The Ratings War III: Republic of Heaven (Second Round Finals)

[Higurashi]

I meant the sentence structure more than the entire piece. There were a number of sentences that simply sounded awkward, for example;

Did he betray his conscious or does he betray his god and his life.

Huh. On second read, that's because there's a tense change AND he forgot to capitalize the "G" in God.

Oh, that. I'm very much used to that with Dasta. It gives his writing character.

 

[000Ronald]

Spoiler: Apologies for not getting in in sooner

My plummbing's been broken, and I've spent all fucking week fixing it. I didn't even have the time to write this until today.

Devon was slammed into the ground before he even knew it was there. Or he just landed on his hands and knees, one of the two.

"Rafts?" he screamed, taking in his surroundings. "Fucking rafts?" Looking to the sky, Devon screamed, "I thought we were on good terms, man? Why are you doing this to me? Is it because I swiped that cookie from the bake sale? I swear I thought they were free!"

Devon was on a ten by ten raft barreling down a river fast enough that he could barely breathe if he faced forward. The water was literally white; how anyone could fight like this, he didn't know.

There was something else odd, too; he couldn't see anyone else on the raft. For a moment he let himself think maybe he had been thrown off by the impact, but only a moment. He wasn't that lucky.

Devon tried getting to his feet, but couldn't; the first time he managed to fall back on his hands and knees, but the second time, he fell on his face, cutting his forehead and cheek. He decided he might be better off squatting, and did, looking around. About forty feet away, there was another raft with a very frail-looking man on it. Was that the guy he was facing? He might have a chance.

The raft hit another rock, and Devon was thrown into the raft again. This is fucking assanine Devon thought. How am I supposed to do anything about someone all the way over there? I have a gun, yeah, but it's too unsteady to make a shot. What can the other guy do anyway? He's kinda...is he a little closer than he was before?

He was. The river was getting narrower, and the two rafts were drifting together. Something fluttered in Devon't stomach; he didn't like this, something was wrong. Devon tried to get his gun, but got a faceful of raft again. He was helpless; the other guy may be too, but that wouldn't matter much if the collided-

With a sickening crunch, and a roar, they did just that. Both Devon and his opponent were thrown facefirst.

Devon looked over his opponent; not only was he tall, but he was thin; he'd taken a lot worse from his spills into the raft. Both his knees were bleeding, and there was a lot of blood coming from his forehead.

"HEY!" Devon shouted, hoping he could be heared above the roar of the water and the crunch of the wood on stone. "YOU OVER THERE! WE NEED TO-"

Devon's opponent looked into his eyes, and rose. Stood straight up, hovered in the air. An unearthly light shone from him, blinding Devon. "I AM RAHK-TAL," It wasn't speaking...it was screaming into Devon's mind, overwhelming every sense, nearly taking him over. "AND I...AM A GOD! TREMBLE BEFORE ME, MO-"

The rafts were jarred by several rocks, and the god Rahk-Tal dissolved, leaving only the kneeling, bloodied, jarred version before Devon. "YOU CAST ILLUSIONS" Devon yelled. "THAT'S NICE BUT IT'S POINTLESS; I'M SURE YOU CAN BARELY HOLD YOURSELF..."

Devon didn't know much about physics, but he understood that flowing water tends to draw everything in it towards its center. He understood this because it explained how two ten-foot rafts could be drawn together in such a short space of time, and how he had gone from facing the shore to facing the waterfall about two-hundred feet ahead of them. And closing fast.

"THERE'S A WATERFALL OVER THERE!" Devon screamed. "RIGHT THE FUCK OVER THERE! I DON'T WANT YOU TO DIE, AND I DON"T WANT TO DIE, EITHER; WE NEED TO FIGURE OUT HOW TO-"

"NEVER!" Rahk-Tal screamed. "I WILL DEFEAT YOU! I MUST ASCEND TO GODHOOD!"

"YOU'RE NOT LISTENING! NEITHER OF US CAN WIN! WE CAN'T FIGHT EACH OTHER, AND THAT WATERFALL OVER THERE IS GOING TO KILL US BOTH!"

"KILL YOU PERHAPS, MORTAL, BUT I WAS CHOSEN BY-"

"IT DOESN'T MATTER! LOOK AT YOURSELF! YOU CAN BARELY TAKE THE BEATING THE RAFT HAS GIVEN YOU, HOW DO YOU THING YOU'LL DO AGAINST A FUCKING WATERFALL? YOU'LL DIE BEFORE-"

"FOOLISH MORTAL! I HAVE POWERS BEYOND YOUR IMAGINING!"

"YOU'RE NOT LISTENING! WHY WON'T YOU LISTEN YOU STUPID, STUPID MAN!"

Reflecting upon it momentarally, Devon realized it didn't matter. The waterfall was barely ten feet away. They were both fucked.

"I WILL ASCE-"

Rahk-Tal was cut off by both of the rafts being thrown into the air. Devon was prepared...well, not prepared, but ready for the swift and probably inevetable death that was to come. He briefly wondered, hovering in mid-air, if it would count as a double forefit, being as they may very well die within the same moment.

As it was, luck was on Devon's side. His shirt snagged on a branch. There was a small tree growing in the middle of the waterfall.

As it was, luck was also on Rahk-Tal's side. He had been inching closer and closer to Devon, hoping to land the killing blow with his knife before the were thrown over the waterfall. He didn't, but he was close enough for Devon to reach out and grab him, and Devon wasn't in the mood to watch someone die, no matter how arrogant and self-absorbed he was.

Devon hissed through his teeth. He was in a painful position, but they both were safe, while both rafts fell two-hundred feet into the lake below them.

"Will you listen now?" Devon asked.

Rahk-Tal glared at Devon. "Never."

