil dude who held  the secret of Crocville that needed to be kept.  My mind drifted to the children’s book series about the Tripods and the “capping” process used on teenagers to essentially turn them into non-questioning servants of the aliens.  The part about the book actually being blank except the final page was an addition I made while I was writing.  Martin’s appearance at the end was also something I threw in at the last minute which put me way over the word limit.  But I knew I had to keep it to give the ending a final kick, so I went editing away after that.

By the way, for those who didn’t Google, Bobby Dunbar is a real four-year old boy who went missing in Louisiana some hundred years ago.

The broad challenges tend to bring out the best writing, and this week was no exception.  Our job was to simply create a tense story with a cliffhanger, in 500 words or less.

Edward King’s father hadn’t beaten him in eight days. He wasn’t entirely sure why he counted. He did know that twenty-one more days and it would be a record. And maybe hope.

Sometimes Eddie wished he went to school in a bad neighborhood, where some kids were lucky if their parents chose to buy food instead of heroin. He could then fantasize his life as better than that of his friends. But every minute he spent away from home was a cold reminder that he didn’t have one.

What kept Eddie from deliberately working on an escape plan was Mom. She couldn’t protect him from his father’s “corrections” any more than she could protect herself. But he knew she cared, and that was enough. Eddie couldn’t wait until he was old enough to protect her. In nineteen days was his eleventh birthday. Almost an adult.

His birthday was one reason Eddie was sure he wouldn’t break his record. But his report card was another. It came today and his father knew it. And Eddie knew the only thing his father would care about was the B-minus in pre-algebra.

The harsh clanging of the garage door jolted Eddie out of his self-pity. Sitting down at the kitchen table, Eddie stared at the report card, hoping to get this out of the way.

His father came through the door and set his briefcase on the table. Eddie sensed his father looking at him, then the report card, then back. He tensed as his father’s hand came to his forehead. But his father simply ruffled his hair before silently walking towards the stairs.

Eddie couldn’t tell whether to be relieved or frightened, but goose bumps shot up his arms. Unfortunately, this debate would have to wait as a scream from upstairs broke his paralysis.

Normally, he would go outside so he wouldn’t have to listen. But this time something compelled him to walk up the stairs. As he did, Mom’s protests became softer but more desperate. Reaching his parent’s bedroom, he looked carefully around the door jamb. Then he took a step back.

Mom’s blouse was torn. Half-naked, she looked helpless on the bed as his father towered over her with his dick out, stroking it. Not knowing exactly what his father planned to do, but knowing it was bad, Eddie reacted. “Mom!” he shouted from the doorway.

His father’s glare darted from his mother to him. He expected shouting, but his father calmly pulled up his slacks. “Edward. Get the hose.”

Shaking, Eddie made his way to the garage. This task normally was humiliating, but right now he only felt fear, and rage. Pulling the hose off the far wall, Eddie considered destroying it, realizing that doing so would only make things worse. But then he noticed the adjacent cabinet was slightly ajar. His father’s .45 was lying on the shelf.

“Edward, you shithead!” he heard in the distance. “Get up here!”

Eddie closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “Coming!”

Spooky: Yep, you had me skipping breaths here. It starts out sounding like an obvious and manipulative Lifetime movie, but it soon spirals into something much more interesting. Also, “His birthday was one reason Eddie was sure he wouldn’t break his record” is perhaps the greatest heartbreaking line I’ve ever read in this game. 5

I was hoping someone would comment on that line.  It’s probably my favorite.  It’s funny, though.  In Bantam Bulwyr when I used random names, you felt they were symbolic.  This week I was very careful about what name I picked, yet no comment :)

DK: Great, disturbing situation, and the tension is really palpable. I felt a few of the early sentence structures were a little awkward, but again I’m being really pedantic to force myself to find separation. I’m just finding this week really great overall. 4

When I finished writing this, I was at 587 words.  Most of what I chopped down was in the beginning, so the awkwardness is probably due to that.

I’m really pleased with these scores.  I didn’t feel I had a pure cliffhanger, as this story could end right here and be totally fine.  But the conclusion is not forgone, so there’s that.

The Vogons did not finish in first place for the first time, though our team still had an exceptional week.  The other entries were just that good.  Unfortunately, we had one more non-submitter from another team, so the voting is yet again a formality.  Fourteen players left!

The challenge this week was to actually pick from a grab bag, and this is the challenge I took.  The goal was to cover a fantastic story, but in the vein of the Los Angeles media, focus on something completely vapid instead.

…and not only did he grow up here, he now lives on an avocado ranch.

I did not know that about Tom Selleck! Well thank you for that, John. Up next is a story that is sure to interest some of you. And to break it is our own weather girl, Bri. Hi, Bri! I see you have your Pasotti umbrella with you.

