Fortnightly Writing Competition - Suddenly: Reality (RESULTS)

[Sinitrena]

How did this shovel fit in the pants of this adventure game character?
Why does nobody ever question the child detectives when they look at a crime scene? And why do all these crimes happen when they are in the vicinity, again?

In most stories there's one point where the story would probably happen differently if the characters lived in the real world. As a reader you would probably shrug and read on and not really care, because we expect to a certain degree that things happen differently in a story. That's just the way it is. A character in a story doesn't wonder about these things, because for him, this is reality. The child detective doesn't expect to get stopped or questioned, the adventurer knows that he can everything he wants and no-one notices or even arrests him for theft, for example.

Of course, there are stories that point these things out on a regular basis, and others that try to stay as close to reality as possible. I ask for something different: Write a story where a character's conceptions about his world suddenly stop to be true and our reality inserts itself in the story. This can go from a character that gets simply confused because his world has gone crazy to the character actually realizing that he his in a story and him questioning the author. (A short example, because I'm not entirely sure I made this clear: The adventure game charatcer has always put heavy equipment in his pockets and nobody batted an eye. He tries this again, but his friend points out that it shouldn't be possible to do something like that. The main character suddenly can't do it any more. He starts to question what has happened in the past and now and comes to the conclusion that he must be going crazy.)

For some reason this topic sounded easier before I typed it. But I'm sure you all will come up with some creative ideas and some great stories.
You have time untill the 5th october.

[Baron]

I ask for something different: Write a story where a character's conceptions about his world suddenly stop to be true and our reality inserts itself in the story.

Hmmmm.....  This topic promises to put characters into either humorous or outright embarrassing situations.  Count me in!

[Ponch]

Just woke up from a sound sleep with inspiration on the brain. Jotting down notes now. hope to have a proper story by tomorrow night.

Where is everyone else? Come on, people! Let's get some stories in here before it's too late!

[LostTrainDude]

Argh, Lots of stuff to do! I hope to manage and hop in!

[CaptainD]

A story where Ponch realises that he is actually human not bovine... not that could be interesting.

[Ponch]

A story where Ponch realises that he is actually human not bovine... not that could be interesting.

Never!

The Interrogation
by Ponch

"I'm not tellin' you nothin', cop. I wasn't there and you don't have a single eye-witness who can put me at the scene."

Tony leaned back in the chair of the police station interrogation room, a cold sneer of contempt on his lips. He had been a criminal all his life, starting his career by stealing the other lunches of the other kids in first grade. There wasn't a cop in this city who could run the old "intimidation game" on him.

Silence hung in the air. A long moment passed.

"So are we done here or what, cop?"

Across the table, the beady little eyes of the detective stared at Tony.

More silence.

"What? You think the silent treatment is gonna work on me? I've been doing this longer than you, flatfoot."

Silence. Tony shifted slightly in his seat. What the hell was it about this cop? He was really getting under Tony's skin. There was something different about him, but Tony couldn't put his finger on it.

On the far edge of the table, next to the recording device, the detective continued to stare at him in silence. His tie was knotted loosely and hung sloppily around his scruffy neck. A battered fedora perched crookedly atop his head, one ear poking out. He never broke eye contact with Tony

"Hey! Screw you, cop! Go try to pull this shit on somebody else, okay?"

The cop yawned and laid his head down to rest on the cool surface of the table he sat upon. Still he refused to break eye contact. He just sat. And waited.

A bead of sweat rolled down the back of Tony's neck.

"Come on, man! Who you gonna believe? Me? Or that homeless guy who beat himself half to death right before you guys arrived? That guy is crazy!"

The detective rolled over on his side, revealing his leather shoulder holster.

"Stop tryin' to intimidate me, pig! We both know you ain't gonna lay a finger on me!"

Suddenly teeth were bared. Eyes locked. A low growl. Tony finally understood that this cop meant business.

"All right! Fine! Fine! It was me! I did it!"

The detective sprang to his feet, trotting lightly in place. His hat slipped off as he chased his tail under the light of bright overhead lamp.

