Messages

[@ Sinitrena]

Voted. I'm stuck on my phone for the foreseeable future, so please excuse autocorrect.  Attempt at feedback follows:

@ Sinitrena:  I really liked your first entry ("The Boat") because you established a vivid setting, followed by dramatic action, followed by an unpredictable twist.  I gave votes to "The Earth" as well because I liked the moral conundrum the "colonists" face, but I subtracted some marks for some muddled phrasing (the spaceship follows its light - the spaceship is the subject, but the light confusingly didn't belong to it).  I also gave votes to "Dragonfight" for the playful language and twist on the typical dragon battle trope.  Alas these assets weren't as impactful in the sequels as the reader already knows what's going on.

@ Stupot: I voted for your entry as well because I liked the twist at the end despite the obvious logic that led there.  It did feel like adding insult to injury for poor James, however! Poor guy's already being bullied, and now he's going to be strangled to death by his own chin vines....  Top marks for best double-entendre in a title.

@ Mandle:  It's a bit frustrating reading your stories and not being able to vote for them.  My favourite was "Dragonchase", which had a thrilling epic feel at the beginning, then a grueling feeling in the middle, then a rather hopeless feeling of foreboding towards the end.  The twist of reality at the end made it a very thought-provoking story.  I also probably would have voted for "The Cure" for a sense of suspense and the best last sentence.  I was a bit confused by the overly descriptive language in "The Occupant" as I wasn't entirely certain how it added to the story.  "Tim's Cat" was heart-warming in a schmaltzy kind of way, but it didn't really work for me.

[The Slope]

OK, one more before bed.  I'm not sure it counts as a story in the conventional sense, but think of it as the story of our times. 

--------------

The Slope

    A day at the beach is grand; a day in the trenches can suck
    For the first you bask in the sand, in the second you're knee deep in muck
    A moron could tell you which one, he'd choose without even a thought
    For the first is nothing but fun, in the second you might end up shot

    But this thinking does not scale up, for the advantages seem to reverse
    As the years drip out of your cup, an easy life afflicts you the worse
    The beach days make problems seem hard, the trench days teach never quit
    The first make you swell up with lard, the second make you swell up with grit

    So be careful how you spend your days, for the moments can add up quite fast
    The easiest choice is a craze, but the consequence will one day be vast

[You Think That's Messed?]

You Think That's Messed?

So I inherit this god-king's ring that was stolen from some long-lived troglodyte.  Me and my mates are soon chased out of town by these zombie henchmen of the god-king, but we take refuge in this elf hotel.  They say we have to throw my heirloom into a volcano to stop the god-king's ghost once and for all.  We quest through demon-haunted mountains and death-swamps, eventually falling in with the troglodyte himself, who sneaks us into hell.  In the end my buddy has to carry me up the volcano because I have a spider bite allergy.  At the rim the troglodyte bites off my finger, heirloom and all, only to plunge to his death in lava!  We attend this weird interspecies wedding, fight some charlatan back home, and then I end up retiring in my mid-thirties to this hospice-commune across the sea.  True story.

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Commentary:  Yeah, so it's an old story that I rehashed, but it was a fun challenge. 

[@Stupot:]

Feedback:

@Stupot:

Spoiler

An interesting exercise, using AI to proofread and offer feedback.  I wonder, if you submit the same work twice, do you get the same feedback?  The feedback itself was solid, if a bit generic.  However it lacked the more critical edge a real reader might give.  For a 144 word story is looking at his watch and seeing the time really critical information?  I liked the double-cross/triple-cross dynamic, but the swarm of teeth and tentacles was so... aberrant ...that it kind of threw me out of the story world.

[close]

@Mandle:

Spoiler

The spy stories within a spy story was a whole new level of intellectual thriller.  This story had everything, from traps and betrayals to love and chase scenes.  Given that I'm writing this after the competition has closed I can happily congratulate you on your well-deserved win.  But there's one loose thread that still irks me: who the hell is Richard in the last sentence??

[close]

Sorry, stuck on my phone at yet another hockey arena.  Not ideal for feedback purposes.  Will try to post from my computer tomorrow.

[With My Little Eye]

With My Little Eye

"Davey, come in Davey.  Do you read?"  Jessica said, checking the walkie-talkie system.  Her receiver hissed quietly, and then sprang to life. 

"Say again, Mother Bear?"  Davey asked.  Of course her little brother had insisted on using codenames in order to protect their identities during the mission.

"Come in Rubber Ducky," Jessica radioed again, the name sounding comically childish as she said it out loud, which was probably why her mischievous brother had chosen it in the first place.

"I read you loud and clear, Mother Bear," her brother said.  "Operation Cat Hair is green light, I repeat green light."

Of course her brother had insisted on the operation being codenamed Cat Hair as well.  He had chosen the name not just to throw off any spies who might be listening in, but also for the very apt reason that cat hair gets everywhere.  Jessica had refused to go along at first, but as it was her brother who had volunteered to be the one to infiltrate their parent's bedroom she reluctantly agreed in the end.  It was her burning curiosity that had initiated this madcap plan, after all, and she was determined to do whatever was necessary to see it through, even if that involved goofy codenames.

