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Die Hard?

Alright, I've read Mandle's story and send my vote., but I don't think I can guea the culprit or fairly judge the story without knowing the intended solution.

Some random thoughts:
- I get serious "Night at the Museum" vibes here (just less funny, more murderous    )
- Of course I know all the characters that show up here, but I haven't read all stories they come from. I do have to wonder, if the following is intentional or because Mandle might be more familiar with the movies about these characters than the original books: Holmes seems off. The description of the deerstalker hat as something typical Sherlock Holmes does not come from the books or short stories, but from the movies (don't remember which ones, but the older 50s or 60s ones) There might have been one or two scenes in the books where he does wear a deerstalker hat, but it is not typical for him, nor are his clothes described that much.
- There are some minor logical inconsistencies, that might be intentional: Dante was at one of these parties before ("Dracula knew Dante, and both knew Scrooge and Tarzan and vice versa.") yet he seems to not react in a knowing way to this situation ([Dante]: "For me it's even a bit more confusing than Hell.") Also: ""Ah, it is quite elementary." said Sherlock to Dante. "There is a book in the basement of this library that pulls us out of our stories. We never know when that might be for us" Dante has been here before, and so has Sherlock, but not at the same time. But why is Sherlock explaining this to Dante?; Apparently, paintings behind the characters show what part of the story they are from, yet they still need to ask about this (granted, it's Tarzan asking, who, at the point in his own story he is ripped from, would not have read A Christmas Carol, but on the other hand, awareness of things happening at these parties seems to stay with the characters, so it's difficult to gauge what they know and what they don't know.
- The narrative tells us it's the first time a cartoon character has shown up, so Garfield is here for the first time and he doesn't say a lot. So why was he murdered? (Really, this means the story technically doesn't fit the topic: Garfield was not rude or obnoxious, nor does he have a victim at the table that might want revenge (unless he ate something from one of the other plates, but we don't hear about it, at least) Looking for a motive, that would mean it lies outside of the direct actions of Garfield. Dante acts suspiscious a couple of times: picking at his food, is confused when it is said that he was at one of the parties before; Sherlock seems off, but that might just be me reacting to little things because he's the charatcer I'm most familiar with; Lisbeth doesn't do a whole lot, nor is she described much. But she does sit next to Garfield and is known to be a bit agressive (though not without reason, if I remember correctly; Dracula is a Vampire (obviously) and of the bunch the only villain; Samwise is described even less than Lisbeth - - In short, I could construe a motive for several of the characters (Drac wants to drink cat blood; Dante is mentally stuck in Hell; Sherlock isn't really Sherlock; Lisbeth really didn't want to share her meal; Tarzan sees the cat as a potential danger, as it is technically a predator) but none that is really evident (nor is there any evidence); And you can't leave out the host of the party either. It calls these characters "idiots", might be friendly ribbing, might be more sinister...

I really can't guess who did it, and my thoughts above are fairly chaotic, just written as they came. But I guess I'll leave my final opinion until I know the intended solution.

GODDAMIT! I JUST FINISHED MY STORY BUT I'M BLOCKED BY THE F**KING "WHITE LIST" FILTER AGAIN!!! Gonna try and sort it out... AGAIN!!!

OW! My ears! 

Glad you managed to post it in the end. Not being able to post must be annoying, especially when there's no real reason.

[Too Bad]

I had a murder mystery planned. I did not have the time to write a murder mystery. (Especially when I managed to confuse myself while planning it out.)

So, this is a last minute entry, just to get a story in:

Too Bad

Now it was finally time for the great feast. Three days and nights they had spent cooking and creating culinary spectacles. The table was set with golden plates and bowls, with crystal glasses and arrangements of ice and light.

Slowly, the guests started to arrive, one after the other, robed in elaborate dresses and adorned with glinting jewellery. They chittered and chattered amongst themselves or with the lady of the house when servants started to bring out the plates.

Hardly paying attention to the words of the adults, the daughter of the house nuzzled the dragon under the table with her pointed shoes. From time to time, she slipped a piece of meat to her pet and the animal purred contentedly.

The dragon licked its snout whenever a new bite reached its hiding spot, but when the little girl wasn't paying attention to the pet or when her shoes touched the wounds on its wings, the purring easily turned into a hiss.

