Short Story Competition 11 (VOAT) - Vote HERE!

pickarooney

This is the voting thread for round 11 of the Variations on a Theme writing contest. For more details, see here.

The outline of the story was:

Sam comes home to find the mysterious letters VOAT daubed on the garage door.

Eleven boards members submitted stories and you can read them all in this thread. For the next ten days, we're asking you to vote for the best of the bunch and choose the winner.

All entries will be posted anonymously for the duration of the contest and the authors revealed at the end. Contestants, please resist the temptation to respond to questions on your stories or defend them until voting is over, so as to retain anonymity and fairness for all.

You may vote for as many entries as you like, but we would ask you to please provide feedback on the story or stories for which you vote and for as many of those for which you didn't vote as you can. Don't hold back if you have negative criticism, but please make sure any and all feedback is in some way constructive. Voting is public, and votes without a post in the thread will be ignored.

Voting will open today once all stories are up and will end on the morning of Thursday, 28th of February 2013. The winner will be announced shortly thereafter.

Best of luck to all involved and thanks in advance to those who take the time to read and rate the entries.

pickarooney

Version 11

“If we get caught here we`re fuсked”, he thought as he drove home from his fictitious office. He`s been doing this for twenty years already and they`ve been here far too long. Today he was in Kilkenny and the motorway wasn`t so busy.


“Sometimes that woman is stupid, with her loyalty to her friends. Although I can`t blame her, they seem half decent people. If I ever wanted a friend I would have one of those.”


He imagined the cows in the field lining up to race home, the fastest and nimblest, grabbing the best seat and the remote control. Fast cow might lie across three seats keeping one for his sweetheart and the other for his best friend. Perhaps some of the slower cows would be forced to make popcorn.



He saw everyone as stupid cows, he hated them all. When he remembered that all cows are female he smiled. In his best radio presenter voice he announced: “Any characters depicted herein are purely co-incidental.”


Seeing that worried face in the rear view mirror, he decided to wonder why he was worried. The next move is imminent and there will be no notice at all he reminded himself.


“How in the fuсk are we going to get out of this? Just go. Now. Today. Surely we have to wait for more detail?”


“Three years in a community is way too long to be transient, people get to know you. This is why we picked Ireland, well they did, and she hadn`t a clue.”


Recalling that evening in Venezuela as the sun dropped like a slowly pulled blind. It is the only good memory he had from there. He remembered it was hers too.
“We`re leaving!”
“Are you serious?” she asked.
“Work!” he said,
“More money?” she asked.



That was all that needed to be said. She didn`t seem to care where to or when. She planned having dinner in quaint pubs with natural story tellers keeping the whole place transfixed by their masterly technique. She dreamed of no more CCTV around the house and George always freaked her out.


As they checked in to their flight she asked him
“What do we want him for in Ireland? It`s one of the safest countries in the world.”
“George goes everywhere darling, you know that. Company Policy.”


She wished company policy was George and she had a baseball bat of a shredder. “Ten minutes in a closed room would do it.” She murmured.



Sam could only agree with her, well if you`re an ordinary citizen, Ireland must be one of the safest countries worldwide. The Irish Media lament for society when one drug gang kills a rival gang member. The reality is; it really is one of the safest places to live.


In BBC pronounced English he advertised his opinion, announcing: “I could vouch for that with the Irish tourist board if they ran an ad.”


They normally send messages during certain news bulletins. The 10pm BBC World Service is their favourite method. Operating under the nose of MI5 MI your mother and father, no-one has suspected anything yet.



“Believe me, we`d know. Our routes would be shut down, we`d all fall into the spiders web.”


Their global teams would always be ready when the next phase of the plan was to kick off. They never knew when or where they would be positioned next. They never even knew the identity of their colleagues. He often listened out for politicians leaking codeword’s, or so he thought. He could never be sure.


Valentines night, Caracas, Venezuela, 2009. He bought some lubrication and a vibrating ring in the supermarket on the way home. He had already had flowers delivered and hired a chef to cook. She had given him ten marks out of ten for that. Smiling he showed her the toy.



Her mouth covered and giggling she stood up and removed her dress. She didn`t head towards the bedroom, she vaulted the settee and sprawled herself on the magnificent Andorra wool rug. She wanted to destroy that thing so bad, she hoped even some monthly red might squeeze out and it would have to be dumped.


Locked together during the romp on the rug; him slowing his thoughts so they might climax together, her desperately wanting every fragment of her mid region to explode in ecstasy and liquid.



This unique connection was interrupted by routine phone alarm. 955pm. He didn`t hear the radio come on.


Looking at her, the animosity almost blocked by his tight eyes, he asked: “Where is the fuсking radio?”


Venomously she hissed: “I put it next door, naturally you`ll drop everything to hear the fuсking news.”


He hurt her as he withdrew and bolted to the next room.


Frantically scouring the walls for a free socket he finally plugged in the radio. “The bitch even re-tuned it.” He snarled.


Eliminating all sounds in search of that familiar jingle and voice he found it and he felt good:
“This is the BBC World Service. Venezuela. Four people have died from flu-like symptoms. Government inspectors are carrying out tests on almost 30 people reported to have been infected with a new strain of SARS” - Okay 30 people means we leave tomorrow, and he needed one more figure: - “The Health Ministry suspect that figure to remain stable and they envisage that figure not to rise further.”



“Ireland? Good God why there?”


Their plane soared over the Atlantic, he couldn`t remember how many times they changed. Next stop London, “Why not London?” he drifted off.



She always thought Sam was bi-sexual, George never left the house. He stayed in his room. No matter where they lived George`s room was en-suite complete with a built in gym and bank of CCTV monitors.



George was from Thailand, very handsome and young looking. She tried to talk to George a few times and every time he disappeared in to his lair. The house and grounds were blanketed in CCTV coverage.



She demanded from Sam that he find out if George was using the CCTV to masturbate while she was in the shower.


Sam convinced her that George was not interested in that way. So she convinced herself that George was Gay and Sam was Bi. It did seem like the only rational solution. Whenever she stumbled across the two of them in the kitchen they always remained silent.

Sam trusted George with his life. He trusted that Becky was sufficiently ignorant of events and would play along. It was never difficult to get her to do anything, all one needed was to open the wallet.


Life in Ireland was easy and at a much slower pace than anywhere else they lived. Becky joined some groups and helped out with local issues. Sam was always sure of one thing, as a housewife Becky was perfect cover.



Sam used to do his usual, head off in the morning, and come home at night. He could be anywhere. He might book a brothel for a half day or gaze at the sea for hours on end. He started a relationship with a woman from Limerick. He would proudly say her name in his best announcers’ voice: “Jessica Hyde!” He would drive down every Wednesday. He felt himself soften around her.



This is where he was now. In Jessica Hyde`s house. Learning from the Venezuelan Valentine’s Day he never made love with anyone between 9 and 10pm.



He told Jessica Hyde that he had some work to organise for the morning and it was of a sensitive nature. Jessica Hyde never worried about him. He was too good to be true.



As he sat in the car he finally realised that he could never retire. He would have to keep moving or die. He felt weary. For the first time in his life he felt sorry for Becky and the lie she lived.


He put on his newscaster voice and gazed in the mirror: “Becky, do you remember doubling over at home one day? I think it was in Chicago” He would have to add: “Do you remember the blood and time in hospital?” He would finish it by telling her that he deliberately aimed a microwave transmitter at her womb and that is why she could never have children.


That was the most difficult thing he ever did. George told him she had missed her period. He had to act, even if she was just late.



The radio played the jingle: “This is BBC World Service. Ireland. Doctors believe Ireland is the source of a new SARS-like infection known as VOAT11; Virus Oesophagus Alveoli Trachea, strain eleven. The viruses is spreading exponentially and in the last 18 hours over 1000 people have reported with the infection in the Dublin area. Nationwide there are an average of 50 reported infections per county. The authorities are closing all access points to the country. The Royal Navy and Royal Air Force have warned any vessel or aircraft bound for the UK will be grounded or sunk. The Irish Minister for Health has declared a state of emergency.”


Sam scoured his brain for the figures. Sam`s phone beeped: George wanted to chat with video encryption.



Sam accepted and wide-eyed cried: “1000 is immediate incubation.” George nodded.
“The figure 50 means that we leave in the morning with the ferry to Wales at 10 am?”


“Why the fuсk didn`t they report if anyone has died? Do you think we have been compromised George?”


“There is no way to know sir, they have never let us down before and the abort message has never been broadcast” George matter-of-factly replied.


“I need an hour to think” Sam told George, “Will you organise the tickets? And one foot passenger for Jessica Hyde and will you give Becky the immunisation shot when she falls asleep?”


“When are you coming back sir?” George enquired.


“George, I have given these bastards my entire life, just as you have, and Becky. I will be leaving Limerick soon and I`m bringing Jessica Hyde with me.


“Yes Sir, I disagree with what you are doing, but good luck sir.” George replied sombrely.


Sam slammed the sturdy urban 4x4`s door and ran straight to Jessica Hyde. She agreed to go on a whirlwind trip to the UK with him. She gasped as he told her they should leave now and that she needed to get dressed.



“I`m not marrying you.” Jessica Hyde retorted.



“Don`t worry, it`s just some fun” he reassured


“It is romantic, see you soon. Mwah Mwah Sam” she giggled and ran to her room.


Sam heard the shower run. He thought of all he has done in his life. He was an evil man.



His organisation would negotiate contracts with governments. When the organisation didn`t get their way they unleashed a devastating virus. It was Sam`s job to spread the virus. He had done it so many times in so many countries he never once considered how many people he killed.



He would receive his instruction from the 10am BBC World Service news bulletin. Release the virus and wait for the next location from the 10pm update. He had been operating like that for 30 years.


He had received no instruction this morning.
He checked in with George and everything is prepared.



“Sir, the UK Forces will force any vessel from the Republic to turn back” George added.


Sam said “We`re going to have to trust them, it`s possible they will let our boat through. Remember Isreal?”


Jessica Hyde descended smiling and beautiful from upstairs.


“We need to leave now, Jessica”


The journey to Dublin was quick and quiet. Jessica was asleep.



They exited at Rathcoole.



Sam saw people in masks and overalls daubing slogans on houses.


Sam pulled into his drive and saw VOAT sprawled across his garage door.


He laid his head on the steering wheel and coughed.

pickarooney

Version 11

Amy’s heart pumped louder and louder in her chest until she felt like it would burst through her ribcage. Her mother had been going on and on about the graffiti all afternoon, but she was a placid sort and didn’t take things too seriously. Now Amy could hear her father’s car pulling into the driveway, and she was sure the fireworks would start.

She stole a nervous glance out through the window, peeking her head out far enough to see her father stepping out of the car. He couldn’t see her from behind the net curtain anyway, but she couldn’t even take the chance. She watched his face – first surprised, then angry – as he looked towards the garage door. The letters VOAT were written on the door in big neon green spraypaint. She saw him storm off into the house, and heard the front door bang shut downstairs.

‘Who in god’s name wrote all over the garage?’ he shouted.

Amy heard him launch into a rant downstairs. They could argue as long as they wanted, but only she really knew what those letters meant. It was the name of a writing competition she had entered online.

She had been warned time and time again about talking to strangers, and for once Amy wished she had listened to her mother. Joe had started out as a friendly fellow teenager, but he’d begun to get too clingy, and Amy had blocked him online.

When the flowers arrived for her 15th birthday last week, she’d had to say they were from a friend to cover up. God knows where he’d found her address. He’d gotten a hold of her mobile number too, but when she hadn’t responded, he’d spammed her email Inbox. And now this graffiti. It had to be him. Her writing forum username was so private, it made Amy shudder to think how he’d found that one out.

It had gone too far this time. But she was going to settle it once and for all. Just one meeting, he said, that’s all he wanted. Just to clear the air. Amy decided she would record the meeting and take a picture with him in case she needed evidence down the track for the police. CSI Miami eat your heart out.

It was nearly six thirty by the time Amy reached the shopping centre. It was a late night shopping evening, so shoppers were going to and fro grabbing a few bargains for Valentine’s Day later in the week. She went over to the central café in the middle of the complex, and took a seat at one of the tables in the centre. She waited for fifteen minutes, and her green tea was beginning to get cold. She wasn’t quite sure why she’d bought it at all, it tasted foul.

Ten minutes later, she was getting impatient. WAITIN AT JAVA, U COMIN?, she texted him. A minute later, she got a reply. RUNNING LATE, B THERE IN 20 MINS. Twenty minutes? Amy decided she’d take a stroll around the shops while she waited – she could keep an eye on the café for when he came. Besides, there was a pair of boots in Ann Garrett’s that were absolutely to die for, she’d been meaning to try them for size last weekend.

Money! She hadn’t any in her bag! Amy decided to go down to the ATM to release some of her birthday funds from her account, on the off chance she could afford the boots. Who was she kidding, they were a done deal, whether they were in her size or not. She had to have them. She was midway down the hall when the urge to pee hit her. Damn green tea. She should’ve bought a Diet Coke.

Amy did a U-turn and headed out the side doors of the shopping centre to the toilet block. They’d installed these new single toilets to replace the free ones. Cost thirty cent to use them, it was ridiculous, she thought to herself. She fumbled in her purse to find some change, and eventually the door clicked open for her.