Jessica's receiver buzzed to life again.  "Rubber Ducky is in position," her brother said.  "Do we have confirmation that the nest is empty?"

It was Jessica's turn to tiptoe through the house to spy out where her parents were.  It was 4:30 in the afternoon, and she found her mother in the kitchen starting dinner as expected.  Her father was more elusive, but she eventually located him due to the rumbling sound of the snow-blower starting up in the driveway.

"The window is open," Jessica squeaked into her transmitter, barely able to contain her enthusiasm.  "Go, go, go!"

"10-4 Mother Bear.  Maintaining radio silence through the wormhole.  Stand by."  Jessica clutched her walkie-talkie nervously as she assumed her position atop the staircase, the better to warn her brother if danger was approaching.  The wormhole he referred to was drawn on a childish blueprint in her brother's room, referencing an obscure crawl space that linked the attic to a panel in their parent's closet ceiling that only a curious nine-year-old boy could discover.  Soon he would emerge on the other side behind their parent's locked bedroom door, cobwebs in his hair but otherwise unscathed.

And for what?  The rumbling snowblower outside belied the season - it was December 19th, and Jessica was insatiably curious about what she would be getting for Christmas.  Most kids would just admit defeat at the locked door and their parent's admonitions, but Jessica was made of sterner stuff.  Maybe she inherited her obsession with secrets from her grandmother, the incurable gossip who just had to know everything.  Maybe she just never learned to take "no" for an answer, a trait she definitely shared with her younger brother.  Whatever the reason, she was quickly becoming a mastermind at espionage.  She had already swiped her teacher's mark book and forged appropriate grades for her report card coming home that Friday, and she had recently swapped passed-notes in algebra class to ensure that Jimmy Bean (the cutest boy in school) would be single by the end of the week, just in case he felt like asking her to the Christmas semi-formal dance.  Next to those operations, a bit of present snooping seemed positively benign.

"The Rubber Ducky has landed," her walkie-talkie declared.

"Talk to me Big Yellow," Jessica radioed back.  "What are we looking at this year?"

"It's a bit thin," her brother radioed back.  "Mostly socks and oral hygiene products."

"You're in the decoy stash," Jessica told him, not missing a beat.

"How can you tell?" her brother asked back.

"Let me guess - there's also taffy candies, playing cards and crossword books?"

"Wow, you're good!" her brother marvelled.

"Try the dresser drawers, or under the bed," Jessica recommended.

"10-4, Mother Bear.  I'm exiting the closet now."

There was about a minute of agonizing radio silence while Jessica fought the urge to demand an update.  Finally the walkie-talkie buzzed to life again.

"Nothing to report in the dresser drawers," her brother reported at length.  "Initiating under-the-bed protocol.  Searching, searching.... What the...?!?

"What is it, Rubber Ducky?" Jessica radioed back, unable at last to contain her curiosity.  "Is it smart phones?  Concert tickets? Car keys??  Talk to me, Big Yellow."

"Uh..." her brother said uncertainly.  "This doesn't make any sense."

"What did you find?!?"  Jessica asked again, the suspense killing her.

"It's a stack of magazines, Mother Bear," her brother informed her.  "And nobody's wearing any clothes inside!"

"Ugh, Dad!" Jessica groaned over the airwaves.

"Oh I don't think these are Dad's," her brother went on.  "Holy Moly, he's using it as a flagpole!"

"Mom!" Jessica blurted, despite herself.

"Yes dear?" her mother called from the kitchen.

"Uh, nothing!" Jessica said, suddenly recalling the clandestine nature of their mission.  "Rubber Ducky, get out of there!" she radioed.  "You're going to warp your brain or something."

"Speaking of warped, you should see what this guy can do!" her brother radioed back, unable to contain his giggling.

"Abort, abort!" Jessica called, trying to recall the proper code words to abort the mission.  "The window is closing!  You have about thirty seconds to evacuate the Wolf's Den!  Code Red, Code Red!"

"Ha ha!" her brother laughed, unable to contain himself.  "This guy is dressing it up like a sock puppet!"

"It's time fly south, Rubber Ducky!" Jessica radioed frantically.  "There are some things you just can't unsee - trust me!  You've got like twenty seconds to get out of there or you are cooked.  Chinese Wok, Chinese Wok!"

"OK, OK, aborting mission," her brother radioed, finally coming to his senses.  In a couple of seconds he emerged from his parents bedroom via the door, cobwebs in his hair and a ridiculous grin on his face.  Jessica carefully relocked the bedroom door before pulling it shut, and then collapsed against the wall outside in relief.

"That was a close one," she said, feeling her racing heart-rate.

"Not as close as some of those dudes in the magazines," her brother pointed out before Jessica shushed him.  It occurred to her at this point that maybe there was such a thing as revealing too many secrets, and that there was a certain magic in not knowing things after all.

"I wonder what's for dinner?" she asked, trying to change the subject.

"Ew, I hope it's not whipped-cream, cause in one of the pictures I saw-"

Yes.  Some things were just better not knowing.

