VOTE: July '09 Challenge

[kailhofer]

The challenge was to craft a fantasy story that included a woman, a headache, and something called a "witch's barrier".



The following entries were received:



Love’s Elixir



The heat from the calcinary furnace was dissipating and the world was growing dim. Rosamund da Carmo lowered the diopter, a hand-held mask that protected her face, a merry attempt to double her own striking Mediterranean features in ceramic. She stared into the crucible at the golden calx, calcined from the heart of the flying dragon, and sighed.

“Bi Thosimos and craftes wel lerned it is shynynge as gold both good and trewe,” she said. A smile crept across her beautiful face. The heat, still potent, drew beads of sweat on her brow. She was exhausted but excited.

She snatched the crucible crab-like with tongs and stole back to her table which was covered with the apparatus of her craft: ceramic pots containing the likes of aqua fortis, vitriol, and sal ammoniac; vessels for digestion: pelicans, jubilans, tripudianters, and double retort columbissanters; flasks; alembics; ampullae; mortars and pestles. The middle of the table was spread with lavish texts, The Secret Book of Artephius and De mineralibus. But resting in the very center of the table, next to a large dripping candle, was the apple-sized, red stone, the heart of the flying dragon, holey with cavities like an Emmentaler cheese and embedded with flecks of gold. Reaching her stool, she rested the crucible on a metal ring, and nearly swooned.

“Ah! The feums and hellesmoc... min heed aken,” she said, rubbing her temples.

Then, well cooled, she collected the calx into a Cristallo phial. A panacea for the wealthy Count who would keep her well forever, once his wife was dead. She admired the product of her work in the wasting candlelight.

As she did, across the stone floor, near the chamber door, a shimmer caught her eye. At first she thought it was a trick of tired sight, or shards of stray moonlight, but as she watched, the shimmer became larger and evolved into a smoky swirl first a few inches long, then expanding until it was fully six feet high. Finally it flattened and the smoke solidified into a flat disk, lustrous like the surface of a mirror. And through that mirror a man stepped as if through a door.

He was tall, and thin and dressed all in black: a double breasted paletot, vest, cravat about his neck and a bowler hat on his head. He paused when through the strange portal, stood upright and straightened his coat. In his right hand he held an umbrella, which he then used as a cane. Looking about he noticed Rosamund. She could just make out his face framed by auburn hair: eyes nearly hidden by bushy eyebrows over a prominent nose, ruddy cheeks, a handlebar moustache, a gap-toothed grin. He started towards her.

“Ah, Lady Carmot, you sweet mollisher. Let’s have a look at you four hundred years younger.” he said, walking with great confidence, his umbrella tapping the stone floor as he went.

If not his means of arrival, then his strange speech set Rosamund on edge. She pillaged through the dishes on her table, finding the two she sought, took them in hand and throwing the contents together into the air towards the approaching man, intoned: “By helle-fir the devel sleeth, but tarie nat to bryngen hym deeth.”

A blinding stream of sparks lit the room and engulfed the man but just as he managed to open his umbrella and hold it like a shield. The spray lasted thirty seconds. But when it subsided the man still stood, and then laughed.

“That was quite the penny gaff. You can do better, I’m sure,” he said.

Rosamund was shocked. Her spell should have left him nothing but smoldering boots. She quickly grabbed some more components from the table, this time pouring the contents of one flask into another then throwing it to the floor in front of him.

“Brek hym, bothe bak and every boon. Stynge hym from cursed heed to toon,” she screamed.

A thick green cloud rose from the remains of the flask. But he simply chuckled while quickly opening and closing his umbrella. The cloud dissipated.

“Ha ha. That was a jolly. Like a London particular. But enough now.” And with that he took two long strides and stood with the tip of his umbrella pointing at her heart. She felt an oppressive force that seemed to surround her and prevent all movement.

“What werk of wicchecraft...” she started, outraged, which made him laugh again with his gap-toothed grin.