Amy walked inside, but she received a sharp thump to her upper back and lurched forward, falling onto the grimy tiles inside.

“Whatcha think you’re doing?” she shouted, wheeling around to shout at whoever had pushed her, but a man stood at the door, twisting the lock to shut the pair of them inside.

“Open the door,” said Amy, her voice shaking. A man stood before her, mid-thirties, balding, breathing heavily.

“Don’t you recognise me?” he asked, and at once she understood who he was. Twenty years older than he’d told her, and nothing like the pictures he sent her.

Amy stood up off the ground, her back pressed to the tiled wall behind her. “Let me out,” she said, trying to control her breathing.

“What, don’t you recognise me?” he repeated.

“Joe! You’re Joe!” cried Amy.

She pulled her phone from her bag, but he smacked it out of her hand. It fell onto the tiles with an audible crack, the back cover and battery flying under the toilet. Amy screamed, rushing forward at Joe to unlock the door. He pushed her back and cupped his foul-smelling hand over her mouth to stop her screams.

“Shush shush shhh,” he whispered, pushing her back against the wall. “Shhh…”

Amy could feel him pressing against her, pinning her to the wall. She could feel a hardness pressing through his tracksuit trousers onto her body. Tears flowed from her eyes, and Joe continued to tell her to shush and be quiet. Amy raked her nails into his back, kicked her legs, but she was no match for a man twice as big and strong as she was.

He lowered his hand from her mouth and pressed his lips onto hers to kiss her, but she managed to headbutt him on the nose. She’d hit a sweet spot, and blood came gushing from his nostrils. Startled, he let her go momentarily, and she raced for the door. He swung around quickly and grabbed her hair. She screamed, her head jerking back as he pulled. Her legs slipped on the damp tiles and she came crashing down, gravity releasing her from his grasp. Her head smashed into the edge of the toilet bowl.

For a split moment, there was silence. Joe smeared the blood from his nose onto some paper towels, and Amy lay dazed on the floor, a lump growing on the right of her forehead. She staggered to her knees, but Joe pressed his knee down on her back and she was forced to lay flat again. Amy began to sob loudly. The smell of bleach stung her nostrils.

Joe pulled her hands behind her back and began to fumble at her clothes. She kicked out hopelessly against him, her energy sapped. Her head was throbbing, and the crying was making it worse. She felt hot drops of blood dropping onto her bare back. The evening breeze whistled through the bottom of the toilet door and sent shivers through her body. She could feel the full weight of Joe on her now, she shivered at his touch. His kiss. Her head was still throbbing, louder and louder. She began to feel dizzy.

She lost consciousness as she heard the clink of the belt buckle opening.

pickarooney

Version 11

You see the dishevelled excuse for a man lying in the hammock? That's me. I'm 34, and as you can tell from my unkempt appearance and severe beard growth, I've been out of circulation for a while. When my eyes finally peel open, --there they go--, you can see they're filled with a weariness you could only get in my situation. I rub away the sleep and after a few minutes, roll onto the panelling of the floor far below. Falling ten feet would hurt you back home, but here it's not really a problem.

I'm sitting on the ground now, staring at the wall. Sometimes I sit there for hours, contemplating nothingness. This place really is soul crushing. Everything - the walls, the roof, the doors, is metal, and after a while it starts to get to you.

This isn't my choice, by the way. I'd much rather be home in Florida, under bright blue skies. I can almost feel the warm sand of the Cape between my toes, smell that ocean air. I tell myself things here could be worse, but I'm not sure how.

Finally, I push myself onto my feet. Yeah, I'm pretty shaky. I think it's a vitamin deficiency. Eating nothing but recycled glop for nine months can’t be healthy.

This room, if you could call it a room, is where I sleep. You can see I've attached netting to the walls to hold my few personal affects. Velcro is a lifesaver no matter what rock you live on. In those nets, I've got a blunt razor and a cracked mirror, a photo of Sienna and a folded induction letter from the Artists Guild. I don't know why I kept that one. I gave up and got a job years ago. Pride, I guess.

I stumble through to the other room like a zombie. I have two rooms, though technically I don't need them. When I built this place it only had one, but the little things keep you sane, you know? This is my living room. Somehow even though I own almost nothing, it's a mess. The paintings? I’ll get to those later. There's the sunshade on the window. When it's up, there's a wonderful view of the... view. The shade stays down though. When I'm inside I prefer not to think about out there.

My name is Sam, by the way. Welcome to my world.

You can see a bright red jumpsuit hanging beside the airlock. That’s my only change of clothes. Ignore the nametag. I don't know who Jenkins is, or why the company gave me his gear. Cargo pilots wear what we’re told, you know? I slip into the suit and then screw on the helmet. Yeah - it looks like a transparent mixing bowl. When did technology do a u-turn anyway? It’s the 22nd century and I’ve got to dress like "Tintin on the Moon".

Once the helmet is attached, I'm ready to begin what passes for my day. I open the airlock and step out onto the Asteroid.

The charts call it AR-198. I call it home.

Like I said, I’ve been here nine months, ever since my rocket's fusion drive blew on the Mars-Earth run and I had to ditch. The impact took out my radio, so barring a miracle, I’m here for life. I don't really go in for miracles.

After the crash, I salvaged scrap metal from the rocket and built this shelter. Here outside the airlock is where I keep my supplies. Those giant green cylinders beside the door? They used to be fuel tanks. Now they hold the necessities for life.

That valve on the first cylinder, the one I’m twisting, releases oxygen into my suit – enough for my walkabout. You’re surprised? I created food, water, and even air with a matter recycler. It was meant for the Mars colony, but it ended up saving my life before it went FUBAR. I reckon I’ve got six months left before… well, let’s just say I might just start believing in miracles.

I should probably tell you why I leave my shelter every day.

After I built the shack and explored this lifeless rock, I needed to occupy my time. I read both books I’d brought onboard ("The Mist" and "Robinson…"--****ing--"…Crusoe", if you can believe it) twice. Three if you count when I lost my place. Then I searched the remains of the cargo hold for anything to entertain me. I lucked out: half a dozen tins of paint some colonist wanted for his bio-dome.

I took that paint and recreated a few scenes from home on sheets of salvaged insulation foam – blue skies, seagull's soaring? Those are the ones you saw inside. Some of them are better than others. Some much better. After that, I needed a bigger canvas, so I started on what used to be my rocket’s hanger door. That’s where the company’s maintenance crew used to dock to come aboard, and it’s where I’m going now. I’ve got the paint tin, brush and everything.

I call that funny walk I'm doing 'the bunny hop.' I can move in Zero-G, or Full-G fine, but down here, gravity is one eighth the usual. It makes getting about harder than you’d think. See up ahead, leaning on that giant boulder? That used to be the hanger door. It landed pretty far away after the crash, but it's too big to move closer.

I’ve been painting this scene for maybe a week. It’s embarrassing, but it’s of my rocket landing safe on Earth. I’d almost finished it – that blue sky, those warm sands I mentioned? All that was left was detailing the rocket.

I’ve stopped walking now, partly because I’ve reached where I’m going, and partly because I can’t believe what I see.

Did I mention the type of rocket I flew? It’s called a "Vertical Orbital Area Transit." It had the initials printed on the side in huge white letters. Today I was to finish those letters on my painting. That’s why I’m standing there like a dumb ape with a tin of paint in one hand.

The letters are already there. Somebody’s beaten me to it.

Low gravity can make things difficult, but it's not why I stumble backwards and fall onto my ass. You see my helmet fog up? I'm staring pie eyed at the painting, breathing faster than my oxygen recyclers can handle. It's getting pretty hot in there too.

I scramble back to my feet, filling the vacuum with dust-- wait a bit while I catch my breath.

A few minutes pass, and I finally get myself together again. I'm reaching out and touching the hanger door like I've never seen it before. I feel the glove press up against the metal surface. Think those monkeys at the start of "2001: A Space Odyssey." The detail is incredible, better than anything I could have done.

The paint smudges a little bit – you can see where it’s stained the fingers of my glove, but not too much. It’s mostly dry. This was done in the past few hours.

At this point, my mind is all over the place. I can see a jumble of images flashing in front of my eyes, possibilities of what could have happened: I’m not alone. Somebody else painted it. An alien? No, that’s stupid. Another pilot? My rocket was a single-seater. No room for excess weight.

For the first time, I step back from the painting and turn my head from side to side. I see nothing but a barren wasteland, a desolate gray tableaux pockmarked by craters, stretching up to a velvet black horizon. I’m alone. I know I am, but still I have to find out.

I mentioned earlier how after I crashed, I explored the asteroid. It took me about twenty-four hours, that’s just over three days here. I checked every crater, every cave, but found nothing. I have to rule it out though.

You can see my face, a mixture of idiot determination and confusion.

After the crash, I have no idea how long I was unconscious. I remember the engines cutting out, this damned rock growing huge in my port window, then I woke up on my back a hundred meters from the wreckage. The oxygen tanks let it burn, but the fire used them up pretty fast.

Everything’s pretty hazy from back then. I blacked out a lot. I built my shelter, but the truth is I don’t remember most of it. I do remember exploring. That direction you see me heading in is the exact opposite of the way I went before, just so I can be sure I didn’t miss anything before.

I bounce across the landscape like a rabbit with its head in a goldfish bowl. I climb into every crater – there’s about twenty of them, and explore every cavern – two, the same two I found the first time around.

All around the asteroid, the only thing I see are my boot prints going in the opposite direction, undisturbed from nine months before.

Eventually, I find myself back at the shelter, faster than I did on my first trip. I stand on the hill facing the salvaged ruin and my mind fills once more with a thousand images. The crash, the shelter, hour after hour staring at that metal wall.

Sienna left me two weeks before the crash. Did I mention that?

I bounce my way down the slope. The dust will fly as I fall, obscuring me a little bit, but trust me I’m graceful. At the foot of the hill, I make one final bounce and I’m back on my feet and head towards the shelter.

The rock is abandoned, but somebody finished my painting. As I open the airlock and step back inside, I’m left with only one possibility.

I close the door behind me, harder than I need to as if some monster is following me. I flick a switch beside the door, and once more oxygen floods the shelter. I unscrew my helmet, remove the suit.

I’m back in my normal clothes now, my eyes fixed on the paintings occupying every inch of the walls. I don’t remember painting half of them. I’d told myself I was just the blackouts, but some of them-- they’re better than anything else I’ve painted. I didn’t paint them. I realise that now. They’re by the same artist who finished my masterpiece, the same person who built most of this shelter while I was unconscious.

All this time-- everything I can’t remember-- every blackout.

It was you.

I walk in slow, deliberate steps towards my sleeping area. My face is a mask of determination.

I’m in the other room now. I stop and pull back one of the velcro nets. It comes away in my hand and my personal possessions float away from the wall. You know what I’m looking for. Maybe you’ve always known this moment would come.

I reach for the cracked mirror – damaged, I’d always assumed in the crash, but perhaps not. I hold it in front of my face and at last, I stare into your eyes. I clear my throat. It hurts, but of course you know that. Then for the first time in nine months, I speak.

"Pleased to meet you."

You don’t have to reply. I know you’re lonely, but that’s over now. I think you might have been born when I hit my head in the crash. Maybe it was the stress of being here alone. I don’t know, and I don’t care.

People might think it’s strange, but I’ve been on my own on this rock for nine months. I’m just glad you’re here. We’ve got maybe six months of air left before the end. I’m just glad of the company.

pickarooney

Version 11

Sam Misal could buy whatever he wanted. Blessed with ultimate skills, he spent his allowance on football cards and a 2 minute chew on cardboard gum, like all his friends – but that’s where the similarities ended. He used those football cards to trade for the things he needed and wanted. He was a very skilled trader.

Overhearing some of his many conversations, I gathered that he had traded for a cool mini-telescope, a home-made go-cart with old skates as wheels, and an American baseball bat – he was so talented, so cool - and terrifically good looking. I could just eat him up. But he didn’t even know I existed - typical boy.

I used to secretly watch Sam in action at playtime, or at “recess,” as our kids say these days in the USA – Massachusetts. Actually, 257 Lincoln Avenue, Lexington, Mass, USA, to be exact. To trade, Sam would offer a choice football card or 2 - or should I say “soccer” cards, so as not to be confused with the American game of the same name? A mint Billy Bremner, or maybe a Bobby Moore would make it worth the deal. These cards were just as good as money to us kids. The boys traded things using these cards, but I watched closely to get some good tips. And when they felt like it, a bit of gambling was always welcome entertainment.

Flicksies was the gambling game of choice back in the day. I remember one time, Sam played a game with a friend, named Robert Price-Grant. They used to call Robert “RPG,” probably due to the strength of his shots. RPG held up his mint condition “Georgie Best” as bait. Sam held up his mint Gordon Banks; the deal was struck – a short game, since playtime was almost over. They each lined up 2 football cards against the wall, then looked around.
Sam looked over at me. I was mortified.

“Pick a number between 1 and 10,” he asked. Blushing and embarrassed at first, but quickly dissipating, once I figured out he didn’t realize I had been gazing at him, I thought of a number.

RPG said 3, and Sam said 7.