The District Attorney and the Police Captain burst into the room. The detective ran to the edge of the table and the captain bent down to scratch him behind the ears.

"By God, Puddles, you are the best damn detective this city has ever had!" said the D.A. The detective licked his face and rolled over for a well-earned belly rub.

From inside his shoulder holster, a little vinyl squeaky toy fell out onto the table. It was shaped like an adorable little pork chop. Tony had a momentary instinct to make a grab for it. But he was beaten and he knew it. The thought passed as quickly as it had arrived.

The Captain placed the handcuffs on Tony while Detective Puddles humped the criminal's leg in victory. The D.A. looked on with an approving nod.

Tony looked down at the little welsh corgi with the sloppy tie and the thrusting pelvis and suddenly all the pieces fell into place.

"Wait just a minute!" exclaimed Tony. "Wait just a damn minute!"

A pair of burly officers hauled the struggling criminal towards the door. Why hadn't he realized this sooner?!

"I forgot to call my lawyer!!!"

"Too late now, Tony. You're going away for a long time. Isn't that right, Detective Puddles?"

Puddles peed on the leg of Tony's now empty chair. If this place wasn't his police station before, it certainly was now.

CASE CLOSED

[MiteWiseacreLives!]

Oh Wow. I think we just found the lost episode of "The Littlest Hobo"

[Ponch]

Sadly, I didn't discover The Littlest Hobo until I was forty years old and working on the MAGS version of what would become 2034 A.C. I gorged myself on Canadian culture, eh?

Thanks to YouTube, I'm now all caught up on that show (along with Danger Bay -- greatest TV theme song EVAR!!) and there's certainly nothing creepy about a middle aged man watching endless hours of children's programming. No sir!

Now where are those other entries! Nobody likes a default win!

[Baron]