“I’m sorry dear. I hardly understand a word you’re saying,” he said.

“Why fare ye thus with me?” she asked, fear and confusion curdling her beautiful features.

“Oh don’t get bloody teary. I can’t stand up to that,” he said staring into her eyes to try to calm her. “I wouldn’t be here at all if not for you... the you of 1850 that is. You gave me this witch’s barrier,” he said, jiggling the umbrella. “You sent me back, to retrieve something.” He looked about the table until he found the Cristallo phial and the elixir of immortality meant for the Count. “There,” he said, snatching it up and looking at it. The candle was almost completely burned out, but its dim light still made the powder in the phial sparkle; it matched the glint in the man’s eyes. He secreted it in an inner pocket and then searching in another pocket brought out a similar phial.

“For the Count,” he said very slowly, enunciating with the hope that she would understand. “The Count will be expecting an elixir. This laudanum will act the snide.” He set it on the table.

“The Count doesn’t deserve you, and proves so soon. But you meant this elixir for your soul’s true mate, and he has it now.” And then he leaned in, kissed her hard on the lips and then jogged off toward the shrinking black portal.

“You’ll be happy to know,” he yelled back as he stepped through, “in four hundred years, you don’t age a day.”


[align=center]The End[/align]



In The Line of Duty



I’m talking to myself. This is a sure sign I’m not going to have a good time of it. I’m stuck here at the end of the galaxy on a Podunk planet; in a 3rd rate hotel, in a lousy bar drinking very mediocre fermented something or other. This is supposed to be a planet of literary genius. One with a history of art, music, and literature. Did I say that already? Well, SO WHAT! It’s a dive. I’m booked here at the Block and Tackle in this college town. They, the “supreme council”, directed me to present our best interpretation of one of their art forms, the limerick, to an invited group of young impressionable up and coming writers. After that space trip and the landing, I can’t even think how to write my name no less a damned limerick.

I have this rotten headache from breathing the left over pollution that still surrounds this sorry globe. They did away with the industry and warfare when they were admitted to the Galactic Union. They were told they had to clean up their house and then and only then would the Union take down the communication block. The pollution still persists.

Once the people on this planet heard about the entire galactic goings on, they rioted for admission. It’s sort of ironic, riots to be admitted to civilization. They demanded the “WITCHES BARRIER” a communications block, be removed so they could partake in the benefits of the Union. Up until then they had no idea why, even with SETI as they called it, no one would or could communicate. Most of these beings were sure “extraterrestrials” existed. Yet there was no communication.

What a bother.

Ah me, I must write and I can’t think of a F***kin thing to say, to use their idiomatic phraseology.

Let’s try this:

There once was a leader named Xeres
Who thought he could conquer the fairies
With magic and wand
He walked on a pond ,

He what? Damn.
No, that won’t work

OK, OK, how about:

Women who walk with a waddle
Have bodies shaped like a bottle.
Don’t shake them up
Or

OR WHAT!

I’m not allowed to write a good limerick. Limericks ARE supposed to be foul and bawdy. But no! I might affect these young minds. What crap! They see more on the NON-LOCAL news. They can view, uncensored, since censorship’s been outlawed, the goings on from one end of the galaxy to the other. And I’m supposed to keep it “clean”?

I don’t write clean. That’s why they picked me. I write colorful stories of love and lust and not kids poems. Someone is out to get me. Why? Because failure to deliver here means no promotion, no bigger apartment, better food and no love prospects. The dues I must pay.

Limericks, they want limericks…

“Waiter, yes, please bring me a glass of your strongest intoxicants. No, on second thought, make that a whole bottle. My room number? Oh yes, 42.”

If they want my opinion they should have kept that Witches Barrier up and ….


Well lookie there. Look what’s just came into the bar and heading right for my table. Long legs, red hair, green green eyes, oooh yeah. I can’t be this lucky. Got to be a mistake. I’m never this lucky with women at home.