Thanks, Christina. And I’m afraid I may have to buy a new one after today.

Why is that, Bri?

Well, as you can probably see, it is indeed raining Milk-Bones.

That is interesting. Have you spoken with anyone regarding this development?

Yes, just a minute ago I spoke with Dick Wolf. He said he was in New York and didn’t know about the weather here, but he assured me that he and his family had nothing to do with it.

Thanks, Bri. And have you tried Michael J. Fox?

I did talk to his agent, who was with him. He said Michael couldn’t come to the phone, but that he was just shaking at hearing the news. I told him to ask Michael if the bones came from Canada, and I was hung up on.

That does sound suspicious. Is there anyone there you can talk to?

Most humans have decided to remain indoors during this event, but I do have a bull terrier with me. He’s being pelted by a deluge of Milk-Bones, but does appear to be enjoying one as well.

Is that Spuds McKenzie?

I don’t know, Christina. Should I put my Ray-Bans on him?

I say go for it!

Okay! Here. We. Go. Can we have a word from you little Spudsie?

Rrrff…au-au!

I think that says it all. Back to you, Christina.

Thanks, Bri! So John, how ‘bout them Lakers?

Spooky: God help me, the vapid early show vibe here made me giggle a lot, and there were two legitimate belly laughs. “He’s being pelted by a deluge of Milk-Bones, but does appear to be enjoying one as well” might be the line of the evening (or season?). Good job, submitters. I wish there had been two more of you. 5

DK: The ridiculousness of the event is only outpaced by the ridiculousness of the coverage. Which is, indeed, the point. Good job. 4

This is my best week ever playing this game and am a little psyched.  Now to keep it up for about twelve more weeks!  The Vogons’ streak of finishing in first also continues.

I’m not exactly sure how I came up with “it’s raining Milk-Bones” but when I thought of it I was giggling too much to not do it.  At first I considered contrasting the absurdity of the morning show commentary with a dramatic scene involving a dog and a sick child, but could not figure out anyway to make that work (i.e. I learned from my mistake last week).  So I tried to see how many jokes I could fit into 300 words.

Interviewing a wolf and a fox was a bit obvious, so I decided I had to throw in deeper lever jokes in there.  For those who missed it, wolves are part of the Canidae family in taxonomy.  Spuds McKenzie died 18 years ago, so just the fact that they thought it might be the real one was another subtle jab. Pasotti is a luxury line of umbrellas that cost well over a hundred dollars.  I wanted a vapid sounding L.A. name, and Bri is the name of a weather girl in Los Angeles.  If you ever read this Bri, I am sure you are an amazing forecaster that doesn’t eat Milk-Bones.

And yes, Tom Selleck lives on an avocado ranch.

Last week was an optional week where we create a challenge to be run later.  You’ll probably see my idea sometime later in the game, that is if I survive that long.

This week, our goal was to take any kind of invention which is widely accepted today, and pretend it had never been invented (or at least for its current use) until now.  A whole bunch of ideas tumbled around for most of the week, like toilet paper and sexual intercourse (humans were asexual until now, somehow).  While I was doing dishes, an idea struck.  Here it is.

The minister finished the eulogy, failing to lift the pall that was oppressing the room. “Is there anyone present that would like to say something about Eric?”

Eric’s wife continued to stare into her lap while their son tried to comfort her. A man in the back rose from his seat. “I would,” he said. It was Daryl, Eric’s best friend. “I think if one word could be used to describe Eric it would be ‘dreamer.’ He…”

Daryl’s breath caught. Two seconds later, he continued.

“He’s been a great husband for twenty-five years. A great father for twelve. And he’s been my best friend for the past ten. He was also a damn good accountant. But through everything was his music.”

Several people in the room nodded.

“He said his desire to make people happy fueled his desire to make music. I think mostly it was because he hated Enya.” A few chuckles filled the room. “I told him it was hard to argue with eighteen number-one hits, but he wouldn’t have any of it. He insisted that this instrument of his…ah, what did he call it?”

“A guitar!” laughed somebody near the front.

“Yeah, a guitar. He thought it could change music. It really was a poor excuse for a synthesizer, but it sounded good to him. And really, that’s all that mattered. I never saw him so at peace as when he was playing it. I will miss him, as we all will. His courage. His dreams. Even his damn music.”

Tears filled the room, including the minister’s. “Would anyone else like to say something about Mr. Clapton?”

“Yes,” said his son.

“Go ahead, Conor,” Eric’s wife said, giving him a gentle push.

Crying, he rested his now shaking hand on the coffin. “See you, Dad.”