Rahk-Tal raised his daggar and swung it. Devon jerked himself up, but Rahk-Tal wasn't aiming for Devon's body. Rahk-Tal impaled the daggar in Devon's arm. Devon still didn't let go. "I'm not going to watch you die." Devon hissed. "I'm better than that."

"Foolish mortal. If The Gods have decided I die this day, then I have no right to deny them."

"Fuck that." Devon said. "I'm the one holding your life in my hand. It's my choice."

"Your hand is losing grip; the blood is making it slick."

Devon said nothing. Using everything he had in that arm, Devon pulled Rahk-Tal closer, and kicked him in the face. Hard. His entire body went limp. Tell that to you Gods, you son of a ***** Devon thought as the both of them were engulfed by light.

Spoiler: Commentary

You'll notice how throughout the entire story, Devon bitches about being on a raft; this is because the idea itself is ridiculus. Someone I speak to from time to time (and who will remain annonymous, because it's what I would want) said that Sorrow's problem is that he thinks a good writer can make any situation awesome, which is half true. A good writer, a really good writer, can make the best out of any situation given to him. That doesn't mean it'll be fan-fucking-tacular, just that he'll be able to do it.

I feel that this match hasn't really furthered anything; I didn't get to develop Devon or Rahk-Tal as characters any further. OK, I lied; I think I got across the point that an enviornment where the enviornment is going to kill you eventually isn't a good enviornment to fight in because you're going to be too busy fighting the enviornment to fight each other, and I at least managed to get a bit of a fight in, even if it was only two blows.

(Sidebar, sidebar: To be fair, I shouldn't be bitching so much. This situation is one of the few where Devon might've, and apparently did, beat an opponent like Rahk-Tal. That's not to say I couldn't have before, just to say...I won't say easier, but it was simpler to figure out how one beat the other.)

I think Sorrow still has it in his head that this is the first Ratings War, where a lot of the characters were unreasonably powerful, and everyone was just experementing. The problem with that is, even then, the guy with the training and the balls to win was the guy who won, not the undefatable swordsman or the enigmatic knight or the ninja with a spatula and an evil hat or even the pair of...entertainers. As I've advanced as a writer, I've realized it's easier to write about people with problems, and it's hard for a person to have problems if they can do damn near anythng without reprocussion. I admitted that I made a mistake with Gabriel in focusing on what he could do rather than what he was doing; I've tried to remedy that with Devon, but Sorrow is making it very difficult for me, and I'm not sure that's a good thing. You don't know someone's a good writer because they've written something medeoker about a situation you might not have been able to, but because they've written something about something they know about that's so meaningful and spectacular that you remember it for the rest of your life.

So...yeah. That's what I got. Apologies if this isn't very helpful.

 

[Khedive Rex]

At the behest of Dastardos ...

Spoiler: Khedive Rex Reviews: Dastardos, Round 2

Stylistically, this peice is very nice. I think you made good choices story wise and developed an interesting plot. However, there are some minor problems with execution that are likely to hurt your score. The one that stood out the strongest to me was sentence structure.

You have a tendency to begin sentences with clauses. There's nothing inherently wrong with that, I do it myself. The problem arises when you have multiple sentences in a row which are all functionally identical.

Swinging it at the angels, he managed to keep them away from him as he sprinted in madness away. Sprinting to the quietest area he could find, he stared in fear at the angels pursuing him.

Not thinking clearly he stood in awe as they essentially teleported to his new location. Shaking his head he stared into one of the angel's eyes, as she levitated right in front of him.

It's vitally important to have varied sentence structure, particularly when creating a long peice. It doesn't matter in the reader's mind if the sentence presents a new idea from the one before it, seeing the same syntax repeated too often reduces the immersion. You've probably heard that its important to vary the size of sentences and paragraphs, this is the same idea. If the structure becomes too monotonous people will lose interest, even if whats filling the structure is brilliant.

So, first and foremost, I would advice you in future peices to watch that all of your sentences are differently set up. Altering where you put the subject, where you put the predicate and where you put clauses will, alone, help to keep a reader's attention and improve the quality of your writing.

The second peice of advice I would give you is the same that I gave you last round. Be sure to use all five senses. In this peice you tell us what Malcolm can see and what Malcom can hear, but you don't describe what he smells, what he tastes or what he feels. Believe it or not those three sense, despite being less prominent than sight and sound, are actually much more personal to people. If you read that a person sees an ocean, your attention is directed outward toward the ocean. If you read that a person can smell the sea your attention is directed inward toward their reaction to the ocean and their feelings about the sea. You get a similar personal reaction from the person tasting salty air. Sight and sound are very public senses. If you hear a train, everyone hears a train. Taste, touch and smell are very personal senses. If your heart is racing, it has something to do with you and no one else knows.

They can be difficult to remember to use at first (its hard to imagine that the reader really cares how coarse the sand is) but using them will increase your readers immersion ten-fold and drastically increase the quality of your writing. If you need to, make excuses to use them. "Malcom takes a face-plant and gets dirt in his mouth; it tastes bad." This will seem a little pointless at first but trust me, it's valuable.

Another minor thing you should watch out for in the future is word-choice. This wasn't nearly as prominent a problem as the first two points, but it's one that can hurt your score if you're not looking out for it. Make sure that you don't overuse words. General rule of thumb is that you should avoid using the same noun or verb twice in one sentence and you should have at least one sentence before its next appearance. This isn't a hard-fast rule and it can be broken at times but for the most part it prevents bits like:

The irony though was that he wasn't fully repaired. He was only repaired back to his zombie state.

As the repair process continued, Malcolm slowly fell into a heavy sleep.

And:

Approaching it Malcolm dropped to his knees and stared at it.

