Fortnightly Writing Competition: The Narrator Is a Liar

[discordance]

Fortnightly Writing Competition

The rule is: The Unreliable Narrator!
It's pretty simple: The story should be told by a first-person narrator who cannot be entirely trusted. Maybe he's mentally unstable, maybe he's putting his own spin on things because of twisted rage. Whatever the case, the guy telling the story isn't telling the whole truth, and that should eventually become apparent to the reader.

Have fun, y'all!

[ShiverMeSideways]

Question: does this count?

   â€œHey, Mr. Guitar, you ready for the stadium?” I heard our manager, Jimmy Z. say.
   â€œMister Z., the stadium was built ready for me!” I replied.
   The Martian Planetary Stadium was built to hold about one million hooting, cheering, and, more or less, drunk fans.
   We had rehearsed this show for months and we had quite an astonishing production prepared.
However, I still retained a wonky feeling in my gut.  It wasn’t stage fright, because in order to truly connect with the audience, all rock musicians had to have an equal or larger amount of alcoholic beverages brewing in their stomachs. So that had taken care of anything my gut had to say on the matter. It was like my sense of reality was fractured, like something, somewhere, lying in each and every molecule there was an atom that just wasn’t right…
   I quickly picked up a piece of paper and wrote down “Fractured Reality” as a possibly new song idea, after which I leapt onto the stage.

   While in the middle of our biggest hit, “Death Cries in D Minor”, the sound completely cut off (right before my solo, too!). We remained standing (or in the case of the drummer, sitting) there, bewildered and bemused while the fans were too busy with their jumping and slamming about to even notice any of this.
   A loud hissing noise then came through the PA system which provoked the audience into furthering their actions amongst themselves blissfully unaware of the non-musical (although some people do call noise music) happenings taking place.
   A deep voice with a cheesy 90s American burnout teenager’s accent proceeded to speak through our PA:
   â€œHey, man, wicked sick, it’s them! Dudes, like, are you guys the mega kill band Doomsdaydeth?”
   Ian, our distinctly half-Scottish, half-English bass player replied:
   â€œAye, that be us… However, might I enquire as to who ye are and what the nature of your intentions with our sound system is?”
   â€œI’m Zifil, and I’m from, like, the planet Xanath. You guys, like, have an awesome gig there now!”
   I quietly gave Jimmy Z. a distinctly “What the fuck?” look to which he replied through his eyes: “I thought it was in Europe”. The voice continued:
   â€œRexig, call up the teleporter!”
   As my legs started to decompose and disappear into puffs of light and smoke, I pondered my current situation: we just played on the biggest human stadium ever built and we were about to play on an alien planet! The cool teleportation/kidnapping event was just another bonus! Bring it on!
   I quickly finished up decomposing and vanished. I then proceeded to have a vision: I was back at our rehearsal space from six years ago, when we were playing our first gigs. Ian was there… He looked terrified and he was shouting at me… I couldn’t tell what he was saying, because everything sounded muffled… He was also slapping me about the face in a sort of panicky fashion… It was a bit hazy, but I can’t really remember that particular moment ever taking place in real life…
   The vision quickly faded and I appeared just as our tough-as-nails drummer puking his Plutonian Smash Beers. Of course, the crowd of green-faced odd-shaped apparently rockers were cheering us on and thought it was the most awesome thing they’d ever seen at a show.
   Ian and I quickly got in tune while the drummer and the singer got in their respective places.
   We started playing the intro to “Megawatt Destruction” when a light fell from above onto my long-haired head and I blacked out. Future generations of probability teachers will tell their students about our concerts and will point out the fact that something, somewhere, will invariably fuck up something else, somewhere else.
   The first thing I saw when I woke up was Ian, back in our rehearsal space… He said:
   â€œOh my god, man… You blacked out after taking two hits of acid…”

Technically speaking, the narrator isn't telling the truth here, but if it's still too big a bend of the rules, I'll write something else and edit out this story .

[Atelier]

Nice theme, I'll edit this spot with my entry when inspiration strikes.

[discordance]

Question: does this count?

