Competition?

Broken Pencil's Indie Writers' Deathmatch seems like a good thing to promote on TextFIGHT.

Wait. I think they stole our idea!

To the batcave!

Broken Pencil Indie Writers' Deathmatch

The prize

Back some time ago when God was a small boy and all of us here at textFIGHT were young, optimistic and filled with enthusiasm I won Gordon's contest. I promised to wear his prize here on the website. It's been much too long a time, but here they are, two lovely pictures of me.

Hi Gang

NaNoWriMo is now in the past, as is my humiliating defeat. A hearty congratulations to Gayleen and our BlogShy friend for finishing their books.

Grymm's contest has been extended, and so too has the postcard contest. I've given up on the New Year's Deadline, and decided to extend it to the end of January.

Much of this month will be taken up by the customary holiday season. I am currently working on a top-secret project.

Gordon, keep your eyes on this page for your outstanding prize. It will be here shortly.

Grymm, what would you like your new deadline to be. Also, keep checking your mail for YOUR prize.

Look forward to further reports here soon.

Fin.

YAY!!!!

NaNoWriMo is over! The pressure is off, no more guilt to write. Only freedom of the creative process driven by creativity and, on occassion, too much free time. Congrats to all of you who completed, and a pat on the pack to those of us who had to live by our own rule. Now back to the fight says I.

-Gordon

Sorry for the lack of participation...

Life has other plans sometimes. They're not always bad.

Go here for more info.

Then go here to vote.

A Challenge...

Okay, everyone's been way too down-in-the-mouth around here lately, and I too have been feeling the November blues from the weather, so this is my challenge to you, if your writing is not flowing:

Take something or someone in your life that's bothering you, if it's an inanimate object personify it, and write a brief creative piece--poetry, fiction, take your pick--in which that person or thing is the villain who becomes contrite and/or a piece in which that character is a blip on the screen. Or something that pokes fun at the whole situation. Something that makes you feel better.

You don't have to share it with anyone, but it will likely make you feel better. (Or so my recent reading of L. M. Montgomery's Emily of New Moon reminded me--she did that all the time, and it was terribly cathartic.)

Just a thought. I'm thinking about doing something that helps me laugh at this stupid weather.

Sigh

I surrender.

For reasons that are many and varied, and some which are just too personal to discuss, I give up. This is, apparently, not the right time of the year for me to do this.

After the thrill of the 3-Day Novel Contest, I had no no doubt at all that I would be able to do NaNoWriMo. I suspect i may have gotten a little cocky. At this point though, I know that my book isn't ready to write. With the many and varied stresses I'm currently trying to deal with I may as well just pack it in, feel a little bad about it, and let go of the grief of admitting I failed.

I will try, instead, in February, to perform the same feat of 50000 words in 28 days. By then I'll be employed...one way or the other...and my life should be both more settled and less stressful.

I'm sorry to punk out on you all, but the added guilt and stress of having fallen so far behind was weighing on me more than I liked. I'm still here to cheerlead for you who are swinging at it either directly or in some altered form.

And if nothing else, I like to think we persuaded G to do this, and now look, she's the one who is actually making it happen. Yay!

So that's that. Sorry.

HA! It worked!

So after all that writing I plowed out last week and all the sleeping I plowed out over the weekend, I awoke this morning from one of those half-waking dream states in which I figured out roughly how the forward to this back-burner novel project should be written. I've been researching this project off and on, but hadn't realized how my recent experiences had been coalescing, including some things in my academic research and writing, to help me write this section.

So the upshot of it is that I've started on the more creative, actually novel-writing, part of my PseudoNaNoWriMo. I can't guarantee that I'll progress from the forward into the story quite yet, and of course I have other academic writing to do, but it's beautiful when one is able to break new novel-writing ground.

It also feels good that I'm getting to know myself better, as well as how to motivate myself and get through the blocks. I guessed that if academic words counted, I'd inevitably clear a space in my head and my schedule for the creative words to flow as well. Even if I only end up with a few new novel manuscripts words jotted down, this will all be worth it.

And there was much rejoicing. Yeah!

Okay...

So I wrote some more stuff today, and my word deficit is 4094 now. I am starting to think I may catch up.

I don't want to get cocky.

Poetry Update

A Caveat: You'll notice that my number of poems written during NaNoWriMo is actually increasing at a steady pace, and for the sake of transparency, I feel like I should clarify a few things.

These are all rough. Very rough. Due to the emotional nature of my project, they're also not likely going to make it into anything good for the moment. They're raw and accusatory and self-deprecating and not fit for publication. But, I hope that after a few more days of getting through my gut reactions, I'll move onto something beautiful and really good. If I don't, this could turn into a bust, but I want to give it a shot anyway. Additionally, these raw poems may turn into something on their own after I get a few days of distance from them. I hope that I can find the gold nugget of each poem I've written and make it into something better than it is now.

So, don't look at my poem count and be amazed... yet.

The announcement

Well first things first, the logjam broke. I'm writing. Now if I can just write 6937 words Friday, I'll be caught up. Ha! It's possible, I suppose that I'll get caught up. We'll see.

Anyhow the announcement is this: We are having a special contest starting tomorrow and ending on December 2.

One of the things we want to to do here is increase the size of our community, and broaden the scope of it a little. For example, I will be doing book reviews here pretty soon, and hope others will join in.

Another thing is that I hope to have some guest judges come around, and to be able to offer some more excellent prizes.

To do this, I'm going to send out some New Year's cards to some of the hipper publishers and writers out there right now to encourage them to come by and see us, and participate.

And so, I challenge you to come up with a New Year's card that can be sent by standard lettermail. The goal is to grab attention and make them curious enough to drop by and/or drop us a line.

I will be prevailing on a friend with graphic design skills to help lay out the final version, and our friend Jill has offered to assist me in printing and mailing the cards out to people.

It's possible that these cards will need to, instead, be mailed in the spring, so you can feel free to entirely avoid mention of the holiday season.

I know that we have some great minds here at the site, and I am confident that we can come up with something awesome. This contest has a prize in the form of my gratitude, and something else TBD.

I want textFIGHT to grow and flourish. Help me, won't you.

By the way, folks, can I just say way to go on the way you've been handling each other with NaNoWriMo? I know we pretend this site is a pit of savage vipers, but you have embraced the spirit of this particular contest as a great big warm hug of support and I'm actually kind of moved at how readily you've stepped in to encourage alternatives, just so long as we keep at it.

I'm feeling surprising warm and fuzzy today, considering I'm a vile and hate-flled person.

Coincidence? I think not.

At about 3:30 I got a call from a gentleman in Toronto, who wants to speak with me about a job here in Edmonton. Almost immediately thereafter, I began to feel my logjam break. I don't know if I can catch up, but I feel writing coming on. The last step of this break came during a brief chat with the Cenobyte about the future of textFIGHT.

We have something I think is sort of exciting to announce. Look for a full explanation tomorrow, once I nail down a few details.

Also, look for some progress on my damned book.

Withdrawing

Well, as my nonexistent word count suggests, I haven't really been involved with the fun and excitement of NaNoWriMo. So, I'm taking my hat from the ring. Full explanations are at my blog. I'm going to be working on a poetry project of self-discovery and healing for the rest of the month and I'll make sure to update here regularly regarding my progress.

I'm cheering all of you on, though. And, if any of you want someone to bounce ideas off of, I'm available... what with still being an unemployed bum.

Honestly, I'm bummed about not participating, but I am not in the right headspace for a project of this scope and speed.

Not Going Well.

Not at all. I'm having a lot of trouble writing, and I don't know why.

But hey, look at G go!

Taking a day off for planning

Happy as I am with Tom's foreword to the book, I've come to realize that what's tripping me up right now is that I need, if not a formal outline, a list of important dates on a timeline.

So I'm doing that right now. I will take advantage of my status as a job seeker to catch up on the writing. I think I need to do this if I'm gonna be able to write at all. When you're doing mock documentary, you need to be able to drop facts in easily. Right now I don't have all my made up facts at hand. So, yeah, working on that.

After all my smack talk...

OK so I was talking big and now my word count is ZERO!!

I hang my head in shame. It seems the idea I had for my NaNoWriMo novel, while brilliant, was a bit too disturbed and dark for me to keep up with all the other stuff I have going on right now. Ooops. But fear not! I have a new idea, one that I can keep in my head without going insaner, one that will be amazing!! I'll see what my word count is tomorrow after my night shift, maybe I can catch up before I get too far behind.

-Gordon

First day, retrospective

Okay...so I'm at 1620 words as of 11:17. I will probably write some more, but this is a good place to stop and look back.

I'm not doing too badly, considering I scrapped the first 2500 words or so that I wrote and started over. The beginning part of this book is the hardest. I have the plot in mind firmly, and the character arc, but setting the tone of the book is hard.

Fake non-fiction is something I've not done for hugely extended periods of time. I think I'll get there.

Anyway, over on The Rook's Nest, I've posted the first discrete chunk of the book. It forms, happily, a good starting point and has a beginning, middle, and end. People familiar with my work will enjoy it more than those who aren't, I suspect. We'll see.

Anyway, please do take a look if you've the time. Feedback, even simple feedback, stokes my engine.

I'm also adding the word counts at the side. Those with moderate canniness in html should be able to handle updating their own. If you need help, let me know. This isn't a race, it's jut a way to help us all see where we're at to provide encouragement.

