FLASH CHALLENGE: October '07

[kailhofer]

[highlight]What follows is intended for Mature Audiences only.[/highlight]

Remember guest votes and member votes are tracked by IP address only. A second vote from the same network will change your vote instead of adding another.

[hr][hr]

The challenge was: To create a horror story with a speculative fiction element. Entrants had to include in their stories a death, a hotel/motel room, and a helmet.

THE FOLLOWING ENTRIES WERE RECEIVED:


[center]Flashage to India[/center]



Desi stood in the foyer to the nursing home. She stared at the plush leather chairs and settee. She glanced at the small coffee and tea service on a corner table. She read the large print message board relaying the date, the weather, the next holiday and the names and ages of residents who had birthdays this week. She returned her attention to the sign-in sheet that requested DATE and TIME, VISITOR'S and RESIDENT”S NAME. But there was no pen. Not even a pencil. How did they expect you to fill this out without a pen? She began to rummage in the green canvas bag she used as a pocketbook.

“Nervous?” Daniel Percy stood before her, holding a pen. Not a cheap Bic, but a metal cased job like you'd get for graduation or your own special birthday.

“A little,” she replied.

“Thank you for coming. Would you like to sit? I need to speak with you before you see my father,” he blurted out in a rush, before she even had time to complete the form.

Desi handed him the pen. “Sure.”

“Desdemona...” he started.

“Call me Desi.” She dressed in black, with a crescent moon belt about her middle. Straight black hair hung down about her shoulders, and matching polish colored her nails.

“Desi. My father, Regis, has Alzheimer's. That's him today, not the father I recall. Or even,” he paused, “the man he was. My father was a quartermaster at an Army Air Corps base in India. You know, World War II?”

I saw the Ken Burns' documentary, she thought sarcastically. “Go on.”

“When I talk to him, he thinks I'm still in college. He doesn't recognize his grandchildren. But when he speaks of his time in India – it's so vivid, so real. I can't grasp what he feels, but I want him to have it again. To relive it. To go to India again!”

“Have you seen a psychotherapist or a hypnotist?”

“I wanted to try something a little unorthodox. Jared tells me you're into Wicca.”

I'll kill him, she thinks. He tells his boss! Did he take out an ad in the free weekly paper? “It's a religion. Not superpowers.”

“If you could try something, anything.”

“Maybe a guided meditation.”

A tall and skinny black man came into the foyer. A stethoscope perched upon his neck. He glanced about the room nervously, then waved someone closer. Two EMTs rolled by a body with its head carefully covered. How many residents here were just waiting out the Grim Reaper? pondered Desi.

They had to be buzzed into Daniel's father's ward. A nurse opened the door for them. Regis was in one of the family lounges. He had his head bowed, but he was speaking to someone. Desi could see no one else in the room. A Yankees cap covered the man's head.

“They sent us supplies by pack mule. One of them kicked me. The doctors wired my shoulder. The wire's still there. One of those docs works here in the kitchen. Kicked by a gov't mule I was.” Regis laughed.

Desi smiled.

“You know I got a metal, too. They gave one to everyone at the base because of the missions the pilots flew. They gave everyone one 'cause the brass didn't want the mechanics to get jealous and sabotage the planes. Don't you know!”

“Dad. Father, we're here to see you.”

“Oh, oh. Nice to see you again.” He held out his hand to shake. “I'll say I'm tolerable today. And how is this nice lady doing this lovely day?”

Desi took his offered palm. “Very well,” she said.

Desi began her meditation, asking Regis to breathe with her, to visualize calming things. She didn't think he payed her much heed. She pushed forward, hoping something would work. And then she was no longer in the rest home. She felt naked, vulnerable. She searched about her surroundings.

Desi saw her reflection in the cracked mirror of the armoire. She had coffee and cream skin, like a latte at work. Dark eyes, unlike her own, stared back at her. Grey bed linens were wrapped about her bosom. A large key-chain with a number printed on it sat on the wardrobe's top. And she was smoking, though she didn't. Unfiltered, or was that before filtering, Camels. The smoke drifted visibly to the ceiling and the bare light bulb that burned there. Desi shivered: the hotel room was a bedbug's playground.

Regis stood by the window. He was younger, younger than his son, Daniel. He also had a cigarette between his lips. Twin streams of white smoke blew from his nostrils like a train on the Punjab rails.

“Oh Christ! It's the Military Police.”

Desi's image moved at quick speed, like a DVD on fast forward. She gathered up her clothes. “You must pay me now.”

Regis came to her, grabbed her shoulders. “No, you can't leave. They can't see you. They can't know you're, you're, I'm --” He pushed her down. “Please.” Desi struggled, trying to push him away. His hands were about her. Here, there, everywhere. The pillow was upon her face. She tasted the stale cloth in her mouth. She struggled for air. She struggled for air; she struggled for life.

Suddenly and confusingly, Desi was at the window. The M.P.s walked down the street below her. White helmets graced their heads and they carried billy clubs as well as their Government issue Colt .45s. She glanced back to see Regis holding the pillow on her face. She saw herself struggle. Then her arms fail. Her body fall limp. She pounded silently on the glass, attempting to grab the soldiers' attention. One M.P. in a white helmet filled the window, filled her vision, filled – for just an instant, it was Daniel's face.

“Are you alright?” asked Daniel.

Desi looked up to see a dusky woman in a sari standing behind Regis. She felt he would be haunted by India for some time.

[center]THE END[/center]

[hr][hr]


[center]Live Boldly[/center]



Patty Cranston stumbled toward the door of the room she rented weekly at the Rockland Inn. Its generous size was made affordable by the squalid condition the owner left it when she took out the lease. Unfortunately, its grounds condition was matched by the habits of the lessee. Patty was born of fair enough genetic stock, but thirty years of Ecclesiastes Chapter Nine had withered her spirts. The knocks of life had not left her much time or energy to care for herself, or her room.

As she passed through the hallway to her room, she absently took off the sweater which had protected her from the hailstorm churning outside. What little energy she had left was focused on whether to drive or take the bus after her overtime shift the following day. She rattled her key clumsily in the lock, and then ... she clutched her sweater *that she had taken off* in stark terror. Her hallway was ... warm! It had no such right to be so toasty, not when her struggling landlord couldn't afford more than to defrost the ailing motel.

Rushing now, she rattled the key clumsily in her lock, and swung the door open, only to be greeted with *devastating* cleanliness.

"Oh my god, NO," she wailed to herself. "Have they evicted me at last? Dammit, my check is good if they let the direct deposit go through tonight."

In no condition to take any action, she lurched through the foyer to look for any kind of notice describing what should transpire next. On the now immaculate kitchen counter was indeed a notice of wondrous qualities.

Yet - the current owner of the Rockland Inn would have cobbled some ugly photocopy together, should she have truly overstepped the bounds of the lease. This notice was something else entirely, on gorgeous 24lb Stationary stock. The message itself was done in old-world calligraphy with the snakeskin-green Parker fountain pen a few centimeters away at the edge of the counter. Her bewilderment grew as the most fantastic message unfolded. When she finished, she knew she would never be the same woman again. It read:

------------
Good Evening, my dear Patricia.

