Total Write Off - 1.4 (Madness) - finished

pickarooney

The fourth match of the first round pits PLATINUM against CYAN who will each be writing on Madness. For more details on the competition, see here.

Voting is by poll, with invisible results and open for 5 days. As far as possible, please try and give some feedback for the story you vote for and the one you don't vote for.

Best of luck to PLATINUM and CYAN.

pickarooney

The rain was relentless, painting the streets with an inky blackness. Despite the weather, John had a good night. He had numbed the voice with an offering, and his mind was his own once again. It would be back soon enough, but he appreciated the brief respite.

He was home again. This week his home was a large sturdy cardboard diaper box. Even after 2 days continuous rainfall, it was holding together quite well and staying relatively dry. The others didn't know about his secret alley, half way down Fifth Street. Zig zagging chutes, a maze of fire escapes, and wrought iron balconies combined to provide protection from the elements.

John opened a nearby manhole cover and took out his treasure box, which had been taped to the side of the drain within. His treasure box was a large coffee jar, and he added his latest treasure to the collection within. The jar was nearly full. One more offering would complete his collection. He put his nose to the opening and inhaled deeply. God he loved that smell. He closed the lid and cradled the treasure box like a proud father. Staring blankly at a dancing puddle across the alley, he rested while he could. The voice would disturb him again soon enough.

---

John woke with a start. It was still dark, and the rain had slowed to a drizzle. He looked at his watch. He didn't know what the symbols meant, but Donald Duck's arms were both pointed to the right - morning was still some time away.

The voice whispered to John, and he nodded. It was time for another offering. He put the treasure box back in it's hiding place and stepped out of the alley. There was still activity on the street. It was the weekend, so people were leaving clubs and parties. Men in their flashy shirts, expensive jackets, white teeth and jewellery. Jewellery! Fags. The women were dressed like whores, all painted faces and short skirts. It was raining for chrissakes.

He had a routine now. There was a line of cabs three blocks over on 8th Street, beside the bus depot. Just far enough outside his own neighbourhood. You don't shit on your own doorstep. The voice had taught him that. He watched the cabs from the shadows across the street and waited. He didn't have to wait too long.

A couple were having a very public fight. The man had obviously done something wrong because the girl was doing all the shouting. Her arms were animated like a demented marionette and his shoulders were slumped, resigned to the tirade of abuse. John watched her performance. She was pretty with a slim build and long blonde hair. Her dress was shimmering under the streetlights. She stopped shouting, punctuating her final sentence with a slap. The girl stormed off, away from him, away from the line of cabs.

John followed her from across the street. She walked with dignity, but she was crying. She wasn't paying attention to her surroundings. John wasn't sure if the voice approved - it had been silent for a few minutes now. John didn't need the voice now - this was the part that he enjoyed most, the part he could do by himself. The voice had warned him before not to get cocky, but he didn't care. He was getting good at this now. He let the girl get a bit ahead of him, and he crossed the street to follow her from behind.

Further down the street, a pair of eyes watched John from the wing mirror of a parked car.

---

He had decided to do it at the alley near the end of the block. Timing was important here. He had to catch up to her at the entrance to the alley. If he messed up here, there wouldn't be another suitable alley for 3 blocks. Unacceptable, said the voice. Shut up, said John. This was the only alley entrance in complete darkness with no lights on the main street. Nobody would see a thing if he timed it right.

John matched the footsteps of the girl, but with longer strides to catch up with her. After half a minute of synchronised strides he was right behind her, and she had no idea. He reached inside his coat and pulled out an eight inch knife with a curved blade and an ornate handle. His ceremonial dagger.

He grabbed the surprised girl from behind, covered her mouth and bundled her into the dark alley.

Across the street the occupant of the car spoke a hurried message into a handheld radio, opened his car door, unholstered his gun and ran towards the alley.

---

The voice was very angry. You fuсked up everything. John ignored it and ran for his life. Pleasing the voice didn't matter any more. Back at the sheltered alley, the only thing that mattered to John now was completing his collection. He lifted the manhole cover and retrieved his treasure chest. Opening the lid he deposited his latest offering, inhaled the scent and felt at peace. Finally his treasure was complete.

The rain had completely stopped now, and the sky had started to brighten. John didn't need to look at Donald Duck to know that it was almost morning. The walls of the alley lit up with flashing blue lights. They're here for your treasure, John. Stop them! John held the ceremonial dagger in one hand and his treasure in the other. With a primal scream he ran out into the street, where a lone gunshot rang out in the morning air.

The treasure chest fell to the ground and shattered, spilling its contents. John, now lying prone, watched the scene with horror. The patrolman shielded his face as millions of strands of hair were caught by the wind, corkscrewed into the air and scattered in all directions.

As an unfamiliar kind of darkness enveloped John, the voice made its disappointment known.

pickarooney

Oscar counts the railings that mark the edge of the park, onetwothreefourfivesix making sure not to miscount so that he doesn’t have to start again. That just wouldn’t do, his heartbeat races thinking about it. He stops and onetwothreefourfiveonetwothreefourfive counts his fingers until he feels comfortable again. Don’t step on the shadows don’t look up at that lady seveneightnineten count, keep the rhythm, so the sky won’t fall and the gates to Hades remain shut. He has got to keep everything safe.