Sorry, stuck on my phone at a hockey tournament with patchy internet, so please forgive awkward autocorrections.

@Mandle

Spoiler

I liked how old Ronald was able to persevere the old fashioned way while the modern world fell apart around him.  I'm a bit confused as to why his radium watch dial still glows when all radioactive material stops working, and I'm a bunch confused about the bet.  Weren't they betting on whether the Order to launch the specific missile would ever come?  Obviously the nuclear tip wouldn't eork any more, but the Order could still come (not to mention that the missile could still be launched, relying as it does on something resembling rocket fuel).  AND since the universe can produce pulses that stop things from being radioactive and there is a lot of radiation in the universe, it stands to reason that the universe can also produce pulses that might one day reactivate radiation (I mention this only given the indefinite timeliness agreed upon at the beginning of the wager).  Basically if I were on the "losing" side of the wager I'd still be playing the let's-see-how-this-plays-out-in-the-long-run card.

[close]

@Sinitrena

Spoiler

  Poor paper!  I was really rooting for her.  I liked how your actual entry (the poem) showed nature paralleling the increased hopelessness of your protagonist (the willow is chopped down, the forest dies, the creek is dammed).  The poetry itself was a bit of a slog, due to meter and rhyme issues that your unhelpful paper helper couldn't resolve.  The tragedy at the end, that the lovers could have actually been together, was all the more poignant for the senselessness of the woman's death.

[close]

As for critiques of my own work, I see Clarence in my mind as ineptitude clueless when it comes to dealing with other people in general, but women specifically.  While this almost certainly implies a degree of superficially objectifying of women (as logically he never interacts with them to know them better), I don't see him as expecting somehow that he deserves love.  He recognizes that he was the weak link in his own plan, and that he will need to re-evaluate his approach to romance moving forward.

My entry is to be rea in the voice of Professor Frink: 

Heart Crush

   V minus six days, where V equals Valentine's Day.  I calculate that time is now my enemy in my quest for romance, with a probability of at least 90% nineteen times out of twenty.  With each passing moment there is an ever greater chance that some other dashing young fellow here at Terrence S. McQueen High School will ask out my secret crush.  The time to act is upon me!  And yet nothing in Mr. Schwarzenfluger's so-called biology class has prepared me to diagnose the queasy feeling in my intestinal tract every time I contemplate the notion.

   I will spare a few moments to provide adequate background exposition as to my plight.  I am what the high school football team would refer to as a nerd, which is broadly accurate given their predilection for dabbling in unjust stereotypes; and I am what the high school cheerleading squad would refer to as a 3 on an apparent scale of one to ten, although one might quibble with the validity of their assessment criteria.  Certainly I lack the muscular physique and easy social graces of the semi-divinities who occupy the upper echelons of the scale.  Also my glasses are three inches thick and I hitch my pants up under my armpits to keep from slouching.  But I do have some assets that make me a desirable catch, such as a curious intellect and a hard-won immunity to conjunctivitis.

   On the other side of the equation there is my crush, one Jane T. Plebberman.  I have heard her referred to as a 7 by my jocular colleagues in history class, but in my books she is ranked as a 10 at least.  All evidence suggests that she is a gentle soul, with a modest disposition and an admirable work-ethic when it comes to her scholarly endeavours.  Forgive me the crudeness of the term, but she is a brunette bombshell, although my fellow single males unfairly deduct marks for superficial imperfections such as braces and the occasional bit of acne.  Be that as it may, she still most certainly ranks much higher than me on the social food chain, and thus courting her is something of a risky enterprise.

Given my proclivity towards social awkwardness and the scope of my ambition, I have rationally concluded that a finely tuned plan is necessary for my success in the courting of sweet Jane.  After much thought and deliberation I have decided to attempt a George McFly, whereby through some injury in front of Jane I might worm my way into her affections by means of her nurturing instinct.  I have determined that falling out of the tree outside her bedroom window only to be hit by her father's car would be both creepy in today's social context and likely to result in catastrophic injury, and so my idea revolves around some simple fisticuffs with a low-level football goon.  This has the advantage of being both plausible and likely to result in only superficial wounds.  Also, I calculate it will elicit maximum sympathy from Jane, who seems to despise the obnoxious bullying ways of our school's beloved football jocks.

And so I lie in wait, like a tiger in the grass in the cafeteria, except my stripes are pinstripes on my grandfather's hand-me-down dress shirt and my clawed paws are clammy like beached jellyfish.  My stomach feels like it is about to turn inside out, like the graphic portrayal of that baboon in the teleporter in Cronenberg's The Fly.  And yet my heart pumps in euphoric giddiness at the prospect of soon attracting the attentions of Sweet Jane Plebberman and my mind races through the infinite scenarios that my plan might unleash.  So much can go right, and so much can go wrong at the same time.  No amount of chaos theory can predict the outcome once this train of events leaves the metaphorical station, which is both exhilarating and terrifying in equal measure.  I slow my breathing to steady my nerves, for the moment of action is almost upon me.