Nice room you have here. I exercised the liberty of sprucing it up for you. Do not put that Taco Bell supreme melt in the microwave while wrapped, because its foil-laced paper will catch fire. Now, on to the serious topics.

I fully realize how deeply I have disturbed your notions of propriety. Worry not how I have come to know who you are. I have a proposal for you. It is time for you, and for us all, to cease living in fear. The best way to do so is to step completely outside the bounds of the assumptions which bind us all to the slavery of reacting to externalities.

Do I frighten you? Only temporarily - breathe deeply. I command powerful worldly resources - only to use them to euthanize the gentlest woman I have yet observed? Fear me not, and with that leap of faith, let your cares drop from you, like a hermit crab discarding a confining shell in search of a larger worldly view.

In case your faculties are clouded by financial worries, allow me to address them now. Next to the television is a green envelope with the number of a Swiss bank trust timed to dispense periodic funds into your checking account for three years. Your first deposit occurred this morning so I could cancel the repossession of your car. Your Landlord has canceled your rent for the same period in exchange for assistance with his heating machinery.

Does Death frighten you? I understand. But know this - because all fears collapse into a proxy for the fear of Death, sometimes Death is necessary at the highest levels to liberate the rest of the race. Bin Laden will do. By the time you read this, he will have breathed his last after receiving a curare dart to the neck.

Evil is the more difficult topic. It is the harnessing of the full strength of Raw Intellect for local gain. Evil always has the tactical initative, because the forces of Good must perceive a threat before it can be neutralized. Therefore, you can explore ways to minimize risk, but the dynamic will remain latent forever.

I must rest now. Startle not at my processor helmet. It is necessary to correct fatal neuro-electric wavelength imbalances. Even with all the magnificant resources of every kind at my disposal, you still enjoy the simple gifts of life that I shall never know. A sine wave of sunlight lancing through a sunset, a robust laugh at a well constructed jest - these and many more are denied me. So, at the opposite peaks of the spectrum, we are dynamic equals.

Here then, is my proposal restated: If I have earned your trust through the shock of dissolving illusion, I would welcome your company for the rest of our days.

---------

Clutching the document in shaking hands, she glanced into the next room. The exhausted author of the document was stretched prone on the left side of her bed next to the wall, clad in a midnight blue jumpsuit with black trim. The headgear of which he wrote was exotic indeed - it merged some designer's breathtaking gift of style with electronics of the highest prototype caliber that only someone beyond money could acquire. Sleek blues, greys, and gold mixed with softly blinking lights and a blended series of controls behind a translucent amber casing.

The man underneath it all projected his own sense of Potential Awaiting Fulfillment. At a modest 6' 0" - 200 lbs he was of mortal enough stock, but there were seeds of improvement waiting about him ... waiting for her? Patty - no, Patricia Cranston brushed some of the wrinkles out of her hair as best she could, tacitly accepting the challenge proffered.

Climbing into their bed next to him and putting an arm around his chest, she whispered, "I do."

[center]The End[/center]

[hr][hr]


[center]When Daddy Fights the Monster[/center]



Daddy fought the monster, today, and he won. He came back to the hotel room smelly from sweat and French fries, but not like medicine. We went to the park and ate cold hamburgers with lots of lettuce and tomatoes and pickles. I giggled when he told me mine was just like a big old salad sandwich. Mommy says salad is good for me. Daddy always smiles when he wins his fight with the monster. He looks almost just like he did in the videos Mommy used to watch. Like he looked before he went off to fight the aliens when I was just a baby.

Today he was happy and he pushed me on the swing and caught me when I went down the big slide. He brought supper from the dive. That's what Daddy told the hotel man. He said that he was working in some dive down the street and so he would be able to pay him the money and we won't have to leave the hotel. I like dive food, but it's all we eat and sometimes I wish I had some oatmeal or corn like Mommy fixes. I would eat it all up and she would be proud.

I miss Mommy a lot. The monster got her and hurt her real bad. It hurt Aunt Cindy, too. Her head looked funny but she stopped making that whistley noise before we left, so Daddy said she would be okay. I hope they'll be back with us, soon. I think maybe the monster hurt them because they talked about it. Daddy says not to talk to anyone when he's at work. I just stay in the room, don't answer the door, and watch TV with the sound real low.

I feel better now that I know that the monster is a space alien. I'm five now, and I'm not as scared as I was. Someday Daddy will beat it up real bad and maybe kill it, like the army men did on TV. I'm glad I watched that show today, it helped me to understand some things.


Aunt Cindy told Mommy that the monster is called a Peety—Essdee, and Daddy brought it home from the war. But I think it probably followed him. Daddy must have been in the same war with the alien monsters from the show. He even still has his army helmet. It was in the back of the van when we ran away after the monster hurt Mommy. Today after the show, when Daddy was working, I put it on and pretended to fight aliens. It smells funny, like sand and smoke and that time the toilet burped all over the bathroom.

In the show the army men killed all the alien monsters when they wanted to destroy the world and maybe eat us. I know it's the same monsters Daddy fought because the army soldiers on TV were wearing the same kind of helmet that Daddy has. The monsters were scary looking and I think I understand why Daddy can't always fight the one that followed him home.

A Peety—Essdee might even be scarier. I saw it once, but I didn't tell Mommy or Daddy. I was only four, then, and didn't know. I heard Aunt Cindy tell Mommy that there was a monster in the house, and that she wasn't safe until it went away. Mommy said that Daddy could fight it, and that he wouldn't let it hurt her any more.

That night, at story time, I asked Daddy about the monster. He told me that there were no such things as monsters. Then he asked me who said there was one in the house and I told him what Aunt Cindy and Mommy said. He finished the story and patted my head and kissed me goodnight. And that night he didn't fight the monster, and it got in the house. Daddy drank his medicine from his secret place behind the garage, and the monster came inside and hurt mommy again.

Daddy didn't know that I wasn't asleep. On TV the alien monster had squirmy worm things on its face and big sharp teeth. They eat people but they don't take their clothes off and try to squish them like Daddy's monster does. They just scratch them with their claws to hurt them. The Peety—Essdee that Daddy tries to fight uses its fists and its feet.

And the really scary part is that it looks a lot like him.

[center]The End[/center]

[hr][hr]


[center]The Tattooed Bed[/center]



…jackass says he got no rooms, even though the Vacancy sign’s flashing through the glass, so I flash the wad of cash that I just lifted from Mr. Helmet. All this time, Personality Crisis is going through my head like a freight train can’t stop for nothing I need a fix bad and for that I need four walls and Mr. No Tattoo’s giving me the evil eye like he ain’t never seen a junkie in his life in this rent by the hour flea bag LOVE HOTEL.

Sheeeiiit. Love by the hour. Ain’t it a bitch?

His old lady, wife or mother, gives him the evil eye and grabs a couple of bills, slides me a key, says “Out by seven. Don’t take nuffin’.” And I’m outta there, music still pumping through my veins way it does when I need the junk bad. Number on the key is nine. All the way at the end of the hall on the first floor, behind the stairwell, my hands sweating so bad I fumble the key in the lock, throw open the door, collapse against it.