Oscar has been told that the sky won’t fall if he doesn’t count the railings. He knows it is probably true. He has been taught so repeatedly during his sessions with his therapist. But his brain gets fuzzy when he doesn’t count; it feels as if he is losing control of something. His body heats as if it will boil, or burst into flames like a sun-scorched vampire. His counting keeps him cool, it is his order in chaos, when buses whizz by or the TV is too loud or the kids put dogѕhit through his letterbox. Counting is how he copes.

Oscar knows his counting is not normal, or at least not the behaviour of regular people. But Oscar has never felt regular. His parents, god rest them, had called him ‘Our special angel’. His childhood peers had called him ‘Weirdo’. Oscar has a sister Lisa, who doesn’t cope well with his ways. She almost foams at the mouth if she hears him mumble from the kitchen while he counts the grapes fortyfour in the fruit bowl. Oscar is glad she hardly visits anymore. When she does, she interferes with his routine, tuts at him, looks in his fridge threeshelvestwodrawers for more evidence of his insanity.

Oscar sighs. It’s probably true, him being insane, but it’s all he’s got. He tried to do sane, and that was worse. He tried not counting, to see what would happen. The panic had consumed him, pulled him away from reality completely. It actually wasn’t so bad, being gone. He had felt free, floating away from his faulty body and leaden brain, his ethereal body rising to a point where he no longer twitched and fretted. But he had come back.

He has had a few of those episodes since. Some planned, some not. He likes the feeling of peace, of not having to count. With no physical concerns, he becomes lighter than a soap bubble, calm and untroubled. Almost godlike in his lack of self, omnipotent, courageous and strong, he is not the simpleton who cowers at the bus stop, counting red cars. The scrabbling of people is distant and meaningless during these times, humanity merely a plaything of the divine.

But these reprieves are only ever temporary, and Oscar always returns to rejoin his weak physical self. Once he awoke in a bus shelter, having lost two days, his shoes and all of his money. Another time, he came to soaked to the skin on a beach fifty miles from home, with no knowledge of how he got there. He doesn’t know what his body does while his mind roams. He is simply lifted from life and dropped back randomly like a discarded toy.

Guilt and shame overwhelm him on every return; being lost is bad. He should never let it happen again. His gut knows it’s somehow wrong. Oscar listens to his gut feelings when they speak in his core, and so he has resumed his count, each number a link in the chain tethering him to reality.

Oscar passes the bus stop on the corner with the onetwothreefour people waiting for the bus to the precinct. He hasn’t lost count for a while now, his mind hasn’t wandered away from him, or at least he doesn’t think so. The last time he can remember was months ago, he re-awoke the day after Christmas, to news reports filled with horror and loss, about a tsunami that had swept through Thailand while he was gone. He couldn’t feel any sorrow. It was all too big, too far away to seem real. The numbers of dead 227,898 fascinated him. So many it might take a year to count them. Numbers 2752, 202, 17127 were lost in wars and earthly rages all the time, even when Oscar hasn’t lost count. Oscar pulls his coat around him as he walks to the corner of the street where the railings onehundredandtwelve end. Maybe someone else had lost count, instead.

He crosses the road to the greengrocers, his mind fluttering at the knowledge of piles of uncounted produce on display inside. He looks at the doorjamb as he enters so he can fight the compulsion to carefully count each and every apple, pear and tomato. He hasn’t time for that today, and it irritates the owner. He stares at the floor counting the fourteenfifteensixteen tiles to the counter. The girl at the till has onetwothreefourfive cheap rings on each hand. As he begins to ask her for his usual order, his eyes wander across the counter to a clear plastic charity box filled with copper coins. A pulse beats in his neck and he begins to sweat as he realises he has no idea how many coins are in the box. As it is locked, he can’t count them. Panic rises from his belly to his head, which crackles inside as it fills with heat and electricity. He can’t count and he knows he is lost, feels it as the counter edge slips from his grasp. From behind his eyes he begins to float, lifting away from everything.

Oscar wakes to the sound of police sirens. He is lying on a pavement, his face cold and gritty against the hard concrete. He is not sure where he is, or how much time he has lost, but he can tell by the smell of cordite and dust in the air, that something bad has happened. He catches a sheet of a newspaper as it flutters by, and scans the page. He has lost at least three days. The page is dated the seventh of July 2005, and Oscar is in London.

azzeretti

CYAN

Oh dear. To me Platinum's story is the best so far. I can't really find much wrong with it. It very well written, brilliantly paced and has some suspense too. What can I say?

Cyan was really well written too. It reminded my of a Curious Incident, which is good. I would say against the other stories submitted so far Cyan's would stand up very well.

Platinum wins for me though. Really well done.

pickarooney

NOTE: The last line of Platinum was missing. Added now. Sorry!

diddlybit

CYAN

Loved Platimun's tale as at first the reader experiences a great deal of empathy for the protaginist, which is then dispelled in the middle part of the story, and once again returns in the climax. Very well structured.