“Aren’t you the writer from the home Galaxy Cultural Center?” Green eyes inquires, sitting, not waiting for an answer.

“Why yes I am. How did you know? But, pardon me, I didn’t get your name?

“Alice, Dr. Alice Kitsune,” she says with a dimpled smile. Those very bright green eyes are beautiful. Right, this woman is incredible looking by any standard, anywhere. It’s just work. Get a grip.

“Would you like a drink, Dr. Kitsune?” I ask.

“Sure whatever you’re having. and it’s Alice,” comes the quick reply. Alice continues, “You don’t know? They didn’t give you the intro we sent before you were to arrive? I’m your official guide and The Attache for Intergalactic Cultural Transfer. I requested to be assigned to this project. I will do what I can to make your stay more pleasant. I’ve read your works. I like them . They have a different slant on a very familiar literary subject that I concentrate in, Shunga.”

As I’m thinking, Right make my stay pleasant on this forsaken backwater of a rock, her foot rubs up my leg. I look and there is a slight smerk on her very beautiful face.

“Alice,” I say. She stops me, touching my mouth with her slender fingers.

___________________________

The next morning Alice and I have a very nice breakfast. My headache is gone. I have a lecture to give and still no idea of what to do…and…

Oh…yes… I… do:

There once was a woman named Alice
who had such a way with her talents….

Oh yes, oh yes, It’s come to me, I’m flying, writing!


[align=center]The End[/align]


Liminal Day



“Kyr, shhhh, Kyr, wake up.”

Kyras sprang instantly to awareness under the soft pressure of hands as, in a rush, she remembered that today she would either become a witch or spend the rest of her worthless life wishing she had.

The air about her was chilled and darkness lay like cold earth inside her parents’ one-room cabin. The only light came from a single candle held aloft by her father.

“It’s midnight,” he whispered.

“Your liminal day,” said Momma.

“Now?”

“At dawn,” said Dida. “We wanted to speak with you while there was time.”

“You know what my test will be?”

“No,” whispered Momma. “Every test the Sages give is different, you know that.”

Momma, who had been a Gorn before she married Dida, could have been a witch of the Old Lines. Gorn women had been and birthed some of the greatest Sages in history, but their house had lost its prestige over the last eight generations as it produced weaker and fewer witches. Momma had no magic at all.

“But I can tell you this, my love,” whispered Momma. “No matter what task they set before you, you need only break the Witch’s Barrier”.
“What’s that?”

“A spell placed on all potential witches at birth. It separates you from your magic. Puts you at one remove from it the way standing on a stone holds you out of a stream. The Sages use it to keep little ones from wreaking havoc before they are trained. Can you imagine a three-year-old Maggie Cold-Hands blasting the world with lightning every time she had a fit?”

“But how do I break it if I can’t use my magic against it?”

“The Sages know you -- know your mind and your potential. Whatever they ask of you will be your way of breaking the barrier. Your key. “

“It won’t be easy,” said Dida. “And there’s no shame in failing.”
“None,” whispered Momma.

But Kyras could read the lie in her mother's eyes.

# # #

Kyras’s knees hurt. Three hours ago the Prior Sage, dressed all in black save for her green habit, had escorted her into the Temple of Ashe, made her to kneel on the cold, hard flagstones before the fire pit in the great hall, and commanded her to, “Make this flame speak.”

The flame in question was a small sliver of yellow, dancing merrily upon a pine branch. Kyras could see that it would soon exhaust its fuel and die for it had nearly eaten through the dry wood.

“You may feed it as you wish,” said the stern, jowly old woman, gesturing towards three wooden boxes before the hearth each filled with a different type of kindling.

Her spare instructions given, the Sage promptly eased her bulk into a large chair to watch Kyras’s progress. Unfortunately, thus far, there had been no progress. She had burned scraps of dried leaves, bark and twigs, but no amount of fuel, nor earnest wishing on Kyras’s part, had yet coaxed the little flame to speak.