Sam fired the first shot. He held the football card in his right hand beside and almost behind his head, and then brought it forward quickly. With a flick of the wrist at the end, for added speed, he flicked the card superfast. It swept down to the ground, like you would fire a paper plane across a room, but spinning on its planar centre, heading first towards the ground, but arcing upwards, knocking down 2 cards.

RPG missed on his first flicksie.

Back in class, Sam was sitting in front of me, as always. I loved the back of his head. It was so symmetrical and hairy. The teacher was explaining a trigonometry theory – the opposite angles created by drawing 2 intersecting straight lines, had the same value. The Vertical Opposite Angle Theory, she called it.

RPG kept asking silly questions about angles, as it seemed like he just couldn’t understand the concept. I could hear Sam muttering about why it was called a “theory.” The teacher ignored him for a while, but Sam waving both hands in the air in a “pick me, pick ME” kind of way, made it hard for the teacher to look the other way. The teacher finally pointed at him.

“It’s not a theory when it’s bleedin’obvious,” he said.

As he gathered his things into his knapsack to go down to the office – on his way to see the Headmaster to get his mouth washed out with soap and water, he surreptitiously passed me his newly won “Georgie Best,” with a wink. I felt like a million bucks, but, for the life of me, I can’t remember what I traded it for - but I’m sure it was something really good.

“Hmm, TOAV. That's VOAT spelt backwards” Sam said.

Chuckling, I happened to be looking over at him when I zoned out for a moment just then. He was backing the Acura MDX Elite into the garage, and looking at the rear view camera, as the garage door began opening. Mudded on the bottom of the painted metal garage door was the acronym: “VOAT,” and after it had passed by, like the credits after a TV show, a huge mudded “X” passed by.

Sam looked at me.

I looked at him.

We both grinned. “RPG’s in town!” we both exclaimed.

It was great to see RPG again. VOAT was his calling card – sometimes he would call and leave a message, like: “I Like Ike – VOAT.” We never vote, by the way – it’s pointless, and just encourages legimacy, rather than letting politicians become irrelevant. RPG was in town to give a speech at MIT about the logical fallacy of the concept of “Quantitative Easing” to 1st year students - how everyone seems to collectively validate a term as the gospel truth, once it is given a cute name and sounds official.

Over dinner, I brought up the subject of that Flicksies game they had played that day, many years ago.

RPG laughed about how the “Vertical Opposite Angle Theory” prompted him and Sam to spend long hours talking together at playtime about the coolness of maths. Sam sowed the seed that day - the seed of understanding maths in a spatial way - and not to think of learning maths concepts like they were edicts from above. Opposite angles – they look exactly the same, but the reverse.

“Numbers are patterns,” RPG said, as he looked at our daughter, Samantha. “I saw it plainly all of a sudden. Your Dad explained to me that maths is about building upon what’s been already been discovered,”

I never had asked Sam what happened to him after he was sent to the Headmaster’s office that day, so now seemed to be the perfect time to ask.

“The Headmaster, Mr O’Toole, asked me what had happened in class to cause me to be sent down to see him. I explained that the Vertical Opposite Angle Theory was not much of a theory, because, like pieces of a pie, all 4 angles must add up to 360 degrees, and because the 2 pairs of opposite angles MUST be identical. It’s a 2a+2b=360 equation - nothing special.”

“Did you get your mouth washed out?” I asked.

“Nah, he gave me a slice of his warmed up steak and kiddly lunch and we ate together. He told me some things that are hidden to some people are patently and absurdly obvious to others. Be patient, he said.”

pickarooney

Version 11

Sam stopped outside his garage door and sighed. It looked like the harassment was back again – they’d painted VOAT on it in giant red letters. As if the calls and stares hadn’t been enough, back when it started. He’d clean it up later. He opened the door just as Liz was on her way out.
“How was she today, Liz?”
“Oh, it was a good day, Mr Banks. Except for, well….” She trailed off and studiously avoided the bright red paint.
Sam nodded. Good days seemed fewer, lately. He waved his goodbyes and went in to find Emily. She was sitting and staring out the window, much like she usually was on a quiet day. He felt a twinge of guilt at the relief that hit him, then sat down beside her and put his arm around her.
“How are you today, my –” He cut off the pet name that came unbidden to his tongue. It used to be a pet name, a term of endearment, in recognition of all she had been and done. Now it was a call of derision from strangers who knew, from ex friends pretending to care about the woman who had gone crazy. Staying away as if it were catching. My Thinker. She didn’t respond and didn’t notice. He sat quietly with her for a short while, before announcing he was going to go and make them dinner.
“I saw them.”
“Saw who, Em?”
“They painted it on the door. I saw them. Liz didn’t know I went out to see. They were laughing, and then Liz saw and made me come back in.”
Sam cursed mentally, and made a note to speak to Liz about supervising her more carefully. Although she shouldn’t have needed to, Emily rarely moved of her own volition.
“It’s okay, Em. Don’t mind them; they’re just kids with nothing better to do. They don’t get it. Listen, don’t go out again without Liz, okay? Em?” She had resumed staring quietly out the window.
He stared at the dishes. It’s been three years. You’re used to this. But then they were never bad enough to come to the house, before. They didn’t understand, and they made fun, but they stayed away. I can’t move her, and I can’t let anyone take her, they won’t take care of her, they don’t know her. How could I? Why can’t she get better? He snapped back to reality as a trickle of blood ran down his finger from the plate that had just cracked in his hand. He threw it away, got a bandage, and got on with the evening.


The next day, Sam came home to see they hadn’t been back again – the door was still cleaned from last night. Maybe today would be a good day. He went inside, and instantly heard the screaming from upstairs.
Liz saw him in the doorway of the bedroom and called out. “They should be kicking in by now!” She was trying to hold a frantic and screaming Emily. “The visions are back.” He could see that for himself.

He stepped over to help her hold Emily and speak reassuring nothings to her, to help her calm down. These could go on for minutes, or hours. There was effectively nothing he could do except wait for it to pass. Eventually, it did.

“Thanks Liz, you can go home now.” She hadn’t even noticed her slip, and he wasn’t going to point it out. Everyone said it anyway, what difference did it make? It might not be painted in giant red letters anymore, but it was still there, hanging over them always. It was just a word. Just words.
“Mr Banks, she should really be in a -”
“Thanks, Liz.”
She nodded and left. He stroked Emily’s hair the way she liked; sometimes it was soothing to her. Other times it could set her off again, but mostly it helped. “It’s okay, Em, it’ll all be ok.” She was asleep in his arms in no time. How peaceful she looked when sleeping. He wasn’t long behind.



“Liz, it’s Sam. I have to work late tonight. Can you stay an extra couple of hours? I’d really appreciate it, I just can’t get out of work.”
“I’m sorry, Mr Banks, I have to leave on time today. Any other day I’d be happy to, but today just doesn’t work.”
He rested his forehead on his palm. “Alright, Liz, she might be okay for an hour. Is today a good day? No more paint incidents?”
“Yes, I’ve been reading to her and she’s sitting there quietly, not a bother. I’ll stay a few extra minutes for her but then I have to go, I’m sorry. No, nobody’s been near the house.”
“That’s fine, Liz, thanks. I’ll get home to her as quickly as I can.”



The lights were off. Strange to see the house dark, but of course Emily wouldn’t get up to turn them on, it was always him or Liz. “Em? I’m home. I hope you were okay, I’m sorry I had to work late…”
He turned on the light to see Emily lying on the floor, unconscious. He cried her name in panic, and tried to shake her awake. “Please wake up, did you fall, are you okay, please get up, Emily, Emily…”. Finally he thought to check, but she had no pulse.

He looked around. An empty pill bottle and a sheet of paper were beside her. He called for an ambulance as he picked up the paper and read.

Dearest Sam, this has gone on too long. I am awake enough today to see that. My mind has been in such a fog. This isn’t fair on you. I thank you more than words can say for taking care of me so long, I’m so sorry I’ve been such a burden. You deserve a normal life, and you’ll never have that with me around. Go and move somewhere away from this, away from me, and move on. Find someone normal, as you deserve. I’m doing this now, or I’m afraid I will never be able to again. Go and live. All my love, Emily.

A copy of the book was on the table, as if she’d wanted to see it once last time. She must have gone hunting for it as he’d packed it firmly away once this had started. Visions of a Thinker. They found him weeping over it and holding her when they came.

pickarooney

Version 11

GIVE ME A CLUE

Sam came home to find the mysterious letters VOAT daubedin red paint on his garage door. He had been told to wait for a message in redbut he expected it to come to his computer inbox like the other clues. His neighbourPhil, a self-appointed one man Neighbourhood Watch since his retirement, wasover before Sam was out of the car.

“Terrible isn’t it? I only saw it a few minutes agoor I would have rung you. It wasn’t here when I took the dog for a walk afterlunch. It must have been done when I was watching Countdown but I didn’t hear acar.”

Sam knew that finding his house would have beeneasy. Those computer nerds can track down any IP address but leaving themessage without Phil seeing them was an achievement.

“Do you know what it is about? What does VOAT standfor?” Phil asked.

“I’ve no idea, “Sam said. “Kids messing I suppose orsomebody with a grudge against me. You get that in my line of work. ”

Phil nodded in sympathy, although he didn’t actuallyknow what line of work Sam was in, except that he was a civil servant. His reluctanceto be any more specific lead to the assumption he was in the Revenue so hisneighbours didn’t mention any dealings with tradesmen who worked for cash.

Sam picked up a rag and gave the paint a wipe. It cameoff easily. “Water based. I’ll take a few pictures for evidence in case they comeback then I’ll turn the hose on it and there will be no harm done.”

Phil thought he should ring the guards but Saminsisted it wasn’t worth bothering them.

“Oh, did you hear that someone has the last clue. Areyou still on eight? I’m stuck on nine,” Phil said.

“Firmly stuck on eight. I might as well give up nowif somebody has the last clue with only five days to go,” Sam said. Phil believedhim. He was so blind he didn’t realise the last clue was right in front of hiseyes. Sam eventually got away from Phil and went inside to log on for hisupdate on the craze that had swept the county. Treasure Hunt 2013 was allanybody could talk about. It was launched at noon on January 1st. Theprize was thirteen gold bars hidden somewhere on the island of Ireland. There werethirteen clues to be solved in thirteen weeks and only €13 to enter. You signedup online, paid the money and got the first clue. When you solved it you sentback the answer and got the next clue and so on. Each clue was more difficultthan the one before. The first half dozen clues were relatively simple and almosteverybody had them by now but after that they got progressively more cryptic. Overa hundred thousand people from all over the world were competing. Thousands werestuck on clues eight and nine and the latest hourly update showed 1374 on clue ten, 851 onclue eleven, 367 on clue twelve and now a single person had the final clue, theone that should lead directly to the gold bars.

More than a hundred people had clue twelve beforeSam, some of them almost a week before him, but he had solved it first. Now hehad to solve this one before anybody else got it and solved it and before theclock ran out. The question of who had the final clue was almost as big a mysteryas the location of the gold bars. Sam, still telling everyone he had given upon clue eight, joined in the speculation, all the time his mind focussed on thefour letters VOAT. His belief was that they lead to a map reference or coordinatesthat could be programmed into a sat-nav, which meant converting them intonumerals. He tried dozens of methods, some simple some complex but none yieldedusable results. He began to think he was on the wrong track. Two days workingon it and still nobody else had the final clue.

There were plenty of offers to buy the clue. Sam calculatedthat it should be possible to sell it to at least 50 people at €1,000 each andnet a guaranteed €50,000 rather than risk having nothing at the end but Samdidn’t need €50,000. He earned twice as much as he spent and had everything hewanted to satisfy his frugal needs. He didn’t want the gold bars either. His mindwas free of the greed that was stopping the 523 people who now had clue twelvefrom solving it. It wasn’t that difficult once you realised you needed to use aslide rule. What was clouding his judgement now wasn’t the desire for richesbut the desire to win, to be better than the multitude working on the sametask.

Less than forty eight hours to the deadline and thefrenzy was mounting. More and more people were getting to clue twelve, many ofthem buying the answers to clues ten and eleven to get there but nobody had solvedit. There were claims it couldn’t be solved and the mystery single holder ofclue thirteen didn’t exist but was a myth to keep people paying up to join. Thenthe number on clue thirteen doubled to two. A Russian student immediately hadto go public because with barely forty hours to go he had no way to get to Ireland.A prominent businessman offered a deal. For half of any winnings he sent aprivate plane to pick up the student and gave him the use of a helicopter, hisoffices and computers and many of his staff to assist.

Sam sat up all of the final night, trying to forcehimself to think logically and explore every possibility. ‘Go back to firstprinciples’, he ordered his tired brain, ‘back to the very beginning’. He tookout again his folder with all the clues. The first, the most simple, was astandard crossword type clue, ‘sounds like...’ That was it! He had a eurekamoment. The clue was somewhere that sounds like VOAT. Moate came to mind firstand he couldn’t think of any other. He had to go there although he had no ideawhat he would do when he got here.

He got into the car but realised he was too tired todrive safely. No point in killing himself now he was so close. There was lighton in Phil’s house. He was an early riser. Sam knocked. “Fancy taking me for adrive to do a little treasure hunting?”

Phil though he was joking but Sam showed him thefolder. “The final clue is VOAT and I think the gold bars are in Moate.” If henever found the bars he had his prize in the look on his friend’s face; thedisbelief that Sam had the clue all along and that the realisation that he hadseen it too, the letters on the garage door.

