FLASH CHALLENGE: August '07

[kailhofer]

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The challenge was: Create a story with a character who has an absurd flaw, and also include a character under the age of 18, a cane, and a food item.

THE FOLLOWING ENTRIES WERE RECEIVED:


[center]Penguin Boy [/center]


What do you call a man with no arms, no legs, floating in a pond?

Bob.

The old joke ran through Jerry's head as he sank towards the bottom of Grenadier Pond, dragged down by the weight of his prosthetic limbs. He had arms and legs, but they were toddler-sized, too small for his body. Unfortunately, the prosthetic limb extensions that allowed him to function almost normally floated about as well as anvils.

Gotta get these damn things off...

Finally, he managed to trigger the releases on his legs and backed out of them by pushing against the bottom of the pond. His short, stubby lower limbs and torso floated upward, leaving him anchored upside down by the weight of his arm waldoes. A hard yank on a lever in each forearm released the straps and sensor pads, and then he was floating freely.

Enough light filtered down through the murky water to allow him to orient himself, and he began to paddle his way back to the surface. He'd been submerged for almost two minutes, but he was only now beginning to feel the panicky impulse to inhale that could kill a drowning man.

His head broke the surface and he took a huge, gasping breath, gagging as the fishy-smelling greenish water trickled from his hair into his mouth. Irony, thy name is Jerry, he thought. In utero gene therapy had corrected a fatal kidney disorder -- and stunted his limbs. Stunted limbs required artificial limb extensions that made it impossible for him to swim -- but let him stay submerged long enough to --

Had it been long enough?

Jerry turned slowly, trying to make as little noise as possible. Smith's goons were nowhere in sight. He relaxed and began swimming toward the muddy bank of the last "natural" body of water in the city, where his would-be assassins had left his clothes and the forged suicide note.

"Whoa, dude! You picked a hell of a place to go skinny... dipping..."

Jerry froze, but decided that the the gangly, pimple-faced teenager who had been caught in the act of checking Jerry's clothes for easily-pilfered valuables looked harmless enough, in spite of the aluminum cane in one hand. He waddled toward his clothes.

The kid stared unabashedly, transfixed by the sight of a naked man with a normal head and torso -- and arms and legs better suited to a toddler. From the way he leaned on the cane, Jerry guessed that he was a misfit, too -- just not in Jerry's league.

"These clothes can't be yours," the teenager blurted. "They're --"

"Normal?" Jerry asked. "They fit okay before I took my arms and legs off."

The boys eyes widened even more.

"Prosthetics," Jerry said. "Like bionic stilts, except the arms have hands that work pretty much like real ones." Sighing, Jerry rummaged through his clothes until he found his wallet. He dug out his driver's license (with the add-on card needed to make room for all the restrictions) and showed the picture to his uninvited guest.

"Geez -- they let you drive?"

Jerry suppressed the urge to scream. "Yes. They let me drive, sometimes, with the prosthetics on."

"Where are they? You said you took them off."

"At the bottom of the pond," Jerry said. "I had to take them off or I would have drowned."

The boy nodded, then asked, "Why'd you go in the water with them on, then?"

This time, Jerry did scream. "They threw me in, you moron! They wanted me to drown, to make it look like suicide!"

The boy's face crumpled, and Jerry hoped that he wasn't going to cry. Jerry had never cried (in public) in all the years he had spent coping with being a freak, a cripple... a penguin boy. 'Penguin boy' was the one nickname he actually hadn't minded -- much -- after he had seen real penguins streaking through the water like stubby torpedoes...

"Look, I'm sorry," Jerry said. "There was no way you could have known. But I'm worth a lot of money. My parents sued the clinic that made me like this, and won, big time. Some people figured out a way they could get control of that money -- if I wasn't around."

"So they tried to kill you, and make it look like suicide? Dude, that sucks the big banana."

Jerry nodded. Then he said, "Do you have a job?"

The kid shook his head. "Just finished my mandatory school time. No job, no money for college... And a bum -- leg..." The kid blushed as he compared his 'challenge' to Jerry's.

"Wanna be my driver and personal assistant? I need someone to help me into these damn clothes -- you'll have to cut off the sleeves and pantlegs somehow -- and drive me to the nearest police station."

The kid looked at Jerry with a mixture of elation and suspicion. "What's it pay?"

Jerry laughed. "Enough. I'll pay your tuition and arrange your schedule so you can take whatever courses you want."

The kid frowned, then said, "I want that in writing. Now, how short do the sleeves have to be?"

Jerry held his arms straight out from his body. "About like so," he said. "By the way, what's your name?"

"Andy." The boy pulled a cheap Swiss Army knife clone from his pocket and began to saw away at Jerry's clothes. "Andy Morgan."

"Andy, there's a signing bonus in it for you if you have a candy bar or some gum on you," Jerry said. "I have to get this pond-scum taste out of my mouth before I puke."

Andy grinned. "Slightly-crushed granola bar, fifty credits."