For the first two hours Kyras had concentrated on the tiny fire with unwavering intensity, searching her mind and heart for some wellspring of magic. She even waved her hands and tried saying some magical-sounding words, but to no avail. All that concentration only gave her a throbbing headache.

But not even that pain had deterred Kyras until these last few minutes when despair began to steal over her. How much time would the Sage give her? Surely she would soon pronounce Kyras a failure and have her escorted from the Temple never to return.

Kyras’s eyes fell away from the flame. She wasn’t going to let it die, not while any of the kindling remained, but for the moment she could not bare to watch it any longer.

As her gaze shifted about the room Kyras noticed that the gray-stone hearth was quite clean. Lesser witches, apprentices and acolytes, must be made to scrub it. One of them had even placed a Yoter sapling near the kindling boxes. Its red and yellow blossoms smelled fragrant, almost soothing. Whatever woman had planted it must have plenty of time on her hands. Yoters were notorious for needing water. Between that and soaping these stones, the apprentices must spend half their time trucking water basins –

Kyras jerked as if someone had pinched her. She crawled forward on sleep-prickled legs to peer down at the little sapling, her mind racing with a sudden, wild thought.

Could she do this? Would the witches allow it? Kyras stole a glance at the Prior who sat stone-faced, watching her.

Quickly, before she lost her nerve, Kyras fed the little flame a handful of leaves and bark and even fanned it a bit with her tattered brown skirts. Then, her heart pounding, she rent the Yoter from top to bottom, tearing out its roots and exposing its tender, green insides.

She had nothing to cut the living wood so she simply placed it atop the now lively flame roots and all.

“Speak!”

Kyras blew upon the fire as it began to lick at the wet wood. She bent over it, rocking back and forth, reaching inside herself to the magic she knew must exist there – had to exist there. The pain in her head doubled then trebled. She ignored it.

“SPEAK!”

Blood trickled, unfelt, from Kyras’s nose. A drop fell upon the Yoter wood, mixing with the water there which had already begun to boil and steam.

Under flame the green wood whistled and whined and popped as Kyras continued to rock, repeating her mantra, “Speak. Speak. Speak.”

The great hall grew cold, and colder still. Kyras’s breath steamed.

Time passed -- Kyras could never say how much -- and then the flame’s undulations slowed until it moved like ink dropped in water.

From the fire’s sibilant, whistling depths arose a sibilant, whistling voice.

“Well done, little witch.”


[align=center]The End[/align]



Constance and the King



"FIRE!" boomed the voice, clearly audible over the rain and the squelching of the mud. There was a the sound of catapults firing, and then the thud as they hit the invisible wall about the castle and fell to the ground.

And inside the castle, Constance clutched at her head.

"Your - majesty." she said, fighting down the pain that shot through her head. "I don't think you understand. It's not that I don't want to be safe. The problem is that I can't hold up the Witch's Barrier much longer."

"Then strike them down!" squealed the King, petulantly. "Call down fire from the sky. I know you can do that!"

"Not on -" Another catapult volley made her wince. "Not on human targets. That's what knights are for, sire."

"But I don't have any knights!" insisted the King.

"No." said Constance. "Because you sent them out to engage the enemy after a hard day's ride, when they would be tired and exhausted."

"I told them to ride through the night!" said the King, proudly. "And to attack at dawn! Before they had had a chance to have breakfast!"

"To attack fully rested troops after a night of hard riding." Constance sighed. As far as great military generals went, King Rupert was on the wrong end of the scale; possibly on a different one. He had pulled hundreds of defeats from the very jaws of victory, and it was generally considered that when future scholars came to write up the history of these wars, several would ask whose side he had actually been on.

Everyone else had left days ago, before the current besieging army had surrounded the castle; it was just Constance and King Rupert left.

