WOTM #19 Voting (Advanced)

[WOTM]

Theme: Creation

Explained: A story about the creation of something, be it metaphorical or literal.

Components:

• The story deals with creation in an artistic, metaphorical sense.
• The story deals with the literal, technical creation of something non-living.
• The story deals with the creation of a universe.
• The story deals with the creation of mankind/society.
• The story is from the perspective of a creator, be it metaphorical or literal.

Rules for Voting:

• Read ALL entries.
• Vote on your favorite entry.
• Please post explaining your vote and why.
• Please provide helpful feedback on the entries.
• Do NOT post anything insulting or offensive about the entries.
• Do NOT vote for your own entry.
• Do NOT tell others which entry is your own.

Components required for advanced entries: 2

The Entries:

Two years before this very moment, Jeremy Acre found a reason to live in the pages of Weirdist Magazine's serial fiction section - The Deep End, they called it. Acre
wrote the local obits and classifieds for the New Hawthorne Examiner, and had longed for a chance to scratch that itch every dummy with a reasonable grasp of a
written language got when they spent a long enough time in front of a blank Word document.

"I'm going to submit a story," he said aloud, so many months ago. Hearing those words in his alone-in-a-room voice for the first time made him blush, and if anyone had heard him - if another human being had captured the moment he spoke aloud his silly ambition - he would've swallowed a bullet right then and there.

Luckily, he was alone, or as close to it as a man could be.

-

Thirteen weeks later, he was down to working ten hours a week editing horoscopes, living off of value menu burgers and old sake from the sushi place downstairs. All
he'd written - all he'd managed to sift out of the muck of his grey matter - was a single sentence:

"Where light goes, night soon shall follow..."

Archaic. Vaguely poetic. Maybe start with a short limerick, transition into something Lovecraftian? A period piece. Period pieces always do well in Weirdist. People love lofty prose and false nostalgia. Gaslight sells. You never even have to explain yourself to the reader. The more abstract your conflict, the better.

But is that lazy? Is it poor storytelling? No. Plot is driven by logic. Story is driven by drama. Drama doens't have to make logical sense. It just has to sound right. Hit the right beats.

-

A wet summer froze into a bone-brittling winter and still he sat there, pondering the meaning of that seven-word epigraph. Like it meant something - like it was born from his mind fully formed, the tip of some grand intellectual iceberg. There had to be something more to that damned sentence. His future depended on it.

Weirdist was hardly top shelf literature, but the best of the best started in serials. Nowadays, it's easy to dismiss that approach as outdated, obsolete - why submit when you can blog? Why publish when there's ebooks and fanfiction dot net?

Because it's the right way, he told himself. Because it's the pure way. A writer struggles. A writer starves his body to feed his brain. A writer doesn't type.

He...

He writes.

Right at that moment, Jeremy Acre realized what was wrong - computers. The machine facilitated that first little burst of creativity, but now that stupid little
egg-shaped iMac stifled it. The clacking of keys, the tapping of little rubber nubs under the plastic that shot electronic signals up through some bullshit motherboard and whatever...

Paper. Paper and pen - not pencils. We're not in the business of encouraging mistakes. Pencils are tools for fools.

Tools for fools. Rhyming. Back to the limerick. What rhymes with follow?

"Hollow," came a voice from the darkest chasm of his heart.

Of course. Very dramatic - follow, hollow. Nice, punchy finish.

-

Winter's chill came and went, and brittle bones soaked in the warm rays of a new summer sun. Jeremy Acre sold his computer, his television, his iPod, his DVR, and
three years' worth of DVD boxsets of shows he never had any intention of watching to pay the rent. No more obituaries. No more horoscopes. Just a chair, a desk,
some paper, and a Bic CRISTAL ballpoint pen, tungsten carbide 1 millimeter tip, 0.4mm line width. The CRISTAL holds enough ink to draw a single line 2 kilometers long. By the end of July, a full year after he started his journey, Jeremy Acre had written approximately eighteen sloppy centimeters of story:

"Where light goes, night soon shall follow -
so swear those who rule the Hollow!"

Nothing else. Not a damn thing else. He asked the experts - critics, coffee shop dwellers, library book clubs - how they would break a story. Some shot for vague
nonsense, "feeling your way through" or whatever. Others went for ultra-specific - outlines, treatments, beatsheets, corkboards, save the cat, kill the cat, kill your darlings, rewrite rewrite rewrite...

Jeremy couldn't find a way to use any of their advice - he didn't have money for corkboards and didn't own a cat. He was hungry and thirsty and a little dizzy, and
the longer he spent staring at those piles of blank pages with the one little sentence on top, the less and less he understood what his place was in this world.

Was he supposed to just sit here, forever, working on a second sentence?

Would he finish this one day?

Maybe it was already finished. Maybe this sentence was all the world needed. Seven words create an itch and scratch it with another seven, and the world is wounded
and healed all at once by the words of Jeremy Acre, master wordsmith.

Jeremy...Acre. What kind of name was that for a human being? It didn't ring true.

Felt phony.

-

Phony Jeremy Acre, 26, passed away on October 31st, 2034, victim of a poorly-planned character arc. He is survived by his creator, Real Jeremy Acre, and seven
hundred and thirty-five blank pages of monogrammed 'A' stationery.

-

FROM: dsist@newhawthorne
TO: jeremyspoke@newhawthorne
SUBJECT: RE: Tuesday's Obits
MESSAGE:

Jeremy, you're being weird again. Stop emailing everybody your stories. It's not funny. And stop messing with the obits. That's Greg's thing now.

Derek Sisto

-

Derek Sisto, 44, was a whiny mouthbreather who filled the op-ed column with worthless ramblings about window washer unions and, you know, whatever other non-
news he could drum up five minutes to print. He fancied himself something of a literary critic, and took great lengths to make himself look like the big-wig he wished he was in the industry. Truth be told, he'd submitted more than a few stories to Weirdist, all of which prompted harshly-worded rejection letters pleaded Mister Sisto to stop sending such vulgar materials in - and the accompanying art! My oh my.

-

FROM: dsist@newhawthorne
TO: jeremyspoke@newhawthorne
SUBJECT: RE: Story Time
MESSAGE:

ha-ha. how about you spend more time spellchecking the classifieds and less time writing your dumb jabs at me.

derek

-

Jeremy Acre lost everything after that last month at New Hawthorne - job, health insurance, any co-workers he might've considered friends - but he still had the
paper. He still had the pen. And sitting in a ring of sake bottles and burger wrappers, on a wrinkled, yellowing sheet of monogrammed 'A' stationery were the fourteen words that would save Jeremy's career, and maybe even his life.

"There's nothing else," he said. "Nothing to add. Nothing to...to write. This story's over."

The hunger once sated by processed meat and enriched wheat buns had grown and entrenched itself in his guts. Pain rolled up and down his abdomen, reminding him
that there was one itch those words could not scratch. Those fourteen words put his mind at ease, made the bad sake taste smooth, but it had been eight days since
he'd had a decent meal. He'd lost fifty-eight pounds in flesh, and nearly regained it all through a mangey, ink-stained beard.

A thousand Bic CRISTALS had leaked out onto his wood floor, never used to write a single line, never touched to paper. The black swirls formed an eye as dark as
night that sank deep into the floorboards and seemed to come alive whenever he looked down at it. It was the Hollow, he decided, and it called to him.

When had he spilled that ink? Why did he buy so many pens?

They weren't plotholes - the circumstances surrounding its creation were inconsequential. The beats were there - dark obsession, voices in his head, self-destructive tendencies. The Hollow had formed within him, and in those moments where he had let his mind wander, the creature that spoke the rhyme to him had become a fully realized part of the environment. The Eye of the Hollow was watching him, waiting for him to complete the story.

"Where light goes, night soon shall follow..." he said again, and felt the Eye twitch in excitement. He did not look down - he just felt it, instinctively, and knew he was under its gaze. The Eye moved as he did, tracking Jeremy as he walked away from the desk towards a window, pen still in hand.

"So swear those..."

Jeremy Acre returned to his desk and began to write.

Jeremy opened the window.

Jeremy Acre closed the window and returned to his writing.

Jeremy Acre stepped away from the window and went back to work.

Jeremy Acre didn't want to die.

He doesn't have to.

But he has to.

No!

Yes.

-

OFFICIAL PRESS RELEASE:

Weirdist regular Derek Sisto signs two-book deal with Acre Publishing based on the strength of a manuscript for his debut novel, The Eye In the Hollow. Known to New Hawthorne Examiner subscribers for his in-depth editorials regarding window washer unions in New Hawthorne's Southland district...

Golemancy 101

Jonathan, Samantha, Arnold and Marcus were walking to school, talking on the way.
‘So..., ’ Jonathan started. ‘What's your class schedule for today?’
‘Nothing special, ’ Arnold answered. ‘Just the standard literature studying. I don't think I have any practical lessons today. ’
‘Same here, ’ Marcus said. ‘Today might end up being a very long day...’
‘Maybe your day will be boring, Marcus, but I don't think mine will be, ’ Jonathan said.
‘Oh? Why's that? ’
‘Simple. Our class has been picked for a lesson about golemancy. ’
‘Oh, you lucky pig! ’ Marcus said, his voice sounding somewhat annoyed.
‘What's that, are you jealous? ’ Jonathan asked jokingly.
‘Hell yeah! ’ Marcus said with a big grin on his face. He then gave Jonathan a shove.
‘Hey! ’ Jonathan staggered back from the sudden shove, then retaliated by shoving Marcus too. Of course, Marcus wasn't going to just let it stop there and shoved Jonathan again. Arnold, meanwhile, was hanging back and shaking his head. Judging by the grin on his face, however, he didn't exactly dislike their behavior.
‘Boys, boys! ’ Samantha yelled. What's with boys and being physical towards each other anyway?
‘Relax, Samantha. We're just messing around, don't sweat it!, ’ Marcus said.
‘Yeah, it's messing around now, but you know just as well as me that this can easily escalate. Not to mention the facts that we're supposed to get to school and walking next to the road? ’
‘Yes, mom, ’ Jonathan muttered, resulting in Marcus' grin growing even greater. Samantha, meanwhile, just sighed and shook her head.


Now, you might be thinking, “What kind of school has lessons about golemancy?" Well, that would be Stella's School of Technical Magic. Although to be honest, “magic" is a bit of a misnomer. It's not like you can just think of something and poof, there it is. Much like building a house or a bridge, you need to actually think about the effect you want to get, then carefully construct it with the right materials. In essence, you are “creating” the effect. This in turn also explains why there are schools for teaching how to use and control magic in the first place instead of just some self-teaching books like you see with languages; that would be like giving someone a self-study book for how to deal with explosives. It... likely wouldn't end pretty.


Some time later, the four friends arrived at the school. Much like is the case with most other schools, the schoolyard was filled with groups of students talking and playing as they waited for the school to actually open. They didn't have to wait for that long though, seeing as the school bells sounded mere seconds after they entered the schoolyard.
Samantha sighed as she headed for the school's entrance. ‘Now do you see? Thanks you your screwing around we were almost too late! ’
‘“Almost”, yes. But almost is not completely, right?’ Jonathan waived Samantha's comment away. She reacted by rolling her eyes.
‘That's not the point! The point is that you need to learn to take some responsibility for your actions. And that goes for you too, Marcus! ’
‘Hey, why don't you mind your own business, okay? ’ Marcus said, not bothering to mask the annoyance in his voice.
‘“Mind my own business”?! You made it my business when you almost caused me to be late for class! Also, I- ’
‘Samantha, calm down, ’ Arnold interrupted her. ‘What's done is done. Besides, we can discuss this after school, okay? ’
Samantha took a deep breath in an attempt to calm herself down. ‘I guess you're right. Marcus, Jonathan, we'll talk this out after school. ’ With that, she left the group and headed for her own class.
‘...Can you believe her? ’ Marcus said as soon as Samantha was out of earshot. ‘Suddenly exploding like that over nothing?’
‘Whatever. It'll all be blown over after school, ’ Jonathan answered. ‘Anyway, my class is here. I'll see you after school. ’


Mere seconds after Jonathan closed the door of the classroom behind him, the second bell sounded. Huh. I guess that Marcus and Arnold'll be too late then.
‘Jonathan! Don't just stand there and get to your seat. ’
‘Yes, sir Richard, ’ Jonathan said, then hurried to his spot. You don't go against sir Richard, and especially not on a day with a special class; he'll make sure that you'll have to copy a chapter from a textbook right when said special class is solely to make the punishment more severe.
The teacher scraped his throat. ‘Good morning, class. ’
‘Good morning, sir Richard, ’ the class answered in unison.
‘Ahem. As you may have heard, we'll get a special seminar from an expert in golemancy today. Be sure to pay him the proper respect and pay attention to him; you may never get another chance like this. ’
‘Yes, sir Richard. ’
‘Very well then. Now then, please open your history textbook at page 256. ’
Jonathan suppressed a sigh of annoyance; history was one of his least favourite lessons. He silently grabbed his textbook, then searched for the page his teacher mentioned. This is going to be a long day... I can't wait until that golemancy class!
Sir Richard waited until everyone had ‘Now then. Yesterday, we left off at the Mana rebellion. Can anyone tell me when that was?... ’


Some time later, in recess...