Fucking Taj Mahal, it ain’t. Fucking tourist, I’m not. I make a beeline for the sink. Sitting on the edge of the tub, I cook up some sweet relief. As the smack hits my vein, the New York Dolls fly out of my head and go back to my chest where they’re supposed to be. I got that tattoo twenty years ago. Marilyn Monroe’s head, red pouting lips, heavy lidded eyes, crown of golden hair the words “NEW YORK DOLLS” in a banner flying over my heart. Now that was a great band. Not like the new age posers that came later and the techno punk and lip synchers. Helmet. What kind of loser tattoos that kind of shit on his body? I did him a favor killing him. Lucky for me, he was loaded. Didn’t look it. Rich people nowadays will fool you. Dress like they live in their cars, but check their pockets and you find an iPhone and a titanium fucking Visa.

I’m starting to unwind, so I make myself at home, empty my pockets. Mr. Helmet’s wallet, credit cards, the keys to his Prius---man, I wish I knew where it was parked---my knife, still covered with his blood. Reminder to self. Self, wash off his god damned blood and ditch his cards and car keys.

The old lady at the front desk’s words still bug me. Don’t take nuffin. Now that I'm getting more relaxed, I look around the room for something to take.

Man, this place gives a whole new meaning to the phrase ugly as sin. The wallpaper is so old it's worn through in spots and some of those spots have worn through, so there are three or four different kinds of faded, nasty, peeling paper visible. The bathtub is brown on the inside, and it ain’t the red rust kind of brown. Floor’s mostly covered with some kind of puke green carpet used to be shag before it caught mange and lost half its fibers. Table by the bed is covered with graffiti. Celine. Kay + Julio 4 Ever. Jesus Saves. Don’t Sleep On The Bed.

What the fuck?

A bass beat starts up right about then. The walls of most love hotels are extra thick. That’s why I pay more to stay at hotels with hourly rates. Must be someone in the stairwell. He’ll go away soon.

Don’t Sleep On The Bed. The words catch my eye again. I’m still sober enough to focus, so I look at the bed. Seems ordinary enough. Queen sized, with a headboard. I look under the bed. No monsters.

I lift my head back up. Suddenly, I’m dizzy. I lay my face down on the mattress. Is that leather? I run my hand up and down along the bed spread. Sure feels like leather, soft and supple, finely stitched. I chuckle. Now, I know what I’ll take with me when I leave room number nine. I stretch out on the bed and sigh---

But what’s this? The music’s getting louder. Damn synthesized pseudo punk heavy metal. Is some head banger camped out in the stairwell? I struggle to sit up. I paid good money for this room. Not gonna let some asshole spoil it---

The bed is like jelly under me. A water bed? No, even softer than that. It bubbles up around me like lava. By the light from the bare bulb overhead I make out patterns in the leather. Words. Pictures. Virgin of Guadalupe. Dragon. Another dragon. “Mom.” Celtic Cross. Tiger. Tattoos. They look familiar. Why can’t I move my arms and legs?

The music is pounding in my skull. The bed has me cocooned all except my head. I scream. As my lungs empty of air, the cocoon tightens. I can’t breathe. The leather bedspread moves to cover my face. Oh, shit! This part is freshly stitched, the edges still raw and bloody, decorated with the image of a bird cage looking piece of headgear on a chain with the word “HELMET”.

I try to scream again. It’s the tattoo from the man I just killed and robbed and it's smothering me. There’s no air left. The bed and the music are eating me alive and the junk doesn’t ease the terror----

Next morning, the hotel owner found room nine empty. The tenant from the night before had left behind several thousand dollars in cash, credit cards, car keys and a blood stained knife. Oh, and one other thing. There was a new panel on the patchwork leather bedspread which had been handed down from the owner’s wife’s great grandmother, a voodoo priestess in New Orleans. Near the top, there was now a vivid full color image of Marilyn Monroe with the words NEW YORK DOLLS.


[center]The End[/center]

[hr][hr]


[center]HELLMET[/center]



Is anybody there?

Ah, shit, I might as well assume you're there, and that you can hear me, even if I'm not sure I'm saying any of this out loud. You probably want an explanation about why I broke the terms of our arrangement.

A little before midnight, I penetrated the so-called state-of-the-art biometric security systems at Psychtronics using the firmware back door codes your people supplied. The vault responded nicely to the hack that spoofed the time lock, and I was able to grab the whatsis -- the Virtual Therapy Helmet -- right on schedule. But on my way out of the place, I ran into some workaholic geek and I had to ice him. Stuffed the body down the disposal chute -- made quite a racket going down, but there was nobody but me to hear it. And a geek like that won't be missed until Monday anyway…

So I had a couple hours to kill in this half-credit hotel room. I tried the TV -- nothing good on the few free channels, and I'd paid cash, so charging some pay-per-view porn was not an easy option. Nothing to read except the good old Gideon Bible, and the Tourist Board guide to what passes for attractions here in downtown Podunk.

I had nothing to do but stare at the butt-ugly walls. I mean, look at those walls. I don't know where they got that wallpaper, but I hope they got a good price, because that beige-with-faint-green-splotches looks like somebody upchucked a gutful of cream of broccoli soup. Come to think of it, the room even smells like somebody vomited in here a while ago…

I wasn't supposed to screw around with the helmet, I know. Your guy told me it was "delicate", "a prototype", "too complicated for anybody but an expert to handle". But I was bored, you know. Really bored. And I figured, what could it hurt?

So I unpacked the thing, and took another look at it. Not too impressive -- a flexible skeleton of pearlescent gray plastic, like some designer's idea of combination earphones and eyephones, with a couple dozen coppery contacts over the inner surface; a slot in the back for interface cables or maybe memory cards; and a single button.

I put it on. It molded itself to my skull as if it had been made just for me, the pressure so evenly distributed that I hardly felt it at all. The metal contacts felt cool against the skin of my forehead and neck.

I pressed the button.

And I screamed.

I've tried virtual reality hardware before. This was different. It wasn't just sight and sound, it was everything. One second I was lying on the lumpy hotel bed in my working clothes, feeling a little sticky from the day's exertions, that faint vomit smell snaking its way through my nostrils, the next I was standing stark naked on a rough stone ledge, the stone so hot that I could feel blisters forming on the soles of my feet, smell the hairs on my legs crisping and burning to ash, hear the cries of a billion damned souls, and see an endless plain where other naked forms writhed in agony.

I tried to move, to shift my feet, to tear the damned helmet off my head, but I was paralyzed, unable to move except to squirm like a stripper in a phone booth. My feet seemed to be welded to the stone like cheap steaks seared to a rusty grill.

Just my luck -- the program loaded into the helmet when I snatched it was some sicko programmer's idea of a simulated Hell.

It has to be a simulation, right? Unless the helmet killed me, and this is where I'm gonna spend eternity.
Just kidding. At least I hope I'm kidding.