For the first part, words such as healed, restored, revived, recovered, mended and a score of others would help to keep the reader surprised and interested. And in the second one providing an antecedant (I think thats what its called. Basically a subject) for one of the pronouns would fix the problem right up. Leaving these senteneces as they are though creates a similar problem as the first point. If readers become too used to something, whether structure, vocabulary or paragraph size, they will get bored with it. In the future, try reading your works aloud once before printing them and if you find yourself saying a particular word very often, go through and try to replace it with different words. Its time consuming but it help the quality of the writing a lot.

Structurally, I think thats about all the advice I can give you. I would say to try and make sure you use all of your words correctly (such as the difference between lead and led) but everyone makes little mistakes like that occasionally and they won't hurt your score so long as its obvious what you meant. Although I can't help but note, I think "Conscience" was the word you were looking for in "Did he betray his conscious or does he betray his god and his life". Conscious is a feeling of awakeness or being aware of one's self and surroundings. Also, as Emu says, you should try to stick to one tense in a sentence. I didn't think that was a major problem for you though.

Style is where I think you really succeeded with this peice. The idea that Malcom would be trying to lose, or that he would establish pity and possibly comraderie with an enemy, or again that God was basically screwing him and he would never get his family back, were all very interesting and compelling choices. You have a very good imagination and thats half the fight when your writing things like these. There's a couple things I think you could have done better but, let me say from the start, you did a very nice job with the story. Now then, on to the advice.

I wish I had seen a little more of Elsewise. The story is ostensibly about you two fighting and yet that portion only takes up 15 sentences and then moves pretty quickly to both of you trying to survive in the crowd of angry demons. A little more serious fighting would have been deeply appreciated, if only to provide more characterization for Elsewise. For example, it's supposed to be a very dramatic moment (you've been hinting that Malcom was going to throw this fight since paragraph 2) but I'm really not getting that from Elsewise at all. He charges Malcom and starts beating away as if it were a normal fight. And in my head I'm trying to figure out if he knows that Malcom is throwing it and hes trying to put on a show, or if he hoping if he hurts Malcom enough he'll fight back, or if he's just violent by nature and is mauling a helpless man because he enjoys it or ... basically, who is Elsewise? What's his motivation? It was hard to care when he died because I honestly didn't know who he was and therefore couldn't feel much empathy with his lost hopes of living a normal life.

That was my biggest complaint storywise. Your opponent almost seemed marginalized next to the (admittedly very interesting and well developed) story of Malcom's lost hope of ever seeing his family again.

The broken time frame was surprisingly satisfying, I thought. There were moments right after you'd move to a different scene where I was unsure where Malcom was or when he was in reference to the earlier scene. If you run with this format again, I would just say to be sure you ... how to put it? "Hint obviously" toward the begining of new scenes when he is in the context of the story as a whole. For example, if in the first few sentences you had described him as "pouring blood from the fight". I'd have known immediately that we were in the future and Malcom was injured. If when he was approaching the collosieum you had said "Malcom palms sweat from the apprehension of the fight to come" I'd have known immediately that we were in the past. As it is I figured that out eventually but knowing from the start is more satisfying and allows your reader to put everything in context without a second read-through.

But yeah, overall the broken time-frame was fascinating and I hope I see more of it.

... Well, I think thats about it. Ah, I always feel like an ass after I've finished one of these reviews. Please understand, I liked the peice but I focus on what can be improved because if something is perfect I hardly notice it, whereas I know exactly when I lose immersion and what can be done to fix it. This unfortunately results in me writing very negative sounding reviews (I think they're negative sounding anyway) for peices that I actually enjoyed. This was a well imagined story and you did a good job with it. There were places that could use improvement, but I thought the strengths outshined the weaknesses and, anyway, I've listed all of the weaknesses and given what advice I can. I like to think that the purpose of a review is providing a guide for improvement so I hope you'll forgive my very nit-picky overview.

It was a nice story. Well done.

If anyone else would like one I am happy to provide.

 

[wesdabigman]

OOO ME ME ME!

...I mean, if you want to review mine, I wouldn't mind, I suppose...

P.S. I think it's kind of my fault that Dast didn't have a lot of Elsewise in his story just because I never put a lot of detail for what he looks like or what he really does. I tried to keep him a little more mysterious which isn't too great when other people have to write for him. If I do somehow get into the next round, I'll put up some greater detail for the next person to make him easier to write about.

 

[Dastardos]

SNIP

Thank you.

 

[Flying-Emu]

At the behest of Dastardos ...

Spoiler: Khedive Rex Reviews: Dastardos, Round 2

Stylistically, this peice is very nice. I think you made good choices story wise and developed an interesting plot. However, there are some minor problems with execution that are likely to hurt your score. The one that stood out the strongest to me was sentence structure.

You have a tendency to begin sentences with clauses. There's nothing inherently wrong with that, I do it myself. The problem arises when you have multiple sentences in a row which are all functionally identical.

Swinging it at the angels, he managed to keep them away from him as he sprinted in madness away. Sprinting to the quietest area he could find, he stared in fear at the angels pursuing him.

Not thinking clearly he stood in awe as they essentially teleported to his new location. Shaking his head he stared into one of the angel's eyes, as she levitated right in front of him.

It's vitally important to have varied sentence structure, particularly when creating a long peice. It doesn't matter in the reader's mind if the sentence presents a new idea from the one before it, seeing the same syntax repeated too often reduces the immersion. You've probably heard that its important to vary the size of sentences and paragraphs, this is the same idea. If the structure becomes too monotonous people will lose interest, even if whats filling the structure is brilliant.

So, first and foremost, I would advice you in future peices to watch that all of your sentences are differently set up. Altering where you put the subject, where you put the predicate and where you put clauses will, alone, help to keep a reader's attention and improve the quality of your writing.