HOSPITALITY

   Top Hat's brow creased in consternation at the sight of the rickety old hotel.  Dang the luck, he thought to himself, cursing not stopping at the fine establishment they'd past by the seaside earlier that day.  But here they'd landed, he and the missus, and there was nothing for it but to enquire about the rates.  He disdainfully brushed a bit of road dust from his fine apparel, offered his wife a supporting arm, and then entered through the rickety door beneath the hotel's peeling sign: The Mediterranean.
   A worn Old Boot of a man sat at what passed for a counter -really just a bit of plywood with a wilting flower in a jar for decoration.  The Old Boot was intent on sorting out his small change, amongst various other pocket treasures like broken buttons and the occasional bit of lint.  He was utterly unaware that some customers were waiting in front of him.
   Top Hat grimaced.  He glared.  He coughed with mock politeness, and then glanced around.  Shouldn't there be a bell on the counter, or on the door by chance?  He reached back to shut the front door again, louder this time, only the door fell off its hinges and crashed to the floor.  Mortified, Top Hat turned back to the Old Boot at the counter.  At least he finally had his attention.
   â€œGood Sir,” Top Hat began, “My wife and I are here to enquire-”
   â€œWife?” the Old Boot asked, bemused.
   â€œYes... my wife.  We've just had a long journey and-”
   â€œLooks more like an upside down bucket,” the Old Boot remarked.
   â€œNow see here!  She's a thimble!  A sturdy symbol of feminine industry if ever there was one.  Now I won't stand for this degree of ill treatment at-”
   â€œCourse I'll have to charge both of you,” the Old Boot went on.  “Rules.”  He played that last bit like a trump card.  The Old Boot sank down to rummage under the counter for something to the sound of crinkling paper.
   Top Hat swallowed his pride and began afresh.  “Now, do you have WiFi?”
   The Old Boot rose enough to cock an eyebrow over the counter.  “Why what?”
   â€œOr a gym, by chance?”
   â€œThere ain't no Jim stayin' here.  All's I've got is a Daryl and a Dwayne.”
   Top Hat shook with rage, but he forced himself to retain composure.  He mustn't sink to the level of his surroundings.  “Do you have a  pool?” he asked.
   The Old Boot stood up with a list of rates, blowing dust off the yellowing card stock.  Top Hat coughed in irritation.
   â€œConfound it, Sir!  I know a thing or two about running a hotel, as I own a string of them myself!  But I've never in my life seen the like of this despicable-”
   â€œThat'll be $1200,” Old Boot told him.
   â€œWhat!?!” Top Hat exclaimed, incredulous.  “For this... this dive?!?”
   â€œEach,” the Old Boot continued.
   â€œNever in my life!  I won't pay it, Sir!  Not a dime!  Not to be treated to this decayed squalor!  Not to be offended by every particle of my surroundings!  And certainly NOT to support any enterprise associated with you!  Why I have every inclination to take my custom elsewhere!  I mean it.  I-”
   The Old Boot just spit into an old spittoon in the corner.  “Rules.”
   A shudder of rancour quaked deep within Top Hat.  “Let me see those rates!” he seethed through gritted teeth.  He snatched the card before Old Boot could pull it away.  “Aha!” he shouted triumphantly.  “It says here that the rate is only $250!”
   â€œDo you have a reservation?” the Old Boot asked, unperturbed.
   â€œWhat the devil?  Reservation?  Of course not!  We have simply landed in this disreputable neighbourhood.  Do you think we'd intend to pitch up in a place like this! I-”
   â€œThese are reservation rates,” the Old Boot explained, snatching the card back.  They quickly disappeared beneath the counter once more.
   â€œNow see here!  I won't have it!  We're not staying here!  Good day, Sir!  Good day!”  He grabbed his wife around her pitted metallic mid-section and led her back out through the door.  There they encountered a young delivery boy.
   â€œChance card for the proprietor of this establishment!” the urchin cried, trying to hand the Top Hat the orange message. 
   â€œDo not think for a moment-” Top Hat began.  But then he had a sly thought.  There was every chance that he could deprive the Old Boot of some soft money here.  And if it were a liability, he could always just leave the bill on the doorstep.  “I mean, why thank you my good urchin.  Here,” he said, reaching into his wallet.  “Here's a nice crisp dollar as a tip.  Run along now, and don't spend it all in one place.”
   â€œA lousy buck?” the delivery boy sneered.  “I can't even buy a chocolate bar for that anymore.  Lousy cheepskate!”  He gave Top Hat a kick in the shin and then ran off.
   â€œLittle Bugger!” Top Hat fumed, hopping.  If he weren't so intent on getting back at the Old Boot, he'd be sure to set the police onto that young urchin.  But since he was currently committing mail fraud, a federal offence, he didn't want the police snooping around.  The boy could wait.
   Top Hat flipped over the orange card and read its contents.  Street repairs!  Top had grinned wickedly.  The Old Boot was going to be on the hook for a fortune!  He rubbed his hands together with glee, chuckling. 
   Then, it happened.  They were almost bowled over by a giant canine.  “What the deuce!?!” Top Hat exclaimed, but before he could exclaim any further the giant dog did a quarter turn to the left and lifted its right hind leg.  “Noooooo!” Top Hat shouted, but it was too late.  A blast of sweet hot dog urine knocked his wife over, beginning to fill her like a beer tap fills a pint cup.  He dove chivalrously to rescue her, but Top Hat fared no better.  Sopping wet and smelling faintly of musky Milkbone, they drew themselves to their feet. 
   No matter, Top Hat thought to himself.  We'll just find another hotel, and take a long shower.   He carefully left the orange card on the threshold of the Mediterranean, took his wife's arm, and began to limp proudly down the street. 
   They hadn't gone very far when they heard the shrill bleeting of a police siren.  The cop car jumped the curb ahead of them, blocking their path, and a big stern looking officer jumped out of the car.  “Had a complaint,” the officer said, “About a couple not paying their hotel bill.”
   Top Hat tried to explain.  “Now see here, officer.  Those rates were extortionate.  There's no law against-”
   â€œRules,” the officer said, holding up his hand.  In the other he held a small book, which he read from:  “You are obliged to pay rent to the owner of the property on which you land.”
   â€œBut.... But....” Top Hat began.
   â€œSo that's one count of rent evasion,” the cop began.   Then he looked down at his polished boot, onto which the sopping Top Hat was dripping.  “And one count of public urination....”
   â€œBut officer!” Top Hat protested.
     Then the boy jumped out of the squad car.  “That's him, officer!” the brat kid shouted.  “That's the one that owes all that money for the street repairs!”
   â€œMy suspension is shot from driving up and down this broken street,” the officer growled.  “That's it.  I'm hauling you in!”
   Oh, the indignity! Top Hat thought, as he and his wife were both stuffed bodily into the back of the squad car.  But still, it was only his pride that was wounded.  Sure, things looked bleak, but in the real world people who could afford Howitzers for lawyers didn't stay down for long.  You got to play the long game in this everyman-for-himself world.  Top Hat stared resolutely ahead, a grim look of determination chiseled onto his face.
   
