Bluevelvet's Entertainment Department hosted a contest in which players took turns submitting sections for a story. Below is the resulting work followed by the awards given. Names have been hidden to improve story flow, but may be seen by going to the View->Page Source menu item (or comparable item in other browsers) of your web browser.
It is a dark and stormy night, but under the warm covers of my bed its cozy, I look to my left and see.... my wife walking out of the john; she's got curlers in her hair and pink gunk on her face and she's wearing that dreadful ratty bathrobe that she's had for the last 15 years - you'd think the thing would have died by now - complaining about her sister again so I think to myself : "Oh Lord, I can't believe I've been sharing my bed with this horrible nag for half my sorry life!"
My thoughts turn bleak. Things haven't been the same since I lost my job at the canning factory - it was dreary work, but at least the money helped. Under the pillow, I reach for the switchblade that I keep there. it's all getting too much...... Aoo! shouldn't done that.. now I've cut my thumb with the knife. I press the pillow to my thumb, rush to the bathroom, drop the bloody knife on the floor... On my way my wife catches sight of my bleeding thumb, rolls her eyes, and says, "I told you you'd just end up cutting yourself if you keep that thing under your pillow! We don't have anything worth stealing, we hardly need to worry about a break-in..." And on, and on... won't she ever shut up?
I slowly saunter over to the window and gaze out, staring drearily at the cool glow of the silvery moon as it casts shadows upon the lawn, how could she be so naive to my past?
The seductive calm of the windless night beckons me to freefall to certain death beyond the now open window of my fifth floor apartment. My time is not to die, however, but to live for power... in power. I reach again for the knife, scarlet by my blood. Who will pay first for my, recently revealed, infinite journey. The deep crimson droplet catches the dim light and to my eye becomes the jewel of my power; the seed feeding the hunger aching deep in my soul. Turning away from the window, to face the silhouette cast by my wife-- I fight the gurgle of laughter bubbling up from deep inside. 'It is almost too easy,' I think stepping forward stealthfully.
"You!" said Margaret, wrenching the blade from my hand with cold, clinical efficiency, "should get off your back side and do some work for a change so we could afford a proper burglar alarm, you useless lump of lard!" In that fleeting moment, the feeling of power had been shattered. Like my dreams, it became a thousand pieces that disappeared into the night and were gone, a thousand reasons to dispair, to hate what I had become. I was small again. I was no-one. Margaret turned towards the door, the blade glinting enticingly in her hand, gliding over the fabric of that awful bath robe as she reached for the handle. I had to get her back.
We'd been balancing on the edge for too long, the weight of the shattered pieces dragging us over like 4 million dollars of gold bullion. Sooner or later the bus was going to fall, and when it did I was going to be damn sure I wasn't on board. I left that night, taking her coffee with me and dumping it in the nearest trash can. Two months later I was clean, and on a flight to Bogota. The Coffee Killers were going to pay ... and pay big.
My flight was wonderful. Going through customs went smoothly. However, I encountered a problem in the gift shop. I ended up powerbombing a guy into thumbtacks for rights to the last Beanie Baby, Quackers. As I scrambled to get out of the shop, I notice the guy staring at me. He had the gruesome scar and the haunting glass eye that had been branded in my memory. Could it possibly be true? Could I have found him this quickly? Or perhaps this is some outrageous coincidence? Other then that thick white scar that runs from under his eye straight down his cheek and the gray glass eye, this man looks nothing like the one I served under in the war. But I cannot shake off the feeling of deja-vu. There is only one way to find out, I must talk to this man.
I reach into my coat pocket slowly, feeling the hard cold metal of my 9 millimetre, my eyes never leaving his ugly face. As I move toward him, a young woman rushes in my direction, pressing her graceful, lithe body against me, her perfume intoxicating my every pore. She whispers in my ear breathlessly "The Coffee Killers have taken the Poco Loco hill. You must meet me tonight at the Bogota Ramada at 9 oclock. I will take you to the leader of the Resistance." And suddenly, she is gone, her long legs and heady odour already a fading memory as I search the shop for Ugly Man. "Damn !", I curse under my breath as I realise he has disappeared.
The perfume of the strange young girl haunted me for hours, as I stumbled round the dusty streets of Bogata, pondering the best course of action to keep myself alive. My past life I had gladly left far behind - the drugs and the therapy had erased nearly all of that existence, and yet the sweet, cinnamon scent of a young girl had once again pulled me back into the old firm. Mentally, I prepare for the violence I am certain is to ensue.