The second peice of advice I would give you is the same that I gave you last round. Be sure to use all five senses. In this peice you tell us what Malcolm can see and what Malcom can hear, but you don't describe what he smells, what he tastes or what he feels. Believe it or not those three sense, despite being less prominent than sight and sound, are actually much more personal to people. If you read that a person sees an ocean, your attention is directed outward toward the ocean. If you read that a person can smell the sea your attention is directed inward toward their reaction to the ocean and their feelings about the sea. You get a similar personal reaction from the person tasting salty air. Sight and sound are very public senses. If you hear a train, everyone hears a train. Taste, touch and smell are very personal senses. If your heart is racing, it has something to do with you and no one else knows.

They can be difficult to remember to use at first (its hard to imagine that the reader really cares how coarse the sand is) but using them will increase your readers immersion ten-fold and drastically increase the quality of your writing. If you need to, make excuses to use them. "Malcom takes a face-plant and gets dirt in his mouth; it tastes bad." This will seem a little pointless at first but trust me, it's valuable.

Another minor thing you should watch out for in the future is word-choice. This wasn't nearly as prominent a problem as the first two points, but it's one that can hurt your score if you're not looking out for it. Make sure that you don't overuse words. General rule of thumb is that you should avoid using the same noun or verb twice in one sentence and you should have at least one sentence before its next appearance. This isn't a hard-fast rule and it can be broken at times but for the most part it prevents bits like:

The irony though was that he wasn't fully repaired. He was only repaired back to his zombie state.

As the repair process continued, Malcolm slowly fell into a heavy sleep.

And:

Approaching it Malcolm dropped to his knees and stared at it.

For the first part, words such as healed, restored, revived, recovered, mended and a score of others would help to keep the reader surprised and interested. And in the second one providing an antecedant (I think thats what its called. Basically a subject) for one of the pronouns would fix the problem right up. Leaving these senteneces as they are though creates a similar problem as the first point. If readers become too used to something, whether structure, vocabulary or paragraph size, they will get bored with it. In the future, try reading your works aloud once before printing them and if you find yourself saying a particular word very often, go through and try to replace it with different words. Its time consuming but it help the quality of the writing a lot.

Structurally, I think thats about all the advice I can give you. I would say to try and make sure you use all of your words correctly (such as the difference between lead and led) but everyone makes little mistakes like that occasionally and they won't hurt your score so long as its obvious what you meant. Although I can't help but note, I think "Conscience" was the word you were looking for in "Did he betray his conscious or does he betray his god and his life". Conscious is a feeling of awakeness or being aware of one's self and surroundings. Also, as Emu says, you should try to stick to one tense in a sentence. I didn't think that was a major problem for you though.

Style is where I think you really succeeded with this peice. The idea that Malcom would be trying to lose, or that he would establish pity and possibly comraderie with an enemy, or again that God was basically screwing him and he would never get his family back, were all very interesting and compelling choices. You have a very good imagination and thats half the fight when your writing things like these. There's a couple things I think you could have done better but, let me say from the start, you did a very nice job with the story. Now then, on to the advice.

I wish I had seen a little more of Elsewise. The story is ostensibly about you two fighting and yet that portion only takes up 15 sentences and then moves pretty quickly to both of you trying to survive in the crowd of angry demons. A little more serious fighting would have been deeply appreciated, if only to provide more characterization for Elsewise. For example, it's supposed to be a very dramatic moment (you've been hinting that Malcom was going to throw this fight since paragraph 2) but I'm really not getting that from Elsewise at all. He charges Malcom and starts beating away as if it were a normal fight. And in my head I'm trying to figure out if he knows that Malcom is throwing it and hes trying to put on a show, or if he hoping if he hurts Malcom enough he'll fight back, or if he's just violent by nature and is mauling a helpless man because he enjoys it or ... basically, who is Elsewise? What's his motivation? It was hard to care when he died because I honestly didn't know who he was and therefore couldn't feel much empathy with his lost hopes of living a normal life.

That was my biggest complaint storywise. Your opponent almost seemed marginalized next to the (admittedly very interesting and well developed) story of Malcom's lost hope of ever seeing his family again.

The broken time frame was surprisingly satisfying, I thought. There were moments right after you'd move to a different scene where I was unsure where Malcom was or when he was in reference to the earlier scene. If you run with this format again, I would just say to be sure you ... how to put it? "Hint obviously" toward the begining of new scenes when he is in the context of the story as a whole. For example, if in the first few sentences you had described him as "pouring blood from the fight". I'd have known immediately that we were in the future and Malcom was injured. If when he was approaching the collosieum you had said "Malcom palms sweat from the apprehension of the fight to come" I'd have known immediately that we were in the past. As it is I figured that out eventually but knowing from the start is more satisfying and allows your reader to put everything in context without a second read-through.

But yeah, overall the broken time-frame was fascinating and I hope I see more of it.

... Well, I think thats about it. Ah, I always feel like an ass after I've finished one of these reviews. Please understand, I liked the peice but I focus on what can be improved because if something is perfect I hardly notice it, whereas I know exactly when I lose immersion and what can be done to fix it. This unfortunately results in me writing very negative sounding reviews (I think they're negative sounding anyway) for peices that I actually enjoyed. This was a well imagined story and you did a good job with it. There were places that could use improvement, but I thought the strengths outshined the weaknesses and, anyway, I've listed all of the weaknesses and given what advice I can. I like to think that the purpose of a review is providing a guide for improvement so I hope you'll forgive my very nit-picky overview.

It was a nice story. Well done.

If anyone else would like one I am happy to provide.

Oh, Rex, pick me, you amazingly attractive man you!

 

[The Sorrow]

Dastardos and Logician advance.
Next fights sometime soon.

 

[Flying-Emu]

I expected nothing less.