The four friends were all sitting at the same table in the school cafeteria, having lunch together and talking to each other. Marcus, though, seemed to be a bit silent.
‘Is something wrong, Marcus?,’ he asked.
‘Hmm... well, I've been thinking about this morning and... I'm sorry, Samantha. I was acting like a jerk.’
For a second, Samantha was shocked silent. Wait... did Marcus just apologize to me? Marcus!? The event was so rare that her brain had trouble processing it. When she finally regained her bearings regarding the situation, she noticed that apparently her mouth was hanging open. ‘Uhm... Apology accepted, Marcus.’ She paused for a second, then figured that her own behavior wasn't something to write home about either. ‘I'm... I'm sorry too, Marcus. I shouldn't have shouted at you like that.’
‘No, no, you don't need to apologize. It was my fault, not yours.’
‘No, Marcus. I'm-’
‘Are you two seriously arguing about who gets to apologize?,’ Jonathan interrupted the two. He laughed. ‘Oh, you two are unbelievable.’
A silence fell. Well, it would be a silence if it wasn't for the other students still talking about everything and nothing. This "silence" was then broken by Marcus breaking into laughter. His example was soon followed by his friends.
’Anyway, are we still friends?’ he asked Samantha, raising out his hand.’
‘Of course we're still friends,’ she said with a smile, then shook Marcus' hand.
Jonathan smiled. They were a strange group, the four of them; Sure, they fought a lot, but they almost always made up the very same day. It was strange in how many ways friendship could be related to magic; both have separate elements working together to create something greater than themselves, and both needed you to constantly work on it to prevent it from falling apart. His thought process then suddenly ground to a halt as he realized what reference was just made inside his brain, causing him to groin.
‘Hm?,’ Marcus looked at Jonathan, his face carrying an expression of confusion.
Jonathan shrugged. ‘Oh, it's nothing. Just my brain being stupid.’
They talked a bit more about random things. Then the bell rang again, signaling everyone that class was about to begin again.


After everyone had returned to their places, Sir Richard turned to the class. ‘Class, I am going to get the Golemancer now. Now I know this is a difficult assignment, but please behave for five minutes, okay?’ With that, he left the classroom, leaving behind a group of very energetic students.
Jonathan sat behind his desk, very excited about the upcoming class. It was a long wait -- albeit mostly because he was looking forward to it so much -- but the golemancy class was about to begin. He wondered what the golemancer was going to tell them, and if they were allowed to ask him any questions. He already had a list ready; how golems work, how do you make them, what are they made of... There were so many questions he could think of, yet it was very likely that most of them would still stay unanswered even after today, if only due to simple time constraints.
‘So, what do you think this golemancer is going to say?‘, someone broke the silence.
‘How am I supposed to know?’
‘Meh, I'm just wondering aloud.’
Jonathan decided to not mix himself into the mindless babble, instead trying to focus on what he wanted to ask the golemancer. That is, if they were allowed to ask questions in the first place.
‘Well, I guess he's going to talk about how golems work in the first place and such; the basics, really,’ someone answered the other student.
‘That makes sense, I guess. After all, it's not like we actually kn-‘ Whatever that student wanted to say would remain known only to himself, seeing as he was suddenly interrupted by a rhythmic series of thuds coming from the hallway, each one being slightly louder than the previous one -- Whatever was the source of the thuds was getting closer and closer to the classroom. ‘What in the... .’
The thuds quickly became so strong that it actually started to shake up the classroom. Obviously, everyone was wondering about what could be the source of the sounds and vibration. That question was pretty much answered instantly when the door to the classroom suddenly broke, revealing a stone golem with a young wizard sitting on its shoulder -- And standing next to it, some very angry teachers screaming something about the hallway being ruined. It was hard to make out what they were saying due to the fact that everyone, including the students, was talking through one another.
‘Take that thing outside already! For the love of...’
‘What, and let it destroy even more of the school?’
‘Well, it has to go outside sooner or later anyway, might as well move it outside now.’
‘Whose bright idea was it to invite a golemancer again anyway?’
‘Hey, How could I know the guy would actually ride a golem into the school? Just be glad it's not a fire golem, Stella.’
‘If he did bring a fire golem into this school, guess what you would've been...’
‘That thing is AWESOME!’


Eventually the teachers agreed to hold the class outside, on a open field behind the school. Seeing as all classes were interrupted due to the chaos anyway it was also decided that, instead of just Jonathan's class, the entire school would get to join the seminar. The golemancer -- a young man in his twenties, with short black hair and deep brown eyes -- was standing in front of the stone golem, which had returned to a dormant state.
‘Good day, everyone,’ the golemancer started. ‘My name is Leonard Smith. As you know, I am a golemancer; someone who creates and enchants, well, golems. Now, does anyone know some materials that can be used to create golems?’
This seemed to be a cue for everyone to speak up at the same time, with no regard as to whether or not someone else was speaking. Wood, stone, ice, metal; pretty much every common hard material was mentioned at least once.
‘Whoa, whoa, whoa! Not all at the same time! Okay, new rule, if you want to say something, you raise your hand first,‘ Leonard tried to get the situation back under control. ‘In any case, you are all correct. That is to say, golems can be made out of pretty much anything. Iron, wood, stone, you name it -- actually, you did, but that's not the point. You can even make them out of less-than-solid materials like mud, fire and water. Of course, these will generally be less useful than average due to often causing damage to whatever they're holding, but...’
‘What, you mean like this one caused damage to the school?’ one of the teachers interrupted him.
‘Exactly, yes,’ Leonard said, either completely missing the snark in the teacher's comment or ignoring it on purpose. ‘Of course, this one only caused any real damage due to its size, but yes.’ He started walking around, facing another part of the group around him. ‘Speaking of size, can anyone tell me why it is so dangerous to make a golem larger than yourself if you don't know exactly what you're doing? Raise your hands, please, don't just shout.’ He looked around, seeing that several students had raised their hand. ‘Okay, you there, the blonde-haired girl with the red vest on the second row.’
‘Uhm... Because then the golem will be too strong for you? That might be bad if it goes crazy or something.’
Leonard shook his head. ‘Not exactly, no. Even a golem that's exactly your size will likely still be stronger than you. There's another reason, one that has to do with the very way golems work in the first place. Anyone? ...You there, the boy with short brown hair and a white shirt.’
As it happens, that boy was Arnold. ‘Well, I've heard that golems have some kind of magic word inscribed on their forehead which allows them to work. So maybe if you damage or remove that word you can instantly make them stop? Like some kind of emergency switch or something. And if the golem is larger than yourself you wouldn't be able to reach it, meaning that it's far harder to stop.’
Leonard smiled. ‘Exactly! And, do you know what that word is?’
‘Well, it's written right over there,’ Arnold said as he pointed at the stone golem. ’“Met”.’
‘True, but that's not the whole word, only part of it. The whole word is “Emet”, meaning “Truth” “Met”, on the other hand, means “Death”.’ He walked around a bit again, turning to another part of the group. ‘Well then, does anyone have some questions?’
Jonathan raised his hand, hoping that he would get picked. As luck would have it, he actually did. ‘Uhm, sir Leonard, how do you make golems?’
‘Hey, drop the “sir”, I'm not that old yet,’ Leonard said with a twinkle in his eyes. ‘Anyway, to answer your question: First you start by designing the body. Do you want it to be shaped like a human, an animal, or just a large tool? Depending on this and the function you want your golem to fulfill you then choose your material. Stone and wood are generally good choices, but obviously wood is less than useful if you're working with fire. Next, you forge the material you're going to use for the golem into whatever shape you've chosen. You generally want to make thinner parts on where your golem's joints are going to be. The enchantments you'll put in later will allow the material to move and bend even if the base material could not do this, and this will make it far easier.’
He took a short pause to gather his train of thoughts, then continued. ‘Now the body of your golem is finished, but it's still just a heap of stone, wood or whatever material you're using. In order to make your golem work, you need two more things. One,’ he raised a finger. ‘as I've already told you, you need to inscribe the forehead of your golem with “Emet” to make it work. And two,’ he raised another finger. ‘you need something to allow your golem to understand and follow commands; an intelligence core. If all your golem needs to do is carry you from A to B or to lift heavy things, then you can do with a smaller core. But if it needs to be able to follow more complicated commands like building a house, then it logically needs a bigger core in order to actually understand what you want it to do.’
He paused to look around and see if others still had questions. Unsurprisingly, he saw a lot of raised hands, far too many to answer everyone's questions. ‘Hmm... You there, the boy with black hair and brown vest.’
‘Uhm... What is an intelligence core?’
‘Good question. In short, an intelligence core is pretty much the golem's brain. I figured that someone might ask that, so I've brought a spare one with me.’ He rummaged around in his pocket for a while, then produced a dull, shapeless red crystal. ‘This is an intelligence core, albeit one of low quality. Here, take a look at it and pass it around, but be very careful not to break it,’ Leonard said as he gave the crystal to one of the students at the front row. He continued speaking as the crystal was passed around. ‘Of course a core as small as this one would barely be sufficient to make a golem do anything other than lift things in place but, as you can likely imagine, those are far too valuable to carry around everywhere. ...You there, the girl with brown hair and yellow shirt on the right.’
‘Uhm, how are intelligence cores made?’
Leonard expected that question, and had prepared an answer for it in advance. The reason being was that he couldn't possibly tell the real answer; that Intelligence cores are made out of living beings. Through an arcane ritual, the mind of a human being -- or in the case of lower quality crystals, animals -- was forcefully drawn out of the body and put into a crystal. After this, another enchantment was put on the crystal to force the host to always obey any and all commands made by the controller. Obviously, this information was not known to the average Joe, who instead always got the same reply from the Golemancers:
‘Hmm... Well, it's a bit of a long story. In short, a very trained enchanter takes an empty crystal -- which looks a lot like the thing you're holding now, but a lot darker -- then enchants that with a combination of automatic movement spells and intelligence boosters. Depending on the needed quality, this process may be repeated once or more -- a simple golem only designed to lift a load straight up to the next floor won't need it, a slightly more advanced golem created to move a heavy load around may need one or more extra cycles, and one like the one you see here needs several more. Telling you the whole story would take the entire rest of the day. Speaking of which, I'm almost out of time. One more question, and then that's it.’ Leonard's statement was met with a collective “Awww...” coming from the students.
Jonathan was one of those disappointed students. [I]Huh. this class sure went by in a hurry. Guess that just goes to show how much faster time goes when you're not paying attention to it and actually having fun.{/I]
’Okay... You there, the woman with the knot in her hair and the red dress,’ Leonard adressed one of the teachers. As it turns out, this teacher happened to be Stella, the principal of the school.
‘Who's going to pay for the damage to the school?’
Silence. ‘Uhm... Oh, look at the time! Well, I have to run, people. Sorry that I couldn't answer all your questions. We should do this again; until then, stay safe and don't kill yourself!’ With that, he quickly climbed on top of the golem and completed the engraved keyword again to reactivate the golem, then rode away on it. As the golem walked off, its footsteps caused minor tremors and small craters on the ground.
‘Hey, come back here, you!’ Stella yelled, then started to run after the golemancer.

Gospel of Truth

I am the Eternal, almighty of hand!
In six nights and days I renewed ravaged land
Making lights, waters and life gorgeous and grand!
On the seventh, I relaxed in the rest I had planned
I am the God which makes this a command:
Recharge yourself weekly; through the next strongly stand!
By this they remember me and the doers understand

I gave the first of mankind a lush place to stay
A garden of trees and the truth of my way
One promise sewn into a charge to obey
But my adversary deceived them and led them astray
He pitched me as salesman of deceptive forte!
Wherefore I was discarded and sent them away
Then I looked to their children day after day

I observed bitter jealousy and violence from the outset
When Eve's firstborn spilled brotherly blood without regret
Nevertheless, my mercy vastly outweighed his debt
I made him a wanderer; his own path he'll set
His son became my servant, asleep as of yet
Part of a tiny lot, like the droplets of a pipette
While man filled the earth and lived the way of get

They dishonor the parents who discipline rightly
They murder with glee and hold life's gift lightly
They rape in their thoughts and never contritely
They take what they crave instead of living uprightly
They twist what is truth ever so slightly
They neigh for the wives that embrace husbands tightly
They covet things of others because those sparkle more brightly

Their kings are corrupt and crowned by fixed elections!
Their knowledge is as infantile as their noticed detections!
Their opinions are maps but they have no directions!
Their hope is salvation through future inspections!
Their shield is vain faith and stubborn deflections!
Their faces are stainless in self-made reflections!
True love is their hatred so they are rejections!

The judges are hypocrites shedding innocent blood!
The babies starve and wilt as a bud!
The people have gelid hearts clogged with crud!
Their own ears they've deafened; they can't hear a THUD!
They're like swine; elated to wallow in mud!
The parents are heifers with evil their cud!
Therefore I'll vanquish them all with a flood!

I spared eight souls because one did obey
Then their children multiplied and still sought to fray!
Their bread is destruction; their thirst is to slay!
Their saviors are statues of wood, metal and clay!
Their vessels are mandatory but death pulls their sleigh!
Their gods answer nothing yet to them they still pray!
I am unlike them! Life is my sobriquet!

Where is the wise one that proves what they hear?
Who is the sage who holds the truth dear?
Whose judgment is unbiased and justice clear?
Whom delights in reproof; whose allegiance is sincere?
Is my unhappiness the driving force of their fear?
Yes, it is to them that I may appear!
Those who seek me, stay near and revere!

Shall the ignorant speak of me through an imagining heart?
Be honest, O enlightened! Where will you start?
You've turned self-deception into a well-polished art!
You search for truth, but the horse is your cart!
You savor lies like a saccharine tart!
I hide from you effortlessly; are you really so smart?
For those who obey me: the truth I impart!