Unlike the girl, the dragon did listen to the conversation at the table.

"It is so easy!" the father said and leaned back in his chair, his fat belly pressing against the table edge. "Take an egg before it hatches, and these beasts love the first thing they see when they do. I sold seven of this hunt already, and just two paid for this house!"

The dragon could not see the self-satisfied smirk on the father's lips, nor the all-encompassing gesture of his arms, but why would it need to, when the words were so clear?

Slowly, with every word of the father, the dragon edged closer towards the feet of the man.

"My little princess here," he petted his daughter's head with his beefy hands without any regards to her comfort, "of course loves to play with them, and doesn't want to give them away, but she'll learn. Profit, profit is everything, and dragons, baby dragons are really no work at all." To support his argument, the father pounded on the tabletop with force, so that every glass and plate jumped into the air.

The little dragon startled, banging its head against the tabletop. Knives and forks, bowls and decorations, that had just settled down, shook again, and glasses, that were already swaying, fell.

Wine poured over the tablecloth and into the laps of more than one woman. Most guests backed away from the table as the dragon spread its wings in shock from the sudden pain in its head. Though small, the dragon's wings still had not enough room under the table to fully spread, not without touching legs and skin.

There was a distinct shriek, then a kick and then a second shriek as the dragon drilled its fangs into the enticing flesh right in front of its snout in shock. Luckily for the woman who kicked the dragon, it was not her leg that was so close to the dragon's teeth.

And even more luckily for people supporting justice and the general freedom of dragons, it was the father's leg that happened to be there.

And you wouldn't believe how he could scream. High-pitched and wailing, not fitting to his usual voice at all, it was an eardrum piercing screech.

Not satisfied with one attack on the eardrums of the guests, the dragon joined in the screeching, though it managed to do so without  letting go of the leg.

Guests stumbled and held their hands over their ears, they got caught in the tablecloth or got stuck on tableware. Dishes fell onto the floor, clattering and shattering, shards burst in every direction, and everyone just tried to flee from the sudden chaos.

Everyone, that is, except for the dragon. The dragon still held the leg of his captor between its teeth, but it was not satisfied with just holding it. It remembered how this man had cut into its wings just a day or so before, so that it couldn't fly away, couldn't fly at all. Because a pet was better on the ground, close to its master.

Well, the dragon did not agree and so it shook its head from one side to the other, while the father dragged and screeched.

This was an exhausting activity, and the little dragon started to breath heavily under the strain. Little did it know, that short and heavy breaths through the mouth are exactly how dragons ignite the fire in their throats. And so, of course, fire soon shot from within. The flame caught hold of the piece of cloth still half attached and half ripped off that once belonged to some elegant and embroidered trousers. It licked up the leg, past the snout of the dragon, making it sneeze.

And so, the dragon let go of the man's leg. The father exhaled relieved, before he noticed the flame licking upwards, upwards on his leg and upwards on the tablecloth, which had caught fire as well. For the dragon, the warmth of the flame was comfortable. The same cannot be said about anyone else in the room. Wine-drenched tablecloth and wine-drenched carpets burn easily and general chaos does not help when you need to extinguish a fire. The dragon did not care, the guests were already running, the mother and daughter among them, but the father's wounded leg would not carry his weight. He stumbled and fell, unable to walk.

"Pull me out of here!" he ordered the dragon, fully aware that dragons understood human speech and that they were strong. Usually, they obeyed the first person they saw when they hatched.

Unfortunately for the man, this dragon peeked out through a tiny hole in its egg while the daughter was polishing it. Too bad. The dragon shrugged and walked away, though it would have preferred to fly.

Frohe Weihnachten euch allen!

[Baron]

Now I do get some votes, but does it help deciding the winner? Of course not!

But thank you to the two people that did take the time to cast some votes for our entrants.

The current count is (including the votes for each other but not my tie-breaker yet):

WHAM: 2 points
Baron: 2 points

I liked both stories, and they both gave me this nice feeling of icy cold I love so much.