After a few hours of searching for General Tarragon in the hopes of rearranging his scar and glass eye I'm forced to abandon my quest for dinner. I dine in the Ramada eatery... my stomach just isn't up to most foods since that last fight and that funny TIS chemical weapon. The cinnamon girl joins me, early I note, and dressed to kill in a short red dress. "She'll see you shortly, suite 5137," she says, and then she's gone, her scent lingering like a pleasant after-taste. I make my way cautiously to the elevator not certain if the cinimon girl is a ploy set against me by my enemies or if in fact I am not alone in this battle as I had thought. As the elevator lurches gently to a stop my hand unconsiously feels the lump of my 9 mil... exhaling slowly the doors of the elevator begin to slide slowly open; and with heart beating like a base drum I step forward, senses alert for trap.
A middle aged man with beard and dark glasses is waiting in the hall, but only waits for me to leave the elevator before stepping in and pressing the ground floor button. I reach the room through empty halls, but the door is not a door, and the Glock is out because I can smell the cordite. The old woman tied to the chair in the corner of the room is freshly dead, shot at close range directly between the eyes. Tarragon's trademark style. Then the girl is in the doorway with a pistol and she's already done the addition. It's then that I see the thumb tack in the carpet by her feet, and then she pulls the trigger.
The first thing I notice when I regain consciousness is the sharp throbbing pain in my left shoulder, the second ... that someone has bound me like a sheep ready for shearing, complete with dirty rags for a blindfold and gag. Letting out a moan I try to roll over. "What the hell!" a woman's voice shouts somewhere behind me. Before I can think of what happened to me or where I am I hear footsteps on the carpet running towards me, then hands not to delicately rolling me over on my back. "oh no, you shouldn't be up, its not time yet." said someone with a singsong voice. I squeeze my eyes shut behind my blindfold and grunt at the fiery pain in my shoulder. I realize there is a new pain, sharp and hard. I can feel blood slowly trickle down my cheeks, what happened?..oh the light, it's disappearing again ... my last thought as I slip into unconsciousness again "I must find ... out" ...
I slip in and out of consciousness during the next few hours, aware of movement, dust and pain. The sound of a diesel motor, probably from a small truck, roars in my ears. I know I am being taken somewhere out of the city for the road is bumpy and aggravates the pain in my left shoulder. By the time the truck finally comes to a stop, I have fully regained my senses but I feign sleep. Two large men grab me and unceremoniously drop my limp body on the dusty ground beside the vehicle. As I pretend to come to slowly, I hear the sound of heavy footsteps approaching and a loud voice thunders in the night air : "So, after all these years ... I wish I could say its good to see you again. Get up, you piece of trash ! Get up, I say !"
"Holy spice-racks!" I was instantly sorry upon looking up. This thundering voice booming in my ears is none other than the Cinnamon Girl herself. Still in the red dress,though no longer attractive, it is quite clear that this Spice Girl has is out for me. My thoughts race as I try to place the Spicy one. She spits on me as she shouts how I ruined her life and all the hundred ways I would pay for it. I beg to her, "Please tell me what I've done! I don't know you! Tell me something please!"
" 'As if you didn't know already!' she snarled. From her daypack she removes a tattered box covered with once shiny paper - now torn and sullied. 'This is the cause of my torment, and it's all your fault!'. Her words echo in my ears, my temples throb, and it's hard to concentrate through the numbing pain. I stammer a reply, incredulous that all this should stem back to a petty childhood squabble, seemingly lifetimes ago."
But ... but ... I start stammering.. please! She takes a few steps towards me, while I'm lying on the ground, torn and dirty. She now takes the final step, putting her boot heel on my shoulder. It hurts badly ... then the coup de grace ... she starts pouring a susbstance from the box in her hand all over me. I start choking from the dusty contents. Gee, I just can't handle this. In a cloud of brown powder, I keep choking and choking. "You", she says, "you got me addicted to this crap!" I now remembered the full story. But ... in this instant I realise that going over all this was not going to save me. Desperate ... that's what I am, a "miracle" would be appropriate at this moment to get me out of this situation.
I pass out from all the powerdry Araken, a drug similar to Ecstacy ... I wake up in a bed, very white linen sheets, head and foot boards made of rods of brushed metal. The door in front of me is metal, with a thick piece of glass at head level. I hear a Bzzzz - CLUNK and the door opens. A man in a doctor's coat ... "Where am I?" I ask.
"You're in New York city, you were returned to the U.S. after you reached stable condition, but after two days of home care your wife comitted you here. You're delusional and violent, probably because of your exposure to TIS and heavy drug use," he says.
I know he's lying ... the cup in his hand reeks of coffee, giving him away. I leap at him! Only to find out I'm restrained by all four limbs... the door shuts with a CLANG.
So, what are you in here for?
Trinette - Douglas Adams award for most amusing line
Fastjack - Alfred Hitchcock award for most unusual twist
Nice - Victor Hugo award for most dramatic line
Meghana - Orson Wells award for most integrated and most beautiful line
Teator - Emily Dickenson award for most creative entry