That absolutely counts. A narrator on acid is basically unreliable by definition. 

[kconan]

  After my meeting in London, I made what turned out to be a final visit to NFP headquarters in Italy to meet with the Chief of Intelligence.  "How was the trip?" Aldo inquired with a pleasant smile on his face.  "Fine," I replied.  "Just fine."  "So...What are they planning?" asked Aldo from almost the edge of his seat.  "It appears that they want to take Sicely and Italian Libya, and use both as a base of operations for the Mainland." I answered.  He recoiled in horror and exclaimed, "That goes against all of our intelligence!  Why would they do this?"  My face was emotionless as I detailed exactly how this was partly a strategic move designed to distract and confuse an enemy, and I immediately followed the lesson by turning my back to both look at Aldo's medals and swipe brow sweat.  The NFP chief quietly contemplated this while looking at the floor and then rambled to himself, "Confusione...Allied strategies this bold don't make sense...Strategia rischiosa...Why be risky at this stage?"  He then looked me in the eyes and asked, "Is this from the very top of Allied command?"  While looking into his eyes with confident body language I assured, "Yes.  There is no fixed timeline at this moment, but I'm in no doubt about their overall plans."  The NFP intelligence chief sighed, twirled his moustache, and sat down in a large office chair to think.

 I slowly paced around Aldo's elegantly decorated office while my main NFP contact mulled over the surprising news and occasionally rifled through various papers.  My eyes scanned the  walls, which were adorned mostly with works of art and photos of Aldo with key NFP party members.  The old Glisenti Model 1910 on his desk was probably a better paperweight than gun, but one could safely assume it was serviceable enough to fire in close quarters.  I was in the middle of studying a painting fittingly named "Il Duce" when he finally broke the silence by asking, "Who are your main contacts in SOE?".  I began listing names that he already knew, but was interrupted by Aldo who added with a raised voice, "and I don't mean London...Tell me who is based in the Alps!"

 The office has two exits:  One is a giant window with an overlong drop and the other is the hallway door which, though much closer to me, is now obstructed by another NFP officer named Piozzi (who unlike Aldo doesn't speak English).  I unsuccessfully attempted to unsling Piozzi's Beretta 38 submachine gun off his shoulder on the way out the door just as Aldo shouted "doppio agente!" at the top of his lungs.

 I bolted down the tall, narrow corridor which both amplified and echoed the expected gunshots.

[monkey0506]