"I have told you before, and now I'll tell you again." Constance insisted. "I am bound to keep you safe, and not to harm any human. The best way to do that -"

"Yes, yes, yes. But you also have to obey me."

"Within limits." I quickly interjected.

"And I am telling you that this is my castle! I'm not letting them get in here! And I'm not leaving. So you have to keep the castle safe." He folded his arms stubbornly.

Constance stared at him for a moment as a thought struck her. It was something she would not have contemplated even a week ago, but now...

"You're wrong." she said, changing the barrier spell. "I have to keep you safe. Not the castle."

The barrier vanished. Re-appeared at about four metres in diameter, centered on me.

The next catapult volley shattered the outer wall (King Rupert had not paid the workmen well, either, and the wall quality was reminiscient of that).

"You don't have a choice." Constance insisted. "I don't have a choice. We must leave, sire! We have to flee! I can make you invisible. We can get through the enemy lines. But we have to go now!"

"I'm not going anywh-"

There was a crunching noise as the furthest wall of the thrown room fell in on itself.

"They have a sorceror!" Constance shouted. "We must flee now, or we will both die!"

"They have a mage?" he asked incredulous. "He'll turn me into a toad!"

"Or worse."

"We have to get out of here!"

Done. I sighed with relief. Now if I could just keep the diminutive King calm enough on the road, perhaps I could yet ensure that he lived to a ripe old age.

I led him out through the wall I had torn down.


[align=center]The End[/align]



The Final Challenge



Adhelia could see its shimming glow just ahead as she popped her cute little nose over the top of the parapet. The end of the quest she had so long been seeking was in sight. Sure she could not actually see the stone just yet. The Witch’s Barrier prevented that. It was after all the final guardian of the ancient device. As she took a moment to breathe she heard the others coming up behind her. Glancing back she saw that the The Wizard Aldemier and The Baker Aldun were closing fast. There was no way she could allow them to be the first to reach the stone. It would crush all the dreams she had built up on this Odyssean voyage.

Clear from the ocean she had come and they had always been one step behind. Across the empty wastes of grain they had come one of the poor slackers suffocating under the shifting seeds. Through the floating vortex where more perished as they lost their footing and plummeted into its soily depths. She had fallen behind in the lands of fire and hellbeasts but the leaders had been eaten and she regained her position by default. Only her wits and an amulet she had managed to win in a battle of wits with a dragon had saved her own hide. Only these three now remained of the many who had begun the quest. Some together, some alone, and each with a different goal for the power that the stone could provide.

She looked down again at the schematic she had managed to obtain through a series of delicate caving maneuvers. It was a simple task really on the surface of it. One had to dispel the magic barrier following the keying sequence that had been on the schematics tome. These were located upon a series of pillars on narrow walkways traversing across a bubbling cauldron below. She glanced over at the viewing orb that was conspicuously floating well above the pit and once more behind at those two now running up the stairs breathing hard and took the plunge.

As she went over the side onto the first crossbeam/walkway she could already feel the heat rising both inside her gut and all around her from the pit. She experienced a momentary shot of vertigo and reached into her cast a minor spell to help appease her nerves. The first device was just ahead. She began to pull out the key to activate it. He hands were becoming sweaty and it was all she could do to keep her hands on the key. The witch’s barrier blazed before her almost mesmerizing. She shook her head trying to keep focus putting one foot in from of the other. She was just a few feet from the first pedestal now. She took her next step and found nothing but empty space to stand on. Falling she grabbed for the pillar and managed to find purchase but her key slipped from her grasp and went plummeting into the cauldron. Taking stock she berated herself. Here she sat the amazing Adhelia who had made it through everything that they could throw at her and a mere stumble at the end would be her undoing? No, there was one option left – she would have to challenge one of the others. Summoning the last of her will she stood up and faced Aldemier who was just coming up to where she had fallen. She faced the young man with a pained grimace and made her demand “Aldemier I know we haven’t worked together before but I need your key. We go on together to the end or I take the key from you”. Aldemier looked mildly bemused for a second then his face fell flat “No I do not think you could do that and I see no reason I should be sharing the stone with you at the end. Come take if you think that you have the strength.” “Very well” was Adhelias only reply as she stepped forward to take up the challenge.

