Messages

Wow, Pinback, that looks amazing. I have no idea what it is, but it looks amazing. 

A puddle of spit. Was there really no handkerchief available to wipe it off? And why are you carrying it around?

I think I do indeed need a bit more time.

Congratulations again to all winners and nominees.

Thank you to the organizers and everyone else involved and congratulations to Dualnames for a crash free ceremony.

Well done, all around!

I have something in the works, but it turned out to be a bit complicated. I might need more time, but I'm not sure yet.

I can't say I remember "The Last Deal", unfortunately. So many stories over the years! Link?

Yay, newwave's entry is back!

Not my favorite style and I can't really see this as a vacation spot (And I prefer city tours to a beach for my vacations). I do like the blue though and it does look nice in its own way.


Anyway, votes:


Concept: Creamy

Playability: Creamy

Artistic Execution: newwaveburrito

[ten and twenty thousand]

@Mandle:

Spoiler

This one started a bit too purply for my tastes, which also makes it rather confusing in the beginning. I'M not sure what happens, to be honest. A band plays, people are excited and then 'something' happens and the whole stadium is destroyed, multiple people die, then more and more of the world gets destroyed until God itself shows up to destroy even more. But the 'something' in this description is the part I didn't get.
The idea that too  much limbs leads to too much sinning is interesting (and completely absurd, of course), but I have to question your descriptions before the raveal that the people aren't 'us' (in the most general sense). There's not even a hint of an extra leg here or there, the guitars are just called guitars (I would also question the use of guitars by beings that are not humans as we know them, in a time that would be considered the future (somewhat, technically it would be the past, I guess). No other instruments were created?
Nitpick (and I'm not sure it's technically wrong in English): and crushed somewhere between ten and twenty thousand people as it shattered I read this first as 10 and 20000 people, not as the clearly intended 10000 and 20000 people.
Overall, a chaotic ride with a bit of a weird message thrown in in the end.

[close]

@Baron:

Spoiler

Interesting idea. And  rather chaotic scene. I liked the mixing of (the character's) reality and (their) imagined world. It leaves the reader confused in parts, but I think that's intentional, where it's almost impossible to tell whether they are still play-acting or have gone into a real fight. The place where it becomes unclear should be obvious: The queen seethed with anger at this improvisation at her expense, and she decided to go off script herself.
I have a bit of a problem with the reactions of the characters. Nobody seems to notice or care that the queen goes off-script at that point, but later, when the king 'dies' it is described as is they reacted to it. In short, the lines are very much blurred, which is good, but maybe gone a bit too far.
Interestingly enough, I do not agree with your self-criticism. The piece is not too long and, more importantly, I do think I does go somewhere. The airing of grievences leads to a highly dramatic finale that is cut short in an almost cathartic release of laughter. Yes, the story does go somewhere, especially with the last line, noting that the queen has a dagger and is willing make it so or fears that the play will become reality. (or, third option, that the audience will react badly, but I doubt that's what the queen is thinking.)
There are certainly options to enhance both the cathartic release as well as the tension, and there's a very clear option how the line between fiction and reality (within the stors) could be blurred more (and, at the same time, in a less cunfusing manner): Caulendar really happens to march on the castle with an army in that very moment!
All in all, I think this story is actually better than you give yourself credit, though there's certainly options where the main themes could be brought out more. I like it.

[close]

I have voted. I assume we still follow the rule not to vote for ourselves?

Unfortunately, newwaveburrito's entry doesn't seem to load right now (just for me, or everyone else as well?), so I can't vote at the moment.

But I'll say that I love Creamy's scene. I so would like to sit on this bench right now and eat an ice cream. Not so sure about the statue, though. Something more romantc or neutral would fit a plaza like that better, not some random guy in a suit. Love the stairs to the side, gives the scene character, though I wouldn't want to have to go up there, they look a bit steep.

Well, I'll try to remember to come by later again and vote, hopefully with newwave's entry also visible.

As I thought, I had no time to even look at it one more time.

This is a WhoDoneIt. The place where you should try to figure it out is marked. I honestly have no idea how easy or difficult to solve it is.

Out of Rotation

Inspector Kevin Clausen hated on-call-duty. It meant that he could finally spend time with his husband, but, more importantly, it also meant that he constantly felt the need to take his phone out of his pocket, even during the performance.

Inspector Clausen also hated opera. He'd rather have gone to the movies, but his husband loved it, so there was that. The seats were too small, the air stuffy and the music grating on his nerves.

And so he sat sandwiched in between a heavy-set man and his husband and tried to peek inconspicuously on the lit display of his phone whenever the stage was slightly brighter, so that it wouldn't annoy the other theater-goers too much. He was considerate, after all. At least, he liked to tell himself that he was. It wasn't his fault that he was on-duty, after all.

When he didn't glance at his phone, he glanced at his husband. Valin was absorbed by the action on the stage. His silvery locks hung over his cheeks, their tips dancing up and down in the slight breeze of his breath. One strand was caught on the hinges of his glasses. Normally, he would have brushed them away right away, or Kevin would. But something on the stage was drawing all his attention, so that he didn't even notice that the hair was tickling him. His mouth stood half-open, as if he had forgotten to close it after taking a deep breath.

Kevin really could not tell what was so fascinating. As a matter of fact, he couldn't even tell what was going on. He hated to read the plot synopsis before a play, he hated to read the supertitles and he didn't speak Italian – not that he could even decipher the syllables the actors sang, too distorted were they by the way opera was sung. After the opera, Valin would gush about the tenor or one of the arias, about the emotions and the drama, and he would nod his head and agree with everything and he would smile, because Valin was happy. And then he would go and nurse his headache with a beer. He loved Valin. He hated opera.

