Kevin's Watch

OK, lets revive this thread:

We all know Thomas Covenant was a bad fantasy writer (according to himself and his friend the doctor at least). Also, this is a bad Writing Game thread. Surely this is kismet ?

Let us enter this good Ten-Fingered-Tommy's shoes and write a shallow, optimistic piece of crap. What must the story contain to be worthy of our hero's 10 hale and whole fingerst?

1) A perception of heights and abyses that gives each word you write the shape of dried, black blood. Your aim is to fill your reader with anguish.

2) Create landscapes of an earth brimming with a sheer force of its own brilliance. Preferably rendered visible by a white bolt striking into the heavesns from a lightning rod
Landscapes must include:
a. hills
b. crags
c. trees bent by the passionate wind
d. night-ridden people


3) Make your reader surmise from your writing that you felt as drained and satisfied as all of life's love uttered in one act.



Are you up to the challenge?

So is the character's name Ten Fingered Tommy or should there be a character name chosen that reflects the lack of zero fingers?

Ten Fingered Tommy is in fact the famous Thomas Covenant, a happy fantasy writer that has no inkling of what the future holds for him. But of course, like many bad writers you can insert a Marty Stu into your story.

OK, I made a start, but can't keep this up for too long!



*********

The crimson sky flashed with frightful phosphorescence that reminded the wizard of when he was learning to harness the horses of the sky when he was at wizard school. It seemed like a long time ago now, but his thoughts were interrupted by sweat, like the knock of a liquid fist on the door of his mind.

He stood on the ledge above the dark abyss below him and clenched his buttocks together tightly when he surveyed the hills below in the light of the lightning that lighted the panorama laid out before him like a picture painted in blood. The wind was drying the sweat on his forehead and he thought of congealed blood. He wondered for a moment if he had a hole in the top of his head that was leaking out his life force, but swept that aside with his mental hand - he knew it was sweat and it couldn't be blood. Just couldn't.

As the wind bent the trees atop the hills below him he realized he must shake the spell of dizziness from his mind and keep moving along the narrow ledge, pushing back on the tall crag behind him as he moved. His blood was ice in his veins and molten lava in his mind. He relaxed his clench and continued to edge slowly to his left.

The velvet robes that he wore were longer than it was practical to wear for something like this, and he had visions of tripping on them and tumbling off the edge of the void at his feet that yawned open like an invitation to return to the unlife of the womb.

His thoughts poured from the well of the despair he felt at what he was about to attempt. None of them made sense but all of them preyed on his mind like vultures eating at the flesh of a useless and lifeless thing.

Something then happened that thawed all the ice in his veins - as a bolt of lightning streaked from the heavens, another streaked to the sky. From somewhere below. He was still again, unable to move, his fingers frozen to the rock face they were desperately trying to grasp at. Was there another human being here in this wasteland? Who else would be foolish enough to travel through these mountains in failing light, and what was the meaning of the strange bolt of lightning traveling to the heavens?

Without another thought, he kept moving. Faster now that his blood was simmering rather than frozen. He knew that he was battering his fingers badly on the rock face, but he knew that it didn't matter. The only people who would be out now were those driven by fear, or those without a soul to feel it. The latter was likely with the person, or persons, or creature, or creatures below...

As the sky darkened from the deep, blood red of the sunset to a brown dusk his fear gradually clenched around his throat, and he started to breathe harder. It was now too dark to see to the other end of the long ledge, and his plan of using his staff for light was now out of the question. Anyway, it was strapped across his back and he didn't think he had the power to control his hands to lift away from the rock to reach it.

An eternity seemed to pass before he felt that he was getting near to the end of the ledge. The velvet blackness of the night's tapestry was complete now, but he could more feel than see that the overhang of the rock face was increasing - when it was completely over his head he would be close to the entrance of the tunnel. Exactly how much time had waltzed right by him without his notice he could not say. The dance of the spheres was not foremost in his rigid mind right now.

