Tera Melos
Banned deucer.
I'm doing my best to keep up with this but a lot of IRL stuff has come up. If I don't submit don't assume it's because I forgot or didn't care. I'm dealing with a lot right now, thankfully nothing negative.
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Congrats to the winners of the 2023 Smog Awards!
First Official Cong Short Story Contest (Won by My Boss, Mr. Morningstar, waiting on name of submitter)
- Thread starter Martin
- Start date
I'm doing my best to keep up with this but a lot of IRL stuff has come up. If I don't submit don't assume it's because I forgot or didn't care. I'm dealing with a lot right now, thankfully nothing negative.
I’ll ask the other judges, but I believe it would be toeing the line between what should be allowed by eliminating some aspects of writing.
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It would be by technicality, but I'd heavily discourage it in large part because it relies on using the pre-established characters/personalities to put them in new situations rather than by building them and their stories from the ground up, meaning that anyone who hasn't seen/read the source material wouldn't be able to get much out of it.
Story finished. Just gotta see if I want to flesh anything out and of course edit it.
Writing on phone is not fun ;-;
zapzap29
The obssessive man of passion
Submitted. Had to turn in an abridged version since my short story ended up being not so short but it was a total blast to write again! Much love for the creators of the contest and to everyone else participating. If possible, I can't wait to read everyone else's work. Best of luck
Diophantine
Banned deucer.
Unfortunately uni work caught up with me :L was a shame - I had a plan made and everything, I just needed to actually write it
I'll be looking forward to the next one
Hello Everyone! First, I'd like to thank everyone for submitting to the contest, I highly enjoyed your stories. They were very well written, and I wouldn't be surprised to see some of you shine in areas the Flying Press, or doing something with it in real life! The ratings should be posted by one of us (Probably me or Martin) very soon, as we only have 2 more judges who need to lock in their ratings for one story each. Best of luck to everyone, and I hope you will all submit again in the future! I apologize for our lateness, but everyone is very busy, with it nearly being summer.
Happy Reading,
Magikingdra
Happy Reading,
Magikingdra
I was waiting for Seraph's Fire to give me the names of each person who subbed but he's not been on since Saturday so I'm just gonna post the results now; if you sent in the stories feel free to say so or otherwise I'll bump again when I get the names in.
Just as a reminder of how scoring worked, each judge read over the stories as many times as they deemed necessary and submitted a score out of 10. The overall score is determined by taking the mean of the four individual scores, and the winner is the story which has the highest overall score.
Before I announce the results, I'd just like to say that I'm really happy with the first iteration of this contest; I enjoyed reading the stories that were submitted, and I was very happy with the wider standard of the stories that were submitted. This probably doesn't show all that much in my ratings which are admittedly a little harsh by comparison to the other judges', but I really do mean it, and I hope that people are compelled to submit again in future contests! Without further ado, here are the results:
(I'm going to post the stories in a separate post because the character count of stories+ratings+other stuff exceeds the character limit)
Submission One: The Fail Up
Overall Rating: 7/10
Submission 2: A Fresh Start
624 Words
Overall Rating: 5.25/10
Submission 3: My Boss, Mr. Morningstar
Word Count 4986
Overall Rating: 7.875/10
Submission 4: Piercing the Veil
Word count: 1,830
Overall Rating: 7.25/10
And with that, the winner of the contest is My Boss, Mr. Morningstar. As soon as I find out who it was that submitted the story (and can get confirmation on it) I'll put in the request for the winner's banner. Thank you everyone who participated, and I look forward to the next one!
Just as a reminder of how scoring worked, each judge read over the stories as many times as they deemed necessary and submitted a score out of 10. The overall score is determined by taking the mean of the four individual scores, and the winner is the story which has the highest overall score.
Before I announce the results, I'd just like to say that I'm really happy with the first iteration of this contest; I enjoyed reading the stories that were submitted, and I was very happy with the wider standard of the stories that were submitted. This probably doesn't show all that much in my ratings which are admittedly a little harsh by comparison to the other judges', but I really do mean it, and I hope that people are compelled to submit again in future contests! Without further ado, here are the results:
(I'm going to post the stories in a separate post because the character count of stories+ratings+other stuff exceeds the character limit)
Submission One: The Fail Up
I rated this piece at a 7. While I did enjoy the story, I think that the writer’s clever name of the character combined with their tone definitely is appealing, and the allusion to “falling up” was very clever. In the end, the authors effort to seemingly just insert synonyms to improve their word choice and the first few paragraphs enjoyability took a toll on my initial rating. Good job, but that isn’t as good as I believe it could be.
At it's core, The Fail Up seems to be a critique on the corporate/societal structure and the amount of work that an individual needs to do to be personally successful. The story starts with the main character, Dexter Hexter, who is visiting a Chinese shop that is going out of business and apparently having one last liquidation sale. Here, Dexter finds a mysterious book that confronts him with his own failures in life and gives him the option to take the advice in the current chapter and give up on financial and status-based success but be happy and wanted by others or to skip ahead to another chapter and forfeit these gains in exchange for being a big-shot. Dexter is intrigued by the "click-bait" and skips ahead, where he is told that from this point on he will only "fail up." What follows next is a series of events in which Dexter stops trying at work and school but against all of his expectations he is met with praise and he climbs the status ladder. Climbing to CEO and earning multiple degrees from school without really doing anything to earn them, Dexter then decides to quit his job and follow his original dream of being a film maker. After some initial crazy success without putting his heart into his work, he finally decides to go all in and make the movie of his dreams... only to have it fail miserably in its reception. In the end, Dexter ends up with fame and praise for all of his apathetic actions but never receives happiness for the things he actually cares about.
The basic message that happiness isn't tied to corporate success and that success in such a world isn't correlated to effort isn't a new or novel one, but The Fail Up manages to display the message with great clarity within its plot. Fluff and fat are largely excised for the theme to really take precedence over anything else. The beginning of the story operates with some specific charms that make the hook more appetizing and as the main character goes higher into his cold life, the details themselves appropriately become more sparse and desolate as well. Thus the theme could be read either as a sedative message of "keep trying and eventually you'll find success and happiness" or the warning of "don't sell out your dreams." Again, these themes aren't anything new. On one hand I can see the argument that the sedative message ignores the complexities of real life and asks the reader to follow their plans despite not giving any true reason or motivation to do so once the mask of fictional narrative is stripped out. On the other hand, the story does seem powerful in its attempt to shake people off the path of a hollow life.
When it's all said and done, the basic plot structure of The Fail Up is something that I find compelling. It's not the fanciest story, it's not the story with the most depth, but it also isn't a story that tries to do too much and ends up failing as a result. I think the author could consider "showing" more and "telling" less, but the basic structure of including more thought provoking interactions in the beginning that fade out in the end is clearly an intentional device meant to mimic the main character's own headspace. I perhaps wouldn't mind the middle of the story being made messy with more emotional details before the headspace becomes entirely deadened. That said, the idea is there and it's executed fairly.
For a story largely about regrets, I will not regret giving this piece of writing 8 out of 10.
The basic message that happiness isn't tied to corporate success and that success in such a world isn't correlated to effort isn't a new or novel one, but The Fail Up manages to display the message with great clarity within its plot. Fluff and fat are largely excised for the theme to really take precedence over anything else. The beginning of the story operates with some specific charms that make the hook more appetizing and as the main character goes higher into his cold life, the details themselves appropriately become more sparse and desolate as well. Thus the theme could be read either as a sedative message of "keep trying and eventually you'll find success and happiness" or the warning of "don't sell out your dreams." Again, these themes aren't anything new. On one hand I can see the argument that the sedative message ignores the complexities of real life and asks the reader to follow their plans despite not giving any true reason or motivation to do so once the mask of fictional narrative is stripped out. On the other hand, the story does seem powerful in its attempt to shake people off the path of a hollow life.
When it's all said and done, the basic plot structure of The Fail Up is something that I find compelling. It's not the fanciest story, it's not the story with the most depth, but it also isn't a story that tries to do too much and ends up failing as a result. I think the author could consider "showing" more and "telling" less, but the basic structure of including more thought provoking interactions in the beginning that fade out in the end is clearly an intentional device meant to mimic the main character's own headspace. I perhaps wouldn't mind the middle of the story being made messy with more emotional details before the headspace becomes entirely deadened. That said, the idea is there and it's executed fairly.
For a story largely about regrets, I will not regret giving this piece of writing 8 out of 10.
7/10
I wouldn't say the concept is anything groundbreaking, but this was a fairly engaging read with good writing quality. There were some things that bothered me (pacing, POV shift, no tie-in to the beginning) but overall a pretty good submission.
I wouldn't say the concept is anything groundbreaking, but this was a fairly engaging read with good writing quality. There were some things that bothered me (pacing, POV shift, no tie-in to the beginning) but overall a pretty good submission.
6/10
Generally interesting concept, albeit rather common/not remotely groundbreaking. Painting money as something that doesn't equate to happiness is always fun, and the way that this really makes a point of it through a curse (the "hex" in Dexter Hexter) and then blowing it out of all proportion makes it that much more apparent. That said, there were exceptional issues here and there (don't really have a big effect on the overall quality of the story though) and it could have been written a little more engagingly than it was. All in all pretty decent; keep going at it and you'll only get better :thumbsup:
Generally interesting concept, albeit rather common/not remotely groundbreaking. Painting money as something that doesn't equate to happiness is always fun, and the way that this really makes a point of it through a curse (the "hex" in Dexter Hexter) and then blowing it out of all proportion makes it that much more apparent. That said, there were exceptional issues here and there (don't really have a big effect on the overall quality of the story though) and it could have been written a little more engagingly than it was. All in all pretty decent; keep going at it and you'll only get better :thumbsup:
Submission 2: A Fresh Start
624 Words
There isn’t much good to say about this one. Going in to it, I realized that the premise wouldn’t allow the piece to do well, due to the conventions of writing and the restrictions of the contest. The rest of the story only proceeded to back me up. I think that if the author had chosen a different topic to write on, their submission would’ve been rated higher. Therefore, I have to give this piece a 5. Nice try, I look forward to seeing your writing style in future contests.
Easily the shortest piece submitted, I am intrigued by A Fresh Start's simple structure that uses an absurd stance to counter perhaps an equally absurd but opposite reality. The story is a brief portrayal of a high school employee making a radical speech announcing that the mission statement has changed to include preparation for previously neglected aspects of life and that the curriculum was getting overhauled to prepare students for a life with drugs, alcohol, and sex.
The whole idea is carried through with such force that the writing becomes almost like comedy, with certain joke lines standing out such as: "You won’t believe this, but just this last year alone almost half the people in this school at some time or another showed up to class drunk and yelling something about lap dancing with 72 virgins. So, we figured we might as well make this new trend part of our official motto for the new school year." What is eerily successful about the writing is that while some exaggerations are made, when one steps back a bit some of the truths can be seen as well. What are the pressures of the current educational system? How are students dealing with critical life lessons outside of the classroom? Where is the room for fun, where is the room for dealing with aspects of life that are applauded as fun outside of school but shamed as unspeakable within the institution's walls?
What's also interesting about the piece of writing is that it's never explicitly spelled out. It operates both as comedy and as critique, which brings about an uncanny vibe. The author is simply writing about a scene with bare bones context and this seemingly leaves the reader to fill in the gaps and make decisions between two absurd worlds.
Critiques against the educational system are very well established historically and this piece of writing can easily fit inside that realm. I particularly enjoy how the piece can operate between too worlds and that it uses absurdity as a tool for genuine thought. I give this story 8 out of 10.
The whole idea is carried through with such force that the writing becomes almost like comedy, with certain joke lines standing out such as: "You won’t believe this, but just this last year alone almost half the people in this school at some time or another showed up to class drunk and yelling something about lap dancing with 72 virgins. So, we figured we might as well make this new trend part of our official motto for the new school year." What is eerily successful about the writing is that while some exaggerations are made, when one steps back a bit some of the truths can be seen as well. What are the pressures of the current educational system? How are students dealing with critical life lessons outside of the classroom? Where is the room for fun, where is the room for dealing with aspects of life that are applauded as fun outside of school but shamed as unspeakable within the institution's walls?
What's also interesting about the piece of writing is that it's never explicitly spelled out. It operates both as comedy and as critique, which brings about an uncanny vibe. The author is simply writing about a scene with bare bones context and this seemingly leaves the reader to fill in the gaps and make decisions between two absurd worlds.
Critiques against the educational system are very well established historically and this piece of writing can easily fit inside that realm. I particularly enjoy how the piece can operate between too worlds and that it uses absurdity as a tool for genuine thought. I give this story 8 out of 10.
5/10
I think this could be a promising start to some kind of satire/commentary on education or culture but in its current form nothing really happens.
I think this could be a promising start to some kind of satire/commentary on education or culture but in its current form nothing really happens.
3/10
I think that the concept and setup of this could've been good but that its execution just… isn't. It feels like it's trying too hard to be funny or absurd and the result is something which is just a bit crap.
I think that the concept and setup of this could've been good but that its execution just… isn't. It feels like it's trying too hard to be funny or absurd and the result is something which is just a bit crap.
Submission 3: My Boss, Mr. Morningstar
Word Count 4986
Very well written. I personally was raised religiously (although not in that exact "sect" of Christianity"), and see it's a metaphor for the bible. The writing style is great, and the author certainly knew what they were doing here. The characters are well developed and three-dimensional, and the author has good knowledge of writing conventions. The story functions very well, but if one wasn't brought up as a Christian, I think parts of the story may be lost on them. Other than that, minor conventions hold this piece back from getting a 10, so I believe this piece merits a 9. Great story!
My Boss, Mr. Morningstar tells the story of Dante Reyes, a recent addition to the world of Hell who becomes employed by the Devil, Mr. Morningstar, to send people astray on the path of sin. The author chooses to describe Hell as a paradise of ultimate freedom with one main catch; you might be free to do what you want, but you have no protections other than your own strength to prevent others from doing to you what they want.
Roughly halfway through the story, Mr. Morningstar visits God and wagers a bet that his new recruit Dante will be able to lead God's chosen devout, Beatrice Lee, astray from the holy path of a righteous life. God accepts the wager and soon Dante is given the task to complete. Initially hesitant, Dante only acquiesces after Mr. Morningstar threatens to torture Beatrice himself if he does not comply.
Dante accepts and ultimately finds and tries to seduce Beatrice, who is revealed to currently be a Pastor and was formerly Dante's best friend when they were only 10 years old. Eventually Beatrice figures out that Dante has become a demon and is trying to lead her astray and so she casts him out of her home. Afterwards, in some sort of oddly placed phenomenon, the ghost of Dante's father chastises Dante but then seems to have an appropriate father-son conversation in which Dante pouts about God letting his father die. Dante's father then accepts his son's choice to follow a different path and leaves. Meanwhile, up in heaven, God accepts the dual-reality of a universe with and a universe without the devil, ultimately marveling at his creation of a world with the choice of paths to follow.
While the story takes the time to develop characters and reasoning, the pacing at times seems a bit off. The basic story of temptations, devotion, and choices could be ripped out of the Bible itself but here as a work of fiction it doesn't really operate with the same level of moral magnitude. The idea of even having a choice seems to be the story's biggest point (and it's certainly a good point), but this point is convoluted within the plot as it bends between characters and ultimately doesn't resolve in any meaningful relationship.