Congratulations, Logy. This'll give me a bit more time to work on other ventures too, so everyone wins.

Nice playing against you all.

 

[Dastardos]

I won?

Hells yeah, haha.

 

[000Ronald]

I won; that's a relief. Now to get on the side story about the Axi...yeah, that's going somewhere, I just haven't had the time to get on it recently.

That being said, I did put up my commentary for the match. Tell me if you find it helpful, I like being gratified.

Oh, and Rex, I wouldn't mind you reviewing my last piece.

Apologies to Sorrow for bitching throughout.

EDIT

Emu, you spelled Loggy wrong. It's two g's.

 

[wesdabigman]

Bummer. Had a feeling I wasn't going to win. Still had some hope though.

Congratulations Dasta. Good luck next round.

Always next year, I suppose!

 

[rogueshadows]

so who's actually left? perhaps i haven't been paying very close attention, but i have all these possible enemies dancing in my head, and i can't seem to remember which ones are still alive to fight...

anyway, heres some more stuff in purgatory:

============================================


The Fae were helping themselves to the buffet, all need for stealth forgotten. Joed, glistening like a Christmas decoration, had delivered a stirring oration on stealth, or rather their lack of need thereof. It ran thusly:

?So, like, this God character is omnipotent, right? So he already knows.?

Thus it was that they descended on the buffet and proceeded to stuff their faces full of the fabulous fare. They devoured dessert delicacies of all descriptions, scoffed scrumptious snacks in speedy succession, and ate amazing appetisers most of all. Laea was wolfing down another crepe from inside the pumpkin, and though the scarecrow with it?s face in a platter was a strange sight, she wouldn?t budge. She was deathly afraid that it would run off as soon as she let go of control. Doyle was gobbling blueberries and Gwyn was covered in cream when they heard a whisper from under the table.

?Psst. You lot.?

?Oi, it?s the Imp!?
?That poopoohead??
?What?s he doin? here??
?What?s the naked ape want??

?Keep it down, I wold prefer not to be apprehended.? Hrrghulyltreq whispered in his oily way, ?You four are having fun, aren?t you??

?oh yeah, this cream is simply divine!?
?we beat a guy!?

?Yesyesyes, I know. And I?ll thank you, Joed for that Glamour you put on my back. You know there?s a whole race of imps that are hellbound to follow written instructions? I won?t be sitting down for a thousand years? but, to business. You?re not making enough mischief. You?ve got to make a fuss. The authorities are already investigating some of the infernal contestants.?

?But, but? there?s food!?
?We?re making a spectacle of the scarecrow. Ain?t that enough??
?Oh, yer jus? a skinned monkey, wotcha gonna do??

?a spectacle isn?t enough, we need chaos, and I?m just an imp, but if I tell Lucifer you haven?t kept your end of the bargain, you?re queen?ll have your necks. Now, go and cause a commotion.?

?yes, sir.?
They returned to the scarecrow. Laea had an idea, but she needed all her cronies.
?where?s Joed?
Joed was currently crafting a new glamour on the imp?s back. It said, ?stab me?.

Then he was back, and Mort stood erect. Glancing around, the scarecrow seized a platter in each hand, and hurled them both into the only group of beings within range.

?FOOD FIIIIIGHT!?

nothing like a bit of playful fun to calm the nerves after a fight to the death, right?

?

right?

 

[Lord Krunk]

Not to rush anyone, but my holidays are ending soon. And with it, my ability to write anything good in a small time frame.

Just letting you know.

 

[The Sorrow]

Alright, next fight: Stan vs. The DJ
Location: Heavenly: ELYSIUM
The Elysium Fields don?t quite follow the myth; rather, they are a repository for the beastly creations of man?s imagination, an infinite zoo. The terrain is endless, changing abruptly at points to accommodate the different needs of its residents.


Farfig Alzarid & the Mark vs. Axle and Lady Athena
Location: Earthly: PREY
You spent the last round hunting and being hunted alternately. Now the balance has shifted. It?s pitch-black night, you?re in an impossible-to-navigate forest, and a large pack of rather large wolves is hot on both your tails.

By the way, the remaining competitors (not including the eight already accounted for) are:
Emanuel Cazinto
Mort and the Fae
Jayck and Jyill
and
Harlequin

 

[NewClassic_v1legacy]

Alright, next fight: Stan vs. The DJ
Location: Heavenly: ELYSIUM
The Elysium Fields don't quite follow the myth; rather, they are a repository for the beastly creations of man's imagination, an infinite zoo. The terrain is endless, changing abruptly at points to accommodate the different needs of its residents.

Oh man, this terrain will be gorgeous. I have the feeling this fight is going to be epic in more ways than ten. Mshch is going to be a really, really taxing opponent. I'm nervous, but excited. (Mshch, if you need some information on Stan, it's here [http://www.escapistmagazine.com/forums/jump/362.107952.1858308].)

Edit - Finished writing in record time.

Consistency is something that humans attach themselves to. Things are very cyclical within human society. Classes follow a schedule that occur at the same times, every week. Regulars of any restaurant, bar, gym, or dance club tend to show up on the same days. Often at the same times. Humans work on a consistent, routine-based patterns. It's part of what makes them human, and part of how Stan was most comfortable. Routine is comfort, consistency is relaxation.

Which made Purgatory weird for Stan. Some days, there were water-coolers that post-life spent their days conversing about life and death, and how life was clearly better. Some days the cooler wasn't there. It could be a drink machine, or a cigarette machine. Or a bowling alley. Or a coat closet. It was unnerved in it's own way, a place that had no consistency. The people changed, the atmosphere changed, and it was always a place unlike any other. It was well beyond imagination.