After a while, the heat stopped hurting me so much. I guess all the nerve endings would be dead after a while if you really got roasted like that, or the brain would stop accepting the input.

Then it started to get cold.

Still paralyzed, but my eyes were frozen open. I could feel my skin freezing layer by layer, cracking and splitting as the moisture turned into clusters of needle-sharp ice crystals.

I took comfort in the knowledge that you would be arriving at any moment. You would get into the room somehow, deactivate the helmet, and take it off me. You'd be pissed at me for trying it on, maybe knock a little -- or a lot, at this point I didn't care -- off my "finder's fee". Hell, maybe you'd kill me.

Anyway, one way or another, I figured that this torture had to end soon. I decided that I would find the programming team who had built this simulation and I'd pay them back in kind -- except their burns and wounds wouldn't vanish at the press of a button.

It started to get hot again. Thawing flesh hurt more than freezing flesh. And my sensitivity to heat was miraculously restored.

Which brings us up to the present moment. I don't know how long I've been in virtual Hell. Maybe only a few seconds, although it feels like hours or days…

I had almost two full hours to wait before the buyer was due to arrive when I put the helmet on. But two
hours of real-world time could be a lot longer in virtuality.

I can hold on. This Revelations by way of Hieronymous Bosch crap is not going to break me. I mean, I've already been through the worst of it, the heat and the cold, and I can take it again, ten times, a hundred times, however much virtual time two real-world hours turns out to be.

I can take -- oh, Jesus, Jesus, there's something crawling up my legs. Something is EATING MEEEEEEEE

[center]THE END[/center]

[hr][hr]


[center]Changeover[/center]



I have boobs.

I didn't used to have boobs.

This is not my bed. It smells like sex in here.

"Aaah!" I gotta get out of this bed!

I am lying in the bed next to me. That is, my own body is next to… me.

What is going on...?

Whoa. I'm a chick. No franks and beans down there.

But I'm also that man in the bed. Is this a dream?

I'm not moving. I mean, the real me, over there.

"Hey!" I don't want to touch him.

He's cold.

"No!" There's no pulse at his neck. Nothing. The arm is stiff. No pulse at the wrist.

"Oh, shit." That sounds so weird in someone else's voice. "I gotta call 911."

No, I can't call. I don't know who I am, or where I am. How am I going to explain this? I'll sound nuts.

What's under the covers? Damn! We're both naked.

Oh… My body must have been excited about it when it died.

Ew. I never saw myself from that angle. No wonder.

Get a grip! What do I do?

911! That's still the best answer. Maybe I'm not all the way dead yet.

It's a guy on the line. "911 dispatch. What is your emergency."

"I-I" My tongue feels thick. No! My teeth are different, that's it. "T-there's a dead man in my bed. But maybe he's not dead! I mean, he looks dead, but he can't be dead! He has to not be dead!"

"Is he breathing? Ma'am?"

"Huh?" Ma'am? Oh, right. "No, I don't think so."

"We're dispatching units. I show you at the Darling Rest motel on Lexington Avenue, room 13. Is that right?"

I'm in a motel? I guess it looks like a motel room. "Uh, maybe. I don't know where I am. I've never been here before."

"Ma'am? Are you ok?"

"I… I don't know. No, I guess. I-I don't feel like myself."

Understatement of the year!

"Ma'am? Are you injured? What is your name?"

"Bill--" I better not tell him that. "I don't know."

"Ma'am? You can't remember your own name? Is Bill the name of the man on the bed?"

"Yes. That's my--his name. Bill Ratherford. He's 42 years old. He has a wife and 2 kids and lives in Evanston."

"Ma'am, is Bill your husband?"

"I don't think so. Where's a mirror?"

Doh! I bet that sounded stupid. Where the hell is a mirror, anyway?

"Whoa." I am not my wife.

I'm hot. Skinny, big tits, blond… long legs.

I'm getting turned on looking at myself. What the hell? That's just wrong, somehow.

"No! I'm not married to him! I've never seen me before! I mean, I mean… I don't know what I mean! Just get here!"

Slamming down that phone felt good.

"Purse!" Chicks always have purses. There will be an ID in it. I'll know who she was. Is?

There's no purse. There's no clothes. How did I--she--get here? Was she naked when she walked in? Why can't I remember any of this? And if I'm dead, what happened to the woman I'm inside? Is she in my dead body, or do we share? This is too fucking weird.

"Hello? Woman inside me?"

Maybe if I slap my old body. "Are you in there? Lady?"

Man, do I feel stupid asking that. Ew. I touched a dead body… but it’s my body.

It's MY body!

I tried shaking it. "C'mon! Let me back in there! That's my life, goddamn you!"

We must have died having sex. Do we need to have sex to switch back?

EW! EW! EW! That's not happening!

"Police! Open up!"

I think the door's breaking.

[center]***[/center]

Ow. Those zip-tie things hurt your wrists.

"Get off of me. It's hard to breathe." This dude is heavy. This crap carpeting isn't much cushion. I think he has his knee in my back.

He's got swat gear on. Shit! His shotgun is pointed at the back of my head. I can see that much.

"Hello, Lila," he says through the visor of his helmet. "We meet at last."

I hope the truth works. "My name is Bill. I don't know what's going on. This morning, I was the guy who's on the bed. Now, I'm inside this body. I don't know who this person is or how I got inside her."

He's laughing at me!

"Oh, sure you are." That patronizing tone can't be good. "Let me guess, Lila finally sucked in one that was too strong for her, and now you're trapped in her body."

"Yes!" Huh? "What?"

He paused. "Hell, maybe you are. But you won't be for long. Pretty soon, she'll start taking back over. You'll lose yourself, and everything you are. Everything you know and everything you've done will be erased. It'll just be her."

"What the fuck are you saying, I'm gonna die?"

"You're already dead, buddy. She's feasting on your soul."

"Mister, I'm Bill Ratherford. My wife is Claire. We've been married for fourteen years. My kids are Bobby and Kelly. I'm a good guy. I write children's stories, for Pete's sake. I love my wife. I don't sleep around!"

Why did he grunt?

"No wonder. They always have trouble with creative types. You just bought yourself an extra minute or two, Bill."

"Could you get off, then? You're heavy."

Why did he sigh?

"Sorry, Bill. When she takes over, she's going to try to kill me, and I need backup to get here. Vampires aren't like people think. There's no bloodsucking, there's no stakes through the heart to kill 'em. Just a dead guy with his pants down with some hot body, losing all he's got. We usually call it a heart attack. Leading cause of death in America."

This asshole is crazy! How do I get out of this?

Wait.

My toes are moving. I'm not doing that.

I want out of here. I want to see my wife.


What's her name, again?

[center]The End[/center]

[hr][hr]


[center]HE MUST KILL THE CHILDREN BEFORE HE DIES[/center]



Edley Barrows was born into this world on February 8, 1968 to middle income parents and lived a normal life for the most part, or at least as far as everyone could see. He was a loner, who often would sit in darkness and only went out into the real world when he absolutely had to. But it was his first encounter with the blood of innocence that christened his departure from society and transformed him into the monstrous servant of evil that he would become.