   
   

[Sinitrena]

Two entries - finally. I was afraid this topic was too complicated.
There are still a few hours 'till the regular deadline, so you all still have time to write. (And LostTrainDude send me a PM with a question about the topic two days ago, a PM I failed to answer until just now, so I'll probably extend the deadline anyway, unless LostTrainDude posts that he's not going to enter)

[LostTrainDude]

As asked, here's the question I sent to Sinitrena:
Can I somehow "break the fourth wall" by writing the story of a character whose writer forgets to write something important about him or the world he lives in?
Just a simple example: a rockstar jumps on the stage at "the most important gig of his career" to find out that there are no fans at the venue.

Sinitrena then answered me that I could

Then, as I replied via PM, please don't extend the deadline just for me, I was late anyway! Don't worry about your "late" answer, there's no need!

If I manage, I'll try to come up with something in the next 12 hours. It could be a nice challenge
If I don't manage, well, I'll do it next time!

Thanks a million, anyway!

[Ponch]

You MUST enter a story, Dude. Otherwise, that third trophy (that Sinitrena has no doubt already hand-crafted for this competition) will go to waste!

[Sinitrena]

You MUST enter a story, Dude. Otherwise, that third trophy (that Sinitrena has no doubt already hand-crafted for this competition) will go to waste!

Trophy, what trophy??? I'm supposed to give out trophies No one told me that! Argh!!!
Just kidding, of course there will be trophies, although they are not drawn yet. Working on it.

I extend the deadline anyway, even though you don't ask for it. It might incite a few more people to enter. The more the merrier, right? (And I'm liing sick in bed - I need more stories ) Two more days.

[MiteWiseacreLives!]

Interesting tales guys
I find it intriguing that with one mention of the Littlest Hobo, Baron, is suddenly filled with inspiration...

[Baron]

I find it equally intriguing that with a mention of the Littlest Hobo, MiteWiseacreLives! is not.... 

[Ponch]

I find it intriguing that with one mention of the Littlest Hobo, Baron, is suddenly filled with inspiration...

At the mere mention of that dog, Baron was irresistibly pulled into doing a good deed. If Mite is also a true son of the north, he will too. (All those years of subliminal indoctrination messages embedded in the CBC's children's programming is impossible to resist!)

[MiteWiseacreLives!]

Upon the hallowed names of Casey and Finnegan,  I have been challenged

[MiteWiseacreLives!]