As a piece of writing that tries to follow a standard narrative, the work struggles to develop meaningful relationships between people and downplays these individual relationships as methods of following the path of the devil or the path of God. While the emphasis of choice is certainly a commendable assertion by the author, the choices are reduced to completely binary terms and this makes me lose interest as a reader. Beatrice lives and embodies the role of the devout, Dante lives and embodies the demon (quite literally with demon wings, later discovered by Beatrice which allows her to out him). While it was interesting for Dante trying to lead Beatric astray to save her from even worse pain from the devil (perhaps the least binary aspect of the entire story), this part of the plot seems quite undeveloped and seems more of an excuse to let Dante interact with Beatrice rather than a point of inquiry itself.
Really, all of these problems might stem from the length limitation of the contest. The author seems very mechanically capable of writing but this story seems like a much longer piece that has been compressed and bound into something smaller than it should be. We can see the author's word count is barely under the limit, and I get the feeling that the author really wanted to write more but simply ran out of space. I feel a bit saddened at the personal level if this is indeed the case. Really I think the author's best option would have been to restructure the story for the length requirements provided and cut down on some of the descriptions and edited out some of the smaller scenes... This would allow space for more dynamic interplay between the layers of moral judgement (of Dante and Beatrice) to be more adequately sculpted. As it stands, two layers and the ability to choose only one don't allow me to really think critically about the issues at play within the plot. The author is clearly talented at stringing together sentences and paragraphs, but sadly with the word limit I think the most important thing was cut short; the theme, the message, the critical discourse that emerges in the reader's eyes after reading something new.
I really want to reiterate that I think the author is quite talented, but sadly the priorities of what was cut when writing to fit the word limit don't meet my personal priorities as I judge a work. As such, I will be giving the story 6 out of 10 but I completely want to see more from the author and I know he/she has a lot of potential : ) If I was allowed to give decimals I would probably want to score this a bit higher, but relative to the other stories, this is the ranking I decided.
Roughly halfway through the story, Mr. Morningstar visits God and wagers a bet that his new recruit Dante will be able to lead God's chosen devout, Beatrice Lee, astray from the holy path of a righteous life. God accepts the wager and soon Dante is given the task to complete. Initially hesitant, Dante only acquiesces after Mr. Morningstar threatens to torture Beatrice himself if he does not comply.
Dante accepts and ultimately finds and tries to seduce Beatrice, who is revealed to currently be a Pastor and was formerly Dante's best friend when they were only 10 years old. Eventually Beatrice figures out that Dante has become a demon and is trying to lead her astray and so she casts him out of her home. Afterwards, in some sort of oddly placed phenomenon, the ghost of Dante's father chastises Dante but then seems to have an appropriate father-son conversation in which Dante pouts about God letting his father die. Dante's father then accepts his son's choice to follow a different path and leaves. Meanwhile, up in heaven, God accepts the dual-reality of a universe with and a universe without the devil, ultimately marveling at his creation of a world with the choice of paths to follow.
While the story takes the time to develop characters and reasoning, the pacing at times seems a bit off. The basic story of temptations, devotion, and choices could be ripped out of the Bible itself but here as a work of fiction it doesn't really operate with the same level of moral magnitude. The idea of even having a choice seems to be the story's biggest point (and it's certainly a good point), but this point is convoluted within the plot as it bends between characters and ultimately doesn't resolve in any meaningful relationship.
As a piece of writing that tries to follow a standard narrative, the work struggles to develop meaningful relationships between people and downplays these individual relationships as methods of following the path of the devil or the path of God. While the emphasis of choice is certainly a commendable assertion by the author, the choices are reduced to completely binary terms and this makes me lose interest as a reader. Beatrice lives and embodies the role of the devout, Dante lives and embodies the demon (quite literally with demon wings, later discovered by Beatrice which allows her to out him). While it was interesting for Dante trying to lead Beatric astray to save her from even worse pain from the devil (perhaps the least binary aspect of the entire story), this part of the plot seems quite undeveloped and seems more of an excuse to let Dante interact with Beatrice rather than a point of inquiry itself.
Really, all of these problems might stem from the length limitation of the contest. The author seems very mechanically capable of writing but this story seems like a much longer piece that has been compressed and bound into something smaller than it should be. We can see the author's word count is barely under the limit, and I get the feeling that the author really wanted to write more but simply ran out of space. I feel a bit saddened at the personal level if this is indeed the case. Really I think the author's best option would have been to restructure the story for the length requirements provided and cut down on some of the descriptions and edited out some of the smaller scenes... This would allow space for more dynamic interplay between the layers of moral judgement (of Dante and Beatrice) to be more adequately sculpted. As it stands, two layers and the ability to choose only one don't allow me to really think critically about the issues at play within the plot. The author is clearly talented at stringing together sentences and paragraphs, but sadly with the word limit I think the most important thing was cut short; the theme, the message, the critical discourse that emerges in the reader's eyes after reading something new.
I really want to reiterate that I think the author is quite talented, but sadly the priorities of what was cut when writing to fit the word limit don't meet my personal priorities as I judge a work. As such, I will be giving the story 6 out of 10 but I completely want to see more from the author and I know he/she has a lot of potential : ) If I was allowed to give decimals I would probably want to score this a bit higher, but relative to the other stories, this is the ranking I decided.
Alright I hate giving non-integer ratings, but 8.5/10 feels right because I liked this one more than the one I gave an 8/10, but it's not quite at a 9/10 yet. The writing style is really nice and concept-wise I found it fairly interesting. Somehow, the ending is both satisfying and unsatisfying to me, I think the part with him and his father in particular could be improved. Final note is that I was not raised religious, not sure how that affects my reading / enjoyment of the piece.
8/10
I really enjoyed reading this; technically very sound, enjoyable and varied use of language, and an entertaining+well executed premise. There are a lot of little touches sprinkled through that just make this thoroughly enjoyable to read, and after about 4 reads I decided to settle on 8. Good work!
I really enjoyed reading this; technically very sound, enjoyable and varied use of language, and an entertaining+well executed premise. There are a lot of little touches sprinkled through that just make this thoroughly enjoyable to read, and after about 4 reads I decided to settle on 8. Good work!
Submission 4: Piercing the Veil
Word count: 1,830
Amazing job. I really didn't have high hopes for this story until the end, when it all came together. On my second reading of the story, I noticed the subtle touches, such as the name "Jericho", or the town's name "Kakuri". The story showed good knowledge of conventions as well, and was very enjoyable. That was a great one! The story wasn't perfect, or anywhere near what I think would merit a ten, so my rating for this piece is 9.
Piercing the Veil tells the story of a sudden crack in the wall surrounding the town of Kakuri. The police department and Senior Inspector Jericho are charged with investigating the crack but soon it is revealed that rather than doing anything about it or helping with any solution, their real task is simply to appear to the public to be doing something and hope that other town events happen soon to mask their own ineptitude. Throughout the story, references of past wall breaks in the village are made but apparently each time the wall was rebuilt in a sturdier material and order within the town was preserved. The wall itself and its shape and functions are purposely left cryptically under-described.
At first the story seems to be written as a critique of the police department's practice. However, as the story goes on, the vague qualities keep stacking up and the writing becomes more about people's relationship with the wall. Jericho recalls the former wall that he could only barely remember as a child but all other characters are almost described through the wall's presence rather than by their own independent actions. Not in an overt way, but instead rather innocuously, the wall becomes the main character, eventually usurping even Jericho.
In the end, Jericho gains some leading lines that make his status re-asserted, but soon even his lines yield to be just another reference to the wall-character as Jericho questions what lies beyond it (as if he was the first person in the town to even think such thoughts...). And then... the twist ending! The wall is revealed to be the "fourth-wall" and Jericho begins talking to the reader as the story ends.
Overall I find the premise of the story quite interesting. The way the author is able to mold the wall and make it into a character moreso than the humans interacting with it is very impressive and crucial to the story's success. However, in some ways I felt the final moments of the wall shattering to be just a tad underwhelming. We, as readers, are confronted with a word-strewn illustration of cracking, but I didn't quite feel like the fourth wall was actually broken insofar as everything still was quite contained together. I am reminded of Don Quixote very much, but part of the huge wall-breaking success with that work was that it came in two parts in which the second came after the first was published and literally incorporated what real life people said about the first into the world of the second (Don Quixote obviously had more page space to develop things as well). The author of this contest story certainly is doing many things right, but looking at other hugely successful wall-breaking stories could be helpful. We could potentially also take advantage of the fact that this is an online story and it might be fun to see the author play with some coded elements to break the wall even further... an animation of the last few lines that eventually cause a mimic screen-crack and audio to play... (would require viewer to click on a link that opens the last few lines as a gif or mp4 perhaps?) What if it could use html or javascript to code the reader's own username as who Jericho is talking to at the end? Overall the basic concept is quite rich with possibilities and I certainly appreciate the author's effort to tackle the subject.
I give this story a 7 out of 10 for creating the starts of a powerful wall-character and for initiating the fourth-wall conversation but with a little extra oomph the impact could be stronger.
At first the story seems to be written as a critique of the police department's practice. However, as the story goes on, the vague qualities keep stacking up and the writing becomes more about people's relationship with the wall. Jericho recalls the former wall that he could only barely remember as a child but all other characters are almost described through the wall's presence rather than by their own independent actions. Not in an overt way, but instead rather innocuously, the wall becomes the main character, eventually usurping even Jericho.
In the end, Jericho gains some leading lines that make his status re-asserted, but soon even his lines yield to be just another reference to the wall-character as Jericho questions what lies beyond it (as if he was the first person in the town to even think such thoughts...). And then... the twist ending! The wall is revealed to be the "fourth-wall" and Jericho begins talking to the reader as the story ends.
Overall I find the premise of the story quite interesting. The way the author is able to mold the wall and make it into a character moreso than the humans interacting with it is very impressive and crucial to the story's success. However, in some ways I felt the final moments of the wall shattering to be just a tad underwhelming. We, as readers, are confronted with a word-strewn illustration of cracking, but I didn't quite feel like the fourth wall was actually broken insofar as everything still was quite contained together. I am reminded of Don Quixote very much, but part of the huge wall-breaking success with that work was that it came in two parts in which the second came after the first was published and literally incorporated what real life people said about the first into the world of the second (Don Quixote obviously had more page space to develop things as well). The author of this contest story certainly is doing many things right, but looking at other hugely successful wall-breaking stories could be helpful. We could potentially also take advantage of the fact that this is an online story and it might be fun to see the author play with some coded elements to break the wall even further... an animation of the last few lines that eventually cause a mimic screen-crack and audio to play... (would require viewer to click on a link that opens the last few lines as a gif or mp4 perhaps?) What if it could use html or javascript to code the reader's own username as who Jericho is talking to at the end? Overall the basic concept is quite rich with possibilities and I certainly appreciate the author's effort to tackle the subject.
I give this story a 7 out of 10 for creating the starts of a powerful wall-character and for initiating the fourth-wall conversation but with a little extra oomph the impact could be stronger.
8/10
I enjoyed this, though I don't find fourth wall references very creative at this point. The ending feels rushed/unsatisfying, but other than that I enjoyed this a lot. Little touches like the name Jericho are nice as well.
I enjoyed this, though I don't find fourth wall references very creative at this point. The ending feels rushed/unsatisfying, but other than that I enjoyed this a lot. Little touches like the name Jericho are nice as well.
5/10
I'm trying to find the right words to express my thoughts on this, and if I had to pick any it'd be that it feels… too much like a story? Yeah, that's it. I understand that it's kinda the point—y'know, it's story about breaking the fourth wall which also breaks the fourth wall in a more in-your-face manner at multiple points—but it just falls flat a little in practice. It felt like it was forcing itself a little too much, its writing style felt very stereotyped etc. and the result was that I was just kinda dragged out of it; it couldn't immerse me like My Boss, Mr Morningstar and could, and it didn't manage to push its purpose as effectively as The Fail Up did. It's something that, given a little more refining/touching up/peer review etc., could very easily turn into something very good, but as it is now it's kinda underwhelming.
I'm trying to find the right words to express my thoughts on this, and if I had to pick any it'd be that it feels… too much like a story? Yeah, that's it. I understand that it's kinda the point—y'know, it's story about breaking the fourth wall which also breaks the fourth wall in a more in-your-face manner at multiple points—but it just falls flat a little in practice. It felt like it was forcing itself a little too much, its writing style felt very stereotyped etc. and the result was that I was just kinda dragged out of it; it couldn't immerse me like My Boss, Mr Morningstar and could, and it didn't manage to push its purpose as effectively as The Fail Up did. It's something that, given a little more refining/touching up/peer review etc., could very easily turn into something very good, but as it is now it's kinda underwhelming.
And with that, the winner of the contest is My Boss, Mr. Morningstar. As soon as I find out who it was that submitted the story (and can get confirmation on it) I'll put in the request for the winner's banner. Thank you everyone who participated, and I look forward to the next one!
Last edited:
If you want to read the stories that were submitted, you can do so here:
Submission One:
Word count: 2270
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Submission 2:
624 Words
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Submission 3:
Word Count 4986
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Submission 4:
Word count: 1,830
Submission One:
Word count: 2270
The Fail Up
Dexter Hexter knew that he could never do anything right. That's what really ate at him about the book in his hands. It seemed almost as if it was written for his very specific plight. He had heard that any bit of astrology could be written vaguely enough to appeal to any given reader, but he wasn't sure if that applied to self-help books. He was especially unsure if this applied to cursed self-help books found buried under cement in the foundation of currently liquidating Chinese esoterism shops. But he knew for sure there was a strangely foreboding feeling he felt as started reading from the middle of the book, settling on some arbitrary chapter, "Advice For the Persistent Failure".
"Are you somebody who, no matter how hard you try, can never seem to do anything right?" Dexter Hexter nodded, which was the wrong thing to do, seeing as a book has no cognizance of whether or not its reader is following along. "You try your hardest at work, but you inevitably screw up." He had been fired from enough jobs that there should probably be a type of government aid for it. "It's not that you don't care about your work ethic, as so many do. But every little setback embarasses you. You thought that at least by plugging at it long enough, you'd become a manager. You'd be miserable, but at least you'd be in a position suited to someone who can't do anything right."
"And it was always like this. You could never please your parents. You could never please your teachers. You could never please your girlfriend." Ah, the book slipped up there. Dexter Hexter had never had a girlfriend.
At this point, Dexter Hexter knew the store's acting owner was growing impatient. After setting up signs announcing that everything is 10% off, he was disappointed when only one person had shown up. Perhaps he should just try to get rid of everything online like he first thought. But what really soured his day was digging up what he assumed to be his grandfather's savings and finding just a book. He had told his customer that it was cursed, as he knew he couldn't read it and wouldn't know better, but this dumpey little man was wasting his time pretending to peruse it anyway. "你会说普通话吗". The man only blinked at him, then went back to pretending to read.
"Perhaps you aren't bad at everything. You had dreams once. Your worldview sold you a future where anyone with talent could get what they want, and yet, it hasn't happened this way." If there was one thing Dexter Hexter thought he could do right, it would be to make movies. There were a few reasons for this. One was that he had seen thousands. And not just new ones, but even the old ones that everyone thinks are really boring. He thought that was really key to being a good filmmaker, understanding the qualities of what came before what comes now. He had spent countless hours writing essays in his head about how to frame the perfect shot, how to block a scene, how to write a compelling narrative. But film school was for a man who could get good grades, and independent work was for a man with money. Of course, Dexter Hexter had never so much as picked up a camera and tried to put something on the internet either. Truly, he just never had the opportunity to prove himself.