"What are you waiting for?” Phil asked, grabbingonly his car keys. They drove along, Phil breaking the speed limit for probablythe first time in his life. The radio had constant updates on the progress ofthe other team. Helicopters and fast cars were racing around the country,mainly so nobody would know which, if any, was on the right track. Everybody hadforgotten there somebody else was in search of the bars. They took the exitfrom the motorway and there, attached to a road sign saying Moate, was a smallsign with four red letters VOAT and an arrow. Phil nearly drove the car off theroad and a truck beeped at him. A helicopter was in the sky over head but therewas no way they could see the sign from the air.

They followed the arrow. About a mile further on wasan identical sign pointing into an industrial estate. There was another sign pointedto a warehouse and on a door almost identical to Sam’s were the red lettersVOAT. They jumped out of the car. Sam pulled at the door. It wasn’t locked andit lifted up. The warehouse was empty except for a stack of gold bars in themiddle; three rows of four and a single one on top. Sam handed it to Phil.

“Heavy, isn’t it?”

Phil turned it around in his hands, still unable tobelieve what was happening, then handed it back.

“Hold on to it,” Sam said.

“I can’t keep it. I didn’t do anything.”

“I wouldn’t have got here without you. Keep it. Proofyou were here.”

“Congratulations. You are the winner of TreasureHunt 2013,” a loud voice came from a speaker above their heads and they werecovered in gold streamers released by some remote mechanism. Looking up theysaw a security camera. Obviously you wouldn’t leave thirteen gold bars in an unlockedwarehouse and not keep an eye on them.

“The media will be here soon,” the voice said.

“Can you hear us?” Sam asked.

“I can.”

“Can you tell that Russian lad as well? Is that himflying overhead?”

“We believe it is. We’ll contact him.”

A few minutes later they heard the helicopterlanding. The teenager Sam had seen on TV came in with two older men in suitswho looked more disappointed than he did at the sight of the two elderly men, Philstill clutching his gold bar and Sam graciously accepting the handshake of hisyoung rival.

Another helicopter landed, this time with a TV crew.The handful of workers in the few occupied units were out waving, keen to knowwhat was going on and to say they were a part of it.

A camera was pointed at Sam’s face and thepresenter, still looking glamorous after her run across the car park, beganspeaking. “Welcome to Moate, the location of the gold bars that the country andindeed the world has been searching for and meet their new owner. Tell theviewers a little about yourself.”

Sam spoke slowly, as if he was on TV every day. “I’mSam and this is my friend and helper Phil.” Phil waved at the camera, grinningand holding his gold bar aloft like an Oscar. “As you can see Phil has one ofthe bars.” Sam lifted another bar and walked towards the young man now talkingon his phone in the corner.”This bar is for a noble runner up to assist in hiseducation. It is a gift and as he didn’t win it he doesn’t owe anybody a sharein it.” The translator spoke quickly and the boy embraced Sam, thanking him ina mixture of Russian and English.

Sam lifted a third bar. “This one I’m keeping formyself as a souvenir and the remaining ten bars will go to ten charities I havechosen who may use them as they wish. I hope my superiors will overlook my absencetoday. It is the first time in thirty five years I haven’t shown up for work,but I’ll be back tomorrow.” He put his hands in his pockets and remembered hehad left the house without coat, phone or wallet. “Any chance of a bite of breakfastin exchange for an interview?”

pickarooney

Version 11

Sam entered the pub and quickly sat down at the bar, needing some time to get his head clear.

Had that really just happened? Did she really just do that? He craned his neck to see outside, past the entrance. The smashed up side-mirror on his car barely hanging on, told him what he found so hard to believe was true. She’s a psycho. Bonkers. Insane. As he ordered a pint from the bartender his mind went over the whole day.

The morning started out as just fine. Normal breakfast followed by a normal day at the office. Then came lunch. With her. At first he was looking forward to it, you know, beginning a new relationship and all. Then something happened. As they sat, him and her, in a small coffee shop, a waiter approached them. Ponytail tucked under her cap and notepad and pen in hand. She asked them what they would like to eat. A standard questio in a coffee shop. Sam looked up and smiled as he ordered his coffee and brownie- part of his new lose loads of weight and get fit diet- and then he turned to her to order. What he saw will forever be burned in his mind.

If looks could kill. Actually, scratch that. If looks could send icicles of fear ramming into your very core while simultaneously making your heart race, then the mask of horror on her face was probably ten times worse than that. At first he didn’t know what the hell was going on, and when the waitress asked her for the third time what she would like her mask vanished and a wave of cheerful sweetness swept over her face.

What the bloody hell was that, he thought. Maybe he was just seeing things, he thought. Maybe what he thought to be a look of sheer hatred was a simple look of confusion? Maybe?

After all the ordering was finally out of the way, Sam attempted to engage in simple small talk. He didn’t really know this girl and he wanted to get to know her more. Although at this time, maybe that didn’t seem like a good idea. “So, how’s your day so far?” he asked. The look was back in an instant. And this time Sam actually recoiled in horror and leaped out of his chair, darting for the door while dialing 911. O.K, maybe that’s a bit exaggerated, but he did feel the same icy fear as last time.

Then she spoke. A quiet, shaking voice seeped out of her tight lips, like she was trying not to scream. She said, “I cannot believe you just did that to me, Sam. How could you?” Baffled, Sam asked her what the hell she was talking about, which seemed to set her off completely. “What am I talking about? What am I TALKING ABOUT?”, her voice had risen to a near shout and Sam’s face reddened as he felt eyes staring at him. She continued, her voice lower now, “Why don’t you ask your little waitress friend over there, hmm? See if she’ll give you a quickie behind the counter? I saw how you looked at her. How you smiled at her. Pure lust. You may as well have snogged the face off her,” and when she was finished her insanely outrageous rant she sipped her coffee angrily. If there was even a way to do that.

He should have known then. He should have just left and escaped the madwoman but he didn’t. Instead he stayed and said, “What? You think I fancy that woman? I don’t even know her and,” he looked in her eyes as he said this, “we’re on a date here. The only woman I’m interested in is you,” He carefully avoided the whole ‘quickie’ remark. That was plain weird.

He now regrets saying those words. If he could turn back time he’d tell himself to run fro his life and maybe even go for the waitress because she seemed normal and wasn’t bad to look at. But nooo, Sam went all lovey dovey on her. Her expression softened and she reached across the table to hold his hand. Without thinking, he pulled his hand back. He only knew her for, what, one day? Too early for hand holding, he thought. He wished he hadn’t done that.

He wished he were dead, six feet under, away from this monster of a woman. As soon as his hand reached hers her mouth fell open and her eyes widened in shock. She looked at Sam, then his hand, then back at Sam again. But then, something crazy happened. Just as Sam was about to apologize about a thousand times, she shook her head, as if she was shaking the voices that must be talking to her in that messed up head of hers, and she smiled. A horrible, forced smile that stretched her skin and made her look like she was bearing her teeth. Her eyes glistened and sparkled in the light and Sam realized just how absolutely insane she looked. He notice she had blue eyes. He normally liked blue eyes, but on Her, they seemed wrong and out of place. Instead of being soft and a sort of sea-blue they were stabbing and accusing and ... menacing. Sam looked away. They finished their lunch in silence and left the coffee shop.

This was it, Sam thought. He had to go back to work and she had to go back to wherever she came from, to whatever job she had. Probably drowning puppies or burning ants with a magnifying glass. Whatever it was, Sam didn’t care, he just wanted out. The next thing he knew they were outside and standing in the cold winter breeze. The wind tugged her black hair to the side and concealed half her face. He hesitated before speaking, not wanting to do anything to upset the beast. He chose his words carefully.

“So, um, I guess this is goodbye? See you soon?”, and then he went in for a hug. But she went for a kiss on the cheek, and it all ended horribly with Sam’s lips pressing against hers. The only thing that could be more embarrassing is if she didn’t kiss back. He hoped she would kiss back. Prayed to God, Allah, everything he could think of that she would kiss back. Please, PLEASE kiss back.

She didn’t kiss back. She shoved him with incredible force and brought her knee up into his stomach. The effect was instant and painful. It was as if a concrete fist had plunged into his stomach, winding him and bringing him to his knees. He coughed and gasped for breath. Who was this chick? “You pervert! You think I’m some kind of slapper? Think I’ll just kiss whoever, whenever they want? I just met you, Sam, I barely know you! You sicko! You perverted sicko!” she screamed, people now running over at her side, asking if she was O.K. Typical, Sam thought through a blurry fog of pain and hatred, they always assume the girl is the one in trouble. Never the dude. He managed to stand up and spat the words out before he could take them back. “You psycho bitch!” After he said those spiteful words he clasped a hand over his mouth, not believing what he just said. He wanted to snatch them out of the air but he couldn’t. All he could do was wait fro her response.

The look on her face sent spears of dread shooting through his body. His veins turned to ice. He didn’t know what to expect, but what happened next was a surprise. She slowly walked over to a beautiful red car parked at the curb. His car. She let out a flesh crawling shriek, screaming some obscene words at him and before he could stop her, her foot shot out and slammed against the side-mirror. Glass shattered and rained down, the rest of it hanging on by a wire. She backed away slowly and said the most terrifying words Sam had ever heard in his entire life.

“Go, Sam. Go back to your crappy little house in crappy Manor Grove. I’m done with you. We’re over,” and then she took of down the street, leaving a group of shocked people around Sam. He walked over to his car, sightly hunched over with hand on his stomach. Fear coursed through his veins. He never told her where he lived. How did she know that? Before he could even think about answering that question, he felt a well deserved pint was in order. Work could wait. So off he drove with the side-mirror hanging off, banging against the side of the care as he drove.

And here he was, sipping a pint at half two in the afternoon. After a while he decided he shouldn’t go to work for two reasons. One; he was hammered and didn’t want to get a jail sentence for drink-driving. And two; he couldn’t concentrate at all. The only thing he could think of was Her and her ghastly stare and how powerful her knee was. He ended up walking home and, as he approached his house, he became cautious. If she knew where he lived, there’s no telling what else she’s capable of knowing. Capable of doing. As he neared his front door, keys jingling in his hand, he noticed something strange. Out of the corner of his eye he noticed something on his garage. Something red. He stepped over and got a better look. His keys clattered to the ground. A wave of terror crashed over him and he was drowning, overcome with the sheer amount of fear that rushed through his body. Four letters. That’s all it took. Four. Letters.

V.O.A.T.

He didn’t need to think about what it meant. He knew. It stood for a name. Her name. Veronica O’Connor Ariana-Tori. A long, strange name that belongs to a strange girl. His mind flooded with questions but one was in capital letters, bouncing off the walls in his mind. What did she write this with? It was red. And it didn’t look like paint. Just as he thought the worst had happened, he heard a shuffling behind him. He spun on his heel and then he saw her. He froze.

There she was, standing in the driveway. A knife in her hand. A bloody smile on her left hand, still dripping that shiny red blood. When she spoke, it was as if his heart was in the clutches of a cold, metal claw. “Hello, Sam. We need to talk.”

pickarooney

Version 11

It was etched on to his garage door in ornate lettering. The letters overlapped to make a symbol, but it was still obvious that it was made of letters. He could make out V, A, O and T.

He had heard rumours. Whispers of a calling, a destiny. He was there when Martin, a colleague, received the symbol inside a newspaper. Martin had folded the newspaper, stood and left without a word. He never saw Martin again. He had no idea what it meant, but his curiosity was piqued.

He reached out and touched the letters. They vanished before his eyes.

He looked around. What now? He didn't know what to expect. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a little bolt of lightning dance along the ground. Then another, and another. In a beautiful choreography of electricity, they converged and danced around each other for a few moments, a flickering lightshow on his front lawn. After a few moments, there was an audible crack and the electricity parted in the middle. It formed an opening, several inches from the ground, oval shaped and six feet high. He waited to see if anyone appeared but nobody did. He took a deep breath and held it.

He stood in front of the portal, closed his eyes and stepped through.

When he opened his eyes, he wasn't on his front lawn any more. He was somewhere else. He looked around. Wherever this was, it was almost dawn. The sun lurked on the horizon, threatening to brighten the sky. He stood on the edge of a cliff. Behind him, a large ominous building seemed to leech the light from the dawn sky.

"Hello". A voice to his left. A man with a slim build stood two feet away. He was very old, and dressed in similar attire to his own – black shoes, black trousers and a black collarino with a white band across the top button. The younger man returned the greeting, and waited for the old man to speak.

"You have been chosen to assist us in stopping the decay within our organisation. This will be dangerous, but as an ancestor of our order, you were specifically chosen to perform this task. We believe that you can succeed.”

The younger man's head was spinning. He was having difficulty processing this. The older man continued.

"Fourth floor, room 27. An event is due to occur in 15 minutes. Your intervention will stop this from happening. As our emissary, you will find the perpetrator, subdue him using whatever means necessary and place this against his skin." He reached into his pocket and retrieved a carefully folded handkerchief. He unwrapped it to reveal a small device that looked like a brooch. There was a small jewel embedded in the device - it looked ethereal, as if there, but not there. He wrapped the device in the handkerchief and handed it to the young man.