After another look at his phone, the man next to him cleared his throat rather pointedly and Kevin let it slide back into his pocket sheepishly. Instead of watching Valin or checking his phone, he tried to pay attention to the action on stage.

The music started slow and silent. Short, rhythmic beats on the drums were accompanied by the wailing cry of a woman, then the drums changed to the faster rhythm of a military march as soldiers came on stage. High-pitched, shrieking violins became louder and louder as two men scream-sang at each other, angry voices and fighting stances. Again and again, a trumpet interrupted the argument, calling men to arms and calling war and fight into the blood.

Kevin had to admit, the scene did make his blood boil with anticipation. He glanced up at the supertitles, to get an idea what they were actually fighting about.

"You can torture all my people.
You can torture all my men!"

The stage started to move. Most of the actors jerked forward, only the one styled as a general seemed to have anticipated the sudden movement of the stage. One group of men advanced on the other, while they drew back, but for the audience they all stayed right in the middle of the stage. A piercing shriek from behind the stage elevated the drama of the scene, as the music came to its highest crescendo. It was ear-ripping loud now, kettledrums sounded again and again, pumping each word from the actors mouth right into the heartbeat of the audience.

"You can tor-ture all my peo-ple!"

The scream was uninterrupted. No second was wasted on drawing breath, no rising and falling changed its cadence. It was eerie. And it was louder than the music, louder than the singing, louder than anything Kevin had ever heard.

He admired the sound-design for a fraction of a second, before the cry made his skin crawl and his heart skip a beat.

The actor on the stage interrupted his constant repetition of "You can torture all my men!" clearly in the middle of the sentence. It was obvious without understanding the words. His shoulders slumped in the same second that the moving stage stopped dead. The actors looked at each other confused, standing there in the middle of the stage. Then one, then another, they rush to the back. The music played a second longer. One instrument petered out, destroying the harmony, then the conductor signaled for the whole orchestra to stop.

Silence fell over the auditorium. A loud silence. Because the scream didn't stop. It was interrupted now from time to time as the victim drew breath, but these moments were no relief, not for the audience and not for the man.

In the darkness, whispers, first a few, then more and more started to fill the silence. Soon they were just as loud as every large group of people talking, but again, not nearly loud enough to drone out the scream.

Kevin had started to move without a quick "Gotta go!" to Valin. He squeezed past the shocked audience members in the cramped rows of seats.

At first, he turned left at the end of the row, towards the exit members of the audience would take under normal circumstances, but then he reconsidered. This was not a normal circumstance. It clearly was not. The scream droned in his ears.

The auditorium was still dark, only illuminated by the emergency lights and the spotlights on the stage, when Kevin reached the connecting door between the big hall and the backstage area. The members of the orchestra had disappeared from their pit into the depths of mystery underneath the stage and the curtain hadn't fallen yet, still revealing the eerily empty stage. t had stopped moving, but it hadn't reversed. The scream continued.

The door wasn't locked. It opened easily to Kevins tentative touch and no stagehand or guard tried to stop him from entering the restricted area of all theaters. He doubted there ever was a guard at this door. Security was not a great concern in a little city theater.

Behind the door was a short hallway with a downwards staircase that lay in complete darkness. Only when he turned around did he see the emergency exit sign shine over the door he had just entered through. The door immediately shut out the frantic whispers of the audience, but the enclosed space only seemed to strengthen the volume of the scream.

Inspector Clausen's phone vibrated when he opened the next door. Here, bright light shone into his dilated pupils, blinding him for the fraction of a second. He used the time his eyes needed to get accustomed to the light to answer the phone.

"I'm already there." he mumbled to the operator on the other end of the line. "I'm on it." He hung up without further explanation.

The room Inspector Clausen had just entered had a low ceiling and was about as large as the stage right overhead. Pillars and open mechanical elements he couldn't identify right away dominated the space. Further back, there were narrow stairs that led up to the back part of the stage and hatches overhead with ladders were other hidden entrances to the stage.

The room was cramped. Actors and musicians and stagehands stood close to each other, in small groups or as alone as was possible in the little room available, talking agitated among each other. Their eyes were all focused in one direction and in one direction only. Towards the other side from which he had entered a man half stood and half hung between parts of the mechanical elements of the stage. He couldn't really identify what each part was, but going by the context alone, Inspector Clausen could tell that the man, a stagehand by his clothes, was trapped between the wall and the moving stage. It had stopped moving, not crushing him further, but clearly applying enormous pressure on his torso and legs. How he could fill his lungs to scream, Kevin had no idea.

Panic, instinct nearly made Kevin scream to reverse the stage, to get him out, but in the last second he stopped himself. There were certainly serious injuries inside his body. And reversing the movement could make it worse. Two medics were already next to the man, probably those that were always present in a theater during a performance, but just then the wailing of a siren cut through most of the chaos.

Inspector Clausen used just this chaos to get an impression of all the relevant people. Nobody had noticed him yet. So far, there was nothing to tell him one way or the other if this was an accident or something relevant to his work. Inspector Clausen was used to his victims being dead when he arrived on the scene, and a short, unwelcome thought told him that he very much preferred it this way.

That people watched in shock was not unexpected. People stared. They always did. People were always curious. And in a situation like that, they were all pale and looked sick. What did he expect, that someone looked gleefully at the suffering man? Most murderers were not psychopaths. As a matter of fact, they were relatable.