"Sometimes you wondered if you could get further in life without any morals." Dexter Hexter been taught that honesty and integrity were the most important things. And then he was taught that compliance to authority was the even more important thing. But he couldn't stand to trick shoppers into opening credit card accounts that would plunge them into debt. He couldn't cut corners and ignore standards just to give his employer 1% over the competition, who would be doing the same regardless. And every other job prospect in even the most basic professions seemed to involve either mandated lapses of conscience, or at best the need to look away and ignore. It's not that Dexter Hexter looked at others and felt good about being above them. He wished he wasn't like this.
"There are two pieces of advice this book can give you. The first is to give up. You will find happiness without money. You will find happiness without fame. And any inner kindness you possess will surely come to be appreciated by people close to you."
How could he ever do such a thing? He had such a clear vision of a future that was his to sculpt. He loved the idea of success. He loved the idea of ideas. He wanted to spend money lavishly on public eccentricities. He wanted his opinions to matter on twitter. He wanted to shape the story on and off-screen. It's an idea the world had sold him.
"Are you sure this advice isn't good enough? If you're certain that you have no interest in the values offered, then you must only skip ahead to chapter six. But in doing so, you will forfeit this chapter's advice forever."
What could that even mean? Dexter Hexter was now mildly annoyed and thought about chucking the book back into the shopkeeper's hands, or at least that's how he explained his brief hesitation. But words were words, and it couldn't hurt to just check. That is how all clickbait works.
"Your choice has been made. Worry no longer about your inadequacies. Success is now yours to fall into. You can only fail up."
That was the only thing written in the center of the page. Dexter Hexter was now fully angry, telling the man that he was in fact not interested in this book, but nothing in the establishment at all. He rushed out, barely registering the words of gratitude flung his direction.
He could barely sleep at night. 10 became 11 as he remembered his few childhood friends. 11 became 12 as he dwelled on his tense relationship with his family. 12 became 1 as he recalled the bullies he had told himself he was going to be more successful than. 1 became 2 as he wondered what at all he did in school. 2 became 3 knowing what he had done since. When 3 became 4, it was too late to take melatonin.
He froze awake, caught in the light from his window. He blamed his alarm for not going off. Couldn't shower today. Would have to grab some leftover bacon from the fridge and plan on going out to lunch, again. He rolled into work 30 minutes late, hoping not to be spotted. Ah, didn't work. "Smart thinking Dexter," his supervisor said with a smile. "We had a low call volume so far." Dexter Hexter hated sarcasm like that. He actually scowled before getting ahold of himself.
Was he still really so riled up? He had the usual stress headache as he put his headset on, prepared to sell at marked up prices something someone didn't need and wasn't calling for. Okay, just breathe, he thought to himself. And so he prepared his nicest voice and gave his first customer of the day a perfect greeting.
"What the fuck is your problem, you piece of shit?" was the reply. "Treat me that way when I'm a paying customer, that's what you get when you employ people with no education. I feel real sorry for you, having to work a minimum wage job."
This was a record for getting Dexter Hexter to snap this early in the day. He stammered, "I'll have you know, in my state, I make a whole two dollars more than the minimum wage. And, and I doubt someone with a college education would do any better putting up with people like you!"
The voice said, "I'm sorry..." as Dexter Hexter hung up on him. Would the customer complain? Were the odds high that this call would be pulled for review? It might not have made a difference. After making a renewed effort to be as kind as possible, if just to keep his miserable job, every single customer acted like he was the anti-Christ. And the call was pulled anyway. He was called into the general manager's office.
The general manager, two supervisors, and even human resources were there. They smiled as they offered Dexter Hexter to take a seat. They played the recording out loud, and after a few tense seconds, he just nervously whimpered, "I'll get my things..."
"Bravo, Dexter. This is exactly the sort of sound judgement we want to see out of all of our employees." The rest of the center heads nodded as Dexter Hexter only looked on in stunned confusion. "We think you really taught that guy a lesson. When he has to call in again, he's going to be much more appreciative of the service we have to offer. Frankly, this sort of pure inspiration is just what we've been wanting to develop in our training program."
Dexter Hexter couldn't handle this. He screamed, "Are you all fucking with me? Are you stupid!? Just fucking fire me and get it over with, I know I'm a shitty employee but I don't deserve this!"
His supervisor noted, "Not afraid to constructively criticize. This guy might have a future in upper management."
Somehow, he had managed to avoid firing. He slowly slid into a malaise, caring less and less about pleasing each rude customer, even as they eventually became more pleasant. He littered in the bathroom. He brewed new pots of coffee after 3 PM. He used his phone at his desk and made artwork consisting of customer's credit card numbers. After a month of frustration over not being fired, he finally just didn't show up to work. Didn't call in either. They had to call him to tell him he had been promoted.
Under his leadership, it wasn't uncommon for a call to be answered simply with, "Fuck you, do it yourself." Customer satisfaction skyrocketed from 80% to 82%, a very high number indeed. Pretty soon, the company policy was "The customer isn't always right". This was seen as being fairly weak until it was replaced with "The customer is wrong."
It took Dexter Hexter half a year to become a supervisor, and one year to become the general manager. When he was blowing off his duties, he used that time to blow off university courses for a business degree at his company's expense. He thought it was cheating to not attend classes, but trying to think about any of the coursework gave him a headache. And to much sadness, his college football career was shortly abandoned, as he was too fat and drunk to enjoy playing. He probably could have gone professional. But that isn't to say say Dexter Hexter didn't enjoy college. He certainly found enough people to reinforce his newly debaucherous behavior, lack of responsibility, and casual disregard for other people.
With several doctorates under his belt, Dexter Hexter triumphantly returned to work as the new CEO, whereupon he sold the company to a liquidation firm that promptly fired all workers. The writer doesn't even know if CEOs are allowed to do such a thing, but in Dexter Hexter's case, he's confident that all parties who could have held him accountable went along with it because they thought it was a good idea.
This is when Dexter Hexter's master plan came to fruition, thanks in no part due to his degree in film production. He began his own studio. The first film he financed was nine hours of an elderly person sleeping. In 40 years it would be voted into the Sight & Sound poll's top 10. With burgeoning independent credibility under his belt, he started a series of 20 films, each with bigger celebrity names than the last and with increasing stupidity. More explosions. More CGI. More sex. By the fifth movie, Benedict Cumberbatch just stood in the foreground to explain the plot.
But like many successful producers, there wasn't much involvement from him outside of his money for long. He was too busy surrounding himself with flunkeys, as well as building his harem of aspiring but not too talented actresses. Dexter Hexter didn't take advantage, he was actually a huge hit with the ladies. Sometimes he lasted in bed as long as 10 seconds. But like so many in Hollywood, he could never make a marriage work. He just didn't feel like treating women the way they seemed to want him to.
Perhaps this last detail is why he slipped back into an old depression. Did he have everything he ever wanted? Or wasn't there supposed to be a little more to it? Something he wanted to express? Did he really want to make movies just to live such an easy life? He felt strangely like he had something to prove.
A man on a mission, Dexter Hexter shelved the production of his company’s current film. He wanted to tell a simple story, a story about a man who desired more than to be a failure. He tried to recall all his old thoughts about the art of film. He tried to remember what classes he hadn't slept through. And for what failings he still had, he hired the best people in order to help him. It was an artful, heartful production. After editing it himself, he looked on the final product as a man who had finally found himself.
The critics hated it. It was the biggest box office failure ever. Someone had to break the news rather brusquely that it wasn't likely anyone would let Dexter Hexter make a movie ever again.
Somehow, Dexter Hexter had been given all the opportunity in the world, and it didn't matter one bit. Not long after he had rediscovered the one thing he wanted to do, it was taken from him. Well, there was nothing for him then. He put a gun in his mouth, carefully aimed for his brain, and pulled the trigger.
He woke up in a hospital bed surrounded by adoring faces. The media declared that it was the bravest thing any man had ever done, and a new surge of fans and attention meant that any old sins were forgiven. He could make any film he wanted, at least as long as he could describe to others what kind of film it was. Because he'd missed the parts of his brain that would kill him, and was merely paralyzed. For life. And Dexter Hexter knew that he could never do anything right ever again.
"Are you somebody who, no matter how hard you try, can never seem to do anything right?" Dexter Hexter nodded, which was the wrong thing to do, seeing as a book has no cognizance of whether or not its reader is following along. "You try your hardest at work, but you inevitably screw up." He had been fired from enough jobs that there should probably be a type of government aid for it. "It's not that you don't care about your work ethic, as so many do. But every little setback embarasses you. You thought that at least by plugging at it long enough, you'd become a manager. You'd be miserable, but at least you'd be in a position suited to someone who can't do anything right."
"And it was always like this. You could never please your parents. You could never please your teachers. You could never please your girlfriend." Ah, the book slipped up there. Dexter Hexter had never had a girlfriend.
At this point, Dexter Hexter knew the store's acting owner was growing impatient. After setting up signs announcing that everything is 10% off, he was disappointed when only one person had shown up. Perhaps he should just try to get rid of everything online like he first thought. But what really soured his day was digging up what he assumed to be his grandfather's savings and finding just a book. He had told his customer that it was cursed, as he knew he couldn't read it and wouldn't know better, but this dumpey little man was wasting his time pretending to peruse it anyway. "你会说普通话吗". The man only blinked at him, then went back to pretending to read.
"Perhaps you aren't bad at everything. You had dreams once. Your worldview sold you a future where anyone with talent could get what they want, and yet, it hasn't happened this way." If there was one thing Dexter Hexter thought he could do right, it would be to make movies. There were a few reasons for this. One was that he had seen thousands. And not just new ones, but even the old ones that everyone thinks are really boring. He thought that was really key to being a good filmmaker, understanding the qualities of what came before what comes now. He had spent countless hours writing essays in his head about how to frame the perfect shot, how to block a scene, how to write a compelling narrative. But film school was for a man who could get good grades, and independent work was for a man with money. Of course, Dexter Hexter had never so much as picked up a camera and tried to put something on the internet either. Truly, he just never had the opportunity to prove himself.
"Sometimes you wondered if you could get further in life without any morals." Dexter Hexter been taught that honesty and integrity were the most important things. And then he was taught that compliance to authority was the even more important thing. But he couldn't stand to trick shoppers into opening credit card accounts that would plunge them into debt. He couldn't cut corners and ignore standards just to give his employer 1% over the competition, who would be doing the same regardless. And every other job prospect in even the most basic professions seemed to involve either mandated lapses of conscience, or at best the need to look away and ignore. It's not that Dexter Hexter looked at others and felt good about being above them. He wished he wasn't like this.
"There are two pieces of advice this book can give you. The first is to give up. You will find happiness without money. You will find happiness without fame. And any inner kindness you possess will surely come to be appreciated by people close to you."
How could he ever do such a thing? He had such a clear vision of a future that was his to sculpt. He loved the idea of success. He loved the idea of ideas. He wanted to spend money lavishly on public eccentricities. He wanted his opinions to matter on twitter. He wanted to shape the story on and off-screen. It's an idea the world had sold him.
"Are you sure this advice isn't good enough? If you're certain that you have no interest in the values offered, then you must only skip ahead to chapter six. But in doing so, you will forfeit this chapter's advice forever."
What could that even mean? Dexter Hexter was now mildly annoyed and thought about chucking the book back into the shopkeeper's hands, or at least that's how he explained his brief hesitation. But words were words, and it couldn't hurt to just check. That is how all clickbait works.
"Your choice has been made. Worry no longer about your inadequacies. Success is now yours to fall into. You can only fail up."
That was the only thing written in the center of the page. Dexter Hexter was now fully angry, telling the man that he was in fact not interested in this book, but nothing in the establishment at all. He rushed out, barely registering the words of gratitude flung his direction.
He could barely sleep at night. 10 became 11 as he remembered his few childhood friends. 11 became 12 as he dwelled on his tense relationship with his family. 12 became 1 as he recalled the bullies he had told himself he was going to be more successful than. 1 became 2 as he wondered what at all he did in school. 2 became 3 knowing what he had done since. When 3 became 4, it was too late to take melatonin.
He froze awake, caught in the light from his window. He blamed his alarm for not going off. Couldn't shower today. Would have to grab some leftover bacon from the fridge and plan on going out to lunch, again. He rolled into work 30 minutes late, hoping not to be spotted. Ah, didn't work. "Smart thinking Dexter," his supervisor said with a smile. "We had a low call volume so far." Dexter Hexter hated sarcasm like that. He actually scowled before getting ahold of himself.
Was he still really so riled up? He had the usual stress headache as he put his headset on, prepared to sell at marked up prices something someone didn't need and wasn't calling for. Okay, just breathe, he thought to himself. And so he prepared his nicest voice and gave his first customer of the day a perfect greeting.
"What the fuck is your problem, you piece of shit?" was the reply. "Treat me that way when I'm a paying customer, that's what you get when you employ people with no education. I feel real sorry for you, having to work a minimum wage job."
This was a record for getting Dexter Hexter to snap this early in the day. He stammered, "I'll have you know, in my state, I make a whole two dollars more than the minimum wage. And, and I doubt someone with a college education would do any better putting up with people like you!"
The voice said, "I'm sorry..." as Dexter Hexter hung up on him. Would the customer complain? Were the odds high that this call would be pulled for review? It might not have made a difference. After making a renewed effort to be as kind as possible, if just to keep his miserable job, every single customer acted like he was the anti-Christ. And the call was pulled anyway. He was called into the general manager's office.
The general manager, two supervisors, and even human resources were there. They smiled as they offered Dexter Hexter to take a seat. They played the recording out loud, and after a few tense seconds, he just nervously whimpered, "I'll get my things..."
"Bravo, Dexter. This is exactly the sort of sound judgement we want to see out of all of our employees." The rest of the center heads nodded as Dexter Hexter only looked on in stunned confusion. "We think you really taught that guy a lesson. When he has to call in again, he's going to be much more appreciative of the service we have to offer. Frankly, this sort of pure inspiration is just what we've been wanting to develop in our training program."
Dexter Hexter couldn't handle this. He screamed, "Are you all fucking with me? Are you stupid!? Just fucking fire me and get it over with, I know I'm a shitty employee but I don't deserve this!"
His supervisor noted, "Not afraid to constructively criticize. This guy might have a future in upper management."
Somehow, he had managed to avoid firing. He slowly slid into a malaise, caring less and less about pleasing each rude customer, even as they eventually became more pleasant. He littered in the bathroom. He brewed new pots of coffee after 3 PM. He used his phone at his desk and made artwork consisting of customer's credit card numbers. After a month of frustration over not being fired, he finally just didn't show up to work. Didn't call in either. They had to call him to tell him he had been promoted.
Under his leadership, it wasn't uncommon for a call to be answered simply with, "Fuck you, do it yourself." Customer satisfaction skyrocketed from 80% to 82%, a very high number indeed. Pretty soon, the company policy was "The customer isn't always right". This was seen as being fairly weak until it was replaced with "The customer is wrong."
