VOTE: October '09 Challenge

[kailhofer]

Scores in this poll are only part of the final vote. Scores in the poll will be weighted to match the votes in the other 5 categories, so winning the "popular vote" poll here does not guarantee victory, but does give the authors something to look at and root for. Please trust me, it should all make sense in the end.

PART II: Rate these stories with a score of 1-10 (in whole numbers) in the following categories and send it to me via PM: (To make it easier, a post follows this one that you can copy and paste into the PM message, then just put in your scores.)

Categories:
1) How good was the Characterization?
2) How effective (or original) was the plot?
3) How clear was the setting to you?
4) How good was the use of dialog?
5) How well did the story meet or address the challenge as it was given?

NOTE: you must have posted at least one message before you can send a PM. Join in a discussion or just say hi before voting via PM. If I suspect a voter of being a false identity (i.e. a troll), I won't count their vote.



The challenge was to write a "ghost" story in the spirit of the weird & unusual or spooky, as if it was being told around a campfire on a dark, fall evening. The stories did not have to contain an actual ghost.



The following entries were received:



Are you my Daddy?



Sitting here, in the warmth of the campfire with fellow climbers, eating chocolate chip cookies, gives me a sense of wellbeing and allows me to reflect back on my life, to another time when I had a far greater sense of joy and completeness.

After my wife died of cancer, I felt cold and lonely. An aunt encouraged me to join a singles dance group. Eventually I gave way and on my very first night, as I walked into the candle-lit hall (about an hour after the start) I noticed one of the most beautiful woman I had ever set eyes on sitting all by herself at a table. As is usual at these events there were more women than men present, but the fact that this woman was all alone appeared very strange.

Following the club’s introduction formula that I had been told was a requirement; I walked up to her and said, “Hi there, my name is Patrick Caldwell. My wife died of cancer eleven months ago in November 2006. I am a surgeon of forty-eight and am alone.” She replied: “Hi Patrick, I am Vanessa Jones. I was never married, but did have a child. He died from a rare congenital disease 10 years ago. I am a futures stockbroker of thirty-three and am alone.” A stunner and never married – there was a story here!

I asked Vanessa to dance. The band was playing a cha-cha. She moved like a professional dancer! We danced all the rest of that meeting, and the next and the next. It was so strange, no other man ever asked her to dance. We started seeing each other for dinner every Friday night and then more often, whenever our busy schedules would allow (I was sometimes required to operate, whilst she would be very busy around the quarterly futures closeout). I was totally entranced by Vanessa, by her dark haired beauty, her deep brown eyes, by the way she moved when she danced, by her sharp intelligence, her gentle manner and her interesting, complex character.

Was it possible? Was it actually possible that first off I had met the perfect woman? I was so worried that this was just a reaction to my loss. I did miss Genevieve, but in Vanessa I saw a woman that I really felt I could live out my life with.

Just after the quarterly closeout in June 2008, I offered to go around to her flat and give her a massage. It had been a difficult period for her. The markets were all over the place and there were fears of a major collapse. I put on some gentle string jazz, good soothing listening music, and mixed up a good relaxing formula of essential oils. Starting at her feet I slowly massaged all of the tension out of Vanessa.

As I was working on her shoulders Vanessa started to sob. I turned her over and held her, and even in that moment of comforting her, marveled at her naked beauty. I tried to ask what the problem was. I thought she was so relaxed, but all she said was “It has been so long…’ and then started kissing me, not like she had before, this was passionate!

As I responded she started to unbutton my shirt, we were totally engrossed in each other and had really lost control of the situation. A few minutes later the music suddenly stopped mid-tune, there was a slight humming sound and a strange blue light filled the room. Vanessa froze, then whispered, “ Please, oh please, not again…”

A little boy of about 5 years old, pale and thin, walked towards us, out from the wall. He looked at me bravely in the eye, and said “Are you my daddy?”

[align=center]oooOooo[/align]

The apparition disappeared almost as fast as our passion. Vanessa was sobbing again. It took a long while to calm her then I offered to make some coffee. Later, sitting at the kitchen table with steaming coffee and chocolate chip cookies, Vanessa told me her story.

Whilst a freshman she had been enamored by a handsome law graduate with shaky moral standards. After a night out at a club, she woke up the next morning at his apartment, remembering nothing of the night before. He said she had had too much to drink – she thought otherwise. She felt dirty and uncomfortable and broke off the arrangement. Soon after she realized she was pregnant. He had moved to New York, and she never informed him.

She had had a torrid time through her tertiary education and had always told her little boy, Tom, that one day they would find his daddy. As soon as any man became interested enough to visit her at home her little boy would ask if this was his daddy – it put them all off.

Then came the news of Tom’s illness. Although he had the condition from birth, it was not recognized until he was almost four years old, when his health began to fail rapidly, he died three days after his fifth birthday. Once she was over the grief (if one is ever over the grief of a child’s death) she had started dating again. But every time that any real passion had appeared in a relationship, so did the apparition! News got around and men avoided her.

Vanessa and I talked deep into the night; I was not put off and pursued the relationship, meeting young Tommy on several occasions. We were married a year later, and on our honeymoon I said to Tommy, “Yes, I am your daddy!” He slowly smiled and faded away leaving a feeling of unutterable joy and wellbeing behind him. We have never seen him again, but we will never forget that special moment as long as we live.


[align=center]The End[/align]



DOES HE WALK AMONG US?



My children, young and old, we mourn a past we never knew and only hear from myth. In this story I will tell you all about IT. The thing we fear from our births to our deaths. First stoke the fire. Make it bright so we can see each other. Take the chill off, sit closely. Pay no attention to the wind’s noise. For that’s all it is, noise.

_______________________

Before time’s recorded history, out of the fog of memory, there comes a tale of a Great Ruler. All dominion came under his sway. His worlds did not come as a gift. He claimed all this, the stars, the universes and more through the right of conquest after many years of conflict against The Others. They who pride fully claimed to be equal or more equal in stature were reduced to clay and dust.