As he was driving home from work one day he passed by an injured dog, wounded and bleeding by the side of the road. He quickly got out of his car and hovered over the dog witnessing for himself the pain that was in his eyes. He pulled out his pocketknife as he placed his hand over the dog’s mouth. Then without an ounce of humanity, he slit the dog’s stomach open, while he watched the terror in the dog’s eyes. The dog’s eyes grew wide with immense pain, while Edley absorbed the torment of this innocent soul now slipping into darkness.

He stood up, wiping the blood from the blade onto the dog’s fur and went home leaving the dog in agony.

There was no remorse. No horror over what he had done, only an interest now in the killing of innocence.

Within a few months, he began to watch elementary schools, waiting for a chance to kidnap an innocent child, so he could watch their agony as his knife anguished them.

One day, he saw an eight-year-old boy walking home by the side of the road. Edley drove slowly behind him until there was no sign of traffic. He then drove up to the boy and without a word spoken, opened his car door and pulled the boy inside, holding his face down hard against the seat as he drove off.

What happened after that was unbelievably horrid. The monster sliced off layers of the boy’s skin, so he could watch the excruciating pain in his young face, while all the time feeding his need to see innocence afflicted.

He buried the boy’s remains in the woods behind his apartment and immediately began looking for another victim at an elementary school on the far side of town.

It wasn’t long before he eyed a young girl of six, who was walking out of the school building, her blonde hair blowing in her face by the heavy winds that had recently started to kick up. When Edley saw her, he knew she was the one, no matter what the risk. He drove up beside her, got out of his car and scooped her up into his arms. About that time, her teacher walked out of the school and seeing the little girl with him, waved and said, “Good afternoon Mr. Blasley”. She had mistaken the man holding the girl for her father. He waved back, got into his car with the little girl and drove off.

He went straight home and took the little girl to his backyard. There he tied her little hands behind her back, while she was crying and then picked her up and placed her into a coffin that he had built for this occasion. The girl’s screams were muffled as the coffin was lowered into the ground. He quickly covered the grave with dirt until the ground was level and then ran into his basement, turning on his surveillance monitors.

He had planted two small cameras and a light inside the coffin, so he could watch her suffocate. He zoomed in on the little girl’s eyes, but the video was slightly blurred. The death of the girl took less than three minutes. He felt nothing afterwards, except for the feeling that he didn’t get his moneys worth. He went back to the grave and dug up the coffin, so he could retrieve his cameras and the light in case he might want to use them again.

Searches for the two missing children were on the news and a police sketch with a fairly good likeness of Edley was being shown on every newscast.

He packed his belongings and moved into a motel room about fifty miles out of town. The next day he was on the hunt once again for his next victim. He was obsessed now and careless.

Within a few days he drove past a vacant lot that was being used for a game of touch football by a group of boys who were already out of school for the day. He watched them play for about an hour, but couldn’t figure out how to kidnap one of the boys without being noticed. With his obsession getting the best of him, he started his car and drove onto the lot heading directly for the group of boys. He stopped, ran over to the first boy he came to and pushed him into his car. The boy offered no resistance.

He drove for several miles until he found a junkyard filled with abandoned cars. He parked his car behind some rusted out vehicles, then fumbled while trying to pull out his pocketknife, which he dropped onto the seat.

As he removed the boy’s football helmet, he felt a searing pain in his stomach. He looked down to find the knife sticking out of him. The boy had rammed Edley’s own knife into his stomach.

He looked at the boy’s face only to find that the boy was leaning forward looking into his face as he suffered in agonizing pain. Unlike him, the boy did feel something as he watched the life drain from Edley Barrows. The boy was excited, because he believed he had found his purpose in life. He felt alive.

[center]The End[/center]

[hr][hr]

[kailhofer]

If I haven't mentioned this, I'd like to thank everyone who sent in a story this month. Your continued support makes these challenges work.

There are some pretty creepy tales here, ones good enough to have to pay for. Nice work, everyone! (Inasmuch as horror stories can be considered "nice", that is.)

Nate

[kailhofer]

I'm looking for some feedback on the content of the challenge entries, hopefully without going into any details on entries from this time until the voting closes.

To make sure I'm reaching writers and readers alike with these challenges, I have to pay attention to trends. The number of entries for this went up, which implies that more writers were interested in this genre (although maybe that was because it's October, and horror is hyped everywhere). In general, are people comfortable with the adult level of this month? If I try a horror-only again, say in 6 months, would people be more comfortable with a more family-friendly presentation? Or should I allow the opposite end of the spectrum? Opinions?

And the regular challenges, do writers feel the 'PG-13 or lightly R-Rated' is too restrictive? Any readers who aren't writers have an opinion on what level you'd like to see?

Nate

[kailhofer]

I would disagree that horror can be written properly at any level less than R (or even Violent-21) because otherwise it feels like an exercise in hypocrasy. ("Ohh, I see, you SAYY you want "scary" but then are ... what... afraid... of the headliner booking? Don't even get me started on the Base Chakra. Gotcha.")

I don't know about that.

Is The Legend of Sleepy Hollow scary, even the Disney-ized cartoon version?

Or what about The Golden Arm? http://blogfiles.wfmu.org/CM/Great_Ghos ... en_Arm.mp3 I suppose nowadays namby-pamby censors would put an R on it for subject matter, but in the early 70's, this was something played for us as children. It's still told around campfires across the nation when folks want to hear ghost stories. There isn't any gore (only a brief description of grave robbing), or bad language. Yet I've always found it scary.

I couldn't say you can pull off an effect like that in flash, but it's not 'R' in my book.

Nate

[Robert_Moriyama]

Cast my usual two votes (one regular, one guest). One of the stories I voted for is in the lead... the other one isn't doing well at all. :'(

[kailhofer]

It's a fascinating study in the development of a plot.

Nate, you're teaching us all how this stuff works.

I figure if we can all learn this together, we have a better chance of making it big together.

I mean, I don't want to be sitting at the author's table/panel at a con and not know anybody... ;D

Nate

[Robert_Moriyama]

... Seriously, more than twice as many people like "He Must Kill..." as "When Daddy Fights..."? (I won't even mention what the ratio is between "He Must Kill..." and my story...
:-[)

Obviously, one of the entrants has a much better PR firm working for him/her!

RM

[Robert_Moriyama]

Last time this happened, I ended-up apologizing to the entire crew.

And I was doing so well. . .

Bill Wolfe

BILL! Have you been paying homeless people to go into internet cafes and vote for you AGAIN?? (Come to think of it, one laptop with wireless capability and a good wardriving map of unsecured hotspots would do the trick.) But seriously, so long as everybody who votes reads all the entries and votes based on their actual preferences (not based on pre-existing knowledge of who wrote what), I can't complain. (But I will anyway. They're all Philistines, or Philadelphians, or philatelists, not picking EITHER of the ones I voted for!)

RM :P

[kailhofer]

I like to give people the benefit of the doubt. That particular story does have the edge in gross-out factor, and people may go for that. Also, horror stories may appeal to a new audience. I only hope that the votes came from people who read all the stories.