All day long I scour for the upright
A teachable spirit; my elusive delight!
They won't subdue through physical might
Warriors of peace; with words they fight!
No partaker in babbling; they speak what is right!
I am their deliverer on an evening of flight
But the haughty and fools are a displeasing sight

My kingdom yet requires its priests and its kings
My first sons and daughters, for whom my heart sings
Those who love me and fulfill purposed things
They do not jig to the world's perverse strings
My words and my ways are to what their soul clings!
They forsake what is worthless, overflowing with their givings
They daily become godlike; they are my darlings!

I behold the world's minds, brilliant as sunrise!
Matchless in wisdom, yet they can't sate the cries!
How long, O you foolish, will wisdom you despise?
How long, O you simple, will you feast on your lies?
How long, O you hypocrites, will you close ears and eyes?
How long, O you wicked, will you plan your demise?
Is the earth not my footstool; my sapphire; my prize?

Laugh if you like! Stand there and mock!
The false one who comes first will purchase you like livestock!
At the sight of his miracles you'll marvel in shock!
To smooth words and promises you'll frolic and flock!
He'll feed you lies and set your heads on the chopping block!
Those who hate the truth will gobble that poppycock!
Thus proving themselves deserving of the wrath I'll unlock!

And at the most hopeless hour, when the clock strikes midnight
as foundations implode and they're swallowed by blight
the world drenched in darkness will suddenly become bright!
Nations shall come to me and learn what is right!
I'll dwell with them finally; I'll show all my light!
Confusion ends and so will their fright
when my kingdom comes in unmistakable sight!

Peace is my wine and joy is my bread!
No child shall die naturally short of one hundred, as I've said
No tongue shall go thirsty, nor stomach unfed
There shall be a full life to experience instead
All shall have the truth and sleep at peace in their bed
My hand shall even raise every one of the dead
To give fair choice of salvation or the fire they dread

Six thousand years are the days they have secure.
But the seventh is mine. This much is sure!
A day of sweet rest and rebuilding in the safety I ensure
Then judgment free of favoritism is what I assure
The mercy they've given is the measure they'll procure
Forever and ever does my forgiveness endure!
I, the Eternal, refine my words to be seven times pure

MEMENTOS

Shane pulled the slick knife free, fresh blood spurting over his hand and arm, warm and aromatic. It wouldn’t last long though, and his audience was getting restless. The last gurgles of life escaped the broken and battered woman on the table and he was glad. Finally she would be silent. Her screams had irritated him and riled up the others.

He worked quickly now, picking up the electric saw from the countertop, he started dismantling the corpse with a speed and skill honed many times before. He only had two hours till Christy was due home, so he had to work fast. He couldn’t linger over the task as he wanted. So much to do…so little time…so much to do….so little time…sing-songed through his mind, over and over as he worked and the others waited. He knew he must hurry or she would appear before he finished and all hell would break loose then. It had happened before and the scene wasn’t something he was willing to repeat. The young blond in the corner seemed to agree, panic clear in every line of her once pretty face.

Quickly removing the head and limbs he stuffed them into the large trashcan lined with layered heavy-duty trash bags. As they got full he tied them off and deposited them next to the basement door. Finally he moved the can to the end of the table and pushed the torso off into the waiting bags and tied them off and pulled the can next to the door. Finally the crowd started to file out.

Cleanup was always a bitch, but Jesus it was hot today. Wiping his dripping forehead across his shoulder and bicep, he fought to catch his breath. The air seemed thick with blood as he glanced around the room and panic started a slow gallop in his chest. The walls and cabinets were splattered with blood and gore. Grabbing a canister from the counter he poured its contents over the glistening pools that covered the floor, the industrial spill cleaner would soak it up quickly so he could sweep it up.

With a bottle of 409 and several rolls of paper towels he went to work on the cabinets and walls, filling another trash bag. Glancing at his watch he realized he only had 50 minutes left. Christy would be calling soon to say she was on her way home and he wondered if he should stall for more time. He could always request and if necessary demand that she stop for something at the store, but from experience he knew this would only lead to a fight, and he’d really had enough screaming for one day.

Sweeping and mopping the floor he scanned the room, checking to make sure he’d gotten every spot. He emptied the mop bucket in the sink and spied a clump of hair, still attached to a bit of skull hiding under the drain board and pulled it free, wiping the area with the dish sponge. He rinsed the sink and collected his cleaning supplies and tools in a battered brown box labeled Shane’s Old School Papers.

Rushing to the living room he wound his way through those that crowded the room, he righted the wing chair that had been knocked over, picked up the afghan that lay crumpled on the floor and picked up the coffee table and put it back into place. Collecting drink glasses and food wrappers that were strewn across the floor along with the weighty purse and soft gray sweater that lay over the arm of the couch, he headed back toward the kitchen just as his cell began to chime. Quickly placing the purse and sweater in a bag that already contained other assorted clothing items, and disposing of the rest, he answered the phone.

“Hi hun,” he said, forcing a smile he hoped she could hear through the phone.

“Hey babe, what are you up to?” Christy sounded unconcerned, but he listened for suspicion anyway. Sometimes the most innocent questions could trip you up if you weren’t careful.

“Nothin. Trying to stay cool, it’s hot as hell today.” Bracing the phone between his ear and shoulder he opened the basement door and started carrying bags down to the cold storage room. It would take him several trips and he hoped she wouldn’t hear them thumping down the stairs.

“Yeah, me too,” she sighed. “The damn air conditioning isn’t working right in the car and I’m stuck in traffic.”

“I’ll get it serviced tomorrow. You sound grumpy.” He knew giving her an opening to talk about herself would open the floodgates, and right on cue she spewed out a litany of complaints about her day. He didn’t bother listening as he finished stashing the bags, knowing he’d hear it all again later anyway. With a sigh he shut and locked the door with a heavy padlock and headed to the laundry area. He stripped off all his clothes and dropped them in the washer, remembering to make concerned sounds every minute or so.
Walking naked up the stairs he emerged in the kitchen and took another quick look around.

“You almost home?” he interrupted, pushing through the crowd that seemed more agitated than normal. By the time he reached the stairs he was chilled to the bone. He was glad they never moved beyond the downstairs, never venturing to either the basement or bedrooms.

“Yeah, pulling off the highway now.”

“Okay. See you in a few then. I want to jump in the shower real quick.” Hanging up he headed to the bathroom. The hot spray felt heavenly as he lathered up and rinsed again and again until the water ran clear. He’d just stepped out and started toweling off when Kristy banged on the door.

“What’s this?” she demanded, holding his laptop and pointing at the screen. Damn!

“What?” he tried to sound innocent. It sounded lame, but he went with it anyway. Bluffing was all you had sometimes.

“This,” she shouted, pointing at the screen. “Who’s SammyGirl1992 and what does she mean ‘see you soon’?”

“Just some slut who messaged me on the computer,” he said, shrugging past her. “She wouldn’t take no for an answer so I told her I would come over. I obviously didn’t go.” Deny, deny, deny…the only option as Kristy followed him out of the bathroom.

“You expect me to believe that?” she spat. If sarcasm had mass he’d be splattered with it.

“Expect you to believe the truth?” he yelled, feeling his own anger rising. He didn’t need this today. Grabbing the laptop out of her hands he exited the page and snapped it shut. “Why would I expect you to believe that?”

He stalked into the bedroom and started slamming drawers, as much to put on a good show of indignation as to give himself time to think. Suddenly he turned to face her, sorrow written across his face, “You know, you could have just asked me instead of accusing. I don’t have anything to hide from you.” Except a body in the basement… When in doubt, play the victim. It almost always worked with Kristy.

“Well what would you think if you saw I’d been talking to some guy?” she asked.

“I would have asked you about it,” he said quietly, willing a shine of tears to his eyes. “That’s what people do when they love each other.” So okay, that was laying it on a bit thick, but a healthy dose of guilt could never hurt.

“I’m sorry,” she seemed to deflate before his eyes. “I’ve just had a hard day, and it’s so fucking hot. When I saw that…I just didn’t think.”

“Okay,” he said, cutting her some slack, but not much. “Why don’t you go take a cool shower? I’ll start dinner.” He had to get away from her. Hysterical screaming and crying was starting up downstairs and he needed some space. The next few days would be hard enough without Kristy bitching at him non-stop.

He took the stairs slowly, always unsure of how a new one would appear. Sometimes they looked fine, like nothing at all had happened, but often they were a perfect vision of their last moments. He didn’t know why it took so long for them to appear, but figured some after worldly crap was probably to blame. It did make cleanup easier. The few times he had lingered over the task had been especially thrilling, but the hysterics when they appeared were usually so unsatisfying that he ended up silencing them quickly.
The others stood and looked toward the kitchen. It had to be bad if even they didn’t want to go near it. They turned to stare at him and he felt a flash of anger so bright it sliced through him like a knife.

“Damn,” he said quietly, bringing his hand to his chest, almost expecting to see blood. “Stop it. Right now.” They obeyed. They almost always did.

Pushing through them chills raced up his arms. “Damn frigid bitches,” he said, “move outta the way.” A path opened for him.
Approaching the kitchen doorway he took stock of the situation. It was a true horror story and a real masterpiece. Sitting on the kitchen table, naked, was this afternoons’ woman. ‘Miss July’ he named her, and what a prize she was. Though he’d thought her dead when cleaning up, she had apparently been quite alive. One arm was dangling by just a bit of skin and muscle. She might end up being his favorite, but for the moment her horrified screams just made him want to kill her all over again.

“Shut up,” he said, striding toward her. “Shut up right now.” She scrambled away as best she could with only one usable arm and quieted to a terrified mewling.

“So this is how it is,” he said, puttering around the kitchen gathering ingredients for steak and salad. He didn’t have to look at her now; there would be plenty of time for that later. “You’re dead. I killed you.”

He relished this part…stating the rules, taking control, terrorizing again. “I can hear you right now cause you’re new, but in the next few days I’ll push down so hard you won’t be able to scream loud enough for me to hear, so now’s your chance.” Pleasure shot through him as the whimpering behind him increased.

“You probably have a lot to say. Things you want people to know. Messages to pass on,” he stated. “You can say whatever you want and if it’s good I may even pass it on, not that I ever have before, but who knows, you could be the first.”

“Please, please, please,” she cried, begging for a life that was long gone, for empathy he’d never had.

This was always the best part, all the begging and pleading with no struggle. He could enjoy it for as long as he wanted and wondered if he should let this one keep her voice for a while. The idea, so exciting, coupled with the begging was a huge turn on.

“God, God, God,” she pleaded.

“I’m the only God here and you’ll do as I say or else.”

“Please. Please let me go,” she sobbed.

“You’re not going anywhere.” He didn’t know if he could stop her if she tried to go, none ever had, but it never hurt to take control. “The others are in there,” motioning to the other room. Looking over his shoulder he saw Eve standing in the doorway. She hated it when he called her that, but he had long since forgotten whatever she was called before she came across his path. She’d been the first and it seemed like she’d always just been there.

Eve walked slowly forward, lips moving, and although he couldn’t hear her he knew Miss August could. Whatever she’d said must have worked. The woman on the table slithered off, and followed her away. Shane noticed the whip marks that stood out on the back of the milky translucent figure and felt a satisfied thrill. Damn this was a good one. Her sobs echoed as the others folded around her hiding her from view.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~

Two weeks had passed since Miss August had joined the household and he’d grown tired of her. She’d had her voice for almost a week. He’d finally ruthlessly silenced her when, after keeping him up most of the night crying, she had angered him to the point that he had rashly yelled at her to shut up. That wouldn’t have been so bad except Kristy had been in the middle of nagging him about something and thought he was yelling at her, causing a rousing fight.

He’d grown tired of her body too. The smell had gotten too bad, the torso grossly bloated. He’d disposed of the remains in a shallow grave along with all her personal items.

He knew it would be time to hunt again soon, but not quite yet. Kristy had been watching him closely since the last one, convinced he was cheating on her. He’d have to let her suspicions die down some. He usually made himself wait months, the house was already so full, but he could feel the urge creeping up on him quicker with every new addition. It irked him that he’d have to wait. He wondered if someday the house would simply become so full it would burst at the seams, or explode in cosmic release spewing out like some unholy jizz upon the universe.

“What’re you thinking about,” Kristy asked. They were sitting on the sofa, T.V. on some sappy show she liked. If only you knew, he thought.

“Nothin. The house. It’s seeming kinda small lately.” He’d purchased the property from his Grandmother after Grandfather died, but he’d lived there all his life. He couldn’t imagine anywhere else, though he’d dreamed of nothing but escape when he younger. This place held all his secrets, the pain and humiliation he’d suffered long buried under the weight of his newer mementos.

“That reminds me,” Kristy said. “Your Grandma might come for a visit in a few weeks if she can tear herself away from lover boy.”

“Cool,” he said, still unable to believe his tiny, browbeaten Grandmother had left all memories of this place behind and walked straight into the arms of another man. How could she so easily shake off years of torment, pretend it never happened, forget all the pain her silence had caused him at the hands of his Grandfather?

“I wonder what she’ll think of the house?” Kristy murmured.

“Hmmm.” A chill raced up his spine with the first niggling fear of discovery he’d had in a long time. She might not be able to see his mementos, after all Eve had been around since he was seventeen, but she had surely been able to hear them, which was how he’d discovery he could silence them if he chose. He’d have to be careful until after her visit, just in case. “We should fix up my old room. We can turn it into a guest room. How long is she staying?”

“Who knows? She hasn’t stayed in one place for more than a month or so in the past few years with all her travels, but she won’t want to be away from Walter for long.” The fact that Walter was unwelcome here was an unspoken understanding. Shane may have loathed his Grandfather and wished him dead with every fiber of his being on a daily basis, but her flight into the arms of that man had caused a rift so deep he hadn’t spoken to her for more than a year, and she hadn’t been back to the house for almost a decade.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A month later he’d picked up his Grandmother from the airport with no small amount of trepidation. He thought he had prepared for any eventuality, but her cheery chatter on the drive home was so foreign it had thrown him off balance. Who was this woman, so unlike the quiet, scared shadow of his childhood?