And, as we all do, The Great Lord had those he trusted. The most trusted was the War Lord Pent. War Lord Pent grew up with The Great Lord. He knew his every habit. He could tell The Great Lord’s wishes by a look, by the tone of voice. Some claim they could read each others minds. That’s how close they were. The War Lord Pent was respected above the others.

My children, His deeds of valor and glory stood out in the great halls of victory as a symbol of greatness to all.


But,

Camaraderie, and brotherly love, enhanced by time and embolden by success though brutal combat can, if not checked, become pride and worse, tyranny. And the War Lord Pent had that predilection of personality, though not readily acknowledged in the throws of combat.

It was mistaken for bravery.

His foibles, as they were initially considered, were attributed to the forced changes from combat to civil rule, a difficult transition for any warrior. This new world was not to his or a great number of others, liking. No adventure, no bravery, and they believed no honor in simply ruling the universes.


The Great Lord had prepared himself for civil rule. He prepared his lords and ladies for the same.

Or so he believed.

As time elapsed The Great Lord became aware of War Lord Pent’s predilection for perverse pleasures. While this type of activity might be tolerated for the little people uneducated as they might be, but for War Lord Pent and his close followers, it was vile.

War Lord Pent honed this craft into an art. These activities, which cannot be mention in polite company such as this, were becoming more than perverse, they were sadistic.

The Great Lord at first did not want to believe, his most trusted and loved among all, would stoop to such abominations. He summoned Lord Pent to his private chambers and questioned him.

Lord Pent did not deny anything. He freely admitted his actions. He stated plainly, “As THE LORD over my control, my actions and those of my men should be of no concern to The Great Lord. Peace prevails and all is well with the dominion,” and claimed:

“So be it.”

The Great Lord flew into a rage. “This is not what I had envisioned for our worlds. We are to be just and loving. We are not to abuse our power. You are a disgrace! You make me ashamed to have trusted and loved you as a brother. I am hurt to my very soul.”

Lord Pent expected this. He knew The Great Lord would not actually condemn him, for his love was that great for him.

This he knew.

The War Lord Pent bowed and turned to leave.

“YOU MAY NOT LEAVE THIS ROOM” commanded the Great Lord.

Lord Pent slowly turned, “Sire, I will and I am.” He took his leave.

________________________

War Lord Pent planned for this day. He and his followers soon raised the standard of revolt!

The Great Lord was thunder struck. How could his most trusted do this, become this, a traitor, a thief, a mean, low, lowest of the low beings and rebel against the love and honor bestowed him.

Pride becomes the veil from reason that both gods and men all suffer. War Lord Pent suffered the most. His well reasoned tongue deafened the ears of his followers. The excesses to which they had become accustomed blinded them to their folly.

They followed War Lord Pent to battle.

So great was this battle, so long was it in duration. The universes had seen nothing of its kind, ever! Universes trembled. From one to the other the battles raged.


The Great Lord was victorious.

He, in his mercy, did not return Pent to his original quark based state. In the Court of Justice before the other Lords and Ladies, The Great Lord declared and commanded the following:

“You War Lord Pent, most trusted and most loved among all, have grieved me to my very marrow.

You rose against me.

You committed acts of treason, of cruelty unimagined.

You did so with a pleasure I have never witnessed, ever.”

“I should reduce you to the lowest of all existence. That would be too good. Instead, your actions have caused me to conjure a solution that befits your station… and as a lesson to all.

I will transform you into what you are.

No longer are you WAR LORD PENT.”

“You are a snake! You… SIR Pent, will now have dominion over like creatures as your self. You will no long Walk among the living. You will crawl on your belly, as the serpent you have always been.

BE GONE!

__________________________

And now he is among us in THIS universe.



And that children, is who we must be vigilant against, the Great Serpent. One who would do us harm, lead us down the path of perdition, acting in ways not moral and upright in structure. To this we keep a light against the dark. Be not afraid. You are strong in mind and body.

Sleep well.


[align=center]The End[/align]



TREED



You know, this place reminds me of a story I heard back at Camp Massasauga when I was your age. Most of the woods around here are second- or even third growth -- that means people cut down the original trees and new ones grew in their place, Billy -- but the trees here are old...

Anyway, the camp counselors said that trees this old aren't like the trees we see most places. They said that trees like these are alive -- or maybe awake is a better word for it. They think, they feel, they talk to each other...

No, Sarah, they don't use cell phones. I guess they use chemicals or vibrations that can travel through the air and the soil. And they wouldn't use words. They'd just trade information about the weather, maybe, or threats to their lives, like fire or insects or animals -- or people.

I guess the camp counselors were trying to teach us a lesson about respecting nature when they told us about Jack Murchison. Jack Murchison was a hiker who thought that a forest was incomplete without a few marks to show that Man -- and by 'Man' he meant Mrs. Murchison's favorite son -- was the boss. And by 'marks' he didn't mean little ribbons like the ones we tied around branches to mark the way we came, or little notches in the bark. No, he meant dead trees.

Jack figured that girdling a tree -- don't giggle, Charlie, it has nothing to do with a lady's underwear -- that stripping the bark all the way around a tree so it would die was the best way to show the world that he had been there. That's about the worst thing you can do to a tree -- the leaves die, and without them, the rest of the tree starves to death, too. What Jack did was slow murder, if you believe what the counselors said about the trees being awake, and he did it to a lot of trees before -- hmm. Maybe I shouldn't tell you the rest. It's kind of scary...

Ow! That marshmallow was still hot, Sarah! Just for that, I will tell you the rest of the story, and I won't leave out the worst parts! And if you can't sleep tonight, don't come crawling into my tent to complain.

One night, after a hard day of hiking and tree-killing, Jack set up his little tent between two of the biggest, oldest trees around. He crawled into his sleeping bag, his hands still sticky and smelling of tree sap -- tree blood -- and fell asleep in no time. That 'no rest for the wicked' stuff is a load of crap -- the really wicked don't care how much pain they cause.

He was expecting a full night's sleep with pleasant dreams, probably featuring the torture of some innocent furry animal, for all we know. But a few hours before dawn, something woke him up.