However, it does seem a bit "hinkey", if I use that term correctly. Only Rob has access to see the votes, so it would be up to his judgment if any ballot stuffing occurred.

Nate

[kailhofer]

I heard from Rob, and these votes did, in fact, all come from different networks. They're legit.

They did come in a short span of time, but there's nothing wrong with that. Friends can point friends toward a story they like, and there's nothing wrong with that, either, but we do ask that they read them all.

So, as far as I am concerned, the author of "He Must Kill..." earned those votes. Kudos to that person.

All authors whose stories were suddenly left in the dust will have to swallow any wounded pride and accept that (and that includes me, too).

Nate

[kailhofer]

When are the votes posted? I find it distracting to have to remember that "the results open to you after you voted" are not yet known to all.

I'll close the polls tomorrow night at 10 p.m. my time. Everyone can see then.

Nate

[Robert_Moriyama]

I heard from Rob, and these votes did, in fact, all come from different networks. They're legit.

They did come in a short span of time, but there's nothing wrong with that. Friends can point friends toward a story they like, and there's nothing wrong with that, either, but we do ask that they read them all.

So, as far as I am concerned, the author of "He Must Kill..." earned those votes. Kudos to that person.

All authors whose stories were suddenly left in the dust will have to swallow any wounded pride and accept that (and that includes me, too).

Nate

There's legit, and there's LEGIT. The fact that a large influx of people all voted for the same story seems to indicate an organized effort (NOT necessarily with the knowledge of the author of the story -- we have all seen cases where someone THINKS they are doing you a favor, when you would rather they didn't).

On what I would consider to be a truly unbiased basis, I would expect incoming votes to be distributed more or less according to the same distribution as they were prior to the flood -- divided mainly between "He Must...", "When Daddy", and "Changeover", but DIVIDED. After all, tastes vary considerably (viz. the range of responses to any competently constructed story in Aphelion proper).

So ... we may have had one splatter/torture fiction fan recruiting likeminded individuals to vote specifically for "He Must...". Readers with that particular interest WOULD likely vote for "He Must..." even if they read all the stories, so in that sense their votes can't be discounted. But a similar campaign might have attracted fans of other genres who would have tended to vote en bloc for (say) "When Daddy..." (for those who like "serious" / "realistic" horror) or "Changeover" (for those who like a little humor (in the protagonist's response to the situation, if not the situation itself) mixed in).

You have to wonder if the big bunch o' voters will ever comment on anything else here ... since they didn't have to register to vote, they might not bother.

(And yes, them grapes was MIGHTY sour.)

RM

[kailhofer]

I don't like being stomped any more than the next person, but by the only yardstick we have, they're good votes.

So, maybe some college student looking for a horror story for Halloween googled, found it, and IM'd his all buddies. There's no way to tell.

Really, something like this was bound to happen. Such a small number of people vote compared to what's out there. Once something is found by those who travel in a different circle, word spreads. In comparison, the "voice" of the regular crowd is blown away under the weight of only a dozen votes. It truly does highlight just how small this pond is.

If we're lucky, maybe some of these people will come back again next time.

Nate

[Robert_Moriyama]

... I just realized that there are 13 votes for "He Must...". It's proof, absolute proof, that the story is EVIL, EVIL, I say! We must tie it to a virtual stake and sacrifice it to the glory of Samhain to ensure a plentiful harvest -- of course, to avoid any increase in carbon emissions, we will compost it instead of burning it...

:o

[Robert_Moriyama]

Don't be silly -- hotel rooms have sprinkler systems (so burning at the stake wouldn't work) and there usually isn't enough dirt in the carpet for composting purposes. Also, I don't know how I'd work a helmet into the Wicker-Man-in-a-hotel-room scenario.

Ya gotta learn to think these things through, man.

RM

[kailhofer]

But a similar campaign might have attracted fans of other genres who would have tended to vote en bloc for (say) "When Daddy..." (for those who like "serious" / "realistic" horror) or "Changeover" (for those who like a little humor (in the protagonist's response to the situation, if not the situation itself) mixed in).

I find myself wondering how a mention on Speculations/Rumor Mill or a place like it would help when a vote is underway. (I'm not volunteering. I can't understand how their board works. I've tried.) That's almost all writers, who are bound to see things differently.

The last time we had such a mention, Simon Owens put it there, and both the view and post counts shot through the roof. (And there was a the big argument where Elizabeth Bear chopped me off at the knees, too...)

Nate

[kailhofer]

Congratulations to Mark Edgemon, who won in a landslide victory for his story "He Must Kill the Children Before He Dies".

For the record, these were the authors of the stories this month:

Flashage to India by G.C. Dillon
Live Boldly by TaoPhoenix
When Daddy Fights the Monster by Bill Wolfe
The Tattooed Bed by McCamy Taylor
Hellmet by Robert Moriyama
Changeover by N.J. Kailhofer
He Must Kill the Children Before He Dies by Mark Edgemon

Please feel to comment on these stories now. I'm sure the authors would enjoy feedback.

Be looking for the next challenge November 11th!

Nate

[Robert_Moriyama]

I went for something too Constructed to win a pure contest. The initial spark became "Can pure pathos overcome terror & taboo?"

For me, it is enough if anyone liked it as a "third place possibility" and considered it worth the time spent upon it.

I think the problem with "Live Boldly" in this context was that people were looking for overt "horror", which these days seems to mean splatter / torture. The horror here was too subtle -- the sense of violation and uncertainty from having one's home invaded (apparently by Molly Maid (a cleaning service), but still ...), the existential horror of a seemingly pointless life (hers) or a life with severe physical limitations (his). Mind you, the Frankenstein stalker guy still resting in the bed thing probably seems scarier to female readers than male readers (who would say, screw it, I'm gonna go pull that guy's plug).

"Flashage to India" and my story may have suffered from the fact that the horrific events were virtual (there was no "real" violence "on-screen", however much the protagonists suffered in their minds).

Mark Edgemon's story demonstrates the benefits of tighter focus both in space and time, since it shows (rather than just telling) the demented thoughts and actions of his protagonist "up close and personal"... it is less conceptual than "Christville" and more of a "story" (although it may not meet all the criteria that Nate uses, as a flash piece, it doesn't have to do so).

Bill's story got my other vote (sadly, the ONLY vote I got was my own) for the creep factor of its realistic plot. How different things may look through the eyes of a child! That his father was the real monster (no aliens required) was beyond the narrator's comprehension...

RM

[kailhofer]

Allow me to honor the late Dr. Asimov by being Robot Advocate for a moment. The crux is in the pronoun - "having someone to read it to you". Those AI's from Nate's July challenge are getting pretty good now. In partnership with a trainer-programmer, they can give you exactly that - "inflection and voice that resonates".

I've tried having the stories read to me by computer. I bought the Cepstral Lawrence voice for $30 or so (the English accent covers up a lot of the poor synthesis), but unless my eyes are just too tired to read it myself, I always wind up reading ahead of the voice. That kind of defeats the purpose.