No matter how hard he tried, he could not keep the thought of the denizens of this dead, bloodied land from swatting at his brain. Driven by the fear of the thing they could not name, they only kept to their underground caverns during the day because they feared the daylight more. Even a full moon would keep them in their holes, gnawing the bones of their anxiety in their private dens. The night would drive them and the fear of the dawn would drive them harder, riding them as if they were little more than tame horses, and the sun was the jockey, whipping them ever harder as the night aged towards exhaustion.

This was the meaning of his life though. He would not be here if it were not for the path he had deliberately taken, and the path he had taken was because he knew that one day he would stand here. Love, life, hopes - all were dashed on the rocks on the shore of this undertaking, and the only survivor was a hungry, bedraggled fear wearing tattered clothing.

"She's gonna totally love this!"

Tommy Fingers X reread the last paragraph of his 928-page masterpiece before submitting it to his publisher.

Raul looked across the verdant plane, scanning the craggy hills as a bolt of evanescence lofted skyward, illuminating the bent forms of the trees, writhing in the wake of the night-ridden people's passionate passing. The sun was about to illumine the landscape, which glowed with an almost palpable force of its own brilliant vibrancy. The illuminating luminescence illuminated the edge of the precipice under his naked toes. The <b><i>makerapupansetineyetaliks</i></b> coursed through his body, filling him with a sense of orgastic exhaust. Using the flowers from the <b><i>moornoncentsear</i></b> tree was always risky, but a price that had to be faced to keep the world intact. His vertiginous look across the abyss brought a darkness from his very soul, filling the chasm with ochre as dark as dried blood. The kingdom floated away from his sight as he passed all knowing, assured in the fact that he had saved the mythical kingdom from itself. Raul could go happy into the next world...

"That," said Tommy, "should get me a nice advance on the next segment of <b>Raul's Revenge</b>"

shadowbinding shoe wrote:Let us enter this good Ten-Fingered-Tommy's shoes and write a shallow, optimistic piece of crap. What must the story contain to be worthy of our hero's 10 hale and whole fingerst?

1) A perception of heights and abyses that gives each word you write the shape of dried, black blood. Your aim is to fill your reader with anguish.

2) Create landscapes of an earth brimming with a sheer force of its own brilliance. Preferably rendered visible by a white bolt striking into the heavesns from a lightning rod
Landscapes must include:
a. hills
b. crags
c. trees bent by the passionate wind
d. night-ridden people


3) Make your reader surmise from your writing that you felt as drained and satisfied as all of life's love uttered in one act.

LOL!

michaelm wrote: the lack of zero fingers

But, but... how?

You people crack me up, and this is before I've even begun to read the entries...

Well done, michaelm! A winner for sure.

Something that occurs to me - I think our argent-ring-wearing anti-hero is described as an author; nothing specifically says he's a fantasy author.

michaelm wrote:He wondered for a moment if he had a hole in the top of his head that was leaking out his life force, but swept that aside with his mental hand

And Gamgee- "makerapupansetineyetaliks"? "moornoncentsear"?
*groan*, Nice.

Linna Heartlistener wrote:Something that occurs to me - I think our argent-ring-wearing anti-hero is described as an author; nothing specifically says he's a fantasy author.

michaelm wrote:He wondered for a moment if he had a hole in the top of his head that was leaking out his life force, but swept that aside with his mental hand

And Gamgee- "makerapupansetineyetaliks"? "moornoncentsear"?
*groan*, Nice.

Sounds like a challenge. Can you make it a non-fantasy story and still fit the requirements?

have we a winner?

I've been watching this same thread for a deadline so I can convince myself to write...

("That said bad writing contest, not lazy writers contest, Linna.")

Can we have about another week?

i don't make them rubles.

OK, the deadline is Sunday, 24/5/2015

A perception of heights and abyses that gives each word you write the shape of dried, black blood. Your aim is to fill your reader with anguish.

2) Create landscapes of an earth brimming with a sheer force of its own brilliance. Preferably rendered visible by a white bolt striking into the heavesns from a lightning rod
Landscapes must include:
a. hills
b. crags
c. trees bent by the passionate wind
d. night-ridden people


3) Make your reader surmise from your writing that you felt as drained and satisfied as all of life's love uttered in one act.