It took Dexter Hexter half a year to become a supervisor, and one year to become the general manager. When he was blowing off his duties, he used that time to blow off university courses for a business degree at his company's expense. He thought it was cheating to not attend classes, but trying to think about any of the coursework gave him a headache. And to much sadness, his college football career was shortly abandoned, as he was too fat and drunk to enjoy playing. He probably could have gone professional. But that isn't to say say Dexter Hexter didn't enjoy college. He certainly found enough people to reinforce his newly debaucherous behavior, lack of responsibility, and casual disregard for other people.
With several doctorates under his belt, Dexter Hexter triumphantly returned to work as the new CEO, whereupon he sold the company to a liquidation firm that promptly fired all workers. The writer doesn't even know if CEOs are allowed to do such a thing, but in Dexter Hexter's case, he's confident that all parties who could have held him accountable went along with it because they thought it was a good idea.
This is when Dexter Hexter's master plan came to fruition, thanks in no part due to his degree in film production. He began his own studio. The first film he financed was nine hours of an elderly person sleeping. In 40 years it would be voted into the Sight & Sound poll's top 10. With burgeoning independent credibility under his belt, he started a series of 20 films, each with bigger celebrity names than the last and with increasing stupidity. More explosions. More CGI. More sex. By the fifth movie, Benedict Cumberbatch just stood in the foreground to explain the plot.
But like many successful producers, there wasn't much involvement from him outside of his money for long. He was too busy surrounding himself with flunkeys, as well as building his harem of aspiring but not too talented actresses. Dexter Hexter didn't take advantage, he was actually a huge hit with the ladies. Sometimes he lasted in bed as long as 10 seconds. But like so many in Hollywood, he could never make a marriage work. He just didn't feel like treating women the way they seemed to want him to.
Perhaps this last detail is why he slipped back into an old depression. Did he have everything he ever wanted? Or wasn't there supposed to be a little more to it? Something he wanted to express? Did he really want to make movies just to live such an easy life? He felt strangely like he had something to prove.
A man on a mission, Dexter Hexter shelved the production of his company’s current film. He wanted to tell a simple story, a story about a man who desired more than to be a failure. He tried to recall all his old thoughts about the art of film. He tried to remember what classes he hadn't slept through. And for what failings he still had, he hired the best people in order to help him. It was an artful, heartful production. After editing it himself, he looked on the final product as a man who had finally found himself.
The critics hated it. It was the biggest box office failure ever. Someone had to break the news rather brusquely that it wasn't likely anyone would let Dexter Hexter make a movie ever again.
Somehow, Dexter Hexter had been given all the opportunity in the world, and it didn't matter one bit. Not long after he had rediscovered the one thing he wanted to do, it was taken from him. Well, there was nothing for him then. He put a gun in his mouth, carefully aimed for his brain, and pulled the trigger.
He woke up in a hospital bed surrounded by adoring faces. The media declared that it was the bravest thing any man had ever done, and a new surge of fans and attention meant that any old sins were forgiven. He could make any film he wanted, at least as long as he could describe to others what kind of film it was. Because he'd missed the parts of his brain that would kill him, and was merely paralyzed. For life. And Dexter Hexter knew that he could never do anything right ever again.
#
Submission 2:
624 Words
A FRESH START
I slowly stepped up to the podium, my heart pounding in my chest in anticipation. I had been selected to give a speech to the entire school on a momentous change in our school’s mission statement, which would drastically affect how our school approached education. The significance of the moment not escaping me, I grit my teeth and told myself I would not allow my nervousness to show. Taking slow breaths to steady my breathing, I adjusted the microphone.
“For as long as we can remember, the mission of this school has been ‘To provide all students with an exemplary college preparatory education so they can succeed in college, career, and life.’ Now, however, decades later, we believe this maxim is no longer accurate to describe the activities and desires of our students, whose complete satisfaction is our only concern.”
Glancing up briefly, I noticed the entire auditorium had lapsed into eager silence. I continued, “As this school’s goals wish to reflect contemporary teenage interests, we have decided to make a subtle change to our mission statement, which shall now be ‘To provide all students with an exemplary criminal preparatory education so they can succeed in alcohol, drugs, and sex.”
For a brief moment, the hall was filled with stunned silence. Then, as if the floodgates had been opened, a thousand cheers split the massive room. I was suddenly seized by a desire to cash in on this opportunity. “QUIET, GUYS!” I yelled into the microphone. “Remember that I’m the one standing up here because I’m a known expert in these fields—I’ve been getting drunk, smoking crack, and having unprotected sex since I was old enough to walk.” I continued once the commotion had died down. “Ahem, so yeah, this move comes after a realization that the demands we put on students to achieve excellent grades, no matter the cost to their sanity, character, exercise, or sleep schedules are so great that most students are turning to drugs and sex anyway under the strain. You won’t believe this, but just this last year alone almost half the people in this school at some time or another showed up to class drunk and yelling something about lap dancing with 72 virgins. So, we figured we might as well make this new trend part of our official motto for the new school year.”
With a triumphant smile, I stepped back and bowed as the crowd erupted into applause. I had just delivered my first speech in front of such a large audience—and it was clearly a rousing success, as I knew after one of my friends caught up with me in the hallway. “This is the first sound decision this school has made since they finally abolished forced student labor last year,” he grunted. “I mean, who gives a flying fuck about math and science, anyway? People are always telling me to follow my dreams. And there’s no higher calling than making a living as a constantly high, drunk stripper. At the very least,” he added, “I wouldn’t ever need to write a rough draft again—just have a rough shaft.”
Much later, as I sat sipping a martini in the president's office, she offered me a piece of invaluable insight as to how a flexible curriculum is the most important factor in a strong education. “After all,” she noted, “the Romans were obsessed with bread and circuses, and look how much they accomplished. If we refocus our goals along similar lines, I’m sure we’ll achieve comparable results. I’ve already instructed English teachers to make the critically acclaimed novel All Quiet on the Western Cunt required reading and PE teachers to replace the freshman four mile with a 5k beer run.”
“For as long as we can remember, the mission of this school has been ‘To provide all students with an exemplary college preparatory education so they can succeed in college, career, and life.’ Now, however, decades later, we believe this maxim is no longer accurate to describe the activities and desires of our students, whose complete satisfaction is our only concern.”
Glancing up briefly, I noticed the entire auditorium had lapsed into eager silence. I continued, “As this school’s goals wish to reflect contemporary teenage interests, we have decided to make a subtle change to our mission statement, which shall now be ‘To provide all students with an exemplary criminal preparatory education so they can succeed in alcohol, drugs, and sex.”
For a brief moment, the hall was filled with stunned silence. Then, as if the floodgates had been opened, a thousand cheers split the massive room. I was suddenly seized by a desire to cash in on this opportunity. “QUIET, GUYS!” I yelled into the microphone. “Remember that I’m the one standing up here because I’m a known expert in these fields—I’ve been getting drunk, smoking crack, and having unprotected sex since I was old enough to walk.” I continued once the commotion had died down. “Ahem, so yeah, this move comes after a realization that the demands we put on students to achieve excellent grades, no matter the cost to their sanity, character, exercise, or sleep schedules are so great that most students are turning to drugs and sex anyway under the strain. You won’t believe this, but just this last year alone almost half the people in this school at some time or another showed up to class drunk and yelling something about lap dancing with 72 virgins. So, we figured we might as well make this new trend part of our official motto for the new school year.”
With a triumphant smile, I stepped back and bowed as the crowd erupted into applause. I had just delivered my first speech in front of such a large audience—and it was clearly a rousing success, as I knew after one of my friends caught up with me in the hallway. “This is the first sound decision this school has made since they finally abolished forced student labor last year,” he grunted. “I mean, who gives a flying fuck about math and science, anyway? People are always telling me to follow my dreams. And there’s no higher calling than making a living as a constantly high, drunk stripper. At the very least,” he added, “I wouldn’t ever need to write a rough draft again—just have a rough shaft.”
Much later, as I sat sipping a martini in the president's office, she offered me a piece of invaluable insight as to how a flexible curriculum is the most important factor in a strong education. “After all,” she noted, “the Romans were obsessed with bread and circuses, and look how much they accomplished. If we refocus our goals along similar lines, I’m sure we’ll achieve comparable results. I’ve already instructed English teachers to make the critically acclaimed novel All Quiet on the Western Cunt required reading and PE teachers to replace the freshman four mile with a 5k beer run.”
#
Submission 3:
Word Count 4986
My Boss, Mr. Morningstar
In the beginning there was the Word. And the Word was with God and the Word was God. Besides the Word there was darkness and an absence. In the before time God gazed and gazed and grew bored of the void.
And so God spoke, "Let there be." God stretched a hand out over the unobservable and stirred. A spark blossomed and expanded outwards as the void burst and blurred. Particles bloomed into existence in a swirling singularity. Protons pliéd pliantly, neutrons nosedived neurotically, and the electrons exploded ecstatically. The noise of existence, the sound of a big bang. The Word became Song and at long last the void gazed back.
Even still, in the realm of possibilities and probabilities the entity could only observe one path of fate. No matter where the dust could fly pulled by deep gravitational wells, it only ever moved one way. God could feel the walls of reality trapping it inside the universe. Though it could see the dimensions beyond and around, God could not touch them.
In a waiting room unlike any other in the universe sat a salesman and a secretary. The room was well furnished and decorated. Nine chairs of red oak spiraled around the room. In the left most chair sat Dante Reyes, rather perplexed about how he came to be in this place
Dante patted his silk pants for his phone. They were empty. Unusual. He checked his breast pocket and found nothing but his Devil May Care pocket square. Dante turned his right wrist and was relieved to see that he still had his prized Omega watch. The hands had stopped at 12:23. The salesman tapped on the watch’s face with his finger. It ticked as the second hand began to turn to the left, moving backwards. He’d have to fix that later.
Dante scanned the room, his brow furrowed and his dark brown eyes clouded. No windows, no entrance, just himself and a rather svelte woman. She sat behind a granite countertop and underneath a marble archway. Engraved at the top were the words, “Abandon every hope, who enter here.”
“Bathsheba” was emblazoned in fine crimson letters across her golden name plate. Her blouse was unbuttoned and low cut. Bathsheba noticed Dante staring and smirked.
“Oh good. You’re awake. Hello Mr. Reyes, Mr. Morningstar will see you now.”
“Who?”
“Mr. Morningstar. He’ll be interviewing you today. It’s best not to keep him waiting.”
As if on cue, doors opened outward. Dante ran his fingers through his wavy waxed black hair. If this was an interview, then perhaps Mr. Morningstar would have the answers.
Or perhaps not. More questions arose as Dante caught his first glimpse of Morningstar. His golden hair seemed to radiate and his eyes were an impossible shade of sapphire. A confident grin was etched across his face, a singular perfect line on a pristine canvas.
“Hello, Dante. I’ve been waiting for you for quite some time! Why don’t you have a seat?”
Morningstar pulled his feet off his table and gestured to a spinning swivel chair. Dante sat down and felt the chair slide to a slow stop.
“Pleasure to meet you. Your secretary told me you’d be interviewing me today? I just have a few questions.”
“All in due time. Here, have a smoke.” Morningstar flicked a silver case open with his thumb and gave his guest a hand rolled cigarette.
“Don’t mind if I do.”
“By the way, do you remember how you got here?” The confident smile had a malicious edge to it.
“No, but I assume you’ll tell me soon enough.”
Morningstar reached over the table and snapped his fingers next to Dante’s cheek. A crimson flame materialized and ignited. Dante shrieked as the spark seared through his flesh. He could feel the fat bubbling as his tongue rendered and fused to the roof of his mouth.
Memories rose to the surface of his mind in clouds of smoke as the cigarette burned. Too many drinks at that party. Swerving through the streets at midnight. The truck. Gasoline everywhere. Agony as the flames enveloped him. The clocks strikes 12:23. The waiting room.
No more pain. Flesh whole and smooth. “What the hell was that?”
Morningstar smirked at Dante’s revelation. “What the hell indeed. Welcome home.”
“You’re a real piece of work my friend and that’s what I like about you. Let’s see here…”
Morningstar snapped his fingers. A manila file the size of an encyclopedia appeared out of thin air and dropped onto the table with a loud thunk. He thumbed through the folder as Dante looked on in horror. Dante was dumbstruck, his jaw ajar.
“Who gives a shit, though? You’re a guy after my own heart. You never cared about anyone but you. Decisions my friend, they define us, determine where we end up. We live and die by them. Even me.”
Morningstar snapped his fingers and a crystal tumbler filled with bourbon appeared on the table. “Jim Beam? I know it’s your favorite.”
Dante shotgunned the drink with fluid gulps. The glass refilled itself immediately. “So that’s it huh? I’m here to be tortured and punished by you for all eternity?”
Loud laughter erupted and filled the room. The devil wheezed and gasped for breath as he clutched his sides. “Punish? Torture you? No! What a total waste of a man of your talents. I’m offering you a job.”
Dante sat in stunned silence. He mulled over Morningstar’s words, contemplating his situation. He put his hand to his chin and said, “What could I possibly offer that you can’t do?”
Morningstar pressed his fingers together and leaned forward. “Powerful as I am, I am not omniscient or omnipotent. I can’t be everywhere at once. So for matters I can’t personally attend to, I have servants to do my bidding.”
“And if I refuse?”
“My boy, you’re free to do whatever you want. If you don’t want the position you can languish down here with the rest.”
“That’s it? There’s no strings attached?” Dante felt skeptical.
“What would I gain from that? I just want people to be truly free. To do anything and everything that they could ever want. There are no rules in Hell.” Morningstar stood up and spread his arms out like a symphony conductor.
Dante took a small sip of his bourbon. “Really? That doesn’t sound so bad.”
“Drink all you want, it’s not like you can die of alcohol poisoning down here. Fuck the cutest guys or girls you can lay your eyes hands and dick on and in. Punch a baby in the face for all I care. There are no consequences. I won’t stop you.”
Morningstar’s smile stretched from ear to ear. His eyes were cold and mirthless. “Of course, I won’t stop anyone from doing anything to you either. Like say, flaying you alive and salting you. Wait, you’re not alive. Flaying you undead?”
Dante felt cold. A chill ran down his spine. “What are you…”
“You’re not the only human down here. An entire eternity to try new things. Torture is the least of your concerns boy.”
“Do I get any leads or what?” Dante finished the glass of Jim Beam and watched it fill up again. “Damn that’s cool. Can I keep this?”
“No, but maybe you can earn it if you work hard enough.”
As Dante tempted and corrupted his assignments on Earth, Morningstar had other business to attend to. He put on his finest seraphic robe of purest white, a robe so brilliant as to be blinding. With a shake of his shoulders he extended his six wings. He waved his hand above his forehead, shaping the corrupted flame into the halo it had originally been.
When was it that he had last taken this form? Hundreds, no thousands of years ago. When he had made a little wager with papa, over his favorite human Job. “I’ve learned much since then. This time, I’ll beat him for sure.” Mused Morningstar.
Morningstar rose into the air as he flapped his wings with mighty force. The winds howled and tore a hole in the fabric of Hell’s dimensional wall. Morningstar ascended fast and high as he ripped through each plane of reality like a scissor slicing through a piece of tissue paper. He flew beyond the speed of light, a tachyon hurling through time and space.