I always try to remember to have my own stories read back to me by the computer a paragraph at a time because it is a great way to catch flubs. Double words, missing words, or misspellings that are also words (spellcheckers miss those) become very obvious.

Other than that, however, that's as much as I like the computer to read to me... at least on a shoestring budget.

Nate

[kailhofer]

For what its worth, here are my comments on this month's entries:

"Flashage to India" - I needed more of an emotional connection, a point where I could be sympathetic to Desi in order to feel afraid for her. Also, she changed from the point of view of the prostitute just as the scariest bit happened, which for me made it less scary. Good idea - I like the Alzheimer's/killer but can't remember it connection. Or maybe Regis did, and that's why India was more real to him.

"Live Boldly" - Although no one else saw it, I thought your first version was scarier for the political connection to Bush. As for the version you posted, it never clicked for me. The items you mentioned in earlier posts didn't condense into anything that made sense as to why this person was doing things for this woman. On the flip side, I liked the characterization of Patty. It was easy to feel for her.

"When Daddy Fights the Monster" - You've got skills, Bill. It was creepy, and I felt for the kid. In the end, though, it was another acronym monster like Potus in your previous entry, and that kept it from getting my vote. However, I thought yours deserved to win.

"The Tattooed Bed" - My wife's favorite, and that got her guest vote. When I asked her why she chose that, all she would reply was that it creeped her out in a way she really enjoyed.

"Hellmet" - Virtual didn't necessarily take away the scariness for me, although I guess there was always the possibility that he was still in the virtual world and would escape eventually. I didn't vote for it because I didn't empathize with the character. I have very little in common with professional thieves and thought he deserved it.

"Changeover" - Who knows what we're all afraid of when we're alone in the dark. :D Technically, it was an incubus, not a vampire, but I thought the term would be less common. The ending may have been a bit too subtle, though.

"He Must Kill the Children Before he Dies" - This story was clearly focused and very disturbing. There was a good twist at the end with the kid killing him and then becoming the true killer he never was. However, I didn't think it was scary. Disturbing, yes. Scary, no. The murdered children were without depth to me, like wooden cutouts walked through the scene, so I didn't overly care about their plight. To be afraid for someone, I have to connect with them on an emotional level. There has to be something about them I like or appeals to me. I have kids of my own, so I do care about children, but these didn't feel like real kids to me.

I wasn't quite sure if you were going for this, but it's very, very hard to turn a villain into hero or vice versa, which is what seemed to be attempted at the end by having the killer killed. I don't think it can be done in flash because there's not enough room. If it was just a hoisted by his own petard thing, that makes it less scary to me, too.

Anyhow, that's my two cents.

Nate

[Robert_Moriyama]

...
When Daddy Fights the Monster – A brilliant masterpiece, way beyond the pale of literary excellence.  What?  Dang it, Nate, you were supposed to use my pseudonym on this one!  I was going for the kind of scary where everyday people can become 'The Monster' during a war.  And many of them come home.

You got my (other) vote for this one. I think the fact that the child still views his father as a hero rather than a threat adds to the sense of danger...

The Tattooed Bed – Very well done 'Street Meat' horror.  It was an excellent combination of everyday horror (junkie killer needing a fix) and the supernatural kind.  I thought the characters were as well-developed as is possible with flash, and the first-person account of the supernatural 'justice' was amazing.  Without the unusually high level of competition, this would have been a winner.

This was my number 2 choice (number 3 in effect, since I had to vote for my own child -- er, story -- especially since nobody else would (sniffle). The hotel manager/clerk/whatever could be viewed as the real monster of the piece, since he must know SOMETHING bad is happening in that room (people check in, but they don't check out) unless he is an idiot in the technical sense of the term and incapable of realizing that vanishing guests and leathery bedspread that changes in appearance after every guest = trouble.

Hellmet -  This should have been scarier than it was.  The possibility that this murderer/thief might spend a virtual (pardon the pun) eternity in a vivid simulacrum of Hell is a fate that far outshines anything that could possibly happen to a person in 'real' life.  I think it's possible that since the reader knows from the beginning that it's VR, along with the conversational/please excuse me, stylistic approach of the beginning of the story robbed it of much of the impact that the concept should have engendered.

I was gonna do a story with a cursed version of the Tarnhelm (the helmet of invisibility belonging to Hades, and used by Perseus to sneak up on the Gorgon), but this came out instead.  Some of the opening narration was added mainly to include the "death" required element; this talking-to-a-hypothetical-listener trope then had to continue through the piece. I suppose the story could be rejigged in third-person form, which would eliminate the narrator's tough-guy snarkiness and possibly restore some of the sense of danger...

Changeover – This is the story that got my vote.  I only vote for my own when I honestly think it's the best.  There was something really scary about this 'vampire' victim realizing that he was slowly loosing himself as his murderer regained control of her body.  The ending was superb, in that he was just beginning to suffer his true fate.

But it didn't scare me. I think the tone of the opening was too cute (reminded me of any number of supposed comedies with gender-switching) and therefore the increasing strangeness of things failed to grab me by the dangly bits.

He Must Kill the Children Before he Dies – The scare factor in this is that it could have been (and apparently was) clipped from the headlines.  It's a little hard to worry about predators such as these, there seems little we can do about it.  There's no rhyme or reason to this kind of insanity and to tell the truth, our little predator was getting so sloppy that he would have been caught soon, anyway.  Barney Fife could have nabbed him.  Really scary serial killers are those who get away with it their whole lives until the family goes through his personal effects after the funeral.  

I was quite surprised that this was by Mark Edgemon, because it was much more tightly focused than other fiction of his that I have read. As Bill says, the killer was sloppy (I'm reading "Cross" by James Patterson, which features a killer who is a lot more professional (literally -- he's a top-level hit man as well as a serial killer for his own entertainment) and probably should have been killed "accidentally" during a police takedown several crimes ago. My rating of the story was probably also influenced by another piece I read recently (a submission that I rejected), also featuring a serial killer who is himself slain by the last person he selects as a victim (familiarity not being conducive to scare factor).

RM

[Robert_Moriyama]

You guys are kidding about voting for your own stories, right?

Nope. However, I always cast a second vote for another story (in this case Bill's), so I kinda cancel myself out. I think there is some validity to the "seed vote" theory (people may be more inclined to vote for something that somebody else has already voted for), although it didn't work this time. If I was going to cast two votes and NOT use one of them on my own story, my two picks would have been Bill's and yours. So YES -- I selfishly screwed you out of a vote. (Fortunately for me, the only things I've written over 7500 words in length have been Nightwatch pieces, so your options for revenge are limited.)

(Once "He Must" pulled ahead of "When Daddy", I almost switched my second vote from my story to Bill's, but I decided that voting twice for the SAME story (even if it was not my own) would really be stretching things.)

RM

[kailhofer]

But you raise an important point. Between versions I thought about the Bush tenure closing within another year and change, and I would rather not write a story tied so tightly to a current event that it reads hollow after the next administration. (Like a story based on a key Clinton event now.)

I think you have to write for your intended audience, not for the ages. I this case, for us, today. After you've become famous, the ages will come up with some new BS meaning for what you meant. In the mean time, write to reach us.