Stan found a lavish, Victorian bed to fall asleep in, an endless sea of carpet before him. He woke in a cot, with polished marble about the place. Buddy Christ was sitting on the foot of the bed, smoking. Stan wrinkled his nose, he hated smokers. "That'll ruin your lungs."
"So will radiation," Buddy Christ replied, simply.
"What?" Stan asked.
"Your fight?"
"With the chick?" Repressed rage built up in Stan.
"Yeah, it was in Chernobyl."
Buddy Christ knew about predestination, and he knew it was coming. Despite that knowledge, it didn't help the pain. Stan whirled, pulling from the magic in the air to slug Buddy Christ. The punch didn't do as much as the kinetic burst that came shortly after.

Buddy Christ was dumped in a terrible sprawl, leg pointed in the wrong direction. As he rose, the cracks in his statuesque form refilled, and the joints replaced themselves. "You hit pretty hard for a man with pink hair."
"You should've known that already, Mr. Predestination."
"How do you know I di-" Stan slugged him again, throwing him down again. "That was for the woman you made me murder! You bastard!" Stan balled his fists up, and started walking toward Buddy Christ. The bastard was going to get his comeuppance.

Just then, the world lost focus. Stan wobbled, and recovered his footing. When he refocused, he was on a busy highway. On top of an eighteen-wheeler. The wind whipped about his ears, and everything was busy. It was dark outside, and headlights and tail lights streamed by. The truck spewed a cloud of exhaust, and Stan could hear a terrible country song from the open window of the cab.

The far end of the truck occupied a man. Every twang of the guitar affected him, each forceful chorus boost affected his appearance. Dark skin was the only guarantee, but a cowboy hat suddenly appeared on his head. His feet went from bath sandals to a thick, leather number. His jeans were old, worn, and had seen a lot of dust, dirt, and grime over the years. His shirt was open, flannel, plaid, and awful.

Percussion hits brought claps of thunder, and the guitar brought on gusts of wind that threatened to hurl Stan across the room. The man shouted at him, long unkempt golden-brown hair whipping in time with Stan's pink ponytail. "S' very windy. An' you look like you wearin' a sail."
"It's the whole 'wizard' thing," Stan replied, screaming over the relentless roar of the wind and the low-percussion of country music, "makes you wear stupid clothes and have stupid hair."
The man shook his head, his hat whipping off of his head from the wind. "You should'n hate ya'self, bad fo' you health."
"So's radiation," Stan muttered, feeling the pain of suffering of God-awful country.

The man at the end of the truck swayed, not with the wind, but the time of the music. He stepped, spun, and twisted with the music. It was eerie, in a way that practically made no sense. At least, not to Stan.

They met, at the front edge of the truck, country music rising to the end of the song. The climactic ending pulsed in the veins of the stranger, and he seemed to speak in time with the music, "Perhap you jus' need to stop bein' so focused on ya', and move in time to tha res' of the world."
Stan scoffed, "Embrace my destiny?"
"Wha'evre feels right. Ain't nothin' else mo' impo'ant iniss world."
"I don't know how I feel about this whole des-" The wind whirled as the truck changed gears, accelerating to pass a slow-moving bright orange hatch-back. It had purple and blue flames painted on the roof. It caught Stan by the arm, and slung him down the metal flooring. His feet didn't get traction all the way to the end of the truck, and the lip threw him off the truck.

Midair, Stan saw the man jump after him. The asphalt seemed higher every time Stan spun. The ground was very soft on the landing. Stan rolled, pushing himself to his feet. The floor was grassy, and looked very much like the Savannah. A man in tanned-hide sat at the base of a tree, strumming idly at a Spanish guitar. The acoustic guitar seemed to slay with the wind, and put Stan at ease.

The stranger, now with torn pant-legs and had an open shirt. An open pastel-yellow shirt seemed natural with the rest of the environment. The music felt in tune with the world, and the stranger in tune with the music. Stan extended his hand to the stranger, "Hey there. I'm Stan."
The DJ's hair shook as they traded grips, dreadlocks falling where unkempt straight hair was before. "'Am The DJ."
"What're we doing here?"
"Ah, tha's a good ques'tin. What arent we doin' here?"
Stan shook his head, ignoring the vague answer, "No, I mean... Why the contest? Do we really have to have to fight?"
"We don' hafta fight, do we?"
Stan felt a pang of sadness, thinking back on the woman he killed. "Well, the contest needs a clear winner, doesn't it?"
"Who's ta say there isn' already one?"
Stan reflected on this, watching with some amount of confusion as a mixture between a beaver and a giraffe strolled up to the tree, took a bite, and left. "Because we're still here?"
"Ah, but hav we not always bin here?"
"When we're not, we'll be dead."
The DJ shrugged, "Aye."

Thunder rumbled, and a stampede of familiar but unusual animals should be seen in the distance coming toward them. The DJ's sandals simply seemed to dissolve, and he turned to run. His legs and feet impacted with the sound of the footsteps. Everything was in harmony. Stan ran after him, running from the stampeding imagination of human-kind. The grass gave way to dusty desert, then to a polished interior. It was hardwood, gleaming with the sort of care that comes from a 24 hour-a-day cleaning service. Janitors that were familiar from works of fiction all seemed to be working constantly on the upkeep, and composers from worlds of fiction composed an elegant composition in the background.

The DJ was already at the front of the hall, in Sunday dress, experiencing the music in a way Stan couldn't even begin to understand. The brass was gorgeous, and it all felt very powerful. The DJ grew and shifted with the music. Compositions Stan had never heard before, or even heard of, added to make the entire piece become what it was. Beautiful pieces beyond imagination.

...Or of imagination.

Suddenly, Stan made sense of the world. The DJ turned, body growing with the presence of the music. It was frightening, and beautiful. Stan imagined a world with The DJ speaking with an accent. The accent of his Magic Theory instructor from back in his academy. When the DJ spoke, he had the faintest of inflections from Sussex. "Ah, this is'a place a' beauty."