"When you have done this, return here and I will send you home. You do not want to know what will happen if you fail."

The young man nodded blankly.

What if something went wrong? What happened to Martin? Had he failed? Apprehension set in.

"There is an open service door on the east wall. It will take you into the kitchen. Find the stairs to the fourth floor and stop him before he starts. You have 13 minutes. Go now."

Before he starts what?

The young man had a million questions, but he got the impression that the old man had finished talking. He started his trek towards the large building. As he got closer, he saw wrought iron letters high on one of the walls; on a gentle arc, the word "ORPHANAGE".

He found the open door and stepped through. The kitchen was buzzing with activity, staff preparing the first meal of the day. There was something very old-fashioned about the kitchen – the staff wore dated uniforms, and cooking was being done on wood-fired ranges. They didn't pay the newcomer any heed - his attire inspired fear and respect, and the staff almost seemed afraid to make eye contact.

The young man found the stairs and made his way to the fourth floor. Unlike the kitchen, the rest of the building was deathly quiet. It took him several minutes to find room 27 - the fourth floor was like a warren. Now and again he could hear sobbing from behind closed doors, but he didn't allow it to distract him. He stood before the door. The numbers were tarnished brass. The top screw for the "7" was missing, and the number had rotated around the bottom screw to look like an "L".

He had two options – sneak into the room, or go in quickly. He didn't know what lay beyond the door, but he had the element of surprise at his disposal. For the second time that night, he held his breath and stepped into the unknown.

The room was dark, and he could make out two silhouettes - the large fat silhouette of a grown man, and the slight silhouette of young boy. The boy was naked, and the man hovered menacingly over him. There was something familiar about the fat man's appearance, but the young man couldn't put his finger on it. Before the fat man could say anything, the young man rushed forward and pressed the brooch device to his forehead. It stuck to his skin. There was a flash of light and the fat man vanished - briefly replaced by wisps of static electricity. The boy, wide eyed, curled into a ball and watched as the young man left the way he had come.

He retraced his steps, back to the cliff side where the old man was waiting.

"You have done well. That man has been sent far from here to answer for his crimes. He will serve out the remainder of his life away from this place, away from this time. He will have no human contact, and he will die alone."

The old man held up a futuristic computer tablet. On it was the image of a newspaper. The date on the newspaper was 1998, and the headline was sobering - "Paedophile Priest Dies In Disgrace". The sub-heading was "85 victims have broken their silence".

"This," he extended his arms for emphasis, "is 1968. The headline is 30 years from now. What you have done tonight has rewritten history. Observe."

The headline on the tablet screen changed, the letters twisted and animated before his eyes. It now read “Pope To Visit In September".

"What you have done tonight is a small step towards fixing the reputation of the church. We have recruited emissaries like you to right the wrongs during key periods of our history. This morning, you have removed a particularly nasty stain on our reputation."

The young man listened, transfixed. His fingers and toes started tingling, gently at first, but gradually increasing in intensity. He had already figured it out, but he asked the question anyway - "Why did you choose me?"

"Erasing him from this time will also erase his legacy. In 1979, he would have abused a teenage girl. Because of laws in this country, she would have carried the baby to term. She would live for 7 years in an institution for unmarried mothers, while her baby would be put up for adoption. She would live a lonely life, and die in 2019. Your work tonight has ensured that the woman will never be abused - she will have a successful career, a long happy life and a family."

The pain grew more intense. His nerve endings were on fire and he fell to his knees.

Through gritted teeth; "I was the baby."
"Yes."

For the third time that night, the young man saw blue lightning - this time dancing across his own skin. He looked down at his hands and saw that they had started to char, a smell of burnt flesh filled the air.

"I'm sorry, but it has to be this way. His bloodline ends today."

A spasm arched his back and forced him into a prone position. There was an intense blue flame for a few moments, then it was over. All that remained was scorched earth.

The Vatican Agent Of Time summoned a portal, put his hands in his pockets and stepped through.

pickarooney

Version 11

Hen Night

The pink cowboy hat was the giveaway.

“Are you here on a hen?” asked Sam.

She tottered closer and put a steadying hand on the wall. The other hand reached up and tilted her hat back. She squinted at Sam, studying him with half glazed eyes. The lights in the car park gave her blonde hair an orange glow. Sam noticed that it also highlighted the uneven application of her fake tan. He offered her a cigarette but she batted the box away with a palm that was slightly darker than the rest of her arm. She leaned a bare shoulder against the wall and Sam wondered if she could feel the vibrations of the music coming from inside the club.

“I’m wrecked,” she said.

She leant her head towards the wall, which tipped her hat slightly askew. Sam tilted his head but kept his eyes on her chest, which read ‘Lorna’s Lost Weekend.’ He lit up and took what he believed to be a suave drag on his cigarette and considered his options. The club would be closing soon and his dry spell was lasting a long time. The hen’s eyelids were drooping and her head began to nod towards her chest. Sam leaned a little closer, trying to see whether the shadow on her lip was from poor lighting or poor grooming.

“Feck it,” he thought. “She’ll do.”

He lunged in for the kiss and her eyes snapped open. She jerked her head back and studied him with suddenly clear eyes.

“Jaysus,” she said. “I’m starving.”

She grabbed a fistful of his hair and pulled him close, sinking a sharp set of teeth into his neck.

Sam swore and pushed both of his hands against her shoulders. But she held on tight. Her arms wrapped around his back, holding him firm as she began to drink the warm blood pulsing from his neck. He spun her around and slammed her back into the wall, but if anything this tightened her hold on him. Grabbing her hair with one hand he jammed the heel of his other hand against her forehead and tried to prise her away. But when he moved her head back he felt something vital in his neck move with it. Screaming wetly he banged her against the wall again.

“Go on boy,” shouted a voice. “Horse it into her.”

She froze and unclamped her mouth, swivelling her head towards the voice. Johnny Lyons, shirt untucked, legs about to buckle, stood in the light of the doorway. He saluted, then staggered. The hen turned back to look at Sam, who took the opportunity to ram the top of his head upwards into her nose. Her grip on him loosened, and using every bit of strength he had he pushed her off him. She fell heavily, bouncing off the tarmac before skittering on all fours from the circle of amber light, into the darkness beyond. Keeping his eyes fixed on where he thought she was, Sam fled towards the safety of the door of the night club. He leaned one hand on the door jam, gingerly dabbing at his neck with the other. He didn’t feel any pain but his hand came away bright and sticky.

“What’s wrong with you?” asked Johnny. “You were in there.”

“She f*cking bit me,” said Sam.

“Hens,” said Johnny. “They’re lethal altogether.”

Sam took the sleeve of his shirt and balled it up, pressing it to the wound at his neck. He stared out through the car park, trying to see if she was still out there. Johnny was making a hames of lighting a cigarette. He dropped the first one, then nearly fell trying to retrieve it. He waved the lighter around in front of the second one for almost a minute before it made contact with the fag. He breathed in proudly, exhaling smoke all over Sam as he spoke.

“Are you going after her?” he asked.

“Am I sh!te,” said Sam. “I’m calling the guards.”

His legs were shaking and he felt close to throwing up.

“I think she ran off down the road,” said Johnny, taking a step towards the light. “Come on and we’ll see.”

“I think I might need to go to hospital,” said Sam, leaning heavily against the doorway.

“Don’t be such a lightweight,” said Johnny, as he fumbled his phone from his pocket and took a picture of Sam.

“Are you putting that on Facebook?” asked Sam.

“Course I am,” said Johnny.

“Hang on,” said Sam, as he positioned himself so that his better side was towards the camera. “Ok, take it again.”

Johnny complied, cigarette dangling from his lips as he got Sam’s good side, and his neck injury into the shot. He put away his phone, dropped his spent cigarette and clapped his hands together, rubbing them.

“Come on so,” he said. “Lets catch this mad one and see what she has to say for herself.”

Emboldened by the thought of safety in numbers Sam pushed himself out of the doorway and followed Johnny towards the edge of the car park. He held his breath as they passed from the safety of the light into the darkness of the countryside. Standing at the edge of the road they looked left and right but they couldn’t see her. Johnny set off at a fair clip in the direction of town, weaving slightly from side to side.

“This is great,” he said. “Nothing like this ever happens to me.”

“It didn’t happen to you,” said Sam.

“I know,” said Johnny, pausing to let him catch up. “Ya lucky bastard.”

They stumbled down the middle of the road, with Johnny occasionally cooing for the hen.

“Come on out,” he called. “You’re grand, we won’t do anything, we just want to talk.”

After a mile, the novelty was wearing off. Johnny stopped to light another cigarette and Sam checked his shirt. His sleeve was soaked through, he wrung it out before pressing it against his neck again. He was about to bring up the guards and the hospital again when he heard a rustling to his left. He squinted at the side of the road, but he couldn’t see beyond the ditch. He jabbed a finger into Johnny’s shoulder and pointed into the field.

“I heard something,” he said.

Johnny stepped towards the side of the road.

“Is it yourself?” he called.

Sam heard it again. Something moving in the grass. Footsteps in the heavy muck that were too light to be a cow.

“It’s her Johnny,” he said, grabbing at his arm. “She’s out there.”

Johnny smiled and stretched out his arms.

“Come and get me,” he shouted. “There’s plenty of me to go round.”

Sam grabbed Johnny’s elbow and broke into a run, dragging his drunken friend behind him. Their going-out shoes slapped against the road as Sam panted and Johnny laughed. Sam couldn’t hear anything above the noise they were making. Was she in the field? Was she running alongside them, waiting for the moment to pounce?

“Ah stop, stop,” said Johnny, pulling up.

He put a hand on his side, breathing heavily.

“God its a long time since I made the minor team,” he said. “I can’t run for sh!te anymore.”

Sam stared into the field and something stared back. Two eyes glowed darkly and a shape began to emerge. Shoulders hunched and heaving with every breath, she stepped closer. Sam could hear her breathing now, ragged and gasping. She was still hungry, he could almost feel that hunger pulsing in time with the wound at his neck. Without meaning to, and without knowing why, Sam took a step towards her. Johnny was still immersed in the task of lighting up as Sam edged to the side of the road. The only thing separating them was the ditch. She reached out a hand towards him, longingly. He felt his own arm lift towards her when the road was bathed with light. A car pounded around the corner lighting up Johnny and Sam in its beams. It screeched to a stop and the windows came down, letting a stream of dance music into the country air. Sam raised a hand to protect his eyes from the glare. He looked back into the field but his night vision was gone. He couldn’t see a thing.

“Ah lads,” said Johnny, stepping out of the lights and up alongside the car. “Where’ve ye been? Its been mental.”

The lads pulled themselves out of every open window and sat half-out of the car as if they’d won the county final. Not that they’d ever won the county final. A nagan was passed out to Johnny as he regaled them with the adventure. Sam stumbled back towards the car and took the drink when it was offered it to him. He drank deeply and felt the warmth drain through him. The car was already packed with eejits and there was no way to fit two more. Sam took another drink and he wasn’t afraid. She would either come for him or she wouldn’t. As the car pulled off he clutched the bottle close to his chest and set off towards town. His neck had stopped bleeding, it began to throb but the whisky was taking the edge off. He felt light headed and giddy as they crested the small hill overlooking the town. It was just one street, two shops, one chipper, five pubs and a church. But it was home and it made him feel safe.

Johnny set off down the hill, working his way through all the songs he knew that had the word ‘bite’ in the title. Which was two. Sam laughed and followed, joining in the chorus. He only ever knew the words to the chorus. They arrived at his house, bursting with news and the need to go to the toilet. Johnny saw it first, and pulled up short. “VOAT” painted in foot high letters. The paint was still wet and dripped down the garage door like blood.

“What the hell?” asked Sam, as his phone began to ring.

It was one of the lads, trying, and failing to disguise his voice.

“VOAT,” hissed the voice.

“Dave?” said Sam.

“Em, this isn’t Dave,” said Dave, deeper. “Anyway listen, V.O.A.T. We don’t take to your kind around here.”

Sam could hear the rest of the lads giggling in the background, scuffling as they fought over the phone.

“VOAT,” said another voice, “Vampires outta town…”

He barely got the last line out over the laughter before the phone call ended abruptly.

Sam put his phone back into his pocket and sighed.

“My parents are going to kill me,” he said.

“Probably,” said Johnny. “Here, are you hungry? I’d bite the neck off a curry chip.”

“Yeah,” said Sam. “Jesus, I’m starving.”

pickarooney

Version 11

Wasteful

The metal gate screeched closed behind Sam as the bus roared away in a cloud of grey smoke. He glanced up at the guard tower, at the cameras mounted high up on the stone walls, then shuffled along, following the herd of factory workers into the estate he’d called home for over ten years. The street wound through rows of identical stone houses, the colours splashed on the doors their only distinguishing features: vivid greens and blues, sunnyyellows, bright shades of scarlet. Happy colours. The illusion was quite good. If you’d known nothing else, you could be happy here, like the group of new arrivals ahead of Sam, young and laughing and hollering cheery goodbyes at the couples turning onto a side street. But Sam hadn’t forgotten what life was like before the Great Change.

Dave glanced over his shoulder and turned away from the group, ambling back towards Sam. “Will spring never come?” he asked, his breath coming out in puffs. It had been an early spring, but winter refused to relinquish its grip. “How’s Emma feeling?”