WHAM: A technically well written story that creates some clear pictures in my head. The parallell between the frostyness of the landscape and the character's interactions is well placed. But in the end, I'm left with the same feeling of looking for a sense that the characters seem to have. Why did they decide to climb the mountain after all this time? What purpose were they looking for and what changed in the end? The characters are at the exact same point in the beginning and in the end, with maybe the tiny change that there was a long overdue apology. But they seemed to get along just fine (for them, they are fine with it, not necessary they are acting fine to each other from an outsiders perspective) and that doesn't change. I guess I'm missing some kind of character development here. I still greatly enjoyed the story.

Baron: Astondingly, I am really not going to say that the story ends in the middle. No, this story is open-ended, it doesn't wrap up everything, but in a way that works. Yes, we are left wondering if Chrysler is still alive, but in a way that doesn't feel like the author didn't finish writing and more in a gut-punshing way (I hope it's clear what I mean). There are some points I feel might need a bit more explanation, like what happened for the station to be in such a desolate condition, and what happened to the one in command. Also, for the dangers of the gunchas to be believable, the group would have needed to start the rumours very early after they arrived, otherwise people would wonder why these animals turned hostile suddenly. In short, I think the timeline of events could be slightly clearer.

Overall, quality writing from both entrants, but I do have to decide. And for me, I give a slight edge to...

Baron

... and declare him the winner of thie Fortnightly Writing Competition.

Congratulations, go start the next one!

Yes, it's a busy time, but there are only two stories to read. And they are worth reading!

Well, there's still some time left to vote.

I find my inbox a bit lacking in votes. Actually, I have not yet received a single vote for this round.

So, this is your friendly reminder, in case you all haven't seen that voting is open here! (And you don't need to be an entrant or a regular or even a writer to vote - you only need to be a member of the AGS forums!)

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

Well, I'm just glad we did get a competition running here.  Even though I'd rather also see a third entry.

And our entries are:

WHAM - Hot and Cold
Baron - Cold Comfort

Please PM me your choice for the winner of this round (entrants don't need to do this, I'll just allocate one point from each of you to your opponent.)
And remember that comments in this thread are also welcome, no matter if you posted a story here or not.

Voting Deadline: 20th Dec

I'm a bit busy myself right now.

Extension granted. New deadline: 14th December.

So, how are these stories sliding along? Are they slithering towards the goal, or are they frozen stuck?

2 days and a bit left!

[Ice and Snow]

Ice and Snow

It is winter, and supposedly that means it is cold (well, if you live on the northern hemisphere). I like snow (as long as I don't have to drive) and I wonder: Do you too?

You don't have to. You can tell us about the fun children have building a snowman, or about a car getting stuck in a snowstorm. Maybe you want to tell us about scientists in the Arctic or the gripping tale of the person who invented icecream.

No matter what, your story better has something that is freezing cold!

Hot chocolate and coffee will be available in this thread for all on 10. December (which is also when your stories should be posted).
Put on a warm jacket, light some candles and write me some freezing cold stories!

Thanks, everyone, you gave me far too much points, I swear 

See you all next round, but please put on a jacket, it's gonna be cold over there!

Baron:

Spoiler

Cute. There's one tiny bit of critizism I have, and I think it's the same I had last round: Some of the information in your note should have been part of the story: I do think one can figure out that the characters in your entry are cats, but it would have been nice to have it confirmed in-story. Otherwise, cats are always a good thing to have around. 

[close]

Stupot:

Spoiler

I'm not really sure what to think of this story. I guess I'm missing the point (though I'm generally of the opinion that stories don't need a point) I think the first two paragraphs take a lot of the potential impact or surprise from the reader. From the get go, we know that what we are told might not be what actually happened. We can pretty safely assume that this is just the fever-dream of some kids who are high. Maybe the reader is supposed to wonder if the events happened, but there's just too much textual evidence that it did not, no matter how much the narrator insists that it did. In short, while the individual events were not predictable, the overall conclusion was.

[close]

Mandle:

Spoiler

You have some shitty dreams! I can't say I enjoyed this story, but I do think the topic (the topics, there are basically two - this is basically two stories in one)is important: elderly abuse is not looked at often enough and the need for assisted suicide should not be ignored. But the fact that elderly abuse is not talked about often enough also leaves me wondering about one aspect of your story: "although the first part of my story concerning the last and best friend I ever had is well-known across the world" Really? I wish people would talk about it, because otherwise it'll never stop (and abuse like that does happen in real life) but I have my doubts that people would actually care that much. Your world, while shitty for the protagonist, is actually more idealistic than reality is.