“You’re quiet sweetheart. Is something wrong?”

What could he answer to that? ‘Where is my Grandmother and what did you do to her?’

“Just tired. We fixed up my old room for you.”

“Kristy told me, but you kids didn’t have to go to all that trouble. I could have slept on the couch.” She patted his arm.

“Don’t be silly. We wanted to do it, and you wouldn’t have been comfortable on the couch.”

“You’ve always been such a good boy.”

If only she knew. They settled into easy conversation for the rest of the drive, chatting about the neighborhood and old friends. Pulling up to the house he felt her tense, and wondered if old memories rose to haunt her.

“I’ll get your bags after lunch. I made your favorite, tuna casserole.” Taking her arm he guided her up the front steps, and felt her resistance grow with every step. By the time they entered he could feel her trembling.

“Something wrong?” he asked.

“It’s so heavy and dark,” she whispered. “Worse than I remembered.”

“It’s just a house,” he said. When all else fails, bluff, he thought.

“No,” she answered her voice quavering. “Something is terribly, horribly wrong here.”

“Don’t worry,” he soothed. “Everything is just right. You’ll see.” She looked up at him, fear clouding her eyes as she shrank into the woman she had once been, the woman he had always known.

“I always wanted you to be a good boy,” she whimpered. “I always wanted you to do right.” Accusation lay behind those sad eyes. She knew, probably she had always known. This was not okay.

“I am your good boy Grandma. You’ll see,” he said. “Sit here on the sofa and I’ll get you some sweet tea. I made it special just for you.”

Walking to the kitchen he opened the refrigerator and pulled out the pitcher of tea. Thank God he’d prepared. He grabbed a vial of Rohypnol from the window sill and dumped it into a glass, added some ice and poured tea till it was full, placing a lemon wedge and a sprig of mint on the rim. He poured his own glass and carried both back into the living room.
“Here you go. This will make you feel better. It’s gets so hot this time of year.”

“But I’m so cold,” she said, pulling her thin sweater around her, unaware of his mementos pushing themselves close to her. They must sense that she could feel them and clamored for her attention.

“Drink up,” he insisted, taking the tone of parent to a toddler. He watched her first sip, and then rapidly gulp it down under his unstinting gaze. When the glass was empty she placed it carefully on the coffee table.

“See now. Isn’t that better? Let’s have some lunch before it gets cold.” So much better to get her to the kitchen before she became too unsteady. Already he could see the effects of the drug as she stumbled forward.

“Here. Sit on the edge of the table,” he said, guiding her into the room.

“What? No,” she resisted. “I’ll sit in a…” She pointed to a chair, the words already lost to the drug, her mind sinking into a fog.

“I said sit on the table,” he demanded, and she turned, surprised fear in her voice.

“Ray?” she asked.

Rage boiled through him. How dare she. “No!” he yelled, forcing her to the table. “Your asshole husband, that son of a bitch, is dead. I’m your good boy, remember?”

Her forehead wrinkled in confused concentration as she stared at him. “Yes. Yes of course. My good boy,” she replied, sinking back on the table, eyes closed.

Shane turned and pulled his box of tools from under the sink where he had stashed it earlier. Pulling out ropes he bound her to the table, spreading her arms so far he thought they might pull out of the sockets, stretching her legs far apart to dangle on either side of the table.

The mementos slowly filed in as he completed his preparations, Miss July, too new to fully understand, trying frantically to scream out a warning. With his audience in attendance, he glanced at this watch. Damn, only three hours till Kristy got home. He’d have to make this quick, no time for fun and games.

Picking up his knife he went to work, smiling at the surprised scream when the pain started. What a surprise he had for Kristy when she got home. He glanced at the unopened vile of Rohypnol sitting on the windowsill. He’d have lots of time for her, lots of time to play. Yes, today would be a good day.

The mementos stood mute, staring helplessly as he worked, they waited, his hostage audience.

Truth


November 6, 2012

The line for the voting booth inched slowly forward. Some of the pairs and groups that had come together were chatting amongst themselves, talking about who they were voting for and why. I heard some of my own handiwork on their lips, my spin on Wallace's little secret. It still made me a little sick to my stomach. But it was my job, to turn one truth into another, to make the people think what I wanted them to think. Supposedly one undertook the job to work for someone they believed in, to get them elected, but I just followed the money. It was the job itself that I loved, not the candidates I worked for. The words of my mentor filled my mind for the millionth time as the line crept forward once more.

Who do you think gets a man elected? The man himself? Biggest load of bullshit you'll ever hear, someone telling you the candidate actually matters. They don't do a damn thing but look nice in a suit and recite speeches other people write. The voting public? Hah! They flip-flop even more than the politicians themselves, they're clay to be molded in the hands of the news media. The big money corporate sponsors? They help, sure, but even their million dollar advertisements wouldn't be enough alone to buy a seat in Congress, or the White House no less. No, see, the ones who get a man elected are people like you and me. The news guys. The people who spin their fuck ups into victories, the people who turn their good traits into candidacy for goddamn sainthood. We're the guys who mold the minds of the good people of the voting public, we're the guys who make them want to vote for someone and think it was their own idea all along. You look at any major election in the last fifty years and I guarantee you the winner had the better news team. This is the truth of politics boy, so listen well. Whoever has the best liars and bullshitters on his side always wins. Always.

As the speech wound down in my head I felt a familiar sense of calm bravado filling me up, lifting the weak and wobbly bits of my psyche on a cloud of fabricated confidence. The words of the late great Mike Campioni always spun through my head when I thought on my work. It was a ritual for me, at times used a mental pre-game pep talk before speeches and interviews, courtesy of the self-proclaimed King of Bullshit himself. Mike had been a byword of the political community for decades. If you got him as your press secretary you almost guaranteed yourself a victory. That's just how damned good the man was at his chosen profession. The art of lying came naturally to him, just as easily and naturally breathing came to the mere mortals who could only stand in awe of his craft. It sounds like bullshit, sure, and it probably is. But the man was good, that's for damn sure.

He'd also been my mentor and one of my closest friends. We first worked together in a 2000 Senate race: an incumbent Senator had scraped together the cash to hire Mister Campioni, as I'd called him then, to save his campaign after the idiot got caught with a prostitute. I'd been his press secretary before that point and hadn't been able to fix his public image, so Mike was brought in to take the reins to salvage the campaign. It was a lost cause as far as I was concerned, but that was before the master worked his magic. As he spun the debacle around into a sob story of an emotionally distant wife driving the man into whatever comfort he could find, Mike took me under his wing and taught me how to go from being a decent bullshitter to a great one. After I asked him how in the hell he managed to turn the Senator's double digit trailing in the polls to a win by nine percent of the vote, he gave me a little smile and delivered his speech, the very same one I took as a litany, almost a prayer, to remind myself what my job was all about.

We worked together a lot in the following years. In the 2002 elections he called me out of the blue asking if I wanted a job working another Senate campaign under him. I think he'd already decided to make me his protégé at that point, or his last one at least; he'd brought up a few other great campaign news managers in his career, but he must have seen his time coming and wanted to instill his wisdom in one last mind. Mike had been sixty-three years old in 2002, so his worry of mortality wasn't very surprising. We worked together almost every election year thereafter, mostly congressional races and mostly victories. The 2004 presidential race was a bust, Mike was hired by the Democrat candidate for office and brought me along for the ride when he started hiring his news team staff. That man had about as much personality as a rock and made the people watching at home feel uncomfortable; not even the great Mike Campioni could turn that into a win against an incumbent President. 2008 saw us working to save a Governor's office rather than working on the big time race, which is a little unfortunate in hindsight. That was the last campaign Mike ever worked before he passed away. It would have seemed somehow more fitting for his last work to be getting a President elected rather than keeping a fraudster in charge of a state.

After his death I took up the reins on getting a very conservative Republican elected as California's governor in 2010. That gained me enough notoriety to be courted by the Democrats early on in the 2012 presidential campaign. I ended up taking Howard Wallace's contract since the man seemed most likely to win his party's nomination. I helped clinch it with my spin on a foreign policy gaffe in which he said we were friends with Iran; my work turned it into a slight mistake in which he meant to say he wanted to get us to a state where we could be allies with Iran after they halt their pursuit of nuclear weaponry. The far left folks who made up the major voters in the primaries ate that up like candy, of course. Thus he got the nomination on his platform of a liberal social agenda and turning America back into a benevolent shepherd of the world rather than the forceful warmonger it had become.

My thoughts jarred back to the present as the person in front of me exited the voting booth. I stepped in and closed the curtain behind me, pulling out my ballot to look it over again. The spot for the presidential vote remained unmarked, the sight accompanied queasy turning in my gut. Should I vote for the man I worked for and spun bullshit for, should I fall for my own lies? Or should I vote with my gut? My mind wandered away from the present, back to the interview that sparked this hesitation in the first place.


November 3, 2012

A woman's voice pulled me away from my mental recap of what I wanted to say. The anchorwoman, Jesse Matthews, droned on with a recap of the drama so far, my cause for being in that studio rather than working up some last minute television advertisements as I should have been. I wished the story had broken just a few days later, or that Wallace had told me about it early on so I could seed the news with everything I needed to spin this story on its heel. Ah well, no use worrying about it after the fact.

“Democratic Presidential candidate Howard Wallace was taken by surprise yesterday, just as the world was, when his opponent's camp revealed a series of photographs and medical records that showed that Mrs. Wallace was not in fact a 'miss' her whole life. The set of before and after pictures and paperwork for a gender reassignment surgery indicated that she had been born a man and altered her gender twelve years ago, two years after the couple themselves have said they got together.” Matthews paused in her delivery, giving a moment for the audience at home to re-digest the bombshell. She was good, I had to give her that. Hopefully that wouldn't bite me in the ass during the interview.

“Neither Wallace himself nor party spokespeople have had much to say on the matter. A brief press release from the candidate's press office late last night stated that he had known and supported his wife in her gender reassignment and would not comment on it further at this time. Right wing news outlets have been attacking the Democrats nonstop over the debacle, claiming that Wallace is a homosexual and thus unfit to hold the highest seat of power in the nation. Here with me tonight to talk about the gender and sexuality politics now overshadowing the election is Howard Wallace's chief press secretary , Harvey Brekenridge.”

“Thank you for having me, Jesse.” The camera panned over to catch me in the shot as well, on the opposite side of the desk from the anchorwoman. It was a fairly familiar seat for me: I'd sat in this same seat two months prior when I spun Wallace forgetting to close a speech with the obligatory 'God bless America,' which his opponents tried to turn into him being an atheist, into him respecting the university venue and its secular nature enough that he chose not to bring his religion into their halls of learning. He gained two percent in the polls after that, probably due to intellectuals and atheists deciding to vote for the guy who seemed to have their interests at heart.

“Thank you for joining us. I have to open with the question that's on everyone's minds: should Howard Wallace's wife being transgendered affect the vote?” Ah, so she wanted to take the aggressive route with the questions. Wonderful.

“In a perfect world, no. The issues and the candidates' stances on them should be the deciding factor in an election, not minor details of their personal life.” Jesse seemed amused by my dismissal of the issue, to which I responded with a simple smile. I shifted in my seat, crossing my right leg over my left to project an image of calm control to the audience. It was far from the truth of what I was feeling, but I didn't take a career as a professional bullshit artist for no reason.

“But this isn't a perfect world, Mr. Breckenridge.”

“You're right, it's not. You asked me if it should affect the vote, not if it will. It will do so all right, nobody is doubting that. Do you have the latest poll results?”

She shuffled some papers around in front of her, likely more to confirm the numbers than to discover them. “Wallace was ahead by six to eight points in most polls on the thirtieth, now he's down by four.” The woman looked up with that interrogative glint in her eye. “Yet you called it a minor detail. This story has sparked a renewed discussion of gender and sexuality across the nation and has completely flipped predictions for who will become the next President of the United States. How can you call something like that minor?” I almost felt bad for leading her to this question so blatantly and so quickly, but the sooner I spun the narrative the better.

“Very easily, sexuality is not an important part of one's personality.” I had to force myself to continue after that line. I'd been revolted when I heard the news myself, so having to spin this story into a positive thing was a challenge. “We shouldn't be electing a man based on who his significant other is, we should be electing him because of what he stands for. But I know the American people can't quite see it that way, they've become too accustomed to voting for who they like rather than who is best for them and their interests. It is unfortunate but it is the nature of the beast.” I leaned forward, giving the camera only a brief glance as I rested my elbows on the edge of the desk. “I would challenge everyone to think about what exactly this means about Howard Wallace as a man.”

Jesse wasted no time in speaking up after me, struggling a bit to maintain control of the interview. “It means many things, depending on one's view of sexuality. By their own admission. Mr. and the now Mrs. Wallace got together before the gender reassignment surgery. Wouldn't that mean that Howard Wallace is a homosexual, or perhaps a bisexual? Do you think that America is ready to have a president like that?”

“I do.” I shot another smile at her, just oozing confidence for the camera despite the lies spewing from my mouth. I didn't truly feel comfortable with the idea of Wallace in the White House, my Christian upbringing making me one of the millions who felt it was highly inappropriate. Sometimes a bullshitter even has to bullshit himself, another piece of wisdom from my mentor. “As I said, consider what that means about his character. He does not discriminate, he is not a hateful or bigoted man, he accepts people as they are rather than as the world wishes them to be. That is the profile of a good man, if you ask me.”