And at the edge of existence, beyond the heat death of the universe, he alighted at the edge of the silver city. His feet felt cool on the golden roads. He took a deep breath, enjoying the crisp air of Heaven. The atmosphere felt lighter, less oppressive than his own domain.
Morningstar whistled The Devil Went Down to Georgia as he walked through heaven. He mimed playing a fiddle, waving his arms to and fro as he wiggled his fingers. Heaven itself was a peculiar place, unbound by the laws of time and space. Objects could be an inch or a million miles away, it made no difference. All was as its creator willed.
Suddenly, Morningstar found himself standing before God.
God greeted his creation with a cheerful grin. “Hello Lucifer, it’s good to see you. Have you returned to reclaim your place as the leader of my choir?”
Morningstar was rather taken aback. “Why do you always ask that papa? You already know the answer.”
God still smiled, though a rueful look crossed his face. “What father doesn’t wish for the return of his prodigal son? You’ll always be welcome should you choose to come home.”
Morningstar’s expression was impassive. Internally however, he was discontent and confused. “Illogical! Simply illogical! One with absolute power should use it to dominate lesser beings. Why doesn’t he understand that? This exercise in free will has gone on long enough. I’ll make him see the truth. When all of humanity has failed him, he’ll use his perfect power and make them love him again. As it should be.”
“Hmmm. Anyways papa, I’ve come to play a game with you.”
“Always so direct, relax! Enjoy what Heaven has to offer. I have some creations that I’d like you to see.”
God waved his hand and a moving image of a woman appeared beside Morningstar. She stood at a pulpit and preached.
“This is Beatrice Lee, a most faithful servant of mine. I’m very proud of her. She has few equals for she is true and good.”
“Is that so? She’s only virtuous because she’s never tasted real pleasure. Certainly she’d denounce you if she experienced the wonders of the flesh.”
Morningstar smirked confidently. “I too have a worthy servant, one who can lay her low. Behold, my underling Dante.”
Morningstar snapped his fingers. A moving image of Dante appeared. He was now dressed as a doctor. He was convincing a terminal young child to give in to despair. His words were honeyed and cunning, filled with false compassion.
God surveyed the scene with sadness. “Yes, I know Dante. His father was a faithful man. I pity him, had he overcome the loss of his parent than he would have gone on to great things. He gave in to his base and selfish desires. In so doing he lost the chance to reunite with the love of his life.”
God smiled once more. “I will place my faith in Beatrice. But gambles are no fun without prizes. If I win, I shall be taking Dante.”
Morningstar was stunned. He had not actually expected papa to play his game. “Haha, hahaha! It seems you have a sense of humor after all. Very well papa, I accept your bet. Let’s see who wins, my sinner or your saint.”
Dante had quickly run through the little black book and now he wanted more. One hundred names had been listed and he had set eighty five of those people on the path to Hell. The remaining fifteen had managed to elude his grasp.
Dante took out his cell phone and texted Bathsheba. “Pick up requested. Mission completed. Need to see Morningstar.”
The response was near instantaneous. “Stand by.”
The hospital waiting room vanished in a dark haze. Dante slipped through time and space and found himself in the waiting room once more. Dante struggled not to vomit. He placed his hands on his knees and took deep breaths, trying to reorient himself.
“Welcome back Mr. Reyes. How was your visit topside?” Bathsheba asked, drumming the granite countertop with her manicured fingers.
“Fun. You’re looking fine as ever. Is that a new perfume?”
The doors opened outward. Dante walked into Morningstar’s throne room. Morningstar sat on his throne with his legs crossed. He smoked a cigarette and exhaled little rings.
Morningstar put out the cigarette and walked over to Dante. He extended his hand out for a handshake and transitioned into a hug. “My man! I’ve been expecting you. Sit down, make yourself comfortable. Have a drink, a smoke, whatever you want.”
“So give me the rundown. How was your first month on the job?”
Dante took a seat and took a drag on his cigarette, that appeared in his mouth. “It was quite something. I demand more leads.”
The salesman took the black book out of his breast pocket and placed it onto the table.
Morningstar took the book and gave it a once over. The pages flipped fluidly through his fingers. “Eighty five percent closure?!? I was expecting a lot less. You’re a rockstar.”
Morningstar reached out with a closed fist. Dante grinned and bumped the fist. He swirled the alcohol around the tumbler before taking a sip. “So what else you got for me boss?”
Morningstar snapped his fingers. Dante felt his shoulders tingle and itch. He scratched his back and felt something unusual. Dante stood up and took his silk jacket off. Curved scarlet wings burst through the back of shirt.
“Whoa, what’s this?” Dante peered backwards, intrigued by his new appendages. He flapped his wings experimentally. The draft of wind generated from the wings lifted him up into the air a foot.
“You’re one of us now, a lesser demon. Think of it as a promotion for your success. Keep up the good work and you can become an archdemon.” Morningstar watched as Dante flew around the room.
Morningstar placed a red file on the desk. “This is a special assignment. She’s stumped our finest tempters until now. I think you’ve got what it takes to break this one.”
Dante opened the file. He let out a gasp as he saw the name. It couldn’t be. “Send someone else. I’ll do anything but this, please.”
Morningstar leaned forward, his entire being radiating murderous displeasure. “Are you disobeying me boy?”
Morningstar’s sadistic grin grew and grew, wider than any human’s possibly could. The smile split his face in two. He licked his lips. “Of course, if you won’t do it then I’ll have to. I’ll drag her down myself. And once she’s here, oh the fun we’ll have together. Maybe I’ll give her over to the Marquis de Sade. Better yet, I’ll make her my own personal plaything. What I do know is I’ll make you watch.”
Dante squirmed. He gripped the armrests hard.
Dante felt as if he was stuck between Scylla and Charybdis. It was truly an impossible choice. Even he had not fallen to this level of depravity. Morningstar howled with laughter. Such suffering gave him great joy. “Better think fast. Good luck on your assignment.”
“Wait, wait!”
Morningstar flipped off Dante and snapped his fingers.The throne room span and swirled around Dante’s field of vision as he was cast back to Earth. In the blink of an eye he was surrounded by people dressed in their Sunday best. Perplexed, Dante looked around frantically, trying to figure out where Morningstar had sent him.
A clear voice snapped Dante from his reverie. “Now let us rise for communion.”
Dante looked up and saw the source of the voice. Beatrice stood in front of the church. She held a metal platter of bread pieces in her dainty hands. Dante was dumbstruck. When he had last seen her she was a gawky child with gangly limbs and crooked brace covered teeth. Over the years she must have grown into her looks. Now she was tall and fair, with an air of grace about her.
Beatrice walked through the church, passing the bread to the members. Dante took a piece absentmindedly. He could not help but stare at Beatrice. Noticing the newcomer gazing at her, Beatrice smiled at him. He was filled with a longing he had long since forgotten. This desire was not lust, but something wholly different.
Beatrice raised her hands out over the people. “Go forth and may the blessing of God the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit be with you all. Amen.”
The crowd of people broke into several conversations. The members made small talk and snacked on crackers and cheese that had been prepared. Dante by himself in the corner. Beatrice waited at the exit of the church, greeting the people as they left. After what seemed like ages, only the salesman and the pastor remained in the church.
Dante shivered. This was something he hadn’t felt in ages. It was nervousness. He walked up to Beatrice. She smiled at him and tilted her head slightly to the side.
“You’re new here. I haven’t seen you around before. It’s good to have you here today. Welcome!”
“Ah yeah. Yeah. First time. Good sermon by the way.”
“Oh thank you, that’s very kind of you. I’m Beatrice, Beatrice Lee. I’m the head pastor here. What’s your name?”
“Dante. Dante Reyes.”
Beatrice’s eyes widened. “What a coincidence, I had a friend with the same name once.”
Dante couldn’t help but smile. “Good to see you too Bea. It’s been a while.”
Beatrice squealed. She wrapped her arms around Dante and squeezed gently. “Ohmygosh D, I haven’t seen you in forever!”
Dante returned her embrace, pressing his cheek against hers. Embarrassed, Beatrice let go and looked away.
Dante brushed his fingers through his hair. “It’s been what, sixteen, seventeen years?”
“Yeah not since we were ten. Since you moved away.”
“When my dad was in that accident…”
There was a moment of uncomfortable silence between the two.
“I’m sorry D, I didn’t mean to bring up a bad memory like that.” Beatrice put her hand on Dante’s shoulder.
Dante shrugged. “It’s ok. It’s in the past. I like to remember the other stuff instead. We used to have so much fun together!”
“Oh man, I remember.”
“Hehe. And we made that silly promise to get married when we grew up.”
Dante blushed. “Totally crazy.”
“Are you seeing anyone?” Beatrice enquired.
“No. Not at all. Hey, do you want to get dinner tomorrow? We can catch up on old times. It’ll be my treat.” Dante was torn. In his heart of hearts he longed for her to say yes, but for her sake he wished she’d refuse.
Beatrice looked away and looped her finger around a lock of her hair. Dante felt eons pass by in seconds as he agonized over her response. Finally, she looked at him and said, “Sure! It’s a date. Pick me up at 7.”
Dante didn’t know whether he felt relief or despair. Dante shuddered to think what that monster would do to Bea. “I have to. It’s the lesser of two evils. At least I can save her.” Filled with a desperate determination, Dante resolved to corrupt Beatrice. He would do whatever it took. In preparation for this arduous task he studied her file.
In the last seventeen years Beatrice had become quite an accomplished woman. At the age of twenty-one she had graduated Magna Cum Laude from Harvard University. In the next few years, tragedy struck. When she was twenty-five, Mr. Lee suffered a brain aneurysm and passed away instantaneously. Unable to live with her grief and sorrow, Mrs. Lee followed a few months later. Around this time the previous head Pastor, Pastor Morris, had retired. The church council unanimously voted Beatrice in as the new head pastor.
Though faithful and virtuous, Beatrice was a profoundly lonely woman. Every night she prayed to God that he would send her a husband, a new family to call her own.And lo and behold, her best friend from the past had come back into her life. He had become handsome as well. Surely this was the answer to her prayers. She would do anything to love and be loved.
Dante finished reading the file and closed his eyes. He cursed himself for the part he was to play. He whispered low, “Forgive me Bea.”
The date went well. Much pasta and wine later, they were preparing to leave as Bea stumbled on her feet.
“Careful. Are you ok Bea?” Dante gazed into her dark brown eyes.
Beatrice blushed, her red cheeks growing redder. “Ah yeah, just had a little too much to drink. How clumsy of me. I’ll be fine. I can walk on my own.”
“Nope, you’ve always been a total klutz. Leave it to me.”
“What’re you…. Oh!” Beatrice squeaked as Dante lifted her in his arms.
The ride back was brief and quiet. Beatrice contemplated her night with small breaths of happiness. At her side, Dante steeled himself for what he had to do next. If he went through with it, she would be well and truly damned.
Beatrice leaned on Dante’s shoulder as she walked back into her home. She turned around and gazed into Dante’s eyes.
“I had a really good time tonight. It was great catching up with you.”
“Me too.” Dante muttered.
“Let’s do this again sometime soon.”
“Of course. Text you the time and place?”
“Sounds like a plan.” Beatrice wanted to lean forward and kiss Dante. Or rather, she wanted him to kiss her. He showed no signs of initiating the first move and it frustrated her.
“Mmm, on second thought, would you like to come in for a coffee?” Beatrice inquired coyly.
Dante checked his watch. An odd look crossed his face, one that she could not quite decipher. Desire? Distaste? She was uncertain. All she knew was that she wanted him to stay a little longer.
The look vanished and was replaced by a roguish smile. “If the lady insists.”
The two stepped into the house. Beatrice led Dante to the living room where he took a seat on the couch. Beatrice walked to the kitchen.
“Would you like tea or coffee D?” She turned the handle to the tap and filled the glass pot with cold water.
“Coffee, black.”
Dante leaned forward and kissed Beatrice. She kissed him back, pressing her lips against his. Her head felt hot and hazy.
Dante and Beatrice kissed like this for some time. He grew bold and impatient. Dante slipped his finger through the side strap of the dress and lowered it to the side. He hooked his arm behind Beatrice and gripped the zipper. He pulled at it bit by bit.
Through the fog of endorphins that enmeshed her brain, Beatrice was vaguely aware that this was a point that she could not return from. Beatrice tried to gain a little distance. “D… Let’s take it slow.”
Dante ignored her and continued his attack. The zipper continued to creep down.
“C’mon, D. I mean it.”
Dante kissed her neck. He had come too far and done too much. He had to see things through to the end.
“Dante stop it! What’s wrong with you?” Beatrice regained her reason. She reached back and grabbed Dante’s wrist. As she pulled his hand back in front of her, her thumb brushed momentarily against the golden ring.
Scarlet wings burst forth and knocked the two cups off of the table. The china smashed on the hardwood floor, splattering the contents all over. Beatrice was speechless, she stared at the impossible. It was as if the scales had fallen from her eyes. The trance had been lifted.
“No. No no no! SHIT!” Dante screamed. It was over.
“Dante what is that?” Beatrice shuddered in disgust.
“Bea listen, I can explain.” Dante raised his hand calmingly towards her.
“Don’t touch me! What are you?” Flames danced wildly in Beatrice’s eyes.
“It’s me! It’s me! I might look like this but I’m still your Dante. I swear to Gah. Gahhh.” Dante choked, for some reason he couldn’t say the word God.
Beatrice gasped as the horrific realization of Dante’s true nature dawned on her. “You’re a demon.”
“It’s not like that. I’m doing this for your own good, you have to trust me.” Dante pleaded, his voice a pathetic whine.
“Get out. I never want to see you again.” Beatrice whispered.
“Bea please! You have to understand!” Dante got on his knees, crawling towards Beatrice.
“I CAST YOU OUT!” Beatrice roared.
Dante was hurled out of the house by an invisible hand. He struggled with all his might, beating his wings, trying to fly against the immovable force. To no avail. He was thrown from the home. As he tried to walk through the door, colorless flames blocked the entry and formed an impenetrable wall.
Beatrice stood behind the door, staring at Dante with pity in her eyes. “I really liked you. But where you’ve gone I cannot, no, I will not follow.”
“You stupid bitch, I’m trying to save you. I’m the only one who can help you!”
The door slammed shut with a resounding thud. Dante lay on the lawn, gasping. Oblivion was preferable to this misery.
Dante opened his eyes and saw a vast formless void. “So this is nonexistence. Not so bad all things considered. At least I can rest here, alone at last.” Dante sighed and rested his head on his hands.
“Well, that’s not quite right son.” A voice echoed all around and from within the blankness.
Dante bolted upright. “Who’s there?”
Then, from beyond the horizon, he could see something black. It came closer and closer, finally stopping in front of Dante. It was none other than Dante’s own father Virgil. He looked much like he did in life, wearing his black suit, clergy collar, and white cotton shirt.
Virgil smiled and embraced his son. “Hello son. It’s been a while since I’ve last seen you.”
Dante broke down and embraced his father. He cried tears of joy.
Virgil patted him on the back, comforting him. “I’ve missed you, son. I don’t have long here, but we have much to talk about.”
“Where is this place?”
“This is Purgatory. God has permitted me to come speak with you for just a while.” Virgil spoke in a calm and soothing tone.
Dante’s eyes widened in shock. “What does God want with me? I want nothing to do with him.”