Jane enters the cafeteria amidst an impenetrable phalanx of girl friends, assuming her regular place at a table against the wall with full vantage of the rest of the eating hall.  So far so good.  Moments later, just as predictably, Butch Dunderson enters the cafeteria, joking in an obnoxiously loud voice about the physical inadequacies of his fellow students, which draws raucous laughter from his coterie of primitive hominids.  I time my approach perfectly, so that I intercept Butch right in front of Jane's table.

"I say, dear fellow, I noticed the vectors of your football throws are inefficient," I say, trying to rile up his infamous temper.

"Uh, what?" Butch asks, clearly confounded by the boldness of my observation.

"What is more," I continue, for I am too nervous at this point to deviate from my script, "I find your halitosis to be the mother of all insults."

"Uh, what did you say about my mother?" Butch asked, confused.  This is good, because confusion is the first rung on his very short ladder to violence.  Unfortunately, I have not planned for the contingency of this dialogue branch, and I stumble over my next line like a goose with taffy stuck in its beak.  Fortunately Butch saves me the embarrassment of further mortification by punching me forcefully in the gut before moving on with his day.  I collapse onto the floor, as my lungs apparently no longer function sufficiently to keep my vital organs oxygenated.  My world is a reeling freefall of panic and hysteria.

And then I feel a soothing touch on my shoulder and my lungs slowly draw breath again.  I am not one to indulge in the fanciful notions of angelic miracles, but now before me crouches the saintly Jane, asking me if I am alright.  My plan was a resounding success!  All the words I dared not speak now come bubbling up to see the light of day.  Sweet Jane, won't you be my valentine?  Except I realize in horror at the last moment that these are not in fact words bubbling up within me, but rather the semi-digested remnants of my breakfast.  Jane retreats in disgust from the fountain of my soul, but her reflexes are too slow, far too slow.  In my smitten condition I could gush over Jane for hours, which is exactly how long it felt as I literally poured my guts out to her. 

And then our special moment is over, and a kind of adolescent awkwardness ensues.  We stare at each other, both soaked to the bone by hot steamy vomit, and I realize with heart-crushing certitude that an unspannable chasm will forever exist between us.  She opens her mouth as if to plaster over the pain with some soothing platitude, and that's when I hit her with my second volley of projectile vomit, right in the face.

So goodbye, Sweet Jane. I hope one day through the agencies of industrial stain remover and professional therapy that you might come to forgive me for my rather thoughtless advances.  Let it just be said that what I did I did out of love and a genetic stomach condition.  Perhaps one day you will be able to see past the tsunami of vomit heading implacably towards you and notice me shyly loving you from just the other side.

Yours sincerely in aborted romance,

Clarence B. Finklebert

Uh, I thought the deadline was tomorrow....     Imma need a day or two to get something together.

I thought he was just giving Garfield his just desserts for the sin of gluttony... 

Plus, Jim Davis is now upset that his royalty cheques are bouncing. 

[@ Sinitrena]

Well it was a bunch of fun, but like most dreadful dinner parties this one too must end.

@ Sinitrena:  Short but sweet.  My guess is it was the baby dragon what done it.    Obviously I would have liked a longer submission, but at least the dinner jerk got his comeuppance and that's what really counts.

@ Mandle: There's a lot of moving pieces here, both character-wise and story-wise.  I think Sinitrena has already identified the most obvious story inconsistencies, but she (much like Mandle) has forgotten one suspect - and we all know it's the perfect time to commit a crime if no one notices you.  That's right, I'm pointing the finger at LADY MACBETH!  I'm not sure if she actually committed the murder herself or convinced someone else to do it for her (as per her modus operandi), but I'm pretty sure she had an unflattering cat quote that suggests motive.  Also 'tis well-known in literary circles that she hated both lasagna and gluttony - oh shit, it was Dante wasn't it?

Anyway, on to the vote tabulation.  In a near-run contest the votes were 2-1 in favour of....  MANDLE!

Excellent work old chap.  After the bizarre intro involving onion clouds this was a fun murder mystery.  Perhaps if you leave a bit more time next round you can flesh-out your characters and motives a bit more?  But wait, you won't be participating next time, since as per the sacred and ancient rules of writing competitions it is YOU who will be hosting the next dinner party.  I look forward to getting into your wine collection seeing what kind of juicy theme you've cooked up for us.

[Sinitrena]

(Please, no jokes Baron. This is seriously pissing me off!)

Sorry about the delay in wrapping up.  I was trying very hard not to make a joke about Mandle being white-listed.  It's been two days and I'm still not confident I'll get through the whole post without wise-cracking....

So on to voting!  Our entrants this round in order of not being white-listed are:

Sinitrena with Too Bad
Mandle with Between the Lines

Voting will be by PM to me, and will be in a simple "I vote for x" format, where x is the writer that you felt created the best story overall.  The more votes the merrier, but in the event of a tie I will consult the filters that be to determine a winner.  Leaving feedback in the thread for our writers is always appreciated, as it helps us gauge what works and what needs work next time, making our stories better and better with each successive round.

Voting will run from now until FRIDAY THE THIRTEENTH.  Then I'll add up all the votes and we'll have a little party for the winner.  Good luck to all of our participants!