When I landed on the guitar as a topic, it sounded dull as any other.  But Eric Clapton sprang to mind, and I thought how his life might have turned out if he wouldn’t have been famous.  His son not tragically falling to his death at the age of four most certainly wouldn’t have happened, because that was a kid he had with an Italian supermodel.  So, assuming he had a normal, suburban life, his son wouldn’t have been where he was when he died.  So I knew I wanted a story where instead of Clapton writing Tears in Heaven for his dead son, his own death would be a crushing moment for his living son.

After that I needed a setting.  After debating between his death bed and the funeral, I felt the funeral would be easier to write and have easier potential for someone to talk about Clapton’s love, his new-fangled guitar.

Finally, I needed to show how the world would be different if the guitar had never been invented.  I thought of the line, “Well, the guitar is really just a poor excuse for a ukelele” but I knew I wanted a more depressing alternate history.  So a perennially popular Enya it was.

And for the judge’s reactions.  Scoring was on a forced curve, out of five points, with 17 participants.

Spooky: Oh, Jesus, this is well done. I didn’t see this ending coming, and the writer certainly is aware of my awareness of the Clapton tragedy. This story has an emotional resonance with me that I simply can’t put into words, and I wasn’t expecting drama in any of these period. 4

DK: Kind of similar to the last one in that it didn’t grab me, although it was a little more of a eye-roller for me at the end that brought this one a little down. 2

So adding Conor to the mix provided resonance for one judge and made the other’s eyes roll.  Well, that’ll be helpful going forward!  Actually, I kid.  I thought I could have constructed this better.   Originally, I had Conor saying “See you in Heaven, Dad” but I felt that would have been even more eye-roll worthy.  What bothered me the most was I had this enormous contrivance in there just for humor (Enya) contrasted with an attempt at writing a dramatic scene.  I’m not sure it works perfectly, but overall I’m happy with it.

The Vogons lose their first member due to a non-submission, though it wasn’t entirely unexpected.  Despite that, we still finished with the highest scores for the seventh straight week.

Our challenge this week was to honor the spirit of Bulwyr-Lytton and create the worst possible opening to a novel imaginable.  It has to be believable enough to actually make it to print, but bad enough to make the reader want to stop immediately.  The only rule was to keep it at 50 words or less.  Coincidentally, I came in at exactly 50 words.

The crosscheck by McDuff was as swift as it was sharp, paralyzing Tristan long enough for the black disk that was his nightly ticket to a division one school slide past his reach.  He gathered himself and gave McDuff an icy stare.  This was going to be a long night.

Scoring was on a forced curve, with twenty percent getting a perfect score of five, twenty percent getting a four, and so on.

Spooky: Ooh, I love a good unnecessary definition in this challenge, a la “the black disk.” The “icy stare” is a great eye-roller, and the use of McDuff and Tristan – characters from classic literature – makes this one gloriously amateurish. Plus, the final sentence gives the impression that the entire book might be this one hockey game. Holy shit, man. 4

DK: If you’re wondering, this is the hardest one I had to give. I’m too interested in the topic to grade this higher, and though I love to hate the puck description, there’s not enough else to keep me away from it. 1

There was no inspiration for this.  I wasn’t even watching hockey.  But “The crosscheck by McDuff” just sort of popped in my head and I went with it.  I figured our hero should have the most annoying name possible, so Tristan it was.  I intentionally used a last name for the antagonist and a first name for the protagonist.  “Swift as it was sharp” makes no sense, but it sounds like it’s trying hard to be a cool simile.  “Icy stare” was a lame metaphor that I couldn’t resist.  But my favorite part was what this paragraph actually means. One, our hero views hockey as his ticket into NCAA sports. Yuck. Finally, as Spooky mentioned, the last sentence implies the entire book will be this one game.  Double yuck.

DK, if you want to me to finish this and be my publisher, let me know!

The Vogons also cruised to their fifth consecutive first-place finish.  Go team.

We had another team challenge this week.  We were given 19 statements and we had to find what question or comment prompted those responses.  So our team came up with a slew of responses and then voted on which ones stuck.  The judges picked their favorites from each, for a total of 38 points.  Our team, Nibbish & His Vogons, cleaned up by getting 20 of the 38 available points, leaving 18 for the other two teams.  You can check out the post to see the results.  Below are my submissions that were voted in by the team.

Okay, but it’s twice the cost for full sevice.

Could you change the other half of my oil, please?

One point from DK

A slide rule, an apple and a piece of the Blarneystone.

Only one Plinko chip? What items did you have to guess on?

One point from DK

It was my video game knowledge that saved my life.

Mr. President, you did a barrel roll?

