I've been thinking about this contest and why it's difficult for some of us to enter and/or administrate. So I'm going to make up some new rules for my week, and I think maybe we should do that every week. Like playing poker, the dealer gets to call the game. There are only two:Rule 1: I want short entries. I'm going to limit my opening to about ten sentences and I want the entries to be about that long or shorter. Maybe a little longer if there's dialogue. I'm not going to be a pain in the ass about it, but if your stuff is pushing more than a dozen sentences, say fifteen with dialogue, it's going to weigh against you.
Rule 2: Deadline is 9 pm Tuesday night, Pacific time. I'll pick a winner and hopefully get the post up before the haiku topic is announced.
My rationale, in reverse order:
Rule 2 -- I just want everything all neat and tidy as the week heads into haiku territory. But I think having a day to consider a response is a good idea.
Rule 1 -- I'm hoping maybe this will encourage some of our wallflowers to compete. I'm not down on length; the depths of description on the entries so far has been fantastic, and the story I pooped out last week was all kindsa long. But I'm hoping the new brevity can keep the less-shy writers on their toes and inspire the shy ones to get in there, and maybe save everyone a little time.
I think writing challenges like this are a great idea, and if these changes don't make it more fun than this week's winner can poke around with it some more for next week. So without further blah blah:
Even before the elevator stopped its descent, Morgenson could smell The Room. This was the worst part of his job, with the smell, the screeching fights, and the endless klackity klacking -- but most of all the crazy sight of it. This was an idea never meant to become flesh. As he entered the control room he was greeted by Stitch, the man with the thankless job of heading this insane project.
"What's up, Stitch? Have the damn monkeys started to riot again?"
"It's worse than that, sir," Stitch squeaked, "it's... what they've been typing." He handed Morgenson a stack of damp, dirty manuscript pages. Morgenson read the words on the top page, sweat forming on his upper lip.
Suddenly, outside the reinforced glass of the control room...
15 comments:
octo, i second your "dealer calls the rules" notion. i think "finish it monday" is a really fun idea and it saddens me that some are too bashful to contribute. i get it that some thonners are professional writers and/or geniuses, and the rest of us aren't, but everyone on the blog has more than sufficient writing skills to play this game!
a particularly high pitched screech was heard, followed by a thud. The men watched in horror as a blood-streaked capuchin ear slid slowly down the thick glass separating them from the agitated primates. The howling increased in pitch and intensity, and more blood and hairy animal parts began to splatter against the window.
The door handle rattled, making Stitch jump. The lock was strong, but what lock could stand against an infinite number of clever, persistent, infuriated monkeys? Morgenson turned back to the top page of the manuscript in his hand, reading the single word that marched over and over across the page until his sight blurred. He flipped pages in mounting panic, but each smeared and grimy sheet held the same word, repeated ad infinitum, the last word he would ever see: “redrum.”
[Thank goodness for snow days...]
Suddenly, outside the reinforced glass of the control room...
The sound of infinite fingers on infinite typewriters was suddenly replaced. Replaced with the sound of an infinite number of fingers NOT typing.
The sudden onset of silence in the facility caused Morgenson to slowly look up off the top page, the first words of which had barely registered in his mind. Instead of the usual tableau of an infinite number of monkey backs hunched over, with an infinite amount of monkey cigarette smoke wafting to the rafters, he was now gazing upon a scene which turned his blood to ice water.
A million monkey faces gazed back at him, with an expectant gleam in their eyes. The front and center primate leaned forward, and tapped on the glass. Morgenson's gaze shifted to the monkey. Casually, almost flippantly, the monkey pointed first at Morgenson, then at the stack of papers he was still holding.
His heart in his throat, Morgenson read the first chilling words:
"We, the newly formed members of the Infiinite Monkey Writer's Guild, do hereby declare our intention to strike for better wages and working conditions..."
Great ending, Handsome Stan! It cracked me up.
He saw his wife’s corpus appear within the horde of primates.
“Stitch, wha…what’s she doing he—,” but before he could get all the words out, he watched in horror as one of the monkeys altered from its hairy form into his brother’s, then another into his mother’s, and another into his father’s. He looked silently back at the words on the paper and then upon Stitch.