There was a scraping noise, like something wrinkled and bumpy and scarred rubbing against the tent. And it felt like his sleeping bag was right on top of one of the crooked, twisted roots of one of the trees, although he was sure he had set up the tent on a fairly flat spot.

He sat up, unzipped the sleeping bag, turned on his flashlight, and opened the tent flap to see what was going on. But instead of seeing the path he'd followed between the trees, he saw...

No, Billy, not a bear. He saw bark. There was a tree trunk right up against the flap of the tent, not even an inch away.

Now, the kind of tent Jack was using didn't have a floor, so Jack figured that however it had gotten twisted around to face one of the trees, he could get out the other end, or even slide out under one of the sides. So he tried lifting up the side of the tent, straining because he'd set the tent pegs pretty deep, and what did he see?

That's right, Charlie. Bark. Another tree.

He tried the other side of the tent, and then the other end, using his knife -- the same knife he used to peel the bark off the trees he killed -- to cut through the canvas. But on every side, he found the same thing -- another tree.

It was impossible. There was no way that big trees could grow that close together. But he was surrounded, trapped in a vertical shaft more than a hundred feet deep. He'd have to climb straight up at least that far to reach a place where there were gaps big enough to squeeze through.

He had to try, of course. He didn't have a radio, and there were no cell phones back then. Nobody knew where he was. Once his small supply of food and water ran out, he'd starve or die of thirst.

So he climbed. And he climbed. He used his knife to carve little hand-holds in the bark, one by one, and hauled himself up a few inches at a time. Before long, he was exhausted. His legs were strong, but his arms and hands weren't much stronger than yours or mine.

Eventually, he fell, and fell hard. His leg broke and the bone ripped through the skin, and blood came spraying out and soaked into the ground.

He lay there, stunned, in too much pain to move. And that's when the roots began to grow into him, burrowing in, seeking more of his sap...

The end. Except -- you know that weird place we passed, where the trees were so close together that their branches were woven together like the wires in a fence? Did you notice that big knot in one of the trunks?

It looked kind of like a face, didn't it?

Good night, kids. See you in the morning.


[align=center]The End[/align]



Old Mary



As I promised, it’s time for me to tell you why I asked the four of you out here. I know that forests and campfires aren’t everyone’s cup of tea, but hey! You’re all here, aren’t you? Besides, the cabin is warm and well-stocked—as you’ve all experienced—and the helicopter will be back tomorrow to pick us all up.

What? No Joanne, I didn’t twist your arm. I just promised that if you and Greg came up here for this overnight visit, I would instruct my lawyers to stop fighting your lawyers, and you two could have everything you both have spent so much time lying and conniving to achieve. The divorce settlement will be worth well over twenty million, after legal fees, of course.

I thought that would shut you up. And besides, I’ve got some good news you’ll all be interested in, I promise you.

Oh really, Frank? You and Carl came up here from the goodness of your hearts, I suppose? I’m sure it didn’t have anything to do with the email I sent to you, highlighting your financial shenanigans. When your insider trading scheme comes out—and they always do, you know—the Company will go down the tubes. You both know it, of course, but you’ll also both be in Rio, by then. Yeah, I knew about that, too.

If you hadn’t shown tonight, my lawyers would have forwarded everything to the S.E.C., tomorrow morning. They won’t, now. You have my word I will do nothing to report your scheme.

The good news? In a minute. But first, I have a story to tell. It’s kind of a scary campfire story. You cold, Joanna? I notice you’re not sitting very close to Greg. Trouble in paradise, kids?

Interesting.

So Greg, why don’t you put a few logs on the fire to warm her up. Sip a little more Cristóbal, Jo. You always said it lit a fire in you.

Better now? Good.

This is the story of Bloody Mary. . .whoa!. . .that was a big one! Some of those logs must be green pine, don’t you think? That thing went off like dynamite!

Well this lady—the one named for Frank’s favorite breakfast beverage—was already living in these parts when the first white settlers showed-up. They say she was part Cherokee, part. . .something else.

In any case, she was just called Old Mary, in those days. Some called her a witch, some called her herbwise, but she could always be counted upon to offer a poultice to stave-off infection or a potion to cure the croup.

She knew about what plants were safe to eat or which to avoid and the story goes that Old Mary was always willing to dispense her wisdom and her medicines to all in need. Nobody knew how old she was. She was there to ease a mother’s pain when a child was born, and there when that same child was on its deathbed, children and grandchildren gathered around.

People needed her, so though they were never comfortable around her, they generally left her in peace, up in her little cabin in these mountains.

And then the red plague came. It was brought in by a small group of settlers, fresh off the boats from Europe. Whatever it was, people died, bleeding from the eyes, ears and mouth.

Hemorrhagic Fever? Maybe so, Carl. But Old Mary’s cures were, indeed, worthless. Perhaps it’s because her medicine was so tied to these mountains and this land, and this disease wasn’t. Perhaps it was something she just couldn’t fight. In any case, because she wasn’t helping them, this time, a lot of the old suspicion and fear came boiling up. They blamed her for the outbreak.

It didn’t take long for these good, God-fearing people to forget all she had done for them for so long, and decide to do something about her. The words: “Suffer not a witch to live” were misused by the locals, I’m told.

People started calling her Bloody Mary. . .Wow! That one was even bigger. Better scoot back, people. Don’t want one of those coals shooting out on you. You could lose an eye!

Where was I? Oh yes. They shouted her new name as they surrounded her little cabin up in the hollow and called her out.

Long story short, she refused to come out, instead, she called-out to the settlers, reminding each of them—by name—of the many times she had helped them, but it did no good.

They started chanting her new title as they set fire to her cabin, burning her alive, inside. When they were sure she must be dead, she came stumbling out, “burning as if she’d been soaked in coal oil” as the story is told. With her dying words she cursed them.

“If my name is spoken three times into a fire, then all who’ve gazed into it shall be consumed as I have.”

And with that, she collapsed on the ground, and died. They say there was nothing left of her body to give a “decent, Christian burial.” Not even ashes.

Yes, that’s the end, Frank. Just three more things to say, and I’m done.

First, I’m dying of cancer. I have less than a month to live.

