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The Fortnightly Writing Competition is a friendly bit of wordsmithing that takes place over a period of two weeks. Write a short story based on the theme, share your thoughts with votes or feedback, and enjoy the creativity that this community can bring to bear when they put their minds to it. This fortnight's theme:

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Your writing mission, should you choose to accept it, is to write a max 600 word fragment of a bigger story (Title not included in word count). Your fragment should have no beginning and no end, but can certainly imply how these parts of the story pan out. What we want to see is some bit of the middle of a larger story, ideally the juicier or more thought provoking bits. The reader should NOT have a full grasp of exactly what is happening - that is part of the fun. Feel free to start and end mid-sentence!    See if you can suck someone into your story world without so much as an introduction or any serious world building. Be liberated by the fact that your cool story idea that probably wouldn't work can now see the light of day. Have fun, challenge norms, and let your muse run wi-

Contest deadline is April 31, 2025. I know, I know, it doesn't make sense, but neither will the entries, so just go with it. 

Good luck to all entrants!

Wow, that was a narrow victory! I can't help but feel that the 500 word category had a distinct advantage in this case, in that it was just easier to craft a more coherent story using more words. Having said that, thanks to everyone who voted for me!

I'll try to come up with another theme shortly.

[FEEDBACK]

So many stories! Good work, everyone. 

FEEDBACK

@RootBound

Spoiler

The plot for the vampire story was spot on. I think it would have been the perfect story at 60 words, but it just reads a little awkwardly, trying to cram in all the juicy details into 50.

The child abuse story was awesome, disturbing content aside. That last line was haunting. Bruised air? You sir, are a poet.

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@Mandle

Spoiler

The mixed-up bottles was amusing, if only because my own wife has done this. Twenty years of WHMIS training has left her undaunted - just put a label on it!

"Guarding Gay" had more twists and turns, including the doozy at the end. You crammed a lot of character development into just 200 words - this was by far your strongest story this time around, in my opinion.

"The Gatekeepers of Smoking" was shallower and more predictable.

"Backlot to the Future" - interesting.  Feels a bit like the Jetson's version of the year 1980, though. Time travel tourism in twenty years? I wonder if people will even be able to afford groceries in 20 years.

"Leaving Home" was more thought provoking. What does status mean when you are the only one left? All those retired hockey players are so buddy-buddy after punching the crap out of each other throughout their careers because only they "get" each other. Those winner-takes-it-all types are setting themselves on a lonely path.

"2:31:15" was clever - got my vote for the short category.

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@Stupot

Spoiler

"There's No Taste Like Home" - Whaaaaat?!?    You got me, Stupot. I thought for sure the cannibal was going to jump out and eat him. Nice twist.

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VOTES

Spoiler

It was a close call, but I vote RootBound (Lesion) for best overall. For category specific votes, I vote Stupot (No Taste Like Home) in the 500 word category, Mandle (Guarding Gay) in the 200 word category, and Mandle (2:31:15) for the 50 word category.

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[A Tragedy of Errors]

A Tragedy of Errors

Spoiler

Prospero opened the door to gaze out at the torrential rain, the bottle of milk sitting just out of reach. His heavy eyebrows drew down over his eyes like the thunderclouds hanging over the Earth. Some wizard should invent something to solve problems like this.

He slammed the door shut testily, for there would be no milk for his coffee this morning. The deliverum next to the door rattled, but no milk shot out from its magical horn. Anything non-living that landed on the front stoop should be transported into his foyer before it had a chance to get wrecked. Prospero kicked his invention, wondering what had gone wrong this time.

In the end, he decided today was not the day to care. He climbed the stairs in a cranky mood, passing Igor at the first landing. The servant proffered a tray with dark coffee and darker porridge.

"Master no like breakfast?" the hunchback asked.

"Not today," Prospero sighed, patting his servant on the shoulder. Igor was as dedicated as he was simple. There was no point in burdening such a fragile mind with his malaise.

On the next landing up there was a little sitting area where he usually took his breakfast. It was dangerous to open the curtain, he knew, especially when he was in a brooding mood. The little clockwork puppet he had invented to stop him from such foolishness sat in his little sconce, shaking his head sadly.

"You're not the boss of me," Prospero told him, reaching for the drawstring.

The curtains opened, revealing a portrait. A few of the candles around the shrine spluttered to life. There she was—Beatrice—the love of his life. How long ago had he lost her? He stared with sadness down the length of white beard that reached nearly to his knees.

The little clockwork puppet waved in alarm, causing Prospero to scoff at his efforts. He drew the curtain closed again, and continued his ascent.