Gordon.

More tomorrow. Enjoy the extra sleep, if you are among those who fall back tonight.

In Like a Really Lazy and Unprepared Rhyme of Some Kind

Yes, I'm in. I'm down with the NaNoWriMo.

PROBLEM THE FIRST: I don't know what I will write about.
PROBLEM THE SECOND: I am not feeling too confident about this writing business lately.
PROBLEM THE THIRD: I fully intend to be employed soon which will really limit the "writing time" I usually have.

But, I realize most people in NaNoWriMo's face are employed, so the third problem really has no bearing on the competition.

As for the other two problems, I'm hoping I will get over them. See what I can pull out of my hat and run with it.

Day 1

I spent a lovely morning cuddling with the dogs as Gayleen headed to Calgary to do her panel at World Fantasy 2008. Then I went to see the new Kevin Smith movie, which I loved.

Now I'm back home, and having Chicken Caesar Salad and watching a short horror film.

As soon as the salad is done I am setting out underway with the book. Updates forthcoming.

On contests and the month of November

Hello, this is your captain speaking. We are about to enter the month of November, and with it, the National Novel Writing Month. With this is mind, let me make the following statements:

Grymm's contest is still going, but I'm going to ask that entries be sent to textfight(at)gmail.com, rather than be posted directly to the site until NaNoWriMo is over.

As of right now I know for a fact that Gayleen, Gordon, and I are all taking part in the contest. I am pretty sure there are others.

For the month of November, textFIGHT is about this contest. I'll be putting a word count along the sidebar that posters can update. If you want to join in, please let us know at that there email address above.

I'm going to post daily on my progress, and thoughts on the process. By god, all, do the same. This blog made the 3-Day novel contest so much more tolerable, you have no idea.

Ril, are you in? Cenobyte?

Anyone?

So far as I know, G is writing a young adult novel using the same setting as her shortlisted 3-Day novel, Gordon is writing a Lovecraftian tale of some description, and I am writing my longest false document work ever. Note carefully how I'm telling you all in advance.

I will be posting what I write each day so that it can be read by the curious. Comments and suggestions will be greatly appreciated.

I suppose I will now talk about my book a little.

On our last long drive, G and I were listening to this podcast about this kid and his mom who started a website. The website was designed to help kids who were conceived by sperm donation find each other. More specifically, it was so they could find other kids conceived from the same donor sperm. This kid found a whole flock of something like 8 half siblings, and now they have regular social meetings and get-togethers. It's turned out to be a great thing for them, even though they can't find out who the guy actually was. They are trying to legally force disclosure.

I had an idea to write a young adult novel with this premise because 50,000 words is pretty much exactly the right length for a YA novel. I had the plot and basic characters come on me in a wild rush in about the first two hours of the idea's germination. Where I'd been stuck was how to narrate.

I am very comfortable in first person, but the plot involves a lot of knowledge that the only sensible narrator wouldn't have access to. I didn't want another book with multiple first person threads so soon. So I'd been toying with third person, without a viewpoint character, but I think it's increasingly hard to sell the idea of the story with no teller these days.

So day before yesterday, I went for a walk down to the corner store to grab a refreshing beverage, and I chatted up the clerks there. Then, on the way home, I was thinking about the book, and the narrative problem, and how it fit into the Sel Souris cycle. I had one of those crazy moments of revelation that seem to come entirely from without, as though placed there by shoemaking elves.

I am the narrator. Me, as me.

On my blog around this time last year or the year before I wrote a long series of blog posts in which I took a plane trip to Sel Souris and met my (entirely fictional) half-brother and his family. It had some of the best writing I've ever done in amongst the chaff, and I've wanted a place for it in the cycle ever since but couldn't find it.

This book will contain a revised portion of what I've been calling "The Irresponsible Journey" as a foreword. It will then go on to involve a much longer narrative where my half-brother contacts me again because he has met a bunch of these kids who have a hell of a story. So Gayleen and I will get on a plane and meet them. The book will be a kind of fake non-fiction book with interviews and (if I can swing it, eventually) pictures. This second part is my project for NaNoWriMo.

I am, for some reason, really jazzed about the concept and think that it might be really cool.

So, my outline is sort of broken now, but my enthusiasm will, I hope, compensate.

Your thoughts, gang? Any comments on your own books?

Fear Yig!!

So I'm totally winning so far right?

-Gordon

Inspired by G... so blame her!

THE TELLING STONE

Attention Dr. H. Anders, Professor of Ancient Studies, Miskatonic University;

The following journal fragments were discovered frozen in ice by a British research team in an undisclosed portion of the antarctic. They were emailed to our anthropology department on August 21, 2008. Regrettably, this is the last contact we received from them. Any information you may be able to provide on the "Telling Stone" mentioned would be greatly appreciated.

Dr. L. D. Smythe, Oxford University



November 17, 1934

My colleges and I from Miskatonic University have been crossing the barren wastes of the Antarctic for 16 days now following the clues left on the artifact that Fallons has nick-named the "Telling Stone". It appears to illustrate several dinosaur-like creature. Curiously some of these creatures appear to be using tools of sorts. What amazed the board at the university most however, was that the tablet, which appears to be genuine, is less than 100 years old! At first we assumed fraud, however given his relationship with the President's wife Fallons was able to arrange a grant to travel to the coordinates encoded in the tablet. I occurs to me that if this tablet is genuine then perhaps we will have to recon...

November 22, 1934

The cold is unbearable! We are nearly out of provisions and still Fallons urges us forward! We are all exhausted and prepared to turn back, all except Fallons who seems possessed of a supra-human endurance. Its as though the search for this lost civilization he has been raving about the last few days has consumed his mind! We have been discussing the idea of leaving Fallons behind and returning to the camp but whenever we are prepared to the winds seem to pick up and force us to seek shelter. Its as if some unholy...

November 27, 1934

My god, Fallons was right. We only followed him into the caves to escape the storm. Such a strange storm... it began with a phenomena much like the Aurora Borealis (though I was unaware such light phenomena occurred in the antarctic), and them a strange wind that sounded like the cries of a thousand tortured souls crying out from hell began to whip around us. Fallons found the cave and called us in. The system seemed to cut through the ice for miles as we followed it, and the warm breeze that came up through it. Then after what seemed hours we broke through into light. As bright as day and as warm any any summer I spent in California. The valley below is filled with a lush jungle teaming with life. We have stopped for a rest but Fallons is nearly frothing at the mouth and pacing back and forth without cessation. He is telling us that we must travel into the jungle and seek the inhabitants. I have no idea how he could know there is anyone living within this jungle. Again I fear madness has over taken poor Fallons. His nightly rantings have grown worse as well. He speaks of "the returning masters of the Earth". The poor man has obviously lost all grip on sanity... however, here we stand. I am..

November 30?, 1934

Little has changed since my last entry. We are still held captive by the strange lizard-like peoples of this hidden valley. One by one they have taken us. Only myself and one of the Eskimo we brought with us remains. Poor uncivilised fellow's mind will broke yesterday. He ate the fruit the creatures provide us with everyday and he fell prey to its hallucinogenic effect just like the others did. The result was also the same, raving madness. He speaks in broken English of the coming of the Dominion. I have no idea if he refers to his native Canada or perhaps some other part of the British Commonwealth. Perhaps it is just fevered delusion. I hear them coming for him now, he must have begun the regression as the others did. I have no doubt if I were to look into the shadowed corner where he now sits I would see the scales pushing through his flesh toward the surface. I despise myself for being relieved they will take him, but the screams and the raving, combined with my gnawing hunger, are beginning to push...

Date Unknown

I'm nearly at the surface. The escape was perhaps not as complete as I had hoped though. The dart that hit me as I ran was poisoned I believe. It smells of the regressing fruit. I have a fever and am finding it difficult to concentrate. Voices are getting loud. Not outside but in. Buzzing. He knows me now. Somehow I know him. Must run. Warn the surface. Like I'm drowning...



Ichto, ichto! Yig sithran!

Lord Grymm has spoken:

I don't feel like challenging you, and honestly see no need for revolution. Enlightened individuals can enter into social contracts without either, simply acknowledging changes as time passes.

Here is what I have proposed. I am working on gathering a compilation of the "telling stone", the most accurate reconstruction of which is enclosed. I expect that our base may have amongst them versions of the tales depicted on the stone, and would gladly share them with us, so it can be compiled properly. These interpretations don't need to cover the entire stone: any of the lesser portions would be enough, though if they have multiple tales or interpretations of the known data, these would be accepted as well. A description of this stone is as follows:

"The so called "telling stone" (Specimen #A-3141-Z-00109), is perhaps the most famous example of Deinonychus habilis work currently known. It is part of what is called the awl scratch period. This period is typified by the presence of both illustrations and early notations. The telling stone seems to be a sort of talisman or history, bearing references to what have been interpreted as many of their most venerated tales, much like the engravings of the Wu Liang shrine. Many tellings and explanations for the tales have been conducted over the years, as new interpretations and understandings of the culture of D. habilis have changed. Though by no means exhaustive, this compilation gathers many of the tellings of these tales will hopefully shed more light on what we know about this truly ancient culture."

I expect all correspondence will be professional and academic in manner, though I realize campism rages throughout the field of Dinosaur study, and even more so in D. habilis study. I know things will get heated, but there should be no need to resort to common vulgarity or ad hominem attacks.