I'll extend the comp until Mandle submits, just to make a competition out of it.  If anyone else is lurking with a story, now is the time to speak up! 

Yeah, yeah, temper your enthusiasm everybody!  You've still got 2 days left. 

A mystery!  Will Mandle make it or not?  Only his fellow diners know for sure.... 

[Feast with the Beast]

Now is the traditional period of holidays in western society, where people join with friends and family to eat a symbolic meal together.  And yet...  And yet those meals usually consist of both portions and personalities that are too large to rub together amicably for long.  Inevitably there is a monster lurking beneath the patina of toupees and makeup that makes other guests cringe.  But what if that person finally gets what's coming to them?  This is the plot set-up for....

Feast with the Beast


Your story is to revolve around a feast, be it holiday related or not.  At least one character must be jarringly, nay obnoxiously, nay incorrigibly rude or despicable, and in the end they must get their comeuppance at the hands of one of the victims around the table.  This might take the form of a gruesome murder or a farcical bit of slapstick, but it is intended to be a mystery who has done the deed.  Authors are encouraged to submit the solution to their story in hide tags at the end of their story. 

The deadline for submissions is tentatively slated for the end of the day Hawaii time on Saturday January 7, 2023.

Like the well-crafted stories I expect to read in two weeks' time, the voting criteria shall currently remain a mystery.

Good luck to all participants!

Thanks for the victory votes, folks!  I agree it was not my strongest outing, but at my age you have to take your wins where you can get them.

I've just had an inspiring idea for the next topic that shouldn't put WHAM off too much.   

[@ WHAM]

Well I wonder if I can't tempt Mandle into voting by giving away all the juicy details in my unhidden feedback post. 

@ WHAM:  I like your story.  The description of the setting at the beginning made me feel like I was there climbing the forested hills along with Frank and Megan.  I liked how the season paralleled the frozen state of their relationship (I'm sure there's a fancy writing term for that - pathetic fallacy?).  I was a little leery of where the story was going, as I have the emotional intelligence of a gnat and tend to steer clear of romantic stories.  But then I discovered that clearly the protagonists also share my emotional ineptitude, and I felt right at home in the awkward unspoken meaninglessness of the whole encounter.        I'd have voted for your piece even despite Sinitrena explicitly forbidding us entrants from doing so except I'm a little suspicious that you might be stalking me through the winter woods in order to get writing ideas...   

[Cold Comfort]

Well, certain administrators might complain that the story is incomplete, but it already feels long and I'm out of time.   


Cold Comfort

   Annison jerked awake at the thunderous noise that shook her room like an earthquake.  At first she thought the roof was collapsing from the weight of the snow build-up on top of the base.  She rushed out of her quarters and down the stairs to the command centre, Lieutenant Chrysler fast on her heels.

   "What the hell is that?!?" Chrysler asked.  "Base integrity is intact, all readings are green!"  The lieutenant poured through the monitors, one after another.  "Wait," she shouted, although the noise was now slightly less deafening and the base had stopped shaking.  "I've got massively depleted energy readings in cells one through twelve.  Code red!" she said, making an all-call over the base's comm speakers.  "I repeat, code red!"  The lieutenant then turned around, suddenly confused.  "Where the hell is everyone?!?"

   "Oh, shit!" Annison cursed, hitting the ice-shield button on her panel.  Slowly the great metal panels that shielded the command centre's observation window opened, protesting against the build-up of ice that threatened to swallow the base whole.  But even through the growing crack in their defences she could see that her instincts had been correct.

   "Oh, fuck!" Chrysler cursed, joining her at the window.  In the sky above they could see the shuttle pod blasting into space.  The last shuttle pod.

   "Those greedy fucking bastards!" Annison spat.  But as if in sympathy with her rage, the sky suddenly lit up in a violent burst of orange flame.  Suddenly there were multiple streaks of orange flame, with smoke trailing behind them, hurtling back down to the ice-fields that stretched to the eastern horizon.

   "Oh my... did the shuttle just... explode?!" Chrysler asked.

   Annison knew she should have rushed to the sensors to confirm, but her eyes told the whole tale.  The remnants of the last rickety old shuttle had exploded during ascent.  "Anything on the radio?" she asked, sitting down, her legs suddenly weak from the shock of being abandoned and then the shock of seeing her jerk crewmates die before her eyes.

   "No signal," Chrysler reported.  "All units report to the command centre," she said, her voice echoing through the base corridors on the all-call.

   "There were only six seats on that shuttle," Annison said, putting her head in her hands.  "Six seats, and eight of us."

   "We decided against it!" Chrysler said in bafflement.  "We fucking decided around the galley table that it wasn't worth the risk!"

   "That's what they wanted us to believe," Annison said.  Her whole body felt numb now.

   They waited in silence for some time, but no one came to join them in the command centre.  The last of the wreckage crashed back to the surface, and the plumes of smoke slowly dissipated from the sky.

   "How screwed are we?" Annison asked, not wanting to know the answer.

   Chrysler checked the screens of her consol.  "We are royally screwed," she reported.  "We have barely enough energy in the batteries to last a few days," she said.  "And even that is unreliable at these temperatures.  Those bastards must have drained everything to attempt their launch.  We could literally be in total blackout in a matter of hours."