The fight was rather brief in the end. Only lasting a a few dozen seconds. The Wizards final lunge away from Adhelias feint left him unbalanced and with a deft motion she grabbed at the breast pocket and swiped her new passport to victory back even as she swept a foot under his and sent him sprawling on the beam and rolling off into the black oblivion.
Things moved quickly after that and she jumped sprang and twirled through the remaining traps until there but one pillar left the stone now visibly taunted her through the thinning barrier. It was going to be a tricky rope to rope swing it seemed as this beam had crumbled and softened. She grabbed the first rope and began the traverse. Steadily hand over hand it went one, two, three, four… nothing. As she fell she hit the back of her head against the remnants of the pillar. As she went unconscious she thought that at least she was glad she wouldn’t have to watch the baker win it all. She thought she heard laughter.

When she awoke she was surrounded by all the contestants. Ahh well it was as she had expected. The magical resurrection system made sure that no one really died permanently despite the carnage inflicted during the course of the game. The laughter was of course the audience the most part of whom watched the show specifically for the blood and pain that was exhibited. On this end of the view orb Aldun could be seen standing atop of the final pillar triumphantly holding the stone. He’d be awarded the million Gold Coins and New Castle shortly. The host, a well dressed woman in a green gown came up to her and handed her a small bag of gold. The orb panned on her and she smiled. At least she had something for the headache.


[align=center]The End[/align]



Nightshade: Barriers

This entry was disqualified for a rules violation.

[kailhofer]

The entry "Nightshade: Barriers" was disqualified due to an unintentional rules violation. It was a sequel using a character and setting from an earlier challenge, which is forbidden by requirement #3.

Again, I've spoken with the party involved and am convinced it was an honest mistake, but it was clearly against the rules. I can't remove it from the poll, and unfortunately can't give that person back their vote, sorry. I don't have that level of access (and it may not be possible anyway).

Any votes the story gets will not be counted.

Nate Kailhofer
Flash Editor

[Robert_Moriyama]

And David would rather lose than be in suspense!

A dead heat. . . hey, that would make a great title!

-- david j.

from imdb.com

Dead Heat (1988)
Starring Treat Williams and Joe Piscopo

"Roger Mortis and Doug Bigelow are cops that are chasing crooks that are dead serious about crime. Or should I say they are chasing dead crooks perpetrating serious crimes? Seems some nutcase has learned how to bring back the dead and is sending them on crime sprees. Now these indestructable goons are in the way of officers Mortis and Bigelow. To even things up, when Mortis is killed (in the line of duty, of course) he gets a jump start from the Resurrection machine and takes the fight to the zombie bad guys. (Synopsis written by Tim Kretschmann {Tim.K@VirComm.com})"

ROGER MORTIS??? Even I wouldn't dare use THAT pun. And those who have read the Al Majius series know[s]s[/s] that my standards are very, very low.

RM

[kailhofer]

Voting has now closed.


The vote started out a dead heat, but then "Liminal Day" ran away with it.

Given how fast the vote switched and the very high tally, and also considering some of the voting and eligibility troubles recently, some of you out there may tend toward suspicious thoughts. However, one has to join to vote, and there were only 6 members who joined in the time the contest was running. There is no evidence of wrong doing.

Right now, there's no reason to believe it was anything other than a well-earned victory for the story's author, David Alan Jones.

Welcome back to the winner's stand, David.