(Summary: look at the picture, tell some stories about what you interpret from it. Fighting in the comments is allowed, but they should attack the stories directly, not the people, and be as academic as possible. Well, some attacking of the people is permissible if phrased right. I will judge this. Stories need to be in before November 1, but I will need time to make the judgment. The winner will be announced at the start of December, after the novel writing is done. I think this still fits with your criteria, and lets things pick up after in some ways more easily. Other than choosing the next contest, I haven't worked out prizes yet.)

A winner is declared

After consultation with my lickspittles, a winner has been declared. Lord Grymm is this winner. His entry was excellent both visually and linguistically. We are pleased.

The Item of Magnificence is soon to be mailed.

A choice now stands before you. Declare revolution, and determine a new contest or challenge me to a literary duel and try to usurp me as God Emperor.

Please do let us know.

We have one request. Let this contest, should you choose it end before November 1, as we wish to devote textFIGHT to NaNoWriMo exclusively that month. Thank you.

Obviously....

You may ignore that twerp.

My citiens have until midnight tonight to submit their entries. Two such have come in already.

The first is from Miss Harper.

It came to pass that on the God-Emperor's birthday, there was a great procession in the city, and the God-Emperor rode through the streets in a magnificent chariot with his chosen advisors and lickspittles in attendance. And everywhere the people cried, "All hail the God-Emperor and his glorious pants!"

And lo, a small boy in the crowd shouted, "But the God-Emperor wears no pants!"

The procession stopped then, and the Chief Lickspittle said, "In a sense this is true, for the pants fit to grace the backside of the God-Emperor have not yet been created. Indeed, if such pants were to be created, we would know that this personage is not in fact the God-Emperor, but an imposter."

And the boy was enlightened. And there was much feasting and rejoicing and showing-off of pants. For this is how the God-Emperor's birthday should be celebrated.

The second is from our Ambassador to Medieval China, Lord Grymm.

Like Liebniz or Tesla, the world has not been ready for your vision.
For too long, your Newton has held the world of the progressive
science (some would say mad, but it is mad to do so) against you like
the royal society. For too long, your Edison has kept the world from
your greatest invention.

No longer. Though I may only be the Huxley to your Darwin, Darwin
could only wish that Huxley would be so effective. For unlike Huxley,
I follow Robespierre's method of scientific advancement and critique.

With that, and the most humble help of both Dr. West and our newly
returned ally, as one needs at least someone as great as Durer to make
this moment proper, I present to you a small feast for the eyes, both
the work of our freshly returned Germanic friend and the sight of the
head of Wem. No longer will he keep back the hover-pants with his
intolerable adherence to the works of Montpelier. Glory to the
god-emperor.

This last was accompanied by a piece of art:


We await the entries of the multitudes with delight and anticipation.

And would someone do me the kindness of murdering the apostate?

Thanks muchly.

The Appointed Hour Is Upon Us!!!

Behold I have returned to you from my exile bearing a new message of truth!

The man who has proclaimed himself God-Emperor is not the real Ryan States! He is an impostor set upon us by an evil group of elite individuals bent upon world domination through him. I dare not identify the group for the safety of my family and friends but lets us just say it rhymes with Billuminati.

The Ryan States we all know and love would not ask us to dance like trained monkeys to these false demands of "peace" and "brotherly love". NO! He would in fact encourage our petty bickering and strife. He would join us in the mocking of poor grammar and punctuation mistakes. He would rake us across the hot coals of self-doubt and ego-crushing, knowing it would burn away the impurities and forge us into loquacious and verbose word-smiths. There is no way my Ryan States would have allowed all the spelling mistakes I have slipped in over the last few entries go without comment. The Ryan States I love would never allow his cherished textFIGHT to become a haven of wussiness.

And so I entreat you my fellows, join with me. Tear down the false-giant-penis-idols of this "God-Emperor" and unite against his unholy reign of terror on this site. Together we shall find and free the real Ryan States and bring him back to his rightful place in our lives and in our hearts. The man who cannot control his pants, who loses food in his beard, and is nearly as foul mouthed and dark humoured as I. Who will stand with me?

-Gordon, rebellion leader and friend of the true Ryan States

Obviously, some of you were mistaken.

Get your own Poll!

Lickspittle Selection is complete

My two lickspittles are Gayleen and Jill.

That is all.

A Poll

Get your own Poll!

We at the God-Emperor Communication Centre Organization (GECCO) have been working around the clock to provide His Lord Pants' people with words of encouragement to see them through their troubling times. Our God-Emporer can not YET be in each of out bedrooms, but with these posters of encouragment you can remember that he loves you while you sleep away in the security and peace that he brings you.

Glory to the Pants!!!

The natal day of our benevolent God-Emporer doth approach swiftly. I emplore of of thee kind and pious servants to post His praises!
For thou art mine brothers and sisters in His service I wish the fondest blessings of the Holy Pants upon you and your loved ones as we enter the seven days festival dedicated to Him who has freed us from our hateful and angry ways. I bid you prepare yourselves and quiet your hearts so that you may better hear the will of the God-Emporer as the first day of Pantsashannan begins on the 12th day of this the most holy of months and ends not until the celebrated natal day of our majestic master.

-Gordon, Prophet of the God-Emporer

Great Sadness

Some time has now passed since I declared this contest. It would be entirely correct to say that I am disappointed. You have made the God-Emperor sad.

Am I such the tyrant that the only one among you willing to devote your considerable talents and energy to glorify me is an obvious apostate?

The "Prophet" who has posted here is no prophet of my glory. I am not a shy or soft spoken person. All who live in my realm know this as truth. Never have I been shy to speak my own will, too spread my own demands.

This so-called prophet believes that he can take some of my power onto himself through an intrusive clinging to my legend. He possesses no such status. I suspect him of seeking power for his own sake, and not to the good of you, my people, and certainly not mine. He has presumed too much, and a close reading of his text will reveal a mind more focused on the glory of the prophet himself than on your God-Emperor.

I will be merciful and assume the best, that my glory overwhelmed common sense. I invite you to try again, and this time to think more of my greatness, and less of your petty aspirations.

I expect poems, statues, paintings and songs.

Right quick.

I have spoken

Pants So Magnificent

Continuing Excepts from the Book of the Prophet Gordon...

For his pants were unlike any those seen before by mortal man. Unto us in all his glory the God-Emporer did bring God's own pants. None since Prometheus had dared defy laws of Heaven as did the God-Emporer, for none had so heard the plight of man.
"Unto you do I bring pants of comfort!" declared the God-Emporer. And all who witnessed th pants were silent. "For these are the pants of a god! A crotch which is is not overly tight but doth still provide support. A waist which shall remain a consitent size upon infinite washings even if thou shouldst accidentally dry them on the hottest setting. They are madeth from a material spun from the very dreams of vigins and shalt never wrinkle. And they doth give a fine curveture to any ass they may be placed upon invoking desire in all those around."
The Prophet cried out, "Praise be to the God-Emporer for he hath brought these pants unto us and made a covenant with us that we may where such garments of comfort!"

-Gordon, Prophet of the God-Emporer

Thy Will Be Done My God-Emporer

An Exerpt From the Book of the Prophet Gordon

"... and lo, the Chorus of Heaven broke through the fabric of the night sky and was witness unto the conception. The mountains shuddered and spewed forth great clouds of ash and the hot red seed of the earth itself, engulfing the city of Pompei and destroying the inhabitants who had mocked the Prophet who had heralded the birth of the God-Emporer. It was at the appointed hour and on the most holy of days when the Prophet witnessed the seed of the earth enter the ocean's cool womb. The Chorus sang forth, a sound so pure as to bring tears of blood to the Prophet's face, 'Thou hast witnessed to the wrath of the earth; now thou shalt witness its true glory and mercy; for unto to this world the God-Emporer hath come; glory be to the God-Emporer!'
And thus bid the Prophet gazed out where the seed touched the womb. Here the Prophet witnessed a sight of majesty so beyond mortal comprehension he was struck blind. But in his darkness and fear a voice, so gentle it filled him with longing, reached out to him. 'Servant,' it spake, 'thy heart is known unto me, I shall return thy sight for mine shall be a reign of benevolence.'
At this the God-Emporer reached down and touched the Prophet, and praise be he was healed. The Prophet dared not look again upon the face of the God-Emporer but only upon the wonder of his pants. And thus the Prophet proclaimed, 'For you have chosen me I shall shall serve the God-Emporer and His Magnificent Pants!'"

-Gordon, Prophet of the God-Emporer

Next bout...

As I ride through the town square, looking down on all the little people, I smile. Upon my glorious steed, Smug Victory, I make may way to the dais, dismount, and speak:

People, let peace descend upon this troubled land. For too long (or at least two weeks) have we fallen on one another like wild beasts with our words. We have torn down all beauty, and each other, leaving the literary landscape of these parts blasted and maimed. Now that I have risen to triumph as your ruler, it is time for us to breathe in a deep breath of healing, and for reconciliation to begin.

Hence do I declare:

1) For the duration of the next contest, all on this website must address me as God-Emperor, or His Magnificent Pants, and with the respect inherent. Further, discontent and cruelty will not be allowed. You must speak one to the other with words of sweetest honey. Provide only encouragement and kindness in your words and sheathe your daggered tongues.