As chaotic as the scene seemed, there was some order to it. Musicians stood with other musicians, actors with actors, stagehands with stagehands, and a few men in evening-wear tried to get some order into the groups. They had arrived later and the couple of snippets of conversation he got from them were more concerned about the audience and the rest of the evening than the life of the man crushed under their stage. Mercifully, an injection into his arm let his head slump forward and his raw scream stop.

Firefighters, emergency doctor and police all arrived nearly at the same time. As the firefighters readied a chainsaw to cut off part of the underbelly of the stage, the police cleared the room. People were urged towards the back and up the narrow stairs towards the level of the stage but behind the thick dark curtains that separated the visible part from one nearly as large behind it.

Inspector Clausen let himself drift with the workers, as if he were part of the crowd and not a bystander and observer. Some people looked at him curiously, but most still didn't notice him or ignored him. The actors stood out from the rest of the crowd. Their make-up, that made them look emotional and invested in the action from the distance of the audience to the stage, made them look alien and distant from close-by.

With the scream finally silenced, the loud whispering from the audience reached to the back of the stage and mixed with the nervous chatter of the theater-people. While the audience sounded like a sea of sound ebbing and swelling without any order, a rhythm-less hissing, Inspector Clausen could finally make out some of the conversations among the staff.

"He wasn't supposed to be there!" one of the stagehands said to no-one in particular.

Inspector Clausen's ears zeroed in on this sentence like those of a German Shepherd. A few steps through the crowd brought him face to face with a young man dressed in all black, who nearly faded into the thick fabric of the stage-curtains. His black locks hung deep into his eyes, hiding slightly how red they were.

"He wasn't?" Inspector Clausen asked.

"No! Of course not! Everyone has to clear this section before... – Who are you?"

"Inspector Kevin Clausen," the Inspector said and flashed his ID in front of the stagehand. "You were saying?"

"Well," he hesitated a moment, "Well, he wasn't! Jonas is responsible for putting the props for the next scene on the part of the stage that moves up in the next scene and –" having said all this in one continues stream, he interrupted himself to take a deep breath, "- and he has to move away before I activate the rotation of the stage and I can't see into the, into the -"

"So, you are responsible for activating the mechanism?"

"Yes. But I..."

"And who are you?"

"Marcus. Marcus Simena."

"From your position, you couldn't see Mr. ...?"

"Legion. Jonas Legion. He's responsible for setting up the props for the next scene. But he's supposed to be gone by the time I activate, ... I activate the..." He choked on his own words.

Before Inspector Clausen could continue the interview, a man in a business suit stormed over to them. "You!" he called out, though it wasn't clear if he meant the Inspector or the stagehand. "You! You started the mechanism too early! You are responsible -"

"Excuse me, who are you?" Inspector Clausen interrupted the new arrival. There were too many people here, too many people who could hear his conversations and too many people to keep straight. It wasn't a good idea to conduct interviews amidst this chaos if you wanted order, but it was a good way to get organic reactions.

"Samuel Winthrop. I'm the director here and I do not appreciate you interrupting my work with senseless questions." The man spoke with arrogance. "Before you continue this, rather tell me when we can continue the performance?"

Inspector Clausen stared at the man for a moment. He hadn't even considered that there might be the idea to continue. It seemed obvious to him that the performance was done for the day, maybe for the next days or even weeks.

"We have an auditorium full of people out there!" The director gestured widely towards the curtains that separated the back of the stage from the rest.

How much time had passed since the incident? Minutes? It felt like hours, but it couldn't have been too long. And there was indeed an auditorium full of people sitting close-by, still agitatedly whispering – or rather, by now, talking in a normal voice – amongst themselves, without any knowledge what was going on behind the scene.

Ending the performance for the day would mean chaos, sending the audience home would also make it easy for some of the workers to slip away. Kevin didn't like to make such a decision, but it was necessary and it was necessary to make it now. "The stage cannot move. Nothing on the stage or backstage can move." he finally said after some consideration.

Mr. Winthrop nodded once and turned on his heels, not acknowledging the Inspector further. Kevin shook his head absentmindedly. People reacted differently to unusual situations, they might seem cold-hearted or distant, unmoved by the catastrophes around them, but that didn't mean that they were. It didn't mean that they were responsible for them either.

While the director hurried away, Inspector Clausen turned back to the stagehand, Marcus. "What did he mean, you started the mechanism too early?"

Marcus, whose eyes had followed the director as well, jerked back towards Kevin. His hands, shot up and only now did Kevin notice a crumpled-up piece of paper in the stagehand's hand. "I don't know!" he exclaimed, "I honestly don't know! I followed the plan!" He shook the paper in front of Kevin's nose. "I followed the plan!"

"May I see it?" Kevin asked gently.

It took Marcus a while to loosen the cramps in his hands and straighten the paper out for the Inspector to see. The paper was slightly ripped and damp from sweat and the ink on it was a bit smudged.

It didn't add to the intelligibility of the plan. In one column, the last, were work instructions that were fairly straightforward. Move stage clockwise. Or Open hatch 3. More complicated were the first and second column. The first contained times, not absolute times like 7:30 pm, but relative ones 15 min 20 min, probably referring to after the start of the show. The middle column was the most interesting, and also the most confusing. Here, musical notes and lyrics were printed as cues for the stagehand. A forth column contained addition working instructions, each with a name next to it.

Inspector Clausen soon found the relevant information. At 47 min after the start of the show, when General Roberts, played by Piotr Fidelo, started to sing You can torture all my people! and slightly before – according to the forth column – Jonas had finished setting up the props for Act 1 Scene 5, the stagehand this plan belonged to was supposed to rotate the stage counter-clockwise.