Still not sure how to make an optimistic piece of crap that fills the reader with anguish?? Piece of crap is easy enough...

****

Teeshaund'ra shot from the face of the earth with a shriek, as she felt the dessication ray sucking the life from her in a trail of dried, black blood. But the rush was incredible!! How long could she ride the ray? The hills and crags passed beneath her, dusted now with the acid red of her life's blood as she passed by, night-ridden. She must stop. She knew the ray would take her life. But she was optimistic.

Her spirit was like a tree, bent by the passionate wind, but still standing. Such a tree even at that moment was passing beneath her and she grabbed a mangled branch with her withering arms and held it in a death grip. The ray sucked at her body until she croaked with effort.

"Wow!!" Teeshaund'ra cried as it let go with a snap. Thirst anguished her spent soul as she fell like a leaf to the blasted earth.

The Rainbow Unicorn of Desiderata trotted up, and touched her shrunken lips with the glittering tip of her horn. A crystal drop of meeshwaharandragathan fell and hydrated her, restoring her blood. Teeshaund'ra felt her heart leap, revived. She bounced up.

"Oh, Unicorn, thank the stars you came along just then!" She smiled and tossed her golden, sparkling tresses back over her milk-white shoulders.

The Unicorn rolled its anguish-filled, cornflower-blue eyes, but she didn't notice.

*****

"The Unicorn rolled its anguish-filled, cornflower-blue eyes, but she didn't notice"

Nice one, Deer. LOL!

shadowbinding shoe wrote:Sounds like a challenge. Can you make it a non-fantasy story and still fit the requirements?

Challenge accepted...


Chapter XXVI: "Clichés save the day!"

He looked at her eyes, as if he could see the invisible holes she was riddled with. The terrors of many previous nights seemed to tug at things invisible which resided just beyond her heavily-mascaraed eyelashes.
"You're going to be safe soon."
She was much too young.

Outside, he saw monsoon rains sheeting down.
He could see the rain bending the palms in exactly the way in which he would not be... he decided not to continue following that train of thought.
An enormous bolt of lightning crashed, filling up the entire window with a blaze of coruscating whiteness.
There was a knock at the door.

He peered through the tiny lens-like glass hole in the door
They had come back.

Three words emblazoned themselves upon his mind, like a child's name monogrammed on a plastic pop gun, engraved on a little plastic rectangle of contrasting color that kept needing to be snapped back in to place when it fell out.
Three unrepressable, nigh-inelicitable, inelusive words:
"Men of Violence."

"Go hide behind the bed," he said.
He took out his gun, and opened the door.

The two men he confronted were the ones he had just spoken with.
Something was confusing though: They looked not intent upon his blood - but sheepish.
The taller one explained, "When we were leaving, the clerk at the front desk tried to tip us off that this might be a sting operation. So we decided that, since, you know how people say a life of crime doesn't pay... we would come turn ourselves in."
"What?"
The shorter man nodded.
The taller one smiled nervously, "Yeah, you know; turn over a new leaf. Try something new for a change... not having to run from the law all the time."
From two feet away, just within the hotel room, he just stared.
"But hurry up and handcuff me quickly - before I, you know, lose my nerve and try to run."
"Right; of course I can take you into custody. Certainly. I'll take care of that right now," he said, shaking his head.
He mind started clicking through its customary functions again.
He handcuffed them both, still not quite believing this was happening.
It was truly a strange night.



(It's 11:21pm in my time zone, May 24th.)

Linna Heartlistener wrote: (It's 11:21pm in my time zone, May 24th.)

Fascinating; you must be a time-traveler. It's only 2:30 pm on May 24th in West Africa and last time I checked we are 6 hours ahead of you...

Gahhh... yes, it was still May 23rd when I posted the story.
Thank you!

After all, it was my fear that the May 24th deadline was a "finish it before this day" deadline that prompted me to say that at all...

-Linna "Leaves things to the 11th hour" H.

"Three words emblazoned themselves upon his mind, like a child's name monogrammed on a plastic pop gun, engraved on a little plastic rectangle of contrasting color that kept needing to be snapped back in to place when it fell out"

Excellent!