One point from Spooky

Peer pressure makes a (guy/girl) do stupid things.

Why the long face, Benito?

No points

It was going so well until he slipped.

In the beginning, God created the heavens and the earth.

One point from Spooky

So, I didn’t get a unanimous vote on any of mine, but I got our team four points, so I’m happy.  I’m also happy our team has finished in first place every week.  I’ll end this post with my favorite of the week from our team.

I guess that’s the one good thing about visiting a KKK complex.

We haven’t lost a basketball game there in 12 years!

We were given half of a conversation this week and told to turn it into a short story.  The half we got was this:

A: You missed a call.
B:
A: Yeah. There’s no reason not to.
B:
A: No. She never did. Neither did I, for that matter.
B:
A: At the Fall Festival?
B:
A: Yeah, that would have been a disaster.
B:
A: It wasn’t personal. They don’t see things the same way you do.
B:
A: You’re not the only one.
B:
A: Absolutely not.
B:
A: So what are you going to do about it?
B:

I had very little time to work on it this week, and by the time I got around to it, I was so tired I just didn’t care.  The following is awful, but I’ll explain it afterwards when you don’t get it.

A: You missed a call.
B: No, you missed a call. I’m supposed to hang up, remember? Anyway, do you really think we should call Dad back? He’s just going to try and “save” us.
A: Yeah. There’s no reason not to.
B: Ugh, you’re a glutton. He’s incorrigible, just like your ex. She never did learn to use a map, did she?
A: No. She never did. Neither did I, for that matter.
B: Now I can tell why we never got anywhere. At least my right-hand lady never pretended to have any function. Remember where we met?
A: At the Fall Festival?
B: Yeah, I selected her there. Wasn’t until the meteorite hit town that I realized she was useless. She left me that night, too. It’s a good thing she didn’t get with Pokey.
A: Yeah, that would have been a disaster.
B: It was still embarrassing. Elle and Arnie kept ringing everybody in town and blabbing about it.
A: It wasn’t personal. They don’t see things the same way you do.
B: They don’t even see the same things as each other. They’re on completely opposite sides. And now I sit here worrying about my status.
A: You’re not the only one.
B: Oh don’t start. You’re always the one in command. Better equipped. Dad even gave you the ATM card. You’re his favorite, aren’t you?
A: Absolutely not.
B: That’s it. If I have to spend another minute on Earth with you, I’m bound to go crazy.
A: So what are you going to do about it?
B: I’m getting a hamburger and going home. Going to talk to mother, too.

Confused?  No problem.  Since I was lazy, I decided to try and see what a conversation would be like between the A and B buttons on a Super Nintendo controller.  But I had to pick a game that had a telephone in it.  I could only think of one, and that was EarthBound.  If you’ve played the game, go ahead and reread it now and see if it makes slightly more sense.

Okay, now for all the extremely subtle clues no judge should ever be expected to pick up on:

–the A button would answer a phone call in the game, while the B button would hang up
–In the game, you call Dad in order to save the game
–You use the button X to call up the map
–The B buttons “right-hand lady” is the button Y (yeah, a reach, even for this).  The Y button has no function in Earthbound
–The meteorite and the name Pokey are perhaps the biggest giveaways, but that doesn’t say much.  There is no fall festival in Earthbound, so I pretended it started before the game.  That line threw me more than anything.
–Elle and Arnie are stupid references to the “L” and “R” turbo buttons.  You use L to cycle through conversations, and R to ring the bell while on the motorcycle.
–The B button calls up the status screen, and thus he’s worried about his status.
–The A button calls all commands, equips items, and pays for things.  Your Dad literally supplies and replenishes your ATM card in the game.
–I threw the words ‘select’ and ‘start’ in there just to force two more unhelpful clues
–then, I use the words Earth and Bound close together
–then I end it with “mother, too.”  The name of the game in Japan is Mother 2.  Oh, and the primary source of energy in the game is hamburgers.

It’s quite obvious neither judge picked up on any of that (and I don’t blame them). Here were their comments:

Spooky: It doesn’t have the punch with the jokes like the others, it’s just a clean little story that’s not fleshed out enough. Maybe I’m tired, because I can’t think of anything more specific to write on this one. 2

DK: There’s not a lot I can grab onto here – I can’t get a sense of the characters, and it never quite gets off the ground. 2

Okay, they’re both being really nice here.  But they were tired and I had one of the last stories they judged.  So thanks for not being mean, guys.  I really think if I was the only person who had kept the letters “A” and “B” for my people talking I may have had a chance.  But even had I been way more obvious about my intent, scores of 2/2 are just fine.  Anyway, our team still advances, because my teammates didn’t suck like this.

I promise to write something better next week.