Oh, don’t even try, Joanna! I saw the look in your eyes when I said it.

Second, did you all hear about the couple, husband and wife that were about to go on trial for that terrible child abuse story involving their young daughters? The ones who were mysteriously bailed-out of jail and disappeared up in these mountains a few weeks back? Nationwide manhunt, right.

Well, I’m who bailed them out. I paid them ten thousand dollars to come up to this cabin, light a fire and say a name three times. Oh yeah, they had to video it, too.

I always cover my bases, and you know it.

And finally. . .

BLOODY MARY!


[align=center]The End[/align]



The Tomb- World of I-k-t-l-u-d



“The unhappy story of the Empty Surface on the so-called Tomb- World of I-k-t-l-u-d is well renowned all over the surrounding space sectors.

Actually, the entire continent is not empty at all.It is full of tombs,one bigger than the other, in a sort of amazing progression spanning through the centuries.

It all began more than 8000 years ago when H-u-j-l-n, the first king of H-u-j-l-n-k-l-i-u-d, the Realm that ruled over this once rich land- now barren, came into power after many victories over the neighbouring reigns.Then, already aged, he decided to be adequately honoured after his death by means of the biggest tomb ever seen.The king hated the burial grounds the rulers of the various little kingdoms before had made built for them, as he considered those unsuitable to commemorate such an important figure as he was.He desidered for him something exceptional.

So he had it built within ten years only, regardeless of the difficulties.In the end, he did see his tomb finally completed, a massive building tetrahedron- shaped, 300 metres in length, 70 metres in height, all covered in gold, buld, junwd and other famous semi- precious stones from the farthest quarries.But, not yet satisfied, he knew that, when he had been dead, some younger attendants probably would have been still serving his successor, soon forgetting his victories, even his figure.And he was very attached to his own servitude, he didn’t want his heirs receive it by inheritance!And there were so many beautiful female servants among them… So H-u-j-l-n provided his attendants had to follow him in death, just to serve him also in the afterlife, of course.His guards murdered all his attendants,placing all of them inside his huge tomb.The killing went on for some long days, as many people tried to save themselves by hiding.

So the grandiose tomb of H-u-j-l-n, was sealed and remained intact for long. But his successors forced the next designers to build better constructions and order them to be placed in the same tombs they had just planned, so to keep the project as a secret.That said, the subsequent courts had to follow the death of the kings,too!And through the ages the meaning of the word “court” grew wider…”

***

Gene paused and turned his blue eyes.Just in the middle of the encampment an hybrifire was glowing and warming them as a campfire of a time long gone.In a way it recreated the ambience of the old archaeological camps once set by researchers in ancient Egypt.

***

“So the new tombs were built even bigger and in time the innocents involved in the killing became more and more including the neighbouring villages.As long as one day the figure known as The Emperor ordered all the people of his large Realm had to follow him in the afterlife.And he started a killing never seen before, that eventually caused a bloody civil war which destroyed the Realm itself, putting an end to his cruel despots forever.The remaining citizens left for another place where to live.So this continent soon became a wasteland, now known among all the alien races of I-k-t-l-u-d as Empty Surface.

****

Gene put up his fair hair.The hybriflames were reflecting on the professor’s large cheekbones.

****

“But here the legend starts.As it’s told that, on the Day of the Dead, an important feast on I-k-t-l-u-d, all the people killed show off and come again to their senses.Even the Emperor raises his consciousness here and regains his old shape, too.But,unfortunately, so do his long gone subjects, killed by him.Undoubtedly, they have still on their mind a strong desire of revenge!

In fact they go for their cruel ruler and, keeping hold of him, start stabbing the Emperor in the back, each of them.And he can feel all the pain, as a living beeing, but there’s no way he can escape from his subjects.I mean, there are too many of them killed..And this goes on all day long, stabbing after stabbing.Again and again…”

“Are you trying to terrorize me…?” S-a-h-v-u said.Her orange- green arched eyes blinked.Four long quadruple grey plaits, departing from her narrow face, made her very beautiful, though unusual in comparison to a woman from Earth.But, indeed, S-a-h-v-u was an alien girl, the age of 23.

“No, my dear…” Gene replied”I was just narrating the story of the Dead People of H-u-j-l-n-k-l-i-u-d.”

“Yeah, I knew it, I was born on I-k-t-l-u-d…however you told me that in a different way, more vivid,more…”

“….interesting?”the man added.

“Yeahhhhh…” she nodded“But now it’s late…”She stood up.

Gene slowly fondled S-a-h-v-u, promising he had joined her soon as she took leave going to the tent nearby in very sensual way only the female people of that planet were able to do appropriately.
It had been difficult to find an alien girl from the U-d-l-k-u race ( as S-a-h-v-u was ) to select her as his collegue in the field, the professor thought, but finally he had succeeded.Then Gene had to make her fall in love with him, not an easy task, as they were both alien for each other, but in some ways the female girls from I-k-t-l-u-d were really attracted by humans.And they were sexually compatible, too.

Another ancient legend from I-k-t-l-u-d had that one was could see the scene of all the dead servants stabbing the Emperor on Empty Surface only if he put on his pupils the blood of a dead girl from the U-d-l-k-u race...

It was the third time he had gone there on the Day of the Dead ( curiously, it occurred the same day Halloween was still celebrated on Earth…).The first two alien researcher girlfriends he had killed didn’t possess the right blood, it was only a matter of some specific ancestors, as the professor had discovered.So he had come to S-a-h-v-u.

That night Gene would have her killed with his own hands and then put her warm blood on his face, and eventually he would have been capable of watching such an incredible scene!

What you do for the love of knowledge…


[align=center]The End[/align]



The Rites of Fall



There are no such things as ghosts, but there are spirits. I know, because this story was told to me by someone who was there.

She stepped from the forest, moving silently like a beam of moonlight. In her left hand, she carried a staff. Flanking her were two pure white wolfhounds. She was a tall woman but willowy. A sudden breeze could have blown her away. The campers glanced at her once, then went back to work, building their bonfire. Everyone assumed that she was some lucky man’s date.