"No," Stan said, filling his mind with the endless, white, and untouchable void. Nothingness was flooding Stan's imagination. "The DJ, can you imagine a place... Without music?"
"No. There's music evra'where. In evra'thing."
"It exists," Stan said, imagining a world where everyone was mute. He spoke, but heard no sound. It felt weird to silently feel his chest rumble. "A world without sound."

Suddenly, sound simply ceased. No vibrations, no noise. Without that, The DJ was also no more. Hollywood lied about disappearance, and there was no fading or flash of light. It simply ceased to be. With that, Stan frowned. He almost felt like The DJ understood the world better than he had.

There's more to life than just going with the punches, Stan thought to himself. The words forming in glowing black, punctuating the white expanse around him. However, there's a certain amount of easiness that goes with just letting it all go... Doesn't mean it's the right thing to do.

Stan sat down, and waited for purgatory to come crashing back toward him, and felt like no matter what he did or said, he'd lost a potential friend from the loss of The DJ. What a cruel world. Even more so than a world without music, Stan thought, feeling the dredges of reality pulling him from his imagination.

 

[Brett Alex]

Bummer. Had a feeling I wasn't going to win. Still had some hope though.

Congratulations Dasta. Good luck next round.

Always next year, I suppose!

Sooner than next year I hope.

 

[Dastardos]

Wow Nuke, you wrote your whole entry in less than a day

 

[mshcherbatskaya]

That was lovely, Nuke. I guess this means I have to get off my ass and write mine now, huh?

 

[Lord Krunk]

Just posting to say that I might be a day late with my entry. School's back now, and it's hit me hard.

Either way, expect it sometime on Sunday.

 

[mshcherbatskaya]

Spoiler: Author's note

I try to keep the music I use grounded in actual music, but in this case, I'm forced to use a piece of music I wish existed--a Cheb i Sabbah dance remix of Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan singing "Yeh Jo Halka Halka Saroor Hai," which is the song I quote in the story. There are several versions of this song on Youtube, ranging from about 7 minutes in length to over an hour. The variance is due to it being a qawwali [http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Qawwali] song, and due to Nusrat's penchant for extended, ecstatic vocal improvisation. Qawwali songs are associated with Sufism [http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sufism], a mystical branch or offshoot of Islam. One of the most notable practices of Sufi mystics, called dervishes, is the practice of "turning" or whirling [http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sufi_whirling], thus the phrase "whirling dervish." The purpose of Sufi practice is the abandonment of the self and its desires to achieve union with the divine love that is God. The music and the whirling dance are key practices in pursuit of this union.

For lack of a better illustrative tune, try this remix of Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan's Kisse Da Yaar [http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zMQ1kbPIdZ4]. The quotes at the beginning and end of the story are from the great Sufi poet, Rumi, translated by Coleman Barks.

A secret turning in us
makes the universe turn.
Head unaware of feet,
and feet head. Neither cares.
They keep turning.



I'm tellin' ya this in the After, ya unnerstand. I tell what happen, but not as it happen, though it seem otherwise. Or how I r'member it happenin', which may be another thing entirely. This a memory, an' memory a light and fragile thing in the face a'th'Imagination.

A storyteller tell a tale an' there an illusion that it happen as he tellin' it. A storyteller a'skill take ya into your imagination an' once you there you see it happening like it real, like it now. A storyteller a'skill take you to the place I gone to, take ya into Imagination, take ya to Heaven, take you to Elysium. That where I find myself.

I suppose in tellin' this story you wanta know how I got there. I don' know how I got there. My mind drift for a moment and when I come back to myself, that where I am. No special effect, no door, no upheaval in the fabric a'reality. My thoughts wander off and when they wander back, that where they find me. Maybe someone imagine me there. Maybe I imagine myself. Maybe that where my thoughts wandered to an' they di'n't return to me, I jus' follow'em. There someone else there. Before me, after me, can't say. Time ver' slipp'ry in th'Imagination. You can imagine a lifetime in minutes or daydream justa moment an' find an hour pass while you in that place, when you in Elysium. At first I take him for a denizen a'that place, a creation a'some daydream. His appearance fanciful, but he too still in the heavin' chaos a'Elysium.

It a chaos. Ambition surgin' up outta th'ground, great sharp cliffs a'pride an' sharp rocks a'failure at the bottom. Endless circular staircases a'arguments recalled an' re-argued and the daydreamer returnin' always to the bottom stair no matter they climb forever. Birthday parties burst from the ground like flowers, ev'ry classmate attendin'. Rivers a'red carpet pour out with 'th'ordinary an' overlooked floatin' down them on rafts a'magazines. Black-clad revengers stride towards schools an' office buildin's, rage locked an' loaded in one hand, razor-edge shame in th'other. Everywhere the enclosed globes a'books and movies. Here an' there a lone figure collectin' ev'rything that shine, a bower-bird decoratin' a novel-nest. An' ev'rywhere bodies a'sexual fantasy in ev'ry combination, thick on th'ground, a writhin' carpet a'lust. And all the while time springin' forward an' back between regret an' fear, mem'ry an' hope.

Easy for a pink-haired wizard to get lost in th'tumble of it all.

He come to fight, that pink-haired wizard. He fought once already an' that fight left him sick, body an' soul. He don' wanna fight, but he think he got no choice. I don' wanna fight neither, but I know you always gotta choice if you willin' to accept the consequences a'th'choices ya make.


"Why you here?" I ask him. He seem puzzled at first, but maybe that just th'noise, the sighs an'th'gunfire an' the shouts a' Surprise!

"I was called," he yell back.

"An' why was ya called?" I ask.

"I have a destiny," he shout.