2) The contest shall begin upon the posting of this proclamation, and shall end at the stroke of midnight on my natal day, October the 18th. You may post once, twice, or even a thousand times (all numbers between two and a thousand are also permissible).

3) The winner of the contest will be the man or woman or androgyne or machine-entity that composes the finest exaltation of my own excellence. This may be in poetry, prose, song, sculpture, or any other form of artistic expression. The contest is to commemorate my time as God-Emperor

4) Any commenter who shall break the rules and speak a direct insult to my personage, or to any of my subjects here, shall be disqualified from the contest, and subject to a penalty task upon which all of their future honour rests.

5) I shall judge this contest, but I shall not do so alone. As the time draws closer, I shall be electing a Pair of Lickspittles. These two most esteemed grovelers shall be chosen based on their efficacy at ingratiating themselves to their fellows, and to my Esteemed Presence.

6) To assist in this selection, I will be posting a daily assessment of each participating scribes' Lickspittle Points. This will allow one and all to see which subjects are most deserving.

7) Lickspittle Day will be October 15th. At noon on that day I will select my Lickspittles. In the event of a tie, there shall be a Sudden Death round, rules to be announced at that time.

8) Lickspittles will be given a vote with power equal to that of the God Emperor in deciding the winner of the larger contest.

9) The winner of the overall contest shall win:

a)the right to either a Glorious People's Revolution, and thereby install an entirely new form of government and rules or may challenge me to a literary duel for the position of God-Emperor of textFIGHT, the victor to be decided by popular acclaim.

b)a physical object of immense power and glory (TBD)

c)stewardship of the contest until the end of November, and with it the NaNoWriMo, after which, we hope will begin a regime of guest celebrity-esque judges. (No fooling)

10) Let the festival of words commence!

Because My Job Isn't Sucky Enough I Now Need To Think About Judging This Dribble...

I have come to a decision... because I had to.

Firstly, my commentary:
G- You suuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck! Smelly pirate hooker.
Binarykitten- Your insults to swords, bongs, and even nerds shall earn you a punch in the ovaries if ever we meet. You have wronged my people and I shall not stand here and take it... unles you call me a bitch, punch me in the groin, and spit on me. Then we could get something going on.
Ryanstates- You make the baby Jesus cry... need I say more? I think so. While you successfully display the true beauty of the mullet-tard in all his nunchuked glory you fail utterly and completely to instil in your reader the mullet-tard's greatest virtue... MORE COW BELL!!!
Quinn- Woman, swords, and bongs? How could you limit it like that? WOMEN, swords, and bongs. God!!! And by the way, haikus are about as artistic as fortune-cookie writting, and impress only the same ethnocentric huen dahn that find Asian culture "cute".
Cerobyte- Nice try... NOT!!!! What kind of Elven wizard buys platemail? Have you ever even played D&D or have you pissed away your life with craptastic abominations like WOW where wussy 12 years old momma's boy can't deal with the fact that their mage can't take a hit and avoid anything like actual role-playing because they are too busy spanking it looking at their female Blood Elf character prancing around half-naked... sorry, my issue.
Lord Grymm- Even though bongs were in the challenge you probably shouldn't have taken such a big hit before writting. Even through my NyQuil induced haze I'm still not sure what that was all about.
Gordon- Greater words have never spillen forth upon the electric page.

And now... the winner.

This match has been decided by TKO. The victor being the only entrant not to fall flat on his face three times in the same round, which is pretty good for a unemployed hooker who can't get published: Ryan States!!!!! And it tastes like that because I have a high protien diet.

Your prize sir is as follows: 1) you must decide the rules for the next bout as well as the topic; 2) the hatred and envy of all other competitors in this competition; 3) a "prize" to be recieved on saturday when we meet in Saskatoon. I will not tell you what it is but I'm sure a picture will make its way onto the sight.

Hey G, do me a favor and bring your camera to Saskatoon would you?

All she wrote

So now we wait for Gordon to provide his reviews and pick his winner.

To bed with my ass.

Lord Grymm

Grymm has sent in his entry:

Translation by Cleary

A poet of a later day wrote:
At Coiling Snake, The Dragon plucked at strings
The Great Horse brought the black carts to the fore
The Third Tiger through down the forest and hills
The Yet Betrayer led the charge of retreats
Those clad in invincible reeds followed fast
Striking out at false ambush with their swords and bongs
The snake trembled under the phoenix's wake
Heaven disapproved

Encounter

Under a smoke-red moon you cast
your lot among brave fools
You could not ask for better luck
(adhering to the rules).
Your elf attacks; the orcs fall back
and thus you win the duel.

While others use their shining swords
and bongs to celebrate,
Your elven wizard decides instead
new spells to conjugate.
And maybe if the gold's enough
you'll buy magic armor plate.

People are dropping rhymes like flies...

The place is starting to stink, honestly.

Aside from my poem, which, let's face it, is sex on four wheels, there really hasn't been much in the way of...hmm...how do I say this...oh yeah. Quality.

The contest ends tonight, and I'd hate to have to win practically by default.

As it stands:

We have a joke epitaph from the Smelly Pirate Hooker. We have a poem that uses the word "spillen" from the idiot stepchild (and, god help us, our judge) Gordon. Think on this a little longer: Our judge used the word "spillen". Just saying.

We have a shrill and judgmental haiku from the Binarykitten. It was written, it seems, with perhaps 1/8th of her ass.

We also have a haiku from Quinn. I believe, from internal evidence, it was written while he was drunk, and fucking a whore.

While we're here, can we all agree that, in the hands of the unskilled, haiku is a terrible thing and must never be used? Shall we lobby for strict haiku control? I say yes, ladies and gentlemen.

There was also my brilliant, epic poem. I'd say more, but I fear I'd sound vainglorious.

Yet to show their faces in this contest:

Miss America, who, I suspect, is just too busy crawling up the ass of English lit to spare us five lines of her best.

Rilla, who is insane, stricken with disease, and too lazy to write.

The Honourable Member from Buttfuck, SK, who is too wrapped up in her new political career to consider tampering with her status as an ordinary person to sully her hands with verse.

Melistress, who has, apparently, died.

Mr. Matt Sheppard, who is Too Much The Big Shot Now, what with his Zombie comic. You know the one, the one that isn't Deadworld, The Walking Dead, Marvel Zombies, Army of Darkness, or successful.

Kenn Scott, who is hard at work dragging a blade across the teeth of Canadian television.

Wade LeChoda, hard at work with his latest LARP. Obviously, wayyyy too cool for us.

His confederate, Deb, who is too busy trying to crush unions, and loving it.

And all the rest of you idiot cowards reading.

At LEAST Quinn and Mr. Spillen gave it a shot. What's your excuse?

And now to strangle budgies.

Really? Thats it?

So this is the crap I have to choose from? Seriously? And I can't pick my own?
Wow, I hope someone slides one in yet under the deadline because because this is like playing a rusty trombone with a full spit valve if you get my drift.

-Gordon

Haiku rules!

If life were simple

it would be nothing except

Woman, Swords and Bongs

The Ballad of Brock Sampson (an excerpt)

The full poem is still in progress, but this first canto, I'll enter here.

Ahem.

The Ballad of Brock Sampson
Canto I

call it a mullet and
you're blind to all glory.
long feathered locks
flowing down and away
the wings of some beautiful bird
icarus rising
nearly too near the sun
dancing with wax and flight

brock sampson they call him
his strength in that hair
in the cold blue eyes
that glint clear in blood mist
his vision undimmed
in any tide

suburban boy
walked backwards into manhood
wood-paneled basement room
bruce lee fantasies
nunchuks
swords and bongs

his first car
mustang
wild horse like him
jeans tight
shades on
zeppelin pounding
he met her

red hair delilah
cocktease
back seat fumblings
her hand blocking his
smoking a cigarette
unworthy of the prize

training body and mind
good school, full scholarship
athletics, football
killed a man
broken neck
stilling his heart
so unlike lee marvin
an end to all
no next reel

nothing left but the army
jungle service
gun work
swords and bongs
military intelligence
special forces
osi
heart of ice
fire-red hair
camaro heat
all that keeps life
in his veins

she works for the other side
soviet, post-soviet
intelligence then crime
and he for science
private work
guarding life
and ending costumed freaks
smoking cigarettes
driving sweet cars
cranking zeppelin
and keeping
swords and bongs

family life
almost sons
a settled home
wood paneled room
back to the womb almost
life is cool
if sort of stupid

and when his hair goes
so does he
he sees it in dreams
his own car
tries to kill him
sharks
laser beams
butterfly battlesuits
clone soldiers
jellied parodies of sons
he might have had

nightmares
she'd never tease
so far
nor steal his hair
his sons
his car
a cocktease yes
but always his
one
the only woman
for him that was
more than just doing it

you know?

A new contender

Binarykitten has submitted the following:

swords and bongs appeal
to a particular type
of nerd: the lame type

Let the chick (and dork) fight commence.

I shall weigh in with my opus tomorrow.

An Ode To Friendship

Swords & Bongs

No truer friends have I found on this Earth
As those who use dice to prove us their worth
Against dragon or orc or comic book villain
Together in battle their blood we have spillen
And then theres the times our minds just go dry
So off to the back we go to go high
We pack the bong full and inhale mightily
Then back to the table to turn evil to rightily
So whether you decide to use scissors, paper, rock
Or one of those wussy diceless ones where you talk
And whether your characters a mage, vamp, or elf
Your truest friends love you when you're being yourself
These are the ones about which we write songs
Or crappy little poems we call Swords and Bongs

New FIGHT

I'm still suffering, so I'll keep this short.