  It was a dark and stormy night as I stepped outside, wrapping my trench coat tightly around myself.
 "Good morning Steve!"
 The voice floated eerily across the flooded moat dug around the perimeter of my court. As I turned to see where the voice had come from I saw the sharp, piercing red eyes of the mad doctor. I quickened my pace as I pulled my jacket up over my face. He had seen me, but I could still make my escape.
 I threw the lever as I passed it, triggering the draw-bridge to lower. As it slowly clanked down into place, I leaped behind the wheel of my motor car and cranked the engine. Once on the open road I could travel at speeds in excess of 8 kilometres within the hour. The doctor had no hope of catching me then.
 The doctor had not always been a madman as it were. Indeed we had once been friends. We shared a passion for discovering new and exciting ways of seeing the world around us. In fact I had subjected myself to his experiments for a short duration.
 He would brew all manner of strange concoctions which I would then drink. He told me that it would benefit me to continue taking these "medications" on a regular schedule.
 Oh how I have longed that I had recognized his treachery sooner! Then these physical transformations which now plagued my wretched body might have been averted. Alas, regret can do nothing for me now.
 No, the only one who had given me hope was my new-found friend, whom I was traveling to visit with. This was the cause for my being out on such a dreary evening. Luckily the good doctor did not live far from my own abode.
 I call him "the good doctor" to distinguish him from my former friend. When we first met he had taken interest in my disfigurement. He assured me that through careful treatment and daily consultations, I could somehow be cured. The devious acts of my once-friend had made me an outcast from society. I rarely left my home except to visit the good doctor.
 As I came around the bend in the road I saw the house looming up on the hill, illuminated by a blinding flash of lightning. The lights in the study were on. The good doctor was no doubt already prepared for our meeting.
 Knock, knock, knock.
 "Ah, Steven, come in, come in," the good doctor greeted me warmly as he grasped me firmly by the hand.
 "Good evening Doctor Frank."
 "Eve-- Yes, well. Do come and take a seat, won't you?"
 As indicated I stepped into the good doctor's study where we always went for our discussions.
 "How are you feeling this, er, evening Steven? I trust you are well?"
 "Yes, thank you. I'm feeling quite well despite the weather."
 The good doctor glanced out the window with a puzzled look before turning back to look at me.
 "Have you been taking your medications as we discussed?"
 "No...you know that I don't trust them."
 "Steven, if you want to get better I need you to trust me. You do trust me, don't you?"
 "Of course! But..."
 "...but, if you don't take your medications Steven then I can't help you to get better. Do you understand that?"
 I pondered this quietly for a moment before responding, "...yes, I understand."
 "Very well. Now Steven, what I need for you to do is go and get your medications from Doctor Robertson, then return to your room."
 My spine tingled with a horrible feeling of dread. The man I had once called "the good doctor" was now telling me to return back to the very same madman who had destroyed my life! I ran to the door, but couldn't open it. It wasn't locked. As I looked down my fear completely overwhelmed me. Where had my arms gone?
 It was only then that I realized just how tight my trench coat was wrapped around me. I couldn't move at all! My heart was racing so fast I thought it would burst through my chest. The room started spinning around me as the lights dimmed. The last thing I recall is faintly hearing the doctor crying out...
 "Nurse! Come quickly, he's passing out again."

Influences: I Am the Cheese; Grey's Anatomy Season 6, Episode 3

[discordance]

Funny that you would be influenced by I Am The Cheese. So was I.  That and a great book called The Debt to Pleasure by John Lancastor. Both brilliant "unreliable narrator" stories.

[monkey0506]

I haven't read "the Cheese" in years, but it's such a good book it actually is one of my favorites.

[discordance]

Well, I've been counting on my fingers and I think it's been at least a fortnight. That means it's time to vote! Go.

[Atelier]

I didn't get any ideas for an entry so I'll make up for it by voting. I always try to follow the rules as close as I can which doesn't help me at all.

Right my vote goes to: Monkey! The writing really flows just like somebody's reading it. (Unlike Wind in the Willows. You cannot read that book out aloud, guaranteed. Especially the ham-and-pickle-and-jam sandwiches bit. But I'm straying again).

Ok well good luck to everybody else!

[kconan]

If I'm allowed to vote I would go for ShiverMeSideways, as “Death Cries in D Minor” had me chuckling for a while.

[SomeSickSelf]

You know, I had what I thought was a decent idea for this, but I never found the time to get it written.  Ah well, there's always next time.

Anyway I'd like to place a vote for monkey_05_06.

[xenophon]

I'm casting my vote for monkey_05_06. This story flows well & keeps the reader engaged. Well done!

[monkey0506]

Thanks to those who've voted for me. I'm actually pretty happy with it, and I like how the story actually evolved from my original idea. When I first read the theme of this round, the very first thing that came to mind was "...it was a dark and story night..." while really not being any of those things. And I just kinda ran from there.

Anyway if we're allowed to vote, and for the sake of not just voting for myself, I'd cast my vote to ShiverMeSideways as well. To me the story flows reasonably well and as discordance says, a narrator tripping on acid does fit the theme nicely.

[discordance]

After another long finger-counting session, I have determined that everyone's favorite QUANTUM-AVATAR'D MONKEY is the glorious winner! I'd make you a trophy but it would be crap, because I can't draw, so instead I'll just grin hugely: 

Anyway, congratulations, and the next one is all yours.

[monkey0506]

Hooray. I'll start the new competition as soon as I can come up with something.

[ShiverMeSideways]

Thanks, guys for the votes, and a big congratulations to monkey . To me, because nobody thought my story was incredibly crap, I count it as a win . See you next writing compo!