Jerry feigned outrage, then said, "Deal. You can pull the creds from my wallet while I get dressed."

He just hoped that Andy would be up to the task of helping him to dodge any further attempts at assisted (and resisted) suicide. Maybe they could rig Andy's cane with a taser...

[center]The End[/center]


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[center]ALTERED EGO[/center]


Dr. Bernard Willison’s three o’clock shuffled into the office. He was a large, powerfully built man who contrived to seem smaller by hunching his shoulders. He limped along on a shabby cane and moved like an ungainly child in overlarge shoes.

“So good to meet you, Dr. Willison, I’m Hector Diaz,” said the big man, pumping Willison’s hand vigorously.

“The pleasure is mine. Won’t you have a seat, Mr. Diaz?” said the doctor, sighing inwardly. This one probably still lived with his mother.

Diaz glanced at the closed office door behind him. He made no move to sit.

“Are you expecting someone, Mr. Diaz?”

Diaz turned back to the psychiatrist, and all at once seemed to be standing at his full height, chest out, stomach in, dark hair crowning his head like a black halo.

“Let’s get some things out of the way shall we?” said Diaz in voice full of command.

“What things?” asked Dr. Willison, feeling suddenly uneasy. In fifteen years dealing with the psychologically injured, underdeveloped, and even maimed, Dr. Willison had never felt so instantly threatened. There was something powerful about this man.

“I’m Spectacle,” said Diaz.

“As in the superhero? That Spectacle?”

“You don’t believe me and I don’t blame you.”

We had a teenage Jesus Christ in here last week, Dr. Willison almost said, but elected to hold his tongue. Instead he said, “I’ve heard hundreds of stories. And I want to hear yours.”

“Lucky for both of us, I can prove it.”

Diaz lifted Willison’s coffee table – thirty-five hundred dollars and imported from Spain - by an exposed edge. With no apparent effort, he held it at head height with one hand. Not one magazine moved.

“Wow.” It was all Dr. Willison could think to say. Of course, he had seen exceptionally strong, psychotic patients before. . .

Diaz replaced the coffee table. He smiled and began to rise towards the twelve-foot ceiling.

“The fan’s a bit dusty,” he said from above.

“I’ll – I’ll have the service clean it.”

Diaz landed next to Willison. Red beams of light issued from his eyes, setting the doctor’s apple – Willison’s lunch – aflame. Then frigid air poured from his lips to freeze it in place. The scent of roasted apples filled the office.

“What can I do for you, Mr. Spectacle?”

“First, keep my secret.”

“I’ll never tell.”

“Second, help me destroy my nemesis.”

“Whu-?”

“I’ll try to explain this in a breath.”

Willison retrieved a pen and legal pad from his huge desk. “I’m listening,” he said.

“Okay, remember when you were a kid, there’s a point where you decide what you will become?”

“A fulcrum point.”

“Yeah, so, for a kid who can fly and lift a tractor, well, that point generally involves choosing to be either a superhero or a villain. You smile, but it’s true. True as life.”

“You chose hero.”

“I never chose. I couldn’t.”

“And I take it your non-choice somehow has brought you here?”

“I became Spectacle in college, but I also became El Catceps.”

“Should I know that name?”

“Probably not. He was always a petty criminal – I never used my powers as El Catceps. He was a joy thief. He never hurt anyone - not really. He stole and he cheated and he lied. He was my outlet.”

“What happened?”

“A few months back I started losing track of time.”

“Blacking out?”

“Yes.”

“El Catceps?”

“I think so. And I think he has discovered our super powers.”

“Why do you think that?”

“He’s a petty hood, but with super powers he can steal a lot of petty crap. My apartment is filled with jet skies and skateboards and Spectacle comics.”

“Mr. Diaz, what you’re describing is serious mental illness. I may not be the best –“

“You’re all I’ve got, sir. All I’ve got. Please help me stop him.”

“There’s no quick fix. You can’t just rip your alter ego out of your body and choke him to death.”

“Then what can I do?”

Something niggled at the back of Dr. Willison’s brain. What had Diaz said about the junk El Catceps stole?

“Did you say El Catceps took Spectacle comics?”

“Oh yes. He’s always covering our bedroom with posters and 3-D lithographs. It’s embarrassing really.”

“He’s a fan,” said Willison in a whisper, more to himself than to Diaz.

“Yeah, I guess you could say that.”

“Bring him here. Now.”

“I don’t know, Doctor. He might be dangerous. I can’t control him.”

“Do it.”

Diaz cocked his head to the side, his eyes narrowed and his posture relaxed.

“Who’re you?” he said in a thick Spanish accent.

“The doctor.”

“What’choo want?” said El Catceps, lifting his chin.

“To introduce you to someone.”

“Who?”

“Spectacle.”

Diaz’s eyes grew wide. He looked around the room. “No one here, but us, Doc.”

“Spectacle, I know you’re there. Come out and meet your biggest fan.”

Diaz stood taller and his body seemed to expand.