“But he's married to a tran—“ I cut off her exasperated retort with a shrugging laugh.

“So what? Does that change his stance on lowering taxes? Does that change his stance on foreign relations? Does that change his stance on abortion, creating jobs, immigration, trade, or environmental protection? It certainly doesn't change his stance on gay marriage and equal rights for people of all sexual orientations.” Another winning smile to go along with my joke. I hoped this was working as well on the audience as it was on miss Matthews. She looked thoughtful, brows bunched together. I took the opportunity to continue my diatribe.

“Howard Wallace has been running on a liberal platform that has always included pursuing equal rights for those like his wife, for anyone of any gender or orientation. Sure, other candidates have run on the same kinds of platforms before, but have they ever actually fought for these goals? Wallace is a man that America can trust implicitly to fight for these rights. That is what this news means, nothing else.” I turned to the camera then, breaking one of the unspoken rules of news interviews, and put on my best face of stern disappointment. “Anyone who states that Wallace is unfit for office because of this is a bigot. There are no two ways about it. The only reason to disapprove of a man for marrying a transgendered woman is discriminatory hatred that no true American should want to be a part of.”

I turned back to Jesse Matthews and remained silent, letting her pick up the reins again. She gave a couple closing remarks, clearly pleased with how things went, and thanked me again for being on the show. The interview was supposed to last another two minutes or so, but she understood a great closing statement when she heard one. She'd gotten plenty of good sound bites and a rather polarizing interview, just what she'd been looking for. The camera panned away to pull me out of the shot and an intern came to lead me away from the desk and through the studio. I kept up the calm and collected facade until I was outside

My shoulders slumped as my car door slammed shut. That had been the biggest pile of bullshit I'd ever worked up in my career, no doubt about it. I felt like throwing up. The guy was fucking a mutilated man and I had just argued for him to become the president. I was no Bible-thumping Christian, but I had enough of it instilled in me to feel a base level disgust at the idea. But my job was to get the man elected, that's what I was being paid for. It took me a few minutes to gather the presence of mind to start up my car. The radio came on as the key turned in the ignition, my own voice coming out of the speakers to tell me that only a bigot wouldn't vote for Wallace. I turned it off with a grimace, feeling bile rising in my throat once more. The drive home was silent, nothing but my thoughts for company. I couldn't decide if that was a blessing or a curse.


November 6, 2012

I stared at my ballot for another minute or so before sighing and picking up one of the little of pens on the table in the voting booth. Where my other markings were clear and deliberate, the colored in bubble for the presidential vote was rushed and sloppy. I was quite glad in that moment that votes were private matters. All of my credibility would go down the drain if people were to learn that I voted against the man I campaigned for through most of the year.



November 7, 2012

I stumbled into the kitchen in a tired stupor, groping blindly for the light switch and squinting as the bright light filled my grainy eyes. After fumbling around with the coffee maker and starting it up, I picked up the TV remote lying on the counter and hit the power button. A familiar face filled the screen over in the living room, Jesse Matthews reporting on the presidential election for anyone who'd been too disinterested to watch it unfold last night.

“...shocking revelation caused a major drop in the polls, his press secretary Harvey Breckenridge led the charge in turning the story around on my own program. After dropping an astonishing ten points in most major polling just three days before the election, Wallace's campaign managed to turn it around and come away with 274 votes of the Electoral College, just barely squeaking by to win the election as the next President of the United States. The stunning turnaround coming contrary to all early voting results and polling leaves many wondering if the American gay and transgendered voting bloc is actually larger than anyone suspected. Joining me now is...”

I laughed quietly to myself and turned my attention back to the coffee. Last night had been one hell of a party after the results were in. Where others were drinking to celebrate, my imbibing was more akin to someone drinking to forget. Howard Wallace had kept me by his side most of the night, repeatedly thanking me for doing my job. He'd offered me a job as the White House press secretary once he took office, which I'd declined politely by claiming that my place was on the campaign trail. The man was all kinds of disappointed, but he didn't see fit to press the issue. Thank God for small mercies.

Around the end of the night, he'd pulled me aside and asked me how I'd managed to do it, how I'd saved his race for presidency from its obvious path down the toilet. I gave Wallace a little smile and felt a great sense of deja vu, having been on the other end of this exchange once before. My reply was pretty close to what Mike Campioni told me all those years ago, though altered by my drunken mind, a speech ending with the very same line: whoever has the best liars and bullshitters on his side always wins. Always.

Theme & Components Provided By:

Brovo, Kagamine & Contra Fates.

General Guidelines For All:

Writer Of The Month: Guidelines & Rules (updated)

Please use this thread to comment on and discuss entries according to the rules listed above. Participants in the contest are allowed (and encouraged) to vote and comment as freely as a non-participant, provided that they do not vote for themselves, and they do not give away which entry is theirs. When reviewing entries, a faux review of one's own entry to preserve anonymity is acceptable.

If a participant sees a formatting error in their entry that they believe to be the mistake of the managers, they may contact a manager privately to have it fixed. Managers will only fix mistakes that were their own fault from putting together the voting threads, and will not fix formatting errors that the author made upon submission, nor typos, etc.

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[Empress J]

It looks like all the spacing failed in the entries. It's making them very difficult to read.

I know I personally fixed the spacing in mine before I sent it, but its gone now.

Any way we could fix this?

NOTE: Same thing happened with this post. I hard returned and put an extra line between these, but it appears on the thread as if I didn't.

[Kagamine]

It looks like all the spacing failed in the entries. It's making them very difficult to read.

I know I personally fixed the spacing in mine before I sent it, but its gone now.

Any way we could fix this?

NOTE: Same thing happened with this post. I hard returned and put an extra line between these, but it appears on the thread as if I didn't.

This issue has been addressed in the problems/suggestions forum, really it's just a problem with your browser. Internet Explorer has a lot of problems with the new version of the site, not displaying spacing between lines being one of them. I'm not sure when administration will get around to fixing this or if they will at all, but for now, switching to Google Chrome or Firefox should fix the problem.

[Empress J]

Thanks...I use both Internet Explorer and Firefox...just depends on what computer I'm using.

[Alphakoka]

So, here's my thought for the entries:
Entry one is a little bit too all over the place, particularly around the part where you're starting to switch use between email format and bolded.
Entry two is a bit too cluttered although I have to say it has great idea and nice execution. Though some space would be nice.
Entry three, nicely done with the poem format.
Entry four, dark, and rather creepy I must say with a side of disgust, if that's what you're after, I'd say you did a great job.
Entry five is my favorite so far, though I find it a bit hard on which component you're using.

So, in relevant to the theme and my preferences, I vote 3.

[Kagamine]

Entry two is a bit too cluttered although I have to say it has great idea and nice execution. Though some space would be nice.

Personally I think #2 had a lot of issues besides space. Though yes, paragraphing really needs to be improved. These are mainly just blocks of dialogue. Come to think of it, really the whole piece is dialogue. This author needs to rely on dialogue less, since it's the bulk of the piece, which is rather irritating, especially since it makes it near-impossible to form proper paragraphs, instead just blocks of dialogue that separate scene from scene. Just... don't do that. Please. That last "paragraph" especially was enormous. (Also, you should use quotation marks for dialogue, not apostrophes, but, small things.)

Aside from execution, there are a few other things in the story that don't quite add up, too. Like the mention of how intelligence cores are really made; what purpose did that serve? A small mention like that seems like it's foreshadowing something else, or at least alludes to something else. But, no. The main characters never learned of it, and it never came back into the story. It was just... meaningless, and could've (and should've) just been trimmed from the story. So why did you leave it in? So far all it's done for me is confuse me.

Entry five is my favorite so far, though I find it a bit hard on which component you're using.

Hah, well, the way this month's components were set up, "creation" really could mean literally anything- even if it's not exactly a tangible something.

[Brovo]

EDIT: Added Entry #3's review. Entry #4's review is under edits. Entry #5's review has yet to be done--soon, I swear sir!

Brovo's Technical Reviews!

That's right, the ever so demanded technical reviews are coming back full swing. I've deduced what made my work load so insanely hellish and have thus deduced how to bring down the work load. So, Advanced, look out, here I come swooping in from above to test your entries with everything I can think of in the book of analysis and argumentation as per request to bring it back. Multiple times. Thanks for not giving up on it. Anyway, to quickly state to those both familiar and unfamiliar with my reviews, this is a two-part information and warning.

Firstly, I review the technical aspects of a piece. I do not allow emotions to sway into my perspective though I will note if a piece is aiming to target at specific emotions. Instead I target things such as plot integrity, logical event coherency, consistency, control and mastery over language choice, basic spelling and grammar, plot structure, characters and characterization of persons places things concepts and more, metaphor and analogy, "depth", and more. I do NOT target "how I personally feel" or anything along those lines unless that is the only logical way I can review that particular part of the work.

Secondly, I do not hold back. I don't withdraw punches. If an author did something wrong, I will call that author out on it. Any authors who have chosen to withdraw from being reviewed I won't review--That isn't to say that author is "bad", just that they have made a personal choice not to be reviewed, and I will respect that choice. Those that have invited criticisms and review I will review. I will point out what you did exceptionally right or bright especially if it makes other entries pale in comparison in that area, but I will also point out grievous and gaping wounds in the plot or the characters, or if a metaphor fails to deliver its message. Essentially: I will blatantly tell the author that they screwed up, however, I will also tell that author how they screwed up and generally, if appropriate, how they can fix it in the future. I do constructive criticism, not criticism for the sake of criticism.

Here I will list various tags for reviewers to use in their own reviews, and to help authors better understand what I mean when I use short hand slang for information.
Regular Short Story
Plot: The plot. Numerically graded. Grades change based on but not exclusively: Consistency, theme choice, theme execution, plot structure, pacing, etc.
Character: The characters involved. Grades change based on but not exclusively: Consistency, logic versus emotion, ability to relate to an audience, ability to convey dialogue without being "stale", relationships, etc.
Environment: The world, area, or otherwise. Grades change based on but not exclusively: Consistency, purple prose versus vague, connection to the plot/character(s), etc.

Poetry
Theme: In this case: The point and purpose of the piece. The "heart" of the piece of poetry. Is it introduced, explained, and then wrapped up properly?
Rhythm: How a piece of poetry flows. Generally, grammar choice, word choice and the number of syllables per line determine how this is graded. Something that is jarred and flows poorly can destroy a perfectly good theme.
Rhyme: Specifically for AABB, ABAB, etc. Free Verse and Haiku tend to be exempt. Instead I rate Rhythm and Theme on them harder than I would something which demands rhyme content. I rate rhyme based on two factors: Does it rhyme well (up to 5/10 points) and do the rhymes make sense with the theme in question (up to 5/10 points).

Slang/Short-Form Concepts
Type: The story type. I grade short stories and poetry on altogether different levels, because they share very little on the technical level.
Genre: The genre of the story. My expectations change with the genre.
P1/P2/P3. P1-L1/P1-L2/P1-L3. Etc: Note purposes. Paragraph 1, paragraph 2, paragraph 3. Paragraph 1-Line 1, Paragraph 1-Line 2, Paragraph 1-Line 3. Etc. If I need to cite a specific line for criticism, it'll be cited as such.
Category: A denomination in which I've numerically graded a piece of work. "Plot", "Character" and "Rhythm" are all numerically rated categories.
[Category] Score: The numerical value upon which a category has been graded.
Logic versus Emotion: A character's balance between logic and emotion. A character with an unhealthy leaning towards logic sacrifices their humanity, a character with an unhealthy leaning towards emotion sacrifices their stability. A character whom is portrayed as unstable via emotional turmoil or cold and heartless via devotion to logic can be a more interesting character than a normal character. However, normal characters need a balance of both logic and emotion, and thus good characters can be discernible found as "human" by their "human" qualities. A "human" character is easier to relate to than an inhumane character. Where this applies is when a character that is supposed to behave in a human manner fails to do so, and thus creates an unbelievable situation.
Stale/Stick-Figure: A character or concept who is/which is very boring. Static, stale, unchanging. In the case of a character, they tend to have the personality of a refrigerator and are able to convey dialogue about as well as a Macintosh can convey emotion.
Suspension of Disbelief: One person's ability to suspend their disbelief of a fantastic or unreal situation for the sake of the story.
Tangential Plot: When the theme of the plot is something altogether different from the theme of the month. IE If we had stories about death, and then someone wrote a story about a clown popping balloons.

Numerical Values
1: Broken beyond any hope of repair, so badly constructed I couldn't understand it on any level.
2: Broken beyond any hope of repair, badly constructed but I could still vaguely get what the author was trying to convey.
3: Broken badly and in need of a lot of gutting, possible the entire plot or cast of characters needs to go and be replaced.
4: Broken, but can be repaired with a lot of edits and time. Probably needed proofreading, or someone had a lack of "genre savvy". Maybe something just went horrible wrong here.
5: Mediocre, redeemable but nothing special. Plenty of errors to repair, or a few large holes to fill in. It's still technically functional.
6: Average, not special but not bad. Could use a few dashes of editing and work. Fairly functional.
7: Above average, doing well and adequately constructs a story with few errors in this regard. Far from perfect as a whole, but typically near perfect in one way or another.
8: A good story telling with only a couple errors at the most, and those errors don't interfere whatsoever with the enjoyment of the story.[/B]
9: A great story of which the author should be proud of.
10: Perfection incarnate. You're so far above my level I genuinely wonder why you aren't signing contracts to sell your work.

Entries 1 & 2 & 3 done! 4 Is in editing stage & 5 has yet to be done but don't worry, with this new review style I'll get to you soon!