Based on my conversations with Gordon, here is the new contest:

Write a poem of whatever length you choose. The poem must contain the phrase "Swords and Bongs". Submissions will be accepted until 11:59:59 September 30th. Gordon will then judge the winner, contact me with that winner, and I will post the results and present the prize.

If you have not yet done so, please send an email to textfight@gmail.com, and I will add posting abilities to this blog for anyone who wants to submit. If you prefer instead, let me know, and I'll post it.

Back to my Hot Lemon Relief.

Gone whining

I am sicker than a fox who was the dean of Sick Studies at Oxford, but who has since moved on and is the head of a committee at the UN which deals in Sick Planning.

Therefore, it may be a short while before I update this with the new contest.

Any of the other adimns here should, of course, feel free.

Late entry

Though it is too late for the contest, I just received an entry from Mr. Matthew Shepherd.

Here it is, for your enjoyment.

It wasn't seeing the blood in the vacuum that bothered Rodriguez.

It actually looked kind of pretty, there in the void; maroon on black, breaking into tiny perfect spheroids, each reflecting its own star.

Every blood cell in his body was a star, Rodriguez realized in that moment, turning there in the big empty like a fat forgotten top. But the universe was spinning around him and he was perfectly still in the absence of gravity. Feeling a bit dizzy, watching creation rotate around him and his body, every second a little less plump with galaxy.

It was not the blood that bothered Rodriguez.

It was the damned whistling.

Slake had gotten him somewhere in the back of the neck, the stiletto biting deep enough to hit a vein or an artery, somewhere where Rodriguez couldn't reach back to plug the hole in the bulk of the suit. He'd flailed at it for a minute, but stopped because it was obviously impossible and felt stupid to boot. So his blood was shooting out of him into the darkness of space, accompanied by a fweeeee noise that sounded like when he'd taught his seven-year-old cousin to fart, if that cousin had never stopped and had been farting for twenty-three years and would keep farting until Rodriguez was a bloodless satellite.

Vein or artery: one was for blood travelling to the heart, the other for blood leaving it. Which one was which? It was academic, of course: the wound was too deep, too much air was gone from the suit, and the shuttle was gone besides, taken by Fleiss who had shut the door behind him and hit the retro-rockets as soon as he saw Slake pull the knife. Rodriguez had already been pulling the crowbar from the toolkit when Slake struck, and both of them had been thrown off-balance by the tug of the departing shuttle breaching their safety lines, so Rodriguez had managed to snap a good one off Slake's helmet, cracking it and knocking Slake a few inches back after the first stab.

They'd taken some self-defense during training, but nobody had ever really covered fighting in zero g's after your shuttle has taken off without you. As it turns out, once you're about six inches apart from arm's reach, you might as well be a mile away. There's nothing you can do to move closer to the other guy. All you can do is sort of flail and glare while momentum, working at a snail's pace, pulls you further and further apart.

Momentum could afford to do that. When you've got eternity ahead of you, a snail's pace is relatively brisk.

They do tricky stuff in the movies like steering with your air supply but really, that doesn't do crap. You just float there, with nothing to hold onto or push off of, your blood misting around you in a million perfect drops.

Blood moving to the heart, or from the heart, interrupted to spend a short forever in space.

Rodriguez would never return to his heart, he knew that. He looked at Slake, bobbing somewhere ahead of him, no longer even waving. They were satellites now, bodies in orbit, never coming home and somehow forever part of it all.

And the Winnah!!

The winner, with 18 votes, of Astronaut Knife Fight is, I'm not surprised, rookie heavyweight Gordon Jensen. I couldn't be prouder. I spent hours with this kid as he worked the noun and verb bags, sparring with any two bit wordsmith who'd step into the ring with him. I've watched him sharpen his pencil and build his vocabulary. I've seen his skill grow.

Most importantly, I've seen the kid WANT it.

Eye of the Tyger, as Billy-boy Blake said after his title match with the Red Dragon of the Abyss.

So, it gives me great pleasure to award him his prizes.

1) Free board in scenic Edmonton this coming weekend, and the opportunity to "hone his craft" (nudge nudge) in workshop with 3 Day Novel contest finalist Ms. Gayleen Froese.

2) I'll probably buy him dinner.

3) Also he gets to declare the idea for, the rules, and the method of determining victory for the next textFIGHT challenge. That will come next week. We'll talk it over this weekend. I expect it will be a doozy.

To all the other contestants, suck it. You lost. Losers.

That is all.

FIGHT!!!

Okay, despite the clock saying time has run out for some reason, there are still over three hours left to submit.

Despite that, I am tired, and I am going to bed. I have, therefore, set up the voting poll as of now. Should we receive any entries in the intervening time, I'll append it.

So, to review:

1)Jill spat venom like a hick spits t'baccy.
2)Gordon hit us up with an entry best called wacky.
3)Grymm moved in with a steam punk vibe.
4)Ryan let us know the Mack was still alive.
5)Gayleen also entered, but did not have a sixth person with whom to rhyme.

Voting commences immediately. You have until midnight tomorrow. Then I announce the winner, formally, and name the prize.

MORTAL KOMBAT!!!

Also, a poetry contest for yooots.

On the heels of G's entry, I got this from the ...League of Canadian Poets. Not as much steampunk there as you'd imagine, unfortunately.

The Poetic Licence Contest for Canadian Youth 2009 

The League of Canadian Poets, a national not-for-profit poetry organization founded
in 1966, invites Canadian youth to participate in its Poetic Licence Contest. 

There are two age categories, junior (grades 7-9) and senior (grades 10-12). 

First place poems in each category will receive a cash prize of $350, second place
winners will receive $300 and third place winners will receive $250. 

All winning poems will be published in the League of Canadian Poets' e-zine,
Re:verse at www.youngpoets.ca. All winners will receive Poetic Licence certificates
and student membership in the League of Canadian Poets for one year. 

Deadline: January 15, 2009. 

Entry Guidelines 

1. All submissions should be sent by e-mail to readings@poets.ca with the subject
Poetic Licence Contest for Canadian Youth. 

2. There are two age categories: Junior, grades 7 - 9 and Senior, grades 10 - 12 

3. Poems must be previously unpublished and must be your own work. 

4. Length of each poem submitted must not exceed 50 lines. Limit 2 poems per poet. 

5. Each submission should include the poet's name, address, and phone number, age,
grade, name of school, and the titles of the poems entered. 

6. Poems should not be sent as attachments, but as plain text files in the body of
the message. 

7. There is no entry fee. 

8. Winners will be announced during National Young Poet's Week in April and posted
on the League's websites www.poets.ca and www.youngpoets.ca. Announcements will be
sent to the media, and the winners will be notified by mail and email. 

Copyright remains with the poet. Winners will be asked for the first rights to
publish their work. Should an entry be published elsewhere during the course of the
contest, we ask that the entrant notify the League immediately. Revisions on any
poem will not be accepted after it has been entered. All decisions of the jury are
final. Contest is open to Canadian citizens and landed immigrants. Members of the
League's National Council, staff or the contest judges or their families are not
eligible to enter these competitions. 

* Incomplete submissions will not be considered, please read guidelines carefully. 

Ingel Madrus
Communications & Projects Manager
The League of Canadian Poets
920 Yonge Street, Suite 608
Toronto, ON M4W 3C7
Phone: 416-504-1657 / Fax: 416-504-0096
readings@poets.ca
www.poets.ca

Jill Joins In

Jill offers this little work of malice.

⁃ LAUNCH SEQUENCE INITIATED -

“Scott, what have you done!?”
“I didn't do anything!”
“The launch sequence is initiated; what do you mean you didn't do anything?”
“I mean, I didn't do anything. I was just sitting here, and it said that.”
“If by 'it', you mean the main engines and computer system, and 'said that', you mean self-initiated, you're insinuating that the computer has suddenly gained sentience and has elected to send us off into space, on its own, without any regeneration of fuel stores. Do you realise how ridiculous that sounds?”
“Well...uh...yeah.”
“You must have bumped something, or somehow set off the autopilot. Flip that cover off.”
“Really, I didn't touch anything. I was just sitting here and...”
“Flip that cover off! We have to cancel the sequence!”

⁃ NAVIGATION SYSTEMS ONLINE -

“Flip the damned cover! Jesus! I'll do it myself.”
“No! I was going to...”
“Look, you don't know what you're doing. Just...just sit over there and try bypassing the routine to the engine systems.”

⁃ FUEL STORES INSUFFICIENT. ACCESSING AUXILIARY FUEL -

“Scott, hurry it up; you've only got about ten minutes until ignition. Use the manual override.”
“I can't. I'm locked out.”
“Then for Chrissakes, get back there and do it manually!”
“I've entered the shutdown sequence to the mainframe, so that should buy us some time.”
“Good. This is going to be asking for the codes, so make sure your com link is active. This bloody cover is jammed.”
“There's a jack-knife in the first aid kit above your head.”
“I know where the damned first aid kit is! Just go!”