   Annison bore this news stoically, but Chrysler began to fly off the handle.  "I can't fucking believe those assholes!" she shouted.  "I'd say I'm glad they burned to a fiery death for leaving us stranded on this ice cube, except that in 24 hours I'm probably going to be envious of the warmth they experienced in their final moments!"

   "What if we cut back power usage?" Annison asked.  "You know, stop heating any non-essential areas and shut down everything but the most basic systems?"

   Chrysler shook her head.  "We've already pared back as much as possible months ago.  Three-quarters of the base has been abandoned since we lost the Strachan Party.  Anything else we shut down risks a cascading system collapse.  Shut off heat to the wrong hallway and we might freeze pipes that warm something critical, and then the whole rickety system comes grinding to a halt.  We are royally, royally screwed!"

   Annison stared out at the horizon, the feeble rays of the distant sun finally cresting the ice-fields.  "What if we can recover a power cell?" she asked.  "That wreckage can't be that far - maybe 20 klicks at most.  What if a cell survived the crash?  That'll buy us time to try to signal another passing frigate.  I bet there's enough juice left in the rover to make a 40 klick round-trip."

   Chrysler shook her head.  "You spend most of your time in the base, like me," she said.  "All the crews that went out there said the terrain is deceptively broken.  You'll either end up crashing down an abyss or navigating so far around the obstacles that you'll almost certainly run out of fuel.  And that's without encountering Gunchas, which is a distinct possibility.  It would be a long slow death-ride in a freezing little coffin."

   Annison shook her head.  "We have to try."

   It was Chrysler's turn to shake her head.  "Fuck that!" she shouted.  "I'm not spending my last moments alive watching a Guncha chewing on my ripped out intestines as I try to freeze to death faster than I can bleed to death!  I'm going to go eat rations like there's no tomorrow and then watch some of my favourite old movies from the comfort of the world's warmest bathtub.  And when the power clicks off I'm going to find my way down to the garbage incinerator and use the last of the juice in the capacitors to fry myself to oblivion.  You should join me!  We can get drunk and talk trash about all the dick-wads who let us down in life!"

   Annison tried to smile at her friend.  "We have to try," was all she could say.

   Chrysler groaned and rolled her eyes.  "No we don't!  Let it go, girl.  We're totally, royally, entirely screwed.  Don't let hope spoil what could be the last best party of your life!"

   Annison put her hand on her friend's shoulder.  "At least promise me you'll stay on the radio," she said.  "Don't incinerate yourself until you hear that my mission was a failure."

   Chrysler shook her head.  "I'm not promising nothing," was all she said, and then she stormed out of the command centre.

*   *   *   *   *

   Annison opened the rover bay door and drove out onto the icy plain.  She was wearing a polar-suit to protect herself against the temperatures that approached minus 60, for in an attempt to conserve battery she had turned off the rover's interior heater.  Even still, she felt the change in temperature hit her like a frozen wall as she left the shelter of the base.  "You still with me, Big C?" Annison asked over the radio.

   There was a long moment of radio silence, but then it came to life.  "Yeah, read you loud and clear A-Beam," Chrysler's sarcastic voice came over the radio.  "Just don't burn up too much of your battery chit-chatting on the radio.  Everytime I have to reply risks me dropping my radio into the bathtub and ironically electrocuting myself just before the last of the power runs out."

   Annison had to smile and shake her head.  Anyone else would have been joking about that, but Chrysler was almost certainly in the bathtub already with a fancy drink in her hand.

   The first several kilometres passed beneath the rover without incident.  And then, seemingly out of nowhere, Annison stumbled upon an open abyss.  "I've found a giant crack, 4.6 kilometres out," she reported over the radio, her breath freezing to the rover's windshield as quickly as she spoke.  "It's not on any of the charts, so it must have just opened up in the last couple of months.  I'm going to try to find the southern end to navigate around."  Annison fumbled for the scraper with her over-insulated glove and then tried to remove the ice on the windshield without exerting herself enough to breathe yet more moisture onto it.  It was stubbornly sticky, like melted sugar on the side of a pot.  Just as she managed to partially clear a section she thought she saw partial movement outside the rover, but despite her frantic scraping afterwards she could not confirm the sighting.

   "I think I saw movement outside the rover," she reported over the radio.  "Hard to tell with all this frozen condensation on the windows."  The other end of the radio was silent as Annison considered her options.  She had read reports of Cuncha's sabotaging rovers, and then ambushing the crew members when the rover later broke down.  It would be best to investigate now, she decided, while it was still possible to make a dash back to the base.  She unclicked her safety belt and grabbed the rifle from its compartment behind the driver's chair, and then popped the hatch. 

   The wind on the plain hit her full in the face like the claws of the Guncha she might have imagined.  Quickly Annison secured her goggles and polar-suit breather to protect her face, for she knew that unprotected skin could be frost-bitten in a matter of seconds at these temperatures.  She stumbled out of the rover with the rifle held ready, noting with some discomfort that her toes were already cold from the short drive so far.  She could see no sign of life in that frozen desert, but she made herself check around the entire rover as well as the fringes of the abyss just to be sure.  With great relief she returned to the cockpit of the rover.