[close]

Too bad, I liked Snarky's entry, but without being able to look at it again, I couldn't vote for it. 

Anyways, two nice entries that we do have.


Concept: mattcoles - I really like the trees in the foreground here. They add a lot of creepiness to the scene.
Playability: mattcoles - Clearly defined different kinds of ground might lead to some interesting puzzles here.
Artistic Execution: Creamy - I like the fact that the alien ship is still smoking! Also, the bit of ground in the bottom front that looks almost like a human liing on the ground and reaching out to the spaceship (intentional?).

[Another Spin]

The story won't get better if I keep staring at it. So, here it is:

Another Spin

It was late, and the clock on the mantle ticked unbearably loud. When he heard it, that is. When he woke from his far too light slumber, he always heard it pulsing in his head, impossible to ignore, impossible to push from his thoughts. It was like it was ticking his time away, beat after beat after beat.

If he had been able to, he would have stood up a thousand times and turned it off, every time he awoke. But he couldn't, not any-more. His legs were so tired, his mind so foggy.

Memories mixed with dreams and dreams with shadows. The eerie light that drifted through the crack under the door threw shadows on the walls. He could hear voices there, in the next room, occasionally, too quiet to understand. Intentionally quiet. His wife, Susan, and his daughters. It had been a few weeks now, a few weeks since people started to whisper around him, to speak in hushed voices when they drifted in and out of his room. Their faces changed, but their manner did not, their expressions did not.

They did not say it, not with words, but with every fibre of their actions, every movement, every look. Every gesture was muted, every sentence carefully crafted, every visitor a memory from long ago. But why would they need to tell him something he understood long before they did? Why did they have to elevate his fears by being so secretive about it? He wanted to scream, to beg, to rage, but he could not; not with everyone so muted, so nice.

Now, the light in the next room turned off and the whispered voices slowly faded into rooms even further away. From time to time, light blinked through the thick curtains when a car passed by on the street down below. It was just a strip of light, blinking in and out of existence, not in rhythm with the clock that always ticked and ticked and ticked.

James felt the pillows next to him, the cold bed-sheet where his wife didn't lie that night. She slept somewhere else now, in peace and quiet, and the bed felt so empty without her.

Soon, it would be time for him to go and then Emma wouldn't lie next to him ever again, they would never again kiss or dance in the kitchen. They would never again laugh on the ferries wheel at the fair or scream their heads off on the roller coaster.

When he was especially tired and couldn't sleep, all sounds seemed to become louder. And now, thinking of the ferries wheel and the fair, he could just about hear the music drifting over from the fairground.

Bumm! Bumm! Bumm! it beat with his heart and the carnival barker's voice echoed in his ears. Come, come! Step right up and try your luck!

The hammering of the music was soon joined by the scratchy, muted knocking on his door he had become accustomed to over the last few weeks. At first, he ignored it, observing the shadows on his walls instead. They spun like the ferries wheel, they shook like the bumper cars, they swished like the coaster going around and around and around.

He could almost see them, almost feel like he walked between the various huts again, with Emma at his arm and the giant teddy bear in his other. The ring was burning in his pocket then and the words stumbled through his head even more than those that left his mouth. Emma chattered away about this and that and he could have cursed himself for his inattention. In fact, he did curse himself under his breath and Emma might have even heard him.

The knocking became more insistent, almost audible, before it suddenly stopped and the door slowly invaded the quiet of his room. A head peaked around the corner. Silhouetted against the muted light of the next room, it was impossible to make out any features of the face. James blinked a couple of times while his visitor stood in the door frame, but the person stayed a blurry vision.

The visitor said nothing, probably waiting for James to ask him in or at least to see if the old man was awake, but when neither was discernible in the darkness, the man finally came in. He was followed by a second silhouette, then a third, though this third one seemed almost inhuman in the dark. Leaning on an object he was pushing, he seemed like a centaur walking backwards.

"Turn on the light." the first man whispered.

"What if he's sleeping?" the second asked just as quietly.