⁃ AUXILIARY FUEL LOCATED. ACCESSING...-

“Damn...this thing won't...what the hell is that?”
# Terry, there's a problem back here.#
“What the hell is that?”
# The engine room door is all covered with some kind of ...I don't know...they look like welds. I'm going to try to cut through them.#
“The bloody knife won't come out.”
# Repeat?#
“No, there's this shit all over the emergency shutdown control. I can't get the cover off. And now the blade is stuck. What *is* this stuff?”
# Condensation, maybe? Ice?#
“That's pretty tenacious ice; I can't even wiggle the knife free. You have it too?”
#Affirmative. All over the door.#
“There! Fuck!”
“Repeat?”
“I just fucking cut myself. But I got the cover off. I'm going to initiate emergency shutdown protocol. You got your codes?”
“Affirmative.”

⁃ AUXILIARY FUEL ACCESSED. REROUTING LINES. PLEASE STAND BY. -

“How's it going?”

“Scott?”

“Damn it Scott. Copy!”

“Scott! ...come on, come on...cancel initiation sequence. Piece of crap...”

⁃ FUEL LINES REROUTED. INITIALIZING ENGINE STARTUP

“Scott, I think I almost have the... What do you mean 'initiation sequence not found'? Cancel initiation sequence, you stupid piece of junk!”

⁃ INITIATION SEQUENCE INTERRUPTED. CANCEL INITIATION SEQUENCE?-

“Yes! YES! Cancel the goddamned initiation sequence!”

⁃ INPUT FLIGHT CAPTAIN'S SECURITY CLEARANCE CODE-

“Flight captain's security clearance code: one-oh-delta-seven-seven-foxtrot-whiskey.”

⁃ FLIGHT CAPTAIN'S SECURITY CLEARANCE CODE CONFIRMED. INPUT FLIGHT CAPTAIN'S INITIATION SEQUENCE PASSCODE.-

“Flight captain's initiation sequence passcode:”
#Terry, I finally managed to cut through this bitch. #
“Damn it, Scott, shut up!”

⁃ PASSCODE INCORRECT. INPUT FLIGHT CAPTAIN'S INITIATION PASSCODE. -

“Flight captain's initiation sequence passcode:”
#Repeat?#

⁃ PASSCODE INCORRECT. INPUT FLIGHT CAPTAIN'S INITIATION PASSCODE.-

“Flight captian's initiation sequence passcode: Sylvia.”
#Repeat?#
“For Chrissake, Scott, shut up! I finally got in. I'm entering the codes. You got your codes?”
#Affirmative.#

⁃ INPUT ENGINEER'S SECURITY CLEARANCE CODE -

“...Scott? You got your codes?”
#Affirmative.#

⁃ INCORRECT SECURITY CLEARANCE CODE. INPUT ENGINEER'S SECURITY CLEARANCE CODE.-

“...SCOTT! INPUT YOUR FUCKING CLEARANCE CODE!”

⁃ INCORRECT SECURITY CLEARANCE CODE. INPUT ENGINEER'S SECURITY CLEARANCE CODE.-

#...november-four-hotel-two-two#

⁃ INCORRECT SECURITY CLEARANCE CODE. EMERGENCY SHUTDOWN CANCELLED. INITIALISING ENGINES.-

“SCOTT! You fucked it up! You better have access to the manual shutdown, you fucking grease monkey!”
#...eat?#

“THE MANUAL FUCKING SHUTDOWN, DICKHEAD! SHUT IT THE FUCK DOWN!”
#...ant...communications down...electrical... ...copy?#

⁃ ENGINES INITIALISED. STAND BY FOR IGNITION.-

“Cancel initiation sequence!”

⁃ INITIATION SEQUENCE ENGAGED. STAND BY FOR IGNITION.-

“Cancel the fucking ignition! Cancel initiation sequence! Scott! I'm coming back there! The com controls are fubar.”
#...release the main... ...ting connection... ...copy?#
“I'm coming back there!”

⁃ IGNITION IN THREE MINUTES -

“Stupid fuck. ....do it myself...”

⁃ IGNITION IN TWO MINUTES -

“Scott, what the hell's going on? I've been screaming at you to shut it the fuck down for the last minute and a half.”
“Oh, hey Terry. Yeah, it took a while to get through that weird stuff on the door. Hey, look at this...”
“Just pull the damned wires to the engine room if you have to. We have to shut down this launch until the fuel coupling is set, or it's going to leak all over the place, and we won't have enough thrust to...what are you doing?”
“I'm telling you to come over here and look at this.”
“Scott, we don't have time for this shit. Just disengage the power to the....Scott! What the...you crazy fuck!”
“I SAID, Terry, come. Over. Here. And. Look. At. This.”
“What the hell is wrong with you? You cut me, you crazy fuck!”
“Terry, you have to come here and see this.”
“I'm not going anywhere. I'm going to disengage the power coupling and you're going to cool the shit down.”
“What, you're going to saw your way through me with a scalpel? We're not disengaging anything. Now come here.”

⁃ IGNITION IN ONE MINUTE-

“Scott! Jesus! ...ungh.... fuck...I can't... jesus...Scott....”
“Can't shut it down, Terry. I can still stop you, even with only one working arm. But you don't have to do this; just come here and....”
“emergency...control...mayday....control...it's too soon...”
“We have just enough fuel to get us where we're going. Why don't you just lie there for a while, Terry? I'll show you this in a minute. Just wait until all your blood's finished running; then you'll understand.”

⁃ ENGINES ARE GO FOR LIFTOFF. -

“Commence.”

The Wreck of the Gordon Jensen

Our P.A. correspondent Mr. Gordon Jensen has made the following contribution:


Round 2

Yuri was keenly aware of one thing right now: it was really, really, really cold.

He managed to stem the leak of oxygen from his suit and propped himself up. It hurt but he was still concious. As he scanned the barren lunar surface he tried to recall why he had thought any of this was a good idea...

It had all seemed so clear at the time. He was so honored when the United Soviet Scientific Comittee of the University of Moscow approved his proposal for study on the first manned Russian flight to the Moon. According to the KGB it would take the American pigs atleast two more months before they could launch their first manned lunar flight proving, once more, the Soviet superiority.

The experiment had seemed simple enough. Monitor the effect of cosmic radiation on chimpanzees provided only limited shielding on the flight from Earth to the Moon. But things went horribly wrong during the initial lunar orbit. Somehow the chimpanzees, strangly mutated into a undead state, had broken free of their confines. As the rocket module silenty obritted the Moon, Yuri and his fellow cosmonauts fought bravely againts the swarm of undulating zombie chimps. Unfortunately, the mutation had also given the chimps a feral cunning and what appeared to be a basic grasp of tool use. They proceded to tear and bash his comrades to death, gorging themselves on still beating organs with a crazed hunger. Boris, the pilot, had set the rocket on a collision course towards the planet. Yuri, managed to lock himself into the landing module and launch it before the ship crashed and exploded. He could still hear the sounds of his comrades beating their fists on the doors of the lander as he finished the launch sequence. Deep down he knew the USSCUM would never send rescue.

That was when Yuri saw them. Two chimps, crawling out of what appeared to be a barrel of some kind. Their jaws were slack, but their eyes gleamed with hate. Through a combination of a shambling gait and a strange bouncing in the the limited gravity, the chimps closed the distance between themselves and Yuri.

Yuri pushed himself up and grasped tightly the combat knife he salvaged from the lander. As the chimps began to circle him searching for a weak spot, all Yuri could think about was whether or not a banana would distract these abominations.

"All right bitches," Yuri growled through clenched teeth, "time for round two."

A thrust from Lord Grymm

Grymm has sent us his entry for Astronaut Knife Fight. It follows in italics.

The Loony was starting to slow down. Not that he was quick to begin
with. The gravity here is less, making them weaker and slower than
us. That last pass saw him fall over, hardly moving out of the way.
Easy pickings. It is weird having the collisions, and how long
everything takes here. But I will keep knocking him down, nicking at
his suit, hoping to get a hit that will cripple him. I think I have
got a few… why else would he move so slow. Time to build up the
speed, to see if I can pierce it. Eight jumps might do the trick….

****

He was obviously trained Earthside. Sure, he has obviously had basic
Low-Grav training (quite likely Earthside as well, given the cadence),
but that doesn't prepare you for the details. Lunar conflict is
different in strategy. Protection from the "elements" makes standard
methods foolish, though his slashing with that knife shows he doesn't
think that. Suits are designed to withstand forces many times greater
than what he can put out, especially with his slightly limited
mobility. It is instead a matter of conservation of resources, of
maximizing breaths and movements, of hitting the shadows and dust just
right, of angling your attacks so every one makes him expend maximum
effort and you minimal for the results, and if lucky a blast from the
pack to pull him back. It is a slow battle of attrition.

Another charging attack. Eight leaps this time. Six would have been
standard and a better effect could have been had in Five. His path is
straight. Foolish… he missed the chance to expend a touch of the heat
from this exertion in at least two places, and with the full eight
jumps, he could have expended it in at least two small craters. Time
to counter. Two handfuls of the hot dust, provided by the scoop.
Scoop down to not need to touch the ground much. Kick the slightly up
at the trailing leg, sending me back towards the surface, throwing his
balance slightly off. His reaction to that is slightly less sprawling
than expected. But not enough to let the proper contact send me
sprawling only three m along the surface into the shade, in the
direction of the base, whereas he went a full 20 m the wrong way, and
mostly up.