“And why is that?”
“No deity that is all knowing and all powerful can be all good. Why does he let injustice continue on in this world? You are a faithful man, how could he let you die? How could he take you from me?”
Virgil smiled ruefully. “Sadly, I cannot answer all those questions. We all live and die by our decisions. Even now.”
“Why are you here father? Why have you come back to me now?”
Virgil smiled once again, though a rueful expression lingered on his face. “I’m here to ask you to come home. What father doesn’t wish for the return of his prodigal son?”
“I can’t forgive him. I can’t.”
An immeasurable sorrow swelled through Virgil. “So be it son. It always has, and always will be your choice.” Then, Both men fell silent.
Finally, Virgil spoke once more. “I just want to tell you I love you. I certainly hope to see you again, but if not then this is farewell. Goodbye my son. I pray that you’ll make the right decision.”
Dante wanted to say “I love you too.” He had been unable to say it the last time before his father had passed.
He closed his eyes and lay suspended in the ether. He saw before him two paths. On the left hand path were the fires of Hell. He would be free to do as he pleased. His power was second to only Morningstar and he reigned, a high prince among the kingdoms of man. All of his carnal and worldly desires would be slaked.
On the right gleamed the cool skies of Heaven. Here he could be with his father forever. Maybe eventually Beatrice too. But there existed a bitter humility. There was no crown, no kingdom for him to rule. The high on earth are servants in Heaven.
Burning light filled Purgatory as Dante made his choice.
God soon came to the conclusion that something more was needed. The quantum forces would not be moved by the expansion God had set in motion. And so, an experiment was devised. From the vortex of a black hole a heart was made. From the light of six ancient stars wings were fashioned. From the four fundamental forces a body was formed. And thus the first Angel was born, the most beautiful and terrible of God's creations.
"I name thee Lucifer Morningstar. The light that shall dawn on all life to come, now and forever. Sing my Song! Lead my choir."
The Angel sang, unsteady and unsure. It added a new verse to the Song and one became two. The rules of physics rent asunder and God existed in and was aware of two realms at once, one with Morningstar and one without. The fourth wall had been broken at last, the multiverse molested. The dust now diverged along different roads, the paths of fate now forked and turned. There now existed a proverbial cat in the microwave.
And God was pleased with his work for it was good.
And so God spoke, "Let there be." God stretched a hand out over the unobservable and stirred. A spark blossomed and expanded outwards as the void burst and blurred. Particles bloomed into existence in a swirling singularity. Protons pliéd pliantly, neutrons nosedived neurotically, and the electrons exploded ecstatically. The noise of existence, the sound of a big bang. The Word became Song and at long last the void gazed back.
Even still, in the realm of possibilities and probabilities the entity could only observe one path of fate. No matter where the dust could fly pulled by deep gravitational wells, it only ever moved one way. God could feel the walls of reality trapping it inside the universe. Though it could see the dimensions beyond and around, God could not touch them.
In a waiting room unlike any other in the universe sat a salesman and a secretary. The room was well furnished and decorated. Nine chairs of red oak spiraled around the room. In the left most chair sat Dante Reyes, rather perplexed about how he came to be in this place
Dante patted his silk pants for his phone. They were empty. Unusual. He checked his breast pocket and found nothing but his Devil May Care pocket square. Dante turned his right wrist and was relieved to see that he still had his prized Omega watch. The hands had stopped at 12:23. The salesman tapped on the watch’s face with his finger. It ticked as the second hand began to turn to the left, moving backwards. He’d have to fix that later.
Dante scanned the room, his brow furrowed and his dark brown eyes clouded. No windows, no entrance, just himself and a rather svelte woman. She sat behind a granite countertop and underneath a marble archway. Engraved at the top were the words, “Abandon every hope, who enter here.”
“Bathsheba” was emblazoned in fine crimson letters across her golden name plate. Her blouse was unbuttoned and low cut. Bathsheba noticed Dante staring and smirked.
“Oh good. You’re awake. Hello Mr. Reyes, Mr. Morningstar will see you now.”
“Who?”
“Mr. Morningstar. He’ll be interviewing you today. It’s best not to keep him waiting.”
As if on cue, doors opened outward. Dante ran his fingers through his wavy waxed black hair. If this was an interview, then perhaps Mr. Morningstar would have the answers.
Or perhaps not. More questions arose as Dante caught his first glimpse of Morningstar. His golden hair seemed to radiate and his eyes were an impossible shade of sapphire. A confident grin was etched across his face, a singular perfect line on a pristine canvas.
“Hello, Dante. I’ve been waiting for you for quite some time! Why don’t you have a seat?”
Morningstar pulled his feet off his table and gestured to a spinning swivel chair. Dante sat down and felt the chair slide to a slow stop.
“Pleasure to meet you. Your secretary told me you’d be interviewing me today? I just have a few questions.”
“All in due time. Here, have a smoke.” Morningstar flicked a silver case open with his thumb and gave his guest a hand rolled cigarette.
“Don’t mind if I do.”
“By the way, do you remember how you got here?” The confident smile had a malicious edge to it.
“No, but I assume you’ll tell me soon enough.”
Morningstar reached over the table and snapped his fingers next to Dante’s cheek. A crimson flame materialized and ignited. Dante shrieked as the spark seared through his flesh. He could feel the fat bubbling as his tongue rendered and fused to the roof of his mouth.
Memories rose to the surface of his mind in clouds of smoke as the cigarette burned. Too many drinks at that party. Swerving through the streets at midnight. The truck. Gasoline everywhere. Agony as the flames enveloped him. The clocks strikes 12:23. The waiting room.
No more pain. Flesh whole and smooth. “What the hell was that?”
Morningstar smirked at Dante’s revelation. “What the hell indeed. Welcome home.”
“You’re a real piece of work my friend and that’s what I like about you. Let’s see here…”
Morningstar snapped his fingers. A manila file the size of an encyclopedia appeared out of thin air and dropped onto the table with a loud thunk. He thumbed through the folder as Dante looked on in horror. Dante was dumbstruck, his jaw ajar.
“Who gives a shit, though? You’re a guy after my own heart. You never cared about anyone but you. Decisions my friend, they define us, determine where we end up. We live and die by them. Even me.”
Morningstar snapped his fingers and a crystal tumbler filled with bourbon appeared on the table. “Jim Beam? I know it’s your favorite.”
Dante shotgunned the drink with fluid gulps. The glass refilled itself immediately. “So that’s it huh? I’m here to be tortured and punished by you for all eternity?”
Loud laughter erupted and filled the room. The devil wheezed and gasped for breath as he clutched his sides. “Punish? Torture you? No! What a total waste of a man of your talents. I’m offering you a job.”
Dante sat in stunned silence. He mulled over Morningstar’s words, contemplating his situation. He put his hand to his chin and said, “What could I possibly offer that you can’t do?”
Morningstar pressed his fingers together and leaned forward. “Powerful as I am, I am not omniscient or omnipotent. I can’t be everywhere at once. So for matters I can’t personally attend to, I have servants to do my bidding.”
“And if I refuse?”
“My boy, you’re free to do whatever you want. If you don’t want the position you can languish down here with the rest.”
“That’s it? There’s no strings attached?” Dante felt skeptical.
“What would I gain from that? I just want people to be truly free. To do anything and everything that they could ever want. There are no rules in Hell.” Morningstar stood up and spread his arms out like a symphony conductor.
Dante took a small sip of his bourbon. “Really? That doesn’t sound so bad.”
“Drink all you want, it’s not like you can die of alcohol poisoning down here. Fuck the cutest guys or girls you can lay your eyes hands and dick on and in. Punch a baby in the face for all I care. There are no consequences. I won’t stop you.”
Morningstar’s smile stretched from ear to ear. His eyes were cold and mirthless. “Of course, I won’t stop anyone from doing anything to you either. Like say, flaying you alive and salting you. Wait, you’re not alive. Flaying you undead?”
Dante felt cold. A chill ran down his spine. “What are you…”
“You’re not the only human down here. An entire eternity to try new things. Torture is the least of your concerns boy.”
“Do I get any leads or what?” Dante finished the glass of Jim Beam and watched it fill up again. “Damn that’s cool. Can I keep this?”
“No, but maybe you can earn it if you work hard enough.”
As Dante tempted and corrupted his assignments on Earth, Morningstar had other business to attend to. He put on his finest seraphic robe of purest white, a robe so brilliant as to be blinding. With a shake of his shoulders he extended his six wings. He waved his hand above his forehead, shaping the corrupted flame into the halo it had originally been.
When was it that he had last taken this form? Hundreds, no thousands of years ago. When he had made a little wager with papa, over his favorite human Job. “I’ve learned much since then. This time, I’ll beat him for sure.” Mused Morningstar.
Morningstar rose into the air as he flapped his wings with mighty force. The winds howled and tore a hole in the fabric of Hell’s dimensional wall. Morningstar ascended fast and high as he ripped through each plane of reality like a scissor slicing through a piece of tissue paper. He flew beyond the speed of light, a tachyon hurling through time and space.
And at the edge of existence, beyond the heat death of the universe, he alighted at the edge of the silver city. His feet felt cool on the golden roads. He took a deep breath, enjoying the crisp air of Heaven. The atmosphere felt lighter, less oppressive than his own domain.
Morningstar whistled The Devil Went Down to Georgia as he walked through heaven. He mimed playing a fiddle, waving his arms to and fro as he wiggled his fingers. Heaven itself was a peculiar place, unbound by the laws of time and space. Objects could be an inch or a million miles away, it made no difference. All was as its creator willed.
Suddenly, Morningstar found himself standing before God.
God greeted his creation with a cheerful grin. “Hello Lucifer, it’s good to see you. Have you returned to reclaim your place as the leader of my choir?”
Morningstar was rather taken aback. “Why do you always ask that papa? You already know the answer.”
God still smiled, though a rueful look crossed his face. “What father doesn’t wish for the return of his prodigal son? You’ll always be welcome should you choose to come home.”
Morningstar’s expression was impassive. Internally however, he was discontent and confused. “Illogical! Simply illogical! One with absolute power should use it to dominate lesser beings. Why doesn’t he understand that? This exercise in free will has gone on long enough. I’ll make him see the truth. When all of humanity has failed him, he’ll use his perfect power and make them love him again. As it should be.”
“Hmmm. Anyways papa, I’ve come to play a game with you.”
“Always so direct, relax! Enjoy what Heaven has to offer. I have some creations that I’d like you to see.”
God waved his hand and a moving image of a woman appeared beside Morningstar. She stood at a pulpit and preached.
“This is Beatrice Lee, a most faithful servant of mine. I’m very proud of her. She has few equals for she is true and good.”
“Is that so? She’s only virtuous because she’s never tasted real pleasure. Certainly she’d denounce you if she experienced the wonders of the flesh.”
Morningstar smirked confidently. “I too have a worthy servant, one who can lay her low. Behold, my underling Dante.”
Morningstar snapped his fingers. A moving image of Dante appeared. He was now dressed as a doctor. He was convincing a terminal young child to give in to despair. His words were honeyed and cunning, filled with false compassion.
God surveyed the scene with sadness. “Yes, I know Dante. His father was a faithful man. I pity him, had he overcome the loss of his parent than he would have gone on to great things. He gave in to his base and selfish desires. In so doing he lost the chance to reunite with the love of his life.”
God smiled once more. “I will place my faith in Beatrice. But gambles are no fun without prizes. If I win, I shall be taking Dante.”
Morningstar was stunned. He had not actually expected papa to play his game. “Haha, hahaha! It seems you have a sense of humor after all. Very well papa, I accept your bet. Let’s see who wins, my sinner or your saint.”
Dante had quickly run through the little black book and now he wanted more. One hundred names had been listed and he had set eighty five of those people on the path to Hell. The remaining fifteen had managed to elude his grasp.
Dante took out his cell phone and texted Bathsheba. “Pick up requested. Mission completed. Need to see Morningstar.”
The response was near instantaneous. “Stand by.”
The hospital waiting room vanished in a dark haze. Dante slipped through time and space and found himself in the waiting room once more. Dante struggled not to vomit. He placed his hands on his knees and took deep breaths, trying to reorient himself.
“Welcome back Mr. Reyes. How was your visit topside?” Bathsheba asked, drumming the granite countertop with her manicured fingers.
“Fun. You’re looking fine as ever. Is that a new perfume?”
The doors opened outward. Dante walked into Morningstar’s throne room. Morningstar sat on his throne with his legs crossed. He smoked a cigarette and exhaled little rings.
Morningstar put out the cigarette and walked over to Dante. He extended his hand out for a handshake and transitioned into a hug. “My man! I’ve been expecting you. Sit down, make yourself comfortable. Have a drink, a smoke, whatever you want.”
“So give me the rundown. How was your first month on the job?”
Dante took a seat and took a drag on his cigarette, that appeared in his mouth. “It was quite something. I demand more leads.”
The salesman took the black book out of his breast pocket and placed it onto the table.
Morningstar took the book and gave it a once over. The pages flipped fluidly through his fingers. “Eighty five percent closure?!? I was expecting a lot less. You’re a rockstar.”
Morningstar reached out with a closed fist. Dante grinned and bumped the fist. He swirled the alcohol around the tumbler before taking a sip. “So what else you got for me boss?”
Morningstar snapped his fingers. Dante felt his shoulders tingle and itch. He scratched his back and felt something unusual. Dante stood up and took his silk jacket off. Curved scarlet wings burst through the back of shirt.
“Whoa, what’s this?” Dante peered backwards, intrigued by his new appendages. He flapped his wings experimentally. The draft of wind generated from the wings lifted him up into the air a foot.
“You’re one of us now, a lesser demon. Think of it as a promotion for your success. Keep up the good work and you can become an archdemon.” Morningstar watched as Dante flew around the room.
Morningstar placed a red file on the desk. “This is a special assignment. She’s stumped our finest tempters until now. I think you’ve got what it takes to break this one.”
Dante opened the file. He let out a gasp as he saw the name. It couldn’t be. “Send someone else. I’ll do anything but this, please.”
Morningstar leaned forward, his entire being radiating murderous displeasure. “Are you disobeying me boy?”
Morningstar’s sadistic grin grew and grew, wider than any human’s possibly could. The smile split his face in two. He licked his lips. “Of course, if you won’t do it then I’ll have to. I’ll drag her down myself. And once she’s here, oh the fun we’ll have together. Maybe I’ll give her over to the Marquis de Sade. Better yet, I’ll make her my own personal plaything. What I do know is I’ll make you watch.”
Dante squirmed. He gripped the armrests hard.
Dante felt as if he was stuck between Scylla and Charybdis. It was truly an impossible choice. Even he had not fallen to this level of depravity. Morningstar howled with laughter. Such suffering gave him great joy. “Better think fast. Good luck on your assignment.”
“Wait, wait!”
Morningstar flipped off Dante and snapped his fingers.The throne room span and swirled around Dante’s field of vision as he was cast back to Earth. In the blink of an eye he was surrounded by people dressed in their Sunday best. Perplexed, Dante looked around frantically, trying to figure out where Morningstar had sent him.
A clear voice snapped Dante from his reverie. “Now let us rise for communion.”
Dante looked up and saw the source of the voice. Beatrice stood in front of the church. She held a metal platter of bread pieces in her dainty hands. Dante was dumbstruck. When he had last seen her she was a gawky child with gangly limbs and crooked brace covered teeth. Over the years she must have grown into her looks. Now she was tall and fair, with an air of grace about her.