   "False alarm," she radioed.  "But I'm turning the interior heat on, just to keep the windscreens clear."  The radio was quiet as she drove over drifts of snow, keeping the gaping trench in the ice to her left.  After more than a kilometre it closed, and she was able to proceed to the east.  "Geo-marking route coordinates for a more efficient return trip," she reported, again to radio silence.  She had only been away from the base for about half-an-hour at this point, so she considered the risk of Chrysler having already incinerated herself to be pretty low.  Annison was actually starting to feel more confident in her mission, although that might have just been due to the cheering effect of having some heat in the rover cabin. 

   Another several kilometres passed without incident before the landscape dipped.  Here the wind had carved out shallow paths through mounds of ice that were just a bit too big for the rover to surmount.  "Ice-maze at kilometre 7.6," Annison reported.  "Again, not on the charts, but it might be a remnant of the kilometre twelve maze that has just drifted.  If that's the case, there should still be a clear path to the north.  Deviating course."

   "You're a deviating course," Chrysler's voice retorted choppily over the radio.

   "I thought I'd lost you already," Annison replied happily.  "I don't think that hand-held module you are using has enough range to reach me consistently out here.  Recommend trying the main base comms to confirm."  But again the other end of the radio was silent as she slowly drove north.

   The ice-maze stayed to her right for two kilometres before the terrain evened out again.  Annison turned off the cabin heat again, in an attempt to conserve battery for the ride back to base.  The gauge on her console was already reading two bars from empty.  Again she began to struggle with the sticky ice build up on the rover's interior surfaces, but at least she was eating up kilometres again.  Eleven, thirteen, and then fifteen kilometres passed without incident.  By Annison's calculations she was beginning to approach the shuttle's debris field.

   "I'm going to risk a signal scan," she said, mashing the rover's consol with her oversized insulated glove.  The panel spit out an error reading, and Annison silently cursed under her breath.  "I'm not getting any reading," she reported.  "It might be because the rover's dish is frozen in place.  I'm going to take the torch out to see if I can thaw out the mechanism."  There was still no response from base, but Annison had more pressing concerns at the moment.

   Again Annison braved the elements, this time with a utility blow-torch in hand and the rifle slung over her shoulder just in case.  She did indeed find ice-build up on the supporting mechanism beneath the dish, and spent a few frigid minutes trying to free it.  It was only as she was returning to the cabin that she noticed the clear outline of footprints in the snow.  Only these were not human footprints, for they had three toes and were twice again the size of her own.  Annison looked around the icefield again, instinctively unslinging the rifle.  But again there was nothing to be seen in the icy desolation.

      Returning to the pod she tried the signal scan again, and this time it produced a clear readout for the immediate vicinity.  "Scan successful," she commented over the radio.  "A lot of noise out here, but I'm getting a pretty clear ping to the southeast, range just over two kilometres.  I'm going to go check it out."
 
     Annison steered the rover towards the ping, but the vehicle was soon swallowed by a wind squall.  It was too cold to snow often on this planet, but the wind did a good job of whipping up any loose snow already on the ground.  The effect was a complete whiteout at ground level, although Annison could see flashes of clear-sky overhead.

     "Encountered a wind squall at kilometre sixteen," she reported.  "Visibility zero.  I should probably try to wait it out, except that will waste valuable battery."  Annison noted that the frozen feeling had returned to her toes, and the end of her nose now felt frozen as well.  She was reluctant to extend the mission any longer than necessary, and decided to take a calculated risk.  "I'm going to follow the scanner," she announced over the radio.  "Let's hope there aren't any more unmarked abysses in the next kilometre."  Considering the riskiness of the manoeuvre Annison thought she might get at least a snarky comment from Chrysler, but the other end of the radio remained quiet. 

      The rover ploughed blindly into the wind squall.  Through the irregular gusts Annison could see occasional glimpses of the ice-field in front of her, but never more than five or six metres, after which the world would be quickly erased again.  She drove steadily for more than a kilometre towards the ping on the scanner.  Then, suddenly, the rover lurched sideways and became impossibly stuck in some kind of rut.  Annison cursed.

     "I think I hit some kind of rut," she radioed.  "I'm not getting any traction from the rover's drive wheels."  She swallowed hard, hoping Chrysler would respond.  Obviously there was nothing her friend could do, but at this point Annison was counting on the moral support to help her through.  The radio stayed quiet, however, and Annison realised she was on her own, at least for now.  "I'm going out to investigate," she said through the radio.  "At least the Gunchas will have a hard time tracking me through this wind squall."

     For the third time Annison exited the comparative shelter of the rover, and this time she was nearly knocked off her feet by the strength of the wind.  She struggled around the rover, struggling to see anything.  It looked indeed as if the side wheels of the rover had been caught in some kind of linear rut, or rather it felt like that when Annison probed the ground with her boots, for it was still nearly impossible to see anything clearly.  She decided her only option was to get the jack out and try to lift the wheels up out of the rut, but she was at a loss for what to put under them to support the rover back to level ground.  She was just considering how hard it might be to chisel out some ice blocks using the rover's small hand shovel when she heard a definite animal call over the whipping wind.