He will charge again, confident that the upper hand he seemed to get
there is a good thing. If three hours have not been enough, he won't
quit now, and his Earth training is showing through. Sensors show
that he is done. Too much expended, too hot. Next attack is the
start of the run. I will make base, he will not, his air running out
a full 30 minutes before I hit base, faster if he keeps getting
sloppier. Which those nine jumps have shown is the case.

I is a stoopid man

Hi everyone.

It would seem that in my original post, I gave the wrong email address.

This makes me the stupidest person ever to have lived.

Therefore, I happen to know, several of you have sent in stories I have not received.

D'oh!

The correct address for submissions is textfight@gmail.com or you can send straight to ryanstates(at)gmail.com if you like.

In light of my being a complete dunderheaded fool, I am extending the deadline until 11:59:59 Wednesday.

I will submit the received stories as I get them, though I am temping this week so my response to emails is unpredicatable.

I apologize for the confusion.

I also poke you, one and all, to submit.

The Day Draws Close

We are approaching the deadline for Astronaut Knife Fight. As of yet, there are but two entries. Surely Gayleen and I are not the only people intending to join this particular fray.

Sound off if you've got a pair, and at least let me know if you intend to submit.

A cease-fire

Okay, I'm sure it will surprise you that G and I have gotten petty with each other. After a flurry of wreaking havoc with one another's entries, we have agreed to stop.

So from this point out, changing the actual text of someone else's entries will disqualify you.

I am filled with shame that such a rule is now required.

[hangs head. And G's]

Ryan's contribution

Few people remember the launch of Apollo 16b, also called the CREED mission.

In 1972, Muhammad Ali was at the peak of his fame. His recent public dispute with then President Richard M. Nixon on the subject of his refusal to serve in the Vietnam war, coupled with the nation's enthusiasm for space travel, allowed fight promoter Don King to create a media firestorm of a sort seen once in a generation. This firestorm culminated in the most remarkable boxing event of the seventies.

In a televised star-studded variety spectacular, Ali and Nixon were launched, in a kind of live rehearsal for Apollo 17, along with a referee, and a cameraman for ABC Sports, to the surface of the Moon.

Three days later, on August 16, 1972, CREED landed. Howard Cosell did live play by play from Earth as Nixon and Ali arrived, disembarked and then boxed 16 rounds in one-sixth gravity at Mare Tranquilitas.

The match ended in a draw, both men unprepared for the effects of the local gravity. It also ended with each man gaining a new respect for the other, and embracing to the thunderous applause of the studio audience watching on Earth.

As Harvey Korman and Jean Stapleton led the crowd in a singalong of What The World Needs Now Is Love, the boxer and the president began their safe trip home.

The fight, for all the short term hoopla generated, was not nearly profitable, assumed to be a staged event featuring a Nixon impersonator, and soon forgotten.

Yet for one shining, bizarre moment, Ali did float like a butterfly, and, at least in intent, Dick Nixon was not a crook. He was an explorer, pioneer, and an example of good sportsmanship.

The Taste of Blood

I've recharged my brain and body and I'm feeling really acutely creative. Unfortunately, I've pacted with myself to not pick up Silver Bullets, or The Men They Literally Just Could Not Fuckin' Hang until I've gotten some gorram feedback on it, AND until I've given Now England Sees another kick through the Revise-a-Tron 3000.

So, I do believe I will incite a verbal brawl, some manner of linguistic free-for-all, a textFIGHT, if you prefer. You should probably throw a punch of some kind, and call in your buddies to back your play if you have any.

We're gonna call this one The Thrilitas in Mare Tranquilitas, or, if you prefer, Astronaut Knife Fight. Here are the rules. In a thousand words or fewer, describe a physical fight that happens on the Moon. Submissions are to be accepted until Monday, September 15, 2008. There will then be a one day poll to determine the winner.

When voting consider the quality of writing, use of language, and originality of concept and execution.

To submit, email your submission to texfight@gmail.com, or ask to be given posting privileges here at textFIGHT, and post yourself.

As always, heckling, mockery, and downright savagery is not only welcome but expected.

The Feedback Quandry

As a writer, I want people's honest opinions when they are reading my book to help me revise. I recognize that this may sting horribly. It's part of the cost of doing business.

It's a hell of a hard thing to do, though. You feel like a total asshole when you do it. Because of this, I tend to only give real critiques to people and works that warrant them.

As a result, to me, the worst thing to hear from someone is "I liked it. It was okay." Even if they are sincere, it sounds to me like someone being too nice to say that they hated it, or that it just bored them. I have said these things, damn my black heart. I prefer to say simply, "It wasn't for me". Which is often true, and no statement of judgment past that.

My Mom, for example. She didn't like the book much. I'm okay with that, honestly. I'm not sure a) that it's any good either, and b) that if it were, it would be her cup of tea.

I'd vastly prefer knowing what she didn't like so that I can either say to myself, "Okay, this is a matter of taste", or "Okay, I need to fix that."

So I will take the pain that comes from honest critique with as much grace as I can, because it is so essential to my process.

So, if you have my book, please do tell me what you liked. Tell me also what you don't like. I need that.

Also, if you've asked for my critique, and I've savaged you, please understand that it's a sign of my commitment to your work, and my respect for you. It's too damned awkward for me to waste the effort on purest drek.

I've held two good friends and good writers down in the last couple of months and pointed out the ways in which I think their babies are ugly as hell, and I'm feeling a little raw about it. With a soupçon of guilt and fear.

It's the Golden Rule at work. And it sucks.

A Moment of Discussion

So, my Mom read my book. I let my Mom read anything. She said she liked it. I don't know that she liked it all that well. I think the hideous acts of violence and the creepy sex scene put her off.

Go figure.

Oddly, she didn't mention the whole Mormon thing right off.

So, there's that.

The Itch

So, a few people have my book right now, and are reading it. That's good, because I have some questions to ask them. I'll admit I'm kind of on tenterhooks for a couple of reasons.

1) I miss Harry and Charley. I did not expect this. In the moments after finishing I thought I was basically done. I'm not. Their story has gotten bigger, and is a part of the VERY big Sel Souris cycle of stories. Worse, a minor character has gotten her own story going in my head now. I can see a lot of places to expand the book. This should make me glad, I guess.

2) All of the above is basically meaningless if the book is a hunk of crap. It may very well be. I am too close to judge. I can't bring myself to re-read it again yet.

So, as I say, questions.

But I have to say, I'm glad for the itch in any case. Sometimes the stories have to be wrestled out, and sometimes they wrestle you, demanding attention.

The latter is best.

The NaNoWriMo Thing

Now that I've got my feet wet in the pools of long fiction writing (dammit, I'm good), I am really looking forward to the kind of work I could get done with NaNoWriMo. My only real hesitation is that I don't have any ideas for a book. At all. Smoke and Mirrors was doable for the 3-Day thing because I had come up with the basic concept well over a year ago. Sadly, that's been my only novel idea to date (hardy har har).

The countdown in the sidebar tells me I have 57 days to come up with another idea. That doesn't seem long enough. Dahlia and the little god had the luxury of lounging around in my brain for a long time before they had to face the harsh light of the word processor.

Thus far, I have thought of this:

Something cyberpunky
Something with poems in it.
Something with a strong female lead.

Maybe I can make it into something workable in 57 days.

My cat just dropped a toy mouse at my feet. It appears I have a previous engagement.

Oh hell

I forgot to mention, as I'd intended to do in that last entry, that Gayleen and Chris also were also successful in their 3 Day Album Project. Pictures are available over at their site. Soon, one hopes, song samples will follow.

So a tip of the ol' hat to our sister project.

Looking Back, Looking Ahead

So, that's over. It was an interesting experience. I will probably do it again. I am still glad that it's over. Rilla did her own retrospective on the weekend, and I guess I'll do mine.

My plan for success did not exactly happen.

1) I did not even write on my laptop, and, in fact, access to the internet was an awesome tool for quick fact check. While I did do so aimless surfing, I was able to keep taht firmly under control. I underestimated myself here.

2) I wrote in the main room, and found the company of the dogs stimulating and not distracting.

3) and 4) I wrote from morning until night and slept just fine. There was no need for late night crams.

5) I ate mostly crap, but not as much as you might think. I had planned for needing a LOT of caffeine, but drank less than I would under normal daily circumstances. This is because I was so focused on the screen that I would sometimes jsut realize, "Oh, I'm thirsty".

6) I used my outline, for a while, but I did end up off outline. This caused me some troubles, which I'll discuss later. On the whole, though, I think it was a good thing.

7) I did, in fact save my work religiously. This makes 1 of the 7 so far on which my plan and reality coincided, and also a simple fact that cannot be denied. Save constantly.

8) This was the one where I said I should control my ambition. I was totally correct. Nearly everything wrong with my 3 Day Novel this year is due to having reached too far. I'm not sorry, exactly, but the drive to finish has left parts of the story a bit opaque.

9) Taking breaks was absolutely essential. it would help me shift gears to prep for the next scene, and it kept me sane and physically good. It can make you feel really crap to sit still and stare for 12 hours. So that's 2 in ten on which I was both correct and wise in conduct. 3 in which I was right.

10) I did not precisely shut out all other concerns and give life totally to my book. I had a reasonable amount of human contact.

So that goes to show a plan is only a plan.