“Did you defeat El Catceps?” he asked in a deep, manly voice.

“Better. El Catceps, meet Spectacle.”

For a moment Diaz stood still, his eyes glazed. Then he drew breath and El Catceps said, “Madre de Dios, it IS you!”

“El Catceps,” said the voice of Spectacle.

“Si how you know my name? You’re famous. I read all your comics.”

“We need to talk, El Catceps. And we better bring Hector along too.”

“I’m here,” said the ineffectual voice of Hector Diaz.

“Does that window open?” asked Spectacle.

“Oh, ah, yes, yes it does,” said Willison.

Diaz opened it, tossed his cane aside, and then turned to look at the doctor.

“Thanks, gracias, your help is much appreciated,” said the thief-cum-everyday-joe-cum-superhero in each of his ego voices. “I’ll make certain you’re bill gets paid.”

“Thanks,” said Willison, shocked out of his wits.

The tri-souled hero flew up and away.


[center]The End[/center]


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[hr]

[center]Memories of Charlie Finch[/center]


"Charlie always lived on the edge, then again, he had to."

That is how I began my eulogy of Charlie Finch. As I got up to speak I looked out on the small assembly made up of mostly fragile looking old men, some with canes and some with equally frail looking wives to steady them as they had for years. The only bright spot in the gray group was the little girl who lived on the other side of me. Her parents had just given her a roll of Wild Cherry Lifesavers as incentive to be good, just as my parents had done to me.

Standing behind the lectern I thought to myself how does a person get so far in life, be known by everyone, and yet nobody really knows him. I was asked to deliver the eulogy because I had been his neighbor for about the last 20 years. There had to be someone who knew him better. But I suppose you tend to keep to yourself when you are different from most folks. I then took a breath and delivered my opening line, which was greeted with a small, warm grin for all in attendance.

Most of you probably aren't familiar with Charlie Finch. You see, Charlie was thin, and I don't mean skinny. I mean thin. Paper thin in fact. About, as thick as three playing cards stacked up. None of us know how he got that way, figured he probably was asked that all his life, and no one wanted to bother him. I always hoped that someday he might tell me, but, kind of late for that now.

I assume he always was that way. On one of the rare occasions that he spoke of his childhood, he talked about being a lonely child. Never did mention any brothers or sisters, or did he ever talk about his parents much. 'Bout the only thing I remember is he was talking about getting a bike, used of course, 'cause times were hard back then. He said a couple of the kids that he did kind of hang around with would put baseball cards in the spokes for kind of a motorcycle sound. 'Course Charlie didn't need a card, he would just put his hand in the spokes. Said it tingled more than hurt, like when your hand falls asleep. Unless he did it a lot, then his hand would be all sore and bruised. That, and he mentioned that no one would play hide and seek with him. I supposed he could just slide under the couch, or behind the 'frig, or just stand there, he would have been tough to see.

Charlie would talk about his college days once in awhile. I asked him once if he dated much in college and he said 'No, the girls all thought he was shallow.' I said to him he had to be a little more thick skinned. He said 'where?' He said he made some money in school being a model. Not a clothes model, but like a cardboard cut-out pointing at or holding a product. He did say he loved to scare little kids. Just stand still 'til they walk real carefully up to him and he would jump out and grab them. Anyway, he never finished school 'cause he dropped out at the end of his sophomore year. Mentioned something about a late spring party and making a kite.

He ended up being a locksmith after the post office job didn't work out. He had started as a janitor, but was moved up to maintenance after they installed the first automatic cancelling machine. Seems the machine wasn't working right and someone jokingly asked Charlie if they could send him through so he could maybe see what was wrong. He said the ink tasted terrible and it took a couple weeks to get the ink off his face. He quit shortly after there was talk about promoting him to "Inspector" and rolling him up in a mailing tube and mailing him places so he could see and feel how the mail was being treated. Anyway, he had been a locksmith as long as I knew him. Even after he retired people would still bring locks and stuff to his house. Most times he did it for free, some sort of pay back for when he was working. His specialty was unlocking houses and he always said he felt a little guilty for taking people's money. Said he would go to the house and fiddle around with the knob until the people got tired of watching and when they looked away he would just slide himself under the door, or stuff himself through the mail slot, and unlock the door.

Now Charlie was a pretty civic minded person. He belonged to most of the clubs in city, though not a very active member. But if the cause involved kids in someway, he would be all in on that. He just loved kids, the little neighbor girl even called him "Thin Grandpa Charlie". Everybody was pretty surprised though when they went through his will after he died. He left a whole bundle of money for a park for the kids of this city. He wrote 'you can save a lot of money when you can just wear a picture of clothes instead of actually having to buy the clothes'. People were also surprised to read that his real goal in life was to be a cop. He went on to say that he had to quit the police academy because the hand-to-hand combat instructor was going to fail him because all Charlie could do was give him paper cuts.