It had become an annual ritual. On the first night of autumn, the students from the local college drove their pickup trucks into the woods to hold a barbeque. While brisket and ribs slowly grilled over a hickory fire, the celebrants worked up an appetite by felling the largest tree they could find. This year, it was a live oak with a massive base and long limbs which trailed the ground. One of the classical Greek literature majors dubbed it the Medusa , because the twisting branches resembled a nest of writhing serpents.

The roar of chainsaws could be heard for miles, as the members of the football team hacked away limbs and then sectioned the truck. Lookouts had been stationed on the road to watch for the police. This was public land, and the trees were protected. The thrill of the forbidden worked almost like an aphrodisiac. Already, couples were forming. Before the night was through, the woods would witness revels that would have made the Bacchae blush.

But first, nature had to be tamed. Logs were stacked carefully into a tower designed to concentrate heat while allowing oxygen to circulate between the burning timbers. Since much of the wood was still green, a chemical accelerant was used to get the blaze going.

Once the fire was lit, the students helped themselves to beer and barbeque. Some of the cheerleaders stripped down to bikini tops. In the red glare, they looked like succubae, inviting mortal sinners to enjoy the flames of Hell.

Inevitably, people began to tell ghost stories. During a lull in the conversation, the woman with the two white dogs spoke up. She introduced herself as Diane.

“Some of the trees in this forest are haunted,” she began. This was not the usual a group of campers decided to check out the deserted house where a family was murdered story. The giggling cheerleaders fell silent. “Or maybe I should say they’re possessed. Trees have spirits, you know----“

“So do we!” A drunken student waved around a bottle of Jack Daniels.

Diane ignored him. “The older the tree, the more complex the spirit. Saplings barely have a consciousness. But by the time a tree is two or three centuries old, it has seen and heard more than most people will absorb in a lifetime. Take this tree, for example.” She pointed towards the bonfire with her staff. “Her name was Hannah. She was here when the Declaration of Independence was signed. In her lifetime, she loved, lost and forgot more mortal men than you girls will ever know.” Briefly, her gaze fixed on the cheerleaders. Her eyes were pale blue and cold as ice. Despite the heat of the fire, the girls were suddenly chilled, and they put their sweaters back on. A very faint smile touched Diane’s lips. Then, she continued her story.

“The last of her lovers was a moonshiner who kept a still in these woods. Hannah had her eyes on young Daniel for several years. But age brings patience. She was in no hurry to declare her love. She waited and watched until an autumn night very much like this one. Federal agents descended upon the forest as Daniel was distilling a new batch of whiskey.

“Daniel already had two convictions. If he was sent to jail a third time, it would be for life. So, he abandoned his still and ran deep into the woods. It was a dark, moonless night. He soon lost track of where he was going. For all he knew, he had been running in circles and his pursuers might be over the next hill.

“That was when he heard a voice, soft and sweet as spun sugar. ‘This way, Danny,’ it said. ‘You can hide over here.’

“It was a woman’s voice. Daniel had a couple of girlfriend in town already, but he was not about to say no to a third, not if she could save him from jail. He approached the massive, twisted oak tree from which the voice came. A breeze stirred the branches. Leaves caressed his cheek. With a sigh, he closed his eyes and imagined a young girl with smooth brown skin and green hair that streamed in the wind. The oak tree leaned down and folded its branches around him. Bark formed over him, and he disappeared into the embrace of his final lover. Daniel was never seen again. Until tonight.” Diane poked her staff at a particularly large log near the base of the bonfire. With a loud crack , a knot burst open, and a human skull rolled out.

There were a few screams, but the cheerleaders around Diane were strangely quiet. Their eyes had gone dark, as if they had drunk the night. Calmly, they watched as Diane bent her staff into the shape of a bow. An arrow appeared from nowhere. The tall woman rose and aimed at one of the football players, the first to take a chainsaw to the oak tree. A barb pierced his throat and he pitched back into the fire.

“For Hannah,” the tall woman said. “A life for a life.”

Without another word, she turned and disappeared into the forest, with her two hounds at her heels. Three of the cheerleaders followed her. They were never seen again. The fourth cheerleader was left behind to tell this story.


[align=center]The End[/align]



The Ghost of Christmas Past



Ghosts? Hah. No such thing as ghosts. Mind you, there was this incident once... couple of years back...

Oh, no, no. You don't want to hear an old man's rambling. Nowhere near as exciting as all the other stories people have. Fiction is always more exciting than truth, of course, if not always as strange.

...very well. If you insist. But remember one thing - while the other stories you hear here today sound half made up, this one really happened... to me. Personally.

It was about a decade ago, when I was with Captain Cope's team, out prospecting in the asteroids. That was just before the business over in Mexico, the Little Nuclear War. Before the Declaration of Sentient Rights, before the Secession of the Internet, back when artificial intelligences were little more than slaves and had to be monitored at all times by a human observer with a thumb on the power switch.

Now, out in a little spaceship in the asteroid belt, there's no such thing as "day" and "night". You just get up and lie down pretty much whenever you want, especially on the more relaxed ships. But Captain Cope, he was an old military man; and the military are great ones for routine. He had timetables and rosters and who-knows-what, and he had it all worked out and courses plotted so that every time we got to a new rock, everyone was up and about and alert and ready to work, and every time we were drifting from one rock to another the only two who weren't asleep were the ship's AI and whoever's turn it was to do AIsitting duty.

That day - night - whatever, it was my turn. Just me and ol' Steve, alone among the stars - well, alone apart from a half-dozen men asleep in thier bunks.

What? Yes, our ship's AI was called Steve.

No, it was not a stupid name.

Look, am I telling this story or are you? His name was Steve, and that's all there is to it.

Well, there we were... out among the asteroids... just drifting off to a promising hunk of rock from another hunk of rock that hadn't delivered nearly enough on its own promises.

"Dave." said Steve. "Dave. You've got an email."

"Don't be ridiculous." was my immediate response. "We haven't been in radio contact with Earth for at leasst ten minutes. I can't have an email."