"We want to wake him, don't we?" The centaur disentangled himself from the object and turned towards the wall.

A second later, bright light flooded the room, turning dark, unrecognizable shapes in the darkness into just as indiscernible shapes in the blinding light. The flecks of light from outside dancing on the walls disappeared and were replaced by those dancing on his retina. James blinked again, trying to see the faces to the voices he knew so well.

And then, there they stood around his bed, Marc, Julian and Caleb, the same cheeky grins on their faces as in their boyhood when they stole cherries together from the neighbour's garden or shared their answers to a maths assignment. Emma was missing. She hadn't really been part of the group since she turned James down.

James tried to sit up. He felt so weak. As soon as he moved to push his scrawny body up, Marc already stuffed a pillow under his back while Julian pulled a chair towards himself to sit down. Caleb, on the other hand, seemed to have brought his own chair, because he now plumped down in an old-fashioned wooden wheelchair. It creaked and groaned loudly under Caleb's heavyset body.

"Marc? Caleb? Julian?" James asked, looking from one to the other, "What are you doing here?" He knew the answer, of course. They came for the same reason as everyone else. But for once, he made an effort to not show his disdain for all these old friends staring down on him as if he were a dancing bear at the fair. For once, he was actually glad to see the faces looking down at him and a weak grin spread over his face.

Marc, by far the fittest of the four old friends and always the speaker of the group, was the one to speak now as well, "The carnival's in town." he said, as if it was an obvious explanation.

It wasn't. He knew why they were here, why did they have to pretend? "What?"

"Psst!", Marc said and put his finger to his lips, "Quiet. We sneaked in!"

"Sneaked in? What are you... When did you... What?"

"To kidnap you! To the carnival! - We even brought a wheelchair, James." The grin was both infuriating and enticing.

"I'm dying, Marc." James said, surprising himself with the calm tone of his voice. It was the first time he said it, though by far not the first time he thought it. It took all joking right out of Marc's demeanour.

No matter how calm he said it, the words hurt. They hurt his lungs and his heart, but most of all they hurt his mind. He had known for a while now, and for a while death had started to scare him like a little boy from every shadow in the corner and every breath he took. He was not ready, it was not time yet. It felt like death's cold hand was always on his shoulder, pressing his heart with every beat. And once the grim reaper stopped massaging the old muscle, James' life would end and he would have to go with him.

While the cold statement destroyed the air of happiness his three old friends tried to bring to the room of the dying man, Julian, always willing and ready to engage in all kinds of mischief, quickly wiped it away. "This is exactly why we are here."

Caleb nodded and Marc took up the thread of the conversation right away again. "That is why we are here! You are dying" – it was weirdly comforting that Marc didn't try to deny it or sugar-coat it, "so it doesn't matter if you're lying here in bed or do something fun one more time in your life. The carnival's in town!"

James laughed, slightly wheezing. It was an honest laugh, one he needed and one that made him stop worrying about his health for a second. "So it is. I don't think Susan and my daughters -"

"Your daughters would want you to go out with a smile on your lips, wouldn't they?"

"I doubt they want to see him go at all, Marc." Caleb was always the most reasonable of the Wild Five, but that didn't mean he wouldn't help them with their pranks, throwing eggs at a car or later just stealing the same car for a joyride.

"That's why we sneaked in..." Julian said as if explaining the blatantly obvious to a child.

"Come on, let's get you out of bed!" Marc said and started to do just that.

*

The wheelchair rattled over the cobblestones of the pavement, just as creaky and rickety under James' light weight as it had been under Caleb's much heavier.

"It belonged to my grandpa." Caleb said when James looked quizzically at the old thing.

"That explains why it looks like its from the last millennium – because it is." It felt so natural for James to slip back into the joking tone he had always used with his friends, mischief their normal state of mind.

"The last millennium is not so long ago. Never thought I would live to see the next..." Julian mused.

"It was so far away when we were young..." Marc agreed.

Philosophizing and remembering the past, the four friends slowly walked towards the fair ground. They had not bothered to dress James in street clothes, had not bothered to force his stiff legs into unwilling trouser legs or his hurting arms into sleeves. His pyjamas were just fine, and a blanket over his legs and a jacket over his shoulders would keep him warm enough in the summer night.