Again, to reiterate my warning from before: I do not pull back my punches. If an author does something wrong, they did it wrong, and I'm going to point it out on the technical level. Please do not take personal offense, this is meant to assist authors, not personally assault them.

Now that I've stressed this point, I feel comfortable putting out entry reviews #1 & #2.

Author of Entry #1, you did a pretty good job. You've got a few flaws to work out with your characters, but you do understand plot and environment and how to connect with an audience. That last one I mentioned is an EXTREMELY powerful tool. It can make an otherwise mediocre story appealing all by itself. Never forget that.

Type: Regular Short Story.
Genre: Modern/Real World.
Plot Notes: (P1) Nicely hinted at story content with the name of the magazine, and which specific section the protagonist read quite happily ("Deep End") which indicates forethought into the rest of the story. Also hinted at further content via "obits" comment, which appears to be journalist slang for obituaries.

Nicely targets the audience--author knew his audience well, and wrote a story to appeal to them. This indicates that the author did his research. We're all writers here, or at least interesting in writing. Therefore a story about a writer struggling to create both hits the theme of the month and the vast majority of the audience reading the story.

Flows fairly well. It has a clear introduction, the story has a trigger to the rising action which is the character's decision to write a story, it has a rising arc with the character sacrificing his belongings, his social life, and even his personal health. It has a climax with the discovery of the "Eye of the Hollow" which is likely a metaphorical creature which came to life as his mental state degraded and became a representation of that degradation, and has a resolution about what happened in a quick, tidy, but flawed resolution. The plot structure is, by technical definition, well done. The middle does stretch a little with the descriptions of his unhealthy eating habits being repeated multiple times along with a couple other minor details, but they don't distract from the story. They don't break suspension of disbelief.

Aside from that minor issue, the plot NAILS the theme, it NAILS the audience and it NAILS the structure down quite easily and effectively. However, the resolution is weakened by a weak antagonist? Not sure if antagonist, or not... Will explain under "characters." Essentially, more detail and closure was needed here.

Plot Score: 7/10--Strong beginning, solid structure, nailed theme, weakened resolution due to uncertain characters.
Character Notes: Protagonist(s): Jeremy Acre. Side Character(s): Derek Sisto, Greg. Antagonist(s): ...Derek Sisto? The Eye in the Hollow?

Jeremy Acre: A well constructed character with a classic arc of falling into madness and then killing himself after seeking (and becoming obsessed with) perfection. Nothing wrong here.
Greg: Mentioned in one line, never touched again, pretty fine since Greg plays no real role except off-hand mention.
Derek Sisto: ...I can't tell if he's just a side character possessed by the Eye in the Hollow which Jimmy Acre created, OR, if Derek Sisto used it to possess Jimmy Acre and lost control in the end, thus only having a two-book contract and nothing more. This isn't really clear in the resolution either. I'm leaning towards the former part?... If so, since when did Derek Sisto have any real contact with The Eye in the Hollow to become possessed by it?
The Eye in the Hollow: Antagonist? I don't... Know. I mean, I'm leaning towards Antagonist, because it seems to be using Jimmy Acre to get a story out or... Something, but I'm honestly... Very uncertain of this detail. The resolution... Isn't very good at actually resolving this. This needed more detail. It needed to be clearer. I don't even know what story TEITH is trying to get out here, so I can't even be sure that he/she/it actually is the antagonist or just an unfortunate side character.

Character Score: 4/10--Good protagonist, everything else is weak.

Environment Notes: Handily, quickly and efficiently depicts the various areas that our main character enters, without going overkill. Leaves some details up to the reader, the right ones--the non-essential ones. I can't think of any issues whatsoever, but there's not much there to really rate.

Environment Score: 8/10--Everything done is executed well, but not much really to rate on, so I can't give a full 10/10.

Overall Score: 19/30. Divided by 3 = final score: 6.3. Between average and above average. Weakest point was characters, specifically the sort of not but yet were and yet not antagonists that needed further clarity with a better resolution. Environment was done extremely well, though it's not very detailed that doesn't really hinder it. Still, I can't give it a perfect score.

Final Words: Great protagonist, clear motivation. Unknown antagonists/side characters, with no apparent motivations or even goals. Work on your antagonists/side characters, what they want, and clearly express this. Then you'll be much closer to hitting an overall good or great mark!

Disclaimer: Author of Entry #2, I was merciless with this review. Understand that you've got a lot of work to do, but that I can see promise in you if you work hard and don't lose spirit just because of this review. You can do it. Trust me. I've written worse than you in this very contest and came back from it all the better!

Type: Regular Short Story.
Genre: Magical School/??? (Fantasy? Modern? Mix of both?)
Plot Notes: (P1) Drops four characters in on the first line that we know nothing about. Proceeds to explain... Nothing about them.
(P2) Consistency: The entire flow of the piece suddenly and jarringly changes for no reason to a mysterious narrator who is just now explaining the entire plot. This is bad. Plots need to unfold naturally, with a person reading through it and figuring it out on their own, not having it explained to them in jarring out-of-character sequences. And yes, this is what this is: A fairly random, out-of-character sequence.

(P3) ...Theme? Where is the theme? We've gone through the introduction, but we have no theme... No point, no purpose it's just four people we don't know, whose ages are very vague, going to a school of... Some kind to learn... Something called Geomancy? There's nothing connecting the audience to the story, because right now... There is no story. It's just a monologue of four people going to school. Stories need themes, they need excitement they need interesting characters whom have personality traits and aren't walking stereotypes. Up to this point we, unfortunately, have none of those to relate to. The author needs to work on their plot... What a moral or aesop is, what a theme is, what a plot structure is. These things are necessary for telling a short story, but none are present here.

(P3)... Late? How? How were they late? How did Marcus make them late?... Wait, this is a cheap joke that nobody's laughing at. Don't use old, tired, clichéd humour to attempt to elicit laughter from the audience. This audience in particular already knows all of these tired, old tropes, and using them in a straight up, literal fashion is not effective. It also doesn't help that the school doors just opened five seconds or so before they would be late, so they couldn't have gotten inside sooner anyway. Which means Marcus' decision that the audience was never let in on means... Absolutely nothing. Plus it detracts from whatever... Point your story has... Which at this point it still has none. There is no plot. Characters are acting about in a series of patterns we can't see... Things are happening for no reason, and the audience is being asked to accept that at every turn. There's nothing to interpret. I'm forced to give this plot a 1 at this point because... I have no plot to work with. I'm sorry.

The point of the plot--Golemancy--is finally, and blatantly explained at the end of the story through dialogue. The readers don't get to explore Golemancy through the characters, it's just... Blatantly stated. That's not a good resolution. Sorry. Next time try to have something like Golemancy better mixed and peppered throughout the story. It does sound interesting--I promise I'm not making that up--but it's better for readers to explore your plot, your world, your characters... Not have it told to them in the end through dialogue.

You've got a lot to learn, but I'm sure you can if you try. There's a lot of effort in this story, it's just misplaced and needs a lot more proofreading and editing and some understanding of how plot works.

Plot Score: 1/10 -- There is no plot, or if there is one it is completely incomprehensible. (Advice below.)

Character Notes: (P1) Four characters dropped in. None of them are the main protagonist up to this point, and their personalities are one dimensional and bland. Arnold is the quiet one, Jonathan and Marcus are "best buddy rivals" and Samantha is your typical overly controlling snob. Yay. We aren't even really certain of their age for a while into the story, I'm guessing... Grade school? Maybe? I'll admit it's a big risk to take "school" and "magic" and combine the two. They have a hard time getting along. They really do. However, as I said, not going to hold back any punches so, get ready entry #2. This might be a rough ride.

As the story progresses, the characters don't really develop much at all. This is probably systemic from a lack of any kind of a plot, which makes it hard for characters to get the motivation to be forced to change. On the bright side, I can say that the four characters do mesh well together, save Samantha who is just... Annoying. That's her main trait in this story, really.

Sir Richard is used well. This is the perfect example of where a one dimensional character is perfectly suited to their role. He doesn't need any development, he just needs to create conflict or a situation in which we can feel sympathetic with a protagonist--in this case, Jonathan. Good job!

...Aaand then we have a golem smash things and students going "awesome" instead of "oh I hope I don't die that golem is smashing things" and teachers that can't do anything and... Yeah. Well. Yeah. Earlier I mentioned "logic versus emotion, balance = humanity." This is a perfect example of complete logical, cognitive dissonance with the situation at hand from the part of the characters in the story. Destruction is not awesome. Destruction is terrifying unless it is a planned demolition or other such demonstration. Not an unplanned "I'm going to break the door down." Now you know for the future!

Character Score: 2/10--The characters could each be summarized by 1-2 words, but they did work well together. Sir Richard was good. The way they didn't know how a golem might damage things, the reaction of the students to a golem destroying a doorway, the person controlling the golem being as reckless as he or she is, the teachers not being able to stop him from wrecking the hallway... There is too much cognitive dissonance to make these characters believable.

Environment Notes: Some of the references to the real world make no sense. Like the bombs comment in paragraph 2. We actually do have books that teach us how to make our own explosives, albeit that one is about improvised explosives so it's more like Pipe Bombs and Molotov Cocktails and makeshift C4. Still. The principle is there. Plus the explanation on how "magic is not really magic but we call it magic because we need resources to make things" hand waving is... Detrimental to the environment, because it almost states that not even the author knows how exactly his magic works, despite trying to explain it.

In the future I would suggest to the author to do his or her research--even a five minute Google search helps--before using a real world reference. I would also suggest to the reader to either take the "its magic and it works shut up" route OR the scientific "this has a logical explanation, it runs on unobtanium" route. Don't try to use both. It doesn't work and ends up only confusing readers attempting to tackle it from a logical perspective.

Throughout the story, events like the "mana rebellion" and golemancy is often referenced... But they're never expanded upon, never explained at all... This is especially bad for golemancy because the story is named after golemancy, the characters are obsessed with golemancy, but the audience is never actually told what the hell golemancy is... But we're expected to be connecting to characters that seem to know a whole ton of things we as the audience don't. Your protagonists cannot be related to by the audience due to knowing things about the environment and taking them for granted that the audience has never once been told. Not once. Not until... Way later in the story is it... Sort of remotely explained. This is REALLY bad. Don't do this in the future. If you reference something--especially something story-critical--you must explain it. No exceptions.

The genre isn't very clear. Is it fantasy? Modern? Modern + Fantasy? I know it's a magical school but I don't really know the genre which is causing a lot of frustrations in trying to review the environment, because I don't know what is appropriate and what is inappropriate, exactly.

Environment Score: 3--Genre is unclear and muddled, the main elements of the story (ages of the students, locations, golemancy, etc) are unclear and improperly executed...
Overall Score: 6/30 divided by 3 is 2/10.
Final Note: Plot was badly constructed, the author likely doesn't know how a plot works. I suggest reading up on it on Wikipedia, and learning plot structure from the diagram I linked above, and reading a little about it from this. Beware, it's a PDF, you may need to download it before you can view it. It's short though, I promise.

Characters need a lot of work. The author needs to determine who his or her main protagonist is--who the audience identifies with. This main protagonist shouldn't know too much more about the world than they do, or if they DO they should be able to convey this knowledge quickly and without having to blatantly inform the audience via dialogue. The author had a good idea with the students, it was simply executed poorly. Also, attempts should be made to avoid using extremely old, disliked tropes. There is a reason that they are both extremely old, and disliked. If the characters can be justifiable summarized with one sentence, those characters need to be removed and the author needs to start over. Especially if that one sentence describes said characters throughout the entire story.

Environment suffered mainly due to the characters and lack of a coherent plot, but be aware to learn logic versus emotion. A perfect example of where you can find it in action is the original series of Star Trek. Spock was pure logic, McCoy was heavily emotional, Kirk was the main protagonist who made the decisions between their advice. Learn this. It's extremely important to characterization. It is a core element of characters. It is also known as the Id, Ego, and Superego. I believe it's on TVTropes, which I've linked below!

Type: Poetry.
Genre: Religious/AAAA, Six Stanzas, "last word always rhymes." First Person perspective.
Theme Notes: Perspective of the Judeo-Christian God, straight from the text as character interpretation. Interesting choice--A little controversial, kind of what modern poetry typically aims to be. Hits the egotistical and wrathful nature of the character perfectly with the emphasized, reflective nouns. The flow serves the character.

The theme is, generally, "God is our creator and He created the universe and/or us, and we are evil in His eyes."

A little overdone as a theme, but, it ties directly into the theme of the month and it shows a lot of care and attention was poured into nailing the feel of the almighty creator of the Biblical stories, and the various events that occurred in there and how he might have felt. Emotions are a POWERFUL and ESSENTIAL tool of poetry, and this poem coats them on everything. Absolutely everything. And in fantastic amounts as well.

There's very little reason for me not to give the theme a 10/10. The only thing holding me back is that it's not a very original idea--It's been done before, a lot. But it's done so very well here it would be a mistake not to read it and use it as an example of how to analyze and understand a character that is distinctly not human.

Theme Score: 9/10--It's a little overdone as theme (God is egotistical creator roar) BUT, what saves it from mediocrity is the author tied the entire poem into the various stories of the Bible, continually referencing points in the book which God supposedly actually did. This shows the author put it an insane amount of time researching and thinking to combine these events in the same or similar order as they occurred in the book. Which is an absolute treat for anyone who's actually read the damn thing. For someone who hasn't read the Bible, this is still an extremely strong piece. There are ties to emotional states in damn near every line.

Rhythm Notes: The rhythm tends to stray fairly consistent. The words that rhyme are almost always (if not always) 1-2 syllables within each other, as it should be. However, some lines differ wildly in total number of syllables to other lines, which hurts the flow at points. Here, let me show what I mean.