"Nevertheless." said Steve. Now, you've got to understand - there's no way anyone's ever found to tell if an AI is lying to you from its voice. And Steve loved practical jokes. So, my first thought was that this was another of his jokes.

"Let me guess." I said. "It's from the tooth fairy, right?"

"No, it's from the ghost of Christmas Past." said Steve; and now I was sure he was trying to pull one over on me. Like I said earlier - there's no such things as ghosts, so they certainly can't send email.

"Right." I said. "What does he want? To come aboard?"

"In a word, yes." said Steve. "Do you want the email on your screen?"

"No need." I said, playing along. "Tell the ghost of Christmas Past he's welcome aboard."

And that, I thought, would be the end of it. Steve would come up with some lame excuse as to why the ghost couldn't board, or try to convince me it was on board and I couldn't see it. I certainly didn't expect to hear the clang of the docking clamps.

"How did you do that?" I asked; the docking clamps should be unworkable without another ship to hold on to, and Steve certainly couldn't pull a ship mysteriously out of the aether.

"I didn't." said Steve. "That's the Ghost of Christmas Past coming aboard."

Then the airlock started to cycle. That was just plain impossible without someone actually in the lock, unless there's been some highly illegal modifications to the ship when I hadn't been looking. My nerve, I'm sorry to say, broke; when you're a couple of million kilometers from home, in the dead of an eternal night, and you've got a ghost at the door, sometimes you just need another human about to remind you what sanity looks like.

So I called the Captain over the intercom. Woke him up, tried to tell him we had a ghost at the door. He thought I was more than a little crazy, and ordered me to do nothing until he got there. When he did get there, he had a couple of other crew with him, just in case; and the airlock door opened.

A figure all in white stepped onto the ship. White from head to toe, with one of those mirrored helmets that hides the face. For a moment, just a moment, I fainted clean away.

What? No, there was nothing supernatural about it at all. It was the first, and last, time that I've ever known two prospecting ships to run into each other in the asteroid belt; the other ship was a little one-man, or rather one-woman affair, and all that she wanted was a bit of a chat and a chance to get some news from Earth; her long-range antenna was gone, you see, and she only had short-range comms. She'd been the one to send the email; she never signed it anything about ghosts, though. That was Steve's sense of humour. We fixed her antenna, of course, before we parted ways. Temporarily.

You don't believe me? Go on, Lucy. Tell these little whippersnappers how white I went the first time I saw you.


[align=center]The End[/align]

[kailhofer]

Copy & paste the following into a PM to me to do "detailed" voting, after you rate each of the stories on a 1-10 scale for the following categories (whole numbers only). You can click on the 'PM' button at the bottom of this post to send a message to me.


Categories:
1) How good was the Characterization?
2) How effective (or original) was the plot?
3) How clear was the setting to you?
4) How good was the use of dialog?
5) How well did the story meet or address the challenge as it was given?



Are you my Daddy?
1) Characterization:
2) Plot:
3) Setting:
4) Dialog:
5) Challenge:

DOES HE WALK AMONG US?
1) Characterization:
2) Plot:
3) Setting:
4) Dialog:
5) Challenge:

TREED
1) Characterization:
2) Plot:
3) Setting:
4) Dialog:
5) Challenge:

Old Mary
1) Characterization:
2) Plot:
3) Setting:
4) Dialog:
5) Challenge:

The Tomb-World of I-k-t-l-u-d
1) Characterization:
2) Plot:
3) Setting:
4) Dialog:
5) Challenge:

The Rites of Fall
1) Characterization:
2) Plot:
3) Setting:
4) Dialog:
5) Challenge:

The Ghost of Christmas Past
1) Characterization:
2) Plot:
3) Setting:
4) Dialog:
5) Challenge:

[kailhofer]

Oh, crap.

I owe a very public apology to the author of The Ghost of Christmas Past. In the poll I titled it "The Ghosts of Christmas Eve". That was probably a Freudian slip on my part, but I can't change it without wiping out the poll and starting over. I don't have that kind of access, if it is even possible to be changed. I don't want to do that since people are already voting and the darn poll software can only be scheduled to stop x number of days from the exact moment you posted it. The old software could be scheduled to stop at a certain date and time.

I'll ask Rob Wynne if he can change it, but I don't want to mess up the poll vote, either.

So again, my apologies.

Nate
Flash Editor

[kailhofer]

I was discussing voting with one of the authors on the merits or evils of voting for your own story, mostly in regard to the "detailed" vote.

Some authors just won't cast a vote for their own story no matter what, but others do. There's no rule against it and it's too late to change anything for this time out.

I would suggest that the authors don't consider the detailed vote for their own story as a vote so much per say but instead as an assessment on how well they thought they did.

Last time, 2 of the authors did not vote for their own stories at all. Considering an average vote was about 30 points, that put those stories at an automatic handicap compared to those who did put numbers down for their own. I'm not saying you should brag yourself at all 10s (that's just rude), but logistically and realistically, you'll probably need some numbers there to win.

If you like, use it for a point of comparison of how good you think your skills are compared to the average actually received that I'll post at the end.


Just advice from what I see so far.

Nate

[kailhofer]

I think in the detail votes it might be useful to discard the author tallies for competition and change the denominator to match. Then I think we're on to something about a 3-way grid of Author's Detailed Opinion vs. Average Other Opinion. That might help me live with the clicky "Even the presidential candidate votes for himself" rah rah side of the poll.

I think next time out I will bar authors from voting on their own in the detailed, but I didn't put it in the rules this time, so it wouldn't be fair.

[kailhofer]

all of a sudden everyone has one vote??? hmmmmm.

RT

Not to worry. No matter how much a troll may mess with the poll, his or her efforts will not decide the winner. Make one story have a hundred votes. It won't work. Keep them all the same all the time. It won't help, because the poll doesn't decide the winner by itself.

The winner of the poll will get the same number of points awarded to them as the highest score in any one of the categories. The next lowest will get less, but not much less.

Basically, if I see evidence the poll was really messed with, #2 will get 1 less point than #1, #3 2 less than #1, and so on down the line. 6 points less for 7th place in the poll is not very likely to decide the winner. If it looks fairly clean, the "step" number could be as much as 5. I haven't decided yet, but 3 sounds fair considering the numbers involved.