It took a couple of city council meetings to decide how to honor Charlie. It was decided to laminate Charlie with a picture of the police uniform and place him in a cardboard cut-out painted up to look like one of the police cars. The whole thing would then be placed near the new park as a reminder to people to slow down and watch out for kids.

After his death, Charlie Finch got to realize his life's dream. He finally became part of that thin blue line.


[center]The End[/center]


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[center]The Promise[/center]


She watched him from across table as he sat collapsed within himself. She despised secrets and so in a way she despised him, the one she thought she loved, as he huddled there in a trench coat as an enigma, his arms below the table, a certain fog of madness hanging about him. Only the fact that they were seated within a popular restaurant with other couples scattered about kept her from standing up and screeching at him. He knew her too well. That only angered her more. “You invited me here,” she said coldly as their expensive entrees wafted delicious and untouched. “So what do you want?”

She saw him shirk from her harsh words. “I-- I-- I wanted to see you,” he stammered. “It’s been such a long time--”

“Months,” she interrupted, her voice rising.

“Please,” he said. “I haven’t been avoiding you. I-- I haven’t been around.”

“And you couldn’t tell me you were leaving?”

“I didn’t plan on leaving.” He trembled. “That book...” His voiced trailed off.

“That silly occult one.”

“Yes!” he hissed. He lurched forward, the table shuddering. “Your promise!” he said suddenly. “Do you remember?” A spasm wracked his body, causing his cane to fall clattering to floor. A hush settled upon the dining area as curious heads turned toward them.

Fear, a stabbing cold, iced her. “What promise?”

“That we would love each other no matter what! No matter our flaws.” He sobbed. “Those books opened a door to another world. A terrible world! It changed me. But I’m still me! I’m still me!”

She stood. “You’ve gone mad,” she whispered.

“Please, don’t go!” he pleaded. His arms rose to reveal--

Hands.

She screamed, her tentacles rising to her chitinous face. “By blessed Cthulhu!” she gasped in horror. Other patrons screamed, rushing toward the door.

“Don’t leave me!” he roared, reaching out with these grotesque, alien appendages. He grasped on air.

She disappeared within the mass of bodies heading for the exit. He would never see her again.

He slumped in his chair within the now-deserted restaurant, the sound of sirens growing louder. In his mind, he could still their pale skins, their symmetrical bodies, that hated orb in the sky that blinded him. He remembered their stench, that awful stench, as they scuttled about impossibly on two legs.

She was his last chance, his last tenuous hold on reality.

He let go then, to let the insanity claim his mind for rest of his wretched, aborted life.


[center]THE END[/center]


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[center]Good Help is Hard to Find[/center]


The Kid looked norm but didn't talk. Like the rest, he was born to one of The Tribes out in The Green and banished to the city 'cause he was Skyburnt. There weren't no more city tribes. Too much burn still in the old buildings and almost no food. Far as I know, I'm the last of the Deesee Tribe. Born in the city, not exiled. But boy-oh-boy could The Kid Tinker. We found him 'cause we heard music.

Music!

None of us had heard real music till The Kid showed us he could fix the old Pods. He liked nothin' more than to sit and Tinker with machines 'til he made 'em work. Most times he'd take the thing apart and put it back together a dozen times before he'd figure it out. You give him a gizmo he hadn't seen and you'd have to slap it out of his hand to make him eat. Don't know how he survived 'till we found him.

The Deesee Tribe been tryin' for generations to open The Door. Took The Kid six months but he kept pushin' buttons, night and day. We kept him fed 'cause we wanted inside the bunker real bad.

Why?

'Cause everybody knew here is where Potus and The Joincheefs all escaped to.

How do I know?

My Gramps told me that his Great-Gramps told him, that his Uncle was one of the secservs for Potus and he seen it with his own eyes. They went in through The Door and it hadn't opened since. We was told they was livin' high in here since the sky burned. They had everything we didn't. They ate safe food and drank clean water, had 'lectrics to do their work, and women.

Women, oh yeah! We wanted in bad, all right. Hadn't even seen a live woman in close to four years. And The Monster ate most of her, though he did say he was sorry about it, later.

The Monster was scabby and ugly and Skyburnt bad, but he could see at night and smell things before any of the rest of us could. He probably helped us find more food than anyone. 'Till The Kid let us in here, anyway.

'Cause when we got in we found the water and food, crates of it stacked higher than Jolly Green's head. Eveeon, Mrees and SPAM? They ain't myths, buddy. And more working 'lectrics than even The Kid could fiddle with. Didn't find no women, didn't find nobody. Did'ja know it hurts to eat too much?

Cuckoo's the one that found the magic room. In some ways his Skyburn's worse than anyone's, though he looks almost norm. He don't say nothin' in real words but he can screech like a hundred kinds of bird and he's real expressive. Once you get used to it, it's almost like talkin' regular. When he found the room where Potus and Joincheefs went, he did his crow noise, real loud. You know, where the one crow calls the others to food? Like I said, expressive.