This all seemed fairly straightforward to Kevin, even though he noticed some security risks right away. There was no direct communication between the stagehands during the performance? There was nobody keeping an overview of everything, directing and instructing them in real time? All this procedure was based only on a piece of paper? Several pieces of paper, one for each of the stagehands?

The auditorium had become silent while Inspector Clausen studied the work plan and the backstage area had cleared out somewhat as the musicians had returned to their pit. The pulsing, military-like music pumped heavily through the wooden planks of the stage. It felt slower than before, just as loud but at the same time muted.

The light behind the curtain had somewhat dimmed, and Inspector Clausen watched the singers all take a deep breath before walking out onto the stage. Even through their heavy make-up, it was obvious that they were pale. Inspector Clausen moved closer to the back curtain through which they had disappeared into the stage light and watched them through it for a moment. They walked to the front of the stage, not facing each other as before, but looking into the auditorium. From time to time, their eyes seemed to drift towards the edge of the stage and the floor. Their voices were shaky, obvious even through the stylized singing and only the main actor seemed to still be able to pour his heart into the performance.

"You can torture all my people!" the General shout-sang.

It still sounded angry, maybe even angrier than before, more defiant, more aggressive.

Inspector Clausen shook his head. It didn't mean anything.

After a few words with the other police officers who had arrived in the meanwhile, Kevin took the stairs back under the stage. By now, the room was empty, except for two other policemen standing guard close to the side of the incident. Parts of the supporting structure of the mechanism was sawed off. Wood that was painted black everywhere else, lay blank, showing its texture. A few rests of medical equipment lay on the ground, the plastic cap of a syringe, the paper from the back of the sensors of a cardiogram. What was not there was blood. The mechanism had squished Jonas, probably broken several bones, maybe internal bleeding, but now, from the outside, after the victim was gone, there was not a lot to see.

The Inspector didn't expect much either. But he was looking for one specific bit of evidence. He found it lying flat on the ground, as if someone had just randomly placed it there and then forgotten about it.

Kevin took the paper, the work plan that belonged to Jonas Legion and looked over it quickly.

47 min – "You can torture all my people!" - Props for Act 1 Scene 5
50 min – Hurt them, punish them, torture them! - Rotate stage counter-clockwise (Marcus)

There was nothing else to see at the scene of the crime and Inspector Clausen returned upstairs as the music reached a new high. The drums made the floor shake like a slow earthquake before it came to a sudden, dramatic and loud stop. There was silence for a moment, from the musicians and from the audience. The act wasn't over yet and the audience knew not to applaud then, but Kevin doubted they would applaud at all today, at least not with any enthusiasm. How much did the audience know of what had happened? Enough, probably.

After a moment, the music started again slowly. It was solemn now, almost like it wanted to commemorate the events of the night but needed to get some anger out of its blood before. The military march from before was replaced by the dignified sounds of a funeral march, the war-cries changed to the cries of pain and death. Act 1, Scene 5, the last before the intermission. Kevin only knew this because he had read it on both work plans.

A woman was singing now and Kevin had a chance to study most of the actors. Their was sweat on their faces and the make-up was slightly smeared. Surely, on any normal day, the actors would go to their dressing rooms as soon as they were no longer needed on stage, they would drink and relax for a couple of minutes, they would have someone freshen up the foundation and lipstick and all these things. Now, they were reluctant to return to their rooms. Normally, they probably wouldn't stand backstage and talk right now, but they did.

"It's not the first time Jonas messed up." Piotr, distinguished by his uniform as a General, said, anger in his voice.

People were strange. People liked to blame others for mistakes, people liked to find someone responsible, whether they were or not hardly mattered.

"Yeah, he did," a lady in an elaborate dress agreed. "He should have been fired after last year."

"What happened last year, Miss...?" Kevin asked them, always eager to interrupt interesting conversations.

"Lilian Morgan. Jonas didn't tie a knot properly. Part of the background fell down and Claudia, Piotr's wife, broke her leg. It wasn't serious, and honestly, we can't even be sure it was Jonas' mistake."

"But you still think he should've been fired?"

"No, I - ... - I guess I just said that because... Well, it's the second accident involving Jonas in just a year, and, well..."

"I understand." And Kevin did. It was the usual blame-game, the wish to find fault he was so familiar with.

"It was an accident. I hope he'll be alright. Oh, god, I hope he'll be alright!" Lilian's voice became high-pitched at the end of this statement and a tear drew a line through her make-up.

Piotr put his arm around her shoulder. "I'm sure he'll be. He always is, isn't he? He's one lucky bastard."

Lilian laughed with a short breath. "Sure." She snuffled. "Sure is." She snuffled again. "Excuse me, I'll just... I'll be in my room." She forgot to lift her long skirt and stumbled slightly as she walked further towards the back.

Piotr followed her with his eyes until she was out of view, then he turned towards the Inspector.

"She doesn't want to say it, not like that. Who would want to talk bad about the victim of such an horrific accident? But -" He hesitated a moment, "But Jonas really isn't the best stagehand and he really was responsible for the accident last year. It's awful, it really is, and it's awful to say this, but I hope he finally learns from this incident and pays more attention to instructions and to his work in general in the future."

"If he survives." Inspector Clausen reminded him gently.

"Oh, he sure will," Piotr said off-handedly, "After all, he really is one lucky bastard." While it sounded gentle when he said it to Lilian, there was now carefully suppressed vitriol in his voice.

Kevin ignored it. "When is the stage supposed to start moving?" he asked instead.

"Right at the beginning of the Quartet, of course." When the Inspector just looked confused at Piotr, he elaborated: "When I start singing You can torture all my people. It's a very distinct musical composition."