Beatrice walked through the church, passing the bread to the members. Dante took a piece absentmindedly. He could not help but stare at Beatrice. Noticing the newcomer gazing at her, Beatrice smiled at him. He was filled with a longing he had long since forgotten. This desire was not lust, but something wholly different.
Beatrice raised her hands out over the people. “Go forth and may the blessing of God the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit be with you all. Amen.”
The crowd of people broke into several conversations. The members made small talk and snacked on crackers and cheese that had been prepared. Dante by himself in the corner. Beatrice waited at the exit of the church, greeting the people as they left. After what seemed like ages, only the salesman and the pastor remained in the church.
Dante shivered. This was something he hadn’t felt in ages. It was nervousness. He walked up to Beatrice. She smiled at him and tilted her head slightly to the side.
“You’re new here. I haven’t seen you around before. It’s good to have you here today. Welcome!”
“Ah yeah. Yeah. First time. Good sermon by the way.”
“Oh thank you, that’s very kind of you. I’m Beatrice, Beatrice Lee. I’m the head pastor here. What’s your name?”
“Dante. Dante Reyes.”
Beatrice’s eyes widened. “What a coincidence, I had a friend with the same name once.”
Dante couldn’t help but smile. “Good to see you too Bea. It’s been a while.”
Beatrice squealed. She wrapped her arms around Dante and squeezed gently. “Ohmygosh D, I haven’t seen you in forever!”
Dante returned her embrace, pressing his cheek against hers. Embarrassed, Beatrice let go and looked away.
Dante brushed his fingers through his hair. “It’s been what, sixteen, seventeen years?”
“Yeah not since we were ten. Since you moved away.”
“When my dad was in that accident…”
There was a moment of uncomfortable silence between the two.
“I’m sorry D, I didn’t mean to bring up a bad memory like that.” Beatrice put her hand on Dante’s shoulder.
Dante shrugged. “It’s ok. It’s in the past. I like to remember the other stuff instead. We used to have so much fun together!”
“Oh man, I remember.”
“Hehe. And we made that silly promise to get married when we grew up.”
Dante blushed. “Totally crazy.”
“Are you seeing anyone?” Beatrice enquired.
“No. Not at all. Hey, do you want to get dinner tomorrow? We can catch up on old times. It’ll be my treat.” Dante was torn. In his heart of hearts he longed for her to say yes, but for her sake he wished she’d refuse.
Beatrice looked away and looped her finger around a lock of her hair. Dante felt eons pass by in seconds as he agonized over her response. Finally, she looked at him and said, “Sure! It’s a date. Pick me up at 7.”
Dante didn’t know whether he felt relief or despair. Dante shuddered to think what that monster would do to Bea. “I have to. It’s the lesser of two evils. At least I can save her.” Filled with a desperate determination, Dante resolved to corrupt Beatrice. He would do whatever it took. In preparation for this arduous task he studied her file.
In the last seventeen years Beatrice had become quite an accomplished woman. At the age of twenty-one she had graduated Magna Cum Laude from Harvard University. In the next few years, tragedy struck. When she was twenty-five, Mr. Lee suffered a brain aneurysm and passed away instantaneously. Unable to live with her grief and sorrow, Mrs. Lee followed a few months later. Around this time the previous head Pastor, Pastor Morris, had retired. The church council unanimously voted Beatrice in as the new head pastor.
Though faithful and virtuous, Beatrice was a profoundly lonely woman. Every night she prayed to God that he would send her a husband, a new family to call her own.And lo and behold, her best friend from the past had come back into her life. He had become handsome as well. Surely this was the answer to her prayers. She would do anything to love and be loved.
Dante finished reading the file and closed his eyes. He cursed himself for the part he was to play. He whispered low, “Forgive me Bea.”
The date went well. Much pasta and wine later, they were preparing to leave as Bea stumbled on her feet.
“Careful. Are you ok Bea?” Dante gazed into her dark brown eyes.
Beatrice blushed, her red cheeks growing redder. “Ah yeah, just had a little too much to drink. How clumsy of me. I’ll be fine. I can walk on my own.”
“Nope, you’ve always been a total klutz. Leave it to me.”
“What’re you…. Oh!” Beatrice squeaked as Dante lifted her in his arms.
The ride back was brief and quiet. Beatrice contemplated her night with small breaths of happiness. At her side, Dante steeled himself for what he had to do next. If he went through with it, she would be well and truly damned.
Beatrice leaned on Dante’s shoulder as she walked back into her home. She turned around and gazed into Dante’s eyes.
“I had a really good time tonight. It was great catching up with you.”
“Me too.” Dante muttered.
“Let’s do this again sometime soon.”
“Of course. Text you the time and place?”
“Sounds like a plan.” Beatrice wanted to lean forward and kiss Dante. Or rather, she wanted him to kiss her. He showed no signs of initiating the first move and it frustrated her.
“Mmm, on second thought, would you like to come in for a coffee?” Beatrice inquired coyly.
Dante checked his watch. An odd look crossed his face, one that she could not quite decipher. Desire? Distaste? She was uncertain. All she knew was that she wanted him to stay a little longer.
The look vanished and was replaced by a roguish smile. “If the lady insists.”
The two stepped into the house. Beatrice led Dante to the living room where he took a seat on the couch. Beatrice walked to the kitchen.
“Would you like tea or coffee D?” She turned the handle to the tap and filled the glass pot with cold water.
“Coffee, black.”
Dante leaned forward and kissed Beatrice. She kissed him back, pressing her lips against his. Her head felt hot and hazy.
Dante and Beatrice kissed like this for some time. He grew bold and impatient. Dante slipped his finger through the side strap of the dress and lowered it to the side. He hooked his arm behind Beatrice and gripped the zipper. He pulled at it bit by bit.
Through the fog of endorphins that enmeshed her brain, Beatrice was vaguely aware that this was a point that she could not return from. Beatrice tried to gain a little distance. “D… Let’s take it slow.”
Dante ignored her and continued his attack. The zipper continued to creep down.
“C’mon, D. I mean it.”
Dante kissed her neck. He had come too far and done too much. He had to see things through to the end.
“Dante stop it! What’s wrong with you?” Beatrice regained her reason. She reached back and grabbed Dante’s wrist. As she pulled his hand back in front of her, her thumb brushed momentarily against the golden ring.
Scarlet wings burst forth and knocked the two cups off of the table. The china smashed on the hardwood floor, splattering the contents all over. Beatrice was speechless, she stared at the impossible. It was as if the scales had fallen from her eyes. The trance had been lifted.
“No. No no no! SHIT!” Dante screamed. It was over.
“Dante what is that?” Beatrice shuddered in disgust.
“Bea listen, I can explain.” Dante raised his hand calmingly towards her.
“Don’t touch me! What are you?” Flames danced wildly in Beatrice’s eyes.
“It’s me! It’s me! I might look like this but I’m still your Dante. I swear to Gah. Gahhh.” Dante choked, for some reason he couldn’t say the word God.
Beatrice gasped as the horrific realization of Dante’s true nature dawned on her. “You’re a demon.”
“It’s not like that. I’m doing this for your own good, you have to trust me.” Dante pleaded, his voice a pathetic whine.
“Get out. I never want to see you again.” Beatrice whispered.
“Bea please! You have to understand!” Dante got on his knees, crawling towards Beatrice.
“I CAST YOU OUT!” Beatrice roared.
Dante was hurled out of the house by an invisible hand. He struggled with all his might, beating his wings, trying to fly against the immovable force. To no avail. He was thrown from the home. As he tried to walk through the door, colorless flames blocked the entry and formed an impenetrable wall.
Beatrice stood behind the door, staring at Dante with pity in her eyes. “I really liked you. But where you’ve gone I cannot, no, I will not follow.”
“You stupid bitch, I’m trying to save you. I’m the only one who can help you!”
The door slammed shut with a resounding thud. Dante lay on the lawn, gasping. Oblivion was preferable to this misery.
Dante opened his eyes and saw a vast formless void. “So this is nonexistence. Not so bad all things considered. At least I can rest here, alone at last.” Dante sighed and rested his head on his hands.
“Well, that’s not quite right son.” A voice echoed all around and from within the blankness.
Dante bolted upright. “Who’s there?”
Then, from beyond the horizon, he could see something black. It came closer and closer, finally stopping in front of Dante. It was none other than Dante’s own father Virgil. He looked much like he did in life, wearing his black suit, clergy collar, and white cotton shirt.
Virgil smiled and embraced his son. “Hello son. It’s been a while since I’ve last seen you.”
Dante broke down and embraced his father. He cried tears of joy.
Virgil patted him on the back, comforting him. “I’ve missed you, son. I don’t have long here, but we have much to talk about.”
“Where is this place?”
“This is Purgatory. God has permitted me to come speak with you for just a while.” Virgil spoke in a calm and soothing tone.
Dante’s eyes widened in shock. “What does God want with me? I want nothing to do with him.”
“And why is that?”
“No deity that is all knowing and all powerful can be all good. Why does he let injustice continue on in this world? You are a faithful man, how could he let you die? How could he take you from me?”
Virgil smiled ruefully. “Sadly, I cannot answer all those questions. We all live and die by our decisions. Even now.”
“Why are you here father? Why have you come back to me now?”
Virgil smiled once again, though a rueful expression lingered on his face. “I’m here to ask you to come home. What father doesn’t wish for the return of his prodigal son?”
“I can’t forgive him. I can’t.”
An immeasurable sorrow swelled through Virgil. “So be it son. It always has, and always will be your choice.” Then, Both men fell silent.
Finally, Virgil spoke once more. “I just want to tell you I love you. I certainly hope to see you again, but if not then this is farewell. Goodbye my son. I pray that you’ll make the right decision.”
Dante wanted to say “I love you too.” He had been unable to say it the last time before his father had passed.
He closed his eyes and lay suspended in the ether. He saw before him two paths. On the left hand path were the fires of Hell. He would be free to do as he pleased. His power was second to only Morningstar and he reigned, a high prince among the kingdoms of man. All of his carnal and worldly desires would be slaked.
On the right gleamed the cool skies of Heaven. Here he could be with his father forever. Maybe eventually Beatrice too. But there existed a bitter humility. There was no crown, no kingdom for him to rule. The high on earth are servants in Heaven.
Burning light filled Purgatory as Dante made his choice.
God soon came to the conclusion that something more was needed. The quantum forces would not be moved by the expansion God had set in motion. And so, an experiment was devised. From the vortex of a black hole a heart was made. From the light of six ancient stars wings were fashioned. From the four fundamental forces a body was formed. And thus the first Angel was born, the most beautiful and terrible of God's creations.
"I name thee Lucifer Morningstar. The light that shall dawn on all life to come, now and forever. Sing my Song! Lead my choir."
The Angel sang, unsteady and unsure. It added a new verse to the Song and one became two. The rules of physics rent asunder and God existed in and was aware of two realms at once, one with Morningstar and one without. The fourth wall had been broken at last, the multiverse molested. The dust now diverged along different roads, the paths of fate now forked and turned. There now existed a proverbial cat in the microwave.
And God was pleased with his work for it was good.
#
Submission 4:
Word count: 1,830
PIERCING THE VEIL
It was a Wednesday morning in the quiet town of Kakuri, two minutes to ten, when they found the crack, a thin hairline meandering lazily across about a foot of the Wall’s pristine surface. By two minutes past ten a full team of police officers had arrived on the scene, their response time trumped only by the swarm of newspaper reporters who were at present doing their best to cross the police line.
By fourteen minutes past ten the crush of onlookers had become so unbearable that the local police station was forced to add to the problem by deploying additional police officers, who promptly became lost in the crowd they were sent to control. A dozen or so civilians had offered a dozen or so newspaper outlets photographs of the crack from various dramatic angles (often for significantly more than a dozen or so dollars). Eventually a press conference was held, a noncommittal, labyrinthine affair, and the general gist of it could be picked up by only the most sharp-witted listener: the crack had appeared at a deliberately unspecified time, and could be seen abruptly appearing, as if out of thin air, by a deliberately unspecified number of security cameras. The more respectable newspapers interviewed engineers and published articles about potential structural faults; the tabloid rags interviewed each other and published articles about invisible men.
Senior Inspector Jericho read these papers with interest. The Wall had fallen three times before, and as he recalled, the third fall predated his schooling years. The excitement of the news untarnished by the fear of a current affairs class, he’d asked his father to let him see what lay beyond, before the hoardings went back up and the new Wall followed soon after. His father, of course, had concurred with the government’s active censorship of anything past the Wall’s bounds, and his mother had concurred with his father, so the decision went unchallenged, and Jericho had to content himself with experiencing the fall vicariously through what little the state allowed the newspapers to report.
It was somewhere halfway through a thought that Jericho was interrupted by the call to duty that he had been expecting since he saw the headline. This being a high-profile case, it wasn’t so bad—he expected his name would show up in the papers one way or another, and that was always a viable topic for dinner conversation. He had been running low on those recently; there was just never enough to talk about in Kakuri.
One common belief is that policemen are called to the scene of a crime to assess the situation, look for evidence and generally make progress in the positive direction to solving a given crime. In Kakuri, at least, this is a simple misconception: most policemen on site are there since—by virtue of their uniform—they provide the pleasant and mildly comforting impression that a vaguely-defined something is being done about the situation at hand, while also providing a legal method of removing unwanted onlookers. Jericho, with the rest of the officers, was on the scene for this exact reason, putting up and taking down striped police tape repeatedly to give the illusion of productive motion and taking photographs and measurements of the most insignificant details possible to file into a case file for no one at all to review later.
"Any idea what happened, Jerry?"
He looked up to see Rachel. Rachel was the closest he’d ever seen someone come to a stereotype: fairly recent addition to the force, at least by Jericho’s own greying definitions, but had risen through the ranks quickly—quickly enough, at least, that some of the original spark and excitement still lingered in her eyes. Competent, energetic, ambitious; the promotional panel was all over her. He caught her gaze and mulled it for a moment.
"What happened?" She repeated herself, taking Jericho's silence for deafness, waving her hand vaguely at the site of the crack. "To the wall, I mean."
Jericho looked at the wall for a moment. "It's the talk of the town."
"Well, yeah, I know it is. Wonder how they cracked it, though. Guy took a hydraulic drill to it once and didn't leave a dent."
He opened his mouth to clarify, but decided not to: "yeah." He turned back to his roll of tape.
The evening’s debrief was a solemn affair, devoid of the typical sharing of donuts and coffee. At first glance an onlooker might attribute this trouble to the admittedly rather dire situation at hand, and indeed many photographers captioned their craft accordingly in the following day’s newspapers—a better explanation, however, might be the breakdown of the office’s coffee machine, which left the officers not only sleepier than usual but without coffee mugs to wind their idle fingers around or to dip their donuts into.
Perhaps it was as a result of the gloom that the Kakuri Police Department was sober enough to make a decision to increase surveillance at the site of the Crack, as it was now known. It was, by all accounts, an atypical decision—no policeman in their right mind would further complicate their lives by creating extra work for themselves—but the day had been an atypical day, and the officers were all more than a little shaken at having their small corner of spacetime collide with that of such a momentous event.