I have mixed feelings about my book. It may be a while before I can approach it with the right eyes. I have no mixed feelings about the experience. It was a pure rush for me, even with my fears, and my anxieties about finishing. I proved to myself that I COULD write that much in such a short period and that felt good. I also pushed myself to tell a kind of story I don't tend to tell.

Aaaaaand I slandered the Mormons. Which wasn't exactly my intent, but, um, boy.

I am intensely grateful to all of the friends who were so supportive, and in particular those souls who, with such good spirits, talked me down via GMail chat throughout the weekend. I am also grateful to Rilla, without whom I would have felt a good deal more alone. Our check-ins via the blog and the phone were really reassuring. The word count, as Rilla said, acted as both gentle prod, and as a visible sign of both of our progress. I'm really glad we used the internet this way, and for this blog.

And, barring questions, that's all I really have to say. I'm looking for some readers to take a look at the book, and give me their feedback. Ms. Leiter, I'm looking at you. A fresh perspective would be great.

So that's back. Now forward.

I'm doing NaNoWriMo this year. I believe Rilla is too. Check me there if I'm wrong. You should as well. It's a low pressure, high support kind of competition, and everyone who finishes is a winner. Like the Special Olympics.

They have a community sense there, and I'm hoping that textFIGHT will be able to interface with that and bring new folks here as well. I'm famously bad at networking, so your suggestions are welcome.

November is a way off though. So, I think we'll probably have a few little bouts of our own between now and then. I'm not sure exactly what. If any of you have a proposal, go hard. I really want this to be a community based thing. I'll handle admin stuff, because, hey, somebody has to, but as far as I'm concerned, anyone can make a contest. Just keep them simple, make the needed writing fairly short, and make the rules straightforward.

Experience has taught us those things ensure success.

I'll think on it, but I'm gonna be a few days at least before I am feeling charged enough to get creative.

Cenobyte, have you got anything? I'd ask Ril, but I know for a fact she's feeeling all wrung out and ragged. But, so far, her book is pretty good. So that's something.

A Retrospective

I put my submission in the mail today, determined to get it out of my sight in the event that I'd be tempted to tinker with it outside of the contest time line. With the contest now safely behind me, I have the temerity to think I understand what I did right, and what I did wrong. This will probably be good for a laugh in a few months when I have some legitimate perspective on everything.

Rights:

1) The research that I did helped a great deal. I know that I bitched about it as I settled into the last minute panic before the contest began, but it really did help. I was able to add the parts of history that I thought were most interesting where they were most fitting, and that's not a bad thing. True flavour in a Fake setting. It's like real apples on the top of an apple pie filled with that horrible canned filling... except not disgusting... I hope.

2) Working with someone else was incredibly encouraging. Even though Ryan was a province away, having his word count there in the sidebar was enough to make me feel the push of friendly competition. Also, he was quick to call me if he thought I was stuck -- or not posting onto TextFIGHT enough -- and to talk about his own frustrations. Knowing that we were in this together was a life saver.

3) Talking to Kaz about my worries and needs before the week-end began made everything a lot better. He stayed out of my hair, and when I would snap, "NO READING" as he walked by the monitor, he was able to brush it off as temporary insanity. He also did lots of cooking and supplying of food. That was awesome, and he has already hinted that next week-end might be a good time to do the same for him.

Wrongs:

1) I had some indistinct names. I named one of my character's Johnny, and then half-way through the book I decided that I meant that his name was Charlie. It was a boring name from the get go, and if I had picked a name with some meat to it, I wouldn't have been flip-flopping all over the place. Seriously. I thought I had the problem fixed, and then when I sat down to write the penultimate scene, I reverted back to Charlie. It was an irritation that was easy enough to fix with the find/replace tool, but annoying nonetheless.

2) I should have known that I needed more substance to my outline. If I were to do this again (oh so doubtful) I would make sure to have an outline with extra scenes that I can choose to exclude if I want. Then I wouldn't be worried about my word count from day one.

3) I doubted my original plot. After day one, I was feeling wishy-washy about what my outline was telling me to do, and so it was like I was working on two different books for a while there. This made my editing job a lot more difficult in the end, and all of my fixes pushed things back inline with my original idea. I would have saved myself a lot of time and hassle if I had just stuck with my instincts.

4) My historical setting was a pain in the ass. I know I was going to go all metaphorical on its ass, but I kept thinking about what the setting was really like in the 1920's. I wish I hadn't done that because it was an extra hoop that my mind had to jump whenever I wrote anything: dialogue, descriptions, everything.

It's Printing.

Now that I'm done, and rereading, I see so many changes I wish I'd made. I am concerned, deeply, about the clarity of what happens in the climactic gunfight, and, further, about the...er...opacity of the very ending bit.

I know I can make these changes, in time, but the judges won't see them.

I think the writing is strong, and the story engaging. I just don't know if it hangs together.

I tried something, I think, more ambitious than is usually tried by people.

I have no idea if the judges will care.

Oh, well. Winning is not that important to me. I met a challenge I didn't think I would necessarily meet. That's a take away.

And, I don't think there's anything wrong with this piece that I can't fix with some effort.

I wish I were as confident in the novel that took me six months to write. That one has third act problems I haven't licked yet.

More tomorrow.

Sweet. Blistering. Hell.

My last edit to the text was made at 11:54 pm.

I was really scared I wasn't going to get to revise right to the end.

But I did.

Now to fix the spacing, and print the fucking thing.

Down to the Wire.

It's gonna be close in the race with the clock, as far as my revisions go.

I'd say it's already better. I hesitate to say it's good.

My critical mind is back, and it's a total bitch.

In other news, wine and coke is still tasty.

I'm so classy

Champagne

Wow, I keep forgetting how fucking dreadful de-alcoholized champagne is.

So, I'm celebrating in a much more self-destructive way.

KFC.

I feel shame.

And glee.

And hunger.

I have done writ me a fuckin book

Just shy of 33,000 words, I have finished the story I set out to tell.

I'm not sure that the last of the flashback segments is what you'd call satisfactory, but I'll do what I can to fix that before midnight.

The last of the segments set in the here and more or less tomorrow, I think I'm happy with.

I believe I'm gonna let Destine inside and cuddle her some. Then I'ma drink a whole bottle of de-alcoholized champagne while I set to the task of revising and polishing. I have, by my reckoning, near on five hours to do that.

This is the second longest piece of prose I have ever finished. That's a little shameful, actually. Considering the circumstances, though, I'm happy.

Once I get it buffed up, I may decide to leave it as is, and use it, eventually as part of my collection of shorter Sel Souris related pieces.

I was as surprised at the very ending of the modern day segments as anyone. Harry pulled one on me I did not see coming. That might be my favourite thing in the world when that happens.

I'll keep you posted on the revisions.

I was honestly worried I didn't have it in me, but as of this moment, both Rilla and I have met the challenge of the weekend.

And if she were here, she could have some of my champagne.

One more thing.

It's not like I never swear, but writing this book has made me into a sailor.

I'm actually glad I'm not starting a new job tomorrow. I'd be terrified.

Wow.

I just finished the climactic gunfight scene. That was the most fun I have had writing anything in a long time.

Not since I wrote the dance bar scene in Now England Sees, have I been so in the moment. And this was an action scene, and the climax, yet.

I'm exhausted and happy, because my gut tells me it might be pretty good.

Of course, I've had to turn my critical mind off altogether to get this far.

I am so close to done that it's plain silly, and I am happy.

Also, congratulations to Ms. Rilla for crossing that finish line. Shorter than you wanted, but good is considerably better than long and messy as shit.

Second Draft

My current word count is at 22,301. If it changes at all from this point, it will be pretty minutely. I thought I'd be disappointed if I didn't reach 30,000 words, but I'm really quite pleased with the work I have in my hands. It is undeniably full of me: my words, my thoughts, my ideas, my silliness. I am quietly giddy.

I know that I have another seven hours or so to tinker with it, but I don't think I will. If Kaz is up to it, I'll get him to read through the new draft. He has been full of helpful suggestions, and he's been quite brilliant at finding grammatical errors. More than one comma splice has missed my notice, and been caught by him. If he's not up to the second read, no biggy. It stands on its own. I think I've tied up my loose ends, pulled the two parts of my story together, and somehow figured out how to write lesbian in the 1920's... or at least bluffed well enough that I've fooled myelf.

My page count, for you folks playing along at home, is at 82. The page count is only slightly padded by making sure that there's always a page break in between chapters, which is done for my own editing peace of mind than anything else. The length is what I had expected out of my thesis, and I am so proud of myself for getting something of this scope written on my own.

Would I have been prouder if I had made it to 30,000 words? I think I might have, but it would have been a vastly different story. It's punchy -- it moves along. If I added things to make it into a proper novella, it would likely have perspectives aside from Dahlia's, and I'm a little tired of working with that sort of text since we're doing precisely that kind of thing with the group-work novel.

So, as it reaches five o'clock SK time, I think I can officially say that I'm done.

Edit: On a hunch, I did some last minute research about what I had named a club, and I discovered Swing Jazz didn't really get popular until the 1930's. I had named the club The Swing Set (I know, I know, incredibly clever), but I changed it to two-word name, thus losing some of my precious words.

I have printed it, created a witness statement (which Kaz has signed), wrote up a title page with all my necessary info on it, and put it all into an envelope and sealed it up. I shall stop thinking about it now. If I can.