He passed another landing, this one containing the temporum. The machine he had built to turn back time had never managed more than to make his fingernails grow in reverse—a rather painful experience. He kicked the machine in disgust, causing it to whimper.

He climbed higher and higher up the tower, passing projects and dreams as incomplete as he himself. The relentum that was supposed to slow things down, the ungravitum that was supposed to make things lighter, the oblivium that was supposed to erase painful memories ... He kicked each in turn, useless things.

He was useless. He had failed as a wizard, and he had failed as a man. Prospero reached the top of his tower, and for once he accomplished something of note. He flew.

There was a long moment of near silence in the tower as the failed inventions whirred and churned. And then the deliverum rattled to life and spit out a baby swaddled in a very large robe. Igor scratched his head and went to tend to it.

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[SINITRENA]

I hereby declare SINITRENA as the undisputed winner of this scrumptious competition! 

Feedback for Sinitrena:

Spoiler

This was a very poignant story that "grabs you in the feels," as the kids say. I really felt for Evelyn, trying to interpret the world through the eyes of a child. I'm reminded of the Great Vegetable Caper my friends and I pulled back when I was five, harvesting a bunch of vegetables from my mother's garden with the intention of selling them on the roadside. That ... did not end well. Evelyn's motivation was more noble than ours, her plan more thoughtful, which makes the calamity of the result even more tragic. I'm glad I was born before screens were ubiquitous: these days kids can get a warped sense of reality from them, and over-screened parents have less time and patience to deal with the consequences in their children. These screens are the cancer of our mental well-being, slowly rotting our greatest asset and turning it against us. 

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I don't know whether to declare Sinitrena the winner by default or just lock up the shop behind me. This spring has felt like the FWC has tanked hard. Do we need to reconsider our format in order to attract today's youth?  More slangy buzz words? Longer deadlines? More sex appeal? Shorter word limits? More screens?!? I don't know. I feel like we had a good thing going here, but the vitality is slowly dripping away. Anyone have any thoughts to share?

One more day, folks. I want stories to devour this weekend! Who's gonna cook up some competition for Sini?

I always consider this my home, though.

This reminds me of my dad's favourite line, whenever we kids would pester for him to buy us a snack on the road.

"We've got food at home!"

In light of the current theme and this being Mandle's writing home, it works.

Three more days, folks!  How many other chefs can we cram into this kitchen?

[The Fortnightly Writing Competition]

The Fortnightly Writing Competition: Started in 1987 by Philip J. Ponch on the old ARPANET, the FWC is a light-hearted writing competition based around a theme selected by the previous winner. Participants have two weeks to compose a short story of between 50 and 2000 words, and then we all vote and give feedback on the results. Any genre of entry is acceptable (ad copy, poetry, instruction manual - we've seen it all). In fact, those word limits are more what you might call guidelines...  The important thing is everyone gets to hone their writing skillz and enjoy a bit of amateur storytelling. 

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So who's ready to devour some good reads?  Our topic this fortnight is:

FOOD



Food is central to the human experience, which means I expect not to see a lot of ghost or rock stories this time around.   Food can be scarce or shared, tasty or vile, tempting or wholesome, distressing or comforting. Food runs through the heart of our societies, our family relationships, or daily grind. Food can sustain us and destroy us in equal measure - can you feel the dramatic tension yet?

Your mission, should you choose to accept it, is to write a short story through the vector of food. It can be a mystery, a comedy, a tragedy, a dramady, a romantasy, a poetry, a spelling bee, or even a wannabe.  It can be a dusting of cinnamon atop a frothy latte or a sixteen ounce sirloin with three helpings of mashed-potatoes. Extra points if there are food related puns.    Extra extra points if MrColossal shows up and provides another instalment of Rutabaga the Adventure Chef. 

Deadline for submissions is Friday March 21, 2025, 11:59 pm Hawaii Daylight Time. Usually we are open to extensions on a per-case basis, but I caution you that extra time in the oven is usually not a good idea when baking is involved. 

Good luck to all participants!

Aw, man! I was looking forward to reading a zany story about that Tyrannosaur wizard. 

I'll try to come up with another topic today.

[The Limbus]

I was inspired by Milkanannan's entry for the "Unexpected Shelter" edition, back in June 2022.


The Limbus

Spoiler

Tuesday?

I arrived. I'm a little foggy on the details, just like I am with the date. The last thing I remember is falling asleep watching TV after a long day at work. Did I just wake up here the next morning? Did I "get away from it all" and just blackout the intervening details? Have I suffered brain damage and this is all a fantasy? So many questions...