Enjoyed Cyan's choice of OCD as the locus of the story to explain madness especially how his world was structured around it. Possibly needed a little more action perhaps.

Both really good. Best so far I believe.

pickarooney

I kind of wish John had been the London bomber

These two pieces are of an equally high standard and kind of complement one another, almost like a collaborative effort. Both manage to convey tension admirably well - Platinum's with that crescendo of terror and Cyan's with a horrible sense of claustrophobia. The idea of being controlled by an outside force - OCD, schizophrenia - is explored in quite a similar manner.

I don't really know what to say. Voting for either one seems arbitrary and it's awful that one of these writers has to be eliminated so early.

smcgiff

CYAN

Yet to see any story that was a candidate for having been rushed out at the last minute.

Both are very good. Platinum's is bang on 1,000 words so I can imagine they weighed up every word to fit into the limit. This is a good technique and can tighten up a writers writing. Good story and finish.

Cyan employed some clever writing tools, but this seemed a story of a person with a bad affliction of OCD rather than madness. The ending was a puzzle. Was there a connection between disasters and his black outs?

Well done both of ye.

Hrududu

CYAN

Two very strong entries. I really got swept along in Platinum's tale. Very well written with great pacing. I could feel the tension ratchet up as the story went on. I can't actually pick any nits with it.

Cyan's story was very good too. I liked the repetition of the numbers and the detached way it was told. Great way of getting Oscar across.

Turtyturd

CYAN

A real shame for these two stories to be up against each other in the first round.

Platinums story seems to avoid a lot of the cliches that some other stories relied on and has been pointed out was really well paced.

Cyan took me a few read throughs to get, but with each one it grew on me a bit more. Did a really good job in portraying how controlled Oscar was by OCD, and I really like the last line.

Bad draw for these two.

Memnoch

Both very well written. I have to see I'm really humbled by the standard of writing in the competition so far, it's all been top notch.

The theme is well played out in both stories and the narratives are moving, human and enjoyable to read. Both sustain the reader throughout. It's a hard one to call for sure.

I felt platinum followed a slightly more well trodden path. You kind of knew where it was heading and were hoping the writer would surprise you and were perhaps a little disappointed when they didn't.

I also felt that Cyan let itself down a little by the ending. You didn't need a significant event of the scale of 7/7 to anchor the story, it was powerful enough as it was.

Killer_banana

Both very well written, toughest match so far I would say.

Platinum did a very good job of making us question whether the man could really be seen as responsible for his actions. Ending was a bit predictable though.

Cyan did a wonderful job of transporting us into the mind of someone suffering form OCD. Very well done. That said I'm not sure about the ending. I don't knwo if the writer's trying to suggest maybe Oscar's assumption that if he stops counting it will cause bad things is true or if it's just another sad coincidence that will make Oscar believe he really is accountable for these things.

Blush_01

I suppose all I can really say is wow. They were both great. PLATINUM was probably better written (less noticeable little errors, although if you're coming down to things like to/too that says a lot about the standard!) but I actually preferred CYAN.

smcgiff wrote: »

The ending was a puzzle. Was there a connection between disasters and his black outs?

Some severe OCD sufferers believe bad things will happen when they don't follow their routines, don't they? (I'm not sure if it applies to all OCD sufferers, don't know a lot about OCD to be honest.) Oscar believes that bad things will happen when he doesn't count, and when he has is out of body detached periods he isn't counting, hence the bad things. At least, that's what I took from it... I'm open to correction!

It really is unfortunate both of these contestants have come up against each other.

B_Fanatic

Wow, I'm surprised. I thought they were both great but Cyan wins it for me. They were both really great and I was able to get into them but in the middle section of Platinum I felt it was lacking in detail. It gave a great account of the fighting couple but I think it needed to be a bit more descriptive on locations... Agh! But I loved the ending. Probably because it was a bit more descriptive and just a great plot twist. I'm starting to have doubts.

Also Starring LeVar Burton

Not too sure I got the ending of Platinum to be honest - I've read it a few times and still don't know what happened. Regardless of whether or not I get the ending it is definitely well written, but at the end of the day Cyan wins it for me...

Slow Show

CYAN

I loved Platinum, from the very start it reeled me in and it was very easy to read. I actually don't think I have any comments to give to the writer other than 'job well done'.

Cyan was well-written too, I think I would have voted for it in nearly every other category but it just faced too strong an opponent in this case. Nice idea, and clearly not one of the more rushed pieces.

Ugh, I give the worst comments ever, I always end up feeling really condescending and a bit of a tool, what with almost definitely being the youngest person here. Everyone should just discount everything I say.

Antilles

Platinum was very well written, though a bit predictable and the protagonist didn't really appeal to me.

I really felt for Oscar in Cyan's story and felt the OCD was very well woven into the story. So even though I'm not sure about the last line, Cyan gets my vote.

pickarooney

Congratulations to CYAN!
PLATINUM unfortunately it's time to say...




...Cyanara!