“Jesus Christ, man, what the hell have you done,” he wailed.
“Ah, ah, ah…They’re not really them…you know, your parents…ah, Julia…Tom…they, ah…they, ah….ah…ah—”
“Spit it out, man!”
“Something went terribly wrong,” he shouted.
“I see that, Christ, Stitch…look at this paper…look at it, how do they know this about me…about my family…and why my family…why me? What have you done? How was this even part of the plan?”
“It…it wasn’t, I, I…I altered a few things…I was going to make me, I mean, us famous.”
“At what price…and why the hell are they turning into my family, man…look at them, my grandparents are in there now, Christ… why isn’t it you…and yours, and what about the things they know, did you tell them?”
As Morgenson waited for a reply the infinite monkeys continued to transform into infinite people that he was related to or knew at one time in life. As they changed they began writing everywhere, on the walls, the glass, even one another, and each word making Morgenson’s eyes burn.
“Tell me what you’ve done he screamed,” as he turned away from the glass and back towards Stitch, but his words were heard only by himself and the monkey people, as he watched the corner of Stich’s shoe turn the corner and vanish out of sight.
The deleted comment was me saying JPX sucks for not participating.
Good thing you deleted it. Hate for something like that to get out.
Nicely done, too. What the hell was Stitch thinking????
Everyone's really afraid of Finish It Monday. Although if I were working, I'd likely be absent too.
Let's go, chickens!
Well, mid-game poll: how's the short thing working for those unentered? Would you be more likely to enter if I extended the deadline?
Beuller?
Having a great time with the entries so far.
Okay, how about this, I just thought of this. If you don't think you're gonna write something, just come up with something for what the monkeys wrote.
Love the brevity.
Suddenly, outside the reinforced glass of the control room... a pounding sound.
“It’s the Boss!” The door swung open and in walked a man with rugged good looks and a disarming smile. A red bandana tied snugly around his head complemented the white t-shirt and jeans to complete an image of a humble, hard working American.
“Mind if I take a look?”, he asked in a chummy voice that Morgenson found comforting. Stitch was clearly unimpressed however. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath and handed over the top page. It read:
"You can’t start a fire without a spark.
This gun’s for hire
Even if we’re just dancing in the dark."
"Brilliant", announced Bruce Springsteen. "Worth every last monkey."
Love the short endings, love all the endings written so far. I'm not sure if I'll have an input this week but I like the Tuesday 9pm cut off anyway, it doesn't feel like it's lingering unfinished under a sea of posts that way.
Given the numerous English majors and authors present on this site I can say for certain that I will not be participating. I can write a hell of an initial evaluation but creativity is one of my many missing talents. I love what you guys are doing though!
Suddenly, outside the reinforced glass of the control room...
a voice cried out in jubilation. "I knew it! I knew the little bastards could do it, pay up."
Morgenson peered through the window, or what used to be a window. The glass had disappeared, and as he watched, the frame of the window slowly...faded. It was if an eraser was simply, wiping it away.
As the floor and the monkeys winked out of existence, two men stood in the...emptiness? He didn't know what to call it, but there they were, two men framed against...blackness.
"I can't believe it. The complete works of Shakespeare. Come on, what were the chances?" said the man in jeans. He seemed to glow as he spoke, and turned to Morgenson. "Well, that's that. Sorry about the end of the world, but seriously, I thought this was an old wives tale."
"End of the world?!" said Morgenson, "What are you talking about, and where are we?" His voice was panicked as he realized it was just he and the men, surrounded by darkness.
"Yep. End of the world." said the second man smugly. "The old man bet me a million monkeys couldn't replicate the works of Shakespeare. I win, he loses. So you lose too."
The weight of the implication hit Morgenson as he began to fade. "So your...God?" he whispered. "And you bet our world on a wives tale?"
"Sorry," said the man in jeans as Morgenson winked out, "but I really didn't see this one coming."
Damn! I didn't edit this before I posted it, and I used your instead of you're...I'm an idiot.
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