Kong 'n Gimpy got the door open and soon as they did, there was Potus Himself talkin' to us from one of the gray windows. I'd never believed the stories about the moving pictures in the gray windows but here He was, plain as day and lookin' more alive than His dirty, scorched pictures inside most of the gutted buildings in Deesee.


". . .pray to God you are an American. In any case, my scientists tell me that the H-Bomb explosions have released so much energy into the atmosphere that we cannot accurately target the Temporal-Spatial Portal, the TSP. It defaults to the first moment in history with similar conditions. . ."


We didn't understand most of this, but we sure understood it when the fat guy with skin so bad he looked Skyburnt himself, started telling us how we could escape the same way as Potus. We could go anywhere, any time at least fifty years in the past.


It was Gimpy who started yellin'. His legs hadn't grown any longer since he was a baby but his arms were stronger than anyone's, even Kong's. No sooner had The Screamer mentioned snow-covered mountains, and Gimpy was waving his canes around screaming. "No mountains. I can't climb no mountains! I gotta have flat land."


". . . conditions for at least a decade. For this reason, we will enter the TSP while it is in standby mode. You must push the Delete button first to cancel our destination and then push the Reset button to reacquire our pre-set target. But do NOT press Finalize. . ."

Bighead Jake took Gimpy's side, like always, and soon Cuckoo was doing his rooster call and The Screamer was louder than usual that he wanted to see snow you could touch and not die. Kong and The Monster were just yelling about finding healthy women, though they both knew they didn't mean the same thing by it.

Jolly Green jumped on that bandwagon and wanted to meet something called Watusi. He weighed no more than The Kid but was three times as tall, and he made one hell of a lookout. Who knew he'd always dreamed of a woman who was taller than his waist?


. . . for us no time will have passed, no matter how long it has been since the war. The TSP will be safe for you to use as long as the Power light is not flashing. . .


I was trying to calm them all down, they listen to me 'cause with this third eye on my forehead, they think I've got special vision. I've tried to tell 'em it's blind.


That's when The Kid pushed the button. He sure liked to push them buttons.


The lights dimmed and up on the screen there was words.

Destination Finalized:

Date: 1 November, 1952

Time: 07:15 local

Location: Eniwetok Atoll N11[sup]o[/sup]20'4.53" E162[sup]o[/sup]21'26.94"

'Course, none of us can read.


[center]The End[/center]


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[hr]

[center]Luna Sea[/center]


Mai Zhang couldn't believe she was going to die when she was just sixteen. Why she had not even completed the tattoo pattern along her left arm! It just wasn't fair. Worst was that she really had no idea why she had to die. She did not understand why the Alien Administrator was going to destroy the Moon. Some insult by a low level Lunar bureaucrat was the current rumor (an insult involving one, or perhaps it was three, of the AA's wife/concubines, many said). It infuriated her that all the United Earth Government could do was send protests from New York to Arcturus.

Mai was a slightly built girl of Asian ancestry. Long black hair hung straight down the white shellsuit she wore. The shellsuit flowed about the young curves of her teen-aged form like glaciers drifting along the Himalayan peaks. The shellsuit was a functional garment designed to allow its wearer to survive a decompression breach in the molecularly thin atmosphere bubble that surrounded Tranquility City. Her Chinese ancestors may have gazed at the Moon in elaborate towers, but she lived upon its surface, or at least the climate controlled, air scrubbed, light filtered, artificial city she called her own rested upon Lunar soil.

“I was hoping to get this done before the end.” Mai stood in the foyer of her fav tattoo pallor, and spoke to the woman behind the customer service desk. She rolled up the arm of her shellsuit to reveal a plum colored canvass of Celtic knotwork, dancing tigers, coiling asps, and an incomplete and scaly school of coy.

Marie Beau Coup was a heavyset black woman. Her dreadlocked hair fell to her shoulders. She ran the inkshop, but her real profession was as a fortune teller. She hung up her cards, except for few late night games of Texas Hold 'Em, because she could see no future for anyone beyond the Administrator's deadline -- no matter how hard she tried. And when it came to her own fortune she had fully exerted herself and her gift.

“I don't have any cash for the artwork,” Mai started, nearly shuddering, “ but – but I have real coffee. Juan-John brought it up on the last – uh, I guess final Seattle milk-run.” She smiled a neat flash of tiny white teeth. Marie took the small aluminum packet. She sashayed over to her auto-chef station. Soon the beans' aroma drifted lazily and happily through the shop's air.

Old man Essig came bounding down the stairs, taking them at a Lunar leap of several at a time. “Is that Terran coffee?!” His long nose ran profusely with yellowish fluids. His blood red eyes streamed tears that ran down the wrinkles in his ancient face like rainwater flowing through an arroyo. Essig was a tenant in one of the sparse one-room apartments above the business.

“It's Free Soil Bolivian Alpine Arabica Mocha Decaf,” Mai replied. “Would you like some?”