Sam forced a smile. “Better.”

“Good, good.” Dave waved at the Gilmours as they walked up their drive. “Laura’s been wanting to have you over for dinner. We could pool our rations, make something… well, make the same sh1te, just more of it. Say tomorrow?” He nudged Sam’s shoulder, a glint in his blue eyes. “I have a few bottles left over from Christmas.”

Up ahead, what was left of the herd began to disperse, its members suddenly sombre and rushing to get home. One couple turned to throw wary looks at Sam and Dave before disappearing around the corner. Frowning, Dave pointed at the slick, black cars parked on either side of the road in front of his house and Sam’s.

The sound of scraping metal floated on the crisp air, echoing in the sudden quiet. It grew louder, and Sam’s heart began to pound as he and Dave approached their homes.

Another black car was parked in Sam’s drive, in front of the red garage door, where four letters had been painted in crude black strokes.

V O A T

Tremors of shock ran through Sam, so powerful he had to lean against the car to stay upright. Dave said nothing, only ducked his head and rushed across the street to his house, keeping his eyes on the ground.

The VOAT had come, and their mark on the garage door could only mean one thing: Sam and Emma had been Claimed.

A Valiant officer stood by the front door, a rifle at his side. Sam hadn’t seen a Valiant up close since the early days of the Great Change, when, after years of climatic calamities and decimated crops, worldwide famine and widespread chaos, Valiente and his alliance of the world’s most powerful governments––the ones still standing––had stepped in to restore order. Calling themselves the Valiant Organisation for an Assured Tomorrow, they had marched through cities with armed forces in crushing numbers, bombing undesirable parts of the world out of existence, burning affluent neighbourhoods to the ground, reclaiming the land for agricultural purposes, and organising what remained into closely monitored Wards, where each citizen had a home, a job and a box of weekly rations. Order for all, Food for all. It was the VOAT’s motto, and with it came freedom on a short leash.

The Valiant officer spotted Sam and opened the front door. “Murray!” he barked, lifting his weapon and pointing it at Sam as he stalked over to him.

Sam pushed away from the car but didn’t have time to steady his legs before the red-haired officer pressed the tip of the rifle into his back. Sam stumbled up the drive and nearly collided with the Valiant he presumed to be Murray, who was holding a clipboard, his black beret slipping off his bald head.

Murray checked his clipboard and narrowed his hazel eyes. “Samson Redmond?”

“Yes.” Sam automatically reached into his pocket for his identification.

The bald man checked the photograph and slipped the card into his pocket, then wiped his hand on his black fatigues, as though the card had been coated in grease. “This way,” he said, gesturing for Sam to head for the sitting room ahead of him, then nodding at his colleague, who returned to his post by the door.

Emma sat on the rose-patterned sofa, looking small and frail, her black hair pulled back in a tight ponytail. A Valiant officer stood next to her, staring at a spot of nothing on the wall opposite. Emma’s face was pale and blank, as it had been since the first weeks of winter, when she’d been ordered home on sick leave. In her tiny hand, she clutched a bottle of pills.

Sam didn’t dare approach her, though not because of the Valiant. She already shied away from any physical contact, and he feared touching her now would only put more strain on her fragile mind. She had never been the same after the sterilisation. Population control was high on the VOAT’s list of priorities, going hand in hand with keeping the food demand in check, but Emma and Sam had hoped that they would be on the winning side of the lottery, one of the lucky couples to be classed as Genitors and taken to one of the sprawling estates with the big houses and plush green lawns, where children laughed and played and filled the homes with life. Instead, after spending a week in a sterilisation clinic, they had been taken here and given this house and a job at the local factory, along with the other couples who would become their neighbours and friends. Only, while the people around them built their lives and put down roots in the only way they could, Emma had slowly retreated in on herself, and Sam had run out of ways to keep the emptiness from consuming her.

The scraping sound drew Sam’s gaze to the back window. The garden was a shambles: shrubs uprooted, flower beds overturned, piles of soil dotting the carpet of spring grass. Three Valiants were busy digging into the lawn, heaving out shovels of dirt to make new piles of soil and turf.

Sam’s heart dropped. They’d found it. He could see tufts of fur sticking up from the thin layer of earth still covering the shallow grave in the corner of the garden. Weeks ago, he’d found a dead dog in a flower bed between the wooden fence and some bushes. Pets weren’t allowed in the estate, with the exception of a few wild cats that ran free to take care of any vermin problems. The dog had been skinny and mangy––clearly a stray––, and Sam had buried it straight away. It hadn’t even occurred to him to report it. Had the dog belonged to a Valiant officer? Or worse, had it found its way into the garden through a hole in the electric fence surrounding the estate, and in failing to report it, Sam had covered up a security breach?

“I can explain,” Sam said, turning to Murray. “I thought the dog was a stray, and it was already dead and––”

“Dog? Oh no, this isn’t about the dog.” He came to stand next to Sam and pointed his clipboard at the other side of the garden, behind a Valiant officer dripping sweat as he hacked into the lawn. Sam squinted at the small mound of what he’d thought was lumpy soil, now picking out bits of green and white where a shovel had split a ball of grime in two.

Sam spun around and gaped at Emma, who looked at him, or through him, or whatever she did with those vacant eyes.

“I hate cabbage,” she said flatly.

Sam’s mind reeled as he recalled the meals Emma had cooked over the past months. Standard winter fare: soups and stews with the usual carrots and potatoes and turnips. But not a single bite of cabbage all winter. Where had she been keeping those heads of cabbage while the ground was frozen? When had she started burying them? More importantly, what had she been thinking? Under VOAT rule, there was no greater crime than wasting food. She had doomed them both.

Murray held out a piece of paper, which Sam took and read in a daze. It was a list of clothes and personal effects he was authorised to pack.

Their lives would be spared. It came as no surprise; the Valiants were not wasteful, and executions were rare. Sam knew what to expect. He and Emma would be taken to the country and put to work in the fields, their house and jobs passed on to another barren couple. A change for the better perhaps. It would do Emma good to leave the confines of the estate, to spend her days outdoors in the fresh air. Sam looked at her now and imagined her in a field of barley, smiling under a blue sky, with colour in her cheeks and a newfound sense of purpose.

Emma’s eyes flicked up and met Sam’s. For a moment, he was filled with hope, wanting to see in the deep blue of her eyes that she had finally woken from her nightmare, that they could be happy again, in spite of the long, hard days that lay ahead. Then she moved, faster than he’d seen her move in months. Her hand darted towards the Valiant planted next to her, slipped into the holster on his belt, and closed around the officer’s gun. Sam opened his mouth to call her name, but a loud pop resounded from the doorway, and Emma fell back against the roses on the cushions of the sofa, her arms spread wide, the gun falling out of her slack hand onto the carpet. Blood trickled out of a hole in her forehead, into her vacant eyes.

Through the rush of noise in his ears, Sam heard distant shouting. Slowly, he looked away from Emma, at the black-clad Valiant officers that filled the room, their weapons trained on him. Even Murray had dropped his clipboard to pull out his gun and point it at Sam’s head.

The list slipped out of Sam’s hand and fluttered to the floor.

“Take him to the car,” Murray said.

The red-haired Valiant came forward and nudged his rifle into Sam’s ribs. “We’ll have no trouble from you,” he said, cocking his head in the direction of the front door.

Sam put his hands up and walked past the Valiant officers standing in front of Emma’s body. He looked straight ahead, seeing nothing, feeling nothing but a numbing sensation crawling along his skin and the lick of the cold wind as he stepped outside.

No, they’d have no trouble from him. He liked cabbage.

pickarooney

Version 11

As he pulled into the driveway Sam looked at the word and snickered to himself quietly. Living in such an out of the way place meant a house number was redundant, the use of his name on the garage would help with post. Many folks used their names to identify where they lived. Sally was an excellent wife and she had helped so much in writing that sign. Well it was her blood that had been used in the lettering. Sam snickered again as he got out of the car.

Sam Voat had wanted the family name on the garage door, so as the door was white and blood did get darker over time Sally's had been very usable. Sally was also very good at soup, he remembered. She had tasted pretty nice, a bit salty perhaps but nice. Sam had another wierd little snicker as he thought about the soup. Sally went well with carrots, yet that nosey neighbour who had befriended her had gone better with onions.

Sam had found it remarkably easy to kill her off. And the cats too. In fact it was the number of vile, putrid smelling, hairy little fiends that Sally had befriended that had finally pushed him over the edge. He kept up a slight snickering to himself as he changed into more casual clothing.

The suit he had worn at court had been a bit uncomfortable.

He had done it. Not only killing his wife, but being found not guilty at court. The Not Guilty verdict had not been easy to come by, but now of course even if he admitted it, he was free and away. Double jeopardy meant they could no longer find him guilty.

And this reminded him. The reporter who was buying his story was due to arrive in an hour. He busied himself making tea in readyness. Sam was going to tell the reporter the whole and entire truth, knowing he could not be retried, but he would be paid a large some of money. Should he tell the reporter about the other 'victims'? Well he hadn't been tried on those counts, so telling the reporter could be a little suicidal. Anyway he hadn't finished eating them yet.

The hour went by very swiftly. He spent a litle time thinking of his late wife. Her cooking had been amazing and he wondered what she could have made of herself. She had been married before, and had three grown up children somewhere, but Sam had not met them. It seemed they didn't want to visit thier mother when she was alive. They hadn't even appeared at her funeral. Sally had by all accounts been alone, the perfect victim, and incidentally a superb pie filling too. Sam snickered again to the point of coughing. There came a polite knocking at the door.

Sam had decided to tell the truth about Sally, but would leave the other victims' stories for a later date. He would milk money from the reporter and then, he could make the reporter another victim before publication. It was important to have an appreciative audience. Sam went to the door, his winning (but false) smile wide to greet the young journalist.

The smile faltered a little as he opened the door and saw not one young man, but two, and a rather pretty young lady.

"Hello. Mr Voat?"

"Ye.. yes. I am Voat" Sam responded a little uncertainly.

"I am Steven the reporter who spoke to you on the phone earlier, these are Sarah my recordist and Simon my photographer, May we come in?"

Sam recovered well. "Of course, of course please do come in. I have tea brewing for you." Sam's mind was busy as he led them through to the cosy little sitting room. He was still trying to come up with plan B when he felt a sickening pain on his head and it suddenly went dark.

Sam awoke with a terrible headache. He tried to rub his head, but for some reason he couldn't move his hands. As his vision gradually cleared he looked up. Tied to a chair in the kitchen and stripped naked he could see three pairs of eyes staring at him.

"Aha" said Steven. "It is good to see you awake Sam. I think for you though it would have been better if the courts had found you guilty. Killing mother was not a great idea. AND your methods were not very well thought out, mostly, that is. The idea of being found not guilty in court is very inventive, and one we had not considered before, but rest assured we will do so in the future, Sarah, what do you think?"

Sarah smiled and prodded Sam with a fork, almost gently. "I am sure mother would have approved Steven."

Sam was now terrified, and wriggled to free himself, his manic snickering now had a touch of panic to it. Simon was busy sharpening some knives, a fiendish grin on his features.

"You see Sam" said Steven. "Mother always insisted we didn't keep too closely in contact with her, or each other really. It would not do too well to leave a trail of bodies evverywhere we went, part bodies anyway. Mother did bless us with som excellent cooking lessons. When we leave here in a few hours, there will be no hint at all that we were ever here."

"What are you going to do?" Sam's voice was quavering.

"We have plans to make, and some cooking to do, you look healthy enough. Not taking drugs I hope?" Steven grinned widely, so did the silent Simon and for the first time Sam could see Simon's madly filed to points teeth.

Sarah smiled sweetly. "Let's be honest here, you killed mother. Assuredly she would have killed you soon anyway. Her letters told us all on how you treated her cats." She approached Sam again. "I think for what you did to her I am going to have a ball."

Sam's manic snickering gave way to a brief shriek before burblings of agony gradually faded into silence.

Toasterspark

Version 10

Wow, I had a cracking good read of all the stories. Brilliantly written and such a high standard. I hate you all for being such good writers, I'll never win now!

The stories I voted for were 3, 7 and 9.

Story 3
Was an interesting read, even though the general mood of the story was one of sadness. I figured out what was going on as I got close to the end, and hoped I was wrong! You painted a stark, lonely landscape and it worked well. Poor guy.

Story 7
I loved this story, I just wanted to slap the bitch as I was reading. Probably the story that invoked the most reaction for me, I nearly ragequit and threw my laptop off the table! I did feel that the knife and blood-daubed garage was a little too over the top at the end, but the rest worked really well and the story flowed nicely.

Story 9
Probably my favourite of the lot. I absolutely loved the characters you created and if I could buy a book about the lads and their adventures I would snap it up. I liked them so much that I felt like the supernatural element was unnecessary, but the open ending without any resolution (vampire? or just crazy hen?) was intriguing and left the story open to further chapters.

Honourable mentions to Story 6 which had a unique storyline that kept my attention until the end, and also to Story 11 with my favourite line of the all the entries - "Her cooking had been amazing and he wondered what she could have made of herself."

Rubecula

Version 10

I wanted to vote for them all. One of the most enjoyable reads I have had in a very long time. It was hard to narrow down who I would vote for. But here goes.