"Thank you. I might have further questions later." The Inspector nodded as if to dismiss the General.

Meanwhile silence fell over the theater as the funeral march came to its conclusion. The last instruments petered out as the last note of the song drifted over the audience. Now, there should have been applause, but there wasn't.

As the lights on the stage dimmed while those over the audience became glaringly bright for the intermission, Inspector Clausen looked thoughtfully through the dark curtain down on the audience. His eyes searched for his husband. Valin's silver locks didn't exactly stand out in the sea of older men and women – and the few younger ones – but the fact that he didn't stand up for the break and instead stayed in his seat, made him easier to find. He wasn't the only one, but knowing where his seat was, he still found him soon enough.

He wanted to go down to him, kiss him on his cheek and never ever go back to an opera house again. But his work here wasn't done, even though he had a fairly good idea what had happened. Still, there was one question left he needed to ask. He spotted the director, Samuel Winthrop at the stage entrance, leaning against the wall and watching the audience.

The curtain had stayed open for the intermission, but Kevin didn't care as he now walked right across the stage and towards a small set of stairs at the side.

"Mr. Winthrop," he said, "One question."

"Yes?"

"Was anything changed in the process for this performance compared to others?"

Mr. Winthrop looked at the Inspector questioningly. "No, of course not, why?"

"And when is Jonas supposed to put the props for the fifth scene on up? Before or after the stage starts to move?"

"Before, of course, how would you put everything when half of the floor moves?"

"I thought so, thank you."

Inspector Kevin Clausen was rubbing his chin as he walked through the rows of seats back to his husband.

"I assume you're not done here, going by your face?" Valin asked as soon as he was close-by.

Kevin shook his head, then he nodded, only to shook his head again right after. "I think I know what happened." He said slowly. "I'm not sure I can prove it."

"Walk me through it." Valin said and kissed him on the cheek.

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An author's note in the middle of the story? Well, there's a reason:
If you're in the mood, feel free to guess what happened now. Was a crime committed or was it an accident? Who is responsible? And why?
Continue reading behind the spoiler tags for the intended solution.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Spoiler

Kevin nodded again. "Two work plans," he said slowly, more to himself than to Valin, "One obviously wrong. They contradict each other, it's impossible that both are true."

"Okay." Valin said, encouraging his partner to continue on. He had no idea what Kevin was talking about, but he knew it helped him to speak his thoughts.

"I know which one is wrong. It's obvious, it really is. It doesn't make sense to move the stage before putting up the props, the other way around, it puts Jonas right in the middle of danger. Marcus' plan is wrong. He didn't change it, though, no he was distressed, he didn't know what had happened. He followed the plan and he nearly killed a man. Might be a good actor, but... No, no I don't think so. He gave me his plan without hesitation. He probably doesn't know all his cues without looking it up. And he didn't notice that someone changed it. Changed it with the intent to hurt Jonas? I guess so. Why change it otherwise?"

Valin nodded, "Okay, that makes sense." He had no idea if it did, of course, but that wasn't the purpose of the comment anyway.

"But who changed it? Who had the opportunity? Simply put, everyone. Security is abysmal back there. Piotr hates Jonas, he has a motive. So I think this is what happened: Piotr, angry because of the accident last year where his wife was hurt, wanted to hurt Jonas. He changed Marcus' plan, maybe because he expected people to check Jonas' plan but not Marcus'? I don't know. He certainly wanted to make me believe that Jonas is irresponsible. I don't have proof. Fingerprints on the changed plan, maybe, but it's in an awful state. Witnesses? Unlikely. The plans of the other stagehands, obviously..."

"Well, sounds like you've got your work cut out for you. At least you did have a fun this evening after all."

"Valin, I'm s-"

"Don't. Don't apologize. It's the job, not you. At least we spend part of the evening together doing something I like. Now, go get the proof you need!" With that, Valin kissed Kevin on the cheek and then shooed him away.

[close]

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The opera is fictional, as is the attempted murder. The description of the scream is not. I was in the audience of an opera when a technician got caught in the moving stage. If you're questioning that the performance continues in the story after the incident, that's also true, though none of the descriptions of what happened backstage are. That's all made up, of course.

I don't think murder mysteries will ever be my favorite genre to write. I'm never sure if I give enough information, if I make it too easy or too difficult, etc... Or if it even makes sense.

I just came here to post mine, but I don't mind a few extra days. At the moment, mine is pretty rushed, although I don't know if I'll be able to change much in the next few days.

Anyone else entering, except for Mandle (maybe) and me?

I might need a bit more time. My characters are divas. I really don't understand why they don't like getting murdered, so inconsiderate... 

Congrats Stupot!

From what the mother was telling her child, I expected that maybe she was threatening something a bit more disturbing than a beating, like maybe she was threatening she would slit her own wrists if the test results weren't good. Or maybe that's what you meant

I left it intentionally vague, as Martha wouldn't know. But I certainly thought of abuse, most likely physical. Technically, it's also possible that they just won't eat icecram later that day. It could be something innocent, people do misunderstand conversations, after all (though it's not likely here.)