This gives the poll vote the same weight as any of the other categories, no matter what.

Nate

[kailhofer]

I wish I wasn't on night shift this week. I may not have time to read everything and vote.

Will the voting still be open Monday night?

Dan

Yes. The voting always runs Thursday through Wednesday, so you still have plenty of time.

[kailhofer]

Now I am thoroughly confused. I am just going to cut and paste the template at the top and fill it in. Someone else can decide what it all means.

Without the poll, voting and anticipation dropped. People complained to me. So I put the poll in to do the same job as what was one of the 6 categories last time. But the poll doesn't score 1-10 like the rest of the detailed voting does, so there has to be a conversion process to make it fit into the same scoring grid.

The poll is approximately one sixth of the final vote.

Let me give an example: Last time, "LORT" tied for the highest individual score of any of the categories. It got a 57 for how well the story met the challenge.

If that happened here, using the same number for illustration purposes, whichever story wins the poll would get a 57 in the poll category.

If the troll keeps messing with the poll, whomever got second highest in the poll would get a 56. 3rd place would get a 55, and so on down. In case of tampering, I'll only use 1 point deduction between the scores. There's no use in rewarding a troll's behavior if they make the poll question valueless.

If the troll stops screwing around, then the amount of deduction between the places will increase because I think the overall favorite is very important for choosing a winner. So, using that same example, whomever won the poll would still get the 57. #2 in the poll would get a 54. #3 would get a 51, and so on down to #7, where they would get a 39 for the poll. That kind of range would be just like I saw in the rest of the detailed voting.

However, and this is the subjective part for me as judge, this is dependent on how many votes come in. If only 4 people vote, a 3 point deduction may be too much in comparison to the rest. But if 15 or 20 people vote, 3 will probably be a lot less variation as the rest of the detailed votes.

So, I guess what I'm trying to do is match both the high and low of the detailed votes to the poll, so everything stays equal between all six categories.

Does that make sense?

Nate

[kailhofer]

Man, these trolls just don't get it, or they don't read.

If they make everyone tie, we'll still get a winner from the detailed votes. It's just that the poll part effectively won't count for anything because all participants will get the same score.

Nate

[Robert_Moriyama]

Interesting that two stories in the mix use the premise that trees of a certain minimum age develop a kind of consciousness (I guess the story "Sapling" in last month's issue was more influential than anyone expected). Of course, they take the Revenge of Mother Nature theme in somewhat different directions, but still...

[Robert_Moriyama]

The nature of this challenge makes the "dialogue"-related scoring category less appropriate than usual, I think... the three stories that adhered most closely to the "told around the campfire" directive have little or no dialogue in the usual sense (aside from the narrator fielding comments from his/her audience).

RM

[Robert_Moriyama]

By "little", of course, I mean genital and brain size.

[kailhofer]

Voting has now closed.


I'm proud to announce the winner of this month's challenge is McCamy Taylor for her story, "The Rites of Fall". Welcome back, McCamy, and congratulations.

In fact, well done to all of you who entered. This wasn't an easy challenge.


For the record, these were the authors of the entries for this month:

Are you my Daddy? by Chris Callaghan
DOES HE WALK AMONG US? by Richard Tornello
TREED by Robert Moriyama
Old Mary by Bill Wolfe
The Tomb World of I-k-t-l-u-d by Sergio Palumbo
The Rites of Fall by McCamy Taylor
The Ghost of Christmas Past by Casey Callaghan

SCORES: (Overall next to the story name, then the average score next to each question #.)

For reference, the Questions were:
1) Which was your favorite? (Poll adjusted total)
2) How good was the Characterization?
3) How effective (or original) was the plot?
4) How clear was the setting to you?
5) How good was the use of dialog?
6) How well did the story meet or address the challenge as it was given?


Are you my Daddy?: 247
1) 59
2) 6
3) 6
4) 6
5) 6
6) 7

DOES HE WALK AMONG US?: 225
1) 59
2) 6
3) 6
4) 5
5) 6
6) 5

TREED: 280
1) 59
2) 6
3) 6
4) 6
5) 6
6) 7

Old Mary: 315
1) 59
2) 9
3) 9
4) 8
5) 8
6) 10

The Tomb World of I-k-t-l-u-d: 258
1) 59
2) 6
3) 6
4) 6
5) 5
6) 6

The Rites of Fall: 341
1) 59
2) 8
3) 8
4) 8
5) 8
6) 8

The Ghost of Christmas Past: 233
1) 59
2) 6
3) 6
4) 5
5) 6
6) 5

Thank you to all the authors who participated and especially thank you to those of you who struggled through and cast your vote.

Be looking for the next writing adventure Nov. 13th!

[Robert_Moriyama]

The nature of this challenge makes the "dialogue"-related scoring category less appropriate than usual, I think... the three stories that adhered most closely to the "told around the campfire" directive have little or no dialogue in the usual sense (aside from the narrator fielding comments from his/her audience).

RM

The narrator doesn't count. It's called "framing" the story.

The dialogue within is the dialogue to measure.

But using the "around the campfire" thing only as a framing device is kind of a cheat in this context. (And yes, I know what a framing device is. It's how you keep that painting you bought at a garage sale from getting frayed around the edges.) I don't think most "campfire stories" involve a lot of dialogue (at least of the quoted-utterance kind). Mark Edgemon, of course, would have character voices and sound effects, and maybe orchestral accompaniment, but your average camp counselor (councilor?) would not.

[kailhofer]

The nature of this challenge makes the "dialogue"-related scoring category less appropriate than usual, I think... the three stories that adhered most closely to the "told around the campfire" directive have little or no dialogue in the usual sense (aside from the narrator fielding comments from his/her audience).

RM

The narrator doesn't count. It's called "framing" the story.

The dialogue within is the dialogue to measure.