Version 1. Obviously the first one I read and it set a great standard for all the others to follow

Version 3. Almost had me in tears, very emotional.

Version 9. Always wanted to write a Vampire story myself and I loved this one. Very atmospheric.

Version 11 Pretty short and to the point, but it got the message across. Nice story to finish on.


Overall the standards are impressively high. I could not vote in reverse (ie for elimination) of any of those stories. There was a lot of sweat and tears in there you can sense it. Well done to everyone who succeeded in writing on this topic.

Version 11

Love 10, go dystopia! - that's the one I'm voting for. Last line was brilliant


honorable mentions to 3 and 9, well written and enjoyable, quite liked the humour in 9

Hrududu

Version 4

I'll wait and read through them all again before voting. But for now the following ones stuck out for me. I guess I like them bleak:

Version 3
I liked the slow release of information in this one. It was very well written. His desperation and loneliness were sketched really well so his welcoming of the man in the mirror felt earned.

Version 8
I'm a sucker for a time travel story and this was a nice spin on that. It had a good bite to it because of course we want that priest punished and of course we want that innocent girl to avoid her fate. But what a cost.

Version 10
This one really did well to build up the world in such a short amount of words. When I was reading it I was picturing the whole piece taking place in an almost entirely grey world. The backstory was weaved in really well so that Emma's action didn't seem like a trick or a twist, it made sense from what we knew of her.

Lots of great stories in this round. Funny that so many went to such dark places.

Agent Weebley

Version 11

VERSION 1:

Well written. A little disjointed, and very bleak . . . but on the bright side: THE STONES ARE COMING!

[click the smilie for some bovine spongiform encephalopathic irony]

Agent Weebley

Version 11

VERSION 2

Here's the thing: although the VOAT stalker angle was unique and well written, the story direction towards jail bait rape was not my cup of green tea. I did enjoy the writing style, although I had to block out the bad stuff and concentrate on spelling, wordplay, grammar, and punctuation.

The best line was: She was midway down the hall when the urge to pee hit her. Damn green tea. She should’ve bought a Diet Coke.

Diet Coke contains aspertame, which apparently turns into formaldehyde in the human body. It also interrupts the ability to pee hard. There are other "effects," such as ED and fatness.

Maybe Amy should have taken a different tack and offered the stalker a Diet Coke.

pickarooney

Version 11

1. seems like a good idea in there but unfortunately it's so muddled and garbled I can't make head or tail of the story. I would really like to read this once it's been re-written.
why the homage to a character from Channel Four's Utopia?

2. No Sam, no real plot, no obvious connection between the beginning and end

3. I read it a few times and am still not sure I get the ending, which is maddening. High marks for it in any case

4. Very good use of the theme. RPG is a great name for a character

5. Heart-wrenching, nice use of the theme, very solid story.

6. Nice idea, very involving and well-paced, bit of a flat ending

7. Bit of fun, if a little confusing at the beginning. The POV is not very well established.

8. Nobody said the letters had to be in order Very well written with an interesting moral conundrum

9. A cracking read, punchy dialogue and neat descriptions with a nice dose of mystery

10. I love the last line of this enough to vote for it. It's a very good story in any case but this seals it.

11. I thought this was just too much of a stretch - everybody's a cannibal?

Rubecula

Version 10

Brown nosing time here. I happen to agree with Pickarooney on most of what he wrote (She wrote? Sorry I don't check profiles)

However I found the theme very very difficult and some of those stories are magnificent efforts.

One of them is mine I admit. Not saying which one. But I personally found it an amazingly difficult subject. Mine is far from the best one that has been entered, but I am very very proud of my efforts. Simply for the fact it was such a difficult subject to write on (for me anyway).

So to everyone who who put a story together, I salute you all.

They all seem to be sort of dark. Yet the subject matter dictated that to some extent.

For me it was fantastic to read so many great stories. WELL DONE!

Antilles

Version 11

I've read and reviewed all the stories. Since mine is one of the 11, I'll only give feedback on a few until the end so as not to reveal myself!

I'm voting for 10 and 7.

10. This is a brilliant story. It hooked me right from the start and held me all the way to the end. By far, this was my favourite story this time around.

7. A well written and funny story. What a psychopath! I really enjoyed reading this one.

I didn't vote for 2, but since Toasterspark outed himself already: To be honest I'm uncomfortable with a story about a member of this forum, even a fictitious one, being raped by another member. In general, the story was well written but I think the plot was poorly chosen.

Toasterspark

Version 10

Uhm... just to be clear (not that it really makes a difference at this stage), but the character of Joe isn't actually supposed to be another forum member. He was basically some chatroom guy that chatted with the girl and became friendly with her. When she lost interest, he started obsessing over her and the 'VOAT' on the garage was like a 'I know you down to the websites you frequent' type of thing.

But point well and truly taken about the subject matter.

Mr E

Version 11

^^ Shit - that's what I was afraid of.
If you're still reading, Toasterspark, I hope you come back again in another guise.
Thanks for all the great stories over the last few VOATs.

pickarooney

Version 11

The writer of version 1 has asked me to make clear that my use of 'steal' for his/her reference to a TV character was misjudged. There was no intention on my part to accuse the writer of theft of any kind and I apologise for the poor wording.

Oryx

Version 9

Having read all the stories over the last few days I'm voting for the two stories that were memorable and stayed with me; no's 3 & 8. For me, the stories handled the theme well, taking the very rigid initial structure in a direction I did not expect. Both were nicely written, particularly 3, which really did a good job of creating a bleak, hopeless environment, with a resigned yet positive main character.

Some other comments:

Version 10 was a close contender, nice understated emotion, it just had too much telling and not enough action for me.
Version 1 was a muddle, which improved vastly towards the end. It felt like the author speed typed his or her initial train of thought and didn't go back and edit it. Brilliant last line though.
Version 11 lost me from paragraph one, Sam just kept snickering. Repetitive stuff like that really irritates me, sorry. I know it may have been deliberate, but it didn't work for me.

The other are all fine as standalone stories. Unfortunately in this competition the theme was so particular that I was suffering from Sam, graffiti, and V bloody OAT fatigue very early on. The directions the other stories took simply didn't grab me, in spite of being well put together. The ones that did stand out had emotional punch.

On a separate note, its a damn shame that Toasterspark felt he needed to close his account. I certainly didn't think it was at all necessary. I hope Toasterspark Mk11 is back with us soon.

alfa beta

Version 4

number 3 is beautifully written - lovely pace - lovely present-tense narrative - love the way the narrator sorta talks to the reader in that one-to-one conversational way - really really good - that's the story that's getting my voat

CelticRambler

Version 11

I feel like a bit of an intruder here, as I've never contributed to this forum - but it is on my daily update feed, so I offer my comments as "an interested hurler on the ditch." I set challenges like this from time to time for other people, and in this one I was looking for a storyline that really hinged on the VOAT motif.

If I had to pick just one story: No.3, way ahead of the rest. A well-constructed story in itself, nicely set up for the inscription to trigger a dramatic change.

As for the others:
1. Gave up trying to read it after the first few paragraphs (and that was on a second attempt). A "no vote" from me.

2. Felt like a previously-written story with the theme tacked onto the beginning to make it legitimate. Another "no vote".

4. Quite an interesting story but a bit scatty. The jump from past to present felt a bit awkward and the characters undeveloped. Made good use of the given theme, though, and the headmaster's office tableau at the end was probably the best part. 7/10

5. Can't quite figure out if Emily was the author of the book and if so, how/why the kind of messers who'd paint on a garage door would even know of it. If you take out the line about the book, the vandalism make no sense in the context of the challenge - it could be anything. 6/10

6. Everything was going well until the clue was revealed. VOAT, rhymes with Moate, for a prize of 13 gold bars??? Sounds like someone else was up against a deadline. 5/10

7. Apologies to the author if it isn't, but this is a rip-off of a Man Stroke Woman sketch, with the garage door ending tacked on to make it qualify for the competition, and the Man Stroke Woman (speed dating, on YouTube) version where the date goes mental over yer man's "infidelity" is better. There's a similar act of vengance in the film "Les Ch'tis" when Danny Boon as the lead character smashes up his rival's motorbike. Too much "seen it already" so no vote.

8. Topical and a clever integration of the letters, although no explanation of why Sam (or Martin before him) feels so compelled to act immediately. It feels like the summary of a longer story, but one I'd be interested to read. 7/10

9. Umm .... Like the treasure hunt and the rapist, it felt like the author really couldn't work the assigned letters into the story but carried on anyway, and like the Thinker, there didn't seem to be a logical break in the vandalism (taggers are not idiots - OA for "outta" ???) 4/10

10 Well written, good use of the abbreviation, suspense maintained with a neat diversion and a great final line. A close contender for the top spot 10/10 (but I think N°3 is better)

11. The most imaginative use of the letters-on-the-door instruction but as said above - too much snickering and no real explanation of why the children hadn't visited their mother. "Like attracts like" is a good enough premise on which to bring two people with canabalistic tendencies together, but there doesn't seem to be any motivation for eating each other (comparing, for example, with Fried Green Tomatoes) 3/10.

Once again, no offence intended towards anyone (esp author N°7) :cool:

--Kaiser--

Version 10

First of all, I like the way everyone came up with radically different words to fit into the given acronym, and radically different stories as a result. Kudos to pickarooney on that one!

Second of all, I’m being as mean as possible so don’t take too much notice of my criticism.

1) All over the place. Serious need of a good edit, had the potential to be a good story I think.

2) This was a very unpleasant read and there didn’t seem to be much of a point.

3) A pedantic point, the moon has 1/6 of Earth’s gravity, 1/8 gravity would indicate a massive asteroid, not one you could explore in 24 hours. (Since it’s a sci-fi story, this pedantry is justified).
But, it’s very well written, the narrator develops a nice rapport with the reader and has some nice humorous touches (Tin on the Moon, Robinson ****ing Crusoe). Best story here by a good bit.

4) Nothing much happened in this.

5) Compellingly written but I don’t know what connection the book or the woman’s visions have with the harassment, there’s a bit too much left unsaid I think.

6) Badly edited with wordsstucktogether (annoying). The clue was ridiculous if I’m honest, VOAT rhymes with lots of things. Weak ending too.

7) Very melodramatic, the constant descriptions of the woman’s face get monotonous (plus a look of horror isn’t the same as a look of hatred) and the ending was a bit overkill. This is a brilliant bit though “she had to go back to wherever she came from, to whatever job she had. Probably drowning puppies or burning ants with a magnifying glass”.

8) Some nice evocative imagery here but…the time travel assassination story is well worn and not one I have much time for…and I’m afraid I can’t forgive the temporal paradox which is the crux of the plot.

9) A rollicking read, great dialogue and very humorous. This gets my second vote.

10) Way too much exposition on the dystopia and not enough description of how it was to live in it. The last line is a killer though

11) I didn’t see that one coming. Not bad.

FudgeBrace

Version 11

i voted for 9 and 10 ( I think. I forgot already...) Because they both read well and were very gripping from the start. Great stories all round though, fantastic ability here !

pickarooney

Version 11

It's as close as a clotheshorse.

Agent Weebley

Version 11

VERSION 3

I can't help but feel this story is a parody of the USA moon landing hoax, touched down on recently. I felt this story was Science Fantasy, as opposed to Science Fiction, due to the 1/8th gravity issue, as previously mentioned by Kaiser, as well as a whole host of other physics factoids, which would detract from my comment - by the way: the glaringly obvious physics issues, causes much chuckling every time I re-read passages to terraform a coherent comment.

But, having suspended disbelief by fact checking against Newton's Universal Gravitational Constant: F=G((m1*m2)/r2), and the fact that paint would not dry at Zero Kelvin, the story, based in the first person, present tense, was an excellent and enjoyable read. The ending reminded me of L'Affaire Dumoutier - probably some lingering effects from version 2, but it was well delivered, in any case.

The fabulous use of the present tense and the interesting storyline far outweighs the weak pull of physics. No stars for physics (moon landing joke) but a gold star for effort - I'm ticking The Box for my vote. Well done!


VERSION 4

Who is the unidentified woman in this story (is her name Sidewinder?) and why did she call "pocket money" an "allowance?" She is more Americanised than she thinks - I think she needs a restful holiday on Cape Cod, which is a tongue-in-cheek reference to "The Cape" in VERSION 3*, since Cape Canaveral is the NASA launch base, with Cocoa Beach being the bucket and spade area just south - been there, done both.

As previously mentioned, the characters are underdeveloped - either a sign of a rush job, or a sign that the writer needs to develop characters a little more. Although the glaring error is VOAT spelt backwards - TAOV, not TOAV - also indicating a rush job, I liked the story. It tied in the Vertical Opposite Angle Theory quite well, but I am still grappling with how that fits in with football cards. And "Misal," being an Indian dish was a missed opportunity for an item on the dinner menu, methinks.

I liked the ending, but I think it needs a re-write with a little more lemony flavour added, to make the characters a little more tangy.

*Sorry, I initially said version 2 for some reason - probably those darned after effects.


VERSION 5

This story, another one in an endless stream of life ending stories did not turn my crank at all. Why would the neighbourhood kids paint VOAT on the garage door? If they witnessed and were impacted by Emily's visions, there should have been at least one example of how Emily's weird behaviour touched them. Emily just seemed like a lump who couldn't even get out of her chair for the most part.