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

Love's Elixir by J. Davidson Hero
In the Line of Duty by Richard Tornello
Liminal Day by David Alan Jones
Constance and the King by Casey Callaghan
The Final Challenge by Spacer

and

Bill Wolfe's entry, Nightshade: Barriers was disqualified. I hated to do it to you, Bill, sorry.


Thank you, authors, for your hard work. I thought all the stories were quite good and very entertaining. You should all be proud of your work.

Next month's challenge is still up in the air, but should be posted on Aug. 7th. I'd better get my rear in gear.

[kailhofer]

There are various ways a voice artist creates a voice for a part. One way is to do a hybrid of other established voices, merging them into a new voice, after which adding attitude and personality. For the narrator, I am working on a merging of three voice influences to create the effect of a wizard type person who is a teller of tales, that possesses a rhythmic, poetic type of lilt in his voice, a voice one would associate with a story about magic.

For the other three voices, I will build them from scratch. Once I have David's insights on his characters, I will start with my own speaking voice and overlay the age of the character, the gender, the attitude, the personality and finally the character’s intent.

When you "merge" or "overlay" is that an effect you apply to the sound, or something you choose to do with your voice? In either case, I'd be interested in knowing how you do it, exactly, and how/why you chose what you eventually did. That is, what did you do to the sound? How would a novice know what to do if he or she were trying it?

(Yes, I'm thinking ahead to that stuff we were talking about.)

[Robert_Moriyama]

Nate,

Maybe I should write a series of articles on how to do voice work, breaking it up into topics with simple instructions for the layman. If so, where would I put it on Aphelion so everyone would have easy access and know where they were?

Mark

Maybe a sticky topic in [s]Administrivia[/s]Writers' Workshop? (Mind you, too many sticky topics makes it hard to find the topics with new posts. Maybe we need a new top-level folder for reference material, tips, etc...)

RM

[kailhofer]

I'd ask that you consider including the story in the archive for this contest anyway- once the contest is over -with the reason it was disqualified as a header note. I don't recall if you did that with the other recent story that wound up being withdrawn. It might help prevent such mishaps in the future, and as I recall both were pretty good stories even if they became disqualified.

Just a suggestion. You are the Flash Editor, therefore it is your call.

Dan

I had excluded Mark's story last time, but changed my mind and added it to the Index.

Bill's story, too, is now in the Flash Index, along with the rest of the July entries.

Perhaps I'm a kinder, gentler Nate. Seems to me I used to be a lot more hard nosed about such things. Or maybe I'm just slipping...

[kailhofer]

I started with the voice of actor Peter O’Toole from Lawrence of Arabia, who has a lilting, airy type of voice and from there, I added the voice of actor Morgan Freeman from “The Dark Knight” to give the voice grounding. It took about two days to do an exact voice duplication of these voices and another two days to merge them without any production assistance. Merging the characteristics of both voices together built the hollow matrix of the voice, providing the voice structure. I finally merged in my own voice, so that I could give it more of an authentic believable feel.

I agree they should all be feature articles, but when you do I'd like to see an explanation of how one "adds" like you mention above. Sounds rather nebulous.


I think I can let this slip. Mark and I were trying to put together an all-audio challenge for next month, but logistically, it didn't work to produce enough stories in time and keep things fair and even.

So instead my hope is that one day, if Mark can be persuaded to teach us about recording in this media and we can all get up to speed from his tutorials and free software, we can make all our own pieces and do an audio flash challenge that way. It could be a lot of fun to try it.

Someday.

Nate

[kailhofer]

Here it is. A prize earned, and now delivered, thanks to some hard work from Mark Edgemon and his crew. Congratuations, David.



Liminal Day
by David Allen Jones

The voices of the narrator, the father, the sage and the fire were performed by Mark Edgemon.
The voices of Kyras and her mother were performed by Marla Deaton.

This audio story was produced through the Creator and the Catalyst Studios.

http://www.creatorandthecatalyst.com/au ... 0Jones.WAV