I am grateful for the journal that I found just inside the cave. Pages had been ripped out from near the front, but the first page remaining had a title "Tuesday?" scribbled at the top in a shaky hand. I don't think it's my journal, but as I say I'm a little foggy on the events of the recent past. At least through journaling I have a way of making sense of this new and wondrous place. 

I like it here - it is peaceful. The air is fresh and the view is spectacular. But where is here? To be sure, it is a campsite on a cliff's edge in the middle of a vast wilderness. The sun is setting and I am tired, so I just sit by the crackling fire. As I gaze into the flickering embers I wonder at the mysteries of life.

Wednesday?

It might not be Wednesday, but as yesterday was titled "Tuesday?" it makes sense to continue in the same vein.

Time here seems to be complicated as well as questionable.  I awoke at dawn, or so I supposed, to see the sunrise light up the sky like a birthday cake. Except I am certain that is the same direction I watched the sun set yesterday evening. As I stretch out my journaling, I realize that the sun seems to be neither rising nor setting, but rather forever suspended in exactly the same spot. Yes, I realize the sun is always in the same spot, relatively speaking, and that it must be the Earth that is frozen in place, although the physics of that make no sense either.

And that is not the only thing that makes no sense. There appears to be no path to this tiny plateau. The cliff below and the mountain above are sheer—how did I get here?!? I stare into the embers, looking for answers, only to realize that the fire burns and burns without ever consuming the logs. What is this place?

Perhaps there are answers in the cave? I explored the front of it, up to the point where it became too dark to navigate by anything but touch. I could find nothing inside but rock, although the deeper inside you go you can hear a sound very much like a large animal snoring. With no place to run and no place to hide, I am reluctant to explore further.

And so I while away the hours, legs dangling over the cliffside, enjoying the view.

Thursday?

I must have nodded off. Is it a different day, or just a couple hours later? I decide to make a map of the stars still visible atop the dome of the sky, in order to compare their positions later. The fact that the sun still hovers red at the horizon does not fill me with much optimism, but I am desperate for any kind of distraction.

It seems an exciting world beneath me, just waiting to be explored. There are mountains in the distance, lit up by the sun to glow enticingly on the horizon. It seems to be bright and cheerful there, unlike my plateau prison that is forever locked in a gloamy half-light. It would be nice to make a journey there, through the forest at my feet.

But journeys take time. Without the cave, what will I do if I need shelter if it rains? What will I do for food? What if there are wolves that can hunt me down if I leave my refuge?

These questions bring me to even more uncomfortable thoughts. If the sun never moves, will the weather ever change? I have been here for many days now, but have never once eaten—why am I not hungry? The plateau is safe from wolves, but what if the creature in the cave wakes up?

I decide I must find a way off the plateau at all costs.

Friday?

Thursday did not end well. I tried to scale the cliffs upwards, but got stuck maybe fifteen feet off the ground. My arms, weak from disuse, began to tremble and fail. I skidded down the cliff face, twisting my ankle and scraping the skin off one of my knees in the process. I feel defeated and helpless. This peaceful plateau is really a prison, and I am an inmate. Only a long rest by the eternal fire brought me any comfort.

I begin to contemplate getting down the cliff instead of climbing up. There are tall trees near the ledge—if I could jump and catch the top of one, perhaps it will break my fall? It would be risky. There are thin white rocks on the forest floor, indicating a sharp landing if I miss the trees. I squint into the gloomy shadows beneath the trees—are they white stones or are they bones? A shudder shakes my spine, despite the warmth of the fire.

There is an alternative—the cave. Perhaps there is a path through the darkness to the other side? It is a longshot, but desperation makes me bold. I could push farther into the darkness. But what of the beast that sleeps within?

The fire! Even the fiercest animal fears the flames. I grab an eternally burning branch and use it as a torch, plunging into the cavern. The noise of the animal snores echo like earthquakes through the stone, but I continue, deeper, into the void.

The cave grows smaller, and smaller. At first I crouch, and then I crawl, burning my hands as I cling tenaciously to my only weapon and source of light. The tunnel shrinks yet more, and I am reduced to ooching like a worm.

I find the end of the tunnel, just out of reach, for it is so small I would never fit. There is a mouse asleep on a pile of pine needles, happily dozing away. The shape of the tunnel is like a horn, amplifying its tiny little snores, shaking mountains out of mole hills. I laugh with a delusional giddiness as I consider just giving up then and there.

Saturday?