“Marie.” He waved his arms and gesticulated with his hands. “Marie, you know any product from Terra is deadly to me. Are you trying to kill me before the Alien has his chance to?” Essig wiped at his nose with an orange biohaz cloth.

“For the Love of God,” bellowed Marie. “You live on the Moon. How can you be allergic to the Earth? Our rock came from the Earth, as did all the original settlement's components.”

“Verily,” Essig sniffled, “but our planetoid separated millennia ago from its primary -- that vile planet you call a homeworld -- and we have been mining the fine Lunar regolith for raw materials since Colonization Day, my dear thing.”

“Phew-phew,” he sneezed. He wore only synthetics; ate only hydroponics; never had a girlfriend; never a lover; barely a friend. Essig had gone into anaphylactic shock once after receiving an e-mail from a possible pen-pal from Bangalore.

#NEWS FLASH# blared across Mai's computerized concierge. She grabbed it from her belt, brought it to her face and mashed the button for the volume. “The Alien Administrator has expressed His great compassion for all Lunar residents. A spokesman for His Excellency has stated that over the century of his oversight, numerous human guests have left behind many articles. These items are now upon display in the great hall. In His great Mercy, His Excellency will commute the destruction order of the Moon if one citizen can select the Alien Administrator's single personal item in the collection. More on this story as it develops...”

Essig settled down into the chair across from Marie, the one her Tarot clients occupy. “Isn't that precious of (H)im.”

Marie began to deal out a few Solitaire cards. It was with an according-to-Hoyle deck, not the Rider-Waite version she used for readings. Ten of Pentacles, Two of Wands. “Wait,” Marie muttered, “I'm getting a Reading here.”

“I thought you had admitted that your charlatanism was just an illusion. Something good coming out of our current crisis.” Essig sneezed loudly into his handkerchief.

“He has a future! Doesn' t that mean,” Mai paused. “Eh – something! ” Thinking a moment, she added: “I've an idea. Let's go.”

They took the Tube across Tranquility's wide span. Mai knew the janitor's entrance to AlphaComplex's great hall from her mother's former boyfriend. Essig, Marie and Mai drifted amongst the crowds and the artifacts. The Alien Administrator oversaw the chaos in the hall. His species grew their bones on the outside of their skin, with only connecting cartilage underneath. Essig's nose ran and his palms itched examining all the items. These included hats, umbrellas, and other sundries. Essig scrutinized one item, a cane. He touched its purplish wood; no rash marred his fingertips. It wasn't Terran.

Essig held up the cane. “He's found it. He's found it,” shouted Mai, clapping her hands furiously. The crowd suddenly stopped, awed and anxious. The Alien Administrator shook his bony jaw affirmative, and said,“You have found the starwood!”

And thus the Moon was saved.


[center]THE END[/center]

[kailhofer]

The level of quality in these challenges astounds even me, and it was my idea. Pat yourselves on the back, entrants. Good job.

Honestly, I think choosing this time is harder than in all the previous ones, BUT STILL PICK ONE, OR TWO (if you use your guest option first).

Nate

[kailhofer]

It will be interesting to see if the power of appearing in the final position will hold. The last two times, being the last story has been strong Juju. (I promise, they're picked at random.)


Nate

[kailhofer]

[highlight]TAKE NOTE: [/highlight]

After some discussion with Rob, it seems the Guest voting thing doesn't work quite the way I hoped.

You can vote as a guest, and then as a member, but your second vote will change your first. It seems to only track by IP.

So, the only way you can make the 2-vote thing work is by voting as a guest from a different computer on a different network, like from home and then again at work. I don't know if this was a factor or not in previous winner selections.

Guest voting is a good thing, and I know at least two of the votes so far were from new guests who legitimately read the stories. Guest voting will remain a part of the contest.


So, that's the way it is. I apologize to anyone who may have lost a vote. This is the system we've got, and we're all just going to have to work with it. I'm just glad we have a way to vote, period, so that there can be a Reader's Choice.

Nate

[doc]

It appears (I have not done extensive testing) to supersede the prior vote with the subsequent one.

[Robert_Moriyama]

Hmm. I think the original challenge said something about a futuristic city... so most of the entries are missing at least one element. But Nate is the arbiter of what is and isn't essential herein. (Also, those grapes were probably sour anyway.)

RM

[Robert_Moriyama]

But "...Charlie Finch" worked for the Postal Service just after the first automatic canceling machine was introduced. Unless he was very, very old when he died, his city couldn't be THAT modern. (Also, I'm SURE those grapes are sour.)

RM

[kailhofer]

But "...Charlie Finch" worked for the Postal Service just after the first automatic canceling machine was introduced. Unless he was very, very old when he died, his city couldn't be THAT modern. (Also, I'm SURE those grapes are sour.)

RM

The first semi-automatic cancellation machine was introduced in 1957, only 50 years ago. Fully automatic, if it in fact it has ever reached such a level was, I believe, introduced in 1982 or 1993 (depending what you consider a cancellation machine). I've never actually worked at a post office, but I did stay at a Holiday Inn Express... er, I've got an internet connection.