But using the "around the campfire" thing only as a framing device is kind of a cheat in this context. (And yes, I know what a framing device is. It's how you keep that painting you bought at a garage sale from getting frayed around the edges.) I don't think most "campfire stories" involve a lot of dialogue (at least of the quoted-utterance kind). Mark Edgemon, of course, would have character voices and sound effects, and maybe orchestral accompaniment, but your average camp counselor (councilor?) would not.

As I see it, by definition, dialog is any conversation between two characters. The storyteller talking to the other people around the fire, even if it's not about the story he or she wants to tell would be dialog. But then, the story he's telling is also technically dialog, too.

If there's no introduction or acknowledgment of other people around the fire, like in my example, then I think that's just narration. My narrator was speaking directly to the audience, or at least, that's what I was going for. Pirro and Claire had dialog.

[Robert_Moriyama]

I voted for "Ghosts", but didn't submit category scores at all. (Say, if Bill DID provide category scores, but didn't score his own story, did that mean the average for his story included zeroes in all categories? Or was a lower denominator used in calculating his averages?)

Looks like we were all too kind to score anything at less than 5 or 6 in any category. Hence "Treed" came in third in overall scores, but was only marginally ahead of the others in average points by category. (Sigh)

[kailhofer]

Checking the poll periodically, I saw what looked like real votes for Treed, Old Mary, & Rites of Fall before the troll filled things in. The most "real" looking votes seemed to come in for Old Mary, which if we could have used the poll numbers, would have resulted in a 32 point spread from 1st to 7th. The poll system only records who voted, not whom for what.

Using what I saw for a gut feeling, Rites came in 2nd in the poll, so Rites would have still probably edged Old Mary by about 10 points. Considering how things score in this new system, that's like a photo finish in horse racing.

In either case, good writing all around.


Some more voting stats:

Are you my Daddy?, Treed, Old Mary, The Rites of Fall, and The Ghost of Christmas Past all received at least one perfect 10. (No author gave themselves a 10.)

Treed jumped out to a big lead in the beginning, bringing in 4 perfect 10s in the first 3 votes.

This challenge seemed to be one where the voter either really liked the story or hated it. It was not uncommon to see one story have an average vote of 8 from one voter, only to see another give it a 3 average.

Nate

[kailhofer]

I voted for "Ghosts", but didn't submit category scores at all. (Say, if Bill DID provide category scores, but didn't score his own story, did that mean the average for his story included zeroes in all categories? Or was a lower denominator used in calculating his averages?)

The excel spreadsheet I made for tracking all this only averages scores recorded. I don't count an abstention as a 0, and leave it blank, so yes, the denominator changes.

Looks like we were all too kind to score anything at less than 5 or 6 in any category.

I mentioned this is my above message, but actually, there were votes that averaged to only a 1 or 2, and not all by the same voter, either.

[Robert_Moriyama]

The real question is, how should the poll work next time? There are obviously still a few little bugs in the current system...

We know there's a least one silly bugger (as Sam Vimes, second-highest ranking official in Anhk-Morpork would call him/her/it) in the poll...

[kailhofer]

Surely more than seven Aphelionites read the stories and had an opinion.

Didn't they?

I'm sure more than seven read them, but the harder I make it for people to vote, the less that will. Detailed votes are a lot harder than the poll, which is one good reason to keep a poll if we can find a way to 'troll proof' it. We'd get more votes in the poll than anywhere else.

Honestly, I'd like to make the poll carry double the weight of any other category, because public opinion is critical in genre fiction like we write. It's all about market numbers.

However, it means nothing if messed with. This troll may have come up with as many as 20 votes this time. He or she couldn't decide the winner, but they still got to screw up the most public part of the contest. No matter what, I can't run the contest this way again.

[kailhofer]

Still not sure why the Elf/Dryad took the cheerleaders. Seems she should have taken the ones with active brains, instead.

With the bow, I took her to be the goddess Artemis (or the Roman version, Diana). Oak groves were especially sacred to her, and in some cities young girls were sent to serve for a year in her temples.

Oh, and look both ways before you do your next happy dance: you got more perfect 10s than anyone else. Nine of them.

[kailhofer]

I believe the "troll" is a writer who has submitted to the zine at least once or why else would he be favoring us with his exploits.

I really don't want to go there.

29 different authors have submitted stories so far. Except for maybe 5 of them I've "known" them here at Aphelion or in real life for years. The last thing I want is for us to start pointing fingers at each other. That's like handing the troll victory on a silver platter.

Thanks to Casey for the suggestion, but I've been talking to Rob Wynne, and we think we could have a solution. It's not exactly what Casey thought, but it just might work. It's something Rob would have to do, so it's in his court as to whether it works or not.

Never give up. Never surrender.

Nate

[Robert_Moriyama]

I understand where you are coming from Nate. You are a unique and special person to return grace for every slight and wrong done to you and the Troll has offended you more than anyone. I hope one day I will adopt your philosophy of kindness towards those who wrong me. As it stands now, I would like to strap the little troll to a metal chair in front of a large mirror, so he can watch himself being electrocuted, but that of course, is just me. I'm funny about things like that!

Mark

Gee, Nate wouldn't even allow contributors to last month's Troll's Comeuppance challenge to go all Saw I-VI / Hostel I-III on the Votinator's mildewed and saggy butt. (He may be regretting that decision about now.)

Of course, by bothering to acknowledge what passes for its existence, we are FEEDING the troll (but only as a poor substitute for feeding the troll TO something...a nice woodchipper with rusty, dull teeth comes to mind...)

[kailhofer]

Gee, Nate wouldn't even allow contributors to last month's Troll's Comeuppance challenge to go all Saw I-VI / Hostel I-III on the Votinator's mildewed and saggy butt. (He may be regretting that decision about now.)

Of course, by bothering to acknowledge what passes for its existence, we are FEEDING the troll (but only as a poor substitute for feeding the troll TO something...a nice woodchipper with rusty, dull teeth comes to mind...)

Always take the high road. Nothing annoys people more.


Well... with over a thousand page views for this thread in only a couple weeks, something is sure feeding something...

Nate

[kailhofer]

hello iam a new member

Hello, new member. Welcome to the forum. Please feel free to join in any discussion you find going.

Did something about the October challenge catch your eye?