     Annison crouched instinctively, putting her back to the rover and drawing the rifle from her shoulder.  She waited for the noise to come again, to try to determine its range and direction, but again the world was reduced to nothing but wind-blown snow.  Her options were a lot more limited now, for there was no way she was going to spend an hour hacking ice-blocks and jacking up the rover with her back exposed to the world.  She might wait out the squall in the comparative safety of the rover, but already she felt the numbing cold sinking into her limbs and she knew she would have to turn on the heater, draining precious kilometres from the rover's battery for who knew how long.  And that was if she even made it back to the hatch, for she could have sworn the animal sound was close.

     She would climb up on top of the rover, she decided, the better to defend herself from its comparative height.  The blowing snow in these wind-squalls usually hugged the ground, so there was a chance that she might be able to see further from up there, the better to spot the approach of any threat.  There was also an emergency hatch up there that dropped into the rover's back storage compartment.  It was hard to squeeze through with a polar-suit on,   but she knew it was possible from their emergency training. 

     Taking one last look into the nothingness, Annison turned and scampered up the side of the rover.  It was treacherous going, for the metal was slick with powdery snow, but she managed just on hands and knees.  Getting her balance, she prepared to stand upright to see if she could see above the blowing snow.  But at that exact moment a particularly powerful gust of wind hit her, and she was blown clean off the rover to land heavily on the ice below.

     Annison groaned in pain, but she knew now was not the time to wallow.  If she were injured she would have to make it back inside the rover immediately, or she was surely doomed.  Fortunately the rifle was still around her shoulder, and she clutched it closely to her chest.  Painfully she was able to drag herself to her feet, using the rifle as a crutch more than as a defensive weapon.  She took three steps forward, then stopped.  The wind seemed to have shifted, or maybe she had got turned around during the fall?  She could see nothing ahead, but surely the rover must be there, up-wind?  She took three more steps, and then three more, and still there was nothing.  She was just about to retrace her steps, the better to try again in a different direction, when she clearly heard the animal cry again.  This time there were several cries, seemingly from different animals approaching from different directions.  It was at this point that Annison panicked, and she ran.

     The world was nothing but blowing white, like flying through a cloud.  Her leg and back ached like something fierce, but fear drove her onward.  She didn't know where she was running now, and she didn't really care as long as it was away from the animals.  She would freeze to death running through the wilderness before she would let them rip her to pieces.

     And then her footing failed, and she slipped down a slope, caromed off some ice, and knew nothing more.

*   *   *   *   *

     "There you go," the man's voice said.  A gentle arm helped her to sit up, and Annison blinked awake.  She was in an ice cave, but with electric lighting and a bed.  The air was cool, but not bone-chillingly cold.  She turned to face the man who had spoken, and she couldn't believe her eyes.

     "Copeland?" Annison asked, blinking again.  "But... you died almost a year ago, along with the rest of the Strachan party.  Am I... also dead?"

     "Ha!  No," Copeland assured her.  "A little banged up, perhaps, but you'll make it.  You are quite lucky we found you when we did, though."

     Annison's head swam with questions.  "How...?  Where...?  Why....?"

     Copeland laughed again.  "Those jerks in command were going to get us all killed.  Captain Strachan hatched the plan to fake our own deaths.  Out here we were free!"

     "But..." Annison tried to think, but her head felt like it had been run over by the rover.  "But Gunchas?"

     "Entirely harmless," Copeland assured her.  "We made up those reports about them attacking people, and enough people disappeared mysteriously due to the harsh weather of this world that everyone started to believe the rumours.  Mostly they just roam around looking for moon lichens that grow in the sheltered cracks of the ice fields."

     "But..." Annison tried again, her mind really not up to the task yet.  "But lights... bed?"

   "Of course we stole a few supplies before we faked our demise," Copeland explained.  "And once we were gone the jerk commanders started shutting off parts of the base to make it more manageable.  We usually go back on a weekly basis to raid for materials.  Do you know we've got most of a shuttle built from spare parts we've salvaged?  Captain Strachan figures we can get off this ice cube in less than a year now.  How about that, eh?"

   "Power?" Annison asked.  Her mind just wouldn't let her form sentences.

   "Ah!  We've rigged a wind generator in the caverns just below the surface, where the wind always seems to blow.  Undetectable and consistent power.  It's actually better than back at the old base, since here things actually seem to work!"

   Annison blinked, talk of the base dislodging memories as if they had been frozen into a glacier.  "Radio!" she said, trying to haul herself up to her feet.  "Need radio!"

   Copeland held her down, but gently.  "Easy girl, you've had a rough fall.  And that's one thing we don't have, for the signals would surely get us caught."

   "Time," Annison blurted.  "Running out of time!"

   "Your recovery is something that we can't rush," Copeland told her.  "Indeed, you've been unconscious for almost two days.  What's all the rush about now?"

   Annison was now utterly at a loss for words.

I've started nothing, but I've done some research with a shovel out in the driveway....