I would choose: "A Music Concert"

+1 (maybe not just concerts, but all things in a place with a stage: play, opera, concert, acrobatics, etc)

@Mandle:

Spoiler

This story left me mostly confused. There are some inconsistencies or required suspenses of disbelieve that make it rather difficult to get into the story. For example: It's been millions of years since books were regularly printed, and Verill was alive at this time as he remembers books from his youth. That would mean he's millions of years old (because even if books existed longer than they were printed, if we have timespans of millions of years, a couple of thousand are neglactable. - And books really don't survive that long.) You mention that humans are long-lived in the story, but the start of this longivity would need to be close to our time for books to still be printed. I simply don't believe this.
But that's all just set-up, so let's look at the actual plot. "James knew that the Caa had detected the hack and were already scanning the sphere for the singularity they needed to destroy to keep the blueprints for the bomb falling into enemy hands: the densest concentration of military knowledge that could be used against them. " I don't get this logic. Why destroy the densest concentration instead of being more specific, or, well, everything? And why does it have to be a human and not a computerchip? Why does James need to sacrifice himself?
I had to read the ending three times to even really grasp what was going on. It was confusing.
I do like the vivid image of books floating in space though. One might read it as the caducity of knowledge (or something)

[close]

@Stupot:

Spoiler

I assume the framing part of the story is autobiographic? In which case: Congrats on your wife's pregnancy and may the delivery go smoothly and the baby be healthy. (And if it's not autobiographic, I just wish the same to your character - characters are human, too!  )
Anyway, I like the framing part far more than the story about Simon. As presented, it's a bit of a run-of-the-mill story about a boy with a dificult family; nothing really stands out.
Jacob's story, on the other hand, is interesting when it come to the topic of sacrifice. In a way, we have a mirrored sacrifice on display here: on the one hand, Jacob sacrifices his writing time to make paper airplanes with his son; on the other, he might need to sacrifice other elements of his life to finish his story. Ultimately, it's luck that allows him time to write (work doesn't need him) rather than an active decision, but the seed is still there - or did he forgot to cook the rice? Could have made the story more poignant if he actually did.
In the end, even if this second kind of sacrifice (sacrificing something else in order to write) isn't very present in the story, but it still overall illustrates the daily little sacrifices life demands of us.
Your story is basically a slice-of-life story in a pretty good way. I liked it.

[close]

Baron, your voting system stresses me out. Voting not comparatively but rather on a scale makes me feel bad when I don't give max points! With an absolute number of points to distribute among the participants, at least everyone gives the same number of points.
I'll decide on my votes a bit later (and I'll probably re-read Mandle's story one more time.)

[The Probabilities of Compassion]

This story takes place in a school and some knowledge of grades might be required. It's mentioned in the story as necessary, but just to make it easier: This is the German grading system (or one of them, Germany is complicated when it comes to schools):

1 best
2 good
3 ok
4 just passing
5 not passing but can usually be balanced out with a 1 or two 2s in a different subject
6 fail

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

The Probabilities of Compassion


Luisa was shaking. Again. She tried to hide it, but wasn't very successful. Her skin was clammy and pale, her eyes darted from one side of the room to the other.

Martha looked up from her book from time to time. She didn't mean to stare at the other girl, but she did. In truth, she was nervous herself and only pretended to read her book in the break before their next lesson. Or rather, exam. With a sigh she put her book away. There was no use reviewing formulas right before anyway.

Instead, she rummaged in her backpack and took out her notes on her grades. The paper was crumpled and torn, sentences and numbers were crossed out and others added in the spaces between the lines, grades were underlined or marked in other ways. It was a chaotic note for an orderly mind. Martha's grades were good overall. Music was bad, but still a passing grade and other than that, there were no huge problems. But Martha was ambitious. Looking at the average of her maths' grade, she reminded herself that she needed a 1 to receive a 1 overall. She could do it, she knew she could. Maths wasn't particularly difficult for her, but that didn't change the fact that she was nervous.

Drrrrr. Drrrrr. Drrrrr.

She jumped. She was sure she had turned off her phone. She always did. Martha was a stickler for rules and having the phone turned on in school was not allowed. Still, the note slipped from her fingers and slowly sailed to the carpeted floor.

But it wasn't her phone. Of course it wasn't.

Luisa jumped and kicked her backpack over. Things tumbled out onto the floor. She scrambled through the contents of her backpack,

Drrrrr Drrrrr

sweat clearly visible on her forehead and on her cheeks. Or were it tears?

,,Hi, mom." Her voice sounded cheerful, high-pitched, bright.

Drrrrr. Drr...

Luisa took the phone from her ear and looked at it confused for a second, then she slid the screen to accept the call.

,,Hi, mom." she said again, slightly less cheerful and with a note of resignation in her voice.

,,Luisa." The woman's voice carried through the phone and the short distance to Martha. ,,When is your test?"

Luisa's hands were shaking. She rubbed her palms over the legs of her jeans again and again, not like she was straightening out a wrinkle, but pressing hard on the cloth and the little bit of skin and fat underneath. ,,In... in a few minutes, mom."

,,A few minutes? Why are you on your phone when -"

,,You called me, mom!"

,,Don't take this tone with me."

Martha had no idea what tone that would be. With this thought, she realized that she was eavesdropping and went to pick up her note again. She folded it carefully, far too carefully for such a worn out piece of paper, and tucked it into her pencil case.

DingDong DingDong

Martha stood up as soon as she heard the gong.

,,Mom, I got to go." Luisa said, quickly pushing her things back into the backpack. ,,That was the gong, I have to -"

,,Don't you dare hang up on me!"

Already a few steps towards the classroom door, Martha turned around and went to help Luisa pick up her stuff. She was still on the phone.

,,And don't you dare come home with a 3 again, or else..."

There was a lot of stuff on the floor, books and notebooks, pencils and chewing gum, lipstick, a calculator with a now broken display, ...