I wanta hear more about it, this destiny a'his, but we need some stillness for that. I can't hear him, an' he can't fight me, for ya can't take a step without puttin' ya foot in someone's desires. Can't find no stillness here, but I can make it.

The Buddhists, they gotta name, a diff'rent name for what this place is. They call it th' Monkey Mind, 'cuz it jump about, cuz it full a'animal impulse. All that jumpin' about keep ya from enlightenment, keep ya from god. Or in our case, it keep us from becomin' god, ya? They gotta means a' overcomin' it with stillness, sittin' still in th' body until th' mind still itself, too. But there another way a'overcomin' it. Ya don't sit, ya move. Ya move an' groove an' step, draw all that energy into th'body an' push it out again, push it out through the muscle, sweat it out through th'skin 'til there ain't nothin' else, no future, no past, no maybe, no if only, just th' bass bumpin' out th' speakers, now, now, now, now..

That start, melody an' beat, but before I can tame this monkey, I gotta catch it, capture th' imagination. The beat, the hook, they a start but they not enough here. Gotta give the imagination an image, give the mind a little trail a'words, bait to the trap that gonna free them.


Who has spread her hair in the rainy season
because the breeze is pregnant
with sweet fragrance


The music play and the figures shift their movements til they movin' with it, sway an' bounce where they sit, where they stand, head noddin' and fingers flickin' as they walk. Me too. You think I gonna be immune to the music 'cuz I makin' it? No, no, how can I tempt people into the water when I'm standin' on dry land? I raise my hands, snappin' my fingers, steppin' to th' drums, lettin' my spine loose, shoulders swayin', head nodding yes yes yes as the music come spoolin' out.

Where the music comin' from? You think I brought my deck with me? Boombox on my shoulder maybe? No, no, no, silly thing. The music comin' from me direct.

I imaginin' it.


Here come th' part that difficult t'tell, cuz you wanna know how a thing happen, but here I only the what of the happenin' an' not the how. How can I speak of somethin' like it planned when I surrendered the Future to the Now? I can only tell you what happen, and what happen was this.

I dance.

I close my eyes.

The music play.


Let's dance in the open to the tunes
played by the clouds as they are
bringing along their own instruments


I open my eyes.

The people are dancin' at the party, inna stairwall, on th'cliff edge, in th'school cafeteria. All but th'pink-haired man.

The music play

I close my eyes.

I dance.


Since the day my eyes met her lovely ones
I am in a perpetual state of slight intoxication


I open my eyes.

The lovers untangle their limbs an' join th'dance. No one take no note a'their nakedness. No one but th'pink-haired man.

The music play

I close my eyes.

I dance.


The whole universe is in a state of drunkeness,
the day, the night, the dawn, the dusk,
everything is perpetually intoxicated


I open my eyes.

The buildin's, th'reposit'ries of all they no longer imagining, blow away like fog. The land itself is dancin' the mountains the dancers built leap an' dip with the beat like th'indicator lights onna equalizer. Th'people are all clothed in their flesh an' their sweat an' nothing else, equalized. All but th' pink-haired man, in the itchy woolen robe a'his destiny.

The music play

I close my eyes.


Even the wine cup and the wine bottle are drunk.


I turn. Around th'center of th'music, I turn. Within th'center of th'music, I come to stillness. I turn still, like th'hub of th'wheel, like th'North Star, like th'spindle a'the turntable as the record plays I turn. I don' open my eyes, don' need to. I feel the earth spinnin' roun' me an' I turn an' turn an' turn.


I don' know how long I was turnin'. Like I said, time a slipp'ry thing. I stop turnin' like a sleeper stop sleepin' on a summer afternoon, cuz I done it long enough an' di'n't need more. I open my eyes an' that whole jumpin' busy place was gone, alla it turned into an endless plain a'wavin' grass under a cloudless blue sky, swayin' in th' wind, whisperin' now now now now.

The pink-haired man was layin' flat onna groun, clinging to th'grass like th' world gonna tip an tumble him off.

"What the hell did you do?!" he say.

"I dunno," I say. "What'd I do?"

"The entire place was spinning! How did you do that?"

"I dunno," I say again. "Did I do that?"

He sit up an' start talkin' to me he think, but really to himself. "I couldn't make anything work. I mean, it was hard to concentrate, even before everything started spinning, what with all the people, y'know, on the ground everywhere. But kinetic energy is easy, and it's not like there wasnt' plenty of it around..."

"Kinetic energy? You talkin' physics, ya?"

"Yes. It's just basic physics, should be easy."

"But this place, it metaphysical. You any good at metaphysics?"

That question puzzle him an' before he can try ta answer I ask him,

"Why you here?"

"I told you," he say, "I have a destiny."

"Everyone got a destiny," I tell him, an he look at me like this a surprise. "You know that this destiny a'yours is?"

"Well, no..."

"So you gotta destiny an' you don' know what it is. How that diff'rent from anybody else?"

He just blink a second. "I'm a descendant of Jesus and Helen of Troy."

"Ah. An' what the signif'gance a'that?"

He just blink.

I ask him, "You think it your destiny to be god?"

"I don't know."

"Ah."

His mind gone blank. For just a moment, he free of the burden a'this destiny, not speculatin' not rememb'rin'. He just blink.

"Well," I ask him, "do you want to be god?"

"...Not really."

"Hmm." I get up an' start walkin' away through the grass.

"Hey!" he yell after me, "Where are you going?"

I look back at him an' smile, "I'm goin' wherever it my destiny t'go. Jus' like you. Jus' like ev'rybody."




Out beyong ideas of wrongdoing and rightdoing
there is a field. I'll meet you there.

When the soul lies down in that grass,
the world is too full to talk about.
Ideas, language, even the phrase each other
doesn't make any sense.