My Pearls Before Swine

    Joseph DeVache, always had a knack for spotting the fakes. Of course if he hadn't developed such a discerning set of senses he would have never managed to operate a storefront the last seventeen years, win nearly every client in town and provide a modest living for himself and his family. His Family, well it used to be a family. His wife of twenty-six years finally went good on her threats and left several years earlier, said she'd had enough of his obsession. It meant nothing to her that she could have the finest of his products for their own home or even for herself, although in the end she left with half the business' worth in dollars. She could not understand the fascination with procuring the best of the best. The children had grown and left home, they had no use for Joseph anymore either. Sure, the kids understood the commodity had great value but could never understand the way he lusted after It, their crowd wasn't into materialism, as if their Dad was some kind of vulgar Capitalist.
    “Perhaps they're the fakes, fake family of mine!” Joseph muttered out loud to himself in his bed. He had been up for hours, dwelling, fuming, his thoughts spun off into circles like this often during the course of ill meditation. It was earlier that day, back at the shop, that man, a peddler was what he really was, trying to pass that sub-standard refuse onto him.
    “You insult me! You think this establishment will display your dung next to the fine products I've spent years acquiring and guaranteeing quality for the people?”  Joseph recalled the encounter.
    “Dung?! There is nothing wrong at all with my stuff, it's recognized all over the Country! Listen, you can make a tidy profit if we work together. I need to sell and you need product,” to Joseph the low-life embarrassed himself.
    In short order he was literally throwing the man from his establishment. What the peddler was trying to sell was merely bootleg, even if he didn't know it. Far from the precious gems DeVache Limited had built its reputation upon. The look was all wrong, from the first glance Joseph could detect the lack of luster. Even the hue missed the mark, an average man wouldn't notice a difference in the colour but Joseph did so from the moment that fool carried those samples in the door. Variation in sheen and colour often meant contamination, unwanted minerals watering down the finer elements to a point of no value in the eyes of DeVache. So few truly understood how to perceive real value.
    ”Fools and Savages the lot of them!” He cried out at the twirling blades of his ceiling fan. Joseph knew that the ministry of his trade was lost on this generation. This town especially was uncultured and unworthy.  “I must take action, these people are not fit to bear the Least of my Finest,” his mind now reasoning with his heart. Much of the inventory in his store was already sold, merely sitting until the patrons could be bothered to collect it. It was as if the townspeople held his lot in contempt. Joseph could picture, in his mind, men with no concern as soon as arriving home scattering their purchases across the dirt.
    The snow squeaked under his boots as he crept under night to the rear of the store. Slipping the key into the lock he thought of his van parked behind his shoulder, hardly an appropriate vehicle for this payload but perhaps conspicuousness would be his ally tonight.  Carefully he placed each wrapped parcel into his Ford Aerostar, reflecting on the way he had seen a customer let their young boy fling their purchase about, as they proceeded with the mundane transaction. All the while, Joseph, holding himself back from reprimanding the youth.
It was all in. Joseph flipped on his high beams as he accelerated out of the merging lane and onto the highway. His tires spun. A patch of black-ice under the snow. “Drat!” he cursed himself. He had easily regained control of the mini-van but his rear-view mirror gave testimony to a witness. He slowly pulled over to the side of the road.
    “Hello Sir,” The Officer addressed him politely, “I noticed you having a little trouble back there. Have you had your winter tires mounted yet, Sir?”
    “Oh?” Joseph began to sweat, he was well aware of the newest by-law regarding all-season tires in late October. “I believe these tires are rated for all road conditions, Officer.”
    “Well that's not necessarily the case Sir, we often find..” Something caught his attention, was it the driver's fading complexion, Joseph's inability to make serious eye contact, the bead of sweat forming along his eyebrow? “Is there something in the back I should know about? Your vehicle smells really bad. Please open up the hatch, Sir.”
    “Smells Bad!? Does it Stink!? To you I'm sure, you Nimwit!! The Finest of the Fine, of course it would repulse the Dregs of Society!” Joseph gripped the steering wheel of his van fiercely, teeth bared in a violent sneer aimed at the bewildered Mountie.
    “Dear goodness, is that you Mr. DeVache? Are those sacks of manure in there?”
    “Hah! Only the blinded call it Manure. The Fuel of Life is what I call it! And if these swine don't see it that way too, I must take It and their paid money as well! Upon the vineyards of France and Italy I will place It!”
    “Well, you're a long drive from Barcelona and those tires don't cut it… and I'm not sure what you're doing is really theft, but I think we're gonna just leave the van here for now and you can come with me.”  Half of a smirk crept across the Officers face.
    With his chin held high, Joseph DeVache loosened his fingers from the wheel, unbuckled his seat-belt and stepped out of the Aerostar. He did not slouch, for Mr. DeVache was standing for the dignity of all Fertilizer Retailers, everywhere.