By the time everything was back in the bag, the two girls were late. Martha didn't mind. Since when were teachers punctual? But it didn't help with Luisa's nervousness. She fumbled with her phone as she put it away and didn't even say thanks to Martha or look at her as she rushed to the classroom.

For once, the teacher was already there. A substitute, Mr Martin, who hadn't learned the names of the students yet, despite being there long-term as Miss Rodriguez had some complications with her pregnancy.

,,You're late!", the teacher chided, as the two girls sat down on their respective chairs.

It wasn't his voice that rang in Martha's ears though, as Mr. Martin distributed the exam papers, nor the gong that had been far too loud since the last fire alarm test, nor maths formulas shouting at her to find the right answers. It was the voice of Luisa's mother. Or else! The words weren't even meant for her, and they still let a chill run over her spine. They were a threat. A very clear threat. Or maybe the mother was joking? Martha didn't know her, after all, didn't know her usual tone of voice, didn't know the inside jokes of Luisa's family.

She glanced at her in that moment. Luisa was sitting two seats in front of her and one to the left. One hand was still rubbing the legs of her jeans, while the other was high in the air, waiting for Mr. Martin to acknowledge her. Her foot was tapping up and down, up and down, almost too fast to see.

Martha saw only half of her cheek as she turned slightly to follow Mr. Martin with her eyes, but Luisa's skin was clearly still damp and pale.

Maybe she was sick. Maybe she always was this nervous. After all, it couldn't be that her mother threatened her because of a 3? A 3 was still a passing grade, after all.

And why was Martha even still thinking about this?

Calculate the probability of the following events: she read.

,,My calculator is broken!" Luisa's voice interrupted her concentration. Mr. Martin still hadn't acknowledged her and come over to her so that they might talk silently, and so Luisa shouted the words with a slight panic.

,,Does anyone have a second calculator?" Mr Martin asked with a sigh, as if such a simple request was too much of a bother for him.

Those of the class who reacted at all shook their heads but most were already concentrating on the stochastic test, Martha included.

From the corner of her eyes she saw Mr. Martin shrug his shoulders. ,,Then you're out of luck. It's your responsibility to bring your things and keep them in a working condition."

,,But -"

,,No but. Get to work, no more talking." With that, Mr. Martin turned around and strolled to the front of the class.

The next minutes were mostly silent. There was a bit of rustling of paper here, a pencil scraping over some lines there, a cough, the creaking of a chair – the usual sounds of a class concentrating on a test.

And Martha could finally start to work on hers. As always, once she actually paid close attention to the questions and formulas, it was fairly easy for her. She never understood why it wasn't for other people. Maths was always logical, always structured, always obvious. So often, when she was younger, an answer just came to her without thinking, because she was able to do three steps at once.

There were three long questions in the text, each with multiple subitems. From time to time, she heard one of her classmates silently groan at this format, because questions that were build on each other made it so much more difficult to receive points for parts of a correct answer.

She was just done with the first larger question, when a sound called her attention once again to Luisa. Sitting behind her, she couldn't be sure, but it certainly looked as if the other girl was mildly sobbing. She for sure wasn't writing anything on her exam paper and wiped her eyes from time to time with her sleeve.

When Martha was done with the second question, Luisa stood up, took her paper and walked to the front of the class. She put the exam on the teacher's desk and turned around.

,,You're not done." Mr. Martin said, a clear statement of fact. ,,If you think you're done, read through it again." And he handed her the paper back.

As she was walking back to her seat, there was no doubt for Martha. Luisa had been crying. Her skin, so pale before, was as red as her eyes, only interrupted by white lines, where tears were not wiped away fast enough and had ran down her cheeks.

Luisa sat back down and stared at her test. She wasn't reading it. She probably wasn't even seeing it.

Was it because of the broken calculator? Because she wasn't that good at maths anyway? Was it because of her mother's threat, non-specific as it might have been? Or was it even non-specific for Luisa? Didn't she probably know exactly what or else meant?

Either way, Martha didn't know, but she kept thinking about it. She kept hearing the words in her thoughts. If her own parents reacted like that to a bad grade. Not that there were many bad grades for Martha. But being good was never good enough for her, she wanted to be the best. Not necessarily better than everyone else in her grade, but as good as she could possibly be. She wanted to be the best version of herself: studious, honest, rule-abinding, with integrity. She wanted good grades, she wanted to earn them and deserve them and get them. A 1 on this test would guarantee her a 1 on the end-of-year report, a 3 or worse would mean a 2, with a 2 on this test it depended on other factors.

All these thoughts weren't exactly helping her concentrate on the third and last question and time was ticking by faster than she wanted it to. As a matter of fact, she suddenly became acutely aware of the ticking of her wristwatch and of the constant movement of the hand of the large clock on the wall. Five minutes were left and she still had three more sub-questions to solve.

A few of the other students got up and turned in their papers, but Luisa was not one of them. Chided by the teacher before, she kept staring at her desk, clicking the back of her pen fast and unrhythmicly on the table.

DingDong DingDong

Luisa jumped at the sound.

,,Alright, time's over. Turn in your tests!"

Martha wasn't done. Martha was always done when time was up. She had never not been done before.

Just one last - she thought and scrambled to write down one last number. There was still one sub-question left, but she was out of time. Maybe it was good enough. Maybe it would still be a 1.

Luisa stumbled forward right in front of her and threw her test on the desk without looking at anyone, almost running, certainly fleeing from the classroom right after.

Martha put her test on the table as well, her movements subdued, careful. She didn't feel certain at all about her answers, having had no time to look over them one last time as she usually would have done, then she picked up her backpack and headed to the door as well. She was the last to leave

With sudden realisation, Martha stopped in her tracks. She had forgotten to write her name on the test. She turned around and snatched the paper back from the teacher's desk.