They were by far not the only people out this late at night. Men and women, young and old, walked the same direction as them, excited towards the carnival, or away from it drunk and stumbling, pushing each other or singing off-key along to the music that drifted over from the beer tent. A live band was playing, their music nearly drowned out by the music and sound effects of the carnival rides and general noises of all festivals.

As they came closer to the fairground, the sounds became more distinct: the howling siren of the roller-coaster announcing the next loop, the bumper cars beeping at each other, the clicking of the low-range airgun at the shooting gallery, the shattering of the tins falling at the ball toss booth...

And the closer they came to the carnival, the more people were on the streets surrounding the fair ground, some staggering on the pavements, others walking outright into the streets, blocking traffic that was already obstructed by illegally parked cars. Marc and Julian walked in front of the wheelchair, pushing through the crowd and clearing a path for their friends. It wasn't easy for two old man, both squarely in their 80s, but as soon as they reached the fair ground the crowd dispersed from the narrow streets onto a wider square, before booths and other attractions formed narrow paths of their own further along.

And there she stood, just like all these years ago, and it felt like seeing her young and beautiful all over again. A grin spread on James' lips and his heart beat faster, just like it did then, and for a moment he even felt the need to dance in his legs again.

Emma. She was standing at the entrance of the fair ground. The short skirt she wore resembled the one she had worn then so much, it could have been the same. It was a bit too fluffy for any fast-paced activities, revealing her legs just like it did back then. And like then, he didn't care that this was impractical clothing for the fair, only that she was as fair as a fairy. And that she was, that she certainly was. She looked young, oh so young, certainly younger than he felt, though his body seemed to quickly catch up with his wishes. Seeing her standing there rejuvenated him in a matter of seconds.

James looked up at Caleb, who leaned on the handles of the wheelchair, slightly wheezing from the walk through the streets. "You didn't say that Emma would be here."

"Surprise!" Caleb whispered back.

It was so long since he had seen her like that, strong and smiling. She had become old, they both had, of course, but now, here, on the fair ground, she had regained so much strength. She smiled shyly, a bit coquettish, flirting with him as if they were still young.

"Come on, Caleb, move it." Marc said, "He can't walk alone." It was a sudden and harsh reminder of his failing body, but strangely enough he didn't mind that too much seeing Emma standing there in front of him.

Caleb took a deep breath to strengthen himself for the next steps. Pushing the chair forward, the soon stood in front of Emma. Smiling, she bent down and gave James a quick peck on the cheek.

"Where to first?" Marc asked, looking over the crowd in the night. Large spotlights illuminated the square in a cold white light and other lights in all colours of the rainbow flashed randomly and in rhythm with the beats of the different music from all the rides. "Roller coaster?"

"Not yet." Caleb answered. "I don't think they let wheelchair-users on the roller coaster."

Marc shrugged. "Too bad. Beer?"

"I'll get some." Julian said and had already disappeared in the crowd when James looked up.

He had paid little attention to the short conversation, too absorbed in his chit-chat with Emma. They hadn't talked for a while, not like that. For once, all worry was forgotten and all fear irrelevant.

"You look beautiful." James said.

"You look strong." Emma said, laughing. It weren't random words, not random compliments, maybe not even honest words. It was a tradition, their way of saying I love you.

Emma was leaning on the back of the wheelchair, half sitting on the armrest. James almost wanted to ask her how she managed to sit like that, when her body felt just as tired as his. Almost. It was an effort, but he didn't want to talk about it, not this evening.

"Ferries wheel?" Marc suggested next and James wasn't sure if he was talking to him or Caleb, but he nodded.

*

A mug of beer rested in his lap, cold even through the woollen blanket that lay over his knees, as the friends pushed James further into the carnival. Emma still sat slightly on the armrest, leaning against the back and against James' shoulder. Her fingers played with his, tipping on one after the other, taking them up and letting them gently fall down again, as if they had not control of their own, as if they were paralysed. They weren't, but James let her play, enjoying her closeness and her touch, leaning against her like she leaned against him. She felt warm, offsetting the cold of the beer, and she smelled of fresh roses and lavender. Close to her chest, he could smell the gentle scent even over the smell of popcorn and stale beer, of candyfloss and gingerbread hearts.