If you're open to hearing it, I think that AFTER the poll closes, we should invite people to discuss some of the stories openly. This contest depends on appealing to the masses, so maybe if you hear why people voted as they did, it will help you in the future. (I know you usually don't want to hear my take on your stories, but I do know why my wife voted as she did, and what she liked, and didn't like, in yours.)

But I'd like everyone to wait until AFTER the poll closes, so as to not influence the vote.

Nate

[kailhofer]

I don't mind a tie between two stories, but not for more than that. If at the end of voting Monday night things are still gridlocked, we'll have a 1-day run off between the leading stories. If after that, vote counts are still equal, then I will cast the tiebreaker vote. If I was in this one, I'd find someone else to be the breaker. I think that's fair.

Contests have to end somewhere, and I won't drag this out into the next issue.

However, I did say that I thought choosing this time would be the hardest yet. Seems like that is proving right.

Nate

[doc]

Aphelion really should work out some advertising deal. This forum alone is getting decent hit totals every day.


-- david j.

This comes up periodically, but the asnwer is always the same: Aphelion does not, and will not ever, carry advertising on its pages.

It's just one of our Core Values.

[Robert_Moriyama]

I don't mind a tie between two stories, but not for more than that. If at the end of voting Monday night things are still gridlocked, we'll have a 1-day run off between the leading stories. If after that, vote counts are still equal, then I will cast the tiebreaker vote. If I was in this one, I'd find someone else to be the breaker. I think that's fair.

Contests have to end somewhere, and I won't drag this out into the next issue.

However, I did say that I thought choosing this time would be the hardest yet. Seems like that is proving right.

Nate

If it helps, one of the votes my story received was from me. Dunno if the other authors cast votes for their own stories or not ... I voted for another story first, but felt compelled to vote for mine as well because I did like it, and at the time, nobody else did. (I'm just happy to have received votes from other people.)

RM

UPDATE: Uh oh ... even if I drop out of the 3-way tie, you might end up with a DIFFERENT 3-way tie...

[Robert_Moriyama]

Aphelion really should work out some advertising deal. This forum alone is getting decent hit totals every day.


-- david j.

This comes up periodically, but the asnwer is always the same: Aphelion does not, and will not ever, carry advertising on its pages.

It's just one of our Core Values.

And we all know how serious a Core Breach would be... :o

[Robert_Moriyama]

Y'know, when Nate asked for more votes to be registered, I kinda suspect that this was NOT what he had in mind: 4, 3, 3, 3, 1, 3... :o

It isn't hard to foresee (or 4see) 4, 4, 4, 4, ?, 4 as a possible Monday tally. On the plus side, that's a lot of votes, and (maybe) more readers than ever for the entries.

RM

[Robert_Moriyama]

Near as I can tell, once you have voted (as a Member), that userid can see the results wherever it is signed in. I'm not sure whether the machine / network where a Guest has voted can always see the results or not ...

RM

[kailhofer]

Y'know, when Nate asked for more votes to be registered, I kinda suspect that this was NOT what he had in mind: 4, 3, 3, 3, 1, 3... :o

It isn't hard to foresee (or 4see) 4, 4, 4, 4, ?, 4 as a possible Monday tally. On the plus side, that's a lot of votes, and (maybe) more readers than ever for the entries.

RM

I'm very happy about the number of votes, especially now that we know the thing about your second vote changing the first from the same network. Not everyone has access to more than one network, so I think it shows that more people are voting. I'm also not surprised at how even stories are. I said I thought choosing this time would be the hardest yet.

You're not the only author to vote for his own story, so don't feel bad. As long as you honestly believe it's best, that's fine.

Also as I said, if there's a 3-way or more tie, then there will be a 1-day run off. If still more than 2 are tied after that, then I will break that tie. There will be a winner (or two).

After you vote as a guest, you see the total, until you log in as a member who hasn't voted yet, where it will ask for your vote. If you vote again, it replaces that old (guest) vote with the new one (or vice-versa). So, in either state you log in, guest or member, after you vote, you see the total.

Nate

[kailhofer]

I see that the results are visible (unless it notices what IP you're on and only makes it visible to you?)

Do we get to jump in and start talking about the stories now?

No. Wait for the winner to be announced. I don't want to skew the vote.

After that, please, please do.

I know at least one author who will be mighty down if he doesn't get at least one comment...

Nate

[Robert_Moriyama]

Robert M. wrote:
"Near as I can tell, once you have voted (as a Member), that userid can see the results wherever it is signed in. I'm not sure whether the machine / network where a Guest has voted can always see the results or not ...

RM"

And in fact, I think this is true. I actually used my GUEST vote earlier... so when I logged in just now, my "Member Vote" was still fresh.

But it looks like the total number of votes remained constant (17), while "Charlie Finch" gained one and "Altered Ego" lost one, so you may still only have one vote registered. Did you post both votes from the same machine or network?