"Forgot to put my name!" she half mumbled, half exclaimed.

With her back to Mr. Martin, she put the paper on the nearest student's desk and started to write her name, when she noticed that she had accidentally taken the test underneath hers as well. Luisa's. A quick look told her what she already knew: that Luisa had answered nearly none of the questions. She also hadn't put her name on it either, if by accident or intend, Martha could not tell.

When she turned the tests in again, there were names on both of them, Luisa's and Martha's.

Or else. Hopefully, Martha would never find out what it really meant, because Luisa did not have to experience it. What did a 1 on the report card mean anyway?

[The Lurker]

Mandle:
The Lurker: Well, luckily, that one didn't in the sinister direction it seemed to in the beginning. I'm sure that was intentional. But if the man has such a child-like mindset, I'm not sure he should be alone on the playground, simply because adults might misinterpret his intentions.

[Faceplant]

Stupot:
Faceplant is obviously a horror story, not just with the tendrils squashing James' head but also in the backstory. For that, the short format doesn't do this story good, as the sense of horror one should feel can hardly be transportet into so few words. I think this would work better as a full-fledged story. But what a horrifying idea this is!

Mandle: (too bad I can't vote for you; I still think the admin shouldn't enter, so I agree with this, but you have some interesting stories.)
Tim's Cat: My first though  was cute, then I was slightly confused and then it clicked. A very good use of the limited word count. Every paragraph moves the story further along. I like it.
The Occupant: I think you went a bit far in the vivid image department and forgot to stop in the clarity department. In other words, good descriptions but I have no idea what is going on.  Formating it like a poem doesn't help with clarity either and there's really no reason to, as you don't use rhymes or rhythm.
The Cure: The short format works well for this story, as long as one is familiar with zombies, of course. An explanation why the cockrach-therapy works and doesn't work would be nice (why is it especially Abrams where it doesn't work?), but I guess that's a bit much to ask for such a short text.
Dragonchase: Well, that fits nicely between my little dragon saga  As Baron says, it feels epic in the beginning. But I really didn't like the ending, it's a bit too sudden for me, maybe a tiny hint early on would make it feel less like a completely different story.

Baron:
You Think that's Messed?: The re-telling of an old tale, though in a very different tone. I'm sure it was fun to write and an interesting challange, but there's a reason Tolkien wrote six books (nowadays usually sold in three volumes) and not a short story. This is so short, it feels like the summery of a summery's summery (or something like that).
The Slope: Good rhymes, slightly wonky rhythm at times, especially in the last stanza, and should really be written with a new line where the cesura is (I hope I got the right word here, I mean there should be a line break between 'grand' and 'a'; 'sand' and 'in'; 'one and 'he'd' - and so on) as it would be easier to read and follow the rhythm - but this is mainly just my preference, as poetry can do whatever it wants. There's clearly a message here, but the word choice is a lot clearer in the beginning than in the end; does "craze" mean one of the two options offered before, or is it a third one, for example.

(I feel slightly disadvantaged from a mathematical point of view, but I guess it was my choice to enter six stories  )

[Horsefight]

Horsefight

The dragon flew high over the galloping horse. He overtook it, then tipped his wings to the left, starting a downwards drift.

As soon as the horse noticed the giant beast above its head, it steered to the side, but the terrain didn't offer too many different paths.

Coming down, the dragon stretched his claws towards the panicked animal. Before it could even whinny pitifully, the dragon closed his paw around its chest. Not even hesitating in his flight, he flapped his wings once or twice and soared high into the sky again.

The horse's legs dangled helplessly between his scaly knuckles.

After only a few seconds, he landed close to his friend, the knight, but didn't let go of the horse.

"Maybe we should get rid of the horses." The knight sighed.

"Can I eat it?"

"No eating the help!"

The dragon pouted.

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

More cheating from me: Part 3 (see Dragonfight and Knightfight above). I'm done now with this little series, I think. (Also: poor horse)

[Knightfight]

Knightfight

The dragon's ears were still ringing from the loud explosion when he finally managed to see through the blinding light that had accompanied the sound. His sense of direction was as much confused as his sense of hearing and seeing and so it was of little wonder that he found himself lying on his back (though only after a moment and with no recall of how exactly he ended up in this position.)

His scaly wings lay at his side and on one of them there was a weight he couldn't place right away. He blinked a few times and soon the glittering mail of the knight came into focus. The knight's sword was firmly placed with its tip on the dragon's nostril, tickling it.

The knight took off his helmet and grinned. "Again?" he asked.

"Your horse ran away again." the dragon grumbled.


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

I guess I'm technically cheating with this one, as it is obviously a companion piece to the previous one (Dragonfight), but it probably also works as a standalone.

[Dragonfight]

Dragonfight

The dragon's head tilted from one side to the other. He blinked a couple of times, staring down at the puny knight underneath him.

He was smaller than his paw, which currently was planted on top of the knight, so that only his head (or rather, the iron helmet around his head) peaked out.

The knight wiggled desperately. It tickled a bit, but other than that, the dragon didn't mind. The knight's sword had fallen, his horse had (rather sensibly) run away.

Slowly, the dragon brought his other paw (and more specifically, his claw) close to the helmet. The sharp horn-like material easily cut through the iron. After getting it open, the dragon removed the protection fairly gently from the knight's head.

The dragon took his paw from the knight's chest and growled: ,,Again?"

,,Sure. If only you wouldn't always scare off the horse."


Edit: Corrected an inconsistency of refering to the dragon as he or it at various points.