[Ponch]

Upon the hallowed names of Casey and Finnegan,  I have been challenged

The power of the littlest hobo compels you!

[LostTrainDude]

Yay, I did it! At least, I hope... I hope I followed the theme
Thanks again to both Sinitrena and Ponch for the support

A SIP OF LIMBO JUICE

    Jake was awake and laying in his bed.

    The rain was punching the windowpanes heavily as he was sure he could actually count each drop. He counted thousands and still couldn't put his mind to rest. The wind was howling through the window's old fixtures as the cold was bursting in like a tax collector on his bad day.
    Puffing, he jumped out of bed. His naked feet felt the cold floor and he trembled as the sensation ran immediately across his spine.
    It was a very dark and gloomy night, one suitable for serial killer scarecrows and lonely street wolves.
    There were no light sources in the room but his eyes were accostumed to the darkness, helped by a feeble light that came from somewhere outside.
    His hands began trembling. Was it the cold or not? He couldn't tell. He tried to stop them strangling them under the armpits, as a sudden anxiety was directing his breath like it was Harry Partch's Daphne of the Dunes.
    He went at the window and placed his forehead on the cold glass. Outside, everything was hidden by rain and fog. The room seemed to be lost in a nightmarish land where time and space had no actual meaning.
    He would have screamed, but he did not. A loud, long and dull sound echoed from who-knows-where and made the walls shake for seconds after. He was kind of losing it, at that point.
    That bastard chose to do something and he was locked in that room with no chance to escape.
   
    There was a telephone shaped device nailed to the wall, in a 40's fashion, yet it had just one button. He stared at it, shaking his head in denial. Then, in a short burst of anger, he went straight to it, picked up the phone and pushed the button.
    Long seconds of silence were followed by another, longer push of that button. A short feedback, like a radio transmission coming in anticipated a deep voice
    - What is it? – asked the voice, disturbed by fuzz.
    - How long will you keep me here, you freak?! What was that noise?! Where am I?! – cried Jake
    - You'll know when I will let you know – the voice was very self-confident and somehow arrogant.
    - You can't continue to keep me here, dammit!
    But then the transmission went off with another buzzy feedback sound. Jake hung up angrily and began walking up and down the small, cold and dark room. An undefined amount of time passed, yet nothing seemed to change by a tiny bit.

    Fear and anxiety, though, began to leave place for boredom. He went to open the fridge and took up a can of fresh Limbo Juice, then sit behind the empty desk near the window. He opened the drawer to take a typewriter and few sheets of paper and set everything up on the desk. He opened up the can, took a sip, then began hammering the typewriter's keys with his fingers. Pages and pages of childhood memories, wishes, fears, successes and failures were written in an unknown timespan.
    The pounding rain, then, became to sound more and more gently to Jake's ears. Almost like a lullaby, maybe, since he yawned for the first time in who-knows-how-much time. He collected the pages, sorted them, then took them with him to the bed. He tried reading some, but that darkness felt so comfortable then, that he fell asleep in no time, at peace.

    The door had no lock, yet it clicked and Jake woke up. A springy sun was entering the window. The pages he wrote were gone as was the gloom of that everlasting night. He found himself dressed in his favourite clothes, when he jumped out of bed to check outside the window. He recognized the road, the drugstore at the other side of the street, the bus stop and the people waiting there. He could now see all of those things that the rain and fog hid the night before.
    When he moved away from the window, the room felt smaller, emptier. No bed, no telephone, no fridge, no desk, no typewriter. There was only a sticky note on the door:

    "Sorry for the delay and thanks for staying all this time without disappearing!
    You may now enjoy the world I've just built as you remember it =)
                                                        - The Author"

    He woke up feeling like falling, after a dreamless sleep. He checked the nightstand clock. He was late for work, as usual.