RM

[Robert_Moriyama]

But it looks like the total number of votes remained constant (17), while "Charlie Finch" gained one and "Altered Ego" lost one, so you may still only have one vote registered. Did you post both votes from the same machine or network?

RM

Somebody's crying now.


-- david j.

T'ain't me. I'm still in the running. Looks like we may have a 4, 2, 4, 1, 3 finish, unless some stranger rides into town with a vote for sale. 8-)

RM

[kailhofer]

There's nearly 13 hours to go. Don't count your chickens before they hatch.

[EVIL LAUGH.] [smiley=evil.gif]

In all seriousness, good luck to everyone.

Nate

[Robert_Moriyama]

There's nearly 13 hours to go. Don't count your chickens before they hatch.

[EVIL LAUGH.]  [smiley=evil.gif]

In all seriousness, good luck to everyone.

Nate

Well, you already said (elsewhere) that you didn't like mine ... the question is, did you like the other 4-vote story better?

:-/

[kailhofer]

Well, you already said (elsewhere) that you didn't like mine ... the question is, did you like the other 4-vote story better?

:-/

No, I believe I said I knew what my wife liked and didn't like about your story. I gave no opinion either way, I think. At least, I sure hope I didn't. I don't think it would be right for me to do so.

Since then, I have talked about the stories with a few more people, and know that the same thing my wife didn't like is the same thing they didn't like. (Reading the stories in this contest is becoming popular with the folks I work with.) I can tell you after it closes what that was.

Nate

[doc]

Ok, we've just confirmed that the voting system is strictly IP based -- if you vote from the same IP -- even if you vote from two different registered accounts, it appears to be superseding the previously registered vote.

I'll see what I can do.

[Robert_Moriyama]

... but seriously, I'm just pleased that I got three votes besides my own. I think that's my best result so far. (Now, once my who-voted-for-what tracking system is fully functional, then you will see the Fury of the Timelord -- er, petty and vindictive author/editor.)

[kailhofer]

Aha! Now we know that John R. Murray can't come along and ruin the vote (shifty fellow that he is  ;)), at least without some separate network to post from.

Ah, well. No system is perfect.

You should be proud of your total, Robert. So should the other two tied with you (right now). Very respectable, indeed. And the other totals are nothing to sneeze at, either.

Nate

[Robert_Moriyama]

Aha! Now we know that John R. Murray can't come along and ruin the vote (shifty fellow that he is  ;)), at least without some separate network to post from.

Ah, well. No system is perfect.

You should be proud of your total, Robert. So should the other two tied with you (right now). Very respectable, indeed.

Nate

... On the other hand, Mr. Murray is famous for frequenting dozens of sleazy internet cafes and illicit computer gaming parlors, each of which would have a distinct network IP address. And he owes me a favor ...

[doc]

Ok, doing some further testing. It appears that logged in users CAN vote from the same IP, but guest votes may be erased by subsequent votes from logged in users at that ip.

I may still look into more robust software, but at least I'm getting a better handle on how this one works.

[kailhofer]

Thank you to the runners up this month. Your stories made the choice very difficult for the voters, but alas, you cannot advance to the run-off. Nevertheless, I hope you all are as proud of your stories as I was to have them in this month's Challenge.

A partial list of this month's entrants:
The Promise by Jaimie L. Elliott
Good Help is Hard to Find by Bill Wolfe
Luna Sea by G.C.Dillon

The remainder of the list will be revealed after the run-off. Please feel free to comment on these three stories now.

[kailhofer]

In the hopes of generating some comments for authors, I thought I might start things off for these three stories:

The Promise--I liked the hands. Very clever, and I kinda liked how it played from the example story, with the Lovecraftian monsters.

Good Help is Hard to Find--Highly original setting and cast of characters. Honestly, I'd have to say this one was my favorite, but only by a little considering such fierce competition. Maybe if the main character had been a touch more endearing, it might have won out.

Luna Sea--Very good piece, I thought. I liked the allergy, and especially liked that it was needed to save the day. On the down side, however, I think it could have been more gripping if Mai had the flaw instead of Essig. She was the one who wanted to live, get more life for her young age, but then Essig saved them. Good characters, though.

[Robert_Moriyama]

I voted for "Good Help" before I voted for my own story, but then cast a "seed" vote for mine because (sob) nobody else had picked it. I thought "Good Help" had the strongest storyline and the best "futuristic city" element of the six. The number of characters (each with a mutation, some useful, some not) may have detracted from the "great characters" aspect, however, since there wasn't much room to develop even the lead character within the 1000 word limit.

I was a bit surprised that "Good Help" wasn't among the finalists -- maybe it was a bit too grim when the example story and most of the entries had more humor to them.

RM

[kailhofer]

I gotta be honest, though. I didn't get the "Potus" thing until the first time I saw it in a post. I knew you meant the President, but not why he was called that.

I also learned that my friend Dan never voted, not even for his own Charlie Finch, so the tally could have been a lot different in more ways than one.

Nate