Emma was chatty when they met, but he later learned that she actually liked her world quiet, that she preferred to listen and observe and only the nervousness of being in love had turned her into a blabber mouth. Leaning on the wheelchair now, she remained mostly silent, they both did. Instead, they touched each other, they smelled each other, they laughed with each other about things nobody else noticed and that they did not acknowledge to each other. They just were there, these things, known to them and nobody else, obvious things like the pothole a wheel got stuck in for the fraction of a second, or less obvious like the foam on the beer forming a snowflake for just a moment, only to disappear again in the sea of alcohol.

All these years ago, James would never have thought that they could be so comfortable with each other. Then, James stumbled over his proposal on this very same carnival so badly, that he might have asked her to have a shit with him instead. To this day, he didn't know how she understood what he wanted to ask, even with the ring in his hands. He fumbled it so badly, that it fell into the dirt and rolled a few metres away. One of the hooks holding the stone was still missing to this day and the ring had stayed in his bedside table all these years.

They didn't stop on any of the booths. Emma was the one who liked shooting or throwing darts, so much so that she won the teddy on the day of his proposal for him. It sat in the cabin of the ferries wheel with them, the third wheel, so to speak, as the ring gently tumbled through the cage-like floor of the cabin and into the dust underneath.

Now, there was no teddy and the attendant helped to gently lift the old man onto the seat in the slightly swaying cabin. There were two benches in each, facing each other, enough room for four people, but James and Emma had their cabin to themselves. Julian and Caleb and Marc filled the next, Caleb taking up the place of two people with his massive form.

"It is getting late." Caleb said.

"It was late when we started." Marc answered.

"Too late," Caleb agreed, "It is always too late."

James heard them and ignored them, too focussed on Emma's hand in his, on her smiling face and the greying hair falling down to her shoulders. It had hardly changed its colour in all these years. Once sandy, it had only lightened a bit in the last fifty years, but now it shimmered strong again in the dark red and blue light coming from the scaffold of the ferries wheel. And in this light, the little crinkles on her forehead were gone and the dark age spots on her skin were less visible. Squinting, he could almost believe she was as young as she once was. Hell, squinting, he could even believe he was! In this magical light of the fair, in this unnatural blinking and flashing, his PJs, some kind of plaid print, almost looked like the elegant trousers of a casual suit, the suit he had worn for his proposal.

As the ferries wheel slowly turned metre by metre to let people out and in until it completed one full circle, James had only eyes for the love of his life. No ring was burning in his pocket and no giant teddy she had won sat next to them on the benches, but he still wanted to ask her once again. He still wanted to right this awkward mistake he had made so long ago.

All these years ago, the words had come out in a tumbled mess, today they were stuck in his throat.

"I love you, Emma," he finally whispered and her crystal laughter filled the cold night air. For a moment, the icy hand of death brushed over his skin, reminding him of the time that was left and the time that passed. "I love you, I've always loved you." He felt for the pocket of his trousers, for the diamond ring. "I could never love anyone else. I want to spend eternity with you. You are my life, without you, I am nothing. Do you -" The words wouldn't come, no matter how hard he tried.

"Marry you?" Emma asked, her smile indulgent and slightly sad. "You always wanted to make a proper proposal, didn't you?" She laughed.

"Yes. Please, Emma, please marry me. Till death do us part."

"Death will not part us." Emma said, kissing James on his cheek in an almost chaste way.

It felt strange, distant and yet so familiar. James brushed his thumb over her cheek, inhaling her scent once more.

The ferries wheel kept slowly turning and soon it had reached its highest point. James and Emma leaned against each other and looked out of the barred window, into the streets of the city and on the heads of the people deep below. Here, the lights of the carnival were weaker but still so bright that the sky overhead was bare of any starts. Instead, a black mass stared down at them. A cold shudder ran down James' back. The ferries wheel had stopped for a moment, like the clock of his life coming to a sudden standstill. Again he felt the cold hand of death brush over his heart, pumping, pumping, pumping it, but slow. The night was warm, but for him it was cold and only the warmth of Emma's shoulder protected him from shaking. More even, she protected him from the fear that should come with death's cold grip. His hands hovered over him, they brushed his skin and his veins, but the fear did not come with them.