You guys are kidding about voting for your own stories, right?

No. Go ahead and vote for your own if you honestly feel it deserves it. If not, don't. To thine own self be true.

But I have stopped telling my family I have a story out for competition. I tried twice and those that voted all picked some story besides mine. You see, I refused to tell them which one I wrote.

Turned out I'd rather they didn't vote at all than to pick someone else's story.

It's a strange endeavor we've begun, here. I'm learning something new every month.

You'll notice that my beloved wife didn't vote for mine...

At least your family will look. My own kids a still a bit too young, but when I even mention that I write stories my Mom, Dad, brothers and sister all ignore it and change the subject--and always have. I think they look on it like it's a hobby best left un-encouraged. My wife's family will read stories when I send out links, but my own, not at all.

Nate

[Robert_Moriyama]

... and then there is the "American Idol" (etc.) voting system, where people with a few dollars and a lot of time to waste frequently vote multiple times for their favorite performers...

...and there is the real-world political system, where the dead frequently vote, while the living are often shut out on dubious grounds...

...and the "democratic" elections where only one candidate is on the ballot (for each region or for the whole country).

"Voting" means a lot of different things these days. Now if I was able to offer virtual money or virtual beer to potential voters, I might do better in these challenges... (fine old British and North American electioneering tactics, sadly neglected in favor of The Big Lie technique).

Robert "I have no shame. Also no votes." M.

[doc]

I didn't like that some stories had only 1 vote. There should have been more voters involved. It is damn discouraging to work so hard, produce a wonderful story and not be supported.

Well, you don't start building a house by starting with the roof. Remember that we've only been running this contest for a handful of months. Participation will grow as time goes on; its early days still.

The whole reason not to require registration for voting was a decision Nate made to encourage people to vote even if they weren't members of the forum. I have mixed feelings on this, but in the end, I let that be Nate's call.

[kailhofer]

I agree with Bill Wolfe that guests should register before voting, but I'll go a step further. I think there should be open voting with the names of the voters published along with the stories after the poll closes. What's wrong with that! It would be of great encouragement to the writers if they knew who supported them.

What's wrong with that is that I think far fewer people will vote. Full disclosure in anything has never historically led to the increased participation, IMO.

Plus, that particular writer may be encouraged when he or she sees who voted, but what of the authors that didn't get those votes? Won't they know they weren't supported by their fellows, maybe even their friends? Bruised egos and hurt feelings are bound to surface, as well as cliques and grouped votes, even if subconsciously. This contest is supposed to encourage participation, not the reverse.


My marketing strategy is simple. Aphelion has (presumably) broad readership. Anyone Googling for science fiction has a good chance to find the zine. This is not so for the forum. No one deliberately goes looking for a group of friendly curmudgeons who critique stories and trade funny stories.

In my view, the forum needs more participation and more members. There are thousands of listed members, but not many say much. As I told Mark in a private message, he's already 31st in the list of top posters, and he only joined in September. We've lost far more voices than we've gained.

In business terms, a forum is a parallel marketing device, designed to increase product loyalty to Aphelion through participation. It's also to help refine the product by giving authors feedback on the quality of their supplied raw materials so that less resources have to be used by editors to refine said product the next time. In more common terms, if you make it fun, make it just difficult enough, and offer some form of reward (even a little one like publication in the zine in the 'Best Of' Issue), people will speak up and join in.

That's why I thought up the challenge, lobbied off an on for a year before Rob created the fun and games folder (probably to get me off his back :)), and have been running the challenges they way I do ever since. Guest votes are the best way I know to attract new contest readers--the more steps someone is made to follow on the internet, the less they will. The more readers we get, the more chances they may hang around and join in.

So unless we get a lot more members, there's a big problem with vote abuse, or Rob turns the guest option off so I can't pick it, there's going to be guest votes in the future.

It is sad that so few votes are cast. However, without a more active approach like notification messages or pop-ups for anyone who doesn't have a certain cookie that they've voted already when they open a page (I'm positive Rob doesn't want the kind of headache that would cause), manually placed posts on other boards and forums directing people here, or something equally aggressive, I don't see any other option to keep with the "if you build it, they will come" strategy.


Anyhow, I have to get back to writing the example for next month's challenge, and making sure it's just hard enough without becoming impossibly difficult, as well as being a worthwhile thing to learn how to do... I hope that doesn't sound easy, because trust me it's not...

Nate

[Robert_Moriyama]

These comments are much more interesting than the raw votes are.

The reason I did not vote for "When Daddy" is because it had no supernatural elements, and this was a Halloween contest. In other words, the story was a good one, I took off points exclusively on the basis of genre. If some one were to submit a longer version of "When Daddy" to me for serials, I might reject it and send them to another magazine on genre grounds (or maybe not, it would depend on my mood).

There weren't any supernatural elements, but there was a speculative element in that the war that had caused Daddy's PTSD (Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, for anyone who STILL hasn't made the connection) was described as being against aliens of some kind. Think of Daddy as being a survivor of the Bug wars in Starship Troopers ... And it was a horror story that illustrated the point that we don't need no steenkin' Aliens (or Predators, or C'thulhu mythos creatures) to wreak havoc amongst us -- we have met the monsters, and they is us. (The likelihood that the child, who still believes in his Daddy, is likely to be the next victim, surely must cause a little intestinal distress...)

[kailhofer]

These comments are much more interesting than the raw votes are.

The reason I did not vote for "When Daddy" is because it had no supernatural elements, and this was a Halloween contest. In other words, the story was a good one, I took off points exclusively on the basis of genre. If some one were to submit a longer version of "When Daddy" to me for serials, I might reject it and send them to another magazine on genre grounds (or maybe not, it would depend on my mood).

I agree with Robert's assessment. The implied aliens (even though they didn't turn out to be) were enough to have this be a horror story with a speculative fiction element, which was what it was supposed to be.

Technically speaking, the specfic element in "He Must Kill..." was questionable, depending how one defines speculative fiction, since there's only real humans doing the killing in the current day, on our own, non-parallel world. However, I felt the main character went so outside the norm that he shouldn't really be considered a human anymore, crossing into monster territory. Close enough with a wide interpretation of specfic, anyway.

Nate

[Robert_Moriyama]

... Well, Nate was the arbiter of what did and didn't qualify. I can't recall what the exact wording of the challenge was -- "He Must Kill..." certainly qualified as horror, if not as "science fiction" or "fantasy". Any attempt to portray the inner workings of a mind as twisted as the child killer's must be "speculative" anyway, unless you have his blog or paper diary to work with!

(And, of course, if an author ISN'T speculating as to how such a mind works, you kinda want to let him/her have his/her way...)

RM

[kailhofer]

sorry i missed the last one...when's the november challenge?

It will start Sunday night, Nov. 11.

And I'm happy to say I finally finished 1st drafting the example for it. I think it's going to be a good, worthwhile challenge, but sometimes it's a struggle. Hopefully, it's just me making it difficult for myself instead of it really being that hard.

I could skip the examples, but I think it's wrong to ask people to do something I wouldn't do first.

Nate