And what is "normal?"


VERSION 6

Ithought thewriter shouldhave raisedthe spacebar alittle and re-submittedthe story, sinceit wasa toughread.

I also felt like playing Kraftwerk songs while struggling to read it - just did, but after the read, since it would have been even more distracting.

The plot seemed weak and the commercial viability of a treasure hunt with such a huge prize seemed non-existent. I would have read it again to glean missing plot devices from the text possibly missed on the first distracting read, but Icouldnotdoitagain.


VERSION 7

I read it once. Another psycho story. I couldn't really understand the plot, and wasn't about to go back and re--read it. Anyone named "Veronica" in the audience?



VERSION 8

Has someone been reading my Dad's story? I think wormholes are reserved for more peaceful past/present/future forays - it's not really the bailiwick of Leonardo DaVoat-y code breakers. But I liked the way the electrical effects were written - I could smell the static in the air. To conclude: I think religion needs to go away - just go away. The past deeds of those dastardly people are irrelevant to the future of humankind.


VERSION 9

They're lethal.

Why did I think of Airplane when I read that line: “Hens,” said Johnny. “They’re lethal altogether.”

A single dot on one's neck from a clucking bloodsucking vampire is an entirely different kind of Twilight copycat story altogether!

I will add my comments on this story later - and after a re-read. I have to go out for a while - during daylight hours [gulp]

---

Later- I got back just before twilight

After re-reading the story and laughing my head off, I realised that a comedic vampire story where the animals drink only human blood is as rare as hen's teeth. And, as a part-time unpaid researcher, I had to fact check on the hen's teeth part. Yikes!

I could go on and on about how funny the story was, but I'm not sure it was intentional, so here's just one funny bit: “Am I sh!te,” said Sam. Doctor Seuss would have a cow (patty) over that phraseology, but VERSION 3 would probably say his character eats green eggs and sh!te. Could it be Soylent Green, people?

Anyway, that bloody pile of shirt may have been balled up, but it was an entertaining read, and it too gets my vote - the author penned up some Grade A fresh writing, without being mentally penned up.

OK, one more. Dig if you will, the picture of Johnny and Hen engaged in kiss: "They stumbled down the middle of the road, with Johnny occasionally cooing for the hen." A musical artiste, formally known as ?<>$% would probably laugh himself to tears at the (possibly accidental) anthropomorphic metaphorical comedy. Better than any comedy Stephenie Meyer has come up with so far, I would say.


VERSION 10

I wrote a comment for this story, but it's like . . . gone! I think I may have moved off the page without saving it. Bummer. I remember writing something about it being like 1984, and I made some comments about cabbages, but I think it would not be too much fun to re-write it right now. I'll do it again tomorrow.

Agent Weebley

Version 11

Oops! I seem to have run out of edit time on my post above, so here's my continuation.

VERSION 10

The funny thing about dystopias, and this was a well written dystopia, is that we are living in one already. Getting ourselves out of this dystopia is the trick, and one that demands more writing. How do we get out from under the thumb of The Man?

Funny. The word dystopia is underlined on my autospellchecker. I ask for suggestions and get dystrophy. I type distopia and it is also underlined as an error. It suggests: distort. Am I given to believe that there is no such thing as a dystopia? I type dystopia into startpage and get this.

A dystopia is usually fictional. Really?

Getting back to the story: the main "cabbage" device would not be the way the cabbage would go down with respect to human action. If someone didn't want cabbages. they would be traded . . . maybe traded for bottled methane for cooking?

Anyway, it was well written in any event, and also gets my vote.


VERSION 11

You'll have to excuse me for not commenting on the cannibal story last night. I thought of the perfect song to illustrate how someone . . . or coincidentally, a whole host of characters' minds could get so stewed that they would eat each other, let alone find each other. Most people turn inward and start drinking or something . . . but these people turned on each other . . . with a knife and fork!

But then, before putting virtual pen to virtual paper, I realised that this perfect song reminded me of my Dad . . . where the heck is he? I listened to the song over and over and over . . . and found I missed him so much.

Here's the song: Fine Young Cannibals - I'm Not The Man I Used To Be

Oh, and why would a cannibal tell his story to a reporter, unless he was planning becoming roadkill?

I probably won't vote for this one, since the premise was hard to digest. Even my comment is blue rare - sorry.


To conclude: I am voting for 3, 9, and 10.

Brian Lighthouse

Version 10

Version 1
I enjoyed the story. I like reference to Jessica Hyde, a character in Channel 4`s Utopia. I enjoyed the way Sam`s character is revealed.

Version 3
Enjoyable read. I drifted through about a quarter of the story towards the end. The narration was a nice touch. It went on for too long, Hence the drifting. The end was fun.

Version 4
I really liked this story. Nothing outstanding; positive or negative about it. Enjoyable.

Version 5
Totally lost in paras 8,9,10,11 the next day....he wasn`t long behind
Strong sentiment in the story but it just didn`t appeal emotionally.
This is a story that needed another read-through and edit.

Version 6
The space button could have been used for all the spaces
The game is a brilliant idea
Lots of holes when Sam wins the prize.
Enjoyable overall.

Version 7
Had to reread para 3,4,5 to understand what was meant
Got lost so many times in this.
Glad to hear he didn`t drink and drive.
Not entirely believable that this could happen overnight in a relationship but entertaining nonetheless. Pity I got lost.

Version 8
“When he opened his eyes, he wasn't on his front lawn any more. He was somewhere else.”
Really? Was HE?
In fairness some serious issues tackled here and ones that need to be highlighted continuously.

Version 9,
Interesting story.

echo beach

Version 11

A lot of good reading there and some very good attempts at what I though was a very difficult theme.

In the end I voted for 5 and 10.

I enjoyed the way version 5 portrayed the realationship between two people living very different lives from what they once did. The experience of caring for somebody with a mental health problem was convincing.

10 also showed two people dealing with changed circumstances but reacting in different ways. Some people can cope with almost anything, while others simply can't and this story really got you thinking as to how you might react in a dystopian future.

Leafonthewind

Version 4

I voted for version 3. I loved everything about it: the narrator’s voice, the well-defined world, the humour. The fact that the narrator is addressing the reader directly (or so we’re led to believe) is a nice touch, and the gestation of his other self taking place over nine months is just brilliant.

Since one of the stories is mine, I'll post my feedback on the other stories tomorrow.

Mr E

Version 11

Phew, almost forgot to vote.

3, 9 and 10 for me.

3 is a great little story and well written.
9 had some fun dialogue and made me laugh.
10 felt like a small part of a much bigger story. I hate cabbage.

Honorable mentions for 1 (I liked the ending more than the journey), and 11 (good story, but some spelling mistakes bugged me!)

Ectoplasm

Version 10

I voted for three and nine...just in under the wire. Three was the standout of the bunch, but I liked nine and thought it was a pretty good angle to take.

I also really enjoyed ten but I didn't feel like it was complete.

Overall though the standard was pretty high and though I didn't love them all, congratulations to all who entered.

Version 11

Congrats #3!!

pickarooney

Version 11

Three pulled away from the pack at the last minute, in true VOAT style. Congratulations to our winner, Antilles!

Antilles

Version 11

Woohoo!

Thanks to everyone who read and voted for my story. I have my commentary on the others at home. I'll will post them here when I get back tonight.

Mr E

Version 11

Wow, it really was a 3 horse race all along.

Congrats to all 3 of you, and to Antilles for taking it down.

Mine was the Vatican Agent of Time (#8). I liked the way it turned out, but it looks like it never really stood a chance.

Agent Weebley

Version 11

Well done, Antilles, you landed another winner!

Version 11

Well done again!
Was a bit bemused at some of the feedback here on mine, #5, and people not getting it. Subtlety is certainly difficult to do, but a number of people did get it... I suppose if everyone got it first go, it couldn't have been that subtle in the first place!
I can assure BL that I did re-read and re-edit numerous times (even if the total time taken was quite short including research) and what's left is quite deliberate!
Still, it doesn't have to be everyone's cup of tea. But I'm happy with it.

I do appreciate all feedback given and time taken to give it! very much so.
Will post my own after the weekend

--Kaiser--

Version 10

bluewolf wrote: »

Well done again!
Was a bit bemused at some of the feedback here on mine, #5, and people not getting it. Subtlety is certainly difficult to do, but a number of people did get it... I suppose if everyone got it first go, it couldn't have been that subtle in the first place!
I can assure BL that I did re-read and re-edit numerous times (even if the total time taken was quite short including research) and what's left is quite deliberate!
Still, it doesn't have to be everyone's cup of tea. But I'm happy with it.

I do appreciate all feedback given and time taken to give it! very much so.
Will post my own after the weekend

Care to explain the story?

Leafonthewind

Version 4

Congratulations, Antilles! Well-deserved!

Mine was 10. Thanks to all those who commented on it and voted.

Here's my feedback on the other stories:

Version 1 – The shifting verb tenses were bothersome. The story was all over the place and I couldn’t get into it, though it did improve in the second half.

Version 2 – The story was well-written, but the subject matter was disturbing. A lot has been said about it already, and I don’t have anything to add, but I did establish a connection with the character and had a strong emotional response to the story, and at the end of the day, that’s what a story should do.

Version 4 – Well-written, but it didn’t really grab me.

Version 5 – I still feel sad when I think about this story. The emotion was well-conveyed, the sense of loss heart-wrenching.

Version 6 – The story was hard to read because of the missing spaces. The treasure hunt idea was good, but the resolution was a little too easy.

Version 7 – Made me smile. Some problems with verb tenses along the way and it could use some tidying up, but it was a fun read.

Version 8 – I figured out where the story was heading early on, but I thought it was quite fitting that the Church put fixing its reputation ahead of righting its terrible wrongs.

Version 9 – This story was a close contender for me. The dialogue and characters were great, but the ending felt a bit forced.

Version 11 – All the snickering was rather bothersome, and if VOAT was written in blood on the garage door, wouldn’t the rain wash it away? Didn’t see the twist coming though.

Antilles

Version 11

Kaiser and Agent Weebley; I'm not a physicist but I did think about the gravity issue as I wrote it. I thought that if the asteroid was sufficiently dense it could have the one-eighth gravity, even if it was physically a relatively small rock. Is that incorrect?

Mr E

Version 11

Leafonthewind wrote: »

Version 8 – I figured out where the story was heading early on, but I thought it was quite fitting that the Church put fixing its reputation ahead of righting its terrible wrongs.

Or put another way - Even in the future, The Vatican are assholes.

--Kaiser--

Version 10

Antilles wrote: »

Kaiser and Agent Weebley; I'm not a physicist but I did think about the gravity issue as I wrote it. I thought that if the asteroid was sufficiently dense it could have the one-eighth gravity, even if it was physically a relatively small rock. Is that incorrect?

Not a physicist either but even if the asteroid were composed of something really dense like iridium I imagine it would still be too way large to explore in 24 hours (for a slow moving man in a spacesuit). But I could be wrong

Antilles

Version 11

--Kaiser-- wrote: »

Not a physicist either but even if the asteroid were composed of something really dense like iridium I imagine it would still be too way large to explore in 24 hours (for a slow moving man in a spacesuit). But I could be wrong

I googled about a bit but couldn't find anywhere to calculate the required gravity/density so just went with it. I totally accept your criticism, thanks!

Hrududu

Version 4

Fair play Antilles, you had my vote.

Mine was number 9, definitely an interesting competition this time around.

Agent Weebley

Version 11

Antilles wrote: »

Kaiser and Nerfy; I'm not a physicist but I did think about the gravity issue as I wrote it. I thought that if the asteroid was sufficiently dense it could have the one-eighth gravity, even if it was physically a relatively small rock. Is that incorrect?

Just revel in your winning the contest, Antilles. Bravo! You have a great career ahead of you. I wish I had just 1/8th of your ability to weave emotional words into an integrated and interesting story, with a truly unique emotional twist at the end.

It's easy to get hung up on logic, but emotions are what drives humans to behave the way they do.

I'm just like my Dad when it comes to Spockifying everything that moves. I guess I must believe that emotion stems from logic. Logic is the coolest thing on planet Earth, as far as I'm concerned, but I'm beginning to believe that logic is worthless, unless it is accessed through the Limbic System.

Second guessing yourself on physics factoids will only weaken the molarity of what you achieved back there. Maybe a little more research would have given Sam's engines a little thrust to land, rather than conking out and him crash landing on the asteroid, since 9.8 m/s^2 x 1/8 acceleration = a very bad face plant. Acceleration is acceleration, whatever the large mass the attracting body may have, so it needs to be countered by reverse thrust. In this case: 1.225 m/s^2 as your final thrust at landing . . . oops, sorry. See how boring that is?

You did very well - you don't need perfect fargin' physics to write a good story.

Did you get your inspiration from my recent fake USA moon landing topic, by any chance? Abandoning the laws of physics, proffering emotion in its place, works really well on most Americans - heck, it works on mostly everyone. And you proved it!

I guess you could call it metaphysics?

Oh, and one last thing: every comment I made on the 11 stories, I carefully researched, so I could comment effectively (imho.) I've never read a word of the Twilight series, for example . . . and I now know a lot more about hens.