If only Susan had been able to offer the same level of comfort. The thought came unbidden and disturbed the peace of mind that slowly started to build for James. But Susan was home, sitting in the living room with her daughters – their daughters – and James was here in Emma's arms. Here, where he felt safe, even from death's pumping fist.

When the ferries wheel started to move again, the feeling returned to the back of his mind.

Underneath the cabin, the fair ground started to clear out. The music became more muted and the lights dimmed. Faintly, they could still hear the announcer of the roller coaster calling for costumers, new and old: "Let's begin, another spin!" And James' legs twitched in rhythm with the beat of the pulsing music.

When the cabin came to a stop on the ground again, James rejected the helping hand of the attendant, determined to walk on his own two feet and with the help of the love of his life down the few steps from the ferries wheel.

Marc, Julian and Caleb soon joined them, the wheel chair left behind at the entrance, as if they had known that James would not need it, would not want to need it. And he was fine. His legs carried him with Emma's help towards the raffle booth and further towards the roller coaster.

"It is time," Marc said, probably referring to the roller coaster James was too weak for just a short time ago.

Standing in front of the loop-the-loop, James looked from one old friend to the next. Emma was beautiful as ever, young and spry, smiling at him as if they had never broken up. Caleb had turned old, and his muscles had turned into fat. His back had rounded just as much as his belly, leaving him resembling a ball. Julian's hair was grey where it still existed and his eyes were red from unshed tears. Marc had never looked a day older than fifty, never in all his life. He had never turned a day older than fifty.

He nodded once, seeing them standing there like that, smiling and supporting him, and he felt a hand on his shoulder. It was comforting, knowing that this hand was there, like his friends were. Before, it had pumped his heart cold and threatening, but now it had moved, as if his heart no longer needed the constant stimulation. The hand would lead him soon to the world beyond, but it had lost its terror.

"It is time, isn't it?" James asked.

Marc nodded. "The time has already passed."

James head fell to his chest with a deep sigh. "Is there no time for one last spin?" he asked, looking wistfully at the roller coaster.

Emma's fingers entwined his and a kiss brushed over his cheek. "As many as you want. But Julian has to leave."

James nodded again. He remembered now, though he had never forgotten. But some things are not meant to be recalled. Julian was not meant to be here yet. Marc was. He had waited thirty years. And Caleb, for him it were just four. Emma had joined them three weeks ago. James had stood at the side of her grave, looking down onto the coffin, Susan's hand in his, his daughters at his side. Julian had smiled across the hole, not yet able to cry.

He didn't know if it was the death of his old and first love that made his heart weak or if it was just time. He spend the next weeks in bed and never stood up again.

The hand on his shoulder squeezed gently and James leaned into the touch. It pushed him forward, towards the roller coaster and the announcer there. Caleb, Marc and Emma joined the march of the dead, while Julian stayed behind, looking after the other members of the Wild Five. Death walked among them, leading them into a new adventure.

"Soon," he seemed to say, "soon. Soon, you will join them. You won't have to stay alone for long."

Julian nodded, the words strangely comforting, as the carnival slowly faded into the morning fog. It drifted through the open window and with it came the smell of candyfloss and popcorn and the dissonant sounds of drunk singing. There was no carnival in town, but he still had the taste of gingerbread and stale beer on his tongue when he woke.

He shed his first tears for Emma that morning. And when the call came that he was the last of the Wild Five, he was not surprised.

[isn't an entry]

Before I vote: Hannah, could you clarify if you consider Snarky's work an entry or not?

This isn't an entry, since it is generated with Midjourney as a test:

And Snarky, so eerie. I haven't used midjourney yet, but your entry has definitely got me thinking about how it can be used. Can see this layout working great as a transition scene.

Just wondering.

I'll vote later, then.

On second thought, I might need a bit more time 

A week left... anything going on?

I... had an idea, and started to write. Then I realized that the beginning I had written would give the ending away, so I have to re-write it - but I like what I've already written.

In short, I'm a bit stuck. But I should be able to solve this and make the deadline (hopefully).

Galen, did you want your turn, or should someone else take over?