Two weeks went by. Most duties passed peacefully, and the police did their level best to make the Crack old news, to resign it to the shredder of media amnesia. But amnesia is often selective, and in the town of Kakuri, nothing new happened momentous enough to displace the talk of the wall, leaving the threads of rumor to twist themselves into tapestries of conspiracy, each more fanciful than the last.
The Kakuri Police Department, as a rule of thumb and as observable from historical precedent, never cared much for rumors. One must understand, dear reader, that a town like Kakuri is an echo chamber for such whisperings, with its unique way of working them into a sizable froth as they bubble up from the dark underbelly that is a typical citizen’s overactive imagination. Rumors had flown thick and fast across the town for as far as anyone could remember, and in the interest of preserving their own sanities most people paid no heed to the gossipings they heard on a daily basis. Jericho and Rachel were no stranger to the scandalous tendencies of the town, and were keen to retreat from Kakuri’s state of heightened alert to the normalcy of petty theft and public nuisances.
But one night, there it was: the Crack, originally no longer than six inches in length, was now a foot’s worth of clean, crisp fracture, snaking and splitting ever so slightly into neat, slim capillaries.
Jericho stood staring at the all-too-familiar sight. He recalled a particular night from his childhood with clarity, even now. Both parents asleep, he crept from his bed: down the stairs, across the hall, out the door, across the town, under the security tape. The Wall in those days wasn’t as modern as its modern descendant, a simple brick-and-mortar affair to guard against the dangers that lay beyond. He recalled seeing the Wall in pieces, before the government had had time to put up the scaffolding to disguise it, a shattered vortex of red and brown on the ground; he recalled the fresh night air that blew in from strange nations and alternate realities; he recalled the hand of the policeman, careful but firm, on his shoulder, turning him homewards. He recalled the walk back to his house, full of wonder, full of awe, homesick for the lands he’d never seen and never would. Even now, he still saw how the stars had shone brighter over the horizon, a single moment burnt into the retina of his mind’s eye.
The modern Wall was a solid steel construction. Rachel reassured herself to this fact, tapping her knuckles against the surface, slightly cold in the chilly night air; a dull sound echoed from the behemoth, snapping Jericho from his reverie.
“Well, looks like another stack of incident reports. And another couple months of heightened alert. We’re going to have to make so many calls tonight.” Rachel laughed mirthlessly. Extracting her walkie-talkie from her pocket, she counted off the steps in the reporting procedure: the contacts to make, the superiors to inform, the reports to file, the photographs to—
“Hold off on that first.” Urgency still coursing through her veins, Rachel was caught a little off-guard by the command. But Jericho was, after all, still her senior, and orders were orders. She set down her radio and her notes and looked up at him, but his gaze was directed somewhere over the horizon. “Have you ever wondered how we got here?”
Crick. Rachel jumped a little, and looked back at the wall; the cracks seemed a little deeper than before, but she shook it off as her imagination. Well, she replied, somewhat annoyed, hooligans have no respect for the government; they don’t believe in the government’s good intentions to protect us; they’re the victims of bad upbringings. The textbook answer.
“That’s not what I meant, Rachel.” He chuckled, and she glanced at him. He was looking at her now, his eyes sparkling ever so slightly—no, that’s just the streetlamps reflecting off his eyes, she told herself. He continued, and she noticed a strange inflection in his voice: “it’s at times like these that I like to think about who I am, what I’m doing here.” He spoke quickly and low, suddenly excited and energetic. Crick.
“Do you ever wonder what you’re doing here? Why you’re here, doing what you’re doing? How your little corner of life managed to intersect with mine, or with the Wall’s?” A smile began to creep across his face as he spoke, his voice getting more agitated by the word.
“Are you the main character in your story? Or are you trusting someone else to write your plot for you, to dictate where you go, what you do?” His once tired eyes filled with life, and his voice, usually tired and weary and slow, had quickened to a frenzied rapture. “Who writes your life?”
Criiick. She looked back at the Wall. The cracks were glinting in the glow cast by the streetlamps, a chaotic spiderweb of fissures, dancing and intertwining in a sinisterly beautiful waltz of split metal.
“I used to think I was the main character in my own life, the legendary protagonist, the star of the story.” Rachel looked back at Jericho, but he was looking at the Wall, not her.
“But we can’t always be the hero. I guess sometimes we have to be the villain, the culprit.” His eyes were far away now, lost somewhere behind the Wall. “Isn’t that right, dear reader?”
Before his eyes, the Fourth Wall shattered to pieces.
By fourteen minutes past ten the crush of onlookers had become so unbearable that the local police station was forced to add to the problem by deploying additional police officers, who promptly became lost in the crowd they were sent to control. A dozen or so civilians had offered a dozen or so newspaper outlets photographs of the crack from various dramatic angles (often for significantly more than a dozen or so dollars). Eventually a press conference was held, a noncommittal, labyrinthine affair, and the general gist of it could be picked up by only the most sharp-witted listener: the crack had appeared at a deliberately unspecified time, and could be seen abruptly appearing, as if out of thin air, by a deliberately unspecified number of security cameras. The more respectable newspapers interviewed engineers and published articles about potential structural faults; the tabloid rags interviewed each other and published articles about invisible men.
Senior Inspector Jericho read these papers with interest. The Wall had fallen three times before, and as he recalled, the third fall predated his schooling years. The excitement of the news untarnished by the fear of a current affairs class, he’d asked his father to let him see what lay beyond, before the hoardings went back up and the new Wall followed soon after. His father, of course, had concurred with the government’s active censorship of anything past the Wall’s bounds, and his mother had concurred with his father, so the decision went unchallenged, and Jericho had to content himself with experiencing the fall vicariously through what little the state allowed the newspapers to report.
It was somewhere halfway through a thought that Jericho was interrupted by the call to duty that he had been expecting since he saw the headline. This being a high-profile case, it wasn’t so bad—he expected his name would show up in the papers one way or another, and that was always a viable topic for dinner conversation. He had been running low on those recently; there was just never enough to talk about in Kakuri.
One common belief is that policemen are called to the scene of a crime to assess the situation, look for evidence and generally make progress in the positive direction to solving a given crime. In Kakuri, at least, this is a simple misconception: most policemen on site are there since—by virtue of their uniform—they provide the pleasant and mildly comforting impression that a vaguely-defined something is being done about the situation at hand, while also providing a legal method of removing unwanted onlookers. Jericho, with the rest of the officers, was on the scene for this exact reason, putting up and taking down striped police tape repeatedly to give the illusion of productive motion and taking photographs and measurements of the most insignificant details possible to file into a case file for no one at all to review later.
"Any idea what happened, Jerry?"
He looked up to see Rachel. Rachel was the closest he’d ever seen someone come to a stereotype: fairly recent addition to the force, at least by Jericho’s own greying definitions, but had risen through the ranks quickly—quickly enough, at least, that some of the original spark and excitement still lingered in her eyes. Competent, energetic, ambitious; the promotional panel was all over her. He caught her gaze and mulled it for a moment.
"What happened?" She repeated herself, taking Jericho's silence for deafness, waving her hand vaguely at the site of the crack. "To the wall, I mean."
Jericho looked at the wall for a moment. "It's the talk of the town."
"Well, yeah, I know it is. Wonder how they cracked it, though. Guy took a hydraulic drill to it once and didn't leave a dent."
He opened his mouth to clarify, but decided not to: "yeah." He turned back to his roll of tape.
* * * * *
The evening’s debrief was a solemn affair, devoid of the typical sharing of donuts and coffee. At first glance an onlooker might attribute this trouble to the admittedly rather dire situation at hand, and indeed many photographers captioned their craft accordingly in the following day’s newspapers—a better explanation, however, might be the breakdown of the office’s coffee machine, which left the officers not only sleepier than usual but without coffee mugs to wind their idle fingers around or to dip their donuts into.
Perhaps it was as a result of the gloom that the Kakuri Police Department was sober enough to make a decision to increase surveillance at the site of the Crack, as it was now known. It was, by all accounts, an atypical decision—no policeman in their right mind would further complicate their lives by creating extra work for themselves—but the day had been an atypical day, and the officers were all more than a little shaken at having their small corner of spacetime collide with that of such a momentous event.
Two weeks went by. Most duties passed peacefully, and the police did their level best to make the Crack old news, to resign it to the shredder of media amnesia. But amnesia is often selective, and in the town of Kakuri, nothing new happened momentous enough to displace the talk of the wall, leaving the threads of rumor to twist themselves into tapestries of conspiracy, each more fanciful than the last.
The Kakuri Police Department, as a rule of thumb and as observable from historical precedent, never cared much for rumors. One must understand, dear reader, that a town like Kakuri is an echo chamber for such whisperings, with its unique way of working them into a sizable froth as they bubble up from the dark underbelly that is a typical citizen’s overactive imagination. Rumors had flown thick and fast across the town for as far as anyone could remember, and in the interest of preserving their own sanities most people paid no heed to the gossipings they heard on a daily basis. Jericho and Rachel were no stranger to the scandalous tendencies of the town, and were keen to retreat from Kakuri’s state of heightened alert to the normalcy of petty theft and public nuisances.
But one night, there it was: the Crack, originally no longer than six inches in length, was now a foot’s worth of clean, crisp fracture, snaking and splitting ever so slightly into neat, slim capillaries.
* * * * *
Jericho stood staring at the all-too-familiar sight. He recalled a particular night from his childhood with clarity, even now. Both parents asleep, he crept from his bed: down the stairs, across the hall, out the door, across the town, under the security tape. The Wall in those days wasn’t as modern as its modern descendant, a simple brick-and-mortar affair to guard against the dangers that lay beyond. He recalled seeing the Wall in pieces, before the government had had time to put up the scaffolding to disguise it, a shattered vortex of red and brown on the ground; he recalled the fresh night air that blew in from strange nations and alternate realities; he recalled the hand of the policeman, careful but firm, on his shoulder, turning him homewards. He recalled the walk back to his house, full of wonder, full of awe, homesick for the lands he’d never seen and never would. Even now, he still saw how the stars had shone brighter over the horizon, a single moment burnt into the retina of his mind’s eye.
The modern Wall was a solid steel construction. Rachel reassured herself to this fact, tapping her knuckles against the surface, slightly cold in the chilly night air; a dull sound echoed from the behemoth, snapping Jericho from his reverie.
“Well, looks like another stack of incident reports. And another couple months of heightened alert. We’re going to have to make so many calls tonight.” Rachel laughed mirthlessly. Extracting her walkie-talkie from her pocket, she counted off the steps in the reporting procedure: the contacts to make, the superiors to inform, the reports to file, the photographs to—
“Hold off on that first.” Urgency still coursing through her veins, Rachel was caught a little off-guard by the command. But Jericho was, after all, still her senior, and orders were orders. She set down her radio and her notes and looked up at him, but his gaze was directed somewhere over the horizon. “Have you ever wondered how we got here?”
Crick. Rachel jumped a little, and looked back at the wall; the cracks seemed a little deeper than before, but she shook it off as her imagination. Well, she replied, somewhat annoyed, hooligans have no respect for the government; they don’t believe in the government’s good intentions to protect us; they’re the victims of bad upbringings. The textbook answer.
“That’s not what I meant, Rachel.” He chuckled, and she glanced at him. He was looking at her now, his eyes sparkling ever so slightly—no, that’s just the streetlamps reflecting off his eyes, she told herself. He continued, and she noticed a strange inflection in his voice: “it’s at times like these that I like to think about who I am, what I’m doing here.” He spoke quickly and low, suddenly excited and energetic. Crick.
“Do you ever wonder what you’re doing here? Why you’re here, doing what you’re doing? How your little corner of life managed to intersect with mine, or with the Wall’s?” A smile began to creep across his face as he spoke, his voice getting more agitated by the word.
“Are you the main character in your story? Or are you trusting someone else to write your plot for you, to dictate where you go, what you do?” His once tired eyes filled with life, and his voice, usually tired and weary and slow, had quickened to a frenzied rapture. “Who writes your life?”
Criiick. She looked back at the Wall. The cracks were glinting in the glow cast by the streetlamps, a chaotic spiderweb of fissures, dancing and intertwining in a sinisterly beautiful waltz of split metal.
“I used to think I was the main character in my own life, the legendary protagonist, the star of the story.” Rachel looked back at Jericho, but he was looking at the Wall, not her.
“But we can’t always be the hero. I guess sometimes we have to be the villain, the culprit.” His eyes were far away now, lost somewhere behind the Wall. “Isn’t that right, dear reader?”
Before his eyes, the Fourth Wall shattered to pieces.
Other than the notable exception, Judges put more effort into RPS than they did here.
^ clearly not a winner
I don't really have a good excuse for not writing that much so criticise me as much as you want (I read everything 4 or 5 times and was going to write more than I did, but then didn't really know the best way to articulate my thoughts for any of them without just running down the story, which I didn't really want to do; it's a pretty bad excuse but yeah that's why I'm not gonna defend myself), but in defense of the other judges it is finals season, and the fact that they even took the time out of their study schedules to read through them multiple times apiece means a lot, at least to me. Could we have done more? Yes, a lot more, and it's something that we'll work on for future contests, as it is something I kinda regret not doing my utmost to do this time around.
zapzap29
The obssessive man of passion
I wrote My Boss, Mr. Morningstar. Thank you to the judges for their insightful criticism and comments. I'm always looking to improve on my work. I'm glad that you enjoyed my piece and I'm very grateful for this opportunity to have an audience.
To anyone else who may read my story, feel free to message me with your thoughts and opinions. Constructive criticism is always welcome and appreciated.
To anyone else who may read my story, feel free to message me with your thoughts and opinions. Constructive criticism is always welcome and appreciated.
I included this little blurb in the judge's convo before I revealed my scores, so I'll just rephrase it slightly and repost it here so that the writers (and readers) can see where my headspace was at.
Just a short word on my scoring systems: Some of the stories here were grammatically or structurally edited better than others. As someone who has done minor copyediting work, I'm really not bothered by most minor issues under this umbrella. As I read the submissions, my brain sort of autocorrected the small things and brought each story up to the same level of "language" polish. While this might seem to give some stories a push, at the end of the day I really just wanted to give my scores based on the ideas within the writing, not on whether the writing is mechanically stunning. Does the writing make me think, is its message worth reading, is the base idea interesting or enjoyable? These were the things I was looking for as I read the submissions. All four entries did some great things and all four authors should be proud : )
As a sidenote, my comments within my scores do contain plot spoilers, so you probably should read the stories before you read my comments.
Just a short word on my scoring systems: Some of the stories here were grammatically or structurally edited better than others. As someone who has done minor copyediting work, I'm really not bothered by most minor issues under this umbrella. As I read the submissions, my brain sort of autocorrected the small things and brought each story up to the same level of "language" polish. While this might seem to give some stories a push, at the end of the day I really just wanted to give my scores based on the ideas within the writing, not on whether the writing is mechanically stunning. Does the writing make me think, is its message worth reading, is the base idea interesting or enjoyable? These were the things I was looking for as I read the submissions. All four entries did some great things and all four authors should be proud : )
As a sidenote, my comments within my scores do contain plot spoilers, so you probably should read the stories before you read my comments.
Gah! I would have submitted something to this contest if I had known it was going on, hopefully it wasn't the last since I'd like to participate in the future (and hopefully see wider participation from others as well).