I've decided that I am in a kind of purgatory, trapped in a gilded cage. Will I while away the hours of eternity on this cursed plateau, the wondrous world always tantalisingly just beyond my grasp? Am I dead? The wound on my leg suggest not. Am I alive? The lack of food for a week suggests not. I am neither dead nor alive, then. I am in a state of ambiguous stasis. I am in limbo. I am going to go insane.

The trees below beckon to me. A short hop would surely prove deadly, but what if I fling myself from the plateau with all my might? Isn't that how one overcomes purgatory, through belief? I have to believe I can make it. It is the only way. But my ankle... will I be able to get enough of a run?

Sunday?

I prepare for my journey. I rip parts of clothing and pee on some of the kindling in the fire, using the cooled sticks and rags to fashion a kind of walking-splint for my injured foot. I practice jumping against the cliff, trying to build my confidence. I stare at the tree tops, envisaging how they would feel in my hands. I can do this. I will do this. To believe is to be able.

I rip these pages from the journal, as well as a few other ones to continue my story. The journal I tuck back just inside the cave for the next poor soul. On a whim I title the first remaining blank page "Monday?" I vacillate between taking or leaving the pen—did I bring it here with me from my former life, or was it already here? I can't remember, and decide that the past doesn't really matter. Taking the pen would be a sign of optimism; leaving it a gesture of generosity. Which one would benefit a lost soul more in the long run?

In the end, I let the pen decide. The rest of the story surely belongs to it.

[close]

I was sceptical of this topic, but I've spent some time perusing backgrounds and was surprised at the problem I faced - too many sources of inspiration! 

I think I've finally narrowed it down to two backgrounds. Likelihood of making the March 1 deadline: 75%.

[@Sinitrena]

Sorry for the delay in wrapping up the competition. Work and weather conspired against me.

@Sinitrena

Spoiler

I loved the juxtaposition of Helene's life vs. Helena's. The tragedy of the job offer being decided by such a thin margin related to wealth was poignant (especially, as Paul pointed out, that it seemed to be the wrong decision for all involved, including the business). In the end this is a woeful tale, for while it accurately depicts the struggle of the impoverished, it offers no hope whatsoever for the future. One can imagine Helene's own daughter jumping through the same fruitless hoops down the line as the cycle of poverty grinds down through the generations...

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@Mandle

Spoiler

Well, credit where credit is due: the beggar - apparently an ex-theology student - had the drive and motivation to teach himself welding and bomb fabrication. He slipped into a familiar pitfall of the poor, however: shooting his mouth off at a self-defeating moment. His failure is as tragic as his success would have been, so there really are no winners here. I suppose that's an indictment of how organized religions can prey on the vulnerable, but as pointed out by Sinitrena the story itself lacked a specific lens on poverty.

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By my count, Sinitrena wins the competition with two votes to one. Congratulations, Sini! I look forward to seeing a bit more effort invested in the choosing of a theme for the next fortnight. 

So...  We're a bit vote-poor at the moment. 

[Sinitrena]

The contest is now closed. It seems there is a paucity of entries this time around, but we'll have to make do. Maybe we could cut them with sawdust to stretch them further? Submitted for your readerly approval, our entrants this time around are:

Sinitrena with The Interview
Mandle with Don't Read This

Given that we only have two entries, voting will be straight forward. Anyone reading these words must vote for either Sinitrena or Mandle (but not both, and certainly not neither!). May the best entry win.

Voting closes at midnight HDT (UTC -9) Sunday February 9, 2025, with results to be announced at some point the next day.  Happy reading!

Tick tock, Mandle! I'm not above charging usurious interest rates to poor poets who need to borrow more time. 

I have an epic poem in the works.

Ah, the poet. Poorest of the starving artists. I'm sure this will fit the topic swimmingly. 

Oh you poor souls - only one week left!   

[Poverty]

Greetings fellow writers and wordsmiths. This fortnight we shall grapple with the topic of...

Poverty


Make of this topic what you will. It can be sad or hopeless, or comedic and senseless, or gruelling and inspirational. Acts of desperation, borne of poverty, make terrific dramatic fodder, resulting in triumph or tragedy. Will your daring MC beat the odds and escape the dire straits of their economic situation? Or will intergenerational trauma be passed down the ages indefinitely? Or will you take the high road, describing the nobility of the poor on their own terms, carving out a life using the only currency they have: honour, kindness, skill, cleverness, or sheer desperation?

Submissions are due Tuesday February 4, 2025, Hawaii Time. Do try to be timely, as extensions can be costly. 

Good luck to all participants!

So what you're pleading is ... no contest? 

Thanks for the kind feedback. I'll mull over ideas for the next round and try to have it up and running soon.