Laugh if you like! Stand there and mock! - 8 Syllables. (start.)
The false one who comes first will purchase you like livestock! - 12 Syllables. (+4)
At the sight of his miracles you'll marvel in shock! - 12 Syllables. (+0)
To smooth words and promises you'll frolic and flock! - 12 Syllables. (+0.)
He'll feed you lies and set your heads on the chopping block! - 13 Syllables. (+1)
Those who hate the truth will gobble that poppycock! - 12 Syllables. (-1)
Thus proving themselves deserving of the wrath I'll unlock! - 14 Syllables. (+2)

Generally speaking with rare exception you want to keep within 1-2 syllables of the previous lines. In this case this stanza was averaging about 12 syllables per line, which is a great number to use. 8 Syllables to 12 hurts. It just suddenly "jumps" and then it returns back to stability. This happens a couple more times, but it doesn't kill the piece. It's noticeable, but definitely not a story killer. In the future, if the author is not entirely certain about how many syllables there are per line, count them. If it exceeds a jump of two syllables to the next or previous line, edit. This tool is AMAZING for that by the way.

Rhythm Score: 8/10--One jarring moment of a syllable breakdown and a couple minor hitches. Aside from that, any grammar used is to emphasize or point out a line. Which is great. Not quite perfect, but more than solid, and far above the average for the WOTM contest.

Rhyme Notes: Stanza 3, line 6. "get."
"an offspring or the total of the offspring, especially of a male animal: the get of a stallion."
Pushing it to get the rhyme off there, aren't we? One could argue that is how God would see us, but, eh'. Stretching it a little. The language is very curious at points. The previous line, "pipette" is referencing a man made machine that wouldn't be created until far later in existence. It's interesting word choices where normally I would probably discard it as just pure coincidence, chance. However, having it happen multiple times... This seems intentional. The author's mastery of language, and then using that mastery of language to hit with certain lines harder than it normally would, is astonishing.

Rhyme Score: 9/10--Superb. Occasional repeat of a single syllable rhyme as a double syllable line, still technically improper but I can see the attempt was made to alleviate it. (Example in Stanza 1. "Stand" and "Understand" have the same ending, and it's the ending of "understand" that rhymes, thus technically the author is still rhyming the same word back to back.) Aside from that minor gripe, I could easily mistake this poem as being the work of an actual, well paid, modern poet.

Overall Score: 26 divided by 3 is final score: 8.6. Normally I'm a harsh critic, but there was little to even be annoyed with here. The author should be absolutely proud of their work.

Type: Regular Short Story.
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Type: Regular Short Story.
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Want to learn more about basic writing tools, concepts, and more? Here is a list of sources I draw information from. Note that I haven't likely listed all of my sources, and that some sources come from hard copy books so I can't give web links to them all. I'll add onto this list as time goes by and I find/remember more resources for prospective writers and reviewers to use.

TVTropes: A collection of stereotypes and tropes found in literature, role playing, video games, movies, TV shows and more, written in a snarky, sarcastic manner. The perfect resource for your avid junkie of typical and atypical plots and characters, and how to understand both.

Monomyth: Also known as the Hero's Journey, this is a form of storytelling and character growth that pervades all forms of media and literature. It's worth at least reading the wikipedia article on it.

How many syllables? Is a website dedicated to telling you how many syllables there are in a word. Then telling you alternate words you can use that have the same meaning, but a different number of syllables. This is basically what happens when you take a thesaurus and make it a search engine; a poet's best friend and lover for the rest of time.

[Asperser]

Whew. Finally finished everything I needed to do. I didn't get to write up an entry for this month, but I'll get started on some reviews.

[WOTM]

Congratulations Tamefisher and Jorick!

Two years before this very moment, Jeremy Acre found a reason to live in the pages of Weirdist Magazine's serial fiction section - The Deep End, they called it. Acre
wrote the local obits and classifieds for the New Hawthorne Examiner, and had longed for a chance to scratch that itch every dummy with a reasonable grasp of a
written language got when they spent a long enough time in front of a blank Word document.

"I'm going to submit a story," he said aloud, so many months ago. Hearing those words in his alone-in-a-room voice for the first time made him blush, and if anyone had heard him - if another human being had captured the moment he spoke aloud his silly ambition - he would've swallowed a bullet right then and there.

Luckily, he was alone, or as close to it as a man could be.

-

Thirteen weeks later, he was down to working ten hours a week editing horoscopes, living off of value menu burgers and old sake from the sushi place downstairs. All
he'd written - all he'd managed to sift out of the muck of his grey matter - was a single sentence:

"Where light goes, night soon shall follow..."

Archaic. Vaguely poetic. Maybe start with a short limerick, transition into something Lovecraftian? A period piece. Period pieces always do well in Weirdist. People love lofty prose and false nostalgia. Gaslight sells. You never even have to explain yourself to the reader. The more abstract your conflict, the better.

But is that lazy? Is it poor storytelling? No. Plot is driven by logic. Story is driven by drama. Drama doens't have to make logical sense. It just has to sound right. Hit the right beats.

-

A wet summer froze into a bone-brittling winter and still he sat there, pondering the meaning of that seven-word epigraph. Like it meant something - like it was born from his mind fully formed, the tip of some grand intellectual iceberg. There had to be something more to that damned sentence. His future depended on it.

Weirdist was hardly top shelf literature, but the best of the best started in serials. Nowadays, it's easy to dismiss that approach as outdated, obsolete - why submit when you can blog? Why publish when there's ebooks and fanfiction dot net?

Because it's the right way, he told himself. Because it's the pure way. A writer struggles. A writer starves his body to feed his brain. A writer doesn't type.

He...

He writes.

Right at that moment, Jeremy Acre realized what was wrong - computers. The machine facilitated that first little burst of creativity, but now that stupid little
egg-shaped iMac stifled it. The clacking of keys, the tapping of little rubber nubs under the plastic that shot electronic signals up through some bullshit motherboard and whatever...

Paper. Paper and pen - not pencils. We're not in the business of encouraging mistakes. Pencils are tools for fools.

Tools for fools. Rhyming. Back to the limerick. What rhymes with follow?

"Hollow," came a voice from the darkest chasm of his heart.

Of course. Very dramatic - follow, hollow. Nice, punchy finish.

-

Winter's chill came and went, and brittle bones soaked in the warm rays of a new summer sun. Jeremy Acre sold his computer, his television, his iPod, his DVR, and
three years' worth of DVD boxsets of shows he never had any intention of watching to pay the rent. No more obituaries. No more horoscopes. Just a chair, a desk,
some paper, and a Bic CRISTAL ballpoint pen, tungsten carbide 1 millimeter tip, 0.4mm line width. The CRISTAL holds enough ink to draw a single line 2 kilometers long. By the end of July, a full year after he started his journey, Jeremy Acre had written approximately eighteen sloppy centimeters of story:

"Where light goes, night soon shall follow -
so swear those who rule the Hollow!"

Nothing else. Not a damn thing else. He asked the experts - critics, coffee shop dwellers, library book clubs - how they would break a story. Some shot for vague
nonsense, "feeling your way through" or whatever. Others went for ultra-specific - outlines, treatments, beatsheets, corkboards, save the cat, kill the cat, kill your darlings, rewrite rewrite rewrite...

Jeremy couldn't find a way to use any of their advice - he didn't have money for corkboards and didn't own a cat. He was hungry and thirsty and a little dizzy, and
the longer he spent staring at those piles of blank pages with the one little sentence on top, the less and less he understood what his place was in this world.

Was he supposed to just sit here, forever, working on a second sentence?

Would he finish this one day?

Maybe it was already finished. Maybe this sentence was all the world needed. Seven words create an itch and scratch it with another seven, and the world is wounded
and healed all at once by the words of Jeremy Acre, master wordsmith.

Jeremy...Acre. What kind of name was that for a human being? It didn't ring true.

Felt phony.

-

Phony Jeremy Acre, 26, passed away on October 31st, 2034, victim of a poorly-planned character arc. He is survived by his creator, Real Jeremy Acre, and seven
hundred and thirty-five blank pages of monogrammed 'A' stationery.

-

FROM: dsist@newhawthorne
TO: jeremyspoke@newhawthorne
SUBJECT: RE: Tuesday's Obits
MESSAGE:

Jeremy, you're being weird again. Stop emailing everybody your stories. It's not funny. And stop messing with the obits. That's Greg's thing now.

Derek Sisto

-

Derek Sisto, 44, was a whiny mouthbreather who filled the op-ed column with worthless ramblings about window washer unions and, you know, whatever other non-
news he could drum up five minutes to print. He fancied himself something of a literary critic, and took great lengths to make himself look like the big-wig he wished he was in the industry. Truth be told, he'd submitted more than a few stories to Weirdist, all of which prompted harshly-worded rejection letters pleaded Mister Sisto to stop sending such vulgar materials in - and the accompanying art! My oh my.

-

FROM: dsist@newhawthorne
TO: jeremyspoke@newhawthorne
SUBJECT: RE: Story Time
MESSAGE:

ha-ha. how about you spend more time spellchecking the classifieds and less time writing your dumb jabs at me.

derek

-

Jeremy Acre lost everything after that last month at New Hawthorne - job, health insurance, any co-workers he might've considered friends - but he still had the
paper. He still had the pen. And sitting in a ring of sake bottles and burger wrappers, on a wrinkled, yellowing sheet of monogrammed 'A' stationery were the fourteen words that would save Jeremy's career, and maybe even his life.

"There's nothing else," he said. "Nothing to add. Nothing to...to write. This story's over."

The hunger once sated by processed meat and enriched wheat buns had grown and entrenched itself in his guts. Pain rolled up and down his abdomen, reminding him
that there was one itch those words could not scratch. Those fourteen words put his mind at ease, made the bad sake taste smooth, but it had been eight days since
he'd had a decent meal. He'd lost fifty-eight pounds in flesh, and nearly regained it all through a mangey, ink-stained beard.

A thousand Bic CRISTALS had leaked out onto his wood floor, never used to write a single line, never touched to paper. The black swirls formed an eye as dark as
night that sank deep into the floorboards and seemed to come alive whenever he looked down at it. It was the Hollow, he decided, and it called to him.

When had he spilled that ink? Why did he buy so many pens?

They weren't plotholes - the circumstances surrounding its creation were inconsequential. The beats were there - dark obsession, voices in his head, self-destructive tendencies. The Hollow had formed within him, and in those moments where he had let his mind wander, the creature that spoke the rhyme to him had become a fully realized part of the environment. The Eye of the Hollow was watching him, waiting for him to complete the story.

"Where light goes, night soon shall follow..." he said again, and felt the Eye twitch in excitement. He did not look down - he just felt it, instinctively, and knew he was under its gaze. The Eye moved as he did, tracking Jeremy as he walked away from the desk towards a window, pen still in hand.

"So swear those..."

Jeremy Acre returned to his desk and began to write.

Jeremy opened the window.

Jeremy Acre closed the window and returned to his writing.

Jeremy Acre stepped away from the window and went back to work.

Jeremy Acre didn't want to die.

He doesn't have to.

But he has to.

No!

Yes.

-

OFFICIAL PRESS RELEASE:

Weirdist regular Derek Sisto signs two-book deal with Acre Publishing based on the strength of a manuscript for his debut novel, The Eye In the Hollow. Known to New Hawthorne Examiner subscribers for his in-depth editorials regarding window washer unions in New Hawthorne's Southland district...

Truth


November 6, 2012

The line for the voting booth inched slowly forward. Some of the pairs and groups that had come together were chatting amongst themselves, talking about who they were voting for and why. I heard some of my own handiwork on their lips, my spin on Wallace's little secret. It still made me a little sick to my stomach. But it was my job, to turn one truth into another, to make the people think what I wanted them to think. Supposedly one undertook the job to work for someone they believed in, to get them elected, but I just followed the money. It was the job itself that I loved, not the candidates I worked for. The words of my mentor filled my mind for the millionth time as the line crept forward once more.

Who do you think gets a man elected? The man himself? Biggest load of bullshit you'll ever hear, someone telling you the candidate actually matters. They don't do a damn thing but look nice in a suit and recite speeches other people write. The voting public? Hah! They flip-flop even more than the politicians themselves, they're clay to be molded in the hands of the news media. The big money corporate sponsors? They help, sure, but even their million dollar advertisements wouldn't be enough alone to buy a seat in Congress, or the White House no less. No, see, the ones who get a man elected are people like you and me. The news guys. The people who spin their fuck ups into victories, the people who turn their good traits into candidacy for goddamn sainthood. We're the guys who mold the minds of the good people of the voting public, we're the guys who make them want to vote for someone and think it was their own idea all along. You look at any major election in the last fifty years and I guarantee you the winner had the better news team. This is the truth of politics boy, so listen well. Whoever has the best liars and bullshitters on his side always wins. Always.

As the speech wound down in my head I felt a familiar sense of calm bravado filling me up, lifting the weak and wobbly bits of my psyche on a cloud of fabricated confidence. The words of the late great Mike Campioni always spun through my head when I thought on my work. It was a ritual for me, at times used a mental pre-game pep talk before speeches and interviews, courtesy of the self-proclaimed King of Bullshit himself. Mike had been a byword of the political community for decades. If you got him as your press secretary you almost guaranteed yourself a victory. That's just how damned good the man was at his chosen profession. The art of lying came naturally to him, just as easily and naturally breathing came to the mere mortals who could only stand in awe of his craft. It sounds like bullshit, sure, and it probably is. But the man was good, that's for damn sure.

He'd also been my mentor and one of my closest friends. We first worked together in a 2000 Senate race: an incumbent Senator had scraped together the cash to hire Mister Campioni, as I'd called him then, to save his campaign after the idiot got caught with a prostitute. I'd been his press secretary before that point and hadn't been able to fix his public image, so Mike was brought in to take the reins to salvage the campaign. It was a lost cause as far as I was concerned, but that was before the master worked his magic. As he spun the debacle around into a sob story of an emotionally distant wife driving the man into whatever comfort he could find, Mike took me under his wing and taught me how to go from being a decent bullshitter to a great one. After I asked him how in the hell he managed to turn the Senator's double digit trailing in the polls to a win by nine percent of the vote, he gave me a little smile and delivered his speech, the very same one I took as a litany, almost a prayer, to remind myself what my job was all about.

We worked together a lot in the following years. In the 2002 elections he called me out of the blue asking if I wanted a job working another Senate campaign under him. I think he'd already decided to make me his protégé at that point, or his last one at least; he'd brought up a few other great campaign news managers in his career, but he must have seen his time coming and wanted to instill his wisdom in one last mind. Mike had been sixty-three years old in 2002, so his worry of mortality wasn't very surprising. We worked together almost every election year thereafter, mostly congressional races and mostly victories. The 2004 presidential race was a bust, Mike was hired by the Democrat candidate for office and brought me along for the ride when he started hiring his news team staff. That man had about as much personality as a rock and made the people watching at home feel uncomfortable; not even the great Mike Campioni could turn that into a win against an incumbent President. 2008 saw us working to save a Governor's office rather than working on the big time race, which is a little unfortunate in hindsight. That was the last campaign Mike ever worked before he passed away. It would have seemed somehow more fitting for his last work to be getting a President elected rather than keeping a fraudster in charge of a state.

After his death I took up the reins on getting a very conservative Republican elected as California's governor in 2010. That gained me enough notoriety to be courted by the Democrats early on in the 2012 presidential campaign. I ended up taking Howard Wallace's contract since the man seemed most likely to win his party's nomination. I helped clinch it with my spin on a foreign policy gaffe in which he said we were friends with Iran; my work turned it into a slight mistake in which he meant to say he wanted to get us to a state where we could be allies with Iran after they halt their pursuit of nuclear weaponry. The far left folks who made up the major voters in the primaries ate that up like candy, of course. Thus he got the nomination on his platform of a liberal social agenda and turning America back into a benevolent shepherd of the world rather than the forceful warmonger it had become.

My thoughts jarred back to the present as the person in front of me exited the voting booth. I stepped in and closed the curtain behind me, pulling out my ballot to look it over again. The spot for the presidential vote remained unmarked, the sight accompanied queasy turning in my gut. Should I vote for the man I worked for and spun bullshit for, should I fall for my own lies? Or should I vote with my gut? My mind wandered away from the present, back to the interview that sparked this hesitation in the first place.


November 3, 2012

A woman's voice pulled me away from my mental recap of what I wanted to say. The anchorwoman, Jesse Matthews, droned on with a recap of the drama so far, my cause for being in that studio rather than working up some last minute television advertisements as I should have been. I wished the story had broken just a few days later, or that Wallace had told me about it early on so I could seed the news with everything I needed to spin this story on its heel. Ah well, no use worrying about it after the fact.

“Democratic Presidential candidate Howard Wallace was taken by surprise yesterday, just as the world was, when his opponent's camp revealed a series of photographs and medical records that showed that Mrs. Wallace was not in fact a 'miss' her whole life. The set of before and after pictures and paperwork for a gender reassignment surgery indicated that she had been born a man and altered her gender twelve years ago, two years after the couple themselves have said they got together.” Matthews paused in her delivery, giving a moment for the audience at home to re-digest the bombshell. She was good, I had to give her that. Hopefully that wouldn't bite me in the ass during the interview.

“Neither Wallace himself nor party spokespeople have had much to say on the matter. A brief press release from the candidate's press office late last night stated that he had known and supported his wife in her gender reassignment and would not comment on it further at this time. Right wing news outlets have been attacking the Democrats nonstop over the debacle, claiming that Wallace is a homosexual and thus unfit to hold the highest seat of power in the nation. Here with me tonight to talk about the gender and sexuality politics now overshadowing the election is Howard Wallace's chief press secretary , Harvey Brekenridge.”

“Thank you for having me, Jesse.” The camera panned over to catch me in the shot as well, on the opposite side of the desk from the anchorwoman. It was a fairly familiar seat for me: I'd sat in this same seat two months prior when I spun Wallace forgetting to close a speech with the obligatory 'God bless America,' which his opponents tried to turn into him being an atheist, into him respecting the university venue and its secular nature enough that he chose not to bring his religion into their halls of learning. He gained two percent in the polls after that, probably due to intellectuals and atheists deciding to vote for the guy who seemed to have their interests at heart.

“Thank you for joining us. I have to open with the question that's on everyone's minds: should Howard Wallace's wife being transgendered affect the vote?” Ah, so she wanted to take the aggressive route with the questions. Wonderful.

“In a perfect world, no. The issues and the candidates' stances on them should be the deciding factor in an election, not minor details of their personal life.” Jesse seemed amused by my dismissal of the issue, to which I responded with a simple smile. I shifted in my seat, crossing my right leg over my left to project an image of calm control to the audience. It was far from the truth of what I was feeling, but I didn't take a career as a professional bullshit artist for no reason.

“But this isn't a perfect world, Mr. Breckenridge.”

“You're right, it's not. You asked me if it should affect the vote, not if it will. It will do so all right, nobody is doubting that. Do you have the latest poll results?”

She shuffled some papers around in front of her, likely more to confirm the numbers than to discover them. “Wallace was ahead by six to eight points in most polls on the thirtieth, now he's down by four.” The woman looked up with that interrogative glint in her eye. “Yet you called it a minor detail. This story has sparked a renewed discussion of gender and sexuality across the nation and has completely flipped predictions for who will become the next President of the United States. How can you call something like that minor?” I almost felt bad for leading her to this question so blatantly and so quickly, but the sooner I spun the narrative the better.

“Very easily, sexuality is not an important part of one's personality.” I had to force myself to continue after that line. I'd been revolted when I heard the news myself, so having to spin this story into a positive thing was a challenge. “We shouldn't be electing a man based on who his significant other is, we should be electing him because of what he stands for. But I know the American people can't quite see it that way, they've become too accustomed to voting for who they like rather than who is best for them and their interests. It is unfortunate but it is the nature of the beast.” I leaned forward, giving the camera only a brief glance as I rested my elbows on the edge of the desk. “I would challenge everyone to think about what exactly this means about Howard Wallace as a man.”

Jesse wasted no time in speaking up after me, struggling a bit to maintain control of the interview. “It means many things, depending on one's view of sexuality. By their own admission. Mr. and the now Mrs. Wallace got together before the gender reassignment surgery. Wouldn't that mean that Howard Wallace is a homosexual, or perhaps a bisexual? Do you think that America is ready to have a president like that?”

“I do.” I shot another smile at her, just oozing confidence for the camera despite the lies spewing from my mouth. I didn't truly feel comfortable with the idea of Wallace in the White House, my Christian upbringing making me one of the millions who felt it was highly inappropriate. Sometimes a bullshitter even has to bullshit himself, another piece of wisdom from my mentor. “As I said, consider what that means about his character. He does not discriminate, he is not a hateful or bigoted man, he accepts people as they are rather than as the world wishes them to be. That is the profile of a good man, if you ask me.”

“But he's married to a tran—“ I cut off her exasperated retort with a shrugging laugh.

“So what? Does that change his stance on lowering taxes? Does that change his stance on foreign relations? Does that change his stance on abortion, creating jobs, immigration, trade, or environmental protection? It certainly doesn't change his stance on gay marriage and equal rights for people of all sexual orientations.” Another winning smile to go along with my joke. I hoped this was working as well on the audience as it was on miss Matthews. She looked thoughtful, brows bunched together. I took the opportunity to continue my diatribe.

“Howard Wallace has been running on a liberal platform that has always included pursuing equal rights for those like his wife, for anyone of any gender or orientation. Sure, other candidates have run on the same kinds of platforms before, but have they ever actually fought for these goals? Wallace is a man that America can trust implicitly to fight for these rights. That is what this news means, nothing else.” I turned to the camera then, breaking one of the unspoken rules of news interviews, and put on my best face of stern disappointment. “Anyone who states that Wallace is unfit for office because of this is a bigot. There are no two ways about it. The only reason to disapprove of a man for marrying a transgendered woman is discriminatory hatred that no true American should want to be a part of.”

I turned back to Jesse Matthews and remained silent, letting her pick up the reins again. She gave a couple closing remarks, clearly pleased with how things went, and thanked me again for being on the show. The interview was supposed to last another two minutes or so, but she understood a great closing statement when she heard one. She'd gotten plenty of good sound bites and a rather polarizing interview, just what she'd been looking for. The camera panned away to pull me out of the shot and an intern came to lead me away from the desk and through the studio. I kept up the calm and collected facade until I was outside

My shoulders slumped as my car door slammed shut. That had been the biggest pile of bullshit I'd ever worked up in my career, no doubt about it. I felt like throwing up. The guy was fucking a mutilated man and I had just argued for him to become the president. I was no Bible-thumping Christian, but I had enough of it instilled in me to feel a base level disgust at the idea. But my job was to get the man elected, that's what I was being paid for. It took me a few minutes to gather the presence of mind to start up my car. The radio came on as the key turned in the ignition, my own voice coming out of the speakers to tell me that only a bigot wouldn't vote for Wallace. I turned it off with a grimace, feeling bile rising in my throat once more. The drive home was silent, nothing but my thoughts for company. I couldn't decide if that was a blessing or a curse.


November 6, 2012

I stared at my ballot for another minute or so before sighing and picking up one of the little of pens on the table in the voting booth. Where my other markings were clear and deliberate, the colored in bubble for the presidential vote was rushed and sloppy. I was quite glad in that moment that votes were private matters. All of my credibility would go down the drain if people were to learn that I voted against the man I campaigned for through most of the year.



November 7, 2012

I stumbled into the kitchen in a tired stupor, groping blindly for the light switch and squinting as the bright light filled my grainy eyes. After fumbling around with the coffee maker and starting it up, I picked up the TV remote lying on the counter and hit the power button. A familiar face filled the screen over in the living room, Jesse Matthews reporting on the presidential election for anyone who'd been too disinterested to watch it unfold last night.

“...shocking revelation caused a major drop in the polls, his press secretary Harvey Breckenridge led the charge in turning the story around on my own program. After dropping an astonishing ten points in most major polling just three days before the election, Wallace's campaign managed to turn it around and come away with 274 votes of the Electoral College, just barely squeaking by to win the election as the next President of the United States. The stunning turnaround coming contrary to all early voting results and polling leaves many wondering if the American gay and transgendered voting bloc is actually larger than anyone suspected. Joining me now is...”

I laughed quietly to myself and turned my attention back to the coffee. Last night had been one hell of a party after the results were in. Where others were drinking to celebrate, my imbibing was more akin to someone drinking to forget. Howard Wallace had kept me by his side most of the night, repeatedly thanking me for doing my job. He'd offered me a job as the White House press secretary once he took office, which I'd declined politely by claiming that my place was on the campaign trail. The man was all kinds of disappointed, but he didn't see fit to press the issue. Thank God for small mercies.

Around the end of the night, he'd pulled me aside and asked me how I'd managed to do it, how I'd saved his race for presidency from its obvious path down the toilet. I gave Wallace a little smile and felt a great sense of deja vu, having been on the other end of this exchange once before. My reply was pretty close to what Mike Campioni told me all those years ago, though altered by my drunken mind, a speech ending with the very same line: whoever has the best liars and bullshitters on his side always wins. Always.

Like the past two months, we once again see a tie in the polls, meaning that the WOTM voters this month have decided that two entries in this competition were worthy of the winning title instead of just one. The polls tied between Tamefisher's story of the struggle of an author trying to create a solid, publishable work, and Jorick's interesting story of the truth behind the election process, creating a perfect image of one's candidate for voters to make their decision based on. With all the ties in advanced lately, it's exciting to see which one of our advanced regulars- or perhaps even a newcomer- will pull ahead and get a victory to themselves. Until then, though, Tamefisher and Jorick can both enjoy their second advanced WOTM win.

Tamefisher and Jorick: Please PM Contra Fates about your custom user titles.

I now encourage all writers who participated this month to use the next couple days to reveal themselves and respond to comments/critique given before the next Guidelines thread is up.

[Jorick]

Well, I was the author of Entry #5. Another tied victory for me, neat. Thanks Aries and Holmishire for the votes.

I might put up reviews later/tomorrow, but doubtful. I just lack the motivation and such because I'm distracted by more entertaining things. Seems like other folks had that same thought, given the general lack of reviews, but I'll answer the one sort of review I got.

Entry five is my favorite so far, though I find it a bit hard on which component you're using.

I went with a somewhat abstract concept, foreshadowed by the title. Creation of the truth rather than of a physical object. I used the following components:

"The story deals with creation in an artistic, metaphorical sense." Harvey 'created' the truth in a both artistic and metaphorical sense. He took the facts of what happened and twisted them into a particular truth, thus creating that truth.

"The story is from the perspective of a creator, be it metaphorical or literal." Harvey was the creator, it was from his POV, voila.

It was very purposely not a literal physical creation that anyone could see because I thought that would be overdone. It seems you voted for Entry #3 over mine because of my loose interpretation of the theme, so maybe I could've done more to make it obvious. No worries though, thanks for being the only person so far to give any comment on my story.